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from-the-clouds · 1 year

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savior complex - joel miller x f!reader

masterlist | song inspo | gif: @joelmjller

All the skeletons that you hide Show me yours, I'll show you mine

summary: Joel shows up at your doorstep, battered and bruised. Despite the bad blood between you, do you have the heart to turn him away? Enemies to lovers. Takes place pre-television series/game. Was written as a companion piece/prequel to my other joel fic, but can be read on it's own. pairing: joel miller x f!reader words: 7k warnings: SMUT - 18+ ONLY, minors DNI. porn w/ plot, unprotected sex, dirty talk, implied age gap. Enemies to lovers. Heavy angst, multiple POVs, implied drug abuse, alcohol use, implied death of a family member, canon-typical suffering! Descriptions of injuries, blood, stitches (please dm for specifics if you have any questions). a/n: I haven't seen the enemies to lovers trope written for joel yet, and I'm also obsessed with the trope of a character showing up at their enemies house because they don't have any place to go. So maybe this is a little self-indulgent. Special shoutout to @ay0nha for letting me talk to you about this fic! Please enjoy, I'm really proud of/excited about this one. ♥

“What do you want?”

The ice in your own voice comes as a surprise. You weren’t sure you were even capable of sounding so cold, but it’s probably a good skill to have nowadays. Plus, he’s probably the last person you expect to see, and certainly the last person you want to see standing in your doorway.

“I need your help,” he says.

You snort, lips pressing together in a bitter smile. “Uh-huh.”

It’s so dark in the hallway, you can barely see his face, but you can imagine what Joel might look like, lines etched in his face from the permanent frown he’s always wearing, particularly when dealing with you. You’ve known him a handful of years, here and there, and you’re pretty sure you’ve never seen him smile….or laugh…or display any emotion other than irritation, or indifference.

The breeze from your open window shifts your curtains to the side, lets a sliver of light from the full moon pan over him, and you can see him clearly, just for a second.

He’s covered in blood.

It’s hard to see exactly how much, but it’s all over his face, his shirt, and accompanied by dirt and grime. One of his hands hangs limp at his side, his opposite clenched into a tight fist. The breeze dies down, the curtain falls back into place, and he’s cast once more in shadow.

Crossing your arms, you lean against the doorframe. Anyone else, you’d help without question. At one point, you would’ve let him in willingly. But it had been months since you’d last spoken, and you had no intentions of ever seeing him again.

“Why should I help you?”

He lowers his eyes, looks at the floor. When he answers, his voice is strained.

“Because I have nowhere else to go.”

The more your eyes adjust in the dim light, the more you can see. Tattered clothes, rain dripping from the tips of his salt-and-pepper curls, his eyes dull. You wonder if he’s trying to make himself look like a kicked puppy, petulant and pathetic, but it doesn’t really seem like something Joel would do.

“Please?”

He’s in pain, you can read it on his face, and you wonder if it’s because of his injuries, or because of how horrible it must be for him to beg you for help. Historically, it’s always been you in his place, needing something – and if it didn’t serve his interests, he’d leave you in the dust. Joel never made exceptions, no matter the circumstances, despite how long you’d known one another. With that to consider, you have every right to turn him away. You should feel satisfied, seeing him so desperate. You wished you could feel satisfied, but you didn’t.

“Fine.” You let him in. What is it about him that always makes you cave?

Pulling a chair away from your small kitchen table, he staggers behind you, favoring his right foot, bracing himself on any surface he walks past – the doorframe, the countertop, the table, until he finally lowers himself into the chair.

You cross the room. It takes most of your bodyweight to shift the couch in the corner of the room away from the vent behind it, and you kneel down. Air conditioning and heat are a thing of the past, but it’s got other purposes now. Using a blade of the knife you always keep handy, you’rable to pry the metal grate away from the wall, to pull out a tin tackle box that you haven’t had to touch in awhile.

Joel’s still at the table when you return to him, breathing labored, and you flick on the lights. He blinks, his eyes are on you, you can feel the way his body is pinched with nervous energy – like a starving feral cat that’s been trapped in a cage, and still can’t decide if it trusts you yet. As if you’d ever done anything to hurt him. If anything, you should be scared.

“Alright,” you say. “Let me take a look at you.”

His eyes have shifted away from your face, but, too proud to cast them down, he’s glaring at some fixed point behind you, glazing over. He doesn’t want to register what is actually going on. It doesn’t stop you from the task at hand, and you begin to take inventory of his injuries.

“So what happened?” you ask. He’s got a black eye forming, several small cuts all over his face, one of which is slicing through his bottom lip, causing it to swell.

“It’s none of your business,” he quips.

“It’s precisely my business, if you want me to be able to actually help you.”

“A deal went wrong,” he said. “I was in someone else’s territory. They said rather than turning me into FEDRA, they’d let me off easy.”

“This is being let off easy?” you ask, then cluck your tongue.

Joel doesn’t answer.

“And that?” you eye the bump forming on his opposite temple.

“It’s nothing,” he says, even though, when you graze a thumb over it, he swallows hard.

“You’re gonna need to be more specific.”

“Got uh, shoved into a brick wall.”

You slide two fingers underneath his chin, using light pressure to tilt his face towards you. “Look at me.” When you’re staring at him like this, studying him closely, you’re forced to acknowledge how handsome he is. Even battered and bruised, it’s the dark, sad eyes, sharp jawline, long lashes that draw you in. He’s hardened by the world he’s been surviving in for twenty years, like everyone is, but he wears it well. You’d never tell him that.

“Any blurry vision, dizziness?” You aim your flashlight in his eyes, and his pupils constrict.

“No,” he says. You study him a moment more, and know what to look for. But you don’t find anything of concern.

“Well, I don’t think you have a concussion,” you say. “But I’ll keep an eye on it…..What else happened?”

“Got me with a knife.” That is what you’ve been the most concerned with since he’s stepped inside. There’s a dark stain blooming on his shirt, just below his left ribcage

“I see,” you say, stepping back. “Take your shirt off.” You open the tin that you left on the table.

It’s full of medical supplies, ones you’d pocketed from the QZ hospital the last few years working there. It’s not easy to sneak them out, nor is it entirely ethical, but you’ve gotten pretty good at it, and now have a decent sized stash built up in case of any emergencies. You’re still deciding if Joel Miller’s well-being is worth the waste of supplies it’s going to be.

When you turn back to him, he has unbuttoned his shirt, but is struggling to shrug it off his right shoulder, where his arm hangs limp at his side.

“I….” he manages….”I can’t move my arm.”

“Sit up,” you instruct, and he does, which gives you room to slide the rest of his shirt off his shoulder. You immediately notice the obvious deformity. “Looks dislocated.”

He nods, looking at the floor. “I was trying to defend myself.”

The idea of him, outnumbered and outmaneuvered, a position he’s so rarely in, is unpleasant. He might be an asshole, but because of it, he always comes out on top. There’s something almost comforting about that kind of consistency these days, and it’s tough to stomach the idea that he doesn’t have superpowers, he’s just another person. You’re not sure why you still hold him in such high regard.

You can’t dwell on it. Especially because what’s more pressing is the cut below his ribs, a few inches in length. It’s still bleeding, but not severely. It’s not a stab wound either, even though it’s deeper than you’d expected, but there’s no internal organ damage.

You take a clean cloth and place it over the wound, guiding his left hand overtop it. “You’ll need stitches.” You slide your hand from underneath his, ignoring the warm weight of his touch. “But we need to stop the bleeding. Apply pressure.” He does, and winces.

“You don’t have anything for the pain?” you ask, raising your eyebrow.

“Front pocket of my shirt,” he says. You fish out a pill. Oxys. You’re not sure how strong they are, and you don’t want to encourage the habit, but this might be a case where he actually needs one.

There’s a glass of water already sitting on the table, and you grab it, standing over him. Neither of his arms are free to accept the offering.

“Open up.”

He glowers at you like a defiant child.

“Are you serious?” you tilt your head. “Come on.”

Reluctantly, he opens his mouth, and you tilt your hand to drop the pill in and lift the glass of water to his lips.

When you’re done with that, it’s time to work on his shoulder. You had done this a few times before, even once to your mother, who had also been a doctor. Med schools didn’t exist anymore, but you didn’t need a degree now to provide care, at least not in this QZ…just experience. And your mother had taught you everything she knew. Before your part of town fell to the virus, she’d even had you reading her old textbooks. So you felt like you were only missing the degree.

You pull up a chair to face him, so close it’s touching the corner of his own, and sit, carefully taking his injured arm and bending it upwards with one of your thumbs in the crease of his elbow, your opposite hand wrapped around his wrist until his forearm is resting against your chest.

It’s way more intimate than you want it to be, but you don’t have much of a choice. His jaw is set so hard you think he might crack a tooth. “So sometimes, if you relax your muscles enough, you can actually get the shoulder back into place that way.”

You release his wrist and reach out to knead the muscles around the problem area - his chest, his shoulder, in between his shoulder blades. He tilts his head back in the chair, his face pinched.

“It’s okay,” you say softly. “Just don’t hold your breath, that makes it worse.”

Joel hates this, you can tell. How often does he have to rely on someone so much to help him, that he lets them touch you like you are, lets them see him vulnerable?

As much as you can, you avoid eye contact, looking down. You didn’t need to see him shirtless before to know that he’s muscular – not perfectly cut, but that isn’t really your thing, anyways. He looks good enough that your eyes are being drawn to places they shouldn’t be, down his torso to the v-lines dipping into the waistband of his jeans. He clears his throat, and you turn to find him watching you. You hope he can’t feel the way your heart is hammering against the back of his hand.

It’s been a few minutes that you’re trying to get him to relax, but he can’t seem to. You should’ve known that this method wasn’t going to work for him of all people.

“Okay, I’m just going to try to move your arm a bit, see if that’ll work instead.”

He nods.

“Just keep breathing,” you instruct. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.” you slowly guide his elbow forward, still keeping traction.

He hisses. “Relax,” you soothe. It’s hard, despite the bad blood between you, to resist the urge to be warm, gentle. To reassure. It’s in your nature, it’s part of your job.

Eventually, and with a little patience, you’re able to get the joint to move back into place, and you check to be sure Joel is able to move it on his own. He can, even though it’s sore. You fashion him a sling made out of an ace bandage.

“You’re probably gonna be a little sore for a while, so take it easy.” It’s probably a useless instruction to give because you know he won’t take it easy.

He has a sprained ankle, and you wrap it up, elevate it. There’s a near-perfect footprint left behind in dirt on the skin there. Like someone had stomped on his leg hoping to break it. You’re glad they failed.

Next is the stitches. There’s a few cuts on his body that need one or two, but you start with the big one. The wound has stopped bleeding, so you disinfect it, pull out your tools, and begin working, bent over him. Every time the needle pierces his skin, he tenses. You wonder if the one oxy was enough, or if it hardly touched the pain because he’s using them so often.

The entire time you’re treating him, you’re trying to be as clinical as possible. You’ve got to focus because if you think too much about him, you think about the last interaction you shared, and how pathetic you’d been. And the fact that he’d thought to come to you of all people for this makes your head spin. It’s not supposed to. You aren’t supposed to feel these things for him. You aren’t supposed to owe him anything.

Joel’s fist curls so tightly into itself that his knuckles turn white, fingernails leaving crescents in the skin of his palms. “Kind of feels like you’re making this as painful as possible.”

You smirk slightly. “Don’t give me any ideas.”

He sniffs, and you glance up to see him looking down at you, the ice that had been in his gaze before has thawed.

You squint at him, try to act indifferent, and turn your attention back to the stitches. “Don’t worry, I’m almost done.”

“Thank fucking-”

“Shhh, you’re distracting me.”

His hand relaxes slightly as you keep working, slow and methodical, silence casting like a spell.

“Why me?” you ask, finally.

“What?”

“Why did you come here? To me?” you pause. “It’s been forever. You’ve got Tess, right? Couldn’t she help you?”

Joel rubs his aching shoulder. “I didn’t want to scare her,” he answers. “And…I know you’re used to handling this kind of thing.”

“Uh-huh,” you say. “I am.”

One of you should probably acknowledge what had happened. But it won’t be me, you think.

“There,” you tie off the last stitch, and cover the wound with some gauze and a waterproof bandage. “You’ll probably need antibiotics. I’ll try to snag some from the hospital tomorrow.”

Once you’ve fixed the most pressing issues, you focus on cleaning all the cuts and bruises on his face, his torso, cleaning and wrapping his bloodied knuckles. It’s probably been at least two hours since he arrived when you finally draw away from him, your surgical gloves snapping as you pull them inside-out, and off your hands, discarding them on the table, which is now littered with bloodied gauze, bandage wrappers, and medical supplies. You wish you had more ice packs than just the one for his shoulder and ankle, since he could use them just about everywhere, but it’ll have to do.

“Could use a drink after all that,” Joel says, looking at his hands, flexing his fingers.

“Don’t push it,” you answer, scraping the mess off your kitchen table into a bin. It dawns on you that you do have a half-empty bottle of bourbon sitting in your cabinet that’s surprisingly good. “But now that you mention it….”

He snorts, the closest thing to a laugh you’ve ever heard.

You pour a few fingers of whiskey into two glasses, sliding one across the table to him. Neither of you clink glasses, but you do eye each other over the rims of your cups as you take the drink in one go.

Joel places his empty on the table. “I should get out of here.”

“In your shape, it might be better to wait for light.” As much as he won’t admit it, you know he’s still weak, not in his right mind, and vulnerable to any FEDRA agents working the streets. “But I have to sleep, I’ve got work in the morning.”

Surprisingly, he doesn’t fight you.

You curl yourself up on the couch, that is old and worn but still surprisingly comfortable. Joel sits at the table awhile more, and has one more drink. After all the activity of the night, you’re out within minutes.

Joel drags himself over to the bed, which you’d never offered him directly, but he assumed to take since you were on the couch. He doesn’t think he’ll sleep, but he can’t sit upright in your uncomfortable kitchen chair anymore. Every part of his body aches. Your bed is in the corner, neatly made, even though it’s just threadbare sheets and a blanket. His never is, and he finds it ridiculous you must waste the time at the beginning of your day for something like that.

He sprawls across it, surprised at its comfort. A breeze coming through the open window drifts your curtains to the side, and he catches a glimpse of the full moon. Between the liquor, and the pills, the pain has subsided enough that he’s able to relax a little. The sun will be up soon. He just has to wait…

— — — — — —

The next thing Joel hears is your voice, muffled by the buffer of your front door. He looks at the clock next to your bed, it’s early in the evening. The sunlight trickling through the gaps of your curtains is golden, a slanting orange glow in the corner of the room. The window is closed. Fuck. Did he really sleep all day? He uses his good arm to shield his eyes from the offending light before stretching.

Sheets on top of him rustle, he must have climbed under them at some point the night before.

It feels like he’s been hit by a freight train, and he groans. Pain drips through him, settles in his shoulder, his side, his head. His mouth is dry, and he sees a full glass of water next to him, two white pills. He couldn’t remember you leaving that morning, but it had to have been you who left them there. Who else would it have been? Without thinking, he indulges.

There’s a note scrawled on a scrap of paper underneath the pills. He picks it up with his free arm, the other one still wrapped in a sling.

– Take pain meds

– Ice shoulder, eye, temple, ankle

– Change dressing

– LEAVE

The last word is underlined twice. He exhales, letting his head drop back against the pillows, until it snaps to attention….you’re still outside, but your voice has gotten louder, more animated. You’re talking to someone….no…..you’re raising your voice at someone. He can’t make it out through the door, and for all the bad things he could say based on the nature of your relationship, he knows that you don’t often lose your temper.

‘I think you should leave,’ he catches the end of what you’re saying and is immediately jolted out of the fog of discomfort, leaving your note on the bedside table.

He’s crosses the room, ignoring the protest of pain from his ankle, hears a man’s voice respond, but just a snippet – ‘stupid fucking bitch’ – and he’s throwing open the door, nearly trampling you, since you’re pressed against the threshold with your arms around your backpack, eyes wide.

When Joel follows your gaze, he spots a man about your age standing a few feet away, chest puffed out and chin up.

“Joel,” you say, and he’s taken aback by your tone – relief. He’s never heard you say his name like that. Somewhere, in a small part of his brain he doesn’t want to acknowledge, he thinks he might like to hear you say it again.

“You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend,” the guy tilts his head back to look up at Joel, giving him a once over, and steps backward in consideration.

Instead of correcting him, you say nothing.

“What’s going on here?” Joel asks, and you lower your arms, move your shoulders back, standing up straighter as you turn to look at him.

“Ben was just leaving,” you say.

“Sounds like a good idea,” Joel answers. His hand instinctively comes to rest on your shoulder – reverent, protective. He knows he’s in no shape to get into a fight right now, but he’s significantly larger than the other man, and figures that alone will be enough of a deterrent.

Ben notices, and nose curls into a snarl, rolling his eyes. “Fine, whatever. He’s like…old enough to be your dad,” he mumbles under his breath.

You don’t answer, just stare with contempt as he retreats down the hallway. Once Ben has turned the corner, you step into your place, Joel’s hand falling from your shoulder.

“Who was that?”

“Just some guy from work,” you say, sounding uninterested, dropping your backpack onto your kitchen table.

“How often does he–?”

“Let’s not get into it,” you shake your head as you pull open the curtains, sunlight casting warmth all over the room, specks of dust glittering in the air. But he wants to know more. He’s tried to ignore all the suffering that isn’t his own since the world went to shit, but he’s at least aware of how dangerous it is to be a woman, living on her own.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here, did you sleep all day?”

Joel doesn’t answer.

“You probably needed it.”

You disappear into the bathroom, and Joel sees a rush of light through that door, the creak of a window opening. “I brought the antibiotics, they’re in my bag,” you say when you exit, hands on your hips. “You’re not feeling feverish, are you?”

Joel shakes his head no, and sits back down on the bed.

“Well that’s good,” you go to the counter. “Hey, if you need to shower here, it’s probably better because I can dress your wound before you go. I was actually thinking today about how you would definitely fuck it up if you tried to do it youself.”

He rolls his eyes at the insult, but answers. “That’s fine.”

You’re making yourself something to eat. He notices a polaroid on your bedside table. It’s two kids – a girl and a younger boy, her arms around him – their lips curled into identical smiles. When he looks closer, he realizes the girl is you.

Please? My brother is sick, he’s in a lot of pain, you had said, on your knees in front of him, swallowing hard. Your fingers were curled in his belt loops, the cold steel button of his jeans pressed into your chin, so close he thought it might leave a permanent mark. In one of your hands was a wad of credits, only a couple short of what he’d asked you for in exchange for the pills. I’ll do anything you want me to.

Of course he wanted you, how could he not? He wondered if you knew that already, and were just trying to take advantage of his weakness. Or maybe you were just that desperate. It didn’t matter either way. He can’t do it. Not like this, he thought.

No, is his answer.

He stepped backwards, away and you still tried to cling to him. Sensing his reluctance, you continued to talk. Joel, whatever you want. I’ll do whatever, please…it’s nothing. Eventually, he slipped from your grasp, and you fell back to your heels. He left you there, and he didn’t look back.

The memory is burned into his brain, and has followed him to sleep more times than he’d be willing to admit. He swallows hard, and you’re standing in front of him with an opened jar of applesauce and a spoon against your lips. “Are you looking through my shit?” you ask.

“It was sitting out.”

You snatch the photo from his hand so quickly that one of your nails knicks his thumb, shoving it in your back pocket and jerking your head towards the bathroom. “Hurry, I can’t be up late like last night.”

The shower feels nice, even if the pressure is shit and the water is cold. He still has blood caked under his fingernails that he can’t seem to fully eradicate even after scrubbing them against his palms. He slips back into his jeans when he’s done, and he notices a clean shirt has been left on the bed when he exits.

“You done?” your voice calls. There’s the sound of a book snapping shut, your weight shifting on the couch. “I want my bed back.”

Joel grunts an affirmation, and you round the corner with the tin of medical supplies from the night before, discarding what you were reading on the foot of the bed. “This’ll take two minutes. Let me see.” Pausing in front of him, you press your fingers, a little experimentally, along his ribs, peering closer to examine your work. “Oh, this looks good. It should heal nicely.”

“It doesn’t feel good.”

“Uh-huh, but it’ll get better. Give it time.”

He sits down while you shimmy out of your flannel shirt. You begin to work, quietly, quickly, and at first, he tries to look away, at the top of the bedside table where you’ve placed a bag of antibiotics and a fresh glass of water. The note that was there earlier, with instructions on how to take care of himself in your absence, that also told him to LEAVE, is gone. He gives in and turns back to you, knelt between his legs like it’s nothing, pressing an adhesive bandage across the wound.

He’s not sure why he had expected you to be cruel. You should be cruel, he knows that, but you aren’t. Your touch is confident, firm, and surprisingly tender. It must be muscle memory, he thinks, because he’s never known you to be sweet. Maybe he hadn’t been paying close enough attention.

“There,” you say, pulling away. “Now, I’d recommend changing that once a day at least, if you can. Take an antibiotic once a day, and make sure you do the full course. Ice your elbow, eye, ankle, all that every couple hours. Also, you should really use a sling for at least a month-”

“No.” He knows he won’t do any of those things, can’t really afford to between work, life, and resources.

“Suit yourself.”

“I will.”

You don’t scoff or roll your eyes at him or try to convince him why he should, and it’s like a peace offering. I could fight you on this, because I’m smart, but I won’t. It’s everything you’re saying, but you’re silent, and you sit on the edge of your bed a foot or two away, poking your fingers into the laces of your boots, untying them.

