#built in towel shelf

[i-cried-and-i-was-in-the-impala]

Bathroom Master Bath Louisville Inspiration for a mid-sized timeless master shower remodel with open cabinets, white cabinets, green walls, and a pedestal sink in beige tile, pink tile, and marble tile.

[luewashere]

Bathroom - Kids Bathroom - mid-sized contemporary kids' white tile and porcelain tile limestone floor and gray floor bathroom idea with a two-piece toilet and white walls

[joelsrose]

A/N I'm so glad yall enjoyed part 1 ! made me so happy seeing all the comments, hope you enjoy this part x

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You adored Tommy and Maria. That was no secret. Their house felt like a second home—the door always open, the hearth always warm, baby Benji always giggling in your arms like he knew something the rest of the world had forgotten.

You were there often enough that your teacup had a place on the shelf, your name was a murmur in bedtime lullabies, and your laughter belonged to the walls.

But Joel? Joel was different.

Despite your closeness with his brother and Maria, you and Joel had never been anything more than… polite shadows crossing paths. A nod at the gates. A quiet "morning" when your boots passed on the trail. He never stayed long enough for more.

Everyone in Jackson knew it—felt it. He carried himself like a man built from silence and steel, like someone forged in grief and never fully cooled. Where Tommy was sunlight, Joel was shadow. And not the soft kind, either. The kind you noticed in your peripheral vision—unavoidable, unmoving.

You didn’t need to know his story to recognize the shape of it. You saw it in the way he moved: cautious, careful, like the earth beneath him might give way if he stepped wrong.

You saw it in the tension that never left his shoulders, the way he never lingered, never asked questions he didn’t need answered. His eyes held the look of someone who had loved and lost so deeply he’d buried the whole concept beside whatever grave he no longer visited.

And he was, quite plainly, the last man in Jackson you’d ever try to matchmake.

Not because he didn’t deserve love—but because he didn’t want it.

Your methods weren’t scientific, but you had instincts. You always asked yourself the same quiet questions before setting anyone up:

What are they seeking?

What do they need?

And are they open to love, truly open?

Joel Miller failed the last question before it could even be asked.

He didn’t strike you as someone waiting for anything.

He struck you as the kind of man who’d wake up before dawn just to be alone with his coffee and the sound of his own breath. The kind who preferred the ache of his joints to the vulnerability of comfort. The kind of man who built his world out of habit, routine, and distance—and kept it that way because it hurt less.

He didn’t smile at people. Didn’t linger in town square to chat. Didn’t extend kindness unless necessity forced it from him. He wasn’t polite. He wasn’t soft. He was older, rough-edged, and entirely uninterested in being understood.

That was the truth of it.

So when Tommy leaned back in his chair that day, voice teasing but eyes glinting with something deeper, and said, “Find Joel someone,”—you knew exactly what he was doing.

He wasn’t asking. He was testing you. He had picked the one man in Jackson who didn’t want to be chosen.

And maybe… maybe he thought you’d fail.

But something about that challenge stuck in your ribs.

Because while Joel wasn’t looking for love—while he’d built his life so carefully around the absence of it—you couldn’t help but wonder:

What if he used to believe in it? What if he still did, quietly, deep down, in a place too bruised to admit it out loud?

And worse—what if the only reason he didn’t believe anymore was because no one had looked at him like he was worth choosing?

Not until now.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The first time you tried to bring it up, he was in Tommy and Maria’s kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring something that smelled like heaven and looked like effort.

The scent hit you before you saw him—garlic, thyme, maybe something smoked. It wrapped itself around the room like a warm quilt, rich and unexpected. Joel stood over the stove, jaw tight in concentration, a hand towel slung over one shoulder like it belonged there. His brow was furrowed, focused, almost peaceful in that gruff, guarded way of his.

You hovered in the doorway, heart thudding traitorously in your chest.

You were used to being approached by people who wanted your help—who smiled too wide, who leaned in eagerly, who whispered, “Do you think there’s someone out there for me?” Not… this.

Not trying to coax someone toward the idea of love like it was medicine he’d refuse to take.

He didn’t look up when you entered. Or if he noticed, he didn’t acknowledge you.

You lingered by the counter, clutching the edge like it might give you courage. The silence felt loud. You hated that it made you feel twelve years old.

He finally glanced over, barely. “You need somethin’?” His voice was flat, more gruff than unkind, but still edged like a warning. You were an interruption.

“Oh. No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “Just—this smells amazing.”

He grunted. Actually grunted. Like a bear in a flannel.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes and instead muttered something under your breath—something like “charming” or maybe just “Jesus Christ.”

You cleared your throat. “So… do you like cooking?”

He turned his head a fraction, enough to eye you sideways. “It’s food.”

You blinked. “That wasn’t really an answer.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I cook. So I can eat.”

You gave him a flat look, but he was already turning back to the pot, stirring like you hadn’t said anything at all.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Dinner at Tommy and Maria’s was always warm—familiar, comforting, threaded with laughter and the scent of something slow-cooked—but tonight, it buzzed with a quiet, unbearable tension.

Joel’s food was, of course, incredible.

Rich and rustic, seasoned to perfection, made with the kind of care he’d never admit out loud. But he ate like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t spent hours making it. He was already halfway through his plate by the time you’d taken your second bite, chewing in near silence, shoulders hunched like he was bracing for a storm no one else could feel.

You sat across from him, napkin folded delicately in your lap, heart tapping anxiously against your ribs.

Tommy was loving this. His smirk was nearly unbearable—eyes flicking from your face to Joel’s with all the subtlety of a man watching live theatre. He knew exactly what you were trying to do. He could see the way you kept glancing down, folding and refolding your napkin, trying to find the perfect opening to ask a question you weren’t even sure Joel would let you finish.

You took a breath, then another.

Wiped your mouth—gently.

“This is delicious, Joel,” you said, hoping your voice didn’t betray how hard your palms were sweating. “Really. It’s… so good.”

He nodded once, without looking up. “Mm.”

That was all.

Tommy bit back a grin and reached for the bread.

You looked at him helplessly, and he looked about ready to combust from holding in his laughter.

You pressed your fingers to your water glass, steadying yourself. And then—“So,” you said, voice a little too bright, a little too casual, “do you cook often for other people? Or… someone in particular?”

Joel’s fork paused. Slowly, he looked up.

His brow furrowed, deep and unmistakable. That classic Joel Miller expression that hovered somewhere between mild confusion and why are you still talking to me?

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You tried to smile, but it landed halfway between charm and panic. “Nothing. Just�� this kind of meal seems like something you’d make for someone special.”

He blinked at you. Once. Twice.

Then, “This a dinner or a damn interview?”

The words landed sharp. Not cruel, but cutting in that quiet, measured way only Joel could manage. Dry. Dismissive. Final.

It shut you up.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

After that night, after the dinner table rejection that hummed in your chest like an ache you didn’t know how to name, you decided there was no use in subtlety.

You had tried soft. You had tried polite. You had tried slipping things in like compliments folded into napkins, but Joel Miller was not the kind of man who read between the lines.

So the next time you saw him—three days later, tightening fencing wire behind the stables, sleeves rolled and brows furrowed in that eternal expression of someone perpetually unimpressed—you walked right up, leaned against the gatepost, and said, “Hypothetically… if someone asked you out, would you even go?”

He didn’t stop working. Didn’t glance at you. Just muttered, “Not interested in hypotheticals.”

You huffed, pushed off the post, and walked away.

Two days after that, you caught him hauling firewood into the school kitchen, face flushed from the cold, jaw tight. You handed him a cloth to wipe his hands and asked, “Would it kill you to let someone care about you?”

He blinked at you, deadpan. “You tryna get yourself assigned latrine duty with all these damn questions?”

You rolled your eyes and let the door shut behind you.

It became a pattern—awkward, pointed, persistent.

You asked him at the tool shed while he was oiling his shotgun, the scent of steel and turpentine between you, your voice feather-light but your eyes fixed carefully on his profile.

“What’s your type, anyway? If you had to pick?”

He didn’t even glance up. “People who mind their business.”

You tried again during patrol prep, the morning still damp with frost, his belt heavy with knives and yours with hope.

“You ever get lonely, Joel?”

He grunted without missing a beat. “You ever stop talkin’?”

After that, you told yourself you’d stop.

That maybe Tommy was right, maybe Joel Miller was the one locked door even your heart couldn’t open. You weren’t built to beg, and love shouldn’t have to be pried loose from someone like a tooth. So you promised yourself: no more questions, no more attempts. He didn’t want to be known.

But the promise frayed faster than you'd expected.

It had been a soft evening—one of those rare Jackson nights where the world felt quiet and intact, where the sun dipped low and golden behind the trees and the sky blushed lilac at the edges, and everything smelled faintly of woodsmoke and the promise of spring.

He was sitting on the porch steps outside the meeting hall, arms resting on his knees, posture taut like he was keeping the world at bay even while it softened around him.

You hadn’t meant to approach—not really—but something about the hush in the air and the loneliness curling at your ankles pushed you forward before you could stop yourself.

“Joel?” you asked gently, your voice low and full of something raw you didn’t try to hide this time.

He didn’t look at you, but he didn’t walk away either.

You sat down a few steps above him, enough distance between you to feel it. Enough hope left to try again.

“You really don’t think there’s anyone out there for you?” you asked softly, the words slipping from your lips like petals dropped into water, barely a ripple, as if saying it gently enough might keep it from shattering between you.

The air had cooled into dusk, the kind of quiet evening that made the world feel suspended—trees swaying in slow rhythm, the scent of smoke clinging to your clothes, light from the porch lantern casting golden shadows that didn’t quite reach him.

Joel didn’t answer right away.

He exhaled, slow and sharp, and the sound of it felt like something snapping—not loudly, not dramatically, just the quiet, unmistakable give of something that had been holding too much weight for too long.

And then, with his eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder, his voice came low and flat and brutal.

“What I think,” he said, “is that you don’t know how to mind your own damn business.”

You blinked, lips parting just slightly, but he wasn’t finished. His gaze never touched yours, his jaw tight with the kind of bitterness that had lived in him too long to name.

“You wanna feel needed?” he continued, each word cut clean and cruel. “Go find someone who gives a damn. It ain’t me.”

And then—he looked away.

Not in shame. Not in regret. Just turned his head with the finality of someone who had decided you no longer existed.

Your breath caught in your throat, small and sharp like the echo of a sob that hadn’t made it out. You stood slowly, hands stiff at your sides, your body moving before your mind caught up, every inch of you suddenly aware of how foolish you must have looked—how fragile your hope had been.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly, but the words felt like they belonged to someone else. You didn’t even know what you were apologizing for—existing, maybe. Caring.

He didn’t look up.

You turned, your steps uncertain at first—just the gentle scrape of boots on wood—but soon they quickened, like maybe if you moved fast enough you could outrun the heat rising behind your eyes or the way your throat had gone tight and narrow, like your heart was trying to climb out of it. Your shoulders curled inward as you walked, a soft, instinctive folding—as if you could shrink yourself into something smaller, something less noticeable, something easier to leave behind.

By the time you reached the path, the sky had deepened to a bruised indigo, the sun swallowed whole behind the trees, and the wind that had once carried the scent of pine and firewood now felt sharp and cold against your skin, like it knew it had overstayed its welcome.

And Joel?

Joel just sat there.

Still. Silent. Staring at nothing like the world around him had gone quiet too.

He didn’t flinch when Ellie approached—her footsteps uneven, heavy with the kind of angry purpose only a teenager could carry—but he didn’t greet her either. Just kept his eyes on the dark horizon like it might tell him what he’d just done.

Ellie stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets, her brows drawn so tight they nearly met.

“That was mean,” she said flatly, her voice cutting through the air like the crack of a branch underfoot.

Joel blinked, slow and deliberate, then rubbed a hand over his jaw, the scrape of his calloused palm loud in the silence.

“Ellie,” he muttered, low and tired, “how many times do I gotta tell you—it’s rude to eavesdrop.”

She rolled her eyes so hard you could hear it in her exhale.

“Yeah?” she shot back. “You know what else is rude? Being a complete asshole to someone who’s literally just tryin’ to care about you.”

He didn’t answer, just shifted slightly in his seat, his shoulders tight and his mouth pressed into a hard, straight line, like he was holding something back but wasn’t sure if it was words or regret.

“She wasn’t asking to annoy you,” Ellie went on, climbing the first step now, her voice lower but no less sharp. “She was asking ’cause she sees somethin’ in you. Which, frankly, is a goddamn miracle.”

Joel turned to look at her then—just barely, just enough—and the soft light caught the edge of his face, carved in angles and shadows, every line telling the story of a man who had carried too much for too long, who had forgotten softness because it had stopped surviving in his hands.

Ellie’s voice came quieter now, stripped of its usual armor, her hands still buried in her jacket but her posture more uncertain than defiant.

“You know I never met my mom,” she said suddenly, her eyes fixed somewhere beyond him, like the words were too fragile to look directly at.

Joel blinked, the shift in conversation jarring, his brow tightening in the center like something had caught him off guard and he didn’t quite know how to hold it.

Ellie shrugged, quick and small, like she regretted saying it the second it left her mouth. “I don’t know,” she added, voice softer now. “I guess I wouldn’t mind you… y’know. Finding someone.”

She said it like it was no big deal, like it hadn’t just cracked the air in two.

But Joel was still staring at her, still unmoving, still caught on that sentence—not the words themselves, but the space between them, the unspoken ache in her tone, the confession she hadn’t made outright but had wrapped in something lighter so it wouldn’t break the both of them.

“I mean,” she went on, her voice wobbling only slightly, “someone who’s good. Who could maybe… I don’t know. Be around. Help. Talk to me sometimes. If you weren’t. Not that I need it.” She swallowed. “Just… wouldn’t hate it, is all.”

The wind shifted again, cool and clean, brushing past them like it too was afraid to speak.

Joel looked at her like he hadn’t known—hadn’t let himself know—that there was a piece of her still searching for something she’d never had. Not just safety. Not just shelter. But softness. Guidance. A presence that could fill in the shape of something maternal, something gentle, something lasting.

Something like love.

And maybe, for the first time in a long while, Joel didn’t feel defensive. Didn’t feel the need to retreat behind some cold remark or hard silence.

He just sat there, staring at this kid—his kid—and realized with a slow, dawning ache that in all his effort to protect her from the world, he hadn’t stopped to think she might want more than just protection.

She might want family.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Tag List: (for future i think i will tag #cupidofwyoming for each chapter instead of a tag list because a lot of the time the tags dont work for some reason?! that way you guys can still find the chapters on my blog xx)

@joelmillerswife9 @meanderingcaptainswanmusings @mrfitzdarcyslover @noeeeeeeel @lostinthestreamofconsciousness

@fitzwlliamdarcy @mystickittytaco @millerdjarinn @missladym1981

@bardot49 @valkyreally @jeongiegram @fpsantiago @rattyfishrock

@wildthyng @quicax3 @alesomoza99 @sunfairyy @heartagram-vv

@4allthestars @vickie5446 @needz1nk @sadsydneystuff-blog @sunndroppp @kristinababy @cuteanimalmama @dailyobsession

@dulcebloodhnd @rigoler @brittmb115 @lizziesfirstwife @nandan11

@cinderblock24 @astroid-wanderer @ashleyfilm @lizzie-cakes

@sagexsenorita

[carleighrose]

Bathroom - Powder Room Example of a trendy powder room design with a vessel sink

[gweelczz]

“My woman”

Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore x Y/N (Honey) (Honey is just a nickname smoke uses, it’s still a x Reader)

Genre: angst, fluff

Warnings: None

Summary: Honey gets self conscious, Smoke reminds her of who the fuck she is

The afternoon sun had started to slip low, casting everything in that syrupy golden light as you stood out front with Mary and Pearline. All three of you had just come back from town, brown paper parcels clutched in your arms, dust from the road still clingin’ to your shoes.

It was Mary’s idea — to get matching dresses.

Bright, swingy little things stitched by Miss Callie at the general store, paid for in wrinkled bills and nickels. Yours was a soft shade of cornflower blue, just like theirs. Sweet and simple, catchin’ the light every time you moved.

You stood there laughin’, watchin’ Mary spin, the dress clingin’ just right to her curves. Pearline gave a shy twirl too, the hem floatin’ around her slender frame.

You pulled at the hem of your own dress, suddenly too aware of yourself. The way the fabric hugged your hips a little too tight, the way your arms looked bared to the sun, the way your middle pressed against the stitchin’.

Next to Mary — with her pale golden skin, a waist that turned heads without even tryin’, and curls that framed her face just so — you felt… plain. Heavy.

You smiled and laughed, same as them, but somethin’ cold curled up behind your ribs.

By the time you and Smoke got home that evenin’, walkin’ the dusty road back to your little wood-frame house, your heart was heavier than the bundles you carried.

Smoke noticed.

Of course he did.

You moved ‘round the kitchen like a ghost, lightin’ the oil lamp, settin’ water to boil, settin’ the table — but with none of the life you usually had.

He watched you from his chair in the corner, his suspenders slack against his chest, a cigarette burnin’ slow between his fingers, the radio hummin’ low from the shelf.

Finally, when the house was bathed in soft lamplight and the night wrapped thick around the walls, he spoke.

“Come here, girl,” he said, voice low and rough like gravel.

You wiped your hands on a worn flour sack towel, heart thumpin’ loud as you crossed the room.

Smoke reached out, catchin’ you by the hips, pullin’ you in close to stand between his knees. His hands were warm, familiar, strong. He tipped his head back to look at you, brows knit tight in that way that said he already knew, but he needed you to say it.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, thumb movin’ soft against the side of your waist.

You tried to shake your head, tried to brush it off, but the hurt was too thick to hide.

He waited. Like he had all the time in the world.

Finally, you whispered, “I saw myself standin’ next to them today… Mary… Pearline… and I—”

Your voice cracked, hot tears pricking your lashes.

“I ain’t built like them,” you said, voice breaking smaller. “They look good in them dresses. I look… wrong.”

Smoke’s hands tightened, not rough, just certain, like he was anchoring you there with him.

“Look at me,” he said, low and sure.

You did. Even when it hurt.

He searched your face, those steady brown eyes catching all the pieces you tried to hide. His rough hands slid up slow — reverent — over the curve of your waist, up your ribs, to the bend of your back.

“Ain’t never seen nothin’ wrong when I look at you,” he murmured. “Ain’t never felt nothin’ wrong when I got you in my arms.”

He rose to his feet, taller than you, the heat of him sinking right into your skin.

