#when he’s older he’ll be good with teenagers too

[i-currently-have-purple-have-sir]

I stand by the fact that Jason Todd is incredibly with small children, but can’t stand teenagers. He understands that they are kids and it’s not their fault they are awful, but he just can’t stand them. Dick Grayson, on the other hand, is amazing with older kids and teens but if u hand him a toddler he’ll have a small breakdown. He doesn’t get them, and he does things like allow them to watch horror movies at the age of 2 cus he forgets how little they are.

[lady-ashfade]

Our comfort

Platonic!Yan!Camp Half-Blood x Comfort!Goddess!Reader. (Percy, Annabeth, Grover)

—£ Yes I know I haven’t finish the book but I actually couldn’t wait anymore. So, this is me with little knowledge so bare that in mind.

—£ Warnings: Book/show spoilers, Yandere! Behavior, Being bound to a place, Possessive behavior, Obsessive behavior, Manipulation, Characters fighting for the reader’s attention. Short.

You weren’t a known for too long goddess, much younger then rest of the gods. A teenager like age compared to them. It was strange to have more powerful gods look to you for comfort but you love it. As you are the goddess of comfort.

But, as the other gods started to have many demigods you saw how miserable they could get. You hated the fact they didn’t care for their children so you decided to stay at the camp for half-bloods when the time came.

The campers cling to you. You bring a comfort they never quite felt before. It was like a warm hug, like the ones they wanted from their parents.

You couldn’t leave, and at the beginning you were glad to accept that fate.

Almost always you are found surrounded by demigods and they just relax in your comfort. You are the one they go to with every worry in their mind.

Being close to Aphrodite, her seeing you as a sister and a younger child. Stories of your love for one another are still told today, as she gave ideas to the mortals of how great your relationship was. But in reality there wasn’t much to tell.

So her children have a mentality that they are your favorite and because of their mother, they have some sort of claim to you above the others. But that never works because you love the children equally.

The demigods have less nightmares with you around and watching over them.

Ares children fight often for your affection. They will constantly get into fights with others to show they deserve more time with you. Which you always scold them but it never sticks. They kiss their weapons each time to you, like a sign of good luck. Aries children are one of the worsts ones because they get aggressive at times, even with you. But the golds make them stop by punishing them, mostly their father.

Hermes children are hard to explain really. They aren’t aggressive, but they are mischievous. They take their revenge of stealing things from the other campers, pulling pranks. Or trapping some of them up and go straight to you before they can get there. Luke for instance, is always looking around for you and talking about his day. He’s either laying down next to you, or making you watch him train.

Many games of all houses take place just for you.

AnnaBeth, is constantly by your side when she has free time. She scares off people with a glare behind your back, knowing that she could put plan them. She also trains and makes you watcher her and needs your praise. Maybe, somehow you are her older sister. But, sometimes she just chills by your side not saying anything, she’s like a lost duck at times.

Grover however is actually a lost duck. You comfort him when his past missions fail and he loses kids. You are so nice to him and makes him feel special and brave. When he has to leave he keeps a coin in his pocket with your face on it and prays a lot. He’s not possessive much. He’s willing to take what he can get and is just happy to be there. But maybe if someone comes in when he’s “crying” and having you fuss over him then he’ll be a bit mad but never does anything about it.

When a new camper arrives you devote your time to them because they need it a little more. They come into a world they know nothing of, waiting for the parent they hardly know to claim them. You claim them like your own until the time comes.

So when Percy comes you feel something off with him, like he is special and in need of a lot. He lost his mom, taken from the world he knew.

Percy becomes the most possessive out of all of them.

He feels out of place but you are always there to listen to him. It doesn’t help that you follow him to make sure he’s okay. At the beginning you’re both following each other around.

“It’s okay, Percy.” You brush his hair lightly like his mother used to do. “You’ll get claim, and you’ll have glory.” And he doesn’t care if you say that to everyone because you make him feel special. 

Also, you protect the new bloods. So you’ll show up when he gets bullied and just raise one brow and they all back off. Can’t risk making you mad at them.

When Percy gets claimed he’s all alone again, no friends and the campers looking at him funny. Being one of the top threes son isn’t fun or easy. He shares a cabin all to himself.

So he starts to be the worst of them all. Raising his voice when you try and leave him and he manipulates you to stay with him. Can’t you see how alone he is?

He can’t sleep unless he knows your watching over him.

You pick no sides of the war. Your family will figure it out themselves, while you take care of their children.

[glotoru]

ooh baby, ooh baby, i’m in love | eren jaeger.

the note 𐦍 i’ve recently been thinking about a successful, older (early to mid thirties), soft spoken eren who lives to spoil the woman of his dreams—so i’m gonna share this with y’all too. i’m actually just projecting our relationship. not proud of the ending but wtv. part two here. inspired by west coast, lana del rey.

contains 𐦍 nsfw, fem!reader, stupidly rich!eren, established relationship, vaginal sex, mating press, cervix kisses, use of pet names (princess, baby, my wife, the usual yk), unprotected sex, breeding, squirting, softie eren, mild body worship, size kink, hand on stomach while fucking mhm, i love you’s exchanged, praise kink, eren talks to your pussy while he’s in it, i’m thinking black reader but it’s all subjective babes: if you like it, read it!!

truth be told, eren jaeger doesn’t believe he has much to live for.

he’s kept his circle small for all of these ongoing years; with the occasional extension of acquaintances from work dinners, or christmas parties—though, he preferred to slip away from such events when eyes weren’t so…watchful. he likes to think his social battery has drained over the course of his life. looking back at his angstful teenage years, fourteen year old most likely wouldn’t recognize the person he is today.

his once intense nature that resembled an overbearing presence of loud determination turned calm—steadfast and slow to visible anger (with the exception of a passive aggressive comment here and there from simple annoyance). the short hair that once barely covered his nape now fell to his broad shoulders, however, he preferred to keep it up—maintaining appearances while keeping it convenient. the smaller five foot six body grew to an intimidating lean six foot four instead.

however, those things were quite trivial; he knew such changes happened with growth and eventual maturity.

but for a significant chunk of his life, eren was never the greatest with women. he was oblivious—blind to the wandering eyes full of admiration from girls in his classes and workplace—and nose deep in his books. he wouldn’t rest until he was on top of his grades; which he had no problem with. His emphasis on success failed him when it came to the dating scene; to say the least he was shy—and married to his work as well.

but on top of all this, eren was a patient man, and good things always comes to those who wait.

and when a dangerously beautiful woman comes wandering into his life on the street outside of an office dinner he gracefully slipped away from, asking him for an extra five dollars to help pay for her cab home from a no-show date—a woman that has him battling the slew of warning alarms sounding away in his usually zen mind and redefining what he thought was himself—he knows that he’s waited long enough.

simply put, he’s a man of his craft; dedicated to two things. his work, and his wife.

His wife—the phrase has his brain melting into pure grey matter that spills out his body in the form of love. To even think he has the opportunity to refer to you as such is priceless in itself. eren didn’t believe he could love—let alone love this hard. you ask him to run, he’ll say how far; jump—how high?

you’ve changed him—ever since he offered to drop you off in his sleek black mercedes benz parked somewhere by the valet and you giggled in response, saying ‘i’m not usually so trusting of strangers’ will the slightest glint of curiosity in your bright eyes.

and somewhere in between the months, his ten hour workdays turned to six, important software development meetings got pushed back for convenience, the accumulating days of paid time off started being used, for once, his assistant could do their job, and his new focus was you.

diamonds and pearls, nails and hair, dinners on boats and vacations on beaches, shopping sprees on his black card and all of his devotion towards you—only you.

eren…he’s a worshipper—it doesn’t take much for him to get on his knees for you. he’s not ashamed, if anything, he’s proud. he likes to say that anything that’s his, is yours; so who are you to deny what he gives you?

that’s another thing he oh so loves about you—you readily take everything he can offer. you let him take care of you, and he wouldn’t want it any other way; you’re his wife after all.

his wife, his wife.

“my wife…” eren mumbles to himself as he buries his face into the crook of your perfumed neck. the pronounced scent makes his head spin, you can’t fathom how in love with you this man is. as his large hands engulf your own, he’s met with the texture of your wedding ring that cost him over twenty grand, the one you cried over when you saw it in his hands offering it to you—but eren doesn’t think it does his adoration for you enough justice.

he prefers to show you.

while there’s no doubt that material items and dream homes are things you like to receive—there’s nothing better than the way he has you now, one leg resting atop his shoulder and the other barely slung around his waist as he steadily ruts his hips into your own.

oh, how could you be so beautiful? splayed out on the bed like a wicked man’s deepest desires and dreams; the one he secretly lusts for from across the room with no hopes to introduce himself because you’re just so out of his league. your hair is messily draped over the silk pillows, all remnants of your lipgloss/lipstick gone from your parted lips and instead smudged on his own, the gold necklace with his diamond initial was falling into the dip in your neck, and you were gazing at him with need. pure, heartfelt need.

your body arches towards him, manicured hands trailing towards your own chest to play with your nipples that hardened from the low temperature of the room. “i need you eren, make me feel you—i want it.” your voice is smooth, accompanied with a small whine that reminds him just how spoiled you are, and how it’s all his fault.

but he couldn’t care less—you deserve it for wandering into his life to make you his own.

“i know princess, i know.” he knows damn well you need him, he knows, he knows—he’s repeating it as he peppers a kiss to your jewelled ankle before pressing down on the back of your thigh to steady himself.

eren fucks like he loves—endlessly and hard.

maybe that’s why the way he bullies your pussy while bottoming out has you grasping at the threads of the sheets and chanting his name like a hymn followed by prayer. he lets your cunt feel every bit of him, the ridges—veins, down to the last inch. he’s terrifyingly big, another thing you love about him.

his dick feels like it’s mushing your insides, curving up against your spongy walls that oh so desperately tighten around him. every thrust is harder than his last, and the way the trimmed hair resting above his base brushes against your clit provides all the extra stimulation that has your head rolling to the side. your uncontrolled moans turn to sobs when you feel his tip tickle your cervix—and boy does it make him a rejuvenated man.

“look at me.” his words barely register as syllables in your clouded mind—you keep your head turned, eyes focused shut as your body shakes upwards from the fervour of his unrelenting tempo. there’s a lot of things eren can have, and you not watching the way his slick covered dick slips in and out of your weeping pussy isn’t one of them. “you have to look at me pretty girl.” his tone is soft but firm, thick fingers taking your chin in his hands and turning you towards him once again.

“see how well you’re taking me? all of it.” he gives you a million dollar smile, hinting for you to watch where the two of you connect. “your pretty cunt just wants it so bad, right?”

“oh, eren…” it’s always a sudden surprise how soiled his mouth can get at times like this. heeding his request, you watch his cock disappear in your folds—and you sight of it has you fluttering around him like a whore.

“you were made for me, weren’t you? prettiest sight i’ve ever seen.” you’ve heard his praises a multitude of times, having him ramble on about fucking you so much your walls moulded to fit him like a tight glove, only that now, he’s saying it to your pussy instead.

“only you ‘ren, was made just for you.” you babble out, feverishly bucking your hips up to meet his ruts.

when your eyes finally rip away from below and back up to his face, the look he wears has your cunt melting like putty. with furrowed brows, a dip in his forehead and a bitten lip, he watches your body move with each fuck. even in such a sinful position, you were just so divine.

almost subconsciously, his ringed hand moves from your hip and over to your torso, gliding over your pierced belly and stopped at your lower stomach, “I’m right here baby.” gently, he applies pressure to the spot, making your eyes blow open as you moan in response. the feeling gives you butterflies—ones that go straight to your clit and stimulate the nerves in your shaky legs.

“cummin—eren i’m cumming!” you’re rambling, scrambling to push his hand away from your belly, but it’s all too late, and eren knows that well. how could he not? your body is a temple, he’s explored every inch of it, and the sudden vice grip your walls have you him and periodic throb of your cunt is all too telling. your orgasm is drawn out, legs spazzing around your entranced husband, “mm, oh-fuck! yesyesyes eren, don’t stop!”

oh, aren’t you just perfect. his eyes soften when he watches how your mouth hangs open in a silent scream, only to capture it in a languid and sloppy kiss, teeth grazing your plump lips and sucking on them like a sweet. you whine he pulls himself away from your body completely, instead he takes the time to tack his thumb to your puffy clit, rubbing feint circles and the occasional attempted heart on the bud. he always does this, coaxing out the last of your orgasm with nimble fingers that you dream about

“you gonna let me take good care of you?” he asks softly between hushed breaths while grabbing hold of both your legs and hoisting them over his shoulders. helplessly, all you can do is nod; you’re in a trance at the very sight of him. his defined torso is illuminated by the back light of one of the many lamps in your bedroom, his hair is slipping from its captive elastic band, the grip of his hands on your ankles sends searing hot pulses straight to your sensitive clit.

he gives himself a few good pumps, sliding his length between your folds. your wetness aids him in bottoming out once again, but your sensitivity has you squirming in his hold. “gotta stay put baby.” he marvels, talking you into submission, “that’s my girl.”

his praises are followed by the shift of his hands down to the back of your thighs, they gently rub the plush skin before pushing them down to meet your chest. while there are some circumstances where looking down at you sparks something within him, eren likes to be eye to eye with you when he’s balls deep—turns him on even more being in such close proximity with such a captivating woman.

you squeal from the uncomfortable burn in your hamstring from being folded in half with the additional feeling of eren’s body weight on your own. you swear that you can feel your heart palpitating in your ears as you feverishly clench around him. “it’s too much! can’t take it, can’t take it!”

“of course you can, you know you can, your pussy takes everything i give it.” eren speaks between juts, pressing your knees to your shoulder blades as he pistons into you without any regard for decency. his thrust feel like a hammer, knocking your body into the memory foam mattress you begged him to buy.

stars cloud your eyes as he wraps himself tighter around you, head in the side of your neck as he peppers kisses across your skin. your pants and gasps are loud, amplifying the sounds of slapping skin and balls hitting the fat of your ass. his favourite part is when you dig your nails into his back, leaving cresent shaped imprints and jagged lines across it like a painter with a canvas; scars of your love.

deep groans fill your ear, soft and sweet; all eren can ramble about is you—how good you feel, how quick you can make him unravel like a ball of string, how lucky he is to have you in his life—the list goes on.

“i love you—fuck, i love you so much baby, you treat me so well.” with his declaration of love, his pace seems to increase, fucking you dumb and leaving you to heave for whatever air is left to breathe.

“i love you too, so much.” your eyes scramble around in your haywire brain, overloaded by the repeated feeling of the jackhammering going on in your walls and the non-stop cervix kisses he gives you. “it’s all yours, eren; you deserve it, you deserve this pussy. you married this, have it.”

eren jaeger doesn’t believe he’s deserving of much; has he earned things? yes. but you…laying beneath him, telling him he deserves you? it makes him never want to leave—not that he would dream of doing so in the first place.

he does deserve it—your words make his brain malfunction. he deserves it. fuck, you might just be the death of him.

you’re crying for him, grasping at any part of his body possible to get him closer to you than physically possible. your tighten around his base once more, and your hand flies down to messily prod at your clit in an attempt to play with it.

meanwhile, eren’s unrelenting pace falters; that man knows he’s going to cum soon, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do it with you. so he pleads with you to give him one more—telling you that you’ve got another one bundled up in there for him. to say it’s true is unknown, but your body listens to eren, and miraculously whatever he believes will happen comes to fruition.

but your body is delicate—everyone knows delicate things break under pressure. with the unrelenting strain and stretch his dick gives your walls, the tight feeling in your core, and aching numbness in your legs, your buildup feels much more violent—ready to release all built up tension given to you by your husband.

“eren—keep on going like this and i’m gonna make a mess!” you fuss around, hand reaching to gently push his torso away in fear you may soil the freshly made sheets.

“that’s the goal.” he states as a matter of factly, brows furrowing as a suppressed groan bubbles up from his chest at the thought: pretty little face going stupid and clawing at anything within reach as you writhe and cum all over his torso and lower body. you can’t make him budge now that he’s a determined man.

his strokes grow sloppy but powerful, curved cock repeatedly ramming into your spongy spot that force your plush walls to grip around him, “you’re eating me up here, love.” he mumbles, moaning into your mouth in the disguise of a messy kiss.

the last roll that tips you over the rocky edge is a shaky one, the last one he could give before emptying himself into you. it’s thick and hot and you feel it fill you as you twitch underneath him and cover his abdomen with your juices. wordlessly, his hands reach for yours as he stills; soft lips peppering the lining of skin on your cheek.

eren jaeger knows that change is inevitable—it comes with time. but eren jaeger also knows one thing will stay the same; his love and adoration for the pretty girl laying below him.

[wttcsms]

angels like you can't fly down here with me (i'm everything they say i would be), megumi fushiguro ;

pairing megumi fushiguro x f!reader word count 11k  synopsis people like him don't get happy endings but megumi fushiguro (foolishly) considers himself to be the exception — after all, he has you. content contains yakuza au, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, breeding kink, slight daddy kink, attempted sa, minor violence & depictions of blood author's note if ur on my ao3, you know this is from 2021!!! my writing has changed up since then, but i'm going to be releasing a revised version of this which will be rewritten and feature more scenes, more worldbuilding, more plot, relationship and character development, etc!! i figured releasing this on tumblr would help me gauge how worthwhile revision of this fic will be, so lmk if u like this au & want to see it become even better <3

Don’t do it.

He repeats the command inside his head again, and then one more time for good measure. (And then another time, just to drive the point across.)

He won’t — can’t; isn’t really allowed to — get into (another!) fight.

(Well, there’s a part of Megumi that knows that despite Gojo’s sing-songy warning of “now, now, Megumi, I don’t need a frequent visitor’s card for the principal’s office”, he doesn’t actually care. All he’s really concerned about — if the mild interest the reckless teenager turned legal guardian shows can even be called that — is whether or not Megumi wins.

And he does.

Every. Single. Time.)

For the most part, Megumi Fushiguro is fairly stoic in general, but to a concerning degree when one accounts for the fact that he’s only ten years old. For the odd three or so years he’s been under Gojo’s wing, Megumi’s mask of disinterest stopped becoming a mask and started becoming a part of him.

(Try as he might, Gojo’s not nearly as funny as he thinks he is. Maybe the connection between them might have been stronger if Gojo was a bit more responsible and if he was actually present, but he’s got his own shit to deal with. Besides, Gojo’s under the impression that what he’s doing isn’t cruel, but rather a means to an end. Megumi’s never going to be able to get stronger if he doesn’t learn how to survive on his own.

After all, being alone and having to fight to survive is the life people like them live.)

The older preteens in the area have a bad habit of picking on the younger students. Because the elementary and middle schools are so close together, the younger students who have the misfortune of walking alone tend to be targets for bullies in need of pocket change or a good laugh. Most of the time, they get both.

As of late, everyone’s favorite target happens to be Megumi Fushiguro, the boy with the messy black hair and indifferent attitude, even when confronted by boys two years his senior and almost a whole entire head taller than him.

Last week, Megumi gave the three older boys dumb enough to harass him for money bloody noses, bruised egos, and a thirst for revenge. That was the first (and supposed to be the last) time he got into a fight (for this school year, at least — something Gojo had told him, while winking). So, even when the trio is back together again, taunting him and trying to get him to take the first swing, Megumi keeps walking forward with his perpetual look of disinterest, those cold blue eyes of his staring straight at the path ahead of him, never paying any mind to the gangly bodies of the middle school boys who keep trying to block him from moving.

Don’t do it.

He tells himself this once more. You don’t want to have to inconvenience Gojo. Then, you’ll be stuck listening to him pretend to lecture you. You don’t like spending too much time with Gojo. He’ll make weird jokes. 

The thought of having to deal with Gojo’s presence is enough to get Megumi to unclench his fists.

“Move.”

It’s the first thing he says to the group since they started following him after school. He tells the boy with the brown hair this. The brunet seems to be their ringleader of sorts, and even as nothing more than a ten year old child, Megumi knows that being twelve/thirteen and harassing little kids for sport is a sign of patheticness that will only grow and fester into something darker unless someone beats some sense into them. Obviously, they didn’t learn their lesson from last week.

“Huh? What the hell did ya just say, ya little brat?” The brown haired boy sneers, looking down at Megumi.

School has just let out, so there are dozens of kids of all ages walking down the sidewalk. They’re all aware of the situation happening, but everyone chooses to turn a blind eye to it. Partly because this is such a common occurrence that it just starts to become something that blends into the scenery, but also because there are some rumors surrounding the Fushiguro kid that’s enough to make anyone with a heart of gold reluctant to come to his rescue.

The main rumor circulating around the school is that Megumi Fushiguro has ties to the yakuza. Granted, most kids his age have no idea what the yakuza is, and even those who somewhat know only know through exaggerated definitions from their older siblings. Generally, everyone just accepts the fact that the yakuza is bad, and by default, Megumi Fushiguro must be bad too. Older siblings tell their younger siblings to avoid “that boy” at all costs, unless they want to end up with a finger cut off. Megumi’s classmates huddle together and conveniently choose to look everywhere else but at him when on the playground.

For anyone else, this might have been enough to cause some hurt feelings. Everyone thinks the boy must be some type of stupid to be so oblivious to the rumors centered around him, but the truth is this: Megumi is well aware of what people whisper about behind his back; he just doesn’t care enough to prove them wrong.

And they’re not wrong, anyway.

(For some parts of the rumors, at least.)

Because it’s true — Megumi does have ties to the yakuza. His father, who he can’t seem to attach neither a name nor a face to, must have done something bad. Something bad enough to have him cross paths with Satoru Gojo, the young head of the Gojo Clan, one of Tokyo’s most prominent crime families. It’s the same Gojo who decided to adopt both Megumi and his stepsister, Tsumiki, despite having nothing (so far) to gain from it. After all, why would a teenager willingly assign himself the responsibilities of caring for small children — one who resembles the man that tried to kill him and the other being an ill little girl confined to a hospital bed for who knows how long. All Gojo gets from this deal is a headache, bills, and more problems than necessary.

Megumi’s not really sure how the rumors started in the first place. He thinks it’s because kids his age are easily influenced and have a tendency to run wild with their imaginations. With the rising popularity of gangs from the high school students, this interest seems to have trickled all the way down to the elementary levels. Megumi certainly fits the description of their idea of someone from the yakuza: silent, secretive, scary.

(If they were a little bit older, maybe they would have just seen him as an introvert.)

No matter how ridiculous the rumors get, though, it doesn’t change the fact that the root of them is true: he is connected to the yakuza. After all, he’s being primed and prepped to be someone of value in the clan. Once you’re tied with the likes of them, you might as well just resign to the knot fate’s trapped you with. He’s learned quickly that the only thing harder than getting into the yakuza is getting out.

And because his sister’s and his life both depend on him doing as he’s told, getting out is a funny pipe dream at best and the Fushiguro siblings’ cause of death at worst.

“I told you to move. You’re blocking my way.” Megumi’s tone of voice betrays nothing. Annoyance, maybe, but he speaks flatly regardless of how he’s truly feeling. Gojo says it’s kinda creepy. Gojo also says that being a little creepy isn’t bad.

(Gojo should know; he’s a certified creep in Megumi’s eyes.)

“Oh — so the little boy can speak up.” The boy with blond hair laughs. It’s a nasally sound that grates Megumi’s ears.

He’s not an idiot. Megumi is well aware of the fact that no matter how much he feels like it isn’t true, he’s still just a little ten year old boy. He should be playing with the toy cars Gojo bought him, not worrying about the gritty future that lies ahead. But still, the phrase rubs him the wrong way.

Little boy.

He wasn’t so little when he kicked them down to his height before properly bashing their faces, now was he? Even now, he can feel the anger coming up. He clenches his fists, wondering if he’ll get suspended for fighting right next to school property.

“Leave him alone.”

Another voice appears, but not from any of the boys. No — this time, it’s coming from a little girl on the sidewalk across from theirs. Everyone involved turns to stare at the source of such a command and are greeted with the sight of you with a Hello Kitty backpack. You’ve got a frown on your face that doesn’t match the brightness of your pink outfit.

Megumi recognizes you instantly. You’re in the same class as him. You were in the same class as him last year, too. He tilts his head, trying to figure out what exactly it is you’re trying to accomplish here — and why.

He knows his social standing in the school. If he’s at the bottom, you’re right at the top. A beaming pillar of light, everyone flocks to you like moths after a flame. But you’re alone today, not surrounded by the usual crowd of boys and girls who are often vying for your attention. Seeing you alone enables him to see you more clearly, without all the distractions getting in his way.

You’re small. Shorter than him, and way shorter than the middle school boys. You’ve got a bow in your hair and brand new shoes on your feet. If anybody should be socially aware, it has to be you. Those at the top, Megumi knows, like to remind everyone of their placement. You shouldn’t be here. You should be ignoring him like he’s got the plague, just like everyone else.

All three of the boys start to laugh after sizing you up. The laughter only serves to make you even more irritated, but you can’t speak because one of them is already talking through his laughs.

“Don’t tell me. Is this your girlfriend?”

The group erupts into more laughter, and while Megumi’s expression remains the same as it’s been for the past few minutes, yours only shows your growing contempt.

“She’s no one.” Megumi throws you an odd look, one of neither annoyance nor gratitude for trying to help him out. He uses your presence as a distraction, and he manages to take a few more steps before one of the boys is yanking him back by his bookbag.

“Grab her.” One of the boys says, and the third boy, the one with the messy red hair, starts to cross the street.

Megumi watches as you stay right where you are. Are you stupid? Why won’t you run? The boy still has a solid grip on his bookbag, keeping him in place. He wonders if it’ll be a waste of his breath if he tells you to start running — you probably wouldn’t listen to him anyway.

But then Megumi figures out why you don’t look too frightened, because not even a second before the older boy manages to cross the street to your side of the sidewalk, a man in a suit is running towards you, a scowl on his face.

“You said you were going to the restroom, young lady!” The man scolds you while panting for breath. He surveys the scene, looking at you, and then the middle school boy by your side before turning his head and seeing Megumi in between the other two boys. “What’s going on? Is everything alright? Did they do anything to you?”

“No, Mr. Higashi. B-but—“ Your bottom lip starts to tremble, and even though Higashi is certain that the tears about to fall are fake, the situation itself looks serious enough to the point where he doesn’t call you out on it. “Th-these boys are being really mean.” You let out a high pitched wail that makes the boy let go of Megumi’s bookbag. “They just threatened to attack me and my friend out of nowhere.”

“Your father will be informed.” Higashi frowns, eyeing the guilty boys who look confused and a little shocked at this turn of events. “Mr. [Surname] certainly won’t be pleased to hear about this.”

The middle school boys pale when they hear the man name drop your family’s surname.

After all, it’s the same last name that’s engraved on plaques all over the school, thanking your family for the many donations they’ve received.

You enter into Megumi’s life that way: unexpectedly. He never thanked you for intervening, but it’s not like you did it for the thanks anyway. You did it, you tell him, because you figured he needed some help.

“I had it handled.” He tells you flatly. “Why are you even sitting here? Your friends keep staring at us.”

It’s true. Stories of what happened are already circulating around both schools, and while all your friends spent the whole entire day pestering you for the full story, you chose to keep quiet about the situation. And now, here you are, choosing to sit and eat lunch with Megumi, someone who also knows the true story of what went down but the only one people aren't brave enough to ask.

Your whole entire table of friends keep their heads huddled together as they go back and forth with each other, every one of them sparing glances at Megumi’s table. It makes the rice in his mouth taste stale. He should have just stayed in the classroom to eat, especially if he knew you would be bothering him.

“Gee, is that any way to treat a friend?” You huff, not at all actually annoyed with him.

“We’re not friends.”

“Too late. I told my dad we were.”

There has been one question on his mind ever since that incident. Just who exactly is your father? He’s not stupid; he knows that you must come from a wealthy family. If the buildings and auditorium named after your family isn’t enough proof, the fact that you always have the latest toys, the nicest shoes, the cutest stationery sets — that’s material proof of a spoiled princess.

You continue speaking, and as if you can read his mind, you’re already answering his question. “My daddy’s called a CEO. But the man you saw is Mr. Higashi. He takes care of me when dad’s away at work, and everything I do gets typed up in a report that dad sees every day. He wasn’t happy about what happened, so he says the boys will get in trouble. He told us not to worry, though.” You have a pleased smile on your face, waiting for Megumi to say something in reply.

“Okay.” He says, after a while. He only spoke because it seemed like you were waiting for him to. “It doesn’t mean we’re friends.”

“What’s so wrong about being friends with me?” You tilt your head. Everyone wants to be friends with you. And that’s before they even figure out that you live in a real life mansion with actual servants, and that sometimes you’re allowed to eat dessert for dinner. Even without the wealth, you still draw people in, whether it be with your bright smile or cheery attitude.

“Don’t you already have enough friends?” He can’t figure out what you could possibly want with him. Even though Gojo’s got the backing of the clan and enough funds to run the Tokyo underground with cash to spare, it’s not like Megumi is in a position to take advantage of it. Gojo hands him a thick wad of cash every week with a tip to “spend wisely, hehehehe”, and Megumi takes the tip to heart. A majority of the money sits saved in his bedroom, underneath a floorboard he spent a week trying to figure out how to loosen without anyone catching on. (Which was actually easy whenever he realized that nobody seems to really watch him to begin with.) So, he doesn’t look like he has money, and isn’t that what all rich kids want? To surround themselves with equally rich kids?

“I guess.” Your bubbly mood seems to dampen a bit at the mention of the other kids. They like you, sure. But they like each other a lot more. The gap between you and the other kids isn’t noticeable at first, but the novelty of having an endless supply of company has lost its luster. Meanwhile, the glamor of your life only keeps the hoards of “friends” to grow as the days go by. It’s always “let’s have a sleepover at [Names]’s!” or “[Name], we have to go to your house because you have the best toys!”. You wonder if they like you, or the shiny things that they get when they’re with you. “But, it’s not like youhave any friends.”

“I don’t need any.” The response is quick — instinctual. Gojo, even if not the greatest guardian by any parental standards, still presses Megumi to have a proper (or, as proper as it can be) childhood.

(“You know, I don’t care if you bring any friends over. Just make sure no one ends up accidentally getting shot, okay, Megumi?”

Yeah, because that’s definitely gonna push him towards throwing as many parties as he wants.)

People in his position don’t have many friends. It’s hard to, he assumes, because of all the killings and betrayals and power plays.

(And, he’ll soon learn that it hurts a lot less to lose an enemy than it does a friend.)

“Hmm. Okay.”

But you don’t get up from your seat, and he doesn’t tell you to move.

The next day, you’re carrying two bento boxes. The lunches are prepared for you by world class chefs and everything is done in a rather cutesy manner to entice you into not wasting your food. The fruit is cut into pretty shapes, the food has picks with animals on them, and everything is colorful and to your own personal tastes.

You take a seat next to him once again. He looks up for a second, sees that it’s you, and returns back to his meal that looks pitiful in comparison. Leftover rice and some cold meat. You think it’s the same thing he had last time.

“For you.” You slide the second bento you had requested towards him before opening up your own.

“What’s this for?”

“For you to eat, silly.”

“...How much?”

“Huh? All of it, I guess? If you don’t like something, tell me, and I’ll request something different tomorrow.” You don’t quite understand what he’s asking you.

“No. How much does it cost? I'll bring you the money tomorrow.”

“Why would it cost you?” Now you’re really confused.

Didn’t anyone ever teach you that everything comes attached with a price? If it’s not money you want, it must be something else. At least, if Megumi’s judgments are right. (And they usually are.)