“I’m sorry.”

Joel says it before he can stop himself. He can’t remember the last time he’s said those two words.

You balk at him. “For what?”

Everything. “Your brother.”

“Oh,” you say, focusing back on your feet, pulling them out of your boots and pressing your thumbs into each arch. You shrug, shake your head. “Yeah, well….I’m just glad he’s not in pain anymore.”

“Yeah.”

“...And at least it wasn’t….you know…” The infection.

He nods, takes a beat.

“I should get going,” Joel says, his hands on his knees. “The next time you need something-”

“Uh-huh,” you cut him off tersely. “Right.”

“All I’m saying is that I owe you one.”

“You really think I believe that, coming from you?” You snort, shake your head, and reach to pat his leg in a patronizing way, until his hand lands atop your own. He thinks it might make him feel better, to see if your reaction to his touch gives anything away. But it doesn’t. Everything about you is rigid, cool.

“I’m sorry….about that night,” he decides, purposely changing the subject. “But I don’t make exceptions.”

“Right. Then, I guess I’m a fool for doing this,” you gesture towards him, with your free hand - all the work you’d done.

Joel shakes his head no, fingers tightening around your hand, clasping it hard. He’s sure, or at least he hopes, somehow, you can see it. That this isn’t a jab, that he means it.

I’m sorry.

You look down at where his hand is squeezing yours, and he watches your throat work once.

“No,” he begins. “You just have every reason to hate me.”

A wistful smile crosses your face, but it’s hard to decipher what it means. To him, you’re still unreadable, even staring right at him. Most people avoid Joel’s eyes at all costs, but not you. You slide your hand out from underneath his, and he thinks for a second you’re going to retaliate. His body is facing yours, his hair is still damp, dripping onto his bare skin. It doesn’t stop you from placing your hands on either one of his shoulders, and learning forward.

The white tank top you’re wearing clings to every curve of your body, except where it’s shifted off your shoulder, revealing a black bra strap. It’s intoxicating to have you this close. You must be able to hear the way his heart picks up, thuds heavy against his ribs, being so close to him.

“You think I hate you…” you say quietly, voice a low murmur, tilting your head, studying him. “That’s why you want me, isn’t it?”

This is why he’s never liked you. That uncanny ability to stare right through him, crack open the camera, spool out the film.

“Isn’t it?” you prompt, when all he can offer is silence.

Of course it is. It is always easier when hate is involved. Hate bolds the blurry lines, boils everything down to its simplest point – that’s all that this would be, just two people trying to escape, if only for a little bit. And you, he’s sure, would make it so easy.

“Yes,” he answers, though he’s not sure if he believes it. In this case, hate is just another medium to channel energy through. Passionate energy. True hate, maybe, would be your indifference. And neither of you are indifferent.

“Well….” you lean forward, your lips are nearly touching. He’s still frozen. “Maybe I do hate you.”

It’s a beat before anything happens, a few seconds of uninterrupted eye contact, your eyes have darkened, pupils wide.

He pounces on you, ignoring the scream of soreness through his body as he cups both sides of your face, his tongue already scraping on your teeth, swallowing the surprised noise you make, which he finds ridiculous because what did you think was going to happen, talking to him like that?

But you can’t be that shocked, because your arms have tightened around his shoulders, you’re pulling him closer, he’s pulling you closer. A tightrope, about to snap.

He wraps himself around you protectively, you feel so small there, he’s aware how easily he could break you, but he won’t. Or at least…he’ll try not to.

You break away first. “Fuck.”

Your lips are full, wet, flush, parted, and you’re panting. He pulls you back against him, and you oblige, much more pliant this time, letting him claim you. Two sets of hands fumbling for purchase.

“I do want you.”

“Then have me.”

He pulls you onto his lap, still sitting on the edge of the bed, and it’s shameful how easily you move there, settle your weight across his hips. You’re warm, so warm…too warm. His skin pricks.

Your hands thread into his hair and tug, it’s heavenly. He’s not used to being touched like this.. Grinding down, you find him already already rock hard – he has been since you were knelt in front of him cleaning his stitches, but he’d been trying to ignore it – and he moans. “You like that?”

He hums into your mouth, agreeable. Yes.

Joel wants to touch you, won’t be satisfied if he can’t, and he tugs at the hem of your shirt. You pull back, just for a split second to pull it over your head. It takes him a moment, but he still remembers how to unclasp a bra with one hand, and you’re bare before him. All he has to do is run a calloused palm up your spine and you’re arching your body closer, until he can mouth at your breasts.

You sigh as he cups, squeezes, pinches. Latches onto one of your nipples and grazes his teeth over it, watching you closely….your eyes closed, head falling back, murmuring. Yes.

What he wants to do is to lift you up, spin you around, and press your back against the mattress. He wants to spread you open across the bed, put his head between your thighs and lave at you like a man starved. He wants to hear every way you can cry, moan, whimper his name as his tongue works your clit, fingers in your cunt, washing over him. Of course, he’d go gentle at first – not too gentle – but gentle enough, work you up. He wants to dangle you over the ledge, hold you there until you’re begging to be let go. And after you finally come, pulsing around his fingers, he’d wrap your legs around his hips and fuck you into the mattress until you do it again. After the first time, he thinks, it’d be even easier to get you to do it again. And again. Would you face his steely gaze head on, eyes fluttering? Would your nails scrape track marks down his back? Would you stifle a moan by sinking your teeth into the pulse point on his neck? He wants to- no, needs to know.

But he’s weak right now, and can’t do any of that. He’ll settle for what he can get.

Your fingers are twisting the button on his pants. “Come on,” you murmur.

“You shouldn’t want me,” he warns.

“I know.” But I still do.

Your hand is down his pants, and he shifts his weight backwards to wiggle further out of them. It’s far more hurried than either of you deserve. You don’t even attempt to tease him through his boxers first, your hand wrapping around him in one swift and confident movement.

Hissing, Joel sees you duck your head, feels the press your lips against his neck, his cock jumping in your grip as you run your thumb over the head, pump him once.

“You’re so big,” your voice is all breathy and soft, the sound of it has him growing even more frantic. He tugs at the loops on the side of your jeans.

“Take these off.”

Yes. There’s no protest.

It’s torture when you leave his lap, for the brief time you do, his gaze tracing the curve of your ass as you wriggle out of your pants, then your panties, and when your return to him, he holds you closer.

“I knew you’d be so fucking good for me.”

“Did you?” It's playful, breathless, your arms around his neck. The lightest he’s ever heard you.

You’re wet, already dripping onto him, and he dips a finger between your thighs, sliding it through your slickness, dipping into you just so, enjoying the noises you make before withdrawing. It’s a shame he can’t take his time. He’s too impatient. One of his hands he uses to guide his cock to your cunt, and the other he uses to steady your hips. His head drops to watch himself sink into you.

The stretch of him inside you makes your toes curl, you’re already pulsing around him and he hasn’t even given you everything.

“Fuck,” Joel whispers your name when he feels you around him, all-encompassing and overwhelming. “So fucking good.”

You’re whining, but it’s unintelligible, your head bobbing into an enthusiastic nod, teeth snagging your lower lip. When he’s reached the hilt, you pause only for a moment before you begin to move on your own accord. Experimental rolls of your hips, not drawing back far at all, keeping him deep inside you, rutting and writhing with no reprieve. He thinks he might come right then and there, it’s been so long, and it’s you. This young, pretty thing who – if this whole fucking world hadn’t gone to shit – wouldn’t have looked twice at him before. It’s just another injustice – that you’re going to let someone like him ruin you.

You begin to bounce on him, dragging yourself along his length. “That’s a good fucking girl,” he groans. “Just like that.”

“It’s so…fuck, Joel, you feel-”

“I know.” He answers, partially in agreement, and partially to shut you up. If you keep saying his name like that, it’s not going to end well.

He tries as best as he can to answer your hips with ruts of his own, but it’s sloppy, erratic. The whole thing is, and he wants to curse himself because it really shouldn’t be, just like he shouldn’t be thinking about what he’ll do differently next time.

It’s the first time he’s been with you, so he doesn’t know what it feels like when you’re getting close, but you’re throbbing and pulsing around him, your breathy pants and soft sighs start sounding more desperate.

You’re so fucking wet he can hear it, can feel it seeping out, dripping down his balls onto the mattress. He realizes one of his hands is just clenched into a fist, nails digging into his palm, trying his hardest not to come before you do. All he wants is to give you something, a chance to make up for everything that he’s taken.

“More,” you murmur, you don’t even seem to remember, or care, that he’s hurt. That you’d spent hours the night before after he’d been torn apart, putting him back together. “More, please.”

His lips quirk into a boyish smile, something you’ve never seen before. He likes you like this, begging, desperate, sweet. “Don’t laugh,” but your lips are quirking, too, and you fucking nuzzle against his beard to hide it.

“I’m not - fuck.”

The shower was useless, he’s already sweating again, but so are you, and he trails his tongue across your neck to taste it, then unclenches his fist, moving it between your legs. He takes your clit between his knuckles, circling it carefully, steadily, while his cock keeps hitting the same, soft spot over and over again.

You can’t get enough. “Harder, Joel…please.”

Of course, he obliges. And he’s lucky, because he doesn’t have to do much more. You slow, legs shaking, and you’re suddenly so tight around him he can’t move. “That’s it, baby, come on, so fucking good…” he would, is, saying anything to feel you. His name is a mewl on your lips, the rubber-band snaps, and you come around him, pressing every part of yourself against the hard line of his torso. He aches, it’s the sweetest torture he’s ever known.

He knows, because he’s going to fuck you through it, has to, that he will not last any longer.

“Where?” he pants, and you’re still peaking, gasping, grabbing.

“Inside me,” you answer. “Please, inside me.”

He’s too lost in the moment to consider the consequences. Doesn’t care about them at all. When he comes, you groan at the feeling of him fucking you full, cunt still squeezing him, not as tightly as before, but still apparent.

The last bit of arousal is still waning, and he leans back to lie on the bed, pulling you with him. You fall to his chest, hands pressing lightly to adjust your position, suddenly aware again of the wound beneath his ribs, the bruises on his shoulder, settling so you’re pressed against his side, his arm still loose around your waist.

Neither of you say anything for a long time, and he notices your legs are trembling.

We shouldn’t have done that, he wants you to say, as you should. But you show no signs of remorse.

Before all this, when he was a different man, he would’ve helped clean you up after. He would have soothed you in the aftermath; stroked your hair, peppered kisses along your neck, your cheeks, pulled you close so you could fall asleep in his arms. He can’t now, because you’re smart and you’d know what it means, but the guilt gnaws at him.

When you sit up, pulling your shirt back over your head, sliding on your panties, and walking towards the bathroom, he imagines you think you’re doing him a favor. You are, in a way. Or maybe, you’re resisting the same impulse that he is.

You return a few minutes later, wrapped in a tattered robe, and climb next to him on the bed, propping yourself up on your elbows, then looking down at him. Between the combination of being tired, stiff, and fucked-out, he still hasn’t moved.

“Don’t you think Tess is worried about where you are?” You bend your knees back and cross your ankles.

“She knows I can take care of myself.”

Your eyebrow quirks. Can you? Joel turns away and stares up at the water-damaged ceiling panels.

“You should probably go.”

His head snaps back towards you. He thinks of every person over the last twenty years he’d said the equivalent to after sex, and wonders if it made them feel as nauseous as he does hearing those words from your mouth.

The feeling fades – only a little – when you reach over to press your palm to the side of his face, cupping his cheek, before tenderly moving a piece of damp hair off his forehead, nails scraping against his scalp.

He lets his eyes close just for a beat, before nodding and sitting up. “Thank you,” he says, and he’s not sure what for. All of it, he supposes.

“Uh-huh,” you roll over, reaching to grab your book that had fallen to the floor at some point during your coupling, while he pulls on his clothes, laces up his boots, and takes the antibiotics from your bedside table.

Joel takes one last look at you, already engrossed in your reading, and then walks to the door.

“You know where to find me, if you need anything.”

You look up, nod, and he’s gone.

— — — — — —

part ii

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller imagine #joel miller fanfic #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #enemies to lovers #tlou #tlou hbo #pedro pascal #tlou fanfiction #tlou imagine

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pxuvalentinx · 29 days

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thoughts on reader comforting aventurine by singing them a song while they cuddle?? like a lullaby aventurine’s big sis sang to him often. so he often sings it lowly when reader and him are together, and now reader sings it to him to comfort him. love your stuff btw, keep it up !! 🫶

I LOVE THIS IDEA!!!! sadly i’m not creative enough to come up with a lullaby myself so instead i just chose to work with the little saying (2.1 spoilers) aventurine and kakavasha did in the end of the 2.1 storyline, and kinda made him hum it a little. i hope that’s fine too😭😭

and tysm for your sweet words🫶

"May the Mother Goddess thrice close her eyes for you, keeping your blood eternally pulsing. May your journey be forever peaceful, and your schemes forever concealed." You’d hear your boyfriend mumble sometimes, often when he didn’t know that you were around. It was no secret that he was ashamed of his past, so he’d just switch topics whenever you mentioned it.

One night you were laying in bed with Aventurine as usual, talking about your day, as he kept yawning. Eventually he crawled closer to you, wrapping an arm around you and just listening to your voice. You watched his eyes close, even though he had a rather disstressed look on his face. Rough day.

Of course you weren’t stupid, you figured by now that it was probably something his mom or sister told him in the past, something that gave him comfort. He never told you much about them, but you know that they were very dear to him, till the last breath.

Your hand moved to the top of his head, gently patting it. A slight hum escaped your lips. "May the Mother Goddess thrice close her eyes for you, keeping your blood eternally pulsing…" His eyes practically shot open as he listened to your words. Jaw slightly dropped. The confusion was written on his face.

"May your journey be forever peaceful, and…Ah how does it continue again?" You asked, amused by the confused look on his face.

“Your schemes forever concealed…but..how?" The gambler was lost for words, you could find slight terror in his eyes. He was utterly confused.

“I heard you mumble it sometimes. I’m sorry if it wasn’t appropriate to-“

“No, no, quite the opposite. Hearing you say it was quite comforting..” His face looked now relieved, still a bit shocked. Even his signature smirk was gone now.

In his head the 'phrase' was just a silly thing he picked up from his family and said it whenever he felt stressed, he would’ve never told anybody about any of it. But now that you knew about it, it got an entirely new meaning to him. Now that he heard those words out of your mouth, he would no longer feel ashamed. Again, quite the opposite, it made him feel safe in some type of way.

From now on you would say it whenever he needed comfort, holding him close while the words soothed the knot in his throat, that would build up whenever he felt stressed, like warm honey. Other times you’d get to hear them from him, as he told you a bit more about them. The meaning, why it comforts him, of who it reminds him of, and so on. You felt like it really strengthened your bond, so you were quite grateful.

(i’m so sorry that it took me so long to get to this request, i’ve been so busy omfggg…but tysm for reading 🫶 as always any support is appreciated, requests are open!! i also wanna thank everyone for the recent support, i never thought people would enjoy my work that much😭)

#x reader #aventurine honkai star rail #aventurine x reader #hsr aventurine #aventurine fluff #aventurine headcanons #aventurine x you #fluff #honkai star rail #hsr #2.1 spoilers #aventurine is a sweetheart #i love aventurine #anxious aventurine #kakavasha mention

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trsrina · 3 months

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valentine’s day with zerobaseone

gn reader, established relationship, fluff !! mentions of food, not proofread

jiwoong

- even after having been in a relationship with jiwoong for some time now, you still kick your feet and get all excited when you receive your yearly valentine’s surprise from him

- sends a box of chocolates and a bouquet of blue roses to your workplace in the middle of the day with a love letter in it (probably some cheesy love poem he racked his brain to come up with and feels very proud of)

- it will probably be something like “roses are red. my face is too. that only happens when i’m around you” written with crayons and decorated with silly childish stickers and doodles ,and you had to resist letting out the loudest laugh ever at that since you were still at work

other members under the cut!

zhanghao

- sorry but YOU have to ask him to be your valentine, not the other way around and you have to do it fast before anyone else (hanbin) snatches him away from you

- no but seriously he would’ve cleared out his entire schedule for that day just to spend it all with you going out just idk eating at some cute but overpriced café (don’t worry, he pays), shopping and just gossiping over some coffee

- ends the day with a night stroll at a park with your hands intertwined and swinging by your sides maybe feed some ducks you saw while chatting the night away and just giggling to each other about something silly. it was simple but meant so much to the both of you

hanbin

- this is so serious for him like no one takes valentine’s day as serious as him so he makes sure to give you princess treatment throughout the whole day

- you wake up to the sound of a grizzling pan and smelling the aroma of the breakfast he’s preparing for you and damn this man CAN cook. serves you a five course meal at 8 am in the morning with like heart-shaped pancakes and eggs like this man is not real (sorry i just love domestic hanbin)

- after breakfast, you two return to bed since you were still feeling sleepy. he cuddles you to sleep, your head buried in his chest and literally clinging onto him, him with his arms tightly wrapped around you in a comforting embrace, gently patting you to sleep as he leaves small pecks all around your face and he probably has even more stuff planned later in the day

matthew

- matthew biggest green flag. spent so long planning the perfect valentine’s date for you and surprised you with a romantic picnic at the beach. he even sets up a table and chairs for the both of you, made sure all the food was perfect

- i can envision him covering your eyes during the walk from the car to the beach then surprising you. pulls out your chair for you and pushes your hair behind your ear and when you ask why he’ll say, “just wanted to take a better look at your pretty face”

- makes you giggles at his jokes the whole time and at last, gives you a final surprise which was an adorable cake with ‘happy valentine’s day’ written on it with icing that he spent the majority of yesterday making for you (u have no idea how many times he had to redo it)

taerae

- he serenades you. that would be the most taerae thing to do like seriously. he would start planning since christmas, writing a whole love song for you, him writing and composing it for you all by himself

- he would be so nervous when the day arrives. he would take you out to a nice restaurant, surprising you with flowers and all, then when the both of you return home, he sits you down on the couch and takes out his guitar

- starts strumming and you’re like, “i don’t recognise this song?” and realises that he wrote it and it took everything in you to not start crying on the spot. serenades you with his honey-like sweet voice while looking into your eyes like a lovesick man, literally making heart eyes at you and smiling like an idiot

ricky

- sends you a text in the morning which reads, “morning, baby. happy valentine’s day. i reserved a table at xxx restaurant for us at 6 pm. i’ll pick you up at 5:30 pm. i love you.”

- the moment you receive that text you start giggling and kicking your feet while burying your face into your pillow, only ricky can make you feel this way.

- you dress up for him and the moment you see him, he’s leaning against his car in a button up with the first few buttons unbuttoned and a huge bouquet of flowers. holds your hand the whole time, during the ride and dinner, listens intently to all of your rambling during the whole of dinner and also pays !!! (bc he’s young and rich)

gyuvin

- rings your doorbell enthusiastically with flowers and gifts dressed in his best attire, fixing his hair every few seconds to make sure he looks perfect for you. shyly hands you the bouquet he arranged himself when you open the door

- he would drag you to a dog café for your date and he’s most likely even more excited about this than you, just looking at the bright grin on his face and the giggles he lets out while he plays with the puppies makes a smile appear on your face too

- would probably point at every dog and says it looks like you because it’s cute just like you. no but imagine you guys sharing a pasta together and accidentally recreating the lady and tramp scene omg

gunwook

- bowling date with gunwook omg okay his jaw will literally drop the moment he sees you arrive all dressed up like he thinks you’re drop dead gorgeous and won’t stop giggling and blushing every time he glances at you

- pays for everything and takes the chance to show up his skills in bowling. coolest guy ever just the way he confidently strikes the bowling pins with the bowling ball but gets so shy and blush when you cheer for him and compliment him

- and when you’re getting food together at a restaurant, he would not stop staring at you. his head propped up on his hand as he stares at you hopelessly, utterly lost in your eyes and down bad. type to wipe your mouth for you when you have something in the corner of your lips.

yujin

- your first valentine’s day together so he would be so anxious about it and shy. he would make sure everything goes smoothly and plans it all out like buying tickets to that movie you said you wanted to watch in advance and making reservations for a restaurant you mentioned you wanted to visit before (most likely the first time he ever made a reservation by himself in his lifetime)

- takes you to the movies and insists on paying for your popcorn and drinks. probably watching some cheesy romcom together and since it’s valentine’s day, you’re surrounded with couples which just makes him even shyer

- holds your hand and whispers silly comments about the movie in your ear throughout the movie. he couldn’t focus at all because you were right beside him

short little valentine’s headcanons that i rushed to make it on time 😓

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fallingforfictionalmen · 12 days

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the thing that’s crazy about the prophecy is I know logically it wasn’t written for pjo. that’d be insane and it’s not something taylor would do

but it fits a little too well. it actually fits so well that it’s made me rethink certain parts of the series

annabeth thought that falling in love with percy would curse her too, bc it would hurt her so much when he died. she probably thought, just like the lyrics say, that it was punishment for something, and honestly she probably accepted losing percy as punishment for letting luke slip through her fingers when she should have seen what he was going thru

and she doesn’t beg, but she tries to change it. she risks her life to save his, even when she is convinced he’ll die anyway.

the “im so afraid I sealed my fate/no sign of soulmates” took me out the first time too bc the most recent time I read the books I could tell annabeth knew she met her person and she was afraid that it was him because, again, she has been convinced he would die since she first met him. in her pov in hoo she even says she’s “secretly” been in love with him since they were 12, which I think has to do with not only her not telling percy but also not wanting to admit to herself

and repeating the first verse at the end is so insane for the beginning of hoo when she loses percy. like “it’s gone again… I guess a lesser woman would’ve lost hope” bc percy was gone for SEVEN MONTHS and she spent all of them trying to find him

it’s just crazy that the song fits soooo well

#I wrote this instead of studying for an exam #the prophecy #pjo #pjo books #percy jackson #annabeth chase #percabeth

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genshin-scenarios · 8 months

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a song for one audience—☆

Summary: 5wirl idol AU headcanons! Reader’s role isn’t specified.

