#i feel like i’m gonna collapse in the street

[zalimaaa]

israel bombed a hospital and killed over 500 people

[roomtemperaturesuperconductor]

.

[charmercharm3r]

Dream You

BC

Masterlist

wc: 4k

Synopsis: He cheated on you— in your dreams, then took kiss it better too literally.

warnings: smut, explicit sexual content, softdom!chan, light bondage, oral (m receiving), dacryphilia, pretty intensely fluffy they just rly love each other

☆ﾟ

4,000 followers! enjoy this lil idea as a thank you. i appreciate you!

You. Needed. Affection.

Just affection, and loads of it from one person in specific. Mostly because you were pretending to be mad at him and it made you miss him even more. Chan rarely makes you mad, he’s always good about communicating and listening, so the fact that you were mad at him and he didn’t even know why threw him off a little.

So there you were, sat on the couch wrapped in one of his hoodies eating straight out of the ice cream tub because you were too upset to do anything but count the seconds until he got home. You weren’t answering his texts, you picked up his call because you accidentally pressed the wrong button out of muscle memory and Chan could tell through the phone that today was just not a good day.

When he came home and found you sitting in the same spot that you were in when he called you– he knew this because you described it exactly as it looked, Chan almost collapsed at how cute you were. You had this ruffle in your brow and his hoodie looked like it was threatening to drown you in the black material. Gnawing on the spoon, your chest rumbled a little as Chan smiled his dimply smile and reached for the tub of ice cream to take away. “You doing okay, baby?” He chuckled trying to pop the spoon out of your mouth, wriggling it back and forth and swaying your head until you decided to let go.

“No, I’m mad at you,” there wasn’t much bite to the statement.

Chan pecked your forehead and ventured off to put the ice cream away, “oh yeah? Wanna tell me why so I can fix it?” He returned to stand behind you and lean over the back of the couch, wrapping his arms around your neck and nuzzling his cheek into the top of your head.

Upset but still wanting the physical touch, you pulled his arms tighter, “dream you cheated on me.”

He popped his head around the side of yours to come face to face with a look of genuine shock. “Did he?!” Chan hopped over the back of the couch to sit next to you.

“Yeah. I caught you in our bed and everything. Then you broke up with me and posted the bitch on your instagram the next day.” You huffed and pushed him away with no force, turning to lean on the armrest and lay your legs over his lap. Chan rested his head on your knees, looking at you with his big puppy dog eyes that never failed to make you melt.

“I thought I taught him better than that,” he gently scolded. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Is that why you didn’t kiss me back when I left this morning?

You nodded. “And why you weren’t answering my texts?” Another nod. “And why you can’t look at me because you know how ridiculous that sounds?”

You were half way through nodding for a third time when you caught his words, “hey! It’s not ridiculous! It could be a premonition, I could be psychic and get into fortune telling with how accurate I am.”

Chan closed his eyes and let his hands wander up and down your calves, lightly dragging his lips across the bare skin of your knees as he spoke, “mhm, mhm. Or it means that it’s never gonna come true. I like to think that, instead.”

It was getting harder to be mad when the feeling of his breath fanning over your skin made goosebumps rise, he loved watching the way your body reacted to him. It was never hard for him to work you up, physically and emotionally. Chan thrived on the effect he has over you, but it’s a two way street and you live for the way he’d do anything to please you. Even if it means apologizing for something he didn’t really do. In this reality, at least.

You wanted to be mad so bad that you debated on throwing him off you entirely, however his lips were just too plush looking and you craved to feel them on your own. Chan took his time to work them higher up your legs, eventually laying them and sticking his head under the hem of his hoodie you wore. He tugged you to lay flat so he could have more area to trace his pretty lips cross, the thoughts of being upset almost totally dissipating under his touch. Your leg instantly wrapped around his torso, to which he grinded lightly into the cushion. His hair tickled your bare chest as he peppers kisses across your belly, hands roaming your back to keep you near. He didn’t move as sexually as one might’ve thought from an outside perspective, it wasn’t to get into your nonexistent pants, you just got him so horny.

So horny to the point where he would’ve kept grinding against the couch if you didn’t feel like relieving him, he would’ve taken it like a champ if you denied him. You never do, though, as if you had the impulse control to ever tell him no.

Chan kept his movements slow, intentional, with the purpose of getting you to relax and see how much he loves you and how much an asshole dream-him was for cheating on dream-you. Big hands moved down to cup your ass under the fabric of your underwear, teething lightly above your belly button then soothing over the bite with his fat tongue. The wet muscle laved over the sore spots with the tip of his tongue, then flattening it, the tip, then flat again, alternating like he would if it were your pussy and were trying to get you to cum.

You wanted that, you always wanted his tongue on you. But now, you needed this more. The closeness and being able to keep him where only you can love and appreciate.

It felt so stupid to even be thinking that way, stupid that you had pulled such childish acts instead of just telling him in the first place. If you had just asked to be coddled, he would’ve given it to you without a second thought.

Chan needed this as much as you did, little to your knowledge. He could feel how off you were in the morning but really just didn’t have the time to fix it at that moment. It stung his heart hearing what dream-him did to dream-you, he couldn’t possibly imagine putting you through that, let alone move on so quickly if you ever were to actually break up.

No, he couldn’t even bear the thought of leaving you, it hurt too much.

His heart hurt for you, he could see the pain all over your face when he got home and it wasn’t even real life. Chan would rather die than ever let you go through something like that in this reality. In your dreams, well, there isn’t much he can do other than what he’s doing now.

Leaving chaste kisses anywhere along your torso he could, massaging your ass with his nimble fingers while heavily breathing in the scent of your skin. The quiet moans you were trying to suppress made him smile, able to feel your muscles tightening and loosening beneath his fingertips. He felt so warm against you, you wanted to thread your fingers through his hair and tried to from over the hoodie. Chan mumbled incoherently in protest and tugged the hem over his head again when you tried to tug it up.

“Wanna be close to you,” he murmured, going back to rubbing his cheek to your belly. You could only giggle and let him.

This was just Chan. Just purely and entirely him. Doing nothing and everything at the same time and making you melt into the palm of his hand, you’d forgotten why you were mad until he spoke again.

“Can’t believe I’d do that,” the barrier of material made it hard to hear him.

“Hm?” You hummed.

He slithered a little higher up your chest and you pulled the neckline to peak down into the dark shadows of the hoodie. You could see just one of his pretty brown eyes peering up at you sweetly, “who in their right mind would do that to you?”

Chan rested his cheek on your chest and stayed there, arms enclosing around your torso. “Dream-you did. And it really sucked.”

He whined this time, higher in pitch and wiggling to get comfortable. Your head back against the couch, you closed your eyes and let yourself calm down before you got worked up again. Chan could hear your heartbeat speed up, placing another soft kiss to the skin above it. You shivered and draped your arms over the back of his shoulders to succumb entirely to the feeling. Just as you finally relaxed, warmth engulfed your left nipple, wet and hot and being suckled into his mouth like a pacifier. “I’m trying really hard to be mad,” you admit while smiling to yourself, out of his field of vision.

“Please, don’t be,” he pleaded, “I’ll never hurt you. I’ll destroy anyone who tries.” It sounded silly coming from his mouth considering it was full of your tit, you couldn’t help a gentle laugh.

A few more moments of him playing with your breast, then switching to the other with no regard for the wet sounds that emitted from his suckling, you couldn’t take not seeing him anymore. You sat up as much as he’d let you and tucked your arms into the body of the hoodie, pulling your head through the neckline just enough so that the two of you were pressed chest to chest under the material.

It was dark and hot, you weren’t sure how he was able to stand being underneath it for so long. You couldn’t totally see him, but you knew he was looking at you– or at least, attempting to. You felt for his cheeks and held him just millimeters away, feeling his calm breathing over your chin. In almost total darkness, unable to see but could feel each other entirely, he whispered, “you’re safe with me. You’ll always be safe with me.”

You pulled him into you, savoring the fragile way he always tended to kiss you when you were particularly emotional, scared as if he’d break you. Handle with care, your heart said, and he did just that and more. Delicate. Do not touch, written outside the glass case he envisioned you in whenever something went even remotely in the opposite direction you wanted. It wasn’t that you needed the protection, by no means were you unable to handle yourself, but you invoked something in him that he couldn’t control. Fortunately for him, you let him smother you and baby you and wrap you in bubble wrap so tight you couldn’t breathe because it felt good to be seen. It felt good to be loved, and loved by him.

It was getting more and more difficult not to rut your hips against him, any part of him because he made you that insatiable. Chan could feel you trying to restrain and laughed against your lips.

“What if I want you to break me?” He glitched for a second, then went back to kissing you with a little more intensity.

“Then, I’ll just have to put you together again.” You ripped the hoodie away, leaving you naked in his hold aside from the underwear you were soaking through. “And break you, put you together again, and again, and again until you’re begging for me to stop.”

You felt the wave of butterflies flutter right between your legs and caved.

“Fuck– take me to the bedroom.”

Chan stood just to throw you over his shoulder effortlessly, entirely too excited for either of your own good. It wasn’t until now that you noticed he was still in those uncomfortably tight jeans he left in this morning, your mouth watered at the timely prospect of getting him out of them. You just couldn’t stop yourself from sending a light smack to his ass as he walked through the bedroom door, and he reciprocated with an even harder one to the bare skin of your own.

He laid you down gently just to cover your body with his own once again, not letting you strip him without your tongues laving against one another's. His shirt came off first, tossing it towards the headboard, your underwear, then his pants. Chan stopped you from reaching for his underwear so he could tease you, barely tugging the elastic down his hips and letting his erection catch in the fabric until he finally let it slap against his lower belly erotically.

Chan let them fall to the floor before kneeling tall onto the bed, “turn around,” he instructed. You followed and faced the headboard, seeing him reach around for his discarded shirt. Just barely could you feel his hot breath against your neck, “are you sure this is what you want tonight, baby?”

You hummed with desperation, “break me. Lovingly, please.”

Leaving a small peck to your cheek for reassurance, Chan grabbed your arms harshly and brought them behind your back. He used his forgotten shirt as a makeshift restraint, keeping you bound and tied up with no way of being able to touch him, you wondered what it was he had in store that required it.

Once he finished he sat opposite of you, falling on his back and watching the process of your mouth watering over seeing him in the perfect cock-sucking position. The redness of his tip, you would’ve thought it was painful if you didn’t know better. No, that’s a lie– it was painful. Painful watching you be so pretty and worked up and he was fighting the urge with everything in him not to untie you and lay you in the sheets like the pillow princess you so rarely got to be.

But it wasn’t what you wanted. What you wanted was to not think, be serviced and be of service, used to please. Tonight needed to end with you feeling weightless and not an ounce of sadness or anger left lingering to be found.

“Break you lovingly?” Chan called, tucking an arm under his head while the other stroked himself slowly. He swiped the bead of precum, beckoning you over with a single finger and forcing his thumb past your lips to taste. You hummed at the salty bitterness, the weight of him on your tongue and could feel yourself salivating. “Which do you want first, doll? Break you, or love you?”

Judging from the way you were practically drooling down his wrist, he took your lack of response as the former.

Stealing his thumb away, a thread of spit following, Chan laid back down and put both hands behind his head. “Go ahead. Be a good doll and suck.”

You folded so fast that it made him chuckle with pride knowing you were wanting him as much as he wanted you. Licking and twirling your tongue around the tip like hard candy, taking in as much of him as possible. Your own spit dripped down your chin and filled your mouth like a perfect hole.

Chan started to stutter up into you the further down you went. The more of him you took in, the harder it got not to thrust up. By the time you’d gotten to the point of lightly gagging, he was biting his lip to keep from losing all control. But then you looked up at him, eyes big and watery, tears already rolling down your cheek and you couldn’t even wipe it away. Nope, all self control completely obliterated by that single look. That fucking look, Chan physically felt his chest cave like crumbling sand between his fingers.

“I’ll fucking break you, baby. Don't worry your pretty little head, I’ll make you forget.” You couldn’t reply with his thick cock in your mouth, but could see you approve with the little nods you managed to give. “Be a good cocksleeve, yeah? Make me feel good.”

You took him as deep as you could, stilled as soon as your nose hit his pelvis and thought that was good enough since he groaned, loud and deep from within his chest. But you looked up at him again, this time just as the tears fell from your lash line. Chan tangled both hands in your hair and hooked his legs over your shoulders, cock still buried down your throat. He locked his ankles around the back of your head and pushed himself that much deeper to get you to gag harder. The sound that he emitted resembled that of a bear, hearty, unrestrained, feeling.

Oh, how he felt you. Felt the constricting of your throat around him, felt your tongue fighting to make room for you to breathe and failing, felt your tears wet the skin of his pelvis. Nothing but your safe word could have stopped him from pulling you off his cock for a split second to inhale a deep breath, then shoving you back down to abuse your throat like it was just a toy. For now, you were just a toy– his toy.

Lewd and adulterous squelching of your mouth slicking up and down his cock filled the room, overridden just by Chan’s moans of pleasure and your light humming to vibrate up his shaft. He was kind for a few moments– as kind as he could have been in this position, and eventually gave up seeing as you could still fight back. His lazy pushes and pulls of guiding your head up and down turned into him rutting up into your mouth in quick jabs, utilizing the headlock he had you in as leverage to move at what could have been neck breaking speed. His hands held you firmly in place as Chan did all the work now, focused on nothing but his own pleasure as your tears and spit mixed to puddle around his throbbing cock.

You were a gagging, crying mess and you loved every second. So much so that you spread your knees and tried to rub your puffy clit into the bunched up sheets. A few more upthrusts of his tip hitting the back of your throat, Chan let you go entirely. Without the stability of him holding you up, your weak body tilted to the side as you gasped for air, hips slightly twitching from the immense need built up.

He took a second to regain his composure while you caught your breath. Chest still heaving up and down, Chan forgot that your hands were still tied, wondering why you weren’t jumping his bones the second he let you free. Sitting up, he tilted his head at you with a sympathetic smile, “sweet doll, I haven’t even done anything to you yet. Anything left in here?” He mockingly tapped the side of your temple, to which it went unacknowledged. You just wanted him on you again, whining and trying to wriggle closer to him. “Hm, guess not. Did my job, didn’t I? Didn’t take very much effort, baby. You love me that much? Or you’re just a cockhungry doll.”

Through the soreness in your jaw, you managed to whisper, “l–love you.”

Chan chuckled, “I know you do. Love my sweet doll, too.” He leaned over to kiss your forehead, ignoring the way you puckered your lips for more. Chan manhandled you to the center of the bed, keeping you on your side with arms still restricted from touching.

There was nothing you could do but let him do what he wanted with you, but this was the lovingly part. This, although bound on your end, was where he showed you everything he couldn’t tell you. This was the putting you back together part, the safe with me part, the dream-me can go fuck himself because you deserve the best dicking down ever part.

And could you tell that’s what all of this was? Absolutely. Could you do anything about it? Not a chance. You couldn’t touch him, couldn’t form coherent sentences, couldn’t do anything but babble love you, love you, and more love you’s.

Chan pushed your hair from your sweaty forehead, memorizing your features for just a second before he lost himself again. Then straightening out your bottom leg for him to straddle while resting the top in the crook of his arm and aligning his cock at your entrance, just teasing your clit with the tip and spreading the perpetually leaking beads of cum. He would dip into your hole, hear you whimper, then pull away and do it all over again to keep you in a constant state of frustrated that he wouldn’t just fuck you already.

It was because fucking you wasn’t what he wanted, he hated calling it that. If it were anyone but you, calling sloppy sex for what it is wouldn’t have bothered him. But you weren’t just anyone, he wouldn’t dare call you anything less than what you deserved and that applied in the bedroom as well. That was, of course, aside from when you truly asked for it.

Even the sloppiest of sex with you wouldn’t be classified as just fucking. He felt every inch of you in every single one of his nerve endings, in his veins, pumping the blood through his heart straight down to the tip of his cock. Chan felt a little dumb just looking at you, like he’d lost his mind at the mere scent of your arousal, he felt like a lovesick puppy and if you’d ever decide to leave him, he’d die of a broken heart.

God, he loves you. He said it as he finally pushed into your pulsing, wet hole. He said it as he came to the hilt, he said it as he slipped the bondage off your wrists, as he grabbed your hand to hold and as he began to lazily thrust in and out, searching for the spot that would make you cry so hard you’ll pass out as soon as you cum.

And you did cry, not just from how good you felt physically but because even if he wasn’t mindlessly telling you how much he loved you, you could see it in the way he looked at you. He wasn’t looking anywhere but your face, straight into your eyes in a stare so intense it should’ve been uncomfortable. It was anything but, you shed a tear every time you blinked to see him still looking at you like he was sure you were the last thing he’d ever see.

God, you love him. You said it as your hand held his for dear life, as he pummeled the soft spot within you that made you see stars through the tears, you said it as you were curling your toes and arching your back at an unholy angle. You said it as coherently as possible as the butterflies in your belly swept you into a whirlwind of pleasure, as you milked him for everything he had, as you came back down to earth somehow laying on his chest and not at all in the same position as when the orgasm hit.

Gentle beating of his heart in his chest stirred you from the light daze you had fallen into, you don’t even remember doing it. “Hey there,” his chest rumbled. Chan kissed the top of your head, your forehead, then moved to lay your head in the pillows so he could kiss your lips.

As he tucked your hair behind your ear, you finally got to brush your fingers through his curls, so soft and pretty. His eyes closed as your nails raked across his scalp, letting his forehead fall against yours. The rumbling of his chest made you smile, “you purr like a cat,” you said through the sore scratch in your throat.

“Cats ward off evil. Real me is shooing away the nightmares for good. Let me purr.” Chan let you tug his head against his chest with a content him falling from your lips, where his purring turned into soft snores as the exhaustion finally hit him.

☆ﾟ

tags: @sensitiveandhungry @babebatter @changbinluvr @epiphanynaffit @fawnpeaks @linovely @dumplinbokkieracha @finnydraws @naturules @djeniryuu @hamburgers101 @skzhomiehopper @yesv01 @hyunjinsamdl @dazzlingligth @lvrhyuka @alexis-reads-fics @linaliskz @0002linoskitten @chillichillicrabcrab23 @zerefdragn33l @straycrescent @binnies-donuts @soldierstangirl-blog @bakedlilgoonie @levanterlily @shelbyyy44 @yeetmehome @in2heartz @astroodledream @the-sweetest-rose @goblinracha @lilbugs-things @viviennenstan @staurdvst @alex--awesome--22 @imzenning @jeyelleohe @iadorethemskz @skyvastbunny @mamabymychem @katsukis1wife @woozarts @noellllslut

[macfrog]

birth of venus sex on fire chapter twelve

these two mean the world to me. thank you for coming on this journey with them. i hope you enjoy.

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: if you love something, you let it go.

warnings: age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalance of power dynamic, alcohol consumption, lurve, fingering, masturbation, cum eating, oral (m receiving), unprotected piv, creampie, size kink, daddy kink, praise kink, cursing, some angst, soft!joel, cocky!joel (we missed him!)

word count: 12.6k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 💚

“Alright, let’s get into it.”

He sits on the other side of the table, legs crossed and balancing the notebook on his knee. Twirls a pen around his thumb, catching it without looking. He’s too busy scanning the page in front of him, the list of questions he’s about to drill you on.

Let’s get into it, he says, and then stares silently at the scribbled lines.

Your shadow splits a shard of sunlight across the office. Knee jerking, palms clammy and fingers twisting around each other. You glance down at your outfit – the pointed heels Martha swore went with your dress, the jewelry she promised didn’t look tacky – and straighten your skirt.

Let’s get fucking into it.

“What are your responsibilities in your current role?” he asks.

You swallow. It feels like sandpaper. “Well, uh…”

He doesn’t look up. Not to ask the question, not to wait for your answer. Just stares down, spins the pen, bites his lip until it turns white.

Focused. Razor sharp. You’re not even in the same room.

You turn on your heel and begin pacing. “I manage my boss’s schedule, from nine a.m. Monday to nine p.m. Sunday. I get everything in order, plan out his days, make any bookings. I take calls, I answer emails, I…”

He’s still not looking. He bounces his foot, leather shoes catching the sun. His watch face leers back at you. There’s not a mark of ink on the paper in front of him.

“Hey,” you click your fingers, “Are you even listening to me?”

Joel shakes the frown from his face. “Huh? Oh,” he clears his throat, straightens in his creaky chair, “Yeah, I’m listenin’. I’m…I’m here.”

“Come on, man,” you huff, “You said you’d help me out.”

“And I am. I’m helping you out.”

You glower. “What did I just say?”

His shoulders wriggle. “You know…paperwork, and…Is this –? Is this really what they’re going to ask?”

“I don’t know,” you groan, collapsing into the couch opposite. Your arms cross, like some crumpled tantrum of a woman. “I found it online. They’re all art director questions, supposedly.”

He turns the notebook around. The first sheet flops over.

“Describe yourself in three words,” Joel recites.

“I was gonna go creative,” you count on your fingers, “driven, and then I couldn’t decide between perceptive or observant.”

He squints, tongue clicking against his teeth. He stares at your raised fingers. Thoroughly unimpressed.

“Right,” he stands, “Yeah, I don’t know, kid. A company like this, taking on a new art director, and this is what you think they got waitin’ for you? I mean, what’d I ask you?”

You scoff, twisting to watch him cross over to the window.

Between the sun and your deflated spirit, he stands like some kind of god. High up on the top floor of his skyscraper, towering over the streets. Towering over you.

He’s haloed by the blazing sun. Light arrowing from behind, spilling all over his wide shoulders and dipping in every fold and crease of cashmere. The northern compass point, the magnetic pull turning everything towards him.

Joel’s fingers snap, a hair away from your nose. “Tip number one: don’t stare at the interviewer like that. Asked you a question.”

“Wasn’t staring,” you mumble, shifting when he sinks down at your side. “You really don’t remember what you asked me?”

“Of course I do. I’m asking if you do.” He fiddles with a thread on the couch at your back.

You straighten as though his hand might be iron hot. “I remember…remember you asking what success looked like to me.”

Joel nods once.

“Remember you asking why I wanted out of my old job.”

“Yep.”

You flick a finger around the office. “I remember you asking what I’d change in here. How I’d make the office better. But I don’t know what interior design has to do with being an art director, Joel.”

He smiles. “This,” he shakes the pad, “is generic bullshit.”

“Generic bullshit,” you echo, pinching it from his grasp. You read over the bullet points – your strengths, your weaknesses, how you do under pressure.

“Yes,” Joel says. “Doesn’t tell ‘em a thing about you. Well,” his eyes widen, “I guess it tells them you tried searching their damn questions, the morning of the interview.”

A small, tired sigh falls from your lips. You melt back into the couch, horizontal under Joel’s extended arm. “I just want to be prepared,” you whisper. “I want to be the best person they meet.”

“What makes you think you ain’t already?”

“Well, for starters, I don’t even know which three words describe me.”

He chuckles. “How about more than capable? Hm? The dream assistant. Future art director.”

“Cheesy,” you mutter, batting him away. “I just…I really want it. I want something that feels like mine, you know? And I know I’d be fucking good at it.”

He falls quiet. He thumbs the corner of the pages, knuckles brushing against yours in a way that feels deliberate. Feels familiar.

It’s as though he might turn his hand, open his palm for yours to slip safely into. Lock his fingers through yours, squeeze once for good luck, twice to double it – and a third time, to tell you something he knows would make you flee.

But you don’t flinch, and neither does he.

Instead, he pulls himself up – a mighty groan as he straightens.

You bite back a snark about his age. Stupid fifty-year-old boss, stupid old bones. Stupid smartass.

Joel whips open the bottom drawer of his desk – the one you’d come to know as his junk drawer – and heaps diary after diary on the mahogany surface. Their leatherbound covers and splintered spines, the warped pages packed between.

With a tiny ha (and a click in his joints that you notice even from across the room), he pushes himself back up.

“September, September…” the pages flutter between his thumbs, “…September second, right?”

“What are you –?”

“Here,” he says, and reclines back beside you. He slides the diary into your lap. “September second, two o’clock.”

Your eyes narrow, following an inky trail linking geometric sketches and games of tic-tac-toe; the words college and assistant, a crude drawing of a house.

“So…” your lips purse, “…on September second, you were doing no work and doodling in your planner. What about it, Joel?”

He taps the top of the page, finger settling right below a name.

Penned in his neat handwriting – the trademark font that, after three years, you’re used to finding on sticky notes and signed with the letter J. It’s underlined, then boxed in by more scribbled lines. So familiar, you barely even take it in at first.

You blink twice.

It’s your name. Your full name.

“This is the day of my interview?” you ask.

Joel dares one fleeting glance at your lips. “Mhm. These are the notes I took, the day we met.”

You look down to the diary and back again. Almost an entire page of nonsense scribbles, hieroglyphic trains of thought bleeding from one drawing into another.

You frown. “You really didn’t listen to a fucking word I said, did you?”

He chokes on a laugh, shaking his head. “You had the job before your ass hit that chair, genius. All that interview was, was playing ball. Seeing how hard you could swing.”

But you’re more confused than you were before he emptied his desk. You flick through the book, spine dangling loose from the pages.

There are no other notes, no other candidates’ names – only reminders for Lunch with Mom and Massage 10AM. Meetings with past clients, deadlines long gone. One obnoxious, hot pink gel pen autograph in May, marking Martha’s birthday.

Yours is the only name he bothered to jot down. The only interview he thought to memorialize – in a gallery of distracted doodles.

“What are you talking about?” you ask.

