#suddenly counting has never been easier!

[strangled]

stitch markers are life changing why did it take me so long to spend 3 dollars on some

[reidrum]

under the mistletoe

note: happy first day of reidrumas! a nice little munch!spencer to keep you warm <3

summary: in which penelope uses a plant to get her friends together, or the time you find yourself under the mistletoe with spencer

cw: smut 18+ minors dni, munch!spencer, fingering, oral (f receiving), heavy kissing, idiots in love, friends to lovers, fem!reader, reader wears a dress and heels

wc: 2.8k

12 days of reidrumas

The annual BAU Christmas Party became an accord Penelope headed all on her own, and was a job she took very seriously. The amount of times the team had been called away on a case near or on a major holiday is too sad a number to count, so whenever there was certainty that there would be no case or bureau event, Penelope went all in.

That is, on David Rossi’s credit card, of course.

Light up sleighs and reindeers adorned the front lawn of Rossi’s mansion, of which was decorated with red ribbons and twinkle lights galore. The silhouette of the biggest Christmas tree you think you’d ever seen was illuminated in the window as you approached the front, rubbing clammy hands down the sides of your dress.

You don’t even know why you’re so nervous, just that you are. While it had been some time since you had joined the team and you have definitely had some fun nights out with them, the nerves never get easier to deal with when you know a certain genius will be in your presence.

It seemed everyone knew of your crush on Spencer except the man himself. The way your face heats up when you’re near him, the words tripping over each other as you try to speak, somehow are not dead giveaways to him. If he notices your nerves, he doesn’t mention it, and you don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.

A call of your name from the bottom of the stairs grabs your attention, and you see none other than Spencer coming up the stairs to meet you. He straightens out his sweater and looks at all of you, “You look nice.”

Suddenly you forget what words are, “Um…I.. thanks! I just got this, and I thought the antlers would be cute too.” you gesture to the light up headband. 

“They’re really cute.” he smiles and gestures you to walk in, and you’re both ambushed by Penelope immediately.

“You’re here! Oh, you look so cute with your little reindeer antlers,” she gushes, “And Spencer! Looking so dapper!” You both walk down the hallway with her, seemingly leading you to the kitchen when she abruptly stops halfway.

“You’re too cheery. What did you do?” you squint.

“Don’t hate me.”

Your eyebrows raise, “What did you do?”

“Why would we hate you?” Spencer says at the same time.

Penelope pauses, and with a hint of mischief in her voice, “Look up.”

Your eyes trail upwards to the arch of the door you’re both stood in, and there hanging with its leaves and red and white berries tied in ribbon, is of course, mistletoe.

“Penny.” you mumble under your breath. If she heard you she paid no mind, only beaming at you both with her Cheshire cat grin. You look over at poor Spencer, who’s sheepish smile and red cheeks are breaking through his stoic demeanor. 

“Did you know mistletoe in nature is actually poisonous? It’s a parasitic plant that has to grow on other trees in order to survive. But it’s holiday tradition comes from Norse mythology when the son of Odin is killed and his mother is so upset her tears turn into the berries on the plant, as a symbol of her love for him.” Spencer rambles out of nervousness.

“That sounds nice Spence,” Penelope grabs both of your hands and positions you in front of each other in the doorway, “Okay great, I’m sure you know the rules of mistletoe. Now kiss.”

“Penelope.” you lightly chide. Her persistence is a match for no one, there’s no way of getting out.

“You have to, that’s the rule! If you don’t, Christmas will be ruined!” she sighs dramatically.

You blink at her a few times hoping she understands that she’s out of her mind and that it’s a little cruel to put you and Spencer in this situation. This is probably his worst nightmare. He has that thing with germs you remember and you both are merely friends so there’s no way he’d see you like that, yet alone want to kiss you because a plant said you had to.

Spencer clears his throat in front of you, and says with a soft voice, “Well, if it’s going to ruin Christmas…”

Huh. Maybe not as cruel as you think.

You turn your head to meet his eyes, “You’re okay with this?”

He nods sheepishly, “I—I mean I love holidays, and even though I’d never done this part of Christmas, I’d hate to break tradition….”

You look at him with disbelief, but Penelope’s smile could not be wider and she squeals, “Amazing! Okay, I’m ready.”

You both look at her knowingly, and she immediately puts her hands up. “Alright, fine! I can take a hint. But, I want details later, both of you.” she busies herself off in the kitchen.

Spencer turns his body to face you, hands tentatively reaching out to ghost the curve of your hips. His eyes look to you for permission, and with a slight nod he takes purchase, bringing you closer while resting his hands on your sides. You gingerly place your flat palms on his shoulders, and it’s then you realize just how close you both are. His breath fans softly against your face, and even in heels you find yourself rising a bit further to meet his lips.

Just mere milliseconds before your lips meet he whispers with the softest pitch you’ve ever heard, “You sure this is okay?”

You think you give him a nod and a word of approval, but it’s lost as soon as you press your lips onto his with no hesitancy. His hands pull you closer to him, leaning deeper into the kiss. The endorphins run loose before  being corralled immediately as the kiss ends as quickly as it began.

He pulls back and he stares at your puffy lips, lips that are puffy because of him and it’s enough to drive him insane. He needs to find a way to have you like that again, to feel your lips against his again fearless of a watchful eye, to show you that he really doesn’t give a damn for tradition, but would do rituals and ceremonies on end if it meant getting to kiss you like that again.

You’re about to say something when your name is called from the living room, the other girls now noticing your arrival and waving you over to grab a drink. You look between them and Spencer, “I should go,” you say reluctantly, “Find me later?”.

He smiles softly, “I’ll find you later.”

You hesitate before moving, wondering if it’s even a good idea. But you realize you’re already this far deep, so what difference would it make? Your eyes dart between the girls and Spencer once more making sure they’re not looking, and rise to your toes again to kiss his cheek, “See you later, Spence.”

A blush rises to his cheek as he touches the spot with his fingers, watching you walk into the living room. You might be the death of him, he thinks.

—

The party’s gone on, games of white elephant are played and countless wine bottles are scattered around the place. He finds himself in an aimless conversation with Matt and Luke, he thinks they’re talking about some sport, but all Spencer can think about is you and your damn lips.

You’re addictive, he’s come to find. He’s had a taste of the forbidden fruit and now fully empathizes with Eve, thinking if something was as nectarious as you, he’d also have to go to great lengths to get it again.

He excuses himself from the conversation, not caring if they said anything, and goes off to find you. You’re sat on the loveseat with JJ that’s entirely too small for the two of you, but you certainly look comfy wedged into the seat. He circles around the back, resting a hand on your shoulder to let you know of his presence and bending down to whisper in your ear, “Is this a good time to find you?”

You startle a little at the voice, calming once you recognize it to be Spencer. You’re surprised he actually came and found you like he said he would, and by the look of his face it seemed like a determined mission.

“I’d say it is,” you smile up at him, his body looming over you behind the couch. He holds a hand out for you, “I’ll be back, J.” you tell her as you stand up. She looks between you and Spencer and a smug look rises to her face.

“Okay…be safe.” she winks. You groan.

Spencer leads you away from the bustle of the living room and further into the depths of Rossi’s mansion. You both walk side by side, talking aimlessly about anything and everything, grateful to have moments just walking with each other. You push open on a fancy door, revealing a vastly large room but with the same crown modeling as the rest of the place. A three piece couch set rests in the middle, and bookshelves filled with antiques line the walls.

You’re intrigued by the telescope pointed out the window, bending down to look through it. Spencer looks up from the book he’s holding on the other side of the room and watches you. You’re ethereal, the moonlight casting a soft glow on your figure making you look like an angel from above. You gaze through the lens to look at the stars, and he can’t help but wonder how lucky he is to have you in front of him and not in the sky with the rest of them.

“Can I confess something?”

You straighten your back and turn around, eyes widening, “Um, sure.”

“Nothing scary, I promise,” he reassures.

“That’s not concerning.”

He takes a deep breath, “I had an ulterior motive, when I came to find you.”

Your brows furrow nervously, “What do you mean?”

“No no, I meant it, it’s nothing bad,” he confesses, “I just… really wanted to kiss you again.”

Oh. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Who else?” he chuckles.

You stammer, “W—Well, I just wasn’t sure…”

He nods and slowly walks to you, “Would that be okay?”

You look up at him and see that he’s so close again. The waft of his cologne invades your senses. His hair is long again, you told him once he looked good with long hair and he hasn’t so much as looked at some scissors since then. The ends of his curls tickle your forehead when his head dips, lips mere nanometers away.

“Yeah.” you barely muster an audible whisper.

The corners of his lips twitch, “Yeah?” he says in the same pitch, leaning even closer.

“Please.”

His lips press to yours again for the second time this night, and he kisses you with a fervor you couldn’t comprehend. He brings one hand up to cradle the back of your head, padding the impact as he uses the other to back you against the wall. Your hands come up to tangle in his hair, lightly tugging on the roots that makes him fold even more into you.

Kisses travel down the side of your neck to the nape, and he spends time littering the area with lovebites. The soft gasps that leave your mouth only spur him on, but it’s not nearly enough for him.

“Sweetheart,” he pants between kisses, “Need to—fuck—need to taste you, please. Can I?

Your blown out eyes meet his, and it wasn’t even an option to say no when he was begging you so desperately, “Yeah, yes, please.”

His hand snakes through the slit on your dress, tracing the edges of your panties and grinning when he hears your breath hitch. He toys with the edge some more before dipping a finger below the band, never touching you where you really need him but getting awfully close.

“Spence..” you whine.

He groans, “Fuck, you sound so pretty saying my name and I haven’t even touched you yet.” He puts you out of your misery when he finally drags the pad of his index to the bundle of nerves at your center, tracing light circles that draw the prettiest moans he’s ever heard.

You grip his forearms for more stability, feeling your legs turn to jelly. Spencer sees your struggle and wraps an arm around your waist, “I got you, pretty girl it’s okay.” A few more minutes of teasing you and marking you relentlessly and he decides you’re okay enough for him to stand on your own, so he can sink to his knees in front of you.

He doesn’t break eye contact as he crouches down, making sure you’re okay every step of the way. His finger is still tracing a line from your clit to your entrance, the wet line seeping through your panties. He bunches up your dress and silently gestures to you to hold it, and steadies his hands on either side of your hips. He presses chaste kisses up your thighs, your breath getting heavier with each one closer to your center. The delirium hits an all time high when he presses a firm kiss to your core.

Skilled fingers hook your panties to the side, revealing you in all your glistening glory, “Look at you,” he marvels hoarsely, “that all for me?”

You nod fast, “Yes, yes Spence please.” you whine out, you’d sound like you were in pain if it were anyone else.

“Hey, hey it’s okay, don’t do that. I’m gonna take care of you, promise.” he coos, calming your pleas, “Come on, leg on my shoulder.”

The new angle opens you up beautifully for him and he can’t help himself when he leans in and swipes a tentative tongue through your folds, satisfied when he hears the sound of a guttural moan leave you.

You immediately slam your hand over mouth as he taunts, “Careful sweetheart, can’t be too loud or someone’s gonna walk in.”

You try to keep your moans and whimpers to a minimum as he continues eating you out like a man depraved, like all he was meant for on this earth was to be between your legs. He prods a finger around your entrance and slowly slips it in, you whimper and clamp your fingers into his hair tugging tightly.

Spencer groans into you at the feeling, and adds another finger swiftly moving them in and out. You’re getting close, he can feel it from the way you clench around his fingers, unable to stop himself from thinking about how you’d feel clenching around him.

“Ah—I’m….I’m close.” you whimper.

He speeds up ever so slightly, “Yeah? Okay angel, you can let go, it’s okay.”

Soon your climax washes over you, with you gripping his hair tightly and his fingers never faltering as he rides you through it. He slows down his pace as you come down before gently taking them out and giving you one last lick through your folds before standing up.

You yelp but it’s quickly muffled by him kissing you again. He feels you smile into the kiss and matches you before you both start giggling and pull away.

He can hear the smile in your voice when you rest your forehead on his shoulder, “That was…”

An arm wraps around you again to hold stable, “Good, I hope?”

You press a soft kiss at the base of his neck, “Really good. I guess we have to thank Penny now.”

“Actually…”

“What?”

“I may have been the one to tell her to put some mistletoe up.” He confesses sheepishly.

“You told her? S—So you could…like…” you ramble.

“So I would have a chance to kiss you, yes.”

You get real shy in front of him as if he wasn’t on his knees for you five minutes ago, “That’s really sweet…you could’ve told me.”

“I wanted to! But I thought you might not feel the same way because I notice how you are around me and I didn’t want to overwhelm you, but then Penelope told me you felt the same and I just figured one of us had to pull the bandaid off.”

You smile shyly, “I get nervous around you, because I really really like you.” you quietly admit.

He pulls you close into his chest, kissing your forehead softly, “Well that’s good then, because I really really like you too.”

Penelope is obviously over the moon when she finds out, giddy as can be knowing her two best friends are now together. What she doesn’t tell you, is how she sends the mistletoe to a preservation company to be pressed and framed. She’s just preparing to have the best gift ever to bring to your wedding.

[kysstar]

R U MINE? | JUNG WOOYOUNG

pairing : : jung wooyoung x fem!reader

synopsis : : wooyoung’s always been obsessed with you — but he hides it behind cocky jokes and teasing. when he finds out someone else has been trying to take his place, his playful act crumbles into something a lot more possessive.

genre : : best friends to lovers

warnings : : alcohol, kissing

word count : : 0.6k

[ series masterlist ]

—He’s always been like this. Touchy. Loud. In your space like it’s his own. Wooyoung doesn’t ask to touch you — his arm just ends up slung across your shoulders, his legs tangled with yours on the couch, his fingers threading through your hair when you’re talking to someone else, and he decides he’s bored. He gets away with it because he always has. You let him, mostly because it’s easier than pretending you don’t like the way his attention makes your skin hum.

He’s got a thing for claiming space — your space, specifically. Always in your seat, drinking from your cup, pulling you into his lap when the room’s too full and pretending it’s casual. Everyone assumes you’re together. You’re not. Not technically. But he doesn’t correct them. Neither do you.

And when someone else gets too close — too friendly — he’s right there.

“You good?” he’ll ask, all false innocence, eyes locked on yours while his hand slides around your waist. Sometimes he doesn’t say anything at all — just appears beside you, mouth at your ear, fingers resting on your hip. You’ve never told him to stop. You don’t think you could if you tried.

You’re leaning against the counter, drink in hand, talking to some guy whose name you didn’t bother to catch. He’s tall, kind of charming in that background-noise way, saying something dumb that makes you laugh — not because it’s funny, but because the alcohol’s warm in your chest and it feels good to be entertained.

Then Wooyoung appears.

You don’t see him come in — you feel him, like a storm behind your shoulder. His hand slides around your waist with zero hesitation, pulling you back just enough that your hip bumps into his. The other guy stiffens, clocks the shift immediately. You barely have time to react before Wooyoung leans in.

“Come here,” he mutters, voice low and tight.

He doesn’t wait for your answer. His hand finds your wrist, and suddenly you’re being dragged through the crowd, out of the kitchen and down the hallway like it’s his party, like you came with him. You pull back once you’re out of earshot, shoving him back with your free hand.

“What the fuck is your problem?” you snap.

Wooyoung doesn’t answer right away. He’s staring at you like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Like he’s two seconds away from either kissing you or breaking something.

“You looked real cozy back there,” he says, words sharp, bitter.

Your eyes narrow. “So?”

“So?” He laughs once, humorless. “You don’t get to look at him like that.”

You cross your arms, heart thudding. “Why do you care?”

“Because I do!” he shouts, stepping closer, breath hot. “Because I fucking care, and I’ve been pretending I don’t, trying to be cool, trying to play it like it’s just fun and games and parties and whatever — but it’s not. Not to me.”

He’s pacing again, frantic. “Every time I see you with someone else, I feel like I’m losing it. I don’t want to just hook up with you. I don’t want to share you. I want you to be mine. I want—”

You don’t wait. You lunge forward, fist in his shirt, and crush your mouth to his mid-sentence.

He groans into it, like he’s been holding it in for weeks, hands flying to your waist like muscle memory. You back him into the wall, both of you breathing hard between kisses, teeth clashing, your fingers twisted in his hair like this is the only way you’ll both shut up.

When you finally break the kiss, chests heaving, foreheads pressed together, he’s smiling. That smirk — lazy, infuriating, too confident for someone who just poured his guts out.

“So…” he says, cocking a brow. “Are you mine?”

© kysstar

[lunebulous]

Sylus - Seeing you as a Bride

C.w: Fluff, honey-dripping fluff. Luke and Kieran being Luke and Kieran. Sylus being a loverboy like he is. Reader is refered to as she/her. It's not a wedding. A.N: This took so long to write but i'm very satisfied with the plot, although I wish I could have written it better. I hope you enjoy. Truly! Word count: 4k. Dividers by @cafekitsune

“White..?” Sylus cocks a brow, chuckling a little. “Why white, sweetie?” He asks while holding your arm on his, walking on the well illuminated streets of Linkon, as you watch your own feet on the still wet sidewalk. “Because it brings good luck! And peace!” You smile at him. “I always wore white for New Year’s Eve.” 

“And did it once bring you good luck? Peace?” He looks at the trees, still a little reluctant on walking you home; but since you asked him so nicely using your dangerous puppy eyes, he couldn’t bring himself to say no. He wished you’d sleep at his place, but he wasn’t going to force you. Never. “Good luck..” You look at him, mumbling more to yourself than to answer him. Your eyes wander to his defined jaw, his hair that is so soft to your touch, and his flushed cheeks that he never hesitated leaning on your hands when you caressed him with your whole heart. He looks back at you, sensing your gaze burning on the side of his face, and he’s surprised by how much love he sees in your eyes. You’re adoring him right now, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it. So he just. Readjusts your scarf; in a way to redirect his gaze away from your sweet face. “I could say that..”  you continue, nuzzling your nose on his shoulder as you smile, feeling contentment on your chest sprawling to your whole body.

He scoffs playfully, pretending to not feel so bubbly because of so little, but you catch his little smirk. He couldn’t help it. You melt him completely with a bat of your eyelashes. He just looks away a little, as he would be embarrassed if you caught him blushing like a little girl.

“Sy?” He looks at you, coming back to earth after quickly wondering if his heart had ever felt this way before. “Yes?” you gaze at his softened eyes. 

“You didn’t answer me… About wearing white..” Now you use your other hand to tightly hug his arm. 

“Of course. Guess I’ll change into something lighter for once.” He glances at your both hands on his bicep. “Is it easier for you to spot me if I'm wearing white, kitten?” “Spot you?” you look up at him.

“The N109-Zone is dark. And since you’re holding onto me with such claws, I figured you are just afraid of losing me out of sight.” “Ah, shut up a little. You’re too full of yourself.” “I’m not the one clinging to you like you’ll run away if I don't.” He chuckles amusingly. Sylus will never admit he loves when you mindlessly pull him closer - and since you both got into a more stable kind of relationship, it has been happening more frequently. You get your arms out of his, distancing yourself and walking by his side with a weird distance between you two.

“It 's okay! Won’t do it anymore then!” You pout a little, playing angry. “Oh no!” He coos. “No one to hold me back. Guess I will run away then…” And as soon as you roll your eyes at his terrible acting skills, his entire figure disappears in a red mist, swirling in the air before dissolving into the cold night’s breeze.

You stop in your tracks, eyes widened and suddenly aware that you’re alone, at night, still considerably far away from home. You get a hold onto your scarf, discreetly looking to the sides so as to not boost his ego too much - you knew he was still around somewhere, he'd never leave you unnatended - but the feeling of being watched on a completely silent street got your heart beating faster.

“Sy..?” your voice coming out as a whisper; and you feel energy shifting behind your back. You turn abruptly, and there he is, with that smug look upon his annoying face, offering his arm for you to hold onto again.

“What happened, little dove?” he holds back a laugh as you hook your arm on his once more. “I hate you.” “You love me, sweetheart.” he takes the side of your face on his other hand, bringing you closer before landing a chaste kiss to the top of your head.

“She has boss wrapped around her finger...” Luke quietly chuckles, elbowing Kieran - equally excited - as they both watch Sylus talking on his phone, ordering white uniforms for the twins. There’s a glare on his eyes, and both twins instantly shut up.

“No need for the white version of the masks. They won’t wear any.” Sylus turns his back to the twins, putting them in their place.  “But boss! We can’t be seen-” Kieran interrupts, stepping forward “She’ll see us- and she’ll know that-” Sylus suddenly shows his phone, a black screen. He turned off the call before teasing them. “Haaaaaa!” Luke sighs, and then laughs as if he wasn’t desperate a second earlier. “You got us.” Kieran chuckles, pretending to faint on his brother’s shoulder. Sylus faintly smirks at the scene, putting the phone away as he strides towards the hallway, now focused on what he should wear for you. White, as you asked.

Alone at the big office, the twins stare at each other. “But why white?” “I don’t know.” Luke looks at the mansion’s entrance through the window. “Maybe there’s a reason, or maybe she just really likes that color.” “She wouldn’t make us wear it too if she just really liked the color. Do you think they’re planning something?” Kieran thinks fast, as expected of Onichynus' leader's henchmen. 

“Planning something? Like what? A wedding?” Luke starts to laugh, but stops as he looks at Kieran, who stopped too. “A wedding?” Kieran repeats. “Didn’t they.. just recently admitted they were into each other?” Luke stares at his twin, confused.

“Yeah. And boss wouldn’t propose like that. No.” Kieran states. “Yeah, no, he wouldn’t. I bet he’d go all out too.” They start giggling like teenage girls, teasing each other about it for a good minute.

“But she’ll wear white then. Right?” Kieran smirks mischievously. “U-huh.” Luke smirks too, sensing what his twin is thinking about. 

“Let’s. Do a little surprise. If she wears a dress. We could play a wedding march as she comes in.” Luke suggests. “We could even get him to stand at the end of the hallway.” “Who would play the wedding march, dumbass?” Kieran slaps Luke in the shoulder. “He is the one who knows how to play it!” 

“What is your suggestion then?! A bouquet? He already gets her flowers all the time!” Luke silently screams at his twin. Kieran gets silent for some time, deep in thought. “Oh. Oh! Oooh! I know what! Oh, I know just what to do!” Kieran gets up, pacing around the room excitedly. “Come with me. We need to buy something. Fast.” 

You have the passcode. You also have your eyes, which if scanned, can open the door to his base. But you feel a little bit nervous for some reason, your heart almost getting out of your chest. It’s the first time you dressed up a little bit more to see Sylus - and you had your motives. It’s New Year’s Eve after all and you want to start it right, looking and feeling pretty. But at the same time, you’re nervous - you are not the type of girl to wear a dress often, and you’re having that kind of imposter feeling of not being a real dress-wearer, just faking it. You chuckle at your own thoughts, standing still and feeling a little embarrassed with yourself, as you just need to open the door and get in as you already did so many times before. But now it’s different. Sylus knows you like him and… He’ll see you dolled up.. and know it’s for him. And he’ll get so cocky about it too… God, just open the door. You hear a click, getting startled but playing it cool.

“You should have just-” Luke grins widely, you just know by the tone of his voice. His mask looks down at your outfit choice. “Opened the door.” Kieran appears from behind him. “Looking cute, Miss Hunter.” You look delicate, like you rarely do, in their eyes. He gestures for you to enter. “Thank you! You guys are looking great! I didn’t think you’d be wearing white too!” You get inside, looking at them from head to toe. Their uniforms are now white, still having red streaks and details occasionally. “It strangely suits you!” “Yeah, boss made us-” Kieran stomps at his feet “ We didn’t want to be left out.”

You let out a loud laugh. “He always finds a way, doesn’t he?” You start walking through the long and decorated hallway, admiring the fairy lights adorning the otherwise cold mansion. The twins follow you shortly after. “He does.” Kieran looks at Luke quickly. You don’t catch it. “Miss, there’s something else for you upstairs. We got you a gift because..” Luke chimes in. “ You are now getting closer to us and you’re always down for pranking boss and you’re even spending the nights with-” Kieran interrupts Luke. “What matters is that.. we thought it’d be nice to demonstrate that you’re always welcome.” They both sigh in unison, raising your suspicions. “Where’s Sylus?”  You ask, stopping at the foot of the stairs and looking around with a polite smile on your face. 

“He’s going to be there too.” Kieran starts going up, nodding with his head upwards for you to follow him. And you do, realizing they are unbelievably quiet. Entering the bedroom you usually stay when you’re spending the night with them, you notice some small changes. There’s even more fairy lights, the only source responsible for lighting up the whole room; On your bedside table, there’s a small and black velvet box, still closed. The curtains that are usually closed, are now open, inviting you to feel the chill night’s air on your skin. There’s a record player sitting on your dressing table, with a record already on it, playing a soft piano song in a low volume. Luke is in front of you, facing the window, and Kieran is closing the door behind him. “Wow. Why all that?” You get unexpectedly surprised at the twins’ ‘thoughtfulness’, smiling.

“All that? You didn’t see anything yet!” Luke turns around to look at you. “Give me your phone, please. For the full experience.” He extends a hand to you. “My phone..?” you look at him, already catching onto something. “Why?” You’re already used to their little jokes, so you learned to not simply trust them everytime. “You look good in a white dress, miss!” Kieran steps in, rescuing his brother with a change of plans. They wanted your phone so they could text Sylus to meet you here, but you were already too aware of their movements. “You know what’s missing?” Kieran steps closer to you as you turn around to face him.

As soon as you do, you feel a pair of hands on your head, hearing a click. There’s a light weight on your hair now, and as you spin to stare at Luke, you see it. He put a veil on you. “Luke!” you step forward to slap his chest - “What the hell!” You start feeling your neck and chest burning up, the light graze of the long veil brushing against the side of your arms, engulfing you more and more as you move. You try to look behind your back to see its full length, but end up just twirling around. You realize how well it goes with your dress, your breath quickening. “Aw, you even like it!” Kieran teases as he holds his own cell phone behind his back, calling Sylus. Both the twins chuckle amusingly at the faint pink hue on your cheeks. “I bet Boss will love seeing you like that.” Your eyes widen. “Don’t you fucking dare!” You glare at Kieran now, as you try to take the veil off with your hands, but you don’t quite understand what kind of attachment it has.

You breathe deeply, closing your eyes to focus on the texture of it in your hands, figuring it out. It doesn’t seem to be a clip-on veil, like you expected. It’s not a headband type either. Fuck, where did they-

“Look, there’s more!” Luke drags a part of your veil to the front, revealing that it is in fact, a blusher veil. You freeze for a second, before feeling your cheeks burn and your throat go dry. You’re feeling like a bullied kid in kindergarten.

You would take it off your face if not for the fact you were with both your hands occupied, almost figuring out how to take it off. You then catch Kieran nodding towards Luke, and Luke takes something from your bedside table. You realize there’s more to their little act and as you wonder what it could be, it dawns on you. Sylus. No way. 

You let go of the veil to grab one of them, but it’s too late.

The door opens, and there he is. As soon as he gets in, he stops in his tracks, letting the twins rush towards the hallway, almost running. He immediately understands what happened - he knows how the twins are - but. He can’t move fast enough, seeing you like this. He swallows.

His eyes run over your off-white sheath dress, one that’s tight on your upper body but flows freely from your waist down. It has off-the-shoulder sleeves that bring a subtle femininity and cuteness to it. You look adorably vulnerable with the surprised look on your face, making his heart flutter. The veil frames your naked shoulders like a painting, and your hair, styled in soft waves, cascades in front of your chest. He stands still, staring. You’re immediately overwhelmed by his reaction, watching him analyze each one of your features. His gaze wanders all over you, making your skin hot and breathing stall. Your hands are glued to your sides, into little fists. His expression slowly melts from surprise to adoration as he tries to regain a certain composure to face you. He inhales quickly, ready to sigh. He notices you’re almost crying from embarrassment and he doesn’t want to make it worse for you. What he fails to realize is that he is also wearing white. You’re also seeing him… as a groom. The only sound that can be heard is the soft music playing. You decide to say something.

“Sy..” your voice ends up sounding a bit more hurt than you intended, and you look away from him - guiding your hands to your head again, finally taking the veil off, sliding smoothly against your hair. His eyes widened in protest. “I’m so-” “Don’t.” He exhales heavily, stepping closer cautiously. “I didn’t memorize you well enough.” He looks at you with contracted brows. He closes the distance between you both, softly cupping your cheek and making you look at him. “Please, sweetie.” His other hand holds your arm, his thumb caressing you in an attempt to comfort you as he almost pleads with his eyes. “There’s only me here.” You’re still holding the veil to your side, feeling a lump in your throat. It’s all too much - Sylus in white, the veil, the music playing as he looks at you like this. You feel like you could implode, your hands trembling softly while your heart beats as fast as lightning.

“That 's.. I know it’s only you, that’s the problem…” You mumble. 

“If I can’t see you like this now, what can I do to earn that right, my love?” Love. He never called you that before.

He softly glides his hand from your upper arm to your elbow, searching for your gaze. Slowly descending, he takes the veil from your hand. You look at it, the thin material looking so fragile in his big hands. 

“It’s not that you can’t..-” 

“So can I?” He asks, now using both his hands to hold the white fabric. He asks, for the first time feeling unsure of your answer. He doesn’t want you to feel embarrassed anymore but - he needs to see it again. He needs to commit you to memory and you took that away from him, not letting him bask in your appearance for long enough. 

“May I?” He brings the veil closer to the crown of your head, looking at the comb-like attachment, full of improvised clip-ins. The twins really did predict you’d try to take it off. He waits for an answer before continuing, the veil hovering over your head.

You gaze at his feet, his white trousers, his white button-up shirt, rolled up to his elbows. He’s wearing the watch you told him you loved. You finally reach his eyes, and you could never say no to the way they were almost-imperceptibly watering. You breathe in. “You may.” 

He smiles, a faint and singular dimple softly showing. You feel your knees getting weak at the sight. Since when did he-! You never even noticed he had one..! Or maybe he never smiled so widely for you to notice it. He places the veil on your hair, attaching it normally - not using the thousands of mechanisms the twins somehow installed on it to gain time. His hands work gently against your hair, making you get goosebumps. He notices, but chooses to not say a thing about it. He plants a kiss to your forehead, before slowly bringing the blusher veil to your face. He steps back just a little, to look at you fully. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers. “So beautiful.”

The veil on your face makes you feel brave enough to fully look at his eyes again. Through the white haze, you watch as he takes a hand to cover his mouth, quickly disguising it as if he’s adjusting the collar of his shirt. “Thank you, Sy..” you mutter. And your sweet voice is his last straw. With a step closer, he suddenly engulfs you in a hug, that slowly gets tighter. Your hands rest against his chest, taken by surprise at his abrupt movement. You feel his heartbeat, fast and thundering against your hand. He doesn’t let you go until you breathe in… and out. Relaxing with a stuttered sigh; a breath you didn’t know you were holding in - but he noticed. Now you were safe, in his arms. Like you were always meant to be.

You feel his right hand on your left shoulder create some distance, and with a movement of his fingers, the music gets just a little bit louder. He used his evol. He starts swaying side to side with you, his chin resting on your head.

“Sweetie.” His deep voice was laced with vulnerability. “It seems you were right.” He closes his eyes. Swaying... Left.. Right.. Left.. Right.. Slow..

“About what..?” You look up at him, freeing yourself just a little bit from his embrace. “Wearing white brought me luck.” 

You chuckle softly at his sweet words, but there’s raw sincerity in them, and hearing you laugh makes his heart twist. He loves you so much. Left.. Right.. Swaying.. Left.. Right..

Every fiber of his being would be incomplete without you, and he wants you to be sure of that. Of the lengths he’d go to see you happy, safe, fulfilled. He wishes he could be everything you need - the air you breathe. Since he can’t, he decides to take it away - if only for a fleeting moment. He stops swaying - and your heart skips a beat. You tilt your head to face him.

In a controlled but quick motion, he takes the veil back, uncovering you. Holding your face with both his hands, he breathes in, getting more desperate as the seconds go by, looking at your dilated pupils as if asking for permission. You nod. And his lips land on yours, a low hum on his throat as he tilts his head to kiss you. It starts gentle, his lips slightly sucking on yours as his fingers dive on your hair. You pull him closer by the waist, reciprocating as your back arches to taste him better. He starts licking your lips, wanting more of your taste. You let him in, a soft sigh being swallowed by him. Your hands gently squeeze his waist as you get breathless, and he pulls away - only to leave a handful of slow and intimate pecks against your cheek, the corner of your lips, your nose, your other cheek. His breathing is messy, but so is yours. He gazes at you for a moment, silently admiring your flushed state.

“There is no greater luck than having you.” He speaks quietly as he takes you in his embrace again. He doesn’t want to let you go so soon. Over your shoulder, he remembers Luke gave something to him on his way out. Discreetly, he reaches for his pocket, without raising your attention. He feels a black velvet box, and he opens it behind your back. There’s the ring he bought some time ago, for you. He chuckles. You raise your head at him, asking what happened. He uses his other hand to lay your head against his chest, saying it’s nothing. “Let me have you like this for a moment, sweetie.” A ring. The twins are unbelievable. You deserve more, so much more than this as your proposal. He expected them to know that by now. But you can’t find out, so he places it back in his pocket before hugging you again. Nuzzling against your neck, he tries to make you laugh - he knows how ticklish you are. His hands find their way to your ribs, softly tickling you. As you start giggling and pushing him away, he feels like he has his whole world right in front of him. But suddenly- A flashing light. You both startle, looking out the open window immediately. Luke has a camera on his hands, outside the railing of a balcony that faces your window, supporting his weight with one foot. And of course Kieran is the one holding him up by the waist, so his brother can take a picture of you two.  “Aww man!! I didn’t think you’d notice!” Luke screams, disappointed.

You feel heat creeping up your neck again. They’re beyond belief.

“I told you to not turn on the flash!!” Kieran scolds him.

“But it turned out so cute, look!” Luke shows something to Kieran.

“Oh.” Kieran stops for a second. “Hell yeah you’re totally right.” They both laugh.

Sylus pinches the bridge of his nose, and as the scene unfolds your embarrassment gives way to laughter. You try not to care so much about them - you’re getting used to it. “Let’s go already, Sy.” You fully get out of his embrace, still laughing.

He can’t help but laugh a little too, as Luke almost falls off the balcony after Kieran gets distracted. “Yes. After you, sweetheart.” He signals for you to go first, opening the door. And as he closes it behind him, his other hand caresses the little velvet box.

Soon. Just a little more.

[pl0tty]

Jojo’s ABC’s of Drarry fic: a rec list of Drarry fics I love, sorted in alphabetical order!

26 fics ♡ 26 authors ♡ a good mix of smut, fluff, angst and plot ♡ enjoy!!

A — All the Earnest Young Men by @tepre (E, 29.4k)

All over London portraits are disappearing from their canvases.

Auror Harry! Expert-in-Magical-Art-Theory Draco! There's running, dancing, falling through ice, what’s this paper giraffe doing here? A great time was had by all.

B — Beneath the Wave by @moonflower-rose (E, 30k words)

Harry is done with a life in the spotlight. No more adventures, no more mortal peril. He wants a quiet life of food and friends, and family. He even manages to have it for a while, until suddenly there are giant rabbits that need ferrying to a mysterious island, and a handsome Draco Malfoy, and Harry's right back in the middle of the action again, despite his best efforts.

C — Come For Me by Frayach (E, 24.6k words)

After Draco is paralyzed in an accident, he and Harry discover a new way to make love.

D — Dwelling by aideomai (E, 83.3k words)

Curses, James and Lily Potter ride again, several Ministry balls, a teenage Summer of Love, a grim young adult dystopian winter, a few different Draco Malfoys, secrets and the problems re: not having any, alternate lives, impossible lives, real lives, allusions to Dirty Dancing, and just because it's not called the Mirror of Erised doesn't mean you shouldn't know better.

E — Embers by @shiftylinguini (E, 41.2k words)

Werewolf Alphas aren't meant to be alone, or to suppress their ruts indefinitely like Draco has been since he was bitten eight years ago. He needs company, companionship, to knot ― he needs an Omega Heat Companion. At least, that’s what the Healers say, and even Draco can admit contacting the person they’ve referred him to might be nice.

Of course it turns out to be bloody Potter.

F — freely, as men strive for right by @bixgirl1 (E, 17.1k words)

How can Harry love a man like Draco Malfoy?

If only Draco would let him count the ways.

(Sometimes, a happily-ever-after takes a bit longer than you expect.)

G — Going Postal (A 125-Page Comic) by dustmouth (T)

So Draco and Harry sort of maybe have a bit of a thing going. Which is all fine and good, but would probably be more effective if they managed to be on the same continent for more than five minutes at a time.

H — Hermione Granger's Hogwarts Crammer for Delinquents on the Run by waspabi (T, 93.3k words)

'You're a wizard, Harry' is easier to hear from a half-giant when you're eleven, rather than from some kids on a tube platform when you're seventeen and late for work.

I — I Do Not Love You by @writandromance (E, 228.2k words)

In 2013, a carefully-designed Obliviation leaves Harry reconfiguring his life and identity without any memories of true love; an act that's essentially erased Draco Malfoy from his mind despite a wedding band and shared home.

In 2000, Draco had expected Pansy's relationship with Luna to bring the Gryffindors a bit closer to his orbit of quiet, carefully pacifistic existence, but he never expected to navigate such a transparent embrace into a unit of family, friendship, and love.

A mystery, two love stories, and a reminder that learning to love never has an end date.

J — Je te reverrai by @soliblomst (E, 16.1k words)

When Beauxbatons visited Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament, Draco managed to control his attraction to fourteen-year-old Harry Potter.

When Beauxbatons returns three years later for a cultural exchange, Draco's attraction to seventeen-year-old Harry Potter is impossible to curtail.

In his defence, Harry's perfectly tailored blue robes, mixed signals, and French accent do not help.

K — Keep your hands on me by @tenthousandyearsx (E, 21.4k words)

Malfoy binds himself with a sex curse. Harry cannot get enough (but would much prefer to keep Malfoy for himself).

L — Lusimeles by orphan_account (E, 23.2k words)

“You’re not special, Potter,” Kingsley informs him, not looking up from his work.

“But I’ve already done Occlumency training!” Harry splutters, indignant. “And it’s Malfoy.”

M — More Than That by joosetta (E, 10.9k words)

This is a story about two 52 year old men who refuse to age gracefully.

N — No One Ever Told Me by @slightweasel (M, 25.7k words)

Harry marries Draco to get him out of Azkaban.

Things get weird. And confusing. And then weird some more.

O — Our Objective Remains Unchanged by @citrusses (E, 46.1k words)

Harry Potter, returning member of the Oxford University Boat Club, has two goals for the spring of 2005: beat Cambridge, and beat Draco Malfoy. Perhaps not in that order.

P — Probationary Action by @toomuchplor (E, 63.3k words)

As part of the terms of the probationary contract, DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY shall submit for inspection his WAND on the last day of every month, such inspection to be carried out by a duly registered and fully qualified AUROR in the employ of the MINISTRY OF MAGIC, and such inspection to include a PRIORI INCANTATEM spell to ensure that no PROHIBITED MAGICS as heretofore described have been practised by the aforementioned probationer.

Q — Quickie by @greaseonmymouth (E, 11.8k words)

Harry's 8th year is going okay: he's got a girlfriend, the future is far away, and he has no choices to make. And then Malfoy starts sending him dick pics.

R — Rookie Moves by peu_a_peu (E, 75.3 words)

Aurors Potter and Malfoy crack the case.

S — Slithering by @astolat (E, 27.3k words)

Draco found the nest down in the Manor’s cellars, while he was clearing them out.

T — Tandem by @fastbrother (M, 90.8k words)

Harry and Draco meet by accident six years after the war. Harry's an Auror with a drinking problem and Draco's a broke student. Things don't work out well. Six years after that, Draco joins the British Auror Office as a Potioneer.

U — Untouched by @stratigraphywrites (E, 11.2k words)

"The magic demands a sacrifice," Malfoy said. "What kind of sacrifice?" Malfoy's mouth twisted grimly. "A virgin." Harry felt his eyes widen. "Killing one?" "No, of course not, Potter," Malfoy snapped. "Don't be macabre. Fucking one." Malfoy exhaled with bitter disappointment. "Fuck. Rules us out." Harry took a deep breath. His face felt hotter than ever. "It doesn't, actually."

Harry's had some terrible birthdays in his life. But this one - trapped in a cave with Draco Malfoy, and only one way out - has to take the cake.

V — Vis-à-Vis-à-Vis by @vukovich (E, 50k words)

Harry's assignment was simple. Close out Draco Malfoy's missing persons case so he can be declared dead.