Characters: Venti, Xiao, Kazuha, Heizou, Aether

The first time you heard Venti singing in the recording studio, you had a feeling you were doomed to have a weakness for him from the start. With a voice like that, constantly teasing and asking for your praise, it takes everything to not look him in the eyes and lose your willpower. He knows he’s cute and will use it to his advantage, asking you to accompany him on coffee runs or other menial tasks.

When Venti goes in front of the camera or onto stage however, all his playful energy shifts into something else. With the graceful lilt of his voice and sparkling gaze, Venti knows how to captivate an audience like nothing else.

Once, you were running late and were supposed to bring 5wirl their items for a fan meeting. During your panic, you’d texted Venti to tell him about the situation, only to arrive and see that he’d managed to improvise and surprise the audience with a short live QnA to stall for you.

It’s at times like these when you’re reminded of why 5wirl nominated him as their leader. As if it was no big deal, Venti only sends you a wink as you enter the vicinity, subtly telling you that everything was fine.

After that however, he did tell you he’d like some compensation of some sort. Before he’d been scouted as an idol, Venti was an independent music artist - and still likes to make songs on the side and asks you to listen to them. Thus… he had you write him a love song's lyrics. It's all fun and games until you realize that after your part, he'd written his own reply.

At your first meeting, you bumped into Xiao when you were entering a practice room. This happened quite literally; you had a bunch of items in your arms and the both of you stepped forward at the same time, leading to a dramatic collison.

Was it embarrassing? Yes. But at least no one got hurt and you shared said embarrassment with Xiao, who helped you retrieve everything and apologized for the accident.

…You probably would’ve been more indignant about the whole thing if you weren’t struck by how pretty he was. For a moment, you almost debated asking for his number or if he worked here, when one of his group members came in and diffused the situation.

The next time you had a moment was at a cafe you often frequented for lunch. Xiao was dressed discreetly, but you’d recognise those eyes anywhere - suffice to say you managed to catch him on your way out, and found out that Xiao had a penchant for sweets.

The first time you saw him (and the rest of 5wirl) dressed in concert attire for rehearsal, just… Wow. Um, the costume designer really knew which aspects of the members to bring out. You tried your best not to stare, but that only resulted in not making eye contact with Xiao for the entire day until he’d finally cornered you to ask what was wrong

(Little did you know, he was worried you were mad at him or something similar. Performing while distracted really does show in Xiao, who often wields a sort of intensity that has fans unable to tear their eyes away.)

You felt immensely deceived the first time you met Kazuha. He didn’t do so on purpose, you’re sure - but how could you live down treating him like a random staff member, and having him give you a tour of the entire building on your first day?!

You ended up asking for his number, thinking you could set up a lunch date with this ‘cute co-worker’ of yours.

A cute co-worker who was dressed in comfy clothing and had a calming voice - who’d asked you if you were adjusting well to the city, and told you about his hometown to break the ice.

God, you thought you had a chance with Kazuha until you showed up for your first day of work with the newly-formed 5wirl, only to see him in the lineup - perfect smile directed at you.

His eyes light up, pleasantly surprised you’d be working together. In that moment you could practically feel the floor between you break apart and shift miles away. An idol of all people was definitely out of your league!

Despite all this, Kazuha was never the type to discriminate between job titles or popularity. He continued to be a kind, caring friend towards you.

And the moments that make you question if he’s pushing for something more? Well… Kazuha has always been the poetic type, inviting you to watch the sakura blossoms, take a stroll at the park - making you instant noodles when you were both trapped in the office from a thunderstorm… Just don’t be surprised if he proposes something more official next time. (Have you ever gotten fan-mail before? He hopes he’ll have the chance to be your first.)

Heizou is who you’d call the problem solver of the group. He also takes care of the others by observing them and nudging things in the right direction, if someone were to be in a bad or nervous mood.

This extends to you, once Heizou has accepted you into his unofficial list of important people in his life. Once, you asked him how he’s so good at predicting the outcomes of things or analyzing sticky situations, only for Heizou to see this as a chance to invite you out for a date.

…Well, he disguises it as more of a challenge: if you can figure out his methods based on his behavior during the date, he’ll also reveal the secret to how he guesses mysteries correctly every time you showed him a book or movie plot.

In reality, it was just a way for Heizou to show you around his favorite parts of the city and reveal a bit of what he’s like away from idol work. His hobbies, favorite foods, and little actions to make sure you’re having fun during the day - these don��t go unnoticed by you, and when you list them off Heizou can feel his ears blushing, only for you to conclude that he’s just a thoughtful person by nature, and there wasn’t anything you could do to replicate his level of empathy like some robot.

Well, he did quite enjoy being in the center of your attention - but when you put it like that with such a soft smile on your face, Heizou feels like his heart’s been seized by a thief.

Often doted on by his fans, Aether is pretty much an angel on earth as far as you could tell. He’s nice, friendly, and always willing to lend you a hand (or a listening ear, if your job was stressing you out).

When he’s suddenly tasked by his also-an-idol sister to finally take you somewhere outside of work however, Aether is understandably at a loss of what to do. Lumine doesn’t budge, shoving him out of the house with a mission to shop for her if he needs an excuse. “Just say I’ve been feeling down and you wanted to get me stuff, or congratulate me on my next performance - then secretly buy stuff for them!”

At the back of his mind, Aether does have to wonder how long Lumine has been silently hoping he’d make a move. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, but you’re always so busy - he didn’t want to add to your stress!

That, and the last time dating was brought up in conversation, you’d smoothly said you weren’t interested in it (little did he know, he was literally the only person that believed that - everyone else giving you a side eye and glanced at Aether, who you obviously had a soft spot for.)

You agreed to help him with his tasks, giving Aether the opportunity to learn more about what gifts you liked and other details that would only come up in long, casual conversations. During that afternoon he learns that you look dazzling under the sunlight, and that he’s definitely in love with your laugh.

#venti x reader #xiao x reader #kazuha x reader #heizou x reader #aether x reader #venti genshin impact #xiao genshin impact #kaedehara kazuha #shikanoin heizou #aether genshin impact #genshin x you #genshin reader insert #genshin headcanons #gi imagines #traveler wishes #genshin writing

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ahundredtimesover · 1 year

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Untitled | KNJ

Pairing: Namjoon x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: idolverse (no explicit mentions of BTS), strangers au; angst, smut

Warnings: foul language, inexplicit smut (making out, non-descriptive penetrative sex) (18+)

Word count: 16k

Summary: For years as a sculptor, you felt detached from your own work - unable to title them, describe them, name the most basic emotions that artists should be in tune with. A chance encounter with a man one winter night finds you in a journey of finding your own meaning. And as you slowly discover what it means to create and to feel, you find out that this might also be what pulls both of you far apart.

A/N1: It’s been tough being on a writing slump and not being able to come up with something new, but then Indigo happened. I’ve been so into Closer and been wanting to write something that would encapsulate the song’s emotions, but the more I listened to NJ talk about his album (especially Yun), the more I got to reflect on so many other things. So here we are. This was a quick write (and an experiment, too!) filled with my own ramblings and questions that only one Kim Namjoon would prompt me to have. Please enjoy.

A/N2: I’m not an artist, but I’m fascinated by them and what they create (Van Gogh’s Digital Art Exhibition in the LUME, Melbourne from last September just blew my away). In another life, I probably would’ve been a collector. But the essence of humanity in my professional work links to my own appreciation of art in that sense. All the things that I wonder about life and the essence of being human are reflected here. I’ve taken from Namjoon’s reflections and insights as well, and once again, I was reminded of his brilliance and his heart.

2020, early winter

A little boy with a bucket painting stars in the sky.

That’s what this season’s artwork on the side of the building is. Just this fall, it was a girl raising a paper airplane on this exact spot; in the summer, it was another kid on a swing, and in spring, it was a child with an opened suitcase, their toys falling out and drifting into a stream.

Lost childhood, perhaps. That’s what happens when the world stands still, Namjoon thinks. He’d written a song about it - the things we lost during the time when time froze, and maybe just like these paintings, life continued to go on. The yearning remains, though, and he can see it on the piece that he’s been looking at for minutes now.

Maybe the artist is young, mourning their own youth that slipped from their fingers. Maybe it’s someone a little older, mourning it for others. Maybe it’s just a person who’s trying to understand the situation through a child’s eyes - with innocence, confusion, trust. Maybe it’s—

The sound of footsteps disrupts Namjoon’s thoughts. It’s 2AM and he’s a little surprised that someone is in the area at this time. It’s a busy street during the day and the crowd falls away early. It’s completely deserted by this hour; it’s why he likes taking this route from the office to his apartment. He’s always liked walking home regardless of the distance, but it’s at night when he feels most free, and it’s become something he looks forward to everyday.

He’s about to turn away when he notices a figure run up to the small building where the painting he was just admiring is. The individual lays their bag on the floor and retrieves a paintbrush and a pail, seemingly about to continue their work that Namjoon didn’t even realize was still unfinished.

“Fuck,” the voice curses out. “Fuck fuck fucking shit. Why do I always forget my hot packs!”

The person removes their mask and blows into their cupped hands, rubbing them after in hopes of sustaining the heat from the friction.

“Just a bit more,” they continue, gloved hand now pointing ripples by the boy’s legs as he stands in a body of water. “Just a bit more.”

As chattering teeth and the blowing of air on hands continue, Namjoon decides to make himself known. The stranger is clearly trying to finish their work - and he’s curious to see this all unfold, finding amusement in watching an artist in action - but the cold air is quite uncomfortable.

“Hey,” he says, as the figure stops their movements. “I’m not a creep, I promise. I was just looking at your work but you’re freezing and I… I’ve got some extra hot packs with me.”

You slowly turn around with furrowed brows. This is the first time you’ve come across another person during the early mornings you paint on this specific building. You’ve gotten used to the emptiness of this street at this time, but somehow, hearing this man’s deep, rough voice is giving you comfort. Especially since he’s offering something you need.

“Sure, that would be great,” you say, blowing into your hands again.

He slowly walks forward - clad in a thick hoodie and beanie, his mask covering half of his face. He looks familiar, but you don’t have much time to place where you know him from. You take the hot packs he offers, squeeze one with your free hand while the other continues on with the piece that you want to finish tonight.

“Will it take much longer?” He asks, his voice kind. “I didn’t know it was unfinished and it’s quite interesting to see an artist complete their work. So, uh, can I watch?”

You turn towards him. On a normal day, you’d turn him away. You’re not too keen on anyone on your ass while you finish something, but he doesn’t seem like a creep and he was kind enough to give you hot packs at a time like this, so you nod.

It doesn’t take long. It’s just some ripples and a few strokes left anyway; you were freezing too much last night so you put off the final details for tonight. And then the last bit. You sign your name on the bottom corner, and a gasp leaves the stranger’s mouth.

“Wait, you’re Blue…” he says, the realization dawning on him. “

“Surprise,” you reply, standing up from your squatting position.

“I mean, I figured since you’ve been painting children and their lost youth this past year but… the man in the rain, the distorted face on the mirror, the hand on the neck… those were you, too.”

Namjoon can’t believe he’s finally face-to-face with the artist whose work has been haunting him since he first came across one on an electric post 3 years ago.

They were in other parts of the city. He remembers seeing them on walls and buildings during his walks home or when he was in the car, and then some weeks later, they were gone, either replaced with a new piece of work or just painted over, as if it never existed. He’d seen the signature a few times, and seeing it again reminded him that it was you, too. The one who’d created those masterpieces that got him thinking, feeling, wondering.

“You have a good memory,” you simply smile at him, realizing at this point that you’ve left your mask off. You put it back on and take in his domineering form. “Those were years ago; I’ve almost forgotten about them.”

“I haven’t. I mean, sort of.”

“Good. That was the point,” you reply. “I mean, sort of.”

“The point being? That I find something that speaks to me and then the next minute, they’re gone?” He says, quite defensive. It bothered him for a time that he never got to see those pieces again.

“What did they make you feel?”

“Desolate? Alone? Confused? Desperate?”

“Then you forgot about them, didn’t you?”

“The paintings, sort of. Not the feeling, though,” he frowns. “I still think about them but… I think I’ve forgotten exactly what they look like. Is that what you wanted?”

“Pretty much,” you hum, starting to pack your things. “The stuff I leave on for a few weeks are mostly sad, and I paint over them because I don’t want people to dwell on them. I want people… to forget, to move on.”

“But they don’t, not really. I’m sure they’ve taken photos if it spoke to them so much. At least I did, but then I deleted them because…”

“Because you got over the sadness,” you smirk, knowing that somehow, he proved your point, and he lets out a chuckle at the realization. “It may be on their phones but it’s not the real thing. The image may be distorted, the colors different, the strokes a lot smoother. It’s not the same.”

“They should be preserved,” he voices out. “It’s art. Those things are meant to be immortalized, no matter how they make people feel.”

“Not always,” you counter. “At least for me, I make those to forget. The feelings fade once the art does. I created them that way.”

“Hmm,” Namjoon hums, taking this time to observe you, as you’d rendered him speechless.

There’s this softness in your eyes that contrasts the words you say. He doesn’t want to imagine what you might’ve gone through to create hauntingly beautiful pieces inspired by feelings you want to forget.

Whatever those are, he truly does wish you’ve let those go. He knows he has. But he still disagrees - he doesn’t think art ever fades. Perhaps feelings do, but he’s come to learn that visual art is eternal.

“So how long will you keep this up?” He asks, wondering when he’d see you again; the allure and intrigue from your words makes him want to know more.

“Until the next season,” you say, picking up your bag now. “It’s been a tough year and I hope the spring brings more hope.”

“But you also don’t want them to dwell on this… the loss of childhood, of youth,” he continues. “You want them to move on from this, focus on what’s to be gained after losing something important.”

“You’re a fast learner,” you wink, and Namjoon surprises himself by the way his heart jumps at the sight. “You must be a genius or something. Or an artist yourself.”

“Neither,” he lies. “I mean, I’m barely anything, really.”

“I doubt it. A guy like you being affected by all this means you’re something, whatever it is.”

There’s something validating about your words, and he smiles behind his mask, something you see, as you smile back.

It’s odd, feeling a sense of connection with a stranger like this, something he’s never really experienced, most times because he’s always wary of who he meets, especially at this time of the night. But you don’t seem to know who he is. And if you do, you don’t seem to mind or want to make a deal out of it, something that he appreciates.

There’s comfort in your smile, and he wants to discover what other things cause it. There’s a dearth of experience in your words, and he wants to know more. There’s a tenderness in your eyes that he wants to mirror; he wishes he can give comfort to someone just by looking at them.

Maybe it’s the cold breeze. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s the end of the year and he’s spending it alone again. Maybe it’s spending an entire day cooped up in his studio only to go home to an empty apartment. Maybe it’s knowing what a year it was and what’s about to come. He didn’t think that a stranger in a yellow puff jacket who cursed so crisply would be the one to make his walk back home not feel so lonely. That the woman who’d casually painted some ripples and splashes on the wall was the one who’d make him feel a little less alone.

“So, uh, do you usually paint at the start or end of the season?” He wonders.

“Are you trying to ask when you’re gonna see me again?” You look at him with an arched brow.

“Maybe,” Namjoon chuckles. He’s also just trying to delay your departure, seeing as you seem to be ready to leave.

He doesn’t want to ask your name, not ready himself to share who he is. But perhaps the next meeting won’t be as serendipitous as this.

“It depends,” you tease. “But maybe I’ll see you again, either here, or elsewhere.”

“I hope it’s soon,” he confesses. He’s being bold, but his eyes light up when you reply.

“I hope so, too.”

Namjoon walks the opposite direction of where you are headed, turning back once to look at you, and catching your eyes when he does.

Winter passes. His busy schedule doesn’t permit him to take this route for a while, and it’s mid-spring when he sees a new painting that’s been completed - a young girl looking through a glass window to a world outside, her fingers holding onto the latch as she readies to open it. A small smile forms on his face; he at least sees something of you, even if it isn’t you.

The next time he’s able to pass by, it’s the end of summer, and all he sees is a gray wall - empty, undisturbed, as if there was nothing there to begin with.

2021, autumn

The bell rings as Namjoon enters the building, an art gallery that he’s been frequenting the past few months. There are new pieces, he’s been told, and one of the curators that he’s become friends with informed him that some of the artists are in town.

He nods in greeting at familiar faces - employees, artists, casual visitors. He walks around, taking in the new paintings and sculptures displayed. As he turns towards one of the smaller rooms, a piece catches his eye.

It’s something he’d seen before, a piece of ceramic sculpted in such a way that it looks like a flower in one angle, a seashell in another. And, dare he say, a vulva from a little farther away.

He reads the label. Untitled 56, Samantha Lee.

Namjoon goes through the photos on his phone, knowing it was a trip to LA over 2 years ago where he’d encountered something similar.

And there it is. Untitled 48, Samantha Lee.

He took the photo from an angle that looked like flowers, thinking about the simplicity and beauty, the choice of colors, and how they hung on the wall as part of the installation. It was one of many pieces he documented, but was the only one he didn’t get much story from. There was no description, no background. He wasn’t quite sure what to feel.

“Find something that interests you?”

Mr. Hong is one of the founders of this gallery, and he spends much of his time getting to know the regular visitors and the artists. He’s definitely someone who knows when something strikes Namjoon, like right now.

“Samantha Lee,” Namjoon responds. “Are they a local artist? I think I saw their work in LA some time ago.”

“Ah, yes Ms., uh, Ms. Lee. She’s a local and has her pieces displayed in several galleries. She’s here, actually,” Mr. Hong excitedly shares, noting how important it is for the Kim Namjoon to meet one of the artists. “She was supposed to come yesterday but decided to drop by today instead. Would you like to meet her?”

“Ah, that would be great,” Namjoon smiles back. “If she is fine with that, of course.”

Mr. Hong is never sure if the said artist is, but Namjoon is a special guest, he thinks, so the older man nods. “I’ll lead you to her.”

Namjoon is led up a small flight of stairs and out to a patio with more installations displayed. He spots several people outside, and he tries to determine which one of them is the artist he wants to meet, perhaps ask why she’d untitled all her pieces, and why there’s nothing of her at all that she chooses to share.

He stops in front of two women as instructed by Mr. Hong.

“He’s a fucking asshole, that’s what he is,” a familiar voice spits out. “The next time he harasses you, I’m going to impale his dick with my heels and—”

“Ehem,” Mr. Hong clears his throat, prompting both women to look at him. “Ms. Lee, one of our patrons would like to meet you.”

He shares a look with the woman before she nods and smiles. She turns to Namjoon where he’s met with familiar tender eyes, eyes he’s been yearning to see since that cold winter night.

“Blue?” He asks, surprised.

“My favorite color, yes. How did you know?”

You look at the man in front of you, tall and broad with caramel skin and a smile that could melt even the coldest of hearts. You’ve seen this smile before. Even behind a mask, you could tell it’s him, the man who’d saved your ass that one cold winter night with his extra hot packs and his calming voice.

You thought you’d see him again, seeing as he seemed to want to, but he never came that spring. You even left a small, ridiculous note at the corner where your signature usually is, asking when he’d come, thinking he’d communicate with you there. But the response never came.

The universe is tricky sometimes. You passed up on coming to the gallery yesterday because you felt dizzy when you woke up. And of all days that your winter night man visits, it’s the one where you’re here.

“I just figured,” Namjoon smiles, picking up your hints. “It’s one of mine, too.”

“Perhaps we should talk about the complexities of the color, then,” you smile back, nodding towards one of the sections in the large patio.

You lead him there, leaving Mr. Hong and his warning gaze and your assistant, whose smirk and teasing laughter makes you glare at her.

“I’m guessing they don’t know about you being Blue?” Namjoon asks, feeling a little jittery standing next to you again and being able to see your face much more clearly, your hair tied loosely in a bun and your clothes a nice fit for the cool weather.

“Minji does. She helps me find materials,” you respond. “Mr. Hong doesn’t. He’s not much of a fan of street art.”

“That’s a bummer, especially since one of the artists creates amazing pieces on buildings and posts and then signs them, then abandons them, and leaves spectators like me to wonder where they’d gone,” Namjoon replies, hoping you don’t find offense with his tiny jab.

Your chuckle tells him you don’t. “You never came.”

“I didn’t know when to,” he defends. “Well, more like, I stopped having the time. That place is so far from where I live and I only walk from my office because I like that time alone and I haven’t had that, but then I came back in the summer but you—”

“You don’t have to explain,” you assure him. “That was a chance meeting and I didn’t really expect I’d see you again in the same spot weeks later.”

“Did you expect to see me this time?”

“Oh, not at all,” you shake your head. “Why are you even here?”

“Why are people ever in art galleries?” He counters. “To check out the art. Maybe chance upon the artists if they’re here.”

“I guess,” you shrug, turning a corner to a small maze of an installation. “You wouldn’t have known it was me, though.”

“I didn’t. I was staring at Untitled 56 and realized I took a photo of Untitled 48,” he reveals, earning him a shocked look from you. “It was in LACMA. I saw it a while back. The name rang a bell because I don’t know anything about you. You leave so much to the imagination, Ms. Lee. There’s nothing about y—”

“It’s Han,” you correct him, feeling comfortable now. “I mean, Han ___. Samantha Lee is another pseudonym. Or like a stage name. You know, like you?”