He plays with his tie as he admits it. Nervous schoolboy, avoiding your eye like he did back on Maple Street. It’s a side to him you didn’t know existed, not until a few weeks ago – and seeing it again, you realize how much you missed it.

“There were four other interviews before yours. Every single one of them sat in that lobby waiting for Martha to call down. You –” he taps your hand, “– you got in the elevator and brought yourself up. You remember how shocked Martha was to see you?”

Sure I do, you think.

She stared you down the entire walk over to her desk. She stuttered and stammered her way through a sentence, once she realized who you were. She kept peering over the top of her monitor to steal glances at you when she thought you weren’t looking.

“I…I just thought I looked a nervous wreck,” you tell Joel.

He hums. “Well, you stood up when I opened my door. You held your hand out first. You were scared shitless – I knew you were – but you never lost your footing. You got no idea just how impressive you are, all by yourself.”

He taps on the sheets in your lap. “Now – find me a question on your list that tells them all that.”

It’s not as if you don’t know how these things go. You’ve sat in on plenty of interviews with Joel before – catching anything each quivering candidate says that might’ve slipped through his net, placing bets with yourself on who he’ll pick.

After a few months, he started asking what you thought.

You came to notice the discarded resumes of men you’d deemed sycophants, ladder-climbing leeches in tight, tawny ties – in piles to be shredded. There wasn’t a suit in the building that you and Martha hadn’t been asked to screen, before they were even considered for hiring.

Joel has the sharpest bullshit detector you’ve ever known. You don’t get to where he is without the radar for it. He knew exactly which guys were assholes of the highest order – he was just making sure you always did, too.

Stupid, stupid smartass.

A polite knock at the door interrupts your thought.

“Joel?” Martha calls, “Joel, your ten o’clock is here.”

He curses under his breath. His eyes shift sideways. “Who the hell is my ten o’clock?” he mumbles.

“Salazar,” you whisper, lips closing around a giggle. “Quarterly, remember?”

“Goddamn it,” he groans. He stands up, holding a hand out to pull you to your feet. “I’m sorry, darlin’. I’ll be an hour, tops. We can pick straight back up.”

“It’s okay,” you slot the diary and notepad under your arm, “I should get back to work anyways.”

“Calmed your nerves, at least?”

You smile. “Sure.”

“Liar.”

“Tip number two: don’t ask dumb questions, Miller.”

“Oh,” he scoffs, “We’re starting a list now?”

“Mhm. Three can be: don’t doodle during the interview.”

He elbows you towards the door, leaning close. “Four,” he murmurs, “Don’t get yourself fired.”

You grin as you slip outside.

“You couldn’t handle this place without me.”

Mr. Salazar loves to tell a story.

Joel’s still stuck with him, almost two hours after the guy showed up. With a pointed finger and something that felt as sacred as a blood oath, Martha made you promise you’d leave on time.

Whether we’re still in that office or halfway to Timbuktu, do not wait up. Just go, alright? Or I will hand you your ass, sweetheart.

Thirty minutes out, you’re pacing back and forth. Body humming with jittery nerves, what feels like a glass ball of anxiety rolling around your stomach. A text from Rand weighing down the phone in your blazer pocket: Ready when you are.

You suck in a ticklish breath. “Fuck,” you exhale, jamming your knuckle into the call button for the third time.

The wall rumbles as it delivers the elevator straight ahead. The doors part, and your distorted reflection stares sheepishly back at you.

You blink.

She blinks back.

Your shoulders life with another fractured inhale – and so do hers.

Some tiny, half-there version of yourself. Shrunken and shriveled. She moves when you move, only with half the confidence and double the pressure on her shoulders. She looks like she needs a wine date with Martha.

Scared fucking shitless, you think. Three words to describe me.

The doors close again, swallowing her whole, and –

“Nope,” you decide, spinning on your heel.

The shades are tilted enough to obscure the three figures to shadows: Joel, rocking mindlessly in his chair, Salazar talking with his arms, and Martha hunched at the other end of the couch – losing the will to live.

She’d probably welcome the excuse, to get the hell out of there.

Your knuckles rap against the door.

The investor’s lively cadence never slips – where there’s an audience, there’s a show to be had. He twitters on even over the grounding bass of Joel’s voice, the quick click of Martha’s heels.

Her shadow crosses over to the door and she whips it open. Her voice is a sharp whisper.

“You swore to me, you’d –”

You shake your head and grab her arm. Nervous, you mouth, trying to pull her over the threshold.

She won’t fucking budge. She plants herself in the doorway. Her chin lifts, eyes narrowing to study you down her pointed nose – and then she glances over her shoulder.

One second, she exaggerates the shape of the words, holding a finger up.

“Martha –” you hiss, but the door is already closing, and her shadow is already retreating.

You spin around, dragging yourself over to your desk. Another breathe squeezes past your hammering heart, trembling as you let it go. Your phone buzzes again.

This is pathetic. It’s pitiful. You bulldozed your way this far – against all your good sense. Red wine antidote, all that courage now feels more like a weak-kneed hangover.

You fiddle with a pen holder. Your body feels flimsy like rubber.

The door opens again.

“Hey,” Joel says, turning you to face him. He doesn’t look you in the eye – just slips your purse from your shoulder, squeezes your hand. “Walk with me.”

“No,” you wobble in his grasp, “Your meeting –”

He links his arm through yours, locking elbows. “Martha’s got him talking about some ski trip. We got ten minutes. Walk with me.”

Your breath sputters. “I can’t – I can’t do it.”

“Can’t do what?”

“I’m flapping, Joel.”

“Flapping,” he repeats, and the word never sounded more ridiculous than it does with his Texan twang. “What are we flapping over?”

He sways as he walks. It’s no different, no less comfortable than it was a few weeks ago. Just you, Joel, and the Parisian sunset. The light swimming in the Seine, the sweet air circling you both.

Your heel scuffs against the carpet. “You know,” you catch yourself, “just this potentially life-changing job interview I have in, like, twenty minutes.”

“Huh,” his brows quirk, “No big deal, then?”

Your eyes roll. “It wouldn’t be, if you hadn’t given me some big speech about not losing my footing. Now look at me. I’m all over the goddamn place.”

“Take it in baby steps,” he says. “Let’s just get you there first. All you gotta do is walk in like you’re already part of the furniture. Like they’ve been wondering what goes at that little desk.”

“You said the CEO is nice?”

“She is,” he reaches for the call button, “Likes red wine and racecars.”

Your brows flinch. “She likes…What?”

Joel smirks. “I didn’t say we talked for long. That’s all I got on her.”

He drags you into the elevator, hitting the button marked P. Your reflection stands a little taller, little straighter next to his. Mimicking his posture; the still stance and level head. The coolness you’re sure wouldn’t slip even if the world ended tonight.

“Look at that,” he mutters. “You made it to the elevator.”

“Shock,” you whisper, hugging yourself.

You face each other, inches apart. Nerves and momentum upsetting your equilibrium. The bones of the building drum up your spine as you plummet, floor numbers blinking down to zero.

Joel rests his ankles either side of yours. He knocks your feet softly, smiling fondly when you lift your head.

“Read over their website on the drive over,” he says, in the same polite voice he uses with clients. “Their values, the way they operate. Names and faces, all that shit. Keep it fresh, okay?”

You force your cheeks into a flat smile. “Okay.”

“Look at that,” he says. “Killer smile. Getcha any job anywhere.”

“Gross,” you giggle. “Did you wonder, before you found me?”

“Did I wonder what?”

You tilt your head. “What went at my little desk.”

He itches his nose, laughing into a closed fist. He’s blushing, though he’s trying hard to hide it. “Sure,” he shrugs, eventually giving in, “Knew it must be somethin’ pretty special. And you were.”

The elevator dings, and the doors rattle open.

Joel taps your heel and you sulk, leading him out into the garage.

Rand catches sight of you instantly. He jumps out of the Rolls, a wide grin on his lips, and balls his fists. “How we feelin’?” he asks, giving them a hearty shake.

“Little nervous, aren’t we?” Joel replies, patting your arm. “But we’re almost there.”

You’re holding onto him again. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“We’re still in the building,” you utter, tracking Rand’s kiddy jog around the car.

Joel turns, lips at your temple. “Closer than you were five minutes ago, baby.”

The driver grabs the door, turning his palm to usher you inside. “Figure we’ll get there with ten minutes to spare. Always good to be early to these things, right?”

If it weren’t for the six-inch heels on your feet and the seven-figure man on your arm, you’d reach to tighten backpack straps that aren’t there. It’s the same feeling: first day of school, walking into the unknown. Pushed off by grownups who know better.

You’re a grownup, too, you remind yourself.

The same feeling, and the same determination, too. The resolve to walk in there – bright-eyed and bushy-tailed – and be the thing they’ve been waiting for. Be the thing you’ve been waiting for. So –

“Fuck it,” you decide, slipping free from your boss’s grasp. “Let’s do this.”

“Attagirl!” Rand claps his hands and dances back to the driver’s side.

Joel helps you into the backseat, passing your purse over when you’re settled. “Okay?” he asks, one arm leaning on the roof.

“Yep,” you chirp – a crack in your voice that you both ignore.

“Call on your way back if you feel like it, let me know how it went.”

The strip lighting in the garage strains your eyes. “What if you’re still hearing about Salazar’s ski trip?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t ask dumb questions, remember? If you call, I’ll answer.”

“Thanks, Joel,” you whisper.

He clicks his teeth. You’re welcome.

“Next step, little tiger. Go get ‘em.”

After you interviewed with him, Joel took all of twenty-four hours to offer you the job. He said he would’ve called sooner – that afternoon, if he could’ve – but there had been a holdup with the paperwork. His next question was how soon you could start.

He was that sure.

On your first day, you were shown to your new desk. Wiped clean, drawers bare. A bloated water stain in the wood – the mark of a fern plant Martha thought was treated a little too much like an actual child by your predecessor.

She offered to have Joel order a new desk, but you told her you loved it – water stain and all.

You loved the view on each side – the sprawling city, the sun needling between buildings. You loved Martha’s company, and Joel’s daily ritual of strolling over to stretch his legs and, more importantly, gossip.

The job made you feel grown. A little kid in the big city – yes, sir and no, sir, caffeine for breakfast and paperwork for lunch. It was big enough that you wondered whether you’d really fill it – like you wondered if you’d ever fill your desk.

What supplies did a personal assistant need? You spent more time on your feet than sat at your desk. What knickknacks would you collect?

Well, looking at it all now: a jumble of pinched pens and hand-me-down magazines from Martha. A Wonder Woman stationery set your mom bought you; the chipped Kandinsky mug you make coffee in every day.

A plastic ruby ring, from a riverside stroll in Paris.

Looking at it now – you wonder how it ever all fit. Almost three cardboard boxes, plus an oversized Swiss cheese plant. Your desk is empty again, back to the way you found it.

Because you got it.

You got the job.

Junior Art Director. Jesus fucking Christ.

You were in Joel’s office when the call came through. Laying out travel plans for a business trip, organizing documents into the order he’d need them. Busying yourself purely to distract from playing the interview back in your head.

The entire thing was a blur, the interview – film reel already burning in your memory. One second you were traipsing into the building, the next – strolling back out, sun on your face and spring in your step.

It came back in flashing vignettes: the creative director’s cropped bob, her scarlet lips. The rhythmic dunk of her teabag into her mug, her quiet mhms as you spoke.

Her smile grew wider, the longer the meeting went on. Her tea went cold. She asked to see pictures of your artwork – made some passing comment about your skill being of some use for an upcoming project.

She liked you. Better yet, Joel noted – you liked her.

He walked back into his office just in time to hear the tail end of the phone call. Your shaky thank you, the teary goodbye. He waited until you turned, one hand lingering on your shoulder, and gasped when you broke into a giddy grin.

He pulled you into a bear hug, beats of raucous laughter through his chest. You sniffled into his shirt, staining the material with wet mascara.

What’d I tell you? he murmured into your hair, rocking you side to side. What’d I fuckin’ tell you?

A clumsy mash of work blouses and party dresses fills the office.

Glitzy gold and pressed linen, heels and loose ties. A bottle of champagne on a spreadsheet coaster, an overfilled balloon knotted around your chair. The word Congrats swirled in glitter pen.

Martha fills the latecomers in. She orders everyone to drain their glasses and grab their coats. There’s a dive bar not far, she says, with karaoke and a jukebox. Cheap drinks and heavy measures.

A dive bar. The dive bar. AC/DC and all.

You linger over by your desk, alone, swirling the bubbly in your glass. A little more than awkward, what with the gold party hat your coworkers forced over your head – and the heavy heart it’s doing little to soothe.

Your last day as Joel Miller’s personal assistant is over. As of five-thirty, you don’t belong in this office. Come Monday, you’ll have a whole new job, a whole new title behind your name.

It’s as thrilling as it is utterly terrifying.

Martha had your leaving party organized less than an hour after she heard the cheers from Joel’s office. Proof, you told him, that she’ll be just fine on her own.

Proof, he countered, that she has a very selective work ethic.

He’s in good hands, if her current crowd management is anything to go by. She rounds everybody up like cattle, corralling them into a buzzed herd.

“We are leavin’ in five minutes, alright?” she yells over their babble. “Five minutes!”

Rand dips between the bodies, smiling when he catches your eye. He wanders over, tactically dodging Martha’s waving arms.

“Hi, baby,” he says, arms wide.

“Thanks for coming,” you mumble into his suit jacket, wrists crossing at his spine.

He wriggles his tie straight, keeps one arm tight around your shoulders even when you pull away. “Of course,” he says, a dutiful nod. “You were always my favorite. Don’t tell the general over there.”

You smile, feeling it dampen when your eyes slip back over to the sliver of light under Joel’s door. He’s been locked in there all afternoon – the only proof of life the pacing his shadow has done.

Rand cocks his head towards the shuttered office. “He not coming?”

“No idea,” you pick at a hangnail, “Some emergency, apparently. I haven’t seen him since lunch.”

He frowns, watching as you shot what’s left of your champagne. It’s bitter – a sharp sting all the way down.

“I mean,” you gulp, “he’s my boss. He’s at every other party we have. What’s the difference this time around?”

Rand’s eyebrows wiggle. He swallows his first answer. He knows the difference as well as you do.

Still – he says, “He’s a lot of things, is Joel, but he ain’t an ass. He’ll be there.”

Across the room, Martha lassoes the party – leading them over to the elevator. She pauses, beckoning you over their heads. A thin-lipped scowl on her face, before she’s distracted by stragglers.

“Good Lord,” Rand scoffs, a gentlemanly arm through yours, “Bet you ain’t gonna miss that.”

You rest your head on his shoulder. “Surprisingly, I think I’ll miss her the most.”

As you hover at the back of the bunch, waiting for your very sternly instructed turn to step into the elevator, you glance back at Joel’s office.

The shades are split, pierced somewhere like six feet up. Sliver of lamplight peering through; silhouette of something – someone – staring back.

Come on, you want to call. We’re heading to the bar. Let’s pretend I never broke your heart and you never broke mine. We can dance and kiss like nobody’s watching. We can be okay, you and me.

Martha claps three times as the elevator announces its arrival.

“We’re up, comrade,” Rand quips, and pulls you out of Joel’s sight.

The bar looks the same as it ever did. All chipped mahogany and distressed leather; secret messages etched in secret corners. Slipping between shadow and tacky neon light to order a drink, feeling it hit the back of your skull before you’ve even swallowed the first sip.

It’s no Oasis Wine Bar, but it’ll do.

You’re crammed into a booth opposite some blotchy intern. Kid doesn’t look a day over twenty-one. Martha nudges you closer and closer to the lacquered panel wall, her elbow knocking into yours and splashing your drink over your knuckles.

The group is already a colorful spectrum of drunk: a couple suits slung over the bar, a handful screaming at some vintage arcade game. Rand cuts a merry figure at the bottom of the table, swaying as he garbles to Martha and Deb.

Like a replica of that first night – a playlist of dusty rock tunes, fingertips salty from picking at peanuts. The buzz of conversation fueled by swigs of bitter vodka.

You don’t remember it feeling this shitty, though. This lonely.

The intern leans over the booth, quickly yanking his tie before it folds into a flickering candle. He forces a relieved laugh, then asks, “Are you having a good night?”

“I guess,” you raise your voice over Martha’s cackling, “It’s a little bittersweet, you know?”

His head bobs in a tipsy nod. He looks from face to face, trying to latch onto any conversation that’ll take him. But they all turn away, distracted by some guy in a tropical shirt and his cryptocurrency conspiracy.

The intern stares down at his drink, thumbs tapping the glass.

Poor kid.

You knock on his beer, trying not to look too pitying. “How’s the internship? Liking it?”

He brightens, straightening in his seat. “Yeah, it’s been good,” he chirps. “I’m learning a lot. Mr. Miller is a great boss.”

It’s like being sucker punched by a toddler. Huge blue eyes and rosy cheeks, an unsteady grip around his Budweiser. If he didn’t look so much like a fucking Disney cartoon, you’d lose your nerve.

The alcohol sours on your tongue. “Yeah,” you mumble, sinking back into your seat. “Yeah, he’s – he’s a good guy.”

“Why isn’t he here tonight?” he asks.

“He’s – uh…” You throw a helpless look to your coworker – but she’s too busy showing off pictures of Henry. “…He’s busy tonight, I guess.”

“I’ll bet,” the kid replies. “He’s an important dude.”

“Uhuh,” you elbow Martha’s waist, “He sure is. Would you excuse me?” you ask, and the intern raises his hands. “I’ll be right back.”

Martha and Deb shuffle out of the booth, drinks in hand. You edge your way through the horde to the back of the bar – stopping to refill on the way.

As the muscleman behind the bar tops off your glass, something catches your eye.

Lit only by a flickering Coors Light sign – the red and blue melding into streaks of violet – an iron staircase lingers in the corner. You didn’t spot it last time – or if you did, you were too busy flirting with your boss to pay it any mind.

You drift over, evading the sloshed stagger of one of Joel’s mailroom guys, and click up the steps towards the glowing red of an EXIT sign. Your hip swings into the push bar. The heavy door groans open.

It’s no cooler out here than inside – but it’s deserted. Beer dripping from the lips of toppled bottles, candles wavering in clear pools of wax. A gentle hum from overhead – the string light canopy.

A kitschy little rooftop. A humble hideaway.

Alone, you cross your arms and amble over to the parapet.

The street snoozes, a story below. Leaves flutter along the curb, crushed by the scuffing soles of strangers. Their footsteps echo as they wander off into the dusky night.

No Rolls, you notice. Nowhere to be seen. Not parked on the road, nor in the lot across the street. Nothing but a couple of guys on bikes, standing in the cold light of a store front.

He’s not here. He didn’t come.

He couldn’t, even if he wanted to. Whatever emergency he’s dealing with, it’s taken half his day from him. Martha didn’t even bother to ask if he needed coffee, or to fill him in on her neighborhood politics since the new couple moved in next door.

Still – there’s never been anything he couldn’t drag himself away from. Not where you’re concerned. He abandoned an investor for a solid ten minutes last week, just to walk you to the parking garage and tell you shit you already knew.

He could find a way to make it to this, right?

You scoff into your glass, swallow a heavy sip. Swallow back the quiet disappointment, the burden of a broken heart trying desperately to remember the shape it used to be. Before private jets and business trips, before work parties and closed office doors.

Before Joel.

But he swaggered in, didn’t he – suit and tie and that signature smirk. He changed everything, overnight. He fit in all the spaces you thought no one ever would – nestled his way behind your ribcage, kept you warm, kept you safe.

You can’t remember the shape your heart used to be. You don’t fucking want to.

At least, even when you were fighting, he was still in the game. At least he was still sat on the other side of the checkered plain, nudging his king closer to your queen. You never intended on letting him win – but he never intended to in the first place.

He was only ever in it to watch your eyes light, any time he got close.

Now, the board is cleared. Pawns split in two, knights crumbled to dust. And you miss it.

You miss him.

And missing him is – feeling the absence of him in every room. The empty seat next to yours, your empty hand at your side. The weight you know by heart around your waist, the name always on the tip of your tongue.

Missing him is coming up with a million ways that every other man isn’t him. They don’t make you laugh the same, they don’t make you ache. They don’t know your favorite movie; they won’t pull over just to pinch the greasy bacon from your breakfast sandwich.

Missing him is looking for him. Everywhere. Hoping – Jesus, praying you’d walk out of your interview and he’d be stood, arms crossed, leant against the car. Wishing he’d show up again at your door – flowers in hand, kiss on your lips.

Missing him is existing in the negative space he left behind. Flecks of color fluttering in the breeze, fading as though they were never here in the first place.

The door chunks open over your shoulder, and falls closed with a slam. Right on cue. You don’t even flinch when he rolls a chilled beer against your arm.

Missing him is knowing him. Better than anyone ever has, or anyone ever will.

He’s here. He was always going to be here. Because it’s you, and because it’s him.

Joel holds for all of three seconds, then places the beer between your elbows. He leans back against the stone wall.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, taking a sip. His rugged, twelve-hour-day form softens before your eyes.

“I missed you,” you whisper, and he smiles.

“Missed you too, pretty girl.”

You lean in, face smushing into his chest, and snake your arms around his waist.

Joel takes the weight of you like it’s nothing; kisses your head and rests his chin there.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” you mumble, feeling the strange chill of tears on your cheeks.

“Are you kidding?” his voice rumbles through your skull. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, you know that.”

The alcohol lining your gums sweetens. It might just make the initial hit worth the trouble.

“I had a pretty shitty night,” you admit, sneaking a glance at him.

“Yeah,” he sighs, “You ‘n me both. Pretty shitty month.”

His cologne is fresh; woodsy and clean. His rough beard on your skin, his tired collar between your fingers. The landscape of a man you know inside and out.

Joel’s hands lift from your waist, past your ribs and around your shoulders. He lifts the broken heart charm from your chest – so tiny in his large hand, nervously twinkling in the light.

You don’t flinch, this time. Barely even notice his eyes on it.

His expression stiffens. His jaw clenches. His eyes are glassy, lined with tears behind his stone-set snarl.

“I’m sorry for what he did,” he grits, swallowing thickly. “I wanna kill him for it, you know that?”

You lift one shoulder, dropping it with a sigh. “He did what he did,” you hush, “He was a scumbag.”

Joel’s upper lip twitches. Twists, then settles when you trace it with your thumb.

“You didn’t deserve it,” he says. “You didn’t deserve none of what he did to you. You were just a kid, you –”

He lifts his head like coming up for air. Sucks a ragged breath between his teeth, shakes the tears from his vision.

“Hey,” you take his jaw, turning him back to face you, “Look at me. Look.” You flash a cheesy grin, nose scrunched and eyes crinkled. “I’m okay, Joel, look.”

His laughter betrays him, breaking from his chest and shattering the wolfish glare. He cups your head, cradling you against his chest again.

There’s nothing between you, now. No spiteful words or suffocating tension; no hurt and no blame. One heart broken and the other bruised, still beating the rhythm of a language only they know.

Still seeking the other out, through all of it.

“What we had,” Joel says softly, “it can’t have been nothing to you, right? Was it really just…?”

“No,” you shake your head, squeezing him, “It was never – You were never just anything to me. I think…” you sigh, “…I think you just pressed on a bruise I had. A bruise I thought I’d gotten pretty good at hiding. And you just…you twisted your thumb into it.”

“I didn’t – I didn’t know about no bruise,” he says. “It wouldn’t’ve mattered if I had, darlin’, I –”

You take his wrists, following the sleeves of his jacket up to his collar. “I know,” you hold his cheeks, “I know it wouldn’t. But you saw straight through me – and the more you saw, the more you cared. And that scared me.”

He blinks down to your lips. “Why?”

“Because it’s never like that, Joel. No one has ever been like that. I was so scared that I’d fuck it up – that you’d figure me out.”

“You gotta fill me in a little here. Figure you out?”

“All my shit. Blake, my dad. All of it.”

Joel frowns. “You think I don’t got shit I didn’t want you seeing, too? My dad, Avery – that ain’t exactly dating profile material, baby.”

You can’t help but laugh. As raw as an open wound, the most vulnerable conversation you’ve ever had – on the roof of a dive bar, with your boss.

And he’s as fucking breezy as though you just handed him the forecast for the day.

“You’re a better man, Joel, than all of them. You mean more to me than anyone. And before I knew it, you had me wrapped around your finger, and…”

“…And I was pressing on that bruise.”

You wince. “Little bit.”

His tongue prods at the inside of his cheek. He scans the rooftop, glimmers of gold in his eyes, and nods.

“Listen to me,” he says, holding onto you. His thumbs swipe your tears away. “I would not hurt you for the world. I wouldn’t. That goddamn email – I just – I didn’t know what else to do. I panicked, and I fucked up. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to –”

“Shut up,” he smiles, “I never meant to scare you. I never meant to hurt you. And if we never go back to what we were, then – I guess I gotta live with that. But you? God, baby, I miss you.

“I miss hearing you laugh. I miss being the one to make you do it. I miss talking to you, miss hearing what you think on things. Miss your goddamn Bart Simpson socks ‘n all.”

You turn into his palm, masking your giggle. “Asshole,” you murmur.

“All I want to do is take care of you,” he says. His shoulder jerks, an earnest shrug. “’s all I want. And you don’t make it easy, that’s for sure – fightin’ back at every damn turn. But – I don’t know,” his eyes thin, “Sometimes I reckon it’s what you want, too.”

“Oh,” you wrestle a simper, “You reckon, do you?”