He hooked his finger under the strap of your dress, easin’ it down your shoulder, barin’ your skin to the soft night air. His mouth brushed there, kissin’ the curve of your shoulder, tender like he was kissin’ a prayer.

“These arms,” he whispered against your skin, voice rough, full of truth. “These arms held me together when the whole damn world was tryin’ to pull me apart.”

He kissed the crook of your elbow, his hands cradlin’ your wrist gentle like you were made of somethin’ precious.

“This belly,” he said, hand flattening tender against your middle, thumb strokin’ circles slow. “Ain’t nothin’ but home. Ain’t nothin’ but soft and warm and where I belong.”

He pressed a kiss there too, right over the cloth of your dress, lingerin’ like he wanted the feel of you burned into his mouth.

Then — this man you loved — dropped down to his knees right there on the rough wood floor.

“Ain’t no other woman built like you,” he said, his big hands slidin’ slow down the sides of your thighs, squeezin’ like he needed the feel of you. “Ain’t no other woman strong enough to carry what you do.”

He rested his forehead against your belly, breath warm against the fabric. You carded your fingers through his hair, trembling, tears spillin’ hot down your cheeks now.

“You hear me?” he rasped. “You’re it for me, baby. Ain’t no other woman. Ain’t even no other world without you in it.”

You broke then, sobbin’ soft into your hand as you sank to your knees with him, wrappin’ your arms around his neck, holdin’ him like you’d fall apart if you let go.

He gathered you up close, rockin’ you slow against his chest, lettin’ the silence fill with all the words he couldn’t say. His heart beat steady against your cheek.

And for the first time that long, heavy day, you let yourself believe him.

The house was still wrapped in that hush, the lamps throwin’ soft golden light against the wood walls. You were still sittin’ there on the floor with Smoke, pressed close to him, when you heard it — the faint crackle and hum of a record startin’ up from the parlor.

Sammie’s voice floated through the house — raw, rich, scratchin’ against the edges like the cotton fields themselves were singin’ through him.

You and Smoke both froze for a breath.

Sammie’d been scratchin’ at his guitar for years, singin’ in juke joints and church halls when they let him, but he finally scraped up enough coins to put down a real record — his first. Y’all bought it from his cousin’s shop, handed over two wrinkled dollars like it was gold.

And now here he was, croonin’ through the cracklin’ speakers.

“Ain’t no storm gonna break me, no woman gonna leave me…”

Smoke pulled back just enough to see your face, his hand slidin’ up the side of your neck, thumb catchin’ at your jaw.

“C’mere,” he whispered.

He stood up slow, haulin’ you up with him, his arms slippin’ low around your waist. He pressed his forehead to yours for a heartbeat, just breathin’ you in, before he started swayin’ you gentle to the music.

There wasn’t no proper dance steps to it. Nothin’ real fancy. Just the two of you movin’ slow, back and forth, feet scuffin’ quiet against the worn wood floor.

You pressed your cheek against his chest, hearin’ the steady thump of his heart under your ear, lettin’ the rise and fall of his breath lull you.

Smoke’s hand rubbed slow up and down your back, gatherin’ handfuls of your dress like he couldn’t get close enough. His other hand cradled your head careful, like you were somethin’ breakable and beloved all at once.

“You my whole world, girl,” he murmured against your hair. “Ain’t never need to look at nobody else. Ain’t never wanted to.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, holdin’ on tighter. Sammie’s voice dipped low and mournful, singin’ ‘bout love found in the middle of nothin’ — love that was the only thing that kept the walls from fallin’ down.

The night stretched around you, thick and warm. The house creaked now and then, the screen door rattlin’ soft in the breeze comin’ off the fields.

But there wasn’t nothin’ outside that little bubble of you and him, swayin’ slow to a song from a man you both loved, in a house you built with your own two hands.

And when Smoke bent his head and kissed your temple, whisperin’ your name like a prayer, you finally believed it — deep down in your bones — that you were enough. That you were his.

No dress, no other woman, no shadow of doubt could take that from you.

Not ever.

[rememberwren]

A Dichotomy of Thought || 12

Prior and future parts here.

Simon gets even. Graphic depictions of violence. Food control. Ableist thoughts. Suggested sexual abuse.

-

Johnny is letting a cigarette turn to ash in his hand when he sees you leave the apartment complex. You droop in the overcast weather like a flower wilted by the cold, your shoulders bowed, your steps heavy even as you reach the sidewalk and push yourself into a jog. This is a ritual for you, Johnny knows—knows, thanks to those days spent planning murder. 

He knew those days weren’t for nothing. 

Sitting the cigarette on the balcony railing, he puts his first two fingers in his mouth and tries to whistle—it makes a pitiful little sound that doesn’t come close to reaching you. Red faced, Johnny thinks maybe it is for the best. God forbid you think he was catcalling you. 

“She’s gone,” Johnny calls back into the apartment. He leaves the cigarette behind; he’s losing the taste for them. Even now the smell of one just makes his stomach roll. Everything these days does though, as his body struggles to adjust to no more OxyContin in his system. Even though the worst of the shakes and the shits are behind him, there’s the craving that never ceases—craving for that blissful loss of awareness, craving the weight of the pill on his tongue and the knowledge that with it soon things will get better. 

He doesn’t need that today though. He feels it in the air. Things will get better. He doesn’t need to speak the words into existence, doesn’t need to pray nor pander. There is God, but then there is Ghost. Today belongs to him. Things will change because Ghost will make them. 

“Alright,” Simon calls from where he’s at the sink doing dishes. He stops and leaves the water to turn cold, drying his hands on a nearby dish towel. 

Gloves sit on the countertop. 

“Come with me,” Simon says one more time as he slides the gloves on, working the fabric tightly over his damp hands.

Johnny is just as overwhelmed now as he was the first time Simon asked—because he knows Simon means it. Simon would take him, liability or not, dangerous or not, foolish or not. His word—unshakable, irrefutable as it always is—is proof that the weeks spent with a chasm between them weren’t for nothing. 

But Simon isn’t the only one allowed to grow. 

“I’d just put us both in danger,” Johnny says, slipping his hand into his pocket. “I’d rather that cunt get what he deserves.” 

“Just going to talk to him, Johnny,” Simon says calmly. 

“Could be…be…” there’s a word on the tip of Johnny’s tongue, but like something left on a high shelf, he just can’t quite reach it no matter how he strains, his fingertips brushing over familiar syllables like the cardboard box of his favorite cereal. He grits his teeth. “God fucking damn it all. Cocksucking fuck.” 

“Notice you never forget any of those words?” 

“Aye and thank God I don’t,” Johnny snaps. He forces himself to take a breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth. The word he was looking for still doesn’t come, so he changes the sentence altogether.  

“He could forget something as simple as a talk.” 

“It’ll be memorable,” Simon promises, eyes glittering. He comes to Johnny and kisses him, cupping the jaw that’s grown too sharp over past months. Johnny’s lashes flutter, his hand leaving his own pocket and finding Simon’s waistband, fingertips curling into it to tug him closer—

They break the kiss. 

“Just a talk?” Johnny asks, running his fingers over the metal grip of Simon’s sidearm where it is tucked in his pants.

“That’s the memorable part.” 

Johnny is absolutely insane; he just laughs. 

-

Simon’s last moment of doubt comes in the hallway with his hand poised to knock on your boyfriend’s door. What he’s doing could get him a six-by-eight cell in any of the country’s not-so-finest jails or prisons. It would destroy this little slice of life he’s built with Johnny, painful though that life sometimes is. 

But he’d known it was coming to this long before Johnny had picked a fight with the monster next door. He’d known when you sat in his apartment and burnt your mouth on his tea. He’d known when he woke from a nap to see you standing in the darkness of his room wringing your hands. This isn’t just about Johnny. 

What’s the use, Simon wonders, in looking the way I do, and having the skills I have, if I’m not making bad men regret being alive?

Ghost knocks on the neighbor’s door at half-past one in the afternoon. You are less than a quarter of a mile away from the apartment building, on your run. Johnny says your circuit usually takes you thirty to forty-five minutes which is plenty of time—as a matter of fact, Ghost intends to be in and out with time to spare. 

He knocks again when there’s no answer. He knows your boyfriend is home, knows that he doesn’t work and spends most days being a lazy sod around the apartment. When he hears movement on the other side of the door, he steps back and lets himself linger innocuously within sight of the peephole. He purposefully doesn’t cut his eyes towards his own apartment, the door of which is cracked open, a vivid blue eye visible between the frame and the door. 

Your boyfriend is smart enough to leave the latch lock on. He opens the door the few inches the chain will allow, his brows raised in a mix of derision and disbelief at the sight of Ghost on the other side. 

“Simon,” he says dryly. “What can I do for you?” 

“I wanted to talk to you about the other night,” Ghost says. He shifts from foot to foot, hands deep within his pockets, too aware of how still he can be and eager to appear human in this moment. “I feel like, like I put my foot in it. I wanted to explain myself, I mean.”

It’s bait, something shiny and dangly, hopefully disguising the cruel sharpness of the hook. Appeal to his own superiority. I put my foot in it. Make it more convenient for him to let you in than talk in the hallway. I wanted to explain myself. 

Ghost can snap that chain like a line of fish wire, but it will make noise. He’s hoping not to attract anymore attention than he needs to. 

Your boyfriend heaves a sigh, bracing one fist against the door frame. His face twists into something understanding and contrite. “Look, I don’t blame you. I wasn’t exactly being Prince Charming. If my mother had heard me talking to a lady like that, she would have whooped my ass, you know what I mean?”

It is difficult to believe that the creature in front of him has a mother at all, that he isn’t just spawned from sulfur and brimstone, something slimy and misshapen that crawled from a crack in the earth. But he must have a mother, mustn’t he? Even the worst men do.

Ghost hopes she’s dead. 

“I know what you mean,” Ghost lies, like his mother ever raised her gentle hands to him. He clears his throat. “When I heard you call her a slut, I just—“

The shorter man winces, eyes flickering toward what little bit of the hallway he can see around Ghost’s hulking figure. He laughs a little, but there’s not much mirth in the sound. “You want to say that any louder? Jesus. Look—you want a beer?”

That easy. 

“I could go for a beer,” Ghost says, face impassive. 

Your boyfriend reaches for the chain. Ghost’s adrenaline spikes, slowing the movement, sharpening the colors, amplifying the sound as the latch comes undone—

—then Ghost’s boot is meeting the door. 

It catches your boyfriend in the face, the crunch of cartilage sprinkled beneath the thud of wood on flesh as it batters him backwards and to the ground. Ghost forces his way into the apartment and shuts the door behind him quietly. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” your boyfriend shouts, his words spraying blood and garbled as he gingerly feels at his injured face. 

Ghost is on him in an instant, one skeletal hand gripping around his shirt and wrenching him up off the floor, seams in the fabric straining. He chokes him, gripping tight enough that the worm can’t even swallow, can’t suck in the breath to shout. His nose isn’t the same shape anymore, blood streaming from both nostrils, so dark it’s nearly black where it drips over Ghost’s fingers. Ghost has seen the expression on his face a thousand times before, just on other faces. The eyes are always the same: brown, blue, green, hazel, gray. Fear is always the same. 

“We’re gonna talk,” Ghost tells him. “And you’re not going to do any shouting, understand me? If you do, I’ll make it even worse for you. Nod if you understand.” 

Ghost uses his grip on the man’s head to make him nod. Blood splatters against his wrist between his gloves and the sleeves of his shirt, burning hot. His face is turning red with lack of oxygen, both hands scrabbling at Ghost’s gloved fingers, fighting for scraps of air. 

“Good man,” Ghost says. He lets go of his throat. 

Your boyfriend screams. Smart, honestly. His best chance at getting out of this unscathed is if there’s a knock on the door, after all. 

Ghost grips his throat again, cutting off the sound before it can carry. Frantic, he takes up clawing at Ghost’s gloves and sleeves again, digging divots into the larger man’s forearms. Ghost tweaks the man’s broken nose just to watch his eyes stream with tears. 

“Work with me. We can be civil, can’t we? Can’t we?” 

There’s a struggle. For a moment your boyfriend manages to break Ghost’s grip (never underestimate the strength of a man afraid for his life). Ghost lets him run, blood dripping onto the laminate floors like a breadcrumb trail, and Ghost the monster following along behind. Your boyfriend seems to realize last minute that the bedroom is no good—there’s not even a fucking door to shut between them for Christ’s sake—and he feigns for the balcony instead. 

Ghost forgot how much he likes the chase. It does something to him, something to his blood. He’s fucking good at this, good at giving a man a rope just long enough to hang himself with. Good at giving them hope just to watch it leave their eyes. 

But it’s risky to underestimate the enemy, and Ghost can’t afford risks. Not for him. Not for Johnny. Not for you. 

Ghost goes for his gun and slips it from the concealed holster in his waistband. It’s a comfortable weight in his hand, and at the sight of it, your boyfriend goes stiller than a statue. It’s game over, then. They both know it. His hands are shaking as he lifts them. 

“Alright,” your boyfriend says, voice congested, blood smeared across his cheeks. “Just—calm down. You want to talk? We can talk. Civil, right?” 

“Civil. Sit down,” says Ghost, keeping the gun fixed on him as he crosses the room and sits at the kitchen table, chair legs screeching across laminate. Not long ago, they were seated here playing poker together. But then, Ghost had only been wishing he could draw his sidearm. 

Your boyfriend sits. 

They talk.

-

The door closes behind Ghost, and Johnny can’t help pacing, holding his breath as he listens for sounds through the walls, for any sign that things are going south. But ultimately he has faith in Ghost; things will go whatever direction Ghost wills them. 

Drifting around the apartment, Johnny freezes when he thinks he hears a scream, something high and bitten off. For a moment he hears the slowing thud thud thud of helicopter blades, feels the cold wind against his face as he realizes they’re going down. No stopping it. No getting out of this one, MacTavish. He can see the expression on his fellow soldiers’ faces, can feel their mortal terror reflected in his own. It is cruel to see death coming. Cruel and terrifying beyond measure. 

Outside, it begins to rain. 

“No, no, no, no,” Johnny says, staggering to the balcony. He stands there breathing in the cold air, blinking away the visions of the past. 

Then he sees you, soaked to the bone. Coming back early. 

“Fuuuuck me,” he mutters. His palm is sweating terribly despite the cold air billowing in through the open balcony. He closes the sliding door and limps his way to the front door, heart pounding. 

He grabs his key off of the hook. He goes to jam his feet into his slip on shoes but the angle isn’t right and he has to stoop down, fix the angle with his hand, and then try again—god, had he just heard the elevator doors open?—come the fuck on, Johnny, they’re shoes, you’re a grown man, put on your fucking shoes—

He bursts out of the apartment and into the empty hallway. Shutting the apartment door behind him, he jams his key into the lock and tries to calm his racing heart. This isn’t like him. He’s been in high pressure situations before—he’s looked death in the fucking face—and never been this rattled. 

Out of practice, I am, he thinks, hands shaking. Out of bloody practice. 

The elevator doors open and you stand there, drenched from head to toe. You look even more defeated than you had leaving the apartment, and something in Johnny’s chest absolutely aches for you. His mouth wobbles. He forces it into a smile as he watches you approach. 

“Hi, lass,” he says. “Fancy running into you.” 

“Johnny,” you say with warmth that makes his chest flutter. You look exhausted, the bruises on your face more stark now that you aren’t wearing any makeup. Still, your shoulders sag with something like relief at the sight of him. “How—how are you? Practicing with your key again?”

“Ah—no, not this time. Just—trying to get in. But look at you, you’re shaking.” He opens the door, hopes you didn’t notice that it was already unlocked. “Come in, let me get you a towel.” 

You glance toward your apartment door, face experiencing a host of emotions. “I shouldn’t,” you say with genuine regret. “He’s expecting me.”

“Just long enough to dry off and have a cup of something warm,” Johnny insists. You’re shivering even in the warmth of the hallway, and while you could easily go into your own apartment to dry off, Johnny prefers you in his. 

“Alright,” you say, arms wrapped around yourself, mouth curled into an anxious frown. “Just for a few minutes. You said…a cup of something warm?” 

“Aye,” Johnny says brightly, pushing the door open and standing aside to let you in first. “Could make you a tea if you like; Simon’s taught me well enough. Or I have coffee in the pot from this morning.”

“Coffee is fine,” you say. Your eyes flicker around the apartment. The door closes behind you both, and more tension bleeds from your shoulders as your eyes rake over him. “Are you alright? I was worried about you. Did he—hurt you badly?” 

God, you’re a darling, even dripping wet with your clothes sticking to you (and Johnny doesn’t need to be thinking about that, about the way your curves are visible beneath the sodden fabric. He’s doing that more and more often lately, thinking thoughts he shouldn’t). 

“I’m fine, love,” he promises. “Knee aches like a bitch. But when doesn’t it? Let me get you that towel, you’re dripping all over the floor.” 

“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” you mutter, looking down at the puddle you are making on the linoleum. “I’ll clean it up, honest—“ 

“Don’t worry about it. More worried about you. You’ll catch a cold like this.” Johnny fights to control his own limp, trying to salvage his pride as he goes to the linen closet and fetches you a towel. 

It isn’t until he goes to hand it to you that he sees the splint on your littlest finger, and the towel nearly falls from his hand. You take it but he reaches for you anyway, his fingers softly angled and slow to move, like you are an easily startled animal. 

“He did this,” Johnny says, taking your hand gently in his own. His heart is loud in his ears, blood throbbing in his skull as he coaxes you to turn your hand over so he can examine it from every angle. “How?” 

“Just sort of—“ you make the motion of snapping something in two, and Johnny’s stomach rolls with nausea. 

“Sick fuck,” Johnny mutters. He covers your fingers with his own, wishing to heal you. 

“Doesn’t hurt,” you murmur. Your hand flexes, soft fingertips trailing over Johnny’s calloused palm. 

“Liar,” Johnny says softly. He glances up to catch you already looking at him, your eyes wide and soft. The two of you are standing close enough for your breaths to mingle, and it shocks Johnny back into awareness. What the fuck is he doing, coming onto you? 

It’s not like that, Johnny thinks to himself as he steps back and watches you try to towel yourself off, squeezing at your sodden clothes. But deep down he suspects it's exactly like that. 

“I’ll get your coffee,” he says, wishing to put a little distance between you both. Pouring with his weak hand is harder than it looks, muscles trembling a little. He sloshes some over the lip of the mug and his face colors. Glancing over his shoulder, he finds you not looking at him, your eyes distant, cradling your hurt hand to your chest. 