You bite your lip at the slip-up, not wanting him to be uncomfortable at the thought that you clearly know who he is. But he just nods, affirming that he now knows that you know who he is, but he smiles right after, his eyes turning into the smallest, prettiest crescents and his dimples framing his strong-featured face that makes him even more handsome.

“I suppose you’re right,” he hums. “But why blue? And why Samantha Lee?”

“It’s the simpler version of my favorite color. Aegean blue is too complicated to sign every time,” you chuckle. “And Samantha Lee… Well, she was my roommate back in college and she once told me she wanted to be famous and the only way that could happen is if I used her name as a pseudonym. I had a crush on her so I agreed.”

There’s a long pause before Namjoon realizes that you’re not joking, and he comments that it’s interesting but he doesn’t ask again.

“I’m Kim Namjoon, by the way,” he reaches out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” you say, internally melting at the feel of his warm and large hand. “So why did you take a photo of Untitled 48?”

“It looked like a clam.”

At this, you burst into laughter.

“I don’t mean it in a bad way, just to be clear!” He insists. “It was beautifully made. It was of a neutral color but it somehow stood out the most to me in that section. And it was the 48th; I wondered why they didn't have titles. And your 56th, which looks like—”

“A vulva,” you snort.

“Yes,” he chuckles, “and a flower, yeah - something I’ve been into lately. And well, it was interesting. And seeing your piece here reminded me of that,” he goes on. “And I just wanted to know… why.”

“Why what?” You furrow your brows at him.

“Why those pieces? Why are they untitled? What prompted you to create them that way?”

“We’d probably have to tour the gallery 4 more times if you want to know,” you chuckle.

“I have time.”

“Do you?” You ask, eyeing the phone in his pocket that's been vibrating for the last 5 minutes.

He smiles shyly and excuses himself. When he returns, he has a disappointed look on his face. “Turns out, I don’t have time. But I want to. I… uh, will you be here again anytime this week?”

“I will. I’m just not sure when.”

There’s something alluring with these coincidental meetups. Somehow you want more of those, perhaps to let the universe tell you that you’re meant to constantly meet this man whose time you know you’ll never have enough of, even if he makes it for you.

“Let me see you again?”

“You will.”

You catch his eyes when he turns back as he walks away. There’s a sparkle in them, and you’re afraid to want to see it once more.

The walk to the site of the lost youth is a long one, but not knowing when you’d see the tall man with the prettiest smile again, you head there.

Your last piece was of a child at the brink of freedom, about to take the step outside the cage she’d been in for the past year and a half. You painted over it once autumn started; maybe the next time you’d paint over a building, you’re no longer yearning for lost things. Maybe you’d paint something about finding something new.

“I’m gonna start believing in a higher power if we continue meeting like this.”

The raspy voice is familiar, and you turn around to see Namjoon, clad in a hoodie and a baseball cap, leaning against one of the streetlights across the empty wall of the building you’d been staring at. It’s been 2 days since you saw him at the gallery, about 7 months since the first time you’d encountered him here. You’re unsure what this all means.

“Maybe you should,” you head towards him. “I missed the last bus so I decided to walk home. I’m still far away but this is on the way. Why are you here?”

“Stayed up at the studio,” he replies. “I’m incredibly exhausted but I don’t know, I got the energy for the long walk. Then there you were.”

“There I was, appearing so suddenly again, yeah?” You chuckle, leaning on the opposite side of the pole.

Namjoon merely hums before he nods towards the direction of his apartment. “I’m heading there.”

“Me, too.”

With his hands in his hoodie pockets and yours crossed against your chest, you try to match his long strides.

“Painting came first,” you say, as if answering the question that he’s been thinking of asking. “Painting was everything. We had so many pieces in our home, and it’s as if they spoke to me. I mean, in a not creepy way, it felt like all of my parents’ own pieces spoke to me. And they always told me I wasn’t good enough.”

Namjoon turns to look at you with empathy in his eyes. He lets you speak, and he finds out that both your parents are the artists he’d been researching lately. Your father is a classical painter, and your mother does contemporary. He can’t imagine living in gigantic shadows like that.

“When I was 15, my parents pulled strings to get some of my pieces displayed with theirs,” you sigh, recalling the mixed emotions then. “It was exciting at first, but the patrons wouldn’t mention my name unless they mentioned my parents’. And then one of my favorite pieces that I made was sold to a man who wanted it as a decoration in his summer home’s living room.”

Namjoon slows his walk and you match his pace. You meet his comforting eyes, and there’s that warmth you feel from, technically, a stranger that you didn’t expect.

“I made that piece at a time when I was frustrated living in my parents’ shadows,” you continue. “Someone once told me that art is meant to be shared, that there’s humanity in the community we create when it’s shared, that the meaning deepens when others make their own. That piece had so much of me in there; I felt like the meaning of that piece was stripped away from me the moment that stranger took home that canvas for a select few to look at. It wasn’t mine anymore, it was his; it was theirs. I stopped painting after that.”

There’s a certain kind of pain in giving up something that matters deeply to you, in losing meaning in the thing that’s given your life meaning for most of your life. Namjoon knows a bit about that pain. Many times, he’d found himself questioning all that he does, what he stands for, and what the world expects him to be.

He sees that pain in your eyes, of losing a part of you as the art stopped meaning what you wanted it to. But he doesn’t think that all is lost.

“But your street art,” he reminds you. “That’s still you. That still has meaning. And that’s something that you share.”

“That’s Blue, though,” you manage a smile. “She’s just a part of me.”

“She’s still you,” he insists. “Can you tell me about her?”

And so you tell him - how you argued with your parents about quitting painting, how you were going to turn down the scholarship in a prestigious art university to take up sociology instead, so they shipped you to a foreign country to fend for yourself, and that’s when you learned what loneliness felt like. But that’s also when you learned about people in their rawest sense, what it meant to struggle to survive, what it meant to lose something that mattered, because you studied them - you studied how humans grieved and how they persisted. You studied how they lived and how they died.

“Blue wants meaning, and she still struggles in finding it,” you explain.

“Does she?” Namjoon questions. “I’m in my late 20s but your lost youth series resonated with me. All those paintings of the man in the rain, the distorted face… they’ve inspired me in ways I can’t explain. That’s meaning, ___. That matters.”

No one outside of Minji knows all these versions of you. Except Namjoon, the brightest star you never thought you’d ever meet. Hearing him speak about your work this way makes you feel something - a first in a long time.

“Thanks, I guess,” you say shyly.

“It’s a shame they’re not displayed in galleries and museums, though.”

“I don’t want them to,” you say, surprising him. “People intend to go to museums, but they pass these streets out of necessity. I want them to stop and look, to feel, to think for a few seconds before they go back to their routinary walk. And then I remove them, so they can forget what pain and sadness feel like.”

“Looks like you found your meaning, then,” Namjoon smiles, comforted by the fact that someone as talented as you had found purpose again, something he relates with at a deeper level than he imagined.

“The painter in me did,” you reply. “The sculptor, not so much. “

“Untitled,” he hums.

“Yeah. I don’t think I can name something I understand, or at least, feel,” you say.

“That’s a lot of untitled works for you to not understand what you do,” he chuckles.

“I’m prolific because there’s not much of me I lose when I create them,” you explain. “I just sit in my stool, craft something, then call it a day. Not to brag or anything, but it comes easy. They’re shallow pieces, Namjoon. They don’t even deserve to be in galleries but Mr. Hong insists they do for some reason. I wish this version of me, Samantha Lee, understood why it matters, why someone like him would believe in my pieces, why a Kim Namjoon would think that 48 stood out to him enough to keep a photo.”

Namjoon processes your words. As an artist himself, he believes in the meaning of the pieces that he creates, whether it’s a song or a poem or an album or a concert. There’s effort put into them even if it’s something created in 30 minutes. Your pieces are beautiful, and he wants to explore more - you and your meaning, you and your value.

“Then why do you keep making them? What about it makes you keep sculpting?”

“The feel of the clay on my skin, the way my fingers get to mold and create the details,” you explain. “I get to touch it. I don’t get to do that with painting, you know? It’s the paintbrush and the canvas I feel but with sculpting, I get to mix the materials, I get to shape it, hold it.”

“There’s that intimacy,” he offers.

“Yeah. And it’s addictive because it’s closeness I’ve never felt before.” You turn to him before speaking the next words. “It's an intimacy I’ve never experienced before with anyone or anything.”

“Isn’t that your meaning, then?” He questions. “The piece itself might not have a story on its own but all these untitled works, the process of creating, of it being easy because you can’t get enough of the intimacy you get from creating… that’s meaning. That desire for closeness, for meaning… that’s meaning.”

No one’s ever put it that way for you, probably because you’ve never let yourself be this honest with someone about your art. All your friends aren’t artists because you wanted that world separate, you didn’t want to have to talk about it feeling as insecure and lost as you are.

But Namjoon - he’s one of your generation’s greatest artists. He weaves words and sounds so beautifully to create masterpieces that people consume and hold so closely. He understands.

“I’ve made songs that took me 30 minutes,” he shares. “But I’ve also made songs that took me to dark places, that broke me as I wrote them. But once they came out, once I’ve shared them to others who’ve shared what it meant to them… slowly, I started becoming whole again. Isn’t that an artist’s burden? To break to create, to feel whole after that, and then to break all over again?”

“You are truly one of a kind, Kim Namjoon,” you tell him. “I’ve lived with artists my whole life and they never let me understand art in that way.”

“I’m still figuring it all out,” he shrugs. “I still feel lost sometimes, but I think it’s natural to feel that way, to be unsure or confused. I guess what matters is that we’re still walking on some road to somewhere, even if we don’t know where we’re heading.”

“Is that where you are right now?” You wonder. “On a road to somewhere you don’t quite know yet?”

More than you know, he wants to say. He’s in this period of experimentation, of figuring out his signature style, of figuring out who he is and what he means to his teammates, to the industry, to the world.

“Sort of,” he shrugs. “It’s hard sometimes. Walks like this give me a reprieve. Consuming other people’s art lets me understand things a bit more.”

“Yeah, I get it. I mean, conversing with strangers gives me time to breathe, too.”

“Ooh, so I’m still a stranger, huh?” He chuckles, shyly looking at you. “Our third unplanned meeting, an hour of walking home… and I’m still a stranger.”

“What would you want to be, then?” You turn to him, a little teasing smile on your face.

“A friend, for starters.”

“My nighttime friend?”

“Not just,” he shakes his head. “I would like to see you again, actually. And I don’t want to put this up to chance this time. Like, something planned or—”

“And how exactly would that work?”

“I, uh…” he thinks. “I’d invite you to my apartment. And you can invite me to yours?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to get to know you more, if that’s okay.”

“Are you always this bold?” You giggle, not missing the way your cheeks start to feel warm at the mention of visiting each other’s homes and him wanting to get to know you.

He’s obviously handsome - you’ve known of him since his band made it to your TV screens, being young men who were around your age, singing songs that resonate so deeply with you. But he’s more than that, as you’re learning. There’s this passion for creating that's refreshing, something you seem to lack.

“Not always,” he looks away, the dips in his cheeks something you’re sure you won’t get enough of.

“You should be. It makes a girl flustered but it makes it so difficult for her to say no,” you smirk. Sometimes, you also don’t know where your own boldness comes from.

“You? Flustered? That’s quite hard to believe,” he teases.

“That’s true. But it happens, believe it or not, when a gorgeous, brilliant man asks me over.”

Your heart stops for what feels like a minute, but his sweet, child-like laughter melts away your worry.

“Did I make you uncomfortable?” You ask.

“Surprisingly, no,” he replies. “I appreciate your honesty. About everything. I hope we can give that to each other.”

“Okay then, your turn,” you challenge.

“Hearing you curse was kinda hot.”

You try to hold off your laughter, your defense to your true reaction, which is to smile like an idiot and feel like floating.

“That’s interesting. I would’ve thought it’s something to do with my looks or my talent, you know?” You arch an eyebrow teasingly.

“It is. I think you’re beautiful. And I’m usually a forgetful person but I haven’t forgotten your sweet smile since I first saw it last winter,” he says, catching you off guard. “And your talent… there’s a reason why I have 48 saved on my phone, and why I sought out your street art these past years. I want to know what intimacy in art is like for you. I guess I’ve sort of lost that in creating my own.”

“Intimacy,” you repeat. “I think we both lack it in certain ways.”

“Maybe we’ll find it,” he says more confidently now, holding your gaze as your eyes trace his face.

“Maybe we will,” you respond, feeling your whole body warm with embers of fire.

He insists on taking you home, another 20-minute walk away from his. But you claim to enjoy that time on your own, assuring him that you do this all the time and the streets are safe.

“Let me know when you get home safely?” He asks, and you give him your phone for him to input his number.

“I will.”

It’s 30 minutes later when you do. It’s 1AM, but you and Namjoon spend the next 2 hours talking some more - about his songs and your pieces, about his plants and your collection of wind chimes.

You didn’t expect to make him laugh as much as you did, and he said he didn’t expect you to think his ramblings are adorable and amusing. You most definitely didn’t expect your heart to beat as fast as it did when he told you, in his deep, raspy voice, that he’s glad he took that long walk that winter, that he visited the art gallery when he did, that the hopeless romantic in him pushed him to go to the place you first met.

“I think I’m crazy but somehow I feel like I’ve known you for so long,” he muses.

“I feel the same way,” you assure him, as you hug your pillow and slowly surrender to sleep.

“Good,” he hums. “That’s all I wanted to know. Good night, ___. And I’ll see you soon.”

2021, winter

There’s a warmth in Namjoon’s home that’s hard to replicate. Filled with his favorite art pieces of all forms, he said he curated it to reflect his emotions just as much as his tastes. It’s clean and well-organized, with books on shelves and stacks on the floor, and an entire area full of liquor - his new interest, he’d said.

He’s had you over several times already; the first one, barely a week after that long walk home. You both spent hours that day talking about his favorite artists, and it wasn’t enough, as he asked you back the next day.

You often talk about your childhood, one that you weren’t always comfortable sharing, but being with him makes it easy.

It’s easy when he looks into your eyes when you speak, as if he’s telling you that he knows you say more than words. It’s easy when he’s got his own stories to share - stories of vulnerability and honesty, of fear and confusion. It’s easy when he still stutters over words sometimes and then gets lost in his own ramblings, then he chuckles when he realizes he’s talked so much, and you tell him that it’s okay because his voice is calming and his thoughts are a breath of fresh air.

It’s easy when his presence is comforting, when his anecdotes about his friends and family make you laugh until your insides hurt. It’s easy when he makes you feel like you can question everything about your art and your purpose and your abilities but he never makes you feel like a failure. It’s easy when he smiles and laughs nervously, when he’s funny without meaning to, and when he makes sure you’re comfortable by always having your preferred tea and biscuits next to the wine you once said is your favorite.

The only time it gets hard is when he stands a little too close as you look up at a painting or a book on a shelf. You could feel the heat from his body; a slight movement and you’d be touching, mere cloths in between you. It’s hard when his arm brushes the slightest bit against yours. It’s hard when he gazes at you when there’s silence, and it’s like he’s studying your face before you call him out and he apologizes because he “can’t stop looking at pretty things.”

It’s hard when he hugs you goodbye and he wishes you a safe ride home. It’s hard when he sends you a message right after, saying he wishes you both had more time.

Being attracted to Namjoon is hard; being attached to him is torture.

“You’re looking for him again,” Minji states the obvious as you walk around the gallery, your eyes darting to the door every time the bell rings.

“No I’m not,” you deny. “He just got back from his trip abroad and he’s tired. He won’t be coming here.”

“Doesn’t mean you wish he would,” she smirks. “But why rendezvous here? You guys go to each other’s houses. And no one goes to your house… aside from me.”

“We can’t exactly see each other in public, you know?” You glare at her. “But… I don’t know, it’s nice to see him look around and talk about what he sees. I feel like I learn more from him. And that’s weird, isn’t it? This is my field. The arts have been my entire life, but I’m learning more about it from him.”

“What is it about him?” She wonders.

She doesn’t say that she’s noticed more life in your eyes since he came into your life. She doesn’t say that she’s noted that you take more time creating pieces, seemingly savoring the process unlike the way you used to. She doesn’t mention the smile that she hasn’t seen in all the years that she’s known you.

“Passion is sexy, you know?” You giggle. “He has so much of it, it’s inspiring.”

“Is that all?” Minji smirks.

“He’s also fucking gorgeous. I try not to ogle him but I think he’s noticed. Fuck me.”

“Maybe he wants to.”

“Shut up. Don’t make me hope.”

“You do that to yourself,” she laughs. “Keep denying that you don’t want to see him or want anything more with him and let’s see how you do.”

The truth is, you know. You know that you’d fall hard if you let yourself go like that, but it’s human to know danger and then still want it, isn’t it?

The vibration from your phone ringing surprises you.

“Hey,” Namjoon’s voice booms on the other end.

“Hey,” you reply. “How was your trip?”

“Good. I just got home. We had to stop by the office for a bit. My place is a mess and we have something again in the afternoon,” he huffs, sounding incredibly tired. “Can I come over tonight?”

You almost drop the flute of champagne you’re holding. He’s been to your house twice, but this is the first time he’s specifically asked to come over, especially considering that he just arrived from a trip abroad.

“Of course,” you hum. “Any dinner preferences?”

“Your cooking,” he says simply. “But wait for me, okay? I’ll let you know when I’m on the way.”

“Okay,” you say, before dropping the call, unable to hide the wide smile that forms on your face, to your assistant’s amusement.

“Why don’t you try to let go this time?” She advises. “Maybe you’ll find the intimacy you’ve been longing for.”

Namjoon overestimates your cooking abilities. Truly, all you know to do is prepare ramyun and fry anything. But, compared to him, he’s said you’re chef level. “The guys” don’t even want him near the kitchen, he tells you all the time.

But instant noodles and pork belly seem enough for him, as he eats with his mouth closed and hums in satisfaction. You take the time to savor the way he looks. A few weeks without him has started to feel like months.

“It was overwhelming,” he finally says.

He knew the moment he landed that he wanted to see you. There’s comfort in your presence that he’s begun to accept, and being with you allows him to be honest, to feel real, to feel human.

“It was great to be able to perform again, to hear the cheers and the sounds and everything. It was also terrifying,” he continues. “I was nervous and excited, I was scared and elated. I felt so fulfilled and satisfied but I also felt like it wasn’t enough.”

“That’s a lot of conflicting emotions,” you hum.

“Are they? Conflicting, I mean.”

“It depends, I guess. They seem up and down to me. Does it bother you?”

“That I felt all that, all at once?”

You nod in response.

“It used to,” he admits. “At the start of all this, I thought, I can’t be scared. Six other guys and an entire company are looking to me to succeed. I have to be strong and confident. And then, an industry is waiting for me to fail. And then, my own country is letting me - us - represent an entire generation, it’s asking me to carry on this cultural wave. It never ends. And I used to think I couldn’t be scared, that not wanting all this anymore means I’m ungrateful.”

“But you aren’t,” you try to assure him. You can’t imagine the burden he feels, leading a group that feels all kinds of pressure. “I’ve heard you talk about your art and your poetry and your brothers and your fans. You’re easily the most passionate, hardworking, and appreciative person I know. I don’t think you’ll ever run out of things to give.”

“It’s tiring,” he sighs.

“I’m sure. But you’re honest about it. You’ve always been. Doesn’t honesty unburden you, even just a little bit? Doesn’t it leave you space to feel more, to be more?”

Namjoon hums. For someone who claims to not know much about feeling, you seem to know what to say to make him stop and think, to remind him of why he does what he does. And why ultimately, he’s always going to love it.

“It does,” he finally says, sitting up straight to take a better look at you in your linen pants and soft sweater. “Do you do that, then? Unburden yourself by being honest?”

“I’m not good at doing that,” you chuckle. “If you don’t know by now, I say a lot of seemingly profound things that I don’t necessarily live by.”

“Why not?”

“Honesty scares me. Being vulnerable scares me. I don’t know how to return it.”

“Has anybody ever been all that to you?” He wonders, feeling the tension build a little.

“Once” you say, standing from the dining table and heading to the large window that overlooks your garden. “And I ran away.”

“Is that why you sculpt, then?” Namjoon asks, walking towards you. “Because you don’t know what to do with intimacy so you do it with your art? You want to hold and touch what you walk away from? You don’t give it a name because you don’t want to define it? Because you’re scared that if you do, you’ll realize that you actually want it - the closeness, the warm body, the rawness that you can only get from being with someone else.”

You look up at him, towering over you. He came from a short filming, donned in a white, buttoned polo with his long sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You can see the darkness of his hazelnut eyes and the stubble on his chin. You spot the beauty mark on his neck and the smoothness of his skin, especially on his chest, as he leaves 2 buttons undone.

“Reading me now, Kim Namjoon?” You cock an eyebrow, trying to break the tension that’s built up in the last few minutes.

“I’m trying, because I want to get to know you more, find out what you’re afraid of and ease it somehow,” he admits. “Because I feel the same way. I’m honest but I’m scared, yet with you, I’m honest but I’m brave. I feel like I’m brave. I don’t know what it is, but ever since I met you, I just wanted…” he glances at your lips then meets your eyes again. “I just wanted to know more, to feel more. To understand what it’s like to be intimate with someone who doesn’t know much about it like me. I want to figure it out. With you.”

“How?”

