⋆｡°✩ a/n: It was hot, I wrote smut, what do you want from me.
You had your curtains drawn, shielding your house from the violent light outside. It was officially Summer, and you were already hating it.
Summer had always been your least favourite season, even before the outbreak when you had better access to fans and coolers. Now, finding a fan that wasn’t rusted and broken was rare, a reality you tried hardest not to think about.
You had resorted to laying down on your kitchen tiles, limbs spread out lazily in almost a desperate attempt to cool off. You prayed that someone here in Jackson would be able to get the old air conditioning units working, but given it had been a year of trial and error, you weren’t feeling too hopeful.
With a huff, you sluggishly lift up your arm, checking the time on your old watch. It was just getting into the evening, and with no sign of the heat dimming down just yet, you accepted defeat.
With no energy to do anything, you decided then and there that the rest of your day would look the same, you laying on your floor until it cooled down enough so you’d be able to have a decent amount of sleep. Your plans, however, were rudely interrupted by knocking at your front door.
You lift your head up slightly, eyes training past your living room to the front entrance, “Are you fucking kidding me?” You groan, seeing a blurry figure waiting through the stained glass next to your door.
Only when three more knocks echoed through the house did you grudgingly pull yourself up, almost limping to the front door due to your lack of energy. You were frowning when you opened the door, face to face with your closest friend.
“I know.” Joel nodded, looking almost smug at your unamused expression. “How you handlin’ it?”
If even possible, your face contorted further into a frown, shaking your head slightly at him. “I’m sweating from places I don’t even feel comfortable naming.” You deadpanned, biting your lip to smother a smile.
Joel hummed, his eyes quickly raking over your figure before coming back to rest on your face, “Tommy’s got people working on getting the units workin’”
You interrupt him, “Okay… Joel? Inside, please. The heat is literally hitting me on the face and I’m about to just lose my cool.”
With a nod, he stepped inside the border of your house, gently closing the door behind him. “Do you even have any cool to lose?” He joked.
You glare at him for a moment before going back to your kitchen, slumping down on the floor. “They’ve been trying to get them to work for ages, I will go out there myself and get them to work if I do not hear that thing running anytime soon.” You point to the air conditioning unit in the living room.
“They’ll get it sorted. Don’t think they particularly appreciate workin’ in this weather fixing somethin’.” He said, groaning as he sat down adjacent to you, head leaning back against your fridge.
He suddenly frowned, looking over his shoulder slightly at the fridge behind him, then he was up, knees cracking beneath him as he moved to where you were, nudging you out the way. You looked at him confused. He nudged his head towards the fridge, “Go sit there.”
You complied, moving to sit where Joel had been, an instant flush of cool hit the back of your neck. “Dammit, why didn’t I think of this.” You mutter, pressing your back against the cold steel.
“Heat‘s messin’ with ya, huh?” Joel chuckled, tilting his head slightly. You shake your head in response, gently closing your eyes and untensing your limbs.
You met Joel four years ago when Tommy had introduced you to him. He’d just arrived at Jackson, and you’d been assigned to be his patrol partner which was only supposed to last a couple months, but you’d been such a good duo, Maria had decided to make it permanent.
Over the past couple months though, your relationship with him had seemingly changed. With recent struggles brewing between him and Ellie, you seemed to always be by his side, for his comfort but also your own. You didn’t always have to talk with him, a lot of the time you’d sit comfortably next to each other, doing your own thing whilst he strummed on his guitar.
The boundary line was ever so slowly becoming blurred, feelings becoming confusing. But like a lot of topics that required confrontation, you push it to the back of your mind, adopting the quote; out of sight out of mind.
“What’s got that head worked up?” Joel mumbled in front of you, dragging your mind back to reality.
You looked at him for a moment, blinking slowly. “Nothing.” You plainly say, smiling at him gently before closing your eyes again.
The next day wasn’t any better.
The air conditioning still wasn’t working and your tactic of closing the curtains to deflect the heat, was now failing. Rather than lying on your tiles, moping all day, you had resorted to hanging out in The Tipsy Bison, a cozy makeshift bar in the middle of Jackson.
The only reason you’d packed up the courage to be in such a social setting was due to the cold drinks offered there and most importantly, it had a big fan mounted to the wall that actually worked. It was a step up from how hot you were yesterday, and the drink in your hand was helping to cool your skin.
The leather next to you sunk as someone sat down in the empty booth you were sitting at. You turn your head to your left, coming face to face with Tommy; Joel’s younger brother. “Hi,” He smiled, “Fuckin’ steamin’ out there.”
You raise your eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips, “Steaming?”
“Yeah.” Tommy nodded, leaning over to peer into your glass, “Some people are out there, sweatin’ their gooch off, trynna get air working for lazy folks like you.”
A pair of women next to your booth look over at his words, eyeing you and Tommy down. You quickly look away. “Can you not speak like that in public?” You huff, close to speechless.
