yournameyn

[yournameyn]

Posting a mini-fic or a ficlet if you will… maybe a flicker(??!!!) Clearly the Pervert in my brain is still very much alive.

Anyway this one is about a very specific need that (I feel) all of us have. To be seen, to be watched, even. Alas this doesn’t have any smut BUT it’s not kid-safe either so if you’re under 18 please do not interact with the post!

Title: My Magical Pervert

Genre: Idiots to Lovers (of sorts) with a bit of Brother’s Friend

Pairing: Namjoon x YN

Tags: The story shifts back and forth in time (over a six-ish weeks?), its very pro body autonomy, pro feminist, whip-smart and opinionated YN is also hella awkward.

Summary: YN is terrified. Scandalised. Petrified. For someone who is so intelligent she certainly has been really really dumb lately. But what’s the thing that she did that’s making her feel like being swallowed by Mother Earth as the less-painful option? Her brother’s friend, Kim Namjoon, was her childhood crush but neither of them are kids now. What’s Namjoon going to think of her?! Is Namjoon going to see her (really see HER) in a different light forever?!

Okay here we go -

My Magical Pervert

Now -

It’s well past midnight but you can’t sleep. Of course you can't, there’s a storm raging inside you. You’re excited, aroused and also feeling shy and intensely ashamed. There’s so many emotions, you feel like you’re going to explode. Squirming inside your comforter, you think: What the fuuuuck?! What was I thinking?! Ah, what, why did that feel so good?! NO. Stop it. Fuck, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!

A Few Weeks Ago -

At first you were pissed with Rihaan - your elder brother - talking about YOUR problems with other people. You even thought how well on their way to being uncles this group of asian guys are - talking about your education! You kept that snappy comment to yourself. You needed the help. This liberal arts degree seemed to be slipping out of your hands. And in your over-ambitiousness, you’d chosen a near-impossible topic - *Feminism & Moral Dichotomy*. Why?! Did you even know what moral dichotomy really meant?! This friend of your brother’s heard about the trouble you were having & he volunteered to help. You had to accept. But Rihaan giving you this news had riled you up. You mentally noted it took literally nothing to get you annoyed or irritated these days. And then, you felt a sudden wave of softness when you’d heard which friend had offered to tutor you - Kim Namjoon.

Kim Namjoon was the same age as your brother - only three years older than you. And yet he was always miles ahead than the rest of the group in terms of emotional maturity. He’d been the one to change the topic when Rihaan & friends would begin teasing you about becoming a college girl. He’d been coming to your house since you were a teenager. You’d always had a soft corner for him. Since the very first time, something about him made you a bit extra welcoming, a little less guarded. He was really well-mannered, soft-spoken and an avid reader, like you! It didn’t help that he was also gorgeous.

Rihaan interrupted your thoughts, ‘I’ve given him your number, he’ll text you.’

Right.

You told yourself firmly to concentrate more on your paper than your childhood crush. It wasn’t even a crush, really, more of a crush-let. Tiny, inconsequential. So you tried to convince yourself while waiting for Namjoon’s text about the details of your tutoring session.

When it was finally time for your first meeting, you almost lost your mind when Namjoon opened the door to his apartment. You saw just how much Namjoon had changed over the past year. He was decidedly not the awkward tall teenager any more. Here was a man, a full grown man with wide shoulders and a chest that made you want to drop everything & snuggle him like it was the end of the world. He was wearing an olive green tee which looked great with his brown hair & eyes. You couldn’t help thinking - “I want to climb that tree.”

“Which tree?” Namjoon asked. You had blurted that. Out loud.

“The... one that’s… never mind. My mom made you that kheer you really like.” Handing him the container.

“Do you want kimchi or japchae - I know she’s gonna want the tupperware back.” he said, knowing your mom - maybe all moms - all too well. You chuckled weakly, nodded your head to say anything is fine as you look at him going back into the kitchen in the loose grey sweatpants that give a glimpse of how his ass might - Okay! No… You’d stopped yourself. You’re here to study. You distract yourself with a series of small slaps on your face and look around the room.

The bookshelf in the living room did derail your idiotic thoughts and you were instantly drawn to it. While looking at the titles & making mental notes of those you haven’t read, you absentmindedly took off your jacket - it felt weirdly hot suddenly, especially your ears. Why did your ears feel hot?

“I’m sure you’ve read most of them.” Back in the room, Namjoon made you understand why. “I’ve read some, not most… It’s a really good collection you’ve got here.” you say even though he’s right & you have read most of the books on here. You don’t really know how to be humble about things like that so you’re a bit awkward instead. Namjoon catches on in a second, “Come on, I thought you'd be giving me recommendations by now. You’re the only proper bibliophile I know.” Why did that word sound so sexy suddenly. You didn’t realise it but your hands were balled up in fists. Changing the topic, you said - “Where should... we... sit?” Namjoon pointed to the sofa set you were leaning on & you felt like a total idiot.

You began explaining the concept of your final paper to Namjoon & he listened intently. Thankfully, once you start talking about feminism and the double standards that society at large apply to feminists it’s hard to get you to stop ranting. You explained how you want to talk about the whole madonna-whore complex that’s such a big part of the social psyche in general. You spoke about the criticisms women get for wearing what they want to or doing “immoral” things like having an onlyfans or camming and stuff. About how you know what the conclusion of the paper is going to be - that each person gets to decide what feminism is for them & that the questioning of the self is an ongoing process that need not be hindered by the pressure of PERFORMING feminism.

Namjoon is listening at you intently but you can tell he’s sort of fading out. You say, “I’m sorry, I get carried away talking about this.” He seemed to snap back to reality. “Um… no I get it… it’s an important topic. And you’re passionate about it. That’s really important.” You nod, waiting for him to continue. When he doesn’t you ask, “Do you have any notes?” That’s when you notice something. Namjoon seems a little nervous. It’s almost like he’s trying to distract himself by looking anywhere except toward you. You check if you haven’t spilled the kheer or something on your tee - you haven’t - but you do feel his gaze there… on your tee? At first you don’t understand and then all of a sudden you remember that, like Namjoon, you’ve changed too.

You used to be the reader in the corner of the party. Now, you’re the curvy reader in the corner of the party. You were used to men staring at your chest while they were trying to talk to you but Namjoon glancing at your bosom, it hit differently. He didn’t seem to be fully conscious about it and kept looking away - which you didn’t like. So you pretended not to notice. And he relaxed into looking at you. It was all a small minute but at this point you understood just how relative time is.

You’d almost begun to blush when Namjoon finally caught a hold of his point - “I get that what you’re trying to say is important to you. Still, it’s a little all over the place - you need to define your topic more.” You thought about it and agreed - this was perhaps why you weren’t able to write anything beyond the introduction. Namjoon continued, “You need to focus on something, something that speaks to the hypocrisy you want to talk about, an incident or something that captures the… moral dichotomy. Start off with a generic introduction and go on to this subtopic - make that the keystone of your paper. So you don’t get distracted.”

You swooned internally - ‘oh my god he’s sooooo smart’ but it must have seemed like you were contemplating his note. Namjoon added, “it’s of course really interesting and essential… it’s a great choice. Just maybe make it more… um…” You were still thinking more about that glance, about him being so close to you, to your body & all the layers of clothing between the two of you - that’s when you stumbled on the perfect word- “accessible?”. Namjoon smiled nervously at that. “Yeah… exactly.”

You talked for some more time and kept noticing Namjoon glance at you, when he thought you weren’t looking. Weirdly enough, this gave you an idea - “Camgirls!” You said. Namjoon was confused. You explained - “You know… girls who do live-cams for an audience-” He nods with a blush, “I know… I mean… I know the concept of camgirls.” You smiled as you went on - “they could be the focus of the paper! Did you know most Camgirls ARENT a part of the porn industry but rather upper middle class females who don’t even really need a subsidiary income?! This is something they like to do… it would be amazing to think about why…And think about how the patriarchy & the feminist collective react to it”

Namjoon is smiling. You look at him blankly. He explains - “I knew you were smart but this is like… next level. Your Phd is going to be a breeze. Like that time you won EVERY round at the trivia game… last year? You’ve always been so smart. Propah hermione” he was flustered, “I’m sorry that was my British accent… I don’t know why…” You laughed.

You told him it’s okay and thanked him for his help, noticing the time. He understood & asked, “Should I drop you?” You refused politely & began rushing because you didn’t realise it had been over two hours. You were expected home & curfew was strict even though you were almost a college graduate now. Something else was happening though. You were feeling a knot in the depths of your belly and what seemed like a… lady-boner?! You promised to look up the correct term for whatever was happening in your … erm…privates(?!)

Saying bye to Namjoon, you walked out, only to peek back in and ask about the time for the next session. He smiled brightly and said he’ll let you know. As you walked home you thought about the CRAZY GOOD TIME you just had. It felt SO GOOD to have Namjoon’s eyes on you. It made you feel so much in your… nethers…?! (You really needed to get your mental language sorted about this situation) And you would. You were just so happy knowing you’re going to be spending time with Namjoon next week!

Now —

You were still tossing and turning in your bed. Would you ever be able to face Namjoon after what had happened?! Oh god, how would you even face YOURSELF?! This wasn’t embarrassing, it was EARTHSHATTERING. How, how had you fallen down this rabbit hole?! Oh godddd! Suddenly your phone buzzed. It was a text, from Namjoon: WE SHOULD TALK.

Six Days Ago -

You’d been a bit too eager for your second tutoring session. You’d managed to talk to a couple of independent Camgirls for research and had quite a lot of data to sift through. You needed someone to bounce off ideas with. That was not really the reason for your excitement that evening. This week was GOOD. You had familiarised yourself with your cunt - more than ever before. You’d had boyfriends, you’d had sex before but nothing compared to yourself, pleasuring yourself, touching yourself playing one moment on loop in your mind - the moment when you saw Namjoon looking at you, staring at your chest.

It felt dramatic - like you understood that you were at some kind of sexual landmark. On the brink of an erotic breakthrough! You don’t know what it was that you were feeling really, you were just glad you were feeling it. And you knew why, though, because of whom.

And at that exact moment you were walking toward him. You kept thinking of what Greta had said to you in your interview when you asked why she likes being a camgirl, “There’s a high, like a quiet electricity… in being naked in this way. I just can’t get enough of it.” You knew you could never do that… perform that kind of nakedness for an audience, no matter how remote they were. And yet, you wanted to feel what she was talking about. You’d been naked alone & with your boyfriends (you’d had two boyfriends; you were not really a social person) but it never felt ELECTRIC. And you wanted to feel it.

THAT'S WHEN THE IDEA STRUCK YOU. It would be the craziest thing you’d ever done, if you’d do it. Something that would be under the radar and still “EROTIC AF” as your nasty mind put it. Okay. You thought about it for around 3 seconds & decided you would do it.

So when you entered Namjoon’s flat - he was looking gorgeous in a grey tee & tracks - you immediately excused yourself to the washroom. Slowly, you took off your flimsy blue marvels tee and the black joggers you’d paired it with. You felt the electricity Greta had spoken about. Your skin felt smoother, your breathing heavier as you took off your beige bra & black underwear. You stayed naked in his bathroom for a minute or so… Knowing that he showered here set your heart thumping in your chest. Then, you’d put on your blue tee & joggers. This was the genius part of your plan - WITHOUT the bra and the underwear. You carefully folded your delicates and tucked them in the long pockets of your pants. You were already wet. You’d walked out of the bathroom after steadying your breath.

You were fully clothed and yet also felt naked, in Namjoon’s apartment, in front of him. The weird kind of safety that your under-things provided was gone. And in its place was pure exhilaration. Namjoon stopped in his tracks when he saw you. He could sense a difference, but what was it, he had no clue. You felt a sense of weird power, like you had changed the energy in here, somehow.

As you both sat to discuss your paper, you pulled your chair a smidge towards his. You began speaking about your research, the camgirls you spoke to. The way you spoke changed too. You were talking - not in your usual bulldozer-ish manner of overwhelming facts but rather in a softer, calmer tone. As though a higher volume, a single emphasis could reveal your secret to the Greek god-like man sitting next to you.

He was being drawn in to hear you. You spoke looking anywhere except his face (which was very difficult) but it did give him opportunities to look for what had changed. And notice, he did. You could feel his gaze on you. You could feel him grappling with the sudden newness of the situation. You felt him look at the little dewdrops of sweat on your neck, the blush on your cheeks. He seemed to be drawn to how that marvel tee was cloaking your curves. He tried to look away when he noticed how perfectly he could trace the shape of your bosom. It was so clear how intrigued he was… you’d almost felt bad. As though you were torturing him. You suddenly felt doubt surging in your heart, maybe Namjoon is generally distracted and zoned out, maybe you were just torturing yourself. Still, it felt pretty good to torture yourself silently in front of this gorgeous creature.

The little distance between you and - let’s face it - the handsomest man you’d ever seen had a visible effect on your skin. There were goosebumps on your neck, you could feel the air on your skin. You saw him glancing at your chest again and that aroused you to no extent. You felt like a woman, for perhaps the first time in your life.