One word is all you get to verbalize, as you feel him come closer, the heat of his body intensifying with every second. You’re backed up against the window, the distance between you and him decreasing and decreasing.

His eyes are boring into you, and you bravely gaze at him back. You mirror his desire, as you lick your lips when he glances at them again. Your chest is heaving as is his, and your heart races even more when he breathes out your name.

You palm his chest, and for a brief moment of uncertainty in his eyes at the thought of you stopping him, you instead grip the cloth that covers him, and you slowly pull him in.

His lips are soft. And the way he gently presses against you is tender, comforting, like he wants to savor it and go slow. He angles his head the same time his hand reaches for your waist, and you feel the slightest wetness from his tongue.

You grant him entrance, and the second you do, he takes control, tightening his hold on your body as he cages you, his one arm now propped up against the window. You moan into each other as tongues and teeth clash, and you can’t help your hand that travels to pull on the ends of his hair, brushing your fingers against the nape of his neck right after.

It’s a little sloppy, needy, but there’s still gentleness in there. It’s in the way he cups your cheek, caressing it with his large fingers and letting it slide down your chest, back to your waist. It’s in the way he smiles into the kiss when you moan your pleasure; you can almost feel his dimples as he does. It’s in the way that he asks for more, not with dominance but with care, with understanding, with caution.

You both pull away to catch some air, lips swollen and wet, but your smiles say you enjoyed it. The way your bodies haven’t completely detached from each other shows that.

“Would you let me stay the night?” He asks softly, as if it’s a request he’s afraid to ask.

“Yes,” you breathe out. “Be with me tonight.”

Underneath the covers of your bed, you lay in his arm while your fingers trace patterns on his taut chest. You can hear his heartbeat still drumming, and you can feel the care in the way he caresses your cheek, your arm, your waist.

“I don’t know what I can give you, Namjoon,” you admit. “I don’t know how to be as honest and vulnerable as you. I don’t know how to share parts of me that I don’t understand. I don’t know what I can do to ease all your worries and concerns. I—”

“Just give me moments,” he interjects. “Nights like this, days at our homes, afternoons at the galleries, hours on the phone… I just want to feel something that I can actually touch, that I can savor. And I want it to be you, the one I get to hold and taste and kiss.”

He leans forward again, and you capture his mouth in yours. There’s no need to do more - much as you’re wet and he’s definitely hard, but neither one of you is rushing, neither one wants to scare the other.

He’s hot, the kind that burns. That’s how it is with people as passionate as he is - their touch can light a fire on your skin, and you won’t be able to stop it.

“I can give you moments,” you whisper. “Just tell me.”

2022, spring

You can count the moments with 2 hands.

Namjoon stayed with his parents over the holidays but he videocalled you everyday. You both went to a few galleries outside the capital but did so separately, spending hours after that talking about the pieces over the phone.

You’ve come to appreciate your world much more deeply with his commentaries and reflections, and with you, he said he’d gotten to breathe a little longer, laugh a little louder, and feel a little more human.

He stayed over your place 4 more times; you stayed over at his thrice. You debated over movies and recommended each other books. It was common to spend the day wrapped up in each other on the couch while you both read separately. He made you listen to a few songs he’s been working on - some of which were inspired by your many conversations and your own musings, and you’d showed him sketches of your upcoming planned series on sculpted landscapes.

It’s freeing, being able to share about your world with someone else like this, and being part of someone else’s, too. Whatever it is you both have is freeing - kisses included, which never went beyond what you first did. Despite the obvious desire to do more, neither of you ever tried, perhaps knowing what it would entail. There’s distance between you and him but there also isn’t. There’s enough comfort and intimacy that you’ve only scratched the surface of, but this seems to be just enough.

“I have the weekend off,” he pants over the phone. It’s 11PM and they’ve just finished rehearsals for an upcoming series of concerts abroad. “Do you want to do something?”

“A trip to my parents’ summer home?” You wonder out loud. The spring air has come and you love going to the lake at this time. “It’s by the mountains and it’s really private. The estate is like their personal art museum with their works and others’. I visit every year. But if—”

“Yes, a hundred times yes,” he huffs. “That’s fucking amazing.”

“I know I got you at the art museum bit,” you laugh.

“You got me at the really private bit, actually,” he says seriously, causing your heart to race. “And the art of course. And you. Always you.”

“Alright, Casanova,” you tease. “Just make sure I don’t get in trouble for taking you somewhere weeks before you leave.”

“We’re alright,” he responds. “I can’t wait.”

It’s a 3-hour drive to the estate by the mountains. In the far future, your parents want to open it up for private viewing, and so you want to make sure that your art lover more-than-but-not-really-friend gets a first peek.

You spend the entire ride talking about a hundred topics, going off tangent when he rambles again, and you’re the one who circles him back to the original discussion. You hum tunes while he sings songs, and when you find private spots, you take the risk and take photos.

You make it to the estate in the late morning, and as you expected, Namjoon’s jaw drops.

The fountain at the front is an art piece itself. The front door was shipped from Indonesia, and the furniture are a beautiful curation of pieces from all over the world that were gifted to or bought by your parents.

You watch him gently trace the carvings and the details. You’re in awe as he absorbs the sculptures and paintings as you tour him around. And you melt every time he turns to you with the biggest smile on his face, like he’s discovering a secret that only both of you know. It’s breathtaking and absolutely precious.

“Keep looking at me like that,” he says, as he catches you marvel at him. “I like it when you look at me like you want me.”

“Don’t fluster me,” you say, turning away.

“You’re not denying it,” he counters, walking closer to you.

“I would be a liar if I did.”

“That’s good to know,” he hums, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I know I only asked for moments but can this weekend be filled with that?”

He looks nervous, like you’d turn him down.

“I… it’s been tough, dealing with a lot of things,” he continues. He’s mentioned some difficulties lately, and you know there’s not much you can do about it. Except, maybe this. “I just want something to hold onto, like being here with you, experiencing all these art pieces, being close…”

He cups your cheek and gives you that look that you’ve become familiar with, his request for intimacy that you both continue to explore.

“Okay,” you respond, taking his hand and kissing it. “Okay.”

You eat lunch, explore the east wing of the property, and at mid-afternoon, you convince him to swim on the lake with you.

“Isn’t it freezing?” He asks worriedly.

“That’s the fun part of it,” you insist. “There’s a hot tub we can stay at after.”

Namjoon gives in. It’s easy to, with a smile like yours that makes his heart race every time. Especially when you come out in your blue swimsuit, shaping your curves and all other parts of your body that makes his own react. He can’t help but marvel at you, even as you tease.

“Hey, big guy, eyes up,” you smirk.

He blushes when you giggle, but he does tease back, removing his shirt to reveal his body that he’s been working so hard on. He does flex a little to give you a taste of your own medicine, and it works.

“Hey, eyes up,” he chuckles.

You feel a shiver when his finger tilts your chin up, and you do the childish thing and bite it before you run to the lake and dive in. Namjoon follows, canonballing and then swimming over to chase you.

You haven’t swam here in years. You merely used to watch the sun rise and then gaze at the sky and imagined doing all this with someone else. You didn’t really think you’d end up here with Kim Namjoon, but here you are.

Namjoon pulls you to him as you swim close, and you both float in the water with your arms around his chest and his arms around your waist. You’re obviously both drenched, and that just leaves so little to the imagination, especially with the cold water a little more overwhelming than you expected.

His hair is swept back, with beads of water lining his face and sliding down his neck and his chest. He’s broad and incredibly built. It’s unfair that his body looks as amazing as his face.

“Does Minji know you’re here with me?” He asks.

“Yes, teased me nonstop until I picked you up. What about the guys?”

“They do. They insist we are a couple.”

“And?”

“And I said that we aren’t,” he says cautiously. “We’re friends who spend a lot of time together and cuddle, and uh, sometimes do a little more.”

“What a complicated way to say we’re friends with benefits,” you laugh.

“I don’t see it that way, though,” he furrows his brows. “I don’t want to reduce what we are to each other to just benefits or something sexual or shallow. Do you see it that way?”

“No,” you say. “I… I’ve come to understand art a lot more because of you. I’ve come to appreciate what I do. That’s not just some benefit.”

“And I… can’t even explain all that you do for me,” he says. “We’re more than that. Less than lovers, but more than friends. And our moments shape this, whatever name we call it.”

“Untitled,” you wonder out loud. “Sometimes artists name their pieces as such when they can’t find a better descriptor.”

“So 58 sculptures in, and you still can’t find a better descriptor?” He teases.

“Shut up,” you smack his hard chest. “I titled them that way because I didn’t have a meaning for them. I just created them. But then I met this man, tall and built with a sexy brain, and he made me realize that the meaning is in the creation, too. So 58 works, 58 times I experienced intimacy, the only times I do.”

“Ah, so what about us?” He nudges you with his nose. “Aren’t we intimate?”

“It’s a different kind, I guess,” you say. You’re not my creation and you’re not mine, you choose not to say. “You don’t break. You’re the one that breaks other things.”

You pass it off as a joke, and he buys it. You don’t want to think much about what you and Namjoon aren’t; you just want to think about what you both are - something that may or may not be fleeting, but something beautiful nonetheless.

The sun shines a little too bright, and you take the chance to get out of the water and into the dock to soak up its heat. Namjoon follows and you both lay that way, just next to each other, catching your breaths.

“Are you feeling a little better?” You ask, wondering if he still carried over all his concerns here.

“Yes. It’s exhilarating,” he responds. “It’s nice to feel this way for a change.”

“I’m sure you’ve felt this way before, too.”

“Not this way,” he turns to you. “It’s different, I guess. It makes me think of all the other emotions I have yet to feel, the ones I’ve felt only briefly before, and the ones that I’ll never feel. I think life’s too short for a person to experience all kinds of emotions. I was it wasn’t.”

“Are humans built for that?” You question. “To feel every possible thing out there? To feel every variation of pain and sadness and joy and elation and pleasure and desire?”

Namjoon thinks. Surely, being able to have emotions and to truly feel is what makes us humans and what makes us different from animals. It’s what marks our humanity, regardless of what emotion that may be. But are humans really capable of feeling everything without breaking? Without it being too much?

“Maybe not,” he finally responds.

You think, too. You’ve often wondered why you were so scared to be vulnerable, to take risks, to love. You thought once that feeling things is overwhelming - what do you do with them? How do you handle them when they get too much? When you become too happy or too sad or too scared or too excited?

You think maybe because like all things in this world, you can never have emotions. You feel them, but you can’t own them, they can’t be yours. Like your art. You can create them but they stop being yours once you share them. Like music, as Namjoon has told you, it stops being his the moment he releases it for others to consume. And it’s scary to not have that permanence; it’s scary to not have that assurance that you’ll always have that joy or that excitement or that elation. And in some way, it’s also scary to know that you won’t always have that pain or that sadness.

“Maybe humans are only built to try to feel everything,” Namjoon states, having thought about your question and his years-long quest of figuring himself out. “But we aren’t meant to achieve it. Maybe our life is about just feeling bits and pieces of it, sometimes longer than others, but we can’t feel it all, and definitely not all at once. It’s like truth; we spend our life seeking and trying to live it, but we might never be able to. Still, we have to keep trying.”

“Hmm,” is all you manage to say. “Do couples have deep conversations like this?” You laugh this time, needing his thoughts to linger a little longer.

“They should,” he laughs. “But it’s enough for me that I have someone like you to make me question things. It reminds me that I have more to discover, to feel.”

To feel.

Sometimes Namjoon makes it seem so easy to just do that. He’s able to name what he feels, unlike you. You wish it was easy, like saying that the cold water on your skin is refreshing, like the sun’s heat is comforting, like the clouds in the sky are soft.

You don’t notice your hand reaching up, wanting to just touch them because you want something concrete, something more real than what your imagination says that clouds feel like. But instead, you feel rough, warm fingers interlocking with yours.

“If you want to feel something concrete, I’m here, you know?” Namjoon says, thumbing your hand to let him know he’s right next to you. Somehow he just knew what you were doing, what you were wishing for.

“But this is what couples do,” you tease, yet tightening your hold nonetheless.

“Friends hold hands,” he smirks.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. They kiss, too,” he hums, lifting himself up only to hover over you, catching you by surprise, but your desire trumps that, as the view of him - damp and natural-looking - makes your insides twist in circles.

“Hmm, like this?” You peck his lips, then his nose, teasing him.

“Sometimes. Other times it’s deeper. You know, like this.”

He dives in, and you welcome him immediately, your mouth already slightly open for your tongue to entangle with his. It’s long and deep, as how your kisses always are, and you feel him shift above you, fixing his position with his arms caging your head for support. He angles his mouth so he can have more of you and control how far he goes, how hard, and how fast.

Your fingers, whose spaces were filled by his just minutes ago, ghost over his neck. They trail down to his chest, gingerly passing by his pecs and his abs, the tips now resting on his hips.

“Fuck,” he moans in your mouth, and you immediately know why he does, feeling his length getting harder by the second.

It prompts him to grind on you, and you meet him halfway.

“Fuck, Joon,” you whine once his lips detach from yours, only to meet your neck when he sucks then licks over the sting. “Fuck.”

He hums in satisfaction at the sounds you make, going south now as he teases by giving tender kisses on the exposed part of your breasts before biting your nipple over your suit.The obscene sound you make turns him on, especially when you pull his hips harder against yours.

“Oh fuck, baby, yeah,” he groans in your ear now, and you might as well have just come from the way he said those words.

And then you remember where you are - in the outdoors, in your parents’ summer home. Private as it may be, you’re still exposed, and you remind him of the fact before he slows down and agrees that you can’t be doing this out here.

“I’m sorry I got carried away,” he says shyly now, as if he didn’t just devour you with his skillful mouth.

“Yeah, this is totally your fault,” you tease.

He chases you back to the house where you both spend another hour in the hot tub, just talking like normal friends, as if you didn’t almost just cross a line. But it’s like that with Namjoon, you’ve come to realize. Everything is easy, everything is natural, like you can just forget that he isn’t him and you aren’t you.

You spend the rest of the day looking at all the pieces on the first floor, with you sharing as much about them that you can remember. You both sleep that night with his head on your chest and his arms around you.

He sleeps soundly, snoring even. And as you comb his hair, you think of how close you were to wanting so much more in the lake earlier. You think of how much you wanted his lips on your mouth, all over your body, and you wanted it everyday. With the way he held you close and breathed desperately on your skin, you had a feeling that so did he.

Living in this dream-like state with him feels surreal, several months in. Because that’s what he is - a dream. Here’s a man grounded by his principles despite the fame that seems to shackle him, yet constantly propels him to new heights; a man whose search for truth and humanity shows you that he just wants to be a good person, and a person who does good.

Beyond his unmatched talent and gift with words, beyond his strikingly stunning looks, is a man who cares deeply, who feels deeply, who submits himself to what he commits to, whether it’s his music, his brothers, his plants, or his interest in art and nature and even whiskey. You have a feeling he’d do the same to whoever he plans to be with. You don’t know if it’s you, and the more you find yourself wanting him, the more you wish it isn’t you.

Namjoon is a dream, and you know at one point, you’re going to have to wake up.

The gallery is buzzing, as it always is when there’s a new exhibition. You’re excited for this, too, as the featured artist is one you admire.

Namjoon admires her as well, which is why he’s here, dressed in a black long-sleeved buttoned top, looking immaculate as per usual. He has a busy schedule but he made time, knowing how special this event is.

The room holds its breath when he enters; as a well-known lover of art, everyone has come to expect him to be a guest in exhibitions and various art shows. He bows at the other patrons and artists present, and they fawn over him, being the famous man that he is.

You don’t think you’ll ever get used to this side of him. You’re used to him rambling, making jokes he doesn’t realize are funny, and being lost in his own thoughts. You’re used to him in his natural environment - in his home full of books and paintings, and in his studio, which you’ve seen dozens of times through your phone screen. He fits right in here, though - he can easily follow on with the conversations, whether it’s about business or culture or literature. He can charm anyone with his smile and his good looks, and too many times, guests awe at his presence, finding out that he’s much more commanding and handsome off the screen.

You hide a smile as he glances in your direction. You’ve agreed not to talk much today; there are too many people around and any kind of interaction might be grounds for rumors that neither of you are ready to face, at least that’s what you think. You and Namjoon don’t really discuss those things. You always see him in your periphery, though, and perhaps just like you, he just wants to be where you are, even if no pleasantries or conversations are shared.

But Mr. Hong pulls him aside to introduce to Ms. Suh, and you can see from afar how Namjoon is fanboying over the artist whose work he’s very interested in.

It’s nice to see him in his element like this, too. Here, though still a celebrity in the eyes of everyone else, he’s a spectator. He’s told you several times how his trips to these places have made him think about the kind of legacy he wants to leave with his music, with his poetry. And how pieces in museums and galleries are timeless, permanent; they live on regardless, and each person is free to make their own meanings. You know he wanted to comfort you then.

You become involved in your own conversations until someone barrels inside the gallery and makes a scene, of all days. The slightly inebriated man is familiar; perhaps a patron you’ve seen before, but he comes in and starts yelling at the staff, going on about something you can’t understand.

Not wanting to be part of the scene and be involved in something you don’t know how to handle, you slowly step away, that is, until you see him storm towards the room where your art pieces are. He seems to be targeting someone as he looks around, but the security gets to him first and he flails his arms around, eventually knocking over Untitled 56, and the cracking sound rings in the entire building.

“You knocked over a precious piece, you bastard!” You hear Mr. Hong yelling.

You start walking slowly to where you see the shards of ceramic have fallen on the floor, and you’re unsure what you feel. Is it loss? It doesn’t seem like it. Is it anger? Perhaps not.

“It’s just some useless flower anyway,” the raucous man answers.

Shame. You think that’s it, maybe that’s the feeling. Insecurity, sadness. It’s all of that yet nothing at all.

You stand there over your broken piece, the one you created while the rain was pouring and you’d just finished a bottle of wine by yourself because you could. Everyone seems to be as shocked as you, especially with the man finally contained and led out the building. You look up to take your eyes away from the scene, but you see Namjoon’s instead - anger filling his, sympathy, care, all at once.

You shake your head once, instructing him not to say or do anything. And he follows, loosening his clenched fist and stepping away to the back of the crowd. You instruct the staff to sweep the broken piece away, not wanting to see how fragile and temporary your creation is. All that had been reduced to shards and pitiful looks of the crowd.

You don’t really want to be here.

You’re filled with emotions you can’t name. You’re afraid to feel them all, so you cower on your couch and cry to yourself.

It’s just a piece of useless flower. It’s the 56th of untitled works that you couldn’t name yourself because you didn’t know what they meant, what they symbolized, yet it hurts you this much that it’s gone. Hurt. Is that it? You’re still not sure.

The banging of your front door startles you. It’s 9PM and it’s been 4 hours since the incident. Minji offered to tell you the whole story but you didn’t really mind. You wonder if it’s her this time, wanting to know how you’re doing.

But it’s Namjoon, panting on your doorway when you open it. And the first thing you think to do is bury yourself in his arms.

It’s immediate, the catharsis of being in his hold. It’s like you’re enveloped in a warm, protective blanket that you don’t want to get out of. He embraces you tightly, letting you cry on his chest as you try to make sense of what you’re feeling.

“I’ve got you,” he says in your ear so that the words don’t get lost in the sound of your sobs. “I’ve got you. Don’t tear yourself. I’m here with you.”

You don’t know for how long you both stand there, but it’s long enough for the tears to stop falling. When you’ve calmed down, Namjoon tilts your chin up to face him.

“Hey,” he greets with a soft smile. “I’m sorry I couldn’t follow you right away. I wanted so badly to punch that man.”

The shift of emotions is immediate, as you see his furrowed brows.

“He didn’t have a right to be there and to ruin what you worked hard for. I asked Mr. Hong to look into him and I’m so sorry, ___. That piece… that piece is–”

“A useless flower,” you shake your head.

“Please don’t listen to him. Listen to me,” Namjoon insists. “You know what I feel about it. That piece led me to you.”

“And now it’s gone.”

The thought hits you hard. That piece led you to each other, and temporary as it is, it’s now broken. Maybe art isn’t timeless, you think. It can burn, it can break, just like all things. Just like emotions. Just like what you and Namjoon have.

“It may be but look what it did for us,” he challenges your thoughts. “A broken piece won’t change us, it won’t erase us.”

Tonight, this is what you want to hear. And with his fingers tracing your cheek, you think that tonight, he is what you want to feel.

You pull him close and crash your mouth onto his. It’s fervent, desperate, wanting. There’s this need in you, this animalistic desire that has you wanting him to prove you wrong again - that some things can be touched and felt and that they’ll stay and won't break, that emotions can be just as real and tangible, that they matter and that it’s worth it. You want him to prove it to you with his mouth, his words, his touch, his body.

He answers back, inhaling you completely, his tongue working on yours right away, doing that dance you’ve both memorized by now. Your moans are loud and needy. You want all of him, all over you, and with the way he groans your name and curses as you grind against him, you think he feels the same.

You’re in a haze, falling into hypnosis as you feel his hands all over you. You guide them to your clothed breasts, down your waist where he sneaks underneath. His touch burns so deliciously, and it’s what prompts you to unbutton his clothes, to feel him bare and naked, his skin against yours - raw, vulnerable, honest.

Things you don’t know how to be.

You pull away, feeling as if you’ve been snapped out of the spell.

And then you’re crying, as you look at Namjoon with his top undone, looking at you curiously before he’s walking towards you in concern.