Tommy laughs loudly, finding himself hilarious, but suddenly his demeanour changes and he turns to you with a serious look. “So… How’s Joel?”
You look at him for a moment before answering, “He’s your brother, ask him yourself.” You’re silent for a second before you smile, “Why’re you here bothering me? Go get the air working.”
He shakes his head, a smile spread wide across his face, "Just have to get out the heat for a fuckin, minute. Saw you here... Haven't talked for a while."
"And the first thing you wanna do is ask how your brother is?" You ask, tilting your head slightly at him.
He looks away from you, sucking in a breath, "Feisty."
“Tommy, if it’s not cold in my house tomorrow I’m gonna kill you.” You warn, a warm breeze filing through the cracks of the windows.
"Jesus, woman." Tommy says, shaking his head slightly, “Venom.” He stands up and adjusts his jeans, “Every word you spit at me is laced with venom.”
You laugh gently, gesturing your head towards the front door, "Go work some more." You watch as he walks away, an unexplainable pit in the bottom of your stomach. You avoid the stares coming from the booth again.
People talked a lot in Jackson. Usually it was all rumours, secret words whispered behind a hand as you walked by, it brought a sense of familiarity back, considering they were acting like they were in high school again.
They noticed things, could see the little things, like how you and Joel were always together, seemingly always just alone. You supposed it gave them a sense of familiarity too, finally being able to talk about something other than the end of the world.
Sometimes it made you feel good, knowing other people could see Joel was focused on you, watching as he turned down other women just to talk to you. Aside from the odd insult you’d hear every now and then, you weren’t bothered by the rumours.
On your way home, you decided to stop by Joel’s. The side gate was unlocked, the hinges creaking quietly as it gently banged open and closed. Hot wind. Adding onto the heat. You could hear him before you saw him, the gentle strum of his guitar, a low hum. You round the corner, stopping by the edge of the house to watch him, a smile tugging at your lips.
He sat in a chair he made himself on his back porch, he’d made you a set also, specialised carving in the wood. He had a leg crossed over the other, his foot jerking to the beat of the song he was playing, you vaguely recognise it being a Pearl Jam song. His hair’s getting longer, you can see the curls at the base of his neck, greying slightly.
You step up the little steps up to the porch, the floorboards under your feet creak, Joel flinches slightly, looking over at you. “Sorry,” You smile, brushing out the fabric of the dress you’d thrown on, “Keep playing.”
He shakes his head slowly, gently lifting the guitar off his lap and placing it by his side, “No free shows here.” He smiles at you, leaning back in his chair. “So… Cooling ain’t on.” He’s trying to rile you up.
You roll your eyes, moving closer to him. “Don’t remind me.” A gust of warm wind blows past, a shiver of annoyance rushes through your veins. You move to the railing, the wood burns your hands for a second, having been exposed to the naked sun for so long.
The chair creaks behind you, heavy boots thumped closer until he was standing beside you. You watched as he moved to grab onto the wood, he too flinched back slightly at the contact, you smile. “Ellie…” Joel starts, “Think she’s warming back up to me.”
“That’s good, Joel.” You can hear him breathing, deep and calm. He looks down at you and you look back, “I’m glad.” You add, stepping sideways slightly to bump into his side. You stayed at his house until the sun had set well past the horizon, different constellations appeared back into the clear, dark sky. Only then did you decide to go home, praying to yourself as you walked back that someone had fingers lucky enough to get some cold air working.
You’d always heard about ‘the third time, the lucky charm’, and you’d never given it much thought. But today, you decided you didn’t believe in it, because it was the third day of this mini heat wave, and it was even hotter.
The sheets were damp beneath you when you woke up. Thin sheets, minimal clothing and the open window had done nothing to help aid the temperature; you were at your breaking point, further being pushed when you discovered the air conditioning had still not been fixed.
You tried to remain grateful, understood that the people working on it had limited supplies, that they too had to endure the heat, and the pressure to get it done. Feeling bad for your frustration over something they could not control, you made some lemonade for them all, bringing over a jug and some empty cups to where they were stationed. A small good deed to redeem your attitude.
“Fucking heat.” You mumbled to yourself, wiping your hands on your dress, stepping up to your front porch, reaching for your door. Before you could open it, someone cleared their throat behind you, making you jump.
Joel laughed, moving up the stairs to meet you, “I scare you?” He looks down at you innocently, waiting for you to answer him, a little curl falls in front of his face.
“Yes, Joel.” You huff, opening your door aggressively, “You scared me.” You step inside, waiting for him to walk in before closing the door.
He shrugs off his shoes, leaving them by the entrance, “It’s actually cooler outside.” He points out, moving into your living room.
“I don’t even want to think about that.” You shake your head, brushing past him to the kitchen, pouring two glasses of water. “Reckon we could sit out the back?”