But who's making withdrawals from Malfoy's vaults? How is a death omen-turned-Unspeakable involved? Is an organization known as the Moirai to blame?

Harry brushes it off until he can't. Until The Prophet is flooded with sightings of dead people. Until Robards throws himself on his sword. Until Ron turns on his own family. Until Harry scarcely trusts his own reflection in the mirror and trusts the stranger in his bed even less.

Until all that stands between war and peace is Harry, a name plate, a stadium of murderers, and Draco Malfoy.

God save the Ministry.

W — What’s Mine is Yours by @fluxweeed (E, 17k words)

Harry loses something important. Malfoy helps him get it back.

X — Ex Nihilo (And Other Feats of An Untrained Veela) by Kandakicksass (E, 129k words)

Ever since returning to Hogwarts, Harry has had nothing to do with Draco Malfoy, who exists at the bottom of the social ladder and is just trying to survive their "eighth year."

One veela presentation (and Harry's natural resistance to veela allure) changes all of that.

Y — Yours is the Earth (Hold On, Hold On) by chickenlivesinpumpkin (E, 127k words)

After a serious accident in the Forbidden Forest, Draco's personality begins to undergo subtle changes. At first, Harry credits this to a new enthusiasm for life. But as the days pass and Draco's behavior becomes more and more mysterious, Harry begins to suspect that something bigger--and darker--is at work.

Z — Zenith by @corvuscrowned (E, 20.6k words)

Desperate to find relief from worsening migraines and broken magic, Harry sets out to reach mystical hot springs that are said to grant healing and realignment.

The only problem? The springs lie deep within a cursed forest that lures hikers to their death by tempting them with their greatest desires.

So when Harry sees Draco Malfoy in the forest, he must be hallucinating.

Right?

Or: A hero’s journey but gay.

[pedgito]

𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 | Joel Miller x reader — Series Masterlist (part i)

↝ masterlist | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

summary | Moving in with you soon-to-be stepfather is the least of your concerns while under the unfavorable regime of your mother—but then there's Joel, Tommy's brother, who always know just how to soothes your worries.

author's note | this was originally supposed to be a tommy x reader idea that morphed into joel and here we are. special thanks to @chaotic-mystery and @swiftispunk for lending me their beautiful minds and helping this make more sense <3

content warning | 18+ smut, DDDNE - this is very loosely stepcest, so if that's not your thing, ignore. that's the only warning i'm giving on that, additional warnings: no outbreak, step-uncle!joel, age gap (20/late 40s), religious trauma, parental trauma (mentally, with one instance of physical), und*rage drinking, contradiction all over the place, joel is a broke man who makes horrible decisions, reckless behavior for reader, mast*rbation, voyeurism, one-sided flirting, joel can keep your secrets <3

word count —9.2k

PART TWO, PART THREE (tbd)

“Married?”

There’s the wiggle of your mother’s fingers, the shine of the small diamond under the natural light streaming through the window to your shared two bedroom apartment—being twenty and still living your mother wasn’t ideal, but it was all you could manage at the moment. You force a grin and take her hand, examining the jewelry.

Tommy had actually talked to you weeks ago, a prerequisite to going through with the whole ordeal, making sure that it was okay with you. It wasn’t that you minded Tommy, he was a good man—too goddamn good for your mother, who always seemed to find a way to ruin something. Everything. You wanted to warn him, but even as much as you despise your mother on most days, he made her happy.

“It’s been a year,” You comment offhandedly, “you’re sure he’s the one?”

She snatches her hand away with a bitter gaze and fiddles with the engagement ring, pacing her way around your shared living room.

“Can’t you just be happy?” She pleads, so petulant and whiney. Like a child, “For once?”

You shrug, “I like Tommy, he’s a good guy. It’s just—he’s the only man you’ve dated since…”

“Baby, I know what I’m doing.”

Your eyes flick up under a lazy gaze, seemingly unconvinced. But, you mask it well.

“So, are you going to elope then?”

She shakes her head, suddenly shaking with a subtle excitement that has her bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“No, honey—we’ll be planning a wedding. Small, of course. You know Tommy doesn’t have much family.”

Just a brother, whom you’d never met. You never heard about anyone else.

“And—“

That’s a tone you don’t like.

Anticipation. Hesitation.

“We’ve been looking for a house.”

“Oh?”

So, she was kicking you to the curb. Time to leave the nest, grow up—blah blah. 

But, she continues.

“And in the meantime, we’re going to move into Tommy’s childhood home!” 

You cringe externally at the excitement, “What’s wrong with our place?”

“We’re gonna be saving every penny we can, cutting costs where it seems easier. Joel is offering to let us live there for the time being rent-free, given we take care of the place.”

Joel. You knew a name. Not a face. A personality. Only that he was Tommy’s older brother. Worked with him, spent weekends with him. That was it. He seemed like a lonely man from a distance.

“So, you’ll do just that,” She remarks, a definitive look that allows no argument, “we’ll be out of here by the end of the month.”

“That’s next week, mom—“

“Then, I suggest you get to packin’.”

Unbelievable.

“You can’t be serious—I don’t even know him. Do you? Have you even met him?”

“Once or twice,” She shrugs casually, “He’s a private man, but he’s nice enough. I’m not questionin’ it, honey. Tommy is a good man, I can assume Joel is, too.”

Your mother spots the disdain the moment it crosses your face, a finger held up in reprimand.

“You are as ungrateful as they come,” She bickers and then follows the shame, “what would he say?”

Your eyes drag up toward the ceiling, feeling the echo of a scripture you’ve heard time and time again—different words, same meaning, “Thou shalt love thy—“

“—neighbor as thyself,” Your mom finishes, a prosperous grin on her face, “Go on, wash up before bed.”

Even as you graduated and started college, still living under the conveniences of your mother, she felt the need to guide and protect, preaching whatever bullshit she’s swallowed down the past twenty years of your life.

She wasn’t like this before, in fact, it was strikingly opposite. But, she’d had you young, regretted her choices, and while trying to be a good mom had found something to cling to, to help guide her back to some semblance of sanity and safety. 

Unluckily for you, it means years and years of strict teaching and rules that made no sense to you now. Hell, they had stopped making since long before that, given the way your mom has relaxed on her morals since she met Tommy, a man that was nowhere near religion or under the constant fear of something other.

You questioned it everyday—tried to fight it, but then the guilt creeped in.

It was your own mother’s doing; a rigorous and methodically set out schedule when you were young, everything followed by prayer or reminders from your mother. He’s always watching. As you grew older, into your body and started to question—it was never outwardly, but your mother took notice and found that shaming you for your inherent provactiveness was easier than guidance. In fact, punishment was an even easier route, most of the time.

“They’re having a cookout tomorrow,” She calls over her shoulder as you depart quietly to your room, somehow more exhausted from a five minute conversation with her than anything else you’ve done all day, “so, best behavior, alright?”

You don’t even try to hide the roll of your eyes that time, sighing softly and answering with a tired, “Yes, of course.”

It would have been hard to predict how that day would change the trajectory of your life completely.

—

The house is beautiful, really. Deep in the back of a suburban neighborhood, right in the middle of Austin. It was lively—kids playing, neighbors conversing over gates from their lawns, music blaring through the streets. 

But frankly, it was fucking weird.

You're halfway up the driveway when Tommy opens the door, spots your mother first and swoops her up into a hug that lifts her off her feet, a squeal escaping her.

When it’s your turn, it’s a gentle but quick hug. An even softer pat on the back as he welcomes you in.

Welcoming you to what would soon be home. 

Temporarily, at least.

“Come on,” He calls back toward you both with a nod of his head, “we just got finished on the grill and the game is about to hit kickoff, y’all are just in time.”

You step past the threshold, enveloped in the homey smell of vanilla and citrus, something a little savory—which you assumed was the food, and some of the scent from fresh cut lawns from the neighborhood seeping in through the open windows. 

Tommy’s closing the door behind you before he comes around your side, yelling out with his hands cupped around his mouth.

“Joel, get ‘yer ass in here!” Tommy yells, slightly jarring as you flinch at the loud sound. Tommy seems to notice and offers an apology with a kind rub of his hand against your shoulder, “Sorry ‘bout that, sweetheart. He’s hard of hearing—“

“I’m not,” The man grumbles as he rounds the corner from outside, walking through the sliding door with a tray of freshly cooked patties lined up in rows, “my hearin’ is perfectly fuckin’ fine.”

Tommy seems careless to dismiss it as your mother offers Joel a polite greeting which he returns with what you can immediately spot is a forced smile. Then, Tommy introduces you. Your smile is just as forced, but out of the inherent nervousness of the situation, offering a small wave that Joel returns with a nod.

“Food’s done,” Joel offers as a change of subject, “game’s starting so—“ He waves vaguely at the array of food, “have at it, I guess.”

“Did you wanna say grace, baby?” Tommy asks, looking over at your mother.

“No—no, I’m sure you and Joel don’t do that,” Your mom looks at you, rubbing a surprisingly gentle touch over your cheek, squeezing gently, “We can say it to ourselves right, sweetie?”

Your eyes avert toward Joel who looks more uncomfortable now then when you walked in. You nod regardless, shrugging away from your mother’s touch. She doesn’t argue and returns her attention toward Tommy, thankfully.

You move curiously, examine the different toppings and add-ons, sides, and different treats. It was far more than you were used to—a nice change to your mothers botched box dinners and takeout ordering that always ended up wrong. 

Joel moves mechanically, eyes on the screen as he slaps his burger together, sliding you the bag of buns like clockwork, almost as if he sensed it. It was the only tangible acknowledgment he’s made aside from the nod. But, beyond that—it was silence.

He was an odd man. Quiet, reserved—part of you understood. It was uncharted territory, two mostly strangers in his home. You’d be a little annoyed too.

But, you remember your mother’s words. So, you make an attempt.

His hip is digging into the counter at the edge of his kitchen as he holds the plate to his chest and eats his burger, messily and starved, scarfing it down in very few bites. He catches you staring at him curiously, shamefully taking the first small bite of your own burger. He doesn’t react at you, but he does consciously wipe the mess of grease around his mouth as he sets his plate down, aiming to set himself up with another burger.

“It’s nice,” You say suddenly, the lack of elaboration apparent and Joel raises his eyebrows in unison, “—your house, it’s…nice.”

Above the low rumble of music playing on the radio—something you can determine is a rock song, of what band or song name you have no idea, and the sudden voice of Tommy yelling over a fumbled pass, which Joel also echoes his frustration with as he catches the screen over your shoulder. You jump, turning over your shoulder to look. 

Joel seems to notice the way you startle, “‘M sorry,” He apologies kindly, “and…thank you.”

It was hard to settle and feel comfortable, knowing that normally, in any other situation, your mom would be judging them—the music, the course language, the entertainment of boys throwing a ball around and tackling each other. It wasn’t in her taste or her faith to condone such things. 

But suddenly, with Tommy, none of it mattered. It was jarring, to say the least.

Joel leaves you after that, taking a seat on the separate recliner from the couch your mother was sharing with Tommy, somehow entranced in the game and Tommy’s answers to her questions. Everything was overwhelming and in the midst of another yelling match at the screen with your eyes locked on the sight as you blindly walked backwards into the counter behind you, you felt your elbow hit a can and suddenly the liquid was spilling over your feet.

You yelp in surprise, catching only the attention of Joel. You scramble, picking up the can before sliding it into the sink, stepping out of your now ruined sandals and feeling suddenly overwhelmed by everything—the noise, the smelly, sticky mess of liquid all over you and your clothes.

Joel’s footsteps are heavy but swift, his plate sliding over the island as he rips off a wad of paper towels over your head and turns on the faucet, “That’s my bad—forgot my beer was there,” You look up at him wide-eyed, feeling him guide your hands under the stream to wash away the mess, “you alright?”

It feels like someone was twisting your gut in their grip—you’ve never heard those words aimed your way before and the anxiety engulfs you. Joel was already crouching down by then, scooping your ruined sandals into his hand and nodding toward the backdoor, “We can wash these off and leave ‘em outside to dry.”

You nod dumbly, watching him run them under the water, but his eyes examine you closely and the quick rise and fall of your chest, “You can follow me outside, if you’re needin’ a break.”

Again you nod, but you’re sure that time. You step over the small puddle on the floor and your face scrunches up in disgust, sensing the presence of your mother as she comes into view.

“Oh, honey—you made a mess.”

“She’s alright,” Joel stresses, “I left my beer there, s’nothing some napkins and water can’t clean up.”

There’s a silent reprimand behind her eyes, something you would hear about later or something she was storing for another time, “C’mon,” Joel’s voice saves you and you follow, shying away from the piercing look of your mother, feeling the wave of relief after Joel closed the backdoor behind you.

“Accidents happen,” Joel offers as a reminder and a sense of comfort, placing your sandals on the concrete as he reaches for the hose, turning the spout and watching as it sputtered out slowly before it steadies and he spray them down before catching your feet, washing away the foamy liquid.

You jump slightly, mostly from the change in temperature against the humid, sticky heat of the sun as it beats down over the house, “You got that look,” Joel says offhandedly, reaching over to turn off the spigot and wrap the hose up.

You glance up at him, stepping out of the puddle of water, “What look?”

“Like someone stuck you in a cage full of bears and you ain’t got a clue how to respond,” The comparison makes you laugh, not because it was ridiculous, but because it was true. “I got—I got a place you can sit for a while, if you need the silence?”

There’s a weight lifting off your chest, one you hadn’t realized was there until he says the words.

You nod and Joel crooks a couple fingers your way, beckoning you to follow. 

Joel leads you back into the house, but takes a sharp right to the set of double doors leading to a separate room—bookshelves and stacks of unorganized papers, a desk cluttered with random items and an old desktop, an even dustier radio stuffed away in a corner.

“It’s my office, don’t use it much anymore,” Joel explains, but taps at the open double doors, “but it’s a good place to block out noise, if ‘ya need a minute.”

You step past him curiously, leaving a trail of wet footsteps that Joel would eventually clean up later. It was cluttered in the room but somehow brought a sense of comfort, clearly a place that Joel seeked out himself from time to time.

“There’s books, magazines—feel free to use the computer,” Joel waves vaguely, “although, I dunno how well it works, haven’t turned that thing on in ages.”

“Thank you,” You tell him sincerely, watching him nod as he closed the doors behind him and gave you free roam to look around, be curious.

And naturally, you were.

He had a large collection of music—CDs and cassettes, a shelf full of vinyl albums. Books, tons—something you assumed he’s collected naturally over the years. Most of it seemed fairly boring, non-fiction books on various topics; how-tos and instructional guides, nothing exciting. Your gaze tracks to his desk, running your fingers along the chair before you’re pulling it out and taking a seat, the plastic creaking with age.

You press a key on the keyboard but the computer refuses to come to life—you chew at the inside of your cheek, looking around at the pattern of squares on the wall, like missing pieces plucked from the wall—like dust collecting around picture frames that were no longer there. Your fingers dance along a drawer, twirling in your seat as you pulled at the handle and find a drawer full of thick files. But, on the top, a book with a sticky note is sitting alone, completely out of place.

Leave it, you tell yourself. 

Still, your fingers reach for it.

It’s a thick book, a soft-matte touch from cover to cover. It was mostly unsuspecting, a plain cover of a mirrored forest, the post-it stuck over the title but you’re too scared to remove it. You flip it over, reading over the summary on the back. The summary is dull, unsuspecting, but as you flip through the book, skimming from chapter to chapter you realize it is not that.

And to be fair, you knew this type of genre was something people were interested in, never laying eyes on it yourself. But, to see it stuffed away in the desk of one Joel Miller, is a fair surprise—you examine the text, hanging on every word as you delve deep, deep; into a scene of voyeurism amongst a group. Somewhere between that and the next chapter you get lost, only resurfacing when you hear a knock at the glass door to the room.

The book snaps shut as you spot Joel, who’s peeking his head in with an emotionless gaze. He could just be checking to make sure you’re not snooping too deep, but then he’s walking toward you at a leisurely pace, a fresh beer in his hand as he squints, looking at the book in your hand.

He plucks at the post-it and chuckles slightly.

“Forgot that thing was in there,” He tells you, “Tommy bought that—year ago, I think? One of his stupid gag gifts.”

“You’ve never read it?”

Joel shakes his head, lips pulled in a tight line of indifference as he sipped at his drink.

“If you like it, you can take it with you.”

And then he realizes his misstep, your eyes meeting awkwardly.

“I mean, I’ll be here permanently come Sunday, so—”

Joel smiles slightly, a subtle quirk of his lip, “Well, least I know you’ll bring it back.”

You follow his movement, his fingers gripping the aluminum can and the perspiration from the can wetting his fingers, sweating down his wrist and you subconsciously lick your lips before your teeth are dragging, digging into the flesh of it. He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing with the movement and Joel catches you, your intrigued gaze and volleys it with a question.

“Did you want a sip?” He says, mostly as a joke.

He remembers the time Sarah had come to him, piling onto his lap and with her constant stream of questions—he’d let her have the tiniest sip as she kept pressing on it and Joel knew there was no use in fighting the steadfast energy of an eight year old.

She hated it, immediately retching in disgust. Joel gave her a chuckled “I told ya so, kiddo.”

This was different, though. 

“I’m not twenty one,” You counter, mouth quivering down into a slight frown and your shoulders shrugging instinctively, “and my mother would kill me.”

But, you want to—not even driven by an act of rebellion. It was genuine curiosity.

Joel tilts his body, peeks around the corner and spots the pair still sat on the couch.

“What she doesn't know won’t hurt her,” Joel crosses that line for you, your hands cupping around his larger one as he guides it to your mouth, “s’not like you’re gonna go get piss drunk, right?”

You giggle softly at that, lips pressing into the can as he tilts it into your mouth. The vision of him is…overwhelming. Stood over you in the mostly unlit room, barefoot and jeans rubbing at the top of his feet, dark cotton shirt pulling over his shoulders and a few weeks of facial hair unkempt and outgrown. 

If your mother were to see, it would have been you.

Your fault. And again, maybe it was.

But Joel, he towers. You’re nearly eye-level with his waist but admittedly, they never leave his face. You sip gingerly, fingers curling around his own as you tip your head back and consume more, until your cheeks are puffing out with the liquid and you swallow, immediately grimacing at the taste as you pull away, sputtering out a soft cough as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

“It’s an acquired taste,” Joel defends, not even bothering to wipe the rim as he takes another sip, somehow finding that more intimate than any of what had just happened between you both.

Neither of you say anything and you shake your head, fingers curling around the book in your lap.

“I’ll take your word for it,” You nod, but Joel can see the disgust for it on your face.

“Go on, take the book home,” Joel offers, “ain’t gonna be missed ‘round here.”

You smile sweetly, licking over your lips and tasting the remnants of the alcohol, a sign of sin amongst the many you had just committed, but the lack of guilt was startling. You couldn’t even begin to care.

When you leave, the book is tucked away in your bag and hidden. Joel is already cleaning up by the time your mother is rushing after you out the door and to the car, leaving a curious Tommy to linger around, helping Joel sparsely before he’s bugging Joel for a lighter.

Joel had quit smoking long ago, but still had a few lighters tucked away in his study.

Tommy searches around aimlessly, sifting through cups and drawers until he’s pulling open one, pausing, calling over to Joel curiously.

“You finally put up that book I gave you a goddamn century ago?”

His answer is your name as he turns the faucet off, wiping off the final dish.

“She seemed interested so I let her borrow it,” He calls over to Tommy, who’s leaning up with a wide-eyed but amused expression—it was clear that his brother was sometimes just as oblivious as him.

“Joel, you never read the damn book, did you?”

“Was I supposed to?”

Tommy makes a face, a smug smile fading in for a brief moment.

“Tommy, what was the book about?”

Tommy eventually finds the lighter, snatching it up with a ‘aha!’, trailing back over to Joel before he finally answers him.

“Thought I’d spice up your nightly reading, brother.” 

Joel can piece his words together; the innate smugness and tone that was edging toward a full-on chuckle, it wasn’t an appropriate piece. And given the stuff he did know of your mother, the worst choice of a genre for you to sneak home with.

“Did I do a bad thing?” Joel asks, “I mean, that girl is an adult—”

“Twenty, yeah. But, her mom—”

“Your fiance,” Joel clarifies, “she’ll be your step-daughter soon too, you realize that?”

“She can be a little—”

“Judgemental?” Joel finishes for him, drying his hands off with a dish towel before it toward the empty counter, “Freakish? She’s got your ass goin’ to church every Sunday, ain’t seen that before.”

Joel sighs, a clipped noise as he scratches at his forehead.

“I’m not judging, I swear. But, her moving here—I’m not feedin’ into that whole schtick.”

Tommy holds his hands up in defense, “She knows—”

“I fuckin’ hope so.”

—

The vision of the scene is imagined under the safety of your room that night, squinting to read the text under the dim light of your bedside lamp, words amongst feelings that weren’t foreign but often weren’t welcomed. You’ve had boyfriends and kisses, experiences like any other girl has, but you’ve shoved it away for far too long—it was years of high school, shying away from boys and girls only to finally find the freedom to branch out in college, but under the constant reminder of you mother’s generosity to allow you to finish schooling without the stress of work or the responsibility of earning your keep. He’ll guide you, she’d always remind you. A constant reminder that you were under his watch, more of a threat than anything. And your mother knew that.

The hand tucked under your chin switches to the other, your now free hand trailing down your chest and under the sheets, slipping past the snug waistband of your underwear. The scene was vivid, descriptive as the man pulled the female characters legs apart, exposing her, doting her with the kind of words that made your stomach swirl and your gut twist, dragging your middle finger down the center of your pussy and sighing at the slick that was already there, gathering up the wetness until you could guide it over your clit in quick, hurried circles.

You snap the book shut, biting on the corner of your pillow as you squeeze at the squishy fabric, squirming under the feeling of your impending orgasm, muffled moans slipping from your stuffed mouth as you feel it crash over you in a wave, eyes squeezing shut so tight you start to see the light. 

The comedown is slow, rolling over onto your back and silently slipping the book under your pillow and the guilt you usually feel is filled with nothing. You were empty, thoughts filling with vague images of someone, a man—faceless, but if you dug hard enough you’d know. 

So, you do. 

And with his face comes something you felt so often but pushed away.

Desire.

And for the one person you know you shouldn’t. 

—

The move takes place a few days later, endless hours spent packing boxes and putting the rest away in storage, several trips back and forth from the apartment to Joel’s house.

You often had to remind yourself it wasn’t Tommy’s. It was Joel’s—but Tommy was his brother and he wasn’t going to turn him away, so if there was anyone to respect, it was Joel.

The house had three bedrooms; Joel’s, the one Tommy and your mother would share, and the room with a door painted purple and covered in various things. Butterflies, flowers—it was off-limits and you didn’t attempt to make anyone budge on that matter. It was a sore spot for both of the Miller brother’s and when Joel offers up the attic, you’re quick to take it.

He’d even taken the time to make it somewhat liveable. A fresh coat of white paint, storage for clothes and some of your belongings you’d decided to bring along, a space for your bed and plenty of the furniture you couldn’t part with. Besides, it was nice having a level away from everyone else.

“The ladder does get stuck from time to time,” Joel admits as he stands a few feet away from you, watching as you look around curiously, “so, just give a holler. Hopefully one of us’ll be home if that happens.”

You laugh softly, dropping your bag to the floor and crouching, unzipping it and reaching in for a very specific item, pressing it into Joel’s hands as he’s expecting. His fingers curl around the side of the book and there’s an unspoken tension that fades as he speaks.

“Our secret, alright?” Joel’s eyes don’t leave yours, waiting for the confirmation of a nod.

You nod meekly, “She’d kill me, you know? I mean, not physically, but I’m sure she’d have an opinion on it.”

Joel nods in understanding, “Like I said, our secret.”

And given how rough the day was on everyone and once your bed was finally assembled in your room, you find yourself passing out without a moment of idle thinking, the exhaustion taking you the moment your body hits the sheets.

You wake up when the day has already gone, crickets chirping outside and the distant buzz of street lights outside the window above your bed. It’s dead silent in the house otherwise, aside from the hum of the central air and fan tucked in the corner of the room. You roll over and tap at your phone. It was a few minutes from midnight, one day fading into the next without waiting for you to catch up.

You rise groggily and rub at your tired eyes, placing your feet on the hardwood floor before deciding to take a walk down to the kitchen, feeling the dryness of your mouth as you licked at your lips. You’re careful as you open the entrance to the attic and lower the ladder, careful and quiet footsteps as you make your way down and close it, surprised at the growing hum and voices coming from the living room.

You edge close, soft and gentle footsteps as you pry the cabinet open and reach for a clean glass and turn on the faucet, filling it up halfway with water—that’s when you hear the hmph that warns you that you weren’t alone, spotting Joel turning over his shoulder to look at you. 

He seemed half-asleep too and you suspect he fell asleep on the couch, insomnia or exhaustion getting the better of him, you offer a quiet apology as you sip at the water.

“You’re alright,” He assures, rubbing two hands over his face and through his grown out locks, curling around the side of his neck and around his ears, “I was heading to bed anyways.”

Unlikely, you think. 

“What are you watching?” You speak softly, arms crossed your chest as the glass cup dangles from your fingertips, bare thighs pressing against the edge of the couch and Joel adjusts slightly, subconsciously making room for you. 

“Dawn of the Wolf,” Joel answers through a long yawn, “you seen it before?”

You tilt your head with a raised eyebrow, “Joel, come on—”

“Right,” He chuckles tiredly, “It’s some cheesy action movie I’ve seen a thousand times, it’s a—sometimes I just throw it on for background noise, hate sleepin’ in silence, you know?”

“Could you make it a thousand and one?” You ask curiously.

The bed he was heading toward was suddenly forgotten, watching as you eagerly climbed over the side of the couch and curled up on your own cushion, smiling slightly as he reached for the remote and started the movie over.

“Were you actually heading to bed?” You ask as the opening credits begin to play, “Because, if you were I won’t be offended—”

“I mean, I could. Probably need to, the havoc this couch does on my back.”

You offer a kind but lazy smile, half of your mouth arching up, “Besides, I’d ask way too many questions.”

Joel never does move, though. Almost like he’s resigned himself to that position until the movie was over, watching you occasionally with that familiar glaze over your eyes. It was the last movie he’d watched with Sarah before she passed, a few weeks shy of her fifteenth birthday.

By now, it was more of a foolproof method to help him sleep.

It was mostly poorly choreographed fight scenes and a dialogue heavy relationship between the two main characters that progressed unrealistically fast, forcing a laugh behind your palm after the male character professed his love after two days of knowing the other character and even Joel shakes his head at that. But, as the penultimate point of the movie comes, it hits a peak.

They’re sitting around a fire, obvious and unspoken tension lingering that snaps in an instant, one touch on the other and they’re on each other—Joel leans forward, reaching for the remote to skip past the scene, “No, don’t,” You tell him gently, your hand pressing against his palm.

The remote loosens in Joel’s grip and he settles, feet crossed over the coffee table.

Your head tilts, “It doesn’t even come across real,” You comment, “or believable, I guess.”

The sex—or lack thereof, a swarm of lust-filled gazes and strategically placed camera angles. It was mostly heavy pants and moans and Joel coughs into his balled fist to break the silence. You snicker softly and pull your legs up near your chest, head resting against your hand as you watch.

“Probably because it doesn’t work like that,” Joel comments after a while, pulling your attention to him suddenly, “sometimes it’s just—”

“Fucking,” You answer crudely, “for the sake of fucking.”

Joel looks like he wants to keel over, his face contouring in surprise as the words slip past your lips. It’s a sight, a matching set of pajamas he’s sure your mother gifted you, covered in some pattern that mimics the innocence that lies within you, a soft pastel color on satin fabric and that definitive cross that dangled at the center of your neck, slipping just between the press of your breasts—and yet, here you were, speaking to him like sin incarnate. 

“What?” It was amusing, in a way, “I got a strict mom, doesn’t make me a total prude.”

“Okay,” Joel feels the line drawing itself in the sand, or in this case, the middle of the couch, “you’re right—but we can move on from that.”

You offer a soft hum of acknowledgement, smiling at the way Joel continues to shake his head, biting back his own amusement in response.

Somewhere between there and the end of the movie, you both end up asleep on the couch, your feet tucked away in Joel’s lap and his hand resting over your ankles. It was easier falling asleep knowing Joel was near, oddly enough.

—

Things are set into motion very quickly after the first couple days. With wedding planning in full swing and your mother returning to her night shifts at the hospital, it was a sudden newfound freedom that you’d never experienced. Tommy and Joel were gone often too, sometimes for days at a time to work on site, only popping in every so often for little things. Showers, food, before they were back out for another twelve or so hours.

And with your semester of college over, you were left with the void of summer to fill up your time. It does take some convincing, but eventually your mother isn’t hovering as hard. Truthfully, you could thank Tommy for some of that.

“She’s not even a teenager anymore, she’ll be alright.”

It didn’t ease any of the restrictions she put on you in the past and it didn’t make you feel any better for feeling like you had to lie, hide—doing normal things that even if she did as a young girl, would find any reason to shame you over.

But, you were thankful with her infatuation over Tommy because it gave you a break.

Late nights at the beach with friends or last minute trips to the drive-in, it was a sorrowful peek at what you could have had for years, but only had the luxury of exploring recently, somehow always ten steps behind, still feeling that familiar strum of nervousness run through your body at the sight of a crush, somehow even more unavoidable now.

And Joel, well he hasn’t helped either.

Eventually, his own curiosity gets the better of him and he does read the book. His reader’s perched on his nose as he leaned back in the recliner, knowing that if he’s caught onto your schedule well-enough, you’d find yourself downstairs within the next few minutes.

You blamed the insomnia, but you always liked Joel’s company. At night, without the scrutinizing gaze of your mother when she was around, it was easier. 

You’re spreading peanut butter on a plate of sloppily sliced apples when you hear Joel flipping through the page of a book, the cover obscured by the knee he had propped up to lean it on.

“Anything interesting?” You ask casually, screwing the top back on the jar of peanut butter and leaning up on your toes to return it to the top shelf, ignorant to the eyes that catch your backside and the stretch of your top as it exposed your ass and the small piece of your underwear that peaked over the waistband of your shorts. 

You could blame it on the heat and that was partly the reason, but Joel notices the longer you settle in, the more comfortable you get, the conservativeness becomes less and less. It was subtle, shirt pulling up over your midriff or the collar of your shirt dipping a little lower than usual.

This time it was the shorts that hugged your ass and gave him an idea of every curve your body had been hiding and he felt his throat closing up at the thought, clearing it instinctively.

Joel sips on his beer, nursing it more like, as he shrugs and flips to the next page.

You’re curious, sliding the plate into your palm and making your way toward him, finger sliding over the cover and lifting it. Joel doesn’t stop you, but he rolls his eyes at the grin that breaks out on your face, tongue pressing into your cheek and you know–he knows.

“Good, isn’t it?” 

If he only knew how many times you found yourself knuckle deep inside of your cunt with a whisper of a sigh on your lips, shame for the obscure pictures of the characters slowly morphing into him—it wasn’t like you had tried for that, your own subconscious betraying you. 

Something in the bridge of your words and the look on your face has him pushing his glasses up his forehead and into his hair, swiping an apple off your plate and into the thick peanut butter before he’s shoving the fruit into his mouth and biting into it with a loud crunch.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” You smirk, walking backwards slowly until your calves hit the couch and you took a seat, turning it to a random channel playing some televised drama, legs stretched out in front of you and the gentle slope of your shoulders on display as you shoved the apple slice past your lips, licking up the remnants of peanut butter on your finger and Joel almost forgets what he’s doing, feeling the book slip from his hands and hit the glass bottle still half full, sending it pooling into his lap and you look over with a tickled expression. “Too much, I guess?”

“You’re a little shit, you know,” Joel comments as he tosses the book aside and departs quietly, bedroom door shutting behind him as he turns in for the night. There wasn’t an ounce of bite in his tone.

Joel doesn’t know what he expected of you—maybe something more docile, but you were anything but as time grew on and you realized that under the obvious distraction that your mother was dealing with, you found yourself pushing that line more and more.

There’s a particular night when an argument with your mother ends up with Tommy and Joel getting caught in the blowback of it, leaving both of the men at a loss for words. It was the first time they had seen the real, full extent of a meltdown from your mother. Tommy had seen glimpses, blips—but, Joel. It was a first.

It started over a simple question, harmless.

“It’s one dinner—I’ll be there and back before midnight. I don’t see the big deal?”

“Big deal? Honey, we’ve got plans tomorrow. Dress shopping, cake tasting—I was cooking a nice dinner tonight that we could all enjoy, as a family. Seein’ as we’re all somehow, by the grace of god, under this damn roof at the same time for once. And you leavin’ looking like that? I don’t think so.”

Family. Joel seems to find distaste in the word, his eyes flicking toward his brother briefly. He doesn’t understand her final point either, jean shorts and a tank top in the humid Austin heat in the middle of June seemed like a perfectly reasonable option, but it clearly struck a nerve.

“I don’t even know why I’m asking,” You counter, “I mean, this is Joel’s house, after all. Shouldn’t I ask him for permission?” You turn to him, a low blow at your mother, “Joel, do you care if I—”

Joel hesitates for half a second and you thought he might answer.

A sharp, but swift blow to your cheek has you stopping cold, eyes pulling up to anywhere but your mother and of course, they land on Joel who’s jaw is clenched so tight you think it might snap, matching Tommy’s shocked expression but Joel's was laced with an undertone of rage, simmering slowly.

There was nothing but silence, shoving past her with a charge of your shoulder and then past Tommy who has just enough time to side-step and catch your mother as she turns after you, the realization of her actions settling with her, her open hand balling into a closed fist before she drops it.

Joel was quickly discovering that this living situation was a lot more than he’d bargained for.

–

Tommy had taken your mother out for the night, rented out a hotel after dinner and allowed her the space to cool down but Joel had stayed up, mostly in anticipation that you had forgotten the spare key he’d given you in the quick flee, walking halfway down the block and then some, desperately waiting for your friends to swoop in and save you.

It was just supposed to be dinner at the local diner in town, but catching up with a classmate you hadn’t seen in weeks quickly turned into a night drive that reached well past midnight, eventually pulling out front of Joel’s house, receiving the less than gentle kiss the boy had been building up to all night.

Joel hears the low roar of the engine outside of his house, lowering the volume on the television as he walked toward the door and glanced through the window, fingers curling the small curtain that covered it and there’s a moment where he decides—do something or do nothing, but even then he doesn’t take his eyes off of you.

Not as you lean over the console of the car and into the lap of the faceless person in the driver’s seat, his hand all over you—Joel knows, you’re hoping that your mother would catch, that she’d end up more furious than she was earlier and then some.

The horn beeps as you fumble inside the car, the heat of the moment broken as your back dug into the steering wheel and his breath was hot against your neck and suddenly you wanted nothing to do with this, watching the glow of television through the front window of Joel’s home, knowing he was awake.

There’s a shadow that crosses the window and confirms your suspicion—you weren’t ever truly free, there was always someone watching. Joel seemed like the likely suspect and that was worse than your mother when you actually took the time to think it over.

The departure is quick, shoes scuffing against the pavement as you meet the front door, jiggling with the doorknob before it’s being opened from the other side.

Joel’s eyes follow you as you walk inside, toeing your shoes off near the door and finding that you don’t even have the energy to make a remark at him, nothing funny, nothing snide. You look over your shoulder briefly and find him watching, not so much staring, but he was following your movements. You’re right around the corner as he finally speaks and you stop, closing your eyes as you take a slow, deep breath.

“She’s not home,” He informs you, “left with Tommy about an hour ago.”

It was unwanted information, unneeded. You mumble an acknowledgement but he’s speaking again when he notices you move, forcing you to turn on your heels and look at him.

“Are you doin’ it to piss her off?” Joel asks. His intention was unclear, whether he was trying to get under your skin or not, but with the rage still lurking in the back of your mind, it takes on a mind of its own.

“What do you care, Joel?”

“She ain’t my favorite person, I think you know that. But, if she’d caught you just know, she’d have your ass—”

“She didn’t,” You retorted. It’s the first time you see Joel frustrated, his brow creasing and the hands at his side slide into his pocket.

“You’re actin’ out,” Joel concludes and there’s a squint of your eyes as they narrow that tells Joel he’s right, “and under my roof—”

“Oh, so that’s what it’s about,” You tell him, arms crossing over your chest as you step toward him, floorboards creaking under bare feet as you approach him, “what—are you gonna punish me then?”

“Not my business,” Joel tells you, “I ain’t like your mother. But you keep doing this, actin’ out. Something bad is gonna happen soon enough.”

“Then—what?” You ask, trying to surmise a path to both please him and shut him up—unfortunately for him, you know just how, “Would you rather me act out with you?”

“Now, that ain’t what I—“

“Make sense, don’t it? My mother would be so grateful you’re keeping your eyes on me, watching after her little girl.”

“I suggest you tone it down,” His voice is different—nothing you’ve heard before and it should scare you, but it doesn’t.

“Or what?” You retort carelessly, “You’ll do it for me?”

There was that face again, jaw clenched. His gaze never left yours, only following you as you grew closer.

“You can teach me all the stuff I’ve missed out on,” You smile slightly, “I mean, you’ve done alright so far.”

He says your name and for a moment, it scares you. But, it was a warning—don’t cross that line, don’t blur it.

“I’m messing with you, Joel.” 

It’s a believable lie, one you can even convince yourself of.

His breath hitches slightly, breathing out through his nose as he nods at your response, “Just, be smarter. Alright?”

Your aggressive approach breaks, offering a sweeter smile as you back away, hands falling to your side. He can see the smear of your gloss at the corner of your mouth, half-tempted to swipe it away and clean you up.

“I will,” You appease, “can I go up to my room now?”

Joel offers a lazy glare of dissonance, not giving you an answer before he’s brushing by, off to his office that you hadn’t been able to spend much time in since the cookout. 

If he could be stubborn, so could you.

—

The tension between your mother doesn’t settle, but she does attempt to be civil. You often thwart off any attempt at a conversation that would lead into anything other than necessary communication. It feels wrong, you know it is—but you couldn’t bear the thought of trying to explain to your mother how you were beginning to believe her so-called beliefs were a complete joke, pushing an insane and untenable rhetoric on you.

Joel isn’t as warm either, keeping his distance beyond the night you had lost your footing with him and slipped, offering him an opening that would lead you both down a dangerous path. It had mostly been a joke but you could never admit to yourself how badly you wanted him to agree. The idea of it.

There is a point where under almost constant supervision of one of them, all of them flitting out of the house at some time or another, that you find a window (figuratively and physically) to sneak out of, preparing yourself for a night that your mother would have shamed you about until you found yourself six feet under. It was hypocrisy, actually–knowing your mother was doing similar things at an even younger age, with much less mindful thinking. 

And you might have pushed it a little too hard when you reach the front door that night, the floor spinning as you fumbled with the lock again—though, of course, Joel was saving the day.

“Do you ever sleep?” You gripe, eyes squinting as you stumble inside and out of your shoes with a wobbly wave of your arms, reaching out blindly for anything but finding nothing, almost tumblring over the motion but Joel is catching your arm silently, holding you upright. 

He knows that smell, you reek of sweet alcohol and cheap booze.

“I was makin’ sure you got home,” Joel admits, “that a crime?”

“Yes,” You slur softly, “and crime—” You giggle slightly, stumbling closer and pressing your hand into his chest to steady yourself, “means punishment.”

Joel looks down carefully, watching your fingers curl over the collar of his shirt and the sensation of your body, warm and so soft as it pressed against his own.

“Unless, you’d rather punish me,” You offer, the deep buzz of alcohol inflicting your mind and thought process as you pull at his shirt, feeling the stitching rip slightly under your grip and you make a delighted noise, instantly leaning forward to press your lips to his neck.

Joel should’ve pulled you away minutes ago, but again, he’d allowed it to go a step too far.

A step closer to breaking—closer to complete corruption.

Joel wraps his hand around the back of your neck and squeezes, pulling you back easily despite your desperate grip, eyes blown out and wide as you peer up at him, so dazed he isn’t even sure it’s you talking.

“You can,” You admit, mouth parting open as you lick your lips, “I want you too, Joel.”

Joel’s nostrils flare as he forces your hands away more sternly, throwing them at your side until the dejected look forms on your face, stumbling back sadly.

“You need to sleep this off,” Joel tells you

But, you already have the idea in mind as you shove him away, stepping around him awkwardly until you can reach the couch, your limbs falling lazily against the cushion as you curl up, hazy gaze meeting his one final time before you eyes close and for once, Joel fides security in his room and tries to calm his rapidly beating heart—a mix of worry and guilt, knowing if he’d had enough alcohol and inhibition in his system he wouldn’t be as strong, given so easily into that temptation as you had.

