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blindmagdalena · 2 months

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All of a Sudden, There You Are

3k. homelander x gn!reader. pining. pure fluff! an older fic that desperately needed cleaning up. rewritten for a consistent perspective and added 600-some words. gif credit. AO3 link.

As Homelander's stylist, it's your job to ensure he looks his best, whether he's saving the world or saving face in front of the cameras. After nearly a year servicing him, things between you change abruptly.

Familiarity and consistency feed a base need in all of us. So much of what is best in us is bound up in the permanence of those around us that it becomes the measure of our stability. For Homelander, there are precious few things in his life that offer him any such quality of solidarity. People come and go. It's the nature of the business that has always been his life.

He's stopped paying attention to the PA's, interns and other worker ants that rotate in and out. Their faces blend together in a bland sea of normality and mediocrity. They're little more than cogs in the machine of his contrastingly extraordinary life.

Funny, then, that you should catch his attention amidst the insectoid buzz of it all.

It happens quite abruptly. He's just sat down before a brightly lit vanity where it's your job to style his hair and makeup, as it has been for the last several months. You greet him good morning, as you do every time, but for whatever reason... He notices you today.

"Remind me, what's your name again?" Homelander asks, watching you draw a comb from your kit.

That visibly catches you off guard. You offer only a dumbfounded stare for a moment before snapping to attention, smiling sheepishly as you introduce yourself. The name doesn't sound familiar to him. Had he never actually asked? Probably not. There’s rarely a point in bothering.

He hums contemplatively. "You've been styling me for a while.”

"Yes, sir. About eight months now," you say, using the comb to begin working product through his hair. He’s fairly certain this is the most he's ever spoken to you in all that time.

That sounds like both a long while and yet no time at all. It's nothing in the grand scheme of his life, but in terms of the people he sees consistently, that puts you in a shockingly small pool of individuals. Inevitably they move on, whether by choice or because they’ve found a way to irritate him enough that he has them dismissed.

He can recall his last stylist not by their name or face, but by the way they’d always manage to spray product in his eyes. They hadn’t lasted two days. The one before that he can’t bring to mind a single detail of.

Typically humans only become exceptional to him for how they grate on his patience. You’ve somehow managed to avoid making yourself noteworthy in that regard. Before today you had served as little more than a properly functioning gear in the well-oiled machine of his life.

Now it's as though you suddenly exist to him. Blood, flesh, laughter and all.

"Gooood morning," he greets you the next day, once again triggering another flare of surprise in you. He’s aware of the strangeness of his initiation, but behaves as though he isn’t. He flashes you one of his trademark Hollywood grins.

"Good morning to you, sir," you say with an answering smile that catches his eye. You sound pleased, which tickles something pleasant in the back of his own mind. He likes how well you’re mirroring his shift in mannerism.

He waves his hand dismissively. "Please, Homelander is fine. You keep it awfully formal."

You're actually quite pretty, he notices. Not exceptionally so, not like the celebrities and figures of social influence that someone like him brushes shoulders with on a daily basis, but... pretty nonetheless. He doesn't remember you being this pretty before, and speculates while you work whether you've changed something about yourself. He cannot put his finger on what exactly that may be, though.

He’s perceptive when it comes to the things that matter. Until yesterday, you hadn’t.

You laugh sweetly, pushing your fingers through his hair. His eyes flutter shut as you do. You’re good with your hands, much better than the last stylist. He’s sure he made note of that at some point, but in the same way someone notices when a door stops squeaking. You take it for granted after the first time.

"I'm a creature of habit. Might take me a couple tries to adjust," you warn, covering his forehead with your palm as you spritz product into his hair. You never let any of that sticky crap get on his face, much less in his eyes. You take measures to ensure his comfort, even though he’s never scolded you. You seem to do it entirely out of reflex simply because you care enough to.

"Well, you've made it this far. You've got time to adjust," he says. Now that he's seen you, he finds that he doesn't care for the thought of you being gone. More than that, he starts actively looking forward to the time he spends in the chair with you. What used to be a monotonous aspect of the celebrity side of his life becomes a comforting ritual.

The two of you chat with surprising ease, like old friends made new. He tells you about himself, vents to you about work and personal business alike. In turn he learns about you and the life you live beyond the time you share with him. It’s nothing extraordinary–not like his–but it's yours, and for some reason, that’s enough to make it interesting.

The more he grasps that you are an entire person outside of the service you provide him, the more he wants to know. He doesn’t give a fuck about your elderly cat, but he does like the way your voice changes when you talk about it. His mind drifts when you tell him these little anecdotes, and he wonders what you tell the people in your life about him. He wonders if your tone similarly changes when you do. Do you speak fondly of him? Days turn to weeks. Little by little, Homelander discerns small changes in himself. There’s a slight pep in his step these days. The sun feels a little warmer, the thrum of crowded events less irritating. His attitude towards interviews flips; even the ones he used to dread he begins to anticipate. He knows you’ll have him looking and feeling his finest. He knows that regardless of what awaits him, you’ll have something to say about it that will make it easier to smile for the cameras.

Thinking of you is sometimes all it takes.

When he has nothing on his schedule to be styled for, he sulks. On those days, he misses your laugh the most.

He makes sure the products he keeps at home are the same as the ones you use. The smell of them reminds him of the smell of you, of your knock-off Dior perfume that fades too quickly after you apply it, which makes it just perfect for his keen sense of smell. The humble subtlety of you, your sincerity and gentleness, have become a boon against the unfeeling corporate reality of his life. On the days he does see you, he begins to miss you before he’s even left you. Now, as he walks to his next scheduled appointment with you, he’s painfully aware of the beat of his own heart. His stomach is twisting in on itself, though he isn’t hungry. If anything, he feels a little nauseous. The closer he gets to the door, the louder the cacophony inside of him becomes. Is he sick? That shouldn’t be possible, but he can’t understand what’s happening to him. Pausing just outside the door, he takes in a steadying breath.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Taking a moment to collect himself, he gives his face two quick pats on either side, shaking his head. Get it together, he tells himself, stepping into the dressing room.

“Gooood morn–” Homelander cuts himself short, looking around the empty room. His brows pinch. He isn’t early. Pursing his lips, he takes a brief stroll about the room, clutching his hands behind his back. He peers down the hallway, cutting through the layers of wall with his vision. No sign of you on the grounds yet. He clicks his tongue.

You’ve never been late. Unable to settle, he paces for a while. He has the thought to call you, but he realizes he doesn’t have your number. Why doesn’t he have your number? It seems such an obvious thing to have despite the fact he’s never needed it.

He’s just pulled out his cellphone to track it down from Ashley when the door suddenly opens and his head snaps up. The initial relief he feels is cut short, turning cold in his chest when the person who steps through the door is most definitely not you. ��Good morning!” the woman greets him, her voice chirpy and grating in his ears. She’s not really happy to see him. She doesn’t know the first fucking thing about him. At most, she’s another sycophantic drone who’s only pleased to breathe his air. In his upset, she looks freakishly distorted, her smile overly wide and fake. His leather gloves creak as he curls his hands into fists. “Who the fuck are you?” he asks, voice as measured as he can manage it. His anger hits in an unreasonable surge, hot like lava from a volcano. This woman’s only crime is the fact she’s not you, and yet it’s enough to make him want to rip her head off her shoulders, spine and all. The woman hesitates in the doorway, her chipper demeanor flipping to a fearful one. “Uhm, my name is Lisa, I’m supposed to style you to–” “Where is my stylist?” he interrupts her, prowling towards her like a hungry predator. He says again, louder this time, voice full of anger and anxiety in equal measure, “Where the fuck is my stylist?!” “I– I don’t know!” Lisa yelps, stepping backwards from him. “I was called in as a last minute replacement! They said– they said there was an accident, or–” Homelander pushes her roughly out of the doorway, blowing past her with a frustrated growl. She hits the wall hard before crumpling to the floor like a lifeless sack of potatoes, but he doesn’t even register it. He calls Ashley, stalking down the hallway, his footfalls loud with fury. Why the fuck didn’t anyone think to tell him? “Ashley!” He snarls into his phone the second she answers. “Tell me where the fuck my goddamn stylist is.”

Homelander is at the hospital within minutes. The staff puts up a meager effort to enforce protocols, but he’s The Homelander, and after a lie or two, they eventually let him through. He hates the smell of hospitals. The sickly mix of bleach and illness, the buzzing of the fluorescent lights. They never should have brought you here. You should be in Vought’s med ward.

You should be with him. When he finds you, you’re sitting with the hospital bed halfway reclined, wearing nothing but a hospital gown. The vibrant reds and blues of his suit paint a sharp contrast to the stark white walls of the hospital room when he steps inside. You have a pudding cup in your hand, though you nearly drop it when you see him in the doorway. His hair is woefully unstyled, splayed loose in every direction from his flight. “H-Homelander,” you sputter, choking on your bite of pudding. You swallow, clearing your throat. He’s walking towards you. The closer he gets, the faster your heart beats in his ears. “What are you doing here?” “Are you okay?” He asks, blowing off your question entirely. He blinks and his vision flickers through your clothes and skin alike. He scans your body for internal damage, for broken or fractured bones. You’re not wearing a cast or anything, but he needs to be sure. You nod, clutching at the blanket, wearing your confusion plainly on your face. “Yeah, I’m okay, it’s probably just mild whiplash, but I’m getting an x-ray to be–” “You’re fine,” he breathes more to himself than to you, his relief palpable. He can hear the flustered patter of your heart clearly. With the adrenaline wearing off, he’s beginning to feel that sickly familiar feeling that he had experienced in the hallway; butterflies rampant in his stomach, battering their wings frantically inside him. His jaw feels tight, his tongue too big for his mouth. Staring at you now, frail and precious as you are in this ugly hospital bed, he realizes what’s the matter–what has always been the matter–he is deeply and incurably in love with you. “Are you okay?” You ask, taking in his tortured expression, his wildly wind-swept hair. The obvious concern in your voice and in your eyes churns his already twisting gut. “No,” he says, the response knee-jerk. Even though the room is still, he feels as though the world is spinning around him. “No, I think I’m in love with you,” he says, expression twisted up, like he’s figuring out each word as he says them. Your heart skips a beat, your breath catches in your lungs. It’s as if the words have paralyzed you. Homelander laughs. It sounds a little hysterical.

“I’m telling you all of a sudden, but it isn’t new with me,” he says, reaching out to cup either side of your face in his gloved hands. “I love you,” he says, voice firmer now, the realization setting in fully. He looks slightly delirious with it. He’s discovered a secret that he should have known all along, that seems so obvious in hindsight. Of course he loves you, because you love him. The gentleness in your hands as you touched his face, the care in your fingers stroking through his hair far longer than both of you knew you needed to. You dedicated yourself like no other to showing him reverence in service of him, and is that not love in its purest form? And yet, you don’t look to share his elation. You look like you’ve been struck by lightning, expression wide and bewildered. You still haven’t taken a breath. Homelander’s smile falters. “What’s the matter?” He asks, tone dropping a touch. “This is good news! Great, even.” For every second that you do not speak, the beat of his heart feels heavier in his chest. Why don’t you look happy? Finally, you suck in a shaky breath. He watches you with all the intensity of a viper poised to strike.

“I…” You hesitate. You lift your hands and grip his wrists, squeezing them through the thick fabric of his gloves as if to convince yourself that he’s really there. Maybe the accident was worse than he thought. Did you hit your head?

Panic swells in his chest. It hadn’t occurred to him you might not reciprocate. The thought makes him ill.

“I never…” your eyes turn glassy, welling with tears. “Say it!” he wants to shout, his own heart hammering loudly enough to nearly drown out your words. “I never would have thought–or even dreamed–in a million years that you might love me back.”

love me back.

Like a dying ember roaring back to life, Homelander’s demeanor reignites, his faded smile broadening once more.

“I realized it when I was worried fucking sick because you didn't show up,” he says, leaning closer to you. He’s brought the scent of ozone from the sky he tore through on his way to you, but all he cares about is the faint smell of pudding lingering on your lips.

He huffs a laugh. “They sent in some idiot to fill in for you. Like they could replace you. I almost tore her head off,” he says, giddy with euphoria. Your expression shifts, brows furrowing. “Wait, what? You almost-” “I’m gonna kiss you now,” he interrupts, his voice a low rumble. He can already taste you in the breaths you’re close enough to share with him, and he’s never been hungrier for anything–or anyone–in his life. You fall silent with a shiver, nodding minutely, eyes falling shut. “Please do.” His lips meet yours in a gentle press. He deserves a medal for not crushing you with the sheer magnitude of his desire. You all but melt against him, settling into his grip as smoothly as you settled into his life, his mind, his heart. When the two of you break apart, you make a breathless noise that shoots through him like a bolt of lightning. He feels hyper aware of your every sound and move.

God, how he wants to feel every part of you.

You move your hands to touch his face and he leans into the softness of your caress. You’ve been close enough to kiss more times than he can count. The fact it’s only now occurred to him to do so seems like lunacy. Your eyes dip to his lips, your thumb brushes the bottom one. He catches it with a quick kiss and you laugh your sweet bell-chime laughter.

Pushing your hand into his hair, the wondrous joy in your expression becomes tinged with amusement. “And people wonder why I use so much gel,” you murmur, smooth the wild splay of his hair down with both hands, cupping the back of his head. Homelander smiles wide and boyishly, which prompts you to kiss him again.

“I’m not having some kind of brain bleed hallucination right now, right?” You ask quietly, the tip of your nose lightly pressed to his. He brushes his lips against yours between words. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he purrs, stroking your cheek with his thumb. Despite the ugly fluorescent lights and the dreadful hospital stench all around, you look resplendent in your joy.

He had been right. It was love that you touched him with. It had been subtle, imbued in your every movement, and for months he had soaked it up until, unbeknownst to him, he fell into it as well.

“Trust me when I say you’ll be seeing a lot more of me from now on,” he says, brushing your nose with his.

Maybe instead of tearing them limb from limb, he’ll send flowers to whoever the sorry son of a bitch that rear-ended you this morning was. Who knows how much more time he would have wasted before he realized he was utterly smitten with you.

#i've been meaning to get this fic fixed up for ages bc the original was a MESS and randomly switched to the reader's pov halfway in lol #but i have major fondness and nostalgia for this fic #it's from like my first month in the fandom #homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander fanfiction #x reader #my writing #fluff

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hairmetal666 · 5 months

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Everyone in the league knows about Eddie Munson. He has the makings of a great pitcher, except for the fact that his slider has a 75% chance of sliding too high and his fastballs mostly end up in the dirt. His technique is wild, flailing, unrestrained. Which is why Steve is beside himself when he learns about the trade.

The owners, they think that Steve being the best catcher in the league means he can work with Eddie, settle him, make him a real prospect. Steve's input isn't needed with the decision already made, but Munson--with all his tattoos piercings and leather--looks like he'd rather hock a loogie at Steve than take directions from him.

And Steve is the best in the league, the glue that keeps the team together. They're a well-oiled machine, and Eddie is--Eddie is a squeaky wheel.

They meet for the first time, briefly, in the locker room. He's seen the guy before, of course, but now, like this, he can't help but be intrigued by his pale skin and long curls and brown doe-eyes, his lightly muscled frame. And they're in the locker room, Eddie with just a towel around his waist, exposing his toned chest and stomach and the black swirl of his tattoos.

"Steve Harrington!" Eddie reaches out a hand. "Great to meet you, man."

"You too. Excited to have you with us." The handshake is quick and firm and Steve is trying not to be surprised about how excited and genuine the guy sounds, keep his mind away from thinking of how Eddie is naked aside from the towel.

With only a few weeks until the start of the regular season, Eddie starts pitching to Steve. And Steve, he so expects Eddie to fight and grumble and refuse, that his head sort of spins when, on the first day, Eddie claps him on the back with his glove, says, "where do you want me, cap?" and that's that.

He wants to say that they dislike each other, that they're a bad fit, that Eddie is full himself and refuses constructive criticism.

Instead.

Instead it's easy.

Eddie doesn't complain, doesn't argue, just watches Steve, learns him, takes his advice and notes and implements them as much as he can. They like each other, have an easy rapport, get each other. He's tight with all the pitchers, but Eddie is different. They settle each other.

They're best friends. They hangout constantly. And he doesn't have a crush; he doesn't. It would be unprofessional. They're best friends.

But sometimes, sometimes he thinks he catches Eddie looking at him. It's impossible. Of course it's impossible. Eddie couldn't be into the guy Sports Illustrated called "baseball's Ralph Lauren model" in the intro to Steve's Body Issue photo spread. And it doesn't matter one way or the other because Steve won't make a move. He won't jeopardize the team like that.

They don't touch. He touches everyone on the team, often, and Eddie particularly is a physical guy, but aside from that first handshake, he keeps his distance. Steve's afraid--even though it's silly, he's afraid--that once they start touching, he won't be able to stop, and he can't let that happen.

The team is good, competing for first place in the National League. Eddie's success has made everyone else better.

It's late July, they're in first place in the league, and Eddie's pitching a perfect game. There's only been 24 perfect games thrown in the history of Major League Baseball, but it's the eighth inning and Eddie's doing it.

A pitch goes wild, veers high over the umpire's head. Eddie's shaken, Steve can tell with how his fist tightens compulsively around the ball. The next pitch swings wide, towards the batter's knees.

The count is at 2 balls, no strikes, and he can see, even from behind home plate Steve can see, that Eddie's losing it. He heads for the mound, refuses to let it end like this. He closes the distance between them, has a quick internal debate before he puts his hand on Eddie's lower back. They've never touched, this is it, this is--warmth bleeds from Eddie's skin, through the fabric of his jersey, goes straight to Steve's head.

Eddie frowns. "I don't think I--"

"You're going to do it, Ed. I know. I can feel it." He pats his chest, over his heart. "It's gonna happen."

Eddie's breathing settles and it's only then that Steve realizes he's rubbing circles into Eddie's back with his thumb. He's not sure when he started, doesn't want to stop, loves being able to feel.

"Okay," Eddie says.

"Okay."

Steve removes his hand, heads back to home, still tingling with the warmth of Eddie's body even as he crouches behind the plate.

He closes out the inning with three definitive strike outs. The crowd goes wild.

They take the field for the top of the 9th, the crowd is screaming, ready for this, the energy zipping through every player on the field.

It goes by in a blur. Nine pitches. Eddie's perfect game is wrapped up in nine phenomenal pitches.

As the ump calls the last out, there's a moment of complete and utter quiet in the stadium, Steve's heart a pounding hum in his ears, before pandemonium breaks loose. There's screaming, fireworks, someone is crying--

All he can see is Eddie. Eddie's who's thrown his glove to the dirt, is barreling towards him with a triumphant smile bright on his face. Steve stands, runs to close the distance. He sees the moment that Eddie decides to jump into his arms, catches him easily--will always catch him--but his legs are tired and the momentum gets him, sends them tumbling back into the grass.

They're both yelling, laughing, smiling hard enough to hurt. Eddie's hair has fallen out if its tie, tumbling around his shoulders, and Steve gazes at him, can't help it, in this moment can admit that he's so, so astronomically in love.

It's only then Steve realizes that the laughter's stopped, that Eddie's gazing back. Brown eyes shining bright with happiness, cheeks flushed pink, lips parted. Thoughtless, he reaches up to caress Eddie's cheek.

The team reaches them, streaming around them, yanking Eddie and Steve to their feet. The celebration stretches around them, the moment slipping away. He wants to finish what they started but there are interviews, champagne showers, congratulations, that keep them apart. Sometimes, from across the room, their eyes meet, and there's heat there that's new, that sparks something low in Steve's gut.

Hours pass, and finally he finds himself alone in the locker room. He's just pulled on his t-shirt when the door shuts behind him. He spins, finds Eddie, waiting, watching.

He crosses the room without a word, can't not, not now, not after everything. They grapple for a second, the wanting so strong that it takes a second to settle, to find each other. They kiss hard, desperate, seething with desire.

Steve hopes it never ends and it doesn't, just tapers into soft kisses, gentle nips. He can't bring himself to step away.

"Is this for real ?" Eddie whispers.

"I've been insane about you since the trade."

Eddie's smile is blinding. "I used to have those pictures of you--the ones with the little red shorts?--in my locker in the minors. Feel like I'm living in a dream right now."

It lights him up inside, knowing that Eddie wants him, has wanted him. "Let me take you home and show you just how real it is?"

He snorts, but his dimples deepen, eyes shining. "What a line, sweetheart."

"Yeah well, the baseball field isn't the only place where I hit home runs."

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #baseball au #teammates to lovers #ficlet #fluff #first kiss #feelings confession #steve thinks he'll hate eddie but he just falls in love with him instead #pitcher eddie munson #catcher steve harrington #i had this idea a month ago and forgot about it #dom/sub undertones in the way that what if steve gently doms eddie into pitching better #what if steve modeled for SI's body issue and what if eddie is obsessed with him the whole time #really playing fast and loose with how major league baseball works

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mactavishwritings · 7 months

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Domestic Bliss

Poly!141 x wife!reader

Requested by: @supernaturalstilinski

You’re boys were a team. A well oiled machine, knowing each other’s strengths and weaknesses. They all fit together so seamlessly, having the ability to pick each other up before the other realizes they need it. Before you, they had a system that seemed to thrive from chaos and confusion. When you first met the group, you were hesitant. Mainly because of the four giants who all professed their love for you and each other. There was another reason you were so hesitant to join the group; deep down you feared that you didn’t fit in. That your presence only hindered the boys, but they saw something that you didn’t. You made their chaos make sense.

You guys had a routine. Each time the boys had to go on a mission, you would pamper each man in a special way that was dedicated to just them. You would start the routine a week before the mission so you had enough time to make sure that each boy felt loved.

For John, you would go on hikes each morning before the mission. You two would wake up earlier than the others and spend the entire morning wrapped up in each other. You two would make coffee before heading to the car and driving to your favorite park. You would walk around in the peaceful forest together and just soak in each other's presence.

For Kyle, you two would sit together and water horror movies. Something about the fact that you cling to him that brings hm comfort, it helps him get into the right head space. It helps him come home to you safely. You two would go to the guest room with big bowls of popcorn and giggling to each other as you pick the next movie on the list.

For Johnny, you two would get together a couple days before they left for the mission and you would trim his Mohawk. He always claimed that you did it the best, not letting anyone else touch his hair with a pair of scissors, even the other boys in your group. Johnny would melt into your soft touch as you gently passed over the sides of his head with the razor. The gentle vibrations soothing him so he could finally concentrate on his thoughts.

For Simon, his time with you doesn't start until right before they have to leave. He stands in the bathroom, hands placed firmly on your hips to keep you in place. You sat on top of the bathroom counter, his black makeup in your hands as you slowly massage the paint into his skin with a brush. His eyes were closed as you worked, a hand on the side of his head. You hum children’s lullabies to him to help the chatter in his brain, so that you know he will be safe.

Everyone knows the routine, never interrupting each other’s time. The entire group needed it as much as you needed it. It helped you to know that just in case this was the last time, they felt loved.

#ghost x reader #soap x reader #gaz x reader #price x reader #poly cod x reader #poly!141 x reader #johnny soap mactavish x reader #simon 'ghost' riley x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #captain john price x reader #call of duty modern warfare 2 x reader #request #johnny mctavish x reader #simon riley x reader #kyle garrick x reader #john price x reader

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jeonginsleftcheek · 2 months

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Bf!Skz reaction to you randomly spanking them

pairing: ot8 x gn!reader

genre: fluff, suggestive

warnings: none i think? (lmk)

a/n: just a little something while i decide what to write next bcs i have too many ideas🥲

~ check out: Masterlist

Chan:

You're at your boyfriend's studio, and as much as you admire his process of writing and producing songs, you're becoming bored.

It looks like he completely forgot about your presence as he works away while you sit on the couch, playing with your phone.

You huff but Chan doesn't even budge and at this point you're sure he's teasing you on purpose.