He weighs the pros and cons of asking you to carry your own cup to the table—but the table is right fucking there. It’s just a few steps. Surely Johnny can get ahold of himself long enough to make the journey. Taking the handle of the mug in his hand, he grips it firmly and steadies himself. 

One step. His knee aches, but he doesn’t baby it. Two steps. Three—halfway there. 

The front door opens and Johnny drops the mug. It shatters on the floor sending steaming coffee and shards of porcelain every direction. 

Simon stands there, his figure taking up the entire doorway, something out of many men’s nightmares. But not Johnny’s. Clear blue eyes scan him over from head to toe, but other than having taken his gloves off, he doesn’t look any different. 

“It was an accident,” you say, looking from Simon to the cup. Your hand is pressed over your heart, like an oath, like you’re trying to still it. “I was distracting him. I—“

“It’s alright,” Simon says, coming in. He shuts the door behind him. “Just a cup. Alright, Johnny?”

“Alright,” Johnny says. He raises both his brows, silently asking: are you? 

Simon nods imperceptibly. He goes and kneels down in the disaster zone, delicately picking up the larger pieces of porcelain. 

“Let me help,” you mumble, coming to kneel beside him. 

“Don’t, lass,” Johnny says. “You’ll cut yourself.”

“I’ll be careful—oh,” you say, reaching out to hover your hand gently over Ghost’s wrist. “You’re bleeding.”

Three sets of eyes turn to where Ghost’s sleeve has ridden up, at the drop of blood there. Johnny stares in horror as you brush your thumb against it only to find the spot stays, the blood dried and coagulated. 

Ghost draws his hand away, glancing up to meet Johnny’s eyes, exchanging a glance. “Old wound. Don’t worry about it.” 

-

You don’t connect the dots. 

Not when you clean the blood off the whitewashed door. Not when you mop it off the floor. Not when you sanitize the table. 

Creeping into the bedroom you share with your boyfriend, you stand still like a rabbit in a dog’s gaze letting your eyes adjust to the darkness. His figure is in the same place it’s been all night, curled up beneath the blankets on his side of the bed. 

You swallow. “Do you—want me to make dinner?” 

“Not hungry,” he says, his voice nasally. You’d only gotten one good look at his face, but it hadn’t been pretty: both eyes darkening with bruises, his nose swollen and misshapen. 

Not hungry. Alright. But: “I am.” 

One of his hands reaches out and slaps at the key to the refrigerator where it rests on the nightstand. He takes it and throws it at you without looking, the key falling short and clattering against the laminate floors. 

You drop down to your hands and knees, feeling for it in the darkness. You must take too long, because he sighs heavily in a way that makes your face heat up. Finally you find it and you slip out of the bedroom, eager to be far away from him. 

Belly full, you slip into the bedroom hours later just to find him still awake, his breaths loud where he’s forced to breathe through his mouth. You turn the key over and over in your hand, deciding. Feeling his eyes on you in the dark, you creep to the nightstand and softly place it back in its spot. 

He says nothing, not even when you slip beneath the covers beside him. 

Dread fills you when he rolls toward you, but already your body is going soft and limp, your brain ready to escape away to a safer place inside. You know what’s coming, the pain, the humiliation. It’s a nightly ritual for him, same as brushing his teeth and washing his face. 

Except he doesn’t touch you. 

You lay awake, eyes on the ceiling, waiting. Even when he starts to snore—great sawing sounds—you cannot seem to shut your eyes. 

You do not sleep. 

[s4vyc4ndy]

Sakusa Kiyoomi || Clean serve, messy heart

Sakusa Kiyoomi liked order. He liked routines, neatness, and knowing exactly what to expect. His world was made up of carefully folded towels, perfectly timed serves, and a comfortable distance from anything—or anyone—that could disrupt his sense of control.

Then you joined Itachiyama as the new team manager.

And suddenly, Sakusa’s world was an absolute mess.

It wasn’t dramatic, like in the romance movies Komori teased him about. There were no slow-motion moments or violins playing in the background. It was simple—too simple, really. You walked into the gym for the first time, clipboard in hand, offering a polite smile to the team, and Sakusa felt his heart do something completely unfamiliar.

A skip. A stumble. A full-on dive into chaos.

Of course, he’d never admit it.

Instead, he became strategic. If he liked you—and he wasn’t ready to use that word just yet—he’d be subtle. Calm. Rational.

But Sakusa’s version of "subtle" was… questionable at best.

He started standing a little closer during water breaks. Not too close—he wasn’t reckless—but definitely within earshot. He’d clear his throat unnecessarily when you were nearby, just to see if you’d glance at him. (You always did.)

When Komori caught him lingering near the supply closet where you were organizing equipment, Sakusa muttered, “Just needed a towel,” even though he was clearly holding one already.

But his real downfall? The small, thoughtful gestures he couldn’t help but do.

You’d casually mention being cold in the gym, and the next day, an extra hoodie mysteriously appeared on the bench—one that just happened to be his, freshly washed and folded. You’d struggle to reach a clipboard on the top shelf, and Sakusa would suddenly materialize beside you, silent but helpful, retrieving it without a word.

And every time, he’d walk away quickly, face slightly pink, pretending none of it meant anything.

One day after practice, you found him alone, wiping down volleyballs with mechanical precision. The gym was quiet except for the squeak of sneakers against the polished floor.

“Hey, Sakusa,” you called softly, stepping closer.

He stiffened, keeping his focus on the volleyball in his hands. “What?”

You smiled, unfazed by his usual curt tone. “Thanks for the hoodie the other day. It was really thoughtful.”

His hand froze mid-wipe. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “You’re always doing stuff like that, though.”

He finally glanced up, dark eyes meeting yours. His face was carefully neutral, but there was a flicker of something—panic?—beneath the surface.

“Well,” he muttered, looking back down, “someone has to be responsible around here.”

You laughed softly, stepping even closer now. “Is that what this is? Responsibility?”

He opened his mouth, probably to deflect again, but then he made the mistake of looking at you—really looking at you. The warm light of the gym reflected in your eyes, your smile soft and genuine, and suddenly all his carefully built walls felt paper-thin.

“…Maybe not just that,” he admitted quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

Your smile grew, your heart fluttering at the rare glimpse of honesty from him. “Good. Because I was hoping it wasn’t.”

For the first time since you’d met, Sakusa didn’t look away. Instead, he nodded slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips—subtle, quiet, but there.

Messy feelings, it turned out, weren’t so bad after all.

[lnfours]

welcome home | l.n

summary: he finally asks you to move in with him

warnings: fluff, fluff and more fluff. i need him so bad.

masterlist | ask box

₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊

the sun shining through the curtains is what woke lando up, the smell of your perfume engulfing him when he lazily threw the pillow from your the other side of the bed. he had tried to go back to sleep, but failed. so, he threw the covers off his legs with a soft sigh, getting up and looking around the room for any sign of you, but you weren’t there. only your things remained on the dresser, your clothes folded in a pile on the top.

when he walked into the bathroom, your toothbrush was sitting next to his in the cup, your face wash and hair brush on the counter next to your overflowing makeup bag. he didn’t mind the mess. actually, he liked when you left things around. it gave the other wise empty apartment life. it was like you were leaving your own personal touches throughout his home, and he couldn’t help but smile at every single one.

the towel you had used to shower that morning was sitting on the rack, still damp. your shampoo, conditioner and body wash sitting on the built in shelf. it pulled at his heartstrings to see it, how he wished the things would find a permanent place rather than a temporary one every few weeks.

as he brushed his teeth, he racked his brain trying to think of where you had gone, but remembered that you mentioned something about getting brunch with a few friends. he had hoped you were having fun, much needed ‘girl time’, but all he wanted to do was crawl back into bed with you and continue the show the two of you had started the weekend before.

despite his feelings, he finally wandered into the kitchen. he smiled softly at the coffee cup sitting in the sink, the white mug stained with your lipstick on the rim. he could picture you fixing your lipstick in the mirror before walking out the door in a hurry, because you were almost always running late.

he made himself a cup of coffee, sitting down on the couch and scrolling through his phone. he saw that you had posted on your instagram story about an hour ago, a picture of you and your friends in the mirror of the bathroom at the cafe downtown.

girls day <3

his heart almost leapt into his throat at how brightly you were smiling. he caught himself smiling back at the photo, your smile being too infectious. he couldn’t help himself as he slid up on the picture, typing back a response.

can i be invited next time? i’m one of the girls 😕

he watched as your icon appeared in the chat, your side illuminating with the ‘typing…’ in the lower corner.

i think the girls would disagree, hun. i’ll be home soon, and then i’m all yours 🤍

he smiled softly, double tapping the message.

deal. have fun, baby ❤️

you double tapped his message in return and he swiped out of instagram, checking his email. when it was done refreshing, only one had caught his eye. he placed his coffee down on the table in front of him as he turned his entire focus to reading the email.

dear mr. norris,

i’d like to congratulate you as your offer for the home on willow lane has been approved! i’ll be in contact soon to talk about settlement and move-in dates.

in all, congratulations on being a homeowner! look forward to speaking with you!

best wishes,

sam parker

keller prime realty

“no way, mate!” he laughed softly.

max had decided to come downstairs at that exact time, “you alright?”

he nodded at his friend, “remember that house i showed you? the one i said i was debating on putting an offer on?”

max nodded, “yeah, what about it?”

“well, i may or may not have put an offer on it,” lando continued, “and it may or may not have gotten approved.”

max smiled, patting his best friend’s shoulder, “congrats, mate. when do you and y/n move in?”

lando’s face fell and max rolled his eyes, “you haven’t asked her yet? you literally just bought the house and you still haven’t asked her?”

lando bit down on his bottom lip, “it’s not that i don’t want to, it’s just, i don’t know if she’s on the same page. i mean, she spends the weekends here, but whenever i wake up on sundays she’s normally about to leave.”

max shook his head, “or what if it’s because you never told her how much you like her staying here? i mean, sure we both know you love having her without saying anything, but maybe she just needs that reassurance.”

lando nodded, catching onto what his best mate was on about, “and i haven’t reassured her…”

“right,” max nodded, “now you get it.”

“so, what? i’m just supposed to be like ‘hey, i love having you here so much that i bought a house for us to move into, if you want’?” lando joked, taking a sip from his mug.

max rolled his eyes, “not exactly like that, you div.”

the door opened and you smiled as you kicked your heels off by the door, the two boys’ eyes landing on yours, “hey,”

“hey,” max smiled.

lando smiled at you as your feet padded against the hardwood floor heading towards the kitchen, your keys and purse hanging on the hooks by the door, “how was brunch?”

“good,” you nodded, placing the white takeout box on the shelf in the fridge, “they had really good matcha lattes, i think you would’ve liked it.”

lando hummed, “maybe we can go sometime soon.”

you nodded, plopping next to him on the couch, chin leaning on his shoulder, “sounds good, baby.”

lando smiled and leaned down to press a soft kiss to your lips. you smiled into the kiss as max groaned, which only made you pull lando closer by his hoodie. you laughed when max fake gagged and got up from his seat, the both of you breaking apart and laughing as he made his way back up the stairs, “yep, that’s enough. sick of you two swapping spit near me.”

“cheers, mate,” lando called back up the stairs before looking over at you. you smiled at the brunette.

“what?”

he shook his head, “just thinking.”

your eyes found the curl that had fallen out of place, your fingers moving to brush it back, “about what?”

“how much i love having you here,” he said and your lips turned into a smile, “i have someone to annoy max with now.”

you giggled, “that’s my favorite pastime and you know that.”

he smiled, nodding, “i do.”

there was a moment of silence before he spoke up again, “do you like coming here?”

you furrowed your eyebrows, “of course i do. what makes you ask?”

he took in a deep breath before looking back at you, “i bought a house.”

his words came out all of a sudden and you looked at him confused, “you… bought a house?”

he nodded, swallowing before he continued, “for us.”

your heart skipped a beat as he looked down at you, softly smiling, “i found the perfect house, and i put an offer on it and it was accepted. i know i should’ve told you, but, i really really want you to move in with me. like yesterday,”

you laughed softly as he smiled, “when did you put an offer on it?”

“a few weeks ago,” he said, “i know i should’ve told you, but when i say it’s perfect it’s literally perfect. everytime i look at it i just keep seeing you dancing around the kitchen or us watching a movie in the living room, i don’t know…”

you placed your hand on his cheek, “i love you,”

he smiled back, “i love you, too,” his nose brushed against yours, “will you please move in with me.”

you brushed through the curls on the nape of his neck, biting down on your bottom lip as you tried your best to hold back the smile threatening to breakout on your face, “since you asked so nicely.”

he snorted before kissing you sweetly, pulling you into his lap. you giggled as he held you close, your arms wrapping around his neck.

“do you have any pictures?” you smiled against his lips. he nodded, reaching between the two of you before fishing his phone from the pocket of his hoodie. you watched as he pulled the listing up on his phone, a smile on his face as he handed it to you.

as you scrolled through the pictures and smiled about all the little things he had thought you’d like about the house, all he could think about was what you would look like in a white dress.

[operationdeadbolt]

Pockets of Domesticity

Johnny who’s happiest when he gets back from an assignment and is finally able to see his love again.

No matter how many times he tries to convince you otherwise, you feel guilty when ‘all’ he comes home from a deployment to is you. You think he deserves more, a special night in or a nice dinner, perhaps something extravagant after everything he’s been through. 

In reality, this is complete bliss. The only thing he’s thought about the whole time he was in the field is you and the pockets of domesticity you provide. 

When Johnny walks through the door, he's aching and stiff and beat up and exhausted, yes, but he hears the patter of your socks against the hardwood and you show up in front of him wearing his hoodie and looking up at him with the brightest smile he’s ever seen. His calloused hands cup your face gently as he peppers kisses all over, baby blue hues welling up with tears because he’s home, he’s safe, and he has his sweetheart in his arms again. 

Johnny smiles warmly as you sit in his lap on the couch, studying your features intently as you talk about everything you’ve done while he’s been away. The way your eyes light up when you tell him you finally finished the puzzle you two were working on and how you built a shelf to keep his sketchbooks organized. He lets out a laugh, deep and genuine, when you feel your face get warm and sheepishly tell him sorry for getting so excited over something so ‘mundane’.

Johnny who is adamant to tell you how you being happy is what makes him happy, so please don’t ever apologize for something like that again. He can’t keep his hands off of you as the two of you make your way upstairs, thick biceps holding you against him and nearly making you fall over from how clingy he is. 

Johnny keeps his arms around your waist as the two of you shower together, the warm water gladly welcomed against his aching muscles. He reluctantly loosens his hold after you tilt your head at him and remind him there’s a point to being in the shower. He sighs contentedly as you pay extra attention to his hair, massaging the shampoo through the roots and tracing your nails over his scalp. He makes sure to remind you how much he loves you as he presses his forehead against yours, taking turns with the soap to help wash each other. 

Johnny adores it when you towel him off, wrapping it around his waist as he sits on the edge of the bathtub. He looks up at you with genuine devotion as you dry his hair, finally using this opportunity to shave the mohawk that became overgrown during his deployment. He pretends to fight back when you tell him you want to keep the beard this scruffy, mostly because he thinks you look cute when you pout. He gives in once he remembers your smile is even cuter. 

Johnny who dresses you in his clothes to sleep in because he thinks they look better on you than they do on him. He swears his heart beats faster the second you’re in front of him wearing his shirt and a pair of old sweats. He holds you against him while you lay in bed together, his legs entangled with yours and using his bicep as a makeshift pillow for you. Johnny looks down at you as you peacefully sleep in his arms and he remembers that this is what he fights for. 

Johnny who loves the love you’ve given him. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

[guttednights]

(𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻) 𝓫𝓾𝓲𝓵𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓶𝓪𝓷

warnings: none, just older boyfriend Simon, being older boyfriend Simon.

I can't stop thinking about older boyfriend Simon being like, a dad in the way that he LOVES to craft. Like when you guys bought a new house together he literally told you "It has to have a garage". hell, you didn't complain. whatever kept him busy and happy while he's home on missions is fine with you. And besides it was kinda fun watching him make the garage into some kinda little workshop, with all his expensive tools, toolboxes, saws, woods, metals, honestly whatever was hanging out at his dad's place from when he was younger he was putting in this damn garage. give it 2 days after being home from and mission and he's already having to fix something (which he acts grumpy about it, but he loves doing it). Like most recently when you realized that your favorite shelf in the bathroom had split in half :(. you told him when he came home and a day later he was in the bathroom taking the shelf off the wall and walking to the garage to fix it. he put some wood glue on it, held it in place, and waited a day or so, then boom looks like brand new as he drills it back into place in your bathroom a day later. Fuck if you complain, you think it's hot, the way he can just fix almost anything, and not only that will build almost anything you ask him. And I like to think he is also good with lighting and plumbing, maybe his dad was a plumber and electrician and just taught Simon how to do everything in case one day he has "a pretty little wife to keep care of", and well be it, he did, he had you. One day after he came home, literally was home for like 4- hours before the sink in the bathroom started to flood. you were simply washing your hands when water was everywhere, you panicked and ran to Simon. Hands still sopping from washing them "Baby! The sinks flooding!" of course his natural protective instincts kick in, immediately drying you off first, and pulling you away from the bathroom. he then ran outside and got his wrench and other things to fix the bathroom. fast forward 20 minutes later and he's laying on the wet floor, wrench in hand tightening the faulty tube that has come loose under the sink. "all okay now doll, m'fixed it" *he said getting up and putting his tools back in his small toolbox. he helped you clean up the water with some towels and kissed your head lightly. And of course, on Valentine's Day, he brings you a rose bouquet and hand-built shelves (or whatever you want).

I dont know where this thought came from but I just had to write about it

(PS) i do not know anything about plumbing so please don't roast me if it is not correct thanks

[leejenowrld]

If y/n took an everything shower, what would her steps be? What products would she use?