But, if routine proved you right, it wouldn't be the last time you’d speak to him that night.

—

Joel was a creature of habit.

The nights that he is able to sleep have been few and far between and he can hear you moving around upstairs, early hours of the morning when he’s in and out of an exhausted daze and in your own similar nature, he hears it. There’s a creak and slow footsteps that traverse the floor above him, but there was no world where he could face you right now. He’s not sure when you decided to move upstairs that night, a curious but lucrative thought in the back of his mind.

Do you remember?

He spends the last hour flexing his achy fingers to distract him from the subtle ache in his pants.

Joel wasn’t a father anymore, the part of him was buried away and long-forgotten, the pieces of that part of him dissolved away through the years of tears and alcohol and constant repression. 

Watching after her little girl.

It’s asinine, knowing you were anything but. He had no intentions of being that sort of figure over you, you didn’t need watching—or guidance from him, even. A protector? Maybe, but that wasn’t his job either.

Keeping your eyes on me.

He couldn’t keep his eyes off you, in fact. And as the realization clicks, he knows he’s fucked.

He’s barricading himself in the bathroom before he puts himself through the suffering of another nightly conversation with you, especially after how things had left off hours before, turning on the shower in a hurry as he hears the latch to the attic release and your impending arrival.

He strips, pulling his shirt up from the center of his back and over his shoulders, working hastily at his jeans and climbing into the shower, palms pressed against the tile wall in front of him as the stinging, hot water hits his back and soothes the soreness that lingering in his joints. It did nothing for his cock which had gone from half-hard in his jeans to standing proud, insistently.

He couldn’t ignore it—and he knows under the safety of the constant stream of water, muffling out the ragged sigh that escapes his lips as he fists his cock in a tight grip—he hasn’t ached like this in years, knowing he was well past his prime, in his mind. 

Unfortunately, the unraveling of it all would come down to the slippery lock on the bathroom door. It only stuck half of the time, eventually worming its way out of place and leaving the steam to slip through the cracks, but Joel is oblivious.

You find your footing as you step off the ladder, still reeling from your drunken stupor as you make your way down the hall, spotting the faint flickering of a light from the bathroom that told you Joel still hadn’t changed that lightbulb, but also that he was in there—it couldn’t be anyone else. You only vaguely remember your actions from earlier, but you didn’t forget the look on his face—the frustration. The want. Your footsteps are quiet, praying feverishly that they wouldn’t creak under the pressure of your feet as you peek your head into the crack, eyes scanning the mirror placed over the sink and suddenly, they stop.

Freeze, more like.

The shower curtain is shifted back just enough that you catch the front of his chest, so broad that it doesn’t even capture the full width of him, muscles in his shoulders straining as your eyes follow the length of his arm and down, until your eyes connect with the sight of his cock, fisted in his hand as he jerked himself earnestly, unabashedly with impatience. His head is hung too, water damping his hair over his forehead and obscuring his face.

You can hear him, though. God, you could fucking hear him.

His knuckles curl into the tile wall where his other hand still rest, balling into a fist as he punched it out of frustration, grunting with how tightly he was squeezing himself and the pace at which he was fucking his fist. 

It wasn’t the first time you’ve seen such a sight, but with Joel it was bigger, intimidating—in every sense of the word.

His cock, for one, was larger than any you’ve seen before.

And with shame, your mouth watered at the sight. 

His groans, a gentle guh that sounds like a prayer of something else but is strangled, his movements becoming jerky as his speech becomes slightly clearer, “God—fuckin’,” He heaves, the sound of wet skin and water under the speed of his movement, “—girl, always testin’ me.”

You swallow at the mention, fingers curling dangerously around the door frame—one misstep, one slip and you’d swing that door right open, revealing yourself. 

He leans his head up suddenly, eyes closed as his arm works furiously. Your ears are locked on his face now and you see the way his lips form around your name as he utters it, so quiet you barely hear it but it was you. There was no mistaking that.

He comes a few moments later, his thumb rubbing over the tip of his cock and circling as he shot his load into his palm, knowing that he could make a mess if he wanted to but decided not to, using his slick covered hand to drag over his cock a few more times as it softened in his hand.

Fortunately, you’re long gone by the time he’s reaching for a towel, back upstairs like you’d never even been there in the first place.

There was no denying it now, though. It wasn’t in your head—the temptation was real, tangible, and just within reach. 

Because with that temptation came doubt, followed by mistakes.

And really, you wish you were strong enough to resist.

Unfortunately, you weren’t. So, you plan. 

He was already a broken man, but you needed him shattered.

-

divider creds: @/cafekitsune

[moonlightspencie]

don't want you like a best friend

Description: James is nervous about his inexperience with girls. Luckily he has a best friend who's more than willing to help. (based on an idea formed in part by @amiableness. check out the post)

Pairing: best friend!James Potter x fem!Reader

Warnings: DESPERATE!james, inexperienced!james, blowjob (m receiving), porn with barely any plot

Word Count: 2.5k

a/n: kind of muggle!au? doesn't really matter in the context of this though lmao

You walked into James's flat, quite pleased he'd given you a key. It was much easier to bother him whenever you pleased when you could just waltz in any time.

"James!" you called out, toeing off your shoes.

"In here!" he shouted back.

You followed his voice to his room, seeing him laying on his tummy watching tv. You ran up to his bed and flopping down on it next to him. He laughed in that squeaky, joyful way he only ever seemed to do around you.

"Hi," he greeted with a cheeky smile.

"Hi," you replied with an equal grin, then glanced at the television. "What are you watching?"

"Nature documentary about penguins," he responded simply.

You glanced up at him with a quirked brow. "Why?"

"Cause I like penguins," he shrugged.

"...we need to get you a girlfriend."

He went a little quiet, prompting you to look at him again. You tilted your head.

"James?"

He chewed his lip. "I– I do kind of have a date. Tomorrow."

"What?" you exclaimed, suddenly sitting up straight. "Who? Since when?"

His cheeks went a little pink. "Sirius set it up for me."

"Oh my god! Why didn't you tell me?!"

"I'm nervous!"

You chuckled softly, still in a bit of disbelief. The boy had been single for far too long in your opinion, especially considering how much girls threw themselves at him in school. He always said that it was just because he had high standards, but part of you was half-convinced he must be terrified of girls. Or commitment. Maybe both.

"I just... I can't believe it. Is she cute?"

He almost grimaced. Not a great sign.

"Uh oh," you snorted a laugh.

"It's not that she's ugly! She's... she is pretty, its just," he sighed, shrugging a little, "she's not really my type, I guess."

"At this point, I'm beginning to believe you don't have a type."

He frowned. "Hey."

"Just saying, James. You never date, and it's not for lack of girls who like you."

"I kind of have to like them back for that to work."

"You sure you're not scared of girls?" you asked with a laugh.

He chuckled a little, shaking his head. "No."

"Commitment?"

"No."

"...Sex?"

"Ugh, don't say that," he groaned, dropping his face against the mattress.

You laughed again. "Sounds like a yes. It's really not that scary."

"It's kinda scary," he mumbled against his comforter.

"James," you called quietly, resting your cheek on the mattress to look at him.

He turned his face towards you, his cheeks pink and his hair even messier than usual. His lips were slightly pouty. Frankly, it was absolutely adorable.

"Everyone but me has done it at this point. The furthest I ever got was touching a boob over clothes in fifth year."

You couldn't help but to laugh at that, causing him to whine your name in protest.

"Sorry..." you said, not all that apologetic. "It's just... cute. You get so flustered. It's really not a big deal."

"It is a big deal to me."

"Aw. I'm sorry, Jamie. I just mean that nobody's going to fault you for being inexperienced."

"They might!"

"No they won't."

"You don't know that."

"At any rate, I think it's sweet."

"But I'm not having sex with you," he argued, then snapped his mouth shut, his cheeks going even darker. "That sounds... I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," you ran a hand through his hair, and he leaned into the touch. "I just mean to say that I'm sure if I think it's sweet, other girls would also probably think it's cute."

"I'm a man. I shouldn't be cute, I should be... strong and masculine. Hot."

"You're very hot, James."

He sighed, still pouting a little.

"Put that lip away," you muttered, tapping his bottom lip.

"You're being mean."

"No, I'm not."

"You're teasing me," he pouted again.

"What? How?"

"You're very hot, James," he mocked in an overly-high-pitched voice.

You snorted a laugh. "Heaven forbid I tell my hot best friend that he is, in fact, hot."

He fell quiet for a moment. "You really think so?"

"Of course I do."

"Mm," he hummed softly, then sighed. "Why can't there be more girls like you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" you asked, smiling curiously.

"You're always so sweet to me. I just wish there were more girls who act like you, cause then I could just... do it with them and not be so worried about it."

You raised your brows, trying to hold back another laugh. "Oh, really?"

"Don't tease me."

"I'm not. Just, why don't–" you stopped abruptly.

He looked at you with wide eyes. "What?"

"If you're so worried about getting your first time over with, then why don't you just do it with me?"

He looked like he got the wind knocked out of him in that moment, blinking a few times as if he was trying to wake up from a dream. He opened his mouth a few times, though no sound came out.

"I just mean that... you said you'd do it with a girl like me, so why not me? You trust me, I know what I'm doing, you know I won't judge," you listed off some reasons. "It could work, you know?"

"Cause you're... you're my best friend."

"And?"

"And friends don't do that."

"Friends do that all the time," you replied with a shrug.

"What?" he asked, looking totally mortified.

"Friends have sex all the time."

"Since when?"

"Since forever," you chuckled a little. "I'm not saying we have to. Just putting it out there, since you're so nervous about it and all."

"I–I don't..."

"You don't have to say yes."

"I know," he nodded, looking a little uncomfortable. "It's just... I don't think I'm ready to do all of that right now."

You smile a little. "I'm not saying I'd take you to pound town right now..."

"Ugh," he groaned.

"Sorry. I just mean to say that, if you wanted to, we could start slow. Work you up to the main event."

He chewed his lip, looking away from you. You sighed softly, then stood from the bed.

"Alright. Let's go and grab a snack or something and take your mind off all this. Stop stressing so much," you said, trying to grab his arm to pull him up.

He shook his head. "Can't."

"What? Yes, you can."

"No, I can't," he emphasized, his cheeks still dark.

"Why not."

He stared at you for a moment, then whined, dropping his head into the comforter again. He mumbled something into the fabric, causing you to groan in annoyance.

"What are you saying? I can't hear you when you mumble."

"You don't understand," he said, looking at you again with a pouty face. "You're not a guy."

"What the hell is that supposed to... Oh," your eyes widened. You let out a disbelieving, delighted little giggle. "Are you–"

"Please don't talk about it. It'll make it worse," he said quickly in his whiny little voice.

"Aww. Poor baby."

"Stop it."

"Let me see."

His eyes widened comically. "What?"

"Let me see. Come on, turn over," you giggle, trying to turn him.

"Lovie, no, I..."

"Please?" you pouted, knowing he could never resist it.

He whined. "Please don't. It's embarrassing."

"It's hot."

He gulped. "...It is?"

You nodded. "Yeah. It's kind of flattering, too. The fact that I barely suggested it and you got all excited."

"It's not my fault. I just... my brain started thinking..."

"Yeah, brains tend to do that," you joked, relishing in him being all flustered. It was so unlike his usual demeanor. "Come on, Jamie. I just want to see."

He swallowed, nodding a little awkwardly before he turned onto his back. You smirked a little to yourself at the obvious bulge in his sweatpants. You sat back on the bed right next to him, glancing back at his nervous face.

"Can I touch?"

"I... I don't know."

"Just over the pants right now."

He considered it for a few moments, before taking a deep breath, nodding.

"Okay," he said quietly, his hands balling into fists.

You smiled. "Relax."

You let your hand rest on his thigh first, watching him as his eyes trailed your every move. You slowly slid up his leg, teasingly, just so you could see him sweat a little at the thought of being touched for the first time. He was generally quite confident, but somehow missed out on anything and everything intimate outside of kissing.

He sucked in a breath as you reached his hip, looking as if he could pass out.

"Hey," you said gently, trying to catch his eye. "Take a deep breath. Relax. It's supposed to feel good."

He sniffed, nodding shakily. "Y-yeah. Sorry."

"Don't apologize, Jamie. Just... relax. Okay?"

"Okay."

You let your hand move again, barely ghosting over his bulge, the tips of your fingers touching the fabric of his sweatpants. You looked up at his face. His cheeks were red, and his eyes were wide and almost glossy. His pretty, pouty lips were just barely parted as he waited in anticipation for your next move.

You lowered your hand, gripping him gently through his pants, forcing a shaky gasp through his lips. You smirked to yourself a little, stroking him through his pants.

"Feels good, huh?" you asked in a quiet voice.

He opened his mouth to respond, but all that came out was a pathetic little moan. You chuckled at the sound, stroking him again. He was bigger than you expected him to be, but not terribly massive. His hips bucked into your hand, another soft whine coming from him.

"Aww. You like it, huh?"

He nodded, breath coming in short.

"Can I do a little more?"

"Uh..."

"I think you'll like it."

"M-maybe," he gasped out, looking utterly wrecked already.

"Can I take off your pants?"

He looked at your face again. "Huh?"

"Can I take them off? I wanna touch you," you stated simply.

He whimpered. "Um... For... for what?"

You furrowed your brow. "So I can feel you. I just want to touch your skin. It'll feel better for you, too. You touch yourself, right?"

"I... Y-yeah. Yeah, sometimes."

"And I assume you don't do it through your pants, right?" you laugh a little.

He merely swallows, nodding dumbly. "Right."

"So... Can I touch you like that? I won't do it unless you say yes."

"Oh..." he sucked in a shaky breath. "O-okay."

"Okay?"

"Yes."

You smiled, hooking your fingers in his sweatpants and underwear. "Hips up, please."

He followed your instructions easily, lifting his hips for you. You tugged everything down in one go, leaving it all pooled at his ankles on the bed. You nearly moaned yourself when you saw him, hard and leaky and ready. You traced his dick softly with your fingertips, impressed with him, and drawing another moan from his lips.

"So pretty, Jamie. Look at you."

"Don't... fuck," he gasped. "Don't say that."

"I mean it. Your cock is perfect."

He whimpered again, sounding like he could cry. You wrapped a hand around him, stroking him softly as hips bucked into your hand, soft moans and squeaks leaving him in utter desperation.

"P-please," he begged, staring at you as if you hung the stars.

"Please?"

"I... I don't know," he shook his head, his lip quivering.

"You need more?"

He sniffled, nodding quickly. "So bad. Please."

"Can I suck your cock, love?"

The sound that left his lips was utterly pornographic, his chest heaving like he'd run a marathon.

"God..."

"That's not my name, baby," you stroke him again. "I need you to say yes if this is what you want."

"Y-yes. Fuck yes," he said, his hips still shifting under you, trying to get more friction from your hand.

"So needy," you chide jokingly, moving to settle between his legs.

He whined watching you climb between his legs, nearly hyperventilating at the sight and feeling of you kissing along his stomach with your hand pushing his shirt up.

"So pretty," he groaned, stroking your hair.

You smiled against his stomach, licking nearly up to his chest just to hear him make that sound again. You kissed back down his stomach, barely ghosting over the tip of his cock at you looked back up at him.

"Ready?"

He nodded, in a trance as he watched you. You kept his eye contact as you darted your tongue out, tasting him for the first time. He practically sobbed in pleasure, pulling on your hair slightly.

"Told you it would feel good, baby," you mutter, licking from base to tip as he squirmed under your touch. "Isn't this nice?"

"Mmmm..." he nodded, chest heaving.

"Good boy," you kissed his tip.

You stared up at him, smiling to yourself at his sweet little reactions as you started stroking him. He looked so adorable totally wrecked. Like he could pass out at any moment. You couldn't help but to want more.

You wet your lips, figuring you could probably fit most of him into your mouth in one go: so you decided to give it a go. You licked him once more, then shoved his cock down your throat, letting it hit far enough to make you gag.

He shouted, gasping for air before he fell into a puddle of moans and desperate praises of your name. You pulled off of him, but only for a second before you went back down, sucking on him as if your life depended on it. It felt like it did.

He gripped the fabric of his comforter, sobbing in pleasure as his hips jutted up into your mouth. You were about to pull off to make some sly remark, when he whimpered loudly, shooting his cum down your throat. You hummed around him, swallowing everything you could despite your utter surprise that he had finished so quickly. He whined and kept his grip tight in your hair until he was done, his seed dribbling past your lips as you couldn't quite swallow everything. You weren't sure if you'd ever witnessed someone cumming so much before.

You did your best to clean him off without making him overly-sensitive, and finally pulled off.

"Mm... Holy fuck, Jamie. You cum that much every time?” You ask, chuckling a little despite being wildly aroused.

He shook his head, sweaty and still whimpering.

"Awww," you cooed softly, reaching up to stroke his cheek. "You okay?"

"That... that felt..."

"What?"

"Best thing ever," he managed breathily.

You laughed. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he uttered, a small smile on his face as he opened his eyes. "I... you're really good at that."

"Apparently too good," you snorted.

"Maybe," he nodded, then hummed softly in pleasure. "Sorry for cumming so fast."

"It was sweet."

"It's not sweet," he shook his head.

"I think so. You're so sensitive," you kissed his cheek.

He hummed again, then sighed softly. You watched him as he took a few steadying breaths before he moved his eyes back to you. He let his eyes linger on your form for several moments, then chewed his lip. He looked up at you, clearly debating something in his mind.

Then he smiled a little.

"Can I return the favor next time?"

[i-am-a-bad-influence-writes]

Private lessons

Masterlist Word count: 5.6k Prof!Rafayel x Student!Reader

Summary: Rafayel is your fine arts teacher. You were absent from some classes because you caught the flu and now you're standing in front of his office door, hand raised to knock at the door, but something is stopping you. Maybe it's the way he's been looking at you lately, but either way you need to catch up.

Author's note: I've been stalling to finish this. It ends a bit abruptly because I just ran out of inspiration and otherwise I would've thrown this in the drafts never to be seen again. I hope ya'll like it! Special thanks to @butlereyepatchbunny for proofreading!

Smut, Rafayel trying to be dominant, reader ending up being dominant, weird power dynamic, nude painting, jealousy, emotional manipulation, begging, short talk about vasectomies and STI's, raw sex (wrap it up guys).

Mature content under the cut

"Come in," Professor Rafayel bellows through the door. He sounds annoyed and frustrated. In truth, that doesn't really irk you. An artistic person like him would probably despise office hours. You've heard rumors of him trying to convince the art department director to let him have his office hours in his studio, but he was met with a resounding no.

It makes sense, but people love working in professor Rafayel's studio when they can and professor Rafayel loves bouncing ideas off his students. Seems a perfect solution to keep a stubborn professor happy, but the director doesn't think so.

For a second you almost forget that you have to open the door. That you now have to face your professor. The professor that you've been trying to avoid for days now. It might've been easier if he hadn't greeted you like he did when you finally felt good enough to attend classes again last week.

Professor Rafayel's art lectures are never early in the day, which is a godsend on a day like today. Sure, your head is still pounding from the pressure of the cold you are recovering from, but that's nothing some ibuprofen and paracetamol can't fix.

With Rafayel's lecture only starting at 1:30 pm, you've got enough time to medicate yourself and eat something before heading over there. However, now that you're sitting here trying to focus on the lecture, you feel your mind slipping away. Maybe you should've taken another day off to make sure you were fine.

As professor Rafayel always does, he gives a short assignment to do in class and roams around the room to give pointers. Usually it is something like "We've just discussed this type of art, find some or draw some to show that you understand what makes that type of art that type of art." It's often near the end of class time and some people skip out on it because professor Rafayel really couldn't care less as long as the grades are good.

And, you usually, you stay like the good little student you are and do the assignment. You even often stay after class to discuss it with professor Rafayel if he has time. Now, however, you feel like shit and you're packing up.

That is, until two hands appear on either sides of your desk, caging you in. A soft, sultry voice whispers next to your ear, forcing shivers down your spine: "First you don't show up for days and now you're leaving early? Did I do something?"

There's emotion behind his words, so much of it. You figured he might've noticed your absence, but this seems a bit extreme. "I had the flu," you mutter, cheeks burning, "I'm still not doing great."

"Why didn't you email me? I could've sent you the class notes," he whispers, but there's something more in there. Something possessive. You feel your body shudder ever so slightly as he leans a little closer and you feel his body brushing against you.

Then he suddenly switches up, his hands pulling away from your desk. He repositions himself to sit on the desk next to yours, arms crossed, with an aloof expression on his face. "Well, since you clearly don't feel well yet, you should stay home tomorrow as well. It's nearly the weekend anyway. How about you come by at my office hours on Monday? We'll discuss how to get you back up to speed."

'Oh, it's you,' professor Rafayel hums as he watches you slip into his office, 'how are you doing now?'

You can't say you're not surprised by his casual question and the very normal atmosphere in his office after what he did last Thursday. For a second, you consider you might've been lucid dreaming with the fever you had. However, that wouldn't be probable. You're pretty sure you felt his body press against yours. The memory of it almost makes you blush. 'I'm alright. Much better than last week.'

'Good,' he answers, not even paying attention to you, 'so besides missing lectures, I noticed you have not submitted anything of your physical work for review. Have you not been able to make anything during your sick leave?'

'I tried to, but I had so many coughing fits that I couldn't focus and my head was pounding.' You're not sure why you're over-explaining. Does he make you more nervous now that he's not being overly interested in you? Is that it? This is strange. Before last week, the two of you had a very equal relationship when it came to discussing art. 'I just wasn't able to.'

He nods, leaning back in his chair. Suddenly, he seems much more interested. He crosses his arms and you notice the slightest twitch of a smirk pull on the corners of his lips. His eyes are dark and intriguing. 'My, my, what should we do about that? We wouldn't want you to fall behind,' he taunts you, playing into your fear of failure.

He knows exactly what he's doing as you feel tears start to burn in your eyes. You know he knows. How many times have you discussed your works and the meaning and feelings behind them? How many times have you overshared and told him about your family? Yes, Rafayel knows exactly what he's doing. He's trying to push you off balance, trying to get on top, be the dominant one.

'I might have an offer you'd be interested in,' he mentions with a sly look. You saw how he was watching you get closer and closer to tears. He's been planning this. He's playing with his food. It makes something grow inside you. Something red. Something burning. 'Two of my classes merged and now I've got a few free hours after 4 pm until the end of the semester. I'd be open to some one-on-one sessions.'

The way he makes it sound like he's doing you a favor, like he doesn't want to spend time with you but he'll do it, makes you flush with a strange kind of rage. Here you are, sitting in his office at his request. He has the gall to assume you won't be able to catch up and implies so to play with your feelings. All of that, after countless times of calling you talented, just to get some time alone with you? Unless it's all just a game to him.

Insane.

You might be horny for this man, just like every other student in your class, but you won't be degraded like this. 'No thank you, I think I'll be fine,' you answer as you get up. He looks physically surprised by your words, his whole suave façade drops.

Just as he wants to get up, you put your hands on his desk and lean towards him a little. The way he looks up at you does something for you. His eyes wide, surprised, but very much still paying attention. Almost enjoying the power imbalance you introduce, but you can't be sure. It could just be surprise. 'I am going to be very blunt here, professor, and forgive me if I misunderstood. But if you wanted to spend more time with me, you could've just asked instead of playing with my feelings.'

"Inspiration is a fickle mistress and she does not like her hand forced." You learned that from professor Rafayel and no words ring truer than those right now.

Ever since you left his office last Monday, your mind has been all over the place trying to piece together why your professor behaved that way. Because that's what he is, your professor. He's not a random boy on campus who is trying to get in your pants, he is your teacher. Someone who should behave more dignified than Rafayel has.

It's not like you would mind if he were just a random boy, but that's the whole problem. This whole thing, if it is what you think it is, opens the door to so many potential problems... But it is intriguing and it has been building for a while.

Slowly, but surely, certain occurrences came back to you. However, there are no words in the English language that could rationalize those moments, no matter how hard you try. You can try all you want, but your loins are on fire.

That's when you realized, it started on day one. The first fucking time you saw him. You were so daft, so stupid to not see it. He has been chasing you for almost three years now.

It was subtle. Very. As he should be in his position. He was playing a long con and you're not quite sure if he is aware of it or if he's just letting his emotions run free. He has gone off on rants about free love and similar topics more than once when someone implied something sexist. Rafayel is not shy about sex and sexuality, and you kind of liked that about him as your art is often sexually charged. You like sex and sexuality and the vulnerability that it often comes with.

But now you can't even put your brush against the canvas without your paintings starting to look like him. You've tried to force it, only to abandon those works within minutes because it just didn't feel good. If it did start to feel good, the painting would start to look like him again.

A deep sigh slips from your lips as you drop your arms, defeated. You stare at the portrait you painted. It's not nearly done, but it's his eyes staring back at you, boring into your soul. You've got to do something about this. Either confront him or fuck him, those seem the only feasible options.

You tilt your head to look at the clock in your apartment. 4:30 pm... Would he still be in his studio?

The sliding door to the studio seems much heavier today, but the sight it reveals is truly an artwork on its own.

Rafayel's studio has large windows and tons of greenery outside. Now, around golden hour, strings of yellow and orange light illuminate the space, only interrupted by dust particles floating around. The light perfectly surrounds Rafayel as he sits in the middle of his studio with a canvas on a small, portable easel as he works. Sunlight kisses his skin, almost making it look like there's an outline of gold around him.

'Took you long enough,' he huffs, not looking up at you but provoking you to step inside. And you do, closing the sliding door behind you. 'Lock it.'

'What?'

'Lock it.'

'Why?'

'Lock it or leave, those are your options,' his tone is commanding, nothing like you've ever heard from him before. You feel that same red-hot rage you felt on Monday, it's something defiant inside you, but you know you need to talk to him. If you don't, you might be doomed to paint him until you die.

'Tell me why or I'm switching to professor Thomas' art history class.' Rafayel's jaw clenches. You don't know why the man has such a hatred for Thomas. As far as you know, they get along fine but whenever you drop his name they are suddenly enemies. Could it be that Rafayel is jealous? Or maybe just possessive?

'You know why,' he hints, his eyes flickering up at you. Something sinister is in them, something dark, something sexual. Yes, you know what is happening here today if you let it but you want him to say it. You turn around and put your hand on the door again. You hear something clatter to the floor and suddenly you see Rafayel's hand holding the door closed, his body pressing against you as his other hand gently takes its place on your hip. 'Don't make me say it.'

You turn around to face him: 'Professor Rafayel, you and I both know this is highly inappropriate.' He searches your eyes for any inkling that you do not want this, that you want him to stop, that he got it all wrong. The despair in his face, the strange power dynamic, it turns you on so fucking much.

A cruel plan forms in your mind. Rafayel wants you and you've got five sessions with him until the end of the semester, including today. Five sessions to make him bend, five sessions to drive him to madness, five sessions to make him beg. 'I'm here for extra lessons. What are you here for,' you question innocently as you press your hand against his chest, ever so gently pushing him off. His hand grips your hip tighter, pulling himself closer with a defiant look in his eyes.

'What are you doing,' he grumbles, his annoyance easy to read in his eyes. He seems ready to devour you whole if you would just say yes to him. If you would just agree to this.

'I'm being a good student,' you claim as your hand slides down to his stomach slowly and his eyes widen, 'my professor told me he'd help me catch up.'

Finally, he catches on. He lets go of you and walks back over to his easel. The thing is knocked over and probably what you heard when you tried to head out again. For just a second you get a glimpse of his painting. It is unmistakably you. Not all of you. It's your face leaning on the palm of your hand, but it doesn't go higher than your lips.

'Alright, let's get started,' he grumbles, annoyed. You sit down on the floor across from him and take out your sketchpad. 'You missed a model painting class and a portrait class.'

'So, shall I just ask my roommate to sit for me,' you ask him, recalling he despises your roommate as much as he does Thomas. Why? You live off campus and so your roommate is an old friend. A male friend. Let the games begin! His face instantly turns into a scowl, but his answer takes a second and when he does answer, he looks at you strangely.

'No, I'll sit for you.'

Painting Rafayel's portrait is easy. His face is already burned into your memories, but it's nice to study the small details of his face. Being that up-close and personal with him has been... an experience the say the very least. Unsurprisingly, by session 3 you've got a picture perfect copy of his face in oil paint.

Throughout the sessions, his praise didn't go unnoticed by you. Meanwhile, he was also painting you, claiming it to be good practice for him because you've got a unique bone structure. However, whenever you snuck a glance at his painting, it was never just your face.

Session 1, he continued that painting of your lips while the two of you sat across from each other, cross-legged, knees nearly touching.

Session 2, you had put on a short skirt to tease him and sat down across from him cross-legged again. The skirt barely touched the floor in the back. He had walked around you quite a few times to "comment on your work" but when you glanced at his painting, he had painted you from the side. That included how your skirt barely covered your butt. It was surprisingly suggestive. Sure, that was the intent but he somehow made it so much more lewd. Like you were looking at yourself through his eyes.

Session 3, it was the first truly scorching day of the year. You put on a long, flowy skirt, and the tiniest top/sports bra that you could get away with wearing on the campus. He managed to perfectly remember how you looked when you walked in and lifted your skirt a bit to check if the buckle on your sandals had gotten loose. It looked strangely angelic, even if you tried to portray something more sexual. Sure, he hiked up your skirt a little more in the painting to the part where your leg meets your hip. Yet it still looked very innocent. Almost as if you were a voyeur, as if you weren't meant to see this.

One thing that irked you though, Rafayel would not tell you what kind of model painting you missed out on. You would've asked your classmates, but after the initial model painting most of them preferred to work alone to finish the paintings. Understandable, you would've done the same if you were in their shoes.

Today is session 4 and it is still scorching hot. Not ideal weather to seduce your professor in. You opted to wear some linen pants and a loose-fitting cropped shirt. Nothing all that sexy but with temperatures like these, all you want to do is sit naked in front of the aircon.

However, you are excited. The last few sessions you have manged to get Rafayel so worked up that you left him sitting in the studio with a tent in his pants last time. That honestly made you feel great. It made you feel desired and beautiful. A temptress. As you walk through the school, you wonder how far you can push him this time.

When you turn the corner to head to the studio, stirring with anticipation, you see Rafayel waiting for you in front of the studio. Your feet hesitate for a second when he looks your way. Something's different today. There's something in his eyes and his cheeks are flushed. For a second you want to turn around and leave, but then he waves for you to come closer and you do. Your feet carry you to him.

Rafayel answers your questions before you can ask any, 'We're heading into one of the smaller studios today.' A flicker of electricity pulses through you. You look down. Rafayel took your hand in his and is pulling you along. He's excited, surprisingly so. Does he know you put a few condoms in your bag today because you feel like he grovelled enough?

Soon you're walking through parts of the fine arts wing that you don't even know. It's quieter here, more secluded, more private. There's dust on the windowsills so you don't question that this part of the wing isn't used often.

And suddenly you're standing in a very tiny studio, no bigger than a dorm room. Despite its size, the room is lit beautifully. There's a window high up on the wall. High enough that you can just look outside if you stand on your tiptoes. It creates a spotlight of natural light cascading down on the stool that stands in the middle of the room. The walls are a velvety shade of dark blue, almost as if they would feel soft to the touch.

One easel and another stool are already set up with a canvas. It's in the perfect spot for the lighting and you figure Rafayel set it up himself. Against the wall are two large storage shelving units that hold costly and rare paints and other mediums. Ones that you would have to give up food for to afford. Something tells you this is Rafayel's private stash.

'I've never been in this part of the art wing before,' you mumble as you look around the small room. Before you can turn towards Rafayel, you hear a distinct click of the lock being turned. By now, that doesn't disturb you anymore. The door has been locked for every session before this and you figure it might have something to do with Rafayel's impulsivity if you ever give him the slightest idea that something might happen.

'These used to be senior studios, but most seniors prefer to work at home these days,' Rafayel explains, 'most teachers in the art wing have claimed one. This one is mine.' You were right.

'You have two studios? Isn't that a bit excessive?' You turn towards the stool again, wondering how you can best post Rafayel to make him look as angelic as he is.

'Not for moments like these.'

You turn back to him and the whole world falls away. In front of you stands Rafayel, your art teacher, your mentor, the most beautiful man you've ever seen, without a shirt. His shoes are kicked in the corner, socks somewhere on the ground, as he works on the draw string of his creme linen pants.

His eyes meet yours, the hesitation reflected in them as vivid as the rare colours on his storage shelves. You can tell there's a little fear in his eyes at your hesitation. Fear that he read this all wrong, that he's going to fast, that you were just playing around.

'You could've told me I missed a nude painting class,' you manage to utter as you awe at his body. Whichever God he prays to has to like him very much to have granted him that body with that face. It almost seems like a crime. A man like that must have flaws, right?

'Where is the fun in that,' he teases as he pulls the drawstring. He lets go and the pants slide off his body, revealing that he's not wearing anything underneath. For a second, just a second, you want to jump him. Have your hands roaming his body as your eyes are, but your jaw is on the floor and your body is frozen in place.

Meanwhile, Rafayel smirks at you and takes his spot on the stool in the middle of the room. He looks extremely smug and proud. You guess a man like that wouldn't really be insecure about himself. He looks sculpted by the gods, from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. And, God you'd never imagine you'd be thinking this, this man has a beautiful penis. Your mind is already dreaming up what he would look like hard, with that pretty pink tip of his leaking precum.

'How do you want me,' he asks, eyebrow quirking up at the unintentionally suggestive question. Or maybe it is intentional. All this time you thought you were holding all the power, but he is stripped down in front of you and somehow has more control over the situation than you do.

"Focus," you shout in your mind and mentally hit the dirty thoughts out of yourself. But professionalism be damned, you just want to stare at this beautiful man all day. "If only you'd be in a position to capture this very moment right here, now get your mind out of the gutter and paint this beautiful man!"

'Put your foot up a little, yes, beautiful, and turn your shoulders towards me a bit,' you start to direct him. He poses beautifully and you don't doubt he's done this before. He's probably done this so often it is second nature to him. Right? Curiosity gnaws at you as you pick up your charcoal to make a rough sketch. 'Have you modelled for students before?'

'Yes, once.'

'Only once?' He nods. 'Stay still,' you quickly say. He huffs a laugh.

'See,' he offers the moment as proof, 'only once. I was a starving artist and needed money to pay my rent. I saw an advert in the paper and replied. Some of the teachers here recognized me from some magazine interview and the rest is history.'

'That's how you got here? I thought you were a spoiled protege,' you murmur, more to yourself than to him as your rough charcoal outline starts to take shape on the paper.

'Most people think that.' The mood sours and as much as you want to know his whole life story, you are not in a mindset to be appropriate about this right now. You wish you could be, but he doesn't really seem to want to talk about it more either.

'You could've made a killing as a model,' you note, as you start to go in with deeper blacks for the shadows.

'I was gonna say the same about you, cutie,' he teases. You're pulled out of your focus. Cutie? No one has ever called you that before. You've never considered yourself that before.

'Cutie?' He just winks at you. A flush spreads on your cheeks as you try to get back to the work at hand. Rafayel's eyes are glued on you as you take out your eraser to put in some shadows. A long silence falls between the two of you. You wish you could give the silence a name, call it awkward or weird but that's not it. Discomfort is not what you feel, though you wish you would. Instead you just feel an increasing fire building in your chest.

And Rafayel notices.

'You know, it's awfully hot in here. I can't image you're comfortable in all those clothes.' A wicked grin plays on his lips. He tries to hide it but he can't. Not now that he's so close to getting what he wants. You can't blame the guy for trying.

With a pretend exasperated sigh, you pull your top over your head and throw it at him. He catches it with ease, 'Rude,' he huffs, but he is taking a good long look at your newly exposed skin.

And then you see something twitch between his legs. Now you've got two options and one is clearly better than the other.

Option 1, you fuck him right here right now.

Option 2, you fuck him next session. Why next session? It is quite literally the last class of the year. If things get awkward, you won't have to face him until next fall. And if things go right, you've got a whole summer to enjoy them. Plus, more teasing.

You would've picked option two any day. It seems so much more fun. If only it weren't for the fact that you are absolutely feral right now. Suddenly, your shoes are kicked off and joined with Rafayel's in a corner, and your pants are in a pool at your feet as you sit back down on your stool.

For probably the first time in his life, Rafayel is quietly watching. The way he looks at you truly surprises you. All these weeks you've been trying to make sure you look like a sexual object to make sure he understands that this is just sex. Instead, he looks at you like you're a masterpiece. Like every stretch mark, every mole, every dip, every discolouration, every scar, every mark is perfect. All your imperfections, so perfect in his eyes. It makes you feel a little shy until you see something poking up from between his legs.

'You're right. This is much better,' you agree with his previous statement, trying to sound aloof like he usually does after some devious act. He's in absolute awe, looking frozen by your beauty. Rafayel's lips move but, even in the quiet room, you can't hear a single word he's saying. 'What was that?'

'You should finish your drawing.'

'I've lost my focus,' you retort as your hands travel to the edge of your sports bra. Rafayel's eyes are trained on your fingers as you start lifting up the fabric.

'We should do something about that.'

'Like what?' You pull your bra over your head with one swift movement and throw it at him like you had your shirt. That seems enough of an invitation for him. The wicked grin he wore just a minute ago reappears as he gets up from his stool and stalks over to you.

'I have a few things in mind.'

Then, his lips are on yours. Hungry, deprived, messy. Teeth clank against each other as tongues try to discover as much as they can in as little time as possible. Mere seconds pass before you're both breathless and he pulls away to look at you. A string of saliva connects you as both of you scan each other's eyes. Looking for regret, for a reason to stop or keep going.

'Well,' you coax. He breathes out a laugh and starts trailing kisses down your neck. At your collarbones, he leaves a few love bites and moves further down until he's on his knees between your legs, big eyes looking up at you.

Just as you try to hook your fingers on your underwear to pull it down, Rafayel captures both of your wrists and holds them in one hand. His eyes bore into yours expectantly and when you give the slightest nod, he dives right in licking a thick stripe over top of your underwear. You groan and want to reach out for his hair, but your wrists are still captured.

With his free hand, he pulls your panties to the side. 'That's beautiful, make that sound for me again,' he begs before diving in again. It's not surprising that he's incredibly skilled, tethering you to the edge within seconds. But that could also be all the edging you put yourself through in preparation for this day.

'Raf, please, I-'

'You're gonna come already, pretty girl?' His voice is like a purr as he lets go of your wrists to grab your thigh, pulling you to the edge of the stool. Your hand instantly slides into his hair, grabbing a good fist full to ground yourself. 'Give me everything.' It's embarrassing how hard and fast you cum. Truly, you feel like a two-pump chump and you don't even have a dick to pump.

'Shit, Raf, oh my god,' you moan out as he removes his mouth from you. He looks up at you and when you look down at him, he presses a soft kiss to your clit, sending electricity through your body. It's absolutely lewd and dirty. 'If you don't fuck me right now, I will scream.'

Rafayel chuckles as he stands up, pressing kisses to your skin as he rises, 'I thought this was all about you being in control.' His voice makes you shiver. So he did know what you were doing and was playing along.

'I thought so too, but we'll have more than enough time to explore that some other time,' you groan as he latches his lips onto your neck, kissing and biting your sensitive skin, 'I've got condoms in my bag.'

'Don't need 'em,' Rafayel hums in your ear, his hands on your hips, kneading your skin. His thick length rubbing against your stomach, spreading beads of precum on your skin.

'Unless you had a vasectomy and are clean, we do need them,' you argue between moans whilst your hands explore his chest, dipping down every once in a while to tease his v-line.

'Yes, to both of those,' he clarifies, 'but it's your choice.'

For a second, just a second, your hands still and you seriously consider the pros and cons for as far as your fried mind lets you. Rafayel looks down at you with a smirk, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. The whole action is so sweet, so tender, that it completely shuts your brain off. 'Fuck it,' you sigh and pull him closer.

His hands slip under your thighs, picking you up from the stool like you weigh no more than a tube of oil paint. With a swift turn, he presses you up against the wall, lips attacking yours violently. Your bottom lip slips between his teeth as he bites down "gently." The hunger in his kisses makes you think he's close to dying. His hands are everywhere on your body, overwhelming your senses.

His hand moves between your bodies and guides his dick inside you. At first only the head, and then everything all at once. Your fingers dig into his back as you curse his ancestors for giving him all the good genes. 'Shit, you're taking me so well,' he groans, head dipping to your neck to leave another bruising kiss there.

He sets a gruelling pace, stealing all the air out of your lungs as you gasp and whimper. Rafayel's hand is still between your bodies, teasing your clit with his thumb whilst holding you up with one arm. Your back hurts, moving against the wall. Sadly, the velvety paint doesn't take away the sandpaper-like texture of the walls.