He stands up and leans over the table to grab something and you take that as your chance. You quickly stand up and slap his butt as hard as you can, hurting your hand in the process and making him jolt forwards as he grabs at the end of the table.

Chan turns around to look at you, a mix of surprise and slyness on his face, his cheeks dusted in pink.

"I sure hope you know what you just started, love."

Lee Know:

You and your boyfriend are in the kitchen, cooking dinner together. It feels like both of you have fallen into a trance, working together like you were a well oiled machine.

Some light music plays in the background as you cut some vegetables while Minho prepares the meat.

He turns his back to you slightly as he grabs some spices and you look up from your task, your eyes falling to his ass.

You smirk and lift your hand up before smacking his ass and watching it jiggle. The way he turned around slowly like a cat, his eyes judgy and a sly smirk on his lips.

"What are you doing kitten?"- he asks.

"Learning from the best."- you shrug nonchalantly.

"Hold that thought until after dinner."

Changbin:

It's a chilly autumn Friday night, but you're not cold at all.

In fact, you're sweating because your boyfriend suggested for the two of you to spend the evening in the gym.

You protested at first, but he was adamant on blending two of his favorite activities together in his rare free time; spending time with you and working out.

You slowly get into it and the physical exertion, the heat in your body plus your sexy boyfriend looking extra delicious while he works on his muscles bring a different kind of warmness between your legs.

Changbin moves around before bending over to pick up the bottle of water he left on the side and you can't help it, your hand flying on its own and smacking his ass so hard that you think your hand might fall off.

"Yah!"- he yells out, clearly startled as he grabs at his ass. "What's that for?"

"You're so hot, Binnie. I couldn't resist."- you bat your eyelashes innocently at him as he narrows his eyes and smirks.

His face is flushed from the work out but you swear it looks even more red now.

"Yeah? Wanna go home and show me how much you can't resist me?"

Hyunjin:

Hyunjin and you decided to avoid the summer heat by going to the pool.

Sadly, the sea was too far away and you didn't have much free time to actually make a trip there, so the pool had to suffice.

Both of you didn't mind though, you were happy to splash around and play in the water together, enjoy your time like you had no worries on your mind.

You stayed in the pool for a fairly long time and Hyunjin swam towards the steps first. You followed him and watched as he stood up and walked out of the water, his body on display for you, his muscles tense as droplets of water slid down his spine.

His cute little perky ass got your attention and you hurried up as he turned and waited for you.

"Let's get changed."- you ushered him to the showers and he chuckled at your sudden eagerness to leave.

As soon as you were as far away from other people as you could be, your hand collided with his ass, echoing in the empty hall.

Hyunjin yelped, doubling down dramatically and almost falling to his knees.

Even your hand burned because of the impact on his wet swim trunks.

"Why would you hurt me like that?!"- he whined, grabbing at the wall and making a show of it.

"You've taken worse."- you smirk at his antics and he chuckled, his cheeks red.

"Don't talk about that in public."- he smacked your arm lightly and you laughed.

"Well let's find a more private place where we can talk."

Jisung:

The two of you are walking home from a movie date, your hands swinging together as you discuss the film you just watched.

The evening is quiet and peaceful and you can't wait to come home, shower and get under the covers with your sweet boyfriend.

Jisung takes his phone out of his pocket to show you something but since he never wants to let go of your hand, the phone clatters as it hits the floor.

"Shit!"- he exclaims, letting go of your hand and bending down to pick up the device.

Your eyes fall on his cute ass instantly, looking extra cute in his tight black jeans. You smirk as you land a hard smack against his flesh, making him shriek and almost fall over.

"Damn. Do that again."

Felix:

It's your first time sleeping over at Felix's place and since both of you love baking, you decided to try out a new recipe.

The problem was, you needed to run to the store to get some ingredients.

"I'm sorry, I should've prepared these beforehand."- Felix pouts cutely at you and you chuckle.

"Bubs, it's okay, I don't mind taking a little walk to the store. It'll be like a little adventure."- you smile and he chuckles, his cheeks dusted pink.

"Alright, that sounds way more fun now."- he nods.

The two of you make a short 10 minute trip to the nearest store. As you walk through the aisles, in the bright fluorescent light you notice just how tight your boyfriend's pants are, his ass and thighs prominent in them.

He even dares to bend down to pick up an ingredient from a lower shelf.

Your mouth waters at the sight and without thinking you smack his ass, ending it with a nice handful of his flesh as he squeals and lifts up quickly.

"Hey!"- he whips around so fast, his face morphed into a look of surprise before it becomes a little smirk, his eyes glinting at you.

You giggle at him as he points his finger at you.

"Just you wait 'til we come back home, honey."

Seungmin:

You're backstage with your boyfriend before his next show.

He's been looking extra delicious lately, his arms on display and the leather pants hugging his figure perfectly.

He's getting ready for the performance and when he turns his back to you, your eyes rake all over him. You look around, noticing that everyone's going about their business so you decide why not just spank him once?

Just one tiny little smack, you think as you lift up your arm.

"What are you doing?"- Seungmin asks and you groan.

"How did you see me? You back is turned!"

"The shadow, silly. Are you trying to smack my ass?"- he turns to look at you with a smirk.

"No."- you say.

"No? It's okay, you can do it."- he turns his back to you again and just as you lift your hand up again, he slides away from you, snickering and running away.

"Hey get back here!"- you run after him as you both giggle.

"Catch me if you can!"- he screams back and both of you get too excited before the staff has to calm you down.

And ofcourse, you use that chance to smack him lightly.

"Happy now?"- he rolls his eyes playfully.

"Ofcourse."- you smirk.

"Mhm. I might just have to return the favor later."

Jeongin:

"Innie, I'm bored."- you huff, moving your arms and legs like you're making a snow angel on your boyfriend's bed.

"What?"- he looks up from his spot, his eyes were glued to his phone.

"I said I'm bored."- you pout.

"Didn't you tell me to be quiet so you can read your book?"- he smirks.

"I can't concentrate anymore. The letters are all becoming screwy."- you keep pouting at him.

"Alright, what can I do to make it better?"

"Entertain me?"- you try to look sweet and innocent and he laughs at your attempt.

"However shall I do that?"- he leans closer to you.

"Give me a fashion show!"

"A what now?"- Jeongin laughs again, caressing your side.

"You bought new outfits. I wanna see them."- you sit up.

"Fine, if you insist."- he rolls his eyes jokingly and gets up. You reach for him and smack his cute butt, making him jolt.

"I hope I'm getting paid well for this fashion show."- he jokes.

"Oh, you are, trust me."

✨Taglist: @moonchild9350 @janepg @velvetmoonlght @hwanghyunjinismybae @jehhskz @laylasbunbunny

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ghost-proofbaby · 7 months

Text

when you know, you know. (e.m.)

summary: air hockey has never been so romantic.

warnings: it's alluded to that reader is wearing red lipstick. not edited.

pairing: eddie munson x reader

wc: 1.8k+

a/n: a very late valentine's day gift for you all (and eddie). also, the fact i've never written proper mechanic eddie... what a shame.

“Yes!”

If any of the nearby children flinched, you didn’t notice. You were too wrapped up in your victory, going as far as to partake in a terribly embarrassing dance on your end of the air hockey table as Eddie shakes his head slowly.

“You definitely cheated,” he deadpans, a twitch of a smile nearly giving him away as he leans down to pick the puck out of the slot below on his end, “There’s no way you’re about to beat me in under five minutes, again.”

You smile, lips painted red under the lowlights of the arcade as you lean over the table and taunt him, “Or maybe it’s just a skill issue. I wouldn’t keep beating you if you were actually a professional in air hockey like you’d claimed, Munson.”

Three dates – tonight makes four – and you still hadn’t quite worked out how you’d managed to capture the attention of the boy before you. When he’d originally asked you out to coffee, you’d swallowed down all your excessive excitement just to answer him. The local mechanic that you’d been making heart eyes at every few months when you’d go in for an oil check, the one who hadn’t allowed the others at the shop to oversell you on a damn thing when you’d get your tires rotated. Who always smiled shyly as he’d bring you back your keys.

You’d figured the coffee date would last an hour if you were lucky. The two of you would spend more than five minutes in the same room together, he’d realize how overbearing you were, and that would be the end of it. Ridiculous crush effectively squashed.

But it hadn’t.

It had lasted hours, plural. Coffees finished and second lattes nursed until they’d gone cold, the outcome had been the exact opposite of your expectations. Your conversation had flowed effortlessly, common ground and common interests found with ease, and suddenly, Eddie was more than just some cute mechanic for your friends to tease you over.

The first date had only ended due to his shift at the shop that afternoon.

The subsequent sushi dinner date, and then the movie night the next week, had also lasted hours.

“For someone who works on cars, you should be a lot better with your hands,” you poke gentle fun at him as he makes the first hit against the puck this time, far more careful than you had been when serving.

“Or maybe I’m just determined to keep letting my pretty date win.”

“And why would you ever do that?”

Another hit from your mallet, the sharp tapping of your aggressive push ringing out over the sound of nearby machines. You don’t dare to glance in the direction of the ruckus, but you’re pretty sure someone has just won an exciting amount of tickets based on the squeals of glee.

“I dunno,” Eddie pauses to shrug after he hits the puck once more, his guard dropping. You’re ruthless as you take the opportunity to shoot the puck straight into ‘goal’ on his side of the table. A straight shot, far too easy for your liking, but you still celebrate the victory with another embarrassing dance, “Maybe it’s because I’m into that ridiculous dance they keep doing whenever they score.”

You immediately stop your little jumps, eyes widening, a rush of embarrassment heating you up from the inside out as Eddie’s eyes stay glued on you. The table powers down as he makes his way around it, feet bringing him right to you.

You’d always thought Eddie would find you weird, or odd, or unappealing after that coffee date, but the outcome had been better than you could have possibly conceived.

He was an absolute weirdo as well.

Fondness overtakes his features just like it had on that coffee date when you’d accidentally snorted at one of his jokes, and your heart flutters eagerly. You can’t believe there had been a time you’d only watch him from behind glass, trying to not get caught as you would blatantly stare at him as he’d work on your car. A time when you’d only see his curls up in loose buns rather than framing his face as they were now, a time when you couldn’t even shake his hand due to it being covered in oil.

That had all only been a month ago, but you already couldn’t imagine your life without Eddie Munson in it.

“Don’t go shy on me now,” he chuckles as he stops in front of you, smirk deepening the dimples you’d only noticed on your second date with him. He’d been too bashful the first date, ducking whenever his grin would grow too wide on you, biting his tongue on half the flirtatious remarks you wished he would have said. “You won, fair and square, so what’s your prize gonna be, valentine?”

He also waited until the second date to kiss you. That had nearly killed you.

“It’s not very fair if you let me win,” you whisper, unable to look away from his eyes. They’re a soft brown, a smooth honey, a nice sight for sore eyes. You kind of like the crinkles beside them, too. Kind of wonder what it would be like to wake up beside him, roll over, and kiss them – all before the sun ever rose.

He reaches out and gingerly grabs your hand, calloused fingertips brushing your knuckles before he entangles your fingers with his. “Psh, who said I let you win? Maybe I just really suck at air hockey.”

“You just-”

You never get to finish your argument. He’s quick to swoop down, capturing your lips in his. The rudest of interruptions, and it still manages to weaken your knees.

Each kiss only grows sweeter. And more confident, more sure. The first one had been timid, exchanged on your doorstep with boyish hesitation and meek desperation. But now, several kisses experienced since that night, all apprehension has melted. He lets his lips meld to yours, captures your bottom lip just tightly enough to give it a brief tug when he pulls away. Still soft, ever so sweet, and leaving you wanting for more.

Four dates. All it took was four dates for him to make you a goner.

“Now, that wasn’t fair,” you breathe out, betrayed by the smile that you wear. Your chest feels shaken up, impending explosion of mushiness and flowers and hearts and every single cliche the love songs on the radio could squeeze out.

“It was your prize.”

“I never said I wanted a kiss for my prize.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he puts a dramatic hand up to his chest, leaning back so dramatically that your hand instinctively reaches out to loop a finger in his jean pocket to keep him upright, “Would you like me to take it back, my fair maiden?”

Four dates, and he makes it impossible to not imagine a future of this. Of silly banter, of gentle mornings spent kissing away crows feet, of cutting one another off with the most infuriating of methods. You’re starting to believe you’re just a hopeless romantic, and he’d spotted that from a mile away – he knew every single button to press to have you putty in his hands, and he was taking full advantage of it.

You giggle, an honest to God giggle, as you say, “Hm, I’m not sure. I heard the return policies on those are a bit wonky.”

If your friends thought you were insufferable when he was some stranger you just had a crush on, they would be vomiting at the sight of this.

He leans into your space, close enough to smell his faint cologne and mint on his breath, “Are they? Well, lucky for you, I’m friends with the shop owner. Can definitely accept the return without a receipt. It won’t be a problem, ma’am. I swear it.”

He’s weird. He’s goofier than you could have imagined, snarkier than you could have dreamed, and more romantic than you had yet to uncover. He’s kind of perfect, but you wouldn’t dare say that to his face. Not yet, at least.

You’re glad you had said yes when he’d asked days prior for you to be his Valentine. And you’re glad he hadn’t gone the boring route, showing up with just chocolates and flowers and calling it a day, but had instead dragged you out to this arcade for a night of adventures as he claimed.

“And how would one go about returning a kiss, kind sir?”

He answers wordlessly, bringing up a finger to tap on his lips. He goes as far as pouting them dramatically.

He wants you to kiss him.

Lucky for him, you want to kiss him, too.

Your kiss is more chaste. Teasing as you lift up onto your tippy toes and only press your lips to his for a brief second before falling back. You leave him wanting more – it’s written all over his face, along with a blush that races right over the bridge of his nose.

He’s cute. He’s cute, and he’s weird, and you really fucking like him.

“Now that that’s over with,” you have to change the topic, move right along before your heart truly bursts from your chest, “I know what I want my prize to be.”

He takes a moment to recover, pupils almost resembling hearts as he stares down at you. Eventually he pulls himself from your trance, shaking his head as he asks, “And what would that be?”

You’re the one taking his hand this time. If he gave you the time, you’d like to learn each callous and scar by heart. Trace over them in the middle of night, when it’s just you and him in the darkness beneath your sheets. Memorize the way they feel as he explores every curvature of your body and figure out which of the roughest patches would brush against your most sensitive bits in a way that would make you arch your back right into him.

The two of you haven’t even discussed if that’s where the night might lead, but you’re sort of hoping the luck in the air doesn’t run out.

“There’s an awfully pretty ring in the case up at the ticket counter,” you muse, knowing damn well the ring was the ugliest thing either of you had ever seen in your lives, “Think you’ve got the tickets to spare?”

His hand gives you a squeeze. Something not too tight, something perfectly comfortable. It’s only the fourth date, it’s only the first month – it’s only the beginning.

“Anything for you, sweetheart,” he says, more earnestly than you’d expected, as he steals another kiss.

You let him. You have this aching feeling in your chest that you’ll probably let him steal an endless amount from you for the rest of your life.

When you know, you know. Or whatever the poets say.

eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @hideoutside @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin @ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87 @thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @aysheashea @kellsck @cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking @witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore @mikiepeach @ali-r3n @hawkebuckley @alwaysbeenfamous @darkyuffie-blog @vintagehellfire @lilmisssiren @elvendria @loveryanax @stylexrepp @princessstolas @fangirling-4-ever @eddiesguitarskills @babez-a-licious @josephquinnsfreckles

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#my writing #ghost's stories #eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #i want eddie to win me an ugly arcade ring thanks #also reader falling in love within a month of properly knowing eddie is so real #me too baby me fuckin too #on one tonight idk #let's gooo <3

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fuckyeahdindjarin · 1 year

Text

IV ║ Notch

Joel Miller x F!Reader

{ Part III: Edgestitch | Behind the Seams: Part IV | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E, but not that explicit

Summary: While Ellie works her first shift at the Outfitters, Joel drops by yours to return the blouse you left behind at the baby shower. Turns out, there's plenty around the house to keep him occupied until the teenager clocks off.

Warnings: Sexual tension, body insecurity, some language, inaccurate descriptions of gardening, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, undervest supremacy, flirting, dry humping, shy!reader, reader has a nickname related to her job, soft!domestic!Joel, no use of Y/N

Word count: 8.9k

Notes: Once I started writing this chapter in earnest, it came together a bit more quickly than I expected! It's extremely self-indulgent, with plenty of white undervest and belly action because you guys deserve all of that goodness for being the most patient, loving readers a writer could hope for 🥹 Thank you, I love you all! ❤️

Notch – diamond shaped marks that stick out beyond the edge of the pattern to line up all the pieces when sewing the garment. They come in pairs to be matched up.

Joel is sleeping - which is not something that could be said until a couple of months ago.

After the outbreak, sleep as a concept ceased to exist. What took its place is literal ‘shuteye’, either engineered by pills knocked back with moonshine, or a preventative shutdown by his body to avoid total failure, having pushed his physical form to the living limit.

It’s the kind of sleep that is destitute and provides no relief. It keeps the cogs turning just enough that he doesn’t expire, standing in his boots - which, on most days, are not the only things held together by duct tape.

But after the hospital, even that turned out to be too much to ask for. Some nights, the itch for chemical-induced relief got so bad that Joel entertained the thought of asking Tommy for illicit pills, ready to crawl on all fours to his brother’s house two streets down because he was shaking so hard he couldn’t lock his knees. But he didn’t trust him not to tell Maria, and with Ellie in the picture, he wasn’t about to tempt fate.

So instead, he asked Maria to assign him to night patrols. She hmmm’d at his request like she knew something he didn’t, but she humoured him, letting him take the graveyard shift for a couple of weeks straight. She didn’t have to tell him that she could see the way he tripped over his own feet and hear the slur in his voice. She’s too sharp not to notice.

But she didn’t say anything.

What she did do though, was not so subtly wean him off the late-night patrols. It started with a couple of random, last-minute changes, and then the next thing he knew, he was working morning shifts exclusively. When he tried covertly swapping stints with another guy, he showed up at the guard tower at midnight to find his sister-in-law standing in the doorway, arms crossed over her pregnant belly.

As he trudged home begrudgingly with his head down and her stern reprimand in his ears, he couldn’t help a chuckle. Gotta hand it to her.

Banished back to his bed, Joel went back to staring owlishly at the ceiling, watching the moonlight slide across the plaster until he knew all the cracks in it with his eyes closed (metaphorically). He’d listen to Ellie snoring away two doors down and marvel at the fact that she somehow still slept like the dead, even after… all that.

And then, one night, it happened for him too.

Admittedly, he ate a bit too much at Tommy and Maria’s - on top of running the town like a well-oiled machine, she makes a mean chicken fried steak - and Ellie had not so subtly plonked a second helping on his plate without asking. He was lying in bed, steeling himself for another long night, when his eyes drooped. The motion was so alien that it jolted him wide awake, but he couldn’t shake the weight that clung to the seams of his lashes. The next time he opened his eyes, it was morning.

Turns out you can teach an old dog new tricks.

It’s nowhere near consistent, and more often than not he wakes up in a cold sweat in the small hours, but in between, he’s sleeping. For once, he’s feeling rested. And it’s a nice fucking break from the relentless exhaustion that he’s convinced is fused into his bones.

He always wakes up earlier than Ellie though. She never stomps down the stairs until he’s already had breakfast, and hers has gone cold.

So on the Saturday morning following the baby shower, with his face plastered into the mattress, body curled around a pillow - old habits die hard - Joel nearly falls out of bed at the banging on his door.

‘Joel! Get the fuck up!’

For one disconcerting moment between sleep and wake, he’s in his bedroom back in Texas. He half expects to look up to see the posters on the wall and the perpetually overflowing laundry basket at the foot of his bed.

Blinking through the urge to close his eyes, the colours fade and he stares blearily at the digital clock on his bedside table.

7:30.

What the fuck? More often than not he has to drag the teenager out of bed by the ankles, kicking and swearing, at 7:50 to get to school at 8:00.

His knees groan as he staggers onto his feet, grabbing yesterday’s jeans from the floor and pulling them on. He finds a passably clean shirt about five deep on a chair, which he shrugs on over his white undervest. With a grunt, he yanks open the door and heads downstairs on bare feet, frowning at unfamiliar sounds coming from the kitchen.

Joel pauses in the doorway, hands on hips. ‘What do you think you’re doin’?’

Deeming his question unworthy of a response, Ellie tosses him a roll of her eyes over her shoulder and resolutely ignores him.

Shuffling closer, he asks, ‘Are you - cookin’?’

Brandishing the spatula at him, she snarls, ‘What does it look like I’m doing?’

He goads her with a smirk. ‘To be honest, it looks like you threw up in the pan.’

Ellie elbows him hard in the stomach. ‘Fuck you, man!’

He grins. There’s nothing like winding her up first thing in the morning. Grabbing the pan, he bins the ruined eggs, scraping off the burnt bits stuck to the bottom. ‘Crack some more eggs, I’ll make ‘em.’

Ten minutes later, in their usual seats at the kitchen table, they tuck into scrambled eggs and buttered toast.

‘Slow down,’ warns Joel as Ellie wolfs down hers. ‘You’re gonna choke.’

‘You hurry up! Can’t be late for my first day,’ she garbles through a mouthful of food.

‘Why can’t you be like this about school?’ he grumbles, then he winces as his teeth catch something crunchy. Picking it out, he gives her a pointed look. ‘Eggshell.’

‘Calcium,’ she shoots back without even looking up, too busy shoving the rest of her breakfast into her mouth, stuffing her cheeks like a chipmunk.

That one word stops Joel in his tracks and hurls him twenty years back in time.

But then Ellie is jumping up and practically throwing her empty plate into the sink, sneakers squeaking on the tiled floor as she dashes out of the kitchen. ‘C’mon, old man!’

Joel smiles, the memory warm like sun on his face.

He shakes his head, slowly finishing his breakfast - like he wishes he did that day.

They turn out to be fifteen minutes early.

To his chagrin, Ellie admits freely that she lied about the time so they wouldn’t be late. He’s a punctual guy, thank you very much. He certainly doesn’t need to be schooled by the little brat.

Joel sits on the stairs, while Ellie has her face squished up against the door, unabashedly leaving smudges on the glass panels as she keeps up an uninterrupted running commentary on every last piece of clothing she can see.

He tunes her out easily, shifting in his seat so that his right ear is to the door. In his hands is the blouse that you left behind at Tommy and Maria’s at the baby shower. He’s been meaning to return it to you, but the week got away from him, and there’s no time like the present.

Considering the state of his knees, he impresses himself with the speed at which he stands at the sound of footsteps on the otherwise quiet main street. Squaring his shoulders, he discreetly pulls on his shirt, suddenly seeing wrinkles everywhere in the fabric, and runs his fingers through his hair, wishing he’d taken another look in the mirror before he left the house -

But it’s Lucy who appears at the bottom of the stairs with her unfailingly sunny smile.

‘Hi, you must be Ellie,’ she chirps.

She eyes Lucy cautiously, lips pinched to one side. ‘Where’s Pin?’

Joel growls. ‘Manners.’

Ellie puts her hands up in surrender. ‘Sorry. I meant - nice to meet you, where’s Pin?’

Lucy beams good-naturedly and fiddles with the lock. ‘She’s off today, and it’s all my fault because I made her work three weekends in a row. You’ll be helping me in the front anyway, so I’ll show you the ropes.’ Stepping aside and swinging the door open, she prompts, ‘In you go now, hon.’

Ellie doesn’t even look back at him, rushing into the shop like a thoroughbred fresh out of the starting gates.

Pocketing the keys, Lucy smiles. ‘Hi Joel.’

‘Hey,’ he nods back. ‘Sorry about Ellie.’

‘Don’t be, I was exactly like her when I was younger. Still am sometimes,’ she jokes. Then with a sly side eye, she remarks, ‘And honestly, you look more disappointed that I showed up than she does.’