“Fushiguro, I brought you this because I want you to eat well and grow strong.”

He wonders what rice shaped like Hello Kitty has to do with his strength.

“Also, so the next time people give you or me trouble, you can fight them, okay?”

Oh. So it’s protection you want. He contemplates what he thinks your request is before popping a piece of food into his mouth. A meal made with care — he can taste the thought that’s been put into it. Shoving his old lunch to the side, he quickly starts eating at the one you brought him.

Okay. So maybe he does accept your offer.

“Meguuuumi.” You whine out his name, messing up the navy sheets of his bed while he sits at his desk, trying to finish his application for university. “I’m bored.”

“Good. Go to your own house then, and leave me alone.”

“You’re so mean to me.” You sigh, turning your head so that half of your face is pressed against his pillow. The scent of his shampoo still sticks to the fabric, and you subconsciously inhale the scent some more. It’s familiar and reminds you of him, your favorite person in the world.

No one believes you when you tell them that Megumi is your best friend. No one wants to believe that it’s true. After all, the two of you look more like a shoujo manga trope than an actual pair of best friends. The cold, inexpressive dark haired male lead with a secretive past he doesn’t want anyone to know about and the bright, bubbly, ball of energy that is constantly clinging to his side. It’s like looking at night and day with you two.

“And yet, you’re still always here.”

You’re still by his side, even when the two of you reached middle school and high school together, and he spent a majority of his time starting (and finishing) fights.

(“Get off of him!” You screamed, yanking on the collar of one of the boys who happened to be trying to grab Megumi from behind. You don’t have the same amount of strength as them, but everyone at this point knows who you are and who exactly your father is. No matter what the origin of the fight is won’t matter; all that matters is that the precious daughter of one of Tokyo’s richest CEOs got caught in it, and that’s enough to get everyone involved into some deep shit.

Immediately, the boy scampers off, and the other boy Megumi was punching into the squeaky clean floors of the hallway begins to thrash around wildly, eyes wide at the sudden sight of you. Seeing you coming from behind Megumi is like watching the sun peek through a dozen storm clouds.

Megumi gives him one last punch, not nearly as satisfied as he thought he would be. Honestly, getting into fights with low level delinquents is beneath him. It’s not just his knuckles and clothes that are getting dirty; by feeding into the school’s image that he’s this young, violent yakuza heir, he’s dirtying the prestige Gojo claims is oh so important.

“Megumi.” He straightens up at the sound of your voice, which usually sounds so sweet, especially when it’s directed towards him. Instead, you have an uncharacteristic frown on your face and you sound… mad. “Let’s go.”

You’ve got a hand wrapped around his wrist, and people part when they spot the two of you making a hasty exit. The teachers aren’t bold enough to cause a scene with you, and the students know both you and Megumi are practically untouchable — one being the spoiled brat daughter of a rich and powerful businessman, the other, a ticking time bomb with ties to the yakuza.

You don’t stop walking until the two of you are in a secluded courtyard at the school. No one goes here, mainly because it’s in such an inconvenient location and there’s nothing but trees and weeds over growing it. The two of you found it within your first week of being here, and ever since then, it’s become your designated spot to avoid prying eyes.

“I thought you were over stupid fights. You told me yourself that they weren’t the type of people worth beating up.” You scold him, forcing him to take a seat on the bench that creaks under his weight. You make a noise as you inspect the drying blood on his knuckles.

If an outsider were to look at the scene before them, they would gape at the unbecoming sight of you on your knees, in between his legs, too close for a duo who claims to be “just good friends”. But there’s nothing inherently dirty in your thoughts. Instead, you’re staring thoughtfully at his hands, inspecting the minor damage done to them.

Megumi swallows hard as he looks down on you. He shouldn’t be feeling like this — you’re his best friend, his only friend. The only person who’s by his side. If you could read in his mind, there’s no doubt that you would be recoiling away from him in disgust…)

You’re still by his side, even when he told you the truth about himself after waiting years to see if you were truly his friend or not.

(“The rumors—” He starts to say, but you shush him, rolling over on your side to face him. The two of you are lying on the grass in your massive backyard, trying to spot a shooting star that’s supposed to be passing by at any second now.

“I don’t care about that.” You tell him. Middle school was a bitch to deal with, mainly because as everyone was in the process of growing up and “maturing”, so did the rumors they spread. Now, the two of you are halfway through your first week of high school. A new school, a couple of new classmates, and new rumors surrounding the odd pair.

“If I told you the rumors about me being someone you should avoid were true, would you be mad?” He’s lying on his back, still staring up at the night sky. He’s not turning to face you, almost as if he’s scared to look at you.

“Yes.” You answer without any hesitation. “At the person who’s spreading that around.” You clarify, poking him on his side to lighten the somber mood he’s setting. “You’re the only real friend I’ve had in forever, Megumi. I don’t think what anyone says about you would change that.”

“What if I did something bad?” Like kill a person. What then? What would you think of him if he told you the full truth: that Gojo told him that he can’t shield Megumi from the dirtier aspects of this type of life. That he’s spent hours after school, hours after hanging out with you and pretending to be a normal teenager, learning how to assemble, disassemble, and then reassemble a gun. That his target practice isn’t glass bottles lined up in a row or sheets printed out with human bodies. What happens if he told you that his target practice was low level scum from rival yakuza clans that Gojo couldn’t be bothered to kill himself?

“Mmm. How bad are we talking? Like, lied to me when you said my Christmas outfit looked good but half my ass was practically exposed bad or committing a felony bad?”

“What if I told you… that I really was a yakuza heir.”

The silence is palpable and especially soul crushing to Megumi as he waits for your reply.

“It wouldn’t matter to me, Megumi.” You say. You know that this isn’t just some type of hypothetical question he’s asking for fun. From his odd living situation to the intense nature of him in general to the fact that he knows practically everything about you, but you barely know the full extent of his childhood traumas despite growing up alongside him, you know deep in your heart that there has to be something going on with him. Something dark enough to harbor stories about him.

“Are you sure about that?”

You reach for his hand in the dark, finding it without really needing to look. He’s not one that’s prone to initiating physical contact, but you found out that he doesn’t really mind when you reach for him first.

“You can’t get rid of me, no matter how crazy or fucked up you think your life is.” You squeeze his hand, still staring at him.

You don’t notice the shooting star flying past the night sky, but Megumi is looking right at it. He knows what he’s wishing for.

For your words to be true.)

You’re still by his side, even when he brought you to his sister’s bedside. She’s sick, afflicted with something no one knows, not even the private doctors that Gojo’s spent millions on. She was still conscious, albeit confined to her bed when the two of you first met, but she’s been in a coma ever since the last year of middle school. You were by his side as he broke down about the news. It was the first time you’ve ever seen him cry.

So, no matter how much it may seem like he’s pushing you away, you don’t budge. For someone smaller than him and definitely weaker, you’re awfully resilient. And while people make the occasional joke, telling you to “blink twice if you need help”, you don’t pay any attention to them. If only they knew the truth: that you’ve got Megumi Fushiguro, heir to a massive yakuza clan, wrapped around your dainty finger.

He’s so whipped that he found himself asking Gojo for a rare favor.

(“College?” Gojo rubs the back of his neck, staring at Megumi. “I mean, I guess it’ll be good for you. Meet a wild party girl, take her to your dorm room, tame her—”

“An education is the whole point of attending, you know.” Megumi interrupts him before Gojo can jump into a story highlighting all of his sexual endeavors with college girls back in the day.

“Eh. I guess.” But then a grin lights up the feature of the man who [kind of/by definition] raised him. “But y’know what I know for a fact.” He wiggles his eyebrows, his glasses slipping down his nose as he tilts his head downwards. “You wanna follow [Name].”)

It doesn’t really matter if he’s not good enough to get into the university you’ve already received an early acceptance for. Because Gojo tries to make up for being an absent father figure, he fills in those empty spaces with cold, hard cash. All it takes is one nice donation, and Megumi’s wherever he wants to be.

Where he wants to be, he realizes, is to be by your side. Wherever you go, he’ll gladly follow. Funnily enough, despite the two vastly different backgrounds the both of you come from, you both have similar means of getting what you want.

Your father had already looked over the list of universities you had in mind, and all you could do was excitedly squeal and start rambling the moment the acceptance letters came in the mail. Despite the fact that your father’s physically absent from your life most of the time, he still tries to show he cares in the things he does for you. If paying off over half a dozen major universities in order to make you happy is something he has to do, he’ll do it without batting an eye.

It’s the same thing on Megumi’s end. Granted, Gojo’s means are more along the lines of using money as a lubricant and then death as an inevitable. Money talks, a gunshot to the head silences. Nobody can accuse anyone of taking bribes if said accused person is in a grave six feet under.

Sometimes, Megumi wonders how you’re just so oblivious to the fortunate circumstances in your life. You chalk up a lot of your father’s wishes as just “good luck”. In school, you’re placed on a pedestal, revered as some goddess-like, otherworldly being. People are practically tripping over themselves, running towards you for a crumb of your attention. Anyone sane would gladly wield this power and use it for all its worth. Not you, though. Not you, who’s kind and considerate and completely clean from the corruptness that plagues everyone else.

Megumi knows good and well that he’s not a hero — couldn’t be farther from it, if he’s being honest. He doesn’t feel a moral obligation to go out and rid the world of all evil. (It’d be hypocritical, he thinks, considering the fact that he’s most likely belonging under the evil category himself.) From a young age, he’s already known and come to terms with his fate. He’s going to train and learn from the best, and eventually, he will succeed as head of the clan. That is his purpose. That right there is the reason why he’s still alive today. That is why he can find himself sitting at his desk, submitting an application that’s already guaranteed to be followed up with an acceptance letter, ready to pretend for four more years that he’s normal.

“D’you think college will be fun?” You ask him, making yourself comfortable in his bed.

“No.”

You laugh at that. You like Megumi for a lot of reasons, and his honesty is one of them. Despite the fact that he likes to keep most of the darker details of his life to himself, you know that he would never lie to you. In a world full of people who are constantly lying, it gets tiring trying to figure out who’s real and who’s fake. It doesn’t help that you want to believe in everyone either. If you didn’t have Megumi loyally staying by your side all this time, you doubt you would have made it this far in your life without anyone taking advantage of you and your kindness.

“My dad said I can finally get a boyfriend when I go to college.” You say this fact so casually that Megumi almost — almost — gets fooled into believing that this is not a cause for concern. Almost.

“Oh.” He’s at a loss for words. He knows that it’s inevitable; that one day, you’ll find a guy you like and want to get closer to him. He knows that you’re not always going to be by his side, and he knows that it’s going to happen because he’ll have to push you away eventually. The older he gets, the deeper he’s burying himself into his grave. He doesn’t want you to get caught in the crossfire.

It’s not like boys have never tried approaching you before. People have spent years thinking that you and Megumi were a couple, and then after finding out from you that the two of you are nothing more than “best friends”, boys were still hesitant to talk to you. The glare Megumi would give them from behind your shoulder acted as a strong enough deterrent.

“I know. Now the only problem is finding a guy who’ll actually wanna date me.”

“They all will.” The words leave his mouth faster than he can even think about them. He’s not wrong, though. Every time the two of you are out in public together, he sees people shooting quick glances at you, at your ass, at your bright smile. The looks they give are predatory, dangerous, even. If it’s not your looks, it’s your shining personality that draws them all in. And if that’s not good enough, there’s always the enormous wealth attached to your last name. That’s the key to getting them to stay.

“You can be so sweet sometimes, you know that?” You giggle, glad that he’s still typing away on his laptop. If he were to look at you right now, he would see that you’re reacting way too positively to such a lackluster compliment. It’s not like he listed reasons on why anyone would ever want to date you, so he probably could just be complimenting you to make you happy.

(That’s just the excuse you’re going with. You know your best friend — that means you know that he would never say something he doesn’t truly think or believe.)

There’s a secret you’ve been keeping from him. A secret so big that you think you might’ve been keeping it from yourself, too. Something so big that your body simply can’t contain it any longer.

You like Megumi. 

Of course you do. You keep telling the whole world what great friends the two of you are. You talk to him about your dad all the time (which must mean he’s important, because you rarely get to speak to your dad, so you have to choose your topics of conversation wiseley). You trust him more than you trust yourself. Ever since middle school, you’ve been telling yourself that you liking Megumi isn’t anything to be ashamed or confused about. You like him because he’s your friend, and you’re supposed to like your friends.

And then you came to terms with the fact that you like Megumi beyond the borders of friendship.

It starts with you seeing him the way other girls must see him. You’re not blind, you know. It’s obvious that Megumi is far from ugly. If he wasn’t so intimidating, you’re sure he would have had his fair share of confessions, too. Megumi’s pretty, although calling him a pretty boy wouldn’t do his character justice. He’s got lashes people pay extensions for theirs to look like, and the prettiest dark blue eyes you’ve ever seen, and his hair, which he doesn’t put forth any type of effort in, always looks good whereas the same hairstyle would look messy on anyone else.

It’s not just his looks, though. Even if you look like the type of person who would judge others based on such shallow standards, you didn’t approach Megumi simply because he’s attractive. He’s… interesting. He’s got this reputation for being a delinquent, and maybe all the fights on his school record prove it, but he’s surprisingly respectful. He’s the type of guy who gets up from his seat to let an eldery woman have it. He loves animals. He’s honest and sweet despite his seemingly stoic nature, and he’s so oblivious to just how good he is.

Maybe it’s because he’s so blinded by the light that is you. You, with your cutesy bento boxes that used to be made by your team of personal chefs but are now made with your own manicured hands. You, with that bright smile of yours that he wants to always see because god — he thinks he would be willing to destroy the whole world if something were to ever make you so upset. You’re kind and beautiful and everything people write love songs about. You’re so good, and he’s nothing like you.

He’s nothing like you, because he highly doubts that you spend your time fantasizing about him like he does with you. It’s wrong, he thinks. And dirty, and disgusting, and vile. You’d hate him, he’s sure of it, if you knew what he thinks about late at night. That he sits on his bed with his cock pulled out from his shorts, leaking with precum as he strokes himself to the thought of you. Do you not see him as any other guy? Despite your lack of experience, surely you know just how dirty boys’ minds can be? You’ve got to be conscious of the fact that he’s any other guy, right? So, why — why — do you always roll around in his sheets, letting your sweet perfume stick to his sheets. Your tiny tops and skirts are always clinging tight to your body, and you never feel the need to readjust your clothing when it rides up. Do you not see him trying his hardest to look you in the eyes when the two of you are talking, despite the tantalizing sight of your skirt bunching up, exposing the smooth skin of your thighs?

Little does Megumi know (and if you have your way, he’ll never find out), you spend nights in your room, whining and trying to stuff your cunt with the same fingers that painstakingly made him his lunch. He’s your best friend since childhood. He looks at you like you’re an angel, and you don’t want to destroy that image by revealing just how dirty you really are. How every time he gets so close to you, you subconsciously bring your thighs together, trying to rub them together in a poor attempt to relieve some tension. He’d be disgusted with you, you’re sure of it. Maybe even betrayed.

Besides, it would never work out. Megumi doesn’t see you the way you see him. He might look at you with a soft look you’ve never seen him give anyone else, but that’s because you’re his only friend. It’s not like he’s harboring any hidden feelings for you, and just because you’re so convinced that there’s no one better than Megumi around, it doesn’t exactly mean that you won’t feel this way about anyone else.

Megumi’s got a rather monotone cadence with his voice, so you’re not too surprised by his seemingly unethusiatic response to you saying you’re now allowed to date. Still — there’s a slight pang of disappointment when you realize that he doesn’t sound jealous at the prospect of you dating someone else.

You decide right then and there that the healthiest thing to do now is to just bury your feelings for him deep inside your heart, to tightly pack in all those pesky feelings and store them away so you can make room to allow others to fill in his space.

gumi <3: where are you? gumi <3: i’m feeling tired and i have an assignment due tomorrow. i’m going home. gumi <3: you know i wouldn’t leave without you. cmon [name]. let’s leave now

Megumi frowns at his phone. He can clearly see that all his messages are being delivered, not to mention that he’s already called you twice and has been sent to voicemail twice. He can be patient when he wants to be, but right now, he’s getting a little pissed.

You know that he doesn’t like parties, and you know that he doesn’t hang out with the same people you do. He also knows that you don’t even really like most of the people you surround yourself with, so whyyou suddenly decided to do a 180 and reestablish your throne as the head of the social pyramid, he doesn’t know.

Lately, things between the two of you have been a little… weird. Sometimes he catches you staring at him with a sad smile on your face; one that you immediately replace with your usual one when you realize he’s looking right at you. Despite him asking you if everything’s okay, you vehemently deny that there’s anything wrong, and you’re quick to change the subject.

He thinks he’s losing his best friend, his only friend. And maybe it only hurts because he’s grown used to your presence in his life. Maybe it hurts because you’re his friend. But he knows the truth. It hurts because he’s losing you.

Did he do something wrong? Did he accidentally somehow reveal the extent of his feelings for you? Did you suddenly decide that maybe associating with someone like him isn’t something you’re meant for? Do you…

Do you hate him now?

It doesn’t matter. Maybe it does, but not right now. Right now, he’s more focused on getting the hell out of this stuffy ass living room, filled to the brim with drunken young adults and people he couldn’t care less about. The only person that matters right now is you, and he’s on a mission to find your location.

He’s got this ominous feeling in his gut, like something bad is about to happen. He’s Megumi Fushiguro, for fuck’s sake, so bad things have a habit of following him wherever he goes. But still, he’s made a personal promise to himself that no matter how bad things get, you’ll never get caught in the crossfire. He’s willing to die to keep that vow.

If you don’t reply to him, you most likely have a good reason. He doesn’t want to be clingy, is pretty damn certain he doesn’t even have a right to be, but he’s still worried about you. He’s pushing past the wall of sweaty bodies, trying to catch a glimpse of your hair color, the waft of your perfume, the familiarity of your laugh, but he can’t catch a single crumb of you anywhere.

You’re nowhere in sight, and he’s immediately filled with dread.

He yanks a guy who’s coming from upstairs.

“Ow, man, what the fuc—”

“Is anyone else up there?” Most of the time, the parties are restricted to just the first floor, with the unspoken rule being that only the upstairs should be used for people trying to fuck or to use the bathroom (or, people trying to use the bathroom to fuck). You’re not anywhere downstairs, and if you were simply using the restroom, you would have been back down here by now.

“Shit, I don’t fucking know.” The guy squints at Megumi, as if trying to see if he knows him or not. With the way his expression pales, Megumi comes to the conclusion that the guy might not really know him, but he knows ofhim. Gojo says that with the right reputation, the two concepts are practically synonymous. “But I heard a guy ‘n a girl, I think, walk past the bathroom. I don’t know who, though!”

Megumi lets go of the boy’s shirt, and he’s quick to run off before Megumi can give him any more wrinkles in his shirt — or do something much worse.

He’s thinking. Odds are, it’s probably not even you. With so many people roaming around this house, it’s likely that he just missed your presence. Your phone could have died, so that explains why he can’t reach you.

He finds himself heading up the stairs anyway.

It’s fine. He tells himself. You’re fine. You’re okay. Nobody would dare to touch a single hair on your head unless they want to suffer directly at the hands of Megumi. People around campus call him your guard dog, and it’s not necessarily a nickname he hates.

The atmosphere upstairs is vastly different from the one downstairs. There are no lights turned on, and all the doors to the rooms are closed. He hears a flush coming from one end, and out walks a tipsy girl who’s staggering a bit. There are only so many doors to choose from, and he doesn’t really want to accidentally walk in on two people trying to have sex, but the need to confirm your safety outweighs any possible embarrassment he may suffer from, so he continues on his mission.

The first two rooms are revealed to be empty, leaving just one more. Megumi takes a deep breath before trying to turn the handle.

It’s locked. 

His gut is telling him something isn’t right, but he’s forcing himself to chalk it all up to paranoia. He curses under his breath, wondering why he even let you out of his sights for a single second.

Because he didn’t want to seem clingy. Because he didn’t want you to have any more reasons to keep on pushing him away. 

He decides to call you one more time, and as he’s listening to the dial tone, he hears a faint sound coming from the other side of the locked door.

It’s a phone ringing.

He presses his ear against the door, trying to make out any more sounds he possibly can. Is it still a coincidence when the phone stops ringing right as Megumi is greeted with your voicemail message of “sorry, I can’t come to the phone right now, but you probably should’ve just texted me!”

Without the annoying dial tone distracting him, Megumi can listen a little more clearly to what’s going on. There’s… there’s someone crying.

The voices are muffled, but he can make out bits and pieces of what’s being said.

“—fuck up… crying like a damn bitch… want this.”

He’s heard enough before he’s banging his shoulder against the door.

“OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!” He’s screaming, hitting it again. There’s a chance, the voice of reason inside of him is saying, that it’s not you that’s crying behind that door. Even if it wasn’t, Megumi still wouldn’t have stood by idly. But instinct is telling him that it is you, and that’s enough cause for him to bang his shoulder against the door once again. He hears a scream, and a male voice cursing.

The force of his body banding against it is enough to have the door really test the strength of its lock. Megumi’s never been the bulkiest person in the world, but he’s still got some defined muscle to him. The door is creaking, almost bending to his will, but he fumbles in the dark for the gun safely tucked away by his side.

It’s a gift from Gojo. To speed up the process when something needs to be done quick is what Gojo said it was for. He’s never used it in such close proximity to you, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

No silencer. He forgot the fucking silencer. With the deep bass rumbling from the speakers, he doubts anyone would be able to hear the gun go off anyway. He aims for the handle, pulling back the safety, and fires once, then twice. With a foot aimed at the door, he kicks at it, pleased to see the way the abused door finally bends to his will.

The open door reveals a scene that makes Megumi see red: you, with tear stained cheeks and your clothes bunched up and strewn across the floor with a guy Megumi vaguely recognizes as someone sharing the same Econ class as the two of you — Mahito.

“You fucking bastard.” Megumi practically lunges forward, tossing his gun to the side. He doesn’t see reason, is numb to common sense at this moment. All he feels is the need to hurt this fucker. To make him bleed, to have him on the brink of death, to see the light of life leave his dark eyes.

Mahito is fast, but even he couldn’t imagine the speed that Megumi would possess when pushed to the edge. This is different from the fights you’ve witnessed during school. This is something entirelydifferent.

The first punch has Mahito wincing in pain. The second, third, and fourth ones are thrown back to back, and there’s no time given to recover, no chance to gain the upper hand. He’s falling down, and Megumi’s on top of him, drawing back his fist only to slam it against him again and againand again.

Megumi knows he’s got something fucked up inside of his head — what other explanation is there to reason with why he finds this bloody violence so satisfying? His knuckles are bloody, and he can’t tell where Mahito’s blood starts and where his own ends. There’s a wild grin on his face, one that you’ve never seen before. You’re not sure if it’s a trick of the shadows, but the feral expression on Megumi’s face transforms him from your loyal best friend to something monstrous.

“‘Gumi, st-stop.” The words stumble out of your mouth as hiccups, but you don’t miss the way Megumi’s raised arm freezes in its higher position before he slowly brings it back down to his side. He’s breathing deeply, and all is silent in the room.

As if the sound of your cries is enough to snap him out of his daze, it’s almost scary how fast his mood shifts. Just a second ago, he was hellbent on beating Mahito to a bloody pulp, and now the darkness drowning those blue eyes of his is practically gone. He makes his way to the bed, each step hurried but still hesitant. Do you even want to be near him right now? 

You answer his question with some more small sobs. “‘Gumi, I—”

“Shh, it’s okay, [Name].” He’s picking up your clothes from the floor, ready to help you get dressed. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

“Megumi.” His name seems to be the only thing you’re capable of saying right now. After he helps you get dressed, he’s thrown off guard when you cling to him, with your arms wrapped around his neck and your wet cheeks pressed against his shoulder.

The moment the two of you are exiting the room, both of you far too wrapped up with the other to pay him any mind, Mahito lets out a laugh before groaning at the pain Megumi inflicted.

The two of you don’t know what you just started, but no worries — Mahito has the means of ending it.

It’s only a matter of time.

You’re too good to be true.

You won’t listen to him when he tells you this (you never do), but he swears you’re a fucking angel or something otherwordly. There’s no other possible explanation for just how breathtakingly beautiful you are, or how you’re the only thing consuming his every thought. Despite the fact that all the blood on his hands has reached an amount that he’s sure he’ll never truly be able to wash it all off, you don’t shy away from his touch. As a matter of fact, it seems like you’re keening for it.

“‘Gumi.” You mewl out, sticking out your tongue to lap at the precum on Megumi’s thumb.

You’re well aware of just how dangerous your boyfriend (the title makes you giddy every time you refer to him as that) is, but you know him. You know that the hands of a killer are the hands of your lover, and most of the time, you have a hard time believing the awful things he’s had to do with them. Because right now, those hands that are meant to be weapons are handling you with care, touching you so gently, you would have thought you were made of glass and ready to shatter.

“Look at you, all spread out for me. What happened to my precious, shy little girl, huh?” He removes the hand that was cradling your face back to his cock, stroking his length, the saliva from your tongue acting as a minor lubricant. The first time he fucked you was the first time you’ve ever had sex with anyone ever, and it had been the start of an addiction. You love Megumi. You love everything about him, from his character to his tenacity, all the way down to his cock, with its red tip that’s sticky with pre and leaking out more as he stares down at the obscene position you’re in.

Your face feels warm as he stares down at you, his eyes darkened with a mix of love and lust that you don’t think you’ll ever get used to being on the receiving end of.

“Need you, need you so bad, please, ‘Gumi—” You’re staring up at him, giving him your best doe eyes.

“Fuck.” Just the sight of you beneath him, completely bending to his will, whining out for him to pretty please fuck you has him ready to cum right on the fucking spot. He’s pressing the tip in, his breathing faltering just the slightest as the warmth you provide envelopes the most sensitive part of him, nearly causing him to lose all self control right then and there.

You let out a cry as he pushes himself deeper in you, making himself at home in your gummy walls, one hand gripping your hip and the other holding onto the headboard.

“You feel so good for me, baby, shit.” He hisses, waiting for you to adjust, impatient but willing to bear it if it means it’ll feel better for you in the long run. After all, there’s nothing he wouldn’t do, nothing he wouldn’t endure, just to ensure your happiness.

“Mm — ah — please.” There are still tears welling up in your eyes — precious girl, he hasn’t even began to properly fuck you, and you’re already tearing up? The sight of you completely and willingly at his mercy is enough to get him to start rutting his hips against yours, the satisfying sound of skin slapping against skin resounding and bouncing against the walls of his bedroom that is starting to feel more like the both of yours.

“Y’feel so fuckin’ good for me, baby.” He groans, his pace quickening, the thrusts getting sharper and rougher with every roll of his hips. You’re powerless against his strength, and this type of easy submission feels so natural, feels so good, when it’s him that’s taking advantage of it. “You’ve got the sweetest pussy, y’know that?  I could fuck you forever.”

His praise goes through one ear and out the other with you, but your heart swells up to twice its size. Even if you can’t focus on the words all too clearly, you’re still aware that Megumi’s probably praising you. You can come to this conclusion because he’s always praising you. He’s always so sweet, so gentle, so loving — when it comes to you, that is.

“Hng — daddy!” You can’t help but let out a high pitched moan as he hits that sweet spot inside of you that makes you buck your hips up.

There’s no way you don’t know what you’re doing. Clenching around his cock like that, making those cute little noises that he can’t help but want to hear all the time, and then calling him that.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy.” 

Forget igniting something within him; you whining for him, calling him something that’s the root cause of all his childhood traumas… That’s like dousing him with gasoline and tossing a lighter at him. He’s going to burn through all his energy, channel all this dark, feral energy, and use you as the one unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end.

He fucks into you so deeply that if your eyes weren’t shut tight, there’s no doubt that you wouldn’t see the unmistakable shape of his cock outlined against your tummy. The headboard is banging against the wall, and the squelching sounds of him roughly thrusting in and out of your sopping cunt is so lewd and so dirty that if you had any room to harbor a single ounce of shame, you would be downright embarrassed.

“How about you make me a daddy, huh? How about I fuck a baby in you?” He won’t lie and say it’s not something that’s never crossed his mind. The thought of your stomach round with a life the two of you created is enough to get him to continue with this near-brutal pace he’s set forth. “Doesn’t it sound nice, baby? My baby giving me a baby, what—” He grits his teeth as you tighten up. “—a fucking dream.”

“Baby. Wanna have your babies.” You cry out, tears spilling out and wetting your cheeks as your arms find their way to his neck and broad shoulders, trying to pull him in closer. The heat building up from within you feels like you’re about to fucking explode. “‘Gumi, I love you, Iloveyoupleasegimmeababy—'' Your words are practically unintelligible as you slur them out, the words sticking together as you cum all over his cock, all that pleasure that has been building up now physically tangible, if the white ring encasing his cock every time he pulls out is evidence.

“Fuck! You feel so fucking good. Always so fuckin’ tight.” He’s reaching his own end, and you’re just lying there, trying to recover from such an intense orgasm but unable to as your too sensitive walls clench around the constant intrusion of his cock. Spurred by your little love confession and his mind imagining his daydreams coming true — you, as his cute little housewife, taking care of the kids the two of you made together — he finally shoves himself as deep as he physically can, making sure that as he cums, nothing will spill out.

“‘Gumi.” You whisper, your head resting against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart. “Did you mean it when you said you wanted to start a family?”

He’s silent for a minute.

“I wouldn’t mind starting a family with you.” And he means it. He knows this life isn’t one meant for children — look at how he turned out, for god’s sake — but he thinks that for you, he can do anything. Even make a family work out. As long as it’s what you want, he doesn’t mind how hard it may be.

You snuggle closer to him, burying your face in the warmth of his chest. “Good.” You mumble. “I wanna start a family with you, too.”

Megumi feels… at peace. Like he’s got the whole entire world in the palm of his hands. He wraps his arms around you, and realizes that no — right now, he’s got his world right in his arms.

Mahito likes to play with his food before he devours them whole.

Humans are just so… vulnerable. Even the coldest people have a heart; it’s only a matter of whether or not they find someone warm enough to defrost it. Megumi Fushiguro, for example, likes to walk around this world, acting indifferent and claiming to follow his own moral conduct, only to give himself the biggest weakness he could possibly harbor: you.

He still remembers that party. He still remembers the way you were dressed like a little slut, completely oblivious (or maybe you were just acting coy) to the wolfish stares all the guys were giving you. He had the same class as you. Seen the way you clung to Gojo’s charity case, as if the ground would swallow Megumi whole if you let go of him. You’re cute, and you scream naive virgin, and that’s precisely why Mahito wanted to take you to that bedroom and have his way with you.

And then, your infamous little guard dog bared his teeth and pummeled him into the hardwood of a stranger’s bedroom floor.

Grudges are cancerous. If you don’t deal with it right away, it develops into something worse. It takes over all your internal organs, ruining you ‘til the only thing you can focus on is getting revenge. And the longer you wait, the more vengeful you get. It doesn’t become a matter of ruined pride or reestablishing honor — it becomes about inflicting the most pain one possibly can. It becomes about suffering — about transferring your pain, your anguish, onto someone else.

Mahito isn’t the type to hold grudges, but for Megumi, he’ll make a special exception. He wants to see just how well trained the boy is; after all, he’s been taken under the wing and supervision of Satoru Gojo, the myth himself. Surely, his student must be nearly as skilled, right?