- 🦋

before the shower — the build-up y/n doesn’t plan her everything showers. they happen when she’s tired of herself—when her skin feels dull, when her scalp itches, when she’s been overwhelmed and overstimulated for days. it starts quiet: she lights a candle (always le labo santal 26 or diptyque baies), then stands in her towel for ten minutes scrolling on her phone before she finally peels her clothes off. the bathroom mirror’s fogged before she even steps in. her playlist is soft, clean r&b or french bedroom pop. always flo, brent faiyaz, sabrina claudio, or that one the xx song she never skips.

jeno — always half-invited, never fully resisted during college, jeno made it a habit to “accidentally” need to pee or grab something just as her shower started. it became a joke. “i’m just saving water,” he’d say, already stripping. she gave him rules: no turning her on when she’s exfoliating, no bending her over until she’s rinsed her conditioner. he agreed… and followed them half the time. the other half?

he’d step in behind her while she was bent forward rinsing, cock already hard, soap-slicked hands sliding up her waist as he pressed against her back and whispered, “you smell too good to behave.” she’d sigh. pretend to resist. but he’d slide his cock between her thighs, rutting slow, teasing her pussy while hot water pounded down. and once she whimpered, hips pressing back? it was over.

shower sex — wet, breathless, unrelenting he’d fuck her with her hands braced on the fogged-up tile, hair dripping, water streaming down her back. sometimes he’d keep one hand between her thighs, rubbing slow circles over her clit while he fucked her from behind, thrusts shallow and thick and wet, the sound obscene. other times, she’d straddle him as he sat on the built-in ledge, her thighs burning from the angle but her cunt already clenching around his cock as she rode him slow, heads tilted together, mouths open and wet, their moans lost in the steam.

her pussy would be so slick from the water and his fingers and her own slick that the stretch felt unreal, cock sliding in deep until she was grinding, chasing it, fucking herself down on him while he bit her shoulder to keep from cumming too fast. sometimes he’d push a thumb against her ass and whisper, “you want it there next?” and she’d nod, already wrecked. they’d leave trails of conditioner and cum and sweat on the tile—but they’d clean it together. he’d grab a towel, wipe her thighs, kiss her hips, rinse her legs for her while she caught her breath.

step-by-step everything shower — the real part

scalp care — before getting in, she uses briogeo scalp revival charcoal scrub, massaging it in with a silicone scalp brush. if jeno’s there, he does it for her, strong fingers working slow circles, both of them quiet and soft, her head tilted into him.

shampoo — olaplex no.4 or amika normcore. she shampoos twice. jeno loves rinsing it for her, letting her lean back into him while his fingers drag through her hair.

deep conditioner — olaplex no.5 or kérastase nutritive masquintense. she clips it up with a claw clip and lets it sit. this is when jeno usually gets handsy—when her body’s warm, dripping, focused on nothing.

body scrub — ouai st. barts sugar scrub or frank body original coffee scrub. she exfoliates legs, arms, back—jeno usually takes over, especially her back and thighs. he does it slow. precise. sometimes he moans when he touches her hips.

shaving — billie razor with flamingo foaming gel. she rests her foot on the wall or shelf and always nicks her ankle unless jeno steadies her. once he even knelt and did her left leg for her while she laughed through the steam.

face wash — youth to the people superfood cleanser, massaged in gently. she rinses with cold water. she always gets annoyed when water runs down her elbows. jeno kisses them to make up for it.

final rinse — she lets conditioner out, runs water over every inch, sometimes sitting on the floor for a second just breathing. this is when jeno cradles her, just holds her, the quiet moment before the fog lifts.

post-shower — silk and surrender he grabs the towel for her. always. wraps her in it before she steps out. she sits on the edge of the bed while he towel-dries her hair, presses kisses to her shoulders, dabs her collarbone like she’s breakable. then she lies back and lets him do her lotion.

body lotion — nécessaire or fenty skin butta drop. he smooths it up her thighs, her ass, over her tits, taking his time. sometimes too much. sometimes she moans when he grazes her nipple and he smirks, says, “you said no more.”

body oil — nuxe huile prodigieuse. she presses it into her collarbones, inner wrists, behind her knees.

hair care — olaplex no.7 bonding oil through damp ends. gisou honey-infused leave-in. jeno combs it through with his fingers.

face — laneige cream skin toner, summer fridays jet lag mask, and glow recipe plum plump cream. sometimes she does gua sha. sometimes she forgets and he just watches her glow.

softness after filth jeno always cleans the shower when they’ve made a mess of it. she usually lies there in a towel, thighs still sticky, while he runs water, rinses away suds and sweat and sex. then he climbs into bed, wraps his arms around her and whispers, “you smell too good to sleep now.” she smiles, eyes half-closed, whispering back, “so don’t make me.”

they fall asleep like that—clean, spent, and wrecked in the most loving way possible.

[miasmaghoul]

Heat of the Moment

Rating: E

Pairing: Ifrit/Aether

Word Count: 2.7k

Contains: transmasc Aether (use of cunt/clit/cock and tits for his anatomy), heat/rut cycles, masturbation, rough sex, biting/marking, multiple orgasms, knotting, heavy breeding/impregnation kink and mostly implied quintessence fuckery.

Ifrit has a problem.

He'd woken with a sharp gasp, had rolled out of bed sweaty, tense all over and so hard his sleep pants threatened to split at the seams. Still sleep heavy and dazed but filled with an urgency he would know anywhere, three humps against his palm was all it had taken for him to spill with a rough grunt. He'd watched the stain soak into his pants with barely cracked eyes, groaning deep in his chest. He'd given his smooth sack a nice squeeze, still-hard cock throbbing, and with a deep sigh Ifrit had pulled it out over his waistband. 

The beginnings of swelling at the base told him everything he needed to know. 

Read it below, or on AO3!

Ifrit has a problem.

He'd woken with a sharp gasp, had rolled out of bed sweaty, tense all over and so hard his sleep pants threatened to split at the seams. Still sleep heavy and dazed but filled with an urgency he would know anywhere, three humps against his palm was all it had taken for him to spill with a rough grunt. He'd watched the stain soak into his pants with barely cracked eyes, groaning deep in his chest. He'd given his smooth sack a nice squeeze, still-hard cock throbbing, and with a deep sigh Ifrit had pulled it out over his waistband. 

The beginnings of swelling at the base told him everything he needed to know. 

It's been just over an hour since then, and he's made it as far as the shower. The water's long since gone cold, raising goosebumps as it trails over his skin, but Ifrit doesn't care. He's burning from the inside out, leaning heavy against the tiled wall and panting through grit teeth. Tugging at himself with both hands, pausing only long enough to squeeze the burgeoning bulb of his knot. Ifrit's hips move in mindless ruts as he chases the white rabbit that is his orgasm; it's the fourth one so far, each one harder to reach than the last, and he hunches as his stomach clenches. So much pressure built up inside, hot claws dug deep into his guts, he's already close to rubbing himself raw. Ifrit hisses as he polishes the head, and finally, finally feels the dam start to give.

The images flying through his brain make little sense, bright bursts of skin and sweat and the glorious sound of flesh meeting flesh. Every orgasm clears some of the haze, brings him closer to discovering what, exactly, his rut wants this time around, but Ifrit can never be sure just how many it'll take.

“Fuck, c'mon, fuck,” he rasps, voice lost in the rush of the water. He grips himself tight and fucks his fists, eyes clamped shut and mind racing. His heats are always frantic, always demanding, but Ifrit knows the load he's about to blow won't fix that. There's only one thing that will, and all he can do is hope that this release is the one that brings him the clarity he so desperately needs.

“Oh shit.” 

Ifrit gasps, head lolling forward as his balls draw up. He clenches his jaw so hard it cracks, toes curling against the tile, and with a drawn out groan everything goes white.

As he shoots all over the shower door, thighs twitching, a truly divine image burns itself into his addled mind. One of plush thighs, kiss-bitten lips and a decidedly round belly.

“Aether.”

Ifrit has a problem, and now he knows just how to fix it. 

He barely dries off, just towels his shaggy hair with shaking hands and stumbles to his closest while he has the presence of mind to dress himself. It won't last long, he knows from experience, but he manages to throw on a tank top (backwards) and a pair of basketball shorts from his workout shelf before the itch settles in again. Ifrit tucks his aching length up against his stomach, and cannot possibly be bothered to check if the shorts hide the ridiculous bulge he's sporting. 

The walk to Aether's room isn't one he remembers, but the next thing Ifrit knows he's pounding on a door that certainly isn't his own. He can smell his prize straight through the wood, stronger than usual, and Ifrit thinks if he has to wait a second longer to get what he wants then he'll just break the fucking thing down and take it.

The lock tumbles, the hinges creak, and the only reason Ifrit doesn't storm right in is because of the hand that grips his tank.

“Finally,” Aether growls, dragging him bodily inside. Ifrit trips over something unseen, catches himself on a bed post. “What the fuck took you so long?” 

The tone of it, the ferocity, slaps a little sense back into Ifrit's rut-dumb mind. He fixes Aether with a scowl, chest heaving, and finds the other ghoul looking as crazed as he feels. He's sweaty, the hair coating his chest and belly matted with it, every inch of his very much naked body flushed and quivering. Ifrit's gaze catches between his legs, hones in on the throbbing, ruddy length of his fat little cock and the glistening slick already coating his thighs. His nostrils flare, soaking in Aether's scent, and somehow it smells like - 

“I said,” Aether snaps, licking his lips, “what the fuck took you -”

Ifrit snarls, crosses the distance between them and pins Aether to the door before he can finish, crushing their mouths together in what can only technically be called a kiss. It's brutal, sharp and starved and wholly desperate. Aether moans into it anyway, digging his claws into Ifrit's biceps and drawing out a hiss. He bites Aether's lip in retaliation, getting a handful of his hair and yanking his head away. They're both panting, and the sight of Aether licking the blood from his lip makes Ifrit feel more than a little insane. 

“You're in heat,” he manages to bite out, shoving his face into the crook of Aether's neck and sucking down his intoxicating scent. It's sweet but bitter, sharp but smooth - too good to be true. “How are you -”

“Your fault,” Aether spits, getting both hands on Ifrit's broad chest and shoving him away, forcing him to stumble back to the bed. Aether gets a hand on his throat and pushes him to the mattress, straddling his waist and giving Ifrit a nice eyeful of his dripping cunt in the process. “Could smell your rut coming last night,” he rasps, grabbing the collar of Ifrit's shirt and tearing it straight down the middle. “You set me off.” 

Ifrit doesn't know what that means, nor does he have the presence of mind to care. Especially not when Aether grips his pecs, rocking his hips just enough to drag his stubby clit over Ifrit's abs. The shiny trail he leaves behind makes Ifrit's vision tunnel, and he reaches up to grope Aether's chest. It's fuller than usual, his tits firm and obviously tender judging by Aether's gasp and they way he shudders when Ifrit tweaks his puffy nipples.

“Fuck, If,” he breathes, shuffling back just enough to grind against Ifrit's clothed cock. The heat of him is maddening, and Ifrit's eyes cross. “Need it in me, need you to -”

He doesn't have the chance to finish before Ifrit knocks him off balance, and in a flash Aether's pinned to the mattress with his ass in the air. Ifrit keeps him there with one hand on the back of his neck, the other shoving down his own shorts.

“Shut the fuck up.” Ifrit swears to himself when he finally gets a hand on his cock, the thing now gone angry red and leaking all over. “I'll decide what you need.”

Aether does not argue. Instead, he works himself into a deep arch, watching Ifrit over his shoulder and huffing into the sheets. He reaches back to spread himself open, needy cunt winking and already begging to be filled. Ifrit growls as he grips himself, dragging the head through Aether's slippery folds. The wet sound of it fills the room, makes him dizzy, and the punched out sound Aether makes when he lines up only makes it worse. 

“Kiss it,” Ifrit demands. The other ghoul makes a fascinating sound, something between a moan and a whimper, and when he feels Aether's entrance clench against his tip his eyes roll. “Good boy.” 

He pushes in without another word, gripping Aether's soft hips as he splits him open. Aether howls through it, grabbing at his own hair and babbling nonsense with every thick inch that stretches him. They're both gasping by the time the swell of his knot meets Aether's cunt, his thighs trembling and Ifrit's stomach flexing. Despite the torturous pressure between his legs, Ifrit leans down and rests his forehead between Aether's sweaty shoulder blades. Gives them both a moment to adjust.

Aether doesn't give him the chance, clamping down around him and sucking air through his fangs at the sting it provides. 

“Don't make me wait any more,” he slurs into the bed, reaching back to grab at Ifrit's thighs. “Give it to me, you have to -”

Ifrit sinks his fangs into Aether's shoulder, into a spot already scarred with past marks, and Aether goes limp beneath him. 

“I know what you need,” Ifrit rumbles, licking at the new punctures. He drags his tongue over scalding skin, up Aether's throat and dipping it into his pointed ear. Aether makes a gurgling sound, and Ifrit throbs. He pushes himself upright, pulls out until just the head sits inside, and braces himself with one foot on the mattress. “But you're not gettin’ it until I say so.”

He slams back in all at once, knocks the air out of the ghoul before him, and doesn't hesitate to start up a rhythm of deep, driving thrusts. Doesn't so much as pause when Aether tenses around him, shuddering and moaning almost immediately through the first of who knows how many orgasms Ifrit will wring out of him. It's mindless, animalistic and urgent on both of their parts. Feral in a way Ifrit has never experienced - he knows how this will end, what his bestial nature demands, and every time his fat knot meets Aether's wicked body he feels one specific urge grow. 

On instinct, Ifrit's hands move from Aether's hips. Sliding forward to clutch the soft swell of his stomach - massaging, kneading, like he's trying to feel himself deep inside. The same image that had flashed through his mind in the shower resurfaces, clear as day, and Ifrit pauses on a forward thrust to grind his knot in just a little deeper. He barely notices Aether wailing through another release, despite the flood of slick that drips down his balls and pools on the sheets, too caught up in his single minded need to -

“Gonna look so good,” he grunts, broad palms settling low on Aether's belly. “Fuck, you're gonna look amazing all stuffed full.”

Aether chokes out something like a curse, pained and pitchy, but he untangles a hand from the blanket anyway. Shoves it between his legs, past Ifrit's groping hands, to rub at his most assuredly sore little cock. Shaking fingers graze the underside of his knot and Ifrit's knees quake.

“Say it,” Aether begs, voice thin. “Say...s-say you'll - oh shit, fuck, cumming!” 

He buries his face in the sheets as he falls apart yet again, sloppy cunt working to pull more of Ifrit inside him. Craving the stretch of his knot, the impossible fullness that will come with it. Ifrit cants his hips, biting the inside of his cheek and pressing harder on Aether’s belly. He knows just what the other ghoul needs to hear.

“Gonna fill you up,” he huffs, the urgency inside building to fever pitch. “Right here,” he digs his fingertips in deep, and Aether lets out a pleasured sob. 

“Please,” he just barely manages, voice cracking as he tries to shove himself back onto the knot he yearns for. Halfway inside now, Ifrit's whole body twitches, and he knows he's reached his limit.

He drapes himself over Aether's back, jabbing at that one spot deep inside that makes the other ghoul shake and drool, and breathes hot against his ear.

“Gonna knock you up,” he snarls, and Aether gets so much tighter. Ifrit's balls draw up close, heavy and full and in dire need of emptying. “Gonna give you every last one of my pups, fuck -”

It's impossible and he knows it, a delusional desire that manages to drive away every ounce of reason and replaces it with a dull buzzing that sounds an awful lot like take, take, take. Ifrit humps away like an eager dog, pushing in deeper and deeper, scrabbling at Aether's sides. He can feel the rush of his rut reaching its crescendo, the highest high, blinding pleasure that promises to leave him as wrecked as the ghoul beneath him.

“Tell me what you need,” he orders, thrusts going stilted and erratic, and Aether's stubble scratches his cheek when he turns his head. The nonstop clenching of his slick walls would be enough all on its own, but Ifrit can't help himself. “Tell me, tell me.”

“Make me a mommy,” Aether whimpers, and with a distant roar and a slick pop Ifrit's world goes dark.

— — —

It's ages before he comes back to himself, the room gone still and silent save for some gentle, even breathing. He doesn't recall moving, but they're on their sides now. Ifrit's spooned up against Aether's back with one arm slung around his waist - Aether's holding his hand, he realizes in a delayed sort of way, and Ifrit can't help his soft chuff of delight. He hums to himself, nuzzling the back of Aether's neck and pressing a kiss to his damp hairline. 

“I know you're awake, big guy,” he coos, tracking more little kisses over to the already bruising bite mark he'd left earlier. “You're not snoring.”

Aether lets out an exaggerated honk-shoo and Ifrit snorts. It quickly morphs into a hiss when Aether wiggles against him, tugging at the place where they're still tied together. Ifrit presses his face into the juncture of his throat, and Aether starts to purr.

“That was wild,” Ifrit rasps. His throat feels so raw, voice strained, and he wonders what noise he made to cause it. Maybe Aether will pour the memory into his head later if he asks nicely. He props his chin on the other ghoul's shoulder. “How're you feelin’?”

A vague gurgling sound is the answer he gets, and Ifrit takes that as a good sign. He lets the silence blanket them once more, until Aether brings the hand on his stomach to his lips. He kisses Ifrit's knuckles one by one, lacing their fingers together and sighing happily.  

“I'm so glad it worked,” he mumbles, a certain sleepy giddiness in his voice. Ifrit raises a eyebrow where he can't see it. 

“Huh? What worked?” 

“Omega's heat trick,” Aether replies, tracing a vein in Ifrit's hand with his thumb. “I didn't think it would.”

Ifrit frowns at the back of his head, but doesn't move more than that. His knot will take ages to go down, and dislodging it now would suck for both of them. 

“Trick?” Aether nods. “What trick?”

The quiet laugh the other ghoul lets out does funny things to Ifrit's insides. Like a chill, but in his blood.

“You think it was your idea to breed me?”

Aether squeezes his hand, and all of a sudden the image that had haunted him since the shower flashes through his mind; Aether on his back, legs held up and open, his wrecked hole leaking and belly already swollen as he begs for another litter. 

It's gone in a blink, and Ifrit gawps at the back of his head. Aether yawns, holding Ifrit's hand against his belly again and giving his knot a squeeze that makes Ifrit yip. He can feel some of his cum slip out around it, and the thought of Aether being so full he's overflowing makes his head spin. He grips tighter around Aether's soft middle, and if he didn't know better Ifrit would swear he's gotten a little bigger.

“How…what…” 

“Sometimes a goodnight kiss isn't just a goodnight kiss.” 

Aether says it in a playful tone, and Ifrit isn't mentally present enough to do more than stare at him. The gears in his head chug along, and the memory of soft lips pressed to his temple the night before floats through his mind. It had come with a faint tingly sensation, one that he'd written off as something like static.

That same tingly feeling flows into his palm now, creeping up his arm to wrap around his brainstem, and Ifrit as feels his eyelids droop Aether laughs.  

“Now let me rest,” he mumbles, hunkering down into his pillow. “I've got pups to grow.”

Ifrit's out like a light before he can respond, but even in sleep his cock pulses. 