He splutters, ‘Dunno what you’re talkin’ about.’

She smirks knowingly, gesturing at the blouse clutched tightly in his left fist. ‘I can pass that to Pin for ya.’

Joel hesitates for just a second, and Lucy bursts into laughter, elbowing him teasingly. ‘The way your face fell! I’m joking, Miller. Relax.’

He shakes his head. ‘It’s fine, guess I’ll give it to her next time she’s ‘round.’

Just then, from the depths of the shop, Ellie gasps dramatically and yells at the top of her lungs, ‘I want thissssssss one!’

Meeting Lucy’s eyes, Joel asks, ‘Sure you gonna be ok left alone with her?’

She shrugs. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’

He flashes her a thumbs up. ‘I’ll pick her up at three then.’

He’s about to walk away from the Outfitters when Lucy’s voice stops him. ‘Hey, Joel!’

Looking up at the wraparound porch, he raises an eyebrow in a silent question.

‘She lives in the yellow cottage on the same street as the shoe shop. Keep going north, you can’t miss it,’ she says with a two-finger salute and a parting line that he’s heard before. ‘Say hi to Pin for me!’

You’ve always had a soft spot for the turn of the season, when late spring blooms graciously give way to summer buds. The grass smells greener, and the air is pregnant with pollen and nectar. It’s not overly warm yet, but you can feel the intensity in the sunlight, muted only by the early hour. Good thing you’re starting early.

It’s unseasonably warm for June, and the vegetable patch on the far end of your garden has suddenly burst into life. The cauliflower has finally come through after two failed crops in a row, and both the tomato vines and pepper plants are thriving. Closer to the ground, the onion and garlic shoots are patiently waiting to be pulled, and asparagus shoots spear through the earth in tidy lines one after another.

Pulling on a hat and gloves, you get to work.

You’re halfway through the second row of onions when there’s a faint knock on the front door. Even though you’ve only been in the sun for a little while, the coolness inside the house feels like a balm to your skin as you pad inside, peeling off your gloves before reaching for the door.

Swinging it open, you’re stumped by the sight of Joel Miller on your doorstep.

You haven’t seen him since the party, where you’d agreed on a start date and time for Ellie’s first shift, and -

Since the kiss.

You’ve felt his absence keenly. You’ve caught yourself loitering on street corners, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, knowing you’ll be able to spot him just by the way his shoulders swing with his long strides. You’ve kept an ear out for the southern lilt that has chased goosebumps across your skin, or any mention of his name, but all in vain.

Jackson has a habit of growing in size, usually in direct proportion to one’s desperation.

Now that he’s somehow here, you’re aware you’re gaping at him, so broad that his shoulders are blocking out the daylight. Too many years out of practice to count, you have no idea what the protocol is when you next see the man who literally made your knees buckle with just his lips and nothing else.

‘Mornin’, he finally says with a small smile.

You stammer. ‘H-hello. What, um, I mean, how -’

‘I dropped off Ellie at the shop and Lucy told me where you live,’ he explains, shaking out the blouse in his hands. ‘Thought I’d come ‘round and return this.’

Your palm twitches with the urge to smack yourself on the forehead. Of course that’s why he’s here.

Taking the top from him, you smile back gratefully. ‘Thank you. And of course, it’s Ellie’s first day. I’m sorry I can’t be there, but I’ve been subbing for Lucy on the weekends for a month straight and I needed a break.’

He waves away your apology. ‘Count yourself lucky. She was just ‘bout bouncin’ off the walls.’

‘Bless her heart,’ you chuckle, breaking off when his eyes flicker over you, as if he’s just registered your very minimalist ensemble of a white cotton tank top and denim cut-offs. Your skin prickles under his scrutiny, flattery winning out against self-consciousness at the deliberate drag of his gaze over you, a thoughtful weight behind it.

That is until something catches his attention, and you flinch when he peers under the brim of your hat. ‘What -’

Before you can even articulate your question, he’s taken one step towards you, his work boots heavy on your creaky wooden porch. His voice is low but rough around the edges, just the way you like it.

‘You got some dirt -’ he swipes his index finger firmly on the end of your nose. ‘Right here.’

Your jaw hangs open, then clamps shut, in quick succession, the shell of your ears burning hot at his fleeting touch. Throat suddenly dry, you barely manage to squeak, ‘Thanks.’

One day, you will at least try and keep your cool around this man. But alas, it is not this day.

Rearranging himself, Joel leans on the doorframe with his arms crossed and remarks conversationally, ‘You look outdoorsy this mornin’.’

Flashing the soil-stained gloves at him, you try to keep your voice steady. ‘I’m just doing some gardening out back. The vegetable patch needs harvesting.’

He purses his lips at that. ‘Didn’t peg you as the gardenin’ type.’

You don’t know where the bravado comes from, but you swat him on the arm with the gloves and quip, ‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me.’

‘You got me there,’ he huffs a laugh and gestures towards the back of the house. ‘Anythin’ I can do to help?’

The refusal is on the tip of your tongue. You don’t say yes to a whole lot nowadays, other than when Lucy makes you. But then you hear yourself ask, a challenge in your voice that you didn’t know you had. ‘I don’t know. Are you any good with your hands, Joel Miller?’

At the boldness in your words, which you don’t take back, Joel’s eyebrows reach for his hairline. Biting your lip but standing your ground, you watch him grind his jaw as he considers his response.

‘Why don’t you try me, sweetheart?’

‘Like this?’

‘Wait - slow down.’

A shuffle of hands. ‘How about now?’

‘That’s it. Yes, that’s good. Keep going.’

A raspy grunt. ‘I think I’m almost there.’

‘Yeah, that’s right, don’t stop -’

‘Alright, you ready?’

‘Come on, Joel -’

With one last flick, the knife slices clean through the base of the stalk, and Joel plucks the cauliflower head out of its leafy cradle with a triumphant grin.

‘How’s that for good hands, huh?’ he crows.

‘I’ll get back to you in the fall when we see if the cauliflower grows back,’ you tease.

He huffs, squinting up at you through the sun. ‘You’re hard to please, sweetheart.’

You preen at the playful turn of the conversation. If you were a little braver, you’d give him a mischievous wink - but for now, you gesture at the patch. ‘Can you handle the rest? I’ll get started on the peppers.’

He nods. ‘Leave ‘em with me.’

The pepper plants are having a great season, standing at four feet tall and heaving with fruits. You’ve left them alone on the vine for the last three weeks to sweeten, and they have dutifully ripened into a beautiful red. Settling onto your knees, you methodologically comb through the peppers from top to bottom, cutting off each one by the stalks.

It’s a big harvest, half of which you plan on giving away to your neighbours in exchange for their berries and lemons. Some you will cook. Lucy is due to come over for dinner, and she loves your stuffed pepper recipe. The rest you’ll have to find time to roast, skin, deseed and preserve in oil, which will last the rest of the year -

A shadow falls over you, stilling your hands and drawing your eyes upwards.

The sight is familiar - feet planted shoulder-wide by your knees, chin tucked in as he stares down at you, your nose level with the front of the jeans that you picked out for him - you’ve seen it all before, except for one small detail.

Joel is sweating. A lot.

His thin plaid shirt - you’re not sure if you’ve seen him in anything else yet - is sticking to him like a second skin, clinging to the solid outline of his biceps as he holds onto the basket full of cauliflower heads. The sunlight glances off the perspiration dotting his hairline, and the wispy grays that normally curl away from his face have wilted in the humidity.

There’s a flush under his skin as he swipes at his forehead with his shirt sleeve, and your gaze follows a bead of sweat dripping down the prominent vein on the side of his neck, and into the deep V of his shirt - wait, is that the outline of an undervest that you can just make out underneath -

‘Should I take the cauliflower in?’

‘Um -’ you stammer to a halt, eyes still plastered to the front of his chest, just like his shirt.

He clearly mistakes your gawking for something else, flashing you an apologetic smile at his state. ‘Sorry, I work up a sweat real easy.’

Oh, come on. Now all you’re thinking about is how else he works up a sweat -

Seized by the sudden need to get out of the heat in more than one sense of the word, you rip the basket from his grasp and turn on your heels to sprint into the house with a choked, ‘I’ll be right back!’

You nearly trip over your own feet running into the kitchen, your heart thumping so loudly in its ribcage it feels like the whole house is shaking to the beat.

And all that man has done is sweat in front of you.

‘Pull yourself together, Pin,’ you mutter to yourself as you tip the cauliflower heads onto the kitchen table. Grabbing a jug from the cupboard, you put it in the sink and turn on the faucet. Watching the trickle of water, you make yourself take three deep breaths.

Joel’s kind enough to do you a favour, you could at least have the courtesy to not perv on him while he helps you out.

Nodding determinedly to yourself, you pluck two glasses from the drying rack, putting them inside the empty basket that you hook on your elbow, and march back outside -

Only to almost swallow your tongue and drop the full jug of water right at your feet.

Joel’s sweat-soaked shirt is now hanging on your washing line like a white flag, having surrendered to the heat. And just like that, the very image that has been inconveniently seared into the back of your eyes since the party is suddenly before you in all its glory, in the morning sun, out in the open air.

The white undervest stretches over the breadth of him, and if he didn’t look so good in it, you would’ve laughed at the comical way the flimsy straps are clinging onto his shoulders for dear life. Then he bends over to inspect the tomato vines, the bottom of his vest riding up with the movement, teasing a flash of skin above the waistline of the jeans pulled tight over his behind. One big hand reaches out, the outline of his arm flexing as he does, and he palms the bottom of one tomato, testing if it’s ripe for the picking.

Except in your head, it’s something else he’s cupping with such rapturous attention.

He doesn’t notice you until he stands up with a low grunt of effort. Pointing an apologetic finger at his shirt, he says, ‘I hope you don’t mind, I’m sweatin’ right through it like nobody’s business.’

You make a noise in your throat that you pass off as an answer, and with shaky hands, pour him a full glass of water which you shove in his direction.

‘Appreciate it, sweetheart.’ He salutes you and takes a long drag, tipping his head back. You watch, transfixed, as the sunlight bounces off the lines of sweat criss-crossing down the strong column of his neck, and the hard bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.

Suddenly, you’re parched. But you don’t trust yourself to stay upright, let alone pour yourself a drink.

‘It’s hot today,’ Joel breaks the loaded silence, though it’s possible that it’s unilaterally so on your side.

‘Uh-huh,’ you croak, still holding onto the water jug like a shield.

He peers at you with a touch of mischief. ‘You ain’t gonna swoon or anythin’ are you?’

Probably. And definitely not for the reason he has in mind.

You attempt a weak smile that may have come off as a grimace. ‘I’ll try not to.’

Reassured, he nods towards the garlic patch. ‘C’mon. Let’s get our hands dirty, sweetheart.’

By the time the vegetable patch has been thoroughly picked and the baskets crammed full, the sun is high in the sky, the morning clouds burned off with the heat.

Joel isn’t the only one who’s sweating through his clothes - your light cotton top is now clinging uncomfortably to your skin, sweat dripping down your sternum and dampening the cups of your bra. You heave a sigh of relief when he helps you move the haul to a shaded corner near the porch where you have an outdoor sink and wheel hose installed.

Emptying the root vegetables into the sink, Joel steps back and casts a critical eye over the rain gutters that line the eaves of your house. Fingers spread over one jutting hip, he leans his weight on his right leg, the stance creating all kinds of angles that are completely unnecessary in this kind of heat.

He points at the leaves and branches that are clearly sticking out from the channels, but you’re only really interested in studying his large hands. The bumps and veins on the back of them, the watch with the broken face on his left wrist, the dirt coating his thick fingers, pushed under tidily trimmed nails. The logical thought that follows is how he would leave dark streaks on your white top when he pulls you in by the waist -

‘Looks like the gutters need cleanin’,’ Joel declares.

Well, the gutter your head is currently dunked in can certainly do with a good scrub.

‘Rainy season doesn’t start for another few months, they can wait.’

He uh-uh's sternly. ‘I’ve heard that before. Do you have a ladder?’

‘You really don’t have to -’ you protest, but he won’t hear it.

‘It’s no big deal, I’m sweaty anyway,’ he replies. ‘Besides, you’ll be doing me a favour keepin’ me occupied. I don’t pick Ellie up till three.’

You bite your lip. ‘But I feel bad working you so hard.’

Without skipping a beat, he winks. ‘Don’t worry your pretty head, sweetheart - I like workin’ for it.’

Jesus Christ. This man needs to be locked up and the key thrown to a colony of clickers.

The inner contractor in Joel comes out to play as he climbs deftly up the extension ladder propped up against the eaves, gloves on and a tarp bag tied to the top rung for collecting the debris. Discreetly, you shuffle around the freestanding sink so that you have a clear view of him as you turn on the water and start washing the dirt off the onions.

He’s starting close by, just a couple of feet away from you, patiently scooping out the dead leaves and twigs by the handful. Up on the ladder with his side to you, you’re eye level with the swell of his belly, which stretches the seams of the vest, and the underside of it peeks out every time he reaches up for the gutters. Your cheeks warm with the memory of how the soft folds felt against you, so warm and solid that you ache to reach out, push the flimsy vest up and nuzzle the tender skin with your nose -

It takes you a couple of minutes to realise that you’re not even pretending to be washing the onions anymore, the hose running in your idle grasp as you stare, head cocked to one side.

You don’t hear him when he turns to you. ‘Can pass me the hose?’

You stare dumbly back at him. ‘Huh?’

‘The hose, Pin,’ he repeats, a playful condescension in his smirk, like he knows exactly what you’ve been looking at. ‘That onion looks sparkly clean.’

You’re not sure what happened. One second you’re holding onto the hose with the intention of turning off the water before passing it to Joel, but your brain skips that crucial first step, and the next thing you know, you’re pointing it straight at him, spraying him in water from face to chest.

As he splutters, you shove the hose into the sink and screech, mortified. ‘Oh my god! I’m so sorry!’

You watch in horror as the water trickles from his hair, down his stubbled chin and onto his chest - okay, that’s a lie. It’s definitely not horror that’s twisting in your tummy and then much, much lower between your thighs.

And if you thought this man looked good sweaty, well - you’ve seen nothing yet.

He might as well put you out of your misery and take off his undervest right about now. It’s completely see-through, pebbled nipples and the firm ridges of his pecs showing through the wet fabric, rounded out by the endearing soft pouch of his belly.

He wears the early summer tan so well, and for the first time since the outbreak, you think about the swim club in your old neighbourhood. Watching the water drip off his skin, it’s not a stretch to imagine this man pulling himself out of the pool after a quick dip to cool down, before stretching out on a sunlounger to dry in the sun - all in slow motion, set to the track of a corny sax riff.

‘I’m sorry,’ you say on reflex, but the apology rings hollow with the way your gaze lingers over his chest, and he notices.

He chuckles, carding one hand through his wet hair to slick it back, standing taller under your eyes. ‘As I said - never a dull moment with you, sweetheart.’

Joel takes his time, clearing out all the blockages and hosing the gutters clean so that you don’t have to worry about them for another six months. He dumps the leaves and sticks in the compost post, rinses the soiled gloves and his hands clean, before taking his shirt off the washing line and heading into the blessed shade.

He finds you in the kitchen, back to the door, putting away clean plates and cutlery from the drying rack, porcelain knocking together and metal clanging.

This is the most he’s seen of you, in a tank top and shorts, bathed in light spilling in from the large windows that open out into the backyard. He sees touches of your workshop right here in the kitchen - dried herbs and seasoning in mismatched but tidy boxes on the shelves, knives organised by size on a magnetic knife block, plates and bowls arranged in neat stacks behind glass cabinets.

Not wanting to alarm you, he deliberately scrapes his shoe on the tiled floor to make his presence known.

Whipping around - and just a touch startled - you smile with a quiet hey, and Joel’s not sure if he’ll ever get over how the sweet shyness still clings to the curve of your lips despite the fact that he’s kissed you right there.

He stays by the door for now and says, ‘I put the ladder back, and the gutters are all done, but I spotted some shingles missing on the roof while I was up there. I’ll come back to fix ‘em some other time.’

‘Thank you so much Joel, but really, don’t worry about the roof. You’ve done enough.’

‘You basically got Ellie outta my hair every Saturday for the next few months, so I’ll have plenty of time to kill,’ he half-jokes.

A comfortable lull sets in, and he looks up at the ticking clock, surprised that it’s almost noon. Shifting his feet, he opens his mouth and is about to excuse himself when you blurt out, ‘I’m sorry I soaked you.’

The jury's out on who's more taken aback by your phrasing. Exasperated, you groan, ‘I did not mean to say that.’

Joel’s kept a respectful distance since he arrived at the house, the pliant weight of you in his arms and your taste on his tongue kept firmly at bay in the back of his mind, not wanting to bring up anything that would make you uncomfortable in the light of day. But now, he pushes himself off the threshold of the door and crosses the cosy kitchen, pleased that you stay put when he plants himself in front of you, toe to toe.

Brushing a finger under your chin so that you’re staring up at him, he deliberately pitches his voice low and gruff, the double entendre almost crude in its delivery. ‘Just so we’re clear, you can soak me any time, sweetheart, in any way you want.’

Your lips part and your gaze darkens, and he feels his body instinctively react, invisible threads reeling him bodily into you. When you speak, your voice quivers, his name at once a single-worded reprimand and a needy whine that takes him right back to his brother’s spare bedroom. ‘Joel -’

‘Yes, Pin?’ he baits you playfully, just like he did that night, taking one last step so that you’re crowded against the countertop, bookending you with his palms planted on the wooden surface.

Finally shedding that last bit of shyness holding you back, you retort with no real bite, ‘You’re such a tease, Miller.’

‘Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it,’ he quips easily, his attention on your mouth. He hears your shaky intake of air, the whole moment suspended on tenterhooks as you skirt each other on the brink -

Just then, a breeze drifts in from the open window above the sink, providing instant relief from the humidity that hangs heavy in the air. All of a sudden, he’s acutely aware of the fact that he’s sweaty all over, so much so that he might actually smell.

Self-conscious, he clears his throat and murmurs ‘I should probably go, I need a shower and a change of clothes -’

‘You can shower here,’ you interrupt, stumbling over your words in your haste. ‘I have a spare shirt somewhere.’

You don’t need to ask him twice.

He smiles. ‘Sounds good, sweetheart.’

Your ensuite bathroom, like what he has seen of your house, is clean and organised. There’s a neat stockpile of soap bars in the cupboard, and he spots the familiar bottles of regulation shampoo and toothpaste that the town mass produces.

The water is plenty hot as he efficiently lathers himself top to bottom and front to back, but the pressure is a bit weak for his liking and can be easily fixed. Something else to add to the list.

The towel you left on the rack is soft and smells like the sun. Patting himself dry and rubbing it through his hair, he wipes away the condensation off the mirror above the sink. He peers at his reflection, ruminating that it’s time for a shave, and pushes back his wet hair so the strands don’t get in his eyes.

Out of his clothes, only his jeans are passably dry, so he forgoes his boxers and pulls them on, carefully doing up the zipper. Using his shirt as a sling, he bundles up all the dirty clothes and opens the bathroom door.

He catches you coming into the bedroom as he steps out, and your jaw drops at the sight of him in just his jeans before you slap your palms dramatically over your eyes, the tshirt you’re holding onto covering your whole face and muffling your voice. ‘I’m so sorry! I should’ve knocked!’

Joel chuckles at your reaction. ‘Sweetheart, it's your house. And I’m not exactly naked.’

Lowering your hands sheepishly, you still clutch the tshirt to your chest like a security blanket, admitting, ‘Sorry, I just - I just realised I’ve never had a man in here before.’

Something wraps itself around his stomach and pulls, and it takes him a beat to put a name to it because it’s been so long. It’s possessiveness that rushes through his veins and goes straight to his head, and he has to bite the inside of his mouth to keep his voice from wavering. He demands, ‘Never?’

‘Never.’

He lets the word wash over him, appeasing the beast in him for now. With a slow nod, he takes three measured steps towards you, stopping just an arm’s length away. Gently coaxing you to let go of the purple tshirt, he snorts at the huge Lakers logo blazoned across the front.

He quips, ‘I’m more of a Longhorns fan myself, actually.’

The tension cracks, and you grin back, ‘Well, not anymore.’

After your confession, it’s probably redundant, but he wants to hear you say it. Flashing the tshirt at you, he asks, ‘Old boyfriend’s?’

It’s the most personal question that’s been exchanged between you so far by a mile, and it’s probably none of his business, but you can’t explain why your pulse spikes at the way his normally warm gaze hardens with something unfamiliar.

‘No,’ you answer. ‘I keep some of the stock here when there’s not enough room at the shop, that’s all.’

Joel rasps, ‘Good.’

With that one syllable, his shoulders visibly relax, suddenly drawing your attention to his topless form, which you’ve been too mortified to actually look at. It’s a lot to take in, and even though you’ve seen most of him already, there is one conspicuous part that you haven’t yet -

But before your eyes can trail that low, Joel turns. ‘Thanks, I appreciate it. I’ll just -’

You’re slow to catch onto why he trails off in the middle of the sentence, still far too distracted by his general state of undress to notice until he’s already made his way to the top of your neatly made bed. And then you see it…

The flannel peeking out from underneath the duvet.

Oh. Fuck.

With an almost flippant flick of his wrist, Joel peels back the corner of the bedspread. Wordlessly, he stares down at the red plaid shirt he lent you at the baby shower, tucked snugly in your bed, buried half under your pillow.

He stares at it for so long that you interrupt the silence for once.

‘I’ve been meaning to return it,’ you squeak, hands flailing awkwardly, desperately wanting something to hold onto. ‘I just - forgot.’

Joel half-turns to you, arching an eyebrow. ‘You’ve been keepin’ it in your bed?’

Backed into a corner - and you’re not proud of it - you lie. Outrageously. ‘I don’t know how it got in there.'

He picks up the shirt by the collar. It’s wrinkled all over and obviously worn in. He smirks, ‘I’m not so sure about that.’

You’re this close to swivelling around and making a break for it, but as soon as your axis of balance tilts backwards, Joel grabs you by the wrist and pulls you in, hauling you firmly into his bare chest.

‘You’ve been wearin’ it to sleep, haven’t you?’ he asks in a tone that brooks no argument.

Your fingers curl into his chest, his skin blazing warm under your palms. There’s no point fibbing anymore, and you admit, ‘Yes.’

His voice is hoarse when he asks, ‘You wear anythin’ underneath it, sweetheart?’

You hold your breath for one long moment, the tension in the room swelling so quickly that your ears pop. Eventually, under his patient yet heated stare, you shake your head, lips sealed.

His pupils dilate and his nostrils flare, and you feel his grip on your hips tighten.

‘No bra?’ he prompts.

‘No bra,’ you parrot back.

His jaw clenches so tightly that you’re surprised he manages to articulate his next question. ‘No panties?’

‘No panties -’

You barely get the word out before Joel is kissing you, pushing the syllables right back into your mouth until you swallow them with a whimper.

And then he’s pulling back, growling against yours, ‘And what do you do naked in my shirt, hmm?’

You stutter, ‘I - I think about you -’

An undignified squeal escapes you when he suddenly spins you around, your back hitting the bed, denying you the chance to catch your breath. The ceiling fan turns directly above you, but it does nothing to quell the heat between your bodies as Joel clambers over you on his hands and knees, sliding his mouth over yours again in a hard kiss.

You always thought your bed was a decent size, but now, with the bulk of this man hovering over you, you’re not so sure anymore. His ridiculously wide shoulders fill your entire field of vision, and even though he’s holding himself up with his forearms by your ears, you can almost feel the full weight of him through sheer anticipation of his touch.

His heated words brush by your ear, making you shudder. ‘Tell me what you think about, sweetheart.’

‘Your arms, your shoulders -’ you hesitate, dropping your voice shyly. ‘Your belly.’

Joel looks taken aback. ‘My belly?’

You duck your head almost guiltily. ‘Yes.’