It’s been a long game of watching and waiting on Mahito’s end. A lot of lurking in the shadows and gathering intel. It’s a lot more boring than he anticipated, but today’s the day where all his hard work finally comes to fruition. Megumi Fushiguro is going to regret ever interfering with him that one fateful night. The burning humiliation he’s felt has long since fizzled out, but since he’s already been set on the path of orchestrating Megumi’s destruction, he figures it only makes sense to see it through. You only can let go of a grudge after you get your proper revenge.

He’s been leaving Megumi all sort of taunting, teasing threats any chance he gets. Mahito’s got nothing but disgraced yakuza members on his side; those who have committed acts vile enough to get them kicked out of what is essentially a group of criminals. He knows how to be twisted — hell, twisted might be the only thing he knows how to be.

Killing girls that resemble you and sending him the photos. Taking videos of you when you’re out in public alone. Leaving voicemails for Megumi, ones that leave him pale faced and unable to breathe as he listens to how Mahito wants to tortue you.

Megumi’s been on edge for the past few months, unable to explain to you why. It’s why you don’t understand why Megumi won’t let you go back to your car, even though you left your phone in there.

“I’ll go. Or, we can go together.”

“You have to wait for our coffee! And besides, I don’t even know where I left my phone. It might not even be in the car, but you’ll just waste your time searching for it if it’s not there.”

“So then why do you have to go look for it?”

“Because it’s my phone? Also, I reeeeeallly don’t wanna have to wait for our coffee, so I figured looking for my phone in the car would kill some time.” You give him that sweet smile of yours that he loves so much before waving him goodbye. “I’ll be back by the time our order is ready, pinky promise!”

At the end of the day, it’s all luck. Mahito realizes this as you happily skip out of the crowded cafe, headed towards your car to search for your phone. He doesn’t know why you’re returning back to your car, doesn’t even really care. All he knows and all he cares about is that you’re headed there alone. And while you’ve been alone plenty of times, he’s never had an opportunity quite like this one. A chance to finally detonate the bomb that’s been lying dormant underneath your car, ready to be activated at the press of a button. He could’ve killed you plenty of times already, but it’s not enough to merely murder you. He wants to make it a spectacle, sure, but he also only cares about one audience member watching: Megumi.

From where he’s hiding, blending in with the rest of the customers from the bakery across the street, he’s got a decent enough view of Megumi, who’s sitting by the glass windows, watching you with furrowed brows as you unlock the car door.

Mahito can’t help the cruel smile that spreads across his face as pushes the remote connected to the bomb.

Nobody expects to hear the loud, resounding boom of something exploding. The surrounding cars parked next to yours have their alarms going off like crazy; it’s nothing but high pitched, blaring noises blending together to create a disruptive harmony. People are screaming, someone is on the line with emergency services, and—

—your precious car is set aflame, reduced to a burning pile of scrap metal no salvage yard will take.

In this moment, Megumi Fushiguro’s world crumbles to ashes.

[notmyneighbor]

A New Neighbor - Francis Mosses/The Milkman x Female Reader, Francis Mosses x Nacha Mikaelys

Chapter 1

Word Count - 6.5k

Rating - Explicit

Content Warnings - cheating, pervert Francis Mosses, reader is an 18 yo highschool student and the new babysitter, fondling, masturbation

Also available on AO3

taglist - @kaislashes @unicorngirly1 @charli33-b33 @natiii727227

Things aren’t going well with Francis Mosses’ girlfriend Nacha Mikaelys.

The milkman is trying to make things work; he truly sees it that way. Their daughter Anastacha certainly wasn’t planned, but he’s not the type to shirk his duties. An unwed mother carries a certain stigma and it’s not really fair when he’s partly responsible for the situation they’re in. So they’d moved in together. Claimed they were engaged to be married, though it was clear neither of them had any intentions of tying the knot. The resentment on both sides is clear. This was never supposed to be a long term, committed relationship. They weren’t particularly compatible. Yet here they are. Friends at the best of times, but those times were coming fewer and farther between. More like roommates that tolerated each other now. Barely tolerated. Conversations strained. Tempers short. He feels like he was suffocating, trapped. He knows she feels the same way.

Nacha wants to resume her career as a chef now that Anastacha is in elementary school, and that means a babysitter will be required to make up the gap between Francis and his girlfriend’s upcoming shifts. He’s not so much a product of his time that he doesn’t believe in women working outside the home; he actually thinks it will be good for her to pursue something she enjoys. So he readily agrees to the idea, wondering whom they’re going to hire.

These are difficult times.

Trust is hard to come by, when you don’t know whether the face you’re staring at is really your neighbor or not. The doppelgänger situation wasn’t just something you heard about on the news in some distant city anymore. It was here. It was real. Just last week someone downstairs had been killed, the previous doorman guarding the entrance a little too lax in his duties.

The demand to inhabit a DDD secured residence was high no matter how derelict in their duties the individual screening at the door was, and Francis had heard through the rumor mill of the crowded building that a father and his daughter were already moving in. He was a college professor. She was an older teenager, eighteen, finishing up highschool. She might be a good option to watch Ana. He’d have to meet her and see. He’s sure Nacha will want to as well.

Today is the day the new residents are moving in, he thinks. Or was it Wednesday they were slated to take up residence? Wait, was today already Wednesday?

Francis rubs the bridge of his nose and massages his tired eyes. He’s almost done his delivery route. Not even his busiest day, the schedule almost half of what it will be tomorrow, and he already can’t wait for it to be over. He’ll stop by to introduce himself on the way home, get a feel for things. At the very least it was the proper thing to do, welcoming someone to the neighborhood. If things didn’t work out, well, they’d just have to keep looking for a babysitter.

***

Francis always takes the elevator when he returns from his shift.

The thought of climbing up three flights of stairs just doesn’t appeal to him most days. Not after so many deliveries. He supposes he should be glad so many people still lacked proper refrigeration and relied on him for fresh dairy products. Job security, they called it. He used to have to solicit customers, years ago. It was an expected part of the job. The invasion had changed all of that, though. Demand more than enough without seeking additional business. It wasn’t even about convenience anymore. People were becoming more and more afraid of leaving their homes.

A heck of a lot riskier than it used to be, visiting so many residences. You never knew who—what—was really on the other side of the door nowadays. Before, he used to complain about having to collect payment from customers that were behind. Now that task seemed paltry in comparison to the daring just delivering goods involved. Even the increased pay doesn’t quite cancel out the threat of the doppelgängers lurking around every corner.

He actually forgets to present his entry request that afternoon after fumbling his ID card out of his wallet, a battered leather billfold that’s seen better days but he can’t be bothered wasting money to replace it. Besides, it takes time to break a new one in. This one is creased and comfortable. It had lasted him this long, it would service him a little longer.

The new doorman frowns suspiciously and he hurriedly reaches for his clipboard, sliding the request free from its position tucked at the very back of his address list. He tries a smile that is not returned, the DDD’s recently hired guard perusing the offered document before squinting at something just to the left of the window. He knows he’s on the day’s expected entry list, so he’s not worried about that. But he did already arouse suspicion, neglecting to present his excuse for his departure from the apartment building. He hears the receiver of the black rotary phone lifting and his heart sinks. The doorman really isn’t buying that he was just a milkman returning home from work. A very human, normal person.

Francis tucks his clipboard back under his arm, his free hand tapping nervously against his work pants. He can hear the dial tone, the lack of a response. Of course no one was home. Still a relief, though. If the doorman had inadvertently already let a doppel in, a stranger wearing his face now taking up his residence, lying in wait, while he himself was condemned to execution by the DDD disposal team…he shudders to think of that scenario.

Without a word his identification card is slid back to him, the request filed away. It seemed silly to have to keep making them out on a daily basis, but that was the procedure. He hears the door buzzer signaling he’s free to enter the building and he sighs in relief again, nodding gratefully before ducking through.

The elevator doors slide open and the tired delivery driver steps inside the carriage and presses the button for the third floor out of habit, leaning slightly against the rear wall of the car. He’s really exhausted today, and the week is only halfway done. Maybe he should have a few customers taken off his route.

Wait. Had he pressed the third floor button? He was supposed to be going to the second, to meet the new neighbors. With a mournful sigh he thumbs the correct button and the doors close, shielding his view of the familiar stretch of navy blue doors on the floor he resides on. Every floor was similarly color coded: pistachio green for first, tangerine orange for third. He doesn’t think there’s any real significance to the chosen palette. Every apartment was furnished identically as well, everything provided with utilitarian pieces. In some respects, he thinks it makes things a lot easier. Nacha didn’t agree. She insists on adding decor and personal touches to make it feel unique, more like their own. He lets her have free reign over that department; he hardly has any decorating expertise. If it was entirely up to him, his sole decision would be to leave it just as it was when he’d moved in. Simple was best.

The elevator doors part on the correct floor this time, and he immediately sees a pile of boxes and luggage outside a door just across from the elevator. So the rumor mill had been correct. Today was the day.

Moving boxes is the last thing the tired delivery driver feels like doing just then, but it’s as good a way as any to break the ice. He raps his knuckles on the edge of the moulding, announcing his arrival. The door opens and he’s greeted by a pleasant looking middle aged man who looks very confused to be greeted by an empty handed milkman.

“I didn’t order anything…”

“Oh! No, I’m sorry. I’m not here for a delivery. I just got home from work and wanted to introduce myself. My name is Francis Mosses. I live upstairs with my girlfriend and daughter.” He offers a hand and the man shakes it. He has a strong, confident grip and an easy smile.

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“Need a hand with this?” He gestures towards the stack beside him.

“That’s very kind of you, but you certainly aren’t obligated to.”

“Not a problem. Moving is a big job. Is your daughter here?” He asks curiously, lifting one of the suitcases and wincing a little at the unexpected weight.

“No, she’s in school. She’s a very dedicated student. It’s fortunate we’re still close enough to where we lived before so she didn’t have to transfer to another so late in the school year. She’ll be home soon. That’s her luggage you've got there,” he adds, looking sympathetic.

“Feels like she packed everything and the kitchen sink,” Francis jokes, and the man cracks another smile. He likes him already. Hopefully the daughter would prove just as affable.

“Just set that in the living room for now. I apologize for the mess,” he says over his shoulder. “My daughter is the one for the knack with organizing things. Must have gotten it from her mother, God rest her soul. Lost her during childbirth. It’s always just been the two of us. I could never quite bring myself to move on,” he adds softly.

The third floor resident offers a sympathetic sound, waving away the man’s concerns before he heaves the heavy suitcase onto the couch. If he knows anything about women, he imagines it’s jam packed with clothing. Nacha’s outfits took up more than half of the closet in the bedroom. It’s a good thing he didn’t have a large wardrobe himself.

Francis returns to the hallway and he and the new neighbor steadily begin demolishing the pile, chatting amicably. He doesn’t envy the man the task of unpacking all of this. He isn’t even sure they’ll be room for this much stuff. The apartments were moderately sized.

“Ah, here she is! This is our neighbor from upstairs, Mr. Francis Mosses.” The introduction accompanies your entrance through the front door, the backpack hooked over one shoulder settled beside the luggage on the couch before turning your attention to the visitor.

You shake the stranger’s hand and survey the state of the interior of the new living space, looking a bit overwhelmed. “Dad, I told you to wait. I was going to help,” you say, and he can hear the good natured, long suffering patience you must have to exhibit living with the widow in your tone.

“I know, I just wanted to get a head start.”

“Just wait before you touch anything else, okay?” It sounds like the roles are reversed, with you being the mature adult and your father looking the part of the bashful child. You smile apologetically at the milkman, making for the boxes lining the kitchen counter first. “I’m sorry we don’t have anything to offer you, we still need to pick up groceries. Just seemed foolish to have even more things to carry. Worried about food spoiling, you know…” Your voice trails off as you tuck a stray strand of hair behind one ear. Well mannered. Pretty. You had a nice smile. Nice everything if Francis was being honest, but he was very firmly trying to deny his initial assessment of your appearance as you’d walked through the door wearing a school uniform, still trying to conceal how much he was admiring the shape of your figure in a plaid skirt that was maybe a touch too short, the way the button front white blouse and navy cardigan hugged your curves so neatly.

Or maybe it wasn’t too short at all. Maybe it was just the right length, he thinks, watching you bend over to pick something up your father had dropped, stubbornly ignoring your advice and diving into the contents of one of the boxes.

Jesus, Francis. Perverted much?

It had been awhile since he’d last been intimate with Nacha. A long time. So far back he can’t even remember. That part of their relationship had just fizzled after the baby, becoming a rare occurrence if they both just happened to be in the mood. More a matter of convenience and availability, certainly nothing romantic or passionate. And now here he was, lusting after a girl he didn’t even know who was barely into adulthood. Someone he’d intended on asking to watch his own child.

“I, um, don’t want to take up too much of your time. I just wanted to say hi. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thanks for stopping by. And the assistance. Extend our greetings to your girlfriend and daughter.”

“I’ll do that.”

Did you look a little displeased when your father mentioned these two females you lived with? Or had he only imagined that scowl that was there and gone fast as a passing summer rainstorm?

“See you around,” you call after him, and the milkman cannot get on the elevator fast enough, hurriedly pressing the button to return him to the third floor.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

***

Nacha visits the new neighbors before the week ends, inviting them to dinner.

Francis hasn’t said much about his first impressions. His girlfriend certainly seemed to approve. She never invited people over.

Maybe it would be okay. Maybe it had just been a fluke. Just raging hormones and unsatisfied needs making him react that way.

It had been the guiltiest jerk off he’d ever had in his life after meeting you for the first time.

The only saving grace was he was home alone when he’d done it. Thankfully Nacha had been out visiting her parents with Anastacha at the time. A rare moment of peace and quiet that had instantly filled with thoughts of you. Very inappropriate thoughts.

He’d still locked himself in the bathroom, just to be on the safe side. She wouldn’t be home for a couple of hours according to the note, but still, better to be safe than sorry.

Stupid, waiting to clean the pipes this long. No wonder….fuck.

When you had bent over to retrieve whatever kitchen utensil your father had clumsily dropped…That image alone would have been enough, but his mind is already shoving that innocent movement into something much more depraved, with you bent over in front of him instead. His cock had already been flushed and leaking when he’d dragged it free of its enclosure, stroking the sensitive organ and hissing in pleasure. It was so hot. He was on fire. Those sexy lips of yours. Maybe he wants you on your knees in front of him instead, wrapping that mouth over his prick. Choking you on it. It wasn’t bragging, simply stating a fact. He knows he’s larger than average, thicker and longer than many. Girls had always been surprised and appreciative. He’d love to see the look on your face the first time he exposed himself to you. He’d wondered if you had a boyfriend. How far you’ve gone. Still a virgin, maybe? Waiting for marriage like a good girl?

Fuck. He’d been throbbing. There was no way he’d been able to prolong the session. He’d fucked his hand wishing it was yours, any part of you, envisioning bathing you in a load that jets out in reality moments later, thick creamy wads spurting onto the bathroom sink. His free hand grips the counter in a white knuckled grasp and he looks at his appearance in the mirror while his hips still spasm even after he’s removed his hand from his pulsing cock. Flushed. Perspiring. The almost bruised looking smudges beneath each lower eyelid now underlining blown pupils. He should have been ashamed.

It had only made him want you more.

***

“How are you enjoying the apartment so far?”

Nacha had cooked enough food for an army, crowding the table with dish after dish. For all her flaws, Francis couldn’t deny she had true culinary talent. Baking was her passion; that’s how they had met, in fact. Delivering dairy products to the shop she’d worked at. A little flirting on both sides. And then, well…

“Still getting settled, but it’s been good so far. A much safer neighborhood than where we lived previously,” the college professor remarks, responding to the hostess’ query.

“The new doorman seems to be very strict. I feel a lot safer,” she agrees, cutting into the casserole on her plate and mulling over the bite. It was a habit for her. She always took her time eating, judging what ingredients she’d used, deciding what worked and what could be improved upon.

“Can I have some more juice, Mommy?”

“When you’ve finished what you have, yes.”

Ana quickly polishes off the contents of her glass. She’s been staring at their female visitor all throughout dinner, clearly fascinated by the older girl.

“I’ve got it,” you say, offering to refill the child’s glass. She smiles and Ana breaks into a grin that’s in that awkward transitioning stage between baby and adult teeth, a few gaps noted here and there. You were already getting along so well.

Francis had been hoping you wouldn’t. It would make things so much easier. Removing temptation. No need to ever go to the second floor again. Perhaps there would be the occasional paths crossed on the elevator, but that would be it.

He has barely spoken the entire time. He’s very pointedly not looking at you in the pretty floral button front dress you’re wearing, your hair freshly styled, skin natural and clear of makeup, just the way he likes. Nacha always wore such dark lipstick and heavy mascara, attempting to cover her freckles with powder and concealer. He wishes she wouldn’t. He’s mentioned it before, as politely as he can. But she doesn’t agree with his preference. She’s wearing it right now. The modest dress is so old it’s nearly out of style. She’s definitely not trying to impress anyone.

“This is delicious, Nacha,” the male guest remarks after she’d insisted they be on a first name basis.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it. It’s a new recipe. I might still tweak a few things in the future…” Her voice trails off thoughtfully, then she turns her attention to the young woman seated across from her. “So do you have any activities after school? Senior year is so exciting.”

“I’m on the year book committee and I take piano lessons.”

“I wish I could play a musical instrument. Just never seemed to get the hang of my mother’s piano,” Nacha murmurs wistfully. She pauses, then nudges Francis under the table. This was his cue to inquire if she’d be interesting in babysitting.

He clears his throat loudly, suddenly parched and grabbing for a drink, his hasty fingers nearly knocking the glass over. “We were wondering, if you have time, of course. Understandable if you don’t.” Another nudge, this one firm enough to leave a bruise. “If you wouldn’t be interested in babysitting for us. Nacha is going to be going back to work and there’s a slight discrepancy with our schedules…” Suddenly the words that had been so difficult to utter come spilling out like a guilty man confessing his crimes to the authorities. And oh, was he guilty. His eyes finally meet yours directly, shifting from the point he’d fixed on somewhere near your face, the striped wallpaper on the wall behind you substituted for your features. He feels his body responding immediately, a slight tightening in his trousers that makes him shyly glance away again. Damn it. Masturbating the other day hadn’t taken the edge off at all. What was it about you that made you so irresistible?

“I’m interested,” you reply, and he feels his gaze dragged forcefully back to you. No, he shouldn’t have looked. But he can’t help it. He really can’t. Magnet and iron filings. Moth and flame. The attraction is too strong.

He lets his girlfriend iron out the details like the times and days that work for everyone involved after your father readily agrees to the proposal, stating you’ve always been good with your niece who’s a similar age. A real natural at childcare. Dessert follows after you graciously help Nacha clear the table, a homemade chocolate cake and coffee for the adults, milk for Ana and you, per your request.

The milkman feels your eyes on him again. You’re lifting the glass to your lips, that creamy white substance leaving behind a stain on your upper lip that you quickly lick away, your tongue darting out and stroking over the pink arches. Francis nearly chokes on his bite of cake. It has to be deliberate, right? Or was it really completely innocent, and it was his own sick, twisted brain making it seem like the teenager was flirting with him?

It’s a relief when it’s his daughter’s bedtime and Nacha decides to show you her routine, in case you’ll be there late one night if they ever decided to go out or were otherwise occupied. A little more bonding time for you and his daughter. Your father’s already drawn him into a conversation that distracts him, lets him calm down, the bulge in his pants easing. There’s a nervous moment when you’re parting at the door, the scent of you and your close proximity suddenly threatening to reveal his perversion again, but then you’re gone and it’s just he and his girlfriend once more.

He’s surprised when she begins stroking his shoulder after retiring for the evening, a signal that hadn’t been used in ages. Even more surprising when he responds to it. You don’t resemble Nacha in any way, but maybe that’s better. In the dark, it’s easier to pretend the warm body he presses beneath his is actually yours. The chef had gained weight during the pregnancy that had mostly been shed again, some residual softness still clinging to the middle even after all this time. An idea warps this into your own belly stretched for him. Francis keeps his face tucked into the side of his girlfriend’s neck, huffing softly. You’d be tighter than this. Wetter. He knows it. Those eyes. Those lips. He’s moaning, too loud, he knows.

“Francis,” Nacha cautions. “You’ll wake Ana.”

Your lip stained in white at the dinner table. Your tongue. He wants to lick it off you. Lick every inch of you. Dump an entire bottle of chilled milk over your warm body and lap away. Fuck. Too good. The imagery is too vivid. He pulls out just before he climaxes, spilling semen over Nacha’s torso and abdomen, then flops down beside her. He has no idea if she’s still taking birth control. He’s hardly going to risk getting the mother of his child pregnant again.

There’s a sigh from the other woman. She hasn’t orgasmed. She hates cleaning cum off of her body. Francis bets you’d enjoy it. Rub it in. Encourage him to spread even more on you. He wants to make you cum. He wants you.

The mattress creaks as his partner leaves the bed to go wash up in the bathroom. His elevated pulse and respirations are gradually slowing, returning to normal. He shifts his pajama pants back into place, dragging them back over his hips.

It takes Nacha a long time to come back to bed. Maybe she’d finished herself off in the bathroom. Did you ever touch yourself?

It’s the final lewd thought he ponders before he drifts off to sleep.

***

A week passes. Nacha’s returned to work, this time at a restaurant. Not as many opportunities for creating the baked goods that had been her previous passion, but still a step in the right direction before a better opportunity presents itself.

Francis arrives home a little past four that afternoon, finding you on the floor in the living room with Anastacha. You were helping her color a picture of a rainbow, your shading much neater while the elementary student’s scribbles tended to veer outside the lines. You're both lying on your stomachs, your knees bent, ankles crossed in the air, swaying up and down a bit. A position he’d seen Ana adopt countless times. You, though…

“Daddy!” His daughter scrambles to her feet, running over to give him an enthusiastic hug.

Your eyes lift to meet his as he tousles her hair playfully. “Hi, Mr. Mosses. How was work?”

“Fine. It’s Francis,” he reminds you, although he’s not certain it’s such a good idea to encourage that informal address.

“When is mommy coming home?” The first grader tips her head back, regarding her father.

“Late. Remember I told you? You’ll be in bed before she gets home. It’s just you and me, kiddo.”

“Will she come kiss me goodnight?”

“Yes, baby.”

“Can she stay? She’s helping me color.” She points to you and the crayon scrawled picture.

“I see that. It’s very nice. But she can’t stay. She has homework to do, I’m sure. She’ll be back tomorrow.”

The pout on the young child’s face softens. She’s got his eyes, there’s no denying it, but every other feature inherited is her mother’s. The button nose ceases scrunching up and she shrugs her thin shoulders in acceptance.

“Can I have a snack?”

“Not now. It’s almost dinner time,” he says gently.

Unlike Nacha, Francis hated cooking. Thankfully she’d prepared for this, leaving leftovers in the fridge to reheat for supper tonight.

The milkman watches you gather the crayons back into the box, handing the picture to Ana after you push yourself to your feet. “We’ll finish this tomorrow, okay?”

His daughter nods. You slide back into your cardigan, blocking the view he’d just had of your brassiere very visible beneath the thin material of your school blouse. Was that lace he had caught a glimpse of?

“Would you mind walking me downstairs? I’m still a little nervous being on my own.”

It seems like the most innocent of excuses, but Francis is more convinced than ever it’s anything but. He hesitates, eyeing his daughter. The entire point of hiring a sitter was so she wouldn’t be left alone. Now he was going to be doing that very thing.

“Isn’t your dad home?”

“No. He’s teaching a night course.”

The milkman’s heart sinks. Alone. You were going home to an empty apartment. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Ana, daddy’s going to walk your babysitter home, okay? I’ll just be downstairs. You know to keep the door locked until I get back. And the secret knock so you know it’s me.” It was the most innocent way to teach the child about safety. An absolute necessity with the added threat of the doppels around.

“Ok, daddy.” She’s already found her next task to occupy herself, plopped now in front of the television. Too close to the screen, as usual.

He reminds her to sit further back, then turns to you. “Ready?”

You nod and he escorts you to the door. The brief ride on the elevator is silent. It’s the middle of February, and the heat in the building isn’t that good, but he’s already perspiring. His fingers twitch nervously. You’re standing so close beside him your sleeve brushes his.

The carriage halts and the doors slide open. You’re already digging in your backpack for the key. He knows he should turn and flee, right now. Get back to Anastacha. Make dinner. Forget all about you.

Instead he hovers just behind. You push open the door, immediately toeing your shoes off, little polished dress ones with thin black laces. “You want to come in for a minute? Have a drink?”

Oh, he does. He definitely does.

Francis steps inside and closes the door behind him, securing the deadbolt. It locks with a severe cracking sound of metal being driven forcefully together. You move to the fridge, bending slightly as you survey the options, listing each one to him.

It’s over. Doomed. The most cliché thing ever. The babysitter. Really? Fourteen years his junior. Only eighteen. Still in highschool. Fuck.

“Water’s fine.” His mouth is dry, his throat parched. He actually needs the moisture. He’s already pitched a tent, immediately obvious. Impossible to ignore. Your eyes have already spotted it after you straighten, shutting the appliance door. A faint flush in your cheeks. He recognizes the way your pupils have dilated, that signal of desire making the dark centers pool and spread until there is just the thinnest bit of iris encircling each. Your chest rises rapidly, you lips parting slightly, seeking an alternative source of air. “Tell me to leave,” he says, and it’s a plea, something dredged against his will from the depths of his soul that he barely manages to utter.

“No,” you say softly.

He steps closer, crowding you against the sink. His hand reaches out, settling on the side of your neck, shrouded beneath the fragrant curtain of your hair.

“Tell me to stop.”

His chest actually hurts, his heart is pounding so fiercely.

“No,” you deny him again.

His mouth brushes yours. Velvet. Your lips are absolutely plush, pliable. Peach skin. Sweeter than, when his tongue dips inside those parted wedges to taste the ambrosia nectar within.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he pants, and it’s his most desperate urge yet; his last resolve, his last shred of decency hanging by a thread.

“Francis,” you gasp, one hand sliding down to when he needs you most. A place you shouldn’t touch. But oh, how he needs it. His body is already responding, hips grinding against that delicate hand, pushing you further into the sharp edge of the counter. He can smell the last vestiges of the lemon dish soap in the sink behind you, a brief waft of clean citrus before his mouth crushes yours, drinking you in more deeply.

I tried to resist. I didn’t force you. You want this, too.

He’s kissed a few girls in his day. Your own experience level maybe not on par. There’s a certain awkwardness. Maybe from nervousness. But you’re a fast learner. The clumsier collisions of lips and tongue now meeting more smoothly as you map his own. He doesn’t even mind the accidental knocking of teeth, the inadvertent nip of his tongue. It just heightens the experience. Everything about you is the epitome of erotic. You’re gorgeous, sexy, perfect.

He’s got a handful of one breast curving against his palm now, that soft globe palpable beneath the layers of cotton shirt and the lace bra he’d spied earlier. Certainly nothing your father had picked out for you to wear. When had you purchased the lingerie? Did it make you feel wicked? Had you blushed in front of the shopkeeper? Did you choose it just for him?

The milkman is still grinding against your body. He could cum just like this, easily. Even without your hand there, sliding and squeezing. These motions unpracticed, just like the kissing. Maybe you were a virgin after all. His own prize to defile.

He should really guide you somewhere more comfortable. Couch, bed, anything. But that would mean moving apart from you, and he doesn’t want that. He can’t bear to separate from you at this point. The hem of your plaid skirt is gathered roughly in one fist and then he slides immediately to the center, finding your panties are made of the same material as your brassiere, a matching set. They have the stiff, scratchy feel of something new. You’ve definitely just gotten these.

You’re soaked.

His previous imaginings had indeed been correct. An absurd amount of arousal fluid leaks from the entrance his probing fingers skim across after dipping beneath the waistband. You’re making the most amazing sounds. He wishes he could record them, play them on repeat when you’re not around. He collects your slick on the pads of his digits and brings them back through your pert lips to your clit. You moan, low and gutteral, into his mouth. A filthy sound. Like animals, that’s what you’re behaving like. Frenzied and desperate to fuck. Your progress on opening his fly has been interrupted, your brain clearly short circuiting at his intimate touch, the pleasure proving too much of a distraction for you.

The older man’s saturated fingers glide over your pearl, drawing neat circles, as tidy as the coloring you’d done earlier. Refined movements. He swaps out for his thumb and sends his middle finger back through the dewy folds to tease your opening again. Pressing gently. Sealed tight. You haven’t even experimented here, have you? Not even so much as a tampon has ever breached this entrance. You whimper against his ear, your tongue darting out to taste the skin. Salted, no doubt. He was sweating like a man after a marathon. Nervousness. Excitement. Arousal.

“Francis,” you groan again, and the sound of it shoots straight through to his groin. You’ve finally got his pants open, dragging his cock out of his briefs. He’s watching your face as you do it. Sees your eyes widen. It’s going to be so difficult to stretch that virgin pussy over his prick. But he’ll manage it. He’ll manage.

Not today, though. There isn’t time. He hasn’t completely forgotten his other duties, the daughter waiting upstairs. Another time he’ll bury his face between your thighs before he introduces your womb properly to his dick. For now, he has to be content with shoving your panties down and rubbing his erection over your vulva, the fat mushroom head massaging your clit before parting the pink flesh of your sex and teasing your entrance, then back again, fucking against the slickness on the outside of your body. The angle and the height difference makes it difficult and he pauses only long enough to lift you and sit you on the edge of the counter, your ass dipping dangerously close into the stainless steel basin behind you, one arm keeping you balanced while his free hand continues manipulating his cock against your drenched cunt.

The kisses are as sloppy as your nether region now, whatever adroitness you’d acquired previously now forgotten in the wake of your desire. You’re keening and shaking.

“That’s it, baby girl. Cum for me,” the milkman croons encouragingly.

The hand curled around his neck tightens, gathering the ends of his hair and pulling them taut as you explode, the softer noises he’d elicited earlier now howls and whines. Your head flings back and he feels his cock finally surrender, shooting the load of cum that’s been building up, painting your abdomen and your pussy and your thighs, long spurts that recklessly splatter and slide down your soft skin.

He’s actually done it. He’d fucked around with the babysitter after your first day on the job.

Francis helps you ease back off the counter. You reach for the sponge resting on the back of the sink near the faucet, then think better of it, opting for paper towels instead, dampening them slightly before wiping away the traces of his indiscretion. He refastens his pants, taking a few paper towels for himself to wipe the sweat off his face and neck. Still panting slightly, still recovering. Coming down off the high of being intimate with you.

There’s guilt now, of course. Even though he technically hadn’t violated you. It wasn’t right, what he’d done to you.

But you’d wanted it, hadn’t you? He’d given you the opportunity to refuse him and you’d pulled him closer.

You’re the adult. You know better. Teenage hormones. You should have walked away.

Guilty, yes, but not nearly enough. And he can’t say he regrets it. Can’t fail to admit he’s already thinking about next time. There would surely be a next time.

He washes his hands. He can’t go home smelling like pussy, as much as he’d love to savor the taste and scent of you longer. He should have sneaked a sample before he’d cleansed them. Now they were just soapy and citrusy.

You walk him to the door.

“I have to get back,” he says, as if you’re unaware of the situation. Apologizing for the rushed nature of it all, maybe.

“I know.” Your voice is still soft.

He seats his hand on your cheek. Steals another kiss. It’s meant to be a brief parting one, but you’re already curling a fist into his work shirt, pulling him more tightly against your body. Unbelievably, his cock is twitching again.

“Baby girl, fuck, I have to go,” he reiterates, for himself as much as for your benefit. “I’ll see you soon.”