'Raf, ah, the wall,' you whine, 'it hurts.' Truly, you don't want him to move. The orgasm approaching you doesn't want you in any other position than the one you are in right now.

'I know baby, just a little longer,' he groans, biting down on your skin once more. He keeps pounding into you relentlessly while you try to stay still to minimize the impact, but your brain is fried and a slut for pleasure. With his hands on your clit and his cock rubbing inside your gummy walls, you can feel yourself lose control.

'Raf, I'm-' He shushes you gently. 'I know, I know, let go baby. Come on,' he beckons, keeping his fingers and hips moving at a steady pace. Your walls flutter at his words. 'There you go, give it to me.'

'Shit, Raf, cu-cumming,' you stutter as his teeth sink into your skin again. His hips falter as he snaps them up inside you and keeps them there. You feel his hot cum coat you from the inside as your walls start to spasm, your nails digging into his back roughly, legs pulling him impossibly close.

His hips snap against you a few more times. Sloppy, uncoordinated, passionate. Your brain is a mess and so are you. In truth, you could go again. But as your breathing steadies and the fog in your brain clears up, you suddenly realised you just fucked your professor in the school.

'This is so wrong,' you mumble with a laugh. Rafayel's teeth let go of your skin and he looks down at you as he puts lets you down. You feel like Bambi, the way your legs are shaking.

'What is?'

You gesture around you vaguely, 'All of this.'

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just a roommate thing | kim mingyu

SYNOPSIS. in which playful flirting between you and your roommate has always been the norm, but how does that help with how you really feel towards him? PAIRING. kim mingyu x gn!reader (ft. seokmin) GENRE. fluff, humour?, roommates (and prob idiots) to lovers WARNINGS. cursing, slightly suggestive, just... flirting?, reader is shorter than him, mingyu is shirtless, reader is referred as "princess" once, mentioned that reader is wearing makeup, reader dislikes pizza for the sake of plot sorry to my pizza lovers HAHAHA, reader is gender neutral but they briefly compare themselves to another girl, kissing WORD COUNT. 5.2k

requested by anon: Hii, I wanna request a Mingyu fic where him and reader are roomies and they’re very lovey dovey ig but “jokingly”. But then reader is like trying to go on dates and stuff and Mingyus jealous💀 idk man

notes: this was actually a random request that i started months ago and suddenly decided i wanted to finish RIGHT NOW when i was scrolling thru drafts. no idea if the anon who sent this remembers this but um... yeah ! lowk turned out a bit of a mess i think this plot sounded better in my head, enjoy nonetheless :')

You like to think that being roommates with Kim Mingyu is both a blessing and a curse.

You used to believe that having your very first roommate straight up abandon you at the very beginning of the semester was something you could pull off with, because you'd rather be living alone than living with someone you can hardly vibe with. It worked for a while, until the housing department paired you with Kim Mingyu: tall, obnoxiously handsome, ridiculously muscular for seriously no goddamn reason at all, annoyingly charming, and a goofy smile that could light up a room.

Any person would probably kill to be in your place right now, but sometimes you think you'd rather trade places with the pigeons outside your window. Mingyu wasn't a bad roommate𑁋far from it, actually. He kept the apartment spotless, never hogged the bathroom, and even cooks mean late-night ramen whenever you both are drowning in deadlines.

But the problem was, Mingyu was also excruciatingly touchy. Not in a creepy way, but more like a human koala bear who couldn't seem to function without some form of physical contact. Whether it was ruffling your hair as you walked past him, casually draping his arm over your shoulder while watching a movie together, or sneaking up behind you to give you a surprise bear hug while you cooked, there was a line between friendly and... something more.

It was comfortable, almost too comfortable. You told yourself it was just a roommate thing, just a Mingyu thing𑁋that you were both really good friends who happened to be a little more affectionate than most. But you seriously want to smack his head sometimes. And maybe your own too, even if you secretly like the attention. Because deep down, you know there's nothing casual about the way you feel about Mingyu.

But lately, for God's sake, you don't know how much more you can handle.

"Need any help with that?" Mingyu's voice snatches your attention from your aimless stirring of some cookie dough, and your eyes nearly bulge out of your skull.

Here he is. Kim Mingyu in all his glory𑁋shirtless with a towel in-hand dabbing at his dripping strands of hair, his tan skin glistening with droplets of water from the shower. You try your best to keep your gaze focused on the cookie dough in front of you, trying to ignore the way his damp hair sticks to his forehead and how the sight of his abs are practically boring into your soul, but that's easier said than done.

Your throat tightens, and you let out a cough.

"Yeah, um...." You let your eyes drift down to the plain-looking batter of cookie dough in front of you. "Can you grab some chocolate chips from the pantry?"

Mingyu just raises a brow, throwing the towel over his shoulder. "Sure thing, princess."

You feel your cheeks burn unpleasantly at the playful nickname, and you mutter a quick thanks as he saunters past, the scent of his shampoo trailing behind him. You focus back on stirring, trying to ignore the pounding in your chest and the way your fingers fumble against the spoon.

He returns with a bag of chocolate, and as he leans over to pour some into the bowl, your arms brushing lightly. A jolt shoots through you, and you almost drop the spoon. He pauses, eyes meeting yours for a fraction of a second, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them before you get yourself back to mixing the dough again.

"Here, let me help you," Mingyu offers, his hand brushing against yours as he reaches over to try to grab the spoon from your grasp. You can practically feel the warmth of his body radiating through his bare arm.

You let out a scoff, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. "I can handle it, Gyu."

He just chuckles, and the sound seems to send shivers down your spine.

"Nonsense," he insists adamantly, tone playful but there's a pinch of softness in there too. "Two hands are twice as fast, right?"

You roll your eyes in slight annoyance, but a small smile tugs at your lips nonetheless.

"More like twice as messy." Yet you end up surrendering the spoon to him anyway, because simply saying no to him is a strenuous thing to do over anything else. His hand meets yours halfway, fingers touching against your knuckles as he snatches the whisk from your hands.

The heat from his hand lingers even after he pulls away, and you find yourself unable to tear your gaze from him, mesmerised by the way his biceps flex, the way his hair falls in messy dark strands across his forehead, the way his lips curve as he focuses on whisking in a way that's both infuriating and endearing.

But amidst this, you can't help but feel the nagging feeling settling at the pit of your stomach.

"So, what's the occasion?" Mingyu's voice interrupts your thoughts, pulling you back to reality.

You blink, momentarily caught off guard by the question. "Huh?"

Mingyu chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I mean, you don't usually bake cookies on a random Wednesday night. Is there something special going on?"

You swallow, feeling your mind draw a blank, trying to come up with a nonchalant answer. "Oh, you know... just felt like baking."

Mingyu just scoffs, clearly not buying your words. "Come on, Y/N. You're a terrible liar."

God, how can he always see right through you? Does he have some sort of sixth sense? And yet, even despite the discomfort of being so transparent, there's a strange sense of comfort in knowing that Mingyu can see you for who you truly are, except for the one thing you want him to notice about you.

"Fine." You give in, running a slightly frustrated hand through your hair. "It's... Seokmin."

For just a single, most miniscule moment, Mingyu pauses.

"Seokmin?"

You swear you can feel your feet sinking into quicksand. "The guy from my history class, remember? He... uh, I asked him out the other day."

Mingyu's whisking slows down as he processes your words, and you can see a flicker of something in his eyes. But before you can dwell on it further, he masks it with a faint smirk.

"You asked him out?" he asks, as if still trying to wrap his head around it.

"Yeah, I..." You seriously want to sew your mouth shut right now. "I thought I would, um, you know... put myself out there for once."

You watch as Mingyu throws another handful of chocolate chips into the batter, a little more forcefully this time, the clatter against the metal bowl echoing in the sudden silence. You find yourself unable to tear your gaze away from the way his jaw clenches and unclenches.

"So," he continues, seemingly unfazed. "what did he say?"

You hesitate, watching as his hands work the dough, mind whirling with confusion and caution.

"He... um, he said yes."

"Huh," Mingyu murmurs, tone teasing. "And here I thought I was the only one who got to enjoy your company."

His words jab at your heart, a pang of guilt twisting around in your stomach, but you try to brush it off with a forced chuckle.

"You know you're irreplaceable, Gyu."

Mingyu's gaze flickers to yours, and for a moment, you catch a glimpse of... something in his eyes. But before you can decipher it, he offers you a tight-lipped smile, the kind that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Right," he replies casually. "I'm glad you think so."

Mingyu is wearing one of your hoodies.

Sure, you've worn a couple hoodies and sweatshirts that he has given to you out of practicality as they were really oversized and comfortable. But here, in the middle of your kitchen, highlighted under the warm glow of the overhead light and the aroma of cooked ramen, seeing Mingyu draped in your favourite oversized, white hoodie felt awfully intimate, and it brings that overwhelming flutter to your chest.

"Hey," he greets you when you walk in. "How was the date?"

You can still hardly believe what you're seeing right now, gaze staring at the way the fabric seems to cling at this broad frame, and your own lips doesn't seem to be functioning correctly.

"It was, uh... it was good," You manage to stammer out, feeling heat creep up your cheeks and forcing your gaze away from the way Mingyu rolls up his sleeves. "He liked the cookies."

"He liked the cookies?" Mingyu raises an amused brow, leaning against the counter with a casual ease that throws your already flustered mind into further disarray.

You shrug, feeling like your burying yourself down into an inescapable hole. "Yeah, he did. We, uh, had a meal at the park, talked for a while, the usual stuff, you know."

Some silence stretches between you, filled with the soft sizzle of the ramen and the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. You watch the way Mingyu twirls the noodles around a pair of chopsticks, before shutting off the heat of the stove.

"Are you wearing my hoodie?" You ask as he's taking a sip of the soup, the question tumbling out of your mouth before you can stop it. "I swear I've been looking for that one for ages."

Mingyu looks down at himself as if he remembering what he's wearing, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips, and he scratches the back of his neck in a gesture that's so uniquely him𑁋it makes your heart ache.

"I... forgot to do my laundry, and it was the first thing I could find," he admits, then takes a sip of the ramen, eyes meeting yours briefly before dropping back down to the bowl. "Looks comfy on me, though, doesn't it?"

He wasn't wrong. It usually engulfed you, but it hung loosely on Mingyu's bigger frame, the sleeves pushed up past his elbows to reveal his strong forearms.

"Well," You say, clearing your throat. "I wouldn't mind having it back, actually. It's my favourite."

"Yeah?" he tests playfully, raising a mischievous eyebrow. "I don't know, it looks pretty good on me."

You watch as he flexes his arm playfully, making the fabric of the hoodie stretch across his bicep. You can't help but let out a small, choked laugh, feeling a warmth bloom in your chest despite yourself.

"Oh, come on," You fret, trying to keep your voice light. "You got plenty of hoodies, dude."

But Mingyu just takes another casual sip of his ramen, his expression calm.

"Maybe," he says finally. "But this one smells good. It smells like you."

You freeze up. It smells... like me? Well, obviously, it fucking does𑁋

"Just bring it back to me when you're done with it," You say almost lamely, unsure if you wanted to laugh or flee to your room and hide.

"I mean, if you want it so bad I can take it off right no𑁋"

"No! Don't do that. Oh my gosh," You shoot a glare towards him, pursing your lips together tightly at the sight of him reaching for the ends of the hoodie like he was actually about to take it off... right in front of you. "You know what? I'm tired. Goodnight."

You're already marching off to your room in the middle of Mingyu bringing another mouthful of ramen into his mouth.

"Hey!" he calls out to you, nearly spitting out noodles in the process. "Where's my goodnight hug?"

You freeze at that in the middle of your doorway. Seriously, are you really in this deep to the point that you've made it a habit to hug each other before going to bed?

You hardly register Mingyu coming up from behind once you turn around to see him. His mouth is drooped into a pout, eyes half-lidded as he gazes at you expectantly. It’s ridiculous how effortlessly adorable he looks, and your need to be annoyed at him falters each passing second.

"Fine," You relent, stepping forward to give him a very brief, obligatory hug. But the moment you feel his strong arms wrap around you even more, you know it’s not going to be a quick one.

Mingyu’s warmth seeps through the layers of your clothes and down to your core, and you find yourself relaxing against him, as if it was a natural response for your body to do. He squeezes you a little tighter, letting his chin resting lightly on top of your head. A low sigh escapes him.

"Goodnight, Y/N."

You close your eyes, only for a moment, letting yourself relinquish the way he holds you. It feels like everything you’ve been trying to ignore𑁋all laid bare in the simple act of a hug.

"Goodnight, Gyu."

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look down at you, the features to his face softer than you’ve ever seen it. For a moment, you think he might say something more, because his lips seem to attempt at forming a word, yet nothing comes out. But then he simply smiles, and the seconds finally pass.

"Sleep well," he says quietly, releasing you reluctantly, and giving you a gentle pat on the head before heading back to the kitchen.

You have your next date with Seokmin a week later.

You told Mingyu ahead of time as well, and he reacted the same way as last time𑁋nonchalant, playful, a pinch of tease, an averted gaze down towards his phone, and simply bidding you with a have a good time. It was hard to tell if he was genuinely unbothered or if he was just playing it cool, and the thought sort of irked you the entire day.

After Seokmin dropped you off home, you find yourself standing in front of the door to your place, as if you're trying to laser a hole through it with your eyes. Yet you simply huff a breath, fumble with getting the keys out of your bag and inserting it into the keyhole, before stepping inside.

And the fresh smell of food hits you.

It's really hard to not acknowledge the fact that Mingyu is quite literally a living, breathing chef sleeping in the same apartment as you.

Mingyu turns his head around, noticing you standing in the doorway, and lets his gaze scan over you from head to toe. He could see the bits of extra effort you put into your appearance today that he wasn't able to see earlier as he was out. There was a pink colour that dusted over your cheeks of the blush you probably put, a bit of glimmer to your eyes from some eyeshadow, and your lips glossed with a soft sheen that catches the kitchen light just right.

"Hey," he lets out airily, watching you place your bag on the table. "How was the date?"

You run a hand through your hair. "It was... It was good. Seokmin's really nice. He took me to a pizza place."

Mingyu stills at that for a second, lifting a brow in question. "I thought you don't like pizza."

"Well, yeah, but I said it was fine so𑁋"

"If he was going to take you out on more dates, then he should know what kinds of places you don't like to eat."

"I said I was fine with it, Gyu," You retort a bit harshly, immediately regretting your tone in the silence that instantly engulfs the two of you. "We ended up having a good time anyway."

The sounds of something cooking reverberate throughout your shared place. You watch the way Mingyu stirs something in a large pot with a pair of chopsticks, before taking it out, blowing on it a few times, and taking it into his mouth for a brief taste test.

When he puts the chopsticks back down and kills the heat on the stove, he faces back to you with his hands placed firmly on the counter.

"Did you two do anything else?"

The smell of the food makes your stomach rumble quietly, but you attempt to conceal it with clearing your throat. "What do you mean?"

"Like..." Mingyu motions something with his hands and you could only peer at him quizzically. "Like have you𑁋"

"Are… Are you about to ask me if we kissed?" You nearly want to scoff at that. "Do I look like the kind of person that kisses on the second date?"

Mingyu just laughs, tilting his head to the side slightly. "I don't know. Do you?"

All you do is shrug your shoulders, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck. "Well, no, we didn't kiss. We just... talked."

Mingyu seems to take in your words for a second, before nodding slowly. "Okay. That's... That's good."

The way he says it makes you feel a bit uneasy. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, suddenly acutely aware of how tired you are, both from the evening and from this conversation. Mingyu glances at you again, something apologetic forming in his eyes.

"Sorry," he says quietly. "I didn't mean to pry. I just don't want you to get hurt."

"I know, it's... fine," You reply, though you're not sure if it is. "I'm just tired."

Mingyu gestures over to the pot on the stove. "I made some food if you're hungry."

You walk to the side of the kitchen where he's at, taking a peek inside the pot. "Is it...?"

"Yep!" Mingyu exclaims excitedly and steps up beside you, where you could practically feel his presence lingering right on your skin. "My signature jjajangmyeon. Your favourite."

Your stomach rumbles again, and you swear Mingyu hears it from the way his lips quirk up in a smirk down at you. You almost want to (affectionately) shove that expression off his face, but you don't, because his gaze toward you relaxes when you look back up at him. It's a look that feels familiar, comforting, and slightly intimidating all at once.

You feel your heart clench tightly in your chest.

"I'm starting to think," Seokmin starts, loudly slurping up his cup of boba tea. "that this is a very bad idea."

You grimly shove the straw through the plastic and take a long sip, the flavours from the drink bursting in your mouth as you do so. You hear the loud screech of Seokmin bringing his chair closer to the table.

"I'm starting to think it is too."

Seokmin's eyes widen. "You are?" Then he scoots himself closer to you almost pleadingly. "Does that mean you're gonna tell him?"

"I..." You mentally want to facepalm yourself right now. "I don't know."

"Y/N!"

"I know! I know! I'm a coward!" You bury your face in your arms for a moment, letting out a few muffled groans at the cold surface of the table. "We're literally roommates and it complicates everything! There are times where I feel like there's just something a little... more to us, you know? I mean, do you usually give goodnight hugs to your roommate?"

Seokmin snorts a little at that. "I don't think Minghao would like it if I did that to him."

"Okay, okay. Just𑁋If your roommate wasn't Minghao and someone you liked, would you give them goodnight hugs too?"

You could tell Seokmin is genuinely thinking about the question. His lips purse together in thought, his hand running over the sides of his cup.

"If I liked them, I'd probably find any excuse to be close to them. Like sharing food, doing little favours here and there, wanting to hug them and stuff like that..." Seokmin admits a bit bashfully. "Isn't that what he does to you?"

"Yes, and it's driving me absolutely bonkers. And he... He knows a lot about me, you know? We've had, like, late-night talks and stuff. I've never gotten close with any other person like that. He's just so... ugh!" You glance up at Seokmin with helpless eyes. "Sorry for dragging you into this mess, Seokmin."

Seokmin chuckles lightly. "Hey, I only agreed to be your fake boyfriend because I owed you for saving my grades in class. I didn't realise the extent of how bad this is."

You glare at him playfully at that, lightly swatting him on the arm, but Seokmin just manages to dodge it and swipe your cup of boba tea away from you.

"Okay, but, hypothetically speaking. Let's say he does like you..."

You snatch your drink back and take a long sip, catching a boba pearl between your teeth. "Mhm..."

"And I know the whole point of this was to see if he'll get jealous," Seokmin continues. "but let's say he does like you, wouldn't that mean you're kind of... playing with his feelings?"

Seokmin's words make you pause mid-sip. With the straw between your lips, you contemplate his question as you stare blankly at the swirling boba tea. Playing with Mingyu's feelings𑁋could that really be what you're doing? The whole fake dating plan had started as a test of sorts to see if Mingyu would show any signs of jealousy. But now, as you're sitting here with Seokmin, you're starting to think you might have fucked up a bit. Maybe a lot.

"Because I think from all the details that you told me and how he acts around you," Seokmin pauses and fixes up his posture, looking at you with a lighthearted yet serious expression. "it sounds like he likes you. And if he does, pretending to date me is just going to hurt him. Or confuse him. Or both."

Your mind races with Seokmin's words, and you feel a pang of guilt settling in your chest. "You think so?"

"I think it's pretty obvious, honestly."

"That's not reassuring at all."

"Well, you never know!" Seokmin exclaims. "Look, I'm no love expert. Maybe you two have been pining for each other the entire year but just don't have the guts to say anything about it. And if that's the case, you owe me another free meal, or a few them. You owe me another three free meals!"

You scoff at that before bringing the straw up to your mouth again, hoping that you could drink away the heat blooming within your face.

"Ugh, I'm getting headache𑁋"

"Isn't that Mingyu right there?"

You nearly spit out your drink at that, swearing you could hear the snap of your neck as you bring your head up to where Seokmin is looking with wide eyes. And low and behold, you spot Mingyu entering inside the boba shop.

He's not alone though; he's with a girl.

You feel your heart drop down to your feet as you watch them approach to the ordering counter. They seem comfortable with one another, even if you can't hear what they're saying, their easy smiles and relaxed body language twisting your insides into knots. Mingyu leans in slightly, saying something that makes the girl laugh, and you can't help but notice how effortlessly he charms her, just like he does with everyone.

A tap lands on your shoulder, and you face away to see Seokmin looking at you with worried eyes.

"Do you want to leave?" he mouths to you quietly.

You glance back toward Mingyu and the girl, and the second you see them turning in your direction, you shift uncomfortably in your seat, the chair letting out an earth-shattering squeak.

And you freeze up.

"Y/N?"

You slowly turn around to see Mingyu and the girl approach the table. The first thing you notice is how pretty she looks, her long, flowing hair showering down her shoulders in soft waves. There's a cheery, whimsical aura that you can sense from her, and that seems to be enough to convince yourself that's the kind of personality that Mingyu likes.

"Hey," Mingyu calls out to you again, a smile to his face once he realises it's really you. Briefly, however, his lips seem to straighten out when he shoots a glance toward Seokmin. "I didn't know the two of you came here for your date."

Seokmin laughs a bit too obviously. "Yeah, man, what a coinc𑁋"

"We were just leaving, actually." You swiftly grab Seokmin by the wrist, tugging him toward you. Then you offer nothing but an unsteady grin. "I'll see you later, Mingyu."

You drag Seokmin out of the shop before hearing whatever Mingyu was saying, your heart pounding like a damn drum in your chest. You don't look back until you're safely outside and a long distance away.

You let go of Seokmin's hand to catch your breath. And when you manage to pick yourself back up, Seokmin's already peering at you with an amused look.

"What was that?" he asks airily, arching up a single brow. "Did you just run away from your roommate?"

"Be quiet," You hiss back at him, attempting to shove him but failing miserably. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Uh-huh, you hear that?" Seokmin taunts annoyingly, tapping his foot on the ground. "That's the sound of jealousy."

You gulp down a lump in your throat. He's right. You are jealous.

"Dammit," You curse to yourself. "The whole fake dating thing... It was stupid. I thought that, maybe, if Mingyu got jealous, it would mean something. But now, seeing him with that girl..."

"It hit you hard."

"Yeah," You finish simply. "It did."

"And so..." Seokmin lightly nudges you with his hip. "what will the answer be?"

You only narrow your eyes at him, and the resigned sigh that you let out afterwards is enough to send Seokmin's excitement into orbit.

"Yes!" He grabs you by the shoulders and shakes you relentlessly. "I'm getting free food!"

Hours pass, and the ache in your chest hasn't eased.

You find yourself melting into the couch, anxiously tugging the ends of your sleeves as you replay the scene over and over back at the boba place. This stupid plan really had backfired on you big time, like a slap to the face, a punch to the gut, a kick to the heart𑁋all in one go.

Every detail from the way Mingyu and that girl walked in together, the ease with which they interacted, and the pang you felt in your chest from how perfect they appeared right next to each other𑁋it all played on a loop in your mind. You knew now that you have to confront your feelings, but the thought of it makes your stomach twist into a pretzel.

There's some random show playing on the TV in front of you, but you could care less at paying attention to it. The apartment is still quiet since Mingyu wasn't back yet, and you could only clench your fists together in a suppressed fit of panic.

"You're an idiot," You scold yourself, closing your eyes tightly. "A complete idiot. How could you be so stupid𑁋"

A rattle at the locks on the door shuts you up, and maybe the world stops spinning too. You feel yourself sink more into the couch out of anticipation.

When the door swings open, Mingyu steps inside, and you hear the rustling sounds of plastic bags. He peers around the apartment for a moment, and when his eyes land on you, he visibly relaxes.

"Y/N?" Even knowing that he's here, his voice still seems to catch you off-guard every single time. "I brought some ice cream for𑁋"

"I'm not dating Seokmin."

The silence that follows is almost suffocating. Mingyu drops the bag of ice cream on top of the kitchen counter, his gaze still not leaving yours. He blinks a few times, as if processing what you just said.

"You're... not?"

You shake your head, a knot forming in your throat. This is it.

"No, Gyu, I'm not dating him," You clarify, tone more serious this time. "We never dated. It was all fake."

All Mingyu does is continue to stand there under the dim lighting of the kitchen light. You can hardly decipher the expression on his face; it was something between confusion and surprise. You try to catch for signs of disappointment, but when he steps a tad bit closer to you, your mind goes a bit haywire.

"Why?" he finally questions after what seems like an eternity.

You take in a deep breath. "I was... I was stupid, okay? I... I thought that if I could make you jealous, it would mean something. That it would mean..." There's a brief pause as you rekindle yourself. "...that you liked me too."

Mingyu's brows furrow slightly in confusion, and you can't tell if the situation is getting worser or not; if the room was getting hotter and your skin was at the point of boiling; if all of this was already tumbling down before your eyes.

"Look, I know we're roommates. But sometimes I think𑁋I feel like there's more to that. We always hug… and flirt, and I..." You purse your lips together as your tongue struggles to grasp the right words. "I like you, okay? I fell for your stupid smile, your stupid hugs, your stupidly good cooking skills. I fell for everything about you. And I couldn't tell you that because I was scared of fucking everything up."

The room seems to hold its breath as you finish speaking. You feel awfully vulnerable right now, like you've laid bare your heart and soul and every single one of your insecurities. Mingyu only remains still, his eyes with surprise. The silence stretches on, and you find yourself gathering your thoughts together as if sensing impending doom.

You let your shoulders slouch in defeat. "It's fine if you don't feel the same way, we could just𑁋"

"I was jealous."

"𑁋pretend all this never happened𑁋what?"

"Of course I was jealous, Y/N." Mingyu runs a hand through his hair, the action all too endearing. "I was stupid too. For not telling you. For not taking the chance when I could. I was jealous when you talked about Seokmin, but I was also a coward for not wanting to screw anything up.”

You could only knit your brows together dazedly, gazing up at him as if he's said a foreign language. "You... were jealous? What about... what about the girl from earlier?"

"She's just a classmate from my English class, and she's interested in one of my other friends. We just happened to cross paths and I offered to grab boba so I could help her with𑁋"

"Shut up," You suddenly say firmly, and Mingyu does immediately, his focused, half-lidded eyes boring down into yours with a look that sends a jump to your stomach. That was all that you need to hear.

He's practically looming above you. You don't recall how exactly he got closer to you but you have nothing in you to complain. If anything, your feet drag you closer toward him, close enough you're able to smell the faint scent of his cologne and perhaps hear the way his heart is beating just as fast as yours.

With one of your hands, you reach up slowly, letting your fingers toy carefully with the collar of his shirt as you search his eyes for any sign of hesitation. But Mingyu's gaze softens, probably like it always has when he's with you, his breath hitching slightly as your touch lingers on his shirt, curling more into the fabric.

Then your lips tug up into a faint smirk, and you pull him down just slightly.

"Don't make me regret this, Kim Mingyu," is all you say before closing the gap and pressing your mouth against his.

He nearly melts right there at the touch of your lips together, but it doesn’t take him long to be kissing you back with more desperation than you expected. His hands slowly draw down your sides, bringing you even further into his embrace. The briefest contact of the tips of his fingers under your shirt makes you tense.

“I won’t,” he whispers in between kisses. “I won’t.”

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[oatmealmika]

Law as your lover headcanon? (:

a/n : thank you for being patient with this request, anon!!! many virtual kisses coming your way <3

warnings : not proofread, not explicit smut, traumatized law, angst

word count : 684

loving law sounds like a hozier song. each night after the hardships of your daytime lives, you hold each other tight as you bask in his natural warmth. for a man who’s gone through so much heart-wrenching pain, his body wasn’t cold… a signifier that he was alive… his big hand circles your back, his strong, arched nose nuzzles into the crook of your neck. you longed for time to just pause at this very moment. you hated time with all you were.

at first, law didn’t want to fall in love. corazon showed him how bright love could be, but he couldn’t get hurt again. it’d shatter him if he had to lose anymore fractions of his soul. but when his days grew sunnier, even deep in the sea inside of his submarine, he knew he couldn’t fight how he felt.

one late night, you and law stayed in the kitchen talking. believe it or not, law was the one to confess. and once he opened his mouth, he couldn’t stop all the words from just flooding out. somehow, for the first time ever, the universe had to be on his side, because when a gleam crossed your face, he knew that night would forever be engraved into law’s soul.

he never thought he’d be such a romantic, and he failed to even notice it before shachi and penguin pointed it out to him. reflecting on it, he could acknowledge that he was a little bit… flowery, with his love: breakfast in bed, baths together, doing your laundry, and subconsciously following you around the submarine all day.

but he isn’t always the best lover. he definitely has his flaws, and nothing like this speaks louder than how he would push you away at the beginning of your relationship.

he was frightened. the thing the worst generation captain worth three billion berries was most scared of was undoubtedly opening his heart back up. in attempts to pushing you away, he’d make smartass remarks after the things you said, he’d suddenly act as if he didn’t love you, he’d prove to himself that he didn’t deserve you. you deserved someone who wasn’t so broken.

this was the roughest patch of your relationship. it didn’t end until you came crying to him, pleading the reason why he toyed with your heart so badly. and that was that. something inside him woke up, something that had been asleep ever since corazon died. he decided that, as long as he kept you alive and he was the one that had to die first, it’d be alright…

letting himself fall in love was the most freeing experience of his life. a huge weight lifted from his shoulders, his vision seemed clearer, and he felt the sun peep from behind the silhouettes of all the people behind him who wanted him to open his heart again.

falling asleep becomes easier, for you both. with the knowledge that no one could ever hurt you as long as the other was there. even if you yourself aren’t a good fighter, law knew in his soul that at least you would crave his absence, and that was enough for him.

four to six months into the relationship, you have your first time.

he was a mess. he felt he did so much wrong: cumming before you and rather quickly, whimpering so much that he knew you wouldn’t see him as the tough guy he always paraded around as, and even finishing with tears dripping down his cheeks.

a sense of guilt stung throughout him, but you managed to relax him about it when you sensed his uneasy silence. it took a little convincing that you didn’t mind, but he came around and allowed himself to indulge in another round.

law thought falling in love was out of the question for him before, but with you, he couldn’t believe how easy it was. he made mistakes. so many of them, and he knew there would still be more, but he wanted to figure it all out with you, sitting together for all of eternity.

made by @oatmealmika.

divider by @lavendergalactic.

[goldfades]

family ties | chapter one, DAYLIGHT | burrow⁹

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine it's crucial that we stand in solidarity with those who need our support. right now, the people of palestine are facing unimaginable hardship, and it's up to all of us to do what we can to help. whether it's raising awareness, donating to relief organizations, or supporting calls for justice and peace, every action counts. we can amplify their voices, shed light on their struggles, and work towards a future where every individual can live with dignity and freedom. your support can make a difference!

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MASTERLIST

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 3.7k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | the youngest kelce has spent her whole life navigating the chaos of her famous last name, always lingering in the background while her brothers took center stage. but when travis falls for taylor swift, she suddenly finds herself feeling like a third wheel in her own family. and after your heartbreak with an nba player, you never thought you'd find love again.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | just normal prologue stuff! kelce family bantering, mentions of jayson tatum, olivia h mention (IT WAS FOR THE PLOT I SWEAR), heartbreak (but no graphic descriptions), nothing else!

⟢ ┈ ev's notes: okay listen guys i had to think of a random basketball player and the first one i thought of was jayson tatum. if ur not attracted to him, just like... imagine someone else but the celtics are not mentioned so... it's fine!!!!! it's a minor little detail but yeah!

also, i might change some stuff that was from the OG fic just because it doesn't fit the plot i've made LOL. enjoy!

You were an accident in every possible way.

Born an astounding eight years after Travis, nearly eleven after Jason, you weren’t exactly planned. By the time you came along, your parents had been convinced they were done, their hands already full with two loud, competitive boys who spent more time wrestling in the backyard than sitting still. And then—there was you.

A baby sister in every sense of the word.

Your brothers treated you like some kind of rare, delicate thing at first, unsure what to do with you other than stare into your crib and poke at your tiny hands. But that didn’t last long. Before you could even walk, Jason was letting you sit on his lap while he played video games, and Travis had appointed himself your unofficial bodyguard, glaring at anyone who so much as breathed in your direction.

You grew up surrounded by chaos—loud dinners, backyard football games that almost always ended in someone getting tackled too hard, and a house full of laughter. Your parents tried their best to raise you with the same principles that had shaped your brothers, but you were different from the start.

Where Jason was responsible and steady, you were restless. Where Travis was loud and the life of the party, you were observant.

It wasn’t that you were quiet—no one raised in a Kelce household could be described as quiet—but you learned early on how to move through the world a little differently. Being the youngest meant you had to be quick-witted, fast on your feet, and always ready to hold your own. If you didn’t, you’d get run over.

By the time you hit high school, you had learned how to use your last name to your advantage. It got you free drinks at parties, easier conversations with teachers, and a built-in reputation before you ever had to prove yourself. But it also came with expectations—the kind that lingered over you like a shadow.

People expected you to be just like your brothers.

Maybe a little wild, maybe a little reckless. Definitely athletic. Definitely loud.

And you were some of those things.

You were an athlete, sure—your dad would’ve had an aneurysm if you weren’t—but not in the way people wanted. You had a sharp competitive streak, but you never cared about being the best. You played because it was fun, because it was expected, because you liked the feeling of winning, but you never had dreams of making it big. Not like Jason. Not like Travis.

And as for being reckless? You were a Kelce, so it was in your blood. But you were also smart. Calculated. Where Travis would throw himself into anything just to see what would happen, you thought three steps ahead. You weren’t scared of getting into trouble, but you were good at avoiding it.

That was the thing about growing up the way you did—watching your brothers carve their paths before you. You learned how to navigate things differently. You let them be the loudest people in the room while you played the long game, slipping through cracks unnoticed until you wanted to be noticed.

You didn’t date much in high school—not seriously, anyway. Not because people didn’t try (being a Kelce came with its perks), but because most boys were too intimidated by the idea of dating Jason and Travis Kelce’s little sister. You never really minded. Most of the guys at your school weren’t worth your time, anyway.

But you did notice the way people looked at you.

The way guys wanted to say they had a shot with you, even if they never tried. The way girls sometimes whispered about you, speculating if you were actually as down-to-earth as you pretended to be. The way teachers expected you to either be a slacker or a prodigy, like there was no in-between.

You weren’t sure when exactly you started feeling like an enigma—like people had decided who you were before you even had a chance to figure it out for yourself.

Maybe it was when your friends started bringing you to parties just because your last name got you through the door. Maybe it was when people started assuming you were only where you were because of your family. Maybe it was when you realized that, no matter what you did, you’d always be compared to the brothers who came before you.

By the time you graduated, you had perfected the art of keeping people at a distance. You knew how to smile just enough to be approachable, how to joke just enough to make people like you. But you also knew how to keep things yours.

And so you did.

You left home with the intention of making a name for yourself—outside of football, outside of the Kelce legacy. You weren’t running away from it, exactly. You just needed something that was yours alone.

And for the most part, you succeeded.

You built a life that had nothing to do with your last name. You found your own friends, your own career, your own world. You managed to exist outside of the NFL bubble, despite how often it tried to pull you back in. And for years, that was enough.

You were nineteen when you met Jayson Tatum.

Nineteen and reckless in the way only someone on the verge of something monumental can be—when success feels inevitable, and the world hasn’t yet taught you how cruel it can be. You had grown up in the shadows of your last name, in the periphery of stadium lights, in the echoes of your brothers’ roaring crowds. But Jayson was the first person who made you feel like the center of something.

You weren’t naïve. You knew what it meant to love someone like him—someone whose name was already in the rafters, whose presence carried weight before he even walked into a room. He was smooth, confident, charming in that way that made you want to believe him. And maybe that was the problem: you did.

It started fast, the way these things always do. Courtside seats, late-night flights, whispered phone calls from different time zones. He made you feel special, called you his “genius,” said he had never met someone like you before. But love with him always came with conditions. He loved you, but he wanted you to fit into his world, to mold yourself into the spaces left between his career, his schedule, his life. And you tried. God, you tried. You sat in the stands, smiled for the cameras, learned the rhythms of his world even when he never bothered to learn yours.

And it was never enough.

It was always push and pull, a constant cycle of breaking and rebuilding. He would tell you he couldn’t do it anymore, that you were too much, that he needed someone who understood his life. And then weeks later, he’d be back, whispering apologies, promising he had figured it out this time. And you—stupid, hopeful, nineteen, then twenty, then twenty-one—kept believing him.

Until December 2022. The last time. The worst time.

You had always been careful, always known how to exist just outside the spotlight, but this time, the breakup wasn’t just yours. It was public. Messy. Everywhere. Headlines dissecting your relationship, tabloids picking apart your heartbreak like it was something they were entitled to. Your face plastered across the internet, grainy photos of you leaving restaurants, ducking into cars, standing alone in a crowd. Strangers speculating about you, about him, about what went wrong, about whether you were as heartbroken as they hoped you’d be.

And the worst part? You were. You just didn’t want them to know it.

You had never cared about fame—not like that, not in the way the world suddenly seemed to demand from you. You weren’t built for it, for the attention, for the scrutiny, for the way people suddenly decided you were interesting now that you were broken.

It was the lowest you had ever been.

After that, you buried yourself in work, in building something no one could take from you. You stopped trusting the cameras, stopped giving interviews, stopped letting people in. And love? Love became something you didn’t have time for. Something you couldn’t afford.

Not until Joe. But that was another story.

⟢ JULY 2023

The Kelces did the Fourth of July the same way they did everything else—loud, chaotic, and with enough food to feed an army.

The backyard was still a mess from the day’s events. Empty plates stacked on tables, beer bottles scattered across the deck, remnants of water balloons forgotten in the grass. The kids had long since crashed, curled up in the living room after a full day of running around, and your parents had finally turned in for the night. That left just the three of you—Jason, Travis, and you—lingering in the kitchen, picking at the last of the food and settling in for what was, by tradition, gossip hour.

Jason was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, looking half-exhausted, half-amused as he nursed what was probably his final beer of the night. Kylie had gone upstairs an hour ago, throwing a “don’t let him stay up too late” over her shoulder before disappearing. Travis was still riding the high of a long day—barefoot, tanned from the sun, and grinning like he knew something you didn’t.

You, for your part, were perched on the counter, sipping a Coke because you had a feeling one of you needed to remain at least somewhat coherent.

“So, uh,” Travis started, reaching for the last deviled egg on the platter. “Speaking of cool people, guess who I started talking to?”

Jason shot him a tired look. “Oh, here we go.”

You glanced between them. “What do you mean, talking to?”

Travis grinned. “Taylor Swift.”

You blinked. “What?”

Jason groaned, running a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ, Trav.”

“What?” Travis said, clearly enjoying himself. “It’s not a big deal.”

You snorted. “You just casually dropped Taylor Swift into the conversation like it’s the weather. That’s not normal.”

Jason pointed at you. “Exactly. Thank you.”

Travis rolled his eyes, shoving the deviled egg into his mouth. “It’s not like that. We’ve just been texting. I shot my shot, and what do you know? The Kelce charm works.”

Jason looked unimpressed. “Define ‘texting.’”

Travis chewed thoughtfully. “Like… texting.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Travis.”

He smirked. “Okay, fine. I invited her to a game. She didn’t come, but she thought it was funny. We started talking. She’s cool as hell.”

You stared at him, processing. “Hold on. You shot your shot with Taylor Swift—arguably the biggest pop star in the world—by inviting her to a football game?”

Travis shrugged. “I mean, yeah.”

Jason huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “I hate that it worked.”

You leaned forward, intrigued now. “Wait, so what do you guys talk about?”

Travis grinned. “Oh, you know. Life. Music. Football. Friendship bracelets.”

Jason made a strangled noise. “I swear to God—”

“I’m serious!” Travis held up his hands. “She thought it was funny! That’s what started it, actually.”

You narrowed your eyes, skeptical. “And how often are you guys texting?”

Travis took a sip of his beer, clearly stalling.

“Travis.”

He sighed dramatically. “Every day. Okay? Happy?”

Jason looked at you, then back at him. “Holy shit. You like her.”

Travis scoffed. “Of course I like her, she’s Taylor fuckin’ Swift.”

“No,” you cut in, pointing at him. “Not just, like, ‘fan’ like her. You actually like her.”

Travis hesitated. And that was all you needed to see.

Jason whistled low, shaking his head. “This is gonna be a disaster.”

You grinned, tilting your head. “Or… it’s gonna be the greatest thing to ever happen to you.”

Travis gave you a look, something half-serious beneath all the usual bravado. “You think?”

You shrugged. “I think you have a long road ahead of you if you actually wanna date Taylor Swift. But if anyone’s got the balls to do it, it’s you.”