“No,” you almost scream. “I’m sorry, I– I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t supposed to. We’re not supposed to do this. We’re just… we’re just something that’s temporary and–”

“No,” he replies, surprising you. “Don’t be sorry, please. I wanted it, I still do. I want you. Fuck what we said about being just friends. I want more. I–”

“You don’t mean that,” you insist, not wanting to hear his words.

It should comfort you, shouldn’t it? You’ve known long ago that you’ve fallen for him, but you made yourself believe that all things are temporary, and this one time you wanted something permanent with him, you got scared out of your mind.

“I do,” he counters. “Fuck it, all I wanted to do earlier was hold you in my arms. Fuck the other people around who’d see. I just wanted to be with you. Is that what friends do? Is that what they feel? I have to be honest, right? We said we’d be that to each other. I want you, ___. I want to be with you.”

“I can’t, Joon. I can’t,” you sob.

“Be honest with me this once. Do you want me?”

“Yes, so fucking much.”

“Then why can’t you be with me? Why are you making it so hard for yourself, for us?” He yells.

“I–” you start, but you don’t know how to continue. You cover your face with your hands and fall onto the floor.

You don’t think you’ve ever cried this hard, and you’re unsure exactly what you’re crying over.

“Hey,” Namjoon softens, leaning down next to you as he tries to free your face. “I’m not mad, I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. I can’t even… I can’t even say what I want to say because I don’t know. I don’t–” you sniff. “I don’t know what I feel, what I want. I–”

“It’s okay,” he says, taking you in his arms again. “It’s okay. We can talk about it tomorrow. Just get some rest.”

He calms you down again and leads you to your room. He waits as you wash up and then he tucks you in bed.

“I’ll come over in the morning, okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper. You watch him eye your lips, and then he looks away.

Namjoon comes over the next day with a basket of pastries and coffee. He knows enough that you won’t have energy to prepare anything to eat.

You can’t imagine losing all this, but that’s what’s about to happen.

You’d been so close to giving in to him, so close to letting yourself be vulnerable to him, but doing so in flesh isn’t all there is to it. You can make love to him, bare your body to him that way but you wouldn’t be able to do it with your soul or your heart.

What does being raw and honest mean? You don’t know. He deserves someone who knows.

“I still don’t know what I can give you,” you tell him as you both sit across from each other in the seating area in your garden. “Months later, I should know but I don’t. Even just moments, I… can’t. They make me want you more and I can’t. I don’t know exactly what I want - with myself, with my art, with you. I don’t know what to give.”

“You act like you’re the only one unsure,” he says softly. “I don’t know if what I can give you is enough. I mean, with what I do? It’s tough, and I don’t know if it would be fair. But I want you. I don’t know how the arrangements would be but I want you.”

“At least you know what you can give, even as you shine as bright as you do, you know yourself and what you can give me, what you can give us. I don’t.”

“But what if we try?”

“That’s unfair to you, Joon,” you insist. “You put your all into everything, and this - us - won’t be any different. But that just means that falling short would break you, and I can’t have that. And then there’s me who can’t give much of herself to anything - not my craft, not my friends, not myself. And you matter too much to only get the barest parts of me. I don’t want to be with you that way.”

Namjoon sighs. It’s not an easy thing to accept. It’s something he understands - all he’s ever known to do was to give his all to everything he wants to keep. If that’s not something you’re ready to do yourself, he can’t fault you for it.

It hurts so fucking much, though. He’s learned in the course of these months of knowing you that you’re another one of those he wants to keep, that he wants more of, that he wants to learn inside and out - you’re also the first person to ever be that for him. For you to slip away like this is a kind of pain that he doesn’t know how to get over.

“Continue to be raw and honest in everything that you do, okay? Live,” you say, and he nods in reply. “Don’t stop yourself from seeing other people, from finding someone else,” you add.

You can’t even be honest with this. You hope he’ll always want you, but you don’t let yourself be selfish with him, not this time.

“I won't” is what he answers.

It breaks your heart all over again and you let it. You deserve it. Who walks away from someone they want, especially when they want you back? Someone afraid like you, someone who doesn’t trust herself enough like you, someone who wants permanence so bad that she lets slip away the one person who’s made her feel it.

You give a half smile and he smiles back.

Namjoon gets up from his seat. “I’ll see you around, okay?”

“Okay.”

It’s a month later when one of the museums you frequent launches a new installation. A tall man catches your attention. He looks at you and smiles, his hazelnut eyes gazing at you the way they used to.

He nods in acknowledgement and so do you.

And that’s the last time you see him in a long time.

2022, winter

You stare at the package in your hands - white, with words of comfort. He’s finally completed it, you think. A piece of himself he’s been working the last 4 years on, and it looks just like how he described it to you all those months ago.

You don’t know if you’ll listen to it. You haven’t heard his voice in so long. You’re afraid you’ll break if you do.

Perhaps just one time, to get it off your system. That might be enough.

You open it, unsure when you’ll unpack this obviously beautifully curated work of art. But the note at the top leaves you no room to ignore it.

Nothing’s changed for me. Let’s find ourselves. And then let’s find each other. I’ll just be here. But please, stay where you are.

Namjoon

You let one tear fall and then leave the package on the top shelf of your closet.

Your bedroom door opens.

“Are you all packed?” Minji asks.

“Yes, I’m all good,” you smile.

She helps you with your luggage, down the stairs and into the van waiting for you.

“That’s a lot of stuff,” she hums, holding back her tears. “How long will you be away for?”

“Until I find myself.”

“That might be a long time.”

“It will.”

2025, winter

Namjoon has been to several galleries in New York, but this particular one is a place he’s never been to. It overlooks Central Park, towering at the 30th floor like the other buildings in the city. But it’s 3 floors and he thinks it’s stunning. It’s not overly grand, but it’s also not as simple and natural like the others he’s been to.

He may say it’s not entirely his vibe, but there’s a reason why he’s here.

Some patrons recognize him and greet him. He bows in response, engaging in small talk when he needs to, but stepping away to get to the exhibition he flew here to see.

It’s nothing like what he expected, although years later, he doesn’t know what to expect anymore.

The first thing is, well, it’s titled. There’s a year and a description, too.

2023, swing in the summer home

The piece is beautiful, made in clay and metal. It’s familiar, too. He’s seen this on a lake house by the mountains, over 3 years ago.

2023, the piece that lost its meaning

It’s a painting, but one placed atop a sculpted frame hanging on a wall in what seems like a living room. This scene feels familiar as well.

2024, lost youth

A group of children look up at a plane, with opened suitcases and toys on the floor. The nostalgia hits him.

The rest of the sculptures are new to him. There’s one about a lady in red, one of a neighbor, one of a woman with an umbrella and clouds, aptly titled, what am i hiding from? Further down the room, the emotions become more pointed, straightforward, and a lot more focused.

2023, coward

2024, i truly was sorry

2025, is this what regret feels like?

2025, i hope you knew i lied

2025, maybe someday

Someone from the outside who knows nothing about the artist might think that the pieces are a little over the place, although one can tell from the titles that they tell a story. The sculptures are made from the same materials - clay and metal, all free standing and in similar sizes. Each caption holds a narration, and all Namjoon can read are words describing emotions, of states of being - innocence, anger, confusion, fear, loss, regret, loneliness, pain, hope, and few more.

There’s not much about joy or intimacy, though, and the thought saddens him. He had hoped that by this time, you already knew how those felt.

“So, what do you think?”

Namjoon didn’t think he’d ever hear that voice again. He’d cry if he could, especially as he turns to his side and finds you, dressed in a classy, aegean blue satin dress. Your smile is one he’s missed so much, and he wishes he could frame this moment, just so he doesn’t forget. He almost did, and he hated himself when he took so long to remember how you sounded like, how you looked like.

“Nothing like I imagined,” Namjoon replies. “In a good way.”

“I scrapped previous works and experimented with these ones. It took me years to complete,” you explain. “I almost stopped at one point, wondering if anybody would ever get it but then I figured, it didn’t matter. It’s a good thing that lifestyle magazine reached out for a feature. I think that was Mr. Hong pulling some strings. At least I got to say that for years, I didn’t know what I was doing, who I was, but now I do.”

“That’s how I knew about it, actually,” Namjoon hums. “It was in the art gallery because he was giving it away for free. It said your exhibition was here, so I flew in.”

“Oh,” you say, surprised. “I thought you had a show or filming.”

“Nah,” Namjoon sighs. “I came here for you. Otherwise I wouldn’t know where to find you, or how else to see you. You stopped… you stopped showing up. You just disappeared.”

“I know. And I’m sorry.”

It’s all you can say, really. You didn’t expect to see him here, but when you saw a familiar face enter through the doors, your heart stopped. You had a feeling Mr. Hong had told Namjoon about your exhibition - your first in 4 years. But nothing would have prepared you for this - seeing him again after you walked away from the one good thing you found in your life. You watched him from afar as he went through each of your pieces, perhaps savoring them, remembering them.

“Have you been well?” He asks, the concern still overpowering everything.

“I have.”

“You seem to have lost someone,” he says, nodding towards one of the pieces. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“She was my neighbor when I spent 8 months in Sweden,” you share. “She took care of me but then she passed away due to an accident. It was hard for a while.”

“I–” Namjoon reaches out his hand - for comfort, perhaps - but he brings it down. “I wish I knew.”

“It’s okay. And I’m okay. It’s been a year, but I wouldn’t have finished all this without her.”

You’d forgotten how silence sounded like with Namjoon, and you want to remember what it was like. You remember a lot of things, actually, like his laughter, his voice, his smile, the feel of his lips on yours, and many others.

“How long are you here for?” You finally ask, as you both walk side-by-side past the rest of the artworks inside, with a bit of distance between you.

“I’m here for 3 more days.”

“I stay at the hotel next to the building,” you say, being bold. “I leave here in 2 hours.”

You fumble for your room key and discreetly hand it over to him. “3802, if you want to. I have more to say, and I– uh, shit. If you’re seeing someone, forget what I said.”

“I’m not,” he answers. “I’ll be there.”

Namjoon watches the city from your full-wall window, wondering when you’d decide to finally speak beyond a greeting. It’s been 10 minutes since he arrived at your suite with the key you gave him, and you haven’t said anything since then.

“The buildings aren’t the same here,” you finally say. “I’ve been here for 3 months and the sounds of the cars are too loud, there’s too much smoke, people don’t smile… I don’t have anyone here.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I decided to finish some of my pieces in the city. I’ve been staying at one of my parents’ apartments not far from here.”

“And where were you before that?”

“Puerto Rico, Greece, Sweden,” you answer.

“When I said to find ourselves, I didn’t think you’d actually leave, and then not tell me about it,” he laments. “I knew it was stupid to wish you’d stay close. You weren’t in any of the places where I used to see you, where we used to go. I… I asked around but they said you haven’t visited in so long.”

“I couldn’t stay,” you try to explain. “I couldn’t because it just meant waiting for you to come even if I was the one who walked away. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to find myself in a place where I’d always be looking for you, and so I had to go. I’m so sorry, Joon. I–”

You drop the hand that reaches out to him, unsure if your touch would still be welcome. You clench your fist to stop yourself from doing it again, but he notices. He notices and takes your hand, uncurls it so he can hold it properly.

“How was it being away?”

“It was good. Hard. Terrifying,” you share. “I experienced a lot of new, fun things. I learned a lot. Made a lot of mistakes, too. I met so many people. I–”

“Were you with anyone?” he asks, turning away briefly.

“No, I… I couldn’t bring myself to,” you answer nervously. “And you?”

“No one since you. There was a reason why I asked you to stay right there, so that I knew where to find you.”

“You still found me, 3 years later, on the other side of the world.”

“I had to know if anything’s changed for you. I had to know if you made it, if you found what you were looking for. I had to know if you were happy. But you didn’t create it. There was no piece for it.”

“I found what I was looking for,” you say, looking into his eyes, glancing at his fingers that are softly exploring yours. “I realized that I could only gain whatever permanence I was looking for if I learned to let them go. Because if they come back, they stay. I walked away from you then, and I had to lose myself to all the emotions that I was so scared to feel. And I felt a lot of them, Joon. I felt a lot of things. I was going to go back home after this. But you came to me first. You’re the one always finding me. That hasn’t changed.”

“I suppose it hasn’t,” he cracks a smile. “Did I take too long?”

“You were right on time,” you say. “I would’ve come for you in a few days though. But I’m glad you’re here so that I can tell you that I can finally have this. I can finally give you everything without being scared, without it breaking me, without it ruining the ones I love.”

“Is that what you feel for me?”

“Yes. I guess I did then. I still do now.”’

There’s uncertainty in your voice, perhaps due to the fear of him no longer returning what you feel.

“I found myself, too,” he says. “I figured out what I wanted to do for myself, what more I can give, what more I desired. And I guess you’re right. That permanence can come from losing something and then having them back. And then having them stay. So many times then I regretted that I wasn’t more honest. That I was denying what I felt for you because I was scared of losing what little of a normal life I was afforded. I wished I told you much earlier, but I guess things happen when they do, right?”

“Right, but you can also say them again now.”

“That I want you close, holding my hand, tracing my skin, kissing me? That I want all that everyday?” He smiles, as he pulls you towards him and places your hand on his chest. “That I want everything from you? That I haven’t stopped thinking of you, wishing for you?”

“Yes,” you say, sighing into the kiss you’ve missed too much.

There’s that tenderness you expected, but the desire is unlike the times before. There’s more confidence now, more security in the way his mouth moves against yours. It’s as if he knows that he’ll always have this. That this time, he’s loving you in more than words, and that you’ve come back, and that you’ll stay.

Namjoon presses you against the wall, lets his lips trace down your neck and your chest. He undresses you, remarks that he’s starting to believe in a higher being who created a body like yours, and then proceeds to mouth more praises down your thighs and in between them.

He takes you slowly, amorously. He watches your face contort in pure pleasure, and you mention needing to add a piece for this, too. The way he goes in and out of you is out of this world, and you never want it to end.

You’d think it’s the intimacy you didn’t know how to feel. But it’s more than that. In fact, you find that in being with Namjoon, the intimacy is in everything - the way he holds your hand, the way he wraps his arm around you, the way he lets you bite his arm and tickle him just for fun. It’s in the way he kisses your forehead before he kisses your lips.

It’s in your bike rides together and watching the river whenever you catch a glimpse of it. It’s in your moments of calm - reading books, writing songs, sketching.

It’s in the deep, tender way that he says he loves you.

You don’t have a piece for this yet. Perhaps it’s another series altogether. Perhaps it’ll require an installation.

Or maybe, this is the one emotion you don’t need to put into art, the one that you’ll keep for yourself to hold onto because no clay and metal mixture, no tangible piece, could ever describe what this love and intimacy feels like.

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1lenii · 10 months

Note

Hiii, another fellow latina here~ would you mind writing a Miles (E-42) based on the song Wish you were sober by Conan Gray with a Latina reader please? Maybe friends to lover trope 👀

✮I meant it✮

Miles G Morales x F!Latina!Reader

✮Hope this meets the expectations of what you were expecting! And I hope you don’t mind but I got sorta of a ‘fancy’ party theme so—

✮Synopsis: Attending a party with your lightweight Best friend Miles

✮ Trope: Friends to Lovers

✮This song is now in my playlist thank you anon<3

✮Might be angsty or sappy but hopefully I was able to balance the two

Ntm on the pictures PLEASE.

⚠️drinking, drunk driving(JS TISPSY)❗️WE ARE AGED UP❗️, catcalling maybe(?) and probably something else I missed, and not proofread-

ALOT. OF. SPANISH. Have a translator at hand at all times<3

CHECK OUT MY OTHER WORKS: MASTERLIST

✮WITHOUT FURTHER ADO, Enjoy<3

————————————————

It was 7:18pm on a Saturday, a warm summer evening, August 15 read the calendar, right under was “Tina’s Gala” written in purple ink from one of (Y/N)’s favorite pen.

“Ma, y yo tengo que ir?” (Do I have to go?)

“Si tú quieres, I don’t mind if you do or don’t” (if you want)

This conversation doesn’t last long, as Miles is currently helping (Y/N) into her body tight strapless dress that shimmers with each tug in the dim light of their newly bought and shared apartment.

(Y/N) adjusts the dress soothing out the wrinkles, taking a glance at the dry-cleaned three piece suit, she got for Miles, to then returning her gaze onto her self.

Miles on the other hand was contemplating if he should go while staring intently at the suit propped up on the closet door.

Miles glances to his left, feeling a dip of the bed next to him, he fully turns his head to look at (Y/N), seeing her mouth, mouthing some words but falling on deaf ears.

Miles is starstruck, taking in the sight of his best friend secret crush in the dimly lit room, how her curls bounce with each head motion, the way her eyes lights up and showed millions of stories, her melanin skin that glows even more with the highlights/concealer she has on her cheek bones, the way that perfect dress which matches his suit hugs her curves, and her—

“Hellooooo, earth to Miles” (Y/N) says waving her manicured hand in front of Miles, bringing the man of his trance

“Huh?”

“You weren’t even listening idiot”

“So repeat it dumbass” Miles said while flicking her forehead, just to then stand up to avoid the well known counter attack she would’ve done.

While rubbing the inflicted spot (Y/N) gets up and walks towards the closet where the suit is currently hanging, looking up at it

“I said if your gonna go be quick about cause I, well, WE have to leave in 20”

Sighing, Miles mumbles ‘fuck it’ before going over to the closet and treading over to the bathroom, soon closing the door with a *click*.

(Y/N) sighs, taking out her phone from the matching purse in Miles half of the room, opening instagram she clicks on Tina’s story

“My loves we getting lit tonightttt!!!, here at the Grand Tina’s I’m hosting a get together, EVERYBODY INVITED!!! The dress code is formal/fancy, and bring a date;), drinks and food will be provided”

(Y/N) clicks to the right, ‘another one?’ An imaginary sweat drop, forms on her hairline

“LEAVE THAT BEEF SHIT AT HOME!! We here to have funnn and b classy”

(Y/N) stares at the text on the story, mind drifting off to Miles as he has a tendency to pick at people who try and talk to you, wether it be ‘can I get your number’ or ‘you single’

*click* Miles steps out with his 3piece walking over casually as if he not about to crease the shit out of his blazer.

“guau que guapoo” (Y/N) claps to give off the impression of being impress, even though she was

“Yea yea, this guapo about to leave you ” he mumbles, starts checking himself out in the mirror before exiting the room to grab the car keys up to the front of the house

(Y/N) grabs her purse and quickly follows in pursuit only to be met with Miles offering her a hand to help her down the stairs, in which she takes.

Quickly exiting the lobby as fast as they entered it they were now outside.

“Wait here ma, a pretty girl shouldn’t have to walk”

“As me el favor, es no es na”

“And you still gonna listen, wait here”

(Y/N) lets him have the last words as she stares at his disappearing figure in the crowd of cars. No less than 3 minutes, and sure enough miles is in front of where (Y/N) is standing. Getting out of the car over to the passenger door to open it for her

“After you m’lady”

“Para de jugar”

“Y tu para de jugar conmigo”

(Y/N) laughs it off while getting in completely, letting Miles shut the door on her, while retreating to his side.

————————————————

•Soon enough they are at Grand Tina’s•

“(Y/N), mi amor, I’m so glad you made it”

Tina greets her with a hug and cheek kiss

(Y/N) doing the same

“Glad to be here, thank you for the invitation”

“And who’s this handsome guy you with? Is he your Boyfriend?”

“Mmnm na, he’s just my date”

“Miles, un placer” he’s says sticking his hand out to shake, which gets returned

“The pleasure is mine, please come in, we have drinks and food to the left of the establishment and the tables are to the center of the right wall”

Tina says before leading them inside, to go back to her post to greet more guests

*the song should be playing if it isnt*

(Y/N) and Miles walk towards the tables, claim one right the main stairs taking a seat and getting settled in

A while later (Y/N) gets called up by some associates who wanted to catch up

“You’ll be Oka here? Miles?”

“Yea yea, you go have fun mami I’ll see you when I see you” Miles says looking up from his phone and gives (Y/N) a warm smile from his usual stoic face

“Alright call me if you need me”

Miles laughs slightly with a “planning on it”

(Y/N) smiling along before walking over to her associates.

————————————————

It was now 10:27pm, (Y/N) was no where to be found, and Miles was now standing leaning on a near by wall, bored and uncomfortable out of his mind

‘Tch should’ve stayed home’

Miles was on his 2nd glass of wine as he witness the trading of drinks, couples drifting off to talk to other groups and a corner filled with a bunch of business based men

A waiter crosses his sights as he beckons him over requesting another glass of wine.

Glass In hand, then

another one,

then another one

trying to drown out the conversations of the other attendees

(Y/N) has finished everything there was on her imaginary list of interactions, now wandering around looking for miles, she catches sight of neatly braided twin braids, trying to make her way through the crowd with a bunch of ‘excuse me’ ‘sorry’.

‘Where she at’ ‘I wanna dip’ ‘I can’t anymore’ (social battery is officially at 0)

Thoughts being answered Miles mentally thank the lord, When he catches a glimpse a certain matching dress, he tried to walk towards the girl in question, just to stumble back onto the wall

“Bebiste mucho”

“No fue tanto”

“Se te vuele”

Miles avoids eyes contact with the shorter girl in front, Y/N is almost pressed on him as she tried to Tilt her head towards Miles line of sight, Miles once again avoiding it

“You sober enough to drive, cause I got it”

“Mmm” Miles response suddenly wrapping his arms around Y/N waist while leaning his head forward to rest on her shoulder

“Alright big guy cmon”

Leading Miles out and bidding farewells she pats Miles pockets for the key, clicking around on the buttons due to the lost memory of where Miles parked his ride

Marco polo-ing her way while supporting Miles with her shoulder and all her strength while leading him to the passenger seat, while then taking a U-turn to the drivers seat.