“My dad’s going to be home tomorrow,” you caution.

“Nacha’s only doing a half shift tomorrow. She’ll be home by five. It’s my long delivery day,” he murmurs regretfully. “I probably won’t get home until six or seven. The day after that is my lighter schedule. I’ll be done by three.”

You frown thoughtfully, then your features brighten. “Pick me up after school the day after, then? I’m staying late for yearbook anyway.”

Yearbook. Yes. Because you’re a senior. In highschool. Honestly, Francis.

“That’s a date, then. I mean, it’s not really a date,” he adds hastily.

“I know.” You stretch to kiss his mouth, this one more chaste, like he’d intended on doing previously. “I’ll see you then. I’ll wait out front by the main entrance.”

“I’ll be the guy in the delivery truck with the cow on the side.”

“Got it. Except…how do I know you’re not, you know, a doppel coming to kidnap me? Didn’t you mention a secret knock earlier?”

”Yes. It goes like this.” He creates a rhythm of staccato taps on the doorframe. “And you answer with this.” A different series this time. “Try it.”

You have the sequence nailed by the second attempt. You smile and something stirs in him. Just a little something. The faintest hum of feeling. The genesis of a tiny affection. Then the milkman finds himself back on the elevator. Suddenly anxious, fumbling the keys in the lock of his apartment door after using the secret knock. He’s relieved to find Ana safe and sound, greeting him less enthusiastically this time, immediately returning to whatever television program she’d been engrossed in.

Nacha’s taped directions to the filled glass baking dish in the fridge. Temperature, time. He turns the dials on the oven.

“You were gone a long time.”

Francis nearly jumps, surprised to find his daughter beside his elbow.

“No, not really, honey. Just had a snack while I was there,” he says, hoping the casual statement will placate her.

“How come you can eat before dinner and I can’t?”

“Because you’re a little girl and you don’t have the same appetite I do. Want to help set the table? First person to finish gets to eat dessert first,” he adds with a smirk.

The little girl scrambles into action, yanking open the drawer that houses the cutlery and he sighs with relief. He’d gotten away with it, for now.

But what would happen in the future?

[hotpinkstars]

GIRL DAD OR BOY DAD? - sunday, boothill x reader

- or more clearly, to what gender would they want to have more, and general headcannons of them as papas ☺️

- brainrot brainrot brainrot BRAINROT AHHH... i love these guys and i can do a part 2 for others later but godd theres absolutely not enough dad stuff for these men (especially sunday... if there is its all yandere) so never fear novas here! ahem anyways enjoy

- warnings none! pure fluff!!! wc 711

Sunday is so a girl and boy dad.

Reason why I say this is because he likely needs an heir to take over his position when he gets too old to do so, but he also wants a baby girl he can spoil as well.

Don’t worry! He loves both of his kids the same! They’re the greatest things that have probably ever happened to him and he cherishes them with his whole life. He thanks the stars above every single day for the opportunity he received to be a father to multiple beautiful children, and thanks you for granting him the chance. 

Dunno, but I could see this man wanting a handful of kids. He wants at least one girl and at least one boy, but I could see him shooting for 3-4. Will he be around to care for them? Not all the time, but he tries his hardest (and he definitely has the resources to care for that many).

Considering they’re half halovian and half human, they look pretty much just like their father! Some have your eyes, but they all have his hair. His hair and his gorgeous wings. They have your features though, such as your face, body type, etc.

His favorite part of the day is when he gets to collapse on your shared bed, his kiddos following behind him to cuddle their dad, and most of the time you all fall asleep together. Normally, you wake up just you and him because he’s good about putting them in their own bed once they fall asleep.

Once his kids get older, he’ll teach his son(s) combat and good form. He wants them to protect, and wants to raise them to be strong and independent. With his daughter(s), if they ask to be taught combat, then he won’t see much of an issue with it. He also wants to teach them independence, but in a more subtle form. 

Just expect that his children as teenagers are going to be the prettiest kids around holy shit. They’re obviously enrolled in a private school due to their fathers high status but they always come home and list the compliments they’ve received that day. Thankfully you two have raised them well enough for them to realize that it’ll be bad if all of these get to their head and stroke their ego too hard…

Supportive father asf! All I’ve gotta say here

Don’t play Boothill is SO a girl dad hello have you met the man

He’s so excited when his little girl is born ahh he’s always dreamed of being a father to a girl and his dream has officially come true!!

Obviously, if you had a boy, he’d love him the same. He just wants children of his own tbh lol

His daughter knows western culture fresh out of the womb my friend. It’s like she was born for little cowboy boots and the cutest little cowboy hat. She’s even got a western name, he brought it up and you liked it, so the name you two settled on was Cassidy.

She has his hair! It’s absolutely gorgeous once it starts coming in- a pearly white color with little black streaks stemming from the roots. She has your eyes and your face, and his slimmer body type (before he was turned into a cyborg. This isn’t canon I actually have no clue what he looked like pre cyborgification lmao).

Oh lord, your daughter is so spoiled. On every mission he goes on he’s always bringing something back for her. It could be a super fancy necklace or even just a little trinket he picked up from a street vendor, but she has a whole shelf full of the things her daddy gives her.

She thinks it’s so cool he has a metal body. She asks about it alot but she’s really fascinated with it tbh. She likes to call it “daddy’s special feature!” and he always melts to that sentence gosh

He probably teaches his daughter how to use a gun when she gets older. He, similar to Sunday, wants his daughter to learn self defense tactics and learn how to fend for herself when necessary.

She totally has his accent. Change my mind period.

[netherfeildren]

FABLE OF THE DOG : 2. Sugar, Not so Sweet

Series Masterlist; Chapter: 1,

Pairing: Joel Miller x FMC

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Cowboy/Heiress AU; Slowburn(ish); Original Characters; Alcohol Use; Allusions to Attempted Suicide; Discussions of Grief; Daddy Issues; Parental Neglect; Angst and Fluff; Older Man/Younger Woman; Jealousy; Possessive Behavior; Brat Taming; Extremely Bossy Old Man; Past Teenage Crush; Yearning and Longing Galore; A Home is a Place but ALSO a Person!; Found Family

A/N: This is a deeply, deeply unserious chapter, and I make no apologies—I was taken away by whimsy!!!!

Apologies however, for the French people slander, I went on a truly heinous date with a oui oui baguette loser last month. I’m still working through my anger.

Word Count: 13.4K

Read on AO3

2. Sugar, Not so Sweet

They appear at the break of dawn, the young man and the boy. 

“How many heads’ve you got total?” 

Joel appraises him, the fresh-faced look, a boy just crossed over into the cusp of manhood—though he’s large and strong and earnest in the eyes. He’d be a good hire, if not for—

He glances over at the young boy sitting on the bunk’s couch, snickering quietly with Ellie as his brother tries to barter a place for the two of them. 

“Near to thirty large about now. We’re fixin’ to breed, but we’re pushin’ our limitations.”

“So you need hands,” he says eagerly. 

“We do,” Joel returns slowly, chewing on the mint he’d plucked from out front. His stomach is in knots, has been since—days and days and days ago, last night, and so much worse now. There’s a sick heat settled deep that he doesn’t know how he’ll scourge out and quick. 

“Listen, I know it’s unconventional, but—”

“Where’s his parents?” He tips his chin at the boy, and Ellie peers slyly over her shoulder at him. He’ll get hell for this later, he knows, she knows. 

“Our momma’s down south—by way of Odessa. She cowboys during the summer too, and—”

Joel sits up in his seat. “Texas?”

“Come on, Texas,” Tommy slinks behind him, sneaking an arm over his shoulder to thump Joel roughly on the chest. “Just say yes.” He lets out a gruff sound masking a cough, fucking Tommy, and leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ellie rise from the sofa and leave the bunk quietly with a parting pat on the boy's head. 

“You’re from Texas, too?” The young man asks brightly, that look of hope in his eyes that Joel’s about to quash. 

“We’re from Austin,” Tommy says from the coffee pot, his mustache spreading wide over a shit-eating grin. “Southerners way up here, we gotta stay united amongst all these Yanks’,” his brother puts on the drawl heavy, and Joel rolls his eyes. Clown. 

“Listen, Henry,” he says, trying to turn the conversation back to business. He looks at the boy again, the back of the small head bent and silent and something that could, perhaps, be thought of as guilt pulses through him, but to be honest, there’s so much of that moving about Joel’s system right about now, that it’s just one more drop of poison filling his cup. It doesn’t matter. He needs to do what’s right.

For who? He can’t very well tell yet.  

“I’m sure you’re a hard worker, son, and I’d not hesitate to give you a place were we in different circumstances, but I just don’t see how this would work—”

Henry leans forward in his chair too, ready to plead his case, fight for his brother and the generously paying jobs the Kelly’s are famous for. There’s something about the boy newly turned man that reminds Joel of himself. Perhaps during that young and fragile youth of his twenties, when he’d been alone with a newborn baby, trying to figure out the whole world and himself. 

“I know it’s unconventional, but he’s a good kid. He’s quiet and keeps to himself, and it’d only be for the summer, sir. We head back down for the start of the school year. It’s difficult, but it’s harder for my momma to get work with a kid than it is for me.” He trips over his words with the speed at which he’s spitting them at Joel, trying to convince him, and he knows that the fair thing would be to take them in. To give this man a chance the way Joel had been given one so many years ago, the mercy of safe harbor. But he’s got a finite amount of goodness in him now, he’s got to save it all for only one person. There’s none left for anyone else. And Joel doesn't want trouble, he’s got enough of that around here right about now. “He’s got his books and his summer worksheets, and he knows how to manage on his own while I work. I swear, he won’t be in any sort of way. You can—”

And then, amidst the young strangers' rambling plea, Joel's heart falls through his stomach. Here comes that trouble anyways. 

“What’s going on here?” In that soft, lovely voice that haunted his dreams last night. 

All the cowboys rise from their seats at the sound of your presence. 

From over your shoulder, Joel sees Ellie’s face twisted in a grimace at him, the flash of her middle finger and then her tongue. 

“Goddamnit, Ellie,” he growls low. 

You look exhausted, eyes red rimmed and swollen—as if you’d been crying all night, and Joel’s tongue is a swollen, poisoned thing in his mouth—a husk of guilt is all he is. He swallows convulsively, trying to find his words, trying to not scream at the thought of being what’s made you cry, trying not to look down the length of you and failing. Silky sleep shorts end way too high up on the long length of those too pretty thighs, an oversized pullover with Yale emblazoned across the front, a little hole at the neck and a large dark stain marr the front of it. You’ve got on a too big robe, dark and plaid, draped over your shoulders with your hair all a mess. He can see Ellie’s trying to pull it into some semblance of a braid behind your back discreetly while you stare at him with those eyes that, and he’s being damn honest now, fucking terrify him. Those puffy, ridiculous tan boots women wear, the impractical ones that become a sogging mess in the snow or wet despite the fact he understands they’re supposed to be worn in winter, are on your feet, two mismatched socks peek out above the tops. 

He’s pretty sure one of them has bombs with a capital ‘F’ in the tiny centers printed over it. The other, some sort of Easter bunny carrot print. Absolutely ridiculous, and he can’t help it, he notices it all. 

And worst of all, in your grip is that World’s Best Dad mug you’d sent the old fucker for Christmas several years ago, a little holiday fuck you from his best daughter. It’d been one of the years he hadn’t let you come home for the winter break, forced you to spend the holiday alone at that boarding school of yours. The whole ranch had known and whispered about it, and he’d felt embarrassed and offended on your behalf, that they’d all gossiped about the girl you were behind your back when they should’ve respected you for the woman you’d become one day, the one that’d eventually pay all of their earnings. 

And the jackass had the audacity to use the mug all the time afterwards. Joel was pretty sure it’d been his favorite. 

“We were just wrapping up,” Joel says, clearing his throat, finally finding his voice. It’s almost physically painful to look at you directly in the eyes, and the heat of shame and regret claws its way up his throat at the hollow look he sees there. You’re so angry at him, and he deserves it. 

“This is the new Kelly,” Ellie tells Henry, cutting him off, pressing you forward with her hands wrapped around your shoulders. Your shorts are way too short to be in here right now, and Joel feels something else, even hotter than shame, stirring inside him. “If you want work here, this is who you need to talk to. The big boss.”

“Miss Kelly,” Henry says reverently, pulling his cap off to press against his chest. “It’s a mighty fine honor gettin’ to meet you. I was just telling your foreman here,” he motions the cap towards Joel, and he feels like a bear who’s about to rip it out of his grip and stuff it down his throat. Fucking Ellie going and snitching on him. “How me and my brother Henry travel for the summer. I’ve got letters here, I’ve worked at the King before, and have a number your man can call if he needs more references. I’ve got lots of experience and—”

“What will you do with him?” Your gaze is on the little boy, has been the entire time. Joel steps forward and over the back of the couch he sees the kid, Sam, has a comic book in his lap he’s been reading this whole time, while adults who should have no bearing on his life decide what will and will not be for him. “While you work—”

Joel looks back at you, and he knows already what it’ll be. 

Henry’s smile is wide and gleaming, putting on the charm. What he doesn’t see, what Joel does, is that bleak sadness in your gaze that he’d put there himself last night. He needs to speak with you, to explain, to make it right between the two of you. 

“He’s good at entertaining himself. I promise he won’t be in the way or nothin’. He’s got books and summer work, and he’s learning to play the guitar. He won’t be in the way,” Henry says again. 

“What about school?”

“We only travel during the summer. We’re back in Texas for the school year.” And at that, you finally look back at Joel, and his heart shoots from his belly to his throat, ready to be spit up at your feet. 

You watch him for a long searing moment, and there's such sadness there. He doesn’t know what would have been better, what would have been the correct recourse, how to make that look go away. To give you what you want? To do what he thinks is right or what should be right? He’d never thought, never considered anything like this. It’s all too much too fast, and he feels suddenly lost and childlike in the face of you and all you stand for. 

“They stay,” you say only for Joel. 

Henry lets out a whoop of victory, rushing forward to thank you profusely, but Jesse, who’s standing by the door, blocks his rush forward with a hand to his chest before he can get too close to the new boss. You’re for protecting now, above all else, it’s the unspoken word they all suddenly understand keenly. 

You stare solemnly at Joel for only a second longer, those sleep sloped doe eyes, before you’re turning without another word. 

-

“He never did a very good job of hiding the way he treated you, sweetheart. I couldn’t ever respect a man like that.” 

The cricket song is a symphony of sound around the two of you, and you’re suspended for a second, he sees it come on—a rose hued haze, and then blink-of-an-eye donning a look that spells nothing but disaster. He’s thrown off course by it for a single second, that girl fantasy glow, before you’re launching yourself at him, and then it’s nothing but a soft wet mouth, smoked fruit and fired oak, the slick of your tongue against his bottom lip as you kiss him.

You’re kissing him. 

He’s a frozen solid husk, eyes wide open as he stares down at the look on your face—something like agony. The tiny frown between your eyebrows, concentration, and a single diamond tear caught in the web of your lashes, and he can’t help but notice the soft press of your breasts against his chest, you’re not wearing a bra, before he’s shoving you back by the shoulders, scrambling to get as far away from you as quickly as he can.

His back hits the railing before he can get far enough. “What the fuck are you doing?” He spits, but can’t help but lick his tongue along his bottom lip, tasting where you’ve just been. 

His stomach is suddenly hot.

You swallow convulsively, bleary eyed look turning to hurt, pressing your palm to your belly, twisting your fingers in the fabric of your sweater there. “I don’t— I didn’t—” Your eyelashes flutter shut, closing the hurt, confused look away from him for one blessed second. You press your other palm to your forehead, gripping yourself as if you’re trying to hold your very skin together. 

What do you think you’re doing? He enunciates each word like the lash of a whip, and then licks his lips again to soften those same blows for himself. 

Something is about to go inexplicably wrong here. Something already has. A tragedy worse than the death of a father

“I just thought that—” You blink your eyes open and they’re wet, and he’s about to bark at you to not fucking cry or he’ll lose it completely, but he swallows it or loses the thought to madness. He feels incomprehensibly insane, inconceivably triggered. 

This is like nothing he’d ever imagined, and it tilts him on his axis, skews his vision, headlights blinding you in a dead-on collision. 

What are you doing—thinking?

“I— I watched you grow up. I watched you—” You take an anxious step towards him, some word on your lips he can’t even make out because his hearing has gone out, and now he’s all of a sudden deaf in both ears instead of just one. He hardens his voice further. He makes sure you understand. “This is fucking wrong, and you need to get away from me right now,” reversing his movements, taking a threatening step forward, stomping his heavy boot against the floorboards beneath so that you’re jumping, skittering backwards like a frightened little rabbit. 

And Joel, the beast, crushing her beneath his foot. 

You wrap both of your hands around the delicate column of your throat; he imagines you’re holding in your hurt sounds, and it makes him even angrier. 

“Listen to me—” he starts again. 

But you cut him off, shaking your head, the confused sleep-look being blinked away so that now it’s spitting fire that is awake and angry in your gaze. “But you didn’t,” you say. “You barely know me. We’re almost strangers.” A scoff, and then switching again to soft, to girl-like, to hurt: “And I’m all grown up now, Joel.”

“I don’t know what you reckon is happenin’ here between us. Or what you think— what you—” He looks away, can’t bear the sight of it, you, fuck, he spits, again, fuck. “If I gave you the wrong impression, I’m sorry, but—”

Then in a broken little voice grasping for straws, “But we were born on the same day,” and you say it like a question. Like it should mean more. Like, and he realizes it now, like it means the world. 

He turns back to look at you, and he feels full of everything but mercy—too much regret. “And what? What do you think that means? That we’re connected—meant to be?” His voice sounds full of cruelty. “Don’t be delusional. It’s also the day my daughter died. D’you know that?”

A blink. “What?”

“She died on my thirty-fourth birthday.” 

Again. “But… Wh—at?” Broken up word, and your chin does a little wobbling dance, jutting this way and that, and you have a dimple in your cheek that comes out when you’re happy, but also when you’re sad. When you’re about to cry. He sees it now, and starkly. 

He’s ruining something sacred. 

Joel steels himself. “Whatever it is you’ve made up in your mind about us, it’s a fantasy. Something not real that you need to let go of. Are you hearin’ me?”

“I— I think…” You won’t stop blinking, your hands look like they’re about to strangle you, and he steps forward as if to stop you or save you from yourself. “Why didn’t you ever say?”

But instead of saving, “Why would I? Why would I ever tell you that?” He does not want to hurt you, and yet he cannot help it, and Joel wonders if this is how your father felt every time he failed you—like a lesser man. “Wasn’t for you to know—it doesn’t mean the same thing to us.” That day. He makes himself clear: “Whatever child’s fantasy you’re still holding onto, you need to let it go.” 

-

He rushes out of the bunk after you, a growled, you little shit, at Ellie as he passes her. 

“Man, what’d you fuckin’ do?” She calls after him in that tone that tells him that of course she knows what’s happened. You two’ve never been able to keep a single thing from each other. Asshole! She shouts at his back as he catches up to your slowly retreating form. Your movements are sluggish, exhausted. 

He calls your name and tries to moderate his tone from being as aggressive as he feels right now. “We gotta talk.” He follows after you, hot on your heels and then jumping back like a scared mut when you spin around on your ridiculous boot to face him. 

“Speak.” It’s a high-handed tone, that one. One that says he’s the grunt here, and you the queen, that you’d both forgotten it last night, but the battlelines are clearly drawn now. There’ll be no more forgetting. 

And it’s all his fault. 

“You can’t—” His heart thumps and thumps and thumps like a pitiful thing. “You can’t undermine me in front of the boys like that. There’s a reason I was saying no.”

“Which is?”

“That the kid’ll be in the way.”

And you flinch and Joel prays for a gun to the back of the skull. Fucking Christ, but this is difficult.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he gruffs. “You know what I mean. This is hard work we do here. I don’t want the kid gettin’ hurt, I don’t want to be responsible for that. What goes on here is on me. The people who get hurt, it’s all on me, and I take that responsibility damn serious.”

You tilt your head at him in that queer, inspecting way of yours. The one he’d watched you pull like a weapon against your father so many times. He finds he hates it now, detests it, being wielded against himself. You ignore his words, “What was your arrangement here—with him? How did this work with the ranch?”

There has been that thought always, and obviously, of you as something higher, that symbol of the family or the safe haven this place has been for Joel. The not-respect he had for your father, but surely the understanding—you've always been all wrapped up in that. He's at times felt grateful for your existence, perhaps, in ways. That something as good, as better, as you could exist in the same world Joel exists in. Perhaps he’d admired you in ways, even as a young girl, for your goodness, your sincerity. But he finds now, at this look of disdain you’re wearing against him, that he hates the feeling of being less than you, of not being good enough to even stand in your presence. 

He’s done wrong, marred it all in ugliness. He’s put himself in this position somehow, by hurting you, by confusing you, by wanting—

“I do what I need to, what the ranch needs. Whatever decision I need to make, I call it and it’s on me. Monthly reports to him and that was it. He understood that what happens out here is different to what can be told and sometimes you can’t plan for certain shit. He focused on the business, I focus on the ranch.”

By wanting what?

Bringing the mug to your lips, you take a long sip, humming. It’s all a taunt. Joel realizes, suddenly, and with painful clarity, that this has all been a grave miscalculation on his part.

As uncomfortable as it is for even him to admit, you are, and undeservedly, a person used to not being wanted, used to rejection. Joel understands this with the quick fire blink of an eye. And he has, in his shock, or— or… he doesn't know—instantaneous awakening—unintentionally alienated you, made an enemy. 

I see, you murmur quietly coupled with a bitter cough of laughter that doesn’t sound anything like the sweet sound he’s used to hearing from you. Yes, a very bad mistake has been made indeed. “Well, you’re practically king here, aren’t you then? Quite the partnership the two of you had.” You smile wide, all bright teeth. 

The coffee sloshes in the mug held in your unsteady hand, and he worries there’s something stronger in there too. 

“Not at all. I’m just good at what I do.” He shoves fisted hands into his pockets, trying to keep patient. Trying not to throttle you, check your drink for himself. 

“And is this how you’d like to continue going forward? I mind my own business, and you do as you please?”

He shakes his head slow, grinds the pulverized mint between his molars, “I want whatever you think’s best. You’re the Kelly now, after all.” You get a look on your face like you don’t like the sound of that at all, and he turns to spit the greens between his teeth, coughing roughly. 

“Yeah, I’m sure of that,” you say with teeth bared, and then whipping your head away from him as if you can’t bear the sight of him a second longer. The coffee sloshes the other way, splashing against your wrist. He hopes it’s not burning you. “You know, you’ve got some fucking nerve, Joel. You—” 

The robe—all of a sudden, saturated by the dark liquid, it grabs his attention. It’s in a plaid print, expensive looking, like something you’d see an older man wearing. A man’s robe? He cocks his head, “Whose robe is that?” Cutting your tirade short. 

What? You spit, all sass, his stomach burns, turning to look back at him as if he’s gone idiotic, grown a second head.  He feels a little bit like he’s in the process of doing so—wracked with growing pains. “It’s my ex-boyfriend’s. Can you focus, please? I’m trying to have a fight with you right now.” And you scrunch your nose too adorably for him to find anything besides endearing. Certainly not intimidating. 

He grunts, displeased. 

“I know you don’t want to hear it—”

“Then keep it to yourself.” You turn, continuing on your way up to the house, coffee flies with your spin, boyfriend’s robe whipping out in your wake as he follows like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. 

A little desperately, like a dog, too. A begging for scraps imitation game he hadn’t intended to play but feels obligated to now, and by his own doing. 

“But I want to say—about last night…”

You turn on your heel out of nowhere again, and he stumbles to not rush head first into you, to not touch you. 

The look on your face is all heartbreak. “Do you remember—when I was away at school—and I fell off the horse? When I came home with that broken arm and couldn’t get back on and you helped me? Do you remember that, Joel? How you reminded me how I was supposed to do it—”

He coughs, uncomfortable, shifting like that same scared dog. “You remember these things different than I do.” The words feel cowardly spilling from his tongue, but he should be honest. Shouldn’t he?

This is what he should be doing, isn’t it?

“I remember that you were kind. That you cared. That’s what I remember.” Your eyes are glossed again, and now it’s Joel that has to look away. 

-

“I didn’t care. It was my job to serve your father. To do as he’d want me to. It was a responsibility.”

It’s happening again. A tale like any other you’ve too often heard. You know he’s not lying, and yet everything he says feels precariously close to it. 

“Why are you being like this?” And you ask it very practically, like you really want to know, like you’ve asked the same sort of question to the same sort of figure before, and so now you’re extremely well practiced, an expert even. 

“You remember these things differently. Wrong—That’s not how I meant any of it—whatever you’re thinkin’. It was just a kindness.”

“No, but I— but you…” That’s the point, you want to say, a kindness, but the words stick. You look away again, colored in shame, can’t bear the sight of him. “Maybe you’re right,” you whisper with that very remembered kindness of your lonely childhood thrown back in your face now. “Maybe I do.”

“Listen to me—I’d like for things between us to be— I’m not… I don’t now what to fuckin’ say to you.”

“Honey—” Dina calls from the porch, your father’s assistant, now yours by inheritance, you suppose. “We gotta go soon—gotta get you ready.”

“I have things to do with Dina. I don’t have time for you—for this. Do what you want, run it how you like,” the ranch, “But the kid stays. That’s final.”

You won’t look at him again, you decide. You’ll learn to want a new thing. You’ll learn to love a new thing. 

If you had it in you, you’d laugh in his face. 

Have you been in love with him? Probably not in any way that could’ve been called mature, it was the girl-fantasy of a neglected child latching on to a man who’d always seemed nothing but steady and kind.

So you’ll learn to grow up now, no choice left in the matter, let the fantasy go.  

-

Despite your desire for debauchery and the three days of bad behavior you’d promised yourself, you’ve got shit to do. 

An hour after your ridiculous non-conversation with the ridiculous man, you and Dina are stepping back  out into the summer sunshine when your phone rings with a call from another ridiculous man for what promises to surely be another even more ridiculous conversation. 

Jacopo.

You’d met through the friend of a friend at the party of someone or another in Monaco. Come from an Italian mother and a French father, you should’ve known he was going to be an arrogant asshole from the get go, but he’d been beautiful and momentarily distracting—things you knew you didn’t really want but told yourself would suffice. Really, all he was, was boring, the same as everyone else, wanting something from you without having to truly return anything in full. 

Jacopo the jockey—sounds like a goddamn cartoon. 

You liked to call him Jack, like he were the same sort of plebeian he saw all Americans as, and which he absolutely loathed with the sort of passion only an uppity French man could possess. 

In the distance, you can see Joel, Frank and Bill propped up against the corral watching as Jesse runs Ellie atop a gorgeous chestnut Quarter. Sometimes she likes to compete, when she can get Joel to stop complaining about it for a second. 

Dina makes her way towards them, “Tell them we’ll take the Ghibli,” you call after her to which she throws a thumbs up. At the sound of your voice he peers over his shoulder, finding your eyes immediately, catching there—fish on a burning hook. And then turns full around, leaning back to rest his elbows on the iron grate as you take French boys call, settling in to watch you. 

“Hi, Jack, sweetie. How’s it hangin’?”

“I do not know what this means.”

Bore. “What do you want, Jacopo? I’m busy.”

“My love, we must speak. I have heard of your father. You should have call me, I will come to be with you now. Tell me where you are.”

“Why the hell would I want you to come be with me? We broke up. Remember?”

Joel watches you as the French idiot prattles on about how he loves you and how you need him and how the two of you belong together, blah blah. Odious man, you don’t know how you ever let him inside of you. 

Across the lawn, he isn’t looking away, and his gaze burns where it touches. You feel—humiliated, hurt, rejected, so angry it’s a physical ache. 

Not surprised. 

Perhaps in some way, his rejection was what you’d wanted, had been looking for. Perhaps, it was your subconscious search for the easy way out. Because, and really, what else had you thought would happen when you’d thrown yourself at him half drunk? That he’d suddenly stop seeing you as the child he’d known you for always, take you as a woman, want you, fuck you right there on your newly dead father’s front deck?

Ridiculous.

You can’t even think about the birthday—about her. It’s a snipped lifeline, a crushed tether. 

“Cherie, I must tell you I am feeling very neglected now by you. You don’t call. You do not love me no longer, or what is the problem?” More nonsense and really, this fuckin’ guy needs a boot in his ass pronto. 

And the one still watching you—something even worse. He’s got his mangy brown cowboy hat pulled low over his brow, the one for the ranch, not the lovely dark one for escorting orphans to the funerals of dead fathers, and his jaw works the mint leaves you know he’s got between his teeth, slow and steady. You should hiss at him. Instead, your tummy smolders with heat and butterflies.

 Stop looking at me, you horrible man, you want to shout. 

Humming and hawing at the annoying voice coming through the phone, you smooth your palm over the silk of your dress. You’d wanted to look nice today, your first Kelly meeting. You wanted to look better than you feel, which is like shit, quite frankly. 

There are tiny green paisleys patterned over the deep blue of the dress, a shock of dark red maroon for the cashmere knit of the cardigan tied over your shoulders, and a little silken kerchief wrapped around your throat, something from your mother’s things you’d gone through last night after Joel had ordered you to bed with your tail tucked between your legs and tears in your throat. 

Twenty four years later, and your father still had all her things preserved in their bedroom as if she’d only stepped out for the afternoon. A veritable mausoleum right there in your house-not-home. 

You’d never even stood a chance. 

-

He watches you begin to pace across the deck, but the look on your face tells him you aren’t quite listening to whatever it is the person on the phone’s saying to you. 

The gold and silver bangles that slide around your fine boned wrists jingle a song of temptation. Siren song, bird song, death march, something he’d follow with blind eyes, recognize deaf. And heavy gold and jeweled rings along your fingers that shine almost as bright as the spilled silk of your hair. Swathed in shades of jewel, you’re all woman, done up and ready to go out and devastate. 

He doesn’t know how any man could ever look at you and not want you. 

He doesn’t know how he’ll ever be the same from here on out. 

“Who’s she talkin’ to?” He asks Dina, tipping his chin over at you. He can hear you raising your voice, something about you fucking French moron, and he doesn’t like the hunch he’s got about who it is.

“Boyfriend,” Dina says while she watches Ellie work the horse with hearts in her eyes. 

“Thought he was an ex.”

She peers up at him suspiciously at that, a queer little smile tipping the corners of her mouth upwards. “Well maybe now that he knows how much she’s worth he’ll be coming back, huh?”

Joel swears all these fuckin’ women are conspiring against him, trying to send him to an early grave. “He steps foot on this ranch, and I’ll shoot him in the goddamn ass.”

She laughs, throwing her head back which inevitably draws Ellie’s attention. “You are literally so dramatic.”

“What’s he bein’ dramatic about now?” Ellie calls from behind, trotting up to the corral edge. 

“Ohhh, nothin’. Just Joel being Joel. Right, old man?” Dina bumps her hip against his and he grunts, refusing to be goaded. He’s not being dramatic, it’s his responsibility to take care of you now, to watch over you. 

That’s all.

“I’m never dramatic,” he tells them very seriously. 

On the porch, the spat reaches a crescendo and they all turn to watch the show. 

Why don’t you shove the whole Eiffel Tower up your ass, you fucking dipshit. And don’t you ever call me again!

“Little girl’s got a mouth on her,” Bill murmurs. 

Ellie lets out a long whistle. Deserved, Dina adds. On the porch, you let out a strangled little screech, stomping the high heel of your boot as if you’ve got half a mind to throw a fit. 