His brows draw together in an endearingly confused frown. ‘Why?’

‘That time in the workshop, when we met, you were sucking it in so hard you could hardly breathe - but you don’t anymore.’

The dots connect, and his lips part in an oh. ‘I didn’t even realise.’

‘I know. That’s why it’s sexy,’ you point out.

He looks at you incredulously, as if you’ve lost your mind. ‘My belly is sexy?’

You grin. ‘Yes, and your confidence. You walk differently now, you know.’

He makes a noise at the back of his throat, a self-satisfied smirk tilting his lips upwards. ‘You been watchin’ me?’

‘Maybe,’ you tease.

You exhale long and heavy through your nose when he sucks delicately on your bottom lip, opening you up so that he can dip inside, stealing a taste of your tongue with his.

‘Been thinkin’ about you all week, sweetheart,’ he whispers, trailing fire across your cheek and the hollow behind your ear.

‘I haven’t seen you around at all,’ you whine, tipping your head back as he nudges the tip of his proud nose down your throat.

‘I know, it took three fuckin’ days to clean up after the party,’ he complains, his disgruntled tone prompting a giggle from you. ‘Never again.’

‘I’m not so sure about that. There will be plenty of birthday parties to look forward to, Uncle Joel -’

An open-mouthed kiss on the side of your neck catches you off guard, the unfamiliar texture of the wet suction and scrape of his teeth jolts you clean off the mattress, sending you body slamming into his ribcage.

Joel hums, pleased at your reaction. ‘So sensitive. I’ve barely touched you yet, sweetheart.’

It’s immediate, the shame that burns under your skin at his remark despite knowing he doesn’t mean anything by it, and Joel frowns at the way you stiffen under him. Regret colours his words as he cups your cheek. ‘Pin, I’m sorry, that came out wrong -’

‘No, that’s the thing. You’re not wrong,’ you interrupt with a shake of your head. There’s no point denying it - you’re a grown woman, and there’s something fundamentally embarrassing about losing touch with that part of yourself over the years. ‘I - it’s been so long, I don’t even know my own body anymore.’

His eyes dip downwards and slowly, over the curve of your breasts and the arch of your back. With an encouraging smile, he argues, ‘I’m not sure about that. Looks like your body’s reactin’ perfectly to me.’

Your lips twitch despite yourself. ‘You’re just saying that to get into my pants.’

He takes the unexpected turn in the conversation in stride and runs with it. ‘Trust me, sweetheart, if I were tryin’, I’d already be in them.’

‘You’re such an ass, Joel Miller.’

His roguish grin has you squirming and fisting the sheets underneath you. ‘I dunno. Somethin’ tells me you like it.’

Wrapping one palm on the back of his neck, you drag him into you again, relishing in the weight of him as he pins you to the bed with the broad frame of his shoulders. He moans into your mouth, claiming it with deep strokes of his tongue, while his calloused palms sneak under the hem of your shirt and pull you into him by the small of your back.

Even as your hips buck, begging for friction, Joel holds back, propping himself up on his knees to keep a tenuous grip on his self-control. Pulling back from your lips with a wet pop, he assures you through heavy breaths, ‘We can stop any time, sweetheart. Just say the word.’

Your response comes fast and sure, but he can read the hesitance between the lines, ‘I - I don’t want to stop.’

He presses a patient kiss to your lips, but backs away before you can deepen it. ‘How about this - we’ll flip you over so that you’re on top, and you decide what you want to do. Is that ok?’

You pause to consider his proposal, sliding your tongue over your bottom lip - he’s this close to kissing you right there and then. You ask shyly, ‘And it’s ok if we - you know, just make out?’

He smiles. ‘I can do with some good old-fashioned neckin’.’

‘Ok then -’

You yelp when Joel turns you over without warning, the sudden movement making your head spin. Sitting up against the headboard, he drags you in his lap and asks, ‘Alright?’

You nod with a nervous smile. It’s intimidating, being so close to him that there’s nowhere else to look but into his thoughtful eyes that are watching you for any signs of discomfort. Catching your breath, you settle into the moment and realise that you’re straddling him, hands clinging onto his shoulders, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. His belly is warm and soft where he’s pressed up against you, but lower, nudging insistently between your legs -

Joel is hard.

The revelation robs you of air, want and need rushing like blood to your head, and you stiffen, not knowing what to do.

Joel catches on - you’re beginning to think that nothing ever escapes him - and he reminds you, ‘Just kissin’, ok, sweetheart?’

Snapping out of your freeze frame, you nod, ‘Yes. Ok.’

Giving you somewhere to start, he prompts, ‘Where do you want my hands?’

Tugging on his wrists, you watch his jaw go slack when you place his palms squarely on your ass, where your denim shorts hardly cover the top of your thighs. He lets out a lewd moan at the way your soft curves fill his hands, fingers squeezing and kneading greedily, and you push your hips back into his contact.

‘Not so shy after all, hmm?’ he rasps.

You preen at his praise, and riding the wave of boldness, you tip forward and press your lips to Joel’s before you could overthink it. Over the roar of blood in your ears, you hear him suck in a shaky breath, and you feel the deep groan in his throat taper into a whimper when you swipe your tongue into his mouth.

You’re completely unprepared for the power the sound unleashes in you.

Somewhere in your consciousness, a door is cracked open, and memory crackles at the edges of your mind. Each shuddered breath shared, every slide of skin on skin, brings to the surface what you thought you’d forgotten.

Your fingers burrow into the still wet locks at his nape, earning a loud moan from Joel when you pull on the grays that have distracted you on more than one occasion. He nips his way sloppily down your neck, trailing spit and beard burn as he goes, while your palms skate over his chest and down, down, down until your fingernails drag over the pliant folds of his tummy, hanging over the waistband of his jeans.

‘Sweetheart,’ he groans brokenly at the contact, forehead knocking into yours.

Spreading your fingers over soft flesh, you choke on an inhale when he bodily rocks into your palms. Your thumb catches the hollow of his belly button, fingers tenderly squeezing the creases and dimples of his belly. His eyes crack open under tightly knitted eyebrows, vulnerability etched in every line on his face.

Something shifts - something that neither of you can take back. And suddenly, it’s not just kissing anymore.

Caught somewhere between writhing instinctively under his touch and a deliberate pursuit of friction, your hips find a rhythm that has the seat of your panties quickly twisting and dampening as you grind on the erection straining against the zipper of his jeans.

Blunt nails bite into your thighs as Joel growls, ‘Shit, sweetheart. That’s it.’

You want to bury your face in his neck, feeling too wanton in the way you’re panting in needy whimpers, but he preempts that on no uncertain terms. ‘I want to see everythin’. Look at me.’

You do just that - you can’t deny this man even if you tried - watching him watch you with his pupils blown wide and wild, wetting his bottom lip the same time his eyes drop to your tits, as if he can see right through the thin fabric. He doesn’t touch you anywhere else though, his hands staying where you put them. You can feel his grip dig harder and harder into the swell of your ass, but he doesn’t try to change your rhythm, giving you free rein to ride him any way you need.

When your peripheral vision starts to go, you know it’s not a coincidence that your thoroughly soaked panties shift and strain against your clit, pinching it just so that you cry out, hips faltering.

Joel bares his teeth, and you feel his hips rut upwards into you, his restraint slipping. ‘There you go. You’re close, aren’t you?’

You can only nod, frantically grinding into him now, your whole mind narrowing until the only thought that remains is chasing that high that you can almost taste. Everything swells, electricity fills the air, his name a sacred chant on your tongue as you claw at his back, teetering precariously on the brink of something that promises to devastate you.

‘Joel, Joel, Joel -’

He catches you when you break - you fling yourself at him, knocking into him so hard that the back of his head hits the wall, but he doesn’t even flinch. Tucked safely into the crook of his neck, you whine and wail as you thrash in his hold, and his nostrils flare at your scent. He can smell you, he can smell the slick leaking from your pussy, humid and heady in the air between you, making his mouth water as he aches to taste you - all of you.

One day.

Right now, the hinge of his jaw almost cracks as you milk the last remnants of your orgasm with a needy swivel of your hips, rubbing against his cock at an angle that makes his vision swim, and he knows he’s too far gone. His control slips like shifting sands, and a primal instinct takes over as he bucks roughly into you, fingertips leaving imprints in your skin that you will feel for days after.

‘Oh fuck, sweetheart, wait, I’m - shit, I’m gonna -’

When it hits him, it’s fucking relentless - he cums and cums until his voice goes hoarse with your name, until it feels like his abdomen would cave in and collapse, spurting and spilling until it feels like he’s turned inside out. It goes everywhere, thick, milky strands filling the gaps in his jeans and sliding down his legs in a sticky mess, and he slumps bonelessly into the headboard, panting against your lips as he catches his breath.

Sweetly, gently, he tilts his chin up just enough to kiss you, his nose nudging your cheek intimately when he pulls away, his lungs too deprived of air to keep going. He winces when you shift above him, knowing that you can feel the wet spot pooling under your bare thighs.

Joel breaks the sluggish silence first, cracking a grin. ‘So much for just makin’ out.’

You clumsily climb off his lap and crash land sideways onto the mattress. ‘Is that a complaint, Joel Miller?’

He drapes a heavy arm over you and pulls back you flush into him. ‘Well, these jeans are fuckin’ ruined. I want a refund.’

‘I’m afraid we don’t accept cum-stained returns. Store policy.’

He pffts. ‘Damnit. Should’ve read the fine print.’

You grin. ‘Well, at least there's something deeply poetic about cumming in the jeans that I picked out for you.’

‘Touché, sweetheart,’ he grunts and presses a kiss to your forehead. Glancing down at the unmistakable wet patch on the denim, he asks hopefully, ‘Any chance you got some pants I can borrow?’

Ellie bounces her leg irritably, hunched over on the stairs exactly where Joel was sitting this morning. Where the fuck is he? He’s twenty minutes late, and he had the nerve to get all huffy when she lied about the start time today. Unbelievable.

Moodily looking left and right, there’s still no sign of him. She’s about to give up and wait for him at home when something conspicuously purple comes to a stop in front of her.

Her jaw hits the floor.

‘Oh. My. God.’

She’s never been high before, but she’s pretty sure this is the stuff hallucinations are made of.

This being Joel Miller in a purple tshirt with a tacky logo she doesn’t recognise printed on the front and khaki cargo shorts that cut off at the knees, holding a basket of vegetables that she’s pretty sure he doesn’t eat.

With a roll of his eyes, he snaps, ‘Shut your mouth, you’re trappin’ flies.’

Pasting on the most obnoxious grin she can muster, Ellie croons, ‘Man, don’t you look pretty.’

Turning on his heel, Joel starts walking without looking back. ‘Shut up.’

Jogging to keep up, she cackles, ‘Hey, did you fall into a wormhole and went shopping at a farmer’s market in 1999?’

‘Shut up.’

‘You really should wear shorts more often, y’know, show off those knees. And purple really is your colour, Barney!’

Joel frowns, shooting her a sidelong glare. ‘How the hell do you know who Barney is?’

Ellie shrugs. ‘What do you think they teach us at school?’

He’s the one who starts it. The quake in his shoulders would have been imperceptible to anyone else, but nowadays, there’s not much that he can hide from her. As usual, she giggles first, which trails into a squeal when Joel gives her a shove on the back, sending her stumbling over her shoes.

‘Fuck you, man!’ she snickers and basically rugby tackles him, but he barely budges, lips pulling back into a toothy grin.

Across the street, unbeknownst to the pair, Tommy smiles to himself as he watches his big brother laugh, really laugh - the kind that has him doubling over and gasping for air through watery eyes. For the first time since the world ended, he looks up at the sky with a reassuring nod, and he knows deep down - Joel will be just fine.

Notes: You guys continue to blow me away with your support - I cannot be more grateful for all the reblogs, asks and interaction with my silly Behind the Seams posts and random updates. Thank you so so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I can't wait to hear what you think ❤️

I will be having a think over the next few weeks about where Seams will go from here. This chapter wraps up the first mini story arc, and I'll be dedicating August to wrapping up my Palomino series, so it will give me some time and distance to mull over what's next for Joel and Pin. I'm also a few followers away from a big milestone, so I might have something fun planned! 🥰

#fuckyeahseams #seams iv #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine

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simpforsoap · 7 months

Text

Monsterous Lovers- Part Two

Part 1 and Part 3

Hybrids weren’t uncommon. They appeared sometime during the 1300’s. No one was really sure where they originated from, not even the hybrids seemed to know, but as time went on their population started to grow. At first humans and hybrids lived amongst each other, those were known as the pre-war times. By 1401, there was an attack. The story has been told and reshaped over the years to fit the narrative of who tells it, humans saying that hybrids attacked their village while hybrids saying that humans attacked their kind first. No one knows what happened exact, but the war broke out in the spring of 1401, lasting nearly 105 years. For the time period, humans were unable to defend themselves against the hybrids that attacked and as a result the human population dropped significantly, into the low millions. Hybrids were not in any better of shape, their own population having dwindled due to the war and lack of neccesities that were needed for them to strive. In 1506 the Living Peace Treaty was signed, an agreement for hybrids and humans to stop attacking one another and allow their populations to regrow. There was a tense period of time after the treaty where humans and hybrids seemed to be at one anothers throats, but there was no more wars.

As time went on, history notes there was always a separation between humans and hybrids, but the lined seemed to blur the more time carried on. During the 1920’s, when humans seemed to be at war with one another, hybrids took a stand and joined forces with humans alike. Lives were lost between both species but there was a mutual agreement that humans and hybrids could coexist with one another in peace. By the turn of the 21st century, you could walk the streets and see humans and hybrids living amongst each other, even some in relationships and whatnot.

Price and them were no strangers to the judgmental comments and borderline xenophobic tendencies some humans still had towards them. They had worked their way up in the military, creating their own little pack with one another throughout their years of working together. Despite their differences from one another, they worked like a well oiled machine. Perhaps it was all the endless deadly missions that never seemed to stop the killing of both humans and hybrids alike, or perhaps it was the lack of comfort they found when coming back to the base after those missions, but the four of them each longed for a sense of normality. To come back from a mission, not to the base where they couldn’t separate work from living, but rather a place where they could truly call it home.

That’s what Price believed as he stood in the driveway of your home; that this was a potential home to him and his boys. The entire drive to the property, Soap couldn’t stop ranting and raving about the photos he seen online with the ad you had posted and even though they were each wanting him to be quiet in their own way, it was a good thing Soap had seemed to love it so much just based on photos. Because in person? This home was immaculate and seemed like it was exactly what Price had pictured as their home.

The house was ranch styled, a large porch with a covered entry way. A porch swing snestled to the right of the door, Price feeling like it was an idea spot to sit and enjoy a cigar while overlooking the front of the property. The 20 acres of woods surrounding the house were thick, Soap wanting nothing more than to shift into his wolf and take off into the woods for a run. The house was a little more secluded than they had thought, but it was perfect. And they hadn’t even seen the inside of it!

As they toured the outside of the house first, Ghost insisting to ensure it was secure as he told you, Price felt more relaxed. There was a little garden on the south side of the home, something he could clearly picture you kneeling in and tending to during the summer months. You lead them around the house, showing off the small gazebo in the back yard, little lantern lights hanging around the inside. The four of them followed as you walked the small stone path to the back patio, Price taking note of the lack of patio furniture before leading them inside.

“I know it’s kind of messy right now, I was in the process of cleaning up the house to make room when I had to leave.” You gave them a small smile, pushing some empty boxes against the wall so they wouldn’t trip on them.

Soap just smiled with a small laugh, naturally throwing an arm around your shoulders, ignoring the glare Price gave him, “nah, it’s fine lassie. Though, I gotta ask, you really live here alone?”

You took a tiny breath through your nose, needing to steady yourself for the question you knew you’d have to answer, “yes, I do. I did have…someone living with me before but there was a..um..accident of sorts and I took over the house.”

Ghost could pick up the anxious look in your eye from a mile away, the mask hiding his facial expressions from you, but you could see the way his eyes narrowed at your words, “anyways, the house itself is a 5 bed 5 bath home. Allows you some space to do what you please with. Shared living room and kitchen of course, but I can designate some spots in the kitchen for the each of you so you can have your own spot to put stuff in. The rooms are upstairs, do you want me to show you?”

“Yes, please love.” Gaz gave a smile at you, easing the tension from your shoulders a bit. You could tell both Gaz and Soap seemed to give you the natural ability to find a sense of familiarity in them.

You showed them the upstairs of the home, the four of them taking their time in examining each room, taking mental notes on where the each of them could fit in and what they wanted to do with the space. You ended the tour in the kitchen, standing with your hands in your hoodie pocket.

“Well, what do you think? I know it’s probably not super luxurious, but it’s a comfortable home and I’m not one to get into much of your business.” You give them a smile, watching the way the four of them seemed to have having a silent conversation with one another through their eyes.

Right as you were beginning to worry they would decline the offer, Price spoke up, “we believe this is exactly what we are looking for. Would you like rent from all of us or just the overall 2500?”

“Oh heavens no, just the 2500. I know it’s a bit on the pricey side but--” before you could say more, Price cut you off with a smal wave of his hand.

“Nonsense, we make more than enough to cover that. Now, we are active military as Soap here told you in the messages so we are in and out of the house a lot for missions, but we will always communicate with you on the duration of our leave will be.” Price crossed his arms, your eyes flicking to the way his scaled forearms seemed to glint in the light.

You took a small breath to steady yourself before nodding, “of course. I have the lease written for a year at the moment, but we can extend it if you’d like to after that.”

Price nodded, “of course. Now, I suppose I shall bring it up first. We are hybrids, each of us are our own beings. I, myself, am a dragon. Soap here is a werewolf, Gaz is a Harpy and Ghost is a wraith. Is that something you are absolutely sure you’re comfortable with? There’s no offense if you’re not, we understand there can be a bit of..troubles sometimes.”

You give a small smile nodding, “yes, I am completely fine with that. I do want to finish cleaning things up around here, but tomorrow morning if you’d like you can move your stuff into the rooms.”

You took a mental note of what Price said, wanting to search it up later so you knew just what exactly you were getting yourself into.

“Perfect. We will be here at 9:00 sharp then, love.” Price smiled and you shook his hand your hand feeling hot at his touch.

---------

As Price drove back to the base, the car ride was mostly silent. Soap was practically buzzing in his seat, desperate to say something to fill the silence. Price glanced at him through the rearview mirror before letting a breath out, “speak your mind, Johnny.”

Soap wasted no time, leaning forward in his seat with a large smile on his face, “we just hit the jackpot! She’s absolutely stunning and that house? Perfect for us in every way…even with the scent of strawberries and mint..she smells devine.”

Gaz shook his head at Soap’s words, though the smile and slight ruffle to his feathers gave it away, “you’re hopeless, Soap.”

“What? I’m not wrong, and you know it! The lass smells delicious…nearly want to sink my teeth into her and make her mine.” Soaps words make Price shift in his seat, glaring at him through the mirror.

“Soap. Watch it. You will do no such thing to her unless she gives approval. We will be within her home we are to respect that.” Price’s tone was firm, his eyes narrowed as he focused back on the road.

Ghost was silent in the passenger seat, his arms crossed and eyes narrowed, but Soap’s words seemed to spark something in his mind, “for a human she’s awfully trusting of us…seems stupid if you ask me…inviting a pack of hybrids into your home without asking anything regarding that nature.”

Gaz immediately moved on the defense, his feathers ruffled a bit, “hey now. I think she’s a sweetheart..Seems to be one of the humans that doesn’t seem to mind the fact we’re hybrids…maybe she thought it was rude to ask anything on it.”

Ghost looked out the window of the car, silent as he thought over Gaz’s words. It took a few moments before he spoke up, voice a tad softer than it was before, “There’s something off about her…I think we should look into her background when we get back to base.”

The other three were silent for a moment. They couldn’t deny you had a strange story as to why you were suddenly renting the rooms out, but they felt it was something of your story to tell. Price spoke up after a moment, “we can look into a background, only to ensure there is no danger into this house. But it is her story to tell us, I will not look further than is required to.”

They seemed to be in an agreement, to find out a tiny bit about your background and make sure you truly were who you said you were, but they would wait until you were comfortable to tell your story to them on why you lived alone so suddenly.

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

Tag List: @zoruxsblog @dontfollowmepleaseitsannoying

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opal-owl-flight · 10 days

Text

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY TO SPLOON3 AND HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO NEO3!!!

(On the phone screen being shown to Neo3 is likely a leaked Grizzco document about how all the eggs had gone missing)

There is no way the platoon wont pull all the stops to make the day happy for their favorite salmon-raised shithead. Doesnt matter that they havent had proper sleep for the last 2 days.More deets below regarding the feat….

For years, things have been simmering below the surface of Grizzco. Upstarts in the ranks, dissatisfied workers, *vengeful* inkfish, salmonid sympathizers who infiltrated the system to find out how to help, much like the platoon.

Crack teams. Strike forces. secret unions.

There isnt a BIG number of them, and none of them really worked together like a well-oiled machine, but they all had the goal of tearing this damn corporation/mafia apart.

For a variety of reasons, really. For poor conditions or pay. For the deaths of their coworkers. To investigate the big runs in hopes of stopping more in the future. To steal the eggs and return them to sea.

The platoon pokes here and there, and does their own share of this backbreaking work. The second everyone got paid... these groups opened the floodgates. Theres a lot of em, grizzco cant get em all. (And the activities cant be tracked back to the platoon, unlike other times like the Cap4 saga.)

Nobody knew they were working alongside the legendary NSS.

----------

A pal of mine puts it best...

Imagine knowing your partner, sibling, best friend died and finding out it wasn't just them dying defending the places... they died cause some corporate fuck orchestrated the whole series of big runs.

And in the future, these groups catch wind of what the NSS knows. That the big runs were all Grizzco made. This drives most of the shills into a frenzy. Most of all the high-value volunteers who were only there for the grand run but was trapped by the corporation.

---------

Come a whole 24 hours after the grand run, Grizzco starts panicking.

because only 700 million eggs remained in their stores.

Thats what Neo3 gets for her birthday -- the fact that all the extra eggs were returned to the sea. It rejuvenates her to fight for the future, now that there IS a future to fight for.

More raids continued after, 3 putting her squarely in that leadership position for the NSS's strike force (now including 7 and the crew from the Cap4 arc!)

Eventually, only 500 mil remained. And then grizzco goes on lockdown and....well, lets just say they made some people disappear. None from the platoon's strike force, thankfully. Most were grizzco's own shills, up in the higher ranks. Blamed for the loss of the eggs *and* for not making the number back.

-----------

I wont say tgere werent any casualties on the upstarts, though. Some were caught and are in serious danger from the mafia, though none fell under the jurisdiction of the NSS. The fact is, the NSS wasnt aware of a lot of these cases due to how fractured all the upstarts are. (It allows the movement as a whole to not be immediately shut down after a few get caught, or something. So they say.)

(bonus pic without the caption!)

#splatoon #splatoon fanart #agent neo 3 #neo agent 3 #agent 3 #captain 3 #agent 4 #agent 8 #new squidbeak splatoon #splatoon 3 #splatoon promo kids #opal owl’s nest #grand run #salmon run

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vonlycaonwife · 2 months

Note

Could I request Wise, Nicole, and Lycaon with a world-famous chef reader who loves spoiling them with home-cooked meals?

I honestly was tempted to call a relative to ask about their experience in the industry, but then I realized I would actually have to talk with them (ew, socializing). So I just mainly based this off of what I remember what they’re like whenever they visit. Enjoy!

Warnings: none

Highkey he feels so blessed to have you. Whenever you visited you always immediately went shopping with Belle for any ingredients the two were missing for whatever meal you had planned.

Though that’s not to say you cook for them all the time, but it's almost become your routine with them.

He absolutely loves everything you make, especially whatever is your specialty. He normally doesn’t eat a lot, but when you cook he’s getting a second plate.