“I reckon,” Joel repeats, bending the word in an exaggerated drawl. “See what I mean?” he tickles your waist, “You’re a pain in my ass.”

Your head tips back with laughter – the first real laugh you’ve heard pass your lips in weeks. Since you were rolling around your bed, poking his ribs for not being able to use chopsticks. A silly, girlish giggle.

The world bursts into color again.

Joel chuckles, too, as you squirm in his grasp. His hands plant on your waist, forehead rolling against yours.

Your lips brush. Your body ignites.

“I really want to kiss you right now,” he whispers. “That okay?”

“Shut up,” you echo, letting his lips crash into yours.

He tastes exactly the same as you remember. Strawberry and lemongrass. Sweet, in a way that wakens you. Brightens you, full of life and full of color.

It’s as though only a second has passed since you last felt him like this. Felt his scruff on your cheeks, the warmth of his tongue slipping past yours. Your skin feels like satin on his; your body filling in all the worn gaps that time has taken from his.

Fitting against him like you were carved with him in mind. Chiseled from the same slab of marble, finally found one another through the opaque stone.

He pins you to the parapet; one hand firm on the small of your back, the other at the base of your skull. He leans in, claiming every sense in your body as his own – and you offer them over gladly.

He kisses you like it’s all he’s thought about since that last morning at your place. Like he’s making up for lost time.

Hell, you’re both making up for lost time.

Joel breaks for air, panting against your lips, then instantly kisses you again.

Your hand threads through his hair – the soft salt and pepper, the feathered flicks at the nape of his neck. “Joel,” you kiss him once, twice more, giggling, “We’re like teenagers.”

“I love you,” he replies, kissing down your neck. “So much. So – goddamn – much.”

He trails down to your collarbone, where your chest lifts to meet his hungry lips. He drags teeth and tongue between your cleavage.

There’s a delay in the time the words take to sink into your skin. Like they’re stopping to light every atom of your being first, before they reach your brain. Every bone, every muscle and every cell.

“You…” you breathe, pulling him upright. “…You what?”

“I love you,” he repeats. “That scare you?”

Oh.

“N-no,” you press your finger to his swollen lips, “You…Say it again.”

He pauses. Nods, when he seems to make it up in his mind. His eyes flit from yours down to the mess of your lipstick, and back up.

A man possessed, so it looks, he admits it between labored breaths. “I’m in love with you,” he says. “Have been for a while, I think. You got a terrible habit of driving me fucking insane, pretty girl.”

Oh, shit.

You knew it already. This isn’t news.

He as good as told you in the copy room – and before that, in his office. He told you in Martha’s dining room, told you in your kitchen. He told you every time his lips found yours in Paris, and every time his eyes met yours before that.

If you went back and looked, there’d probably be a trail of clues jotted down in his diary – September second, two o’clock. Great AP score, enthusiastic and friendly. I think I’m in love with her.

He’s always loved you.

It’s just different hearing him say it.

Different to how it felt the last time someone said it to you. Different to how it sounded. There’s no ringing in your ears. There’s no focal shift in your vision.

There’s no…fear.

Joel takes hold of your shoulders. “Don’t run off on me again,” he says, kissing your cheek.

“No, I’m not…I don’t – want to,” you burble, playing with his collar. “You’re just…You might be a couple steps ahead of me.”

“Baby,” he says, a little laugh to it. “That’s okay. I don’t mind. I’m good where I am.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he says, and leans in again. “I’ll wait, as long as it takes.”

You melt into him; his strong hands and steady chest. Teeth taking his bottom lip, releasing it with a little pop. Your fingers twist around his hair, tugging lightly.

A low growl sounds from Joel’s throat. His hips rut against yours, fly of his jeans catches on the material of your skirt.

It nestles somewhere between your thighs. Solid, swollen. Blood hammering beneath denim, grinding into your body. He’s hard.

“We keep goin’ the way we’re goin’,” Joel hints, “and we’re gonna have a problem that ain’t solved so easily.”

You release him, licking your lips. “You think I can’t feel it already?”

He sucks on the skin over your carotid. “You think I ain’t been dealin’ with it for the last three weeks?”

“Poor Mr. Miller,” you pout, “Let me deal with it.”

His cheeks lift, brows drop. Cocky. The Joel you’re used to. The Joel you want.

The Joel you fucking need, right now.

“C’mon,” you slip a hand down his front, cupping the weight of him, “I miss my daddy.”

He squeezes your ass, catching you in a rough kiss when you writhe forward. His teeth graze your ear. “I wanna touch you, baby. I wanna feel you again. This little cunt,” he slips a hand between your legs, “She’s all I’ve been thinkin’ about.”

Fuck.

It was a feeble attempt, anyway – matching his ego. Utterly futile. The guy makes you lose your fucking mind.

You’ve done things for him that you’d never dream of doing for anyone else – would wring their necks for even asking – and here you are, keening into Joel, grinding your dripping pussy into his palm for all the street to see.

“She’s all yours,” you whine, the words tearing from your throat in a desperate plea. “All yours, Daddy.”

“That’s my girl,” Joel murmurs against your temple. “I’m gonna take you home, okay? Fuck you nice ‘n hard, make you feel better.”

You moan against his shirt. “Can we go back to yours, Daddy?”

It throws him for one heavy beat. He pauses, breath hot against your jaw, and then presses a barely-there kiss to your lips.

“Yeah, darlin,’” he whispers. “Let’s go back to mine.”

You push off his chest, cunt throbbing with each step towards the fire door. Fingers locked through his – a siren leading her sailor down the wrought iron stairs of Sam’s Saloon. Swimming through bodies, bathing in neon light, breathing in tobacco and tequila.

Joel eyes the booth where his employees sit – folding spinning tops out of beer caps, wagering bets on who’ll still be hungover come Monday.

He turns to whisper in your ear, when a voice strikes like lightning between you.

“Hey!” Martha yells, waving from the corner booth.

You’ve never wanted her to fuck off so badly.

“Just where the hell do you think you two are goin’?”

Joel stumbles into your side, hiding a teenage sort of glee behind your back. It’s contagious – and it riles Martha even more.

You throw your arms in the air, eyes bulging. Take the fucking hint, Martha. “Home?”

“It ain’t even eleven,” she protests, making to stand. “This is your goddamn leavin’ night – what are you doing?”

But you’re already retreating, following the pull of Joel’s hand around yours. Skin like fire, spattering with every touch. There’s nothing – man, myth, or Martha – that could stop you from following him.

You yell it as you swing through the doors.

“Grabbing a paddle!”

Joel leads you with his hands and with his lips down a neighboring street, where his Lamborghini sits at the side of the road. It blinks to life, headlights blinding.

A bruiser of a car – all bulk and brawn and bullish, like the thing is actually rearing. Something of a sharp smirk to it, the same devilish grin its owner so often wears.

He opens your door, steady hand lifting you into the passenger side, and strides around the car. His hand is back between your legs before he’s even switched the ignition on.

“Get – your damn – seatbelt on,” you giggle, slurring the words against Joel’s lips. “I am not letting you drive me home without one.”

His breath is hot and heady, spilling over your tongue with each punch of laughter from his chest. “Alright, alright,” he concedes, clipping the belt into place. He holds his hands out, awaiting your approval.

When you nod, his fingers slip between your thighs.

“You whore,” you snicker – though the sound scatters when he finds your clit. You grab your own belt, yanking it loose from its holder. “Jesus, Joel –”

“There she is,” he coos, pulling out into the road.

He circles her gently at first, massaging over your panties. Middle finger pulsing over the hood, matching the rhythm of your heartbeat flocking south.

Your back arches; nails dig into his wrist. “Daddy,” you gasp, knees parting. Heat quickly soaking through lace and onto leather. “’m gonna – make a mess,” you croon.

“Make a mess, darlin’, it’s okay,” Joel beckons, knuckles white around the steering wheel. “Driving me crazy, watching you like this. Dirty little girl.”

“Let me…” you reach for his thigh, “…Wanna touch you, Daddy.”

He grunts – a sound of refusal. “Give me one first, baby. Here,” and he hooks the slippery lace to the side, fingers parting your folds, “Let Daddy feel you right here.”

Your knee lifts, leg folding against the door, and Joel pushes inside. Two fingers knuckle-deep in one thrust. You yelp.

“Oh, baby,” he tuts, “She’s so wet. She miss her daddy that bad?”

“Yeah,” you whine, watching the thick shine he draws from your cunt. You lift your hips to open wider – and he slots a third finger in.

“Look at her,” he growls, “desperate little cunt. That feel better, darlin’?”

“Yeah, Daddy,” you mewl, though you’re not fucking listening to a word he’s saying.

You watch, boneless and blathering, as your hand lowers – replacing where Joel’s was on your clit. Rubbing little circles while he fucks you with his thick fingers. Your back curls again, tits threatening to spill out of your dress.

“Keep doin’ that,” Joel instructs, wrist jacking faster. “You’re close, ain’t you?”

“Shit,” you gasp, walls clenching around him. “So – close, Joel – fuck.”

The car slows to a stop. A red glow seeps through the windshield, lighting your smirk in a dangerous tinge.

Your pussy drools onto the leather seat, throbbing over Joel’s hand. Syrupy and honey-sweet, coating him in a glistening mess the harder he fucks you. A sticky sound, the slap of skin on skin, the beats of your moaning in between.

“Look at me,” Joel says, and you tear your eyes from between your legs. “Keep playing with it. C’mere.”

He tilts your jaw with his free hand and slips his tongue past your lips – the taste of him more dizzying than any drink from that bar. He kisses you until you’re right there, sucking on his tongue, teetering on the edge of your first climax. Crying into his mouth to stop from screaming at the ceiling.

“Daddy, need –”

Joel’s wrist pounds against your clit. He laughs across your tongue.

“Come on, baby,” he groans. “Let me feel her.”

“Say it,” you beg, your head lolling on his shoulder. The streetlights begin to bleed into the car. The light flicks to yellow. “Need you to – to say it.”

He nuzzles his nose against yours, turning to let you taste the words.

“I love you,” he whispers, and you break wide open.

The car rolls off again as you come with a violent shudder, crying into Joel’s chest. Daddy Daddy Daddy, fuck me fuck me fuck me.

“I know, I know,” Joel says, riding your high out to the horizon. He stares at the road ahead, only daring a glimpse at the sodden mess between your thighs when you start to come around again.

He works your swollen cunt, fingers gleaming with your orgasm. Slips them over his tongue, licks them clean – and then pushes them back between your sensitive lips.

You rock with the moving car, pulse still rattling your lungs. Your eyes drift down, down: Joel’s spread legs, the shape even bolder in his jeans than before.

You got a terrible habit of driving me fucking insane, pretty girl.

Weak and still quivering, you slip your hand over his belt – feeling his stomach jolt the second you touch it. The dark trail of hair from his navel, the thicker it grows – the harder he tenses.

“Easy,” he clips, adjusting in his seat. “Alright, darlin’. We’re…You’re gonna get us arrested.”

“Good,” you shrug, “I bet you have a good lawyer.”

You slump into his lap, the armrest solid against your ribcage. Trembling fingers loosening his belt, picking at the button of his jeans, husking them loose when he lifts his hips.

“Jesus,” he clears his throat, “Won’t let me drive without a seatbelt, but you’re – you’re fine with – fuck.”

He’s heavy and rock solid, so wide you can barely hold him. Big enough that it takes no effort at all to pull him free. Shaft silky smooth, tip flushed red and leaking deliciously.

Fuck, he’s so pretty. He’s so –

“– pretty, Daddy.”

Joel lifts his hand and holds you at the back of your neck, grip tightening when you dab his head along your bottom lip. “Prettier when you’re playin’ with it, angel.”

Your tongue circles his tip – salt and sweat stirring you from your orgasmic haze. You dribble down his cock, spit racing to the twists of thick hair at his base.

The sound he makes is guttural – a roar of a groan from his chest – when you sink down on him. He fills your mouth instantly, nudging the back of your throat in one.

The car swerves some. Joel curses over your head.

You slip back up – slow. Let your tongue trace every ridge, every vein along the way. All of it perfect perfect perfect – all of it him. Chasing streaks of saliva, the pearly shine of precome beading from his slit.

One hand stroking his hilt, lips suckling around his tip. Kneading his weighty balls – massaging them in your palm, dragging your tongue down to kiss the cushiony skin.

“Pretty girl,” Joel rasps, hips canting to meet every lick, every stroke. “You’re gonna make me come if you don’t stop.”

Mhm, you mumble, gagging around the intrusion. Tears sear across your waterline, spilling from the corners of your eyes. So big, so pretty, so perfect.

He nuzzles deep, stretching the column of your throat wide. “Baby,” he warns, voice sharper, “Baby, you gotta – you gotta stop now.”

Maple, he’d said – that day in your shower. If you say it, I stop.

Say it, you dare him silently.

“I’m gonna – c-come, darlin’,” instead.

Say. It.

“You want that?” he growls, hand surfing over your hair to cup your skull. “You wanna make your Daddy come?”

Your voice flattens, mutes under the strain of his cock. You moan instead, the sound weak and muffled.

“Shit,” Joel says, stomach tensing tensing tensing. “Shit, angel, just like that. Good fuckin’ girl.”

He twitches deep inside. He’s there. Right there.

You slacken your jaw and lick up his shaft, two hands wrapping around it. They slip around the sticky spit, swirling and squeezing while you kiss his tip.

He holds you steady, slowing the car to watch as he fills your mouth.

Two, three warm spurts across your tongue, dripping down the back of your throat. You lap up every drop, tongue swirling the salt around your lips before you swallow it down.

Joel rasps as he steers the car into a dim lot. He strokes your head, jerks when you play a little too much with him.

“Attagirl,” he sighs, “Careful with it. Tryna fuckin’ kill me.”

You giggle, swiping kitten licks at his tip before you slip him back into his underwear. You bat Joel’s hands away, buttoning his jeans and threading his belt back together. Planting heavy kisses into the plush of his tummy.

When the darkness is pierced by flickering fluorescents, you push yourself up.

“Where are we?” you ask, twisting in your seat.

“Home,” he says simply.

A plain man in a dark suit strides over to the car as soon as it parks up. The click of his shoes bouncing off the walls.

Joel swipes at your chin with his thumb. He slips the digit past your lips and you suck it clean. “Dirty girl,” he utters, stealing another hasty kiss before swinging out of the car.

You hop out the other side, tottering around the Lamborghini to meet him at the back.

The attendant’s name badge reads Owen. “Long day, Mr. Miller?”

Joel pats his shoulder in greeting, reaching for your hand. “Long day,” he agrees, and makes for the elevator.

Your head swivels, taking in each lavish vehicle parked under luminous light. Emblems with horses and bulls and wings – plenty more than you don’t even recognize. Each car polished to perfection, groomed within an inch of its life.

Joel flicks the button at the top of the panel. The doors glide closed – smooth and silent. You barely feel it as it scales the building rapidly.

“Wait a second,” you stare at the dazzling PH, “Do you live on the top fucking floor?”

He bites his lip. “Might do.”

You step back. “So you let me bring you into my – my shitty little apartment, and meanwhile you’re –?”

“Woah, woah,” he cuts in. “Your apartment is not shitty.”

“It’s not a fucking penthouse, Joel.”

“It’s a nice apartment!” he protests, squeezing your shoulder. “Do you always gotta be so goddamn dramatic?”

“I bet you could fit my entire place inside your living room. Right? Am I right?”

He clicks his teeth and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Naw,” he says, like a little kid. Twisting his toe into the marble floor. “Dressing room, more like.”

The doors part just in time for him to escape your drumming fists – his boyish snicker filling the cream hallway.

You spill out after him, pulse fluttering dangerously through your veins.

“You know what my place doesn’t have?” Joel says, fishing for his keys. “A poster of Richard Gere. I could use one of those.”

“Oh,” you feign amusement, “Well, you can have mine. I won’t be able to look at it now, anyways.”

He slots the key in the lock and turns. Drinks in the sight of you – on a comedown from only the second-hottest car ride you’ve ever taken.

“Your apartment,” he lifts a finger, “has you in it. It wins, every time.”

Your jaw clenches. Your heart begins a warning drum in your chest. Don’t you fucking dare. Don’t you fall.

Too late, you think.

The door sweeps open, and Joel beckons you forward.

“Ladies first.”

You slip by, stepping into a regal hallway. Smooth stone on either side, dark wood under your heels. All marble and mirror, classy, glassy décor. Golden spotlights which glow to life overhead, the deeper your footsteps echo.

It’s dark, and a little moody. Manly. The perfect marriage of masculine and chic. Cold steel and warm wood.

It looks like him. Classy and luxurious – but homey, warm. Everything that draws you to him, and everything that makes you want to stay.

Joel follows silently at your back, much the same as he did in his little white house. Looking to his feet when you turn back, fiddling with the strap of his watch.

You wander to the end of the hall, where the apartment widens. A towering living room – sylvan and rustic, the same muted tones bleeding through. Cityscape backdrop, pristine glass fire. A coffee table homing ornate vases and books on woodworking; a faux fur blanket over the couch and beside it, a worn flannel shirt.

You love it. You love all of it.

And loving his apartment is probably a bit of a copout, right? The easier way, the safer way to admit something much scarier. It’s just fragments of Joel, after all. It’s all the parts you’ve come to like best.

His heart, his soul. The kid with the freckles and scruffy hair, all grown up. Thrown into a big city, thrown into a big job. Thrown into a million-dollar penthouse – and still, he turns everything he touches into…home.

Joel presses his lips along your shoulder, perches his chin on your collarbone. Quiet, a little bashful – hiding from every secret he’s letting you in on just with being here.

Your eyes catch a brushed-gold frame on the sideboard, and you float over.

Faded by the sun and the years in between, there’s a peachy tint to the photo. A dreamy lilac sky, dark cedars fringing the background. A squint mailbox, cherry red with the name MILLER printed on.

Two boys, one as filthy as the other. Matching denim shorts and lanky limbs. Smeared with paint, in the midst of a brawl which nearly blurs their figures into nothing more than one head of dark hair, the other sandy.

You’d recognize him anywhere, though. Even with his arm hooked around his little brother’s neck.

“Tommy started it,” Joel says, elbowing your side. “See that smudge on the mailbox? He pushed me headfirst into the thing.”

Your chest leaps. “Who won the fight?”

He takes the frame and dusts it with the sleeve of his jacket. “Mom did,” he replies. “Threw the camera down ‘n dragged us inside. Grounded us for a week, made us repaint the entire thing.”

“How is your mom?” you ask.

Joel nods. “Good. She’s askin’ after you.”

“She still asks about me?”

“Yeah,” he says. “’cause I still talk about you.”

It prods low in your chest. Aching, stitching itself back together thread by thread. A wound twelve years in the making, the doing and undoing of everything you ever knew. Family and love; hurt and loss.

It’s okay to lose some things, you reckon. It’s okay to let them go. To watch that beat-up Toyota tear off for the horizon. To leave that man and his ring and the promises he’ll never fulfill.

There’s someone better waiting down the line, anyway. It starts with a page of doodles; it ends with your heart in his hands.

The safest place it’s ever going to be.

You cross your arms around Joel’s neck and pull him against your body. Pull him against the wound.

“I want to go see her again, tomorrow.”

“I think she’d like that.”

“Then I want to come back here and spend the whole weekend with you.”

He swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, I want that, too.”

You kiss him softly.

“And I want you to take me to bed right now, and show me how much you love me.”

The twinkling city is the only light left on this side of the apartment.

Half-drunk in a half-dim room, you stumble in backwards – tripping over thin air and collapsing onto the bed, pulling the six-foot shadow of your ex-boss-now-something on top.

The laughter rumbles from Joel’s chest. “I’m too old for this, pretty girl,” he says, sucking a mark into your neck.

“No big deal,” you titter, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. “I’ll keep you going.”

He hovers over you, watching as you peel the clothes from his body. The heavy clink of his belt on the floor, the ruffle of slacks down his legs. He shakes the shirt from his arms and your lips connect again in the darkness.

Hips between yours, he drags your dress from the hem up over your arms. A hungry glimpse, tongue dabbing at the corner of his mouth – like it’s Monday morning all over again, and you’re on your knees in front of him for the first time.

Back when flirting was as harmless as delivering coffee and running errands. Back when he was one third of a fuck, marry, kill debate with Martha and Deb. Back when neither of you knew these versions of yourselves even existed.

Joel lowers – taking your nipple in his mouth.

“Shit,” you pant, fingers searching for the elastic around his waist.

He helps you tug his boxers off. His cock sways between his legs, smatter of come and damp saliva across your stomach as he guides you up the mattress. He takes the lace from your hips in his fist and rids you of it in quick motion.

“See what you do to your daddy?” he asks, tapping the weight of his cock against your mound.

You reach down, wrapping your fingers around him. He’s stubbornly solid again – throbbing under your touch. He shudders when you swipe a gentle thumb over his tip.

“Already came once ‘n you got him hard all over again,” Joel adds.

You take your lip under your teeth, stroking his cock. Your clit flutters at the thought of him pushing in. The stretch that feels so impossible, the punch of pain each time he reaches the end of your pussy.

It steals a sob from your lips. “I wanna ride you, Daddy,” you sputter, a solid shove on his shoulders.

He rolls onto his back, hands finding your hips as you mount his waist.

“Let me ride you,” you’re panting, lowering onto the dense muscle of his stomach. Quickly coating the trail of pubic hair with a pearly sheen. You rock back and forth, taking the stalk of him in one small hand.

“Let me ride – just wanna ride –”

“Alright, alright,” Joel hastens, sitting upright. He slips an arm around your back.

You whine. “You never let me, Daddy, I just wanna –”

“Shh,” he holds your jaw, “I’m gonna let you. I’m gonna let you, baby. Just gotta go slow, alright? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I can take it,” you tell him, hands on your hips.

“I know,” Joel replies, “I know you can. Always do, huh?”

He slides his tip through your core, teasing your entrance. So wide that you can already feel your little hole struggling with just his head. He’s covered in you – your slick blending with his, your breath swapping.

“Three weeks, angel,” he fusses, beginning to edge you down. “Too goddamn long,” he adds, “You know how much I missed this pretty cunt?”

Your pussy sucks his length in, blooming for him. Warm and snug, spongey walls pinching every inch as he penetrates her. Like they’re made for each other, the same way you and Joel are.

“She missed you more,” you gasp, head tilted back to the ceiling. “I missed you more.”

Joel’s teeth pluck at the column of your throat, still raw from the memory of his dick. “Doing so good for me,” he hums, “Little more, okay?”

You collapse forward, boneless and weeping against his chest. The pain and the pleasure hammering through your veins – Joel’s thunder and your lightning. Every nerve on fire, every hair on your body standing to attention.

He holds you steady, hands still locked around your waist, cock still filling you up inch by inch. When your clit reaches the coarse hair at his base, Joel kisses from your chest up to your jaw.

“You feel that, baby?” he asks, two fingers lifting your chin. “Feel Daddy inside you? All of him, darlin’, you got all of him in there.”

You wiggle in his lap, hips aching with the effort of holding his full length. “So big, Daddy.”

Joel tenses, teeth gritting. “I ain’t gonna last long,” he admits, grip firm on your hips.

“That’s okay, baby,” you coo, nudging him back into the mattress. His cock slips from your slit, drizzled with slick. You feel so empty without him – electricity fizzling into nothing, walls clamping around nothing.

You brace yourself over his torso – reaching between your legs to guide him back to your entrance.

Beneath hooded lids, heavy with lust, Joel watches as you drag his tip through your folds. He presses his thumb to your clit, rough circles around the swollen hood, and parts your lips with his fingers.

His cock lines up, and you sink down.

“Christ, darlin’,” Joel groans. He flicks at your clit, his other hand coming up to pinch your nipple.

“I – Fuck,” you moan, bouncing on him. “Feels so – good, Daddy, I –”

You fall forward into the headboard – staying upright only with your fingers locked around the wood. You’re slipping, already barreling your way towards another orgasm.

You grind forward, rutting into Joel’s palm, falling back on his cock. Your spine curls; hands drop to claw at his chest, ground yourself there.

The edges of your vision begin to blur. It’s not like this, it’s never like this. No one has ever fucked you this good, this rough and this loving.

Joel’s balls slap against your ass. He bucks his hips, knees lifting to bump you forward.

“Attagirl,” he says, slipping a hand around your neck. He brings you down, nips at your lower lip. His forehead slides against yours. “Can feel you closing, darlin’,” he chuckles, “You gonna come for me?”

“D-dick,” you hiss.

He smirks. “Always look so pretty when you let go. You don’t wanna show Daddy how pretty you are?”

You writhe over him, biting down hard on your climax.

“My beautiful girl,” Joel murmurs in your ear. “Come for Daddy.”

And it throws you under.

Blinding, deafening. Every nerve in your body overcome, each one flipped to feel only Joel. His cock, buried deep inside, your walls clamped around him; his teeth on your skin, tongue soothing the scrape.

It’s never like this.

Never so euphoric, never such a perfect meld of bruise and bliss. The feeling of your body changing, altering down to the very last atom – blossoming anew. Fresher, purer, lovelier.

When you come back around, you’re on your back.

Legs wrapped around Joel’s waist; arms linked around his neck. He must’ve flipped you, the second you came.

He slips back inside, suckling on the skin beneath your ear, and drives his hips into yours. Ignores your yelps, your short breaths – just fucks into you like you’ll be gone in the morning.

Fucks into you like he’ll never get to do it again. Like he hasn’t been doing it for weeks. He fucks you so hard that it hurts; an ache already burning that you know you’ll still feel walking into work on Monday.