[deadpcnned]

Sealed by the Storm (jj.m)

chapter four

pairing: jj maybank x reader; marriage of convenience

content warning(s): references to mommy issues (reader), references to loss of a parent (reader), angst

author's note: i'm so so sorry it's taken so long to get this chapter up. it ended up being a bit harder than i expected. thank you for your patience! just a little warning i will be changing the pov in this series to 2nd person (working on fixing the other parts).

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When the Pogues were dividing the Maybank Property, you didn’t get closet space. Your room was an extra storage closet with just enough room to fit a twin bed, a mirror you’d mounted on the wall, and a small nightstand with two drawers. When you first arrived at the Outer Banks, after El Dorado, you had nothing except literally the clothes on your back, so you didn’t see the point in arguing for more space. Since the OBX has become your home, you’ve gotten more things– usually, having to ask Cleo to put some of your clothing in her and Pope’s closet– but not enough because you can’t find anything white right now. Not even jeans. Sarah had insisted that if you didn’t wear white, the whole thing would seem rushed– more rushed than it already seemed– and that every part of this production had to appear genuine. 

You’re still trying to figure out how Cleo convinced you to get married. When you left all the Pogues on the porch last night, there was no way you were going to marry JJ. It wasn’t just about JJ. Your unstable upbringing jaded your view on many things, and love was probably one of them. You didn’t doubt that love was real, and the last two years had taught you that it existed in abundance. But love was temporary, with a shelf life that only lasted until one party found something more important to stick their heart to. You haven’t given it much thought, to be honest, what you think of love now that you’ve found this version of a home. It seems contradictory to concern yourself with something as fleeting as love when you’ve finally stopped defining your life by trying to survive day-to-day. Instead, you’ve focused on the other relationships in your life. For the first time, in maybe ever, you have friends, plural. Loyal and lively friends. You also have adults who care about you without expecting something in return. You can show up at the Heywards’ door at an ungodly hour, and they won’t blink an eye. 

While you haven’t thought about love since settling down, you know exactly how you feel about marriage. 

Marriage isn’t just soft-spoken promises of I love you and forever; it is a transaction, a business deal and a power struggle made to look pretty with red ribbons of romance and confident vows of companionship. You had seen it yourself, watched as the winning smiles of the person you loved most had only ever been disarming grins all along. Marriage hadn’t stopped your mother from betraying your family, nor had it shielded you from pain. No, it had been the weapon your mother used to get exactly what she’d always wanted, even more than her daughter. It didn’t matter if the union is built on love because marriage is the issue's root. The legal entanglement makes people greedy, leaving their spouses a casualty of the games.

You don’t know how you feel about love, but you know that marriage is a trap you never expected to find yourself in. Yet, here you are, about to fall off the precipice of the very thing you fear. You are going to permit another person to pull you into this game by signing off on a dotted line. And you weren’t even in love. 

You find a beige skirt buried deep in a drawer of your nightstand and figure it’s close enough to white. You begin looking for a shirt when you hear a short knock followed by the door opening. Sarah walks in with her hair wrapped in a green towel, holding something in her hands. 

“You know,” You say, plopping down on your bed, relieved for this break from looking for an outfit. “Usually, people wait for a response when they knock.”

Sarah smiles, sitting on the bed and bumping her shoulder against yours. “Force of habit. I always used to barge into Wheezie’s.” Sarah’s expression is some mix of fondness and longing that makes you want to squeeze the girl who has become like a sister to you. Instead, you just slip your hand into Sarah’s and gave it a light squeeze. If you stop to acknowledge every unfair thing life dealt all of you, you would never get anything done. Sarah nods at your other hand, where the beige skirt is balled in a fist. “No luck finding anything white?”

You shake your head with a groan. “No. It’s fine. Beige is close enough.”

“It is so not fine,” Sarah’s exasperation is completely unnecessary in your opinion, but you let her continue. “If we want to make all this believable, every detail counts. A girl marrying the love of her life would care that beige is not white.”

You give Sarah a sarcastic smile. “What about girls marrying a friend they can sometimes tolerate?” Sarah’s smile matches yours, but a line forms between her brows. 

“Hey, why are you stressing?” You reach up to smooth out the divot. “I’m the one getting married.” 

“No, it’s not that,” Sarah lets her denial sit between you two, not immediately offering any explanation. Her lips purse sideways, her brows furrowing further, a telltale sign that she is having difficulty keeping something to herself. Just as you expect, Sarah breaks without any additional pushing from you. “It’s just that… why are you so hard on JJ?”

“Are you seriously asking me that, Sar?” You roll your eyes, getting up from the bed. You walk towards your nightstand, training your focus on folding the useless skirt and putting it back in the bottom drawer. 

“Yeah, actually,” Sarah’s voice is serious, a tone she seldom uses. Unleashing her hair from the towel, Sarah throws it at your nightstand. “I am.” 

It only takes a minute for the skirt to be put neatly away, leaving you nothing to avoid Sarah and this conversation. You turn to face Sarah, whose eyebrows were now raised instead of furrowed. 

“Sarah, it’s like you guys forget everything he’s done.”

“Of course we haven’t forgotten, but we forgave him. That’s what friends do.” 

“You can’t forgive someone who hasn’t apologized,” You argue.

Sarah shakes her head, her eyes shifting to the ceiling as if she is in deep thought. “JJ…” Sarah trails off again, seemingly unable to explain herself. “He’s not good with words—”

You cut Sarah off with a scoff and cross your arms across your chest. “JJ is amazing with his words. He can get himself out of anything.” 

“That’s not what I mean,” Sarah’s tone, while it remains serious, doesn’t match yours. She remains calm as she continues. “I used to get annoyed too, you know? When I first started dating John B, we were all so caught up in the Denmark treasure, but after a while, I noticed the same things you do. He was always getting caught up in some shit he’d start, and all of us somehow ended up stuck with him in whatever web he’d spun.” 

JJ and Sarah resemble siblings in more than appearances; they often fight just like you assume normal siblings would. Fights over things like the rules of a board game or stolen leftovers usually end at the beginning of wrestling matches, that John B has to stop by physically removing Sarah from the room. However, you have yet to see Sarah genuinely upset with JJ. The Pogues never really fight, so Sarah’s lack of anger isn’t out of the ordinary, but you could never picture a time when Sarah had felt differently about him. It could be how Sarah compensates for the loss of her siblings, but despite only being a few months older than JJ, she smothers him with the sisterly love Cleo gives you. 

“Yeah,” Sarah chuckles, reading the disbelief on your features. “But then there was this day after my dad died…the first time,” Sarah cringes as she says it, and you try your best to keep your face neutral because what were your lives? Sarah’s voice changes, looking down at her hands as she continues. “His death had put JB and me in a weird place. I needed him to understand my grief, but to him, the man who’d taken his father from him was dead. At that point, I was sort of still just his girlfriend. Kie and I had just started talking about our history. JJ and Pope had no loyalty to me.

“But JJ snuck onto Tannyhill just to see if I was okay. Brought some flowers he’d picked from our yard and everything. He hated Ward almost as much as John B, but he still showed up for me. I remember Rafe almost caught him cause JJ had tripped the security alarm, and I had to convince him it must’ve been a fluke. That’s who he is. He makes mistakes, just like us, but he shows up. Sometimes more than the rest of us.” 

You don’t know what to say in response. JJ supporting Sarah is sweet, but it isn’t unexpected. You know how fiercely he shows up for the Pogues, and you undoubtedly admire that about him. It doesn’t change the fact that he is impulsive, and it seems like his impulsivity is reaching a point of no return. 

“Sarah, It’s not that I don’t know JJ’s a good guy. I do,” You sit down next to the blonde. “But that doesn’t change the fact that we’re still getting caught in the web.”

“People make mistakes, Y/N/N. The rest of us have, and you’ve always forgiven us. What’s so different about JJ’s mistakes?” You don’t need to think of your answer. 

“This is all I have.” 

“The shop?” Sarah asks. 

You shake your head, the nape of your neck heating up as the cost of being vulnerable. “You. The Pogues.” You will yourself not to let your voice shake. To you, every wrong decision JJ makes threatens the Pogues’ chances of staying together. This family that has somehow fallen into your lap— a gift after years of misfortune— seems to be hanging by a thread recently. 

Sarah’s expression softens, and you could laugh at the speed with which your friend’s eyes fill with tears. With all her cheek and confidence, Sarah is still the softest person you know. 

“Then you and JJ are more alike than you think,” Sarah says simply. She quickly brushes the tears that have fallen and clears her throat. “Sorry. I didn’t come in here to berate you. I came to bring you this.” Sarah reaches back on the bed, where she’d dropped the black bag she’d walked in with. It’s a garment bag. Sarah stands from the bed and unzips the bag in her hands. 

“I stole this one of the times I snuck into Tannyhill… is it called stealing if it’s literally yours?” Sarah’s usual cheer appears to have returned, and no trace of your earlier conversation is left. “Anyway, it’ll definitely do the trick.” 

Sarah carefully pulls a mess of white fabric from her bag. The dress, in true Sarah Cameron fashion, is gorgeous. It has a drop-waist silhouette that will hug the body perfectly before flaring into a soft skirt. The skirt is covered by a delicate, thin layer of netting that compliments the suggestive top half with a whimsical touch. The outline of flowers are scattered across the skirt, only enhancing the graceful look. Instead of sleeves, the dress is held together by thin, dainty straps, and the dress will likely end a little above your ankles, making it the perfect blend of romantic and laid-back.  

Simply put, the dress is beautiful. 

“You stole this? When the hell were you going to need--” You stop speaking as you are hit with the obvious. Sarah's reason for initially buying this dress doesn’t matter, because it’s glaringly obvious why she deemed it necessary to take and bring back to your house. “No way. I’m not wearing this.”

“Why not? It’s the perfect elopement dress,” Sarah whines, holding it against your frame. 

You push the dress away from your body. “Yeah, for you. It’s your elopement dress.”

“John B. and I are already married,” Sarah shrugs. 

“Sarah.” 

Sarah rolls her eyes. “Fine, yes, I stole this to wear when JB and I get legally married, but it’s fine! I’ll buy another dress when that time comes. This was originally gonna be my midsummer’s backup. It’s nothing fancy.”

“This is your backup?”  You ask, only receiving a shrug from Sarah. “Sar, why would you give me this for a sham wedding? It’s such a waste.”

“I don’t feel like it would be,” Sarah responds. Cryptic…

“And why not?”

“Does it matter? Look, you have nothing else to wear, and we have to leave in an hour,” Sarah huffs. “Just think of me as your fairy godmother and accept the miracle.” 

“Sar—” Just as you are going to protest another time, the door opens again. Cleo walks in, a bag of chips in one hand. 

“You ready yet,” Cleo mumbles around the chips she is chewing. After taking in your appearance, she sighs and swallows before speaking again. “Why are you not ready yet?” 

“Cause there’s still an hour.” Why are they all acting like this is a real wedding? It doesn’t matter how you look as long as you sign the damn papers. “I was about to change.” You look over at Sarah, who has a knowing smile on her face, and you groan. “Give me that.” 

“Careful!” Sarah chastises as you grab the dress out of her hands. Walking towards the door, you open it with a tilt of your head to indicate the other two should get out. 

“Since when do you care about privacy when you change?” Cleo asks, slumping against your bed.

“Just give me a minute.” When she realizes you are being serious, she makes eye contact with Sarah and finally gets up to leave. Once the other two girls have left, you sit on the bed, your bedding a bit crumpled from all the movement it has just endured. This is it. After you put on this dress, you will sign off the rights to your life. You know that logically, you have until you sign the dotted line, but putting on this dress is like putting up a white flag and admitting that you surrender to this convoluted plan and being tied to JJ indefinitely.  

You let your shorts and crop top fall to the floor, replacing the clothing on your body with the dress. Looking in the mounted mirror on your wall, you can only see your reflection from the chest up. It gives you that familiar itch to curl into yourself. You look so much like your mother like this. In a fancy dress, your hair still pulled up from when you’d tied it back. It was so poised and elegant, a look you desperately wanted to pull off as a kid but wanted nothing to do with now. Yet, even with all the comparisons you can draw between yourself and your mother, you can’t deny it makes you feel pretty. Even just the top half of the dress fits you so well, and it makes you nostalgic for a time when pretty dresses were your only worry. 

Taking just a minute longer before you let Cleo and Sarah back in, you pull your hair down. Your hair spills over your shoulders, softening your features and making you look younger. You aren’t ready to look that much like your mother. 

Sarah had insisted on getting you fully ready for today’s events. You were no stranger to makeup but usually you stuck to mascara and concealer. Sarah had pulled out all the stops. While keeping your base relatively simple, she’d added blush, lipstick, and even eyeliner to “give the full effect.” She had even pulled your hair back up into a bun, and as much as you wanted to fight against it, you figured avoiding the mirror would be easier than arguing.

The Pogues had created a plan for the entire day to try to convince the residents of Kildare that the nuptials between you and JJ were as true as the sky was blue. John B and Sarah would accompany you and JJ to the courthouse to handle your ruse's legal and most crucial component, while the rest of the Pogues would set up a “surprise” reception in the Heywards’ backyard. The reception had been Pope’s idea because, according to him, his parents were too close to JJ and you to not need the extra convincing that this whole thing was real. You had doubts that Pope was just finding ways to make this more entertaining for himself. 

Once Sarah and Cleo had finished helping you get ready, you’d decided to stop by the charter shack. JJ was, unsurprisingly, nowhere to be found, and you had some time to kill before heading to the courthouse. Initially, you’d wanted to find Kie. Whatever connection Kie and JJ had wasn’t lost on you, and you’d been overthinking your very much overdue conversation since last night. Even though you didn’t feel like you were wronging Kiara, since from what you’d gathered, JJ and Kie weren’t anything serious, it still felt like you owed her some form of acknowledgment. When you’d asked Cleo if she’d seen Kiara, she had let you know that Kiara had gone to her parent’s house a bit earlier, making it impossible for you to have that conversation. 

Instead, you figure you’ll take the time to be alone. It’s what you always do when you can’t process your emotions. Is it the healthiest coping mechanism? No. But at least you know you do it. The shack is the closest you can get to quiet in a house with six other roommates, so you’re headed that way. As you climb the familiar footsteps, you think of the last time you’d been here. It had only been two days, but that night with JJ feels like a lifetime ago. You’d somehow compartmentalized discovering Ligthner’s body, becoming an accessory to a crime, and being questioned by the police in a way that anything before it all felt like a distant memory. 

“That’ll be 3.99,” JJ’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts as you stand by the shack's open door. JJ stands behind the register in his usual uniform of cargo shorts and a graphic tee. He reaches out his hand to a middle-aged man, not noticing that you are standing there to witness his interaction. 

JJ divies up the change before sticking out his hand to offer it to the patron, “Here you are, sir–” At that moment, JJ looks to his side, immediately doing a double take when he sees you. He falters, missing the customer’s hand entirely and spilling the change against the counter and the floor. The polite smile that JJ had worked to perfect slips off his face, his lips parting and his eyes clouding over. You can’t decipher the storm brewing in his eyes, but it sends a flutter through your belly as you meet his stare. The movement of the customer scramming to pick up the dropped change, which JJ had dealt in a comical amount of coins, catches your attention, but when you look back at JJ, he is still looking at you. With a heat that seems to burn right through you straight to your spine. 

“JJ,” you whisper, drawing his eyes from where they had been trailing down your figure and back to your face. You shift your head towards the man crouched to gather the fallen change. JJ seems to finally return from wherever his mind had ended up and quickly rounds the corner. 

“I-I’m sorry, sir,” JJ says, crouching to help. “That was an accident,” He apologizes again as he hands the last of the change back to its rightful owner. 

“Don’t worry,” the man winks. “I’ll get out of your hair.” He gives you a knowing look that makes you flush as he passes and leaves the shack. If he only knew. 

“Hey,” JJ mumbles, the heat in his eyes subdued. “You’re ready?

“We’re supposed to leave in twenty minutes,” you reply. “Sarah was getting restless. I think she just sees this as an opportunity to play dress-up.”

JJ chuckles, moving closer to you. “Yeah, I think John B’s choosing which one of his button-ups I’m gonna wear right now.” JJ’s eyes begin to trail back down your body, his tracking slow and that cloudy look returning to his eyes.“You look…” 

You try your best to ignore how his throat bobs when he swallows, unable to fill the gap in his words. The pooling nerves in your stomach spread, moving dangerously low. That feeling isn’t good– not now, not with him.

“Like a bride?” You try to joke, but it comes out breathy and wrong. 

JJ attempts to laugh, but it is more like a sharp exhale. Suddenly, his hand reaches behind your head, gripping the elastic band holding your hair in place. In a swift movement, he pulls your hair free of its constraints, and it falls in waves over your shoulders.  

“Better,” He whispers, and you feel an unfamiliar ache in your chest. Whatever peculiar reaction JJ is having to seeing you in a white dress needs to be stopped. 

Clearing your throat, you speak up. “You think this’ll fool everyone?”

That does the trick because JJ chuckles before pulling his arm back. “Between this and the three-act play Sarah’s putting on for the Island, we should be in the clear.” You laugh, agreeing with him. 

“What are you doing out here anyway? I figured we’d keep the shop closed today,” You ask, grabbing a Snickers bar from a shelf. 

JJ snatches the Snickers bar from your hands, ignoring your protests. “I figured I’d keep the shop open for a bit. You were right before about us needing the business.” You don’t say anything; you watch as JJ tears into the chocolate bar. Eventually, he passes the bar back to you with a shit-eating grin. 

Narrowing your eyes, you take the bar back. Then, you tore a piece of Snickers off and plop it in your mouth. After a few minutes, neither you nor JJ move to leave, and you speak up again. “Are you ready for this?”

JJ laughs humorlessly, “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

You rub your lips together, unsure how much you want to give away what is running through your head. JJ is the only other person who can relate to you, but being vulnerable is never easy. JJ’s expression changes, his eyes softening.  

“I’m scared, too,” JJ says. You want to argue, convince him that you aren’t scared. You want to make him think that you are angry and annoyed and displeased beyond belief because admitting you are scared means admitting there is something with enough power to take you down. You stay silent. You can’t bring yourself to lie to him, but instead, you feel yourself move closer to him. You don’t say anything, just let your invasion of his space speak for itself. JJ continues for you.

“I’m worried that all of this’ll be for nothing. We’ll get caught, and it’ll just make the inevitable worse.” Too lost in understanding the look in his eyes, you don’t notice JJ reaching out until his hand catches ahold of yours. For the fiftieth time in three days, JJ touches you like you’re his, his thumb stroking your fingers, and it’s getting harder not to let it make you dizzy. The whole marriage thing must really be going to your head because you can’t help but feel like the weight of his thumb keeps returning to your ring finger. “But I promise you, I’m going to make sure I don’t let it touch you. Any of this.” 