Travis sat back, considering that. Then he smirked. “Yeah. You’re right.”

Jason groaned. “Oh God.”

You hopped off the counter, stealing the beer out of Travis’s hand and taking a sip. “I can’t wait for Mom to find out.”

Travis laughed, shaking his head. “You’re evil.”

“You love it.”

And just like that, the topic shifted—because that was the thing about being a Kelce. No matter how big the news, how crazy the story, at the end of the day, you were just family. Talking shit in the kitchen, making fun of each other, and watching history unfold in real time.

The whole thing kind of unraveled in front of you.

One minute, Travis was dropping Taylor Swift’s name into a conversation like it was nothing, and the next, she was there. Not in a surreal, once-in-a-lifetime, see-her-from-a-distance kind of way—but in the real way. The kind where she was suddenly just… around. Sitting across from you at dinner, feet tucked under her on the couch, sipping a drink at the same backyard parties you had been going to your whole life.

It wasn’t weird, not exactly. It was just happening.

You had been close to fame before, obviously. Jason and Travis had built their careers in the public eye, and you had spent your whole life in and around that world, brushing shoulders with athletes and celebrities who treated your last name like a golden ticket. You knew how to navigate it, how to smile politely and act like it didn’t phase you.

But this was different.

Because this wasn’t just fame. This was Taylor Swift—and she wasn’t just a headline or a name on a stadium marquee. She was here, in your world, existing in it like she belonged. And the strangest part? She kind of did.

You liked her. She was easy to like. Funny, quick-witted, smarter than people probably even realized. She had this way of making everyone feel like they were the only person in the room when she talked to them. Even you, at times, when she wasn’t entirely preoccupied with Travis.

And, well. That was the thing, wasn’t it?

Because she was preoccupied with Travis.

That was the whole point.

She wasn’t your friend. She wasn’t coming around to hang out with you. She was here for him. And that was fine. It was great, actually. You had never seen your brother like this before—completely, stupidly, out-of-his-mind happy. He glowed around her, and you were happy for him.

But somewhere along the way, you started to notice it.

The third wheel feeling.

It wasn’t obvious at first. Not in the beginning, when everything was still so new and exciting and unbelievable.

But then came the dinners where you felt like a spectator to their conversations. The trips where you ended up walking three steps behind them. The inside jokes you weren’t a part of, the glances they shared across rooms like they were in on some secret that you weren’t.

And sure, Travis had always been larger than life. His presence had always been something you had to navigate around. But now? Now, there was them. And you? You were just… there.

It got to the point where even your nieces—who were still young enough to have no filter—started noticing. You’d barely sat down at one of your parents’ Sunday dinners when Wyatt, with all the innocence of a child, looked up at you and asked, “Where’s your boyfriend?”

You had laughed, mostly out of shock, but the sting was still there. And then it happened again. And again.

And that was how Elliot became your best friend.

At just over a year old, she was the only one who didn’t ask why you were always alone, or where your mystery boyfriend was, or when you were going to bring someone home like Travis had. Instead, she was just happy to exist beside you, happy to let you carry her around like a little security blanket when you needed an excuse to step away from them.

You spent more time with her than you did with the adults most nights, letting her babble nonsense at you while you tuned out the rest of the room.

--

Joe Burrow wasn’t born into greatness.

He was born into a world where nothing was guaranteed, where talent didn’t always mean success, where hard work didn’t always lead to the dream. He grew up watching his father grind his way through the football world, moving from coaching job to coaching job, never staying anywhere long enough to feel settled. He understood from a young age that football wasn’t just a game—it was survival. It was everything.

But for most of his life, Joe wasn’t the guy. He wasn’t the five-star recruit, the kid whose name carried weight before he even stepped on the field. He was good—great, even—but great didn’t always mean enough. Ohio State was supposed to be his shot, his moment, the place where he proved himself. Instead, it was where he sat on the bench, waiting for a chance that never came, watching other guys take the field while he tried to convince himself it wasn’t slipping away from him.

There were nights he thought about giving it up. That maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. That maybe football had already given him all it was going to. But he wasn’t built to quit, and when LSU came calling, he took the leap.

That was the moment everything changed.

LSU wasn’t just an opportunity—it was a resurrection. It was the first time he felt like the guy, like he wasn’t just taking up space on a roster but actually belonged there. The game slowed down, the doubt faded, and for the first time in his life, he thought: Maybe I can actually do this. Maybe I can be great.

Then came 2019. The season. The Heisman. The national championship. The moment his life shifted from maybe to inevitable. He went from overlooked to undeniable, from backup to first overall pick, from fighting for a shot to standing at the top of the football world.

And somewhere in all of that, there was Olivia.

She had been there from Ohio State, through the struggles, through the late nights spent questioning everything. She was safe, steady, someone who knew him before everything changed. And for a while, that was enough. They built a life together in the in-between spaces of his career—through the transfer, through LSU, through the draft, through the move to Cincinnati.

But something had shifted along the way. Maybe it was the fame, the pressure, the way football consumed everything in its path. Maybe it was the fact that he had spent so long chasing this dream that he didn’t know how to slow down, didn’t know how to be the kind of man who could put something else—someone else—first.

Or maybe they had just grown into different people.

The love had been real. That was never a question. But real didn’t always mean forever, and when the cracks started to show, neither of them could ignore them. The long distance, the late nights, the feeling of being together but not really together. Football had always been his first love, and Olivia had always understood that. But understanding didn’t make it easier.

By the time the breakup happened, it felt inevitable. A quiet ending, no messy headlines, no dramatic fallout. Just two people who had spent years trying to make something work, finally realizing it wasn’t meant to.

Joe had never been one for public spectacle, had never been the guy who wanted his love life picked apart. But that didn’t stop people from talking. From wondering when he’d date again, who he’d be seen with, what kind of woman would fit into the world he had built.

But he wasn’t looking. Football was still everything, still the thing that took up all the space in his life.

At least, until you.

[goldenbrowns]

LITTLE TROUBLE GIRL ✩ || dbf!bucky barnes x f!reader || part one

(PART ONE, PART TWO, PART THREE) unfinished...

summary: You’re starting college in New York, and Bucky, your dad's best friend, has offered you a place to stay—just until you find your footing. It’s temporary; you're staying with him until you're able to settle down. But living with him is nothing like you expected, considering you've always had an innocent crush on him, even when you were little. The late nights, the easy laughter, the way his eyes linger just a little too long—it all starts to blur the lines. Just like that, your innocent crush on Bucky turns into something more crude.

author's note: this is an au where the winter soldier never happened, he's just good ol' buck, your dad's best friend :D

word count: 9.6k

warnings: age gap (reader is twenty and bucky is in his late thirties), alcohol consumption, tiny bit of angst towards the end, cursing, implied sexual themes, bucky is a little jealous and possesive.

You’re supposed to be packing. You really are.

But instead, you’re sitting on your bedroom floor, staring at the pile of clothes in front of you like they’re suddenly alien to you. Jeans. T-shirts. Sweaters you’ve had since the ninth grade. You think about how many of these things you haven’t worn in months, maybe even years, but now that you're moving, you swear you have to bring them. It’s like they’re your security blanket, like you can’t just let go. You’re leaving your hometown for good. Going to New York for college. The city. Your future. The dream.

But right now, it doesn’t feel like that at all.

Instead, it feels like the more you try to pack, the more everything around you gets heavier.

You shove a pile of clothes into the suitcase with less grace than you care to admit. You don’t know what to expect in New York, but part of you kind of just wants to stay here where everything’s familiar—even if everything about here kind of sucks sometimes. The awfully familiar cloudy days, the stubbornly old-fashioned people, the same neighbours you've known all your life… It's difficult to let go, but things like these make leaving your hometown all the easier.

Just as you were staring off into a wall, probably purposefully wasting time, your dad’s voice breaks into your thoughts.

"You all set?" He leans against your doorframe with a grin. At least someone was sure about all of this—even when you weren’t. Honestly, you’d bet he was more excited about the move than you were. New York had always been his dream for you. A chance to give you everything he never had growing up. All the opportunities he never got. Obviously when you took a sabbatical year after highschool he was pissed, so know that he's sure your heading to college he couldn't be happier. So, there you were, freshly twenty and off to college.

You stop. You freeze, one sneaker in midair as if it’s suddenly the heaviest thing in the world. Obviously, he knew this wasn't easy for you. He watched your expression drop the second he walked in. Everything slowly seeming more real to you than ever.

"Come on, everything’s going to be fine. Besides—hey, you’re staying with Buck for a while!" He lifts a hand in the air like that alone should fix everything. "He promised he’d make things easier for you. He’s gonna take care of you, sweetheart."

And for a second, it actually helps. That soft spot in your chest loosens just a little.

Because no, you’re not leaving everything behind. Staying with James—Buck—meant keeping at least one thread tied to home. A glimpse of your dad, your family, the place you grew up in. Something familiar to hold onto while everything else was changing. James Buchanan Barnes. The guy you’ve known forever. Your dad’s best friend. The guy who visits your house every holiday, makes a big deal about how grown-up you’re getting, who’s always laughing, always joking, and always just... there. He's the guy. But still, the fact that you were staying with him out of all people is absolutely daunting.

You haven’t seen him in a while—two, maybe three years? He used to visit a few times a year without fail—once for your dad's birthday and the rest again for the holidays and summer. He doesn’t come around as much anymore. Not because something’s wrong. If anything, it’s the opposite. Work’s just gotten more demanding for him. More cases. More clients. More responsibility. So technically, things are going great for him. Better than ever, really. Still, it doesn’t stop that tiny flicker of disappointment you feel whenever he misses a visit. Like some little piece of your old routine just… fades out. 

When you were younger, you didn’t really notice how much he stood out. He was just a figure at family gatherings—he always had something funny to say, and you’d laugh at his dry sarcasm and the way his eyes always seemed to light up when he caught your attention. He was a permanent fixture in your life, like a distant relative you didn’t see enough of but still had a special place for.

But then, you turned fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. And suddenly, it was impossible not to notice.

The way he stood—relaxed, confident, like he owned the space around him without even trying. Broad shoulders that stretched the sleeves of his dress shirts just right, one hand always tucked into his pocket and the other one always holding on to a beer — which also, always seemed to be a Heineken—  like he had all the time in the world. His jawline sharp enough to cut through glass. And he somehow made wearing a stupidly expensive leather jacket look like the most casual thing in the world—like he didn’t know how good he looked in it. Except, deep down, you were pretty sure he did.

He always smelled like something expensive—cologne and clean laundry, with just a little bit of city air clinging to him. Something which always made you so curious. To your 12-year-old self, Buck was your glimpse into the city. His hair was always neat but not overly styled, like he’d run a hand through it once and called it a day. And his smile was the real problem. Easy, charming, lopsided in a way that made it feel like it was just for you, even though you knew it wasn’t, it was always for one of those little girlfriends he brought every year and decided to invite on his trip. 

It wasn’t like you were in love with him or anything. It was just… you noticed. You noticed everything.

As the years went by, something shifted. The way he looked at you sometimes. The way his eyes lingered just a second longer than you were comfortable with. The way he called you kid like he was trying to remind himself that’s what you were—and that’s all you were—whenever your thoughts seemed to go somewhere they shouldn’t.

But you’ve always pushed that aside. He’s your dad’s best friend. He’s… untouchable. Not that you would ever do anything about it.

But now? Now you’re moving in with him, and you have no idea how to feel about it or how to carry yourself around him.

Your dad is still standing there, waiting for a response. He’s in that spot where he’s practically bouncing.

"You’re sure about this, right?"

You force a smile, trying to make it seem like the fact that you're moving in with him doesn’t bother you at all. At this point, you didn’t know how it made you feel, it had its ups and downs… It’s fine. You’ll be fine. Right?

“Yeah, Dad. Totally fine,” you say, and you really hope you sound convincing. The truth is, you’re not sure what you’re even supposed to be feeling. Is this supposed to be an adventure? Because you don’t feel like it. You feel like maybe you’ve made a huge mistake and that there’s no way you’ll be able to look Bucky in the eye without turning into a human tomato.

Your dad beams at you, oblivious to the small storm brewing in your stomach. “Good. You know Bucky. He’s a great guy. He’ll look after you. It’ll be fine.”

Yeah, Bucky’s a “great guy.” Everyone says that—and it’s true. He’s always been there for your dad, always quick with advice or a sarcastic joke to pull him out of a bad mood. He’s steady, dependable, the kind of guy people trust without thinking twice. You’ve always known that.

But living with him? That’s a whole different ballgame.

You’re not your dad. You don’t have that effortless bond with Bucky—the one built on decades of inside jokes and shared mistakes. In fact, you can’t even remember the last time you had a real conversation with him. Outside of the usual “how’s school?” or the occasional “got a boyfriend yet?” And now you're about to move into his home like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

The thing is, Bucky’s always been this constant in your life—this person you’ve admired from a distance, someone you’ve always thought of as off-limits. You’ve never let yourself go too deep into it, but now it's a little different. You'll be living with him every day for god knows how long.

The airport felt colder than usual. Not because of the air conditioning, but because of everything else—the goodbye hugs that lingered too long, your mom pretending she wasn’t crying, your dad cracking one too many nervous jokes, his teary eyes catching the lights. You smiled through it, made it look easy. Like this wasn’t a big deal. Like you weren’t terrified.

But as you walked away from them and toward the gate, something settled heavily in your chest. That weird, aching feeling of moving on.

You didn’t cry. Not really. That would probably come later. You just stared out the window of the plane, watching the ground peel away beneath you, smaller and smaller until it was just a blur. That was home down there. Your whole life, packed into backyards and gas stations and little streets you could navigate blindfolded. Gone now—just like that.

You tried not to overthink it. Tried not to spiral about living in a city you didn’t know, in an apartment that wasn’t yours, with a man who barely knew the version of you that wasn’t still seventeen.

The name alone made your thoughts twist up a little. Bucky. Just Bucky, really. Your dad’s best friend. The guy who used to toss you in the pool when you were a kid, chase you around the yard with the grill fork, and ruffle your hair like you were one of the boys.

You thought about that for a while—until the all-familiar town beneath you started to disappear under the clouds. Fields of green came into view, sharp and endless. You pressed your forehead to the window and tried to imagine your life away from that skyline somehow. The sun had started to set, and the sky had started to fluctuate between hues of oranges and yellows.

Everyone on the plane looked like some version of home. Guys in faded baseball caps talking too loud, moms with bleached-blonde hair and dark roots flipping through gossip magazines, teenagers glued to their phones with chipped acrylics and chewed-up straws poking out of Styrofoam cups. You’d grown up surrounded by people like this—faces that blurred together in the same familiar way.

You sank into your window seat, pulling your hoodie tighter around you as the plane rumbled up into the clouds. The turbulence didn’t bother you much—what unsettled you was everything else. So you did what you could to tune it out.

You flagged down the flight attendant and ordered a drink— something fruity, a Coke, whatever... As she walked away, you pressed your forehead against the cool window and watched the sky melt into pale blue.

As you stepped out of your plane and walked through the boarding bridge, you felt a chilly breeze, a bit cooler than you were expecting. He was already leaning against the car when you finally reached the terminal, scrolling through his phone like he had nowhere to be—which, of course, made him look even more annoyingly cool.

Black jeans, dark coat, sunglasses hooked onto the front of his shirt like some effortless accessory. He looked older than you remembered—sharper, broader—but not in a tired way. More like someone who’d grown into himself. Owned it. He had a few specks of gray on his beard now, more than you remembered him having, even though, honestly, that was the only indicator of him having gotten older.

He glanced up and did a double-take, almost like he didn't recognize you. His brows lifted, and his mouth quirked into that crooked half-smile you vaguely remembered from years ago. You began walking to him, dragging your carry-on right behind you.

“Damn,” he said, pushing off the car, “you’re taller than I thought you’d be. These three years have obviously been long. When did you turn into an actual person?”

You snorted. “Nice to see you too.”

“I’m serious,” he said, even though his tone was anything but. “Last time I saw you, you had braces and were crying over one of the One Direction guys.”

“Okay—first of all, rude. And second, it was Harry, I had taste”

That earned you a soft laugh as he reached for your suitcase. “Alright, alright. Still dramatic, I see. Guess some things don’t change.”

He tossed the bag into the trunk like it weighed nothing and opened the passenger door for you with a mockingly formal gesture.

“Your ride awaits." He opened both of his arms, palms out, signaling to the car door he was opening for you.

You rolled your eyes and slid into the car. The inside was just as nice as it looked from the outside—clean, sleek, and smelling like leather and whatever cologne he used, clearly the same one he's always used.

He got in, started the engine, and glanced over at you. “Seatbelt. Not tryna get sued your first week in the city.”

As he pulled out of the parking lot, the silence in the car wasn’t awkward. Just... charged. Like the air between you hadn’t settled yet.

“So,” he said after a beat, “you nervous, or just pretending to be too cool for this?”

You shrugged, feeling taken aback that he had deciphered you so quickly. “Little of both.”

“Hm. Classic.” He smirked, eyes still on the road. “You know, I offered to let your dad send you to a nunnery, but he insisted college was the move.”

You burst out laughing. “Right, because that would’ve been way less awkward.”

“I don’t know,” he mused. “You and a bunch of nuns in New York? That’s a sitcom waiting to happen.”

The city rose around you in glowing towers, stretching high and endless into the night sky. Streetlights flickered over glossy pavement, casting everything in a wash of warm gold and cool silver. Neon signs buzzed quietly outside corner bodegas and late-night diners, while car headlights weaved in and out like fireflies in motion. The air itself seemed to hum—thick with life, noise, energy. It was all so alive. And you were right in the middle of it.

As Bucky’s car slipped deeper into the city, you pressed your hand against the window, eyes following the blur of strangers rushing past. A woman in heels and a power suit shouting into her phone. A group of teens laughing way too loudly on a corner. A man on a bike with a pizza box. Every single person looked like they belonged here—like they had somewhere to be, something to do. And they all moved with the kind of confidence that came from knowing how this city worked.

You sat there quietly, just watching, feeling the shift happen inside you. This wasn’t just a trip. It wasn’t summer vacation. This was real.

You were here. For good.

And in exactly 13 hours, at 10:00 AM sharp, you’d be sitting in your first college class.

You weren’t sure if the tight feeling in your chest was nerves or excitement. Maybe both. Everything felt huge—too big to grasp all at once. You wanted to slow it down, bottle it up, make sense of it all. But the city didn’t wait for you to catch up. It just kept moving.

“You’re quiet,” Bucky said, looking at you from the corner of his eye, his voice cutting through the hum of the engine and the soft, distant sounds of the city.

You blinked, pulling your gaze away from the window. He didn’t look at you—his eyes were fixed on the road, fingers tapping idly against the wheel. Casual, but not careless. Like he knew exactly what was going on in your head without needing to ask.

“I���m just… taking it all in,” you said.

He let out a low, amused breath. “Yeah? You’ve got the same look you used to get on the diving board—right before chickening out.”

You turned your head, incredulous. “I didn’t chicken out. I was calculating. And I'm not planning to chicken out now either...”

“That’s what you called it?” He smirked. “Standing there for fifteen minutes while every kid behind you prayed for patience?”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away.

The light changed, and the car moved forward again, gliding through quieter streets now. The city still sparkled outside the window—still alive, still moving—but it didn’t feel as loud in this pocket of calm. Just you and Bucky, in his leather-scented car that felt safer than you expected it to.

After a moment, he spoke again—quieter this time.

“You’re gonna be alright, kid.”

You looked over at him.

He wasn't looking at you anymore, but his jaw ticked slightly, like he was thinking through every word before he said it. “You’re smart. Capable. You’ve got guts—Hell, you're a pretty girl too. You've got the whole world at the palm of your hand.”

You let out a soft laugh, but he kept going.

“And you’re not alone in this. I’m here,” he said simply. “I’m gonna make sure you’re okay.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy—it was warm. Solid. Like something you could lean into.

You watched him for a second longer, the way the passing streetlights painted soft lines across his face, the way he looked so sure when you didn’t.

And somehow, that made all the difference.

The car pulled up to a sleek building tucked between a coffee shop and a high-end florist, all steel and glass and glowing lobby lights. It didn’t scream wealth, not in a flashy way—but everything about it whispered money. Subtle.

Bucky cut the engine and turned to you, one hand still on the wheel. “Alright, city girl. Welcome home.”

You blinked up at the building. “This place is… nice.”

He smirked, unbuckling his seatbelt. “That’s the least convincing ‘nice’ I’ve ever heard.”

“No, I mean it,” you said, stepping out. “It’s just... fancy. I didn’t think lawyers lived like this.”

He popped the trunk. “We don’t. But when you start working eighty-hour weeks and don’t have time for a life, you gotta spend your money somewhere. Might as well be rent.”

You followed him into the building, your suitcase rolling behind you on polished tile. The lobby smelled like eucalyptus and something vaguely citrusy. You tried not to stare at the concierge desk—or the massive chandelier above your head—but you caught Bucky glancing sideways at you anyway.

“Try to look like you’ve been somewhere before,” he muttered, grinning.

You elbowed him. “Says the guy who wore aviators at night.”

“Touché.”

The elevator ride was quiet, but not uncomfortable. Bucky leaned back against the wall with his hands in his coat pockets, glancing at you now and then like he was still trying to believe you were the same kid who used to sneak cookies off the grill during backyard cookouts.

The doors opened on the twelfth floor. His place was at the end of the hall—tall black door, a single matte number, no unnecessary frills.

When he let you in, the first thing you noticed was how him it felt. Everything in the apartment was clean and dark and structured—deep grays, worn leathers, low lighting—but there were warm things too. Books stacked unevenly on the coffee table. A vinyl player with an open sleeve beside it. A pair of reading glasses he’d never admit to needing resting near the counter.

“Home sweet home,” he said, tossing his keys into a bowl by the door. “Shoes off if you don’t wanna catch a lecture. Kitchen’s there, bathroom’s down the hall, you’re in the guest room.”

You stood there a moment, just taking it all in.

He gave you a look. “You good?”

You nodded quickly, trying to sound as convincing as possible. “Yeah. Yup!”

He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “Don’t worry,” he added, that lopsided smirk creeping in again, “you’ve got me. You’ll be fine.”

The guest room was quiet, dimly lit by the soft glow of the city slipping through the window. You didn’t bother turning on the overhead light—just opened your suitcase and started putting things away, slowly, like moving too fast would make it all feel too real.

Everything in the room felt untouched. Neutral. Like it had been prepped for someone who might never show up. The dresser drawers slid open without a sound, the bedding was crisp, and the closet smelled faintly of cedar. It was strange. Not cold, just unfamiliar. Like you were living in a showroom version of someone else's life.

You folded clothes into neat stacks and arranged your things on the nightstand—lip balm, your headphones, a paperback with a cracked spine. You paused at a photo of you and your parents, half-smiling at the way your mom’s hand was always in your dad’s back pocket. They’d driven you to the airport earlier today, pretending not to cry when you hugged them goodbye.

Now you were here.

You caught your reflection in the mirror for a second too long, pulled your hair up into a lazy bun, and put on some pajamas you had packed back at home with cats and dogs printed all over the fabric. As soon as you finished you you left your room and slipped into the living room quietly.

From the kitchen came the soft clink of silverware and the low simmer of something on the stove. Music played faintly from a speaker tucked somewhere, something very 80s sounding. Warm light pooled from under the cabinets, and Bucky stood over the stove, his back to you, sleeves pushed up and brow slightly furrowed as he stirred a pan.

He looked over his shoulder at the sound of your footsteps. “There she is.” He cooed excitedly.

You offered a half-smile. “There I am.”

He turned down the heat, grabbed two wine glasses from the cabinet, and poured a deep red into each without asking. He handed you one as you leaned against the counter beside him.

“You cook now?” you asked, taking the glass.

He shrugged. “Sometimes. It’s either this or takeout again, and I figured you deserve a proper meal on your first night.”

You took a sip, and the wine was smooth, expensive. Of course.

“Thanks,” you said.

He just nodded, lips tugging into something close to a smile before he walked toward the living room and sank into the corner of the couch with his own glass. You followed after a moment, curling into the opposite side, your legs folded under you.

The room was quiet, but not awkwardly so. You watched the steam rise from the kitchen, heard the occasional sizzle from the stove. The city lights flickered in through the windows behind him.

“You good? I feel like I've asked this 50 times just today,” he asked eventually with a soft laugh, not looking directly at you.

You paused, then nodded. “Getting there.”

“Good, that's a start. ‘Cause I meant what I said earlier. You don’t have to figure everything out in one night. Y'know, I haven't always lived here, when I got here it was also terrifying for me,” he said, swirling the wine in his glass. “You’ve got time. You’ve got space. And I’m here. Whatever you need, I’ve got you.”

You glanced at him, heart tightening at how casual he made it sound, like it was no big deal. But it was. No one had ever said something like that to you without needing anything in return.

“Thanks,” you said again, softer this time.

He smirked slightly. “You already said that.”

You gasp in feigned offense, clutching a hand to your chest, "Alright, well- You don't see me saying you've repeated your inspirational speech 30 times already, do you?"

He only squinted his eyes and tilted his glass towards you as if to point at you, "You've got a mouth on you, don't you? Calm down before I leave you to starve," He laughs, and just after that, he stands up to turn off the fire.

He moves with ease, like he’s done this a hundred times—turning knobs, checking the sauce, grabbing plates from a cabinet you wouldn’t have guessed held anything. You stay curled up on the couch, glass of wine resting on your thigh, watching him in the kitchen like you’re still not used to seeing him like this—domestic, relaxed, a little smug in the way he smirks to himself after a joke.

“You wouldn’t actually let me starve,” you call out as an attempt to not remain quiet.

“Wouldn’t I?” he shoots back over his shoulder, then opens the fridge with his hip. “I don’t know. You’re in my house now. Could be survival of the fittest.”

You snort into your wine. “Please. I’d eat half your pantry before you even noticed.”

He grins at that, setting a pan on a trivet and dishing out pasta onto two plates. “God, you sound like your dad.”

“That’s rude.”

“Hm, wouldn't say so. It's accurate.” His back was still turned to you as you watched the muscles in his back move after every scoop he set down onto both of the plates.

He walks over and sets one plate down in front of you on the coffee table, then hands you a fork. The pasta smells incredible—creamy, garlicky, with grilled chicken cut into perfect slices like he’s trying to impress someone. Maybe he is.

He drops down beside you with his own plate, elbows brushing for a second as he settles in. The couch dips beneath his weight, the apartment humming with soft music and the faint sounds of the city outside. It’s warm. Not just physically—though, yeah, the wine helps—but in a way that creeps in slow and stays there.

“Okay,” you murmur after a few bites. “This is actually good.”

He raises a brow. “You sound surprised.”

“I’ve only ever seen you drink black coffee, beer and eat beef jerky.”

He stabs a piece of pasta and shrugs. “People contain multitudes. Can't imagine you know much about that,” He laughs, aware that he's egging you on.

You look over at him, and he catches your eye just as he takes a bite. There’s something playful in his expression, but underneath it, something softer. Steady. You chew slowly, then ask, quieter this time, “Why are you being so nice to me?” He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. Just sets his fork down and leans back slightly.

“Because I care about you,” he says simply. “You’re not just your dad’s kid. You’re... you. And I’ve known you your whole life. You think I’m gonna let you land here and not look after you?” You blink once, then again, unsure what to say.

So instead, you say, “You’re getting soft in your old age.”

He laughs—a real, warm, low laugh—and shakes his head. “You wish.”

Time had slipped away somewhere between the second glass and the lazy way Bucky laughed at his own stories. Now, with plates cleared and nothing but the low hum of the city beyond the windows, the two of you sat across from each other on the couch, your legs tucked under you, a little warmer than before. The wine had softened your limbs and whatever awkwardness that might’ve once existed between you had faded into something more… comfortable. Charged, maybe. But quiet.

It was easy like this. Easier than you’d expected. He asked questions. Real ones. Not just “how’s school” or “what’s your major,” but actual questions.

“What do you want from it all?” he’d asked earlier. “Like, when it’s all said and done—what’s the picture?”

You’d stared at him like he’d just unlocked a hidden door in your head. You didn’t answer that one. Not fully. It wasn't like you really knew how to answer it either. You said something about self-fulfilment, and he seemed happy enough with that answer.

Now, he was grinning behind the rim of his glass, eyes just a little more hooded than usual, and much more loose than the mysterious guy who picked you up from the airport earlier. “So,” he said, drawing out the word. “Boys.”

You groaned immediately, leaning your head back into the cushion. “God, no.”

“What?” he asked, all mock innocence. “You don’t want to talk about your tragic love life with good ol' Buck over overpriced wine and homemade pasta?”

“No,” you said, laughing despite yourself. “You’re being nosy.”

He smiled, the kind of smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth but never quite reached both sides. “Guilty as charged,” he replied, his eyes warm as he looked at you. “But seriously, I’m curious. You’re smart, funny, sharp as hell—don’t tell me none of those boys ever tried anything.”

You shifted on the couch, feeling the heat in your cheeks, but you tried to play it off. “The problem is that they have. But, where is this coming from?”

Bucky shrugged, swirling his wine in his glass, but his gaze never left you. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice lowering a fraction. “I guess I’m just noticing... you’ve grown up. That’s all.”

His words and the way he enunciated the word 'grown' hit you more than you expected. You shook your head, trying to mask the way your chest tightened. “You make it sound like I used to be a troll.”

Bucky gave a low laugh, leaning back into the couch, but his eyes were still watching you closely, studying you. “Oh, but you were,” he teased, eyes crinkling at the edges. “You used to throw rocks at me.”

You huffed out a laugh, rolling your eyes. “That was once.”

“That was three summers in a row,” he corrected, his tone playful, like he was remembering a version of you that had changed in ways he hadn’t expected.

For a second, everything felt easy again. Familiar. The laughter felt like it bridged the gap between who you were now and who you used to be, and you let it fill the space between you. But then the conversation took a shift, and the air between you seemed to thicken with something else.

“So, no serious boyfriends?” he asked again, like he was trying to make sense of it.

You glanced down at your glass, your fingers tracing the rim absently. “Not really. Nothing that stuck.”

Bucky leaned forward a bit, his tone softening, like he was really trying to understand. “Let me guess—emotionally unavailable, talks in memes, and thinks texting you ‘wyd’ at 2 a.m. is romantic?”

You laughed, the sound catching in your throat, but he didn’t let up. “Don't forget the unsolicited Snapchat dickpics,” you sighed, remembering all the times you've had to endure opening Snapchat to see pubescent dicks on your screen.

Bucky’s lips curled into a half-smirk, his eyebrows raising just slightly. “Seriously?” he teased, leaning in a bit closer, the playful glint in his eyes growing sharper. “Do they think that’s supposed to impress you? What—suddenly, you're gonna be swept off your feet by a 20-year-old’s bad lighting picture of their dick?”

You scoffed, taking a sip of your wine. "Apparently... Either way, I'm not looking for a guy who decides to do that sort of thing for attention. It's so pathetic."

He smirked, taking another sip of his wine, but his gaze was more intense now, steady on you. “So what is it, then?” he asked, the words slow and deliberate. “What are you looking for?”

The question caught you off guard. You hadn’t expected it, and for a moment, you wondered if you even had an answer. But the wine made you brave enough to be honest, even if you didn’t want to be. You set your glass down, thinking carefully. “I don’t know. I guess... someone who makes me feel like I don’t have to try so hard all the time. Who doesn’t make me feel like I’m too much. Something that clearly guys my age are not willing to supply.” You didn't mean the last sentence like that, you didn't have some sort of underhanded motive.

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you, amused, and he took a slow sip of his wine. He set the glass down with a soft clink. “Guys your age, huh? Yeah, I get it. You’ve got that ‘too much’ vibe—guess it’s just a lot for them to handle.”

You raised an eyebrow, a little taken aback but not enough to let him off the hook. “You say guys my age can’t handle me? So, guys your age can?”

The smirk that spread across Bucky’s face made your stomach flutter in a way you didn’t quite understand. He leaned back in his chair, swirling his glass with casual confidence, his gaze never leaving you. “Oh, sweetheart,” he started, his voice dropping an octave, sincere, “I’ve handled a lot worse. And I think, personally, I would be able to keep up just fine.”

There was a long pause. You could feel the weight of his stare, but you couldn’t look away, not now. Bucky held your gaze without blinking, his expression softer now. As if he had just now noticed what he said, he quickly changed the topic. “Anyway...That thing you said about being too much. You're not, don't let anybody tell you that," he said, his voice quiet but sure. “You just haven’t been around the right people.”

Your breath hitched at the way he said it, and for a moment, it felt like everything shifted again, like something unspoken was hanging in the air. You didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to respond, but the warmth in your chest was a clear indication that maybe you didn’t need to say anything at all.

You laughed weakly, trying to regain some composure. “You always talk like that?”

He raised an eyebrow, his grin never faltering. “Only after two glasses.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re impossible.”

Bucky let out a low chuckle and leaned back against the couch, his arm brushing lightly against yours. He didn't pull away. The air between you felt like it was thickening, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. It was as if everything that had been left unsaid before had finally come to the surface, and there was no turning back.

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough for it to feel like a secret shared only between the two of you. “You know, if I were your age, I’d be in real trouble.”

Your stomach twisted, your breath catching. “What do you mean?”

Bucky smirked, his eyes glinting with something you couldn’t quite place. “Just saying,” he added, leaning back again, like he hadn’t just said something that made your heart race. “I’d be in real trouble.”

The quiet between you felt heavier now, more charged. You could feel the pull between you, the way he was still looking at you, waiting for you to say something. But then he cleared his throat, stood up with a stretch, and changed the subject like he hadn’t just set something off between you.

“Well, I better get dessert before I say something else I shouldn’t,” he said, his voice light but the way his eyes lingered on you made it hard to shake the feeling that the conversation wasn’t quite over. Not yet.

You watched him head toward the kitchen, your chest tight and your mind spinning. It wasn’t just the wine. It wasn’t just the long drive to New York. Something had shifted. Something was different now.

You stayed frozen for a moment, your fingers curled loosely around your glass as you tried to piece together what had just happened. His voice still echoed in your head—I’d be in real trouble. The way he said it, soft and low, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud at all. Like it slipped out before he could catch it.

You bit your lip and set the glass down, glancing toward the kitchen. You could hear him rustling through cabinets, the clink of plates, the hum of the fridge door opening. Just regular, domestic sounds. But they didn’t match the pace of your heartbeat.

You stood and walked over, slower than usual, like your legs had to catch up with your thoughts. He had a carton of ice cream out and was pretending like everything was normal. Too normal. His back was turned, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the slight stiffness in the way he moved. Like he was aware of your presence—too aware.

“You always do this?” you asked, leaning against the counter, trying to sound casual. “Fluster college girls with red wine and chocolate chip?”

He looked over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. “Fluster you?” he asked with a smirk, placing two bowls on the counter. “I’m just offering dessert, sweetheart. If that’s flustering you, I’m not sure you’re ready for this city.”

You gave him a look, but couldn’t stop your smile from forming. “Right. Of course. Just dessert.”

He turned fully then, slid one of the bowls toward you, the metal spoon clinking against the porcelain. “Eat before I say something worse than earlier.”

You took a bite, letting the silence hang just long enough to feel heavy again. Then, more quietly, you asked, “What would be worse, though?”

He paused with his own spoon halfway to his mouth. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he set the spoon down, leaned on the cushions with his arms crossed, and looked at you—really looked at you.

“Depends,” he said slowly. “Did it make you uncomfortable?”

You shook your head, a little too fast. “No. Just… caught me off guard.”

“Good,” he said, but the word came out softer than his usual snark. “Because I’d never want to make you uncomfortable. You being here—this whole thing—it matters to me.”

And there it was again. That shift. That soft, honest side of him was slipping through the cracks in his usual cool exterior. You didn’t know what to say, so you just nodded, eyes meeting his for a second longer than they probably should’ve. And you let him, even if your thoughts kept drifting right back to that quiet little thing he said earlier.

If I were your age, I’d be in real trouble.

It had been two weeks since that first night, and the quiet tension between you and Bucky hadn’t gone away. If anything, it had gotten harder to ignore.

You’d settled into the apartment like you'd always belonged there. Your stuff was neatly unpacked, your laundry now mixed with his in the hamper, and his coffee order was memorized without him needing to say it out loud. There were toothbrushes side by side in the bathroom, your shoes by the front door, and the casual rhythm of living together had grown… intimate, in a way you couldn’t explain.

But you hadn’t touched it—the conversation, the weight of his stare that night, the words that left your heart skipping. Neither of you had. Instead, you danced around it, letting your comfort grow while pretending everything was still casual.

In the meantime, life had started to take on shape. You’d started to find a routine between classes, wandering the city, and spending way too much time with Sophia—your new friend who had quickly become your lifeline. You met during orientation and clicked almost instantly, like fate had decided you both needed each other. Now, you talked every day. She knew your class schedule better than you did, reminded you to eat, sent you Tiktoks at midnight, and picked up on your mood from just a single text. You told her everything.

You hadn’t planned on spilling it so quickly, but it all came out one night over FaceTime—his apartment, the wine, the flirting, the tension. You’d half-expected her to freak out, to say it was insane or inappropriate. But she didn’t. She’d just blinked at you, then grinned and said, “Girl, you’re living in a slow-burn, how the fuck are you managing?"

Now, she asked about Bucky daily. She teased you when he picked you up from class, rolled her eyes when you claimed things were “normal,” and insisted you start taking notes so she could read the novel version later.

Apart from Sophia, there was this other guy who had randomly started getting closer to you, Luke.

Luke was in one of your classes, and you'd started working on group projects together since the first week. He was a bit awkward but sweet, and his humor grew on you over time. You didn’t think much of it at first, but over the past couple of weeks, he had started texting you almost every day. At first, the texts were nothing special—"Hey, can you send me those notes?" or "How’s your day going?"—but they quickly became more frequent. He would text you random things during the day, asking how you were, what you were doing, and even what your weekend plans were.

It was innocent enough, but you had the feeling it wasn’t entirely platonic on his part. Sophia had certainly noticed it. "Girl, he’s into you. Stop being blind," she'd said one day when Luke had texted you again. “You two have been texting more than I’ve seen anyone text their boyfriend.” Something which made you feel a little weird about the whole situation, given that you never thought about it like that. If anything, you saw him as a little brother; he was too skittish, too sheepish, not really your type.

Today, though, you’d come home late from class, bag slung low on your shoulder, exhaustion in your limbs. Your makeup was worn off, your hair in a messy bun, and you hadn’t even had the energy to fake a smile when you stepped through the door.

Bucky was on the couch, already out of his button-down and in a gray t-shirt and sweats, reading something on his tablet with glasses on—glasses you hated how much you liked. He looked up the second you entered.

“Jesus,” he muttered, setting the tablet down. “You look like you just fought a war.”

“I am in college,” you grumbled, kicking your shoes off by the door. “Same thing.”

He tilted his head, studying you. “Rough day?”

You sighed, dragging yourself toward the kitchen. “Group project. Too much homework, I'm sweaty, I'm hungry... ”

He stood up. “Okay. Nope. We’re not doing this today.” He walked over and took your bag off your shoulder before you could argue. “Shoes off. Bag down. You’re officially off duty.”

“I wasn’t aware you were my manager,” you said with a small eye roll.

“I’m everything in this house,” he replied, guiding you gently toward the couch. “Sit. I’ll handle food. You like pad thai, right?”

You blinked at him. “Since when do you remember that?”

He smirked. “Since you ordered it three times last week, and I’m not blind.”

You laughed, melting a little as you collapsed into the cushions. “You’re dangerously close to being my favorite person.”

“I was hoping I’d at least make top three,” you saw him placing bowls and spices in the counter, with the concentration of a man on a mission.

You sank deeper into the couch, letting your eyes flutter closed. Ten minutes later, he returned with two glasses of wine, handing you one before sliding in beside you. He’d queued up a movie—something black and white, with dramatic jazz and smoky bars.

The movie flickered on in the background, casting black-and-white shadows across the apartment walls while you lounged on the couch, wine glass resting on your thigh. The soft sounds of rustling in the kitchen reminded you that he had stood up at some point and quietly made his way to the kitchen to check on the food—he was plating the pad thai.

Your phone buzzed.

Sophia: Still no kiss? Babe. What do I have to do? Fly up and knock your heads together?

You huffed a laugh and texted back quickly.

You: I am currently being forced to watch black-and-white murder mysteries. He remembered I like pad thai and also brought me wine. I hate him.

Sophia: Bitch he’s flirting. That’s flirting. That’s “I want to ruin you” flirting.

You snorted, quickly covering your mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

“What?” Bucky asked, glancing over at you.