“Good girl,” he chants, over and over. “Daddy’s girl.”

Like a fever come over him – beads of sweat dotting his skin, flush in his cheeks. He fucks you mindless, senseless, wordless. Sobbing beneath him, each word soaking into the next.

Good girl. Good girl. Daddy’s girl, that’s it. Daddy loves you so much, baby. Gonna fill this little cunt up so good.

When your walls pull tight again, your third orgasm flooding from every pore in your body – Joel’s movements halt.

He comes with a painful jolt – his cock shunting into you once, twice, until he’s pumping you full of his come. Twitching deep within you, pulsing warm and messy inside your pussy.

He comes with a sound like song. Your name, entangled in a throaty groan – lips tucked somewhere between your neck and shoulder.

You finally hear it – for the first time in your life.

How it’s supposed to sound: low like thunder, Texan in its swing. No one else, you realize, has ever gotten it right – this right – before. As if only his lips were meant to speak it, his tongue designed to carve around the letters. His vocal cords strung to send the sound to your ears.

It’s his, you decide. Your name – and every other piece of you. All of you. It all belongs to him, now.

“Fuck,” Joel pants, one hand on the headboard to steady himself. He lets it rain down over you: “I love you so much, you know that?”

“Come here,” you whisper, and he falls into your body, “Come love me forever.”

Half-conscious and full bliss, you laze in Joel’s bed – all fucking night.

Strong arms hooked around your shoulders, heart to heart. Breath shared, whispering nothings and everythings in the space between your lips. He’s still buried deep inside, still tucked between your legs.

Bundled in satin sheets, kept warm by his body around yours. Talking shit, poking fun, flirting and fucking around. You play with his hands, sizing your open palm against his. You compare the scars and scrapes on your skin, spill the bloody story behind each one.

“Alright, big girl,” Joel yawns, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m beat. You killed me.”

You snuggle under his chin. “Get some sleep, old man.”

He takes a second to respond. He’s already going. This is probably the closest he’s been to actually sleeping for a good three weeks.

“Love you,” he exhales then, like the thought just lapped past his lips again.

You smile. Take his big hands in yours and lift them closer to your chest, tuck your chin over your interlocked fingers.

Something deep inside you lurches. Tries to escape. You tighten Joel’s grip, as if choking the words on their way up.

Joel’s breathing slowly begins to draw out – tiny sighs passing his lips. Your thumbs trace the short hair between his nose and top lip, combing it, nail ghosting over the lines on his lips.

A warm feeling floods through your body. Suddenly – it starts in your chest and washes over in waves, dousing you and the world around you in a dreamy rose. Like a sunset paints its way across the walls, the glint of gold where the light catches on the tower in the distance.

Peace, you think.

Only – there’s no end to it. No sleek black car to drag you away. No broken promises and half-truths. The ache in your chest pulls gently – a reminder, no longer a threat.

This will never leave. He won’t let it. It’s as safe as you are, now, wrapped in his arms. Nothing and no one to break you apart.

“Joel?” you whisper.

His eyelashes flutter, like even asleep he knows it’s something worth hearing. Like everything you could possibly say – What should we have for breakfast? My foot itches. Did you know Martha box dyes her hair? – it’s all worth hearing.

You gulp. “Joel, I wanna – I wanna tell you something.”

He crackles to life, words melting into one another. “…What is it…darlin’…?”

Your lips morph around voiceless words. Your tongue lifts to the back of your teeth, trying to force the sound out.

It’s everything, you think. You’re everything. Say it. Say it say it say it.

But he’s already dropping off again. He’s already being swept away somewhere you’re too tense to reach. And you’re not brave enough to push through the fog on your own, stick a trembling hand into the unknown and swipe for his.

So you let it go. Watch the words float off somewhere Joel can’t hear them.

You shrink yourself, slotting your head beneath his jaw, your cheek to his chest. He sighs into the crown of your head. His heartbeat thuds a familiar bassline into your ear. Hi, old friend. I missed you.

Maybe in the morning, you can swing by your place and grab a bag. Pack a few days’ worth of clothes, spend the first few mornings of your new career drinking velvety coffee in bed next to Joel. Sharing the mug, sharing the newspaper, sharing the shower when it’s time to get up.

Maybe you should call Martha, and apologize for skipping your party. She can fill you in on the night – the drunken dramas, the secrets spilled. She won’t ask about you and Joel – she’ll just know. And that’s enough.

Maybe you’ll throw the phone to the end of the bed after you hang up, discarded amongst the tangle of sheets, and lie back down next to a still sleeping Joel. Lay your head on his chest, like it is right now. Listen to his heartbeat, run your fingers across the dark hair.

And maybe you’ll think over the same three words currently racing through your head. Maybe you’ll try to piece together a sentence for him to hear, when you’re ready to say it out loud.

Maybe by morning, you’ll be brave enough to admit it to yourself, first.

That…yeah.

You love him.

[eliorabunny]

deny me

angstyyyyyy!!!!! bestfriend!chris x fem!reader, unrequited luvvvv

𐀔⋆ ིྀ₊𖧧 “i get this twisted and sickening feeling i’m gonna marry you” 🂱*𖦹°‧ ༘

𖦹 genre: fluffy angst, no happy ending (unless i decide to do an alternate version) ✄༝𑁤

𖦹 word count: 547 𖧧

𖦹 a/n: first thing i’ve written on here yippie🧚🏻‍♀️ also do i tell my friend/producer i’m using their song for plot inspiration. stream grace gardner everyone they fucking rock

i’m feeling moody so now y’all are too ᵕ̈ ̤̮

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌❀°✩⋆ʚ♡ɞ⋆✩°❀﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

it felt painfully safe to lie in his arms.

any moment with him, really, made her heart plummet deep into her gut. her rosy thoughts of him felt wrung out like a towel every time they were together. each minute gnawed at the fragile bones of a fading daydream. for once, she actually wished her best friend liked her more than that.

unfortunately, he was respectful.

they’d known each other since childhood, always seeing movies together at the local theatre and getting ice cream across the street afterwards. she knew which monopoly piece he’d choose (the terrier) and he knew which ice cream truck character she’d pick (spider-man). only those who have surpassed love and found themselves in a deeper bond could remember details like that.

which is why it hurt so much more once she realized she was falling. honestly, it felt more like repeatedly tumbling over exposed roots and snarled branches in a cliffside nosedive. she chuckled bitterly to herself at the cartoonish image, eliciting a raspy “hmmm?” from the sleepy arms around her.

“oh.. was that out loud?” she mumbled bashfully, as reality yanked her back from imagination. she turned to look up at the boy sitting next to her on the couch, who nodded slowly. his half-lidded but steady eye contact would have made her collapse if she wasn’t already curled up against him. a vague redness crept towards her face, and she struggled to ignore the corners of his mouth twitching towards an amused smile.

“what are you thinking about?” he asked softly, laying a gentle finger on the skin between her eyebrows. she tried to disregard the idea that superheroes ever had the ability to read minds. her eyes wandered to the collar of his hoodie, which had slipped enough to let his collarbone taunt her, dare her, to move closer.

and if the lights were dimmer, she wouldn’t have seen it.

a violet, blooming there on his chest. a mark of someone else’s teeth and lust. a tear begged to be set free, pricking the corner of her eye. she prayed her mascara would remain faithful and squeezed her eyes shut.

“hey,” he whispered, pulling her into a tighter hug. she melted against his neck, idly chewing on the sleeve of her sweatshirt as her focus dissolved. this particular sleeve had a heart-shaped patch sewn onto it, a playful gift from her best friend. it felt ironic now, knowing her feelings would only cause trouble if she let them show.

the warmth of his lips just inches from her forehead was devastating. her skin ached for contact, and she mindlessly tilted her head upwards. her gaze met azure, caged by enviably long lashes. the delicate beauty of his features overwhelmed her, and she quickly glanced down to the offensive blossom on his neck.

she contemplated bringing it up, knowing every response would shatter her. the sight was torturous, and she felt her tether to paradise disintegrating as she pointed. her mouth opened slightly, and she felt the pressure behind her eyes threatening to betray her.

his eyes followed the line of her finger and felt his heart wilt. they shared an understanding, silent moment, and he pretended not to notice the tear that traced an apologetic line down his shoulder.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌❀°✩⋆ʚ♡ɞ⋆✩°❀﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

[sevcasejay1chicago]

Well in that case.... I’m gonna send you this idea... if it sparks inspo... sweet. If not or you don’t want to take such requests at the moment that’s totally cool too.

What about something where the reader is working a couple jobs like waitressing and bar tending or something while also going to college. During finals she’s working and studying and neglecting sleep and self care. Buck and Eddie start to get worried. So they convince her to come hang out at the station. She ends up collapsing (maybe on the stairs? And gets a minor concussion) due to exhaustion and dehydration. Once she gets home they both insist she just relax and nothing else. Lots of cuddles and bringing her food and water and basically only letting her up to pee. Ooh and maybe they give her a bubble bath... very spa like with candles and they do all the work and wash her hair for her and everything...

Over worked and under paid- Eddie Diaz and Evan Buckley

Authors note: A few things.

1. I’m sorry this took so long. I’ve been so busy and I’ve only been able to write in short periods.

2. I know this isn’t my normal One Chicago content, but I love these boys too and you asked, so I (very lately) delivered.

Warnings: possible wrong medical jargon, passing out, over working, vomiting, concussion, FLUFF

———————————

The boys are nothing short of proud and amazed by you. You are working part time as a barista at the coffee shop down the street from the station and frequently bartend for a friend at the bar that the 118 goes to every now and then. On top of your busy work schedule, you are also going to school online full time, helping take care of Christopher when Buck and Eddie are at the station, and trying to make sure you do your part around the house. If you asked Buck and Eddie, they would say you do too much in the first place and the house is something they can take care of, but you feel obligated to do your part.

Finals week has always been tough for you, but this is the first year that you are working two jobs and going to school full time. Buck and Eddie have been trying to help you as much as they can, including making sure you eat and drink, but they have been having a hard time getting you to slow down and sleep. Your mind just goes and thinks through all the stuff you need to be studying, so you are often sneaking out of bed to do so, much to Buck and Eddie’s dislike.

One day, Chris calls Eddie while he is at the station to express his worry. You had picked Chris up from school and brought him home like normal, but you didn’t get him a snack and sit down to help with his homework like you always do. He always tells you that you don’t have to, but you always do it anyways. With you forgetting this, the parlor of your face, and the bags under your eyes, Chris is worried something is seriously wrong with you.

Eddie has Buck call you as he calls Carla to come hang out with Chris. Buck calls you an Uber, saying you’ll be staying at the station and they want to help with everything, so you’ll just ride home with them. You cave, thinking that they are all gonna help you study, but not knowing their plan to get you to sleep or rest at the very least.

You arrive with your book bag on your back, still in your jeans and black tee from work earlier. Buck and Eddie hear Hen greet you and go to meet you at the top of the stairs. They both go running down as they watch your eyes roll into the back of your head as you drop with a loud thud, your forehead smacking against the railing as you go down.

“Y/n!!” Buck, Eddie, Hen, and Bobby yell. Buck and Eddie run down to get to you as Hen grabs the kit from the ambo and Cap runs up the stairs, having just come in the side door after getting something out of his personal truck.

Bobby is the first to make it to you and carefully holds your head in one hand while checking your pulse with the other. “She’s tacky and has labored breathing.” Bobby announces to the room. “Hen, give me the collar and then go get the rig ready.” Bobby instructs, passing you off to Eddie to steady you as he calls for Chim. “Chim. I need you on the floor. Y/n’s down. We need to go to the hospital.” He says, then after hearing a quick copy, he switches the radio to the dispatch frequency. “Dispatch, this is Captain Nash with the 118. Do you copy?” Bobby says, waiting for the copy from Maddie at dispatch before continuing. “Maddie, Y/n just collapsed at the 118. We are loading her and taking her to the er. Take the house out of commission.” Bobby says, standing as Buck finishes putting the collar on you and Eddie helps him hoist you into Evan’s arms.

“Copy you. Keep me posted. Dispatch out.” Maddie says.

Buck gently lays you down on the stretcher as Eddie takes a towel from Hen to gently wipe the blood from your face. Your eyes flutter as you groan, trying to swat his hand away. Hen chuckles as Bobby shuts the doors and Chim takes off with sirens blaring.

“Baby. Baby. Shhh. Stop mi amor.” Eddie murmurs, cupping your cheek in his hand as Hen places a pulse ox on your right hand. “It’s okay. We gotcha. You passed out baby.” Eddie explains as Buck clutches your hand and tries to keep his cool next to Eddie.

“Mmmm. Ed-ddie.” You moan, leaning into his touch. “D-don’t f-feel well.” You murmur, trying to push yourself into a sitting position. You don’t even have to express the way your feeling as your face turns ashen and your eyes widen.

Buck immediately pulls a puke bag from the dispenser and puts it around your mouth. “Alright baby. I gotcha. Just do what you gotta do.” Buck says, taking your hand again as you reach for him. It pains him to see you in so much discomfort.

Your breathing gets faster as the nausea builds. You vaguely hear Hen talking to Eddie about you possibly having a concussion as you begin heaving, crying out in pain when you can catch your breath. Your hearing is equivalent to being under water, but you can tell that both Eddie and Buck are trying to sooth you as tears stream down your face. Once you push the bag away, Eddie gets onto the stretcher with you and puts a towel on his neck, allowing you to press your forehead into his neck as much as possible with the collar still on.

Once at the hospital, Eddie ends up having to ride with you into the ER since you won’t let him go. They basically force you to untangle as nurses and a doctor want you moving into a bed to begin assessing you. Buck and Eddie stand at the top of the bed, both lightly touching you somewhere to let you know they are still there, while the doctor examines your head and does a spinal test. After many tests are done, fluids are given, and you get well educated on concussion protocol and the importance of taking care of yourself, you are finally released into the care of Eddie and Buck again.

Bobby was thoughtful enough to grab the guys go bags and drive Buck’s jeep to the hospital. Once you are cleared, the 118 is back in service, but Buck and Eddie are relieved of duty for the time being so that you can be taken care of. Buck drives back home with you curled around Eddie in the back seat. They gave you a sedative in the er and something for the pain, so you are practically knocked out. That is, until you get home.

You sleepily clutch onto Buck as he takes you from Eddie’s arms when you arrive home. You immediately bury your face into his neck to hide from the street lights now that it’s pretty late into the night. Eddie opens the door and disappears into the kitchen as Buck sits down with you on the couch.

“Chris?” You murmur, wondering where your son is.

“Carla has him at her house. Just relax sweet girl.” Buck whispers, kissing you on the forehead.

“Mmm.” You hum, snuggling back into his embrace.

“Alright you.” Eddie says, coming in with a tray of food and drinks. “Toast for you ma’am. I put butter on both, just to help settle your stomach. I also got you your favorite flavored water.” He says, handing you the water first. “Drink.” He says gently, before turning back to the tray. “A sandwich and water for both of us too.” Eddie says, handing Buck his sandwich when his boyfriend makes to grab for it, but you whine at the shift, so Buck settles back down.

You lay on Buck’s chest, nibbling at your toast and drinking your water when prompted. He could care less that you are getting crumbs on him as long as your comfortable and eating. Once everyone is finished, Eddie goes to clean up, leaving you and Buck back on the couch. You yawn, rubbing your face into Evan’s shoulder, causing him to chuckle.

“Alright baby. Bath and bed for you.” Buck says, standing up with you once again. “Eddie! Gonna go get her cleaned up.” Buck calls, nodding as Eddie replies with an okay.

You started to protest, but Buck is quit to shut you down.

“No ma'am. You just chill out. You need to relax and let us take care of you for once.” Buck says, sitting you on the bathroom counter in the master .

“But I-“ you begin to say, but you are cut off by Eddie as he saunters into the bathroom.

“You will relax and let us take care of you.” Eddie says, coming to stand between your legs. “What happened today could have been avoided if we put our foot down. Now, you will allow us to pamper you and give yourself time to rest. Okay?” Eddie says, lightly connecting his forehead with yours.

You close your eyes and sigh gently. “Okay. I’m sorry.” You murmur, bottom lip trembling as you fight back tears.

“Shhh mi amor. It’s okay. We are just worried, that’s all.” Eddie whispered, gently capturing your lips in his.

“Just let us take care of you. Okay?” Buck adds, coming to your side and kissing the side of your head. “Now, let’s get you in the bath while it’s still hot and I’ll even light your favorite candle. Okay love?” Evan says, trying to get you in bed as quickly as possible given that your eyes are having trouble staying open.

You nod and allow Eddie to undress you. It’s definitely not easy to let yourself get taken care of. You’ve grown used to fighting through this rough patch and hiding it the best you can from your boys, but you love them and they love you. Luckily, that just might save your life.

That night, the boys gently wash your hair. Eddie sitting on the edge of the tub behind you, caging you in with his legs as he gently massages your scalp. Buck washes your body, gently rubbing your sore muscles as he goes. They don’t stop until you are practically asleep against Eddie’s knee. Buck scoops you out of the tub while Eddie goes to throw your pjs in the dryer to warm them up. They then both help dry you off, gently brushing and blow drying your hair. Once you are all dry, they put you in your pjs, which consist of one of their fire shirts and your undies. Then, they get dressed themselves before getting in bed with you and settling in for the night, knowing that you are safe and sound in their arms.

————————

Tag list:

@treehouse-mouse

@shadowmeadowsworld

@sorry-i-spaced

@zephyrmonkey

@allisonargent144

@amie134

@lane-rodgers-barnes

@pensfan5871

@dumb-fawkin-bitch

@marvel-and-chicago-fan

@daggersquadphantom

@stellakiddsblog

@100yroldteenagers

@senjoritanana

@celtic-shadow-wolf

@starset21

@mrspeacem1nusone

[guitarstringed-scars]

how to lose a guy in 10 days- t. oikawa

masterlist

warnings/notes: mentions of throwing up, slight mention of drinking, angst

day eight

you spent most of the day searching for a suitable dress to wear. you’ve heard of the sports gala, a dinner put on with all of the athletes and alumni to fundraise for the sports programs in the university. tetsuro attended last year, with the reasoning of covering an important event in sports, when really he just wanted a free fancy meal. he’d be attending this year as well, again just hoping for a free meal.

the two of you stand now fighting over the countertop space in the small cramped bathroom. you are perfecting your outfit, and kuroo is struggling to make his hair look presentable.

“is this good?” he asks, turning to you with a panicked look on his face. you grimace slightly.

“i mean, it just looks how it does every day?” you aren’t sure if this is a good answer.

it clearly isn’t, because kuroo lets out a loud groan before collapsing dramatically over the counter.

“i can’t go!” he exclaims, bumping into your side.

“you literally begged akaashi to let you cover it.” you roll your eyes at him, before exiting the bathroom. kuroo follows you into the living room. his tie is a bit crooked, and koushi fixes it in passing. yui is sprawled out on the couch.

“i’m so jealous of you two! i wanna dress up and go to a gala!” she complains.

“you could go in my place. i feel like i’m gonna throw up.” you say, putting your shoes on.

“oh whatever, you’re gonna have fun.” koushi chimes in, getting himself a snack in the kitchen.

you and tetsuro wave your goodbyes and head to the gala. you meet up with toru in front of the building. he’s leaning on the wall of hotel, dressed in the same suit he wore to dinner with you, hitoka, and kiyoko. he looks just as good in it now as he did then. he greets you with a hug, and a handshake for tetsuro. then, the three of you enter the building.

tetsuro quickly splits off from the two of you, finding akaashi on the far side of the room. you and toru waltz around the ballroom, greeting alumni and other donors. toru then splits off from you to get some drinks, you are approached then by someone you approach a tall man, recognizing him as koutaro bokuto, one of torus team members.

“hi, i’m y/n, i write for the tokyo weekly.” you say, shaking his hand.

“oh! nice to meet you, i’m bokuto!” he greets cheerfully. “have you seen toru oikawa? we kind of have a bet going and i’m looking for him to check up on it.”

a bet. what kind of bet? you think, confused.

“oh? what’s the bet?” you ask, digging for information.

“well, he bet 30 bucks that he could make any girl fall in love with him in less than 10 days, and i bet him 30 bucks he couldn’t, so we picked out a girl, and he apparently brought-” you cut him off, gesturing toward the general direction you watched toru go.

“he’s somewhere over there.” you feel sick to your stomach as you escape the conversation, rushing into the bathroom.

tetsuro finds you outside of the bathroom, and the two of you escape from the hotel, standing out on the street.

“shit, i forgot my bag inside.” he says, clutching his head in his hands. “i’ll be right back, i’m gonna run and get it. wait here.”

he rushes back through the doors, and you sit down on the side of the building. you are wrapped in tetsuros suit jacket, staring off into space, when a pair of dress shoes approach you. its oikawa.

“are you leaving?” he asks. his voice is sharp. sharper than you’ve ever heard it.

“yes.” you look back down into your lap. you feel like a child being scolded.

“so what was i? some guinnea pig? that you could just, mess around with to see if i’d fall for it?”

you stand up now, facing him.

“yeah, and i was just some girl that your friends picked out in a bar.”

“well i guess now you can use it as a twist in your story.” he’s mad. your stomach aches. you let out a weak laugh.

“hey, that’s a great idea, maybe we should bet on it.”

it’s quiet now.

“you did your job y/n. you wanted to lose a guy in 10 days, well you just did it. in a record 8. congratulations, you just lost him.” he turns and walks away from you.

“no i didn’t toru.” he stops and turns around. “cause you can’t lose something you never had.”

toru shakes his head, and fully turns around again, walking away. you sit back down at the hotel, tears starting to form in your eyes. tetsuro comes out of the hotel, his bag in one hand and stolen food in the other.

“lets get home.” he says, helping you up from your seated position.

a/n: short and sweet!! lie of the century this is not sweet lol.

taglist: @hotvillianapologist @asapeveryday @zzzlevislothzzz @vivian-555 @theepitomeofswag

@girlkissersco @yuminako @cloooudmilk @r0seandth0rns @ilyless

@sereniteav @iluvmang @wyrcan @azharyy @kunihaver

@cherrypieyourface @walllflowerrrsss @mylahrins @ryuverse @nana7nana777

@cyenac @garfieldissocool @chris-continues @acowboykisser @iheartpinky

@idkanymorebuthere @dailyakira @neru-is-restless @wave2mia @v-e-r-t21

[sexsylexi]

Unusual confession

Joel Miller x Reader

The old world was gone, replaced by something dark and twisted. Cities were now ruins, and the silence in the streets was only broken by the occasional echo of a distant clicker or the rustle of wind through abandoned buildings.

Joel Miller had seen a lot in these past years, too much, really. His heart had hardened, calcifying over years of loss and struggle. That’s why, when he heard the door to their hideout creak open and saw you stumble in, blood soaking through your jacket, he felt something that wasn’t just anger—it was fear.

“Goddamn it,” Joel cursed under his breath as he rushed to your side, catching you before you could collapse onto the dirty floor. His hands were rough but gentle as they steadied you, his eyes scanning the wound on your side. “What the hell were you thinkin’, going out there alone?”

You winced, more from the frustration in his voice than the pain. “We needed supplies… I couldn’t wait.”

Joel practically growled as he helped you over to a dusty, torn-up couch that had seen better days. “Couldn’t wait, huh? And now look at you. Bleeding all over the damn place.”

The room was dim, the only light coming from a small lantern in the corner. It flickered, casting long shadows on Joel’s face, making him look older than he was. His jaw was set tight, and you could see the muscles in his neck straining as he fought to keep his emotions in check. But you knew Joel well enough by now to see the storm brewing behind his eyes.

He grabbed the med kit from a nearby shelf, yanking it open with a little more force than necessary. The sound of bandages unrolling and the clink of a needle filled the tense silence. You knew you had messed up, but you also knew why you had gone out. Supplies were running low, and you couldn’t stand the thought of being helpless. Not again.

“Joel, I—” you started, but he cut you off, pressing a clean cloth against your wound with a firm hand.

“Save it,” he muttered, his voice gruff. “This is gonna hurt.”

And it did. You hissed in pain as he cleaned the wound, his hands steady even as you saw the anger flicker in his eyes. He worked quickly, methodically, the way only someone who had done this too many times could. But you could feel the tension radiating off him in waves. It was like a coiled spring, ready to snap.

When he finally finished, he sat back on his heels, running a hand through his graying hair. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the air thick with unspoken words. But Joel’s silence was louder than anything, and it pressed down on you, making it hard to breathe.

“Joel,” you whispered, your voice shaky from pain and something else—something raw. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean to what?” Joel cut in, his voice low and dangerous. “Didn’t mean to get yourself nearly killed? Or didn’t mean to make me care?”

Your heart skipped a beat at the last part, his words hanging in the air like a dagger poised to strike. You looked up at him, searching his face, trying to understand.

Joel was staring at the floor, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscles jumping. When he finally looked at you, his eyes were hard, but beneath the anger, there was something else—something that made your chest tighten.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he asked, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. “Every damn time you go off like that, thinkin’ you can handle it all on your own… Do you know what that does to me?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. You had always known Joel was protective—almost to a fault. But this was different. This was raw, unfiltered, and it scared you almost as much as it did him.

“I can’t—” Joel’s voice cracked, and he looked away, his hands trembling slightly. “I can’t lose you too.”

The confession hung between you like a weight, heavy and suffocating. You’d seen Joel in all kinds of states—angry, cold, even broken. But this… this vulnerability was something else entirely.