————————————————

Eventually reaching the apartment, and taking the elevator, with Miles her shoulder slurring a bunch of incompressible words they finally made it back home.

Y/N went straight towards the coach leaving miles stranded on the couch in the living room, returning to the front door to leave all the keys on the key holder.

“Y/Nnn~”

“Yeaa?”

“ComE baCk I miss yoU”

Y/N with a chuckle make her way to Miles room to get a change of clothes for herself which she now has on and as well as his own, now infront of miles she helps him get comfortable.

Y/N is now moving to his button up, unbuttoning the buttons from top to bottom tugging at his shoulders to tug the blazer and button up off

“Y/Nnn”

“Yes guapo, qué pasa”

“tE amo”

“Que-?” Y/N looks up at miles from her position besides him trying to confirm what she thought she heard, movements coming to a brief pause.

“Mami I love yoU”

“Te amo también”

Miles shuts his eyes and softly smiles content with the reciprocated feelings, while Y/N continues her movements from before going to haul a T-shirt of Miles well toned frame.

“Cmon, duérmete, lemme bring you a comforter”

As Y/N gets up, she gets stopped by a previously half lidded and currently wide eyed Miles he says “stay”

Who’s Y/N to reject his offer, she hesitantly tries to make sense of how she gonna fit, when she gets cut off in the process by being pulled in by Miles who’s already snuggling up to her and mumbling ‘you were taking to long’

Y/N gets comfortable melting into him and the couch, while mumbling ‘I wish you were sober..’ ‘Mayb it’s better if you weren’t’ before drifting off to sleep

————————————————

It’s already the next morning, and Miles is nowhere to be found, rubbing her eyes Y/N gets up looking around for the previously drunk man to find him the kitchen already at work to prepare breakfast

“Morning ma”

“…you shouldn’t be at the stove, doesn’t your head hurt”

“Nothing that’s gonna kill me” Miles shrugs

… there was a moment of silence before Miles broke it…

“You wished I was sober.” He stated

“What..”

“You wished that I was sober, how come?”miles says now fully facing Y/N

“Nada miles, nothing to note” Y/N hesitates remembering last nights events

“Nada? Enserio? Cause I seem to recall a little confession from my favorite” miles says making his way to Y/N who’s sitting down at the kitchen island, now hugging her sitting frame from behind

“I DIDNT want t-to—“

A now flustered Y/N is contemplating and panicking Till her nerves get replaced with words of confirmation

“I meant it.”

Y/N heart beats faster when Miles turns her around to press a kiss on her lips, firstly hovering looking for a sign of permission, which was given when Y/N leaned in first.

Passionately kissing, their first real interaction as future lovers.

————————————————

Authors note: I ACTUALLY DONT KNOW HOW INDID, feedback would b great<33 hope you enjoyed ofc<3

#atsv x reader #miles morales fanfiction #miles morales x reader #miles x y/n #atsv fic #miles 42 #miles g morales x reader #miles morales #miles morales x y/n #miles x reader #miles 42 x reader #anon ask #spiderman atsv #Spideerman miles #prowler miles #prowler miles x reader #earth 42 miles morales x reader

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thisisntevenmyfinalblog · 3 months

Text

I like Hazbin so far, but I do feel like we could’ve gotten a show with a lot more nuance and depth and less jokes about SA if it was written by someone other than Vivziepop, because let’s be honest… the best parts of Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss are fanmade or written by other people

For example, the song Addict is honestly one of the most iconic and popular songs related to Hazbin Hotel, but it’s a fan song.

The Helluva Boss Pilot was better than Hazbin Hotel’s Pilot (subjective) because it was actually written by someone else.

You can still like HH and HB just fine, I don’t care, but people keep defending Vivziepop like she’s this saint who has done no wrong, and attacking anyone who says anything critical abut her.

Anyways, Hazbin is okay. It’s kinda average, but it’s still enjoyable that I wanna keep watching. I love Sir Pentious, hate how he was treated in Episode 6, and hey, if I get sent death threats or smth I might as well say all my opinions right now so you all can get them out.

The writers don’t know how to write women like Vaggie or Cherri Bomb

Alastor is overrated and overhyped. He could use more personality, and more screentime doing ominous and tricky things, instead of just “shows up, says threatening line, refuses to elaborate, leaves”

People in heaven acting just as bad as people in Hell (like Adam) is not a good or unique take. Good Omens has done it, and they’ve also done it better. I did like that Adam leading the exterminations was something that not everyone knew about, but I don’t think Sera should’ve known about it either. Idk exactly, but I would’ve gone about it in a different way.

Bringing back the writing women thing, I also think Charlie’s writing can be handled a little poorly from time to time. The only thing keeping her afloat for me is that she is to Rapunzel what Hellsa is to Elsa.

I hate Mimzy’s design. I don’t know why.

Actually kinda liked Lucifer just being a weird dad, but he’s should have a better redemption arc before all that.

Not Hazbin Hotel specific, but why are shows so afraid of having more than 15 episodes in a season now? I know they want to cut out filler because they no longer need to run for a certain amount of time, but honestly? Hazbin Hotel needs more episodes. It needs more time to flesh out its story, and this honestly applies to a lot of other shows whose stories could’ve been great if not for streaming.

Stephanie Beatriz is a great actress so use her better. She did amazing as Rosa Diaz from Brooklyn Nine-Nine, and Vaggie is… (no offense) just another of the badass Latina stereotype. Also, she is an amazing singer, but the super high octave in her and Carmine’s song did not do her voice any justice. It does not need to be that high, you can bring it down an octave or two.

I probably will have more complaints as more episodes come out. We’ll see. I still enjoy watching the show, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not perfect. Receiving criticism doesn’t mean it’s a terrible show, just that it has room for improvement.

If you read this far, thanks. I had to make a blog because I don’t have any other socials to say anything abt it on.

#vivziepop critical #hazbin critical #hazbin hotel critical #helluva boss critical #hazbin hotel #hazbin #vivziepop

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zemolvr · 11 months

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thinking about mac and dennis being together during quarantine. not spending time with anyone else besides each other.

and in the end, it rebuilt their friendship. dennis was ready to rip mac in half for most of season 14, yet they’re back to sitting on their couch with nothing better to do than write country songs together.

and for some reason it bothers me that that’s all we got to see. they had to be quarantined for months. something changed during that time for mac to go from harassing dennis and needing dennis to care about him so badly that he poisons him, to the somewhat normal dynamic they had before mac came out. their plot line finally wasn’t about mac wanting to please dennis and dennis hating him for it. their plot line was just about them being them: assholes who argue and act like they’re more important than everyone else, but they’re doing it together.s13-14 mac and dennis probably wouldn’t have written country songs together. dennis would’ve verbally accosted mac for even suggesting they do something together.

but then covid happened, and they were stuck together. they were bored and they only really had each other.

i could chalk all this up to “two people are stuck in a house with no one but the other, they can’t be mad at each other forever” but that just doesn’t feel right when i think about how RCG portrays how charlie handled the quarantine.

charlie goes to dee. why would he ever do that? he hates dee, and frank is pretty much his favorite person in the whole world so why would he leave to go be with dee in the first place? and when he’s shown with her, he’s angry. he’s screaming at her. even when it shows them in 2021, trying to explain their business to the loan guy, he’s angry with her. and she’s angry with him.

versus mac and dennis, who are happy to talk about their business. dennis is touching mac on the shoulder and upper back like he always has. they try to play their song for the loan guy.

they had a good fucking time together in quarantine. they are best friends above all else.

SOMETHING had to have happened during those months of just mac and dennis. mac must’ve realized dennis will never commit to him and he stopped trying to force it. it’s like he’d rather keep dennis as his friend and live with the underlying feelings (based on his reaction later in the season when he gasps when dennis so much as touches mac’s hand) than have dennis hate him and reject every single piece of affection.

i just wanna know if they binged the predator movies and if so how many times did they do it before dennis got tired of mac’s commentary.

#it’s 2 am i am literally just talking out of my ass #does this make any fucking sense #iasip #macdennis #mac mcdonald #mac iasip #dennis reynolds #2020: a year in review #BOY WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT

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deansmom · 6 months

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I know nobody here really cares that much, but since 1989 (Taylor’s version) came out my fyp has been all about her & Harry, and so many of the videos are like “GASP was Harry one of the bad boyfriends?!”

And as someone who’s never felt any type of way about Harry, I think I like or at least respect him a little bit more after the vault tracks? Especially “is it over now?” Because I’ve seen a lot of clips of this man talking about Taylor over the years, and I’ve never seen or heard him say something disparaging or complaining about her writing songs about him. In fact, I’ve only ever seen him be like “hey, it’s her life and if she’s written anything about me, I’d be flattered. She’s so talented.” And this isn’t a new reaction, like there are interviews from that year where he says something to that effect and honestly?? Pop off, Harry.

They’re friendly enough that I’m sure he’s heard these songs before, or at least knew that she had some less than flattering ones in her back pocket, and was still like “yeah, no, I’d be honored. Are you kidding?” Like he was 20 or something when they were together and 20 year old boys are awful and shitty and apparently he’s talked about the fact that he’s a bad boyfriend before, so I love that this entire time he’s shown a level of emotional maturity and respect for her that fucking John Mayer refused to. It would’ve been so easy for him to be a dick about it, and he never was! It seems like he just went “I treated you like shit. You’re totally valid in this. Go off, queen.”

I’ve been laughing imagining him listening to the vault tracks and the “if she’s got blue eyes I can surmise that you’ll probably date her” line and being like “fuck, bro. She really called me out like that on main? Damn. I should send her flowers or something.” And then “now that we don’t talk” I can literally see him hearing the line about her mom and going “aw, Andrea. I always liked her. I hope she’s well. Fuck it, somebody send her flowers too.”

As somebody who knows nothing about him and never really got into 1d or paid close attention to his career, only passively enjoyed his music, I think these song’s coming out vastly improved my opinion of him 😂

#Harry: she didn’t look THAT much… well actually- yeah okay. I see it. maybe send an edible arrangement while we’re at it.#like a respectful & kind public response??? literally no other man has afforded her?? pop off Harry #it’s giving he’s been to therapy! it’s giving he’s self aware and apologizes first!#he still seems to be a shitty boyfriend but at least he’s aware of it now Lmao #personal

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maxverstappensflatbrim · 10 months

Text

Show Me Yours | Matty Healy [15]

chapter fifteen, act two: anobrain

masterlist

November 3rd 2013

Tommie truly feels like Stevie Nicks in this moment as she sings lyrics of songs she and Matty had written together, glancing at him from time to time.

Of course, she was not much of a Queen like Stevie herself and didn’t have the energy she had during the whole Silver Springs fiasco.

She had however, given several dirty looks to Matty everytime he tried to approach her on stage, and had gone back to hiding behind Ross in the shadows.

Usually, to try and cheer her up and lessen the anxiety she felt Matty would come over during songs and distract her as she played. Maybe he’d share a dance with her during a break in the song, play with her hair, lean his head on hers as they sang a part together.

But today, everytime he approached her, to the delight of the crowd who cheered a little louder as they had grown to love those little special moments of the shows. She shook her head.

At the end of the show Matty had tried going after her as she moved quickly off the stage, but George had suggested he stay back and distract Adam so he wouldn’t worry.

George had panicked when she wasn’t hiding away in her usual spots, but he had quickly found her when he realised her jacket (and his own packet of cigarettes from his jacket)had disappeared.

“For Christmas I’m gonna bulk buy you a bunch of cigarette packs so you stop stealing everyones.” He tells her as he approaches.

She’s stuck in her head, rethinking the past couple of days over and over. The night with Matty, the conversation this morning, everything.

“Tom?”

“Hmm?”

He holds a hand out and clicks his fingers a little, she shakes her head then starts patting herself down until she finds his pack handing them over to him.

“I-”

“Forgot yours, yeah, you always do.”

“Sorry.”

He shrugs, lighting the cigarette hanging from his mouth and leaning on the railing beside her. He eyes her sceptically for her apology, usually he receives a snark response, ‘sharing is caring’, ‘what's yours is mine’, yet today the one word is muttered, and is muttered so quietly his concern returns. “You alright?”

“Hmm?” She looks up, hands hanging down over the railing with the cigarette between her fingers, “Yeah.”

“What’s going on?”

She glances at him, preparing her little lie but one glance and she knows she can’t go through with it.

“Don’t say nothing,” He tells her, “Something’s wrong. Talk to me.”

Tommie doesn’t say anything to him, she just stares at the floor for a few moments. Instead of focusing on one anxiety, she brings up another, which probably isn’t a good idea with the current head space she’s in.

“I’m just… tired,” She tells him quietly, “And… scared.”

“Scared?”

She nods a little, “Been thinking a lot lately.”

He fakes a dramatic wince and raises his brows, “That must hurt.”

George smiles when he sees her lips twitch a little bit. “Funny.”

“Think I’m in the wrong career,” He tells her, “Should’ve done stand up, could’ve joined Tim on Benidorm or sumat.”

“Yeah, would’ve watched you on all the shitty UK panel shows that are weirdly always hosted by, like, Jimmy Carr or James Corden.”

He hums in agreement then gets back on track, “So, what’re you scared about?”

She shrugs, “I don’t know.”

“Come on, Tom, you know I have weird fears- I mean, nothing as weird as birds, that’s a stupid fea-”

“They’re scary things okay!” She jumps to defend herself, “They could fuckign peck your eyes out G, how you gonna play the drums blind, huh?”

“Well, I’m sure it's been done, by like.. Fuckign Hellen Keller or someone like that.”

“And why do they fly?” She continues on, “It’s fucking strange, they’re fucking strange. It’s a valid fear.”

He raises his hands and steps back with playful eyebrows raised, “Well, I can guarantee whatever you're scared of isn’t as stupid as birds.” She shoots him another glare.

“I’m scared something bad will happen soon, with us, the band… like,” She sighs running her hands through her hair, when the cigarette catches George is quick to take if from her hand so she doesn’t singe her hair, “I don’t know, G, and that’s what’s fucking my head up.”

They stay in silence for a while, George doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. A trait that she wishes Matty has for those situations where he should just keep his mouth shut.

The silence stretches until Ross lets them both know that their uber has arrived to take them out for drinks.

She sighs, “I’m gonna head back,” She tells George but he loops his arm through hers shaking his head, “G, I won’t be able to get in anywhere.”

“Come on, we’re famous.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆

“Come on, we’re famous.” Tommie repeats bitterly as they walk away from the fifth place that has turned them away in the last hour.

She sighs looking back at the group, most moody and annoyed at the walking then to George who’s skipping ahead, “Another one up here, Irish bar, bound to let us in, come on.”

She sighs tugging his hand so he’ll stop, “I’m just,” She glances back again, eyes drifting over Matty who stands with his hands in his pockets, looking anywhere but at her, “Gonna head back, I don’t fancy drinks anyway.”

“Okay, we’ll walk you back-”

“G, it’s fine.”

“You’re not walking through Vegas at eleven on your own.” Adam says sternly.

“Tommie?”

She turns quickly, lips curving a little, “Hey, Caleb, what are you doing out here? Got a gig?”

He goes to hug her, arms lifting, but she stands completely oblivious and unmoving causing him to awkwardly act as if he was trying to lean on the fire hydrant beside her, “Um no, no, me and the band, we moved out to California, it’s Micthell, the guitarist, remember him?” He questions, she nods (she doesn’t remember him), “His brother’s bachelor party tomorrow night.”

“Oh cool, that’s uh, your version of a stag do, right?”

“Assuming that’s the party of the groom?”

She nods and he grins nodding back, he glances round the band passing smiles around, “Hey, ya’ll.”

The five of them cringe at the same time, Matty muttering something under his breath receiving a nudge and a quiet hidden snort from Ross.

“So, you guys had a gig?”

“Hard Rock Casino.” Matty butts in before she can open her mouth.

His smile widens, “Really? Supposed to be great in there, that’s where we're going tomorrow night.”

“Yeah?”

He nods, “Where are you headed?”

“Uh, these guys are gonna go bar hopping and I was just on my way back to the hotel now.”

“Cool, cool, shall I walk you? Wouldn’t want you wandering around alone at night.”

She glances back at the four, they’re all watching lined up in a row, all shaking their heads but she smiles at him, “That’d be great, thank you.”

“Tom-” Adam tries to protest but she smiles at him.

“I’ll see you guys in the morning, alright? Don’t get too drunk, show tomorrow.”

She gives them no time to argue and turns around with Caleb in tow.

As they walk, and he talks about his band and how they’re doing, she sneaks glances at him and takes him in.

He’s the complete opposite of every guy she has ever had a crush on.

Which has only been three people (excluding Alex Turner and Jenson Button).

The first guy was in primary school, he had this horrible bowl cut with dark brown eyes and equally dark brown hair.

The second was in comp when she was in year 10, he was taller than her, much taller than her by almost an entire foot. He played rugby, took ICT and PE as his GCSE’s and had, you guessed it, brown eyes and hair. Only he had this horrible mullet haircut that she weirdly found attractive. The moment he cut it off for a buzz cut half way through the school year the crush was gone.

The third guy was when she was younger, and well, it was Matty. The more she thinks of that one the more she realises it never really went away.

Caleb is completely different.

He has blonde hair that's slicked back, not like a sexy Alex Turner kind of slicked back, more like old mafia American movies kind of slicked back. But it looks good on him, his face is a wider, square shape and he has some darker stubble with larger eyebrows and brown eyes.

He’s not short, but he’s not exactly tall either, probably a few inches shorter than Matty.

He’s dressed differently to his vest and jean shorts she first saw him in, he has a tank top with a striped shirt over it and a pair of blue jeans.

“You had food? Was gonna pick some up for my friends and I, if you’re hungry we can make a stop. On me.”

“I am not one to turn down free food.”

“Tastes better free, right?”

She nods and thanks him as he holds the door open of some shitty 24 hour diner.

They sit at the back by a window and order, he has a burger and a strawberry milkshake, asking for two straws, she asks for just a plate of chips, to which the woman looks at her weirdly and she then clarifies by saying ‘fries’, with a dr pepper.

When food comes and they’re tucking in, she starts asking about the band, and how they’ve been doing since he saw her a few months back.

She tells him about the tour, and the festivals, going into too much detail of the Arctic Monkeys gig, he doesn't seem to mind, he happily sips from one straw of the milkshake and nods in encouragement.

“Where are you guys going tomorrow?”

“Tucson, then flying to Spain on the fifth.”

“The fifth?”

She nods and he mutters a quiet, “Damn.”

“What?”

“Was going to ask if you wanted to maybe get dinner, like, actual dinner, with me. You know, on a date.”

She looks down, “Is this not good enough to be a date?”

He shrugs, “I like to treat girls a little better than a dingy, greasy diner.”

Just as he says it the waitress walks by and pauses to cast a glare over her shoulder making Tommie lean back and quietly laugh into her hand.

He purses his lips and sends one of his charming smiles over to her, “Don’t order anything else, they’re gonna spit in it.”

“I’ll be sure not to.” She says, lifting the bottled dr pepper to her lips.

“So,” She then goes on to say, “If this were to be a date, and I, theoretically-”

“Of course, theoretically.”

“Agreed, what would we do?”

He thinks for a moment, “You strike me as the adventurous type.”

She’s not. She likes comfort and staying in her little self created box.

“First, I’d take you to see a gig of some shitty underground band-”

“Dirty Delights?” She questions and he fights back the smile at the sight of her own teasing smile, “Heard they’re pretty shit,” She shrugs, “Couldn’t even get drunk frat boys to join in.”

“I know, and I heard the drummer is a grade A asshole, he is also very attracted to this guitarist from that band. 1975, heard of them?”

“Oh yeah.” She nods, “They’re the talk of the music industry, next Fleetwood Mac.”

His teasing smile turns serious, “I think you could be.”

“What?” She pops another chip in her mouth and chews as he tilts his head.

“Be the next Fleetwood Mac.”

She snorts and drops the half bitten chip to lean back against the booth, he smiles bigger, “I mean it, you could be. You and Matt up there. Chaining each other up.”

“Oh my God, that is like the worst saying I’ve ever heard.” She giggles.

He smiles at the sound she makes, “What? It's been said.”

“By who, a serial killer?”

He raises a brow at her but doesn't comment, “Okay, back to it. We’d go to a gig, listen to some music, dress way too over the top for the back alley bar we’d be at.”

“Back alley?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from the creeps.”

“Hope so. But I warn you, I’ve got a very harsh right hook.”

He nods quickly, “Noted. I’ll make sure I’m never on the receiving end.”

“Then,” He carries on, “We’ll make use of our fancy outfits. Go to a nice restaurant, have a seat out on the balcony, you’ll make a comment about the stars- you seem the type- and I’ll ask about you. I’ll pretend to listen but I’ll actually be staring at you cause you,” He pauses and watches her cheeks tinge red, “You’re just so pretty in the moonlight.”

“What then?” She presses on.

“I’ll walk you back to your hotel, you’ll invite me up but I’ll tell you about my no kissing on the first date rule, you’ll ask me how many dates is okay for a kiss, I tell you at least five and you roll your eyes. It's not what I believe, I just say it so I’ll get to see you more.”

“And… happily ever after?” She questions.

He nods, “Happily ever after.”

“Hmm, maybe I’ll take you up on it.”

“Maybe?”

“Maybe.” She agrees as she stands and grabs her jacket, “Now, walk me back so I can invite you up.”