 “I don’t want it to touch you either.” 

You aren’t sure if you meant it, and you are even less sure what compels you to say it. JJ gives you a slight smile that does nothing to ease your newfound worries, “You don’t worry about me, okay? I’m gonna get you out of this safe.” 

You want to argue with him and tell him that he needs to make it out safely, too, but a distant yell interrupts your train of thought before you can reply. 

“JJ, COME DOWN! I GOT YOUR CLOTHES!” 

JJ pulls back, his sad, self-deprecating smile disappearing. “I’ll see you at the finish line, I guess.” He sticks out his hand, his smile changing to the mischievous one that always looks best on him. “Let’s do this.”

“Let’s do this,” You smile, reaching out to shake his hand. “But after you take a shower.” 

You aren’t very superstitious, but today you want to be. Your dad had been extremely superstitious, always telling you to beware of black cats and search extra hard for four-leaf clovers. Today, you want to believe that things like a lucky number or knocking on wood can fix up a promising future for you. The weather is pristine – the sun bright and pleasant in the company of a light breeze. The weather is the textbook definition of a perfect day. If it had been your actual wedding day, you would probably have considered yourself unbelievably lucky. 

You want to cling to that belief as John B, Sarah, and JJ walk to the courthouse doors. This is it, the metaphorical calm before the storm. Sarah squeezes your hand tight as you reach the courthouse. You had taken hold of her hand in the Twinkie and hadn’t let go since. 

“This is it,” John B says, wiping his hands against his pants. 

JJ tilts his head, offering a brief nod, “Yup.”

“Do you guys have rings?” Sarah asks, and you want to groan. She is taking this entirely too seriously, and it does nothing to calm your nerves. 

“Sarah, we’re nineteen-year-old Pogues. I highly doubt anyone expects us to have rings,” JJ said, and you hadn’t ever been this thankful for him… ever. 

Sarah rolls her eyes, offering you one more squeeze of her hand before letting go. She walks up the five steps of the courthouse building and opens the door for the rest of the group. You and JJ follow John B. and Sarah’s lead as they talk to a few people to see where they should go. John B had called as soon as the courthouse’s office had opened in the morning, but it seems a bit pointless since there aren’t many people around. That helps with your nerves a little. Not having an audience will make some of this easier. 

JJ, unlike earlier, is the picture of ease. He had put on a pair of John B’s khakis and a pale blue button-down, looking so unlike himself. His messy blond hair, not a trace of gel visible, is the only thing that reminds you that you are about to marry JJ Maybank. He leans against the counter in front of the plexiglass like it’s the counter back at the shop and speaks to the clerk as if he is an old family friend. He handles giving the clerk all the information required, only turning to you for your license – which you’d thankfully gotten a couple of years ago. He is so… JJ about the whole thing. Playing the part so well, as if it’s just another one of your schemes. Eventually, the clerk passes a stack of papers through the opening at the bottom of the glass and speaks into his mic. 

“Once you’re ready, we’ll need your signatures on each page, and then you’ll sign this.” He passes a yellow file folder with a paper sticking through the gap. “And that’s it. You’ll be officially married.”

Your fingers shake as you reached forward to pick up the yellow folder. The portion of the paper sticking out says ‘marriage license’ in beautiful, cursive font. You are surprised you aren’t numb to the nerves twisting around your stomach by this point. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” the clerk says, turning away to his computer. You look up at JJ and then behind him at Sarah.  

“It’s going to be okay, Y/N,” Sarah assures you, but it doesn’t help. Her words can’t dissuade the nagging voice in your head saying that you are signing up for your life to become a game. 

“Hey,” JJ turns to look at Sarah and John B before grabbing the papers from the counter and your hand. He leads you both to a brown bench at the edge of the room, sitting you down. He takes a moment to look around him before crouching in front of you. “I know this is hard, but…” 

“We have to.” You fill in. JJ shakes his head immediately. 

“No, we don’t. Somehow, this crazy idea makes sense, but that doesn’t mean we have to. If you say no, then we’ll figure out another way. No one will be mad, and none of this will be your fault.” 

“You wouldn’t be mad?”

“Of course, I wouldn’t. You’re doing me a favor.” You look at JJ, knelt before you, a hand placed next to your thigh. He is utterly at your mercy and still giving you an out. No pressure, no fallout. Looking at him, you know what you have to do. 

“No, I’ll do it.” JJ looks at you as if to ask, “Are ​​you sure?” You nod in reply. “Give me a pen.” 

JJ stands up, sitting down next to you. He pulls out a pen from his pocket, and you want to joke about how domesticated the fact that he’s switched out his lighter for a pen is, but all you can bring yourself to do is swallow down the deep breaths of air you are taking in. JJ flipped through each sheet in the stapled stack of papers, signing one line before passing the pen to you and repeating. He signs, then you sign. He signs, then you sign. You focus on that pattern through all six sheets, and the flow was only disrupted when JJ waves John B and Sarah over to sign on the witness sections. When JJ finally pulls out the marriage license from its folder, you though you would have reacted less to it. It was just another four lines, but you still feel its weight as JJ prepares to sign it. You don’t move your eyes from JJ’s calloused hand– focusing on how his hand moves as he glides the pen over the paper, the sound of the pen clicking when he is done, the sharp crinkle of the paper as he holds it out for you. You try to focus on anything that would distract you from the actual act of signing the papers. 

“Wow,” John B whistles. “You guys are married.” 

You look up at him, JJ, and the signed papers in front of you. JJ’s face is paler than usual, but there is no indication of what he is thinking. You try to smile at Sarah, but you can feel it comes out more like a grimace. 

“Alright, you two,” John B says, as the Twinkie near Pope’s parent’s place. “This is when it all matters.”

You want to laugh. It didn’t matter when you were manipulating the government? 

“Everyone here needs to believe that you two are surprised by this party, but more than that, they need to believe that you’re in love,” You roll your eyes. He doesn’t have to spell it out so much. “That means you need to go full Jarah.”

“Excuse me?” You ask. “What’s a Jarah?”

“Oh God, JB,” JJ groans, his head falling back against the seat cushion. “That’s cringe even for you.” You glance at John B’s smug grin and Sarah’s love-struck gaze, and you groan. 

“Is that y’alls couple's name?” You ask. 

“The kids call it a ship name,” John B shrugs. 

“You’re so unbelievably lame,” You nod at JJ’s words, your posture mirroring his as you rest your head against the seat. 

“Maybe, but I’m also serious. You need to look like a newly wedded couple, which means lots of PDA.” 

You look at JJ, who seems just as displeased as you feel. JJ has been quiet since you got in the car, and there is no sign of the boy who’d talked you through the hardest decision of your life.

“So when we get to the backyard, be holding hands and biggggg smiles. Got it?” You regret any time you’d privately praised John B’s leadership skills. JJ is the first to exit the car, closing the door once all of you have gotten out and following behind the group. When you reached the fence of Pope’s childhood home, JJ’s entire demeanor shifts. His shoulder raise, a small smile paints his lips, and you swear his cheeks somehow turned redder. He places his hand out for you, waiting for you to take it. 

You walk hand in hand through the makeshift fence Heyward must’ve built years ago, the sound of music and the smell of barbecue filling your senses. As people begin to come into view, your jaw drops. Except it isn’t an act because you are in genuine shock. You’d assumed the party would consist of  Pope’s parents, maybe Kie’s, and a couple of JJ’s acquaintances from high school. What you hadn’t expected was for what seemed like the entirety of The Cut to be populating Heyward’s backyard. From JJ’s expression, he also didn’t expect to see this many people. 

The crowd erupts in cheers, chants of the couple’s names being heard from various corners. You feel JJ’s hand tighten around yours, but when you look at him, he seems to melt into the noise. His lips round into a cheer and settle into a wide grin as he takes in the crowd. In this crowd, JJ is in his element. With the attention, noise, and chaos, he can guide you through the rest of the evening and you can have the chance of getting out of this without being caught. You follow JJ’s lead, smiling brightly, and feel relieved when Cleo came to give you a big hug. 

“Who knew you were such a great actress,” You mumblw to Cleo, who is holding onto you with a death grip.

“The hug’s not because I’m happy for you,” Cleo whispers back. “I’m sorry, Y/N/N. But it’s all going to be okay.” When she pulls back, you don’t have the time to sit in that moment with Cleo because all your friends follow her lead.  

“JJ,” You and JJ look up to see all six feet something of Mr. Heyward standing in front of you and you immediately feel your palms dampen. This interaction will possibly be the hardest one to sell. 

“Heyward,” JJ lets go of your hand and throws his palm out to shake the hand of someone you know has played the part of a father to him. You wonder if lying to Heyward might be one of the more challenging parts for JJ, but if it is, he doesn’t let it show and instead plays the part he has to effortlessly. “Thanks for all of this,” He makes a show of taking in his surroundings and letting out a low whistle. “It means a lot.” 

Heyward’s expression is painfully untrusting, and you wish you could wither away when he turns to look at you. Over the past two years, as Pope and Cleo’s relationship transitioned from platonic to damn near a married couple, you had frequented the Heywards’ house almost as much as Cleo. When you’d returned from Poguelandia, Heyward had housed you without a second thought, and ever since then, he’d treated you like his own. Lying to him feels worse than a betrayal, even if you’re sure he would understand the situation. Well, maybe not the entire situation. 

“Sure was surprised when I heard Pope tell me this was happening,” Heyward says. The glare he would give you kids whenever he knew something was amiss, boring into you. 

You must look like a fish out of water with your mouth opening and closing, searching for an adequate response. Luckily, JJ speaks up for both of you. His arm rounds across your shoulders as he draws you closer to him. 

“I know it’s hard to believe., but when you know, you know, right?” 

Heyward hums, his arms crossing across his chest and then uncrossing again. Pointing his finger, he says, “You know, I’m just not sure how I didn’t see this happening, is all.”

JJ leans in towards you, making a show of failing to whisper, “I’m sure he doesn’t see a lot of things nowadays–”

“Oh, you think you’re funny, huh, lil shit,” With that, Heyward is back to his usual level of annoyance with JJ, and you can breathe a little easier. “Y/N, you got anything to say?”

You clear your throat, “It’s been a whirlwind, but I’m really happy.”

You don’t look at JJ as you say it and know you needed to, but lying has never been your strong suit. When you and Cleo were still with Terrance, you usually worked in the shadows while Cleo set up the distractions in the spotlight. It was easier for you that way. This whole wedding sham had made the two of you switch roles, and you didn’t have enough time to prepare. 

“I don’t know what whirlwind you’ve found yourself in now, but I’m sure I don’t need to teach you that marriage is no joke.” If only Heyward knew how deeply familiar you were with the fact that marriage was anything but humorous. “Be smart. And you,” Heyward looks back at JJ, his features stern. “Be good to her. Or Cleo and I won’t leave a body to be found.”

You finally laugh at that, and in a moment of feeling genuinely carefree, you wrap your arm around JJ’s torso. You wouldn’t have even noticed you did it if JJ hadn’t brushed the bare skin of your shoulder and drawn your attention to just how close you are. Despite your unusual affection, neither of you moves from your entanglement. As you move around the party, meeting acquaintances and a couple of JJ’s cousins, you think you could’ve sold the whole thing with how close you two are. You doubt you were Sarah and John B’s level of affectionate, but even if JJ had been the love of your life, you don’t think you’d be the kind of person to have that much of a public display anyway. 

The sun will begin setting soon, and as you look around the backyard, you feel nostalgia for something you have never had. Weddings were one of those things so many girls grew up dreaming about, spending hours thinking up the dress of their dreams and how they’d decorate their venue. You never had the chance to think of those things, but looking around you, you think maybe this is precisely what you would’ve asked for. The decorations are as simple as they could be. Cleo and Pope have strung some fairy lights– probably Kie’s– through a few trees and from the roof's ledge. It’s cook-out style for food– grills being manned by dads and barbecue being served fresh to each person. Music is playing in the background, but it wasn’t a perfectly curated playlist of love songs. From what you’ve heard since you walked in, it was probably just the playlist Pope usually put on when he got speaker control during hangouts. It is the most Pogue, life on The Cut-esque wedding, but it is more than enough for you. For a minute, you close your eyes and pretend this is a party being hosted for any other reason, sending a fuzzy feeling from your heart throughout your body. It is all you’ve ever wanted. To be loved, to belong. It doesn’t matter how you got here, but you had.  

The upbeat tempo of a Kendrick song is replaced by the much slower tempo of an unsettlingly familiar song. The opening notes of Can’t Help Falling In Love ring through the settling crowd, the blend of the piano and electric guitar muffling Heyward’s voice as he calls you and JJ to the center of the yard. You barely process the awkward look JJ shoots you, too distracted by the churning feeling in your stomach, returning more vigorous than it had all day. You hate this song. There are too many memories of watching your parents dance around the kitchen while Elvis played in the background. You used to watch them in awe of the love they shared, the way your father would melt into your mother’s arms. It was almost like the song had created a self-fulfilling prophecy about how your parents' relationship would play out. A love that had felt as sure as the flow of the river to the sea had taken your father’s life. It had taken your life. 

JJ’s hand leads you to the clearing all the onlookers have created as he mumbles about having no choice. You look around, all these people who would never know what you are thinking. You are thinking about this life that you dreamed of a couple of years ago and many years before, you wouldn’t have understood. That girl watching her parents in the kitchen wouldn’t have understood any of this, and your heart breaks for her in a way that it never has before. It is making it difficult to push past the pounding in your ears and the bile rising in your throat. JJ’s free hand comes to rest on your waist, and when your eyes met, he gives you a tense smile. 

Your right hand rests on his shoulder, mindlessly mirroring how you’ve seen your parents do this a hundred times. JJ, you soon find out, isn’t much of a dancer. His steps are clumsy, either too wide or too short. He tries to lead your movements, picking up on how you’ve gone rigid, but he lacks just as much fluidity. You know what the crowd is expecting. They want to see magic, the tender moments between two young people looking forward to every joyful second of their intertwined lives. The way you and JJ are moving is the polar opposite– the stiff movement highlighting how out of sync you two truly are. JJ’s movements are harsh and rushed, and you are grateful that he has switched out his workboots for a pair of John B’s Converse because, in a span of two minutes, he’s stepped on your toes three times. 

“Shit– sorry,” JJ mumbles, his covered foot landing on your toes a fourth time, effectively making you wince. He is so focused on his missteps that he likely isn’t noticing the judgemental side glances you are receiving from the crowd, but you do. Something about the combination of your embarrassment and the painful memories of your youth has your eyes welling with tears. You don’t cry. Not just in front of others, but never. It’s like your tears had dried up all those years ago, but now, with this stupid, stupid song playing, you can’t stop them. 

“Swear I’m not usually–” JJ stops his defense when he looks at you, his eyes widening. The tears haven’t fallen, but it is probably evident with how close JJ is to you. JJ looks around, snapping his head in various directions until he finally finds whatever or whoever he is looking for. He twists his pointer finger in a circular motion twice, and you notice Pope quickly shuffling with his phone. The music doesn’t change immediately, and JJ keeps his hands firmly against you, but he slows his swaying. Instead, he holds you still and pulls you into his body. It’s like he is trying to shield you from everything outside the two of you, and you take refuge in his arms without a second thought. He whispers against your temple, “I got you.” 

The haunting melody of Can’t Help Falling In Love is finally replaced with the rhythmic, upbeat tune of My Girl by The Temptations. JJ, firmly pressed against you, pulls back quickly and lets out an unrestrained “WOO!” He snaps in tune with the music, his movements much more liquid than earlier. The weight of the earlier song still feels like it is being pressed against you, but the energy of this song is entirely different, and it seems to infect JJ. He has a cheeky grin and looks just like the charming-to-a-fault boy you know despite the clothes that don’t belong to him and the rare bursts of softness you’ve witnessed today. 

“I’ve got sunshine,” He sins along with Ron Tyson, and if it had been any other artist, you might have thought he was giving them a run for their money. His voice is smoother than you would’ve expected. He doesn’t have the voice of a trained vocalist, but his North Carolina accent mixed with the natural timbre of his voice makes for something captivating. The smile he’d brought to your face grows as he steps towards you, his shoulder moving in time with the song. 

“I guess you say,” He continues, his eyebrows raised with intention as he looks at you. Your laughter bubbles over, already knowing where he is headed with this. “What can make me feel this way?” 

You make a show of annoyance with his antics, but as he takes your hand and spins you around three times– once for each time Tyson sings ‘my girl’-- your delight is unfeigned. After the third spin, JJ crosses your arms in front of you, hauling your back against his chest. You peer up at him over your shoulder, your noses brushing, and his grin is like the sun peeking through on a cloudy day. 

The crowd has begun to join you on the makeshift stage, but you are too caught up in the song and how much fun you are having with JJ to care. These are the moments you remember from Poguelandia, which feel like a lifetime ago now— the carefree feeling JJ brought to your life that you had desperately needed then. 

JJ’s antics only get more humorous when the song's instrumental part begins to play. He uses the opportunity to do his infamous two-step, shooting you a cocky smirk and throwing his arms out at either side of him, inviting competition. 

“That all you got?” You ask, and JJ made a show of stepping back and offering you the floor. You aren’t sure what you are doing, but you take the space and let your hips move in tune with the music. The song isn’t seductive by any means, but it is groovy, and you felt confident in how your body moves with it. From the impressed look on JJ’s face, he seems to agree, and you giggle as he inces closer slowly, wrapping a loose arm around your waist. 

As the song reaches its final verse, John B and Sarah have made their way over to you. JJ and John B look at each other, tilting their heads in unison and pointing at each other. Suddenly, JJ is spinning you over, and John B takes ahold of your hand. John B is a much worse singer than JJ, but your laughter isn’t deterred for even a moment as he leads you through the rest of the dance. You make eye contact with Sarah, who shoots you a wink and lovingly rolls her eyes when JJ spins her. John B follows suit by turning you in towards him, whispering in your ear. 

“That had to sell it.” 

taglist: @theater-bitch @ayy1234567 @tpwkyarely @loves animals0000 @B3rryb3t @mvaldez7821 @ummmmokaynotme @velyssaraptor @chloemaybank @sandaltoesocks @thexplosivegirl @rudypankowisbae @marleymarleymarleymarley @snowtargaryen @awurtzx06 @yumwhy @rudypankowisbae @kanpaeki

[starrihan]

hi starri! this is kinda my first time submitting an ask ever which is crazy since I've been on tumblr for months haha

anyways, i am a sub!jo truther for sure, but lately I've been wondering if there would be any times he'd be especially dominant, and I'm intrigued to hear your thoughts on that! preferably both sfw and nsfw :)

I'm not that imaginative when it comes to these so feel free to get as creative as you want with it!