If you make desserts as well, he’s always volunteering to help. Actually he helps when you cook as well, which is mainly just cleaning the kitchen (heard some chefs forget to do that because they’re used to the assistant chefs or cleaners doing that, relative was the same way).

Usually there’s leftovers stuffed in the fridge for them to eat while you’re away. Wise ends up having to fight Belle over them, most of the time losing since the bangboos snitch on him hiding them behind other food.

Another who feels blessed. She’s absolutely using this to her advantage, not to say she’s only using you for your cooking! But…whenever the funds are low you can expect a call from her.

She does try to help pay for it when going shopping with you! Believe me! But you usually would insist, since you just want to feed your girlfriend. The best payment you can ask her is affection and help with the meal preparations.

You mostly end up making enough food to feed the rest of the hares for at least a week, just so they can save up enough for the rest of the month. But everyone loves your food so it’s fulfilling for you to see them enjoy it.

Though you can clearly see Nicole trying to sneak some extra for herself.

Hey! She helped cook! She should be allowed to have a bigger portion, she is your lover!

See here’s where we get some problems. And by problems I mean you both “fighting” over who is cooking for the night. Since you both would want to be the sole person making the meal to give the other a break. You both end up having to compromise by cooking together most of the time.

You both work together like a well oiled machine, honestly it almost feels like you’re still working at the restaurant you work for! Which isn’t a bad thing at all, since that means your meals always end up perfect every time.

Though there are occasions where you both end up too tired to cook and just order takeout, it’s still one of the best meals you have since you’re in each other’s company.

Highkey I can see a small little game being made where you both try to complete your jobs quickly just to show up home before the other in order to make a meal first.

It’s just really sweet how the two of you just want to treat the other all the time with food.

#zenless zone zero x reader #wise (zzz) x reader #nicole demara x reader #von lycaon x reader

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nolita-fairytale · 8 months

Text

bad moon rising | carmen 'carmy' berzatto x fem!reader

summary: in another lifetime, you meet mikey berzatto by chance one halloween night in nyc.

or, the fic based on this headcanon

warnings: angst, use of she/her pronouns, no use of y/n, second person pov, drug usage, high mikey b, swearing, family drama, depression, not a happy ending

wc: 3.7k

a/n: i wrote about grief again. shocking, i know. thank you all for your interest based on the headcanon it came from and thank you for your patience. i wanted so badly to post this around halloween and have been sitting on it since the better part of last year as one of my wips. finally, finally, it's here!! i took a slightly different approach than the headcanon, but i think it still does it justice. let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from the carmy taglist.

this what-if fic takes place october 2021 because it's make my heart surrender-canon that mikey and reader never met; reader x carmy are best friends and colleagues but it has not gone further than that.

masterlist

Halloween, in another lifetime:

“Can I get hands, please!” Carmy shouts out to the entire kitchen, only to be met with a strong chorus of ‘hands’ in response.

His team works together like a well-oiled machine; a tight run ship, led by a captain near-suffocated under the weight of the chip on his shoulder.

“Chef!” you hear the sound of your general manager’s voice ring through the kitchen, causing many a-heads to turn. She rarely comes into the kitchen during dinner service unless it’s serious. Her eyes lock with Carmy’s as he looks up from his expo, as if she’s about to deliver bad news.

His mind races through the possibilities, preparing to solve the next oncoming crisis. Could it be an undercooked steak? An overcooked duck breast? Another complaint of ‘too salty’ or ‘underseasoned?’

“Chef, you uh… you have a visitor,” she says instead–the last thing he expects to hear.

A visitor?

“Wh-?”

“Someone’s here to see you. Says he’s your… brother??” Carmy’s ears begin to burn, as he searches for your face amidst the chaos, your gaze there to catch him even from across the kitchen. Your presence feels reassuring, like a strong man in a storm. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s knee deep into service and he cannot get the sound of tickets being added to the expo out of his head. He opens his mouth to say something but he’s uncertain any words come out of his mouth, unsure of what he’d even say. You send him a reassuring nod, and it’s as if in one look, you’ve made the decision to go.

“Chef, you good?” Carmy hears you ask the head pastry chef.

“Yeah, we got it. But don’t take too long,” she answers with a curt nod of approval.

He watches as you nod again, this time in recognition of your boss’ answer, as you pull the food-grade nitrile gloves off of your hands, discarding them in the nearby trash can. Without a word, you follow Kate closely behind, exchanging a few words with her as the two of you disappear to the front of house. There’s a war inside of Carmy as he watches you go–a pang of guilt and a feeling of relief–that whatever it is, you’ve agreed to take care of it.

In all of the years that he’s been in New York, no one’s come to see him–the possibility of it happening now, let alone as a surprise, feels improbable.

Must be a prank or some shit….

It couldn’t really be Michael, could it?

As you seek out the answer, your feet carrying you faster than you anticipated, you realize that you’re searching for a face you’ve only seen in photographs. Kate follows closely behind while you push through the front door of the restaurant only to find a man pacing just outside of the restaurant, a ghostface mask in hand. You can tell he’s been sweating, the circles under his eyes just as dark as the ones you’ve become so familiar with in Carmy, with an anxious look in his eyes as his gaze turns towards you.

He’s certainly not the larger-than-life older brother you’ve seen in the sparse amount of pictures that Carmy’s shown you.

“I got this, Kate,” you mutter over your shoulder with a confident nod, letting your general manager know that you’re good on your own. “You sure?” she asks you quietly.

“I’m sure,” you answer, watching as a disappointed look spread across Michael’s face as soon as he sees that:

“You’re not Carmen.”

“Uh… no. I’m not,” you reply, hearing the front door to the restaurant close behind you. The man swears under his breath, and you watch as face changes from disappointment to annoyance quickly, as you try your best to come up with an explanation that may satisfy him. “He uh… he can’t come out. Not right now. So he sent me.”

Michael scoffs with a shake of his head, his eyebrows quickly rising and falling incredulously as he takes another drag off his cigarette.

“Shit... the guy can't even make time to see his big brother?" he asks, the annoyance obvious in his voice this time.

You take a step towards him, your arms folded across your chest.

“I’m sorry. I-, I don't think he was expecting you,” you answer, much more compassionately this time.

“Right,” Michael mumbles, barely loud enough for you to hear. You watch as he throws the butt of his cigarette down on the pavement, before stamping it out.

“It’s just-. He would if he could. I know it. It's just a busy night. I-... we're doing 200 covers tonight and uh... well, he runs the kitchen so,” you try again, and you can practically feel the disappointment (and resentment) burying itself deeper in Michael.

“Yeah, no thanks, lady. You don’t need to explain it to me. Jagoff can’t even make time to say ‘hi’ to his brother. Sends you to do his dirty work instead,” Michael dismisses you, bitterly.

He takes a beat. And then another, as if he’s accepted that he’s not going to see Carmy after all.

“Why don’t you come inside? I’m sure-,” you offer, taking another step towards him.

“‘S alright, sweetheart,” he dismisses you again, this time gentler. “You don’t need to make up for his bullshit.”

You open your mouth to say something—anything in defense of Carmy—but you’re certain that nothing you have to say will be enough for your best friend’s older brother (save for Carmy coming out here himself).

With a nod, you accept defeat, turning to go back inside. But there’s something that stops you—like you just can’t just go back inside without trying to remedy the situation one last time. This time all you say is:

“I don’t know how long you’re in town for but… we should be off by midnight.”

Michael only offers you a sympathetic smile before you slip back inside.

—---------------------------------------

It’s not until you and Carmy are packing up your things to head home that he brings it up—his mysterious visitor—hesitant to ask the question that’s been eating at him all night.

“So uh… was it really him? Michael?” he asks you, cautiously, as he watches your face carefully for any kind of reaction.

“Uh… yeah. I mean, at least the guy I recognized from your pictures,” you reply, hoping that the answer (or the fact that he missed his brother) won’t break his heart.

A beat.

“What’d he want?” Carmy asks, trying to mask his curiosity as best as possible.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. “Seems like he found himself in the city. I didn’t ask. I didn’t… know if you wanted me to.”

Carmy tries again.

“Oh no. It’s-, no I didn’t-, no, it’s okay.”

He takes his time, making up his mind about what he wants to say next.

“It’s weird, right? Guy can barely pick up the phone to say hello but… he can show up unannounced and just like-, expect me to drop everything?” he asks you—the look in his eyes telling you that his mind is miles away.

“I- I don’t know, Carmy,” you reply, heavily. “Are you… do you wish you had gone instead of me?”

Carmy’s quiet as he follows you out of the back door of the restaurant, thinking his answer over.

“I don’t know,” he answers slowly, a lack of confidence as the words fall out of his mouth. “Maybe?”

He’s not sure how he’s supposed to feel and right now he just feels… ambushed, which only makes him want to shut down.

Instead, Carmy changes the subject back to your post-work plans, the two of you debating what kind of post-shift late night meal you’re going to have before settling on a few slices of pizza on the way back to your place. You and Carmy cut through the alley to the front of the restaurant so that you can begin your late-night sojourn, and it’s only when he spots something odd that he stops you.

“What the fuck?” Carmy cuts you off, holding an arm out in front of you to stop you from walking any further.

You follow his line of sight right over to a figure moving towards the both of you. In the brief glimpse you’ve gotten of the person moving towards you, all you can see is a quick flash of the ghostface mask they hold in their hands as a bus drives by, obstructing your view.

Carmy’s heart stops, fear filling his chest as the bus speeds by, the person getting closer and closer until…

“Michael?!” Carmy shouts, squinting as he sees the man approach. His expression of pure shock leaves his jaw agape, rendering him speechless as he scrambles to try to find better words that:

“What-, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Shit,” Michael scoffs playfully, with a chuckle, his breath uneven from the light jogging pace he’d kept. Michael takes note of the arm his younger brother’s extended, shielding you from him. “What? Can’t your big brother come surprise ya in the big city?”

Carmy shoots him a look that says, ‘when have you ever done that’ and Michael nods knowingly, his eyebrows quickly raising, then lowering as he makes peace with the fact that he’s never been that guy.

“Me and Deb… we came up for the weekend,” Mikey admits with a heavy sigh. “Tried to do something nice for her but, you know, broad’s been a real bitch-.”

“Mikey,” Carmy warns, taking a tone you recognize—the kind he uses when he’s going to yell at the saucier for a broken mornay.

“Right,” Mike course corrects at the volume of a mumble, heaving a heavy, yet disarming sigh.

Carmy nods slowly as he allows some part of him to relax, his arm falling away from you as the two of you exchange a look.

“We uh…. Got into another fight. She’s on her way back to Chicago now,” Mikey explains, the disappointment evident in his voice this time, almost as if it were an apology.

“Sorry,” Carmy mutters quietly, as you exchange a look with him.

“Nah it’s-, she’ll get over it,” Mikey brushes off with a shrug, his tone shifting as he extens an arm out to you.

“Fuck, where are my manners? I never properly introduced myself earlier. I’m Mikey. Mikey Berzatto,” he grins with a charm and confidence that’s been absent in both of your interactions with him till now. The smile that spreads across his face is contagious as he looks from you to Carmy, then back to you. “Shit. I’m sorry. ‘M fuckin’ jagoff, interupting your night like this. I should probably get-.”

“No!” you protest, almost too quickly, earning a look from Carmy. “We weren’t-, we were just getting off work and were gonna grab a bite. Maybe even… a drink?” you suggest, a hopefulness in your eyes as you turn towards Carmy.

“Yeah?” Michael asks, his interest piqued.

“Uhm. Just gonna grab a bite actually,” Carmy forces out, sending a glare in your direction.

“You know what’s crazy? I know a spot. With food. And drinks,” you challenge him, silently begging him to just go with it.

“You cool with that, Carm?” Mike asks this time, looking from you to his younger brother once more. It’s the first time that Carmy thinks Michael’s ever looked to him for approval.

Carmy’s quiet for a moment, torn between wanting to burn it all down or declare a gleeful ‘yes’ because at least Mikey wants to spend time with him.

“Um. Uh. Yeah. Yeah okay,” Carmy finally agrees.

“Alright, let’s fuckin’ do it!” Mikey rallies.

And as he turns to go, your voice instructing him that it’s only a few blocks from here, you and Carmy fall into stride, just a few steps behind Mikey.

“I’m gonna kill you,” Carmy threatens you—though there’s no weight to it—through gritted teeth.

You shove him playfully, bumping your shoulder against his side as the two of you walk, answering with a promise that: “You’ll thank me later.”

—---------------------------------------

You sit on one side of Carmy, Mikey on the other, and you can see why Carmy looks at his older brother like he hung the sun, the moon, and the stars above. There’s something different about Michael—something different than when you met him just hours ago outside of the restaurant—as he corrals the three of you into a round of shots.

As the shots of tequila arrive at the bar, Carmy dismisses his, his attention fixed to the still-full whiskey on the rocks he’d ordered earlier, just to appease his older brother. He watches you carefully as you and Mikey clink glasses before throwing back your own respective shots.

“Carm?” Mikey asks, nodding towards the third, untouched shot glass.

Carmy hesitates.

“It’s fine. I’ll take his,” you jump in, half as an attempt to give Carmy the out he so desperately desires, and half because, admittedly, meeting the great Mikey Berzatto makes you a little nervous.

Before anyone can protest, you reach out, picking up the shot glass, before tapping it down against the bar top, fearlessly throwing it back. Michael watches you with a sense of amusement, as your face crinkles in response to the sting of the liquor and the bitterness of the lime you chase it with.

He smirks, sharing a knowing look with his younger brother that says, “I like this girl,” which in turn only causes Carmy to blush. Before Mikey can say anything more, the song that blares through the speakers changes, earning his attention as he hears the familiar words:

“I see the bad moon a-risin' I see trouble on the way I see earthquakes and lightnin' I see bad times today”

“Alright, alright. Think it’s a little too on the nose if I admit that I love this song? On Halloween? C’maaaaaahn,” Mikey asks, almost as if it’s a confession in reference to the easily recognizable Creedance Clearwater revival hit.

“No! No, I love this song,” you’re quick to assuage his hesitation as your eyes light up in response to his recognition.

“You got good taste, kid,” Michael notes confidently, winking in his brother’s direction. “I like this girl, Carm.”

Only this time, he says it out loud. Carmy only shakes his head, the blush already running across his cheeks taking a deeper shade of red.

“Yeah, yeah. Uh. You both uh.. Like music,” Carmy smiles, gesturing from you to his brother. At least this is going a lot better than he expected it to, he reminds himself.

“Oh yeah?” Michael asks, clearly intrigued.

“Oh that’s right!” you exclaim, simultaneously. The excitement that brews within you has you stumbling over your words as you manage to get out:

“You’re-, oh my god! The Lennon jacket!”

“What?” Mike asks, shooting you a funny look.

“I’m sorry. I just-. I realize I’m not-,” you stammer over your words, trying your best to explain your earlier exclamation over your own excitement.

“You gave Carmy the denim jacket – the 1950s selvedge Wrangler!”

“Just like the-,” Michael starts, the two of you finishing his sentence at once with:

“... just like the one John Lennon had!”

“Marry this girl, Carm. Marry her right now. Tonight! Or I will,” Michael encourages, slapping his hand down against the bar. He speaks with so much bravado and conviction that you can only imagine that there was none left for Carmy. “Fuckin’ christ. I never should’ve let you two meet,” Carmy groans on an exasperated exhale as he shakes his head once again.

“Oh c’mon, Carm,” Mikey rouses him, with a playful eye roll.

“It’s totally my favorite jacket of his! I-, well, it’s a long story but we actually became friends over the jacket because he spilled a drink on me and-,”

“Ahhh real smooth.”

“No! No, it was okay, I promise. I-, I don’t know if we would’ve gotten to know each other if he hadn’t so-. Call it a lucky jacket, I guess,” you smile, stealing a look in Carmy’s direction. He shoots the smallest smile back to you, cognizant of the fact that Mikey’s observing the entire interaction.

As you begin to tell Michael the story about the aforementioned Lennon jacket, it could be minutes, hours, or days that pass, once you and Mikey finish trading facts about music like they’re trivia cards. It’s almost as entertaining as watching Mikey and Carmy go at it, bouncing facts about the history of denim like you’re at the French Open.

You excuse yourself to the restrooms—partially because you really have to pee and partially because it seems like this evening is going well—wanting to give both brothers some time alone. And as soon as you’re out of earshot, Mikey’s on Carmy like an FBI Investigation.

“This your girl, Carm, or what?" he asks with a casualness to his voice that sets off alarms in Carmy’s head.

"Mikey, stop it,” Carmy dismisses him, hoping more than anything for this to be the end of the conversation.

Instead, Mikey scoffs, shaking his head as he downs another shot.

"Then at least tell me you're hittin' that."

“Michael!" Carmy hushes his brother, a warning and protectiveness in his voice this time.

"Are you fuckin' serious right now, Bear?” Michael pushes further. “What, you're telling me you're not when she’s walkin’ around in your jacket, talkin’ about wearing your clothes to your big brother and I’m supposed to think-?"

"She's not!” Carmy cuts him off. “She doesn’t do-, she’s.... my friend. Jus’ give it up alright.”

"Shit. Wish I had a friend like that. Ya friends, kid, or are ya... you know... friends?" Mikey smirks, earning a venomous glare from his younger brother.

Carmy shakes his head in response, jaw clenched, as he stares down at the bar top, a feeling inside of him that he doesn’t like when he even thinks about Mikey looking at you like that.

"Shit, I thought I taught you better than that, Bear."

There it is again.

That feeling.

He’s not sure how to name it, but it’s enough to make Carmy want to deck his brother right then and there as it rises inside of him.

"I'm serious, Mike. We’re just friends,” Carmy spits out. He’s much more serious this time. “Cut it out."

But Michael’s too quick, his voice growing louder as he interjects on the tail end of Carmy’s insistence.

"Oh come on! The chick's smokin' fuckin' hot. And I can tell that you like her. I'm not blind, Carm. I see the way you-."

And if it’s as if something snaps inside of Carmy as he exclaims:

"Don't talk to me like you know what's going on in my life! Fuck!"

"Carm-."

"Can't even pick up the damn phone and then you just... waltz into town acting like everything is okay?!” he fumes, standing up out of his chair.

His face grows redder with each word, and it only confirms Mikey’s suspicions: that his little brother is absolutely a goner for you. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Carmy like this and he’s torn between feeling proud of his kid brother or pissed that the kid’s turning this around on him.

"Well, if you ever bothered to come home. You know mom's been askin' about you since you never fuckin’-,” Mikey roars, eager to relinquish the hotseat here.

“Oh don't bring mom into this!" Carmy protests.

It’s your voice that snaps him out of it—brings him back to earth as he hears you ask:

“Everything okay?”

Carmy can practically hear his heart pounding away in his ears; can feel the blood rushing through his head as he takes a deep breath. He swallows, takes a beat, then turns to you.

“Yeah uh. I think we should go,” he states, his voice uneven and tense as you try to get a read on either brother.

“Uh… yeah, I guess we can-, um,” you stammer out, wondering how things went from good to hell in a matter of minutes. Carmy mutters something about getting your stuff as you try your best to put the pieces together.

“It was uh, nice to meet you, Mikey,” you say softly, as soon as you get your coat on.

“Yeah. You too, sweetheart,” he nods, something distant in his voice. Carmen scoffs at his brother’s usage of the word before tugging on your arm.

You wait a beat, in anticipation of some kind of goodbye between the brothers, but there is none as you follow Carmy out of the bar.

—---------------------------------------

Halloween, again — in this lifetime:

When Carmy comes to, he can hear the faint sounds of an episode of Pasta Grannies in the background, uncertain of what time it is.

“Hey, you. You fell asleep on the couch and I didn’t have the heart to wake you up,” you say, as he begins to sit up. Carmy blinks his eyes a few more times, watching as you make your way from the kitchen island over to the couch, taking a seat at his feet.

“Did you still want to watch a scary movie? You know, in the spirit of the holiday?” you ask him with a soft chuckle.

All Carmy can remember before falling asleep was what he was thinking about: what it would be like if you had met Mikey. It’s something he thinks of often, especially as the two of you grow closer—as your relationship gets more serious—and it’s something he hates that he’ll never be able to give to you.

“This was his favorite holiday,” Carmy manages to get out, the sleep heavy in his voice.

You’re not all that surprised. Carmy’s been on edge lately and you assumed it was because Mikey’s birthday’s coming up. But this… this makes sense too.

“I wish I could’ve met him,” you smile, reaching out for one of his hands.

Carmy nods.

“Yeah. Uh. Yeah. Think he would’ve loved you.”

Maybe a little too much, he thinks to himself.

“You think so?” you ask with a vulnerability and a desire for reassurance that catches Carmy off guard.

He nods with much more confidence this time, offering you a soft, sympathetic smile.

“Yeah, sweetheart. I know so.”

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hihomeghere · 3 months

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Little Things | Arthur Morgan / F!Reader

Word Count : 2k Warnings/tags : Slight somnophilia (reader wakes up), dubious consent, reader gave consent at an earlier time, unprotected piv, cursing, creampie, undressing Summary : Arthur returns from a successful job, and wants nothing more than to bury himself in you

Arthur couldn’t help but enjoy the little things in life. With the life he had, he didn’t have much to enjoy. Coyotes yipping across the plains, Violet snowdrop growing along the side of the trail. The serenity of an early morning sunrise, when the golden rays peak above the horizon, slowly catching everything aflame with its bright light.

On the other side of the coin, he was equally taken by the gentleness of the night sky. Stars speckled across the black expanse like they were left by a flicked paintbrush.

Riding home had also become one of his most treasured times. The anticipation of seeing you again, after being on a job for who knows how long. It didn’t matter if it was only a couple hours or a couple days. The thought of returning to you always sent a pleasurable tingle up his spine, and butterflies fluttering in his gut. Maybe it was because he knew how much you enjoyed the little things as well. How you’d greet him once he returned to whatever camp they currently resided in. Open armed and more likely than not, spread legs. To say it was always a warm welcome would not be doing you any justice.

You were so eager, pliant as he towered over you. Your hands, so soft and gentle as they removed his hat. Then moving to his suspenders, sliding them off his shoulders. His shirt was next, pushing the buttons through the eyelets, before it too was pulled off his body. The gun belt followed, set carefully off to the side, he worked on slipping out of his boots as you did this. The way you two moved together was like a well oiled machine. There was no need for words between the two of you. You knew each other so intimately, inside and out. But working together for years will do that, even if you had mainly given up on pulling heists. You were more than content to stay near camp, or whatever town was closest.

Although Arthur had to admit he missed when it would just be the two of you on a job. The thrill of a job well done flowing through your veins, sleeping naked under the stars, not having to worry about staying quiet.

But he didn’t blame you for not wanting that part of the life anymore. After a too close call which had left you nearly bleeding out as he rode as fast as he could back to camp, you had all but retired. Dutch would never have allowed a full retirement.

Arthur could see the line of trees leading to Shady Bell, that familiar tug in his stomach as he spurred his horse forward. If he had any dignity left he would have felt like a fool with how big of a smile split his face as he hitched his mare. Slipping her a sugar cube for a job well done before heading towards the house.

The fire was slowly dying, hot embers sizzling out. The only other noise was the snores of the other gang members. He made his way into the house, slowly shutting the door behind him. He tried his hardest to creep quickly and quietly up the stairs to your shared room. The door hinge whined as he pushed it open, wincing slightly as he shut it behind him.

There you were. Laid out in the bed, fast asleep. Your hair spread out against the pillow like a halo. Your chemise riding up your thigh, showing off a delicious amount of skin.

By now, Arthur was painfully hard, palming himself through his pants as he stepped closer. He toed off his boots, setting his hat down on a table nearby. He would have much rathered you undressing him, but he would have to settle for doing it himself. He shoved his suspenders off before his gun belt fell to the floor with a thud.

You stirred slightly, your brows pinched in an adorable expression. Obviously annoyed by the noise disturbing your peaceful slumber. He felt a twinge of guilt, he shouldn’t disturb you. It wasn’t often that you were actually at peace, only when you were asleep. You had been sleeping deeper ever since the gang settled here. The walls of Shady Bell offered you and its inhabitants more security than the canvas of a tent.