You reached out, your hand shaky, and touched his arm. “Joel, I’m sorry,” you said again, your voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t realize…”

He pulled away, standing up abruptly, pacing the small room like a caged animal. “That’s just it,” he muttered, running a hand over his face. “You never realize. You think you’re invincible, that you can handle anything on your own. But you can’t. And it’s gonna get you killed one day.”

The thought of losing you—another person he cared about—was too much. It was a wound that hadn’t healed, that had only been covered up with layers of anger and denial. And now, with you lying there, hurt because of your damn stubbornness, all those layers were peeling back, leaving him exposed.

“Joel, I’m not trying to…” Your voice trailed off, unsure of what to say. How could you explain that you didn’t want to be a burden, that you wanted to pull your weight? But you realized now that in trying to protect him, you’d only hurt him more.

“I don’t need you to protect me,” he finally said, his voice strained. “I need you to stay alive. And I need you to stop makin’ me care so damn much.”

It wasn’t fair, you thought. Not to him, and not to you. But nothing about this world was fair. And maybe that’s why it hurt so much, why the stakes felt so high. Because in a world where everything was falling apart, the last thing either of you wanted was to lose the one thing that still mattered.

Joel stopped pacing and looked at you, his eyes softer now, but still filled with that intensity that made your heart ache. “I can’t do this without you,” he admitted quietly, almost like it was a sin to say it out loud. “I don’t want to.”

The words hung in the air, a confession that neither of you had been ready for, but that had been building for a long time. You felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away, swallowing hard.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promised, your voice trembling. “Not without you.”

Joel closed his eyes for a moment, as if letting your words sink in, before nodding slowly. “Good,” he said, his voice gruff again. “Because I ain’t letting you.”

He moved back toward you, sitting down on the edge of the couch, his fingers brushing against yours. The touch was light, almost hesitant, but it was enough. Enough to let you know that despite all the anger, all the frustration, there was something else—something deeper that neither of you could ignore anymore.

In that moment, in the silence of the broken world around you, there was a fragile understanding. You weren’t just surviving for yourselves anymore. You were surviving for each other.

[lukesvangelista]

𝐖𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊ˡᵉ⁷⁷

in which luke is your brother’s best friend.

warnings; pining, heavy make out session (but not quite smut), going after a sibling’s friend, little bit of an age gap (but totally legal i promise)

The music from the party throughout your house pulsed in your ears, your eyes blinded by the flashing lights that your older brother Max had set up in the living room. Luke was back in Toronto for the summer after his season with the Preds ended, and your brother thought there was no better way to celebrate than by getting black out drunk on a Friday night.

While a house party wasn’t your usual scene, you had to hand it to him - he had gone all out. In the middle of your kitchen island, a makeshift bar had been set up and boasted an array of drinks—beer, seltzers, and, of course, hard liquor. Nearby, your dining table was practically collapsing under the weight of takeout and finger foods. Laughter erupted as groups formed and dissolved, the animated conversations blending with the rhythm of the music.

Some guests, half of whose names you didn’t even know, gravitated towards the packed living room, where couches provided a safe place for French kissing and unfortunately, much more. The thought of what could go down on those couches practically made you sick, and you wanted nothing more than to find respite in a quieter area. So, naturally, you gravitated to your room.

Luke was in the kitchen talking to Max when he noticed your disappearance. It was fairly early in the night, but Max had already had one too many, and as much as Luke loved his best friend, he would rather be spending time with you. He wouldn’t admit to anyone, but the hardest part of Luke’s time in Nashville this past season was his lack of seeing you, “Hey, Max, I’m gonna head to the bathroom, alright? I’ll meet you back here soon!” Luke shouted over the music blasting, but Max was too busy to notice, so he slipped away easily enough.

Once in your room, you collapsed on your bed, quickly reaching over to shuffle a random playlist. You were trying to focus hard on the lyrics of “Lovers Rock”, but the truth is that you couldn’t keep your mind from wandering to the brown-haired boy downstairs.

It’s no secret that from preschool and onward, Luke Evangelista and your older brother Max had been inseparable, their friendship an unbreakable bond forged over girls, shared secrets, countless adventures, and most importantly (to them), their hockey careers. They had always been the perfect balance of humor and seriousness, hard work and slacking off, and, when it came to you, kindness and smallmindedness.

With three years between you and Max, he had always viewed you as the annoying little sister. Growing up, you didn’t have many friends, which meant that oftentimes, you would ask to hangout with him and Luke. And, oftentimes, that question would lead to Max slamming his bedroom door in your face. Luke, however, was different. Whenever he would come over and see you alone while Max was off doing something else, he would always offer to tag along. He would ask you about your favorite movies, songs, and books, and would even let you join some games of street hockey and pond hockey when the weather was nice. It didn’t take long for you to grow comfortable with Luke, his presence as an older brother figure becoming all too familiar in your life. Yet, amidst the comfort and familiarity, subtle shifts began to occur as the two of you grew older. A lingering glance here, a touch that lasted a moment too long there—small, almost imperceptible signs that something more profound was stirring beneath the surface.

Luke had been Max’s best friend for as long as you could remember. Growing up, he was like another brother to you, always around, always apart of your family. But recently, something had shifted. You couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it had started, but your feelings for Luke had changed. And, if you weren’t mistaken, his feelings for you had changed as well.

And Max knew nothing of it.

The sound of footsteps outside of your door made your heart skip a beat. A gentle knock followed, and you knew who it was before he even spoke.

“Y/N, it’s Luke. Can I come in?”

You froze, but tried to hide it as best as you could, “Sure,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.

Luke opened the door and stepped inside, closing it softly behind him. He looked around your room, a place he had been countless times over the years, but tonight felt different. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Luke spoke softly, nodding toward the direction of your phone.

“You’re not interrupting,” you assured him, sitting up slowly to pause the music. He smiled softly, gently asking for permission to move closer. You nodded.

He took a seat on the edge of your bed, a little closer to you than he ever had before. Turning his head to look at you, he sighed, “I just wanted to talk.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, a look of slight confusion etched across your face. It wasn’t rare for Luke to hang out in your room whenever he wanted to get away from tons of overwhelming activity, but this was different, and quite honestly made you a little nervous, “About what?” you asked, your curiosity piqued.

He rubbed his thumb across his nose, which had forever been one of his nervous habits. Throughout your guys’ childhoods, you had noticed it countless times - when he and Max performed in the fifth grade talent show, when he watched Canada win gold at the 2010 Winter Olympic Games, and when he was called up to play for Nashville for the first time. But you had never noticed it as intensely as you had in this moment, “About us,” he said, his voice just barely above a whisper.

Your heart raced. You had been hoping for this conversation for the longest time, but were now suddenly terrified of it. Nervously, you made eye contact with him, flames of his own anxiety dancing in his warm brown eyes, “What about us?”

Luke looked at you, sincerity extinguishing the anxious fire that was previously burning in his eyes, “I’ve been feeling something for awhile now, and I think you have too. I just… I just don’t want to hide it anymore.”

You felt a rush of relief mixed with nervous excitement as you struggled to process Luke’s words. Nashville Predators star Luke Evangelista just admitted his feelings for you. The boy that you had known since you were two years old had just admitted his feelings for you. Your older brother’s best friend had just admitted his feelings for you. You smiled quickly, replying almost instantly, “I feel the same way, Luke. I’ve been terrified to say anything because of Max.”

Luke nodded, his thumb dropping from his nose as his confidence began to grow more and more by the minute, “I know. But he’s not here now, and I don’t want to waste any more time pretending.”

With those words, the space between the two of you seemed to disappear. Luke leaned in slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you wanted to. But you didn’t. Instead, you closed the distance, your lips meeting in a tender, hesitant kiss.

The kiss deepened, and soon the two of you were lost in each other. Luke’s hands gently cradled your face, and you ran your fingers through his wavy locks, pulling him closer. Every touch, every movement felt electric, charged with the intensity of your guys’ long neglected feelings.

For a moment, you pulled apart, breathless. “Are you okay?” Luke asked you, his forehead resting against yours.

You nodded, a shy smile playing on your lips, “More than okay.”

Luke kissed you again, this time more passionately. The two of you fell back onto the bed, your bodies pressing together, all of the noise of the world outside of your room fading away. It was just the two of you, both you and Luke finally giving in to what each of you wanted.

Time seemed to stop to stand still as you explored each other, learning the curves and lines of each other’s bodies, memorizing the taste and feel of each kiss. It was as if the both of you were making up for all the moments that you had kept your feelings hidden.

Eventually, you lay side by side, tangled in each others arms, your breathing slowly returning to normal. Luke brushed a strand of hair from your face, his eyes filled with a mixture of affection and wonder.

“This changes everything, doesn’t it?” you murmured, your voice soft.

Luke sighed, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head, “Yes,” he agreed. “But I think it’s for the better.”

You traced your fingers on his bare chest as you nodded, speaking quickly, “I don’t want to tell him just yet.”

“Then we won’t,” Luke reassured, his fingers intertwining with yours, “we have all the time in the world, pretty girl.”

You nodded, feeling a sense of peace and security wash over you. The two of you would have to navigate this new situation, figure out how to tell Max, which scared the hell out of you (and Luke, but he wasn’t going to admit that to you at this moment). But in that moment, all that mattered was that you and Luke were together.

As you drifted off to sleep, wrapped safely in Luke’s embrace, you knew that whatever the future held, you would face it side by side (even if that meant forcing Luke out of your house through your bedroom window, or having an escape route at all times for the time being). And that was more than enough.

a/n; special thanks to @babygirlboeser for proofreading!!

[noceurstars]

”Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.”

Rupert Giles x Witch! Younger! Reader

You and the Scoobies try to have a normal Thanksgiving. Try, anyway.

[ w — age gap (20+ years), older man/younger woman, injured! reader, assumed unrequited love, short story, tv show-compliant only, slight canon divergence ]

— divider cred: @/inklore

Living above the Hellmouth meant that nothing would ever be normal. No holidays, no birthdays would ever be like the average person’s.

Thanksgiving and Christmas was the same. Monsters and creatures of the dark never took days off, not with their insatiable need to be evil.

Buffy sighed as she staked what was probably the 20th vampire of the night. Thanksgiving was a time to sit down with friends and family, having a lovely, large dinner and being thankful for the people in your life and the things you had.

But not for the Scoobies.

You huffed, rolling your sore shoulder. A vampire had taken a good chunk out of of your neck, but the second he tasted your blood, he instantly revolted, and you took a stake to his heart.

“You good?” Buffy asks, eyeballing your shoulder.

“Yeah.” But you hiss a little as pain flares through it. “It’s just gonna take a minute to heal. I’ll put some bandaids on it when we get back.”

Buffy cheerily and knowingly chips in a, “I’m sure Giles would disapprove.” That prompts you to give her a deadpan look.

“You know that he doesn’t like me like that,” you reply. You shove your hands into your pockets. “It’s a one-way street. Can we talk about something else?”

She shrugs. “Sure.”

The two of you walked side by side out of the graveyard. Buffy sighs, tilting her head down.

“I really wish Christmas could be normal,” she admits. “I miss it, from when I was a kid. It’s so much different from now.”

“Not as involved with monsters, you mean?” you say, and Buffy nods in confirmation. “Yeah, me too. I feel so… apathetic about it anymore. It doesn’t feel as important, as fun as it used to be.”

“Cons of being apart of the supernatural world,” she adds.

“Truly.” You laugh. “Not to mention—” A scream rips from your throat. Cold heat washes through you and up your spine, all the way up to your skull. Your head jolts back at the pain, and the cold heat leaves as the wooden stake leaves your body, now replaced by odd, liquid warmth.

Oh, you’re bleeding. Bleeding out, perhaps.

You heard the slaps and thuds of fighting as you fall to the ground. You try to have some semblance of control as you collapse in pain, but it doesn’t work. You bump your head into a headstone and more liquid oozes down your skin.

You hear the familiar hissing sound of dust. Buffy’s won. Now you see her over you, terror and fear written all over her features.

“[Name]? [Name]? You with me?”

You gulp, attempting to focus and swallow down the pain. “Kinda,” you hiss.

“Healing magic? Can it fix this?” she inquires hurriedly.

“Probably,” you reply, becoming more and more breathless.

“I’m gonna put pressure on it, okay? The second you feel any sort of clarity, start chanting.”

You let out a loud cry of pain, more blood coming out and staining your shirt. The pain signals the adrenaline in your body. It takes you a couple seconds longer than what you hope before you start chanting in Latin.

It feels strange, your body stitching itself back together. The strange feeling of blood coming out of your body disappears. You huff, the chant ending a minute later. Buffy takes her hands off the wound and you watch her examine it.

“How’s it look?”

“Looks good, head wound is gone, too,” she says. “But we need to get you back to the Magic Box. Giles and Willow might have something they can help you brew up to get you fully healed.”

You lean up using your elbows and hands. You take Buffy’s hand and let out groan of pain as you get to your feet. You two walk out of the graveyard and head to the Magic Box. You thank God it’s dark and no one can see you and your best friend walk through the streets of Sunnydale with her holding you up.

The Magic Box comes into sight not ten minutes later. Buffy uses her key to open the door, but neither of you expect to see the floor of the Magic Box completely cleared out, with a large, decorated table filled to the brim with food and drinks.

Xander is the first to turn his head up and see you and Buffy.

“Happy Thanksgiving, you guys!” he says.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Xander,” you speak breathlessly. And that’s when he knows something is wrong. His eyes trail down to your bloodied shirt and widen drastically.

“Oh, crap.”

“Oh, crap is right.” Buffy sets you down in one of the nearest chairs. “Get the others and tell them [Name] needs a healing potion… or some sort of healing magic. The wound isn’t as bad as it looks, but she needs help crossing the finish line.”

“On it.”

Xander heads to the back to get the others, who come rushing in not a moment after he gets them.

Unfortunately for you, all you can focus on through one eye (the other squinted in pain) is Giles, and the look of worry and concern on his face.

“She’s very pale,” Giles says. His voice is clearly worried. It almost seems borderline… terrified?

“Blood loss,” you say in a shakily exhale. “Healed, yes. Blood back inside the body? Not so much.”

“Can you do anything, Giles?” Buffy asks.

“Let me see the wound and we’ll see.”

You raise your shirt, showing off the nasty scar. It’s not fully healed, maybe three-quarters. You look away, eyes meeting Buffy’s, who’s expression is borderline teasing and full of amusement. You roll yours in return.

“Nothing out of my capabilities I can’t heal,” Giles says. He looks up at you and adds, “But I do have to touch it to heal it.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine.” The second Giles places his hand on the injury though, a large wave of nausea makes you shudder and groan.

“She looks like she needs a trash can,” Xander pipes.

“I’ll get one,” Anya offers, disappearing behind the counter momentarily to grab one. She places it next to you and you thank her.

Giles’ warm hand leaves your lower torso. The wound is completely healed, although you still feel faint from the blood loss. He looks at you again, scanning over your sick expression.

“I’ll be fine in a bit,” you tell, a smile appearing on your face. “I think some food in my stomach would do me some good. Thank you, Giles.”

“You are most welcome,” he replies, standing. “And I think you are absolutely correct. Shall we eat?”

Buffy nods and speaks for everyone’s hungry stomachs. “We shall.”

Dawn sits between you and Buffy. Xander, Anya, and Dawn are on the other side of the table. At the head of the table, between Xander and Buffy, is Giles. Just like a father should be, you think, humored.

“So… What happened? How’d you get such a wound?” Willow asks.

You and Buffy answer in unison: “Vampires.”

“Thought we were done and one caught us by surprise with one of the stakes,” Buffy explains. “[Name] used her magic, but she couldn’t heal it all the way.”

“Glad you both made it back,” Xander said happily. “This Thanksgiving dinner we put together would’ve been a total bust.”

Everyone laughs in agreement and digs into the food. Unknowingly to you, Giles can barely keep his eyes off of you, only looking away to take a bite of food off of his plate. Though he does try to it make it obvious.

Indeed, he’s glad you made it back. He’s glad he’s able to heal your injuries. Life would certainly be a lot more dull without you around.

But as Anya hands you the gravy, you catch Giles staring at you out of your peripheral vision. There’s a look on his face, one you know well, because it’s the same one Spike gives Buffy when she’s not looking.

You smile and raise your glass in a toast. “Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.”

Everyone raises their glass cheerily, downing a swig.

You thank this Thanksgiving for giving you hope. Even if it doesn’t last.

[ambrossart]

Post Prom

summary: after leaving prom, you and eddie go to the hideout to reminisce and listen to music. one thing leads to another, and you end up going back to his trailer.

pairing: eddie munson x dwm!reader word count: 6,320 warnings: sfw, new relationship, eddie being awkward, eddie being adorable, eddie being romantic, eddie being obsessed with his guitar, lots of fluff, two-part story

This short story is the epilogue to Dancing with Myself. For proper context, I highly suggest you read that before reading this. It's 10 chapters long and a fairly quick read.

The stars had never shone as brightly as they did that night.

You couldn’t stop staring at them as you walked out of the banquet hall with Eddie by your side, with his suit jacket draped over your bare shoulders, feeling more and more like it was always meant to be there.

“This looks better on you anyway,” Eddie had said as he offered it to you. “Just don’t get it dirty, ‘kay, or else Wayne’ll kill me. It’s his one good suit.”

“I’ll guard it with my life,” you promised, only half joking. 

And while you thought about this, while you traced your thumb along the silk lining of Wayne Munson’s one good suit jacket, while you walked and talked and stole glimpses of Eddie’s face when he wasn’t looking, you couldn’t help but smile and say to yourself,

I’m in a dream, aren’t I?

Yeah, you had to be. The stars were far too bright, and the night too calm. Cars drove up and down the road and passed by without a sound. In the wet, wet grass, crickets chirped and a single sprinkler was still sputtering with life, hissing in the dark with a quiet shhhh-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick. You could hear it so clearly as you and Eddie strolled down the covered footpath together, your shadows illuminated by the soft orange glow of the street lights overhead. Eddie had a ring of keys in his right hand. They jingled as he tossed them up, caught them, and twirled them around his index finger.

I’m in a dream, you thought, and tomorrow morning I’m gonna wake up in my bedroom, alone, with that dusty old journal sprawled open in front of me.

And this made you withdraw into yourself and go silent for a minute. Your steps got slower and slower. Your smile slipped and collapsed into a troubled frown that deepened the further you got from the banquet hall. Eddie glanced over his shoulder, saw you falling behind, then slid his keys back into his pocket.

“Buyer’s remorse?” he said with a chuckle, but there was no humor in his voice, none at all. He turned and stepped in front of you, blocking your path with his body. “Hey, y’know we don’t have to go anywhere, right? I mean, we can always go back inside or… or I can just take you home, if you want.”

Eddie muttered the last part under his breath, wincing as he did. His dark brown eyes pierced into yours, nervous and a little afraid, afraid that if he said goodbye to you right now, if he took you home, kissed you goodnight, and watched you walk through that front door, there was a small chance he might never see you again.

And you supposed that was partly your fault, so you put your hand on his chest and gave him a reassuring smile.

“No, that’s not it,” you said. “I was just thinking.”

Eddie raised his eyebrows at you. “You were just… thinking?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Yeah, I was just thinking.”

If this really is a dream, please, please, please don’t wake me up.

You motioned toward the parking lot. “Lead the way, sir.”

Eddie cracked a small smile. “All right,” he said, and backed away from you with a little bounce in his step. “I’m, uhh, over here, so…”

You weaved through the crowded parking lot and found Eddie’s 1979 Chevy Nomad parked alone on the west end between a dying tree and a flickering lamppost. You held in a laugh. Oh jeez, you thought, of course he parks in the sketchiest spot he can find. If Ted Bundy had a reserved parking space in Hawkins, this would be it. It practically screamed, Yeah, you’re about to get napped.

Eddie seemed to notice this, too. He lingered by your side for a minute, then reached up to scratch his head. “Uhhh… there were other cars around when I parked here, just for the record.”

You looked up at him, fighting back a smile. “I wasn’t gonna say anything…”

Eddie’s eyes narrowed into a playful glare. “Yeah, you were.”

He went and opened the passenger-side door, and you busted out laughing when you saw his guitar case propped neatly against the front seat. This didn’t shock you nearly as much as it should have. If anything, you were more surprised that Eddie hadn’t strapped it safely into place with a seatbelt.

“So you let your guitar ride shotgun, huh?”

“Well, she is a lady,” Eddie replied, making you giggle.

“So, what, should I go sit in the back like cargo? Or do you wanna just rope me to the hood like a Christmas tree?”

Eddie leaned against the side of his van. “No, I’d never do that to you…” Then, with a self-amused smirk: “You can just hold her on your lap.”

Your eyes flattened into a hard line. Very funny, your eyes said.

Eddie chuckled quietly to himself, then stepped away from the van. “Just kidding, I’ll move her.”

Effortlessly, he lifted the guitar out of the front seat and put it in the back with the rest of his equipment, setting the instrument down on the floor with great care. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said while stroking the top of its case. “You’re still my number one girl, okay?”

You rolled your eyes and climbed into the front seat. As soon as you sat down, something small poked your butt, making you jump up in surprise. It was a guitar pick, one of many scattered about Eddie’s van. You were finding them everywhere: under your feet, on the dashboard, in the ashtray, even wedged in the crack of the center console. You dug one out with your fingernail and threw it into the glove compartment.

“You know, you really need to clean out your van,” you said to Eddie as he slid into the driver’s seat.

“Uhh, yeah,” he said, “I’ve been meaning to get to that for about two years now.”

He closed the door and flashed you a charming smile.

“So… where would you like to go?”

“You didn’t have a place in mind when you asked me?”

“Honestly? No… I was kinda expecting you to say no.”

You both laughed. Then you looked away and caught your reflection in the side-view mirror. It felt so strange, being there. You had fantasized about sitting in this van at least a hundred times. Now here you were, digging plastic guitar picks out of your seat (you found another one and flicked it away). It was even better than you imagined.

“Well, it doesn’t really matter,” you said, giving Eddie a shy smile. “You can pretty much take me anywhere.”

“Anywhere,” Eddie repeated slowly, his brown eyes locked with yours. “That’s… very unhelpful.”

Smiling, he leaned back in his seat and thought about it for a minute. His right hand went up to rest on the steering wheel. His index finger started tapping rhythmically against it. In the silence, you were swiveling around in your chair. Eddie caught you out of the corner of his eye and laughed.

“Having fun over there?”

“Yeah,” you said while moving back and forth. “I like the swivel.”

“The swivel is fun,” Eddie said. “The swivel is fun…”

Then, slowly, his whole face lit up.

“I got it,” he said. “I know where we can go.”

He started the van and put it in reverse.

Soon after, Eddie was pulling up in front of the old auto parts store on the corner of Main and Oak.

The building was basically dilapidated at this point. The grass along the side was patchy and full of weeds. The blue exterior was badly faded, chipped, and covered with graffiti. In the large storefront window, beneath a tattered and weather-worn awning, a marquee reader board was still advertising a sale on tires from 1966. If not for the row of cars and motorcycles parked along the curb, if not for the music pouring out onto the street, you would have thought this was just another abandoned building.

Eddie got out first, walked around the front of the van, then opened the passenger-side door.

“Ready?” he said to you, his eyes shimmering with childlike excitement.

You went inside and were instantly transported to the 1950s… or at least Cliff Kozack’s twisted, apocalyptic vision of the 1950s. Old Halloween decorations lined the shelves: coffins, skulls, cobwebs (those were real, though; Cliff kept them because they matched his aesthetic—or he was just too lazy to dust). Guitars hung from the ceiling and fell occasionally, landing behind unsuspecting patrons with a startling thwack! Famous faces were plastered across the walls: Elvis Presley, Connie Francis, Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly, Sam Cooke, Ritchie Valens. All the chrome finishes were dull and rusted in the corners. The black-and-white checkered floor was grimy and sticky with spilled beer that nobody had ever bothered to mop up. In the corner, propped beside a dusty, broken jukebox that only played one song: “Rockin’ Robin” by Bobby Day (and God help you if you played that song), a skeleton dressed in a leather jacket was gesturing toward a sign that spelled out the night’s drink specials.

Except there were no drink specials, just cheap beer and booze.

Cliff poured a beer, slid it across the bar, and then saw you and Eddie walk in through the front door. His eyes widened in horror.

“Quick,” he said to one of his bartenders, “what day is it today?”

“Uhh… Saturday.”

“Saturday.” Cliff closed his eyes and breathed a heavy sigh. “God, I was really hoping I got my days mixed up.”

Then he poured himself a shot of bourbon.

Two, actually.

One for you and one for Eddie.

He slammed them back in two gulps.

Meanwhile, you and Eddie were heading into the lounge just off the main bar, where a psychobilly trio called the Killer Elvises was performing on stage. Their hair was greased and styled into matching pompadours. The lead singer plucked an upright double bass that was almost as tall as he was. And they played the kind of snarling, thrashing music that made you want to get up and punch someone in the face for no reason at all. You had been there for less than a minute and Eddie was already getting revved up.

“God, I love these guys,” he said, shouting over the music.

You two were making your way to a table in the back. It was your table, the one you sat at every Tuesday night. Eddie wanted to sit there specifically. He insisted on it.

“Y’know the lead singer used to only play classical music? Wasn’t even allowed to listen to anything else. Yeah, I guess his parents were like these super-religious zealots or something.”

You looked toward the stage, where the lead singer was currently singing about drinking blood under the full moon and having sex with a werewolf.

“Well, I’m sure his parents are very proud of him now.”