Joel feels hypnotized, speared through the gut.

He wants to know what the ex-boyfriend said. What his name is. Where he’s from and who he is and what he does and how he is and every single thing about him and how it was between the two of you. 

He is suddenly desperate to know everything there is to know about you in a way that makes his throat feel swollen with guilt. In a way he didn’t ever think he’d want from you. 

All the things you keep close, all the small intimacies that make you this person you are now, that’s what he wants. 

You stomp down the steps, making your way towards them, eyes directly on his, and you’re too fucking beautiful for his own good, watching you feels like a sin. 

Makes him feel in danger, like prey. 

“All men should die,” you yell over. 

See. 

“I agree,” Dina says cheerfully.

“You know you can have a baby with the junk in your bones from another woman now,” Ellie adds helpfully.

“The junk in your bones?” Joel says. 

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“Yeah, like really we don’t even need you for shit anymore.”

“They should all be put in a hole in the ground in the middle of Nebraska and only be let out when a girl wants to bone.”

“To bone—Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Ellie.”

“I love that idea,” you say, finally coming to stand right before Joel. He swallows hard, stays silent—feels like the cat’s finally caught his tongue. 

“Why Nebraska?” Franks asks, puzzled.

He’s got to stop looking at you, he’s got to get away from the sight of your eyes, feels like the colors of you seem to pulse brighter, and he feels it all like a touch against his skin. He turns to look at Ellie over his shoulder and with a huge, shit-eating grin she says, “Cause who the fuck knows where fuckin’ Nebraska is, huh?” Her eyes flash to you and then quickly back to Joel, winking, cheeky, knowing. He feels the noose tighten.

They’re definitely conspiring against him. 

The three of you cackle—at his expense. 

“Where’re you two headed?” Bill asks with a frown when the three little hyenas settle. 

“She’s got a meeting in Jackson,” Dina tells him. “First part’ll be quick—she’s just gotta kick some pushy jackass to the curb and tell him we’re not leasing mineral rights to him no matter how hard he begs or how much money he throws at us. Then…” she trails off, throwing you a worried glance, but your eyes are on the far off mountains now, and Joel watches a shaky swallow pass through your throat.

“Then we’ve got the will reading,” you say. 

A sharp ache starts up behind Joel’s left eye, all the easygoing laughter of a few moments ago sucked away with a few words and a single reminder. That you’re not the girl you used to be, laughing and playing with Ellie, that your father is dead, that you have a world of responsibility to face now. 

“You shouldn’t have to go all the way into town. They should be comin’ to you here.”

“I want to get out—see his office.”

“S’only been a few days, honey,” Frank says gently. “You should take it easy.”

“Thanks, Frank,” you reach out to squeeze his arm, flush of emotion across the bridge of your nose. “I’m okay, promise.”

Joel takes you in, in full. You’ve got something shimmery swept across the highs of your cheekbones and glossy lips, the fine grain of your skin—pristine like you're made of sugar and everything good in the world. The silky wisps of baby hair at your temples that look softer than anything he’s probably ever touched in his whole life. And you’re so beautiful it almost hurts the eye to look at you, beautiful in a way that makes men cower at the sight, like you’d be the strongest thing in the whole world. But he sees all the rest too. The delicate curves of your shoulders, the fine swoop of your collarbone and the quick-fire beat of your pulse beneath the fragile skin of your throat. There’s fear all around you in a way, a desperate sort of sadness. 

He wishes there was more he could do for you, that he could bear the burden of all this entirely in your stead, that he could be all you need and want him to be without having to sacrifice his soul to give it to you. 

Your eyes flash back to his, and he worries for a second that you can read his mind. 

Behind you, Jesse pulls up with the sleek black of your father’s favorite car. Of course you’d choose this for today, bets you’ll find a way to turn it into a pretzel before the days end. 

“Take Jesse with you,” he says low at your back as you turn for the car. 

You look over your shoulder at him and his spine throbs. “No.”

Following you around the front of the car, he pulls the door open for you. “You’re not moving around alone anymore. He’s going. Jesse—” he whistles, “You’re going into town with Miss Kelly.”

“Yezzir,” he smiles with the sunny easiness only he possesses.  

“Excuse me,” you turn to frown up at him, stomping your foot again, and you’re a little bit of a brat, he’s realizing. “There’s no room in the car for him. He can’t come.”

“He’ll take a truck,” he says, leaving no room for discussion, but then gentles his voice again, “Things are gonna be different now. You’re the Kelly, you can’t go on all gung ho about your new reality. You need taking care of. Can you not fight me on this, please?”

“What I need—”

“Is to be protected.”

You give a delicate little huff through your nose that he finds to be just about the cutest damn thing he’s ever seen in his whole life. “Then it’ll be my choice how and who.”

“It’s easier if you just do as I say.” Grasping, grasping, praying for patience. 

“You overbearing d—”

“You’ll be okay meeting this jackoff? Don’t need me to come with you?”

You glower at him.

“I’m bein’ serious with you. I know you’re capable,” he puts his hands out, palms up in a conceding gesture, “But this is new, and there’s no shame in asking for support.”

At that, you get a confused little pinch between your brows, softest rose shaped mouth he’s ever seen—felt—all pursed up, and he thinks it’s wrong now, trying to be sweet to you after last night, looking at you this way and seeing the things he’s seeing. He should stay away, go away forever, find a hole in the ground in the middle of nowhere to bury himself in like you’d said, but he worries now, and quite desperately really, that he won’t ever be able to leave your side again after all this. 

“I have Dina.”

“I know, but—”

“Can you please just… not. I think— I think it’s better if we just steer clear of each other. If I need something,” you look away now, hazy look from last night back in your gaze again, like you’re remembering, like you’re wanting something else he’s not willing, not capable of giving, “I’ll ask for it. Otherwise you can focus on what’s important to you.” 

Gut punch. 

He soldiers on, can’t help it.

“You feelin’ alright?” 

Your eyes flit back to him for a fleeting second and there’s honesty in your gaze now, maybe something extremely vulnerable too, and then shuttering again, looking away again. He’d demand your gaze if he had the right, insist you tell him everything there is to know with just your eyes if you were his. 

But really, he’s got no right to ask anything. 

So instead, “Tell me what’s wrong,” he begs, praying you don’t say him. 

What’s wrong? A laugh and—nothing. Like your father isn’t dead, like he hadn’t hurt you as he had last night, like you’re looking for answers etched into the mountains or the sky. You bring your thumb to your right temple and his own aches in response, digging there for some unseen pain to be gouged out. “Tired—was having bad dreams.” Your voice sounds full of air, and you’ve got a huge emerald on your ring finger, an even larger turquoise stone beside it, other hand is covered in a row of opals—you’re a treasure of a girl, all the way inside and out, and it’s like he’s staring at a work of art, knowing that if he were to touch, it’d all be ruined. Your voice full of air floats in his bad ear and booms out the good one full of forlorn want. 

It feels like you’re the only two people left in the whole of Wyoming, standing here together under the sweet sun, maybe the whole world, and he’s ridden in guilt, wants to tell you he’s sorry again, beg or something, and thinks that God should give you the chance to rewind time when you’ve made someone feel this bad without meaning to. 

You whisper at the Tetons, and he’s all but forgotten, “I feel a little bit like I’m the real nightmare.”

“You couldn’t ever be, sweetheart,” he tells you and means it with his whole heart. 

It’s all agony swimming in your eyes, and if you don’t stop him, he’s going to take you into his arms right here in front of everyone. You need more than protecting, it’s clear, you need caring for, you need loving—the sort of something he can tell you’ve never had in your whole life. 

“Ready to go, honey?” Dina calls from the other side of the car, her canoodling with Ellie finally come to a pause. 

You’re snapped out of your reverie, looking down at your feet, impractical boots again, these ones sexy and tall and not for his admiring, blinking away the wash of heat that’s bloomed across the bridge of your freckled little nose. 

“Did she eat?” He asks Dina over your head.

“Ehhhhh, but I brought a smoothie,” she pulls out a thermos from her large bag and smiles all beaming and large. 

“A smoothie ain’t food. Get something else in town.”

“You're so prepared,” Ellie sighs dreamily beside her. 

“You’re annoying me,” you grouch at him, tossing your bag into the backseat, sliding into the luxuriously leathered interior as he shuts the door gently behind you, bending down to brace his palms against the open window. 

“Drive careful. Call me if you need anything.”

“You’re kinda a helicopter mom. You know that, Joel?” Dina tells him with that sweet smile of hers. 

“Do not entertain his nonsense,” you snap. 

��She’s just grumpy because Vogue France posted a piece on her and the funeral—the heiress to watch, they’ve called her.”

“I don’t know who they think I am—Kendall fucking Roy? This isn’t HBO, it’s my goddamn life.”

“It’s fine, drink your smoothie, here,” Dina soothes. 

“I don’t got a clue what any of that means,” Joel says. “And do up your belt,” frowning at you and pulling away just in time when you speed off with half the admonishment still on his tongue 

-

The bar is loud and sweaty and crowded enough there’s room for your spite, which he knows, is all this night out is. 

The day had gone from terrible to horrible to heinous, and he’s officially reached his limit now. You’d returned from your late morning in Jackson toting a gray cloud that’d settled over the entire ranch and everyone in it. All work had come to a slow and grinding halt, the mood morose, knowing that the lady of the manor was grieving and angry. 

And then a few hours into the evening, you, Ellie, and Dina had spun into the bunk, already giggling on drinks he was certain were too sugary and way too strong to end in anything good. Looking to rile up the boys into heading back to Jackson and finding a bar to terrorize. 

And so here he now finds himself, stepping through the door of The Mushroom, ridiculous name for a bar if anyone asked him, eyes searching for the gleam of your hair, that tiny fucking outfit you’d draped yourself in. You were hunting for trouble, to aggravate him, trying to hurt him with your, you’re not invited, Joel—no one wants you to come.

Angry, angry as a spitting fire. 

He’d felt like shit about himself and your upset for a second, and then had thought: Well, are you going to cowboy up, Joel? Or just lay here and bleed?

Now, there’s something sick in him that wants more of it, to take everything you’ve got to give, to see how far you can go, to push you just a little bit further too.

A masochist, is what he reckons he might actually be.

He finds Ellie’s bent head whispering into Dina’s ear, giggling and dragging her fingertips up the other girls bare arm, and he feels a thump of fondness for the two—happier than he can say that they’ve finally worked it all out after months of their will-they-won’t-they struggle.

Making his way over to them, he catches Frank in the distance, dancing to the countryfied Abba cover of Chiquitita the local band’s currently playing while Bill stands nearby, serious and menacing, keeping anyone from getting too close to his partner. 

No sign of you, and the backs of his knees itch and burn. 

“Where is she?” He demands when he reaches Ellie at their place against the bar. 

“Oh, dude. She’s gonna be soooo pissed.”

“Where, Ellie?”

Get you anything to drink, sugar? The bartender calls and Joel shakes her away, panic thumping in his gut the longer he doesn’t have eyes on you.

Dina knocks her head towards the end of the L-shaped bar, closest to the throng of dancing patrons, and there in the last seat and partially obscured by someone’s shoulder and ridiculously feathered hat, you sit. 

“Who the fuck is that?” 

“Can you please just leave her alone. She needs to blow some steam off.”

“Yeah, Joel, we’re watching her,” Dina adds, always the peacekeeper.

Or blow someone, Ellie adds in a snicker, and he gives her a death glare. “You need to quit the asshole act,” she tells him, purposefully thunking her beer hard enough on the bartop that some of it sloshes over the lip of the bottle onto his hand braced against the edge. 

Real mature. 

“Changed my mind,” he tells the bartender when she heads back their way, “Shot of Jameson.” 

Beside him, Jesse appears, beer in hand as he leans against the bar to watch you also. “That might just be the most beautiful girl I’ve seen in my whole life, honest to God,” he sighs wistfully. 

Joel sees red—this is just too much. “Quit fuckin’ lookin’ at her,” he snaps. 

Ellie snickers knowingly, and Frank and Bill join the group, picking up on the topic of conversation. 

“That little girl can drink a grown man under the goddamn table,” Bill says. 

“And looks good as hell doing it too—”

“Eyes off, you little shit,” Joel sends a threatening glance at Jesse again. 

Ellie ignores them both. “He’s a finance bro or some shit—from New York—here to play cowboy dress up with the group he’s with. Nothing I can’t handle, and you need to cool it and leave or have a drink and let her have fun.”

“She’s vulnerable right now, Ellie—”

“Yeah, you would know.”

Joel’s turn to do the ignoring, “And she needs someone to watch her back.”

“I’m fuckin’ watching it, man. You’re so annoying, and I’ll have you know that—” The fucker’s got a thick lock of your long hair trapped between his probably manicured fucking fingers, smoothing it between his thumb and index and then looping it around and around, drawing you in closer.

Joel’s about to start howling.

You’ve done something to him, knocked something askew inside him, and he needs you to set it back to rights. Let him out of this saw trap he’s been caught in. 

The man says something that has you throwing your head back in an overly eager laugh, loud and melodic in the most hypnotizing sort of way, meant to draw the eye or seduce or send his gut to twisting and aching. 

Ellie’s saying something about how you need to have fun, how you need to find yourself, and all Joel can think is that he can be the one to give you that, to help you do all that while still making sure you’re alright, taken care of. 

Over the wannabe cowboy’s shoulder, he sees your eyes land on him, and you give him one of those serenely beautiful smiles he knows means he’s about to lose his fucking mind and cause a scene. 

A provocation of a smile is what it is. 

You cross one long leg over the other, a flash of hot pink his eyes can’t help but flash to beneath the obscene hem of your skirt and lean in to whisper something, glossy lips right at his ear, and a tick starts up below Joel’s left eye. The fuckwit pulls you in closer, and you tip into him, hand on his shoulder—your eyes never leave Joel’s, and then you’re pulling him off the barstool and leading him into the throng of dancing people. He’s desperate to know what the back of your hot pink underwear looks like—string of lace wedged between the cleft of your ass, or silk wrapping around the full cheek like a perfect present? The man pulls you into himself, spinning you around, and you’re made up of blues and purples and pinks, shimmering like something that shouldn’t exist here amongst all the rest of them. Slinky little top made of silk like water and sparkles, your cheeks, flushed with drink or heat, but he’ll tell himself it’s because of him, because you’re still angry at him, thinking of him, and it soothes the tempest that’s brewing in his gut. 

He spins you towards himself, the man Joel’s about to beat senseless, shooting the Jameson without really tasting anything but the insane jealousy souring to irrational fury on his tongue, it pulses in his throat once, twice, and the fucker tugs you into himself again by a handful of your ass in that too short skirt and sticks his tongue in your mouth. Joel slams the glass on the bartop, not seeing red anymore, something like dark spots now, he’s so fucking pissed off. 

Ellie yelps his name, her and Jesse scrambling after him, but they’re too late and he’s there already, pulling you away, and gently because he might be feeling a little bit like a demon right now, but he knows what you are and how to handle you no matter what—and slams his fist into the fuckers nose, the satisfying crunch of broken bone and a pathetic cry sounds as he hits the sticky bar floor. The people around peer over in nothing more than mild curiosity, this is a cowboy bar after all. 

He watches the man for a second, making sure he stays down, and then turns to look at you and isn’t at all surprised when he finds that look of victory on your face. 

“Ready to go?” Voice all sweet innocence. 

You’re going to kill him. 

Spinning around on the toe of your boot, the hem of your little skirt flutters with your movements and he catches a flash of cheek, mystery of your panties still unsolved. 

“You’re a real dumbass, you know that?” Ellie snarks as they pass the group of them. 

He chooses to ignore that observation. “Don’t stay out too late. And let Bill drive back.”

Following you out into the night, he tries to take control of himself, to lie away the heat he feels sitting heavy in his stomach. 

He wishes he had a mint leaf to pulverize between his molars, he wishes he could pull you over his knee and spank your ass for being such a bad girl. And looming behind you, he knows you’re not even a little bit intimidated by his size as you dance and prance across the parking lot towards his truck.

“I know you’re ticked off because of last night and today, but you can’t lash out just because you’re angry with me.” 

All he gets in response is that head-thrown-back wind chime laughter—the real one, which is something. 

“You need to stop misbehaving,” he breathes down your neck.

“Hmm, I don’t think I will,” you singsong. 

“Are you drunk?” Refusing to be distracted, he’s going to stand strictly on business, he promises himself. 

You spin around again—always catching him off guard and pissing him off—hooking yourself on his shirtfront, pulling yourself into him like you’re trying to dance some fucked up dance he doesn’t know the steps to. 

“Not at all.”

“You need to not be touching me right now,” he warns, the threads of his control dangerously close to snapping, walking you backwards without putting his hands on you. Chest to chest, he feels like he could breathe fire if he really set his mind to it. 

“Yes, sir,” you say sweetly, dragging your palms down his chest and belly before letting him go, skipping ahead of him, humming an off-key rendition of whatever kitschy, poor excuse for a country song they’d been playing at the end in there. 

The even poorer excuse for a skirt bounces along the curve of your ass, driving him fucking mad—he’s goig to have a heart attack, he’s middle aged, he can’t handle this shit anymore—you. 

Stop that, he growls.

“God, you don’t like anything—you’re no fun,” you pout. 

Coming to the truck, he yanks the door open for you. “Get in the damn truck.” And he makes sure to turn away and not ogle your ass as you hop in, his palm hovering in the vicinity of your elbow if you need him. 

The prospect of an hour and a half of the dark drive and the scent of your musky sweet perfume and sweat soaked skin has his heart pounding. When he pulls his door open, you’re turned in your seat expectantly waiting for him, folded knees up on the seat and pink triangle right there to taunt him. 

“Sit right—put on your seatbelt.”

“You’re so bossy.” An exaggerated sigh and your voice is so fucking sassy, a tiny bit of a needy whine threaded through it, he feels his patience snap. 

Grabbing hold of your damp cheeks he squeezes hard enough to force your full mouth into a pout and giving your head a little shake he says, “And you need managing, little girl. Put your fucking belt on, or I’ll put it on for you.”

Eyes all pupil and gone blurry, you lick your lips and he can smell the sweet fruit scent of your breath. He groans, pushing you back—mistake, mistake, putting his hands on you at all—and peels out of the parking lot, and he is not hard in his jeans for you. 

“Are you mad at me?” You ask after several moments of forced silence. 

“No.”

“Not even for last night?”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Why not?”

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about it either.”

“Well, now I’ve changed my mind.”

Jesus, he mutters. “There’s nothing to discuss—already told you what I think and how it’s going to be and that’s final. You need to let it go, you hear me?”

You give a little groaning screech through your clenched teeth, turning away from him, still not wearing your goddamn seatbelt, never doing as he says. 

Toeing your boots off roughly, the little skirt hitches high enough on your thighs he catches a glimpse of the smooth glowing skin of your hip, eyes trying to watch the road and your thighs at the same time. 

“You’re horrible,” you say through a grimace, but your voice cracks a little bit at the end, and you’ve still got your face turned away so that he can’t tell if he’s made you cry or not now. 

“Are you cryin’?” He demands.

“No,” you sniffle, wiping your cheek on a lifted shoulder 

“Yes you are, liar.” Fuck—fuck, fuck.

“Well you’re bein’ mean,” you whine, finally turning to look at him again, and you’re all rose glow, cheeks flushed and eyes glossy, lips red as a cherry. 

No man should be tested like this. It’s wrong—unnatural.

He tries to gentle his voice and steady the pounding of his heart, pressing down on the gas, wishing the road would disappear from beneath the tires of the truck and that he could have you home and away from him already. “Not bein’ mean, sweetheart. Just—just…” He sighs, “Goddamnit, just don’t how how to handle you,” he curses, losing the grasp on his gentleness. 

“See—you are angry with me!” A tear slips down your cheek, and Joel’s mouth waters. 

His heart kicks up another notch, hypnotized, “You make me fuckin’ crazy—is that what you wanna hear?”

“Yes.” You turn full in the seat to face him, bent knees against the center console block his view of the apex of your thighs. Fucking Christ. 

“Sit right. You’re flashing your bits,” he tries and fails to focus on the road. 

“Yeah, that’s ‘cause I want you to see them, stupid.”

Jesus. “How much did you have to drink?” 

“Only one High Noon.”

“The hell is that? And quit lookin’ at me like that.”

“Like what?” Your knees shift against each other, and he’s gripping the steering wheel so tight he feels like he could rip it out of the dash. 

“You fuckin’ know like what.”

“Well if you hadn’t been such a cock block earlier, I’d be looking at someone else like this right now.”

And the teasing is too much. The bare legs and the tiny skirt and the hair and the lips and the sound of your voice, the kiss last night replaying in his mind over and over and over again like some lovesick taunt, the look of hurt he’d put on your face and the idea of you bare and slick, taking some other man that isn’t him. It’s too much. 

He jerks the truck roughly onto the road shoulder and into the grass, wheels spinning and gravel flying. Joel—you squeal, being jostled in your seat so that all he can see are soft thighs and pretty tits bouncing in his peripheral. He puts the truck in park, ripping his seat belt off, reaching over to tug you roughly forward by the nape, his fingers twisting in your hair in a hold he knows is too hard for something so delicate, his other hand grips below the bend of one knee squeezing hard. 

“If you think I’m gonna let you spread your legs for anyone fucking else—” he growls.

“Anyone else?” You laugh in his face, eyes spinning with something a little maniacal.

He thought he’d been worried for his soul, that taking you would be the undoing of everything he’d tried so hard to mend back together after Sarah. And really, he had tried so hard—to be good, to be better, to atone for all he’d not done before her, all he’d done after her. He’d tried to make himself into something that was respectful of her memory and the second chance Kelly had given him. 

But right here, and again because anytime he looks at you, is within a mile of your vicinity, it feels like you’re the only two people on the whole goddamn planet, he doesn’t think he really gives a fuck for being good or atoning or souls at all. Not even a little bit. 

He follows your lead from last night and kisses you, is sure to take your tongue this time. Forcing his thumb and forefinger between the line of your molars, he presses down hard enough to hurt the baby soft skin, spreading your jaw open wide so that he can lick into your mouth deep and wet. He wants to scare you, cow you, intimidate you into behaving with this hunger that seems to swallow him whole—remind you that he’s let you have your fun thus far, but the both of you know who’s playing games and who’s not. 

You let out a shocked little gasp onto his tongue, fingers twisting in the fabric over his shoulder, and he tightens his grip under your knee, tugging you just that little bit further forward, and when he pulls back to look at you, spit slick, swollen mouth and wide eyes, tits about to spill out of your top, you push his face away roughly, dragging your nails down the skin of his cheek with a tiny snarling growl. 

Spoiled little brat.

“Don’t be fuckin’ childish,” he snarls back, and pulls you roughly over the console and into his lap. 

“I can’t stand you,” you pant, settling above him, coming in to kiss him again, and he can’t deny it anymore. He’s hard as fuck for you. 

You moan into his mouth, high and throaty at the same time, girlish little sigh at the end that has him gripping your hip tightly, trying to stop himself from thrusting up against you.

“Can you taste him?” You lick his tongue. “He kinda looked like you, didn’t he? That’s why I chose him.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

He’s going to stop this now, at any moment. He’s going to push you away and tell you this is wrong and that the two of you can’t do this. 

Instead, you wrap your arms around his neck, pressing your tits high against his chest and grinding your lace covered little cunt against his cock. 

He groans into your mouth, pushed straight over the edge and free falling, cupping your ass to lift you off of himself a little bit, he just needs a second, before he takes a breath and presses you back down harder, rolling your hips against his lap. Little animal sounds, an ah, ah, ah and an oh, coupled with his mewled name. Cupping the soft of your ass in the palms of his hands, his calluses scrape against silken skin, and you fit him as if he’d dreamt you up just for himself; perfectly lush curves he can squeeze as hard as he wants because you’re not getting away from him now that he’s caught you in his snare. He drags his fingertips up the roundness of your asscheeks, and the mystery’s solved, it’s a thong. Catching the lace between his fingers he pulls the flimsy string upwards and tight against your pussy, a pained moan when he pulls even harder, making sure the fabric digs against your skin.

He knows if he cups you there you’ll be wet for him, for him, no one else but him. Knows he could bend you face first over the console, pull the soaked lace aside and suck on your wet little clit, make you come in his mouth. 

“Fuck, baby,” he groans. 

Joel, Joel, Joel, you hum in a dream voice. 

He can feel two little dimples at the low of your back, imagines what they’d look like with his thumbs gripped there as your ass takes his cock. 

He can’t say it enough—he feels fucking insane. 

“Touch me,” you beg, sliding and pressing against him, long hair like water slipping all over and against him too. 

Oh my God, he whisper moans when you spread your knees as wide as the seat allows, rocking your hips in short little hitches against the ridge of his cockhead. He knows your little clit is right there, cunt a knot of indescribable heat against him, and you pull your mouth away from his, letting your head fall back, hair a tangled curtain. He drags his nails back down your ass hard enough he hopes he’s leaving marks, leaning forward to lick along the salt tracks of your tears, watching you use him. 

“Do not fucking come,” he orders. He can’t—he can’t watch you do it and not be inside you when it happens, and the two of you absolutely cannot take this that far. 

He pulls your hips up again, forcing your movements still and you huff at him, whining. 

“We gotta stop.”

Noooo. “No, Joel. Please,” you cry, trying to pull yourself towards him—your mouth is so swollen—trying to escape his hold and get what you want for yourself. 

Grasping at the last vestiges of his sanity, “Fuck— No. No more.” He lifts you off his lap and back into your seat, sitting back to press himself against the door and adjusting the throbbing erection in his jeans, so hard it’s making him a little nauseous. If he doesn’t stop, he’s going to stuff his cock inside of you right here and now. He tucks the thick head up under his waistband, trying to find any sort of momentary relief. 

There isn’t enough oxygen in this truck. He needs air, space, to taste you. 

“Fine,” prim little nose in the air. You stretch one leg out across the console to dangle over his groin and let the other drop to the cab floor. “That’s fine—I’ll just take care of it myself then,” you tease provocatively, fingertips dragging up the inside of your thigh.

He shoots forward to stop your movement, gripping your wrist in a vice—baby bird bones beneath his fist, and you moan at his touch like the little wanton he’s coming to realize you are, writhing in your seat. “Don’t you fucking dare. I swear to God I’ll put you over my knee.”

“Jokes on you, I’d like that shit,” you sass back, ripping your wrist out of his hold, little socked foot kicking towards his face. He catches it, holding it in his grip and squeezing. “And I don’t really care if you’re not mad at me because I’m mad at you.”

“I know you are, sweetheart,” and the mood changes, smolders into something more serious, more honest.

-

“Why didn’t you go today? The lawyer asked you to—” You’d wanted to find him as soon as you’d gotten home earlier, demand he give you an explanation. Cowardice had won over that desire, and going out to find a drink and a replacement man had seemed the easier alternative. 

“Wasn’t my place.” Spreading his thighs wider in his seat to accommodate himself, he presses his hips forward, and you can make out the heft of his cock beneath his jeans—your belly twists all full of heat and bubbles. 

“Did you know he was leaving you something?”

He laughs a bitter bark of a laugh. “No—never thought—” the words die in his throat and he stares out the window, lost to the memory of your father. “No, I didn’t think he was leaving me anything before I got the call.”

“It’ll make a good nest egg.” 

“Don’t want it.”

He won’t turn to look at you now, and you know that this conversation in the aftermath of touching you shames him. 

“You’re taking it. You don’t have a choice.” His eyes flash fire at you and then flit away. “He had all your banking information, it’s probably already there.”

Fucking Christ, he spits the murmured curse, bracing his elbow against the curve of the steering wheel, cupping his palm over his mouth as if to keep his anger and frustration in. The bulge of his bicep beneath his dark hoodie distracts you for a moment. 

You’d spent enough time watching him over the years that you’d learned all the things you knew he tried to hide in plain sight. That gentleness, that patience, that heart—that he is an inconceivably good and honest man. Things that are ultimately impossible to hide. 

Your eyes flash to the temple where a gristle of scar tissues is slashed across his skin. The meaning behind a scar like that, coupled with his bad ear and his green eyed photograph—it’s hard to hide. People can always tell when you’ve tried to kill yourself, you know. 

Which all goes to say—and you’re quite certain of this—that yes, the two of you are strangers, in ways, but in others, or in your own way, you know this man. You understand his nature. You know he wouldn’t have ever wanted it—that he does not want it and never will. He isn’t the sort of man who’d ever look a million dollars in the eye and feel moved by them. 

His humanity means more to him than his life, you’d heard Tommy say about him once to your father when you’d been an eavesdropping little girl. You hadn’t understood at the time, but now you do. 

The dark pullover and jeans, incongruously boyish, the scuffed boots—he’s so himself and so fucking hot and you want him so, so badly, and looking at him sitting here now, gorgeous, hair mused by your fingers, and your slick smeared across his jeans—you look down at your own twisted fingers in your lap, a little ashamed now too—and you can’t fathom why or how he’d ever look at you and feel moved by the likes of you either. 

You’re ashamed that you’re even angry at him for it at all, resentful of this gift your father has given him when really it is not only resentment, maybe not even truly that at all. More so, it’s a complicated mixing pot of feelings that these two men seem to have always been twisted up into knots together inside of you. Resentful, not because you don’t want him to have it. You want him to have everything he deserves or could ever think to want and more, but perhaps, because this was the final nail in the coffin scrap of proof that your father had cared about him in a very real way that you’d never experienced—in a way that was entirely Oswald Kelly’s own choice and not because of dead mothers or obligation or legacy. 

“It’s good he left it for you,” you say gently and mean it. 

He looks at you out of the corner of his eyes, looks away, from under the cover of his palm says, “S’not fair to you.”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with me. This is about you and you deserving this, and I’m glad he gave you your due. He should’ve left more.”

His eyes flutter shut, sighing deeply and shakes his head. “You’ve made me into something I’m not. You need to see that.”

“You’re not some sort of cautionary tale, Joel.”

“You don’t know a thing about it,” voice like he could he angry but is being very careful to remain not. “You don’t know the things I’ve done, the reasons why I came here. You should look at me and see nothin’ worthwhile.”

“My father saw something,” you argue. “You let my father see that something. And I do too, no matter what you say, no matter what you do or how hard you push me away; I’m used to it, and you won’t change my mind.”

He gives you a look like you’re hurting him, like your truths hurt him. “We’re goin’ home. This is enough,” he gruffs, pulling the truck into drive again and peeling out of the grassy knoll. 

Fight dying in your throat, you feel suddenly exhausted, shivering coldly, belly an ember of unsated lust, your orgasm is tight and wet between your legs and you don’t want to argue or impose yourself on him anymore. You don’t want to feel like you’re imposing yourself now when he’d never made you feel like that before. 

The night is a pitch dark blur falling away behind your glazed over eyes, and huddling into yourself against the door, you hide your face away in your shoulder, belly swooping with nausea. 

“You drive too fast, I’m dizzy,” you mumble, and he  immediately slows, foot easing off the gas.

“You gonna puke?”

“Yes, all over your face.”

“I’m serious, darlin’. Need me to stop?”

“No. I just want to be home,” said in as small a voice as you can manage, hoping he won’t catch your words, and soon he’s turning off into the long drive to the house. 