“Nothing,” you said too fast, shaking your head.

He gave you a suspicious look. “Uh huh. That’s the ‘I’m talking shit about you’ face.”

“I would never,” you said, putting a hand to your heart in mock offense.

His eyes narrowed playfully. “Is it Sophia?”

You froze. “...Maybe.”

He grinned, shaking his head. “She’s the one that calls me Hot Lawyer, isn’t she?”

Your jaw dropped. “How did you—”

“You leave your phone around the apartment a lot. And well- she also texts you a whole lot, so it's been difficult to miss her messages," He said with an all-knowing grin, so proud that he's caught you.

Your face went red hot. “Okay, that’s—please shut up.”

At some point, he decided to stop and free you from the awkwardness of the whole situation and shut up. Bucky returned with the plates, carefully balancing two steaming bowls of homemade pad thai and a tray of carefully prepped sides. He set them down between you both, the aroma of toasted peanuts and lime cutting through the cold air of the apartment.

“Dinner’s served,” he said, quiet but composed, as if trying too hard to keep things light.

You dug in, grateful for the distraction. The food was, as always, perfect—just the right amount of heat, your noodles cooked to perfection, with bits of tofu and crushed peanuts that somehow made you feel cared for in ways he never outright said.

A buzz from your phone interrupted the moment. You glanced down. Luke.

Luke: You free to meet up later this week? I was thinking we could grab coffee or something.

You answered with a quick, noncommittal reply and set the phone aside, but not before Bucky’s eyes flicked toward the screen. The name must’ve registered. His jaw ticked, subtle but there. He didn’t say anything right away, but you felt it—the way his energy shifted.

“Luke? You've told me about him before...” he asked eventually, his voice mild. Too mild.

“Yeah,” you replied. “Group project guy. We’ve been working together a lot lately.”

Bucky nodded slowly, twirling his fork in his noodles. “Right. He’s the one who texts you every morning like he’s clocking in?”

You blinked. “What?”

He glanced at you, his expression unreadable. “Just noticed he keeps showing up on your phone. Seems… consistent.”

There was no heat in his voice—no raised tone or sarcasm. But there was weight. Careful. Deliberate. Measured.

You tilted your head. “You seem jealous,” you joke for a second, thinking that's what that was.

Bucky let out a breath through his nose, something between a sigh and a laugh, then leaned back on the couch, resting his arm along the top. “Not jealous. Just observant.”

You narrowed your eyes, not letting him off the hook that easily. “That’s not an answer.”

He looked at you then, fully—no grin, no playful smirk, just Bucky, guarded but honest. “I’ve seen how guys look at girls, okay? I know the difference between a group project text and a ‘hope she likes me’ one.” At that moment, you realized he really meant this and it was something that clearly, and very irrationally, bothered him.

You stared at him, heart stumbling in your chest. “You don’t even know him.”

“I don’t have to,” he said calmly. “He’s a guy. I’ve been that guy. And I know what it looks like when someone’s trying to edge into something that already feels full.”

You swallowed, not sure how to feel about what he just said. “And what does this feel full of, exactly?”

That question seemed to catch him off guard. His gaze dropped for a second, then he rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But it’s something. Isn’t it?”

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. The silence between you stretched, taut as wire. Then he muttered, almost too low for you to catch.

“I just don’t like seeing him try to take—” He cut himself off.

You blinked. “Take what?”

Bucky’s lips parted, but he shook his head quickly, eyes flicking away. “Nothing. Forget it.”

You stared at him, heart tightening. “No. Say it.”

“I didn’t mean that,” he said, quieter now. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. The silence said enough. You stared at your plate, chewing slower now. The food was still good—of course it was—but something about the air between you had shifted. Bucky hadn’t looked at you since the text, but you could feel the weight of his silence pressing in.

“I don’t like how you’re talking about this,” you said quietly, setting your wine glass down. “You’re acting like you get a say in who I see.”

Bucky glanced up, eyebrows raised. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you implied it.” You leaned back, crossing your arms. “You’re making it sound like there's something wrong with someone texting me.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he said, voice calm but tight. “I’m saying I don’t trust him.”

“You don’t even know him.” You shook your head, still not fully understanding what was happening. The words didn’t feel right, and the weight of his reaction hung in the air like an uncomfortable cloud. You could feel your heart beat a little faster, a mix of confusion and frustration welling up inside you.

Bucky was usually so easygoing, always the one to laugh and make light of things. But this—this tension, this defensiveness—was something completely different. It felt out of character, and you couldn’t make sense of it.

You swallowed hard, the silence stretching between you, and you wondered if you were overthinking it. Was this about more than just Luke? Was something else bothering him?

It hit you then—maybe it wasn’t just about Luke at all. Maybe it was about you.

For a second, a ridiculous thought crept into your mind—maybe your dad had warned him. Maybe, in some secret father-to-friend conversation, he'd told Bucky to keep an eye out, scare off any guy who got too close. It sounded absurd, but this wasn’t the Bucky you knew. It felt like he was trying to draw a line around you, to fence off a space he didn’t even have the right to claim.

“I don’t need to,” he replied, and now his voice carried more weight. “I know what it looks like when a guy’s circling someone he likes. I’ve been that guy. And if you don’t see it, fine. But don’t act like I’m crazy for pointing it out.”

You hesitated, letting the words settle. Then: “You’re not pointing it out. You’re warning me. That’s different.”

His jaw flexed, and he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, irritated. “I just don’t want you getting blindsided.”

“And what if I’m not?” you shot back. “What if I know what’s going on and I’m choosing to deal with it the way I want to?”

That made him go still.

You pressed on, voice softer now but more honest. “You say you’re not trying to control me, but you’ve got opinions about who I talk to, who I text, who I spend time with-" You stopped yourself, biting down on the words before they escaped.

Bucky’s eyes darkened slightly, but he didn’t interrupt. He let you finish.

“I moved into your space,” you said. “Your apartment, your routines, your everything. And I like being here, I do. But right now it’s like I’m getting smaller to fit.”

That hit something in him. His mouth opened, then closed again. He looked down at his hands, then back up at you, more careful now.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel that way,” he said finally. “I just—when I see someone getting close to you, it’s hard to stay neutral.”

“But you’re not supposed to be neutral, or territorial,” you replied, eyes searching his. “You’re supposed to be my friend, right?”

A beat of silence passed. His answer didn’t come. And that silence said more than anything else.

You’re supposed to be my friend

Bucky stood too, but slower, more cautious. “I didn’t mean to cross a line.”

You sighed, now aware of how regretful Bucky looked, and you believed it. You didn't doubt for a second that he had already come to his senses, but still, the conversation nestled deep within you. You begin again, voice steady and quiet. “Maybe I let you for a while because I liked being in your world. But I need to be in mine, too, Buck. With my own choices.”

He nodded slowly, jaw tight, but his eyes softer. “You’re right.”

You stood in the silence, feeling the heaviness of the moment, but the anger had faded, leaving something more fragile in its place. You were no longer upset, but you weren’t sure what to make of everything. You couldn’t stay in the living room with him right now—too many conflicting emotions swirling inside you.

“I’m going to head to bed,” you said softly, the words barely above a whisper. Your voice felt small, almost apologetic, but you needed this space. Bucky didn’t respond immediately, but you could feel his eyes on you, watching you carefully. “Okay,” he said, his voice quieter than before, though there was still an edge of concern in it.

You made your way toward the hallway, not looking back, needing to keep moving to escape the weight of the tension in the room. You didn’t slam the door when you entered your room, but you closed it quietly, the soft click of it echoing in the quiet of the apartment.

For a moment, you just stood there, the silence in your room enveloping you like a heavy blanket. You leaned against the door, closing your eyes and letting out a slow breath. Your heart was still racing, the aftermath of the conversation hitting you in waves. You didn’t feel mad anymore—just… tired. Tired of trying to make sense of things that didn’t feel like they made sense. You felt so conflicted about your feelings on Bucky. You didn't know if they actually did exist or if they were some conjuring of your imagination. You also didn't know what to do or whether to act upon them if they did truly exist.

You weren’t mad at him. If anything, the whole thing left you conflicted. Because the way he’d looked at you tonight, the way he’d spoken—it was raw, and messy, and real. And that meant something.

Sitting on your bed, you changed into more comfortable clothes and stared out the window for a while. The city lights outside twinkled like a million tiny stars. You could still hear Bucky moving around in the living room, but it didn’t feel like he was there with you anymore—not in the way he had been before.

The sound of Bucky moving around in the kitchen filtered through the walls, soft clinks of dishes being washed. You weren’t sure why it hit you so hard, but hearing him out there, alone, made you sad. You could’ve helped him, gone out and cleaned up together like you always did, but tonight, you didn't. You couldn’t shake off the distance, couldn’t pretend like things were normal when everything you felt right now was so confusing

The sound of water running in the kitchen stopped, followed by the quiet clink of a dish being set down. The last sound you heard was Bucky closing his own bedroom door—soft, almost like a whisper, but it carried the weight of everything left unsaid. The thud of the door closing made the space between you both feel even wider, and a knot tightened in your stomach. You knew he wasn’t angry, not like that. But the quiet felt like it was pulling you both into different corners of the apartment, away from each other. You sat there, listening to the silence after that. Even the space between you and Bucky seemed filled with things you couldn’t yet understand.

When you think about it, the situation is not that complicated. But there's something about it, the edge to his words, the tinge of jealousy that he tried to cover, the squint of his eyes every time he mentioned Luke's name… The argument never was about defending him. It wasn’t about whether Luke was a threat or whether he was trying to get too close—it wasn’t even really about the coffee or the texts or any of the small things that had set Bucky off. The fight had been about something deeper, something neither of you had the courage to fully voice.

It was about a fear that neither of you had fully understood or acknowledged. It was about Bucky’s fear of losing something—maybe losing you, or the closeness you shared—and in his own way, trying to hold on to you, to make sure he was still one of the most important people in your life. But in doing so, he crossed a line.

It felt strange to lie in the dark, the quiet of the apartment now overwhelming. You couldn’t hear him anymore, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that the two of you were in the same space, yet so far apart.

[purple-plum-petals]

⊱ What It’s Like Cuddling with Him ⊰ || Mr. Gap Headcanons

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Character(s): Mr. Gap (Homicipher/文字化化) Reader Type: Human (Gender-Neutral Pronouns) Warning(s): None! Genre: Headcanons, Fluff, Romantic or Platonic Relationship (It’s Complicated, honestly). Word Count: ~590 words. Request: “Please I've been dying for content 😔 can I get uhhhh mr.gap content plz ?? I can't stop thinking about him popping up between ur blankets on you. Love ur homicipher stuff so far btw 🩷” Author’s Note: Thank you so much for the kind words! I’ve been enjoying writing for the fandom, too. Everyone has been so incredibly supportive, and that just means the world to me as a writer who never thinks their work is good enough. I love you, Homicipher fandom. 😭🫶 I went ahead and did headcanons about how Mr. Gap would be as a cuddle buddy since you mentioned the scene of him popping up between the blankets (and because they’re a lot easier to crank out than full-on drabbles haha). I hope you enjoy!  

→ If you enjoyed my work, please reblog it if you can! Exposure on Tumblr is based on reblogging content rather than liking it, so your support would be much appreciated!  ♡

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🕳️: The first time Mr. Gap surprised you by suddenly appearing under the covers, you nearly died of a heart attack right then in there before scolding him to never do that again. He simply rolled his eyes at you, calling you boring before disappearing into the void once again. He never did stop like you had asked him to which, honestly, wasn’t surprising in the slightest. Eventually, you got used to his sudden presence to the point where it didn’t startle you as horribly as it used to (much to his disappointment). 

🕳️: Even if you don’t get startled by his appearance as often as you used to, that doesn’t mean you never get scared when he suddenly pops up. He enjoys spooking you, smiling widely whenever you gasp or let out a shriek when he lunges at your face from under the sheets like an alligator shooting out of the water to grab unsuspecting prey in its maws. He leaves with a chuckle if you smack or try to hit him, vanishing before you can do any damage. Your reactions are funny to him, and he enjoys being able to get a rise out of you. 

🕳️: You eventually become fed up with him and ask him with a huff if he wants to cuddle after lifting your covers and seeing his face in the darkness underneath, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. He grimaces and asks you what that even means, not familiar with the term. After explaining it to him as best as you could considering the language barrier, his semi-disgusted expression doesn’t change, and he leaves faster than it took you to blink. This continues for a while, you ask him with a smirk if he wants to cuddle with you which successfully manages to chase the trickster away (you just have to threaten him with physical affection... good information to know).

🕳️: However, one day, Mr. Gap doesn’t leave after your half-hearted threat. He stays and stares up at you with a blank look on his face before, to your shock, agrees to cuddle with you. It’s strange laying in bed with a ghost that doesn’t have a body in the conventional sense, his head resting on your chest while his arms rest limply at your sides (he usually doesn’t hold you back, instead laying on you like a dead fish). While you can feel the presence of a form on top of you, whenever you try to catch a glimpse, you cannot see anything resembling a body underneath the covers. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, though, and he reminds you of a weighted blanket. 

🕳️: Mr. Gap doesn’t move or make much noise whenever you two are cuddling, an occurrence that has become more frequent as time goes on. He isn’t the biggest fan of physical touch, but he finds himself not minding the way your hands feel threading through his hair or the sound of your beating heart while his ear is pressed against your chest. The noise is strangely comforting... 

🕳️: If you inquire about his lack of commentary, he looks up at you and smirks, asking if you would give him your heart. You just tell him no with a smile since you were used to his questions at this point and close your eyes, your hands returning to combing out in knots in his black locks without another word… He kind of hates how he doesn’t find himself disgusted by your touch, and he can’t help but wonder why that is. 

[mononijikayu]

forg_tful — fushiguro megumi.

“I think you must be the kindest grim reaper to ever exist.” you say suddenly, the words spilling out before you can stop them.  Your voice is soft, worn out from the day, but it carries the weight of sincerity. Megumi raises an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.  “Do you know any other grim reapers?” he asks, his tone laced with dry humor. You chuckle, a sound that feels lighter than it has in weeks. “No, not at all.” you admit, smiling despite yourself. “But I don’t need to. You’ve set the bar pretty high, do you know that?”

GENRE: alternate universe - grim reaper au;

WARNING/S: mythical beings and creatures, aged up megumi, heavy angst, romance, conflicted feelings, hurt/comfort, unhappy life, depression, illness, hurt, character death, mourning, loneliness, pain, humor, guilt, pining, conflicted relationship, emotional distress, grief, depiction of character death, depiction of illness, depiction of grief, depiction of complicated relationship, depiction of panic attack, depiction of loneliness, mention of grief, mention of illness, mention of loneliness, grim reaper! megumi, long suffering dying! reader;

WORD COUNT: 12k words

NOTE: when i was dabbling about what to post, i did a wheel of names and megumi won so here is another megumi fic. i was talking with @midnight-138 the other day and we got in this conversation about goblin, the kdrama. and there were grim reapers there. so i ended up writing about that here. i hope you enjoy it as much as i did!!! anyway, i love you all <3

masterlist

if you want to, tip! <3

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THERE IS A WONDER ABOUT HUMAN DESTINY. You heard a story about it then, at the orphanage. One of your carers would tell you about it often. How humans were born into this destiny in this new life after their old one.

And this life is determined by how good or bad that past life was. And that each and everyone must live a good enough life in each cycle, in order to have a good life in the next.

When you were a child, understanding this concept felt like a challenge. How could one’s destiny ever be decided just like that, by things you don’t even remember? Who gets to decide whether or not we are good?

Is good and bad easy to tell? You would ask the older kids at the orphanage this, and sometimes you caretakers. But they never seem to understand why you could not accept it as it is. 

After all, you were a child. And a child would always find that ridiculous, you think. You were a child. You haven’t done anything wrong. Not to anyone. Not about anything.

You doubt you could have done something in your past life that should warrant any punishment. You were someone people knew to be a good kid, you always have been. People looked at you warmly, ever so kindly. 

But now you can only say that you know better. You have grown up. You had seen the truth. And it was not good, it was ugly and rotten. It was a tragedy. And you hated it. You hated everything about it.

Because your past life, your past self — they might have been a terrible person. They must have been the worst of the worst. Because, if you weren’t, then what justifies that sad suffering? That painful existence you had lived up until now.

You sighed heavily, taking in the whiff of bitter antiseptic, that artificial fragrance. You like to think you’ve been cursed to live a sad life. And today was just another proof of it.

Every thought of it just lingers like a familiar shadow, whispering in the quiet moments when you’re too tired to fight back. It’s easier to believe in curses than coincidences, easier to pin your pain on something cosmic than accept a world so indifferent.

You were an orphan, after all. Not in the storybook sense where miracles come to those who wait, but in the raw, unvarnished truth of it. Alone from the start, without a name to cry out to when the nights felt endless.

There was no mother to call for warm hugs, there was no father to give you reassurances. Just that cold metal bunk bed, which creaks at night as you twist and turn and the dark moonless nights.

You were passed from one place to another, faceless in a system that churned endlessly, always one more lost child than it could handle. You kept being told that it wasn’t that because you were unlovable, that’s what they always said.

But it was just that they found out what love looks like when they look at someone else, at another child that they think fits in their family. That was just how they felt they said, that was just their truth. And it shouldn't be personal. 

You learned early on that love wasn’t guaranteed, that kindness wasn’t free, and that your worth was measured by how little trouble you caused. And just like that you grew up in that orphanage, being your own parent, being your own mother and father, your own sibling. Your own family.

When the kids at school found out, they immediately latched onto it. The teasing started small, barbs disguised as jokes, but it grew sharper, crueler. Just as the years dragged on, they had grown to be even crueler, even more vicious about being someone like you. 

Even as you started to have your own life and slowly became an adult, you found that people would never think to give you anything. You had expectations at one point that people would be more understanding. That they would give you more grace about it. 

But you would find yourself broken up over by your significant other because their mother didn’t like that you had no one in your family. Well, their mother never liked you from the beginning.

They thought you were difficult and had no manners, all because you never had a family, no parents to teach you all the things that would make a good person.

You would find yourself having friends and then getting into fights with them when you couldn’t show up for them at times, because you had to work multiple jobs to get through college.

Or how you couldn’t hang out with them because you had to take another shift for extra cash for your rent. They would say, what would be the need of you if you can’t be there?

Over time, you found yourself isolated from the world. No matter what you did, you found yourself alone. You found yourself unable to please people, unable to keep people. Unable to attain happiness or peace in this life. And over time too, you stopped expecting anyone to step in. You stopped expecting anything at all.

You’ve had a rough life—that’s what they’d call it, isn’t it? A neat little phrase to gloss over the thorny, jagged edges of this existence. It was as if that phrase could capture all of the nights spent crying into your pillow, the gnawing hunger for connection, for someone; the sense that the world moved on without ever noticing you.

And somehow, your misery can only continue.

It started with little things, barely noticeable at first—a name you couldn’t recall, a face that seemed familiar but unplaceable. Then it got worse and worse as time went by. Days lost to a haze of things you couldn’t explain, moments slipping through your fingers like water flowing downstream. 

You didn’t wanna worry about it that much in the beginning. Maybe you’ve been working too hard. You’ve taken so much work these past few weeks. And maybe you had forgotten to eat anything.

You had a sensitive stomach, after all. Maybe that’s what has been causing the fatigue and the headache. Maybe the headaches are the reason you’ve been forgetting a lot of things. Yeah, that’s what it could be.

Yet, it just never went away. Even with the lifestyle changes, even when you would cut back on work to take care of yourself and rest. Nothing had changed. In fact, the pain had only gotten worse.

And more and more, you would find yourself forgetting things more and more. At one point, you had cried so much after forgetting which street you lived on after work. 

You had felt your head spinning, your vision went on a blur and that night lamp began to burn against your eyes. Your breath labored over and over, and you had tried to get it controlled — but you couldn’t. Tears fell even more as you leaned against the lamp post. You felt like you were going to collapse.That you were going to throw up on the floor. 

It took some time for yourself to regain some control, you knew that much. You just stayed there, letting the tears fall. You still didn’t remember where you had lived. You were forgetting it all. And that frustrated you to no end. You knew then that this can’t continue happening. That this cannot continue on. 

That’s why you came here in this godforsaken place known as the hospital. You’ve always hated hospitals. It was such a terrible place. Even as a child, getting your check–ups with the other orphans terrified you. Nothing about this place spells any good. You were already with bad luck, with such a terrible destiny in this life and you didn’t want it to continue.

But you cannot control destiny, not ever.

You could only control yourself. 

And even that, you cannot have control.

Not anymore, not ever again.

The doctors confirmed it: a rare, terminal illness. Brain cancer, in its final stages. Not only was it going to kill you, it was going to take everything that made you along with it.

Your memories, no matter how horrible, your identity, no matter how empty, your self, no matter how broken. All of who you are — you'd fade away in pieces, becoming a hollow shell long before your body gave out.

You thought the universe had no more ways to hurt you. 

But you knew you were wrong, from the very beginning.

And then, on a night when the weight of it all felt unbearable, you saw him.

He wasn’t what you expected. No black cloak, no skeletal frame, no cold, lifeless eyes. The grim reaper was... human. Or at least, he looked that way. His dark colored hair fell in soft, dark strands over his forehead, his clothes unassuming—a rather plain and boring suit, even.

But there was something in his presence, a quiet intensity, that made your heart skip. His blue-green eyes, sharp and unreadable, pinned you in place, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

“Who are you?” you asked, though deep down you already knew.

He studied you in silence for a moment, as though deciding whether you were worth an answer. Your eyes narrowed at him, as though trying to make sure that this isn’t just your brain making a mess of you. But he wasn’t. He was very much real. He was very much here. Finally, he spoke.

“Megumi.” he said. His voice was calm, steady, but there was something beneath it—something you couldn’t quite place. You hadn’t expected that from a grim reaper. You had expected something more rough. Something more….grim.

“Is that all?” you pressed, desperation clawing at your throat. You wanted—no, needed—to know more. Why him? Why now? Why couldn’t you just be left alone?

“That’s all you need to know about me.” he said simply.

His words were a wall you couldn’t scale. No matter how hard you tried, you knew there would be no answers, no explanations, no mercy. At least not until you were dead. You sighed, leaning against the bench.

This was it. The final countdown was coming soon. There was no escape. Yet, as the silence stretched between you, a strange feeling took root in your chest. Not comfort, not exactly. But something close. It was at least something. And for once, you weren’t alone.

You didn’t know what this grim reaper, this Megumi, was meant to be to you. What was he? Was he a guide, a witness, a judge? You didn’t know. And perhaps it was easier not to ask questions, to not know. 

But as you continued to sit there, staring at the one who would carry you to your end, a thought crossed your mind. At least he wasn’t judging you. At least he was just there, waiting. He was calm as can be, quiet and without any grievances towards you. 

Perhaps, maybe — at least he wasn’t as cruel as life has been. You began to think to yourself as you closed your eyes about one thing. Maybe if he was here, then maybe the end wouldn’t be so lonely after all. Maybe there will finally be some sense of peace at the end. 

You opened your eyes, your lips seeping into a small smile. “I look forward to meeting my end with you.”

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AS THE TIME GOES BY, HE WAS WITH YOU IN EVERYTHING. No one else around you could feel or see him the way you do. And he couldn’t go anywhere else. He was bound to you, until he could take your soul away and bring it with him. So, Megumi continued to watch over you as you continued to live your life, or at least what remains of it.

At first, his presence unnerves you. You weren’t used to this, being watched so closely almost everyday and every hour — especially with what remained of your miserable life. But slowly you found yourself getting used to him being around. And at the very least, he still gave you space when you did things that required privacy.

Otherwise, he’s always there, quiet and still, like a shadow you can’t shake. And as the days stretch into weeks, you begin to realize that he isn’t all bad. He does talk, sometimes. At least when he thinks you do something worth giving a response about.

He was truly quite reserved and serious half the time, yes, and almost cold in the way he speaks and carries himself, but there’s something beneath it. It wasn’t easy to notice at first, because it was ever so subtle. It was as if he never wanted anyone to notice that there was  something soft within that hard exterior of his.

Megumi didn’t seem to fit his job description—not at all. He was patient in a way you didn’t expect from a reaper. From what you’d gathered from folklore and stories about grim reapers, you imagined something far more ominous.

Shadows and sickles, maybe even whispers of death. But Megumi? He had a quiet presence that felt nothing like the foreboding figures you’d pictured.

When your mind betrays you, when a memory slips through your fingers like grains of sand, Megumi is there. He doesn’t judge the gaps, doesn’t rush you to remember. Instead, he catches the loose ends with an ease that seems effortless. 

Sometimes, it feels as though he’s more of a guide than a harbinger, steering you gently through the storm of forgetfulness. His voice is steady, grounding. His gaze is understanding, never invasive.

There’s a calmness to him, a patience that wraps around you like a soft cocoon. It’s disarming. You wonder how someone charged with ferrying souls could be so tender. Yet, when you look at him, you see no malice, no hint of the cold indifference you expected. Just the faintest trace of weariness in his eyes, as if he’s carried too many burdens that aren’t his own.

Sometimes, you forget who he is. And in those moments, Megumi doesn’t correct you. Instead, he lets you speak, lets you ramble, and when the memory comes back, when you remember why he’s here—he doesn’t revel in the grief.

He simply nods, a quiet acknowledgment that this, too, is part of the process. He’s not here to rush the inevitable; he’s here to make sure you don’t face it alone.

“Your nurse’s name is Alice, by the way.” Megumi says again when you struggle to introduce yourself. 

You could feel your mouth fumbling over syllables that don’t quite fit together. Your cheeks feel red at the thought, now remembering as she smiled at your direction. You waved at her. His voice is calm, steady, like he has all the time in the world to wait for you to find your footing. You blink at him, your thoughts swirling too fast to make sense of.

 “Huh?” you finally ask, the confusion thick in your tone. 

“She takes care of you in the mornings. Alice always makes sure to bring your meds with water, no ice.” he says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to know. “You told her once that cold water hurts your teeth, so she makes sure to bring you water without ice.

You glance down at your hands, unsure of what to say. His eyes felt warm against your own as you nodded slowly at him, trusting his words. Those details feel foreign to you, like a story you heard about someone else. But his words fit, even if you can’t remember saying them. They were warm, they felt truthful.

“Oh.” you mumble with a small smile. “Thanks.”

He looks away from you. “No problem.”

Later, in the cafeteria, you sit in front of a tray of food that feels unfamiliar. Your appetite is as absent as the clarity of your thoughts. You stare at the carton of apple juice, its horrifically bright label somehow irritating, though you can’t pinpoint why at all.

“You liked orange juice better than apple.” Megumi says, breaking the silence. He gestures toward the carton with a small nod. “That one’s your favorite. Not too sweet, not too sour.”

The simplicity of the statement hits you like a lifeline, tethering you to something concrete. You pick up the carton, turning it in your hands before setting it back down. You smiled at him again, but this time almost a mix of relief and embarrassment. You were relying on your grim reaper to remind you of everything, now more than ever.

“Thank you.” you say again, a little louder this time, just enough for him to hear.

The two of you sit in silence for a while before you decide to pull out the small notebook you’ve been keeping. Your doctor suggested it as your brain got even sicker. You needed to remember something and so this notebook, it was your place to track your thoughts before they disappear entirely. 

You scribble furiously, trying to make sense of the jumble in your head. You’re working on a sentence about feeling forgetful, but the words tangle together, your handwriting messy and uneven. You pause, staring at it. Something feels wrong. Something feels off. Your face contorts, your eyes narrow at the page.

“You missed an E.” Megumi says softly, leaning over to glance at the page. 

He doesn’t reach for the notebook, doesn’t try to take it from you. Instead, he taps the spot with his finger, just enough to draw your attention. Your eyes blinked. Sure enough, forgetful is written as forgtful. You bite your lip, heat rising to your cheeks as frustration bubbles up. 

“I—I know that, you know?” you say defensively, though the truth is you hadn’t noticed until he pointed it out.

He doesn’t laugh or tease you. “It happens, don’t worry.” he says simply, his tone free of judgment. “You caught it now. That’s what matters.”

You glance at him, expecting pity, but his stoic expression is as steady as ever, like this moment isn’t something to dwell on. You pierce your lips in a tight line. You carefully picked up your pen again, correcting the error with a shaky hand. 

“Thanks for telling me.” you mutter, embarrassed but grateful.

“You were talking about your favorite teacher, earlier.” he reminds you a little while later, after your thoughts derail mid-sentence. 

You’d been telling him about a memory. It was a rare one, where everything about it was good. It was such a warm, fuzzy one that had felt so clear in your mind just moments ago—but now it’s slipping away, leaving you grasping at straws.

You look at him, feeling lost. “I... was?”

“You were.” he confirms with a small nod, his tone encouraging. “You said they were the first people to notice how much you liked writing. You were just getting to the part about their funny laugh.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right!” you whisper, the thread of the memory slowly weaving its way back into focus. “Right. Mr. Greene. He laughed like a seagull.”

Megumi doesn’t laugh at the description, but his lips twitch in what might be the ghost of a smile. That was a rare thing, you knew that. But you like to think that maybe, just maybe, if he tried — he would look even better when he smiled. He already has a handsome face, you knew that. But maybe, his smile, it would make it even better.

“That’s it.” he says, his voice carrying a quiet kind of approval.

It’s small, these moments of clarity he gives you, but they feel monumental in a life that’s slowly crumbling. For a moment, you feel like you’ve reclaimed a small piece of yourself, and you can’t help but glance at him, wondering how someone like him, a reaper, of all things can make you feel more alive than you have in a long time.

You can’t help but admit it but he was your first true friend.

He was your longest companion to boot, with that.

And perhaps, he will be the only constant you’ll ever have.

But maybe he already knew that and he just doesn’t tell you.

He accompanies you often, especially in the long, quiet hours spent tethered to hospital machines. The hum of monitors and the rhythmic drip of IVs become a backdrop to his steady, unobtrusive presence. At first, you think he’s only there to observe, to do whatever grim reapers are supposed to do as your life ticks away. 

But the longer he stays, the more you realize he’s keeping you company at every appointment. Keeping you from being so alone. Even if it was his job, he could wait elsewhere. But he sits beside you, in an empty chair no one dares sit at. 

And he stays, throughout each and every appointment. Appointments which barely keep you alive. It was only a matter of time before he had to deliver your soul to wherever it had to be.

You started to wonder if he’ll think about this time with you too. If he will find this moment to be something that will cross his mind once this job, you, were done and gone. 

It’s strange, this relationship you’ve fallen into. He doesn’t talk much unless prompted, not unless you forgot something or need anything. But you like to think that you could start to rely on his silence. Especially when doctors and nurses give you all those complicated jargons that you didn’t even need.

It fills the void in a way words can’t. When you’re too tired to make conversation with visitors, when there are visitors, probably motivated by guilt or necessity, your grim reaper Megumi is there. Unfailingly, he would be sitting by your bedside, his gaze steady, his presence grounding. As though he wants to give you strength to deal with it all. 

But of course, as  you already know, no one else can see him. Just you. At first, you tried explaining him to the nurses, the doctors,  or when you felt like talking about something you knew he would listen to — but the looks they gave you were enough to stop. They chalked it up to the illness, the stress, or the medications. 

But Megumi is real. You know he’s real. The way he moves, the way he seems to sense your thoughts before you speak them, the way he exists on the edges of your life without ever intruding.

The way a glint in his eyes would appear warmer than before. He was here. He was there with you. You weren’t going crazy. And he knew that too. He was the only one that knew that.

One day, in the suffocating stillness of the hospital ward, you finally ask him the question that’s been gnawing at the edges of your mind. The pale light filtering through the blinds casts long shadows on the sterile white walls.

And the quiet hum of distant monitors feels unbearably loud. You shift uncomfortably in your bed, clutching the thin blanket as if it could anchor you to something solid.

“Why are you here?” The words escape your lips before you can stop them. Your voice is quiet, hesitant, but the question feels monumental, breaking the fragile peace between you.

Megumi doesn’t look surprised. He’s seated in the chair by your bed, one leg crossed over the other, his posture as calm as always. His gaze lifts from the book he’s been reading, something he always seems to have in his hands.

Though you’ve never seen him get past the halfway mark. He seems to be carrying it as though it was a prayer book he was forced to hold at a sermon at church.

“To watch you.” he says simply, his tone neutral. There’s no elaboration, no attempt to soften the starkness of his answer. As though it was almost like his words were that of fact. You furrow your brow, confused.

“I know that….But why? Why do you keep on watching me this closely?” you press, the weight of his presence suddenly more tangible. He isn’t like the nurses or the doctors who flit in and out of the room. He doesn’t belong here—not in the way they do.

“Are you uncomfortable about it?” 

You blinked at him, your mouth agape for a moment. “N–no.”

“Okay, then. I’ll continue on doing what I want.”

You didn’t speak for a moment. You like to think that it was all you were going to get from him. So you just sighed, leaning against your hospital bed and closing your eyes. This was the most he’d ever talk to you, and perhaps the longest. That could be a win, right?

“For you.” He spoke again, as though he couldn’t handle the silence between you. 

“For me?” you echo, your voice almost a whisper. The words feel foreign, as though they belong to someone else. “What does that mean?”

He tilts his head slightly, considering your question. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—an emotion you can’t name. Not pity, not detachment, but something softer. “Does my reason matter?”

“You have me curious now.” You whisper to him, letting out a small laugh. “What was your reason?” you ask him again.

Though deep down, you think you already know. The thought lodges itself in your chest, sharp and unwelcome. Megumi doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped loosely together. His gaze holds yours for some time, steady and unwavering. 

“I made a promise I’d like to keep.” he says finally, the words carrying a gravity that makes your breath hitch.

“What promise?”

His eyes narrowed at you, almost as though it was full of hurt. “You don’t want to know.”

The suffocating stillness of the room presses down on you, but somehow, his presence feels like a small crack of light breaking through the weight of it all. You want to ask more—how he knows, why he cares, but the words catch in your throat, tangled in the storm of your thoughts.

It’s such a brief answer, yet it lingers with you long after the words fade. There’s no pity in his voice, no judgment, just a quiet truth that settles like a blanket over your weary mind. And in some inexplicable way, that’s enough.

So, instead you nod, a small, almost imperceptible gesture. It’s not acceptance, not yet, but maybe it’s the beginning of it. And Megumi, patient as ever, doesn’t push for more. He simply stays, his quiet presence a reminder that, whatever happens, you won’t face it alone.

Over time, Megumi’s presence becomes less foreboding and more… comforting. If someone told you a grim reaper could be anything close to a friend, you would’ve laughed. But now? You’re not so sure.

He still doesn’t talk much, but the moments he does are starting to feel less like obligations and more like. Well, like he cares. His dry humor catches you off guard sometimes, a quiet chuckle slipping from his lips when you grumble about hospital food or tell him a ridiculous story from your childhood that you’re shocked you even remember.

“They let you keep a pet fish in third grade?” he asks one day, his eyebrow quirking ever so slightly.

“Let me? No, I smuggled it back to the orphanage.” you reply, puffing your chest out like it’s something to be proud of. “Named him Mr. Bubbles. He lived in a mason jar by our shared windowsill until one of the staff found him.”

Megumi gives you a sidelong glance, and for a second, you think he’s about to scold you. But instead, his lips quirk into the tiniest smile. “Mr. Bubbles, huh.” he repeats, almost to himself, and the sound of it in his voice makes your chest feel light.

He’s always a comfort in the painful days of longevity treatments. You were getting even worse, not even the precious medication was working. Megumi was the one to urge you to continue, even if they were never going to do anything for you.

After all, he was here for a reason. Nothing was going to help. And yet, he still insists that having more time is better than having little.

This time, you like to think you could agree with him. With more time, you could continue to have Megumi by your side. You could continue to have conversations with him.

You could continue to see his small ghostly smiles and find him sitting there beside you, looking through pages of that book he never reads. You could have more time living, experiencing some good in your life – a good that was waiting on death’s door. 

Sitting in the chair beside you, his legs crossed casually, as though he’s simply there for the ambiance and not because you’re hooked up to an IV that feels like it’s siphoning the life out of you. Sometimes, you fall asleep mid-session, and when you wake up, you find him sitting exactly as he was, as if not a single moment has passed for him.

“I wasn’t sleeping at all.” you insist groggily one day, blinking the drowsiness away. “How could you even know I was sleeping at all? I know, it’s my body!”

“You were drooling.” he counters flatly, gesturing toward your chin. “Look, it’s still there in the corner of your lips.”

You hurriedly swipe at your face, heat rushing to your cheeks. “I was not!”

His expression doesn’t change, but you swear there’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. He could be a trickster when he wants to be. He could be silly from time to time. And funny enough with that dry humor that you could cry tears as you laugh so hard at what he says.

Despite his initial stoicism, Megumi starts picking up on your quirks, learning the things that make you smile. And most days now, especially now with these horrible and miserable treatments, you looked forward to them. 

Like the time he noticed you doodling on the edge of your treatment log and, the next day, casually handed you a pack of gel pens. Your face conforms to a confused daze as you look at him and then at the gel pens in your hand. There were so many that you don’t even think you could count them.

“How the hell did you get this, Megumi?” You asked him, your eyes narrowing at him. “Why are there so many?”

“They were free.” he said, refusing to meet your eyes as you stared at the colorful bundle in awe.

“From where?” you asked, skeptical at his response to you.

“Places.” He still wasn’t looking at you.

“Megumi.” you drawled, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Do you want the pens or not?” he huffed, crossing his arms in a way that made him look surprisingly boyish. “They’re really good too. I tried them downstairs. And they’re free. What? Is the security going to look at your bag when you leave? This isn’t a mall, you know.”

You looked at him for a moment, dumbfounded at his sudden ridiculous tirade. Then slowly, your tummy rumbled as you laughed and laughed. The notion of it all was silly. Still, you were entertained by it. Megumi seemed glad that you laughed. And that you went along with all of it. 

You took the pens, of course. You put them in your bag after he handed it to you. No one checked it and for the rest of the day, you tried them and made little doodles with them on your notepad at home. And that day, for the first time in a long time, you felt genuinely happy.

As much as Megumi claims he’s only there to “watch” you as part of his job, you found that it’s obvious he’s doing more than that. He’s doing the most out of all grim reapers you like to think.

Of course, you don’t know any other grim reapers. And you doubt you’d look sane if you tried to bring it up to another dying person. But your grim reaper, at least you, was the kindest. 

As you settle into bed, the hospital room bathed in the faint glow of a bedside lamp, you glance over at Megumi. He’s sitting in his usual chair, arms folded loosely, his expression calm but watchful.

It’s become routine now. His quiet presence is a constant that you’ve come to rely on, though you’d never admit it outright.

“I think you must be the kindest grim reaper to ever exist.” you say suddenly, the words spilling out before you can stop them. 

Your voice is soft, worn out from the day, but it carries the weight of sincerity. Megumi raises an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. 

“Do you know any other grim reapers?” he asks, his tone laced with dry humor.

You chuckle, a sound that feels lighter than it has in weeks. “No, not at all.” you admit, smiling despite yourself. “But I don’t need to. You’ve set the bar pretty high, do you know that?”

He doesn’t respond, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or perhaps a glimmer of gratitude he’d never put into words. His lips purse into a flat line, as he looks at you. You could tell that there’s something in his green–blue orbs that you couldn’t read. But you knew better than to ask.

“Thank you, Megumi.” you say after a moment, your voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

“For what?” he asks, his gaze steady on you.

“For being the first good thing in my life.” you say simply, your chest tightening as you force the words out. 

It feels strange to say, especially to someone like him. You know you shouldn’t be thanking the person meant to take your soul, the one who will guide you into the unknown. But it feels right. You swallow hard, looking away for a moment before meeting his eyes again. 

“I know it sounds ridiculous. Thanking a grim reaper. But I mean it. You were... the kindest thing in my destiny. And I think that’s enough to be happy about.”

Megumi doesn’t say anything right away. He doesn’t need to. The faintest nod of his head, the subtle softening of his usually stoic expression, is answer enough. The weight in your chest eases as you let your head sink into the pillow. Your eyelids grow heavy, and you fight to keep them open just a little longer. 

“Goodnight, Megumi.” you murmur, your voice trailing off as sleep begins to take hold.

“Good night.” he says softly, his voice carrying a gentleness you hadn’t expected.

As your breathing slows, becoming steady and rhythmic, Megumi stays where he is, his gaze fixed on you. And he knows. He just knows—it’s time. Your time. The moment hangs in the air, heavy and bittersweet, but he doesn’t flinch.

This was always the inevitability, but watching you now, peaceful and free from the fear that had once gripped you, he feels something akin to relief. Perhaps even a quiet sadness.