Eddie glanced back at you, a smile crawling up the side of his face. “Yeah. Probably.”

Then he pointed toward a table tucked away in the corner of the lounge, half hidden behind a massive stone pillar. From the stage, you could barely even see it.

“That it?” Eddie asked. You nodded and said it was.

You sat down and made yourself comfortable while Eddie stole the seat across from you. Then he propped his elbow on the table and laid his chin on his palm, gazing at you with his big brown eyes.

“So, uh, this is your table, huh? And, what, you would sit in that spot?”

You looked around you. “Uhh, yeah, pretty much… I mean, it’s not the exact spot, but—”

“Well, hold on,” Eddie said, “I’m pretty sure I asked for the full experience, so…”

He made a "go on" motion with his hand. In return, you made a funny face.

“Seriously?” you said.

Eddie nodded, his eyes soft and affectionate. “C’mon, humor me.”

You looked away, feeling all the blood rush to your face, then slowly got up and dragged your stool a couple more inches to the right. When you sat down again and turned your body ever so slightly, you had a completely unobstructed view of the stage.

“There,” you said in a flustered voice. “Happy now?”

But Eddie didn’t answer you, not for a long while. He kept staring at you, then at the stage, then back at you, his eyes darkening more and more with each pass. During this time, the Killer Elvises had transitioned to a slower, almost bluesy style. You were thankful for that. Otherwise, you might not have heard Eddie when he said,

“Hey, how many times did you come here?”

You shrugged. “I dunno.”

“Guess.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Eddie’s abruptness made you a little uneasy.

“I dunno,” you said. “Twenty, maybe thirty times.”

Eddie dropped his head into his hand and cursed.

Your eyes widened. “What?” you said. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

Eddie rubbed his face in frustration. “Yeah, well, it’s a pretty big goddamn deal to me,” he said, sounding angry, but not at you. “Thirty times, Y/N, and that’s probably a modest estimate. You came to watch me thirty times, and I never noticed you. Never. Not once. How the hell did I not notice you?”

You shrugged your shoulders again. This time, they felt a little heavy.

“I guess you just weren’t looking,” you said, and Eddie stared at you with a guilty, helpless expression.

“Yeah, I was,” he said under his breath.

Then—

WHAM!

Two huge fists slammed onto the table, making you both jump.

“Well, well, well,” said Cliff, bringing his face down to your level, “look who’s here…”

“Hi, Cliff,” you said. “Hey, congratulations, by the way. You’ve got a real packed house tonight. I think there’s like fifty people here.”

Cliff’s lips curled into a hard, unamused smile.

“Hey, man, I keep telling you to get a sign for this place—”

“I don’t want a sign,” Cliff said to you. “Signs attract pests, and I’m still trying to get rid of the two I currently have.”

His eyes went to you, then to Eddie, then back to you.

“Hey, we’re like your only regulars… us and the guy that likes to sleep in that booth over there.” You gestured toward him with your chin. “You know, someone should really check on him soon ‘cause I haven’t seen him move in a while.”

“No, I kicked him a few minutes ago. He’s fine.” Then to Eddie, Cliff said, “I see you finally found your number-one fan. You know, she comes in here every Tuesday. Every Tuesday. The other night, I thought she was gonna start a bar fight.”

“Really?” Eddie gave you an impressed look that made you feel embarrassed.

You put both your hands on the table and sat up as tall as you could. “Hey, that’s… that’s not even…” With a huff, you sank back down and muttered under your breath, “I was trying to listen to the music. They wouldn’t stop talking.”

Cliff’s chest rose and fell with hearty laughter. “You hear that?” he said, clapping Eddie on the shoulder. “She was trying to listen to the music,” and for some reason that made Eddie smile and chuckle to himself.

Once Cliff returned to the bar, you turned to Eddie and said, “What, is that like an inside joke or something?”

Eddie was still smiling. “No, it’s just…” He pointed across the lounge. “You see that table over there?”

“Yeah… What about it?”

“When I was younger, my dad used to bring me here a lot. Yeah, he would, uhh, just drop me off here while he went and did… well… whatever he did.” He shrugged it off like it didn’t matter. “Anyway, I’d sit at that table… at that table… for hours and hours, just watching these guys play and wishing I could be as good as them one day. And, yeah, I would get really annoyed whenever people talked during my favorite parts.”

Now you were smiling, too. “That’s… really cute, actually,” and you both went quiet and listened to the band play for a while.

Halfway through the fourth song, while you watched the musician’s tattooed fingers fly across the frets of his hollow-body guitar, you couldn’t help but say, “He’s really good.”

Eddie said, “He’s very good…”

You glanced to your left and caught him watching the guitarist in silent awe, his mouth hanging open, eyes racing to keep up with every movement of the man’s fretting hand.

Stifling a giggle, you said, “You are green with envy right now.”

“I am…”

“You’re gonna go home and practice for like three hours, aren’t you?”

“Oh, at least,” Eddie said, giving you an adorable smile.

That’s when Cliff’s partner decided to drop by for a friendly little chitchat. The buxom brunette strutted up to your table with an empty drink tray and pressed it against her chest while she observed you and Eddie with a tender, motherly expression.

“Awww, well aren’t you two just the sweetest thing, sitting here all cozied up and adorable… I feel like I’ve been waiting half my life for this day to come.”

Cleo tossed you a girlish, not-so-well-hidden smile (Wow, you thought, it’s a miracle my secret lasted this long), then turned to Eddie and said, “You know, she’s been coming here every Tuesday for the last… God, I don’t even know… probably about three ye—”

Panic seized you. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Eddie’s lips twitch upwards, curling into a cocky smile.

You squeezed your eyes shut and blurted out, “Yeah, he knows, Cleo! He knows. How ‘bout you go get us some drinks?”

Cleo brushed you off with a laugh. “Oh fine, oh fine…” She lowered the tray to her side. “What can I get you two lovebirds?”

Eddie said, “I’ll just have a beer.”

And you said, “I’ll have a rum and Coke, with muddled cherries, garnished with cherries and some sugar around the rim. Make sure Cliff really grinds those suckers down, too. I don’t wanna see a bunch of cherry chunks floating around my glass.”

Cleo looked at you both tiredly, her lips gathering into a tight, uncomfortable smile. “Yeah… that’s gonna get old real quick.” Then she sighed and went back to the bar.

As soon as she was gone, Eddie looked at you and said, “Three years? Did I hear that right?”

You shook your head. “No, not three years. Nowhere near three years.”

There were, you were fairly sure, at least two occasions where you chose to stay home.

Because you were sick.

You immediately changed the subject: “So, anyway, when are you guys getting a new lead singer?”

“Nice segue,” Eddie said. Then: “Shit, I dunno, man… after Scottie got locked up, it just didn’t feel right to replace him. Plus we couldn’t find anyone, so…”

“I’ll do it,” you said. 

Eddie squinted at you. “Can you sing?”

“No… but neither can Scottie.”

Eddie laughed. “Fair enough.”

Then you leaned onto your elbows and said, “Any idea when he’s getting out?”

“Uhh…” Eddie stretched out his arms while he thought about it, rolled some of the tightness out of his neck and shoulders. “I think he gets released in like three months.”

“Damn,” you said. “Hard to believe it’s almost been a year.”

You suddenly remembered the last time you saw Scott Sloman. It was a few months before he graduated. Scottie came up to you after school and said he needed a favor.

God, he’s an idiot…

Who?

No one. Never mind.

You shook the memory away. “Shit, man, let that be a lesson: don’t go speeding through a school zone with a bunch of pot in your car. What the hell was he thinking, anyway?”

Eddie nodded slowly, his eyes taking on a distant sheen. “Yeah…”

And now, as you looked at him, a terrifying thought crossed your mind. It made your heart sick with dread. 

“That could’ve been you,” you said, and Eddie’s gaze plummeted to the floor.

Just then, a shiver rolled through you. You pulled Wayne's jacket tighter against you and tried not to think about that anymore.

“Okay, sweeties,” said Cleo as she returned with a tray of drinks. “I have one Shirley Temple with a side of maraschino cherries.” She set down a highball and a shot glass, then reached for the last glass on her tray. “And for you, sir… one Coke. Can I get you anything else?”

Eddie scowled at his beverage. “Where’s my beer?”

“Uhh, waiting for you to turn twenty-one.”

Eddie rolled his eyes and brought the glass to his lips. “Like I don’t drink already…”

And Cleo said, “Not in my bar, you don’t.”

She turned and walked away, but before she got too far, Eddie called out to her again: “Hey, Cleo, can we get some wings?”

Cleo looked back at him and sneered. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

Meanwhile, you chucked a maraschino cherry at Eddie’s head.

“What?” Eddie said to you with a mischievous smirk. “I just want some wings…” and he tipped his head to the side, dodging the next cherry you fired his way. “Hey, where’d you come up with that, anyway?”

“I dunno, I panicked,” you said. “I thought I’d been found out, and I needed to throw you off my scent.”

“With blueberry wings?”

“Blueberry barbecue wings, actually.”

“Yeah, what is that? Is that a real flavor or did you just make that up?”

“No, it’s real… I think.” You seriously considered it for a minute, then shrugged. “Yeah, I imagine it having this smoky-sweet kinda flavor. I’ve never had it before, but I feel like it’d be really delicious… that or really disgusting. Either way, I’d like to try it once before I die.”

“Noted,” Eddie said, and reached into your shot glass full of cherries.

Your jaw dropped as you watched him put the fruit between his teeth and gently, so gently, pluck it off the stem.

“Hey, you know how they say, umm, people who can tie cherry stems with their tongues are automatically good kissers? Yeah, turns out there is zero evidence to support any kind of correlation between the two. I mean, obviously, you must have pretty good muscle coordination to tie a cherry stem with only your tongue, but that says very little about how good you are at kissing. Yeah, it really just means you have a skilled…”

You closed your mouth, snatched your drink, and washed the rest of that sentence down your throat.

Eddie watched you, a smile tugging at his lips. “Makes sense,” he said. Then, in a low voice: “Can you do it?”

You set down your glass and wiped your lips. “Do what?”

“Tie a cherry stem with your tongue.”

You gulped. “Umm… I’ve never really tried, honestly, but probably not. I’m very not very coordinated in general, so I wouldn’t expect that skill to transfer.”

Eddie nodded. “I see,” he said while stealing another cherry from your glass. Before popping it into his mouth, he looked right at you and said, “Well, I can.”

Your whole body flushed. “H’okay…” you said as your mind raced with a million unbidden thoughts. You reached for your glass again and—“Hey, here’s a fun fact: did you know that grenadine isn’t actually made from cherries? It’s made from pomegranates.”

“That is a fun fact,” Eddie replied with an amused smile. “You wanna hear another fun fact?”

“Tell me.”

“Your face is about as red as your drink right now.” Eddie propped his chin on his fist and raised his eyebrows suggestively. “Fun fact.”

Your blush deepened. “Oh,” you said.

Then you looked down at the table and thought, God strike me down, I’m a filthy fucking pervert.

The band stopped playing around twelve-thirty. Afterward, the members packed up their instruments and returned to the lounge to drink and play cards with a few of Cliff’s off-the-clock employees. By then, most of the Saturday night crowd had already moved on, leaving only Cliff’s regular clientele: some college kids, a couple bikers, but mostly just a bunch of old guys that wanted to drink quietly at the bar and be left alone. Those were Cliff’s favorite kind of people. He kept their glasses full and they kept to themselves. They were the perfect patrons.

Then there was the Munson kid.

“Hey…” Eddie came up to the bar and started drumming his hands on the counter. “Just outta curiosity, who do you have up next?”

“Nobody,” Cliff said while he cleaned the soda gun. “Nobody else signed up.”

“Interesting,” said Eddie. He reached into his pocket and slammed two twenty-dollar bills on the counter. “How much time will that get me?”

Cliff glanced at the meager offering. “Five minutes.”

“Five minutes?” God, that greedy bastard. Eddie threw his head back and groaned an all-too-familiar groan. “C’mon, man, I’m trying to impress a girl here.”

In response, Cliff pressed his massive palms onto the counter, leaned forward, and gave Eddie an intense, unblinking stare.

“You’re trying to impress a girl?”

“Yep.”

“That girl?”

“Mhm.”

Cliff exhaled deeply through his nose. “Okay, kid, lemme tell you a little something about that girl. She comes in here every Tuesday just to watch your shitty band play shitty music. When you guys suck, she gives me hell for it. She says I need to invest in a better sound system.”

“Well,” Eddie muttered under his breath, “you do need a better sound system. That thing’s a piece of shit.”

Cliff arched his eyebrow, daring him to continue. Eddie waved his hands in surrender and stopped talking.

“What I’m saying is… I dunno how the hell you did it, kid, but clearly you’ve already done enough to impress her.”

Cliff’s words sank in deep, making Eddie’s heart feel warm and full. He leaned against the bar and observed you for a moment, while you sat and sipped your drink at the table (and probably, secretly, tried to tie a few cherry stems with your tongue, just to see if you could do it). Then he turned back to Cliff with a huge smile.

“Yeah, but I still kinda wanna do it, so…” Eddie placed his finger on the stack of paper bills and slid it further across the counter. “How much?”

Cliff sighed and slapped his hand over the cash. “Okay, Romeo, you’ve got twenty minutes.”

Eddie pumped his fist in victory, spun around, and went marching back to your table.

“Hey,” he said once he reached you, “wanna be my roadie?”

Your eyes were skeptical, but also curious. “Sure.”

And now Eddie was dragging the guitar strap over his head while you sat on the stage with your legs dangling over the edge, barefooted, your heels resting beside you. He switched on his amp and reached into his back pocket, pulling out yet another plastic guitar pick. It thrummed gently against the steel strings as he played a few random chords, making sure his instrument was still in tune.

“Just out of curiosity,” you said, “how many guitar picks do you have on you at any given time?”

“Uhh, at least two,” Eddie replied with his head bent over his guitar. “Yeah, never know when I’m gonna need one.”

“Right,” you said, “I guess you never know when someone’s gonna ask you to bust out a wicked guitar solo.”

Eddie chuckled a little at that. “Well, it hasn’t happened yet, but…” He looked over at you and smiled a sweet smile. “All right, crazy, name your song.”

“Any song?”

“Any song.”

Wow, talk about pressure. You clapped your hands together and brought them to your lips in thought.

And you thought.

And you thought.

And you thought some more.

Finally, after a minute of silence, Eddie leaned over and said, “Okay, remember we’ve only got twenty minutes here.”

“Fifteen now,” Cliff hollered from the bar, and Eddie gave you a look that said, Hurry up.

“Okay, okay,” you said. “Ummm… Oh—”

“Can’t do ‘Free Bird.’”

Your mouth snapped shut, and you frowned. “Why? You can’t play it?”

“No,” said Eddie, a little insulted by your accusation. “No, I can definitely play it. Easily, actually. I’m just not allowed to play it. That’s the problem.” He started scratching his chin, a nostalgic smile consuming his face. “See, uhhh, when I first learned that song, I played it nonstop for like three weeks straight, drove everyone here crazy… so, yeah, if I play that song right now, Cliff’s gonna throw us both out.”

You laughed. “Okay, then—”

“Same goes for ‘Stairway to Heaven.’”

“Wow,” you said. “Way to ruin every good guitar song for me, Munson.”

“Hey, trust me, there are plenty of better guitar songs out there. You just have terrible taste in music.”

“I do not have terrible taste in music!”

“Well, your favorite band’s Journey, so…”

You made a sharp, stabbing motion with your finger. “Hey, watch it, pal. If you’re gonna turn this into another Journey hatefest, then I’m just gonna…” but you couldn’t bring yourself to finish that sentence, not while Eddie was staring at you like that, his eyes practically sparkling under the stage lights.

You turned around and laid your hands on your lap. Then, after a brief moment of careful deliberation, you said, “I wanna hear ‘Hotel California,’ and I want you to put some soul into it, Munson.”

When Eddie didn’t answer, you looked over your shoulder and saw him rubbing the back of his neck in contemplation.

You sighed, dejected. “What, you’re not allowed to play that song, either?”

Eddie shook his head. “No, no… just, uhhh, gimme a second, okay? It’s been a couple years since I played that one.”

He put his guitar pick between his lips and thought hard about it for a moment, humming the melody under his breath, miming the chord progressions with his fingers until they felt just right. Once he finally had it, he took the pick out of his mouth and positioned it over the strings.

“Okay,” he said to you, “get ready.”

“Oh, I’m ready,” you said… and your mouth fell open as soon as Eddie strummed the first chord, his fingers gliding effortlessly across the strings.

The slow, haunting twang of his electric guitar sent chills down your spine and made your skin prickle with goosebumps. All of a sudden, you were twelve again, sitting alone in a dark and crowded auditorium while some strange boy played a terrible cover of Judas Priest’s “Rock Forever.”

The kid sucked. God, did he suck. And, worst of all, he didn’t even seem to realize it. He was playing like he was the headlining act on a rock ‘n’ roll tour, like everyone in the audience had paid hundreds of dollars just to watch him perform. You could hardly contain your laughter. It was cracking you up all night: while Chrissy’s dad drove you home, while you gave your parents a painfully descriptive play-by-play in the living room, while you tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep because you couldn’t stop thinking about that hilariously awful performance.

Except by then you weren’t laughing anymore. You were too busy picturing that boy’s face, and his eyes… mostly his eyes… those deep, deep brown eyes, the brownest eyes you had ever seen. Every time he played his guitar, they took on this focused yet far-off look, like he was a million miles away.

Those deep, distant brown eyes left you speechless even now.

“Wow, Munson,” you said when he was finished, “you’re like my own personal jukebox.”

It was a silly throwaway joke, not even remotely funny, but for some reason it made Eddie stop everything he was doing and stare at you for a moment, his eyes dazed and blinking, as if he suddenly couldn’t remember where he was.

“What?” you said.

“Uhh, nothing,” Eddie replied, “just a little déjà vu, I guess.”

He gave his head a couple quick shakes and raised his guitar again, his movements awkward and clumsy as his hands struggled to find their natural grip. “Uhh… next song? This one’ll probably be the last, so think carefully, okay? You really gotta make this one count.”

“Okay,” you said, but you already knew what song you were choosing. Yeah, you had made that decision about four nights ago when Cliff cruelly pulled the plug on Eddie’s Tuesday night performance.

You stole one glimpse of his shirt and said with the brightest smile, “‘Prowler’ - Iron Maiden.”

Eddie closed his eyes and sighed deeply, blissfully, then turned to you with an adoring look on his face.

“You’re welcome,” you said. “Have fun, sir.”

You were both smiling as you and Eddie left the bar together, the night sky hovering high above you, twinkling with a thousand stars.

Eddie carried his guitar and his amp and hauled them into his van. Then he reached back for the small bundle of cords you held in your arms.

“So, did you have a good time?” he asked.

“I did,” you said. “Yeah, it’s always fun pissing off Cliff.”

“Yeah…” Eddie glanced back at you. “Yeah, he’s a good guy.”

Then he pulled the sliding door closed and leaned against it, staring at you with a gentle expression that made your heart speed up a little. You wondered when Eddie was going to make a move. You wondered if he was going to make a move. You wondered if you were being too presumptuous in assuming that he was going to make a move. Then you wondered if you were wondering about this too much and finally slumped down beside him, your back squeaking against the filthy van door.

“Shit,” you said, “I definitely just got this jacket dirty.”

You peeled away from the van and turned around, guiltily displaying your back to Eddie. 

“Is it bad?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it’s pretty bad.”

Great, you thought, and leaned against the van again.

“I’ll pay to have it dry cleaned.”

“Eh, don’t worry about it,” Eddie said. “I’ll take all the blame… Yeah, I don’t want Wayne hating you before he even meets you.”

And that made you grin—a stupid, happy grin.

“I think he’ll really like you, by the way.”

You looked up at him in surprise. “Really?”

“No,” Eddie replied dully. “No, he'll definitely think you're annoying.”

For that, you clobbered his shoulder with your fist. Eddie absorbed the blow, laughing as he did.

“God, always so violent,” he said, pretending to rub the pain out of his shoulder. “You know, if you’re looking for an excuse to touch me, you can just…”

Eddie closed his mouth and looked away, then started pensively clucking his tongue behind his teeth: click, cluck, click, cluck.

The sound reminded you of a ticking clock steadily counting down the minutes.

One-o-eight.

One-o-nine.

One-ten.

The night was finally nearing its end. Now you and Eddie were standing at a literal and metaphorical crossroads, its intersection marked with a tiny green sign. It sat smugly on a rusted metal pole and presented you with two options: you could keep going straight down Main Street or make a sharp right turn onto Oak.

Main Street was the logical and more dependable choice. The road was recently paved and brightly lit, dotted with all kinds of trees, flowers, shrubs, and these cozy little wooden benches that sat so neatly on the freshly cut grass. It was a nice road, a scenic road, a road that gradually led onto Cherry Street, then Maple Street, and finally, safely, brought you to your house. You and Eddie would sit in his van for a few minutes, enjoying the awkward yet wonderful silence, and then he would lean across the seat and give you a kiss—a chaste, gentleman’s kiss.

All in all, not a bad way to end prom night. In fact, you thought it sounded rather romantic.

Sweet.

Innocent.

Then there was the other street: Oak Street. Oak, with that hard, hard K. You couldn’t see all the way down that street, not from where you were standing, but you knew it eventually turned into Cornwallis. And you knew Cornwallis… yeah, you knew that road very well. That road was older, cracked and covered with potholes. It was the road where your tire had blown out while you were driving back from a party at Sattler’s Quarry. You and Chrissy had to hike a mile to Benny’s Burgers and ask Benny to borrow his phone. And the whole time you kept thinking, I’m never, ever driving on this road again.

Yeah, Cornwallis was a bad road, a dangerous road. It went on for miles and miles, winding through steep hills and giant pockets of dark, dense forest. And if you weren’t very careful, you might accidentally… inevitably… make a wrong turn and find yourself flying straight down Kerley Road.

… towards the Forest Hills Trailer Park.

Oh shit, you thought. That is a very tempting road.

You sucked in a shaky breath as your knees trembled with indecision.

Meanwhile, Eddie had pushed off the side of the van and went reaching into his pocket for his keys.

“It’s getting late,” he said, his voice husky with regret. “I should probably—”

You put your hand on Eddie’s heart and felt it jump at your touch.

“I don’t wanna go home,” you said, “not yet.”

Eddie’s eyes widened for a second, then softened with a warm, hazy glow. He leaned into your palm, into you, and murmured against your lips,  

“I don’t wanna take you home.” 

⏩ part two

DWM MASTERPOST

MASTERLIST

[anisespice]

tall fem reader?

tall fem reader!!! thanks for the request, anon :)))

hq ver.

pairing: college!tr x tall!fem!reader

warnings: mature language, MDI, suggestive language, reader mentioned in chifuyu’s but not present, mild mild mild cat-call in hanma’s - just crack overall, honestly lol feel free to let me know if i missed anything!

notes: planned to make this a whole x whoever you want type beat, BUT figured just doing a headcanon broken into different heights would be more efficient lol plus MORE CONTENT - gonna make a pt. 2 with some hq men, but for now — t.rev! :))) hope you enjoy <3 !!

tagged: @fantasycantasy , @illegalspacecow

small — ♡

When it came down to a relationship, MIKEY wasn’t shallow enough to let physical appearances stop him from pursuing someone he wanted—He liked what he liked, fuck what anybody else had to say about it. The blonde never had issue with your drastic height difference, seeing it as more of a perk than anything else. His best friend was tall, so why not his girlfriend? It just meant whenever he walked down the street, he’d look like a total badass with his two attractive beanpoles at his side.

However, a lot of the buzz on campus mostly centered around Mikey’s height rather than yours. It never bothered him, but it certainly got you tight anytime someone tried to uplift you whilst putting him down in the process.

“A shrimp like him wouldn’t know how to handle all that leg of yours, mama. Lemme take you out tonight, show you a good time with someone who’s more on your level, whaddya say?”

Barf.

Mikey would merely give them a dead-stare; unbothered king. You, on the other hand, didn’t hesitate to knock them down a size or two.

“First of all, your busted-looking ass could never be on the same level as me. Second of all, where my man lacks in height, he makes up for elsewhere, so he handles me very well, thank you. You’re probably the type to just shove it in without any sort of technique, thinking that’s enough to get a girl to finish. My man won’t bust once until I’ve came up to four times, the fuck can you offer me besides being six-foot? Hm? That’s right, not a damn thing. Remember that next time you talk shit, dirt-neck.”

Read him straight to filth. And God forbid Mikey had his gang with him anytime some scrub tried to spit game, best believe they’d dog the guy until he scurried away in humiliation. It always filled him with great adoration for you wherever you checked someone in his defense, your entire relationship giving off the same energy as that one meme with Kevin Hart’s character being protectively held by the lady. It’d been put in the groupchat a number of times just to tease the delinquent, but he’s unashamed at the fact you could easily pick his ass up. If anything, he was all for it, even requested piggy-back rides from you more often than his right-hand man—Draken’s back appreciates your sacrifice.

Now let someone try and spit game at him.

“Yeah, normally guys feel emasculated when their girlfriend’s taller than them, y’know? I’m surprised you don’t, though. No offense, [_____] just doesn’t seem like a good fit for you. I mean, must be tough to lay in the same bed, or even put her in your lap without feeling smothered or crushed. Wouldn’t it be much better to have someone a little smaller-”

“She could sit on me until my pelvis collapsed, and I would thank her. And, full offense, if I was single, still wouldn’t pick you even if you put a gun to my head. Keep my girl’s name out your mouth, you don’t deserve to breathe the same air let alone be on first name basis. Now, quit wasting my time—Do you have the notes from yesterday’s lecture or not?”