When he pulls to a stop, you scramble to grab your boots before he can say anything else, but he’s unnaturally quick for such a large man, out the door and around the nose of the truck, pulling your own door open before you can even get a single boot on. He pulls them from your grasp, and then tugs you bodily out of your seat, slinging you over his shoulder as if you were some sack of nuisance prone potatoes. You screech, flailing, trying to knee him in the gut, but he bands a strong arm across the backs of your thighs, pinning you in obedient place. “Quit.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” You howl, hitting him repeatedly on the ass, trying to wriggle and make his life as difficult as you possibly can. 

This man has absolutely no consideration or respect or sense of personal space!

Technically, neither do you—but that’s neither here nor there. 

You scream like a hyena, shrill and long and he pinches your ass hard, right at the inner crease of your thigh and ass cheek, too close to your still wet pussy for comfort. “I said quit.”

“Everything alright out here?” You hear Jesse’s voice call from the direction of the bunk, they must’ve beat you two here while you’d been trying to seduce Joel into making you come. 

The snap of Joel’s fingers and then, “Mind your own fucking business.”

“You are so rude.”

He bumps you on his shoulder, jostling you on the soft of your belly and making your cunt go even tighter. You hate him. “Quiet, you.” 

Letting himself in the dark of your house, he makes his way up the stairs while you hang quietly upside down now, a little astounded, a lot turned on by how strong he is, lugging you all the way upstairs without even a change in his breathing. 

But as soon as he steps foot into your bedroom, now set to rights from yesterday’s disaster, you feel the change come on him. The shift and deepening of his breaths, the expanse of his ribs going wide and winglike as he sucks in a big gulp of air. You press your palm flat to the center of his back, feeling the whistle of his breath go in and out of him until he’s slipping you off his shoulder to bounce gently backwards onto your soft bed. 

He stands above you for a quiet moment, and you take in the broad shape of him backlit by the moonlight of your open drapes. He’s huge and imposing cast in this darkness, something out of a dream.

Literally—out of your own teenage fantasy dreams. 

Has anyone in all the world ever wanted someone as badly as you want him?

You can feel the press of his left knee against the inside of your right one, and you wish he’d put it between your thighs, join you on the bed.

“Can I ask you something?” You reach your fingers out and he tangles his hand with yours and it’s a small victory. 

“Yeah.”

“Would you come to my funeral?”

His fingers jolt— “What?”

“If I died.”

“Don’t say shit like that.”

“Tell me that you would—” You tug him forward and he lets himself come, bending over your prone form, braced on one arm and still holding onto your fingers with the other. “—That I wouldn't be alone even there.”

“You’re not alone.”

“Would you?”

“Makes me angry when you say shit like this—as if you don’t believe I’m going to take care of you.” 

“Please tell me, Joel. Promise me—” and you reach up to gently touch the scar across his temple. 

He goes frozen and understanding. “I’d come,” and you know it costs him something to give in to such an imagining and it makes you all the more grateful for it. 

Fingers sliding back into the curls at his temple, silver speckled, you know, you pull him further towards you until he’s close enough to press a softly hot kiss to his mouth. The two of you hold there for a moment, another, another, you can feel the wash of his heavy breathing through his nose, the flutter of his long lashes tangling with yours—you hope he’s searching for you in the dark—and you lift your knee up onto the bed, bending to open yourself to him. 

He pulls back, hand shooting to your jaw to grip you tightly in place, breath ragged, animal being hunted. 

You smile.

“Not gonna fuck you,” he says low.

“Why not?” It’s what you want, you deserve to have what you want. He squeezes your face once, presses another hard, too quick kiss to your mouth and then flips you over onto your belly, turning your skirt up over your ass to expose you. He tugs once on the string of your thong, drawing his finger along the lace wedged between your ass cheeks and then pulls his hand away for a moment before he’s spanking you hard and quick. 

Owwww, you whine, hitching your rump towards him, wanting more despite the sting. He bends his head and bites you even harder at the inner corner of your asscheek, teeth digging hard and long enough to leave a mark. You whine again, high and mewling, trying to escape his meanness and he smacks you again on the other cheek. 

“Go to bed, little girl. I’ll see you in the mornin’.”

And he’s leaving you, broad shouldered form slipping out your bedroom door and leaving you aching and angry to scream into your pillow.

You’re pretty sure you hear his deep laugh before the slam of the door sounds below, and you’re slipping your greedy fingers into the ruined wet of your panties, petting away the ache he’s left. 

-

The late May night is cool, despite the daytime heat, and Ellie shivers in her Carhartt, watching as Joel slips out the back kitchen door of the big house. 

“The hell is going on with those two?” Jesse says beside her, pulling long on his beer. The litter of yellow cans around them speaks to his mullish whining that he’d not been able to pull tonight. Sometimes he annoys her, but in that sort of endearing little brother way that makes her want to kick his ass and protect him at the same time. 

“Nothin’, they’re fine—just gotta fuck it out.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Naw—just smarter than you, man.”

“They like each other?”

“God, Jesse, you wouldn’t see an obvious thing if it were a tipsy bison barrelin’ towards you full speed in the middle of the day.”

“I don’t know what that means,” he says a little pathetically. Moping men—Ellie really can’t be assed to deal with them all. 

“It’s fine. You don’t need to understand. I do—I see all, I know all. You mere mortals wouldn’t understand.”

“S’kinda weird, no? Them two—him bein’ so much older, her bein’…well, you know— her.”

“Nope. Makes perfect sense—they need each other, you see.”

He shrugs, I guess—“You’re fuckin’ weird, too. You know that?”

She takes a swig of her beer now also, hoping the two idiots she loves most in the world, after Dina of course, figure each other out before the whole ranch has to suffer for it too. 

“Wrong again, Jesse. Wrong again.”

Chapter 3; Little Freak

Netherfeildren’s Masterlist

Updates Blog

[cloudcountry]

auburn!!! i’m so glad that over these five years (half a decade wow 🤑) your work and most importantly your amazing personality has grown to receive so much recognition and love. i’m proud of you and i’m glad we’ve known each other for so long 🫶🏽. i hope your work continues to grow and you continue to do amazing things and be generally pretty cool. okay thats too much sappiness bleggh poop fart shit fuck ass ☝🏽

erm anyways i would like the chocolate swirl bread slices with brown sugar bubble tea in the special 3k event cup with cat cap… rubs hands together like fly…

would also be cool if the reader was FTM and/or was not-so-subtlety avoiding leona for any reason

DANIEL YOU BUTT THATS THE SWEETEST THING YOUVE SAID TO ME IN FIVE YEARS AND YOU END IT WITH POOP FART SHIT FUCK ASS????? ANYWAYS this almost made me cry what the fuck i feel like a baby bird leaving the nest even though im older than you. i cant believe we're like adults now. what happened to being weird ass teenagers on quotev dot com. i cant say i miss that era though but i do miss kaomoji IDK WHERE HALF THE FRIEND GROUP IS LMAO anyways thank you for being my friend mwah you are a real one you have seen me at my worst and stuck with it IDK HOW YOU DID THAT anyways your lion man

an order of romantic angst with leona kingscholar!

Leona watches your back as emotions he would much rather not acknowledge fester and boil in his chest. His tail flicks, his ears twitch, and it’s obvious to everyone around him that he is exceedingly annoyed.

That’s not the shocking part, however.

It’s the fact that he’s annoyed with you, the one boy in this whole school he never should have felt that way towards.

Leona wouldn’t be so annoyed in the first place if it wasn’t for the fact that you’d been inexplicably ignoring him for the past few weeks. As petty as always, Leona was sure he could outlast you, ignoring you in much the same way. He was good at being nonchalant, at taking it easy even though his affection shifted to bitter resentment.

Could he really call you someone close to him if he’s starting to genuine dislike you?

Nah, it’s not like he should have expected anything in the first place. He turns on his heel and walks off in the opposite direct of you, tail flicking lazily behind him. If you don’t want him anymore, that’s fine. If he’s not your number one anymore, he’ll just grin and bear it, bear like he always has and always will.

He thought he had something just for himself. How naive could he be?

Leona scowls, digging his hands into his pockets. If he sees everyone else in the hallway giving him a wide berth he doesn’t show it, his vision laser focused on Savanclaw’s dorm, his room, his bed, where he can sleep and ignore his reality for a little while longer.

The reality that you were so clearly avoiding him, the reality that you probably didn’t want him anymore, the reality that he was finally number one to someone and now he wasn’t.

Leona was once again second, but when there were only two people in a competition, second was the same as dead last.

[paulic]

Ok this is what I think the biopics will be like for each Beatle:

John will be so troubled but in a really charming way and Julian will be mentioned but briefly and they’ll make it seem like John was just too busy to be a present father (Paul will make up for it in a vomit inducingly cheesy way). His eating disorder, heroin addiction and other internal struggles (self-esteem, sexuality, maybe even gender,…) will go unmentioned or brushed over jokingly like haha he tossed Brian off, don’t we all at that age. He’ll be the cool and funny older brother & later genius who just couldn’t be confined within a band. They won’t have the guts to call his bullshit and therefore will automatically brush over his kinder and vulnerable sides. He’ll be reduced to a knock off version of the tortured artist blueprint. They’ll never pick up on his pathetic wet dog vibe

Paul will be the charming good guy who’s all in with the band. No mention of how he fucked over Jane and every other girl until Linda; he’ll be a musical genius, too, but in a prince of the people sort of way. They’ll loooove that he stopped eating meat, woke king!!!! Linda will be brushed over by making her into his soulmate wifey who finally helps the charming playboy with a heart of gold settle down. His depression and alcohol problem won’t be mentioned/reduced to feeling a little sad. He’ll be a little bossy sometimes but they won’t ever get it right how fucking annoying he could be. Straighter than a ruler. John’s brother, almost biologically. No homo. They’ll find a way to make the twink who fucked the entire population and had an ego bigger than Neptune into a straight feminist

George will be the indie underground smart Beatle and people on tik tok will start posting thirst traps of the actor with the caption “they don’t make em like this anymore” and then complain about real-George’s teeth. He’ll be so spiritual and smart and he won’t have an affair with his best friend’s wife at all and if he does it’ll be because of some spiritual insight, not because that man couldn’t keep it in his pants for 5 seconds. I’m deadly afraid of the colourful drug scenes where he’ll hallucinate god. He’ll be the perfect boyfriend and Pattie will be played by Sidney sweeney or something. They won’t take a side with the whole George Or Paul debate during the breakup, but George will be too focused on other things to want to stay in the Beatles. They won’t mention the three billion songs John&Paul deemed unworthy. They’ll never do the grudges my man held justice. No one could

Ringo will be the funny guy who luckily survived his childhood and found his passion through a kind nurse giving him his drumsticks. He’ll play an incredible drum solo at 8 years old on his hospital bed frame the first time he ever holds those sticks. He won’t be in gangs, he won’t beat his wife half to death, he won’t have drugs and alcohol problems. He’ll be peace and love from age 0. He’ll be slightly stupid and he’ll mention octopuses too much. They’ll never get it right how he was truly the eldest and how much his vote and opinion actually counted within the band and how much the boys wanted him in the band and admired him. He won’t be a sort of glue to the band. He won’t marry a teenager he met when she was 16 and he 22. He’ll be a weird version of Ken from the Barbie movie, his job will be Drum. They’ll flatten a severely nuanced and layered man to a sheet of paper with the word ‘beat’ on it

I am too afraid to even think about what they will do to Eppy

Oh and each and every one of them will have way too pretty teeth and I am already furious. I want them to have British men in the 1960s teeth. Give me British teeth and jerking off together

[thewintersoldierdisaster]

a/n: i am so proud of the boys and what they accomplished after everyone counted them out 💙🧡 can’t wait for next year when they’ve had a full training camp with patrick and they come back better than ever 🤍

tw: child goes “missing” for a brief moment, mild innuendo

word count: 2.9k

summary: the msg broadcast gets double the barzal men for a little bit

Offering to take the girls to the arena for a game seems like it’s a great idea until you’ve got Talia, both Martin girls, and Tulsa Horvat begging for pretzels mid-way through the second. Normally you’d have at least one of Syd or Holly with you, but since the outing is for Talia’s birthday, you’d thought it would be fine to just take the girls yourself. That you’d be a good friend, letting Syd and Holly have their Thursday night free, since all of your husbands are retired now and they don’t have to come to the arena if they don’t want to.

But Max is getting antsy and Talia is yapping your ear off - much like her father - begging for snacks.

“Mom, please, I’m starving,” she pokes her lip out at you in a pout and widens her hazel eyes. She looks unfairly like Mat when she makes that expression even though her general looks had shifted to favor yours as she got older. You’ve never really been able to say no to either kid anyway.

“Can you at least watch your brother while I go get snacks?” You ask, lifting your eyebrow and twisting your hair back into a slightly sloppy ponytail. Max swings his legs in his seat next to you, grinning at his big sister. His hat dips over his eyes and you make a mental note to adjust the strap.

Talia looks at you as if you just asked her to swallow a cup of live spiders. “Mom, please no! I don’t even know why we brought him, today was supposed to be for my birthday,” she whines a little, those pre-teen hormones working overtime. Two weeks from turning eleven, and you find yourself missing your baby girl more and more each day. She’s usually a pretty polite and delightful kid, but something about that upcoming eleventh birthday is creating that familiar teenage whine you’d been so good at back in the day. You should really call and apologize to your mother.

Max pipes up without taking his eyes off the action on the ice, “your birthday’s not even today!”

“Thank you, Max,” you hold a hand out in front of his face, covering his mouth, as Talia shoots him a glare. Max wiggles away from your hand, his head bobbing in every direction as he tries to see the players. “I should’ve known this would happen.” You pinch the bridge of your nose with your free hand.

The only reason Talia had picked this game for her birthday is because of Jack Cizikas’s last minute call up from the AHL. Her puppy crush on him is something you and Kristy like to joke about, but right now you’re not laughing. Casey, Kristy, Reese, and Cole are up in a suite with the grandparents for the moment and you should’ve just sent Max up there to join them, but your five-year-old is still a little clingy. He loves the Cizikas family, hero-worships ten-year-old Cole, but when you’d suggested it, his face had crumpled and he’d said, “I wanna stay with you, Mama!”

Who were you to argue with that?

“Okay, I’ll take Max with me, but Win,” you raise your voice and look down a few seats at Winnie Martin, the oldest of your babysitting charges at fifteen, “do not leave these seats until I get back, okay?”

Winnie grins at you, Matt’s smile copy and pasted onto her face. She gives you a little salute and nods, “you got it.”

Talia turns back to the girls, completely ignoring you, and you roll your eyes a little before holding out your hand to Max. “Come on, buddy. Let’s go get some snacks,” you say, savoring the feeling of his little hand in yours. You never know when he’ll start thinking he’s too cool for his mom, so you’ll enjoy it while it lasts.

“Can I get ice cream?” He asks, skipping along next to you. He gives Sparky a high five when you pass the mascot at the top of the stairs.

You laugh a little and point Sparky and his handler in the direction of the girls. “I’m sure Winnie will love to see you,” you say, nostalgia washing over you as you think about the early years of your relationship with Mat and Winnie’s love for the dragon. Sparky nods and gives you an enthusiastic thumbs up, before bounding down the stairs. It’s a different person in the costume now, obviously, but you all had made sure to keep Winnie humbled by making sure each iteration of the Sparky knew to stop and see her at a game. The teen plays along gamely, her mother’s daughter.

Max tugs on your hand, drawing your attention. “Mama! Can I get ice cream?” He repeats his request and you shake your head.

“Nope, sorry, kid. It’s past your sugar cutoff,” you shake his arm when he pouts and kicks his Nike against the floor, nearly tripping himself as he tries to keep walking. “I’ll split a pretzel with you though.”

“I don’t wanna pretzel,” he whines, dragging his feet as he traipses behind you. You dodge a few people, tugging Max along. He keeps whining a little, complaining under his breath, and you pinch at the bridge of your nose before squatting down so you’re at his eye level.

Max goes quiet, but his whole face scrunches up in annoyance and you smile softly. “If you have ice cream now, you’re not going to be able to sleep. And remember that Daddy’s coming on your field trip tomorrow so don’t you want to be well rested for that?” You raise an eyebrow at him while Max considers your explanation.

The line shifts forward while Max is considering and you smile awkwardly up at the family in line behind you, silently apologizing for not moving. The mother waves you off with a polite smile too. Solidarity.

“Can I have ice cream tomorrow then?” Max finally asks and negotiating with the tiny terrorist wasn’t on your to do list today, but you nod anyway, knowing it’ll bite you in the ass tomorrow.

“Yes, after your field trip you can have a little ice cream,” you stand up, knees creaking a bit, and move forward on the line. Matter settled, you hook your fingers in the back collar of Max’s Horvat jersey, worn because ‘Uncle Bo is the coolest!’ much to Mat’s annoyance and your amusement. At the self-serve counter, you grab five pretzels - even if Max doesn’t want to share, you still want a snack - and a Diet Coke, hoping for a quick burst of energy. You let go of Max’s jersey to fish your phone out of your back pocket and tap it against the reader.

“Okay, Max, back to -“ you cut yourself off, looking down at your side and not seeing Max. “Max? Oh, fuck. Where did he go?”

Your heart hammers in your chest, slight panic rising when you scan the concourse and don’t spot your kindergartener. “Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, the only thing keeping your panic at a reasonable level is the fact that Max was quite literally almost born in the arena and knows it better than anyone. Of course that also means he could be hiding literally anywhere and never be found.

“I…okay, think like Max,” you step off to the side, against the wall, so you can figure out what to do. “Where the hell is he going to go?”

The muffled cheers of the crowd filter through the arena, signifying that the Islanders have added to their lead late in the second. You smile faintly and, like a lightning bolt to the head, realize where Max wandered off to. Or where you hope he wandered off to.

You book it towards the Lab and the MSG broadcast set up, trying to see around the crowds of people that are leaving their seats now that the second period is over. Obviously, you can’t see anything around all the people and the closer you get to the main stairs, the more panic you’re starting to feel, thinking about the girls back at the seats and what you’ll do if Max isn’t with Mat.

Once the cameras and desk come into view, your entire body unclenches, Max is happily perched on Mat’s hip, chattering away with Shannon while Mat and Thomas discuss the second period’s play. The cameras are on and your son is broadcasting live on MSG. You wiggle your way through the little crowd of people around the set and get to the front, by the retractable belt barriers, and try to catch Mat’s eye.

The second he spots you, his entire expression changes, a delighted smile stretching across his face and his eyes crinkling up at the corners. He looks like a twenty-something again, not the nearly forty-year-old he actually is.

“Max!” You hiss, trying not to be heard. “Send him over here!” You wave your free hand at the duo, Diet Coke wedged under your arm and pretzels getting squished in your hand.

Mat shakes his head at you and Thomas and Shannon look over too, all three of them laughing. Mat turns back to the camera, Max smiling like the cat that got the canary. “My wife’s trying to get our broadcast sidekick back,” he says, laughing. Mat bounces Max in his arms. “But I think we’ll keep him around for his color commentary.”

“No, oh my god,” you shake your head and gesture for Max to come back to you. “Mat, stop it.”

“Max,” Mat turns to look at your son, totally ignoring you, “what did you think of the game so far?”

Embracing the fact that Mat’s going to let Max join them for a while at least, you sigh and relax into the moment, watching Max perk up as he gets to discuss his favorite thing.

“I missed Matt’s goal,” he complains, Matt Maggio must’ve been the one to score when you noticed Max was missing. “But I like Jack the best ‘cause he’s funny and plays mini sticks. And also he gave me a piggy-back all day at Easter.”

Shannon laughs and chimes in, “we like Jack around here too. But hey, Max, I can show you Matt’s goal while your dad and Thomas discuss some of the finer points of the game.”

Max wiggles out of Mat’s arms and darts around Thomas’s back so he can stand with Shannon and watch the goal he missed. You snap a picture of Max’s head poking over the desk, heart melting at the sheer excitement on his face. You also notice the dozen texts littering your phone’s screen - a multitude of laughing emojis sent from the girls while they watch at home.

The fans around you are clearly eating up Max’s presence and you feel a little spike of anxiety thinking about how exposed he is to the public now, after keeping his and Talia’s faces mostly hidden on your social media pages. It’s always a little inevitable that the kids are seen with Mat out in public, but you almost wish you could snatch up all the phones recording video and taking pictures of Max as he points something out to Shannon on the iPad.

You take a nervous bite out of your pretzel and try to just enjoy the moment until they go to commercial when you can duck under the belt barrier. Mat grins boyishly at you, grabbing your waist to pull you in for a quick kiss. “Well, this is fun,” he says, pulling back from the kiss. “Family broadcast.”

“He is so stupid sneaky,” you shake your head, offering Mat the pretzel that you’d taken a bite out of. He accepts it and tears off a piece of his own. “And fast.”

Thomas laughs, leaning his forearms on the desk. “That’ll be helpful when he’s zipping around defensemen and scoring goals,” he teases before going to say hi to the fans and take selfies.

“Mom, look!” Max pops up at your side, holding a puck. Where did he get that?

“Pretty cool,” you smile down at him and let Mat lift him back up onto his hip. Max’s long legs kick at Mat’s thighs. “Where’d you get that, bud?”

“From Dad when I got here,” Max chirps. “Can I stay? Cause I don’t wanna be with the girls.”

He cuddles up against Mat’s shoulder, the father-son duo wearing matching hangdog, pleading expressions on their faces. The day Mat taught both kids the look was the worst day of your life, weakening your already minimal willpower. This time you have to say no, interrupting Mat while he’s working is only cute for so long.

“Sorry, Maxy,” you reply sympathetically. “We have to get back to the girls, but we’ll see Dad right after the game.”

Max whines loudly, reminding you that he’s still only five, and you chew on the inside of your lip. Mat pats Max on the back and whispers something in his ear, the extra lighting catching on the few greys that are starting to form in Mat’s dark hair. You wait while Mat talks quietly to your son, trying not to worry about coming back from commercial while you’re all standing in the middle of everything. Eventually, Max huffs an exasperated sigh and wiggles out of Mat’s grip again, slumping his way over to your side.

You smirk a little, “gee, don’t look so thrilled to come hang with your mom.”

Mat laughs and you roll your eyes at him.

“I wanted to stay with Dad,” Max pouts, little fingers gripping tightly onto the puck. “But he said that he’d take me to the locker room if I go with you.”

“Bribery,” Mat winks at you. “A dad’s best weapon.”

The ten second warning that the commercial is ending blinks and you grab Max’s hand, “okay, time to go back to the girls. We’ll see Dad later, okay?”

Max waves at Mat as you guide him away from the set. “Bye, Dad! Don’t forget I wanna see Jack and the locker room,” he shouts and you can hear Mat’s laughter boom over the noise of the crowd.

“I won’t forget Max, be good for Mom,” Mat calls out.

You hurry back to your seats, Max hopping along and waving to people as you go. He gives big, cheerful greetings to the ushers and security guards he recognizes, forcing you to stop when Sparky passes by so he can give the mascot a high-five and a hug around the legs.

“Max, baby, please. We can see Sparky later,” you sigh, a little worried about leaving the girls alone for so long. You know they’ll listen and not leave the seats, but you feel vaguely like a terribly mother/babysitter since they’ve been sitting by themselves for nearly twenty minutes.

Max pouts, but takes a hold of the hand you’re holding out for him and dutifully follows you back to the seats. He clambers over the couple at the end of the row and you apologize quickly for him, making another mental note to work on the kid’s manners.

“Where did you go?” Talia pops up in her seat like a meerkat, wrinkling her face at you in confusion. “We thought you, like, got kidnapped!”

“We didn’t get kidnapped,” you huff, passing around the pretzels. The girls thank you and turn back to the on-ice intermission action. Max reaches for your half eaten one too and you’re glad you at least got a bite in earlier. “Max ran off to see Dad.”

Max grins at his sister, mouth full of chewed pretzel. “Dad gave me a puck and I got to be on TV with him,” he manages to sound smug and excited all at the same time, waving the gifted puck in one hand.

Talia pouts a little, still childish despite how she tries to mimic the older girls.

“Eat your pretzel,” you twirl your finger to get her to look back at the ice. “There are a thousand pucks at home. Oh,” you add, “we’re going to head down to the locker room after the game. Dad promised Max.”

That gets the girls going, chattering about how they get to see Jack and the rest of the players, giggling like crazy while huddled together. You lean back in your seat, smiling softly at how cute they all are. Max is on his feet, dancing along to the arena music, waving both hands in the air - your little party animal. You send Mat a video of him dancing, teasing that father and son have the same moves.

He shoots back a gif of himself dancing at the Martins’ wedding more than fifteen years ago, making you laugh out loud, drawing the attention of all five kids. “Ignore me,” you laugh, waving a hand at them.

Another message from Mat vibrates your phone: leave the kids with marts and syd when you drop the girls off after the game, i wanna show you more of my moves 👀

Giggling like a high schooler with a crush, you take a minute to appreciate that Mat still makes you feel floaty and dizzy with love. Over ten years together and he still makes your heart skip a beat.

“Mom,” Talia’s voice slices through your thoughts, “what’s Dad saying? Because you look so weird.”

Schooling your features into a more neutral expression, you lean forward over the seat and ask, “how do you guys feel about a sleepover at Aunt Syd and Uncle Matt’s?”

[despacito-uwu16]

Kenji Sato x Younger Sibling! Reader

⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚

⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙

╰► Kenji is the older brother in this scenario (being 2 years older that is)

╰► During your childhood, Kenji made sure you were never alone.

╰► If someone was bullying you… expect him to come back home with a few bruises and a detention slip

╰► “Kenji! What happened to you”?

╰► “I made sure they would never mess with y/n ever again”.

╰► Yeah… he’s VERY over overprotective

╰► And it even goes on during your teenage years

╰► He thinks no boy (or girl) (or partner) will ever be good enough to date you

╰► Every time someone comes up to you with flowers or asks you out on a date, Kenji will be in the corner giving the death stare until they leave

╰► “Kenji, can you stay out of my love life?”

╰► *insert rich person laugh* “Not a chance. Unless they prove they’re worthy, they’re not coming near my baby sister”.

╰► Only Emiko can persuade Kenji to dial it down a few notches

╰► You’ve been to every baseball game Kenji has ever played. (You used to be bored of them as a kid, but as you grew older you loved going to support Kenji)

╰► You and your mother would cheer the loudest

╰► You were one of Kenji’s biggest supporters

╰► And Kenji would always support you in whatever you do

╰► You play a sport? He’ll be there at your games

╰► ^If you played softball, he will step up to be your personal trainer

╰► You’re a performer? He’ll be there at your shows with a bouquet of flowers in hand

╰► When the time came for Kenji to head to college, you couldn’t help but feel sad

╰► Like yeah he was a pain in your behind, but deep down, the house would be too quiet.

╰► “Let’s face it, you’re gonna miss me”.

╰► “You wish”…. “okay maybe a tad bit”

╰► You’re siblings. no matter where life takes you, you’ll always have each other’s back.

⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙

A/N: I might either expand more on this or write a mini-series based on it. we’ll see :)

Requests are open! Feel free to request anything! (But please look at the rules first before requesting)

As always, likes and reblogs are always appreciated :)

[cagesofgold]

eren jaeger headcanons <3

🎵teenage fever - Drake 🎧

His favorite way to unwind is to play with your hair. Due to having longer hair himself he’s grown accustomed to the different skill sets required to craft different hair styles, and actually, is really good at it. His fingers are lithe and nimble and are able to weave through strands with ease.

He drives an all black car with tinted windows, and has a polaroid of you in a photo booth with him on your first date in a plastic case hanging from his rear view mirror.

he also always makes sure to keep your favorite snacks in the car, as he’s a guy who’s bound to text you at 2am asking bout some “you up for a drive?” 💀

in terms of tattoos despite popular belief, i personally think he’d keep it on the minimal side. He’d maybe have some on his arms - or a sleeve, but he likes to keep them tidy. Although, he is one of those guys that would have that tiktok thirst trap spider on his chest or adjacent to his v line…..

this mf smells gooooood, he’s so paranoid about smelling bad because of Jean saying he smelt like a burning pile of bodies in high school and hasn’t been able to shake the fear since.

despite not being overly adorned in tattoos he does like piercings. He’s got about five on his ears and has a nose piercing but he always forgets about it.

loves reality shows. A few months into your relationship he noticed you watching them and acted with his full chest that he had no interest, yet as the weeks rolled by he somehow got closer and closer to the couch and before you knew it he was fully shouting over Lisa Rinna. (You’ve also seen him following over 30 housewives from the different shows on instagram…)

cannot stand metal music because he spent his entire childhood covering his ears from where it bled from under Mikasa’s door. (Otherwise he’d probably enjoy it)

he’d dress quite simply, mainly with blacks and whites and would sometimes mix and match with some red or green, but i don’t think he’s as ambitious as some of his friends fashion wise, but he still looks good as hell.

his favorite holiday is with out a doubt halloween, is some of this because he spent so long as a child building the most elaborate scares for the kids on his street? maybe. but he also likes autumn as a season so that has something to do with it.

doesn’t get along with his dad too well but is a total mamas boy. He visits her at least twice a month considering they live in different cities.

is a cat person, but when he was younger he liked dogs more as according to him they were “much radder” - his own words 💀, but as he got older and became more subdued he developed a preference for cats.

has anxiety that he manages to hide, he wasn’t used to being comforted and it took a while for him to fully open up to you.

despite smoking weed with Jean and connie almost every other day he still makes a dramatic scene any time Zeke lights a cigarette around him, i’m talking coughing and clutching his chest, Zeke’s standing there like this 🧍‍♀️waiting for him to stop his fucking shenanigans.

if you want to go out with Eren Jaeger prepare to be a victim of the sassy man apocalypse, because my god, this man is relentless, and the SIDE EYE on this mf is ridiculous. He could knock down an army with his sass alone.

takes good care of his hair, oils it twice a week and does hair masks in order to keep it soft and shiny. He can’t have his gorgeous girl going out with some guy with brittle, greasy ass hair…

goes to the gym but doesn’t like it very much. he goes most days for at least an hour but never posts gym pics on his instagram or anything, he just has no interest apart from maintaining his body.

cannot sleep without you. he can try, sure, but he’ll never be successful. Before you both decided to move in together he was at your house every night, nuzzled against your body with light breaths slipping from his lips, which sparked the conversation, why not just move in, you’re here everyday anyway?

tends to bottle things up, and if something is bothering him you will have to work it out of him slowly…but he’s trying, for you he’s trying.

his lock screen is a photo of you asleep against his chest, he just thought you looked so peaceful.

gets embarrassingly competitive in just dance, threw a Wii at Connie once because he made him lose a perfect score on timber.

finally, he loves stargazing, especially with you. He’ll take you out to a deserted street, a bag full of snacks and a joint as you both lay on the hood of his car, chatting about whatever comes to mind, and it’s at those moments, when his eyes focus on the slope of your nose and the shape of your mouth, that he feels a warmth inside him he’s never felt before. <3

[tightjeansjavi]

Slow Hands | Joel Miller x f! reader

Chapter 1 “Cuppa Love”

A/N: I breezed through this chapter in a matter of hours 🫠 I’m so beyond stoked for this little story and I hope it can end up providing all the soft Joel feels that we love ♡

~word count: 3.5k~

Summary: Joel Miller thinks that your coffee shop in Jackson is a bit too “frivolous” for his taste until Tommy tells him one day that it’s the best cup of coffee that he’ll ever have. Little does he know..he’s going to get more than just a cup of coffee when he finally meets you. You soon find out that the grumpy old man with a rambunctious teenager, is hiding sugar sweet softness under layers of hardness.