→ Pairing: dom! Jo x afab! Reader

→ Genre: fluff, smut

→ Warnings: none!

→ Word Count: 1,100 words

→ Notes: Hello lovely! I’m so honored that I’m the first person you’ve sent an ask to, really thank you so much! I hope I did your idea justice and that you can use this as fuel for future ideas you may have! 😚

→ Here's a link to all my other masterlists!

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SFW:

I feel like there are a couple of scenarios in which Jo would show a more dominant side in your everyday life. Aside from the usual him helping you reach stuff that are on the top shelf or doing you little favors here and there, I feel like he has pretty good control over his life.

He's a very free spirit in that he will do as he pleases, unless he has something planned out. I feel like he would mostly use his dominance when it comes to keeping you safe though. Always throws in a "be careful/ safe" or "call me if you need anything or feel uncomfortable," whenever you go out without him. Always offers to go with you if you’re going out alone or to tell him if he needs to be alert in case you wanna leave early.

He uses his height and build to his advantage, often intimidating people with how big he is. But especially if he sees that someone is making you uncomfortable. He'd brood over you, making sure you couldn't see the person and shoot them a glare. Isn’t really the type of person who likes PDA but will do it if he sees that it’s the only way to get someone to take their eyes off of you.

I could also see him being calm and peaceful as sort of dominant when you ask him for advice. He just gives off the vibe of "a man of few words" but that somehow makes him seem even more dominant. He not scared of anything, and doesn't express his emotions much. He's also very reliable which screams dominant to me.

Specifically if you're doing something with him, like playing basketball, and he sees you struggling or messing up, he would gently tell you how to do better or help you out.

Your friends all love him because he’s so reliable and responsible. If he’s ever out with you and your friends he’ll always offer to pay for everyone. Even if they reject his offer he comes off as personable and caring and therefore makes him seem more dominant.

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NSFW: MINORS DNI PAST THIS POINT

I thought of this after seeing clips of their recent concerts. I've said before that during Deer Hunter era Jo got a lot of praise for his dancing, singing and just his looks overall. He's more built now too, especially since he said that him and Maki would go on endurance runs after practice to build up stamina for their concerts.

I feel like Go in Blind era has given him so much more confidence, and he seems to be happy with the tour and the comeback, something I think definitely has a positive effect on your sex life.

He would come home after practice and his run, sticky with sweat stuck to him, hair flat against his forehead. Of course he always looked good to you, but something about the way his muscles were pumped after his run would have you all over him.

He'd gently remind you that he was dirty and sweaty, insisting he take a shower first. But the way he would grab your face, giving you a hot kiss before pulling away and smiling, leaving you all flustered, it felt like he had put you in your place a little.

His newfound confidence would translate into dominance. After his shower, he's find you on your phone, towel wrapped around his waist as he towers over you. You'd be looking up at him, gulping at how he looked down at you, hand caressing your cheek.

He’s tower over you, bending down and holding your face in his hands as he kisses you, jaw tight as his tongue slips into your mouth. Just the action alone is something that catches for off guard because he doesn’t usually do movement like this, and normally opts for the gentle route.

He’ll have you submitting to him in seconds. But even though he has you where he wants you, in front of him, dick shoved into your mouth, he's still very gentle. "You're doing so good for me baby..." His gentle praises, always asking what you want, and never denying you.

He also uses his muscles to manhandle you a little. If you want him to be a little more rough, he can surely oblige now. You find it hot when he pins you down, using one hand to keep your arms above your head, the other one going down to work on your clit as you beg him for anything.

Maybe he’s in a teasing mood after you’ve complimented his body so much, not giving you what you want until you ask him nicely for more.

He’s not usually like this which is what turns you on even more, begging for him to finally put his dick in you and give you what you want. And he’s nice enough to agree because he loves hearing you plea for him.

When he finally puts it in you you’re moaning really loud, almost screaming at the contact you’ve been deprived of for so long. Like I said before, he’s not much of a talker, but with this new confidence he tries it out more. “Are you enjoying this? Me teasing you so much?” And you can’t even speak and nod instead because you can’t stop moaning and whining.

He loves seeing you like this though, a newfound lust and drive to make you cum as hard as you can taking over him when he sees that his dick is actually making you go stupid. Something awakens in him (the bloodline, mayhaps? 🤔) that makes him go crazy, pushing your legs up to your chest and pounding into you with a force you’ve never known he had.

Each thrust eliciting a new sound from your lips as he sucks and bites down on your neck is like music to his ears, holding off on cumming until you do. And normally he’s really good about pulling out and cumming on you, but watching his love bites bloom on your neck and the way your mouth is hung open from pure bliss after your orgasm has him losing control, cumming in you for the first time.

You can’t even care right now because you’re in heaven, feeling so full from his cum that you fail to produce any coherent words. He’s panting, sweating all over you as he tries his best to not collapse on top of you. 

“I think I might need another shower now…”

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→ Here's a link to all my other masterlists!

[skzsauce01]

What Was I Made For

Synopsis: College is hard, but it's even worse when you're a pre-med student and it's even, even worse when you don't want to go into medicine. Fortunately, the ghost that haunts your apartment is more kind, more annoying, and more helpful than you ever thought possible. College AU, ghost AU.

Warning: alcohol, bad parental relationship, mentions of death

Word Count: 6.2k

Pairing: f!reader x ghost!Kim Seungmin

A/N: Good luck with exams and classes!

“Honey, I’m home,” you call. The handles of the reusable grocery bag you picked up from a club booth at the beginning of the semester are already starting to fall apart, so you’re forced to flip on the light switch with your shoulder blades. You glare at Seungmin, who is lounging on the couch, staring at the ceiling. “Could you at least pretend to help?”

“What’s the point? I can’t even eat whatever you bought.”

You sigh and set down your haul onto the tiny kitchen island that doubles as a dining table. When you make a big production of taking out your groceries, Seungmin still doesn’t look up. Despite his inability to eat food, he usually shows some interest, if only to judge your snack choices.

On the counter, bananas in a plastic produce bag to prevent fruit flies, and a new roll of paper towels. On the top shelf of the fridge, a tub of Greek yogurt that Seungmin makes fun of you for liking. Assorted salad mixes in the crisper. A whole rotisserie chicken and a carton of eggs on the middle shelf. In the cabinet goes a party-sized bag of barbeque chips, a pack of chocolate chip cookies you don’t want to discuss how much you paid for, and a box of protein bars. 

You take the last item out of the bag and hide it behind your back. You hover over Seungmin. “Guess what I got?”

“A bag of potatoes that will grow spuds because you can’t finish them all.”

“That was one time! Try again.”

He guesses wrong again and again, so after the fifth attempt, you hold your prize in front of his eyes. “A better vegetable peeler, just like you told me to. Are you proud of me?”

For a moment, his sullen eyes brighten at the memory of you struggling with your old peeler. He watched with great amusement as the flimsy blade repeatedly got caught on carrot skin and you grew more infuriated with each catch. In the end, you gave up and ate the skin, fuming with each bite of your meal. Seungmin laughed so hard, you thought he would lose control of his physical form and slip through the floor. 

He sighs, all of the joy escaping through his lips. “Yeah, sure. Sorry, it’s just one of those days.”

“We all have them. Hey, why don’t we do something tonight? I’m done studying, so we can watch a movie or play Mario Kart or something.” You plaster a smile on your face. “Fun, right?”

“You’re never gonna get into med school if this is how you work.”

Despite his admonishments, he sits up and swings his legs off the couch to make room for you. He didn’t choose an activity so Mario Kart it is. You leave your peeler on the coffee table and grab your joycons. When you flop beside him, tossing the blue one in his lap, he grumbles as he’s jostled around.

“I don’t even wanna go to med school,” you remind him. He already knows since it’s all you complain about these days as the MCAT draws closer, but that’s never stopped you from repeating yourself.

“Wow, what a problem. I’d die to go to med school.” 

Without thinking, you snort. “Too late for that.”

Seungmin has been dead for nearly two years. The old apartment complex burned down in an electrical fire, and due to the housing demand in the area, the university quickly built a new one in its place. Sure, you suspected it was probably haunted, but rent was on the cheaper side, especially for a single room, so you moved in and learned about your unofficial roommate during your first night. You thought you were going to faint when you saw a stranger leaning over your stack of practice books, and you thought you were going to be killed when he simply said, “I was also pre-med.”

“Sorry,” you meekly say. Why is the Mario Kart music so cheerful? It would be worse if it was sad, but the upbeat tune just makes your mistake more poignant. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” he interjects. “Doesn’t matter. You better not pick Birdo this time.”

While you normally would have fought him six ways from Sunday for Birdo, you choose Yoshi instead and pick his favorite circuit to start off the night. He makes no comment about your sudden generosity, but you both know the reason. There’s no such thing as pity in this household, but apologies are aplenty.

When you come back from your anatomy lab the following day, whatever guilt you felt is gone when Seungmin holds up your pack of cookies with a disapproving look. You must have forgotten to put it back in the cabinet before you left. Either that or Seungmin rummaged around your belongings when the roommate contract stated that he could not and would not.

“You seriously paid for these?” he says. 

“They’re good! And artisan,” you huff as you snatch the package from his hands. You hope you didn’t crush any cookies in the process. “I support small businesses.”

“They haven’t been a small business or artisan in, like, twenty years. How did the cat dissection go?” 

You reach for an overpriced cookie and snap off a piece with more force than necessary. “Fine. A little gross, but I guess I’m used to that by now. You wanna see the pictures I took?”

He tries to feign nonchalance, but his body seems more substantial, less ghost-like as you scroll through your camera roll. Even though he oohs and aahs at the most inappropriate images—you really don’t think the digestive structures of a cat deserve that much admiration—you can’t help but smile. He hasn’t looked or sounded this lively in weeks. You thought it might have been your snark rubbing off of him, but he always has a biting remark at the ready, remedied only with his good-natured demeanor. Of course, that demeanor has been slowly crumbling, so to see him be his usual self again feels good.

Satisfied, he lets you take your phone back. “Sometimes I miss lab. I hated doing the lab reports though; have fun with that.”

And just like that, your happiness goes out. “That’s tomorrow’s problem. I should study before work. You wanna help me out? I hate physics.”

Look, if your roommate were a pre-med student, had unlimited time, and no other obligations, you would force them to help you study, too. Plus, Seungmin loves MCAT practice, so it’s a win-win.

To your surprise, he doesn’t jump at the opportunity like he typically does. Under normal circumstances, he would be scouring the living room for where he last left his flashcards. Instead, he says, “Why don’t you take a break?”

“A break? You, of all people, suggest that I take a break when you were just telling me about my bad study habits? Who are you, and what have you done with Seungmin?”

He rolls his eyes. “I didn’t realize you wanted to do physics that badly.”

“I don’t. This is weird from you though.” However, after a moment of contemplation: “Whatever. Pick a show to watch. I’m gonna draw.”

He selects House because he’s still Seungmin after all. This is the show that inspired him to go into medicine, and is, as he’s mentioned many times before, “the greatest show on the planet.” It’s entertaining, you admit, and you do like seeing all of the obscure medical cases Dr. Gregory House solves, but it’s a grim reminder of your parents’ dreams for you. With the dialogue of the characters echoing in your head, you sketch a frog sitting on top of a stack of pancakes. You initially bought your tablet for note taking, but it really is much better as a tool for art. 

“It’s always animals, plants, or dessert now,” Seungmin remarks, craning his head to get a better view while you continually pull your screen away. “What happened to your big fantasy pieces?”

“Rule one: no looking until I say so. Rule two: no questions unless I say so. Remember?”

He ignores you. “You used to do a lot of those things when you first moved in. With the crazy landscapes, guys with abs in crop tops, cat-ear ladies with fancy dresses, villains who you definitely wanted to—”

“I get it!” Your face is blazing. He makes your artistic—purely artistic—interests sound so much worse than they are. “I’ve just been busy with life, so I don’t have time to work on them anymore. Anyway, animals, plants, and desserts are cute.” In a smaller voice, you add, “And they make me happy.”

Just like pictures of a flayed cat makes him happy.

He goes quiet and lets Dr. House fill the air. While he pretends to be engrossed in the show, you turn back to your sketch to fix your frog’s eyes to be less downcast. No sad frogs allowed.

You don’t remember exactly when the dread began, but you do distinctly remember glancing over the syllabus for your genetics course and wanting to collapse. Each item was manageable by itself, but the totality of the class, of your future classes, of your future hurtled at you at full force. For so long, you convinced yourself you could do it. You would complain the whole time, but at the end, you would be addressed as ‘Doctor’ and you would be happy. Your parents would be happy, so you would be happy and realize that it was all worth it.

Even if you cried every night, it would be worth it. 

You took a deep breath, looked at the list of assigned textbooks, and pulled out your credit card. You went through more dire situations than this stupid course. This would be easy enough.

Two weeks after the art fiasco, you finally test out your new vegetable peeler on potatoes. Your friend gave you five for free since she was having trouble finishing the large amount she bought. While you stand over the sink, humming a song your neighbor has been practicing for the past week, Seungmin is hunched over the coffee table, doing something secretive with flashcards. He’s been working on a new set of them since the art fiasco, which makes no sense since you have a perfect set of a thousand that you bought online. But no, he has been toiling day and night to create handmade ones. You don’t even want to know where he got the supplies.

Well, you already know where and how, but if your neighbors come knocking, you know nothing.

In fear that you’ll “ruin the surprise,” you have been forbidden from even stepping foot onto the living room carpet. Really, there’s no point because you can get a glimpse if you lean across the island. Nevertheless, you keep your eyes on the growing pile of potato skins. You have five potatoes worth of fries to make.

Ten minutes later, when you have moved onto slicing, Seungmin declares that he’s done. He places the baking sheet you left on the island onto a chair and triumphantly sets down his masterpiece.

When you pick up the topmost one, you can’t help but smile. Alongside the words “absolute threshold” is a cartoon rabbit with alert ears. Tiny music notes are dotted on the top edge of the card. 

“To make your studies less stressful,” he says. 

You don’t have the heart to tell him that you’re always some degree of stressed but nevertheless thank him. The flashcards are adorable, even if Seungmin’s drawing skills aren’t the best. “Newton’s first law” has an indistinguishable creature kicking a ball, and “law of independent assortment” features some of the strangest plants you have ever seen.

“I love them.”

“What do you think of my art skills? Better than you, right?”

You laugh and turn back to your cutting board. “You should’ve considered art school instead of med school. Professional artist Seungmin,” you muse. “I can see you in galleries and museums.”

“Don’t forget the history textbooks. Why didn’t you consider art school? You would be perfect for video games or something.”

For some time, you did consider art school. You spent the first two years of high school daydreaming about sitting behind an easel, translating a model’s likeness onto paper. Perennial paint splatters on your jeans, permanent charcoal stains on your fingers—that was the only way you wanted to study human anatomy. 

“My parents. You know how it is. Can you season the fries in the bowl?”

While Seungmin dumps copious amounts of salt, pepper, and whatever random spices he picked from the cabinet, you reflect on your teenage self. A part of you knew that drawing would only be a hobby, but another part kept hoping your parents would come around. When Hyunjin’s parents announced he was going to study chemistry, your mom wondered why he didn’t choose art when he was such a good artist. In fact, half the neighborhood, whose children went into STEM fields one way or another, were shocked he chose chemistry. Of course, if their own kids had opted for non-STEM majors, they would have been livid. Just like your parents had been.

“Did you ever think about not going into medicine?” you ask as you add more potato slices into the bowl.

He adds a swirl of oil to the mix. “No. It’s all I ever wanted to do. I volunteered at the hospital in high school, got an internship at a clinic here. I was studying for the MCAT and then…”

And then the university’s outdated housing killed him. It sounds horrific when phrased like that, but it’s more truthful than “Promising Young Pre-med Student Kim Seungmin Dead After Apartment Fire,” as the city newspaper headlined. His student ID photo smiled earnestly at readers, and a recent picture showed him posing in a lab coat.

It hits you then. Seungmin is dead. You knew this logically; you saw the articles, passed by the vigil, and signed the student letter demanding better accommodations. Then you forgot his existence until you applied to live in this building and when he appeared in your bedroom, you forgot about his death. Despite witnessing him walk through walls and tiptoeing around his deceased status, Seungmin has never really been dead to you. He’s your roommate who sleeps in the living room, your study partner who loves all things related to biology, or your friend. He’s too alive to be anything else.

“Did you preheat the oven?” he asks, breaking you out of your spiraling thoughts. Your body went on autopilot, and now the baking sheet is covered in pale potato sticks.

You glance at the dark oven and head over to do what you should’ve done twenty minutes ago. “My bad.”

“You’re the one eating these. Can you even finish all this?”

It’s far too much, but what else were you going to do with five potatoes on the verge of going bad? You suppose you could have not accepted them from your friend. “I can try?” you say, more to convince yourself than him. “I’m no coward.”

“Really? Then why do you hide when we watch horror movies?”

“That’s different. Mario Kart while we wait?”

“I call Birdo.”

Despite his declaration, you’re the one playing Birdo while he settles for Waluigi. Seungmin gloats when he hits you with a red shell, laughs when you fall off the track, and celebrates when he gets first place. He’s practically corporeal, alight with hopes and dreams you wish were your own, but he’s only the echo of the past. Meanwhile, blood flows through your veins and oxygen into your lungs, yet you’re stuck in a potential future you don’t even want.

At the end of fall, between your human biology midterm and that stupid philosophy paper, you break. It’s during one of your MCAT practice exams, so you at least can cry at your desk. You can’t even cry without guilt; your mind immediately starts trying to reread the problem you’re stuck on through your tears, as if trigonometry will solve your crisis. 

It feels like an elephant is sitting on your chest. Every time you think you’ve calmed down enough to begin again, another wave of sobs overcomes you. Just holding your pencil makes your throat tighten.

“Are you okay?” Seungmin’s voice is slightly muffled by your bedroom door, but you doubt that a thin piece of wood concealed your cries.

You choke out, “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“... No.”

You swing open your door with sardonic fanfare, spreading your arms like a ringmaster. Seungmin makes no comment about your swollen eyes or your sniffles. You almost wish he had.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asks. He takes a tentative step into your room, and when you nod, he lets himself fully in. It’s been several months since he’s last been inside. Unmade bed, cluttered nightstand, paper-strewn desk—nothing much has changed. He sits on your chair, resting an arm on top of the throw blanket you’ve thrown over the back.