Joel nods, gratefully taking his glass from your hand, “Lead the way.”
Your porch was small, a perfect size, filled with plants, two chairs and a little rug underneath. Joel went straight for his usual chair, sitting down with a grunt. You vacated the chair next to him, leaning back with your glass nestled in your hands.
Joel was silent beside you, eyebrows furrowed and eyes zoning out into your small backyard. You followed his gaze, admiring the wooden fence surrounding your home. He and Tommy had built it for you after you’d complained for a week straight about the old rotted wood that once stood there, now you were blessed with privacy you’d once had years ago. You’d never kept your promise to pay them back with some of your cooking, you suddenly remembered.
A flicker of movement catches your eye, a small, grey bunny slips through a crack in the fence. You tut under your breath, shaking your head. Joel’s body moves; he’s laughing. “Don’t even start. It’s barely a crack, I’m not bloody fixin’ it.”
“I didn’t say anything!” You laugh back, but your eyebrows furrow slightly as you take in Joel’s posture. His smiles faded again and he’s back to zoning out. You nudge him gently, “What’s up?”
He suddenly stands up, placing the glass by your feet, it’s only then you noticed he hadn’t had any of it. He goes to your railing, leaning over it. “It’s gettin’ harder. Every day, I’m fightin’ it, and I don’t think I can anymore.” He starts, leaning his head to the right slightly, making sure you could hear every word. He sighs, “Don’t think I want to anymore.”
You place your own glass down, standing up to join him. “I don’t understand.” You see him hesitate, his body tenses slightly, you can hear his jagged breathing. A warm wind blows past you both, you watch as the trees sway gently in it.
Joel looks at you then, turning his whole body towards you. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me this isn’t mutual.”
You watch him quietly, almost taken back at his forwardness. “Joel…”
“No.” He interrupts, taking a step closer, “Tell me this isn’t in my head. I mean, fuck, baby. I love how we are now, but god do I ever wish it was something more.”
A conversation you’d fought so hard to push to the back of your mind, words you’d dreamt about saying, planning out the best sentences to say that would articulate your feelings best, yet you stand in silence. Something inside you tingles, something deep in your stomach that travels up your body to your head, something goes fuzzy. Then you’re moving to him and closing the space between you, your hands moving to hold the back of his neck as your lips connect to his. It’s sort of an awkward angle, your head tilted back to be able to reach his face, you’re almost on the tips of your toes.
He takes a second to react, his hands awkwardly hovering by your sides as you first press your lips against his. As you moved to pull back having sensed his hesitance, Joel reached out. His hands move to your back, pulling you back to his chest tightly, firmly pressing his lips against yours. You feel him harden against your abdomen and he moans into your mouth with exhilaration, teasing his tongue against yours.
You worry for a second, worry that things were moving too fast. You’d spent years pent up, hiding your deepest feelings and forcing yourself to keep your hands away from him, but with every little movement, every spark sent through your body, your worries slowly started to vanish. As his hands move down your back to fondle your ass, you finally decide you don’t care.
He squeezes the flesh between his hands, slapping it gently before he pulls away from you, looking pained as he does so. You watch him carefully, waiting for his next move. “Can I taste you?” He asks gently, his hands moving to ball the fabric of your dress. He spoke the words with such softness, such innocence, you faltered, almost uncertain if he meant what you were thinking. His fists tighten further, pleading with you with his eyes.
You take a gamble and nod, you think you’d like whatever he meant anyways; he doesn’t wait another second. He gently moved you backwards, your back pushed up against the railing of your porch, using it as a stabiliser as he moved down to his knees. “Careful.” You mutter, acknowledging the tenderness and soreness he often experienced with his aging body.
He doesn’t respond, instead, he bunches your dress in his hands and shoves it up, exposing your cunt hidden by a slightly damp pair of underwear. You reach down and hold your dress up, clutching it tightly as he brings two fingers up to your clothed clit, rubbing it gently. The sensation tears a moan from your throat, your fingers tightened around the fabric of the dress. As Joel slowly circled your clit, you doubled back and remembered that you were outside, you’d have to try and be quiet. Joel, on the other hand, didn’t seem to care, he probably found it to be a competition. ‘How far can I go without informing the entire neighbourhood I’m fucking my best friend on her porch.’
He finally tugs down your underwear, leaving it hanging by your ankles as he gently spreads your knees further apart. He was taking his time, you noted, savouring every second. You didn’t have any patience for savouring. “Please.” You moan, one of your hands let go of your dress to move to the back of Joel’s neck, pulling him closer in between your legs. “Just do it.”
You could see him debate with himself for a second, tease her more or give in. He decided to do the latter. He looked as desperate as you felt as he gripped the sides of your thighs, looking up at you once more before he connected his mouth with your clit. He used his tongue in replacement of his fingers, circling your clit as he used the rest of his mouth as a suction. You jolted in place, mouth strung open and eyebrows furrowed together as he worked his way through your body. You could feel every movement his tongue made, the slow pressure of release in your abdomen quickly built its way up, finally forcing another moan from your throat. You tightened your hand around Joel’s hair, tugging the curls at the base of his neck, eliciting a deep groan from him.