But you were so pretty, so soft and all his. You wanted this, his cock twitched at the memory. You had told him that if he ever returned when you were asleep, to take what he needed. He had never done it yet, something about it made him feel wrong, dirty. He would never do anything to take advantage of your trust or to harm you.

Your leg slid up further on the bed. Almost like you were subconsciously spreading your legs for him. His eyes went straight to your core, his knees almost buckling at the sight of your wet cunt. No bloomers. If that wasn’t a silent invitation he didn’t know what was.

He moved quickly, stumbling out of his pants. He was surprised he hadn’t ripped the buttons off his shirt with how hard he had janked them through the eyelets.

He was painfully hard, standing over you with his cock in his hand, red and leaking precum. You let out a soft sigh, your lips parting slightly. Any resolve that he had been holding onto was long gone. He knelt down on the bed, crawling towards you. His calloused hands moving up your calf and thigh, lifting the bottom of your chemise over your stomach. He slid his hands back down your belly to your core, running his finger through your folds before settling on your clit. He didn’t necessarily want to wake you, and if he did, he wanted you to awake to pure pleasure. He gave the slightest bit of pressure with his thumb, gently circling it. A small huff leaving your lips. His eyes flicked from your face to your pussy, unable to decide which one he wanted to watch more. He slipped one finger inside your heat, his lips quirked up as he watched your brows pinch together. He curled his index finger, rubbing up against your walls. A small moan left your lips, his cock twitched against his belly. He let out a small groan pressing his hips down onto the sheets, looking for any source of stimulation he could find. Not wanting to touch himself just yet, wanting to drag out your and his pleasure as long as possible.

He added another finger, licking his lips as he inched closer to you. If only he could move you to your back and bury his face into your cunt. But right now he needed you. He started to scissor his fingers inside you, making sure you were stretched out enough for him. Although with how wet you were and the soft sounds of pleasure leaving your lips, he was sure you were ready.

He withdrew his fingers from your cunt, smirking as you frowned, moving your hips up to try and follow his hand. “Give me a second darlin’.” He whispered, coating his dick with your slick. Pumping himself a couple times before spreading your legs a bit wider so he could fit between your legs. He bit his lip as he notched the head of his cock at your entrance, trying to stifle the groan working through his chest. Slowly he pushed in, your wet warm heat enveloping him.

Arthur was sure this was the closest to the pearly gates he’d ever get. His eyes squeezed tight as it took him everything not to blow his load right then and there.

“Arthur?” You gasped, a soft noise that had him squeezing your hips with a vice like grip.

“It’s me, sweetheart.” He said, his lips brushing against your ear as he leaned over you. Sheathing himself inside you completely, his pelvis pressed against your ass.

“Arthur.” You preened, pushing back against him.

“Missed ya, girl.” He huffed, withdrawing his cock before thrusting back inside you. You let out a cry as his cock pressed up against that delicious spot.

“Ah-“ Arthur reached forward, covering your mouth with his hand to quiet your moan.

“Hush,” He groaned, leaving open mouthed kisses down your neck. You were trembling under him. Your eyes rolled back in your head as he snapped his hips into yours. “Can ya be a good girl and stay quiet?”

You nodded, whimpering against his palm. The smell of gunpowder and leather filling your senses, only heightening your pleasure. You bit your lip as he moved his hand lower, gently applying pressure to your neck. You whimpered as your body buzzed with pleasure, his cock rubbing up against your silken walls.

“Yeah, my good girl.” You could practically feel the way his chest puffed up with pride. You were dangerously close to the edge.

“I’m gonna-“ You whined, fisting the sheets beneath you.

“Gonna cum?” He smirked, his hot breath fanning against your shoulder. “Go ahead darlin’.”

Stars danced behind your eyes as you gushed around his cock. Your whole body trembling as your orgasm washed over you in waves. “F-fuck!” You hissed, biting down on your lip as you tried to keep quiet.

Arthur’s chest rumbled with a low chuckle as he looked down at you. Before it was replaced with a groan as you clenched down on him.

“Shit- I ain’t,” he hissed through gritted teeth, “ain’t gonna last long if ya keep squeezin’ me like that.” His breath fanning across your cheek. You mewled pathetically, unable to stop the whine that left your lips.

He grabbed your hips, pulling you up onto your knees. You gasped at the sudden change in position. Your breath being thrusted out of your lungs as he pounded into you. The rickety bed frame whining under the movement of your two bodies. His large hands dug into your hips, bruises would no doubt be forming in their place by tomorrow morning.

“Take it-“ He huffed, sweat dotting his brow as he bit down on his lip. “That’s right- fucking take it.” He laid his hand between your shoulder blades, pressing you down into the mattress. He can feel your pussy fluttering around him, making him groan again. “Yeah, ya close girl?”

“Uh huh!” Your cry muffled by the blankets.

“Go on- go on and soak my cock.” He pants, his hips stuttering as he nears his own release, “Ya go and I’m goin’ with ya.” He warns, slamming his hips into yours over and over.

You fall over the edge, not worried about staying quiet anymore. Tears blur your vision as you tremble under him. Your whole body went limp as you clenched down around him.

His head fell forward, pressing his forehead against your back as his hips stuttered. Rocking into you one, two, three more times before he’s gone. Groaning out your name as his cock pulses inside you, his hips giving tiny jerks as he empties into you.

You let out a soft sigh, turning your head to look up at him. Pride swelling in your chest as you take in his disheveled appearance. His honey brown hair, like a curtain in front of his eyes. He shudders as he withdraws his hips, his release slowly dripping out of your puffy cunt.

You roll over onto your back, reaching up to brush his hair back. He takes in a deep breath, lazily smiling down at you.

“Job go well?” You asked softly, running your thumb over his cheekbone.

“Very well.” He chuckles laying down next to you. Wrapping his arm around your waist as he lays his head against your breast. Listening to the rapid beat of your heart.

“Good.” You smiled, running your fingers through his locks, “Good night honey.” You said kissing the top of his head before closing your eyes.

“Night darlin’.” He said softly, the sound of your thumping heart the perfect lullaby.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #smut #Arthur Morgan smut #john marston #dutch van der linde #hosea matthews #javier escuella #jack marston #abigail marston #miss grimshaw #tilly jackson #molly o’shea #mary beth gaskill #Charles smith #hihomeghere

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angelwings-crossbowstrings · 6 months

Text

The World Keeps Getting Hotter, Baby, but I’m Too Cool to Die

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Setting: Pre-series; The Line-Up; Whisperers Arc

Warnings: Domestic violence; Child abuse; Injuries; Blood; Allusions to alcoholism; Mentions of canonical character death

Summary: Three times Daryl didn’t fear death and the one time he did.

gif by @jaaryl

Daryl had honestly never feared death. Sometimes, he felt it would even come as a reprieve from a life that had taken such a toll on every aspect of his very being. He had seldom wished for it, mostly as a child who didn’t understand the permanence. He wanted to follow his mama, who often took the beatings meant for him.

Even in her near constant drunken stupors, she would reach for him from the bed, fresh blood and bruises still adorning her pale skin. C’mere, baby. It’s okay. When she died and Merle ran, Daryl faced their father’s wrath alone.

“Worthless, bitch-ass mama’s boy.” The rough leather of the well worn belt was a follow up sting to the skin-tearing agony of the metal buckle. “Gon’ toughen ya up. Won’t have no pussy Dixon livin’ in my house.”

Daryl just laid there, watching the new flecks of crimson fall in sporadic splatterings on the dirty wooden floor. He circled the thought of his mother reaching for him, shushing and soothing in her slurred voice. It was almost enough to numb the angry wounds long after the onslaught was over.

“I'll find ya, mama. We can run away together.”

He wasn’t a stranger to motorcycles. Merle had taken him down the backroads, no destination in mind. The elder Dixon had been working on obtaining his license but was already a skilled rider.

He’d show up at the most opportune moments, almost like he was listening for the old man to pass out drunk. Daryl was older then, early teens making things more confusing as he went through changes he didn’t understand. He’d never speak them aloud for fear of invoking his father’s rage or his brother’s ridicule. He kept quiet and waited excitedly for the times his brother would offer him peace on the open road.

Merle hadn’t noticed the pine needles on the wet asphalt until it was too late.

Daryl could only remember bits and pieces. His brother’s distorted face and muffled voice. Keep them eyes open, boy! The younger man found he didn’t care to oblige. Maybe if he closed his bright blues, he’d wake up in a different life. Loving parents, good grades, a house in the suburbs complete with a dog that was always happy to see him.

He was actually disappointed when he woke up in the hospital, broken arm and severe concussion, his body throbbing.

Merle was already gone again. An officer took him home where Will Dixon broke the cast within an hour and twisted the skin above the break.

Daryl missed his brother.

It was his fault Glenn had died. Maybe Abraham should be on his conscience as well. If he’d never stormed off, half-cocked and hell bent, they would have all been there to make sure the group made it to Hilltop. The line up would have never happened because all the best fighters would have been together, functioning as a well oiled machine to plow the Saviors down.

But Daryl had to be stubborn. He had to do things his way. And now Abraham and Glenn were dead, Maggie was a widow, and her baby would never know their father.

He was losing blood. The wound was through and through, steadily freeing his lifeblood without medical intervention. As the van bounced and jarred over the rough gravel, the archer hissed and sluggishly pressed a hand over the weeping hole so close to his collarbone. Yet the blood on his hands wasn’t his. It was Glenn’s.

His vision was graying at the edges, his skin colder without the blanket that had been left on the rough ground where his family mourned. They likely spit on the fabric, the only thing among them that had been somewhat his. Even if he lived, he could never go back and face their anger.

His breaths came slower, more shallow. He was growing numb and exhaustion had him giving in to the urge to close his eyes.

If there was a god, maybe he’d see fit to take Daryl and toss him into hell in exchange for Glenn being returned to Maggie.

He’d lost you. The cave had collapsed and you had been swallowed by the dust and debris. It had been suggested there were other ways out, that maybe you had escaped after all. Only to go back to Alexandria or Hilltop, to reunite with Kelly, Yumiko, and Luke while discovering Daryl had gone off on his own—again—and let rage drive him.

He was stupid to think he could coerce Alpha into revealing anything that might benefit him or aid in your rescue. He’d been reckless and now he was paying for it. Blood was no longer spurting from the wound in his thigh, the veins having long ago slowed the gush when his heartrate began to decelerate.

He was gonna die there, bleed out and never know if you were safe. For the first time, he found he didn’t want to go. You, arriving with Magna and her group, had charmed your way right past his defenses and straight into his heart. He had been a lovesick fool, grasping the unfamiliar feeling with both hands until his knuckles turned white.

You were completely and utterly transparent in your reciprocation, doting over his injuries and ensuring he took care of himself. You were glued to his side, throwing yourself into the fray when anything could possibly pose a threat to him, much to his displeasure. You were sweet as honey, but stubborn as an ox. Fierce and loyal, downright lethal when someone you loved was threatened.

And you loved him. Of all the people left in the world, you had chosen him.

And he didn’t want to let go. He didn’t want to escape the pain. He didn’t care to see Merle again yet or run into his mama’s arms. He had longed to hear the innocence in Beth’s singing that he’d failed to protect, but found that it wasn’t as important as what he had there, in life.

He actually had a life. He could settle down with you, even if he couldn’t promise you complete safety and peace. You were still young enough for children if you wanted them, and he’d never deny you that even if he felt he’d be a shit father. He wanted to go home to you at the end of the day and let you whisper away the stress he couldn’t leave outside the door. He wanted to hold you, kiss you, touch you, love you.

He didn’t want to die not knowing if you were alive and that those things were possible.

He wheezed, forced to blink hard to battle against his eyes’ will to close. He was cold. He no longer felt the pain of the wound.

He wasn’t ready anymore. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to risk leaving you. He didn’t want to die.

“Daryl.”

The archer gasped, summoning all the strength he had left to slide his eyes toward where the sun was now beaming into the cold garage.

There you were, carrying the light behind you like a pair of wings. Like his vest, but bright and beautiful. He could make out your face as you lowered to hover above him. Your hand was warm against his cheek, it felt near scalding pressed to his chilled skin.

“You’re alive.” He managed in a rough whisper. Even with your features vibrating, he could see that beautiful smile. “M’dyin’, Sunshine. Don’t wanna go.” Someone was working on his leg but he couldn’t be bothered to check or even ask. Your lips pressed against his blood streaked forehead.

“You’re not going anywhere. Not today.” Daryl sighed. He believed you. It was always so easy to do, but he could tell you weren’t placating. “You’re too cool for that.”

He was going to live and he was going to love you right.

#murda writes #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #the walking dead #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl x female reader #daryl dixon the walking dead #daryl twd #daryl dixon twd #daryl fanfiction #Spotify

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furiousgoldfish · 3 months

Text

To all of you who are feeling behind on survival skills, worried you won't be able to succeed in life because you're not allowed to learn/not able to learn, I want you to know that some basics are extremely easy to get once you're able to try it on your own, or even just have one person explain it to you.

When I ran away from home, I didn't know how to cook, I wasn't allowed to learn, and first month or so, I was preoccupied with just learning how to cook. What I learned was that it was far more easy than my parents ever made it seem. If you're trying to cook just for proper nutrition and not make some fancy meals, most of what you have to do is heat the groceries, and salt them. If you cut up some vegetables and put them in water an add salt, you will have a soup. If you lay them on a tray and put them in the oven, you've made food. You can put stuff in a pan with some oil and stir it on heat and you have a meal. For basic eating, it can be really that simple. I also was able to pick stuff up just from my roommates, who would happily answer my questions, and a lot of people out there will happily explain to you how they make a certain food, and of course, there's video tutorials for specific meals, if you want to make something more complex. Once you have absolute freedom in the kitchen, you will pick this up rapidly.

I have never used a washing machine prior to running away, and then one person showed me once how to use one, and that was that. I was washing-machine certified after that. I gained extra knowledge about cleaning it on the internet, and some people randomly had tips for me about it. I learned to handwash later as well, and that works good too.

I've struggled at the beginning, to find easy and cheap ways to get stuff; the most common way to get things is to go to the store, but I didn't have a lot of money, and buying things was too expensive for me. I've since discovered just where to find the second-hand markets, how to get people to give me their old clothing so I never have to buy any, how to temper with stuff I have so I wouldn't have to buy anything, at this point I even know how to fix shoes and sew my own stuff. I've fixed blinds on almost every window in here, without even knowing how, I just dismantled everything and figured it out. I've put together closets and lamps. I've learned to open up my own laptop and change the parts inside, I've even changed the screen on my own, by watching a video on how it's done. I've learned how to repaint walls, how to tend to plants, how to maintain a living space. Often I'd see someone else who is able to do these things, and just ask. People who are not parents have no reason to gatekeep this information, and they proudly told me how they do it.

I've learned to organize my stuff to the point where I'm able to easily clean a big mess, and I don't get overwhelmed with things anymore. I've had to do some reading on the internet to figure out the situation with finances and economy, and I also asked some people, got wildly different answers from every person. When I have the opportunity to chat with someone who has a specific job, I ask them about what they do, and have them describe to me how that field of work functions. It gave me insight into a lot of inner workings of society that were previously a mystery to me.

I was able to figure this all out while having zero faith in myself; I believed I was stupid, incapable of survival, honestly thought I would be dead within few months. I was reading army survival guides so I could survive in the wild if I ever got homeless. I was learning even without believing that all of this would help me, it's only now looking back at everything that I understand how much knowledge I gained just from trying it and doing it in every possible way until it clicked.

The most complex for me, were the social skills, since I'm still easily scared of people. But I am slowly making progress on that and finding better ways to deal with people's behaviours. Being curious works well because people love when someone is curious about them and shows interest in what they do. It's been a revelation that outside of my home, I really can just ask any question I am interested about, and will usually get some kind of an answer, and not 'how do you not know this already'. Outside of abusive homes, you're not expected to know everything, without ever being told.

While survival skills and independence are deeply forbidden in an abusive situation, being out of one will practically guarantee you that you'll get them. Sometimes you'll be forced to learn some stuff like cleaning and cooking and you'll have no choice but to learn, and it will become easier the more you do it. But nobody will make you feel bad for not doing it right the first time, there will be no punishment, no berating, you're free mess it up any amount of times, without any consequences. I would say that maybe you wasted some time and effort, but no time or effort is truly wasted when you're learning something; rather it takes that time and effort to learn. But it's not painful, it's not shameful, it's not forbidden anymore. You can learn a lot of things at your own ease and convenience, without worrying about someone's opinion on what you're doing. You can also learn dumb things and never be criticized or called out on it, you can do absolutely ridiculous stuff that brings you joy and no harm is done.

I know feeling behind sucks, and it feels shameful and horrible, but the good news is that you can catch up very quickly, and not only that. If you really want to have a lot of survival skills under your belt, and you keep learning, you will soon know more than most people do. You can out-do any person out there if you have a passion for it. I had people who were telling me how to do basic stuff, surprised at me knowing more than they knew, just months later. It's a great feeling!

#survival skills #escaping abuse #abuse sabotage #lacking in survival skills #gaining survival skills #living out of abuse gains you skills automatically #learning survival skills

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orchidyoonkook · 20 days

Text

To What We Were Before, And All The Things After | JJK | Ch. 8

Title: Photo Shoots and Blasphemous Discoveries

Pairing: Prince!College Student!JK x Fine Arts Major!(F)!Reader

Series Rating//Genre: (M) | College AU, Mild Royalty AU, Smut, Angst, Fluff, S2F2L, Indiffernce to lovers, sloooowwww ass burn

Summary: You're just there to help JK with his final project, so why are you being doused in water, facepaint and smoke? Art. Art is why.

Warnings: T, language, fluff, angst, honestly this one's kinda wholesome and fun, some photogrpahy jargin in there, but nothing a quick google search can't fix if you really need to <3, it's mostly surface level jargin. Also the smoke machine works cuz JK has great ventilation due to the massive windows being open, so don't worry bout that XD, some light and fun name calling, some world building. Ask if you need clarification on anything. That's all I think!

Word Count: 11,684

Release Date: September 1, 2024. 4:30PM

A/N 1: Surprise! Happy JK Day.

PJK [7:36pm]: Saturday afternoon. my place. 11am. PJK [7:36pm]: bring an extra set of clothes, something warm. Sweats if you have them. PJK [7:37pm]: also, Im gunna need your shirt size

The first three weeks of November have flown by and dragged on at the same time.

The weather’s getting colder. You need a thick jacket if you want to be anywhere outside, and all leaves have fallen from the trees, leaving pines the only ones left with their winter coats on. Hot chocolate from greenhouse cafe has become part of your life’s blood so you don’t freeze, and gloves with pocket warmers inside them are once again a part of your everyday.

But November skies have returned. And you frequently set up camp on the drying grass beside the greenhouse, dressing your canvas with oil paint to their likeness as it’s the only paint that doesn’t dry the second it’s out of the tube in the cold, static air.

Jungkook told you earlier in the week the shoot would most likely be this weekend, and that he just had a few final strings to pull together before being able to confirm. So with that in mind, you intentionally tried to finish all your work before this weekend, knowing the shoot will take a while to complete.

He mentioned it may leak over into Sunday depending on how much you get done on the first day, which is fine with you considering you usually spend Sunday evenings at his place anyway. You’d consider it an extended edition of your regularly scheduled broadcast.

And speaking of regularly scheduled, you haven’t missed a single movie night since Nel left. Granted, it’s only been three weeks, but even missing the two you did because of Nel had made an impact.

You’d gotten so used to them, having that time to destress and unwind before the week starts. A nice little routine that helps reset you both mentally and physically.

Suddenly not having that was…a weird feeling you try not to remember.

And you are more than happy to never miss another one ever again.

You aren’t sure what Jungkook tells Adaline he’s doing during movie night, but she’s never interrupted you, not even once. And it’s something you are increasingly grateful for, because she is one of the things you destress from as your unspoken rivalry always amps up the closer to exam season you get.

It’s Thursday evening, and you’re in your room finishing up a Microeconomics 3 assignment while piano music plays on a speaker in the corner. You use it to help you focus, and it’s working its magic as you’re finishing your work in record time.

Music has always helped you work better, and you credit it largely with how you’ve been able to keep up with everything in your schooling.

Yuri’s in her room, doing homework as well you assume. Or maybe texting Tai—the dreamy, big dicked Ilcalos island Count—you swear she’s only put her phone down for sleep and showering, as she’s constantly checking to see if he’s messaged her. And you hope it turns out well for them, Yuri deserves someone who treats her well. Especially after the whole Jungkook debacle—which you’re not allowed to bring up—and then the poor rebound you aren’t allowed to talk about either. You’re just happy she’s finally found someone worth her time.

Picking up your phone, you shoot Jungkook a text back.

You [7:40pm]: okay! saturday at 11 sounds good. I’ll bring sweats and warm socks

You message him your shirt size too, curious as to what he’ll use it for, but you’re sure you’ll find out in due time. You always do.

Subject to many of his homework assignments, you’ve been posed and lit and adjusted every which way.

Jungkook is incredibly professional when you’re with him as a model. Light touches to correct posing, always with a ‘may I’ before he does, and he fills the room with kind words, good vibes, and fun music so you never feel awkward.

At first you were really iffy on the whole idea when he first asked in September, because it would be the prince of your nation photographing little ol’ you. You weren’t anything special—yet—and you’re still never one for being in the spotlight, or for being on camera. At all. But if it was just for homework, and you were helping out a friend…you figured why not?

It helped that all of your worries immediately faded when you saw the results of that first shoot.

An email from a very non-princely email address found its way into your inbox. The subject was the date of the shoot, and the only message inside being:

thanks. Hope you like them.

Let’s do it again sometime.

-J

When you opened the attachments you made a quick dive to catch the phone that fell from your hands in shock.

You looked…beautiful. Like you never had in pictures before. Not in school, or at graduation, not even in the ones you took of yourself.

You didn’t know you were capable of looking like that.

Like how he saw you. Captured you.

And you’ll never admit you’ve held your chin a little higher with every shoot since.

They make you feel powerful, attractive. More confident, and sure of yourself, as if you were always meant to be in front of a camera. Like you’d been in front of one since before you could walk.

They do that for you.

He…does that for you—with his pictures, of course.

Jungkook is very talented. Very skilled with his camera, and you find yourself looking forward to the concepts he comes up with every time. Trusting him and whatever his vision is wholeheartedly.

Though a small, immature piece of you is also pleased he still wants you to model, and not Adaline. That he finds you easier to work with over her.

Your competitive streak never fails to come out, even with the smallest, secretive things.

Take that Adaline.

You gladly help him out with his homework, and he does the same for you.

If you ever need a male reference or a profile study. Anatomy practice, features practice, likeness practice. Anything and almost everything, all you have to do is ask, and he sits still or places whatever you need in front of you while you sketch.

Hands, however, have always been a personal favourite of yours.

They’re one of those things that can be drawn a hundred different ways and never look the same. Always a new position you can put them in. Consistently able to shake things up. And one set is never like the others—like eyes. There’s little differences in all of them and that’s where their magic lies.

You do these studies at the greenhouse, it has the best light to shadow ratio. When you ask him for one, he’ll switch to working with one hand, while the other does whatever you tell it. Normally either placed on your table or if there isn’t enough room, which nine times out of ten there isn’t because of all your supplies, you stick your foot on the lower metal frame of his table and he rests his arm, wrist or palm on your up bent knee.

Due to this, you’ve unintentionally come to find out that his hands are very strong, very calloused, and very, very warm…

Also! Aside from hand studies, you love loose figure studies because they’re great warm up sketches. And what Jungkook doesn't know is that you have dozens of warm up sketches of him. Doesn’t know you sneak pictures here and there when you can, hiding them in a hidden album on your phone entitled ‘hmwk screenshots.’ And he definitely doesn’t know that when he’s sitting at the cafe, nose deep in assignments, you doodle his features or his outfit in real time.