And being next to this gorgeous man was adding rocket fuel to that fire. You stole glances too, while he was trying to distract himself, trying to lean away from you - his dragon eyes, the brown hair that was pulled back from his forehead today. His arms looked so strong and capable. The contours of his chest inviting your eyes, your touch.

You were hardly talking. You kept mentioning all the work you’d done in the past week but it seemed you both knew this was anything but a formal discussion. Looking at his lips while he tried to respond to your ideas, made you wild with desire. Something that apparently could be seen through your tee. Namjoon couldn’t stop looking. You knew your nipples were peeking through the thin blue fabric of your tee. You could feel it, you could feel the cloth of your tee on those tiny, powerful pebbles of the darkest, most delicious parts of you. At one point, Namjoon got up to go get some water. You blushed furiously, unable to stop smiling. This was better, hotter than you’d ever expected.

You were being a tease! For the first time ever & in front of Kim Namjoon! A week ago, you’d have scolded yourself for thinking this way.

The evening came to an anticlimactic end - You had rushed out before the hour was up because it was getting harder and harder not to squirm in the chair. You were aroused beyond belief and couldn’t risk an impromptu orgasm in front of him. It really felt like you would unspool in front of him any moment. You draped your coat around your fragile body & left. Any more of this would have had you jump his bones.

Kim Namjoon might be clumsy but he was whip-smart and you didn’t want to risk him figuring out just how mercilessly you were playing with his desire. Wait. Your stomach flipped - it couldn’t be, Namjoon didn’t desire you. He was older, your brother’s friend and surely he has an army of admirers, full of women more gorgeous, more sexy than you. Still, you wanted it to be true.

All the colliding thoughts & the secret intimacy of the moment you had, it was no surprise that by the time you got to bed, you were crying. Your body was still responding to the brilliant stimulus it had received but the thought of Namjoon fancying you was making you unstable.

Even though tears were still streaming down your face, you remembered his eyes on you, the nakedness you were feeling, the way you had felt his gaze on your skin, like sun rays warming the patch of your body they were grazing, like an almost-touch. Slowly, softly you began touching yourself in all the places you’d felt his eyes touch you - your neck, your chest, your hair. It really felt like he was touching you. Like you could actually feel his beautiful large hands and slender fingers all over you. Tears were still rolling down your cheek & you had finally understood why. Soon you touched your cunt, pleasing her as much as you could - with the memory of the man you were falling for.

The next morning, you had to clean out the sheets. You had expected a massive vulnerability hangover and you were on the verge of contemplating how huge a mistake this could all be when your phone buzzed. It was him. “Hey Y/N, I’m so sorry for how lost and unfocused I was last night. It didn’t have anything to do with your research - it sounds really cool. If you’re free next week, we can keep talking.”

And just like that you were singing in the shower again.

Today, Six Hours Ago -

The whole week you had thought about how good it felt to have Namjoon’s gaze on you. You couldn’t wait for tonight. As crazy as it sounded, you were excited to do the same thing - except this time around you’d wear something that would only thinly veil your naked body. You’d been deciding your outfit for days. If it would have been possible, you’d have loved to drape a transparent dupatta on yourself. The thought of only having a flimsy transparent cloth wrapped around your body in front of Namjoon sent you into a tizzy that fed your imagination (and your cunt) for days.

For the first time, you’d begin to appreciate your body - just the way it had always been.

You weren’t skinny so you’d assumed you’d been fat & had never really paid any attention to how you truly felt in your own skin. Somehow, having his gaze on your skin brought your desire to life. You were realising you were actually really sexy. If having Kim Namjoon look at you was so erotic, what would it be like if he’d touch you. This shut down your brain completely - something you didn’t think was possible.

A couple of days ago, finally, you’d picked out a bohemian, knee-length white frock-dress. You usually preferred laidback casuals so you even had an excuse for the dress - you’d just returned from your friend’s “coachella-themed lunch party”.

Every now & then, you felt scared and thought of cancelling the session, abandoning the whole plan out of fear and waves of shame. What were you trying to do?! Why were you getting off of something so cheap?! If you liked him so much, why couldn’t you just ask out Namjoon? What sort of games were you playing? What if he really hadn’t even noticed & this was all in your head? These questions came in like a wave and swept you up, sometimes mid-laughter & then you’d become glassy eyed & awkward or maybe even tear up. Your brother had noticed these mood-shifts while you both played arcade games & had complained to your mother saying, “Amma aapki beti paagal ho gayi hai” (Mom, your daughter’s gone mad.)

It was time, at last. You wore the dress, the sexy purple lingerie you were going to take off in Namjoon’s bathroom. What a pervert you had become, you thought to yourself, still smiling about how good it felt.

Namjoon looked extra cute in his white hoodie & it was awkward for a second because both of you took time to look at each other. “You look… wow...” Namjoon said. You replied equally awkwardly, “”Well you always look wow… so...” An awkward silence fell around you so you quickly excused yourself to the washroom. That’s sort of where you processed what Namjoon had just said - that he couldn’t frame a proper sentence. And he’d been one of the most articulate people you’d ever met. This sent your mind whirling as you did the same thing in the washroom as you had last week - you took off your innerwear & wore the white dress again. By the time you came back out, you were nervous. Because Namjoon’s compliment meant that he found you attractive??? Seeing Namjoon made you feel calm. He looked so good in that hoodie it made you want to hug him. Knowing how close to your skin he would feel, that thought sent a shiver down your spine.

“Are you okay?” Namjoon asked. “Aren’t you cold today?”

“No… I’m good. I just got back from my friend's lunch party… she does this coachella theme thing every month...”

“What’s a lunch party?”

“Uh… where we all dress up and… eat?”

“Oh… okay. Give me a minute. ”

Wondering about that strange exchange, you sat down on Namjoon’s sofa. A panic set in, like maybe all of this IS in your head. You suddenly felt shame grip at you from all sides. What the fuck were you doing?! Almost naked at your brother’s friend’s place?! What would your mother say?! She’d faint on the spot if she ever knew what a pervert her daughter is! Just then another thought strikes - one that tips over your cup of panic and shame - you realise the dress doesn’t have pockets.

You grabbed your purse and ran toward the bathroom praying that Namjoon was in the kitchen and not in there - where your Lacy purple bra and underwear were on full display.

OFCOURSE HE WAS. Ofcourse he’d picked up your bra in his hand… you couldn’t believe this was real. Namjoon was mostly confounded. There was something else in his eyes too - a sense of mischief and… glee?! You were rooted to the spot where you saw him - the door of the bathroom was open and he had now seen you with your bra in his hand. Neither of you spoke. Until he finally saw he was still holding your lingerie. Your lacy transparent purple bra and your lacy transparent purple underwear. Were. In. His. Hands.

He said, “I’m sorry… I didn’t-“

The moment he said something, you were able to move so you grabbed the bra from his hand, the underwear from the hook - which it refused to come off of & you ripped a little hole in it - only to run out of Namjoon’s house.

You sat on your bed in stunned silence. You pretended to sleep when your mother came by asking about dinner. You couldn’t believe what had happened. You’d stayed up most of the night as the storm in your heart had slowly swelled. You’d cried, flailed against your bed in despair. Then you’d exhausted yourself but still, no sleep.

Then his text - ‘WE SHOULD TALK’. You saw the one line of his text in your notifications and it took you about ten minutes just to take the phone into your hand and type - Okay.

He called. There was no way you were picking up. One part of you said - come up with a lie, any lie, you can fib your way out of this. Finally, you answered:

“H-hello?” you stuttered

“Hey…” he said. He seemed relieved.

Silence.

“Thanks for responding… and taking the call… look I just wanted to say it’s okay… we don’t have to talk about this ever again but like I do need to know… I mean I know you don’t want to talk about it and I’m really sorry but I can’t just forget about... what happened and I don’t want to stop talking to you so please just like let me know, whatever the reason YN… just tell me… why…?”

“Uh…” somehow you found your speaking voice, “ I was going to put them in my bag but I forgot… I was just really uncomfortable… I’m sorry. That was not-“ you were on the brink of tears.

He could tell from your voice, “Hey hey hey, YN, please don’t cry. It’s okay. I’m sorry I didn’t mean to push you. I get it, I really get it - I can imagine… like lace can get… itchy?”

Namjoon comforting you like that just made you feel worse. You decided to woman-up. “Um, that’s not the reason. Listen, can you meet me by the corner?”

Namjoon sounded positive - “Yeah… but what about your mom? won’t she-”

“Everyone’s asleep.”

—

You suited up for confession time - You wore your most comfortable bulky grandma undies and bra with a hoodie & added a jacket for good measure. And still the Pervert in your head smiled & wondered how hot it is that you’re going to confess, like a sinned woman trying to reform herself to the hot priest. You almost yelled out loud, telling the Pervert voice to fuck off.

He was in the same hoodie and joggers as when you saw him. Still unbelievably cute, puffier sleep deprived Namjoon was waiting for you on the corner of your street. He stood up when he saw you. You reached him but kept your gaze lowered, you couldn’t meet his eyes. You gestured for him to sit on the stairs there & you stood in front of him - almost like a criminal confessing to the lawman trying to make an honest woman out of a crook, the Pervert voice chimed in -

“Shh!” You said out loud.

“I didn’t… say anything.” Namjoon said looking around.

“Thanks for coming.” Your Pervert brain was delighted. “Um I have something to say… obviously. Okay. So um… I tried to come up with lies but I can’t… so look… first of all I’m really sorry. Like I was being a complete idiot moron. Completely out of my mind kind of Pervert - i will be seeking professional help”

Namjoon chucked. You’d have yelled at him if you hadn’t been so in the wrong.

“I… I’d been doing all that research on camgirls and sex and stuff and I… realised I’d been… missing something.” What was this you were saying - you had no clue and it was still coming out - “For like 20 years of my 24 year of life I’ve wondered what’s wrong with me - a lot , it turns out. But what I wasn’t expecting to find out in this research was something I had never really thought of & like, you know, I think of EVERYTHING”

“Evidently not” Namjoon quipped, pretty pleased with himself for a moment, forgetting the seriousness of the situation. This time you glared at him. “Sorry… go on.”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to listen to this. It’s not your shit anyway. I’m dealing with it I’m sorry okay.” Tears had begun streaming out of your eyes and your ears were burning again. You started to walk off but he caught you by the shoulder and gave you the warmest hug ever.

Namjoon kept apologising for his joke and told you to sit. He sat on the opposite side of the stair below. He even said, “you don’t have to tell me if it’s so uncomfortable for you… really. We can forget about-”

“I want to… I-I need to” you said. He nodded.

“What I was saying is… from my research I understood that I’d never really felt like I’ve been… seen. I don’t know how to explain it. I tried to analyse it - I even thought like this is the result of watching so many things from the male gaze… but it’s not. I’ve just never felt seen. In a… desirable way. No one’s ever looked at me the way… like… a woman is supposed to be looked at? It’s all… very confusing and I have to try and remind myself I’m not being a bad feminist if I want someone to look at me like they fucking want me, you know?”

Namjoon nodded. “I do know… a little… in my own weird way… like I feel like all my friends are WAY more good looking than I am… I-I do get it, YN. I don’t want to push you… if you’re okay, you can talk about it.”

When he squeezed your hands, you realised he hadn’t let go of them all this time. You finally began speaking, looking at him:

“The first discussion we had, I kind of noticed you looking at my… um…” your gaze lowered again “bosom. And uh that made me… feel things. Later that week I spoke to real camgirls who spoke about this like amazing feeling of being watched, being desired while being completely in control… and like there’s a pervert sitting in my head who needs to be surgically removed. So I had this idea of uhm… you know…”

“So today was like the second time…?”

You let go of his hands and buried your head in your hands, “ughhhgh… yes. The last time… when I did… you know… it felt amazing. It felt like you knew but didn’t know. I had all the control and like for the first time ever… I felt seen. Truly seen. That was the thrill.”

Namjoon nodded his head and to your surprise said, “I get it. I really do… can I say something?”

You nodded, glancing at the time - it was 2:10 in the morning. You felt a little skip in your heart about being out at the corner with him at this hour, having this particular conversation. Why didn’t he text you in the morning?! You couldn’t ask him that after having agreed to let him speak -

“You’re an amazing person, YN, I’ve always thought so…And I’m really sorry...”

You could feel it coming, the rejection, the clarification that whatever you felt was indeed all in your brain. Your tears were pooling and you didn’t understand why but then he said-

“That I never made the effort to see you… the way you deserve to be seen. It’ll probably sound really immature but the more I see you now, the more I realise I have always been watching you. I just never like put two and two together.”

You wiped off your tears, shaking your head to say no… “you’re only saying that now because you know I did...that”

It was his turn to glare now and he looked a little too hot, with his locked jaw and the anger in his eyes. He spoke with a deeper voice - “No. I’m trying to tell you how dumb I’ve been.”

When your expression softens, his does too.

He continues-

“There’s something that kind of tells us guys to sort of box people in, like he’s the jock, she’s the cheerleader…”

“She’s the maddonna, she’s the whore. Yeah that something is the patriarchy, among other toxic systems.” You clarified.