You knew you weren’t gonna last long, not as he moved one of his hands to play with your clit as his mouth moved further down, his tongue pushed into you slightly as he fully engrossed himself in you. His other hand rotated between holding your hip and moving back down to your thigh, squeezing the flesh beneath his palm, the sensation somehow pushing you further into euphoria. You take your hand away from his neck, moving back up to your dress, you let go with your other hand, moving it down the base of your body to where his hand was resting on your hip.
When he felt you hold onto him, he adjusted your hands so that he was holding yours, fingers gripping you tightly as his mouth moved back up to your clit, his other arm moved around to the backs of your thighs, pulling you closer to his mouth. He was moaning gently into your clit, you could feel the vibrations pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Your orgasm took you by surprise, arriving so suddenly you could hardly think as your legs began to shake and your fingers gripped so tightly around Joel’s hands, he winced. You don’t know how loud you were being, your senses were all out of whack. The high seemed to last forever, your clit throbbed gently. Your heart was beating out of your chest, the slight tremors in your legs not ceasing even after he’d slowly moved backwards, away from your cunt.
“Fuck.” He whispered quietly, admiring you once more before he hauled himself up, giving you no time to react as he crashed his lips against yours, pulling you so tightly against his chest you struggled to breathe. “Fuck that was sexy.” He muttered against your lips. Resting his forehead on yours for a moment. Behind you, you could hear a back door open. The sounds of a quiet hum dragged you back to your senses, you’d forgotten to stay quiet.
“Inside.” You mumble, dropping your dress back down and pulling up your underwear. He closed the door behind you when you walked in, you were still trying to catch your breath. It was hot inside, hotter than it was outside; your hair stuck to the back of your neck. Joel approached you quietly, brushing your hair away from your neck with the back of his hand. He laid a gentle kiss there, when he pulled away you could still feel his lips on your skin.
You pulled your dress up over your head, leaving it to drop down next to your feet. You stood before him in nothing but your damp underwear. Joel inhaled deeply behind you, his hands hesitantly reaching out to turn you around. His eyes immediately dropped down, taking in every feature, every curve. You could feel every callous on his fingers as he moved his hands down your shoulders and over your breasts, teasing your nipples gently for a moment before moving back up your body, where his hand ghosted the front of your neck.
He tugged at his shirt then, pulling it off his body before moving to his jeans, his fingers fumbling with his belt. You smiled at him softly, brushing his hands aside and helping him out of the material. It was your turn to stare now. You traced your finger along every scar splattered across the length of his body. He watched carefully as you did so, bringing his hand up to your cheek. After what seemed like forever, you retracted your hand back to yourself and started moving backwards towards the couch. Joel followed you wordlessly, not taking his eyes off you.
When you reached the couch, you gestured for him to sit down. He complied easily, leaning back into the couch, just watching you. You moved to stand between his legs, your nipples hardened further in anticipation. Slowly, you moved down and took your underwear completely off, throwing them somewhere behind you. As you did so, Joel moved to take his off, leaving you both bare and vulnerable. It seemed as if your body was moving on autopilot, everything started to seem so unreal. As you stood before him, his eyes wild and desperate, you found you couldn’t really remember how this had happened so fast.
Was it just a buildup of hidden emotions? Or had something happened that made him snap? You breathed in deeply, debating with yourself. Telling yourself that you could still back out. Label what happened outside as two lonely people who got desperate. You caught yourself, pushing those thoughts to the back of your head. That’s not what you wanted to do, you couldn’t understand why you were fighting against it so hard. You recognised a glimmer of fear within the thoughts. Fear of opening up to someone, maybe.
Joel called your name softly. You blinked, focusing back onto him. “Stop thinkin’ so much.” He said, sitting up a little straighter. “If you don’t want this, that’s fine. Don’t freak yourself out ‘bout it.” You furrowed your eyebrows, you did want it. You blinked again, internally scolding your brain for a second before you moved forwards. You straddled his lap, knees resting on either side of his thighs, your hands rested on his chest. He looked at you silently, searching for any sign of discomfort.
“I do want this.” You whisper, “It’s just new.” Joel nodded slowly, leaning back into the couch. You smile softly, your fingers subconsciously trace patterns on his skin. It was getting harder to ignore the warmth in your lower abdomen, you could feel yourself getting wetter for him, more desperate for him. He was in the same boat, his cock lay firmly against his stomach, the tip of him a deep pink. You reached between your legs, grasping him firmly in your hand. He was big, for a second you hesitated, it had been a while.