Warnings: some angst, Joel is struggling to adjust to living a domestic life, anxiety, feeling like an outcast, grumpy old man! Joel, shy! Joel, kinda mean! Joel, sunshine reader, flirting, fluff, awkward situations, reminiscing on the past, alluding to death/loss but no description, reader has no physical descriptions and is from Texas, reader has a nickname (beanie bc y’know coffee beans) no age gap, overall light chapter, vulgar language, +18 minors dni!

Joel Miller in your eyes was aloof, a tad bit on the grumpier side, never really smiling, always with a furrowed brow and a grunt under his breath. He was an old, grumpy man as Tommy Miller first described his older brother to you. That was the first time Joel Miller and his adopted kid, Ellie Williams rode into town one snowy afternoon.

You watched curiously from your coffee shop window at the sight of Tommy hugging his brother for his first time in years. It was a sight for sore eyes to say the least. By the time you gathered enough courage to introduce yourself, it was too late. Joel and Ellie were gone by the morning and you had missed your opportunity..or so you thought.

The following spring, Joel and Ellie had returned. From where? Well..that wasn’t disclosed to you. From spring to fall you’d catch Joel walking past your coffee shop every morning. His eyes would flit up to the old sign that swung calmly in a passing breeze. He’d shake his head, mutter under his breath before continuing down the street. You’d secretly hoped that he would stop in for a cup of coffee one of these days. Why? Well, you were curious. Curious about the old grumpy man that rarely shed a smile. You were curious on how he possibly took his coffee. (straight black) you imagined. No cream, or sugar as it didn’t seem like his cup of tea.

Presently, Joel was having a hard time adjusting to his new life. For over 20 years he was constantly living on the means to survive. There was no room for comfort or the little things in a post apocalyptic world; or so he had thought. Ellie was having a much smoother transition period into the domestic lifestyle. She was attending school now, working at the stables and she was making friends. Joel was happy for her, of course. After everything they had gone through together all he wanted was for his kid to be happy. Confusion would etch across his face anytime someone in town would smile in his direction or dare to even say good morning to him? He’d grunt out a goodmorning back followed by a painful forced smile.

Your little coffee shop in the middle of town absolutely plagued him. He’d walk by it every morning muttering under his breath about how frivolous your sign was. Cuppa Love how fucking cheesy was that? Not to mention, the sign above your shop had seen far better days, and the chipped wood, and peeling paint was grinding his gears to a painful level. Yet, despite the fresh and familiar scent of roasting coffee beans wafting through the cracked door, it was not enough to persuade him to take a peek inside.

Not yet at least.

“Have you met Beanie?” Tommy asked his brother in a casual conversation as they were riding back into town after being on patrol all morning.

“Who? N’What in the hell kinda name is that?” Joel gruffly asked as he looked over at his brother.

“She owns the ‘lil coffee shop tucked in the middle of town. She’s been here a few years, makes one mean cuppa joe. Honestly the best I’ve ever had since..well, you know.” He trailed off.

“That frivolous waste of space? Yeah, I walk past it every mornin.’ Doubt it’s the best cup of coffee you’ve ever had, Tommy. So, her name is Beanie? S’that like her nickname or somethin’?”

“It ain’t a waste of space! C’mon now. You gotta lighten up a little big brother. You don’t gotta be so up-tight all the goddamn time. How many times do I gotta say that you’n Ellie are safe. Y’know, I’ve had plenty of people come to me and say that you don’t even bother sayin’ goodmornin’ to them or nothin.’ There’s good people in this town, Joel. You can make friends if you—”

Joel cut him off with a low scoff under his breath. “Lighten up? I already told you, Tommy. It’s hard for me to go and adjust to..how I used to live because it ain’t even been all that long, and I still sleep with a goddamn shotgun under my bed, for Christ sakes. Sorry that your town folks don’t like the fact that I ain’t sayin’ goodmornin’ back. Didn’t realize it was such a crime.” He muttered the last bit with a heavy sigh.

Tommy reached his hand over and gently grasped his brother's shoulder, giving it a firm yet gentle squeeze. “Joel, I’m sorry if it’s comin’ across like I’m lecturin’ you or anythin’, it’s jus’ that I want you to feel comfortable n’happy here. I know that you and Ellie went through a lot, but there’s so many opportunities for you to start off fresh here, okay? Look, you don’t gotta go if you don’t want to, but just stop by Beanie’s shop and have a cup of coffee. I promise that you won’t regret it, and have I ever been wrong?”

Joel begrudgingly looked in his brother's direction. His brows furrowed, then softened as a sigh slipped past his parted lips. “I know you ain’t lecturin’ me. It’s just—it’s hard, Tommy. It’s hard tryin’ to jump into havin’ a normal life again. Ellie’s doin’ a hell of a lot better job than I am. Also think she may be avoidin’ me, but that’s a topic for another conversation. I guess there isn’t much harm n’me goin’ to this coffee shop. Can’t promise that I’m gonna like it.” His tone was softer now, nearly above a whisper because these were the genre of conversations that he dreaded having. Anything that had to do with feelings and emotions, Joel avoided like they were the plague. He had a hard enough time expressing himself as it is.

“I get it, Joel. Believe me. It took me months to not wake up on edge, to sleep without a rifle under my pillow. Maria was a big help of course, but I had to do a lot of growin’ on my own too. Baby steps, alright? You got me, Maria, and Ellie to help guide ya through this next chapter. You’re still my big brother after all.” He replied with a genuine smile smile on his face, one that had his eyes crinkle in the corners.

Joel found himself gently dropping his horse's reins around the withers before he was reaching over and pulling his brother into a one arm hug. “Yeah, you’re damn right that I’m your big brother, and you best not forget it.” Joel had cracked a hairline of a smile when Tommy had playfully pushed him away. “So, Beanie is uh..she’s nice I take it? Who the hell gave her that nickname?”

Tommy had an undeniable knowing smirk on his face as he lightly chuckled. “You’re lookin’ at him.” He stated proudly.

Joel rolled his eyes with an unenthusiastic shake of his head.

For the next week, Joel continued to stop right outside your shop’s door. He’d kick at the snow covered ground with the tip of his boot, look up directly at your sign, mutter under his breath and continue on his way. It wasn’t until one afternoon after coming back from patrol did Joel Miller finally make a proper appearance.

The bells that were tied to the side of the door jingled excitedly as Joel stepped inside. The first thing he noticed was the string lights glittering above and the rows and rows of handmade mugs just waiting for a customer to grab and cherish. The fire crackled calmly as Joel slipped his gloves off and nervously rubbed his hands together. “Uh—hello? Anyone in today?”

He thought about turning around and walking straight out the door until he heard the sounds of someone putzing around in the back area behind a curtain.

“Just a second honey and I’ll be right with ya!” You called from the back room. You had gotten yourself into quite a pickle with attempting to lift an god awful heavy bag of sugar onto the shelf above.

Honey?

Must be a southern thing. Was the first thing that popped into Joel’s head. Why else would you be calling a total stranger a pet name? Unless everyone around here had just truly gone completely soft in the head.

“Oh for fuck sakes! Who the hell decided that sugar was supposed to be THIS heavy!” You let out a frustrated grunt as the sack of sugar nearly tumbled out of your grip once more.

Joel raised a brow at the sound of your struggle. He glanced around, as if there was anyone else in your cozy little shop to help. He let out a frustrated sigh knowing that he was going to have to be the gentleman and help you out himself. “Y’need a hand back there? I got an extra pair.” No shit Sherlock.

“Congratulations.” You deadpanned.

Joel let out a quiet snort before stepping around the counter and pulled back the curtain to find your body nearly being crushed by the sack of sugar. Despite this, you had one hand outstretched in his direction for him to shake as your cheek was pressed against the burlap material. “Thank goodness someone decided to stroll in today. Pleased to meet you, I’m Beanie. Now, can you please give me a hand? You did say that you had an extra pair after all.”

Joel opted out on not shaking your hand. It wasn’t because he didn’t want to, it just looked like you were seconds from passing out and being murdered by a sack of sugar; so much for introductions.

The first thing you noticed about Joel Miller were his hands and how effortlessly he grasped the bag of sugar and lifted it onto the shelf above like it weighed nothing. You may, or may not have caught the way his broad muscles flexed from the motion, or the little stray curl that just simply wouldn’t stay put. He was handsome. Anyone with two working eyes could make that statement.

“Thank you kindly. Would have been an awful way to go..getting smothered by a sack of sugar was not on my bingo card for the afternoon.” You brightly smiled at your figurative savior.

Joel thought your smile was pretty. There was a certain lightness that was held within your eyes and—what? He just met you, and so far you were..quirky. As he nicely put it to his brother later that evening.

“S’no problem. I agree, it woulda been an awful fuckin’ way to go. It’s a miracle I was here to save ya.” He stifled a warm chuckle.

You wiped your hands along the colorful apron that you always wore as you ushered him back around the counter as you rested your elbows along the wooden surface. “So, coffees on the house just this once. Go on and grab any mug that you like honey, and then what’ll you be having?”

“Do you call all your customers honey?” He couldn’t help but ask as he observed the rows of handmade mugs dangling above him.

“Yeah! It’s kinda like my trademark. I’ve also found it makes people’s day around here when you call them something sweet. Y’know?”

“Ahh so it’s not just for your favorites or anythin’ like that?” He reached for the largest mug that had a brown tinted rim with an intricately painted owl on the front of the mug. Despite the size of the mug, Joel’s hands dwarfed it down immensely. His hands completely engulfed it as he set it along the counter.

“Everyone is worthy of a sweet nickname in my eyes. Oh, this is one of my favorites” You softly spoke as he set the mug down along the counter. “Forgot to mention that you’ll get to keep the mug as well. Just another token of kindness around here.”

Joel looked confused by your statement at first because well, he was still adjusting to strangers being kind for no other reason other than they just wanted to. “Well…wouldn’t you run out of ‘em?”

“No, you silly goose. I make them myself, and there’s plenty to go around I promise. I let all my customers take a mug home in hopes that they come back again for another cup of coffee whenever they’d like. They’re good conversation starters as well. Take this one for example, I painted this guy after seeing an owl in the stables one evening. He sat still for me the entire time, and it was almost as if he wanted me to paint him. Isn’t that so cool?”

“You make these yourself? Wow, you’re uh—you’re really talented, Beanie. I am quite fond of owls..that’s why I picked that one..” he nervously rubbed the back of his neck.

“Yeah, I make them all from scratch and then paint the details later. There’s one up there that I actually pressed flowers into the wet clay like a stencil and then painted in the petals and such after.”

“So, you’re like an artist then? I do a bit of wood workin’ myself. Ain’t all that good at it, but it’s a hobby that I guess I enjoy.” He wasn’t sure why he was finding it so easy to talk to you. The conversation just seemingly flowed between the two of you.

“Me? An artist? I suppose you could say that but I just do it for fun really..helps the time pass by and people seem to enjoy it so that’s just another bonus for me. I’m sure your wood sculptures are beautiful. It’s good to have a hobby like that.”

Joel nodded, clearing his throat. “Yeah, so uh—anyway I heard that this is the best..well, only place to get a cup of coffee in town. I’ve had a lot of coffee in my lifetime, so I am expectin’ the best. I’m a bit of a coffee snob, I'll admit it.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place because I am a bit of a coffee snob myself. So, what’ll you be having? I can make just about anything, which is pretty fucking incredible considering we’re living in a post apocalyptic world and all that. Least I can do is make a damn good cup of coffee.”

“As long as it’s better than that Starbucks crap that every goddamn person I knew used to eat up like it was fuckin’ gold or somethin.’” He chuckled. “Uh—just a latte would be good. I know, I don’t look like much of a latte man, but ya did say you could make jus’ about anythin’ so i’ll put that to the test.”

“I never understood the whole Starbucks hype myself. Not when there were perfectly good local coffee shops around but hey, to each their own right? Anyway, one latte coming right up!” You grabbed the mug from the counter gingerly before starting on his drink. He was of course naturally curious on where the hell you sourced your coffee beans. You must have been reading his mind or at that exact moment because you were answering his question before it ever left his brain.

“It’s amazing what you can find at old plant nurseries and greenhouses. You cannot believe the excitement on my face when I found a couple coffee plants at a nursery in Colorado. Maria lets me use part of the greenhouse for the plants and they surprisingly hold up pretty well in the winter.”

“Are you a mind reader now too?” He jokingly asked as he casually leaned against the countertop. “So, who gave you the nickname Beanie if you don’t mind me askin’? Does it stand for somethin’ or did it just stick?”

“Nah, I just have an incredible sense of intuition. Your brother Tommy so happened to have given me this nickname. It started off as the “latte girl” and then he started calling me Beanie because well, coffee beans. Then it just sorta stuck and now everyone that comes in here calls me that.”

“Ahh. Of course my brother gave you that nickname. Why am I not surprised? How long have you known him? I take it, you know who I am then? He’s got an awful big fuckin’ mouth that one.”

You had your back towards Joel as you were finishing up on his latte. Back before outbreak day, you owned a little coffee shop much like this one, in Austin Texas. The name of your shop was Cuppa Smiles, and it was like your baby. You were known for your cute little latte art that had your customers feeling extra special, even on the toughest days. Well, not every customer appreciated it…

“I’ve known your brother for a few years now Joel. I was found just on the outskirts of town in pretty rough shape. I thought I was toast when Tommy and Maria found me. Little did I know that I was about to be brought into this little slice of heaven. He actually told me a couple weeks ago that you’d probably be stopping in sometime. I’m glad that you did.” You had just finished your latte art that consisted of a heart with two eyes and a smiley face.

You presented the mug to him with a soft smile and as he looked down at the heart smiling up at him through a sea of cream colored foam, the realization suddenly dawned upon him that he had met you before. Back before the cordyceps took everything from him that he knew. Back before he slept with a rifle under his bed. Back before—

“You were the reason that I was always fuckin’ late to work!” He blurted out suddenly as if he was having an aha! Moment where the lightbulb was going off and yelling, ‘ding ding ding! We have a winner ladies and gentlemen!’

Confusion washed over your features at his sudden outburst as you looked between the mug and the broad man standing before you, trying to pinpoint if you had met Joel Miller before but how was that even possible…right?

“I’m..sorry? I don’t believe I understand what you’re talking about?” You looked at him as if he had suddenly sprouted five heads.

“I know you, I swear I know you because back in Austin there was this one fuckin’ barista that always was insisting on doin’ some silly little latte art on my coffee, and every goddamn time I was late to work, It was because of you!” He didn’t know whether to laugh or grow angry at his newfound realization. One thing was for sure, his mind was absolutely turned to dust.

You blinked and opened your mouth like a blubbering fish as Joel solidified the truth that you did in fact know one another in some capacity. You couldn’t help the feeling of your heart stinging a little at his comment about your silly latte art.

“Oh my god, you were that man always saying he was in a rush! I remember you’d fly into the shop with—”

“My daughter.” He finished the sentence for you with flushed cheeks that were rosy at the peaks of his cheekbones. His heart was nearly hammering out of his chest as the past he forced himself to let go of was suddenly coming rushing back to him.

“She liked the strawberry jelly filled donuts that we always had on display.” You tone lowered, sounding more like a soft whisper.

“She didn’t just like them, she loved those fuckin’ donuts.” His head dropped slightly as he took a deep breath. “M’sorry for yellin’ at you like that. It’s jus’ that you’re the first person I’m seein’ in over 20 years that’s from my past that isn’t my brother. It’s just—it’s a lot to process.”

“Joel, it’s okay. You don’t have to apologize for reacting like that, okay? It was a normal human response. You did look familiar but I didn’t put two and two together till you brought up the latte art. I’m sorry I made you late for work all those times. I guess I just never picked up just how much in a rush you were..”

He was looking up at you now through thick lashes and warm espresso colored eyes that seemed to have flecks of gold in them, depending on the light they were in. “S’okay. I kept comin’ back because the coffee was that good, and cause Sarah loved those donuts..she thought your latte art was anythin’ but silly.”

“Well, I hope this cup lives up to what Cuppa Smiles used to deliver.”

“There’s only one way to find out.” Joel remarked as he wrapped his hands around the steaming mug. He took a small sip and instantly felt like he was back at home in Texas. It was an early Sunday morning, the mourning dove cooed outside the billowing curtains, Sarah called for her dad downstairs in the kitchen, stating that breakfast was ready. His favorite mug, and babygirl were waiting for him in the warm early morning light.

“Holy shit. This is delicious! How the hell did you get it to taste so good?” Joel asked as he took another sip.

“It just takes a bit of sugar, and lots and lots of love.” You responded with a soft smile gracing your features.

Tag List: @cupofjoel @morning-star-joy @thetriumphantpanda @sinsofsummers @dinsdjrn @cavillscurls @kirsteng42 @korynnekorynne @yazsos @amanitacowboy @ilovepedro @pedrostories

Please comment if you’d like to be added to the tag-list! ♡

Chapter 2:

[sereh624]

redacted characters w kids 💥💥

not to be mistaken for dad!redactedboys

david :

gets clung to at every pack event. something about the nonchalant, reserved man with the cute partner who gives them candy is extremely alluring. he’ll be sat in a chair, arms crossed with a “😒” expression as he has like 4 toddlers screaming in his ears, pulling on his hair, little hands iron-clad around his arms.

asher :

is “the fun one”, but not in the way he would have liked. the pack children definitely bag on him (obviously lovingly), milo acting as their little (literally) leader. outside of the teasing, asher is truly well-loved amongst the children.

milo :

picks fights w the teenagers LMAO. he sees them like a different species; how could someone be so intelligent yet incapable of basic manners and maturity? it makes his head spin. at the end of every argument (which he inevitably loses, because he is arguing with pre-teens who don’t quite grasp his large words yet), milo will be rambling to sweetheart during the car ride home about how he was never like that (he most certainly was).

darlin :

unlike milo, they get along well with the teenagers. it's a mix of their relatability and strong sense of personal justice, which aligns closely with them. unfortunately, the curse of having an older southern partner is all too real, so their name in their phones in meemaw/peepaw. it made their eyes roll the first time they saw it.

sam :

while i don't think he'd be super popular amongst the pack kids, he'd definitely be a safe space for the quieter teens to hang around. sam doesn't speak to them unless spoken to, which they like. every pack gathering, sam will have like two teens glued to their phones just following him around, avoiding smalltalk.

porter :

idk this man's an enigma. he either hates kids or is really good with them (maybe both lmao). it's not often porter finds himself in an environment where there would be children, but in the off-chance that he does, i think they'd find him funny. his wit is great for all audiences, and he doesn't even have to try. or he pisses them off. again, probably both.

vincent :

good with kids in a big-brotherly way. i picture him (headcanon alert) as having had a sibling or atleast a younger friend before he was turned, which gives him this brotherly vibe. nice for the most part, but again, i don't imagine vincent would find himself in a place that involves kids. unless he like. hangs out near playgrounds at night now cause he isn't in the house 😭😭😭

gavin :

pretty good. gavin doesn't mind entertaining them for a while, but he finds his humour is better suited for adult audiences. he could listen to a kid ramble all day, (interested “hmm?”’s and “ohh, is that right?”’s are his specialty) but when it comes to making conversation himself AND cracking kid-friendly jokes? yeah he's lost. short-lived social battery.

@skunkox @vividmilk @definitelynuwonhere

hi evie yes u got added to the taglist no u wont be removed i lvoe you

ir’as 12a,wm ngoomdight

[forensic420]

MW2 Task Force 141+König Hyperrealistic HC’s ✰

Ghost

-Not as reserved as you think he’d be, he’s actually very talkative. Him and Soap’s comm dialogue is more then enough evidence to show that he enjoys a good conversation and even jokes.

-Does that soldier sleep position often x . He’s a light sleeper, always ready to defend. When comfortable you can find him mumbling in his sleep, usually soft “yes”’s and “no”’s.

-Doesn’t fully understand American culture, he’s very confused by common American delicacies. “Y/N, what the fuck is a bucee’s?” He’d ask with a stressed look.

-Avid user of the word “cunt”. Top three favorite words. Also loves saying, “cheers ya slag”, he thinks and waits for scenarios so he can use it.

Gaz

-Very passionate about the military and his career. Gaz as a child would attend parades only to see the soldiers and wait at the end of the parade to meet them, his room was also filled with military toys and articles.

-His main song he listens to is Red Nation by The Game and Lil Wayne, it’s one of the few songs he downloaded on a portable music player.

-Is always around Price no matter where. You can always find him in Price’s office just chatting away and discussing documents. The two are bonded and Gaz is grateful to have an “older” and experienced father figure.

-Enjoys quiet days at the base. He likes just being able to hang out and be around his friends and team, he’d go to great lengths for his fellow soldiers.

Soap

-Soap’s accent can be super thick at times, causing the team to not understand him at times. He doesn’t attempt to correct himself most times, just continuing to ramble and goes on with the conversation.

-Is terrified of Ronald Mcdonald. “He be too happy, y’know?” He’d claim and frown. BIG fan of Grimace and the Hamburgler though, often always commenting on his love for them when the team mentions fast food.

-Secret artist. Soap’s mystery talent is he’s very gifted in drawing, he keeps his sketch pads under his mattress. He’d never show anyone but he is engrossed in sketching the team. There’s pages full of Ghost, Price, and Gaz just doing common things like sitting in a meeting or having a conversation with another team member.

-Absolutely hates doing dishes. Whenever he’s on dish duty he always complains. “A'd ower die.” He’d say and convince Gaz to do it, with the agreement of him doing Gaz’s chores for a week.

Price

-Is always rambling to Gaz or Soap about old movies he loves and makes them watch it with him. It became a weekly occurrence to find Price with the team watching some old western or military film.

-Enjoys watching documentaries about ancient civilizations, his favorite is Mesopotamia and the Shang dynasty.

-Price is always making sure his team is feeling good, often spending an equal amount of alone time with each member to talk and company them. “How’re you feeling, son?” He’d ask with a gentle but firm hand on their shoulder.

-When Soap is rambling and his accent is completely drowning a coherent sentence Price just nods and hums to him. He never comments on it, even if he doesn’t fully understand what was said.

König

-Huge fan of Rammstein. His teenage room was covered in posters of them and other bands like Helloween. Even as a full grown man he is not afraid to admit his love for Till Lindemann.

-A firm believer of Krampus and is very passionate about the subject. “Mein Gott! Don’t you know Knecht Ruprecht will get you if you’re naughty?” He’d tease to his soldiers, always backing it up by saying he knew a kid who got whipped by him.

-Has catatonic tendencies, will frequently withdrawal and get irritable. He’ll stay in his room going rigid and stays stupor. At times no Kortac member will see him, always wandering around base to try to find him. Once he snaps out of it he’ll often not remember it. “Was meinst du?” He’d ask and furrow his eyebrows, talking about a past day mission as if it were yesterday.

-As a child he was always absorbed and immersed in his mother’s snow globe collection. Gripping onto the mantle he’d watch the faux snow twirl around in the liquid. Was always afraid that somehow the globes would miraculously all fall off the mantle and shatter onto the ground.

[stylesloveclub]

KARMA

In which y/n tends to make a lot of spontaneous decisions when she’s drunk, and Harry’s a tattoo artist. 

+++

On any average work day, Harry sees a lot of people come through his tattoo shop.

The majority of them are people who’ve gotten tattoos before – usually big burly men who come in to add a new tat to their sleeve, or teenage girls getting a secret butterfly on their side boob. There are the artsy people who come in for some detailed line work, and there are the silly drunk people who get a smiley face tattooed on their ass. Sometimes he’ll have someone come in for their first tattoo ever, shaking in their seat and tearing up before the tattoo gun even touches their skin.

Very rarely does he have someone come in for a piercing. But when they do, they’re usually older girls coming in for a helix or a belly button piercing. 

Not five year old girls, wearing sparkly pink shoes and a sunflower printed dress. 

“Hi!” Harry’s eyes flicker up to the lady standing behind the little kid. “Do you guys pierce ears here?”

“Erm… for her?” Harry says skeptically, pointing at the little girl. She can’t be older than five years old, standing with her thumb in her mouth and hiding behind the legs of the lady she’d come inside with. The lady seems young, probably the same age as him or a bit younger. He assumes the little girl must be her daughter. 

“Yup!” the mom exclaims (or maybe a nanny, or aunt… Harry doesn’t really know. Or care.) “We wanna get her ears pierced for her birthday!” She looks down at the little girl with a glimmer in her eyes. 

Harry contemplates saying no, he really does. He doesn’t like having kids in his shop— or anywhere near him if we’re being honest. They have snotty noses and sticky fingers and cry way too loud for him to be able to tolerate them. But this little girl seems relatively nice…  she’s been quiet so far, and her nose is clean. Plus, the shop’s not busy today. Even if she did start crying, she wouldn’t scare any customers away. So he decides to be nice – just this one time.

“Sure,” he sighs. “I can do her.” He decides to do it himself instead of assigning the job to one of his employees. He’s been here the longest and has the steadiest hands, so he can get this over with the quickest. 

He has the woman (y/n, he learns from the paperwork) sign a couple of papers, then has the two of them pick through the earring options that they have on display.

“Which one do you like the best, Lola?” Harry overhears her asking the little girl. Or– Lola, as he’s overheard. 

Lola, still sucking her thumb, points to a pair of heart-shaped pink studs. “Tha’ one,” she says through her stuffed mouth.

“Oh, the hearts are so pretty!” y/n says giddily. “Good choice sweetheart.” She looks up at Harry. “Could we get those ones, please?”

He nods, and makes note of it in their paperwork. 

“Follow me,” he says, leading them into the back room where he usually does the piercings. He motions towards a black, leather table that his clients usually sit or lay down on when getting their piercings done. The table is too tall for little Lola to climb onto all by herself, so y/n picks her up and plops her down on the seat. Her little sparkly shoes dangle from the edge, hanging two feet above the floor. 

Harry washes his hands and takes out his sterilized materials from the cabinet in the room, as well as the pair of pink earrings that Lola has requested. A pair of black gloves fit onto his hands tightly. He then sits on a little rolly stool and rolls over to where she’s sitting on the bench. 

“M’gonna disinfect your ears now,” he says to the little girl, tearing open a package of alcohol swabs. She just nods quietly, thumb in mouth. He can tell that Lola is nervous, her eyes wide and scared with her legs swinging nervously. She keeps looking over at y/n, who’s sitting on a chair right next to the table. 

“Are you excited Lola?” she asks enthusiastically, trying to hype the little girl up. 

It doesn’t work. Lola’s little eyes start to grow watery, her chin wobbling as she shakes her head no. “M’scared,” she whines, a frown taking over her face. 

Harry rolls away as soon as he sees the tears. Maybe this was a bad idea.

“Oh no, Lola!” she exclaims, squatting in the spot Harry had just been. She grabs Lola’s hands in hers and looks into the little girl’s tearful eyes. “Don’t be scared! We don’t have to pierce your ears if you don’t wanna baby.”

“But I do!” Lola whimpers. 

“Well then what’s the problem bubs?” she asks soothingly.

Lola looks at Harry, then leans over to (not so successfully) whisper in y/n’s ear. “He’s scary,” she says, the pout on her face only deepening. Y/n looks over at Harry helplessly.

Ah, yes. He supposes his all black clothes, tattooed arms, and black painted nails weren’t doing much to comfort the little girl… maybe he is a little scary.

“Hey,” he says rolling back to the table, his voice somewhat softer than the deep, grumpy rumble it had been before.  He’s gonna have to really up the niceness if he wants to get through the session smoothly. “Nothing to be scared of, little lady. It’ll just take a second and s’not even gonna hurt.” He gives a tight smile, the best he can muster up despite his apprehensiveness about talking to a kid on the verge of tears. 

“Y’hear that, bubs?” she reassures the little girl with a big smile on her face. She plays with Lola’s hands encouragingly. “Come one, you’re a big girl. You can do it!”

Lola sniffles deeply and wipes her eyes with her tiny fists. “M’a big girl,” she affirms with a confident nod. 

“Good girl!” y/n says, giving Lola a stellar high five. She gets up from where she’d been squatting and goes back to her seat, letting Harry roll back to where he’d previously been.

“I’m going to wipe your ears again, okay? We’ve gotta make sure they’re nice and clean.” Harry explains. He’s added a bit of an enthusiastic kick to his voice, really selling the “I’m not a big meanie!” vibe to Lola. She nods, a few leftover tears hanging onto her long eyelashes.

She winces when the cold wipe touches her earlobe, and Harry fears for his life. Was every little thing going to make this little girl cry? He decides to distract her. “How old are you, Lola?” He asks the first question that comes to mind. 

She holds up five fingers. “Wow! Five years old!” he bursts. “You’re a big girl!” 

That makes her smile and nod happily. Harry internally lets out a sigh of relief. He got a smile out of her, who would’ve thought! 

He takes a sterile pen and marks two dots on Lola’s earlobe for where the piercing would go. “What do you think?” he says, turning to y/n. She nods and holds up an excited thumbs up. 

“Okay, Lola,” Harry says nervously, pulling out the needle he’d be using to pierce her ear. He cleans it below the table so that the little girl doesn’t see it and start crying. “M’gonna need you to stay very still for this next part. Okay, sweetheart?” Lola agrees, but her composure falters when he brings the needle into view. “I know it’s a little scary, but I need you to be brave. Can you do that for me? Be a brave girl for me?”

She nods her head. “Brave,” she mumbles to herself. “Brave girl.”

He realizes that the clamps that he usually uses for piercing ears is too big for Lola’s small earlobes – but it’s okay. He’s done so many impromptu piercings that he has a shit ton of experience not using the proper equipment. Instead, he just holds the skin of her earlobe tightly and stretches it taut so that the needle would go in smoothly. 

“Okay Lola, take a deep breath in,” he instructs gently, piercing the needle through her skin in one smooth motion, “...and out.” He quickly follows through with the heart shaped studs and secures it with the backing. “You did it! One ear done!” 

She looks up at him confused. “That was it?” she asks, reaching her hand up to feel if the earring is actually there. 

Harry catches her little hand and brings it down to her lap before it makes contact with her piercing. “Ah, ah-” he tuts, “we can’t touch it okay? You gotta let it heal or else it’ll start to hurt.” He notices the way her little fingers wrap around his hand as he holds them still in her lap. “Are you ready to do the other ear?” he asks patiently.

She nods a bit more enthusiastically this time, no longer scared.

“Atta girl!” he exclaims, piercing the other ear in the same manner. He sanitizes her ears one last time and makes sure that everything is secure before holding up a mirror for the little girl to see her reflection in. “What do you think?”

Lola’s eyes go round, glimmering happily. “Pretty,” she says, looking at y/n for confirmation.

“So pretty, Lola!” she exclaims, standing up and pinching the little girl’s cheek. “M’so proud of you, you’re such a big girl! Thank you…” she looks at Harry, trailing off at the fact that she doesn’t know his name. 

“Harry,” he fills in for her. He rolls away from Lola and throws away the trash.

She smiles softly. “Thank you, Harry.” 

+++

It’s a quiet night at the tattoo shop, which Harry is thankful for. 

There’d been a few appointments earlier in the day, larger pieces that people had scheduled months in advance because they took a lot of consultations and took long chunks of time to tattoo – but there had barely been any walk-ins. It’s a Thursday night, so of course his business isn’t bustling the way it would be on a Saturday. 

Harry decides to start cleaning up – if he’s lucky, nobody else would venture in before their closing time and he’d be able to get home a bit early. (His little cat is waiting for him at home!) He wipes down the tattoo chairs and puts away all the needles, sweeps the floors and turns off the lights in the staff room in silence, until suddenly, he hears the bell above the door ring and someone clumsily stumbles in. It’s y/n. 

Harry looks at her. She looks at him. 