“Yeah exactly!” He laughed & came a bit closer to you. He went on-

“Like we just… don’t pay attention. I think maybe girls do… I don’t know, I’ve lived my whole life around guys… anyway it’s like-like you were always Rihaan’s reader sister. But the last few weeks I have noticed that you are so much more… and not just because of the thing you did. Because of what you spoke about, how passionate you were about your paper… all those things… too.”

You looked at him with a question. He flashed you his brilliant deep dimple in a sort of sheepish half-smile. Times like these, you saw the kid-Namjoon - the one you’d defeat in kid basketball - before he grew like a tree.

He answered the question he saw on your face - “I… kinda had a boner the first time you came over. Not the second time, although I did have a boner then too but I did have one the first time too - when you didn’t do the thing.”

You didn’t understand and he went on -

“Don’t look so surprised! It was the first time I was seeing you without a book - which is probably why I didn’t really get to notice your… growth” he motioned his hands to his chest-al area which made both of you giggle a little. He went on- “so basically it’s your fault for reading so much and then suddenly you’re at my place and like you were sitting so close to me and for fuck’s sake - talking about porn and camgirls!”

“Wait… what are you saying?” He extends his large hands again, to hold yours. You do too.

“I’m saying I was stupid… because I’ve been searching for Emma Watson when the real Hermione was right in front of me.”

Silence. Then, he added -

“I’m not just saying that as a line… although it is a pretty good line”

Finally you spoke - “I don’t understand that metaphor. Emma Watson is actually hermione like with everything she does - she is Hermione, real and practical”

“No but you’re the real book Hermione because…” he stopped midway. He smiled and said- “you’re going to think this is a line.”

You coaxed him to go on, “Sayyy it”

“You’re the real Hermione because… you’re magical. My magical pervert.”

You’re blushing furiously because Pervert Hermione is the most fitting peg you could think of for who you (apparently) are. This is what it feels like - to be seen. You’re proud of yourself for wanting to confess to Kim Namjoon’s gorgeous hot-priest face.

Finally, you give in to what the pervert has been whispering in your ear all this time & you Scot over to Kim Namjoon & pulls him in for the kiss of your lives.

That morning, you don’t return home until 7.

[yournameyn]

THIS MANNNNNN 🌸🌸🌸

YOONGI 🥹

[yournameyn]

ALL RESPONSES ARE IN—check out the results of my All Things Fanfic (2.0) questionnaire here!

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[yournameyn]

Broken

Summary: Everyone handles loss differently. And you were tired of the way Joel dealt with it.

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem. reader

Wordcount: 827 words

Rating: A for Angst

Warnings: angst, friends with benefits with feelings, talks about outbreak day, grief, feelings, talks about dead spouses and children, talks about having to kill infected loved ones

A/N: I had the dialogue of this little fic stuck in my head for days so here it is. And no, there won't be more (sorry)

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Full Masterlist // Joel Miller Masterlist

He had been in a horrible mood from the moment he came back from patrol this afternoon.

You had spent your day at the greenhouse. First with work, after with your little passion project, trying to grow a variety of flowers. You were getting better at it. Only last week the first sunflowers had begun to grow.

You, Joel and Ellie were…. Roommates. Not by choice.

Some of the houses had been damaged in a thunderstorm three weeks ago, including Joel’s. Since Maria and Tommy’s house had been damaged too, the families who had to temporary move somewhere else had been assigned houses of families to live with temporary and you were the lucky one who Joel decided was the least annoying out of all of them.

Mostly because you and him had a thing for almost a year.

A thing where every few weeks Joel showed up at your house and fucked you, leaving before you even made it out of the bathroom to pee after.  

He was… a complicated man.

Closed off to the outside world. There were only few people who Joel cared about and maybe you lived in the delusion that you had become one of them.

At least before today.

Because in the last weeks something had changed. He had looked at you differently, softer. He even allowed himself to sleep in your bed a whole night while Ellie was spending the night at Dina’s.

The sex was different that night too. Softer.  The way he held you, praised you, kissed you…

Maybe you had gotten too comfortable around him, had let down your walls to easily for the delusion that you and Joel could actually become something more.

The man standing in front of you now was not the man you imagined a future with.

He was cold and harsh and lashing out at you about something that wasn’t even your fault.

And you were done.

„Everyone lost someone, Joel,“ you looked at him with narrowed eyes, tired of arguing. Apparently he had been in an argument with Maria about his past again when he brought up a solution to find out how the raiders that had become more and more in the last months knew about Jackson.

An argument that apparently had escalated to the point of Maria bringing up Sarah.  

“Don’t,” he hissed, shaking his head once.

“And I know everyone deals differently with it. But the way you act? You will never ever talk to me like that again. Fuck that, you will never talk to anyone like that ever again. If you wanna throw a tantrum go out and shoot some infected,” you said fed up.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he mumbled, about to walk away.

“You got to hold her,” you said, voice quiet and he stopped. You could see the way his whole body tensed.

“You got to hold her when she took her last breath. As devastating as it was, you got to be there for her. As scared as she was, you got to hold her, you were the last person she saw before…” you continued and he turned around glaring at you.

“You didn’t have to fight off your husband while you were making dinner because he got infected. You didn’t have to…” you took a deep breath, images of that night filling your mind. The way those blue eyes you fell in love with became empty and murderous.

It took years to accept that you hadn’t killed John that night, that he had already been dead when you used the pan you had been cooking dinner in to end him.

You didn’t look at Joel as you continued, tears filling your eyes.

“You didn’t sit inside the nursery of your baby girls for days as you watched both of your ten month olds trying to crawl through the crib you build to kill you,” you closed your eyes, trying to blink the tears away before you took a deep breath and looked at Joel who had also tears in his eyes.

“You didn’t have to watch both of your children turn into monsters, you didn’t have to kill them to safe your own life. You got to hold her. And as devastating and traumatic as this loss was for you, it doesn't work as an excuse for you to treat everyone as you have been doing. Yes, it changed you. It changed all of us. But it didn't turn everyone into fucking assholes,” you said before you walked out of the room, grabbing your coat.

You heard him follow you but you had to get out.

“Darlin’…” he said but you only opened the door.

“I think I’m gonna stay at Sam’s tonight,” you said, feeling his hand on top of yours on the doorknob.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered and you released a long breath.

“You always are,” you said, pulling your hand away from his before you walked out of the house without looking back at him.

[yournameyn]

Feeling Deeply

Masterpost

A story about two nerds slowly discovering each other and themselves.

Pairing: Namjoon x OC

Two deeply feeling nerds find themselves in an arranged marriage. Something neither of them really wanted but are now discovering just how much each needed.

Away from their childhoods, their families & their homes, Namjoon & Brishti (the OC) are privileged immigrants who slowly build a home, a family & a true sense of self, together in 1960s London.

Characters -

Namjoon… this Namjoon is a kind young man who wants to help make the world a fairer place. He has accepted that becoming a lawyer and bearing some huge weights and losses to his self esteem, his soul in a well known firm as the only way of doing this. He has accepted alot of the narrative the external world tells him… especially the narrative that poets and art is not a sustainable way, the “adult, responsible” way of making a living.

OC is indian, bengali, reader, curvy & feminist (because of course). The OC’s name is Brishti. It means Rain. Rim Jhim (Brishti's pet name) means the pitter patter of rain. (Namjoon calls her Rim and Brishti calls him Joon)

Her name & a lot of where the story goes is inspired by the gorgeous-ity that is Forever Rain.

Pease note this is not the typical immigrant experience of that timespace and I’ve taken many-a-leap to write the story I wanted to write. It's there in the later chapters, a little but imagine a privileged first generation immigrant mixed race couple.

So far this is what we have -

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

[yournameyn]

REMEMBER that gender is NOT the same as sex. gender is what you identify as, while sex is what i'll be having with javier peña tonight. STAY INFORMED.

cr: pascalthinkr on tiktok!

[yournameyn]

[yournameyn]

blue. | masterlist

pairing: bfd!joel miller x f!reader

summary: while working at a local bikini bar in austin under the flirty alias, Blue, reader meets a handsome older man going through a divorce. little do they know, they have more in common than their attraction to one another, and her name is Sarah.

series rating: explicit — MINORS DNI

[edit: changed the title/nickname but series remains the same :)]

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five* (coming soon)

[yournameyn]

OH MY GOD

This started as a casual browse but @javiscigarette's writing literally rocked my world.

Teacher's Pet

Joel Miller x virgin f!reader

Summary: 25 years old, anxiety-ridden, and still a virgin, you ask your friend Joel for advice on your upcoming date. But you're more of a...hands-on learner. And he's more than happy to help. 

Warnings: PWP, unbalanced power dynamics, virgin!reader, neighbor/bff/more experienced! Joel, age gap, first kiss, virginity loss, fingering, oral (f receiving), frequent check-ins, soo much banter and Joel is a menace also so soft and sweet :')....(ends on a cliffhanger but there will be a part two I swear).

w/c: 7.7k idk what happened

a/n: I am resurfacing for your monthly reminder that I do in fact still write!! Inspiration for this came out of literally nowhere but I took it and RAN with it and I think I like it?? As always, thank you to my baby love @undrthelights for helping me with this and always listening to my rambling and for being my biggest enabler Ilysm

Part Two

my masterlist

"Fine! What if, hypothetically speaking of course, you were to, hypothetically, give me a, um, hypothetical, lesson or whatever." Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel your pulse throb in your neck pound in your ears. You slowly drag your hands away from your face and look at him. He stares right back at you, brows furrowed. "A what?" "Forget it. forget I said anything,” you mutter, shaking your head.  "No no wait, hang on, what do you mean? A lesson? Like a…a sex lesson?” 

"Seriously, Joel. Fuck off" you snap but with no bite or heat behind it. You bring the sweating bottle of beer to your lips and finish the rest of the now lukewarm liquid off in one gulp. 

"What? I just find it hard to believe that you've never even had a kiss. Didn't you go to high school? Didn't you ever get invited to a party? Didn't you go to college? College kids do the do like all the time” 

"Clearly not all the time" you mutter, a tad bitterly.

Joel raises his hands defensively and takes a sip of his own beer. "Just seems crazy is all. There's gotta be some chick or dude out there willing to take pity on you and pop your cherry."

You audibly gag at his choice of words. "I don't need a pity fuck, thanks." You stand from the couch and head over to the fridge. The bottles of cold alcohol inside are calling your name and you want something that will help soothe your nerves. You're not a big drinker, but when Joel is prying into your love life like he is now, you wish you were.

"Okay,” he starts from the living room. “Maybe I worded that wrong. What I meant to say was, there's gotta be someone out there who would be more than willing to show you a good time."

You groan and let your forehead fall against the fridge door. "That's the whole point! I came here to get advice for my date, someone who might actually be interested in me, and all you've done is make fun of me for not having fucked anyone yet. So thanks, Joel. You're a real pal."

You push away from the fridge and slam the door shut, a second beer in hand.

"Alright, alright, calm down." He says, hands in the air as if you were holding him at gunpoint as you head back to the couch. "Look, if this guy really likes you then he's not gonna care. Probably won't even be able to tell if you are or aren't."

"You think so?" You ask hopefully.

"Well, I mean, unless you're like... super bad."

Your heart drops into your stomach and you glare at him, "Joel."

"Oh come on, I'm kidding. You're not gonna be bad, okay? Just, go into it with an open mind and just relax. If he tries something you're not comfortable with or makes you feel weird, tell him. And if he gets pissy, dump his ass."

"That simple, huh?" You scoff.

"Well, yeah. You're the one who made it complicated by thinking it was a big deal."

"It is a big deal, Joel! I know nothing!

"Nothing? You ain’t ever watched porn? Jesus, I had no idea you were such a prude."

You can't stop yourself from rolling your eyes and slapping the back of your hand against his arm. He yelps and laughs, rubbing his arm.

"I've watched porn before" you retort. 

"What kind?" he asks with a wiggle of his brows.

"None of your fucking business" you respond, feeling your face heat up.

Joel's lips quirk into a shit-eating grin and you're quick to smack him again.

"Okay okay, sorry!" he says through his laughter. "So what exactly are you afraid of?"

You're not really sure how to answer. It's a combination of so many things, most of which are irrational fears and insecurities. Sure you've seen it all done before, but you're well aware that none of it is realistic. At least, not completely. And just the fact that you're freshly 25 years old without a single notch in your bedpost makes you dizzy with anxiety. It's not like you're saving yourself or anything, it's just that hook up culture has never agreed with you and there's never been an opportunity that made you feel like it was the right one. That is until now, with your cute coworker who you thought was miles out of your league asking you out on a third date. And now, the prospect of being in bed with him is looming over you like a dark cloud and the last thing you want to do is mess it up.

"I guess, I'm just afraid that he's gonna be disappointed, or I'm gonna weird him out, or I'm gonna do something wrong and embarrass myself.” Joel nods along and listens. "And if it is bad then we still have to work with each other and then what if it's awkward and everyone knows about it and then he hates me and--"

"Okay, whoa slow down there, buddy" Joel says, putting a hand on your shoulder. "One, you're overthinking this. You're literally thinking like, five steps ahead of what's actually going on. It's a date. And even if it does end up in the bedroom, you don't have to do anything you don't want to. No one's forcing you, okay? He can't. No one can."