“We’ll take it slow.” Joel grunted, leaning his head back for a moment. You gripped him tighter, slowly moving your hand up and down, causing a deep moan to slip out his mouth. You teased him like that for a little while, watching his reactions curiously. After a few minutes, he leant his head back up to look at you, “Enough.” He practically growled. You smile at him in response, finally lifting your hips up slightly. You both watched as his cock slowly slipped inside you, small moans of pleasure and release sounded out into the room. The initial stretch hurt, you had expected it but it still caused you to completely stop. Joel stayed still until you were ready to keep going.
After that you didn’t need to stop. Even if you did have to, you weren't sure if you could. You were fully sat on Joel’s lap, his cock nestled deep up inside you, his pubic hair brushed against your clit as you slowly circled your hips. Joel was gripping your hips so tightly, you could already feel them bruising, with every move, a small moan or grunt huffed from his lips. A couple minutes had passed of the slow circling, you had passed the point of desperation. With a slight sigh, you adjusted yourself so you were leaning more of your body weight on your feet before you slowly lifted yourself up the length of his dick, then abruptly sat back down, the sudden movement had Joel moaning loudly, his hands moved to the bottom of your ass to help you bounce up and down continuously.
You fucked yourself on him hard, your ass connected with his thighs with a satisfying noise, your moans increasingly getting louder. At one point, you leant back slightly, resting your arms on his thighs as you continued to move on top of him. Joel took this opportunity to play with your clit again, his movements precise. You could feel sweat accumulating on your back, the hot environment mixed with this, you didn’t care. Not when Joel moved forwards in what looked like an uncomfortable manner, desperately connecting his lips with your breasts. “Fuck, Joel.” You gasp, feeling his teeth graze against your nipples.
So caught up in the feeling of Joel inside you, you almost missed the sound coming from behind you. You faltered in your movements to try and listen out for what you’d barely heard over the sound of your own cries, Joel immediately sat up, his hands moved to your waist. “What is it? Are you okay?” You quickly shush him, furrowing your eyebrows.
Then, a wooshing sound was heard and a cool breeze suddenly followed, flowing over your skin and cooling you instantly. You look at the air conditioner, a new little green light you’d never seen before was on. “Oh.” You say, now completely still in Joel’s lap. You were about to say something, but before you could, you were being manoeuvred around, taking the breath away from you. Joel lay you on your back, still sheathed fully inside you. It seemed that any sense of patience and tenderness had disappeared, instead, a more unforgiving and relentless version of him came out, he fucked into you hard, harder than you could ever expect from such a careful man.
You threw your head back, wrapping your legs around his hips as he thrust into you, grunting in your ear. One of his hands moved up to palm your breast again, squeezing it roughly before he let go and moved further up your body, resting on your throat. His movements faltered for a moment, his eyes shut close before he resumed the pace. Grunts were replaced with soft moans, almost whimpers as his hips collided with the backs of your thighs. You barely had time to warn him, you managed to let out a strangled moan as you came, your body tightening around him. He came quickly after you did, his body practically collapsing against you as he shot his cum deep inside you, his heavy breath heating your skin.
After a little while of him on top of you, whispering sweet things into your ear and kissing you gently on your neck, he sat up. You followed, glancing behind you at the air conditioning unit. “Thank fucking god.” You mutter, shaking your head.
Hi really enjoyed reading all your lovely fanfics on Harry Potter. I love that you’re so versatile with the characters. Can I please make a request for Harry x shy reader with corruption kink. Like reader (female) is very inexperienced but secretly wants more but doesn’t know how to bring it up to him. Ooo there could be a mirror in the background too maybe so she could learn or see.
Mirrors and Lace
💌 Harry Potter x Shy!Reader
💭MDNI: Heavy smut, corruption kink but tender, soft dom Harry vibes but he's also a freak, lingerie, light bondage, oral (fem recieving), fingering, slight overstimulation, mating press (i think?), mirror play sort of, a LOT of dirty talk
A/N: I'm going through my requests and I really got carried away with this request, it's nearly 4k words lol...
-
You were already breathless when he kissed you again — deeper this time, slower, like he had all the time in the world and no intention of wasting a second. Your knees bracketed his hips, skirt hiked up indecently as you sat perched in his lap, warm and flushed and trembling just enough that he noticed. Of course he noticed.
Harry’s hands were splayed across your thighs, fingers flexing now and then like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to soothe or squeeze.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured against your mouth, amused and utterly fond.
“I’m not,” you mumbled, even though you were.
He kissed the corner of your mouth, then lower, along your jaw. “You are.” A pause, then his voice dropped. “Nervous, sweetheart?”
You swallowed, eyes fluttering shut. It had taken you weeks to work up the courage — and now here you were, half in his lap, heart pounding like a second heartbeat in your throat.
“If you…” you began, hesitating.
He stilled.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. “If you wanted to—tie me up,” you mumbled, the words barely a whisper, “I wouldn’t be… opposed.”