“Hi…?” Harry says, his voice a little doubting, a little bit confused. Why was she back? 

She stands in front of him nervously. “Um…” she’d stumbled into the tattoo shop with such confidence, but finds herself suddenly nervous and unable to speak under Harry’s intimidating gaze. “Hi.”

She won’t lie– she’s a little, teensy weensy bit drunk right now. She’d been at the bar across the street with a couple of her girlfriends, just hanging out and having fun, when she spilled to them about the hot tattoo artist who worked at the shop across the street. 

She’s had plenty of fleeting crushes in her life, but none have been as quick and captivating as her crush on Harry. With his deep voice, green eyes, and tan skin, he’s cast some sort of spell on her. She’d been in his presence for what… a total of 45 minutes? And yet she can’t get him off her mind!

He was just… really hot! And he had that sexy, mysterious vibe to him…. With all those tattoos and the rings and the black eyeliner… gosh he was straight out of some bad boy romance novel! If it weren’t for the fact that she’d been with her five-year old goddaughter when she met him for the first time, she’s sure she would’ve started acting up. He was just so attractive! 

In her tipsy state, with her cheeks warm and a fuzzy feeling in her chest, she couldn’t help but rant to her friends about it. She’d met the hottest guy ever, and she’d never have the chance to see him again! It was tragic!

Well… it doesn’t have to be that way, her friends told her. What was stopping her from heading over to the tattoo shop right now? 

No, she thought to herself. Going over to the tattoo shop, drunk, with absolutely nothing to say except Hi, I think you’re hot? She could never do that…

The vodka lemonade in her system said otherwise, though. That, along with all her friends who hyped her, had somehow managed to convince her to venture across the street and visit her dreamy tattoo man! 

So now she’s in his tattoo shop, with absolutely no idea of what to say or how to act. 

“How can I help you?” he asks after a tense second of silence. 

“Um…” she doesn’t really have a game plan, but she decides on the spot, “I want a piercing.” 

“A piercing?” he clarifies. She nods. “Okay… where?” 

She points to the shell of her ear. “You want a helix piercing?” he asks once more.

“Yeah,” she says confidently, accompanied by an eager nod of her head.

“Okay…” he mulls it over for a second. “Are you… y’know– like, in the right headspace to do this?” Something is telling him that she’s not completely sober, and he doesn’t want to do something that she’d regret. 

“Yeah, yeah!” She brushes it off nonchalantly,  “I only had like, one drink! And I’ve been meaning to get a piercing, especially after I came in here with Lola.” 

The first half of that was a lie– she had like, three drinks. But, it is true that she’d been thinking about getting her helix pierced for a while. She’d always thought they were cool, and had thought to herself that she’d like to get it done. She just never had taken any initiative on that thought… until right now, at least.

“If you say so…” He’s still a bit doubtful, but he supposes his slight suspicion isn’t enough of a reason to refuse service to her. 

He brings her the paperwork on a clipboard and gets all his required equipment out as she fills it out. “Which do you want?” he asks her, pointing to the wide variety of helix piercing options displayed. 

“Um…what do you recommend?” She’s normally much more prepared and would have done a bunch of research on what kind of jewelry would heal best or what type of metal was safest… but again, this decision was kind of made on a whim.

“I always tell clients to start off with a stud, and then if you want you can switch it out for a hoop once the piercing has healed.” 

“Yeah, that sounds good.” A pretty, butterfly shaped stud catches her eye. “Can I do that one, please?”

He nods. Grabbing his equipment, he decides that y/n is gonna be the last customer of the night, so he flips the sign on the front of the door to read closed, and leads her into the backroom, the same room where he’d pierced Lola’s ears.

“Where’s your daughter?” he asks, turning on the lights. Y/n follows behind him, and sits on the bench that he guides her towards. 

“Oh, she’s not mine!” “She’s not?” Harry had assumed that was her daughter with how close they were and how easily y/n comforted the little girl. 

“Lola’s my goddaughter!” she bubbles. “She’s at home with her parents right now. I just got to take her out this week for a little pre-birthday surprise.” 

“That’s cute,” he hums. With a pair of black gloves on his hands, he rips open the sanitizing pad and stands in front of y/n. The cool alcohol wipe feels refreshing against her ear, a striking contrast to how flushed her face feels. 

Harry’s eyes are dark and stern as he focuses on his job. His knuckles nudge her chin, angling her head in a way so he could clean the backs of her ears too. She’s looking up at him with wide eyes, captivated by his every movement. With how close he’s standing to her, she can feel his breaths against her cheek, see the sparks of gold embedded in his green irises. She can’t help herself from staring at his pretty pink lips, how they pout as he marks the spot he wants to pierce. 

Now, usually it makes Harry really uncomfortable when people stare at him while he’s doing their tattoo or giving a piercing. He’d rather they just close their eyes, or stare at the staring, anywhere else but at him! But with her… he doesn’t fully mind it. She’s kind of cute, he has to admit.

He holds up a mirror for her. “Look good?”

She nods. She barely looks into the mirror and doesn’t overthink the placement of it at all. Somehow, she trusts Harry wholeheartedly. 

He takes the needle out of its sterile packaging, and y/n eyes it nervously. “Do helix piercings… hurt a lot?” she asks with a timid voice. The sight of a needle coming towards her face has sobered her up quite a bit. 

“Not necessarily.” He notices her nervous eyes, “They obviously hurt more than a lobe piercing, since it’s cartilage, but s’only like a pinch.” 

She still looks frightened. “Can you, um– count?”

His eyes narrow slightly, and she feels like he’s judging her. But he agrees nonetheless. “Sure. Ready?” She nods her head as best as she can with her ear pinched between his fingers. “3…2…1.” She squeezes her eyes shut and takes a sharp breath as the needle pierces through her cartilage.

She exhales with a shaky breath. “Ow,” her eyes open, stinging with tears. 

He looks at her with a furrow in his brow. If she knew him better, she’d know that he’s concerned. But since they’re practically strangers, it just looks like he’s annoyed with her. “Did it hurt?” he asks.

“Little bit,” she mumbles. “I think it’s just the thought of a needle that’s making me a wuss. I’m not good with needles.” She sniffles a bit, but her tears aren’t heavy enough to fall from her lashes. 

“Well that was the hard part,” he says, somewhat reassuringly. He follows through with the butterfly shaped stud, and secures it in the back. 

He holds the mirror up for her once more, and she gazes at her own reflection in awe. “It’s so pretty,” she whispers. The butterfly glimmers prettily on her ear, the jewels that make up the wings shining under the white lighting. He sanitizes the piercing once more, then takes a step back.

“Make sure you avoid touching the piercing, ‘cos that’ll irritate it and also potentially infect it. Little bit of swelling and redness is fine for the first few days, but if it persists or gets infected then go to the doctors.” He takes his gloves off and throws his trash into the bin, then grabs a bottle of an aftercare solution, “Y’have to wash it 2-3 times a day for the next 3 weeks, then once a day after that. Don’t go swimming or submerge it under water, don’t pick at it or play with the piercing, avoid sleeping on it. And if you think anything is wrong then feel free to come back and we’ll check it out for you, yeah?” 

She nods her head diligently. “How long does it take to fully heal?” 

“Helix piercings take anywhere from six months to two years to fully heal. The better you take care of it, the better it’ll heal.”

Her eyes widen, “I didn’t know piercings took so much work.”

He eyes her curiously. “What made you decide to get pierced today if you didn’t know anything about it?”

“Oh, I was just… like in a fun mood,” she explains, avoiding the fact that the only reason she’d come in here was because she wanted to see him, the hot tattoo artist she’d been fantasizing about for the past week. “Me and my friends perform at the bar across the street every Thursday night, and we got some drinks afterwards and I just… decided to do it.” She smiles nervously.

“You perform?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah!” she bubbles excitedly. “I mean, I just play the keys, but my friend is a really good singer and it’s a lot of fun. S’right across the street, you should check it out one day!” 

He hums. “Maybe one day.” 

+++

Y/n didn’t really think much of it when she told Harry to come check out one of their performances. It just kind of… slipped out. 

She didn’t think he’d actually show up! In fact, she thought she’d totally fumbled with him! She just got a piercing from him, and that’s it. No phone numbers, no flirting, nothing.

But here he is, sitting at a bar waiting for her as she walks off stage. 

“Ruby,” she whispers to the lead singer of their band. “He’s here.”

“Who?” Ruby whispers back, looking around inconspicuously.

“The tattoo artist,” y/n says nervously. 

Ruby’s eyes widen. “Where?!” she gasps excitedly. 

“Long hair, sitting by the bar with a drink.” 

Ruby finds him easily, “Girl… he’s hot.” 

Y/n nods. “What do I do?” 

“Go talk to him, duh!” Ruby spares another glance towards Harry. “He’s looking at you. Go over there right now, or I’ll do it for you.” 

Y/n’s palms sweat and she looks at Ruby helplessly. She’s nervous! But Ruby just raises her eyebrow and gives her a look, one that tells her to suck it up and go flirt with her dream man. 

With a deep breath, she walks to the bar, eyes glued to the floor and desperately avoiding Harry’s eyes until she’s right in front of him. “Hi,” she says.

He takes a sip of his drink, some type of golden whiskey sitting in a crystal glass. His eyes glimmer with familiarity. “Hi.”

“You came,” she says, fingers twisting behind her back. 

“I did.” He flags the bartender down. “Are you drinking anything?” 

“Oh, um… just a strawberry marg.” She smiles to herself– he’s buying her a drink! That must mean something, right? “How much of the show did you see?”

“Just the end. Had to close up shop and all before I came.” 

She nods understandingly. “How, um… What did you think?” Her drink arrives and she takes a long, nervous sip.

“It was good. You were great up there.” 

Her cheeks grow warm and she hopes Harry can’t tell how happy that small comment made her. “Thanks,” she says with a soft smile. 

He takes another sip of his drink, and says nothing more. He’s got an intimidating demeanor, one that makes y/n shrink into herself, and yet she doesn’t want to leave his side. She’s attracted to him, obviously, but also intrigued. His mysterious ways have captured her attention, his quiet personality something y/n wants to unravel.

She coughs dryly, even though her throat doesn’t itch or anything, and awkwardly takes a sip of her drink. She wishes she had something to say to Harry, and wonders if she should just walk away to save herself from this painful silence. 

“Y/n!” One of her bandmates, Benji, somehow hears her prayers and wraps his arms around her shoulder. “Killed it on the keys tonight! So groovy babe, you’re amazing.”

“Thanks Benji,” she mumbles, her face heating at the extravagant attention he’s drawn to them. Harry observes her quietly, not even acknowledging Benji’s presence – just watching her. He takes another long, quiet sip of his drink. 

“This a friend of yours?” Benji asks, nodding towards Harry. His arms are still wrapped around her shoulders, his hands rubbing up and down her arm warmly. She can feel Harry eyeing the contact.

She clears her throat. “Yeah, this is Harry. He tattoos at the shop across the street.”

“Oh, sick! Nice to meet you man.”

Harry tips his drink in acknowledgement, but still says nothing. 

“Listen– me, Ruby, and Char are heading to Nora’s apartment in like, thirty minutes. You wanna come with? You can ride with me.”

Y/n glances at Harry, but he’s looking down at his drink, swirling it softly. The ice clinks in his glass softly, somehow standing out to y/n’s ear despite how loud the bar is. “Um, I’ll let you know, okay? I’ll text.” Benji pats her arm with an affirming nod, and heads back to his table where the rest of their friends are sitting. 

“S’that your boyfriend?” Harry says, finally looking up. His brows are furrowed, as usual, and his green eyes stare at her intensely. 

“Oh, Benji?” she laughs. “No way. He’s dating Nora.”

He hums. “No boyfriend at all, then?” 

She shakes her head softly, “No boyfriend.”

“Good,” he says, setting his glass down. “Would suck if I was trying to hook up with a girl who’s taken.”

Pause. 

 “You– what?” Her heart stutters in her chest, and she forgets how to breathe. “You want… with me?” 

He sets the drink down and stands from his stool, towering over her. Looking at her with those intense, green eyes, he unabashedly glances down at her lips. “What are you doing after this?”

“Um.” Benji’s invitation flashes through the forefront of her mind. Her eyes flicker between his nervously, looking for any signs that he might be messing with her. He’s dead serious. “Nothing.”

“I live just a little bit away. Do you want to come to mine?” 

“To yours? To um– like, you know…” her brain is going haywire and she can’t get a proper sentence out. “Like to… hook up?”

He nods, eyes hard but honest. “Would you want that?”

“Yeah!” She realizes how eager she sounds, and tones it down. “I mean, yes. I’d want that. I would want to go to yours and would like to, um… you know. I would wanna…” She stumbles over her words, struggling to formulate her thoughts into coherent words. She shakes her head and looks at the ground shyly, embarrassed that she can’t get it out.

Harry steps forward, lifts her chin, and gives her a kiss – mostly to shut her up, but also to test the waters, see if the chemistry is there. Her eyes flutter shut, her hands lifting softly with the intention of grabbing onto his arms, but too shy to actually touch him, so they just hang in the air between them. Harry, on the other hand, cups her jaw with the hand that he’d use to tilt her chin upwards, while the other hand rests on her hip. He puckers his lips softly against hers, sucking her bottom lip gently. 

His grip on her hip tightens as they kiss, and she relaxes into his touch. The whirlwind of thoughts disappears in the kiss, the anxiety of trying to speak with him and knowing how and where to touch him vanishes in seconds. Her hands finally feel comfortable enough to touch him, resting gently on his chest, fingers grabbing onto his shirt unconsciously. He pulls away with a soft click. When her eyes gently flutter open, glazed over with puppy-like eagerness, he confirms to himself that the chemistry is definitely there.

“Ready to go, then?”

+++

Harry’s apartment is oddly nothing like y/n expected. 

From his rugged exterior, you’d think his home would be dark and grungy, like himself. But he lives in a cute apartment, quaint and cozy. The building is in a nice area, with an apparently new lock and intercom system that y/n envies (getting into her building is a hassle – her key always gets stuck and she’s always getting calls from people who want the person in room 316. She lives in 318!). He keys them in with a small fob attached to a key chain, and she follows him through the lobby, up the elevator, down the hallway, and into his apartment.

A sweet little white cat with pretty blue eyes sits in front of the door as they walk in. She meows up at Harry, and tangles herself between his legs, her fluffy tail twirling behind her softly. “You don’t mind cats or anything, do you?” Harry asks.

“No, not at all!”

“This is Dandie,” he murmurs. Harry picks the cat up into his arms, his tattooed arms striking against her delicate white fur. “It’s short for dandelion.” 

“How sweet,” y/n coos, stepping forward. She tries to give Dandie a scratch on the head, but the cat flinches her head away, meowing grumpily. Y/n pouts. 

“Takes a while for her to warm up to people,” Harry explains. “Don’t take it personally.” 

He sets Dandie down, letting her prance away as she pleases while he leads y/n further into his apartment. It’s homey and comfortable, clearly lived in. Harry has dark, espresso colored shelves lined with books and little trinkets, souvenirs and little decorations that you’d find in antique shops. A sage green couch with a chunky knit white blanket draped on top sits in the center of his living room, matching the fluffy white rug that lays under his coffee table. A half full mug of tea sits on a coaster on top of the glass table. It faces the wall with a large television attached to it. 

Underneath the television is a short stand that has a record player sitting on top of it– a fancy one, she might add – with built-in shelves that store all of his records. She wanders towards them, straying away from Harry, who’s gone to the kitchen to set out some food for Dandie. There must be a hundred of them, she thinks to herself, most of them old artists that she’s never heard of. 

He startles her when he walks back into the room, snapping her out of her curious exploration of his home. “Put some food out so Dandie won’t bother us,” he says. Y/n nods, looking at Harry shyly. She’s not very well-versed in this whole… one night stand stuff, and doesn’t really know what to do, so she stands there nervously as he comes closer. She knows that the whole reason she’s here is to hook up with Harry, but she has no idea how to initiate it. She’s not some sexy vixen who knows how to seduce a man – she’s a nervous and clumsy girl who doesn’t know where to put her hands when she kisses someone!

It’s a miracle that she’s managed to somehow capture Harry’s attention, despite the fact that she constantly stumbles over her words and barely knows how to act around him. He’s just like… scarily intimidating! 

Lucky for her, he takes the lead and initiates the contact so that y/n can stop wracking her head over how to relieve the tension between them. He stands in front of her and cups a hand under her jaw, his fingers sliding into her hair.  Although his brows are still furrowed, his eyes are somewhat softer as he looks down at her, flickering between her eyes, then down to her lips. 

Did you want to put a record on?” He asks, eyes still fixated on her lips. 

Her breath hitches in her throat, and her tongue darts out to lick her dry lips. “Can I?” she responds gently. 

He gives an affirming hum, his dark eyes darting back up to hers, searching them intently. His pupils have dilated, his bright green irises now a deeper, forest green. “Anything in particular you wanna listen to?”  

“Um…” she pulls away from and bends down to the height of the shelf to look at his selection. She sees Billy Joel, The White Stripes, The Cranberries… all music that she never really listens to. Oldies aren’t necessarily her taste, she’s more of a Taylor Swift gal. The only artist she recognizes is Fleetwood Mac, which he has a whole selection of. She plays it safe and goes with a vinyl of their “Top Hits,” delicately removing the record from the shelf and standing up with it. 

She’s nervous about setting the record up (it seems like Harry’s a big record guy and she doesn’t want to scratch the vinyl or break the spinner or anything like that), so she gives the record to Harry, who stands closely behind her. With his chest pressed to her back, he wraps his arms around her and takes the vinyl out of her hands, easily taking it out of its case and placing it on the spinner. His soft, warm breaths tickle the back of her neck, and she wonders if she imagined the feeling of his lips skimming her shoulder. 

Delicately, he places the needle on the record and it starts spinning, a warm static noise playing before it fades into the strong piano of the first song. His hands now rest on her hips, large and warm and gentle, and this time she knows that she’s not imagining him pressing kisses along her shoulder, and up to her neck. Goosebumps trail down her spine, and she closes her eyes, subtly tilting her head to the side to give him more access. When his kisses reach the base of her neck, he sucks lightly – not enough to leave a permanent mark, but just enough to make her core pulse and the skin there throb.

His hands trail up her sides, twisting her around slowly so that she’s facing him again. She follows him easily, moony eyes staring up at him in anticipation of his next move. 

He finally leans in for a kiss. Y/n reciprocates eagerly, leaning up to kiss him back. Her eyes shut delicately, ready to fully relax into the kiss –  but he pulls away before she has the chance to fully appreciate the way his lips feel against her. 

Her eyes open and she looks up at him with a pout, concerned and a bit scared about why he might’ve pulled away so soon. He grabs her hands, which had been awkwardly hanging by her sides, and wraps them around his shoulders. 

She feels much more comfortable this way, relieved that Harry has taken the burden of figuring out what to do with her hands away from her. Then he leans down to kiss her again, and she lets him take control.

His blunt, black painted fingernails scratch softly against her scalp as his fingers curl in her hair, holding her steady so that he can kiss her as he pleases. His other hand holds onto her waist, palm resting over her clothes while his thumb sneaks under her shirt to tenderly tease her warm skin. Her stomach jolts at his light touch. Their lips fold over each other perfectly, linking and unlinking in a slow, sultry, continuous kiss. She doesn’t realize that she’s craning her neck upwards trying to get closer and closer to him as they kiss, or that her fingers are unconsciously gripping onto the back of his shirt.

Harry takes a step forward, never breaking their kiss, inching y/n backwards until she’s pressed against the wall. The hand that had been cradling her jaw slides down her neck, then over her shoulder, then presses against the wall to support his weight as he leans over her. His neck bends downwards to reach y/n’s lips so that she doesn’t have to keep getting up on her tippy toes. With a hand on her lower back, he presses her against him, her back arching so that her stomach is pressed against his firm abdomen. 

Although the sexual tension between Harry and y/n had been there since the moment they kissed in the bar, it had been a bit muted. Her anxiety over not embarrassing herself and figuring out how to initiate anything with him had muffled any of her desires, and distracted her from noticing the way Harry was eyeing her hungrily. Now that they’re kissing though, with their bodies pressed together and their hands roaming over each other, the tension is bursting. Y/n feels the heat in her core spreading all over her body, a desperate whimper growing in her chest and spilling out into Harry’s mouth. 

Here she was, kissing the hot tattoo artist that she’d been dreaming about all week, with his firm chest pressed against hers, his thick fingers tangled in her hair, and his pretty pink lips on her mouth. It made her head spin with excitement. She’s no longer embarrassed in communicating her eagerness, whimpering and pressing herself into him even more. 

Harry untangles his lips from hers and buries his face into her neck, kissing her there. She arches her head backwards, letting it knock against the wall to bare the skin of her throat to him. Her fingers untangle from the back of his shirt, only to tangle into his hair, long curly tendrils that she softly grasps as he kisses and sucks at the thin skin of her throat. Harry’s lips are soft and skilled, suckling gently at her most tender spots and breathing warm air over them to make her shiver. She moans softly, and not so subtly presses her hips into his center.

His hands roam her body, going from holding onto her hips, to grazing her ribs, then back down to skim over her ass. His palms feel warm, burning her skin through her clothes as he grips her thighs and lifts her into the air. With his hand under her thighs, her legs wrapped around his waist, and his hips pressing her into the wall, he somehow effortlessly picked her up.

The firm bulge confined in his black jeans presses deliciously against her soft heat, and she rolls her hips forward. With her fingers tangled in his roots, she guides his face back to hers so that she can start kissing him once more, feel his soft lips slick against hers and his warm breath against her face. 

In a spur of the moment decision, Harry tightens his grip on her thighs and pulls her off the wall, carrying her over to the green couch in the center of the room. Laying her down gently, he  breaks their kiss to kneel down on the floor next to her. She props herself up on her elbows and stares down at him with lust-blown eyes and swollen lips, breathing heavily as he teases the button of her denim jeans. 

“Off?” he asks, and she nods eagerly, letting him unbutton, unzip, and undress her without hesitation. She’s left in her plain underwear, which he also peels off, leaving him face to face with her soft folds. His hands find her knees, and she watches him spread her legs open, her pretty pussy blooming like a spring flower.

Harry bites his lip, eyes unblinking and fixated on her center as he inches closer and closer. When she feels his warm breath against her center, she shudders, a warm rush spreading from her core, all the way up her spine. Her breathing visibility quickens, chest rising and falling noticeably enough for Harry to finally look away from her pussy and flicker his eyes up to her. 

“Alright?” he murmurs, warm hands resting soothingly on her thighs. He’s a man of few words, yet he still manages to check in with her.

“Yeah,” she breathes shakily. 

Without saying anything else, he leans in and licks a bold stripe up her center. His tongue dips between her folds, spit mixing with the slick that had gathered there since he first kissed her at the bar. She whines and bucks her hips upwards as soon as he makes contact with her, shutting her eyes when he starts to swirl his tongue round her clit. He makes no noise, face stoic save for the furrow in his brow showing his sheer concentration. 

Pink lips wrap around her clit, sucking lightly and sending a shock throughout her entire body. When she wriggles around, he holds her hips still, his thick fingers pressing firmly into her plushy skin. Her hand shoots down to grip at the edge of his couch, holding herself steady as quiet whimpers escape her throat. She doesn’t want to embarrass herself by moaning obnoxiously, biting her lips to keep her noises in, but Harry’s making it really hard for her with the way he’s sucking her clit. 

When he slides a finger into her pussy, any shame or embarrassment flies out the window. A loud cry escapes her, and she feels herself practically sucking his finger in, eager to finally have something penetrating her. Harry pulls off her clit with a pop and watches his finger disappear into her heat, biting his lip at how warm and tight she feels. He nearly groans out imagining how amazing she’d feel wrapped around his cock. 

Slipping another finger in next to the first, he curls his fingers up and searches for that plushy spot on her front wall. Honestly, just having his fingers inside of her is enough to have her squirming, but when he finds her special spot, she feels her fingers go numb and her lip nearly bursts from how hard she bites down on it. 

He smiles to himself when she clenches around his fingers, a subtle confirmation that he’d indeed found her g-spot and was rubbing his fingers against it in the right way. And if she’s being honest… that smile alone could’ve made her cum. A self assured, cocky smirk, with a dimple piercing his cheek and a smug glimmer in his eye. It makes her head spin, having someone so attractive sitting between her thighs. 

When he leans back down to suck her clit, combined with the feeling of his fingers curling into that plushy spot, a familiar ringing starts in her ears. Before she knows it, she’s cumming around Harry’s fingers, clenching and whining and throwing her head back as pleasure overtakes her body.

It’d been so long since she’d come at the hands of someone other than herself, nevertheless someone as good as Harry. She’d given up on hookup culture and one night stands long ago, opting for her trusty Urban Outfitters vibrator over fake orgasms, and had nearly forgotten how good it felt letting someone else do all the work. How nice it felt to have broad hands skimming over your legs as you cum, or having someone’s lips teasing your skin as you come down from your high. 

Her heart beats sporadically as she calms down, regaining her vision and blinking open her eyes to see Harry kissing her inner thighs. His fingers slip out of her pussy gently, slicked in a glossy layer of her cum, which he licks off casually. Y/n nearly cums again just from seeing that. 

He pushes himself up from the ground to stand. “Up for more?” he asks, pressing down on the bulge in his jeans. Nodding, she sits up on the couch so that she’s face to face with his cock, and undoes the button of his tight, black jeans. She yanks them down to his knees, revealing a pair of black Calvin Kleins, and a large tiger tattoo on his thigh. Momentarily, she gets distracted, tracing the sharp inked teeth of the tiger, feeling the firm muscle of his thigh. But then he palms himself through his briefs, and she remembers the mission she’s on. 

Pulling those down as well, his cock bobs up in front of her face, pink and ruddy tip hypnotizing her as it sways up and down, finally free of its confines. She’s ready to return the favor, licking her lips and eager to get her lips around his cock – not only because she feels obligated to suck him off since he ate her out, but also because his cock is pretty. It’s thick and hard, with veins running up the sides, and he looks clean and well groomed. Her mouth waters, and she wants him in her mouth. But, before she can even lick the tip, he wraps his own fist around it, tilting it away from her mouth. 

Her eyes flicker up from his cock to his face, an upset furrow in her brow, but Harry disregards it. “How do you want it?” he asks instead, too impatient to get sucked off. He’s been dreaming of her warm cunt ever since she came around his fingers.

She says nothing, instead grabbing his hips and pulling him down to sit next to her on the couch. His cock bobs heavily between the two of them as she straddles him, her knees encasing his thick, muscled thighs. “Um… do you– condom?” she asks breathlessly. He wriggles a hand into the back pocket of his pants, which hang around his knees carelessly, and pops a trojan out. 

Ripping the foil with his teeth, he sheaths it onto his cock in less than a minute. Y/n lifts herself up on her knees, lines him up with her pussy, and sinks down gently. With her on top, she sets a slow, easy pace for herself, taking her time as she presses down. He fills her up, inch by inch, stretching her to the brim, and she loves it.

Harry spreads his arms on the back of the couch, casually watching as she lowers himself on his cock. She’s warm and wet and so fucking tight… he throws his head back in ecstacy, relieved to finally have his cock snugly inside of her. Her hands reach backwards to hold onto his knees, lifting herself up and down, angling in a way so that his cockhead rubs against her g-spot everytime she grinds down. 

With his lip between his teeth, his bright green eyes stare as she starts bouncing faster. He reaches a hand out to hold onto her hip, his palm smoothing over her soft skin and guiding her as she lifts herself on his cock. He makes no noises, but he breathes deeply through his nose and watches her with lust-blown pupils, eyelids heavy as if he were drunk. 

Y/n on the other hand, whimpers with every swivel of her hips, cheeks flushed and chest bursting. She’s doing her damn best but being on top is hard! The burning in her thighs is lowkey making her regret climbing onto his lap instead of letting him have his way with her, but just as she’s about to start cramping up, Harry’s other hand leaves the couch to grip her hip. With both hands burning on her hipbones, he helps her bounce up and down on his cock.

She relaxes now, his strong hands helping her immensely and letting her start focusing on the burning orgasm bubbling in the pit of her stomach. She falls forward, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pressing her chest against his, whining into his ear when his cockhead kisses her g-spot each time he pulls her down. He grunts quietly when her fingernails dig into the muscles of his shoulders, and whispers a quiet praise in her ear. 

“Yeah, that’s good,” he murmurs with a low voice – that sends her over the edge. She clenches around his thick length, squeezing her thighs tightly around his hips as she lets out a choked moan, a quiet ohmygod escaping her through her orgasm.

She flutters around his cock the same way she’d done around his fingers and his vision goes white, throwing his head back on the couch and letting his eyes blink shut in bliss. A lazy smile overtakes his face as her pussy milks his cock, and he releases in long warm spurts into the condom. 

She breathes heavily in his lap, arms wrapped around his neck and holding on for dear life, while Harry sits there casually, blissed out and fully content. His hands rub over the skin of her bare thighs gently, thumbs tracing soft circles as her shaky breaths start to even out. She pulls her face out of his neck, and looks down at him with blown out eyes and hot cheeks.

“Good?” he asks with a cocky smirk, the cutest dimple in his cheek.

She nods breathlessly, fluttering her eyes unbelievingly. “Wow,” is all she can say. Harry chuckles cutely.

He’s still fitted snugly inside of her, so she lifts herself off his cock, hissing at the feeling of being empty after he filled her up so well. Harry takes the sloppy condom off of his prick and ties it off, standing up when y/n shuffles off of his lap to throw it out in the kitchen.

When he walks back in, cock bare and swinging about, y/n is getting herself dressed and ready to go. If there’s anything she hates more than the awkwardness that comes before hooking up with someone for the first time, it’s the awkwardness that comes after you actually have sex. She always felt insecure, extra vulnerable, and a little bit nervous… and she never knew what to do with herself. So even though she could really go for a cuddle or something right now, she gets herself dressed and ready to head home. That’s what you do after a one night stand, right? 

Harry seems a lot more… relaxed than she’d expected, though. She was worried he’d be rushing her out of his house, ordering her a taxi and getting dressed as soon as they were done. But no, he casually slides his black Calvin Kleins up his legs, kicking his black jeans onto the floor with no second thought. He sits himself on the couch, and opens up a water bottle. 

“Brought you some water,” he says casually, nodding towards the bottle he’d brought from the kitchen after he’d thrown the condom out. 

“...thanks,” she says, picking up the water and cautiously sitting back down next to him. She cracks the seal open and takes a small sip. Harry chugs half the bottle down, then throws it onto the coffee table. 

“Whereabouts do you live?” he then asks, throwing an arm on the back of the couch.

“Um… about 10 minutes from the tattoo shop. East side of town, in the apartment complex near the port.”

“Oh so you’re not too far,” he murmurs thoughtfully, and she shakes her head in confirmation. “That’s perfect.” He searches around himself for a minute before he finds his phone, face down on the side table, and passes it to y/n. “Why don’t you put your number in then, and we can do this again?” 

She grabs his phone a bit dazed, “you wanna hook up again?”

“Err, yeah?” he says dumbly. “Only if you want to, though.”

Her heart flutters giddily – so this wasn’t goodbye! She’s really winning the jackpot, and she wonders what she’s done to get this much good karma. First she got to hook up with the hot tattoo artist, and now he wants to turn it into a fling? “Yeah… yeah sounds good.” 

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THE REST OF TATTOORRY IS PATREON EXCLUSIVE!!! PART TWO IS ALREADY OUT ON PATREON!!!!! THANK U FOR READING!!!