You don’t play about him. He don’t play about you. Period.

And as far as sharing a bed, cuddling or otherwise, Mikey was a sucker for being held like a damn squishmellow. Didn’t matter if you took up most of the leg space, dude would be wrapped around you like a python, so snug and warm you’d be lucky to even escape his grasp for food or the bathroom. Once he’s sleep, he’s SLEEP, and then you become the squishmellow.

“Mikey, I will be right back, turn me loose-”

“Zzzzzz…” out like a light. Drooling and everything, face smushed up against your boobs, just content. You’d think he’d been working the graveyard shift. And God forbid he ended up laying on top of you, sprawled out starfish style…you for sure weren’t going anywhere then.

Even if you expressed this dilemma after he woke up, the blonde merely yawned. “Just pick me up and carry me with you…”

“You’re smoking crack if you think I’m gonna haul your ass with me into the bathroom. I love you and all that, but we ain’t at the stage where I can comfortably use it with you in room.”

He shrugged. “Mm. Guess you don’t have to go that bad. G’night.”

“Mikey.”

“Shh, I’m sleeping…”

A gremlin. But, your gremlin. ♡

—

medium — ♡

CHIFUYU still can’t believe he bagged you, frfr.

There’d be moments where you’d catch him staring, as if he figured you’d disappear the second he took his eyes off you.

It’d get a little creepy sometimes, but it was endearing all the same. He wasn’t the shortest guy, though he wasn’t the tallest either, and standing next to you was a constant reminder of that. Not that he held any resentment toward you for it, he absolutely loved your height. However, there was always some form of insecurity that would resurface anytime someone called attention to it.

And today, his best friend and co-worker, Baji, would not only be the culprit, but an unlikely source of reassurance.

While they were stocking up inventory, the ravenette couldn’t help but notice the stool his friend was using to put a box in a particular high place. Wearing a mischievous grin, Baji pointed. “Oi. You should take that home with you. That way your girl won’t have to strain her neck when she kisses you.” He snorted, thinking he was the funniest man alive.

Normally, something that lame wouldn’t phase him, but guess today he was feeling a little more sensitive. With a grunt, the former blonde coolly spoke, “Maybe you should shut the hell up, and stock the damn shelves.”

“Whoa. What’s up your ass?” Baji furrowed his brows, walking over to lightly kick at the stool’s metal leg, making it jerk. Chifuyu sharply gasped, latching onto an empty shelf to steady himself. He exhaled, relieved, then shot a glare. But, Baji wasn’t perturbed.

Chifuyu sighed. “Nothing. I’m fine...”

“Fine my left nut. You don’t get short like that unless there’s something on your mind,” not the best way to phrase that, but at least he was genuine. Chifuyu rolled his eyes, coming down off the stool to brush past the ravenette.

“Not in the mood, alright?”

Baji was left standing there, dumbfounded.

The entire vibe had been thrown on its head, and he didn’t understand why. Awkwardly, he went back to assorting through the contents within the nearest box, bottom lip stuck out in thought as he briefly glanced at Chifuyu’s back mere feet away. It was like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He knew not to pry, but curiosity always won gold in the end. Baji replayed the conversation in his head, using his impeccable deductive reasoning to draw his own conclusions.

And then suddenly, an epiphany.

Without a hint of warning, the ravenette quickly walked over and slapped his friend in the middle of his back. Chifuyu yelped, nearly dropping the box in his hands before whipping around to fix Baji with a wide, incredulous look. “T-The hell?!”

“So. She dumped ya, huh? [Sigh] Look man, don’t beat yourself up, a lot of guys fumble the bag from time to time. If ya need a shoulder to cry on…don’t use mine, but ‘tora might let you-”

“Hah?? What are you—[_____] didn’t dump me, dumbass!”

Baji blinked. “Oh. My bad, jus’ figured that’s why you’re in your feelings.”

“And you thought the best thing to do was to hit me, then tell me to cry on someone else?” Chifuyu squinted when the arsonist gave a shrug. He sighed again, carefully setting the box down. “It’s not about [______]. Well, technically. The other day we had lunch with a few of her friends. They apparently have been dying to meet me for some time. And things were going great until…”

Chifuyu trailed off, leaving Baji in suspense.

He grunted. “‘till what? Jus’ say it, bet it isn’t even that bad-”

“They were shocked to see her with someone who barely came up to her elbows.”

Silence filled the storage room. Chifuyu continued to keep his eyes trained elsewhere while his counterpart merely stared for what felt like hours, but only seconds. And then…

“Pfft.”

Chifuyu looked up and sneered, blushing furiously as he threw a chew toy from one of the boxes at the fiend. “Hey! Don’t laugh! Do you have any idea how humiliating that is??”

Baji, to his dismay, effortless caught the toy, even squeaking it a couple times just to annoy him more. Taking a moment to collect himself, the ravenette still wore his sharp grin as he spoke through airy giggles. “So? Who cares what they have to say?”

“I do! They’re [_____]’s friends, everyone knows their approval is just as crucial to the relationship as the parents…if not more.”

“Mm. Pretty sure you’re overthinking this.”

Chifuyu gave a sarcastic laugh, “Pretty sure I’m not.”

“Alright. Lemme school ya on how women operate when they get in their little cliques.” Baji dusted off his hands, missing the eye roll the former blonde gave once again. With his pointer held high, he declared, “If majority of the friend group is taken, they’re just being protective. No doubt they’ve been there for every heartbreak, every fight, ‘nd jus’ don’t think anyone’s good enough for [_____]. Jus’ gotta keep your head down, and don’t give ‘em any reason to be weary. Simple.”

With a slow, skeptical nod, Chifuyu pursed his lips at his fellow delinquent. It wasn’t unlikely, so at least he’s correct in that regard. However, the line between facts and feelings began to blur the further Baji continued.

“But, if majority of them are single, then you’re screwed either way —Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”

“Wow, that’s so helpful. You sure schooled me, Baji-san.”

“‘m serious. You gotta watch out for the single ones in the friend group. They’re all passive aggressive, try to get under your skin, push your buttons. Then, before you know it, they’re in your head, get you so worked up only for them to turn around and play victim, saying you can’t take a joke, and now you’re the fucking bad guy! Classic textbook emotional manipulation—Don’t fall for it. ‘cause they’ve got it down to a science, I’m telling ya.”

Chifuyu’s eyes widen at the sudden intensity that overtook the room, taking a small step back when Baji jabbed his finger at him, as if he were warning him of some conspiracy. “Uh…you good?”

Baji took a moment’s pause. Then, he cleared his throat.

“Sorry, got a little carried away. All’s I’m saying is, don’t sweat. Lotta chick’s pick on the best friend’s new fling, t’s like a war tactic—Poking at our fragile egos ‘nd all that. But, seems like you did fine, otherwise you’d be crying all over ‘tora right now.” Baji shrugged.

Chifuyu blinked, now his turn to be dumbfounded. “Huh.”

He frowned. “‘Huh’? I jus’ gave you some killer, black-pilled insight on cracking their code of conduct, and all I get is a dry-ass ‘huh’? Tsk. I’m charging you next time, goddamn freeloader.”

Chifuyu glared, but softened soon after. After taking his words into consideration, the former blonde couldn’t help but feel lighter. “It’s just... didn’t expect that to actually make me feel better.”

Baji scrunched his nose. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean? Oi, don’t ever doubt my knowledge. It may be selective, but I got it when it counts. Besides, thanks to me you won’t take that stool home after all.”

“I wasn’t planning to take it home in the first place.”

“Right. Keep telling yourself that, elbows.”

“Hey!”

—

large — ♡

“Hey, baby, those legs go all the way up?”

It was moments like this where you detested not being able to blend in with the average crowd. Attention always seemed to gravitate toward you no matter how hard you tried to avoid it, like being covered in honey while trying to walk in front of a herd of bears. And it didn’t help that you were currently wearing heels tonight, accentuating your legs even more in the little, black cocktail dress you sported. You were headed to a party a mutual friend of yours was throwing, and you wanted to surprise your man by wearing the new Jimmy Choos he bought you, knowing how much he loved how your legs with the extra height on them—Evidently, so did the prowling degenerate on the streets.

You had elected to ignore them. HANMA seemed to have other plans as he came to a complete stop in his tracks, slowly turning around to walk up on the moron who had the nerve to open his mouth. Low, golden eyes gazed down at the waste of space, face calm but a murderous aura oozed off him like pheromone, suffocating the slimy bastard into submission as he attempted to shrink away. But, he wasn’t about to let him get away so easily.

A wide, eerie grin spread across his face. “Could’ve sworn I just heard you cat-call my girl right in front of me. But, you wouldn’t be stupid enough to do that. Right?”

The guy nervously looked back for reinforcements but his buddies were already long gone. Hanma’s grin immediately dissolved from his face, kissing his teeth before grabbing the guy by the front of his collar and twisting. “Fuckin’ hate repeating myself.”

Hanma wound his arm back, dead set on knocking the guy into an early grave until you intervened at the last second. By grabbing onto the balled up fist, you brought it to your lips to place a tender kiss on the inked skin. You felt his muscles relax, but he still held the offender by his shirt, only slightly playing attention to you cooing in his ear.

“Baby, you promised no fighting tonight, remember?”

“I know, doll, but this fucker,” he shook the guy around in his tight grasp, unhinged grin making its appearance once more at the sound of him blubbering, “deserves to have his shit rocked for even looking at you. I’m just gonna teach ‘em a little lesson about manners, that’s all. I’ll be quick.”

You scoffed, “You and I both know you don’t do quick.”

Hanma snickered. “First time for everything, right?”

“Shuji.”

Tugging on his arm, you were able to redirect all of his focus onto you, sinister eyes melting into sweet caramel as his pupils dilated the second they locked on yours. It always did something to him whenever you came up to eye-level. Sure, you were already pretty tall but the heels nearly had you towering him. It gave him a weird sensation, one that made him want to drop everything and worship you like the deity you were. Especially in situations like this.

Hanma felt like the smaller one for once. It drove him insane.

You fixed him a stern look. “Drop him.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, he discarded the guy onto the pavement like an old can, wild eyes eagerly watching you and waiting for your next request. Taking his free hand into yours, interlacing your fingers, you led the rest of the way by pulling him from the nobody now cowering near a bush, no doubt rethinking his life choices while you kept onward to your destination. You didn’t get all spruced up to not be seen tonight, and you’ll be damned if any more time got wasted on some loser he’d put in a coma after one hit. After a short moment of silence, you expected Hanma to be mad at you for not letting him knock someone’s teeth loose. But when you glanced back at him, you should’ve known you’d be greeted with absolute smugness as you shook your head in mirth.

You elected to ignore the obvious tent in his pants…but he’d surely plan for you to do otherwise later on.

[k9wa]

𑣲 IN WINTER, I COLLAPSE. ft haruchiyo sanzu.

⠀ — when an emotional tolerance reaches a whopping zero.

⚠︎ whats a vent fic lol idk wym. sad sack reader && sad themes and u get the idea. kantou!sanzu && gn reader (princess used once)

“let's go for a walk.”

sanzu watched, somewhat startled, as you sprung up from his bed. remaining lying on his back, he stared, missing the warmth that had been abruptly stolen from his chest. the look on his face would almost lead you to believe you had an extra head on your shoulders.

he peered to the clock on his bedside table.

“…it’s three in the morning.”

“so?”

“so let’s go at a normal fucking hour, i'm tired.”

he rolled over onto his side, fluffing a pillow to try and find a comfortable position. you only responded with a huff. when he didn’t feel your weight return to the mattress beside him, he turned (while suppressing a very dramatic groan) back around to see you shimmying on a pair of sweatpants.

“suit yourself, i'll be back in a little.” 

sanzu could have let his eyes roll back into the deepest part of his skull. before you could exit his bedroom, he brushed some hair out of his face, the hues of rose muddled by the lack of light, and propped himself up on his elbows.

“oi.”

you took a quick glance behind you.

“let me get dressed, i’ll drive us.”

“i wanna walk.”

“you’re gonna be too tired to walk back, i’m not listenin’ to yer cryin’ and moanin’.”

sanzu watched you cross your arms and turn back around. 

“i’m just gonna walk.” and leave.

you didn't hear the hasty footsteps behind you until you were halfway down the stairs to his apartment, and the cool february air was already biting your skin.

“will you fuckin’ slow down?”

any other day you’d without fail speed up to piss him off, but you halt.

“i never said i wouldn’t go.”

throughout your impromptu walk down the street, you bathed in silence. the overcast sky and grey clouds hiding the moon away were more than enough to make said silence feel heavier than it was.

your eyes, normally unfocused and flickering around to whatever catches their attention, were chained to your shoes. your hands, usually glued to his own, were locked away in the pockets of your his jacket. sanzu didn't like how…dejected you looked. 

“hey.” 

haruchiyo spoke up, his quiet voice resonating faintly through the deserted streets. you stopped on one foot, finally looking up and beside you. he grabbed you by your fingers and began pulling you along, towards a park you otherwise would have passed,

“come sit.”

 towards a barren swing set.

“you gonna tell me what’s goin’ on with you?” 

you were on the swing next to sanzu when he turned to look at you. he nearly missed your feeble shoulder shrug.

“dunno what you’re talking about.” you were speaking through pouted lips, once more refusing to make eye contact with him. you twisted and fiddled with a small ring on your baby finger, your cheek wedged between your teeth.

“tellin’ me you wanted to walk around in the freezing cold for fun?”

“your room was too warm.”

yeah, and that’s why you were clinging to him before leaving, right? sanzu shakes his head.

“at three in the morning?”

“no time like the present.

he clenched his jaw.

“you’re in slippers.”

“bad shoe ergonomics can cause terrible long term problems, haruchiyo.”

“cut the bullshit. talk to me.”

you didn’t.

once more, only the sporadic sound of a car passing the park could be heard for miles around. did you even want to speak? was venting the feelings swirling around in your brain worth the effort? was it worth the possibility of feeling worse after acknowledging them? did you have the strength, or even the innermost self-knowledge, to express your thoughts?

…it was worth a shot, right? to at least try and climb out of the black hole that was your brain? just this once?

“…i think something in my head is fundamentally broken.”

sanzu raised his head at your abrupt remark. he was waiting for you to go on, but you stopped.

“what makes you say that?”

you look up from the ground for only the second time since your departure. smoke is being produced out your nose from your breathing, and the rusted street light to your right is illuminating it.

“i don’t think i know how to just exist.”

sanzu wrinkles his brow.

“everyone else can do it. everyone else can just— can just be. i can’t do that. it’s not fair.”

your eyes fell to the mulch underneath your feet again. haruchiyo slowly nodded along.

“it’s so fucking exhausting, you know? to see everyone around you just live? while the whole time you’re watching, all you can think is: ‘why can’t i do that? is there something wrong with me?’”

your weight caused the rusty swing chains to creak.

it’s a me thing. it’ll always be a me thing. and it’s not like i can just rewire my brain to work right. something in it is just busted and it’ll always be like that.”

“hey.”

haruchiyo interrupted. he finally stood up from his swing– (unable to ignore just how cold his ass was from the melted snow on his pants–) and walked in front of you, placing both his hands on your shoulders. he bent to rub the back of your head as it dropped tiredly against his stomach, as if holding it up any longer was far too demanding.

“there’s nothin’ wrong with you. don’t say shit like that.”

your hands reached weakly for his waist, fingers pink and numb from the cold, trembling either from the weather or the effort your body was putting in to keep you from crying. how feebly you clung to him almost caused him to frown.

“i don’t wanna do it anymore. i’m tired.”

sanzu helped you to stand up so he could properly embrace you. he tucked your head protectively under his chin, his body heat bringing the warmth return to your frostbitten cheeks while he rubbed circles on your shoulder blades.

“i know, princess.” he hoped that the wet spot forming on his shirt was just more melted snow.

sanzu really did know. it wasn’t so much of an attempt at comfort as it was him truly saying he knew how you felt. after all, the strong aren’t always born noble. 

“the world is un-fuckin’-bearable sometimes,” he began, “the one thing you can’t let it do is eat you alive.

you’re not weak. you’ll be alright.”

you sniffled. “i think it’s fucking stupid.”

at that, he snorted, shaking his head and pulling you away from him. your cheeks were dried off by cold hands, and your red nose was kissed by even colder lips.

“thanks.” 

haruchiyo ruffled your hair.

“don’t try’n keep me out of your head next time. you know i’ll break my way in there if i hafta.” his arm perfectly encircled your shoulders as he drew you back to his side. your lips curved into a thin smile

“i'll try. no promises, though.”

he pinched your arm, earning a chuckle from you.

“cmon, let's go back to my place.”

the dull winter scenery was becoming a bit depressing. the realisation that you had to walk all the way back was the only thing more upsetting.

the walk back was much nicer, having felt like all the weights on your shoulders were left on the rickety kids swing.

on your journey, what no one could have expected was your groaning and complaining.

“holy shit it’s fucking freezing, why didn’t we take your bike?”

sanzu pushed you into a nearby snow bank.

⠀ 𑣲 MASTERLIST / GOT A REQUEST ?

[sevenpoyo]

this got deleted like 5 times this version is nothing like the original and i don’t know how tumblr works

By time you meet denji, he know you you work at the noodle shop or bakery and feed him and pochita. Or maybe he’s seen you with the yakuza guys he owns more money than he’s ever seen to, or maybe some t.v show or porno he watched second hand. Either way he knows you, but when you’re introduce yourself, saying the name that is distantly familiar to him, and looking at him with the most captivating eyes he’s ever seen. When you’re giving him a look so warm and all encompassing that makes him feel full like a hot meal from the old guy who thinks that denji is his grandson.

Your smile spells out warm fresh bread and sweet fruit jam as you ask his name once, twice, three times and the concern that overtakes your features at the fourth time you ask him, makes that full feeling turn into nausea. Like finding a bee hive and gourging himself on too sweet honey. He nearly collapses when your voice actually reaches his ears and he hears you talking to him, the gentle melody of “are you alright? are you feeling well? what the hell!? can you even here me?!?” You step closer looking for any indication of injury besides his despondency, and he’s knocked back into reality.

He has to say something back! You’ll probably get sick of standing here with him if he doesn’t! You’ll leave! every alarm in his brains is screaming it over and over and over! You’ll leave. You’ll leave! You’ll leave! You’ll leave! You’ll leave! You’ll leave. Look at you! Of course you weren’t sticking around!

You’re leaving! He feels that warm kind look leave him and he feels exactly what he is again, he’s a poor starving street rat who’s missed his chance of someone like you looking at him with soft, warm, nice feelings that he’s never felt and will likely never feel again. His one shot at being something to someone. lost. wasted. you’re turning around to leave the skinny mess of a teenage boy in front that couldn’t even respond when you asked him the most simple questions. Using all the strength in his body he sputters, forcing out breath that reeks of hunger into your face and finally coughs up his name.

“i’m uh- my names Denji. i’m fine! i can hear! i’m Denji and- this is pochita!” please look at him again. denji leans closer to see over your shoulder, please look at him. then you dig up a water bottle, and a granola bar and he’s in love. you’re staying, your gonna feed him, and he feels closer to heaven then he’s ever been. Maybe he’s dead, and you’re an angel. Denji didn’t much believe that he deserved to go to heaven- or that pochita would still be with him. but he thought all devils were inhuman looking, and you just looked lovely to him.

“ok then Denji, i’m gonna need your full name. i’m worried that you may be concussed. do you know what year it is? do you feel nauseous?” now he thinks it make sense if you were and angel angel’s use big words.

“huh? what’s concussed mean? and nas- noushis?” his mouth was watering as he fumbled to unwrap the granola bar.

“oh god! denji can you tell me where you live? are you parents home?” shit! he can’t take you back to his shack! you’ll leave for sure if he takes you to that shithole!

“i lost my house keys! that’s why i’m outside! and my head is fine! i’m just really hungry!”

“ok, i’ll just stay to make sure. do you want to go somewhere to eat or something? this place gives me bad vibes.” Wow, this has to be heaven. there’s not other way that this could happen to denji.

“sure! but uh.. i don’t have any money on me. ” he didn’t have any money at all, but why get stuck up on details?

“that’s fine! i’ll pay since we’re friends now, and we could put your little friend in my book bag!” you said referencing pochita. who is now running laps around the two of you,

that makes denji take back what he said earlier. this wasn’t heaven, you were.

[bit-dodgy-innit]

Get a Little Action In

Set in The Shape of Youniverse 

Summary: A standard date night with your boyfriend ends by revealing a side of him you’ve never seen before.

Pairing: Marc x afab!reader (Reader eventually marries the system)

Word Count: 2.7k 

Rating: Explicit, Minors DNI!

CW/TW: Minor violence involving a gun, references to Marc’s trauma and emotional distance, relationship angst and insecurities, shower sex, fingering, p in v sex, and a nearly unbearable amount of ~softness~

A/N: Despite the title of this fic being a line from a rather jaunty Elton John song, this came out with mucho feels and romance! It’ll be reflected on the masterlist, but for all you friends following along at home, this takes place in the first year of reader and the boys’ relationship where she only knows about Marc. 

Also special shoutout to darling @romanarose​, this is kind of a leftover, unrequested 500 follower celebration prompt that she inspired me to go ahead and write it!!

It began as a normal date night. You met up with Marc after work, your overnight bag in tow, since the plan was for you two to convene at the restaurant you’d all but harassed him to take you to, and then spend the weekend at his place. 

You didn’t think anything of the neighborhood Casa Fofó was in. Hackney, and the whole of the East End of London in general, had long been gentrified. Which is why, as you two ambled back to the Tube, the man accosting you came as such a surprise. 

“Gimme your wallet. And her purse.” 

Your heart dropped. Yet where you froze, Marc fought. He pivoted right away, moving so swiftly and smoothly his body nearly blurred, instantly disarming the mugger and wrenching the gun –oh my god he had a gun?!-- from his hands. 

Your boyfriend didn’t stop there. Although the mugger clearly admitted he’d been had, backing away with his hands in the hair, Marc advanced on him. 

“Hey…hey! Alright bruv…m’sor–” he didn't get a chance to finish his sentence however. Marc pistol-whipped him, forcing the attacker onto his knees with the weapon. 

Until then, you’d felt as if you were in the midst of an out-of-body experience, simply too stunned to act, reduced to merely watching everything unfold. Something about the image of Marc towering over the mugger got your mental faculties whirring back to life again, and you hollered, “It’s enough! Please…just stop!!” 

Marc turned to look at you, horrified, as if he’d forgotten you were there. You thought he would heed your request, but instead he delivered one final blow to the mugger with the barrel of the gun, so hard that it knocked him out cold. You watched in cold-blooded shock as the assailant’s body collapsed. Meanwhile, Marc calmly ejected the magazine from the weapon, wiped his prints from the gun, and tossed both at the unconscious man’s feet. 

“Holy shit,” you exhaled. Even though you’d spent the entire confrontation just standing there, you were out of breath. 

Marc approached you cautiously. “Honey…”

“Fuck, you really weren’t joking about the combat training, were you?” 

“Yeah. Listen, I’m–”

“I’m gonna to call an Uber,” you announced.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“Well, yeah. We’re going back to your place, right?” 

“If you still want to.” 

“I do…don’t really want to be alone right now,” you confessed. Before Marc could respond, your phone trilled. “The driver’s 2 minutes away from the high street, I picked there because—“

Marc didn’t need you to explain. “Got it.”

He followed you to where you’d set for the car to collect you. All the while, he kept a safe distance, regarding you like a startled animal. 

It fit, didn't it? Marc had been quite the predator just now, and it was both jarring and concerning to see such a casual display of the lethal power your boyfriend could channel. You knew he’d served in the American military, and had even done some work as a mercenary that he wasn’t proud of, but it was one thing being told this information, and quite another to witness it for yourself. 

Even more distressing however, was how attractive you found it. It was one of those frustratingly primal things that your psyche couldn’t override your biological programming on. Your big strong boyfriend had protected you from a threat and as stupefying as the violence was, you hated the part of you that relished he was capable of it, and that he’d chosen you. 

Despite the ride back to Marc’s flat being all but silent, an internal war of reason versus instinct waged in your head. You were grateful that Marc had protected you, angry that he used such excessive force, turned on by the display, then angry at yourself for being turned on….your mind ran in circles. Only when the driver pulled up outside of Marc’s building did you shake yourself out of your thoughts. 

The quiet persisted until you two were within the privacy of your boyfriend’s place. Marc shattered it with, “So what, are you mad at me?” 

“I…I don’t know, actually.”

“You don't know? Because you didn’t say a single word in the car. Usually the silent treatment means you’re angry.” 

“Marc, I didn’t say anything in the car because I didn’t want the driver overhearing us,” you countered, “besides I was trying to figure out how I felt.” 

“Really? Because it’s written all over your face.” 

“Okay, you tell me then,” you challenged him, taking the bait. 

“You’re shocked and disgusted–”

“I’m not disgusted–”

“My mistake. You’re just terrified then, you’re looking at me like you don’t know me.” 

“I’ve never seen that side of you before, okay?” you replied, “It was intense, because usually you’re so contained. You’re the one who said we needed to wait until your contract was up before we started dating, and I know you’ve mentioned the military and the merc stuff before but God, Marc, you turned on a dime! I’m allowed to be a little freaked out.”

“So you are scared of me.”