A nose here, a jacket there. A muscular forearm covered in tattoos also tends to find its way onto your page every so often.

He’s got a good physique. And the ridges make for excellent anatomy practice. So does the intricate line work of tattoos, and fabric rippling. Especially in drastic lighting. Consistency is key in maintaining and improving your work and it’s not like any of these sketches will ever see the light of day anyways.

They’re just, well…practice.

A sigh escapes you, and you refocus on finishing your microecon work. You still have two more assignments to get done before Saturday at eleven.

“And why are you working with some random girl when I’m available, again?” Adaline asks. She’s currently sitting on Jungkook's couch in your spot. He’s setting up tomorrow's materials against the big white wall by the floor length windows that showcase his balcony.

It’s why he chose to live here instead of in the dorms or on campus. His place isn’t enormous, like most people would think, it has enough room for everything a regular student needs: bedroom, kitchen, workspace, living room, bathroom, even a guest room. But the one thing he keeps different is the big white wall where a dining room would normally be.

Jungkook’s place has high ceilings, 10 feet tall, which is higher than the average but not excessive. And the wall that connects his kitchen to the balcony is a perfect mock studio. He can even keep all his equipment there; lights, gels, backgrounds, tubs full of props, camera cases, lenses, and more all stored in neat shelving against another wall.

“Because students volunteered for extra credit, and she’s who was assigned to me,” a small lie, one he was sure that Adaline wouldn’t dig into too deeply.

“Why didn’t you tell me I could volunteer?”

“Because you didn’t need the extra credit?”

She pouts, and goes back to her phone.

Adaline also doesn’t know it’s you he’s photographing and that is one hundred percent intentionally planned by him.

He could sense something between you two after you made that one comment after fall break. He notices now how you stiffen slightly every time he mentions Adaline, and the one time he mentioned you in passing to test the waters, Adaline changed the conversion topic almost immediately. A look of annoyance, or maybe even insecurity in her eyes.

So he’s been lucky that Adaline has never wanted to see any of his schoolwork prior to or after the singular shoot he did with her.

Lucky she hasn’t seen your face fill up his screen constantly.

And extremely lucky that she doesn’t know about the hidden folder buried deep in his desktop labeled ‘eqpmt rcpts’ filled with dozens of candid shots of you.

To be fair, you don’t know about them either. They’re random, shots taken every now and then where he thought you looked happy, focused, or just existing. True candids of the most candid person he knew.

It started that day with his first assignment from Professor Hirmer. He’d taken those quick pictures of you painting, and then simply never stopped.

He has pictures of you in the courtyard, walking and talking to Yuri, you smiling. He has some he took on his phone when you’re over for movie night, invested in the film or talking to him. And a bunch of you painting at the greenhouse. It’s hard to take secret candids when he’s right beside you, but he manages seeing as you haven't caught him yet.

He even has a few of you and Nel, love clearly written on your face in every single one of them.

Whenever he spots you before you spot him, and he has his camera on him, he takes a couple.

They’ve amassed into a healthy sum, but he thinks of it as a harmless habit as no one will ever know. And it’s not like he’s following you around to take them or using them for anything nefarious.

He just likes taking your picture. Capturing your spirit, your candor.

Your realness.

You are wholly yourself, always, no holding back, all of the time.

And to him, it feels like coming up for a breath of fresh air.

“Hey!” you say as you let yourself into Jungkook’s apartment. You’d knocked but no one answered and it was currently 10:56am on Saturday, so you knew he was here. Plus, his door was unlocked.

“Jungkook?” you call.

No answer.

You take your shoes off after closing the door and locking it. He should really keep his door locked.

Very quickly become best friends with the couch, you toss your backpack of warm clothes on the floor while you wait for him to make an appearance.

There’s shoot equipment everywhere; lights in the corner, some with soft boxes on them, gels laid out on the coffee table, and what you’ve come to learn is a lens case sits on the couch beside you in Jungkook's usual spot.

Jungkook has also somehow managed to find some small trees in blue ceramic pots and what you’re pretty sure is a smoke machine.

But the most peculiar thing is what looks to be a kiddie pool up against the wall with a folded tarp at its base.

Well that's…interesting…

You hear a door open somewhere in the apartment and running water.

“Jungkook? That you?”

“Hey! Yep. Just give me a sec, I’m almost done.”

The water sounds cease and Jungkook makes his grand entrance as he turns the corner holding a large watering can. Your eyebrow raises.

“For the trees?” you ask.

“What?”

You point to the watering can currently making his veins pop.

He laughs, “Oh! No. This is for later. You’ll see,” and walks to the other side of the room by the pool.

“Aren’t we mysterious today,” you say, following him with your eyes. He’s in ripped black jeans that accentuate the muscle definition of his thighs, and a matching baggy shirt. When his back is turned you snap a quick picture. The fabric folds on his baggy shirts are some of your favourite mindless things to cool down sketch.

“Nah, just focused. We have a lot to get through today.” He sets down the watering can and you can see the moment the switch flips from friend to photographer. “The guest room is ready for you. There’s a clothing rack inside with each look labeled. There’s also makeup and face paint, if you could bring out the make up after you're done changing, that would be great. We’re gonna start with ‘Bright and Bold’, okay?”

You usually use the spare room as a change room when you have to switch clothes for a shoot. But they were always from your own closet. He’d tell you the concept he was going for and you’d bring a few options to choose from.

Makeup you were used to, though. Jungkook loves abusing your artistic abilities for his shoots in the way you decorate your face or body, saying they make his works a level up from the rest of his classmates.

They also usually make for some of the coolest pictures you have of yourself.

This is the first time he’s ever bought clothing, though.

You shouldn’t be as surprised as you are, this being his final assignment for an important class, and him being as serious as he is about his work and the final product. But you can't help it, you’re excited to see everything he’s chosen for the shoot.

For you.

For the shoot.

“Yep, sounds good. Be out in a few,” you reply. He nods in acknowledgement before moving to set something up and you don’t stick around to find out, grabbing your bag and heading towards the door lined hall.

The guest room is modest and clean. White sheets and gray comforter with, surprisingly, two throw pillows to spruce it up. The walls are white too, but you’re pretty sure that’s because Jungkook’s not allowed to paint the apartment per his landlord's wishes—a thought that still makes you laugh.

He could buy any place he wanted, but chose to rent. ‘To get the real university experience,’ he explained when you asked him the first time you went over.

Black furniture accents the room. A comfortable looking leather chair sits in the corner by a glass door that leads to the balcony. It has a small table beside it. There’s a dresser with a mirror in the other corner and of course, in the center of the room, is the bed. It’s a nice room. However, the newest edition is what’s keeping your eye.

Four shirts hang from the rack at the foot of the bed. The first is vibrant and colourful, the second a light neutral short sleeved V neck, third is strapless and skin coloured, and the last is made from thin black fabric you assume will be skin tight by the looks of it.

As promised, they’re all labeled with a sticker.

You throw your bag on the bed and grab the colourful one first. Its sticker says ‘bright and bold,’ and you put it on after removing the shirt you came in, then zip it up. The material feels heavy, durable and expensive. You check the tag on the inside seam and see it’s from Ilkaya, one of the biggest and most expensive fashion designers on this side of the realm.

Your eyes bug out of your head, and you try not to breathe too hard for fear of ruining it. Your routine of thrifting all your clothes makes you pretty damn sure you can’t even imagine how much this cost.

It feels good though, comfortable, not itchy. Really freaking expensive.

You look at yourself in the mirror, and you have to admit you look amazing. It fits perfectly in all the right places, compliments your skin tone, and even brings out your eyes. Begrudgingly, you admit to yourself that maybe there’s some sense in what the price tag could be. But it would still be a ridiculous sum for a jacket.

With one last look in the mirror, you grab the palettes, brushes and other tools off the dresser, and leave your designated dressing room for the day in favour of returning to the living room.

Jungkook’s got music going from your shared playlist. Insisting on making one after your second shoot together, when he decided you both agreed to the arrangement becoming a regular thing. It’s a good mix of both of your musical tastes, even though you guys figured out quickly that you liked pretty similar stuff anyway.

“What do you think? Does it work?” You ask as you turn the corner.

Jungkook fiddles with this camera before looking and pausing for a moment to take you in. You hope you look okay, but the weird look he has on his face makes you backtrack a bit.

“Is this not the one you wanted? It had the label on it. But I can go back and double che- ”

“You look amazing,” is all he says, and your worry slides off you instantly. He smiles wide, the one you’ve come to recognize as genuine.

“Thanks. But the colour’s doing most of the work for me,” you say, smiling back shyly.

He has a white background set up, and two differently coloured gel’d lights sit on opposite one another, a third, smaller floor light faces the background. A backlight, he’d call it.

Bright and Bold indeed, though there is the matter of-

“What do you want me to do for my make up?”

“Actually,” he sets down his camera gently on a table, “Is it okay if I do it? I want it to be a little more on the amateur side and I don’t think your years of refined talent would let you get the exact look I want.”

That’s new. But you're here to stand and look however he wants you too, so you allow him with a nod.

“Sure, where do you want me to sit?”

“Here’s fine,” he says as he pulls a stool that was off to one side close to one of the windows. “As long as you don’t mind holding the make up. I don’t have a table to set them down on. Should’ve thought of that, sorry.”

You can tell he’s mentally scolding himself for forgetting something.

“No no, it’s fine,” you say, taking your seat, “I don’t mind, really.”

Placing the balls of your feet on the bar that holds the chair legs together, you make your lap even enough to set the palettes out, and use a hand to hold all the brushes.

Jungkook laughs, noticing your feet as you sit, “Cute socks.”

They’re light blue with a fox face on them, and little ears stick up from the elastic around the ankle.

“Thanks,” you laugh too, they’re your favourite pair. “I call them my fox socks. They’re lucky.”

“Let’s hope so. Wish me luck fox socks,” he calls to your toes, and you wiggle them in response.

He picks a brush and chooses a colour. “Close your eyes and let me know if I’m pressing too hard. If it isn’t obvious, I’ve never done this before.”

You close your eyes and whisper, “Will do.”

It's a uniquely intimate experience having your makeup done. Willingly letting someone get up close and personal with you, allowing them to see every potential scar, blemish and pore in the name of beauty and for the sake of creativity.

In this case, it’s also a little questionable considering where you feel the brush putting down colour: cheeks, lids, temple, nose. However, you’re simply a pawn in a well thought out plan, so you sit and wait for him to finish.

“Annnd done,” he says, making a final swipe with the brush on your cheek. “You look great! I didn’t hurt you, right?” he asks, showing you the makeup in a palettes mirror. Your face looks like it’s been attacked by a rainbow in the best way. You smile, taking the mirror from him and looking at all the little details.

For a first timer, Jungkook did a really good job.

“Nope, I’m good. How do you want me?”

Jungkook leads you to the backdrop, placing you in front.

“One second,” he says, grabbing a remote and clicking a button to lower the black out curtains on the windows, and then another that turns off the apartment lights. He also clicks on all the lights he’s set up and you’re quickly illuminated by a bright red and purple as well as the back light.

“I’m good to pose?” he asks.

“Yep.”

You love that he always asks first. It makes you feel safe and considered, consenting to every touch prior to its occurrence.

Jungkook instructs the first pose to have your hands on the sides of your face, making slight adjustments so that you don’t cover any of the makeup. And for the first time, his touches leave little sparks where they land.

You’re sure it’s just because of the lights or that the shirt is thick and makes you warm.

Or maybe you’re just nervous and need to get the first photo jitters out of your system.

Soon enough, the camera’s pointing at you and you smile the brightest you can. He’s given you the prompt of ‘you’re so excited and happy you can’t hold it in,’ and you work with it the best you can, taking the first few with the pose he gave before being given full reign.

It’s a decent way into the first shoot when Jungkook says, “Hmm…we’re not quite there yet, I need a bit more,” and follows up with, “How about ‘you’ve just been commissioned by the Modern Art Museum to have the leading showcase for next year’.”

You smile the biggest you think you ever have at the thought. Because that’s the dream, that is the biggest goal you could achieve. An entire gallery of your work as the primary exhibition in the Western Shores Modern Art Museum? You couldn’t go any higher. It’s every artist's dream.

“There you go! That’s it!” The camera’s capturing quickly as you imagine what it would be like to have your own showcase at the WS-MAM. Incredible is the first word that comes to mind, your work in the biggest museum on the continent? You can’t even imagine, but you want to.

One day, you promise yourself. You’ll do it one day.

“Okay,” Jungkook says, breaking your daydream, “Let me switch out the gels for new colours and go again. These are great so far though, you're doing amazing.”

You hold your hand out for a high five and he smacks it. “Go team!” you say, and he laughs.

An hour and a half, a makeup fix and three lighting changes later, the first shoot finishes. You collapse on the couch and rub the muscles on your thighs.

Jungkook plops down beside you, nose deep in the pictures he’s just taken, double checking everythings good.

“This is a fantastic start, I hope we can keep it up all day and finish before tomorrow.”

“Me too,” you say, and you mean it. Shoots with him are always fun, but inevitably tiring. “I’m gonna to grab a water, want one?”

“Yes please,” he replies without looking up.

In the kitchen, you open the fridge to grab the two bottles and notice a box, stamped with a coffee mug that has a greenhouse inside of it, on top. The greenhouse cafe’s logo.

“Can I ask what’s inside the cafe box?” you ask as you sit back on the couch and pass him a bottle.

“Ah, caught red handed,” he says, setting his camera on the table and taking a swig. “I may have asked Vivan earlier this week to make sure there was an overstock of tarts so I could grab them for you as a thank you for today.”

...Oh

That’s so sweet. He’s never gotten you a thank you gift before, especially not in the form of the most delicious pastry to ever exist. Maybe you should get him something for all the times he’s helped you with homework? A solstice gift maybe?

There’s heat forming in your chest and you really hope it’s not the beginning stages of heartburn. Maybe Jungkook has antacids.

“You didn’t have to do that, I’m happy to help.”

“So you don’t want them then?” his shit eating grin making a glorious comeback because he knows what your answer’s going to be.

“No! I want them. I most definitely want them.”

He chuckles and puts his water down.

“Okay Donatello, glad you accept. Let's move on to the next set up. There’s makeup remover and cotton pads in the room, and some moisturizer too if you need it.”

The next shoot is called ‘Regality,’ and it has you in the strapless shirt. You find out it’s quite a low cut when you put it on. There’s enough to cover you, but there’s definitely a lot of your chest showing. However, under the shirt on the hanger is a scarf to cover yourself with, which you think is very considerate.

“Makeup?” you ask as you come out again, scarf covering you.

“Neutral, but strong. Kind of like how my mother does,” the background is still white, but you have a hunch that it will remain white in this picture, unlike the last one. “This one is going to be black and white, so try to emphasize your natural beauty.”

You ignore that he essentially just said you're beautiful, surely he’s just being kind and professional. Making sure his model feels good about herself.

Right?

Right.

You put on a coat of mascara and go light on the shadow so it won't be too dramatic on film. You also use a shade of lipstick that adds just a tint to your lips and a blush that makes your eyes pop.

Jungkook has you sit on the stool from earlier and faces your body three quarters of the way towards the camera, but keeps your head turned in profile.

“Oh! Almost forgot, one second,” Jungkook jogs to his room, coming back with a palm sized velvet box. “I had my mother send these over for this shoot. She has better taste than me, so I let her pick them out.”

Your stomach plummets to the floor when he opens the box.

Inside are two dangling diamond earrings, and quite possibly the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen.

And now you’re terrified.

“Jungkook, I can't wear those. They look like they’re worth more than my house, my car and my tuition combined.”

He takes one out and places it in your hand for you to put in, it’s the length of your index finger. And all you can think about is the potential houses you’re holding as you look at it.

It’s a semi-rectangular earring, encrusted with four columns of diamonds that cascade down, each column longer than the previous. Like a sparkling waterfall you can attach to your ear.

“Don’t worry about it, mum said she never wears them anyway because they’re part of a set that the necklace was lost to years ago. Please,” his face is nothing but reassurance and small smiles, “You’re giving them a chance to live again.”

You couldn't say no to those eyes even if you wanted to.

So you reply, almost breathless and still against your better judgment, “Okay.”

Placing them in one after the other, they have a significant, understandable weight to them. You take a couple deep breaths so you don't freak out, and then you return to your previously designated pose, profile set, body facing the camera.

“Can I adjust?” Jungkook asks, after taking a step back and getting a wider view.

You nod gently, still terrified of the earrings.

He makes sure the earring is visible and untangled first, before a finger gently comes beneath your chin, and lifts it a bit higher.

The feeling they leave behind is all you can think about as you stare at your place on the wall, Jungkook snapping away. Not even the soft light illuminating your profile is enough to make you blink.

This shoot goes by quickly, and you’re relieved to get the earrings back safely inside their box.

“It’s like 2:45, wanna break for a late lunch?” Jungkook asks.

“Please, I’m starved,” you say, returning from the guest room after tossing on the sweater you brought. “What's on the menu?”

“Well, we have two options,” he says, looking very faux serious, “1. We order out from wherever you want and awkwardly wait for it to arrive because the next shoot is not one we can’t prep for, then eat, then shoot. Or 2. I make use of the ingredients I bought to make Bulgogi Kimchi Fried Rice and you get lunch and a show.”

You're shocked.

Jungkook…cooks? Oh this you absolutely must see.

“Hmm….” you say, pretending to really mull it over in the same ‘serious’ tone, “I’m thinking I’ll have to go with option two, Chef. But I’ll lend a hand where I can, no use in standing around doing nothing.”

“Every chef needs a sous.”

With both of you on task, lunch is getting made quickly. Jungkook has all the ingredients to make ‘my buddy’s famous family recipe,’ a man who you assume is a chef back at the palace. The island countertop is currently covered in them; onion, kimchi, marinated bulgogi, gochujang, cooked rice, eggs and more.

You’re surprised at how skilled Jungkook is in the kitchen. He’s cutting the ingredients like he’s been doing it his whole life and working the pan over the stove like the proper technique has been drilled into him since birth.

Thirty minutes pass, and after both of you shed a tear at the cut onions and evenly split the remaining tasks, you’re sitting on the couch about to take your first bite. It smells delicious. Your mouth is watering and you can’t wait to dig in, stomach painfully empty by this point.

Finally taking that first bite, you nearly die of euphoria.

“Ouhmahgaud,” you say, mouth half full. Jungkooks on the other side of the couch, trying not to cough out his own food from laughing at your reaction. His eyes are nearly shut with how wide he’s smiling.

“Good?” he asks after swallowing his food first, like a civilized person.

You’re vigorously nodding as you swallow your own helping in hopes you’re understood.

“You’re giving me this recipe. I need it. I don’t think I will survive if this is the only time I ever get to eat it.” Your bowl is almost half gone already. Thank god there’s leftovers, you will be having more.

Plus, you want to make it for your mom when you go home, she’ll love it.

“I’ll text it to you later, don’t worry.”

You’re very sure the look on your face conveys the gratitude you feel and the rest of the meal passes in a very comfortable and satisfied silence.

Twenty-ish minutes later, after letting your seconds settle for a couple minutes, Jungkook gets back to business.

“Next look is the most adventurous, it uses the facepaint. Are you okay with contacts?”

“I think so, never tried them before though. Just give me a few before we start so I don’t explode when I stand up.”

“All good,” he says, before quirking a lip and adding, “I really don’t feel like explaining why there’s kimchi and bits of you all over my walls to either of our parents, so take all the time you need.”

You laugh, firstly at the visual, then at the idea of Jungkook meeting your mother. That would be something you needed on record, paper and film.

After a minute, you get up, the guest room making your acquaintance once more.

“This one is called Enigmatic,” Jungkook calls.

“Got it!”

You take longer than normal to change, maybe eating before putting on the skin tight shirt wasn’t a great idea. But at least it was stretchy.

It has long sleeves, a high neck, and is a very dark midnight black. There’s a matching black scarf for this one too, and a safety pin attached to the corner.

“Okay, what's the plan for this one? I hear facepaint is involved,” you say, back for round three, scarf in hand.

The background of the set is black now, a close match to your shirt. Jungkook is by the smoke machine, currently set up on the stool and plugged into a nearby outlet.

You hold up the scarf, questioningly.

“That’s to go over your head after the paint, but let’s see if you can do contacts first, they’re in the washroom. Need help?”

“No, I'm good.”

You don’t succeed at first, but after a couple attempts you look in the mirror and see purple eyes staring back at you. You love them.

“I look like a badass,” you say, returning. The smoke machine’s been turned on and it’s created a completely different atmosphere. At your reemergence, Jungkook shuts it off and comes close to give you a look. You freeze a little at the eye contact, his browns meeting your currently violets for a prolonged moment.

“They look better than I’d hoped, this is going to be great.”

He reaches under the gels on the table for a piece of paper. It’s a makeup model face with the look he wants drawn on. “Are you able to do something like this?”

The diagram shows the cheeks, bottom half of the nose and down all the way to the neck as black, and the eyes and up as white, bleeding down into the black like smoke. You’re going to need eyeshadow for that part. If you did that with the face paint it would just become a gray mess.

“Yep, but it’s going to take some time to get it right.”

“That’s okay, I’ll use it to get the smoke machine properly set up.”

You use one of the palette mirrors and start with the white, covering the top of your face and making a good base layer for the eyeshadow. Then fill the bottom of your face and neck with the black. Carefully, so as to not make gray, you use a large brush to cover both sides with their respective eyeshadow shades, before blending them together like the reference. Your skin starts to feel like it’s on fire by the time you're satisfied and you check your phone for the time when you finally finish.

4:37pm.

Not bad. You put the scarf over your head and cover your ears with it, using the safety pin to hold it in place.

“Done.”

Jungkook takes one look at you and lights up.

“Have I ever mentioned how talented you are, and that you make my schoolwork so much more fun? Because I feel like I should again even if I already have.” Your cheeks heat, glad he’s excited you’re able to help. “How did you manage to make it look even better?”

“I do vaguely remember mentioning something about a deal with a semi-suspicious genie,” you joke. And both of you break out in giggle fits after a second, recalling the conversation from forever ago.

Running through the same steps of lighting, posing, and adjustments, Jungkook then flips on the smoke machine and lets it fill the room heavily before starting to take pictures.

You’re sitting on a small box this time, so that you’re slightly lower than the camera. Jungkook tells you to keep your hands at your sides and look up, just above the rim of the camera lens. It creates a very interesting look, and you're excited to see the results.

He has you do a couple more poses before allowing you to do your own thing once more, trying to think of what would look mysterious and enigmatic.

You try to let the music inspire you. This is a look you’ve never done before, so you’re finding it a bit difficult to get into it despite Jungkook's helpful prompts and suggestions. But you flow a bit better with it as time goes on and you become more comfortable.

An idea pops up out of nowhere and you have him do a close up from the middle of your chin to the middle of your forehead. You stare straight into the lens to really showcase the purple contacts and makeup.

“This’s the one for sure,” he says, taking a few more. “Great idea, why didn’t I think of a close up in the first place?” You know he's talking to himself at this point.

It’s close to 6:15pm when Jungkook decides he has enough pictures for this look. You don’t mind the longer shoot seeing as you set aside the day for this, and you can’t wait to see how these ones turn out in particular.

You’re halfway through getting the face paint off, a mountain of gray stained cotton pads beside you, when Jungkook turns the music down.

“Let’s do a light, early dinner and then shoot the last one?” he asks. “I kept this one at the end because it’s going to create the most mess and it’ll be nice to have dinner out of the way for when I have to clean up.”

“More mess than this?” you point to the cotton pad mountain.

“Much more.”

“Light, early dinner it is,” you confirm, not wanting to have to wait till late to eat. “But can we order out so I have time to get the rest of this off?”

“Sure, what’ll it be?”

Clean faced, moisturized and ramyeon filled, you and Jungkook are preparing for the last shoot. Or well, lightly arguing.