The silence after that stretched — hot, electric.
Harry leaned back just enough to look at you, one brow raised, green eyes darkened with something molten.
“You wouldn’t be opposed,” he echoed, like he was testing the words, letting them sit on his tongue.
You shook your head, eyes darting to the collar of his shirt, anywhere but his face. “Not if it was you.”
A beat.
Then: “Fucking hell.”
And suddenly his hands were everywhere — sliding up your thighs, gripping your hips, holding you still as he kissed you hard enough to make your toes curl. When he pulled away, his voice was low and ragged.
“You don’t know what you do to me, do you?”
You blinked at him, stunned by the force of the kiss, by the way he was looking at you now — like you were some sweet thing he was about to ruin and make like it.
“If I’m gonna tie you up,” Harry said, dragging his hands slowly up your spine, “your clothes have to come off first.”
Your breath hitched. Immediate reaction. Immediate regret.
He grinned.
You tried to hide your face in his shoulder, but he didn’t let you. His fingers came up to cup your jaw, gently tilting you to look at him again. And oh, that look in his eyes — wicked and fond, like he was enjoying every second of your flustered silence.
“You’re so cute when you get all shy,” he murmured, leaning in close, mouth brushing your cheek. “Like I haven’t seen you naked before.”
“Harry—” you squeaked, swatting at him, which only made him laugh softly, hands now skimming the hem of your shirt.
“You brought it up, love,” he said, voice low, coaxing. “Told me you wanted it. You sure you’re ready for what that means?”
You nodded quickly — too quickly — and he hummed.
“Good,” he said, thumbs slipping beneath your shirt, pushing it up, reverent and casual all at once. “Because I’ve been thinking about this. About you, like this. Letting me do whatever I want.”
Your stomach flipped.
“And what do you want?” you asked, barely audible.
He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.
“To ruin you a little,” he whispered, “and let you watch it happen.”
And that’s when you noticed the mirror.
You hadn’t even realized it was there — leaning against the opposite wall, angled just right to catch the two of you tangled together on his bed. You felt your heart stutter in your chest, but Harry’s hands were already sliding your shirt over your head, his eyes never leaving yours.
“Eyes on me, love,” he said, voice velvet. “We’ll get to that part soon.”
His fingers ghosted over your sides as he pushed your shirt up, knuckles brushing the warm skin underneath. When the fabric slipped over your head and landed somewhere on the floor, Harry froze.
The look in his eyes changed — darkened — as he took in the lacy pink bra you wore like a secret.
“Well, well,” he murmured, tilting his head, thumb running slowly over the bow between the cups. “What’s this, then?”
You swallowed. “It’s… underwear?”
Harry huffed a laugh, but didn’t let it go. His hands smoothed down your waist, fingers dipping just below the band of your matching pink panties.
“Mm, don’t play dumb. This isn’t your usual. You wore this for me, didn’t you?”
You ducked your head, flustered, but nodded. Just barely.
“Maybe,” you whispered.
That grin of his came back — triumphant — but his voice stayed low, steady, as his hands moved to the nightstand drawer.
“God,” he muttered, half to himself. “You’re gonna kill me one day.”
You watched as he pulled out his Gryffindor scarf — red and gold, a little frayed, worn soft with age — and held it up with a smirk.
“Let me see your wrists, sweetheart.”
Your stomach fluttered as you obeyed, nervous but aching for more. For him.
He took your hands gently, like he always did — like you were something precious — but the glint in his eye was anything but innocent.
“Hold still,” he murmured, wrapping the scarf slowly, deliberately around your wrists. “If you squirm too much, I might start to think you don’t want this.”
“I do,” you blurted, cheeks burning.
“I know you do,” he said, with a grin. “You wore pink lace for me.”
Your face was pinker than the lace.
Once your wrists were bound, Harry brought them up over your head, guiding you to lie back against the pillows, his scarf tethering you loosely to the bed frame. Just enough tension to make your breath catch.
He leaned over you, fingers brushing your cheek, then down to toy with the strap of your bra.
“And just think,” he murmured, eyes flicking to the mirror across the room, “you get to watch.”
He reached for your waistband, fingers brushing the skin of your hips. “These need to come off too.”
You lifted your hips obediently as he tugged your pants down, slow and deliberate. His touch wasn’t rushed—like he wanted to savor every inch revealed to him.
Your back arched when his fingers slid down your stomach, brushing the edge of your underwear. Your wrists tugged instinctively against the scarf tied above your head — not because you wanted to get away, but because you didn’t know what to do with the way your body ached under his touch.
“Easy, love,” Harry murmured, lips ghosting against your jaw. “You’re doing so good for me.”
Your breath hitched as he trailed kisses down your neck, lingering just long enough to make you squirm. His eyes flicked up to the mirror across the room.
“Look at you,” he whispered, his voice a little rough now. “Go on. Open your eyes.”