She sighs as he follows her out, a fake sigh as a smile stretches on his lips when he turns to nod at the hotel behind her, brows raising suggestively. “Afraid to say it, ma’am, don’t kiss women on the first date.”

She hums, “Guess you’ll have to take me on another.”

“Florida.” He says suddenly, his hands now in his pockets as they walk side by side.

“Hm?”

“The Big Ticket festival,” He clarifies, “We’re playing, You going to be there?”

She nods, “December?” He tells her ‘yes’, “Yeah, we’re going, I convinced the guys we need to go to Disney World.”

He nods, “Then,” He pauses opening up the hotel door for her, “That’s our first date.”

She turns to the lift but can just see it's open with a few people inside and jogs a little to get there faster, “Hold the door.”

Ross perks up, smiling lazily with his head poking out, “Tommie!”

She smiles at the four guys packed inside the lift, “Thanks guys, uh,” She turns back around to Caleb who’s passed a wave to them over her shoulder.

Matty raises a brow at him when Tommie’s not looking and turns his nose up in disgust.

“So.. Florida?”

She nods, “See you then.”

“Thirty five days,” He tells her, “I’ll count them down.”

“Surprised he can count after that awful count-in that he did back in Texas.”

George nudges Matty to shut up and Caleb looks up at him again, Tommie smiles, the muttering having gone unheard and as she goes to turn around ready to step inside but Caleb gently touches her hand for her attention.

“Think I might want to break my rule.”

“I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

He smiles and closes his eyes, leaning to place a simple peck on her lips, “Florida.” He says against them before walking backwards.

She stands there awkwardly only moving once he’s completely disappeared to step inside the lift.

The doors close slowly, no one says a thing.

“Ooh, Florida…” George says in an American accent as he grips Ross' face, “I’ll see you in Florida, my little alligator Queen.”

“Break your rule, Georgia boy, kiss me.” Ross says in a high pitched voice as they both start making kissing sounds at each other's hands holding each other's faces.

Adam giggles loudly, unable to stop and Matty stands there silently.

“Designated sober friend?”

He doesn’t say anything, just nods, “I’ll take Adam and George.”

“Adam’s bunking with me.” He says simply and she nods.

“Okay, uh, Ross is with John, right?” He nods again, “John’s beside me so, I’ll take them both.”

“I can handle my friends, Tommie.”

She nods, “Yeah, you’ve made that very clear.”

“Doesn’t seem to have bothered you much.” He comments, gaze still forward as she tries to untangle Ross’ hand from pulling on George’s hair.

The door opens and she ushers Ross and George, who are still hanging over each other, out into the hallway, like some kind of tired single mother.

She watches Matty and Adam head down the opposite way, Adam’s arms wrapped around Matty’s waist, his head on his shoulder.

Matty looks up as he opens the door, peeling a clingy Adam from him, his eyes catch hers and she pauses in the doorway.

“Goodnight, Matty.”

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this-is-spn20 · 10 months

Text

Yandere!Sam Winchester Headcanons

A/N: yes i know I dipped out for a few months but I got inspo for this from browsing another fandom and tried looking for yandere fics of our favorite boys but couldn’t find any! If you want something right, you have to do it yourself lol. Requests are always open!

Spread Love!

-Marissa

WARNING: These headcanons are written with an unaware/unwilling reader! There will be the theme of stalking, harassment, unwanted attention, manipulation, and abuse (not sexual). Please do not read this if you are not comfortable with these graphic stories. Your consumption of media is not my responsibility.

***MDNI***

I DID NOT COME UP WITH THE LIST. ALL RIGHTS GO TO @dear-yanderee !

Word Count: 4,428

Suggested song while listening: Be My Queen by Seafret

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

Sam may be (slightly) delusional, but he’s smart. And can be a bit sadistic, but he’s smarter than the average person, that’s for sure. Using his computer knowledge to spy on any and all social media you have. Hacking into your account while you were sleeping (he never made the effort of watching you in person, no no doll, you could possibly see him and it’d ruin everything. Just wait for him, Just a little bit longer.). He knew when you were sleeping because your laptop or phone wouldn’t have any activity for a while, meaning he could snoop around for a bit before you woke up. Took him weeks to dig through every square inch of your online life All your records, he’d print them out and clear his history so as to not set off Dean’s alarms or interest. Even though Dean knows something is up.

Compared to Dean, Sam just knows how to persuade you into liking him. Incorporating himself into your life without you knowing. Making himself ‘small’, a background character. That dickbag that bumped into you while walking in the park when there was CLEARLY enough room for him to pass by without nearly knocking you down (he didn’t even bother being gentle), well at that time, you didn’t know what a bad day truly was. Hell, if you’d just run up to him and cursed him out, you probably would’ve saved yourself a lot of grief. Probably. (Honestly, it probably would’ve made him more intrigued.)

Working double, sometimes even triple shifts, are bad enough. But when your job is to stock shelves in the only (and by proxy) biggest store in town, it’s just more strain and stress. So when some big old, lanky, buff asshat shows up in your store and almost completely wrecks one of your perfectly stocked shelves, you get a tiny bit upset. As you take two carts to take all the stuff down, your boss radios you to tell you to have two more shelves stocked up before your next break for the big sale. And to tell you that you’re on call for the rest of the week. Whoever that asshole was, you wished to see him so you could tell him about himself. Or beat his ass. Or both.

Little did poor, naive little you know that over the course of those first five, horrible, months that Sam was programming your mind already. You never saw his face, but he was showing that, while he could make your life so unbearable at a moment's notice, but he chose to do good. To do right by you. He showed how bad it could get before he swooped in and put on his deadly charm. First coming up to you in the store while you were stocking an aisle and asking where the candles were. When you told him, he thanked you and struck up a conversation. Using everything he knew you’d like to hear to rope you in. He made sure the first time you met him, you’d never forget him. Ever.

Now you’re just his little doll. Doomed to be locked up in the dungeon until you proved to be good for him. Then love, you’ll be allowed in his room! You may even get your privileges back. Only if you’re a good girl for him. Just for him. He knew it was only a matter of time now before you break. He just had to be a little more patient. Then you were all his.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s start over, shall we darlings?

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

Giving gifts is his forte. When hacking into your computer, he made sure to make a list of your likes and dislikes. He knows your favorite movies, political views, your full name and date of birth, your blood type, your father’s dog’s name, everything. He saw the things you liked to buy online. Things you saved to your carts but could never afford to buy at the moment. So whatever is in your cart from whatever website, no matter the price, Sam takes it upon himself to buy the items and have them sent as gifts to your house. Anonymously of course. He loved seeing your face light up with surprise terror as you opened your door to yet another package on your porch with more items you planned on buying at the end of the month. If you could afford it of course. You wondered who was sending these packages. Someone you knew? But, you rarely showed anyone these wished possessions of yours. Was someone… watching you? I mean you always felt this… uneasy feeling in your chest lately. Maybe you should schedule a check-up with the doc.

Giving gifts is his forte. When hacking into your computer, he made sure to make a list of your likes and dislikes. He knows your favorite movies, political views, your full name and date of birth, your blood type, your father’s dog’s name, everything. He saw the things you liked to buy online. Things you saved to your carts but could never afford to buy at the moment. So whatever is in your cart from whatever website, no matter the price, Sam takes it upon himself to buy the items and have them sent as gifts to your house. Anonymously of course. He loved seeing your face light up with surprise **terror** as you opened your door to yet another package on your porch with more items you planned on buying at the end of the month. If you could afford it of course. You wondered who was sending these packages. Someone you knew? But, you rarely showed anyone these wished possessions of yours. Was someone watching you? You always felt this… uneasy feeling in your chest lately. Maybe you should schedule a check-up with the doc.

First, it was some makeup and a few nice dresses you wanted. You figured you’d still somehow ordered them. Even though your bank account didn't reflect such purchases. Still not convincing, even to yourself but, it was better than dwelling on ‘what-if’ questions. But as the gifts kept coming you got more and more… **concerned.** You’d confronted your coworker later the day after your umpteenth package. You told him that you appreciated his company while stocking the shelves, but you didn’t feel anything for him. To your annoyance, your coworker responded in complete confusion. When you told him to stop feigning ignorance he was positively confused. You and he didn’t know each other that well outside of work, so for this to be coming from you made him a bit angry. When you plainly told him what you thought had been doing, he told you to be careful, but he wasn’t the one doing it. In hindsight, you thought it was nice of him to express his concern. When he offered to walk you to your car that night, you were skeptical, but you let him do it.

Sam didn’t take too kindly to that.

But Sam decided to cool down on the packages. Now he thought was the time to make himself more involved in your day-to-day life. Small run-ins, nothing alarming but you knew who he was now. It started with him paying for your favorite drink at the local cafe you loved so much. He kept his cool and acted like it was just such a coincidence to run into you! How have you been holding up? He even took to finishing your book collection for your most recent series. Maybe taking to replace your worn books. You didn’t notice until you picked up one of your favorite novels and had to crack the spine. Indicating it was brand new. Things really got intense when you walked out to your car one morning and saw all your tires were replaced. When you got in, a note on your steering wheel simply said, “Your tires we going bald. You’re welcome.” You started getting more scared as the days passed. This person managed to get into not just your car, but also your house. A safe place. Your heaven. At least that’s what it used to be.

You were terrified to leave your house every day.

Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

Well, Sam being Sam prefers to keep his hands clean as much as possible. Plus him hurting anyone close to you will make you even more challenging to get. He also knows what losing someone feels like. Even more than you actually. Why would he choose to make things harder between you two if being with you and only you is his ultimate goal? Come on, don’t be silly. It’d do nothing for him to see you so hurt. Who wants to see their soulmate in pain?

Unless it was absolutely necessary.

Like maybe one day you’re feeling a bit rowdy. You have a lot of fight, Sam had to give that to you. But why are you so insistent on staying apart? He can’t love you from afar, he refuses to live without your love. He’ll do anything to keep you with him. But as patient as Sam could be, there are only so many times you can push his buttons, love. Now if you keep fighting, I’ll have to punish you. We don’t want that, do we? After all, broken bones take a long time to heal… But don’t you worry princess, he’ll fix you right up!

With mandatory bed rest included.

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

Sam is a very loving person, so he wouldn’t really mock you at all. If you’re not trying to escape. If you are, you can expect to be tsked at and hear phrases such as

“Oh darling, I thought you knew better than to try something so stupid.”

“If you wanted to wear your chain today, you could’ve asked love.”

“Princess, you can’t get away from me. I will always see through your little plan. Your eyes tell me everything.”

If you’ve managed to piss him off (which takes a lot of effort so… go you?), you can expect him to leave you with more cuts and bruises than you could imagine. Just remember love, the more you fight, the angrier he gets…

And no, your begging and pleading will get you nowhere. But it hurts him more than it does you. You deserved it. It was for your own good darling. Trust him.

Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

No. Absolutely not. Sam knows love will come with time. He would never hurt you by doing anything you didn’t want him to. Including simply touching you (but isolation is a bitch babe.). Honestly, the only thing he is willing to do against your will is feed you. Especially if you go on a hunger strike. He will not allow anyone to hurt you. Not even you, and damn sure not him. He’d probably force-feed you through a tube. Same thing with being hydrated. He can't let his good girl starve now, can he? What kind of man would he be to let that happen, princess?

Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

Sam gives his whole heart and soul to you. He is a straight sucker for you honestly. He dotes on you a lot. Tries spoiling you with things he knows you’ll like. If you weren't in chains…

He tries to get you to open up to him by telling you everything about himself. To hunting, to what his favorite pair of socks were in middle school. Sam shows you sides of himself that not even Jessica got to see. He doesn't want to scare you so he almost shrinks himself to be smaller. Less threatening. Less dangerous. Honestly, if you’re smart, you could use this against him. You can start slowly opening up to him. Give as little information as possible and start planning your escape. Sam won't trust you to be out of the dungeon, or even your chains, for a while. But you’ve got nothing but time daring.

Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back?

At first, it’d be almost amusing. If it didn’t happen so much he’d probably get a chuckle out of it. He hates having to use forceful ways to calm you down but he has no choice. He’s used more chloroform than he’d like but it was worth it. But the chemical burns on your face make him really emotional. He may look into paralyzing spells to quail your attempts. If he does find such a spell, you’re fucked. Not completely, but it's not looking good for you, love. He feels like you both are in some loop. Like a cat-and-mouse game, though it’s getting tedious.

There is one upside to this though. These attempts of escape and fights give him an idea of how your brain works. Your fight style, and the ways you attempt to run from him and the bunker, give him more useful information and ways to stop your plans. Eventually, you can’t get out of the dungeon without at least 5 alarms tipping off Sam before you can even turn the door nob. Do with this information as you will, darling.

Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

This is not a game to him. This isn't amusing in the slightest bit. Watching you try to get away from him hurts him deeply. You two are soulmates. Why can't you see this? Why run from him when he can give you the world. He waits on you hand and foot. He caresses you with the lightest touch. He gives you almost everything you ask from him. He will bring you the biggest, brightest star in the universe if you just love him, and let him love you. Open up to him. Adore him, like he adores you. Get lost in him and everything he is, like he does with you. You’ll do that for him, right doll?

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

Believe it or not, but your worst experience with Sam wasn't when he occasionally snapped at you for your smart mouth. It wasn’t when he forced you to eat to keep yourself alive for him. Always for him.

It wasn’t even the time he came back from a hunt gone wrong and an argument with Dean once again, and Sam had come into the dungeon for the first time in a week. When he tried to land a kiss on your cheek, you’d headbutt him. Sam snapped and hurled harsh words your way, and you were struggling against the chains, Sam had enough of your shit so he grabbed your arm and slowly, very, very slowly twisted it behind your back until, through your screaming, you heard a sickening crack from your arm. Your ear-splitting screaming was heard throughout the whole bunker and you collapsed into darkness. Praying that this was your end. But when you woke up to some beige room on an old musty bed with a cast on your arm, you couldn’t stop the sob that ripped through your chest. Only for Sam to immediately wrapped his arms around you and coo at your tears rolling into his shirt. Declaring he’d never bring harm to you again, although the scars covering your skin told you otherwise.

No, you see, the worst experience for you, dealing with Sam, was the day you realized you needed him. That you loved him. How could you not see it earlier? Sam’s doting nature, his soft smile, the obsession adoring look in his eyes, his velvet touch. Everything that was him. You loved him. You loathed him. He took everything from you, yet had given you so much. He gave himself to you. Trusted you with his very soul. And here you were. Being selfish, greedy, mean-spirited, reclusive, disrespectful, and just plain stupid. Sam could have anyone he wanted. But he wanted you, and you had the audacity to not love him back? Stupid and horrible. You hoped it wasn’t too late to win his heart.

Wait. This… isn’t right. Is it?

Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

He wants to enable you in all of your passions and hobbies. He wants the not-exactly-white-picket-fence-lifeTM with you. You and the front porch relaxing, watching him work in the front yard and you smiling at him ever so brightly. He wants to watch you take care of your plants and gardens, in a huge house that he worked so hard to get for you. For the both of you. Watching you take care of your many dogs and cats around the house.

And running after you around the living room and kitchen, just to catch you. Him carrying you up the stairs while looking into each other's eyes. Him smirking down at you, knowing it's gonna be another long night of passionate sex and lovemaking. In the morning, waking you up with gentle kisses and licks and biting. Teasing you out of your dreams. Dreams filled with nothing but him. Going into the kitchen to help you make breakfast. You lightly scolded him after him messing up, because he could help thinking how sexy you look in his shirts. Passion-filled make-out sessions with teenage-level humping and grinding. Sam always finds himself in these fantasies, only to snap back into reality all too soon. Then he remembers you must be so cold and hungry in that old dungeon. But he knows that one day he’ll get to live out all of that with you and so much more. Not today, but one day.

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?

Well, he doesn’t have to be jealous because you don't even go outside…

Though he does keep a close eye on Dean. Knowing how he can be.

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?

Sam is ecstatic when you finally allow him to touch you. His hands have been itching to cover every single inch of your body. He loves the way your skin feels on his hardened calloused hands. Your skin was still a bit rough from the scars Sam’s hands left behind. Those same hands touching you as if you were the best prize on earth. And to Sam, you definitely were. Kisses galore. When you initiated the first kiss, it was hesitant and a bit clumsy, but Sam cherished the way your lips trembled against his. Nothing mattered to him anymore at that moment. Only you. Always you.

Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?

As stated before, Sam relished the fact that you (subconsciously) knew he was always there. Sam always found a way to be a background character in your life. A supporting role. If you will. Always the blurry face in the crowd. But always there.

Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

Oh yes. He is very much different in different environments. He’ll coddle and hug and kiss you near death. He’s almost always in a good mood when he’s spending time with you. Happy BoiTM. When he’s with Dean, he’s pretty normal. They typical brother teasing, the good moments, the bad ones. Sam acts like he always acted before you came along and rocked his world. The same goes for Donna, Jody, Alez, and Claire. The interactions are the same. But when with you, he can't focus on anything else but you. That's also the reason why he won't bring his research into the dungeon/room when you're there. He wants to show you that he can separate work and home life. With you, he lets his obsession love for you run free. He just can’t hide how he feels about you, love. Also, cause he can’t focus with you around.

Naughty: How would they punish their darling?

Isolation mostly, yet if you show yourself to be resistant to that, he’ll use physical pain and manipulation.

Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling?

Almost all of your rights are taken from you. You can’t use any means of communication (unless you found some way to get hold of a spell.), You aren’t allowed to use any electronics unless Sam is practically attached to your skin. The only thing you can do is use the bathroom alone. Sam will allow you a few minutes in there depending on what you’re doing. But he’s taking everything that helps you escape out of there, even the mirror… You can’t be alone when you shower though. Sam will stand there, in the hot and humid bathroom and watch your every move as you shower. When you’re done, he’ll help you dry off and help you rub your lotion on your now rough and scared skin with nothing but utter devotion swimming in his eyes. Your night clothes will be put on by him as well. All of this will be done with the lightest, silk touch.

Patience: How patient are they with their darling?

Extremly patient. Most days, he’ll put up with you and your shenanigans. But some days, when he’s in a bad mood or just generally tense, he’ll have a shorter fuse. You’ve learned to follow his orders on these days. Lest you’d like to go back into the dungeon…

Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

Sam would never let you go easily so I’d say death really could be your only escape, and even then, thats not a guarantee. He could always make a crossroads deal, or bargain with Crowley. Hell he’d even try bargaining with Death himself. He’ll torture a thousand demons to get you back. Sam will walk through Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven to get to you. Sam will go as far as kill himself in hopes he can follow you to heaven be with you eternally. Sure he’d feel guilty about leaving Dean, but he’d be with you. He can live with that. After all, how many times had Dean left him, only to beg Sam to move on?

Now if you had escaped and were able to stay hidden, either by the help of some angels or demons or the other he’ll search the ends of the Earth to find you. If he wasn’t able to find you by himself, he’d enlist in Dean, Jody, Donna, Claire, Alex, Charlie, and other trusted hunters, hell he’d even ask Rowena to help. If all of them together weren’t able to find you, Sam would never get over you. He’d grieve you every day while you celebrate getting away from him.

Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?

While Sam would never let you go, he’d feel incredibly guilty about taking you away from your home, your friends, your family, and your life. With him, Dean, and John constantly moving around due to hunting, he knows exactly how you feel.

Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?

Yes, in fact, his childhood and early adult life were a factor, constantly losing new friends to the hunting life, and then losing Jessica, his father, Dean more than once, and more people he could count. This, as one would imagine, would leave an impression on even the toughest people. Not to mention being bullied at a young age and not being accepted in any social groups just for being who he was. So when he first saw you, he knew he wanted you, and he wouldn’t risk you not accepting him, or being taken from him.

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

Hearing you scream and cry makes his whole body shiver as tears sting in his eyes. He’d do anything you’d like to see you only smile for the rest of your days together. Hearing your sobs late into the night makes his body feel as if he’s being dipped into the hottest lakes of fire. You could swear one day, you could hear the cracking of his heart as he watched you cry one day. You’d also notice how his tears would fall at the same time as yours did.

Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

On days when you’d been extra good, he’d take you for a ride in the Impala up to his favorite stargazing hill and bring a book and blanket. He’d read to you as you zoned out watching the stars glitter in the skies. Wondering how peaceful the star would be. Millions of miles away from you. You’d appreciate the little bit of freedom, even though you still had to wear a collar. But at least your wrists could get a break from those iron chains.

Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

The more you behave, the more Sam takes you out. Not in public places just yet. But it will come with time. Just stick it out and eventually you go to pubic places together and then you can plan your escape and get away from Sam once and for all. But keep in mind, if you fail and get caught, Sam will likely never take you out again. And if by some miracle he does, he will literally handcuff your hands together.

Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling?

If you piss him off enough he’ll slice your skin to ribbons and remind you what happens to bad girls. If you keep disobeying him he might just break a few of your bones. You can’t escape if both of your legs are broken, can you darling? He’ll break your mind by either isolation or some sort of mind spell.

Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?

He damn near kisses the dirt you walk on. This man is devoted to you. He’ll bring you every star you desire, he will kill every monster, buy everything you can ever want, hug you for however long to make you happy and feel safe. Anything doll, name anything and he’ll do it.

Except kill Dean. Nice try love.

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

Sam would spend no more than a few months to a year pining over you. Using his time wisely before he just couldn’t hold himself back anymore. Even still, he was as calculated as ever in kidnapping retrieving you.

Zenith: Would they ever break their darling?

Yes. You’ll be broken beyond repair if you don’t get out.

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

A/N: I hope you all enjoyed these headcanons! I'm back baby! Requests are open!

Spread Love,

-Marissa

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