"I know, but I want to," you reply quietly.

"Alright. Then do."

"I don't know howwww!! " you whine, flopping backwards into the couch.

Joel groans and sits up a little straighter, scrubbing a hand down his face. 

"Well, there's no magic trick, I don't have a secret sex manual I'm holding out on ya."

You sigh, shoulders sagging as you look over at him. The idea comes out of nowhere, well, not exactly from nowhere, but it pops in your head so fast that you then have to bite your tongue before the words bubbling up from your throat come tumbling out. 

It's not a bad idea, not necessarily. 

You've been good friends with Joel ever since you moved in next door last year. An unlikely pairing, a 40 year old contractor and an almost 25 year old office worker. But after offering him a six pack as part of introducing yourself to the neighbors, you'd gotten along fabulously. He fixes things around your house and you send him home with hot dinners and warm, gooey cookies and you watch movies together almost every Friday night.

 It's an easy friendship, open and honest and supportive, and Joel has never given you reason not to trust him. He's a good guy, if not a little brash, but you know deep down he means well. And it doesn't hurt that he's objectively attractive, with his tall and sturdy frame, strong, calloused hands, dark messy curls....It's not a bad idea.

It's an absolutely insane idea. 

You continue to stare at him, clenching your teeth together to hold back the question sitting on the tip of your tongue.

"What?" he says, looking back at you.

"Nothing" you mutter, eyes flicking away.

"You've got that face you make when you're about to say something really stupid, so just get it out."

You glare at him again, not enjoying the way he can read you so well.

"I wasn't gonna say anything."

"Well now you're lying."

"I'm not."

"You're doing it again!"

"Doing what?!"

"That face!"

"I'm not making a face!"

"Yes you are! Just spit it out!"

You groan and hide your face in your hands. You blame it on the one beer even though you know you’re not anywhere close to being drunk because how else would you justify what you’re about to say? You wait a moment, thinking about the weight of it but your mouth opens before you can stop yourself. 

"Fine! What if, hypothetically speaking of course, you were to, hypothetically, give me a, um, hypothetical, lesson or whatever."

Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel your pulse throb in your neck and hear it in your ears. You slowly drag your hands away from your face and look at him. He stares right back at you, brows furrowed.

"A what?"

"Forget it. forget I said anything,” you mutter, shaking your head. 

"No no wait, hang on, what do you mean? A lesson? Like a…a sex lesson?” 

His eyes are wide, and he looks incredulous. You can't blame him, because the more time that passes between your suggestion and now, the more ridiculous the idea seems.

"I’m sorry, that was…It was stupid. Pretend I didn't say anything. Let's just watch a movie." You move to grab the remote, but Joel's hand covers yours, stopping you.

"Is that what you want?"

You look at him, searching his expression for any sign of disgust or apprehension. But all you can see is the same Joel you've known for months, patient, warm, and understanding.

"I know. I know it's stupid. But I can't get this date out of my head, Joel. It's all I can think about and the more I do, the more worried I get and I just don't want to fuck it up. And I know we're friends and this is weird and gross, but I just thought that... maybe, I could have some practice, so to speak."

He doesn't say anything. Just keeps looking at you, the panic rising in your chest the longer the silence stretches. You start to fidget, wringing your hands together in your lap.

"I'm sorry, that was way out of line" you say, moving to stand up, your skin sweaty and hot with embarrassment and your feet ready to run out the door and never come back. 

But Joel catches your wrist, gently pulling you back down to sit next to him.

"Joel" you whine, not wanting him to humiliate you any further.

"It's okay, come here."

His voice is softer than before, and his eyes are kind. You let him pull you closer, the two of you sitting knee to knee. You can't bring yourself to look him in the eyes, not with your cheeks and the tips of your ears burning like they are, but Joel doesn't push. He simply moves his hand from your wrist, sliding it into yours. His palms are rough and warm, and the simple touch alone is comforting.

"You really wanna do this?” he asks softly. You can feel his eyes boring into you. “I mean, I'm not exactly a prize winning catch. And it's not like there's a shortage of willing men out there."

You shrug and chew the inside of your lip.

"Yeah, but you're my friend and I...I trust you."

There's another pause, and you wish that you could just disappear into the couch and erase this moment from your memory.

"How drunk are you?" he asks, glancing at the beer bottle on the coffee table.

"You saw me finish one bottle. And half of another. I’m barely tipsy."

"Not drunk?”

"Nope."

"You're gonna remember this tomorrow."

"Uh huh."

"And you still want to?"

You groan for the millionth time and squeeze his hand.

"Yes I want to! Look, if you don't want to then that's fine. It was just a dumb suggestion and we can just forget this ever happened."

He hums, considering your words. His hand slips out of yours, and you think that's it, you've scared him off and washed the friendship down the drain. That you'll have to hide from him from now on, that you'll have to pack your things up and move because the mortification would be too much, and that he'll hate you, and—

His two fingers sliding under chin surprise you, and he tilts your head up. He's looking down at you with that same even expression, eyes big, soft, and warm as he slides his hand over to cup your jaw in his palm. 

"If you want to stop at any point, just say so, okay? I won't be upset and we can go back to the way things were before. Got it?"

You nod, your throat suddenly too tight to speak. His thumb sweeps over your cheekbone, the tender touch is enough to make your heart skip a beat. There’s no way this is actually happening. That your first kiss is going to be with your 40 year old menace of a neighbor. That you’re going to, how did you put it, get a sex lesson from him. His gaze flicks down to your lips and back up to your eyes and you’re positive you’re no longer able to breathe. 

"Can I kiss you?" he asks softly. You nod. 

You're sure he can hear the thumping of your heart in his own ears as he leans down. His other hand comes to rest on your hip and when his lips touch yours, a soft, tentative pressure, you're not prepared for the electricity that shoots through you.

He's barely done anything and already you feel like you're floating. Your own hands reach out to clutch his shirt, keeping him close, afraid he'll pull away and leave you cold and wanting if you don't. But he stays put, pressing himself against you, his lips working gently against yours. You follow his lead, kissing him back while trying not to overthink it.

It's nothing like the kisses in the movies or the books, where fireworks explode behind your eyelids or where your foot pops up in the air. It's far more subdued, more quiet and subtle. But the warmth that pools low in your belly and the goosebumps that erupt on your skin when his tongue slides against the seam of your lips, light and quick, makes you absolutely melt. 

He pulls back before you can really react, and you're left with a dizzying rush of both blistering desire and excruciating anxiety. You want to pull him back in and never let him go. But your heart is beating so fast you can hardly breathe, your nerves are buzzing, and the urge to run and hide is nearly paralyzing. 

"Was it bad?" you ask tentatively, cheeks heated.

"No" he replies, giving your hip a squeeze as a smirk plays on his lips. "It was fucking awful. Worst kiss of my life"

"Shut up!" you hiss, pushing him away with a hand on his chest. He laughs, the sound easing some of the tension in your body. 

"I'm just teasing" he says, voice dropping lower. "C'mere, we can work on it."

His lips find yours again, and you try not to smile into the kiss but it's hard when you can feel the way his lips are quirked up as well. It doesn’t take much else to get you to relax and let yourself fall into the moment, into the gentle press of his mouth and the warm hands on your hip and your cheek. He swipes his tongue against your lips again, his fingers pressing lightly into the hinge of your jaw to tilt your head back and coax your lips apart.

You let him, sighing as his tongue glides across yours, hot and smooth and sweet. Your hands slide up his chest, finding purchase around his shoulders, and when you move forward, pushing yourself against him, he grunts softly but lets you. He kisses you until the both of you are gasping for air, and when he pulls back, his lips are wet and red and you're certain yours must be as well.

"Better?" you ask, a bit breathless.

"Getting there" he answers with, his breath warm where it fans across your cheek. 

"You're such a liar" you say with a goofy smile.

"Yeah, I know. Now try again, practice makes perfect.” 

You roll your eyes but lean back in nonetheless. It's a bit more heated this time, the feeling of his teeth nibbling on your bottom lip making you squirm. His hand rounds over your hip, palm smoothing to the small of your back to pull you closer, the heat of his body radiating through your clothes and warming your skin. Your hands move on their own accord, no thought behind the action as they slide up to his shoulders and then his neck, your fingers finding home in the curls at the base of his skull. When you give them a slight tug, you're rewarded with a muffled grunt from Joel. Emboldened, you pull back, lips swollen and tingling.

"You’re a good kisser,” you pant. "Is that something people usually say?"

"When it’s true" he says, grinning at you. "And since I know you're gonna ask, I'd say that was a C+, maybe a B-."

You scoff but blush furiously at the smile he flashes, his eyes crinkling in the corners.

"Well then, tell me what to do next. What do I need to know?"

Joel hums as he thinks for a moment. 

"What do you want to do?"

You stare at him for a second, blinking.

"I don't know, that's why I'm asking you" you say, shaking your head a bit.

"Well, how far do you want to take this?"

You swallow hard, suddenly feeling very shy. You can’t deny that when the idea popped in your head it was accompanied by the mental image of you naked, spread out on his bed, but the actual act of asking him, or better yet, actually doing it is... intimidating to say the least. Are you really about to let him go all the way, to see you bare and vulnerable, let him pop your cherry as he would disgustingly put it? All just to “prepare” for a date with a guy who might not even like you that way?

Yeah, probably.

"All the way" you answer. “I want to go all the way” 

He doesn’t pounce on you like you expected, doesn’t press his lips against yours in a frenzied kiss that you had half hoped for. Instead, he simply looks at you, his brown eyes boring into yours, searching.

"Are you sure? You can always say no and you're not gonna lose me as a friend if this isn’t what you actually want. I don’t want you thinking that."

You can't help the laugh that bubbles up and slips out, because of course Joel, your kind, thoughtful Joel, would say that. He's a good man. A great one, even.

"Yes, I'm sure. But if you don't want to, I get it, I can just leave and-"

Joel laughs, the sound traveling up from deep in his chest, the rumble vibrating against you.

"Sweetheart, I wouldn't be doin’ this if I didn't want to. Just makin’ sure this is what you really want."

"I want it.” 

He squeezes your hip and swipes a thumb over your cheekbone once again. 

“Alright then.” He nods, firm and resolute, and then looks around the room. “ We’re not doing it here, though. If you're getting the full Joel Miller experience, we're gonna do it right.” 

Your eyes roll reflexively, but your heart picks up its pace regardless.

"I’m not gonna do anything if you call it that ever again."

"Fine, fine,” he relents. “Let me show you what a good, thorough fucking feels like. Better?"

Your jaw drops, and he's laughing at you, his body shaking with amusement.

"Fuck you" you grumble, shoving him away while trying to hide your coy smile. 

"Yeah, that's what I'm hoping for," he says with a wide, self-assured grin.

"I'm leaving" you declare with a false sense of offense as you rise to your feet. Joel is quick to do the same and before you can take a single step away, he slips a finger through the belt loop of your jeans and tugs you back into him, wrapping an arm around your waist.

"I’ll stop, I’ll stop. I'm sorry" he says, not sounding it one bit.

You huff, but let him pull you closer until you’re pressed against his chest and you have to tilt your head back to look at him.

"I’ll be good. I promise."

"Liar"

"Well, yeah. But I can promise that I'll make you feel good."

You can't help the giggle that spills out and he kisses it away, his lips warm and plush and sweet against yours. The hand not resting on your lower back comes up, curling around the nape of your neck and keeping you close. You sink into him, and the fog creeps in again, dulling the rest of the world, making it seem fuzzy and distant, like the memory of a dream. All you can focus on is him, the warm solid weight of him against you, the strong arms holding you, the way his mouth moves against yours. And then he’s pulling back all too soon and you have to stifle a whine.

"Come on" he says, tugging at your hand.

His bedroom is dim, the little lamp on his nightstand and the faint glow of the moon through the curtains providing the only light. You swallow and take a deep breath as you step inside, your bare toes digging into the plush carpet, his hand warm and large where it grips yours.

He holds onto you as he sits on the edge of the bed. You step forward, letting him pull you between his knees. His hands settle on your hips, and you can feel their heat through the fabric of your shirt.

He doesn’t ask if you're sure again and you’re grateful because you’re not sure if you could form any kind of response right now. Instead, he slides his hands up and under your shirt, fingers dancing across your skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps. Your breath hitches as his hands smooth over your ribs and around to your back, the tips of his fingers mapping out the curve of your spine, skimming over each notch and bump. They climb higher, the fabric of your shirt bunching around his wrists. 

“Can I take this off, baby?”

Your heart jumps to your throat but you nod anyway. He grabs the hem and tugs your shirt up and and you lift your arms so he can slip it off over your head. He tosses it aside, the fabric falling to the floor beside the bed. You’re left exposed, vulnerable and bare, save for the worn out bra you wear, a few too many washes and a few years past its prime.

Your hands itch where they hang by your side with the instinct to cover yourself, hide the imperfections that you know so well, the stretch marks, the softness of your stomach, the way the cups of your bra are just a bit too small and spill over the tops.