“Water?”

“Mhm.”

“On me?”

“Yep.”

“From that thing,” you point to the contraption he calls a c-stand that will be holding the very full, very large watering can over your head for an extended amount of time, “And into there?” you point again to the kitty pool on top of the tarp that’s underneath the watering can c-stand.

“That is the plan,” he looks amused at your slight distress.

“Are you nuts? What if it falls on me? How do I know it won’t unhinge and I’ll have a nicely cracked open skull to explain to my mother on Solstice break?”

“It won’t fall and you know it won't because you trust me and trust I wouldn’t put you in unnecessary danger. But if it does, tell your mom I say hi and sorry.”

You scoff at him, unbelievable. “So you admit there’s a bit of danger!”

Jungkook sighs, and looks to the ceiling. “Yes, YN. There is a touch of danger. But that’s only if, somehow, the c-stand I have triple safety checked, duct taped twice, and quadruple secured with four fifteen pound sandbags, decides that you deserve a watering can to the head.”

You side eye his tone. This wasn’t an unrealistic worry. But you do trust him. And trust he would never intentionally put you in any danger.

The trees are set up near the backdrop that looks like a row of brick houses. The shot is supposed to be ‘The Calm after Before the Storm,’ where you look relieved and happy in an ‘outside’ setting while ‘rain’ falls over you, also in black and white.

“Fine, but if I hear one peep from that thing,” c-stand staring down the tip of your finger once more, “I’m tuck and rolling and taking you out while I do it.”

“Very fair!” he says relieved, and goes to set up the stand with the watering can.

You’d changed into the neutral V neck after dinner, and he’s asked for no makeup. So all you have to do now is stand and pose while trying not to die from foreign objects falling from the sky while you get wet.

Easy, right?

Wrong.

It is incredibly difficult, and you’re glad he made this one last because you’re at best; slightly miserable. Only the promise of a hot shower, hot chocolate with whip cream and marshmallows and your pick of whatever you watch afterward is keeping you going.

You started this one just shy of 8pm after waiting 45 minutes for the food. And it’s nearing 9:30 now. Jungkook has had to refill the watering can four times, dump the kiddie pool twice, and you swear if you don’t finish within the next twenty minutes, you’re going to collapse from shivering.

To be fair, he does fill the watering can with warm water, but it only stays warm for so long before freezing water is pouring on you for the millionth time tonight.

“I have one last idea, and by the way, I’m never doing this concept again so don’t worry about that, but also… don’t shut down the idea immediately okay?” Jungkook says.

The watering can is almost empty again and you’re relieved that your time is almost up. That in itself should make for a good picture. He snaps it.

But his tone makes you a little wary, “Okay… what is it?”

“Pretend I’m Nel and you’re seeing me for the first time in six months, like you do at the end of April.”

Well, you didn’t have that down on your photo shoot prompt bingo card.

Are you okay with the idea? You aren’t sure, but aren’t not sure either.

“I mean, I’ll try. Maybe you could give vocal cues to try and help? But don’t make it weird.”

“I won’t, promise,” Jungkook pauses for a second before adding, “Does he call you baby?”

You nod, and you distantly hear and ‘okay’ as you slowly allow yourself to get into that headspace.

You start, and the camera starts going.

You’re in the airport, waiting for Nel, ‘smoosh’ paper in hand. The gate opens, and through all the other passengers you see him, see that he’s in one piece, see that he’s safe.

Your face illuminates with relief at that so much so that you don’t even notice the water that starts running down your face.

You hear a ‘hi baby’ and in your head, it’s coming from Nel’s mouth as he nears you. You smile impossibly wider at the thought of seeing him, feeling him. Having him here with you.

You look happy to see me, ‘Nel’ says.

“I am,” you reply.

There’s repetitive clicking in the distance, but you ignore it. It’s probably just a flight attendant's heels on the floor.

“I missed you.”

There’s a long moment of silence before Nel speaks again.

I missed you too, baby.

You’re shivering hard now, lost in thought, unaware of reality.

YN, Nel calls.

“Yes, love?”

“YN.”

“Babe, what is it?”

“YN, hey,” you're being shaken gently.

“Hmm? What?” you slowly arrive back to the present. Strong hands grip your shoulders. They feel nice. Solid. Deliciously warm.

A very concerned looking Jungkook comes into focus, camera dangling around his neck and reaching for you.

Oh.

He’s the one holding your shoulders, trying to get you to come back to reality.

“There she is, welcome back,” he lets go and grabs a blanket from somewhere and wraps it around you. “We got the shot, go take a shower and warm up okay?”

“Okay,” you say, still a little dazed, but present enough to function.

You step out of the pool, holding on to the hand Jungkook offers to balance—Warm. Solid. Strong—and head straight for the bathroom, making a pit stop in the guest room to grab your bag with fresh clothes.

The hot water cements your place back in reality, letting it warm you up and cleanse you of the day.

You have no idea what just happened with that whole Nel thing, but it was a new feeling and a new headspace and you really aren’t in the mood to analyze or acknowledge, so it’s shoved onto a top shelf in the back of your mind for a later date.

Once you're able to return to the directory of your mind, you don’t know how long you’ve been in the shower. But you know you’re clean, no longer cold, and in the mood for hot chocolate, so you step out and dry yourself with the towels Jungkook laid out for you on the toilet seat.

They’re soft. So soft in fact you consider only for a second shoving one in your now less full bag to take home with you. However, you do rather enjoy your friendship with the prince, so you think better of it upon second thought.

Dressing in your sweats, you exit, tossing the towels in the hamper and your bag of the clothes you arrived in back into the spare room.

“Better?” Jungkook asks as you sit down in your spot on the couch for the last time tonight, wrapping up in the blanket he left for you. He’s in the kitchen but heard you coming.

“Much, thanks,” you sniff, “Is that hot chocolate I smell?”

Jungkook returns from the kitchen, two mugs in hand. “With extra whip cream and marshmallows, as ordered.”

You carefully take it from him, giving your thanks and happily slurping away the second it’s in your grasp.

“Alright Caravaggio, what are we watching?” he asks, sitting down on his side, sipping away on his own.

Sometime between you leaving for the shower and coming back out Jungkook changed into his own comfy attire, and tidied up the studio space as the pool and tarp are nowhere to be seen.

“I’ve thought really hard about this, all of however long I was in the shower,” Jungkook mutters something about 35 minutes; you ignore him, “And have settled on ‘A Miser Brothers Solstice’.”

He whines just a little when he says, “But it’s November.”

“So?”

“So, Solstice isn’t until the third week of December,” he’s saying this like his point is the most obvious thing in the world.

It’s not.

“Your point?”

“That it’s November, and you want to watch a Solstice movie.”

You’re mockingly outraged.

“Who made you town grinch? I didn’t realize we had a holiday hater in our midst.”

You loved the holidays, all the big ones, and the small ones, but Solstice was special.

“I’m not a grinch, I’m just not there yet, mentally.”

“Then get ready to dive in head first, because you said I could pick the movie for risking my life for you and I pick ‘A Miser Brothers Solstice’.”

Jungkook doesn’t argue further, but he does roll his eyes as he puts on your movie with a small smile hidden behind his drink.

It’s sometime during the first act, you’re lying back against your corner of the couch, feet up and under the blanket when you ask, “What are your solstice break plans?”

Jungkook takes a moment to part from the TV, very invested for someone who was so against it half an hour ago. “I have a lot of ‘princely duties’ to do for Solstice, like standing and looking thoughtful while my dad gives his annual Solstice speech,” you snort. “Then there’s the palace dinner, the parade through the capital, and the live televised event,” he says in a tv announcer's voice, “Where my family and I light the Solstice Star. And then there’s the new year and that in itself has another long list of things I have to do. Besides things like that though? Not much, and then it’s back here.”

Right.

You often forget who he is.

That behind those kind eyes, and small smiles, behind the greenhouse study dates, and movie nights, and photoshoots, Jungkook has an enormous responsibility constantly looming over his head, counting down the days until he finishes his schooling. One that’s just waiting to drop onto his shoulders forever.

You often forget that Jungkook is the Prince, first in line to the biggest throne in the realm. That you spend your time with not only Jeon Jungkook, friend and photography student, but also, His Royal Highness, Prince Jeon Jungkook, Heir Apparent and Future King of The Western Shores.

He just makes it so damn easy to forget.

You only asked because you thought maybe he had plans with friends or family, completely forgetting about all of the things the royal family does during the holiday season to celebrate with the nation, their people, and now you feel like an ass for even bringing it up.

But there’s something in his answer, or lack thereof, that snags your attention.

“What about celebrating with your family and friends in private?”

“No time,” Jungkook’s stare goes distant as he brings his knees up and puts his arms around them, resting his chin. “Friends are always busy with palace preparations and dad’s not really the sentimental type. We celebrated when I was younger; big family breakfast, presents, tree decorating, whole thing. But after I turned about 13 or so, it started dwindling pretty quickly. Now it’s just me and my mom exchanging a gift with each other at midnight under the palace tree.”

You don’t think you’ve ever heard something so heartbreaking yet beautiful in your life.

“Your mum sounds wonderful, I’m really happy you two get that time together.”

He looks at you, and you can tell by the look in his eyes he loves that time with her more than anything else.

Solstice is supposed to be the time you spend with your family, blood or chosen. The time where you all gather to cook and bake, and exchange thoughtful gifts with the ones you love. The time where you truly cherish one another and count yourself lucky for all that you have.

Solstice is your favourite time of the year.

To not spend it like that just seems…wrong. Horribly, painfully, awfully wrong.

“What about you?” he asks.

You don’t want to make him feel bad, so you tone down your answer, taking away the meat and giving the bones.

“My mum and I cut down our own tree and decorate it with the ornaments we’ve collected over the years,” you have them from every place you’ve ever visited, and your mum kept all the ones you ever made as a kid. You even get a new one every solstice to take a picture for and label with the year.

“Then we bake solstice cookies until our hands cramp and survive off only them until solstice dinner; a turkey, honey glazed carrots, mashed potatoes with gravy, essentially if it waters your mouth, it’s there,” he chuckles at that. “We do gifts for each other too, opening them on solstice morning before making hot drinks and reading in the breakfast nook until the sun sets or till we get hungry, whichever comes first.”

Jungkook's eyes glow, radiating warmth, a lazy smile on his face as he listens to you.

“That sounds really nice, YN.”

“It is,” you reply, looking him in those radiant eyes as you do. He looks… happy. Happy for you, that you get to have something like this that’s so special. It breaks your heart a little…maybe you can help.

“You wanna make some solstice cookies with me before break?”

His look of happy shifts to one of slight panic.

“What?” you question, and comically ask, “Have you never made solstice cookies before?”

He hesitates before answering a very quiet, “Uh…N-no.”

Your shock must be incredibly evident in the way he almost flinches at your reaction.

So you try your best to keep your voice level when you ask, “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean no. I’ve never made solstice cookies.”

That’s it. You can’t hold back any more, you’ve never heard anything so blasphemous in all your life.

“You’ve never what? How is that even possible?”

He shrinks into himself a little more.

“The palace pastry chef always makes them because that’s kind of his job,” you stare at him in disbelief. “Is this really that big a deal?”

You swear there’s cog’s and smoke flying out of your ears. Solstice cookies are a religion in your household. You know dozens of recipes by heart, always finding a new one each year to try and up your game. You cannot imagine a solstice without making them. Wait no, actually you can, but it would be because you’re dead.

You held back in your answer earlier, for his sake, but you and your mom’s hands cramp up because you make enough cookies to give a box to everyone in the neighborhood. It’s one of your favourite traditions, and your neighbours even look forward to it every year, going so far as sending you both recipes to try out.

“Big dea—you’ve never fucking mad—not even when you were little? No one brought you to the kitchen and let you help? Aren't all your friends back home the pastry chefs' kids or something?” You don’t mean to sound harsh, but your tone is a little more passionate than you were intending.

But Jungkook knows you, knows you occasionally get that passionate about things, and takes your outburst in stride.

“Yeah, one of them is, but we don't sit around the oven and make cookies all break long. And his dad is always too busy to teach us even if we wanted to.”

You decide something. Right then and there.

“This year you are.”

“What?”

“Mark your last Saturday off because I'm going to show up here, ingredients-a-plenty and teach you how to make solstice cookies. I have a million recipes up here,” you tap your head with a finger, “But I'll choose the easiest ones. And I’ll come over early so we can spend the day making all of them. I can’t in good conscience leave for the break knowing you’ve never made them.”

He sighs. “Do I have any say in the matter?”

“Absolutely not.”

Jungkook stares at you and you can’t figure out what he’s thinking. You’re worried he’s going to say no anyway. To say you’re crazy and that they’re just cookies and that he has more important things he has to do on his Saturday before leaving for home.

But he doesn’t. And you should’ve known he wouldn’t, not after all the time you’ve spent together.

You know better. Know him better.

“Alright Picasso. Sounds like a plan. I’m looking forward to it,” he decides, and goes back to watching the movie.

It’s the first time he’s ever repeated a nickname.

“Wait! The wind guy wants to replace who?!” Jungkook shouts.

You laugh at his confusion, and rewind the movie.

Jungkook wakes up sore.

His back is killing him, which makes sense since he’s half lying on the couch, half on the ground.

The TV’s silently playing some slideshow of movie recommendations based on recent watches.

He checks his phone, reaching for it on the coffee tale.

14% battery.

4:07am.

Shit, he fell asleep.

After the solstice movie he wanted to watch its predecessor. You had no qualms and so on it went, but he doesn’t remember much after the brothers started fighting.

Hearing soft, even breathing next to him he turns to see you, hunched over in your spot asleep, no doubt in the process of ruining your own back.

He should go to bed.

You should go to bed.

But you’ve never stayed the night.

What should he do? Should he wake you?

But you look so peaceful. And it’s nearing exams. You barely sleep when it’s exams season.

Instead, Jungkook goes to check the guest room, but it’s a mess with yesterday's comings and goings. Make-up and clothes and hangers strewn everywhere.

Quietly, making a decision he hopes you won’t kill him for in the morning, he pads back to your sleeping form.

It’s for your back, he tells himself. No other reason.

Deja vu sets in as he scoops you up from the couch, blanket and all. Just like last time, you gain enough consciousness to know to wrap your arms around his neck, but not enough to wake up. Your head rests on his shoulder and he selfishly savours the feeling as he walks down the short hallway to his room.

Jungkook sets you down gently on one side of the bed, and your arms release, slumber undisturbed as he tucks you in.

He goes back to the living room to retrieve your phones. Yours is still at 56%, and he places it on the table beside you when he returns.

Climbing into his side of the bed, he’s careful not to touch you.

Though he wants to.

Desperately.

His sleep deprived brain is too slow to block out the thoughts that start to race. Thoughts of how he wants to turn around and pull you into his chest, slide an arm around your waist, and kiss you goodnight. How he wants to wake up in the same position, you still in his arms.

But he’s also awake enough to know that will never happen. That you’re with Nel, and happy with him. That he’s drawn that nice, big line.

He’s awake enough to know you being in his bed is a fluke, unintentional.

A one time thing.

Plugging his phone into its charger, he sets it down on his own bedside table and pulls the covers up, falling back asleep.

His back facing you.

An exhale wakes you.

Warm and cozy, you take a deep breath and roll to your left side, stretching on the way over. The scents of clean linen and something familiar find you. It’s comforting, that smell, but you can’t place it.

Another exhale, but this time you feel it as well as hear it.

You open your eyes to see a sleeping Jungkook face not a foot from your own and you jolt in shock, falling off the bed in the process.

You look up from your new seat on the floor, ignoring the pain in your side from landing, and peer over the covers to check on Jungkook, who, miraculously, hasn’t woken up from your tumble.

Relieved, your mind focuses on more pressing questions like ‘how did you get here?’ And ‘why were you in his bed?’

The last thing you remember was being halfway through the prequel to A Miser Brothers Solstice on the couch, watching Jungkook more than the movie because of how invested he’d become in the story.

But you aren’t on the couch now. You were in his bed.

The bed of the Prince of the Western Shores.

The Prince who has a girlfriend, and you, who has a very long term, very serious boyfriend.

You hear a vibration, and following the sound, you find your phone on the bedside table.

You quickly grab it quickly and go to the living room as quietly as you can manage.

There’s a large number of unread texts.

SlurryYuri [11:08pm]: hey, just checking in. You didn’t get home when you said you’d try for SlurryYuri [11:31pm]: Helloooooooo? YN? You there? SlurryYuri [12:14am]: it’s getting late YN, when are you coming home? Are you on your way?

Missed Calls: (3)

SlurryYuri [2:43am]: it’s been hours, so you better be dead or have crashed in the school somewhere. Either way I’m kicking your ass when you get home

Missed Calls: (2)

(Recent)

SlurryYuri [9:36am]: you’re still not home?? YN seriously, where are you SlurryYuri [10:23am]: If you don’t message me back in an hour I’m calling the police and filing a missing persons

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. You crashed hard, the shoot must have taken more out of you than you thought, so you never texted Yuri you were going to crash in a sleep pod at school like you’d planned too.

You make quick work of messaging her back, glad she unintentionally gave you just the excuse you needed.

YN [10:25am]: ohmygod I’m soooooo sorry, it was the school one. I fell asleep in the school. I’m sorry for worrying you. I’ll be home soon, promise. I’m just going to grab breakfast first. Again im sorry

SlurryYuri [10:27am]: thank the gods youre okay!! Don’t ever do that to me again YN! I don’t wanna be the one who has to break news to your mom!! She’s too nice. SlurryYuri [10:27am]: and take your time getting back if your rushing for me, I’m not at the dorm SlurryYuri [10:27am]: Tai showed up yesterday out of the blue and took me dancing. We’re out getting brunch right now, and he has plans for the rest of the day SlurryYuri [10:28am]: Im just glad you’re not dead in a ditch somewhere

YN [10:29am]: me too, and okay I will. Thanks for checking up on me and making sure im safe, youre my favourite

SlurryYuri [10:30am]: damn right I am, see you tn <3

YN [10:30am]: see you <3

You exhale deeply, that was fucking close.

Your stomach rumbles and it reminds you that you actually need to get breakfast.

What could you have? You could order in again, but that means a wait time and you are hungry now. You could raid Jungkook's pantry, or see if he has any fruit, but then you think that’s a gross invasion of privacy when it’s not movie night and you haven’t asked if it’s okay.

Wait.

The egg tarts!

You dash to the fridge, the marvellous sight of a greenhouse inside a coffee mug comes into view. Stuffing one down before you even get the box from the fridge, you exit the kitchen, sit down on the couch, setting the box on the coffee table. Once opened in front of you, you realize there is a healthy amount of tarts inside.

How many did Jungkook ask for?

Speaking of, a bed-headed, yawning Jungkook makes his morning debut, still in last night's clothes.

“Hey,” he says groggily, walking over and stealing a tart.

“Hey!” you say back, not nearly as friendly.

“Overnight tax, Picasso. Room isn’t free.” He chuckles at your faux outrage, popping half the tart in his mouth as he walks to the kitchen and grabs something from the fridge. Returning, you see it’s a morning protein shake.

Gross.

“So is that name the one you’re sticking to now?” you ask, picking up another tart. At this rate they won’t last until lunch.

“Yeah, that okay with you? It’s your name in my phone after all.”

“It is?” You didn’t know that.

“Yeah, has been since the start.”

You’re quickly learning that sleepy morning Jungkook is very different from morning post work-out Jungkook, friend Jungkook and photographer Jungkook. His voice is deeper, he’s a lot more relaxed, and maybe even harmlessly borderline flirty, like he’s not all there yet. Softer.

“Picasso’s just fine. A compliment really.”

“Oh? And what am I in your’s then? Hopefully something just as nice?”

You tell him like it is.

“PJK.”

“PJK?” he asks, incredulous.

“Yeah? It’s obscure enough to not be recognizable if someone were to see it, but enough for me to know who it is.”

“Nah, you need something better, PJK is boring.”

“It’s your initials.”

“And boring,” he’s really not letting up on this.

“Well...what would you save yourself as?”

He mulls it over for a minute before deflating. “Okay, fair point, but I seriously want a new one. Something that can rival Picasso.”

“Do you have any nicknames? Something not completely obvious?”

For a morning person, Jungkook sure is taking his time. Maybe he was only a morning person before 8am, and then if he got up anytime after that he became a normal person who despised mornings like everyone else.

“Uhh…Vivian calls me JK, but that’s essentially the same thing as PJK. My buddies back home sometimes call me Kook, but I don’t think that works either. My mum has one for me that I will not disclose to anyone so long as I am breathing. So I guess not.”

A lightbulb dings over your head. “What about your security? Don’t they have special code names for you when they detail you? Like bear or eagle?”

“Yeah, but it’s not nearly as badass as either of those.”

“Fess up,” you say. Now you have to know.

“Hare.”

“Hare?” Now it’s your turn to be incredulous. “Like a rabbit?”

“Yep.”

An idea pops into your head and an evil grin spreads across your face, one you know is already setting worry into Jungkook’s still awakening brain as you change his name.

“I don’t like that look,” he confirms. “What’d you change it to?”

You flip your phone around and hold it up to him.

“Bunny?” he says incredulously once again.

“Yes.”

“I give you Picasso, one of the greatest painters of all time, and you think giving me bunny is anywhere near on par with that?”

Teasing him is far too fun, especially when he makes it this easy for you.

“Oh absolutely. In fact, I think it’s the best name I could possibly set it as.”

Jungkook disagrees, vehemently. “No, change it back. PJK is fine.”

“Too late. You dug your grave, now lie in it.”

Jungkook brings a hand to his face, pinching the crease between his brows and takes a very long, deep breath, exhaling just as dramatically.

You take that as your victory. But you’re sorely mistaken.

He launches at you, reaching for your phone and you scream, reaching your arm to keep it away from him. You have a fox socked foot on his chest to try and keep him back. His right arm is holding him up near your hip on the couches edge and he’s reaching with his left as far as he can without breaking his sternum on your heel.

“Give it!”

“Never!”

You try to bring up your other foot to push him away, but Jungkook is strong, and forces both it and the one on his chest down with the arm that was supporting him, temporarily keeping himself up with his left hand on the back of the couch.

With your legs out of the way he can almost reach his phone. But in his distracted state, misses the couch when he goes to put his supporting arm down again, and flips onto the ground, taking you with him. You scream, but his arms wrap around you as he makes sure to take the brunt of the impact, landing on his back, you safely secured to his chest.

There’s a moment of pure stunned silence, you resting your forhead on his chest while you process, him not letting go of your waist as he gets a breath into his winded self, before you’re both laughing as you take in what happened.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, you?”

He takes a second to respond. “I’m great.”

You push to sit up, and he releases you from his hold, but that was a mistake. Because now you’re sitting on his lap.

It takes an entire three seconds of you staring at him and him staring right back before you jump and scramble off him as fast as you can.

“Sorry.” you say in unison, you standing and him from the ground. It’s a painfully awkward 8 seconds before you break, cackling at the whole situation, and he joins in with you again.

Jungkook brushes off his pants as he gets up too. “Got any plans before tonight,” he asks, business as usual.

“Nope, cleared my schedule in case this went long, I’ve got the whole day.”

You swear his smile grows two sizes.

“Well in that case,” he looks to the TV, then back to you, “Wanna start movie night early?”

An entire day to relax and chill out before the hell that is exams season takes your every free second?

Yes please.

“Solstice movie marathon?” you propose slyly, near devious.

“I’ll get the popcorn,” he confirms, already halfway to the kitchen.

You spend the day like that, on the couch watching movie after movie, both pretending the little incident never even happened.

But you make sure to go home after movie night this time.

Chapter Nine: TBR

A/N 2: This chapter kicked my ass but it's here and I couldn't be more thrilled. I really like how it's ended so I hope you guys do too.

A/N 3: As always, Thank you for reading, loves. Xoxo - Yoon <3

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