You blinked, dazed, and turned your head slightly — and there you were. Bare and flushed, wrists bound, legs parted. Laid out beneath him.
“Oh,” you breathed, embarrassment blooming hot and fast.
Harry smiled. Not cruel — fond.
“You see how pretty you are like this?” he said. “Laid out for me? All mine?”
You whimpered as he ran two fingers down your inner thigh.
“I want you to watch,” he said, more firmly now. “I want you to see what I see. How gorgeous you are when you let go. When you let me take care of you.”
His fingers brushed over where you needed him most, just barely, and you gasped.
“Keep your eyes open, sweetheart,” he said, lips curling. “I want you to remember what you look like when I ruin you.”
“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmured again, breath hot against your ear. His fingers slid lower, teasing—just enough to make your hips lift instinctively, chasing more.
But Harry only tutted, soft and patronizing. “Ah, ah, love. Tied up so pretty. You’ll take what I give you, yeah?”
You whined, nodding, the scarf around your wrists biting gently into your skin with the motion.
“Words, sweetheart,” he whispered, lips brushing your neck. “C’mon.”
“Yes,” you breathed. “Yes, Harry—please.”
That please just about broke him.
“Fuck,” he muttered, shifting down the bed, trailing kisses as he went. “You have no idea what that does to me.”
His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider, and his eyes dragged up—slow and searing—to lock with yours in the mirror.
“Look at you. God, look at you.”
Your skin flushed deeper as you obeyed, gaze flickering to the mirror, to the sight of yourself splayed out, bare and trembling under him.
“You know what I see?” he asked, voice low and wrecked. “My girl. All tied up and dripping for me. You were made for this, weren’t you?”
Your mouth fell open—no sound, just a soft, needy gasp.
“Bet you’ll be so good for me,” Harry went on, leaning in, breath fanning hot between your legs. “Bet you’ll take everything I give you. Let me ruin you nice and slow.”
He kissed the inside of your thigh—once. Twice.
Then, his voice dropped to a gravelly whisper.
“You’ll remember this every time you look in that mirror. You’ll see yourself like I do. Wrecked and perfect and mine.”
You gasped softly when he kissed you through the damp lace of your underwear. Your hips lifted, but he pushed them down.
“Don’t get greedy on me,” Harry murmured, pressing a kiss to your clit through the fabric. “Just getting started.”
He licked a hot stripe up your slit, the fabric soaking now.
Your hips wouldn’t stay still— you couldn’t help it. Harry was practically making out with your pussy through your underwear and kr was driving you crazy.
His glasses were already fogging up, eyes closed briefly as he groaned into you just from how you melted against his tongue.
“Harry—“ it comes out breathy and whiny, your eyes looking at him between your thighs. When he finally looked up at you, his lips and chin were soaked.
“Thought I told you to watch,” he teased, gesturing at the mirror.
“I can’t,” you whined, hips bucking. “You’re being cruel.”
Harry raised an eyebrow, a teasing smirk playing on his lips. “Yeah? How you figure that?”
He loved how desperate and needy you looked. Face flushed and breathless.
“Harry please—“
“Begging already? Thought you said you were shy.” He teases, thumb coming up to rub soft circles on your clit through the wet fabric. “Go on then—say please like you mean it.”
You swallowed, trying to think— it was embarrassing how easily he could undo you with a few touches.
“Please— Harry, need you,” you whispered, trying to keep your breathing steady.
“Sound so pretty when you say my name like that.” Harry breathes, eyes never leaving you.
“Gonna give you everything,” he murmured, pulling the soaked lace to the side, “but not until I’ve had my fill of you.”
Harry leaned down, and pressed his tongue into you, tasting you directly. Your back arched without thinking, thighs trembling as he ate you like a starved man.
No one would have thought The Chosen One was a freak, but the way Harry swirled his tongue inside of you while his thumb swiped at your clit had you seeing stars.
He’d switch, occasionally. Instead of delving his tongue as deep into you as he could, he’d suck on your clit— gently grazing it with his teeth.
You were a mess.
A beautiful mess. His,
His sweet, shy girl— tied up all pretty and wearing pink lace for him, asking all nicely to be tied up.
You were grinding against his face, trying to ride his tongue, and gods did he let you.
Harry started to focus his attention all on your puffy clit— sucking, flicking and swirling it around with his tongue.
And carefully, he pushed a single finger into your soppy hole with ease, and the sound you made was sinful—music to his ears.
“There you go,” he murmured against you, lips wet and swollen with you, “Taking it like a good girl, yeah?”
The praise made you whine, clenching around his finger— Harry just grinned.
He pulled his finger out just to add a second, and you swore you saw white. Massaging your soft walls while sucking on your clit, you could feel it, the tension building.
“So pretty like this,” he mumbled, kissing your clit while curling his fingers deep inside of your cunt, “my sweet girl.”