“I don’t know what there is to talk about,” you say after a moment of silence. “I hate class, I hate work, I hate my life. A breakdown has been long overdue.”

You stare at the floor, afraid to meet his gaze now that he’s seen you like this. Ever since you discovered Seungmin, you’ve crafted the perfect blasé attitude to accommodate your new living circumstances. He leaves you alone sometimes and stays cordoned off in the shared spaces to give you privacy, but you don’t break apart in your apartment for good reason. You’re open and raw like a bloody wound. Will he want to patch you up with bandaids, or will he pick and prod?

Pick and prod, you pray. Make some flippant remark about how easy you have it, how he wishes he could be in your position instead. Because if he does, then the situation must not be that bad.

Softly, Seungmin says, “What can I do to help?”

Your heart drops to your stomach. “I don’t know… I should probably get back to studying anyway.”

“Really? Are you serious?”

“What else am I supposed to do?” you snap. Seungmin at least has the decency to look sheepish. “The MCAT’s in July, and I don’t even understand half the things I’m supposed to know. I’m barely getting C’s in philosophy and art history because of it. That’s so humiliating.”

“Have you thought about, you know, not going to med school?”

A harsh laugh rips out of your throat. “Every single day. But it’s too late. I’ve already wasted four years, so what’s another four?” That doesn’t even include residency.

“You’d hate it.”

“Story of my life.”

The room goes quiet. Maybe you were too severe with your words, but how else do you explain it? 

“What if you became a medical illustrator?” he abruptly suggests. “You’d know exactly how to draw everything. It’s perfect for you. And it’s still STEM-related.”

It doesn’t matter if it’s in STEM. Your parents laid out your options very clearly: doctor or disappointment. Some career choices were less disappointing than others, but they would still be disappointments.

“I need to study,” you say.

He stands up from your rightful seat at your desk. Softly, so very softly, he says, “I’ll let you get back to it then.”

“Thank you.”

He shuts the door behind him and leaves you with your despair. True to your word, you return to your practice exam, this time without crying. Your mouth is dry the entire session, but you don’t dare drink any water in fear that rehydration will trigger your tears. It’s stupid but keeps you holding on. 

When you check your answers and review terminology, you refer to the set of flashcards Seungmin made for you. He didn’t expect you to use them, but his drawings have helped you better memorize the definitions. You shuffle through them, occasionally trying to figure out the relationship between whatever Seungmin drew and the word written. Other times—but not enough for your liking—you know exactly what they mean.

The rabbit from “absolute threshold” stares at you with lopsided eyes, and Mendel’s warped pea plants grow beneath your fingers. The whole world blurs.

A month after move-in, after too many beers and barbeque chips, you asked Seungmin, “Why do you haunt only me? You can travel through the whole building, but you’re only ever here.”

He gestures at the room with a sweeping flourish. “This used to be my apartment. Sort of. They changed the floor plan, but this is the approximate location of where I lived, so when you moved in, it felt like fate.”

“Ah, a med school sufferer to keep you company.”

He laughs, but it sounds insincere. “How drunk are you right now?”

You glance at the row of empty cans you lined up on the counter. One, two, three, four, five. Five and a half, if you count the one in your hand. “Pretty drunk, I think.”

“So you won’t remember what I tell you, right?”

“Probably not,” you lie. “What is it?”

With a sad smile on his face, he says, “I haunt you because it’s like seeing someone live the life I could’ve had. Would’ve had.”

Your outburst doesn’t go forgotten, but you and Seungmin dance around the topic with the grace of a seasoned ballerina. You show him your grocery hauls, he scolds you for buying expensive cookies. The two of you play Overcooked instead of Mario Kart and pretend that Overcooked will strengthen your friendship instead destroy it even further. Seungmin is really bad, embarrassingly so. 

“Are you going to the party this weekend?” he asks as he drops onions all over the floor. There’s no health department in the game.

“I would ask you to be more specific,” you say, “but we both know I’m not going to any parties. Go chop the onions.”

“You need friends.”

“I have friends. Who do you think keeps us giving us potatoes?”

He scoffs. “That’s not a friend. That’s an enemy. We need more dishes.”

While you wash a stack of dirty dishes, Seungmin dashes between prepping ingredients and watching the timer on the soups. As expected, he doesn’t take the pot off the stovetop quick enough, and soon enough the whole kitchen is in flames. You scream at him to get the fire extinguisher, he wades through the sea of onions, and the level ends with a single gold star.

You set your joycon down and lean your head back. “Three stars or nothing” is your motto when playing Overcooked, but perhaps you can make an exception for Seungmin.

“Why’d you ask me about a party?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. Seems like a college student thing to ask. And a college student thing to do. Go to parties, I mean.”

“Not for us.” You stretch your arms and legs out, knocking your socked feet against the coffee table. “When have you ever seen me willingly leave the apartment?”

“Never,” he admits, “but you should enjoy your youth.”

Whatever mutual agreement you thought you and Seungmin had does not exist. You have long known that you would have to sacrifice your twenties for your future. There would be good moments among your struggles, but so many of your memories would be of test prep and studying. As your parents so eloquently put it, “You can draw after you retire.” 

“That’s funny coming from you,” you say. You wave a hand in front of his face and observe the way his eyebrows scrunch together. “Are you really Seungmin?”

“Do you know any other ghosts?”

“Do you actually regret dedicating so much time to studying?”

“No. I mean, I went out when I could, but you…” He mindlessly thumbs the buttons of the controller as he tries to find his words. “Well, maybe I do a little bit, but it was fulfilling. Or was going to be anyway. You’re miserable. I’ve never seen you without dark circles or eye bags.”

How needlessly observant of him. “Thanks. It’s the quintessential college look.”

“Take care of yourself.” He raises his joycon and nods at the TV. “Let’s go again. Three stars only.”

And just like that, you and Seungmin go back to pretending as if everything is fine, like the last few minutes were idle chatter about the weather. You yell instructions at him, and he retorts back with something snarky; all is well.

You suppose you should have realized why Seungmin asked you such out-of-character questions two weeks ago. Death anniversaries don’t typically go onto your calendar, but you could have made an exception for Seungmin. How did you forget? As you walk down the stairs, a wave of guilt washes over you.

The annual university-held vigil occurs on campus, but the apartment complex has their own small affair in the courtyard. Framed photos of the victims huddle together at the base of a half-wall. Already, there are several flowers and notes strewn about, and you add your own carnation to the pile. You have a note as well, and it burns your hand as you debate whether to leave it or not.

Twelve people died that night. “Only” twelve, as some papers reiterated. Twelve out of three hundred doesn’t seem too horrific given the state of the fire, but that’s still twelve people dead. Plenty more got injured trying to escape, and they aren’t honored at this memorial. The living don’t get commemorated—they live with the memories of the day, and that’s remembrance enough for the public.

“Hey.”

No one else is around, so you say, “Hey,” back to Seungmin. He disappeared for a few hours, and you assumed he would be gone until sunrise. In the days leading up to his death anniversary, he has grown increasingly depressed, looking vacantly out the window and mouthing words to himself. You idiotically thought he was just having one of those days.

“How are you holding up?” you ask.

“Fine, I guess. Good turn out this year,” he remarks as he kneels down to pick through the gifts. “The construction workers didn’t even show up to work because of superstition or something.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know, it’s just…” You wave the folded notebook paper in your hand. Maybe you should’ve bought some stationery after all. “Read this later. I’ll see you whenever.”

You gently place it beside your carnation, return back to your apartment, and lock yourself inside your room. It’s too quiet, and you’re too restless. Your head tells you to do practice problems to burn off your energy, but all you’ve been doing as of late is listen to your head.

As you sketch an anatomical heart—underneath a completely necessary and painstakingly accurate rendering of a male torso—your bones say that this is right. 

To Kim Seungmin, a star that went out too soon—

You deserved so much more than this. I don’t even know what else to say because nothing feels more appropriate. 

I’m living in your old apartment—where it used to be, at least—and I can’t help but feel that I’m living the life you should have had. Sometimes I can feel your presence when I’m studying. I can hear you reciting definitions and shuffling flashcards. When I’m really losing my mind, I can see you sitting on the couch watching House episodes with me. It’s comforting and terrifying.

You already know this, but I don’t want to go to med school. I hate it and I hate being a disappointment to my parents, but I hate being a disappointment to you the most. You should be in my place, so I thought I should try and complete your dream for you at the very least. I’m already miserable, so I should make the most of it. For a while, I thought this would make you happy, but it’s been making you sad and worried recently. I thought if I could make you happy, then it would be worth it, but I’m realizing it’s not, but I’m too scared to leave this path. Sometimes I don’t know who I am without med school looming over me, and it 

I wish we would’ve met earlier. You’re an amazing person, full of light and kindness. The world is darker without you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything that I’ve done and for everything that I didn’t do because you deserve so much better than whatever you’ve been given.

“Do you want to talk?”

Seungmin’s upside down face appears between you and the iPad you have been holding up with both arms. Philosophy review is simultaneously boring and maddening, but you have a final to be studying for. You should’ve started much earlier, but twenty-four hours of cramming has not failed you when it comes to general education elective courses yet.

“Not really,” you say as you push his face out of view. He’s corporeal at the moment, so your hand meets resistance rather than going right through. “I’m busy.”

“Did you apply for a ‘biomedical visualization’ program? That’s a medical illustrator thing, right?”

You don’t need to look at him to know he’s thrilled. Since the memorial, you began looking into medical illustrators as a backup plan. You only meant to learn about the basic requirements, but curiosity got the better of you, and you attended an online informational session. Seungmin overheard bits and pieces because of how thin the walls are, you got cagey when he asked, and he put his endless hours of free time into detective work. 

“I didn’t apply. I’m just looking around. Now go away.”

“The living room is a communal space. So you’re considering it then?”

You don’t respond and bring your iPad closer to your eyes. To read the tiny notes on the margins of your classmate’s notes, of course.

Seungmin cackles and claps his hands. “You are! This is good! Why are you so morose?”

“Because you interrupted my studying? I have less than ten hours to cover three months of content.”

“You’re deflecting. Are you worried about your parents?”

“Morose and deflecting,” you murmur. “Two gold stars for your vocabulary usage.”

“Are you?”

You shut your eyes, envisioning the stern faces of your parents when you announce over dinner your plans to spend your life not being a doctor. Their expressions morph from confusion to anger to grim when they realize how serious you are. 

Are you serious about this? You’re not even sure yourself. It feels like you’re in high school again, holding onto a shred of hope for a future you aren’t allowed to have.

“What if I lie to them?” you say. “I tell them I got into a school that’s super far away, go there, and return when I’ve firmly established myself as an illustrator or whatever I end up doing. It’ll be too late for them to do anything.”

“That’s one way to do it. But wouldn’t it be better if you were upfront?”

You groan and turn back to your classmate’s notes. What is it like, you wonder, to not be crushed by the weight of approval? What is it like to know you won’t be scorned for your choices? No matter what you do, someone—your parents or Seungmin—will be upset.

“Upset” is a very mild way to describe your parents’ reactions. After six cans of celebratory beer—you passed all of your classes this semester!—you called your parents to tell them good news. Somewhere between the silent congratulations and questions of your home arrival, you blurted out, “I think I’m gonna do biomedical visualization. Medical illustration. Art. It’s still medical-related, but not a doctor.”

And after a lengthy discussion filled with shouting, you’re not allowed to come home this year or ever again. CALL ENDED flashes on your screen, but you grip your phone so tightly you can feel your heartbeat in your fingertips. Your whole body is tense, flushed with indignation and shame. No tears come. You expected something like this but nothing to this extreme. Their words echo in your ears.

Ungrateful. Selfish. Disgrace. 

Logically, you know you’re none of those things, but you can’t help but feel they’re at least a little bit right. You sink into your desk chair and wait for the inevitable knock on your door. To step out of your own accord would be mortifying. 

“Are you okay?” asks Seungmin.

“I’ve been disowned in every way except legally,” you answer as you let him inside your room. “What do you think?”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s…”

It’s not fine, but your mouth started saying so by default. You perch on the edge of your bed and stare at the stack of practice books that have been untouched for two days on your dresser. They would belong better under your bed where they’ll be out of sight.

Suddenly insecure, you ask, “You’re not gonna leave me, right? You’ll still help me peel potatoes and let me know when my artisan cookies are on sale?”

He chuckles. “The only way you can get away from me is by moving or by graduating. I’ll be here. Instead of nagging you to study, I’ll critique your anatomy.”

“That’s against the rules.” Nevertheless, you smile at the thought of Seungmin hyperfixed at your artistic renderings and comparing them against pictures from a textbook. “Thanks.”

Seungmin smiles back, and he radiates so much warmth that you forget it’s winter.

EPILOGUE

“Honey, I’m home,” you call. 

You nearly trip over the door sill in your heels but catch yourself in time. Wearing heels to commencement is a bad idea for more reasons than one. Clutching your friend’s graduation bouquet, you flip on the light switch with the back of your hand and glance over your apartment. Other than the dozens of boxes scattered across the living room and kitchen, nothing else belongs to you; goodbye coffee table you stubbed your toes against too many times; goodbye peeling school-issued couch. You half-expected to see Seungmin lying on it, staring at the ceiling like he used to. 

“Seungmin, where are you?” When he doesn’t answer, you try again. “Anyone home?”

You wander around the small apartment, checking behind doors and furniture like you’re playing hide-and-seek. He’s nowhere to be found, and you go through the apartment again in a frenzy. He could be in a different part of the building, but he always knows when you’re looking for him.

“Where are you? Seungmin, this isn’t funny! I know you can hear me.”

It takes twenty minutes, but you eventually realize he’s gone for good. No goodbyes, no hugs, no teasing—he just waved you off to your ceremony and shut the front door. You knew he wouldn’t be able to help you move out, but you thought he would still be here when you returned. He researched additional art classes for you, suggested works for your portfolio, and consoled you whenever you were overwhelmed. It’s a knife to your heart that he’s not here.

In between tears that you don’t allow to fall from your eyes, you carry your boxes of belongings to your car. You have a new place to call home, but two perfectly nice housemates and a dog aren’t good replacements for a ghost who annoyed you from sunrise to sundown.

I hope you find this note eventually. I know we have the rule where I’m not supposed to go through your belongings, but since we’re not going to be roommates any longer, I hope you’re not too mad. Completely unrelated but you’re really good at Mario Kart. So good. Birdo was designed specifically for you.

Congratulations on graduating. You’ve worked hard this year. Could have worked harder sometimes but you did it! Relax a bit during your gap year and enjoy your youth. Those art classes will be easy for you. Biomed visualization will be easy after pre-med studies.

Stop rolling your eyes and sighing. You know I’m right.

I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. I know you wanted it, but I don’t think I could have handled it. The truth is that I was ready to go a couple months ago when you started compiling your portfolio. For two years, I didn’t know why I was still here. At first, I thought my unfinished business was about the circumstances of my death. (Stop wincing. I’m dead. It’s a fact.) Then the administration stepped up. They did the bare minimum, to be honest, but at least changes were made. When you turned up, I thought I was supposed to fulfill my dream of going to med school. Turns out, I still have no idea what exactly why I was here, but seeing you live the life you want and choose the future you want makes me feel like business is finished.

To L/N Y/N, a star that will keep shining for decades to come—

I’m so proud of you and everything you’ve done so far. There are so many opportunities waiting out there for you, so don’t be afraid to take any chances. I’ll be with you always.

[ririright]

“She Poured Him the First Cup”

Dad! Anakin x Daughter Reader

It was a warm Saturday morning, and Anakin had just finished hosing down the shop driveway when he heard the tiny clatter of porcelain and the unmistakable sound of his daughter’s squeaky voice carrying across the yard.

“Okay, Charlie, you sit right here. And you get extra cream because you’re a good boy.”

He paused.

Frowned.

Turned.

There she was — sweet little (y/n), dressed in her favorite pink tutu and glitter jelly sandals, carefully pouring pretend tea into four tiny plastic cups arranged on a gingham blanket. The guests?

Her bunny plushie, her Cabbage Patch baby, and Charlie.

Charlie — lying sprawled like a giant fluffy rug, tail gently thumping, an actual bowtie clipped around his neck, his head tilted just enough to radiate smug gratitude as she lovingly adjusted his crown.

Anakin watched from the porch, towel slung over his shoulder, jaw set.

She poured his cup first.

Not the baby. Not the bunny. Not even herself.

The dog.

“Unreal,” he muttered.

She looked up. “Daddy! You wanna come to our tea party?”

He stepped down one stair. “You pouring for everyone?”

“Yes!”

He stepped down another. “Everyone get sugar?”

“Yep!”

“And did you—” he narrowed his eyes, “—pour Charlie’s cup before mine?”

She blinked. “Yeah. ‘Cause he got here first.”

Charlie licked his lips like he knew he’d just won something important.

“Oh, he got here first,” Anakin echoed flatly, coming to a full stop just before the blanket. “Well maybe he should be your dad, then.”

“Daddy,” she whined with a grin. “Don’t be jealoooous.”

He slowly, dramatically, crossed his arms. “I taught you how to change a tire.”

She giggled. “He can’t do that.”

“I read you three books last night.”

Charlie yawned.

“I built your toy shelf with my own hands.”

She grinned and pointed to the tiny cupcake plate in front of an empty spot. “That one’s yours!”

He sat down stiffly on the grass. “I’m only staying because the baby looks like she’s struggling to hold conversation.”

“Okay, Daddy,” she giggled, handing him a chipped little plastic teacup.

Charlie let out a small huff and rested his head in (y/n)’s lap. She instinctively scratched behind his ears and kissed the top of his furry head.

Anakin watched.

His eye twitched.

Then — in the single most passive-aggressive act of the decade — he reached into the paper tea party bag, grabbed a cookie, and shoved the entire thing in his mouth in one go.

She blinked. “That was for sharing!”

He pointed at Charlie mid-chew. “He would’ve taken it if I didn’t.”

Charlie let out a low, polite “boof.”

“Boof yourself,” Anakin said through crumbs.

But a few minutes later, when she leaned over to kiss both their cheeks and said, “I love my boys,” Anakin sighed, softened, and reached a hand out under the table.

Charlie sniffed it.

Anakin glared.

Charlie licked it once.

Anakin grunted. “This doesn’t make us friends.”

Charlie gently laid his paw on Anakin’s knee.

Anakin stared at the paw.

…And left it there.

Just for a second.

Because apparently even he knew when he’d lost a round.

Read Pt.6 (final)