But then he’s pressing his lips to the space just above your navel, his scruff tickling your skin and making the muscles in your abdomen jump and twitch. His hands find your waist again, and when his lips continue their path upwards, his palms follow, skimming up your sides, thumbs tracing the outline of your ribs before stopping at the band of your bra.

"This too?" he asks, voice quiet and husky.

"Yeah" you answer with a squeak, and he grins like a kid in a candy store.

His fingers undo the clasp deftness that makes your knees go weak, the straps slipping from your shoulders and the whole thing sliding down your arms, landing somewhere near your shirt. 

"God, baby, look at you" he murmurs, his hands cupping the underside of your breasts, his thumbs sweeping over the tops and then down the slope and around your nipple. Your breath hitches, the gentle touch sending a shiver up your spine. "You're fucking perfect."

The praise is unexpected and it sends a jolt of heat through your core. You whimper quietly and his hands are on you again, the calloused palms rough on the soft skin of your breasts. He kneads the flesh, squeezing gently before rolling your nipples between his fingers, pulling and pinching and teasing. 

He pulls you closer and ducks his head, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. He looks up at you through his lashes, eyes dark and hooded, and his pupils blown wide with desire.

"Can I?" he asks.

"Please."

He leans in and wraps his lips around a peaked nipple, his tongue swirling around the sensitive nub, the gentle heat of his mouth on your skin making your knees weak.

His mouth works on one breast, tongue flicking and teasing while his free hand continues its work on the other. Pleasure builds and coils deep inside, the sensation unfamiliar but certainly not unwelcome. You whimper and he pulls away, releasing your nipple with a wet pop before giving it a sweet parting kiss.

He turns his attention to the other, his teeth grazing over the stiff peak and drawing a whine from your lips. He sighs when your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling at the strands until he groans softly against you. He sucks your other nipple into his mouth, the flat of his tongue pressing against it and dragging up and around, swirling and flicking. You’re already breathless, panting, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on your forehead.

"Feels good, Joel," you whisper shyly. 

"I know, honey" he says, a soft smile pulling at his lips when he pulls away. "Feel good anywhere else?"

He doesn't wait for a response, simply slips a hand between your thighs, cupping you through the denim, the simple action making you squeak.

"Here, huh?" he says, the heel of his palm pressing against you.

You gasp softly and nod, biting your lip, too shy to say anything.

"Get on the bed, baby."

You comply, crawling onto the mattress and scooting backwards towards the pillows, sitting at the head of the bed as you watch him. His eyes never leave you as he pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it onto the floor. Your heart thumps as you stare at his bare chest, his tanned skin dotted with a light dusting of salt and pepper hair. He's broad, his shoulders thick and chest solid. Your fingers burn with the urge to reach out and touch him, so you do, extending a tentative, slightly shaky hand.

He watches you closely, eyes flitting down to the palm pressed against his chest before meeting yours again, his mouth curling into a smile.

"You can touch" he says, reaching down to curl a hand around your wrist and bringing it up to his lips, pressing a kiss to the center of your palm before guiding your hand back down to his chest. "I think most people would enjoy that."

"You're having entirely too much fun with this,” you mumble while your fingers spread out across his pec.  

"It is fun" he counters, his own hand sliding up the inside of your thigh, thumb pressing against the seam of your jeans and rubbing up and down. "But it'll be more fun once these come off"

Your lips part, a puff of air rushing out.

"You gonna take them off?" you ask, the words slipping out, bold and unbidden.

He grins, his brow quirking up.

"Look at you, being all bossy"

"You like it" you say, finally feeling some of the anxiety slipping away, the familiar and comfortable banter between the two of you slipping into place in a new, unfamiliar situation.

His smile takes up nearly his whole face as moves closer. 

“I sure do.” 

He looms over you, bracing himself on an elbow next to your head before ducking down to kiss you, his tongue easily slipping into your mouth, warm and insistent. You sigh into it, your hands finding the warm, bare skin of his back, muscles gliding beneath your palms as you slide them up and around, fingertips digging into his shoulders. He's so warm and solid and you can't help the little noise that slips out, a soft, needy moan. You're about to break the kiss and beg him to touch you, give you something, anything, but he pulls back before you can. 

"Impatient. I like that too" he says, voice barely above a whisper.

He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then down your neck, his beard scraping against your skin. He continues his path, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses across your collarbones and down the valley between your breasts, his beard tickling your sternum.

His palm presses into the top of your thigh, and you instinctively open your legs for him, his hand immediately moving to cup you through the denim, thick fingers pressing against the seam and the bundle of nerves just below. Your hips rock up, seeking more pressure and he grins, entirely too pleased with himself right now.

You huff, and he laughs, the sound rumbling in his chest, but he relents, undoing the button and zipper of your jeans and tugging the fabric down, revealing the pair of pink panties underneath. 

Joel sits up, pulling your jeans down your legs and letting them drop off the side of the bed, the sound of the denim hitting the floor indicating that you've officially crossed a line that neither of you can come back from. But if the hungry, desperate look on his face and the way you're practically vibrating underneath him are any indication, neither of you want to.

"I'll start with just my fingers, yeah?" he says, his hands running up the insides of your thighs, touch light and teasing, the tips of his fingers brushing the edge of your panties. You nod dumbly, at a complete loss for words right now.

He ducks his head, his lips landing on the smooth skin stretched over your hip bone. You squirm, ticklish, and he grins. His mouth is a great distraction from his hand, which has found its way back in between your legs, his fingers now pressing against damp fabric.

"Shit" he curses, his touch firm. "Fuckin' soaked already. Am I just that good?" he quips with a smirk.

"Jesus do you ever shut up" you gripe, but the effect is ruined by the whimper that escapes you when his thumb sweeps up, pressing hard against your clit. 

"Oh, that's a pretty sound" he murmurs, repeating the motion to pull out another one, your hips bucking against his hand.

"Now," he starts, his tone shifting to the same one he uses when he's about to impart some life lesson. "This guy you're gonna see, or any man for that matter, should always take care of you before himself. That's just common fuckin' sense. And if he doesn't, you send him on his way" he continues. "Because a man that don't wanna see a woman get off is no fuckin' man at all"

You're about to interrupt, tell him he's an idiot and ask him to please, please, get on with it, but his fingers sliding under the elastic of your panties, swiftly pulling them down your legs steals the breath from your lungs. Your pulse sky rockets and you shift underneath him, crossing your thighs in instinctual effort to hide yourself from him. 

"M'sorry I didn't shave or anything" you blurt out, your throat tight with anxiety and embarrassment once again 

Joel just shakes his head as he pries your legs apart.

"Baby, I could not give less of a shit about that."

"But-"

"No" he says, the word firm, an edge of command to his tone. "You’re not apologizin’ for that. And if a man gives a shit, he's a fuckin' child who doesn't deserve the honor of bein' between these thighs" he says, pushing your knees further apart.

You nod and bite your lip, the words that are just so very Joel, settling in your chest and easing the tension in your body. You let out a long, slow breath and relax, trying to ease the nervousness.

"There ya go" he says, his fingers dancing along your slit, gathering the slick pooling there. You shudder at the gentle touch, your hips rolling up just a bit before you force them back down into the mattress, trying to keep yourself still.

"Nuh-uh. None of that" he says, immediately noticing the movement. He slides his free hand under you, his palm pushing into the small of your back and encouraging you to move again, to lean into your pleasure. "You take what you want, baby. Show me how good it feels. That's all I wanna see."

You squirm and whimper, the simple, almost lazy touch driving you insane. You've touched yourself before, brought yourself over the edge while imagining what it would be like to have the things you read about and watch in videos happen to you. But you've never managed to make yourself feel this good, never felt pleasure so intense, never felt a burning pressure in your abdomen so demanding that it radiates all the way to the tips of your fingers and toes.

And he's barely touched you.

"How's that feel?"

You can't even form the words, so you just nod and hum, the sound a mix of a whimper and a moan, your hips rolling up against his palm. He chuckles, and then the pressure increases, the friction building, his fingers slipping down, collecting more of your wetness to ease the drag against your skin.

He moves his fingers down, down, down, the tip of one circling your entrance, gathering the wetness pooling there. You whine loudly, any shame and modesty you once had replaced entirely with desperate need and pure desire.

"Please, Joel" you whisper, voice shaky.

"I gotcha" he says, dipping his fingertip in, just barely, and pulling a moan from deep in your chest. "Gonna give you what you need"

You groan, a long, low sound as he slowly sinks his finger into you. It's nothing like your own, so perfectly thick and long/ And you found the spot before, the spot that he curls his finger up into, but never at this angle, never with the perfect amount of pressure that he's applying right now. 

"Mmm, look at that" he coos as you clench tightly around his finger.

"Joel, god, feels so good" you whimper pathetically. 

"I know, honey, I know."

You clench again, the cockiness and self-assured attitude that usually gets under your skin now ignites your whole body in an entirely different way. He keeps his eyes on your face, watching as your eyes squeeze shut and your mouth drops open, your head tipping back as the pleasure builds.

"Another" you beg, the fullness not nearly enough.

"Greedy girl" he chides, but he pulls his finger out, and slides two back in. You swear that you could come from this alone, but he doesn't let you, the hand that was supporting your lower back disappearing, only to reappear between your thighs, his thumb circling your clit with firm, steady strokes.

White hot pleasure wraps around the base of your spine, the dual sensations of his fingers and his thumb sending you spiraling. The sounds falling from your lips are unrecognizable, high and desperate as your mind goes blissfully blank, your entire focus on the heat coiling in your abdomen. Your eyebrows pinch together and you bury your face in the pillow next to your head, trying to hide the ridiculous expression you're surely making, but you inhale the traces of his shampoo and cologne that cling to the fabric, the scent pushing you even closer to the edge. 

You try to hold back. Surely you're not supposed to come this quickly, not just from two fingers and a thumb. Surely that's a sign that you're an easy lay, or too inexperienced, or-

"Just let it happen, baby. I can feel it, Just let go" Joel says, his voice cutting through the thoughts racing through your mind, his fingers crooking inside you and dragging across the spot that makes your hips stutter and a cry fall from your lips.

You can't hold back any longer, the pleasure cresting and crashing down around you. You squeeze his fingers, your back arching, the heels of your feet digging into the mattress as you roll your hips up into his touch, seeking more and more and more. And he gives and gives and gives, working you through it and drawing it out for as long as he can before you melt into the mattress, bones and muscles liquid and warm and satisfied.

He pulls his fingers out, and the sudden emptiness draws a disappointed whine from you, his answering chuckle making you smile.

"That was- fuck" you sigh, not quite capable of coherent thought.

"Absolutely mind-blowing? Yeah I know" he teases. You roll your eyes but don't say anything because it's true, and his cocky grin fades into a soft smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watches you return to Earth. 

"Can I- can I return the favor?" you ask, your gaze flicking down to the noticeable bulge in his jeans.

He grunts and shakes his head.

"Not yet. Got somethin' else in mind."

You frown and push yourself up onto your elbows, watching as he shifts from his position. You're about to ask what he's going to do until he's settling himself on his stomach between your thighs. You suck in a sharp breath as you realize exactly what he's got planned and your heart jumps, anxiety clouding your mind once again. 

He rests his cheek on your thigh, his eyes meeting yours.

"Alright?"

You swallow and nod, licking your lips.

"Yeah. Just... no one's ever-"

"Yeah, I got that much, that's why we're here" he says, smiling smugly when you glare at him. 

"But what if it's not good? Or I don't taste good? Or-"

"Stop" he says, the single word halting your runaway train of thought. "You need lessons in relaxing, not sex. You're so fucking tense all the time"

"Sorry" you say, immediately cringing.

He sighs, his breath ghosting over the skin of your inner thigh, making you shiver. "What did I say about apologizin'?" he says, his tone slightly sharp.

"I know. Sorry- shit, sorry! Fuck!"

He barks out a laugh and you huff, bringing up both hands to scrub over your face.

"See what I mean?"

"Yes, yes, you're very smart and know everything"

He hums and nips at your thigh.

"Damn right I do."

You want to snark back, but his mouth is moving, his lips trailing down the inside of your thigh and towards where you're aching for him, slick and wet and throbbing. He takes his time, laying kisses on your thighs, hips, and stomach, his scruff scraping the sensitive skin, huffing out a laugh when you start to squirm, your patience wearing thin.

His hands smooth over the soft flesh of your inner thighs, urging you to spread them wider before spreading you open with his thumbs, exposing you completely. You feel exposed, vulnerable, and the urge to close your legs and hide yourself from his gaze is overwhelming, the embarrassment making your skin burn. But before you can even think about closing them, his tongue is on you, sliding up the length of you and circling your clit. The moan that escapes you is embarrassingly loud and high pitched, but the mortification is easily swallowed up by the pleasure.

He hums against you, the sound and the feeling sending a shudder through your body. Your hands grip the pillow behind your head and you try not to buck up into his mouth, but your attempts are futile. He doesn't seem to mind though, in fact you think it spurs him on, his tongue flattening against you and lapping at you messily, the wetness he's coaxed from you smearing across his mouth and chin.