When the time comes, Megumi will be there, as he always has been. For now, though, he lets you rest, a faint sense of solace settling over the room.

══════════════════

IF HE WAS BEING HONEST, THIS MISSION WASN’T EVEN FOR HIM TO TAKE. Megumi didn’t choose this assignment at random. No, not at all. That morning began like any other in the sterile monotony of his existence. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a pale glow on the rows of cubicles where reapers sat, reviewing their tasks for the day. 

He’d been staring at the dregs of his coffee, debating whether he had the energy to bother getting a fresh cup, when the assignments for the day appeared on the board—a mosaic of names, dates, faces.

He’d glanced up, disinterested at first. It was just another day in an endless cycle of endings. Souls came and went, and reapers like him did their jobs, guiding them to whatever came next. There was no time for attachment, no reason to linger on a single name or face.

But then he saw yours.

And everything stopped.

His coffee cup slipped from his fingers, shattering against the floor in a muted crash. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. He blinked once, twice, as if his eyes might be playing tricks on him. But no matter how many times he looked, it was unmistakable.

It was you.

Your face stared back at him from the board, frozen in a candid snapshot. It was a face he knew better than his own, even after all this time. A face he’d never forgotten, not even through lifetimes of distance.

It had been so long since he’d last seen you. Lifetimes ago, you had been more than just a part of his world—you had been his world. The memories were fractured and blurred at the edges, but they still burned vividly enough to hurt.

He remembered your laugh, bright and unrestrained, echoing through a life that had otherwise been far too short. He remembered the way you had looked at him, your gaze full of trust, full of hope.

He remembered losing you.

And now here you are again, pulled into this cycle of life and death that neither of you could escape. But this time, you were already dying. You were going to go and suffer again, and there would be no one to save you. He couldn’t stop it last time. And now, he cannot stop it this time. It was set in stone already.

And yet, his heart breaks over and over again. You were barely more than a child, younger than either of you had been in your shared past life. You hadn’t even been given a chance to live, and yet the world had decided it was already time to take you away.

Megumi’s heart ached in a way he hadn’t thought possible anymore. He was a reaper. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything. But as he stared at your photo, the weight of it all crushed him.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that you’d been taken from him once, and now it was happening all over again. This time, there would be no miracles, no last-minute reprieves. He knew that. He’d seen it a thousand times in other lives.

But he couldn’t just let you go alone.

Without thinking, he rose from his chair, his movements mechanical as he walked toward the board. Each step felt heavier than the last, his resolve hardening with every breath. When he reached your name, he stared at it for a long moment before finally speaking.

“I’ll take this one.” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

The room went silent. Assignments weren’t supposed to be chosen; they were distributed at random to avoid any emotional entanglements. Reapers were meant to be impartial. But no one questioned him. Megumi rarely spoke, rarely asked for anything. If he wanted this assignment, there had to be a reason.

As he returned to his desk, your face still fresh in his mind, he made himself a quiet promise. He couldn’t save you. The rules were clear. Your fate was already written, and nothing he did could change that.

But he could be there. He could make sure you didn’t have to face the end alone, that you wouldn’t have to feel the crushing loneliness he’d once felt when he lost you before.

Even if you didn’t remember him. Even if you didn’t know that in another life, you had been his entire world. He would carry that pain for both of you. Because this wasn’t just another assignment. It was you. And losing you again, even knowing it was inevitable, would be the cruelest fate of all.

When Megumi first appeared to you, he knew he had to keep his emotions in check. His job wasn’t to interfere, and no matter how much it hurt to see you again, he couldn’t let the truth slip. You didn’t know who he was, didn’t recognize the connection you’d once shared.

And why would you? To you, he was just a stranger. A quiet, brooding figure who had been assigned to shadow your dying days.

At first, he told himself that keeping his distance would make it easier. That if he stayed aloof, if he acted like this was just another assignment, maybe the ache in his chest wouldn’t consume him. But the moment he saw how lonely you were, trapped in a hospital bed, tethered to machines, fading faster than anyone your age should—he couldn’t help himself.

It was the little things at first. Reminding you of a nurse’s name when your memory failed. Offering a quiet presence during your treatments. Bringing you that pack of gel pens when he noticed your fingers twitching over the edges of your journal, longing to create something amidst the monotony of hospital life.

But as the days turned into weeks, Megumi found himself doing more than he should.

He started sitting closer to you, his usual stoic demeanor softening with every conversation. He started bringing you small comforts—a cup of coffee he swore he “found” a scarf on the day the hospital felt too cold, a faint smile when you told him a joke, no matter how bad it was.

“Why do you even hang around?” you asked one afternoon, your voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and weariness. 

You’d just finished another grueling medicinal session, your body too weak to sit up straight. He didn’t answer right away. For a moment, his gaze lingered on you, something unreadable in his dark blue–green eyes. Then, he shrugged.

“You’re interesting to me.” he said simply, but his voice betrayed the truth he couldn’t say.

You laughed weakly. “Interesting? I’m a walking tragedy.”

“No, never say that. Not ever again.” he said firmly, his tone surprising you. “You’re more than that. You are more than your tragedy.”

The words hung in the air, and you didn’t press further. But in that moment, something shifted between you. As time went on, you began to look forward to his visits. He wasn’t just a reaper to you anymore; he was someone who made the unbearable a little more bearable. 

Someone who listened when you needed to vent, who stayed when the nights felt too long, who reminded you that even in the shadow of death, you weren’t invisible. And Megumi… Megumi was breaking all his own rules. Rules he had set long after you, long before you again.

Every time he saw you laugh, even if it was just a fleeting chuckle, a part of him swore he’d do anything to keep that spark alive. But every time he saw you struggle; when your hands trembled too much to hold a pen, when your memories slipped further and further away—his heart ached in ways it hadn’t in centuries.

He hated this. Hated that you had to go through this. Hated that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t change your fate. But he stayed by your side through it all. He lets himself relive it all over again, no matter the pain. No matter what comes. Because it’s you. Come what may, it’s you.

“You know, Megumi.” you said softly, your voice almost drowned out by the hum of the machines. “You’re not so bad to me.”

He raised an eyebrow, but there was a faint twitch at the corner of his lips. “Not so bad?”

You smiled, your eyes heavy with exhaustion but still warm. “Yeah. You’re like... a friend. A precious friend.”

A friend. The word stabbed at him more than it should have. Because that’s all he could ever be to you in this life. A friend. A shadow. A quiet presence watching over you as you slowly slipped away.

“You think so, huh?” He asks you, as you nodded and smiled. Silence engulfs the room. “I don’t think I’ve ever been someone’s precious friend before.”

“Then we are the same. Well, almost.” 

He blinks at your words. “What do you mean?”

“If you call me your precious friend too, then we’ll finally have it. Being a precious person, at least once.”

You’ve always been a precious person to me. Megumi thinks to himself. In every lifetime, in every you — you have always been my precious person.

And even though he would never tell you the truth, that you’d been so much more to him in another life, that losing you once had broken him and losing you again was killing him all over again, he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. 

Because this was his last chance to be with you, even if you didn’t remember him. Even if it would never be enough. Nothing with you would ever be enough, not even if you lived a thousand years. 

But, every moment is worth it, no matter how short it would be. When you love someone that much, it has to be enough. It has to be more than enough. He has to live through this immortal and wretched life, making those moments feel like they were as eternal as him. Even if he wanted more.

“Alright.” Megumi says to you as you perk up, your eyes shining. “You are a precious person to me.”

You giggled at his words. “Was it so hard to say? I am grateful that you said it at all.”

It was never hard to say. It never had been.

But now he has to live that memory over and over again.

He lets his lips echo a small warm smile as he looks at you.

“No, no it wasn’t hard at all.”

══════════════════

THE TREATMENTS HAVE STOPPED FULLY. And because of that your condition was getting worse and worse. The moments of clarity you once had were growing fewer and farther between. The pain in your body became an unwelcome constant, a weight that pulled you down even when you tried to fight against it. 

Every movement felt like dragging yourself through glass, and the fog in your mind thickened, stealing memories and thoughts before you could fully grasp them. Everything about it felt so fragile, and you were afraid of breaking it. Even if it was already broken, you were scared at seeing it break even more. You were scared and he couldn’t do much about it.

Megumi hated seeing you like this. He watched as you lay curled in your bed, tears streaming silently down your face, your breathing shaky and uneven. He hated the way your hands trembled as you gripped the blanket.

It was as if holding onto it might keep you tethered to something real. Something solid enough to bring you back to earth, to existence. To humanity. Hated the way your voice cracked when you spoke, each word laced with frustration and grief over what was slipping away from you.

“I hate this, I hate this.” you whispered one night, your voice barely audible. Your chest hitched with a quiet sob as you turned your face into the pillow, trying to muffle your cries. “I hate... not being able to think. To remember. I feel like I’m disappearing, and I can’t stop it.”

Megumi clenched his fists at his sides, his nails biting into his palms. He wanted to say something, to comfort you, but the words felt like ash in his throat. What could he say? That it would be okay? That you’d find peace? That this agony would end? None of it felt true, and none of it would matter to you at this moment.

You didn’t want peace. You wanted your life back.When you looked up at him, your eyes red  and swollen, the sight nearly broke him. You looked so weak, one couldn’t even think you were someone with such strength at one point. He hated this. He hated how miserable you’ve been, how pained you’ve been.

“I’m so tired, Megumi.” you admitted, your voice cracking as fresh tears welled in your eyes. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

Megumi moved closer, his steps slow and deliberate, as if he were afraid his presence might shatter you further. He sat at the edge of your bed, his usually impassive face shadowed with something raw and unguarded.

“You’re still you, you always will be.” he said quietly, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

You let out a bitter laugh, though it came out more like a choked sob. “How do you know that? You don’t even really know me.”

He froze for a moment, his gaze dropping to his hands. He wanted to tell you that he did know you, better than anyone ever could. That he remembered you in ways you couldn’t even begin to imagine. But he couldn’t. Not now.

Instead, he reached out, his hand hovering over yours for a moment before he let it settle gently against your trembling fingers. The touch was warm, grounding, and for a moment, the chaos inside you stilled.

“I know because I saw it. I’ve seen it all, even for a while.” he said finally. “Even when you’re hurting, even when it feels like everything is falling apart, I see you.”

His words hung in the air, fragile but steady, and something in your expression slowly softened. You leaned closer to him and he didn’t mind it at all. He pulled you even closer, letting that warmth of him become even more felt.

“It’s okay to be angry about all of this.” he continued, his voice steady now. “It’s okay to cry. You’ve been fighting so hard, for so long. You don’t have to hold it all in.”

Your tears flowed freely then, and Megumi stayed right where he was, his hand never leaving yours. He didn’t try to stop your sobs or hush your pain. He simply stayed, letting you pour out everything you’d been holding back. And for the first time in centuries, in his entire lifetime — Megumi couldn’t help but feel unequivocally  helpless.

He was a reaper, meant to guide and observe, but watching you crumble under the weight of your illness was unbearable. You didn’t deserve all of this. You shouldn’t suffer like this. You had done nothing wrong, not in your previous life and not this one. But this was still your fate. 

And he hated the unfairness of it all, the cruelty of a life that had given you so little only to take it away too soon. If he could have taken your place, he would have done it without hesitation.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t trade a life for a life. The gods do not have mercy in that regard. Fate was fate. He cannot do much about it. And he hates it. He hates seeing you like this. 

All he could do was stay by your side, no matter how much it hurt to watch. Because you deserved that much. You deserve someone who wouldn’t leave, even in your darkest moments. And Megumi would be damned if he let you face this alone.

As the night deepened, the room fell into a heavy, fragile silence. The only sounds were the steady hum of the machines and your quiet, uneven breaths as you lay spent from crying. Megumi hadn’t moved from his spot, his hand still lightly covering yours.

Your fingers twitched against his, seeking more warmth. The motion was subtle, but he noticed. Carefully, he threaded his fingers between yours, his grip firm but not overbearing. You didn’t pull away. Instead, your grip tightened just a little, like you were holding on to him for dear life.

“Why do you stay?” you asked, your voice hoarse from the tears but tinged with something vulnerable. You didn’t meet his eyes, staring instead at the faint outline of his hand entwined with yours.

Megumi hesitated. He wasn’t good at this—at talking about feelings. He was better at quiet gestures and staying in the background. But something about the way you asked, so small and uncertain, pulled the words out of him.

“Because you shouldn’t have to go through this alone, jot ever.” he said softly, his gaze fixed on you.

You blinked at his answer, a lump forming in your throat. “But you don’t even know me, not at all, Megumi.” you repeated, weaker this time, as if you wanted to believe him but couldn’t quite bring yourself to. “How could you stay for someone like me?”

Megumi’s jaw tightened. 

You didn’t know half of it.

“I know enough.” he said finally. “I know you’re stubborn and strong, even when you feel like you’re not. I know you don’t like hospital food, but you’ll eat it anyway because you don’t want to make the nurses worry. I know you still draw on the edges of your notebooks, even when your hands shake so much that the lines go crooked.”

Your eyes widened slightly at his words and Megumi felt his heart clench at the way you were looking at him, like you were seeing him for the first time. And as though, it was the first time in a while you had known him that he truly saw you.

“I see you.” he said again, his voice barely above a whisper. “Every part of you, even the ones you think you’ve lost. They’re still there. You’re still here.”

You felt the tears welling up again, but this time, they weren’t from frustration or anger. They were something softer, quieter. You take a deep breath, to calm yourself for a moment.

And he brushes your hand against your own. He was so warm, even when your hands were cold. He warmed you enough back to life, even for just that moment. 

“You make it sound like I’m worth something.” you murmured, a bittersweet smile tugging at your lips.

“You are. You always have been.” he said instantly, the conviction in his voice startling you. “More than you know. I promise you.”

Your chest ached, not from the illness this time, but from the overwhelming mixture of emotions his words stirred in you. It was almost too much, but at the same time, you didn’t want him to stop. You didn’t want him to stop bringing you back to life. You didn’t want him to stop giving you reasons to want to live.

“Megumi.” you said quietly, finally looking up at him.

His name sounded different coming from you, like it carried more weight, more meaning than it ever had before. It was as warm as back then, when you would say his name and smile at him, like he was your world. Like he was someone you dearly loved.

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice softer now, like he was afraid of breaking the moment.

You hesitated, your dulling eyes searching for something you couldn’t quite put into words. Then, with a shaky breath, you smiled—a real smile, small but genuine.“Thank you. For all you have done for me, for all you will ever do for me. Thank you.”

Megumi’s lips couldn’t help but twitch at your words, and for the first time, he allowed himself to give you a wide smile in return. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but it was there, and it was for you, only for you. And you knew that it was only for you.

“Don’t mention it.” he said, his usual stoicism creeping back into his tone, but there was an undeniable warmth beneath it.

That night, as you finally drifted off to sleep, your hand still holding his, Megumi stayed by your side. He watched the rise and fall of your chest, each breath a reminder that you were still here, still fighting. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Megumi let himself hope.

Not for a miracle, no. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe in those anymore—but for something smaller. He hoped that in the time you had left, he could make sure you knew you weren’t just a fleeting soul, a name on a list, a face on a board. 

You were everything to him, even if you never remembered why. And as he sat there, his hand still holding yours in the quiet of the night, he thought that maybe, just maybe, he could carry that truth for both of you.

══════════════════

HE KNEW THAT HE CAN’T KEEP BUYING TIME. That’s not how it works in this line of work. The higher-ups had been patient with Megumi for as long as they could. They had watched from a distance as he ignored the rules, as he lingered at your side longer than necessary.

He had been told once, perhaps twice, that his attachment was blurring the lines of his duty. But no one had come forward to confront him, not until now.

The meeting room was cold, sterile—just like all the others. It was almost like the hospital. It even smells like it too. The flickering lights did nothing to soften the sharp voices of his superiors, their words cutting through him like a blade. Megumi has always hated this room. As much as you hate the hospitals. 

He has lived for a long time. He has been in the reaper department for so long, he doesn’t even remember when he had started. But no matter how many times he stays in it, the smell will always linger and he hates it. Just as much as he hates the higher-ups, perhaps. Yet, he knew he couldn’t admit it out loud.

“Megumi, this isn’t working any longer.” One of them had said it, their voice cutting through the stale air of the room like a blade, sharp with frustration.

The council sat in their cold, unfeeling silence, their dark robes blending into the shadows that clung to the room. The words echoed in Megumi’s ears, even as he sat still, his fists clenched tightly under the table.

“They are already dying,” the voice continued, each word hammering against him. “You know this, you always have. Fate cannot be changed. You cannot keep delaying it. You’re prolonging their suffering, and you know it. We cannot let this go on any longer.”

Megumi’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. His blue-green eyes stayed fixed on the floor, a storm brewing behind them. He didn’t argue, didn’t defend himself, because deep down, he knew they were right. He could feel it every time he saw you. 

In this way your body grew weaker with each passing day, as if life itself was slipping through your fingers. Each breath you took was a silent battle, and every glance you gave him carried an unspoken understanding that your time was coming.

But what they didn’t understand, what they couldn’t understand, was why he couldn’t just let go. Not yet. Not when your laughter still lingered in the corners of the hospital room.

Not when you still found the strength to smile at him, even through the haze of your pain. Not when you had thanked him—thanked him—for being the kindest thing in your life. How could he take that away from you? How could he take it away from himself?

“It’s not for your benefit that they should stay alive, you know that.” another elder said, their voice low but unyielding, like a hammer falling against stone. “Do it for their sake. The sooner you do it, the sooner they can find peace. You mustn’t prolong the suffering for your wants.”

The words cut deeper than Megumi would ever admit, a blow he wasn’t prepared for. His fists tightened until his nails bit into his palms, but he kept his gaze down, unwilling to let them see the flicker of defiance in his eyes. 

He wanted to scream at them, to tell them they didn’t understand, that it wasn’t about his wants, it never had been. It was about you. About giving you every last moment, every fleeting second that you deserved, no matter how much it hurt him to watch.

But none of that mattered to them. The rules were the rules. His mission was clear: guide souls to the other side, no matter the cost, no matter the pain. He was meant to be impartial, detached, but he wasn’t. Not this time.

As the meeting adjourned, their final words hung in the air like a noose tightening around his neck. “You have to let them go, Megumi.” the elder had said, their tone devoid of sympathy. “It’s not about you. It’s about them. Do what must be done.”

When the room emptied, Megumi remained seated, his shoulders heavy with the weight of their judgment. He wanted to argue, to push back against the inevitability they demanded he enforce. But deep down, he knew he couldn’t delay forever. 

He could feel the edges of your life fraying, could see the way the light in your eyes flickered, like a candle in its final moments. And yet, even as he sat there, alone in the suffocating silence, he made a decision.

Not yet.

Because you deserve those moments, however brief they might be. You deserved the warmth of the sun on your skin, the chance to smile one more time, the chance to feel something other than pain before the end. And if he could give you that, even at the cost of his own heart, he would.

But he also knew the truth, the one he couldn’t ignore forever. Time wasn’t on your side. And when the moment came, when the inevitability could no longer be postponed, Megumi would have to let you go.

Just not today.

Not yet.

He needs more time.

When the meeting ended, Megumi didn’t move. He couldn’t. His mind was too heavy with the weight of their demands, and yet his heart felt too torn to process it. He takes a moment to compose himself before he walks out. 

As he walked out into the hallway, he wasn’t surprised to find Gojo Satoru waiting for him, leaning casually against the wall with that ever-present, cocky grin on his face. The two of them had known each other for lifetimes, especially with how Gojo was now his boss. 

Though Gojo was the opposite of Megumi in nearly every way. Where Megumi was reserved and quiet, Gojo was loud and unapologetic. He hated the elders too, he hated the rules as much as Megumi too. 

But he had never let himself be swallowed by what he feels personally as he works. And Gojo Satoru knew that too well, when he saw that look in Megumi’s face. He had not taught him well enough to separate it all. 

“Megumi, hey.” Gojo said, his voice a little more serious than usual. “Can we talk?”

Without waiting for an answer, Gojo pushed himself off the wall and fell into step beside Megumi, leading him down a quieter hall away from the bustling administrative wing. He already knew what he was going to say.

But Megumi wishes he wouldn’t say it. Because when Gojo says it, it becomes even more real. It becomes even more true. And it’s something he can’t handle. Not right now.

“I know what you’re thinking, okay?” Gojo began, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. “And I know it’s hard.”

He’s saying it. He’s talking about it. There was nothing that would stop it from being real. Not anymore. Megumi didn’t answer, he didn’t want to. He didn’t need to.

Gojo  Satoru could always read him, could always sense what was going on under the surface, even when Megumi tried to hide it. He was always going to tell Megumi the truth, even when it was hard.

“I don’t get it, Gojo–san.” Megumi said, his voice low, rough from the strain of keeping it all in. “I know the rules. I know they have to go. But… but I can’t just let them die like this. Not again. Not this miserably.” 

He stopped in the middle of the hallway, turning to face Gojo, his face a mix of frustration and sorrow. “They’re suffering so much and miserable to boot, and I’m supposed to just… let them go? How is that even fair?”

Gojo’s expression softened, the usual smugness gone, replaced by something much more genuine. He took a step closer, his hands in his pockets as he regarded Megumi with quiet understanding. He takes a deep sigh.

“I know it’s not easy, kid.” Gojo said, his voice lower now, almost tender. “But this isn’t about what you want. You’re not their savior, Megumi. You’re their guide. You can’t heal them, that’s not part of the job description. It never was. You can’t protect them from everything.”

The words stung, sharper than Megumi expected. 

But it was the truth, the unavoidable truth.

This was a job, even if it meant the world to him.

It cannot be more than a job, not even like this.

“I know you care about them. Hell, you’re probably more attached than anyone in this damn place,” Gojo continued, the hint of a wry smile tugging at his lips. “But your job is to make them transition to something peaceful. To comfort them. Not to prolong their suffering because you’re too scared to let them go.”

Megumi looked away, his blue–green eyes burning with the weight of his own guilt. He could feel them water ever so slowly as he thinks about you, about everything you suffered — in all your lives. And now, when you suffered the most. He bit his lower lip. How could he just let it all go?

“I can’t just stand by and watch them die, Gojo–san.” he whispered, his voice shaking slightly, betraying the deep ache inside him. “Not like this. Not when I… when I care about them this much. Not when….Not when I love them so much.”

Gojo Satoru’s gaze softened further, taking a moment to sigh at him. He’d known Megumi for so long. He’s a good kid, he’s always been the best of everyone here, if he was being honest. But even now, he was still so human. And perhaps that is his weakness. He cannot be a reaper, and be human too. He cannot have both.

“I know, kid. I know.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But this is the hardest part. You have to be strong for them now. It’s time. And you have to do your job. You have to help them let go. That’s the only way they’ll be able to be free from the pain, okay? If you do your job. They’ll be free. And it can be, if anything, the greatest act of love.”

Megumi wanted to argue, wanted to lash out and scream that it wasn’t fair, that this wasn’t right. But something in Gojo’s cerulean eyes made him stop. Gojo Satoru wasn’t just talking about the rules; he was talking about them. About the person Megumi had come to love more than anything in this world, someone who was ever so dear to him in each and every lifetime. 

He was right. He can’t do anything about death or about fate. And he was right — death was the greatest mercy, instead of suffering. This could be the greatest act of love, as it had always been in each lifetime. To be there for you, to hold your hand and whisper all the love he has in your ear as you go. To set you free.

The truth was hard to swallow, but the reality was clearer than ever. Your suffering wasn’t going to end unless he let you go. And if he truly cared about you, he would have to find the strength to be the one to guide you to peace. With a deep breath, Megumi nodded, the weight of his decision settling in.

“I’ll do it, Gojo–san.” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “I’ll make sure they’re at peace.”

Gojo gave him a small, approving nod. “You’re doing the right thing.”

Megumi knew it would be one of the hardest things he’d ever do. But as he turned back down to earth, to the hall toward where you were waiting, his heart heavy with the knowledge of what was to come, he also knew it was the only way to truly set you free. 

He just hoped that, somehow, you would understand. And that you would forgive him. That you would smile warmly back at him once again, when you meet him again in your next life. That you could love him again, if you can.

══════════════════

HE BRACED HIMSELF FOR WHAT COMES NEXT. Megumi stood outside your hospital room, his heart heavy in his chest. The hallway was unnervingly quiet, the soft beep of monitors and the occasional shuffle of nurses’ footsteps the only sounds that kept him tethered to reality. 

He had never been so sure of something—so certain that this moment had arrived. It was time. He swallowed hard, fighting the lump in his throat, before pushing the door open and stepping inside. Having done it once didn’t make it any easier. If anything, it made it harder. He’d have to relive this moment over and over again, like all the other times.

But he had no other choice. If you were to die, he’d rather it be him holding you. He would rather it be him you hurt, leave a scar only he could see. Megumi would rather that he would be the one to comfort you one last time, to tell you that he’s got you. That everything will be alright. Because you were together. Because he was the one taking you away.

You were there, propped up against the pillows, looking so small under the white sheets. Your face was pale, your features drawn and tired, but when you saw him, your expression softened, and a faint smile tugged at the corners of your lips.

"You're here again, hm?" you said, your voice hoarse but warm.

Megumi stood frozen for a moment, the sight of you sending a wave of emotions crashing over him. You looked so fragile, so close to the edge, and yet here you were, smiling at him like nothing was wrong. Like you hadn’t been battling this slow, painful decline for so long.

He forced his lips into a small, bittersweet smile. "Of course I’m here."

You sat up a little straighter in your bed, your eyes trying to focus on him. There was a faint sense of confusion in them, as if the fog in your mind was thicker than usual today. You reached out, your hand trembling slightly as you sought his, and Megumi moved closer, carefully taking your hand in his.

"I didn’t know if you'd come today, you know." you murmured, your voice barely a whisper. “For the last time.”

Megumi felt the weight of your words press against his chest. You couldn’t remember everything, not anymore, but you remembered him. And somehow, that was a mercy. A small one, but a mercy nonetheless. He hated it, but it was all he had. It was all there was left.

"I’m always here when you need me, always." he said quietly, his voice unsteady despite the calm he tried to project. "You know that, right?"

You nodded slowly, as though trying to make sense of everything that was slipping through your fingers. The memory of his voice, the sensation of his presence, the feel of his hand in yours—it was enough to pull you back from the brink.

"I... I don’t remember... a lot." you confessed, your voice faltering, as though you were apologizing for something you couldn’t control. "But... I remember you."

Megumi’s heart squeezed at that, and he fought the urge to crumble. Don’t show weakness now, he told himself. Not with them. Not when they need you the most. Don’t falter. Love them, love them even if it hurts. 

“I’ll always be here.” he repeated softly, gently squeezing your hand. “You’ve always been important to me. You always will be.”

You tried to smile again, though it was faint, and the effort seemed to take everything out of you. "I wish I could remember everything... all the good stuff we did together. There was a lot, wasn’t it? Even before…..I’m sorry if I don’t remember it all. But I can remember you right now, Megumi. I hope that’s enough. I hope…I hope that’s alright."

He felt his eyes sting, but he held it back, keeping his gaze steady on yours. "That’s enough. That’s more than enough."

Your grip tightened a little on his hand, your eyes slowly drifting over his face, as if committing his features to memory, trying to remember every detail of him before the fog came back.

 "It’s always so funny to me." you whispered, a soft laugh escaping your lips despite the heaviness in the air. "You don’t look like a grim reaper."

Megumi chuckled quietly, the sound devoid of any real humor. "I get that a lot."

The silence stretched between you both, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt almost peaceful, like the calm before the storm. You leaned back against the pillows, but you didn’t let go of his hand.There were so many things he wanted to say to you. 

So many words that were caught in his throat, threatening to spill over. But now—now there was no time for them. No time for the confessions, for the truth he’d never dared to speak. He simply stayed there, sitting at your side, holding your hand, because that was all he could do.

When you spoke again, it was quieter, slower. "I don’t want to forget you, not ever, not now." you said, your voice so fragile, so raw. "But I know I will. I already am."

Megumi shook his head, his thumb brushing lightly across the back of your hand, as though to comfort you, even though the words he wanted to say wouldn’t come. He couldn't promise you anything, couldn't tell you that this would all be okay, because it wouldn’t be.

“I’ll never forget you.” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll remember for the both of us. Even when you aren’t here anymore.”

“Then….will you let me fall in love with you again, if I were to be reborn?” You asked him, tears in your eyes pouring down your cheeks. “Will you let me, Megumi?”

His breath hitches shakily. His lips wobbled into a small watery smile. “Of course, I will. You can love me as many times as you want. I’ll let you do it. Over and over again.”

You choked into a giggle. “Then….Then, I’m glad. I’m forgetful, after all. It’s good, you’ll remind me next time.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at that. Even at the end, you were taking care of him. You were making sure he wasn’t sad. You looked at him, really looked at him, and for a brief moment, the confusion in your eyes faded. 

The fog cleared, just a little, and you smiled. It was a small, soft smile, but it was there, and it was for him. All for him. As it always has been. You take a moment, a breath. He waits patiently for what you want to say.

“I wish…..” you whispered, your voice trailing off as your eyes fluttered closed, exhaustion finally taking over.

Megumi’s chest tightened as he waited.  

But the words never came out of your lips. 

As you slipped into a quiet sleep, your breath steady and calm, Megumi stayed by your side, his hand still holding yours. He knew it wasn’t enough to stop what was coming. But for now, he will hold on. He will cherish the warmth that remains. 

It was the last time. The last time he would see you, the last time he would hear your voice, the last time he would get to make you feel comforted before you let go. And somehow, it was enough. Because you remembered him. And that was all that mattered now.

“I love you.” He whispers to you as he closes his eyes, letting the tears flow. “Goodbye.”

[pedgito]

ORBIT YOU ⋆⭒˚.⋆ CHAPTER FOUR: VENUS

↝ series masterlist | joel miller masterlist | full masterlist

summary — joel gets injured and both of you have some startling realizations in the process of looking after him.

author's note — the two chapters following this will be a little delayed, editing them has been a little tiring but they will be coming i swear! this is a lengthy one, i hope that makes up for it.

content warning — 18+ MDNI, dbf!joel, age gap (20s/40s), more openness on joel's behalf, some fluff, joel gets injured at work, devious actions by reader, some subtle domesticity, somnophilia (dubcon-ish), oral (m receiving), panic attacks, family drama, loss of virginity, protected piv

word count — 10k

Joel wasn’t handling the girls’ short-lived vacation as well as he liked to think.

It was always hard when they left.

When they hug and Joel helps them pack the car, it’s emotional.

It never got easier; letting them go. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Joel admits when they’ve pulled off down the street and turned the corner, always vehemently aware of his surroundings when he pulls you in for a hug, pressing a kiss to your head—to an outsider, it was a sweet moment between a supposed father and daughter.

Yet, you were anything but.

Still, you pulled him in close and rocked with the gentle sway of his body.

“You thought about going home at all?” Joel asks randomly, feeling you pull away in an instant, “Oh, sweetheart—I’m not tryin’—this ain’t me hintin’ at nothing, I was just curious…”

His voice trailed off, leaving an air of tension hanging between you.

You could feel the heat radiating from his body, and there was an unspoken understanding that lingered just beneath the surface, "I’m more comfortable here with you and Tommy than I ever have been there," you replied quietly,

Joel's gaze flickered down to your lips, and for a heartbeat, the world outside faded away. You wished he kissed you more—or, at all, “Good,” he said, almost too softly, his voice unlike him.

His brow furrowed slightly as he looked at you, suddenly serious, “Didn’t realize how lonely this place was without you,” he confessed, his fingers brushing against your arm in a way that sent shivers racing down your spine, “always keepin’ me on my damn toes,”

You had a freakily precise timing that Joel would never understand.

He’s been on the receiving end of your quiet laughs and smiles when you catch him showering in the middle of the night after a long shift at work, wandering into the kitchen for a glass of water or a snack, waking up with a mission.

Joel was still careful with Tommy around, keeping his distance as much as possible when he was around, unwilling to be at the receiving end of a lecture from a man who did nothing but make mistakes in his life up until about five years ago.

Joel wasn’t sure what changed, but something did.

You’ve been job searching for a few weeks, coming up empty-handed.

Joel has always reassured you that there wasn’t a rush, or a necessity for it, really.

He owned his own company, lived off a cushy, comfortable salary and knew how to save—it was exactly why both of his girls’ colleges were completely paid for while you had lucked out on a full ride, knowing that any debt would ultimately be your responsibility. 

But, you do get bored while he’s away when you’re not out trying to get interviews or run a few errands that the brother’s would never do for themselves—and one morning, Joel makes the fatal mistake of leaving his phone on the counter as he and Tommy drove to the store to grab a new stock of coffee beans.

He had work in thirty minutes and he’s kept his distance incredibly well since your birthday, aside from the occasional glance or touch of his fingers when he passed by, only distant memories to satiate the hunger that was no longer lying dormant.

You could shower quick, be done before he even returned, but you decidedly take your time, propping his phone up against wall behind the sink and the faucet and pressed record on his camera, leaving the curtain pushed back just a sliver as you went about your normal shower routine for the first half of the video.

The second half is entirely different, the suds from the soap foaming around your tits as you washed your skin, squeezing for a show as your thumbs dragging over your nipples before you were dragging a curious hand between your thighs, head thrown back as the stream of water cascaded over your body, moans of pleasure escaping your lips as you continued to tease yourself, the camera capturing every breathless gasp and shudder as you brought yourself closer to the edge. The warmth between your legs intensified, and you couldn't help but imagine it was Joel's hands instead of your own. You knew exactly what they felt like, closing your eyes to picture it. It’s not long before you’re crying out at the mere thought of him touching you.

After drying up, you carefully cleaned up any evidence that you had been messing with his phone, closing out of any apps and placing it back on the counter exactly where you had found it, remaining blissfully ignore as both of the men return as you were making your own breakfast, damp hairing drying over your shoulders as Joel glances at you, a full body stare.

He was oblivious, obviously.

It felt like revenge for the restraint he was still attempting to show, but a sweet treat to surprise him before the end of the day, knowing undoubtedly you would get under his skin about it.

–

His actual day of work starts fine—he moves through his normal routine, but stopped at a newer site to check on the progress, walking alone around the property, minding his step around the pile of equipment scattered around, reaching into his back pocket for his phone as he meant to pull up his camera to take a picture of the progress so far, mistakenly opening up his gallery instead.

It was mostly normal, pictures and videos he recognized because he had taken them—but instinctively he scrolls to the bottom, spotting one video he knows he had no involvement in and definitely no knowledge of and his heart raced as the thumbnail caught his eye, your silhouette recognizable even within the confines of the small square.

 Joel's breath hitched, the gentle pulse of adrenaline coursing through him as he pressed play, the sound of water mixing with soft breaths filling his ears, quickly turning down the volume even though he was alone.

The sight was intoxicating—a perfect blend of innocence and deviance.

He was completely captivated as you washed your body, each movement deliberate, showcasing curves he’d spent too much time tracing with his fingers. The moment you dragged your hands over your breasts, his pulse quickened and he took a step, attempting to head back to his truck, picture forgotten.

But, he’s distracted.

It was stupid—easily avoidable.

Joel has enough reaction time to curl his body in and land on his ass rather than his face, phone coming out unscathed, but the warmth that spreads in his knee is almost immediate.

He exclaims in pain, knowing almost instantly that he had tweaked something in his knee–not that it was serious, but at his age, it wasn’t going to come and go overnight.

Joel, despite his annoyance with his slip-up and distraction, still follows protocol.

Though, you were an issue to deal with later.

He’s insistent that he’s fine despite the obvious limp and as stubborn as he is, his HR team doesn’t press him to go through the process of seeing a doctor but rather than he rests for at least a week after much back and forth of how it wasn’t an issue with the workplace being insane but rather Joel’s own incompetence that morning.

They relent without a ton of fight.

And you’re typing away quietly on your laptop when he comes through the door, a surprising sight married with the fact he was clearly in pain and also grimacing, eyes locked on you with a look of knowing.

“Holy shit,” you gasp, slamming close and tossing your laptop aside, immediately at his side, “are you okay?”

“M’fine,” he gripes, hands tucking under the edge of his shirt to shift it down subconsciously, but you spot the fresh scrapes that have you stopping him dead, hand pressing against his chest.

“Did you fall?” you ask curiously, “Trip?”

His face flushes slightly and you crowd him against the wall, shoving his shirt up, ignorant to the way he was staring at you, eyes following your careful movements as your fingers graze his hips, just above his belt.

“I, uh,” he cleared his throat, “saw….the video,” he admits, your eyes widening for a second before a smile forms and the faintest hint of a laugh that was, undoubtedly, poor timing, “I mighta tripped over some equipment ‘cause of it,”

“Oh my—” you giggle, “I’m so—I’m so sorry, I didn’t think you’d find it until later while you were on lunch,”

“Where the hell did you find the time?” Joel asks, looking incredulously at you.

“You left your phone here this morning,” you say defensively but playful, “and I’m a little…touch starved and I was tryin’ to be more careful this time around, figured this was smarter….”

“Touch starved?” Joel asks, eyes widening for a moment as your hands seem to drift away and he carefully pushes his shirt down, “I touch you plenty.”

“Not how I want you to,” you argue and Joel goes rather quiet, wincing as he pushes away from the wall, “hey—no, just sit down,”

Fortunately, he doesn’t argue. 

“I wouldn’t have done that if I knew you were gonna get hurt,” you remind him, arm circling his bicep as help guide him onto the couch.

“It ain’t your fault, not really,” Joel admits, “I saw it, knew what was goin’ on, but I watched it anyways—work has me on light duty for a week, so I’m working from home and takin’ calls until I can go back,”

You’re still eyeing him wearily and Joel chuckles to ease your worry.

“I got a shit knee and some scrapes,” Joel explains, “I’ll take some painkillers and rest while I can, alright? You don’t need to waste your time worryin’ about me,”

There’s a stretch of silence as you look at him before he interrupts, quietly unbuckling his belt to release the tension on his waist, a gesture that isn’t sexual at all but has your eyes locked on the sight and Joel knows, so he speaks.

“How’s the job searchin’ going?” He asks.

“Uh, no luck,” you admit, “I worked one job serving coffee through college and I’ve been holding out for an internship but those are few and far between—I don’t have enough experience yet, I guess,”

“You know, I don’t mind giving you a spot up at the company,” Joel admits, “I could use a secretary, someone to handle the paperwork and day to day stuff for me while I’m out—could you handle that?”

“I can handle you,” you tease, cheek resting against your fist where it was propped against the back of the couch and Joel chuckles at that but looks away, down at the frayed spot in his jeans where he fell, “no—no, I wanna try and do this on my own, okay?”

“Yeah,” Joel nods, “jus’ if you need a fallback, I’m right here,”

You offer a warm smile and lean forward, noticing the way his eyes track to your lips only hesitating briefly before he nods, barely, his hand rising to cup your face as you kiss him softly, soaking in the way his lips part with a coffee tainted breath, losing yourself only long enough to feel him pushing you away, wincing slightly in pain.

“Fuck, hold on,” you tell him, holding up a quick finger before you’re sprinting off to somewhere unknown—Joel leans over his shoulder to see you disappearing around the corner and down the hall, coming back a few minutes later with a noise attached, pills rattling in a bottle held out to him as you return, “take two—I’ll grab you a glass of water,”

He listens dutifully, catching the bottle you toss at him before you grab him the glass of water, watching him place the pills on his tongue before he washes them down, offering a quiet thank you as you return to your spot beside him, though keeping your distance from his fresh injuries.

“We’re not tellin’ the girls about this,” Joel says, “it’ll only worry ‘em,”

“How are you gonna explain it to Tommy?”

“Already did,” Joel answers, “I just told him I tripped, nothin’ about it.”

You find yourself laughing again, a quiet chuckle as you attempt to stifle it with the back of your hand.

“You’re eatin’ this shit up,” Joel realizes, “ain’t you?”

“I mean, you could say that,” you reply, your voice teasing, letting a playful smirk curl on your lips, “not ‘cause you’re hurt but I like seeing you—what’s the word—embarrassed?”

“I ain’t embarrassed,” Joel defends.

“Oh?” You press, tilting your head to look at him.

“I appreciate the…gesture,” Joel tells you, switching topics as a means to avoid the conversation, “are you gonna make me delete this one?”

You crack a wide smile and shake your head, “All yours,” you say, hands held up.

–

Joel was capable, but he finds himself helpless under your care.

During your job search, in and out as the days begin to pass, you’re always there whenever Joel needs it, even without asking. 

Coffee brewed and ready before he was out of bed, medicine set aside if the pain was particularly harder on his body that morning, scattered paperwork from the night before stacked up and separated accordingly, a clear distinction in the way Joel went about his life.