“I didn’t say that!!” Marc was really riling you up now. “I was also…I don’t know, weirdly comforted that you protected us? Or my inner cavewoman was very pleased by it. I’m not judging you, alright? So why are you now all cross with me?” 

Marc muttered something you couldn't hear. 

“What was that?” 

“Nothing.” 

“As usual,” you scoffed with a roll of your eyes. Marc had a pesky habit of speaking under his breath to himself, and it never failed to piss you off, since you suspected he was saying something about you. 

“You don’t have to be here, you know,” Marc said, his voice so low and menacing it came out as a growl. “The door is right there!” 

“But I want to be here! I want to talk about this with you! I hate when you do this, you push me away and I haven't even done anything! And okay yes, I am scared. Not of you…I’ve never been attacked like that and it was fucking terrifying and I don’t want to go back to my place alone!” You tamped down on your quivering lip. Marc was not going to see you cry over this. You could handle yourself like an adult. “And you did take it too far actually! You didn’t need to knock the guy unconscious!” 

“I was trying to protect you! The safety was off on the gun!” Marc hollered. 

You didn’t know that. How could you? You’d never so much as touched a gun. 

When you didn’t reply, Marc continued, “You know I’d never lay a hand on you, right? Is that what you’re so worried about? Because I’d never, I’d rip out my own fingernails before I did tha–”

“No, no Marc,” you crossed to him, but he didn’t let you into his space just yet.

“The ride back here…it looked like you were doing the math if you thought I was capable of snapping on you.” 

“I wasn’t,” That was a lie. “It crossed my mind, I’ll be honest, but the thought left as soon as it came. My brain’s been a mile-a-minute, and I think I’m in shock, and I’m angry at myself because I completely froze. Baby, it’s clear you just saved my life just now, but I don’t want you hurting anyone for my sake either.”  

“I’d do anything for you,” Marc admitted quietly. 

You stepped toward him again, and this time, he allowed you to wrap your arms around his torso and lay your cheek against his chest. “I appreciate that, but I don’t want you to have to.”

“You think I push you away?” he asked in a murmur. 

You didn't think it so much as you knew it. But the fact Marc was even somewhat copping to it was major. You could work with that.

 “A bit, yeah. It’s something I’ve noticed,” you tipped your head up to look him in the eyes. “You’ve built some high walls around your heart it seems.” 

Marc bristled under the openness and trust in your gaze. This was hard for him. It occurred to you then that perhaps he was the frightened animal in this scenario. He needed to be approached with caution and compassion, otherwise he’d lash out like he did with the mugger. 

“Yeah. And then you showed up with a sledgehammer,” he added with a small grin. “It scares the shit out of me. I’d rather fight a hundred muggers.” 

You chuckled at his candor. “This doesn’t have to be a fight. At least, I don’t want it to be. Can we promise to give each other the benefit of the doubt going forward?” 

His back muscles under your hands at the suggestion. “I mean, I’ll try but sometimes I–” 

“All I ask is that you try,” you assured him. 

“Okay,” he agreed. 

Both of you stood there quietly, simply reveling in the other’s closeness. The steady rise and fall of Marc’s chest lulled your still-racing mind, and you began to ponder what made Marc construct the walls he had. He’d never mentioned his family to you, though he did share that he’d been married before…whoever had hurt him had left quite the scar. As you continued to ruminate, it dawned on you that his defensiveness about your reaction likely came from his own shame and judgment over how he handled the mugger. Marc expected you to blow up at him for it, he’d nearly craved it. 

Problem was, despite not speaking it aloud yet, you were madly in love with him and weren’t going to give up on this relationship that easily. You could maintain your boundaries and meet Marc with compassion, something he seemed to lack in his life up until now. 

You gently extracted yourself from his grasp. “I’m going to take a shower.” 

“‘Kay,” he whispered. 

Halfway to the bathroom, you turned and tossed a come-hither glance at Marc over your shoulder, “Well, aren’t you coming with?” 

The corners of his lips quirked upwards before he followed suit. Despite the invitation to get naked and wet with you, your boyfriend was nothing but tender. You individually stripped while the water warmed, refraining from touching each other until you were under the spray. Strangely, the fact you hadn’t pounced on one another right away made the act feel more intimate, more domestic, as you were comfortable enough with each other to just be.  

…it didn’t last very long however. Marc offered to wash you, and the sight of him with his wet hair slicked back, his criminally striking bone structure so close, took your breath away. His sure, strong hands, capable of so much violence, delicately soaped the most vulnerable parts of your body, while he dropped gentle kisses on the length of your shoulder. His worship of your skin made you tilt your head back in search of his lips. 

Marc couldn’t deny you much, therefore he met your silent plea, slotting his mouth against yours, his palms tracing up the curves of your hips, then your waist, to their destination of your now-heaving bosom. He cupped your breasts as you traded passionate, desperate kisses. 

His erection bumped against the small of your back and the swell of your ass, and while your boyfriend didn’t seek any friction beyond the involuntary twitch and shudder he’d wring from your slick body against his, you were ready for more. You slithered out of his gasp only to shut off the water and step out of the shower. It was time to take this to the bed. 

After a cursory toweling off, you reconvened atop Marc’s turned down sheets. He coaxed you open with his fingers, his mouth all but devouring the sensitive skin of your neck as he did so. 

You communicated your readiness to take him inside of you with a particularly pitiful keen, and Marc straightened up, guiding you to the edge of the bed to straddle his broad thighs. You captured his lips once more, probing the cavern of his mouth with your tongue, then reached between your still-damp bodies for Marc’s straining cock. 

In an effort to draw out your lovemaking, you merely circled his tip around your entrance, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip at the feel of it. Marc groaned, his grip tightening around your waist, and unable to deny either of you any longer, you sank down on him. 

You let out your own strangled mewl of ecstasy at the feel of becoming one, and draped your arms around your boyfriend’s shoulders for the leverage needed to begin moving on top of him. Barely a word had been exchanged between the two of you since you stepped into the bathroom, tonight you and Marc were communicating with your bodies. Words were not enough, not to mention unnecessary, for what you two were sharing right now. 

While sex with your boyfriend was always stellar, tonight felt different. Instead of using sex to express your attraction, your appreciation for each other, it felt as if the meeting of your bodies were helping you to truly connect and express the depth of your emotion. If you could stay caged inside his bulging biceps forever, your bare skin pressed against his, you would. 

Marc glanced down to where you both were joined, where you writhed on his thick girth, and looked back up at you, his gaze heavy-lidded, blissed out, and oh-so-seductive. His hips began to meet yours. Usually, Marc liked to make a show of his strength in the bedroom, something you unabashedly enjoyed, but his movements were softer than usual. He moved languidly, using his grip on your waist to guide you further, both of you finding the perfect pace and force in which to bring your bodies together. 

“Wanna make you come,” he husked in a rumble that drifted into your ear. 

“Touch me,” you gasped. 

Marc didn’t hesitate, his hand dropped from your left hip to the apex of your legs. He took a quick detour to feel where you were stretched around his manhood, ripping a whimper from your throat, before his finger skirted back up to your clit. He brought you to release with confident, practiced strokes on your bud. 

You buried your face into the juncture of his shoulder and neck while your climax flooded you. All you could say was his name, coming in a fit of ecstasy and litany of “Maaaaarc”. Once the blinding pleasure had somewhat abated, you found the strength to lift your head from his muscled chest and collide your lips together once more. Marc welcomed the liplock, dominating your kisses until he had to break away, his respective peak surging through him. 

You watched him, bewitched, as your lover’s pleasure played across his face, a mix of grunts and groans leaving his lips as you felt his cock pulse inside of you. At last, his eyes focused and met yours, though neither of you knew what to say. You couldn’t think of a single word in the English language that could begin to capture how you felt. 

Marc lifted you carefully, still inside of you, to deposit you amongst the sheets. He gingerly pulled out of your channel, whispering “I’ll get you a towel” before disappearing and emerging from the loo.

His attentions made you feel like glass, not in the way earlier in which you believed he saw you as a fragile object, but rather a treasure to be adored. Your heart swelled at the thought. But after he’d toweled off, tossed it away to be dealt with in the morning, and collected you into his arms, your words, the ones you were so sure of, died on your tongue. 

It was too soon. Well not too soon for most relationships, but too soon for Marc. He needed time and more healing. An errant, reckless part of you wanted to say it anyway, but you couldn’t risk the inevitable devastation if your boyfriend couldn’t return the sentiment, or worse, left you altogether.

Marc surprised you however, when he asked you, “Why didn’t you get angry with me?”

“Because I could tell you wanted me to.”

He let out an amused short at your immediate reply. You burrowed impossibly closer into his side, demanding another kiss from his lips before you both surrendered to sleep. 

A/N: Sometimes Marc and reader just need to have tender, romantic, sexy sex, alright?!?! IS THAT A CRIME?! Working through the asks/fic requests in my inbox as inspiration strikes and time allows, but I’m also *dangerously* close to 1k followers and have a special fic planned for that milestone too! 

Taglist: @twwcs, @rmoonstoner, @hot-mess-express1, @murdickdocked, @toracainz​, @saahmi @unspokenmoon, @winterbiipp, @avatarofseshat @ilikeoldermenhelp, @losers-club6, @harrys-tittie, @ninebluehearts, @lucianadraven32, @dawnsutopia, @strawberry1042-blog @nikitawolfxo, @weirdo125 @damnzelsoul @missmarmaladeth @welcometostayingawake @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction

[sunflower-ozzy-online]

Fate at First Light

Chapter 1: Strangers at Dawn

Fandoms: DCU (Comics)

Relationship: Jason Todd/Reader

Characters: Jason Todd - Reader - Dick Grayson

Additional Tags: Reader-Insert - Omega Verse - Gender-Neutral Pronouns

After a long night in Blüdhaven, Jason Todd accidentally enters the wrong apartment, startling an unsuspecting Omega neighbor (reader) in the early hours of dawn. Though his identity as Red Hood remains a secret, a connection begins to form between them, fueled by chance encounters and shared curiosity. As they navigate their growing bond, both are drawn to the mystery of the other, unaware of the deeper truths that lie just beneath the surface.

They/ Them pronouns used. Reader is an Omega. Jason Todd is an Alpha

Could be read as a one-shot but I do plan on adding more chapters later. I will add tags as I go

It had been a pretty routine watch, Dick had needed an extra pair of eyes to look out for an escaped prisoner over in Bludhaven so Jason had spent his night on rooftops looking down on an unfamiliar city. Sunlight started to spill in between the buildings and through the alleyways alerting Jason that it was time to head back to Dick’s place for a little shuteye. Riding the winding streets on his bike he could feel the long hours wearing on his back, not looking forward to the small air mattress waiting for him at Dicks.

 He had planned to slip in through the window so as not to be caught on camera, possibly giving away Nightwings location. Only now he forgot which unit was his brothers. They all looked the same from the outside and he hadn’t been paying as much attention as he should have been. He chooses between two units on the tenth-floor south side.  He slowly opened the window to his choice, hoping that if it was the wrong choice, the occupant would be sound asleep. But that would be good luck, and he was very familiar with the deck of cards life had dealt him so there you were. Sitting on your bed scrolling on your phone at 5:30 in the morning. He was still wearing his helmet, which while good for him as it covered his face, sucked for you as fear shot down your spine as the Red Hood stood in your apartment. Your eyes went wide in shock and before you could reach for the bat by your bed, he was already exiting the same way he entered. He skittered across the wall and opened the window of the next unit. Breathing a sigh of relief when he saw the discarded Nightwing uniform on the ground he unlatched the hood and rested. Dick’s feet made a soft slapping sound on the floor as he approached Jason.

“All good Jay?”

“Yeah, I just met your neighbor” Jason replied, his eyes still closed.

Dick’s brow furrowed, “which one?”

“The new one, the one who isn't impressed by your lame jokes.” He responded, remembering their text conversation where Dick was upset that his new cute Omega neighbor had barely acknowledged him in the elevator especially after Dick had supposedly rolled out his best jokes to disarm the stranger.

“Dammit, I was this close to getting them to like me. Now they're gonna be afraid to even leave their apartment for the next month. I’m going to have to start all over.” He whined.

“Why do you even care if your neighbor likes you?”

“First off, it is important to have a good relationship with one's neighbor. Second, I need everyone to like me. It’s one of the few flaws I have.”

“Ah. Well, I think you're just gonna have to let this one go. Especially if they ever find out you’re partially responsible for their late-night vigilante visitor.”

“Hey, it is not my fault you entered the wrong window. You slipped up Jace, that’s on you.”

Jason grumbled, knowing he was right but refusing to let him have the satisfaction of hearing it from his lips.

“Wake me up for breakfast”, he walked over to the twin-sized air mattress set up just for him before collapsing and shutting his eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Trying to continue on normally after your little vigilante break-in was not what you had planned. Moving to a new city was scary enough, and now you know that one of the more violent members of the bat family had business in your building. Super comforting. All you wanted to do was move forward in your life, succeed at your job, and make enough money to go on the occasional vacation. Those goals weren’t crazy, so why is the universe making them so hard.

You had scheduled exactly how much sleep and rest you needed before heading off to work. Now you’re a bag of nerves on the subway trying to pay attention to the music flowing through your headphones. Luckily you had applied your scent blocker patches before heading out, so you weren't worried about emitting noxious nervous pheromones in this cramped tube.  You tried forcing the image of the red hood out of your mind, but he kept standing there on the edges of your consciousness.

 It wasn’t helped by the fact that you ran into your talkative neighbor on the way out of the house. He always wanted to interact in the wee hours of the morning, and you tried your hardest to smile and nod but inside you wanted to disappear because how in the world can someone be that awake and vibrant that early in the morning? Today it had been different, he was accompanied by a very rugged presence who was avoiding your gaze. Though the figure did very little to draw attention to himself, possibly another normal non-morning person. Your neighbor, Dick, had told you about their plans for breakfast and a run. You had attempted to hide your judgmental look at this man's healthy morning plans, but the figure had given a small smirk in response to your side-eye. You noticed how full and pink his lips were, you wish you could have remembered more of his face. Despite being tall and stocky he hadn’t been threatening, he almost tried to shrink himself behind Dick.

As you pulled into your stop you quickly got off, wondering if you could find more information about Dick’s guest. You knew Dick was related to the Waynes somehow so surely he had an online presence and maybe his guest was in a post of his somewhere. You wouldn't be creepy about it, just some surface-level searching maybe, and you would never bring it up to Dick.

Approaching your place of work, you placed those thoughts on the back burner, to simmer for later.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Living with Dick was worse than he remembered, the continuous healthy choices mixed with the relentless social life he participated in to keep up appearances was a shock to Jason’s senses. Plus being there for their family to chauffeur their siblings and offer emotional suppoert when needed? He can see why the golden boy was put on a pedestal in their home. It was good for Jason though, he had missed his brother, plus seeing the cracks in the facade made him feel less crazy and insecure. It was on the third day of Jason living with him that Dick had announced his need for a small break. Laying in his bed for hours on end, claiming to need time alone. He was proud of his brother for paying attention to his mental health, but this left Jason with time on his hands that he needed to spend outside of the apartment.

Due to his history of isolation, Jason had almost mastered the art of entertaining himself. Listening to music, reading books, re-reading his favorites, target practice, working on a case, or cooking. Being at Dicks place had limited his ability to do some of these things but not to the point of dissatisfaction he was feeling now. With too much time on his hands and the constant reminder of your apartment just a door away, his thoughts had become centered around you. His mind replayed the scene of you comfy in your bed, eyes wide with fear. The memory sent shivers down his spine, he thought he should feel guilty for the small amount of pleasure it brought him, but he it knew wasn’t because you were afraid of him. It felt like it was something deeper. You had a hold on him that his pull to danger couldn't explain. It felt less shallow than that and more whole. Maybe it was your scent, from the faint whiff he had been able to catch through his mask when he was in your room. That plus the fact that you apparently hadn't called the cops on him had intrigued him past the point of reasonable interest. God, he needed to get out of the apartment before he got himself so worked up you could smell him through the walls.

He had packed up his phone, a portable charger, his most discrete gun and bulletproof vest combo, and his headphones before heading out the door. He headed down the stairs after deciding to walk to a nearby library and spend the day there. Jason shoved his hands into his pockets and made his way out of Dick's building, the idea of possibly running into you absolutely NOT on his mind.

Only slightly disappointed that he was not interrupted on his way out, Jason was greeted by the now familiar smell of Bludhaven air. The cool air helped clear his mind, and he focused on blending in with the crowd, something he'd become quite skilled at over the years. His music played lightly over his headphones, not so loud as to make him vulnerable to sneak attacks or pickpockets, as he slowly made his way to the closest library.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Work had been trying today, one of your coworkers seemed determined to be incompetent. Constantly asking you how to do simple tasks and even to take over some of their work. They had been there almost as long as you had, they had no excuse for not knowing how to do the basics of the job at this point. On top of their inability to do their work on their own, they dared to act like they were smarter than you. You had been trying to connect with them by telling them about one of your favorite shows over your shared lunch break. They responded with “Of course, you would be into something like that.” and continued on about how unsophisticated and uninspired it was. Obviously getting off on ridiculing something you liked not letting you get a word in to defend your comfort show. By the time they were done with their spiel, you only had three minutes left of your lunch break. Needless to say, you were looking forward to getting home.

You had texted your friends about your day to commiserate but it ended up making you feel even worse. You were new to Bludhaven and hadn't made any real friends there yet, feeling the absence of your pseudo-pack added to the isolation. You tried to remind yourself about how everyone has a hard time making new friends in a new city and it wasn’t that you were unlikable. Maybe you should try more actively to make friends, but it’s just so hard on top of being a safety concern. In this world, you never know who may be leading a second life as a villain.

 Though you wouldn't hate befriending Poison Ivy, she made some good points when she killed that polluting CEO last year live on his own platform. Maybe you should apply to be one of her goons? No, she didn't use goons, she didn't need to with her powers.  Is that why some people become goons? A sense of community? The money surely cannot be THAT good to put your life on the line for your boss. Maybe Penguin and his bird guys all have weekly dinners where they talk about their hopes and dreams. Well, no matter if they do or not the thought entertained you long enough to make it back home without spiraling into an abyss of loneliness.

As you took the elevator up to your floor, your neighbor's beefy guest suddenly came back on your mind. You hadn't been able to do any googling on him all day. Maybe that's what you’ll do tonight, snuggle into your blankets and try and find him on Dick’s Instagram. Maybe not, it may make conversations with Dick even more awkward. Lord knows you don’t need that in your life. You could admit that he was attractive, it was just so obvious that he knew it that it kind of affected his personality. You refused to let him think you were into him even a little bit, you wanted to take him down a peg just a tiny bit. Outside of his ego he actually was nice, he always tried to make you feel welcome smiling nonthreateningly. Maybe if you asked nicely, he would introduce you to his friend. The subtle scent you had picked up off of him in the elevator was nice, it was almost familiar, but you couldn't remember from were. You would have to get closer to him, without Dick’s light Beta scent mixing in.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time Jason found himself outside the apartment building again, he was annoyed with himself. The entire time he was in the library, pursuing their scant collection, he kept thinking about what you would think of the books he picked up. Did you like romance? Sci-fi? Maybe you were more into non-fiction. He wasn’t even able to enjoy the unfamiliar regency era novel he picked up wholly without picturing you as the main love interest. This wasn't like him. He wasn't some lovesick puppy trailing after someone who had caught his eye. He had seldom pictured himself as some Mr. Darcy type who would be all-consumed by his lover. He was Red Hood, crying out loud. But as much as he tried to convince himself to just head back up to Dick's apartment, his feet seemed to have a mind of their own.

Before he knew it, he was standing outside your door.

 He had a few minutes before Dick was expecting him back. Jason hesitated outside your door, unsure of how to proceed. He had no plan nor excuse for being there. His mind raced as he considered his options, but the more rational part of his brain was drowned out by the deep urge to see you again.  He had no intention of revealing his secret identity or letting you know that he was the one who had unintentionally broken into your apartment. But the need to make sure you were okay gnawed at him.  After all, he’d startled you, and he wasn’t the type to leave loose ends—especially when it involved someone he was inexplicably illogically drawn to. Taking a deep breath, he knocked on your door, telling himself he was just checking in—not to apologize for the accidental break-in or romance you. Perhaps to at least to gauge how much of a threat you might be if you recognized him.

When you heard the knock at your door, your heart skipped a beat. You weren't expecting anyone, and after what had happened the other night, your mind immediately went to the worst-case scenarios. Had someone been tracking the Red Hood? You had just gotten home from work, maybe an opposing player had followed you home to “question” you about your relationship with the Hood? Or maybe it was him, and he was here to eliminate a witness? Though knocking didn’t seem to be his style. Despite all of the possible threats and against all thoughts of logic and safety, you were pulled to the door. Cautiously looking through the peephole you saw Dick’s guest. Your cheeks flushed and your hand reached down to the handle. 

When you finally opened the door, just a crack, your eyes met his. There was a mix of wariness and curiosity there, and Jason could tell you were still on edge from the other night.

"Can I help you?" you asked, your voice cautious.

Jason cleared his throat, trying to figure out how to handle this without giving too much away. "Yeah, I just wanted to apologize for… well, if I came off a bit strange when we ran into each other earlier today. I’m staying with my brother, and sometimes I’m not the most social guy. Just wanted to make sure I didn’t freak you out or anything." He kept his tone casual, hoping you wouldn’t connect the dots or think he was some kind of pervert.

You blinked, the tension in your posture easing slightly as you processed his words. The pieces started to fall into place. You had suspected Dick’s guest might be a Wayne—maybe a cousin or a distant relative—but now you realized who he was. Jason Todd, the rumored ‘lost son’ of the Wayne family, the one with a strange and dark past. The realization made your stomach flutter with both fear and something else, something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. As if he wasn’t already attractive, now he was also the heir of a billionaire with a dark mysterious past.

 "Oh… that’s okay. It’s just… you looked like you wanted to disappear earlier. I wasn’t sure if I had done something wrong or if I smelled bad or … something." you attempted to make a joke. Yeah, nothing funnier than some self-depreciation about your personal hygiene to make this Grecian god-like man like you.

Jason gave you a small, apologetic smile, the kind he rarely showed anyone. "Not at all. I’m just not great with new people. My brother’s the friendly one." an understatement.

You nodded, your curiosity deepening. There was something about him that didn’t quite add up, but he seemed genuine enough. "Well, it’s nice of you to check-in. I appreciate it." You nibbled at your lip. Not wanting him to leave but also not knowing what else to say.

He nodded, relieved that you weren’t pushing for more information. "Good to hear. I’ll get out of your way now."

But as he started to turn, you found yourself speaking up again. "Wait. Do you… want to come in? Just for a minute?"

He stopped, glancing back at you with a curious expression.

The offer surprised both of you. You weren’t sure why you’d said it, but something about him intrigued you, and you didn’t want to end the conversation just yet. Maybe it was the loneliness of being in a new city, or maybe it was the strange connection you felt with him. Your heart seemed to pound louder exponentially the longer he stood there not responding.

Jason paused, torn between his instincts to keep his distance and the undeniable pull he felt toward you. He glanced back at you, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. When he found none, he gave a slight nod. "Yeah, sure. Just for a minute."

You stepped aside to let him in, your heart racing as you closed the door behind him. As he entered your apartment, he took in his surroundings with a practiced ease, noting the small personal touches you had added to make the space your own. Trying to make sure it wasn’t obvious he had actually been here before. It was just as cozy as he had remembered, and oddly enough, it made him feel at ease.

“Would you like a glass of water? I also have some juice or soda…” you just let the words continue to flow begging yourself to be cool or chill for once “I don't have any coffee or tea ready but if you want some I could make it or” you thanked the gods when he interrupted your racing thoughts.

“Water would be nice, thank you.” He could tell you were a little nervous, it was probably the first time you had anyone over.

"So," you began, trying to make conversation, already going to the kitchen to get two glasses of water "you’re Dick’s brother?"

Jason nodded, taking a seat on the edge of your couch. "Yeah, we don’t see each other as often as we’d like, but I’m crashing at his place for a few days." This whole apartment already smelled like you.

You nodded. "I’ve heard him mention his brothers before, but I don’t think I’ve seen you around."

Jason shrugged. "I’m not in town much. Work keeps me busy." It wasn’t technically a lie

The vague answer made you even more curious, but you decided not to pry. Instead, you offered a small smile and the glass of water "Well, thanks for checking in. I appreciate it."

He returned your smile, a genuine one this time as he took the water "No problem. Just didn’t want to leave things on a weird note."

There was a brief silence, one that wasn’t uncomfortable but felt charged with unspoken thoughts. You both sipped on the filtered Bludhaven water, letting the room breathe. You could sense that there was more to him than he was letting on, but you also knew better than to push too hard.

"I should probably get going," Jason said after a moment, standing up and placing the half-empty glass on a coaster. "But if you ever need anything… well, I’m just a wall away.” hoping you may take him up on his offer, then remembering that in fact, he was NOT actually your neighbor he added, “And Dick too, or mainly, he loves helping people out.” This was an offer he secretly hoped you would take him up on. Although he knew realistically, he may never talk to you again he was still hopeful he wouldn't have to share you with Dick.

You nodded, feeling an odd sense of loss as he made his way to the door. "I’ll keep that in mind."

He paused at the door, glancing back at you one last time. "Take care, alright?"

"You too," you replied, watching as he stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him.

As you stood there in the quiet of your apartment, you couldn’t shake the hope that this encounter had been the start of something more. Something that, despite your better judgment, you were eager to explore further.

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