The sound is lewd and obscene, the sloppy, slick noises and the soft grunts and groans that rumble in his chest as he works you up. He pulls back, his breath coming out in pants, his chest heaving as he looks up at you, his eyes dark and hooded.

"Don't know what you were worried about" he says, his voice low and raspy. "You taste fuckin' divine"

His beard is shiny and damp, his lips glistening, hair messy from where your fingers were tangled in it. The sight of him looking so completely disheveled and filthy has you clenching around nothing, the ache almost too much to bear.

He doesn't say anything else, just ducks his head and gets back to work, his mouth moving with a renewed urgency, his hands gripping your thighs and pushing them further apart, allowing him better access.

Your eyes roll back and your mouth falls open, a constant stream of moans and whines and babbling pleas and praises falling from your lips, but you're not really sure what you're saying, not really sure of anything except the intoxicating pleasure coursing through your veins.

You hear him moan, can feel the vibration against your skin, and you glance down at him, and that's a mistake. The sight of him, his eyes closed and brows drawn together in concentration, his cheeks hollowed out as he sucks and nips and laps at you and– is he fucking grinding his hips into the mattress?

You're fucked.

A throaty moan tumbles past your lips as your hips start to rock, a rhythm forming as you chase your orgasm. His hands leave your thighs and he slides one arm up, the weight of it resting against your abdomen to keep you still while his other hand snakes down, fingers dipping inside again, finding the spot that makes you see stars.

"Fuck, Joel, please, oh my god, I'm so- please"

He groans in response, the hand on your stomach pressing down harder to meet the two fingers curling and stroking inside of you. You cry out at the increased pressure right as he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking and swirling his tongue around the bud, his fingers moving faster and faster. Flames lick up your spine and spread throughout your body, threatening to burn you alive. 

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train, knocking the wind out of you and turning your limbs to jello. Wave after wave of blinding euphoria crashes over you and all you can do is cling to the pillow and arch your back, your toes curling as he continues to work his fingers and tongue, happily letting you ride his face and grind into his mouth.

He doesn't let up, not until you're a whimpering, trembling mess, physically pushing his head away when it becomes too much. He pulls back reluctantly, a wicked grin plastered to his face, his chin and mouth absolutely soaked. You're panting, struggling to catch your breath as the aftershocks make you shiver despite the content warmth spreading throughout your entire body.You feel sated and sleepy, a bone deep satisfaction making you feel boneless. 

But as you come down from your high, rational thoughts start to filter in and you suddenly remember the reason this all started in the first place.

You're here to learn, he should be teaching you how to please a man.

How to please him. 

You watch as he gets off the bed and wipes his chin with the back of his hand. Your eyes shamelessly rake over him, the dusty pink flush that decorates his neck and chest, the curve of his belly down to the impressive bulge in his jeans. 

You push yourself up, ignoring the way your arms tremble with the effort. He looks at you, his eyes scanning your face no doubt looking for signs of distress.

"You ok?" he asks, eyebrows pinched together in his typical concerned Joel fashion.

"Yeah" you say, a little breathlessly. "But I still want to..."

Your voice trails off and you glance down at his crotch, hoping he gets the message.

"That's alright, baby. It's a lot, we don't-"

"No" you interrupt, a hint of desperation in your voice. "You said you would teach me. Please, Joel. I-I wanna learn" You hope it's a good enough cover to the fact that you really just want him, your original goal forgotten. "I just don't want to embarrass myself" you add, pouting slightly for good measure, praying to god that he can’t detect the underlying want for him and him only.

He watches you for a moment, seemingly contemplating his decision. And then his eyes narrow, because of course he knows. There's never been an instance where you succeeded in lying to this man. He always, always knows when something is off.

"Alright" he says, a slow smile spreading across his face, something mischievous sparkling in his eyes. "Dick sucking class is now in session"

You groan, your face twisting with visible disgust.

"Oh my god, that was terrible."

"What? It's true" he says with a shrug.

"That is- no, no way. Never say those words ever again. Ever." you say, pointing a finger at him accusingly.

"Or what?" he challenges, taking a step towards the bed.

You gulp and lick your lips.

"Or..."

He waits expectantly for a response. You have none, so you just shake your head and look away.

"Yeah, that's what I thought"

You glare at him and then sigh.

"You're a bully"

"Am I?” He asks, taking a step back to give you more room. “ 'Cause you're the one that asked me to teach ya. On your knees, kid. Let's see whatcha got."

You chew on the inside of your cheek, trying to suppress a grin. You don't know how he does it, but his ability to make a joke or a quip out of anything always has a smile tugging at the corner of your lips, even when the jokes are awful and the puns are terrible. Even when the joke is about you getting ready to suck his dick. 

"You're a bully and a pervert" you say, sliding off the bed and sliding to your knees, the plush carpet doing a decent job at protecting your joints.

"And proud of it.”

"Pride is a sin."

"So is premarital sex, so I'll see you in hell, honey"

You snort and look up at him from your place on the floor, grinning widely.

"You're ridiculous"

"You love it"

And that's the thing, isn't it?

Because you do. You love his innate ability to make you laugh, to make you smile even when he's about to take your fucking virginity. He knows how to comfort you, how to put you at ease, when to push you with his teasing and when to pull back and let you take control. You've never met a person who has so effortlessly made their way into your heart.

And here you are, on your knees for him under the false pretense of practicing for a man who's name you can't even remember right now.

You shake your head, the motion clearing the thoughts and the emotions that were swirling in your head, the ones that make you want to stand up and kiss him, kiss him until your lips are numb and you're left gasping for air.

"Joel?" you say his name softly.

"Yeah, baby?"

"Teach me."

Part 2 is already in the works I promise hehehe thank you for reading I hope u all enjoy!!

[yournameyn]

DYING

PEDRO PASCAL as Joel Miller The Last Of Us | 2.1 Future Days 

[yournameyn]

Am I going crazy or is a broken up (romantic) relationship actually like an incomplete fanfic? You poured in your heart and then something happened that just made it stop - made that constant ebb & flow of love stop. And now it's Phantom City.

[yournameyn]

Yeah straight up JHope to JHo

guess i'm going to have to forgive HYBE for the cursed colonel sanders getup

[yournameyn]

this grandpa could bend me over the kitchen table and i would be grateful

[yournameyn]

I just saw The Materialists & this is the perfect follow up. The writing is so... deliberate, designed. Uff. @foxtrology thank you for this carefully crafted gem.

material girl

THIS CONTAINS MATERIALISTS SPOILERS!

harry castillo x reader

age gap, female reader, contains themes of body image, chapter has not been edited

─────

You were born in the penthouse suite of Lenox Hill Hospital, wrapped in lavender silk instead of muslin.

The first sound you heard was the laugh track of your mother’s favorite 1950s sitcom playing softly in the background as she recovered on morphine.

You grew up in a six-story limestone townhouse off Fifth Avenue, the kind with frescoed ceilings and staircases so wide they made women feel like swans. The house smelled like bergamot and old paper. Always.

Your last name meant something—meant everything—in film. Directors paused when they heard it. Festival organizers offered you rooms. Cinematographers tried not to blink. Your family didn’t just fund films, they curated the atmosphere in which they were watched. Museums asked for your grandfather’s reel collection like relics. Your father’s voice had been immortalized in Criterion commentary tracks. You were born into the lighting. You were born on set.

By the time you were five, you knew what a backlot was.

By ten, you’d learned how to tell when a director was faking their references.

You could cry on cue, not because you were trained—but because crying got you what you wanted. You were always told you looked like your mother, which you hated.

But you knew it was true.

Same feline cheekbones, same bloodless complexion, same way of arching an eyebrow so it felt like an accusation.

Your sister, younger by three years, had always been the darling of brunch tables. You were the one who drew headlines when you spilled wine on a Cannes jury member’s lap and didn’t apologize. You were called “feisty” by Vanity Fair and “difficult” by your aunt’s third husband.

You hadn’t worked a day in your life, not in the way people mean it. You’d attended Columbia briefly, then left because someone on the faculty looked at you wrong. You dated mostly artists—photographers who lived in lofts and sculptors who never returned your YSL coat. Occasionally a screenwriter, someone who claimed he was writing you into something. They never did.

But lately, it had begun to sour.

Parties were too loud. Everyone looked like someone you’d already met. Men your age were either married or trying to get you to invest in something blockchain-related. Your doorman had started to pity you. He looked at you like you were an orchid in the wrong light.

It didn’t help that the world had shifted.

The industry, the city, the people you once dismissed as temporary had begun to stick. There were new families at the Met Gala now, new surnames attached to legacy tables at Polo Bar. You knew the kind of men you wanted. You just hadn’t seen one in a very long time. Not really.

But elsewhere, in a different corner of the city, another life was ticking along with equal weight and silence.

Harry Castillo stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in his penthouse and read a memo he didn’t care about. The building was newer than yours, all glass and good taste. The kind of place where appliances whispered and marble was warm to the touch.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a slate-gray sweater that looked like it belonged in a film about grief. His hair was dark but threaded with silver, curling at the back of his neck. His eyes were the color of wet earth. There was something old-fashioned about the way he stood—shoulders slightly back, like he was ready to say something difficult but necessary.

Harry was born into money too, though it was newer and quieter than yours.

His mother founded the Castillo Group after taking an inheritance and multiplying it tenfold in under a decade. She built the firm with the kind of discipline normally reserved for surgeons. Harry's father and brother now worked under her. So did he. Not because he had to—but because it was what Castillos did.

Private equity didn’t thrill him, but it made sense.

And Harry liked things that made sense.

He liked structure. He liked the rhythms of quarterly reports and the smell of ink on legal pads. His world ran on spreadsheets and quiet dinners with men who owned things you’d never see.

He had recently ended things with Lucy Mason, a woman who had once been important to him. She was a professional matchmaker—poised, brilliant, and deeply concerned with emotional compatibility indexes.

He’d liked her. He’d tried to love her. But there had always been a small door inside his chest that wouldn’t open for her. Not all the way.

They ended things late at night.

It was civil, almost eerie in its neatness. She told him that if he ever wanted to try her service, he should.

“If you call the office,” she said. “They'll assign someone great for you.”

He nodded and never called. Not yet.

Back uptown, you were barefoot on the heated terrazzo floor of your kitchen, making a mess out of truffle honey and sourdough. Your sister was at the counter, scrolling through her phone like it was her real job. She looked too pleased. You didn’t trust her when she looked pleased.

“You’re not wearing those boots again, are you?” she asked, not looking up. “They’re very…divorcee.”

You ignored her. You’d been feeling unstable lately, a little trapped in the amber of your own life. You’d been googling people you once hated and found out they might have figured something out.

Before you.

You hated how that felt.

Your sister put down her phone. Too deliberately.

“So,” she said. “Promise not to get mad?”

You looked up. “No.”

She beamed. “Okay. Don’t freak out. But I might have filled out a little thing for you.”

You blinked. “What kind of thing.”

“It’s nothing. Just…a profile. For a matchmaking service. Very elite. Very low-profile. Super bespoke.”

You said nothing. You stared at her, hard enough that she briefly flinched.

“I knew you’d react like this,” she groaned. “But come on. You’ve dated everyone in Manhattan who’s not in rehab or under federal investigation. You need a reset. A new algorithm. Let the universe—or a very qualified stranger—take the wheel.”

You turned away, grabbed the spoon, stirred your espresso like it was someone’s fault.

“Please tell me you didn’t use my real name,” you said quietly.

She hesitated.

“I used your middle name,” she said brightly. “That counts, right?”

Outside, the city shuddered to life—cars moving like brushstrokes, old buildings watching from behind limestone brows.

You didn’t know it yet but Harry Castillo would open a drawer that night and find the business card Lucy once left behind. He’d hold it in his hand a little too long.

Today was for disbelief. For the kind of quiet before something tilts. For looking out at the city and wondering—against all logic—if maybe someone was already looking back.

You didn’t go out much that week.

Not in any performative way—no detoxes, no dramatic declarations to your group chat, just a slow unspooling of invitations you didn’t RSVP to.

A dinner at Lucien you skipped.

A gallery opening where someone’s assistant texted, They’re asking if you’re coming.

You weren’t.

You sat barefoot on the windowsill instead, eating cold papaya and watching the fog crawl up like it was trying to forget where it came from.

Your sister had gone quiet. Not in a guilty way—she’d never been wired for guilt—but in that annoying, practiced stillness she slipped into when she was waiting to be proven right. You could feel it in the one word texts. The silence that followed. The smug, hovering dot-dot-dot that never became a message.

You lasted about two weeks like that. Then your mother called.

Lunch, she said. Cipriani, obviously. She didn’t ask if it worked for you. She didn’t need to.

You arrived ten minutes late on principle. She was already seated, already picking mint from her cocktail, already tilting her cheek for a kiss she never quite gave.

Her hair was perfect.

It always was.

Still pulled into a chignon so tight it made her face look slightly unreal. Her scarf—Hermès, naturally—was twisted just so, like she'd stepped out of a 1970s Italian film and never aged past the good lighting.

“I ordered the risotto for the table,” she said. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine.”

“Have you been working out? Your stomach looks soft.”

“I said I’m fine.”