He was focused, but scattered. He could take on a heavy workload, manage through his days with little sleep and running on mostly fumes, but you had unknowingly relieved some of that weight for him.

You bring make him lunch unprompted, even if it was mostly sandwiches or whatever you could scrounge up with what was left in his kitchen before you finally cave and tell him to make you a list, going on a hefty grocery run to stop giving him and Tommy the excuse to order out or skip meals altogether.

It was a rhythm that Joel falls into easily, without even realizing.

In your mind, it only seemed fair.

You were taking up space in his home, living there without an expectation of anything in return, and by the pinched look in his face, you could tell he was clearly hurting, even as the week stretched on.

“Do you have any vacation time saved up?” you ask curiously, handing over his glasses that he had wordlessly asked for, already knowing, he smiles slightly as he pries them from your grip.

“I do,” Joel admits, typing up a lengthy email as you leaned over the back of the couch he was set up on, his sleep-mussed hair curling and framing his face in a way that forced you to keep some distance, wanting to run your fingers through it, “I know what you’re gonna say—I’m gettin’ better, I’m on the mend,”

“Yeah, but,” you shrug, chewing at the inside of your cheek, “you’re not really resting now. You’re still working, from the time you wake and go to bed you’re either on the phone or you’re writing emails—I just think you deserve a real break, no work. You’ve got plenty of help, don’t you?”

Joel nods, looking up at you sparingly between words typed out slowly on his laptop, “Sure this ain’t jus’ you tryin’ to keep me to yourself?”

“You like it,” you counter him, “admit it—I’m good at keepin’ up with you,”

Joel chuckles and nods in defeat, “It ain’t easy, but you’re doin’ a good job,”

You smile at that, wider than he’s seen.

The praise.

Always the praise.

Joel shifts slightly and closes his laptop, silently making room for you on the couch with a slight wince and sharp pain that strikes through his knee, masked by him clearing his throat.

Selfishly, you sift your fingers through his hair anyways, finding the urge unavoidable as you sit with him, brush the few stray curls hanging down his forehead back, stopping as you curve around his ear and Joel’s doesn’t even flinch.

It was relaxing, admittedly. 

His eyes close for a brief second before you feel his own unoccupied hand settle against your knee—touch for touch and neither of you had any qualms about it, not that you would.

“There’s this thing called burnout,” you begin and Joel scoffs in amusement, “I think you’ve been bordering that line for a while, s’all I’m saying,”

He laughs at that, like you’ve caught him, “Alright, alright,” he concedes, letting his hand extend further up your thigh, “I’ll take a break, ‘bout time I took one anyways,”

“Good—plus, you’ve got me here to take care of you,” you say, satisfied as your fingers trailer around the bump of his collarbone and against the rumpled fabric of his shirt, “so, how’s the knee?”

“Hurts,” Joel admits, “but I’m not complainin’—got a nice view and a pretty girl helpin’ me out,”

If anyone else had asked him to take a break, he wasn’t sure if he could commit himself to it.

Everyone knew Joel was a workaholic and that it helped keep him distracted, even if he lacked taking care of himself as a result, starting to feel the weight of his age with how slowly his body was healing, not as forgiving when he was in his late twenties and chasing the girls around the house without care.

He could manage, but there wasn’t the urgency without anyone else around, knowing he had more than capable hands at his disposal. 

You. 

A distraction, but a welcomed one.

Joel knew this was your escape, aware of the avoidance you were actively pursuing in his house and away from your father—he’s been doing most of the same as much possible, unable to face your father for longer than a few minutes before he’s struck with the thought of a good friend’s daughter spread out on his bed, moaning his name with the same voice that used to come crying to him when the yelling had become too much.

He’s struggling, still—but he's also trying.

“What time is it?” Joel asks curiously, hiding a yawn behind his fist.

“Shoulda been dinner an hour ago,” you admit, “you hungry?”

Joel’s eyes roam instinctually, giggling softly as your hands press into the cushion between your thigh, breasts pressed together as you rock forward toward him, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips that is welcome with a similar laugh as you carefully work yourself over Joel’s lap, careful to avoid his injured knee and gasp at how tightly his hands grip your hip, quick to ravish your skin whenever you’re settled against him, hands twisting into his hair as he mouths at your chest.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you sigh, hearing Joel hum in response.

“M’just tryin’ to thank ya,” Joel explains, “been doin’ so much for me and won’t let me say thank you—figured you wouldn’t say nothin’ when I gotcha like this,”

Joel seems satisfied with your silence as his hand curves around the back of your neck and brings you closer, one kiss against your neck, “Thank you,” slower, his lips drag against your jaw and to your lips, “such a sweet girl,” he mumbles against your mouth, pulling away to peer at your awestruck gaze, enraptured by his words.

“You—you’re welcome,” you answer softly, noticing Joel glance briefly at his watch before cursing, comforting you with a gentle squeeze to your hip, “what—what is it?”

“Tommy should be here any minute,” Joel admits, his voice low and tinged with annoyance.

You couldn’t help but feel a wave of disappointment at the interruption, 

“Can’t we just—” you started, pulling back slightly to gauge his reaction, the need to push boundaries was intoxicating, and Joel had been increasingly more susceptible lately.

“Sweetheart,” Joel warns and you slump in his lap slightly, tapping your finger silently against his shoulder as the gears and cogs in your brain turn, “alright—spit it out,”

“How do you feel about surprises?” you ask earnestly, still seated comfortably in Joel’s lap.

“Ain’t much of a fan,” Joel admits, “if I’m bein’ honest. Why?”

“But, if it was from me?” you push the conversation further, curious.

“Then I might be in trouble,” Joel replies quieter, hearing the roar of Tommy’s truck coming up the street, his thumb brushed against your hip bone and pushing, understanding his silent plea as you gentle move off of him, “If you got somethin’ planned, I’ll make an exception, just…nothin’ reckless, alright?”

“Hey, I’m reformed,” you promise, hands held up in surrender as you hear the truck cut dead and walk aimlessly toward the kitchen before pausing to add, “sort of—not really,”

“Thin ice, sweetheart,” Joel warns playfully, though there is a hint of seriousness lingering under his tone, your conversation cutting short as Tommy walks through the door, none the wiser.

It was easy to forget that small world you and Joel had created within his home, within the past few months, floating around in a galaxy entirely its own. 

It had become nearly impenetrable, even as Tommy tied his brother up in a lengthy conversation about work, his eyes still lingered on you while Tommy remained amiss.

Joel wasn’t just hungry, he was insatiable.

–

Yet, he wouldn’t act on it.

Joel did make the arrangements that night, though—allowing himself the break he desperately needed but refused to give himself, but with a gentle nudge from you, he had caved.

The hold you had over him was unexplainable, perplexing, even.

So, he hated surprises—he did.

But, you were positive this one would be welcomed.

He’s slept soundly, the constant noise from his overhead fan humming alongside the monotone buzz of the house, creeping into his room during the early morning hours while Tommy was asleep upstairs in his own room and you were tossing and turning, fidgeting with a restless that wouldn’t subside.

You’d been thinking about him most of the night—all day, if you were honest.

Not just him, or his voice, but every part of him.

The heft of his hands and his callouses, his naturally strong grip that squeezed into the squishy flesh of your thighs, a chest so broad and wide it didn’t seem real, sturdy shoulders to keep you anchored, but his cock—

You’ve only seen him like that once, up close since the night at the picnic table, the actions rushed and adrenaline fueled under the shade of moonlight, otherwise across a screen and miles away.

You couldn't shake the thoughts, the fantasies that had unfurled in your mind since that moment, and as you lay there in the stillness of his room, you felt the heat pooling low in your belly. Unfulfilled desire, drowning in a pool of forbidden taboo.

This was all still a secret—and more inevitably, fleeting.

A blip. A summer fling.

You both would go on with your lives and laugh about it later, surely.

It was stupid and reckless, but you found your feet pushing forward without thinking.

He’s always slept heavy, not even a flinch or a groan on the mornings when you would arrive to babysit the girls while he was still sleeping, squeals and giggles filling the quiet home.

The comforter is bunched at his waist, tanned and broad shoulders on display as his hands were stuffed under his pillow, spotting the splotchy bruise on his knee that was beginning to heal alongside the marred skin and the peek of his boxers that was visible with the shift of the blanket as he rolled halfway to his back, favoring his left side as his right hand moved to rest against his bare stomach.

He looked peaceful but vulnerable in sleep, a sight that tugged at your chest and held your heart in a vice grip, leaning the weight of your knees into the bed testingly.

He doesn’t even stir.

There was something else there, though—something primal that gnawed at your gut.

You wanted him awake—overtaken by desire, but with your mouth wrapped around him, and more specifically, his cock.

You gently pry the comforter away, left with thin sheets that outline his hips and legs.

You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth as you rested on your calves, one hand pressing into the mattress as the other slid over his soft cock, toying gently with the waistband of his boxers, watching his eyes scrunch tightly for a second.

You freeze, chest tight, but eventually he relaxes.

Though, not everything.

His cock twitches under your palm, squeezing the length of him even while your hand can’t encompass it, far larger than most men you’ve encountered. If any, painfully aware of how inexperienced you were with this aspect of your life.

Your heart hammers in your chest as you squeeze him through his shorts, eyebrow creasing to match his expression as he flattens himself out on his back, pausing your movements as you quickly pull your hand away, his other hand joining the one already laid out on his stomach.

 You studied him carefully, the way his body responded to you even in sleep. 

Carefully, you climbed between his spread legs and leaned down, pressing your lips softly against his inner thigh—just a teasing brush of your lips, barely there. Joel stirred again, a low groan rumbling from deep within him as his body reacted instinctively, muscles tensing and shifting against the sheets.

The effect you had on him was obvious, even in his slumber.

With some trepidation,you slipped your fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers.

Your breath hitched as your fingertips grazed against the silken skin below his navel and the patch of hair that trailed down to the base of his cock, your heart racing in tandem with his own, feeling the rapid pulse near his femoral. 

Joel shifted slightly again as a groan escaped his lips and you took it as permission.

Carefully, you pulled the waistband of his boxers down until they were tucked underneath his balls, looking full and heavy and your mouth waters at the sight of him, watching as his cock bobbed up against his stomach.

Your mouth comes first, gentle kisses against his thighs that led to his groan, presses your lips against his cock from base to shaft and down against, your nose nestled into the trimmed patch of hair that smelled of fresh body wash from his shower the night prior but also so distinctly him.

You couldn't help but admire the size of him, heat pooling between your legs as you took in every inch of him, committing the image to memory. Joel groaned again, this time more awake than sleep, but he didn't open his eyes. 

Instead, he let out a shaky breath, his hands clenching the sheets.

Maybe he was dreaming?

You gently took him into your mouth, just the head at first, using your tongue to glide over the slit before you took him an inch further, further, curious of how much of him you could fit into your mouth until it was too much, easily leaving another inch of untouched skin.

You savored the taste of him, salty but delectable, along with the way his hips bucked involuntarily in response. It spurred you further, bobbing your head slowly, a confidence that grew with every moan that left his lips. 

You’ve only attempted this once or twice, all fumbling hands and over much quicker than you would have preferred, but Joel was practiced. He was older, wiser—and he had plenty to offer.

The way he groaned sent a surge of exhilaration through you, as you took him deeper, lips gliding over the soft skin of his shaft matched with your tongue, tracing the thick vein on the underside of his cock that stopped just below the head.

 Each flick of your tongue coaxed more from him—moans and groans and you felt his body respond in ways that made you ache, begging to be filled in other ways.

“Jesus,” Joel’s voice was rough, thick with sleep that barely broke the haze of his slumber but held enough awareness to pull at the edges of his consciousness, blinking himself awake.

You looked up at him through your lashes, watching as his eyes finally fluttered open, a mix of confusion and lust flooding his features as he realized what you were doing, head rising for a moment before ultimately falling back against the pillow as you pointedly took him in your mouth again while he looked at you, his mouth parting in a silent gasp.

“Surprise,” you smirk with a cheeky expression when you pop up from his cock, licking your bottom lip.

“You’re killin’ me,” he began, but then his breath hitched as your lips wrapped tighter around him and his hand found its way to the back of your head, twisting in the strands of your hair as his thighs tensed. 

You could see the struggle in his expression—the want and need battling with surprise and concern, wondering if he had somehow coerced you into doing this.

“Just let me,” you mumble quietly, “I want to,”

The rhythm you settled into was intoxicating. 

Each pass of your mouth sends ripples of pleasure through him, watching his stomach clench when the head of his cock pressed against the back of your throat, hearing you gag slightly as you pull away, breathless.

You felt every reaction, the way his body tensed and relaxed under your ministrations, the quiet groans spilling from his lips encouraging you to go further, take him deeper.

“Goddamn,” he groaned thickly, voice raspy from sleep still but his gaze locked onto you, heavy-lidded but sharp with awareness. “you’re doin’ so good, sweetheart,”

If it wasn’t the praise that did it—it was the fucked out expression on his face, eyes drifting toward the ceiling against and shut as his hand rested against the back of your head, not guiding or pushing, allowing you full control over him as you bobbed your head at a quicked pace, swirling your tongue over the head of his cock until he was releasing a string of curses that only meant one thing.

Without thinking, your tongue flattens against his head despite his weak urgency to push you away, “Shit,” he curses, “you ain’t got—gotta—”

You shake your head in defiance as he groans, his jaw going tight as he came with a pinched expression, his hand instinctively wrapping around his cock as he jerked it into your mouth, the strings of cum painting your tongue as you looked up at him endearingly.

You met his gaze with a wide smile, emboldened by his reaction.

“Good morning,” you teased lightly as you swallowed down the heady taste of him, your breath warm against his skin, slowly crawling up his body until your hips were positioned over his groin, his cock softening against his stomach as Joel looked up you with an indecipherable gaze, almost awestruck.

This ain’t love, he thinks.

It couldn’t be, not with you.

But, damn was it close.

“Sure is,” He groans, but with a stretch to wake his body, “s’that what you were bein’ all coy about yesterday? Planning to sneak into my room like that?”

You shrug, “Didn’t seem like you were complaining,”

“I’m not,” He shakes his head slightly, his mouth forming into a slight frown of indifference that quickly cracks into a smile.

“I’m going out today,” you tell him, resting gently against his stomach, his hands reaching for your hips without thinking, “...lunch, with my dad,”

Joel’s eyebrows raise, “Oh?”

“I was going to spring it on him later,” you shrug, “I’m trying to make an effort, I guess.”

“Don’t know if he deserves much of it,” Joel admits, “but I think it’ll be good for you,”

“And,” you press your finger into his chest, “I’ve got an interview at the diner on Springview—the pay isn’t great but the hours are good and it’ll help hold me over, I can even pay you for letting me stay here—”

“You’re outta your damn mind,” Joel interjects and you scoff in amusement, “I don’t need your money, sweetheart. You’re welcome here whenever you need it, free of charge.”

“Are you only saying that because we’re,” you pause, trying to decipher what it actually was that you two were doing, “like…you know,” Joel watches your head spin with ways to explain, but you fall short, tapping your thumb against his chest idly, “...doing this?”

“You’ve done more for me than I’ll ever be able to repay you for,” Joel admits, “you’ve covered my ass with the girls more times than I can count, helped ‘em stay outta trouble, I don’t forget that,”

You nod despite the emptiness that spreads in your chest, unsure why.

Something was missing here—but you weren’t quite sure what it was.

–

Lunch was…fine.

When you asked your father, he seemed more eager than usual.

But, the conversation, while inevitable, was awkward.

“Joel treatin’ you alright?” Your father asked randomly as your food had arrived.

“What—” you crease at your initial reaction, confusing what your father meant for the fear that swarmed in your chest, “oh, yeah—they’re always hospitable, you know? Joel and Tommy are good company,”

“I got your room all cleared,” he tells you, “I’d love to have you for the rest of the summer,”

“I’ve really settled at the Miller’s,” you admit, “not—not that I don’t want to,”

It was just the truth. You were more comfortable there for the time being then home.

“But, comin’ around more,” you suggest, “I’d be alright with that,”

There was a distinct reason why you didn’t come home last summer, avoidant of your father’s harmful tendencies to fall back into his old ways—the drinking, the filth, the sweltering and suffocation guilt that ate away at you when you knew there wasn’t much you could do to help.

When he was good, he was really good. But, when he was bad, it was low.

“And I’m sorry ‘bout your birthday,” he offers, “your mother really did a number on me,”

It seemed like a half-assed excuse for his own forgetfulness or lack of caring but you disregard it for the moment, attempting to have a cordial meal without issue.

“Why do you still have her things?” you ask cautiously, “I thought you said she took everything,”

“She’s been meanin’ to come pick the rest of it up,” your dad slips, “but, uh—”

“Do you still talk to her?” your head tilts, suddenly confused, “Dad she cheated on you for years, she tried getting with your best friend, don’t tell me that—”

“Wait, Joel?” he interjects, holding his hand up to stop your rambling, reiterating, “Joel?”

You realized that was private information, something that Joel had shared with you in confidence. 

Fuck.

“Tried,” you emphasized, “he didn’t want anything to do with her, you know that,”

“How’d you come to find this out?” he pries, suddenly less interested in his meal.

“It—he mentioned it a while back,” you explain, “I mean, he is the one that caught mom,”

It was clear that Joel had overstepped somewhere, the way your father’s face goes cold.

“Dad, I asked him to tell me what happened,” you explain, “you’ll barely talk about it.”

“Is that what you two like to talk about?” your dad snarks surprisingly, catching you off-guard.

You’re dumbstruck, shaking your head in confusion.

“My failed marriage, how terrible I’ve been with you,” he begins, feeling the spiral build and threatening to explode, “He ain’t your dad, you know that? Don’t you?”

Frankly, you were well fucking aware of that fact.

“I’m not doing this,” you quickly snip, “I should’ve known you can’t have a single conversation with me without immediately getting defensive—”

“Now that ain’t what this is,” he defends, “I outta give him a piece of mind, though—shouldn’t have to think about your mom in that way, even if she—”

“She tried me like shit, treated you like shit,” you retort, “Joel only told me because I asked,”

“Still, that isn’t his business,” He continues and you scoff, laughing.

“You never believed when I told you,” you shoot back at him, “when I saw it happening,”

“I just figured you were…mad at her,” your father explained, “you two were always fighting,”

“What do I gain from that?” you ask, “How do I benefit in that situation?”

Your father grows silent as he fishes into his wallet to cover the tab as you quickly fetch your things, “Why do you think I spent so much time at Joel’s?”

Your father doesn’t answer, awaiting your answer with a disgruntled expression.

“I feel safe there,” you admit, “half the time you and mom wouldn’t even notice I had left because you were too busy arguing. Joel was there for me when neither of you were,”

They still weren’t, not really.

“Honey,” your father begins but you shake your head.

“I’m not mad,” you quickly interject, “I’m tired of being upset. But, I’m not coming home,”

He didn’t have much of a choice, sliding the wad of cash onto the table with a somber, darkened expression. It wasn’t up for debate—you weren’t a kid anymore, your decisions were entirely your own.

Thankfully, you survived the lunch mostly unscathed aside from a few simmering emotions.

But, the drive home was even more awkward.

–

Joel senses it the moment you walk through the door.

He’d spent the day on his leg, trying to recover some of his strength as he stood over his laptop, typing out an email despite your orders otherwise, looking increasingly guilty as your sour expressions turned softer, slowly making your way toward him as he shut the laptop.

Silently, you pluck his glasses from his nose and stare at him pointedly.

Joel was struck with a feeling.

It scared him, his expression going from relaxed to tight, concerned.

He remembers it from his younger years, fresh into his twenties with a baby on the way.

When he had met Sarah’s mom, he figured she would be the one.

She should have been—Joel tried his hardest to make it work, but it just…didn’t.

It had been thirties years since he’s felt that yearning that was so distinct in his chest, his heart fluttering like a teenager with the way you looked straight through him—almost like you were seeing within him, your eyes scanning his face with a soft smile that you used as an attempt to hide whatever was bothering you.

But, Joel could see through you too.

His hand slides up to cup your cheek, feeling you relax instantly into his touch.

“What happened?”

It shouldn’t have broken you, but it did.

Joel could recount the times you’ve come to him when you were younger, sobbing and speaking something incoherent, tumbling toward the beginnings of a panic attack. He’d always been good at coming you down, but he was also good at listening.

“I have this feeling,” you admit, sniffling through silent tears.

He’d eventually guided you toward the couch, letting you cry for a long while before you finally found the courage to speak, both of you sat on opposite ends of the couch but staring intently at one another.

“I think he and my mom might be talking,” you begin, “or—that she might be trying to manipulate her way back,”

“She’s real good at that,” Joel agrees, watching as his fingers curl around your ankle, rubbing at the sensitive skin there—you hadn’t realized how frequent his touches have become over the time you’ve spent back home, and it was so mundane, but it brought you a comfort only Joel could provide, “but your father was tore up about the whole situation, I don’t see him forgiving that easy, not after how nasty the divorce was,”

It was fueled by greed and something you wanted no part in.

“Like I said, just a feeling,” you shrug, focusing on your hands that tremble in your lap.

Joel notices it instantly.

“C’mere,” he beckons, motioning with his hands for you to move forward.

You hesitate briefly before taking a breath and deciding to move, immediately met with his hands against your cheeks, fingers covering your ears to deafen the world around you while his thumbs drifted over your eyelids and you allowed them to drift close.

“Don’t let it in,” Joel reminds you, his voice soft and dull, but comforting.

It wasn’t the first time he’s guided you through a panic attack, but the weight of his hands felt different—it was difficult to explain, but as he spoke to you, the world went quiet.

He presses his lips to your head and pulls you into his chest.

You melt instantly.

“What’re we doing?” You ask suddenly, a loaded question that earns a pained chuckle from Joel.

“Sweetheart, I ain’t got the answer to that,” Joel admits.

Neither of you can pinpoint who moved first, but the second you tilt your head up to look at him, his lips are against yours, seeking asylum.

It was far more needy than anything he’s felt with you, almost like you were attempting to claw your way inside of him, the kiss ramping up quickly as his hands drift down your body and you settle over him, gasping into his mouth as his fingers squeeze into your hips.

He knows where your mind is, where you were steering this interaction, and he’s immediately hesitant, shaking his head as you chase his mouth with a gentleness that makes it hard to ignore your meek and needy expression.

“We’ve gotta stop,” Joel tries—he does.

“I need you,” you admit to him, eyes wide and hopeful, “Joel—please don’t give me the speech,”

“This ain’t something I take lightly,” Joel explains, “not with you—not this,”

“Stop,” you beg, sliding one hand down between your bodies to drag over his closed zipper, feeling the sizeable bulge through the denim that told you everything you needed to know.

“Are you sure?” Joel asked, voice rough but quiet. “I need you to mean it—”

You nodded fervently, heart pounding behind your ribcage as your fingers twisted into his shirt. 

“I want this. I want you.”

He let out a long breath, like it was hurting his chest to hold in, tucking your hair behind your ear as you looked at him, gaze curious and lust-filled, “We’re takin’ this slow. You tell me what feels good, you understand? I’ll know if you’re lyin’—I don’t like when you do that,”

Joel had no reason to let morality take over now, too far gone.

–

Every movement after that was deliberate.

Even the quiet walk to his room, taking in the sight of his unmade bed, sheets still thrown around from your surprise earlier that morning, feeling his hand slide along your waist as the door clicks shut behind you.

He undressed you like he had all the time in the world.

Joel didn’t shy away from you either—no redirecting your touches or pushing you away.

He kisses every inch of your skin within reach; shoulders, collarbones, neck, back.

It was every bare inch of you, grounding you so deeply to him.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he mumbled against your shoulder, his breath warm and inviting as it tickled your skin, fingers dragging against the bare skin of your sides before his hands squeeze at your tits, admiring the view of them over your shoulder as your head tips back, every article of clothes you were wearing aside from the thin, lacy underwear were on the floor.

His hands were firm yet gentle, coaxing out soft gasps and sighs that fell from your lips like a melodic tune in the stillness of the room, the quiet murmuring of praises in your ear as your arm searched behind you to find its way into his hair, pulling gently.

His groan dissolved into a chuckle as he slowly walks you toward his bed, his thighs pressed against the back of your own as you fall toward the bed, quickly turned by his hand gripping your ankle and tugging you back toward him and onto your back, squealing in surprise.

His fingers tangled into your hair, pulling you close as he leaned down to meet your lips, slow at first before deepening the kiss until you were nearly drowning in him. Each brush of his tongue against yours coaxing you further into his touch, urging you to pull him closer until he had no choice but to join you on the bed, his knee digging into the mattress and a hand spread out beside your head as you fell against the mattress, your hand exploring innocently underneath his shirt.

“Joel,” you barely managed to utter between kisses, “Enough—”

He shakes his head, silently allowing his hand to drift between your bodies until his palm is cupped over your underwear, his fingers rubbing slowly into the dampened fabric. 

You gasped, arching your back against the sheets as he pressed his palm against you, the friction so enticing against your clit, feeling the pressure of his fingers as they teased your entrance despite the barrier, your brow creasing as you searched his face.

There was nothing but adoration and care, his eyes careful examining your reactions.

He was practiced, attentive—it had to be him. 

In your mind, it made sense.

With deft fingers, Joel slid his hand beneath the fabric, skin meeting skin.

Warmth meeting your slick folds, you gasp.

“Responsive,” Joel notes, “that’s good—perfect, sweetheart,”

Keep it up, he thinks.

At this rate, he’d bust his load before he was even inside of you.

It had been too terribly long for him. It was embarrassing, really.

The pressure of his fingers sent waves of pleasure coursing through you. He spent ample time circling your clit before his fingers dove inside of you—one to start, to adjust, before he added another…then another, soon all you could focus on was the sound of your cunt as it greedily squeezed around his fingers.

It felt like hours, but it was only a handful of minutes.

Still, Joel didn’t want to rush this.

“Just like that, baby,” he tells you, voice heavy with lust, “tell me what feels good.”

You nod, gasping as his fingers curl inside of you, watching his eyes narrow as you nod again, shaky but confirming that he was right where you wanted him before your own eyes fall shut and succumb to his fingers, “F—fuck,” you sigh, “that’s—” you swallow, attempting to take a breath, “feels fucking amazing.”

Joel chuckles, a sacred sight.

The orgasm that takes over is slow, drawn-out, falling apart under the guide of his hand.

As it wanes, his fingers leave you, but his palm stays put. He quickly uses his free hand to work at his jeans, undoing them with shaking hands as he shoved the fabric down.

His cock sprang free, hard and aching.

Reality seems to come crashing down in an instance, slowly moving to sit while he removes his hand to please your curiosity as you reach for him almost immediately, rising to your knees and curling your hand around the back of his neck to press your lips to his.

"Look at me," Joel commanded softly after you slip a few hurried kisses between his attempt to grab your attention, “hey, sweetheart—look at me,”

You pull away slightly, only enough to catch his gaze but still close enough that your noses brush. 

You can see it in his face—at war with himself.

Instead of burying it, he speaks candidly.

“You’re too young for me,” Joel admits, feeling your fingers scratch over his greying beard in response, dismissive as you shrug, but his fingers circle your wrists to pull your attention center, “but goddamn, I wanna ruin you in the softest way, sweetheart.”

You smile, something akin to cocky smirk but not quite, “Do it,”

Joel shakes his head in amusement as you lean in again, echoing your words.

“Do it,” you tell him, “I want it,”

“Alright,” he breaths, voice thick with desire as he leans closer, noticing the visible darkness in his eyes as he wraps his hand around the base of his cock and squeezes as he moves up, stroking slowly while he nods for you to move back, “but you’re gonna listen for me and keep your hands to yourself for a minute,”

You giggle at the sudden sense of deja-vu, not missing the chance to slip your underwear the rest of the way off as you fling them with your foot against his chest and lean back on your elbows, spreading your legs for a saccharine sight that Joel drinks in.

He hastily pulls his shirt over his head and you notice the flush to his chest, using every ounce of self-control you had to not lean forward and touch him, pull him to you, down, and sink onto his cock without a single hesitation.

It was lewd, but you were eating it up.

The anticipation was driving you crazy, a delicious torture that had your core aching and clenching in want. Joel witnessed every bit of it, his thumb teasing over the head of his cock as your mouth watered at the sight.

He’s massive, glistening with a copious amount pre-cum, only inches from where you needed him most, a single adjustment of your hips would have the head of his cock brushing through your folds.

You bit your lower lip and stayed dutifully quiet, watching Joel pleasure himself in a way that almost felt punishing on your end, months you’ve spent teasing him relentlessly

"Joel," you moaned out his name, unable to take it anymore, "I need—"

Joel's eyes darkened further as he stroked himself slowly, easing his knee into the mattress as your head tipped up to meet his gaze, "Don’t get choked up just yet," he spoke roughly, strained.

You'd never heard him sound this way before, almost breathless.

“We don’t have to, you know,” you begin and Joel senses what you’re getting at, “I’m on the pill.”

“We’re doin’ this right,” Joel responds, “I may be goin’ to hell but I’m not setting the standard for what you think you needa settle for,”

You smile gently in return and nod.

He reached for the condom he'd stashed away in his nightstand drawer, leaning around you.

Admittedly, he just kept them stashed away for Tommy—after twenty years, it never failed.

Joel would always be the big brother saving that day.

But, he'd never imagined himself being in this situation with you.

Yet, here he was, teetering on the edge of logical reasoning and desire, lust-drive.

You grab his hand as it draws closer, bringing the foil package to your teeth as you rip it open, spitting the foil off to the side and Joel’s cock twitches at the sight as sheathes himself in record time, never once breaking eye contact with you.

Without being told, you move, making space for Joel as he positions himself between your legs and at your entrance—you can feel the heat as he moves closer, radiating off of him like a furnace, watching as his hands drag delicate along your thighs before pulling you closer at the hips, his cock brushing against your cunt.

“Y’tell me when you’re ready,” Joel says, eyes locked on the sight of his cock as it slides through your folds, a teasing touch that drives you insane.

You nod shakily, “Just do it,” you beg, “please,”

With a grunt, Joel shifts over you as you lay against the sheets, his lips capturing your own as he presses into you, startled by the stretch of him as you gasp, but he listens to you—your body, he’d go as slow as you needed.

“You’re doin’ so good, baby.” He assures you, pressing his forearms into the mattress on either side of your head, his pointer finger brushing away the hair from your face as he stills and waits for your nod, only moving as fast as you let him.

“Just breathe,” Joel reminds you, watching your teeth sink into your bottom lip as he begins to fill your further, fuller—his words are like a soothing balm, encouraging,”there you go, I gotcha,”

Your body responds with a soft clench around him, eyes fluttering shut as the sensation of him stretching you sends you into delirium, fingers squeezing into his sides.

“Fucking Christ,” Joel groans, his hips stuttering slightly until he’s fully sheathed inside of you.

“Are you—are you okay?” you ask curiously—he’s never heard something so sincere and genuine and Joel can’t help but laugh, shaking his head as his brow creases and his face quickly morphs into something much softer.

“I’m alright,” he assures you, “s’been a while—and you’re not goin’ easy on me,”

“Feel so good wrapped around me,” Joel murmured into your neck as he leans forward, his breath warm. 

“Please,” you pleaded with some minor impatience, urging him to move, to give you what you desperately craved, “please, move—”

It was a simple request, one Joel followed with ease.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze with intensity before he surged forward, groaning low and soft as he looked at you, thrusting into you with a controlled force.

Each stroke was perfectly timed, deep and precise, and the sting seemed too dull as his thrusts sent you into a state of euphoria, oblivious to everything but this and him.

Nothing else mattered.

Joel's hips rocked against yours, each thrust pulling a gasp from your chest, easing out with every breath you took. His lips trailed to your neck, leaving a wet line of open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, eliciting soft, subtle moans between Joel’s thrusts.

The sound of skin against skin and your muffled moans as you pulled him to you, mouth pressed against his shoulder, filled the room.

Both of you knew there was a distant chance anyone could walk in the house—there was always that fear, of being caught, shamed, judged. But, in this moment, neither of you cared.

"Talk to me, baby," Joel groaned into your ear, his breath hot against your skin, "you still with me?”

Your nails dig into his back in response, hips arching upwards to meet this thrusts, overwhelmed by the sensation of him, his cock, his hands.

He slips one arm under your head to prop it up as the other squeezes against the top of your thigh where it was resting against his hip, his chin tipping down to catch the sight of his cock as it steadily disappeared inside of you.

“Maybe,” you joke weakly, letting out a soft whine as he snaps his hips sharp and harsh in response, but only once, “fuck—no, do—do that again,”

Joel growled low in his throat, a vein bulging in his neck as his chin stretched up, angling his hips as he pulled back slowly before snapping them into you "You like that, huh?" he managed to grunt out as he angled his hips in a repetitive motion grazing that sensitive spot inside again and again. You nod weakly.

Joel releases a tight hiss through clenched teeth as you claw at his back, gasping into his sweat-slick skin as he covers you like at blanket, tucking his face against your cheek, soft grunts sending you into a spiral of madness as his thumb sneakily moves to circle against your clit, already feeling too over sensitive, but Joel’s persistence is apparent.

"Joel," you moaned, your eyes rolling back into your head as he lifted his face slightly to check on you, mouth hung open because despite the words you wanted to say, you were speechless.

“Yeah,” he knows, nodding in reassurance, “I know, sweetheart, I feel ya,” his thrusts have faltered slightly, the crease in his brow growing deeper as he pants into the sheets beside your head.

Your eyes flutter shut as your visions begins to blur, feeling the heat swirl in your belly as you gasp, “Oh—oh, fuck,” you whine, “I’m—”

“Yeah,” Joel encourages, voice soft as satin, “yeah—god, if you’re so fuckin’ perfect,”

You laugh weakly, sounding only slightly pathetic in the way you gasp as Joel shifts up again, angling his hips up, a much more intense feeling that was you gripping the sheets above your head as he groans out, hands wrapped tight around your thighs as he snaps his hips once, twice, and then he’s spilling into the condom, the faint pulse of his cock as he stills inside of you.

As the moment calms, Joel lets the reality of the situation and scene unfold before him.

He drags a hand through his mused hair and curses, pulling out of you with a weak grunt as his favors one leg over the other, discarding the condom away as hastily reach for your clothes, ruminating in the quiet aftermath as you slip your underwear back on and attempt to clasp your bra with blind hands.

Joel’s touch comes after a few silent seconds of struggle.

“We really need to talk ‘bout all this,” Joel says after a while and you peek over your shoulder, realizing just how serious he was, “I mean, just—so we’re both clear what we’re doin’ here,”

You turn slowly as his hand slides against your back, noting that he had only redressed into his jeans, underwear forgotten entirely, the thick patch of hair leading down, eyes dragging toward the sight.

Joel’s finger taps at the underside of your chin, eyebrows raising with intent. 

“I’ll admit my faults here, but I need you to understand something,” Joel explains gently, his hand cupping around the back of your neck as you lean into the touch, eyes locked on his face.

“Don’t tell anyone, this is our secret, we’ve gotta be careful,” you begin, listing off a few things you know are stirring in the back of his mind, “I’m not that ignorant, Joel,”

“I’m not sayin’ that,” Joel responds, “wasn’t even gonna touch on that, actually,”

“Then what?” you ask, inching closer as vulnerability settles in the air between you.

“I want to make sure you know where your feelings are at with this,” he says, his voice dropping to an almost whisper, his thumb rubbing at the spot behind your ear, “It’s been a long time since I’ve felt something like this—but it’s…you’re—” his eyes search yours as he stops himself, weighing the gravity of what he’s about to say. “I just don’t want you to regret anything or feel like things’ll be different if you change your mind along the way,”

“Joel,” you begin, but he shakes his head, cutting you off.

“Hear me out, alright?” Joel pleads, “Don’t think you owe me anything,”

“Are you only saying this because of what just happened?” you ask curiously.

Joel shakes his head, “I care about you more than I should,” he admits, “but you’ve got so much life ahead of you,”

His words sink into your chest, filling the void of uncertainty that had lingered for a while now.

You understand where he’s coming from, smiling sadly as his face softens.

The weight of his gaze holds you captive, stirring a whirlwind of emotions within your chest.

 “I don’t wanna fuck anything up for you,” Joel admits, the vulnerability piercing through your chest, “now, later—ever,”

A brighter smile creeps on your face, though subdued, “Then don’t,” you tell him.

The sincerity in your voice held Joel captive.

“God dammit,” he murmured just before closing the distance without thinking, pressing his lips to yours unexpectedly.

When he pulls away, you find yourself chasing his lips stubbornly, “What was that for?”

“You’re just so damn difficult,” Joel tells you, his voice flowing with fondness.

“Keeps you on your toes,” you shrug, before rising up to kiss him quickly.

That’s for damn sure, Joel thinks.

-

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divider creds: @/saradika-graphics

[after-witch]

Horrorfest: Apples [Yandere Shinigami Light Yagami x Reader]

Title: Apples [Yandere Shinigami Light Yagami x Reader]

Synopsis: The inhuman thing that calls itself Light Yagami won't leave you alone.

For Horrorfest request: Reader thats haunted by Shinigami Light Yagami please!

Word count: 800ish

Notes: yandere, stalking

“Leave me alone.” 

The words come out bitter and soft, like a piece of fruit that’s been sitting at the bottom of the fridge for far too long. They smush inwards like overripe flesh underneath your thumb, from the weight of the creature hovering in front of you, the inhuman thing that refuses to go away for good.

Sometimes he leaves for a few days, a week, even a month or two. Long enough that you think he’s finally gotten bored or died–can Shinigami even die?--and you’ll never see him darken your doorway (literally and otherwise) again.

But then he’s there, an unwanted flicker. Standing by your bed. Sitting on your professor’s desk, a prim smile on his face. Waiting behind a shelf at the grocery store, in the gap between open boxes of cereal. Intruding on your everyday life with his awful extraordinariness. 

“Aren’t you even the smallest bit grateful?” He asks, not for the first time, shifting towards you. He’s too close. When he speaks, his breath hovers, smelling of apples and rot. 

You press further away, tucking yourself into the corner between your bed and the wall. The edge of your nightstand digs into the flesh of your upper arm. 

“I don’t want you to follow me,” you say, pathetically, stupidly, because you know it will change nothing. It hasn’t before. It won’t know. “Find someone who will be grateful, if it matters that much to you.”

That’s your dream, really. That he will find someone else to follow, to obsess over, to whisper awful things to in the night; dreams of a reinvisioned world, remaking the world of mortals in an image that suits him. You’ll be there, too. Forever, he says, even if he hasn’t figured out how just yet. 

But no matter how much you plead, how much you try to make yourself unappealing, this thing–it calls itself Light Yagami, and isn’t that awful, to give itself a human name?--won’t leave you alone. 

A clawed hand reaches out and you squeeze your eyes shut. It’s easier not to see him when he touches you. That much you’ve learned. Because when he does, the look on his face gets too tight, too manic. His eyes go a touch red and there’s something inside them that is too awful to bear.

The claw drags down your cheek, resting underneath your chin and tilting it up like a lover would. It makes you sick, this gesture; it’s too practiced, too human. How did a Shinigami know what might make someone go weak at the knees?

And you do–you do–for all the wrong reasons. 

“You can learn to be grateful,” he whispers, voice going low, almost gray. “I’ll even teach you how to use my notebook properly.”

Oh, that fucking notebook. It’s what started this whole mess. It was just sitting there, on the park bench. You’d walked by that bench a million times and nothing was ever out of place, but the one day there’s something new–it’s something that’s condemned you to this.

To him.

All you’d done is pick it up. Touched the edge of it, wondering if some kid has left it behind. But instead of a name written on the front, there was only an odd title. 

“Death… note?” You’d read–and by the time you glanced back up, he was there, suddenly, in a blink.

Smiling politely and introducing himself, as if he wasn’t some creature that had popped up out of nowhere. Came from nowhere a more accurate statement, if his brief descriptions of his world were anything to go by–a vast gray rotting wasteland.

“You wouldn’t like it there,” he told you once, musing more to himself, you thought, than actually speaking to you. He liked to hear himself talk. “That’s why I’ll remake this world instead.” As if he did anything for your benefit, and not his. 

If only you’d passed on by the bench, by the notebook, that day.  You might be free from all this. 

But you’re not free. You’re here, in your bedroom, trapped between the wall and a god of death.

“Open your eyes,” he says, just tightly enough that you know he’s approaching the edge of his patience. It was much harder to be around him, when he was genuinely angry with you.

Weary, tired, your eyes open, slow and sluggish. You give in, like you always do. What other choice do you have? 

“There you are,” he says, claw tracing your cheek, just underneath your eye. “Much better.” 

His other hand reaches for yours, covering it with his own, gripping tight.

“Are you ready to write a name in my notebook now?”