She waved you off, already bored. Her nails tapped her wine glass with deliberate disdain. You knew the rhythm by heart.

She asked how you’d been, and you told her the sanitized version—books you were pretending to read, your new pilates instructor with that Finnish accent, something about how you were considering showing up on dad's set in Los Angeles just to feel something.

She nodded politely through all of it, eyes scanning the room.

Then, as the waiter laid down the salmon, she struck.

“You know,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be chosen.”

You didn’t look up. You kept slicing bread. Slowly. Cleanly.

She kept going, of course.

“I worry you’ve built this little moat around yourself. And for what? So no one can disappoint you? That’s not strength, darling.”

“Are you seriously—”

“And don’t say you’re not lonely. Everyone’s lonely. It’s boring.”

You could feel your jaw set. That was the thing with her. She never said it cruelly. She said it like it was just another fact, like the weather or your blood type. Like cruelty wasn’t personal unless you let it be.

“I didn’t come here for a lecture.”

“No. You came because I asked you to.” She smiled over her wine. “And because no one else did.”

The silence that followed was sour and expensive. The kind that doesn’t get broken by apologies, only by checks and limousines and the distraction of someone else’s scandal.

You got into the back of your car with your stomach a tight little fist. You didn’t cry. Not there, not then. You weren’t that girl.

But that night, the email came.

From a stranger.

Subject line: Matchmaker Profile Review – Please Confirm Details.

At first, you thought it was spam. Then you saw your middle name typed like it belonged to someone else. The same photo your sister had forced you to take last year, standing on the terrace in a white dress that had made you feel like a ghost. It was you. You, in some unnervingly accurate bullet points. Preferences. Dealbreakers. Love languages.

You hovered over the trash icon. Didn’t click.

Not yet.

Harry sat in his bedroom in silence.

The penthouse—more glass than walls—was hushed, interrupted only by the occasional hum of temperature regulation or the sigh of traffic five stories down. He liked it that way. Controlled. Calibrated. No echoes of someone else’s taste.

He sat in the reading chair by the window, laptop balanced across his thighs, a page open with the pale gray header: Castillo, H — Matchmaker Profile Review Requested.

Rose—his matchmaker—had told him to look it over. See if anything felt off. “Even the smallest thing,” she’d said, with her clipped precision. “We don’t want anything distorting the signal.”

He didn’t believe in signals. Not really.

Still, he scrolled.

He scanned the words—edited, carefully neutral. No photos. He’d opted out. There were photos of everyone now. He didn’t want that. He liked the idea of someone reading first. Imagining. Filling in the edges wrong.

Then he saw it.

Height: 6’0

He paused.

It was true. Now.

But it wasn’t always.

He shifted in the chair, legs stiff. That familiar ache, dull and ghostlike, stirred beneath his skin.

It had been eight years.

Still, some mornings he swore he could feel the break. The phantom throb of it. The remembering.

He’d been thirty-seven when he did it. His brother had gone first, dragging him into the consultation like it was some secret rite. The doctor spoke with an accent and wore a Rolex that glinted like a challenge.

They broke the bones. Femurs. Tibias. Stretched them millimeter by millimeter over months. Metal rods inside the legs. Physical therapy that made grown men cry.

Four hundred thousand dollars.

Each.

They were lucky.

Rich boys.

They healed in penthouses with private nurses and blackout curtains. Harry read biographies of ruined men while his legs screamed.

He never told anyone. Not even Lucy. Until she found his scars while he was sleeping.

The scars were faint. A pair of pale, wicked lines running along the outside of each leg, like punctuation marks on a story he didn’t talk about. He saw them in the mirror sometimes and thought, What did I gain, really?

Six inches, yes.

But also… something unspoken. Some strange edge. A new way men listened when he spoke. The way women didn’t ask questions, just tilted their heads in approval, as if the air had shifted.

It wasn’t vanity. Not exactly.

It was about scale. About not disappearing in rooms where power stood tall.

Still, seeing it there, written down, made something in his throat tighten.

He shut the laptop and leaned back. The city glowed below him. Red tail lights inching up West Broadway. People moving, choosing, being chosen.

He reached down and rubbed his shin gently, as if to remind himself...this is yours.

You paid for this height.

You earned it in bone.

Meanwhile in another penthouse just a few blocks away...you were lying on your back, staring up at the crown molding, thinking about the things your mother said.

The idea that being chosen was something worth wanting.

You hated that it echoed.

You hated more that it almost sounded true.

Downstairs, your doorman signed for a package. Something sent from an office you’d never heard of. A folder sealed in black. Your name printed in serif.

You wouldn’t see it until morning.

But it was already in the building.

Already waiting.

When you woke, the light in your bedroom was soft and dull, filtered through gauzy curtains your mother had once called tragically optimistic. The air had that filtered morning silence that felt vaguely judgmental, like even your apartment was waiting to see what kind of person you were going to be today.

You padded barefoot across the terrazzo floor, still in last night’s silk camisole, your stomach a soft ache from too much wine or not enough food. You didn’t remember which.

And there it was.

A black envelope.

Just outside your penthouse door. Laid neatly on the marble like it belonged there. No branding. No return address. Only your middle name printed in thin serif font.

You stood there for a moment, coffee-less, suspicious, bare-legged in a building where people wore jewelry to take out the trash.

You thought...spam. PR. A strange flex from a failed suitor.

But then you saw the initials etched lightly on the back seal...R.S.

Your stomach curled slightly.

Your sister. That smug, beautiful demon.

You carried the envelope inside like it was cursed.

At the kitchen island, you made espresso and stared at it like it might blink. Your phone had seven unread messages and none of them mattered. You’d spent too many mornings like this—floating in your own life like it was someone else’s bathwater.

Eventually, you slid your finger under the flap.

Inside a slim folder. Matte cardstock. Minimalist. Heavy enough to feel expensive.

A letter on the front.

Your sister mentioned you were hesitant. I understand hesitation—it can be a sign of intelligence. But I also know a match when I see one. The following is not a pitch, nor a promise. It’s just a possibility. — Rose

You blinked. That was it. No company logo, no contact info. Just a name and a voice like the inside of a glass of wine—dry, elegant, a little smug.

You flipped the page.

There were bullet points. Controlled, curated, clinical. Every line written like it had been vetted by lawyers and therapists.

Age: 47

Height: 6'0

Marital Status: Never married

Children: None

Occupation: Private Equity (Partner, Family Firm)

Residency: Tribeca

Education: Ivy League (Economics)

Religion: Agnostic

Languages: English, Spanish

Temperament: Observant. Principled. 

Emotional Availability: High—when trust is earned.

Love Language: Acts of service. 

Looking for: The real thing.

You stared at it.

Private equity. Tribeca. Forty-seven. You groaned.

He sounded like the kind of man who corrected waitstaff and had a framed blueprint of a yacht in his office. The kind of man your mother would politely destroy with a single glance and a casually cruel remark about his tie.

But you kept reading.

There were notes. Margins full of them. From the matchmaker, apparently—this unseen curator pulling invisible strings.

"He listens more than he speaks. But when he speaks, everyone listens."

"Very tactile with people he trusts. Rare, but notable."

"He likes reading before bed. Not out of habit. Out of need."

"Wants children. Not urgently. But honestly."

You felt yourself bristle. Then soften. Then bristle again.

Because you knew men like this didn’t exist. Not really. And if they did, they didn’t submit themselves to algorithms. They didn’t hand over their inner lives to professional matchmakers in New York City. They didn’t wait around for women with baggage and beautifully designed boundaries.

But then—

Then there was the smaller envelope.

Sealed. Black wax. No flourish, just the words...

Only open if interested.

Which, of course, was exactly the kind of thing that made you want to open it.

So you did.

Inside, a deeper profile. Not his answers. Her notes.

No photo. Of course not.

But somehow, without seeing him, the image began to form anyway.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. A man who dressed like he didn’t think about it—because someone else always had. Dark hair, graying in a way that made you think of salt, of restraint, of stories not told too soon. Eyes like wet bark. The kind of brown that held heat, not just color.

There was a line under Romantic Compatibility, written in Rose's careful script...

“He doesn’t flirt. He focuses. Makes you feel like the only room he’s ever stood in is the one you’re in now.”

Your stomach did a thing.

You hated that it did a thing.

You closed the file. Too fast. Like the words could see you, like they knew.

Who was this man?

You’d known hundreds of men. Dated enough to recognize types. Models. Trust fund poets. One devastating poet’s assistant. You could smell performative vulnerability from two rooms away. But this wasn’t that.

This was something else.

Across the city, Rose sipped her espresso in a glass office with zero personal items. She tapped a pen against her tablet and refreshed her inbox.

Harry still hadn’t responded.

She didn’t blame him. He was slower than most. A man who considered decisions like he was building a bridge over water he hadn’t named yet.

So she’d done it herself.

She'd read your sister’s submission, then read between the lines.

Googled you. Googled your grandfather.

Saw the name in festival archives, on lost reels from the sixties. Watched the grainy interview with your mother in a Paris cinema.

Saw the haunted brilliance in your face, the face of a legacy you hadn’t asked for.

She knew then.

She knew.

It wasn’t about wealth or aesthetic parity—it was energy. Containment. Quiet power looking for a counterpart.

So she sent it.

Let the rich girl read. Let the serious man stall.

Let the city do the rest.

Back in your kitchen, you refilled your espresso. Opened the file again. Not because you believed in it. But because something in your chest had begun to hum.

You hadn’t seen his face.

But you couldn’t stop picturing it.

And when you went to bed that night, you didn’t throw away the folder like you had planned to do.

You didn’t talk to your sister about it either.

You just let it sit there, glowing in your building.

A match you hadn’t chosen.

But maybe—

Just maybe—

One that saw you anyway.

The next tine you blinked it had been six days since the envelope.

Time moves fast when you are stressing over a man who doesn't even know you exist. 

You hadn’t opened the envelope again. You’d slid it back into the matte folder and tucked the whole thing into the shallow drawer of your vanity—the one usually reserved for lipsticks in limited-edition packaging and love letters you never responded to.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything, that it was just some expensive exercise in curated loneliness.

Like horoscopes for people with trust funds.

You’d stopped searching the internet.

There were too many men. Too many firms.

Every time you typed “New York private equity, 47, no kids,” the results made you want to burn your laptop. Sleek men in sleeker suits, blinking across LinkedIn headshots like a smug carousel. Half of them looked like the villain in a thriller, the other half like your ex’s father.

None of them looked like him—whoever he was.

And you told yourself you didn’t care.

You were busy, anyway.

Your grandmother had summoned the family.

She did this sometimes. Not for holidays, not for birthdays. Only for matters. The kind that required linen blazers and polite expressions, and the ceremonial silence that came when she mentioned death like it was something chic and inevitable.

Your grandfather had passed five years ago in Italy, holding a cigarette and laughing at a joke you never heard. He’d left behind vaults of film, four ex-lovers at his funeral, and a will that could’ve passed for a screenplay. Your grandmother had been quiet since. Not sad, exactly—just...theatrical in a colder register. As if grief was a role she’d aged out of but still wanted to audition for.

She’d asked the family to meet with a firm. Something about reorganizing trusts. Future-proofing. “Estate things,” your mother had said vaguely while buttering toast with her rings on.

All you heard was...meetings.

So now you had one. A meeting with a private equity firm that sounded like a wine label. It was supposed to be “the best,” of course. It always was.

The name meant nothing to you.

Castillo Group.

Sounded clean. Impersonal. Like a gallery that only sold work in black and white.

You were barely listening when your sister explained the structure of the meeting.

“…and we’re meeting with one of the partners,” she said, scrolling through her phone while icing her jaw. “They assigned us someone directly. It’s serious, apparently. Gran wants to talk about legacy clauses.”

You made a vague sound of acknowledgement and stole a sip of her green juice.

She slapped your hand without looking up.

“Don’t be weird,” she said.

You weren’t weird. You were bored.

The week passed in lacquered hours.

Days filled with pilates, wine, group chats muted indefinitely.

You ignored texts from men you didn’t remember giving your number to.

You wore sunglasses indoors. You bought a vintage Schiaparelli coat you didn’t need. You stared out windows longer than was socially acceptable.

And still—

The man lingered.

The match. Him.

Not directly. Just in flashes. The way someone brushed your wrist on the subway. The way the barista called your name too softly. The memory of Rose’s notes, scribbled like a diary for someone else’s soul.

You didn’t even know his name.

So you stopped thinking about it.

You went to pilates instead.

It was one of those spaces that didn’t call itself a gym—more like a “wellness lab.” All eucalyptus mist and minimalist lighting. The front desk staff were beautiful in that beige, uncanny way, like they’d been grown in a vat labeled Miu Miu campaign.

Your friends were already on the reformers when you arrived.

“Nice of you to join us,” said Inez, legs in straps, gold hoops catching the morning light. “Thought maybe you’d died of aesthetic fatigue.”

You dropped your mat bag dramatically. “I almost did. Someone tried to pitch me a podcast on legacy healing at Dries.”

Sophia snorted and gestured for you to take the spot beside her.

“Guess who’s instructing today,” she whispered, eyes gleaming.

You didn’t have to guess long.

The instructor—Matteo—looked like a poem someone wrote after watching too many Prada ads. Italian. Arms covered in tattoos that didn’t need stories.

You tried not to notice. You failed.

Midway through class, he came over to adjust your form. His hands grazed your hips, featherlight, intentional. He said something low in your ear—“You hold tension here, no?”—and you didn’t even pretend not to smirk.

After class, he caught up with you by the locker rooms. Said your movement was better than anyone in that class. You laughed, genuinely. He asked if you wanted to get a drink sometime.

You paused. Tilted your head. Let the moment breathe.

And then, “You wouldn’t survive my family,” you said, brushing past him with the smile you reserved for temporary men.

Your friends howled when you told them.

“I give it two weeks before you sleep with him,” said Sophia, adjusting her sunglasses.

“Two days,” Inez countered. “Max.”

You shook your head. “He’s a rebound I haven’t even earned yet.”

You didn’t tell them about the envelope. You hadn’t told anyone. Not really. It wasn’t shame—just…a strange refusal to share something you didn’t understand.

The man. The notes. The way they settled under your skin like they belonged there.

Later that evening, your mother texted.

Confirming tomorrow’s appointment. 11 AM. Don’t wear that thing with the fringe.

You didn’t respond.

Instead, you stood by your window, barefoot again, staring down at the city.

Somewhere out there was a man who might’ve been made for you.

And you were about to walk into his building.

Without even knowing it.

The next morning, the light came in soft again—but this time, you were ready for it.

You woke early. Not from an alarm, but from something subtler...the shifting silence of the city beyond your window, the almost imperceptible creak of your building adjusting to the day. There was a feeling in the air, taut and irritable, like silk snagged on a nail.

You didn’t hesitate.

Slipped out of bed, bare feet meeting cold terrazzo, body moving through the motions of your morning like choreography. Coffee first. Then the shower, where steam curled like memory and water hit your back in steady, punishing streams. Your playlist—jazz, something you played when you needed stability.

At your vanity, you moved with purpose.

Silk robe open at the shoulders. Skin dewy from serum. Hair twisted into a low chignon so severe your mother might approve. Your makeup was minimal. A little contour, a matte lip, the faintest shimmer on your cheekbones.

Then the dress.

Vintage Givenchy, the kind of black that absorbs your body. Sleeveless, high-necked, sculpted like you’d been poured into it. It flared just slightly at the hem. You added earrings your grandmother had once described as “impractical for daylight” which of course meant they were perfect.

You checked your reflection only once.

Perfect posture. Unbothered elegance.

Then, you descended.

At the lobby, your driver was already waiting.

Claude had been with your family since before you were born. He'd taught you how to parallel park in Montauk and once threatened paparazzi with a tire iron outside your prep school formal. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t need to.

You slid into the back seat, legs crossed at the knee, coat draped over one shoulder. He merged onto Fifth with surgical precision.

“Traffic?” you asked.

“Not terrible.”

You nodded. Looked out the window.

Then the camera flashes hit.

Paparazzi. Two of them—lurking just outside the florist’s on 74th, lying in wait like roaches with thousand-dollar lenses. You didn’t flinch. You turned slightly, letting them get your better side.

Later, someone would send you a tabloid screenshot with the headline...Heiress En Route to High-Stakes Family Meeting. Your hair would tried to be recreated on TikTok. Someone in the comments would say you looked like a bitch.

Everything is great.

You arrived fifteen minutes late.

Because of course you did.

Claude pulled up in front of the building, not caring about the no parking sign,

Castillo Group read on the glass. The entrance was flanked by planters so perfectly symmetrical it felt aggressive.

You didn’t wait for the concierge. You just walked in, heels clicking like punctuation, coat draped over your forearm, eyes scanning the marble-and-brushed-brass lobby like it might bore you.

The receptionist blinked.

Everyone blinked.

You were used to that.

You gave your name. She gave a floor number.

“Your family’s already up there.”

Of course they were.

The elevator was silent, mirrored. You caught your own reflection and didn’t look away. You didn’t fidget. You didn’t check your phone. When the doors opened, you walked out like you belonged there.

Upstairs, in a glass-walled conference room designed for bids and negotiations, Harry Castillo was already seated.

He didn’t see you at first. He was focused on your grandmother—who’d arrived ten minutes early and was now seated at the head of the table like a bored monarch.

Your mother was beside her, glancing at her nails like they might betray her. Your sister, chewing invisible gum, scrolling on her phone. Your father, thank God, smiled when Harry greeted him. Warmly, even.

Harry liked your father. Had met him briefly before—quietly magnetic, the kind of man who’d aged into his cynicism with charm.

The meeting was already in motion.

Legacy clauses. Trust restructuring. Long-term tax shelters.

Harry had learned long ago how to focus on the numbers without being distracted by the jewelry, the veiled insults, the family lore. Your grandmother referred to their fortune like it had been bestowed by Zeus himself.

Then the door opened.

And you entered.

Harry didn’t look up right away. He was mid-sentence, something about generational liquidity and stepped-up basis calculations. Then his eyes lifted.

And the sentence died in his mouth.

You walked in like the room had been built around your arrival. Back straight. Expression unreadable. Not arrogant—just certain.

Black dress. Earrings that shouldn’t have worked, but did. A face that held a thousand stories and dared you to ask for one. You didn’t apologize for being late. You didn’t even pretend to care.

You took the empty seat beside your father.

Harry watched you like a man trying not to be caught watching.

His colleagues—the senior associate, the analyst, even the usually-unflappable estate attorney—reacted like something seismic had shifted. A cough. A fidget. A clearing of the throat.

You didn’t notice.

Or you did—and chose not to respond.

Harry looked down at his notes.

You, he thought, were exactly what Rose had sent. Except he didn’t know that yet. Couldn’t know. Because the sleek black envelope was still unopened. Still sealed. Still sitting in his office under a stack of quarterly earnings reports.

And you?

You barely looked at him.

You were polite. Dismissive. Tired in a way that didn’t show on your face but echoed in the way you crossed your legs. You asked two questions—sharp, surgical. You answered one of your grandmother’s passive-aggressive remarks with a half-smile so lethal the paralegal accidentally knocked over his water glass.

Harry watched it all.

Took it in like a study.

You didn’t look like a woman who needed anything.

Which is why, when you leaned slightly toward your father and murmured something that made him laugh, Harry felt something strange stir behind his ribs.

You were nothing like Lucy.

You were...burnt edges and quiet glamour, the kind of presence that made people straighten their posture without knowing why. The kind of woman who didn’t smile to make others comfortable.

The meeting continued.

You didn’t speak much.

But when you did, it changed the tone.

You challenged who would earn the rights to certain films.

Asked about film archive clauses.

Corrected your mother without blinking.

And when Harry finally did address you—only once, to clarify a section on trust structure—you nodded.

“Understood,” you said.

No smile. No flirtation.

Just clarity.

And still—Harry felt it. That tilt. The quiet shift. The thing that lives in the breath between two people before they ever really speak.

When the meeting ended, your grandmother rose first.

She didn't thank anyone. She didn’t need to. Her rings did the talking.

Your mother followed. Your sister made a quip about the chairs being bad for her hips. Your father lingered, shaking hands, making small talk with the estate attorney about his late father-in-law's cinema.

You were the last to stand.

And Harry—Harry watched you go.

Not in a way anyone would notice. Just a glance. A flicker. But enough to feel something crack inside his well-constructed, well-curated sense of detachment.

He didn’t know your name.

You didn’t know his.

Not yet.

And the black envelope in his office remained untouched.

But the city was shifting.

And the string had already pulled tight.

That night, Harry couldn’t sleep.

He didn’t usually have this problem. His apartment—if it could still be called that—was engineered for silence. Floor-to-ceiling windows, blackout shades, temperature calibrated to lull any insomniac into submission. The kind of place where sound had to ask permission.

But still, he laid there, one arm behind his head, shirt off, the city beyond the glass blinking like a pulse.

You’d been in his head all day.

Since you walked into that conference room like it owed you something. Since you’d crossed your legs and tilted your chin and answered your grandmother like a diplomat with a dagger under her tongue.

He’d barely heard a word of the financial summary after that. The analyst had repeated himself twice.

He’d nodded. Pretended. Said all the right things. But your face had lingered—cool, sculptural, with eyes that didn’t wander. Like you didn’t need the room’s approval. Like the room had already lost its chance to impress you.

Which is exactly why he needed to get you out of his head.

He rose sometime past midnight. The floor was cold against his feet. He poured himself a glass of water and crossed to his office.

The space was minimalist, but not impersonal. Books lined the walls. A single photograph—his brother Peter’s wedding—sat framed in the corner of his desk.

He had been Peter’s best man. Smiling, tailored, solemn in that way that made women say he looked like someone who had stories and the discipline not to tell them.

Peter had married Charlotte—sharp, beautiful, meticulous. A match made by Adore Matchmaking, by Lucy herself. The agency Harry had never believed in.

But Rose...Rose had sent him something weeks ago. Something he hadn’t touched.

He got to his desk slowly. The envelope was still there. Black wax seal. No branding. Just two letters.

R.S.

No flourish. Just intent.

He cracked the seal. Slowly. Like it might burn.

Inside, a folder. Matte. Heavy. Clinical. His name written at the top in neat serif.

Castillo, H. — Match Profile Review

He almost laughed. Almost.

Then he flipped the page.

And saw your photo.

It hit him like a held breath.

You.

You, in a white dress, standing on a terrace that looked vaguely Roman, vaguely imagined. You weren’t smiling. Just watching something beyond the frame, your posture perfect, your mouth slightly parted like you were about to say something.

The city dimmed around him.

He set the photo down, too gently.

The rest came after—your name (middle only, smart), your background, the carefully-worded notes Rose had stitched together like myth.

He read the line about your grandfather and felt it click into place. The film family. The legacy. The reason everyone in the room had sat straighter when your father entered.

But it was you.

It had been you all along.

And you had no idea.

He sank into the leather chair, your photo still resting beside his wrist like something too sacred to touch again.

It felt impossible. Too neat. And yet—

He thought about that moment in the meeting. When your eyes flicked over him once, unreadable. When you barely spoke to him at all.

He’d assumed it was because you were used to men noticing you. That it was nothing.

But now he wondered...was it better that you didn’t know? Or worse?

He rubbed his hand absently along the outside of his thigh. Scar tissue.

The faint ridge where bone had once been broken, slowly stretched, made new.

If you ever saw it—if you ran your fingers down his legs in the dark, tracing those pale punctuation marks—would you recoil? Would you laugh? Would you ask why?

Would he tell you the truth?

That it wasn’t vanity. Not really. That it was something more primitive than that.

Survival.

He closed the folder. Not to hide it. Just to think.

Because suddenly the idea of seeing you again—of meeting you, really meeting you—felt unbearable and inevitable all at once.

He hadn’t believed in fate. Not until now.

He looked out at the city.

Somewhere, not far, you were probably asleep in a bed the size of a country, one arm flung over your eyes, dreaming of nothing because you refused to give the universe the satisfaction.

And he—

He leaned back in his chair, your name like an electric thread running behind his ribs.

He would see you again.

He knew it.

He just didn’t know when.

But he hoped—quietly, selfishly—that it would be soon.

tag list: @lizziesfirstwife @bluevelvetpedro @thatpinkshirt @i-wanna-be-your-muse @okiegal68 @buckyandlokirunmylife @sohaaa6 @saltyfartdreamland @catharinamarea @cassiuspascal

[yournameyn]

So this just speared my heart.

protective!boyfriend!joel headcanon

joel doesn’t say “i love you” much. he shows it. he’ll fix a broken chair before you even notice it’s loose. he throws his jacket over your shoulders when the air turns cold, even if you said you’re fine. he watches you sleep sometimes—not because he’s restless, but because you bring him the kind of peace he doesn’t know how to hold on to.

he’s always between you and the world. his body reacts before his brain does. loud noises, strangers staring, even a shift in the wind—he’s already in front of you. like a wall. like a shield. like you’re his entire world and he’s the last man keeping it standing.

whether it’s a bar, or someone’s home, joel always knows where the exits are. he positions himself between you and the door. it’s automatic. his body blocks yours from open space, just in case. he doesn’t explain it. just does it. like some part of him will never stop scanning for danger.

he carries things 'just in case. bandaids. painkillers. your favorite snacks. a pocketknife. his pack always has something for you. not because you asked—but because he thought ahead. because he noticed. when you ask about it, he just shrugs. “figured you might need it.” his kind of love is the planning kind. the survival kind. the i thought about you before you thought about yourself kind.

joel doesn’t nag. he doesn’t say “don’t do this” or “watch out”. he just moves. he reaches out when you trip. he pulls you back before you hit your head. he slows down his pace when you're tired, without saying a word. his hands are always near. not overbearing. just there. steady. waiting. ready.

there’s a reverence in the way joel looks at you when you’re focused, relaxed, unaware. he lets himself watch. like he’s memorizing the way the light hits your face. like he’s cataloging every part of you in case the world tries to take you from him.

and you love every part of it.

[yournameyn]

[yournameyn]

*clenches fist* what a fine man