“Harry—“ It came out of you choked and desperate, you didn’t know what to do with yourself.
“Mmhmm?” He hummed, eyes flicking up through fogged lenses to look at you, tongue still flicking your clit while he scissored you open on two fingers.
You were soaking his fingers, the bed under you, his jaw and lips.
And before you could say anything, you came with a loud cry of his name, head thrown back and thighs squeezing his head.
Harry didn’t stop, continued to work you through your high and the aftershocks; continued pumping his slender fingers in and out of your messy cunt.
And then kept going.
“Ah—Harry!” It was starting to burn in that delicious way overstimulation did, and Harry pulled back just to look at how beautifully ruined you were.
“What’s wrong?” His voice was far too smug, “Thought you said you’d take whatever I gave you, sweet girl.”
You whimpered, hips twitching slightly as his fingers continued to pump into you.
“S’too much,” you breathed, the sound of his fingers sliding into your slick made your face flush.
“You can give me one more, yeah?” He murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh lovingly. “Just one more?”
Harry was asking so nicely— those eyes looked up at you, and you found yourself nodding.
“Yeah,” you breathed softly.
“Yeah? You’re gonna give me one more?” He said, grinning again. “That’s my girl, always so good for me.”
Harry went back in, albeit a bit softer this time. He kissed your clit delicately, sucked on it gently, working you up to that peak again as sweetly as he could.
He was so filthy and so tender at the same time.
After the second wave of pleasure crashed into you, Harry didn’t move at first.
Just hovered over you, breathing hard, letting his fingers slip out slow — careful — as if even now, he couldn’t bring himself to stop touching you. His eyes flicked up to your face, watching the way your lashes fluttered, your chest heaved.
“Too much?” he murmured, voice soft against the heat between your thighs.
You shook your head — barely. Still catching your breath.
He smiled, gentle and crooked, and leaned down to kiss your cheek. Your temple. The corner of your mouth.
“You’re so good for me,” he whispered. “Always so good.”
His hands found the scarf again, loosening the knot with a practiced flick of his fingers. Your arms fell to your sides, limp and tingling, and he caught one of your wrists in his hand, pressing a kiss to the inside.
Then he wrapped both arms around you and pulled you into his chest, warm and solid and safe. You curled against him, skin still slick with sweat, legs tangled, heart racing in time with his.
For a few long seconds, it was quiet. Just the soft sound of your breathing and the way his fingers traced idle circles along your spine.
Then — low and teasing:
“You planned this,” he said. “The lace. The scarf. The little ‘maybe’ like it wasn’t killing you to ask.”
You flushed, hiding your face in his neck.
He laughed, breath puffing hot against your skin. “S’cute,” he said, “how shy you get. When you were begging me minutes ago.”
You swatted his chest weakly, and he caught your wrist again — but this time, he didn’t kiss it.
“Oi,” he murmured, a little breathless, “don’t go shy on me now.”
His grin softened as he shifted, rolling onto his back just enough to shimmy out of his boxers — the last thing between you. He didn’t make a show of it, but you couldn’t help the way your eyes dragged down, wide and wondering.
Harry caught the look and smirked.
“S’not fair if you’re the only one naked, yeah?”
He leaned in, kissing you again — slower this time, like a reward — and when he pulled back, he was hovering over you, warm skin pressed to yours, his cock heavy and flushed against your thigh.
He brought your hand up, guiding your chin to face the wall beside the bed.
And that’s when you really saw it.
The mirror and your reflection — flushed, marked, pupils blown wide.
His voice dropped behind you, rougher now. Like velvet dragged over something sharp.
“Wanna see how wrecked you look for me?”
Your breath caught.
He kissed your shoulder, slowly shifting until he was over you again, and you felt it — the press of him, hard and heavy, against your thigh. Tip flushed a pretty pink.
“Come on, love,” he murmured. “Be good. Show me how pretty you are when I fuck you.”
His breath stuttered when he slid in — slow at first, careful — letting you feel the stretch, letting you adjust. One hand on your hip, the other laced with yours beside your head.
“There you go,” he murmured, voice low and reverent. “You’re taking me so well, sweetheart.”
You gasped, legs trembling around his waist. The sound you made when he bottomed out was desperate, broken — and Harry swore under his breath, his hips stuttering once as he fought to hold back.
“Look at you,” he whispered, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth. “You feel so good. So fucking good.”
He started to move — slow, deep thrusts — like he wanted you to feel every inch of him, to memorize the way it felt to be filled up so completely.
But then—
“Harry,” you whispered, voice shaky but sure. “Faster. Please.”
He froze for just a second — like the request had hit him right in the chest. His eyes met yours, wide and surprised, and for a moment, he just looked at you.
Then: a wicked little smile. Slow. Sharp.
“Yeah?” he breathed, thumb brushing your cheek. “You want more, love?”
You nodded, breathless.
“Want me to fuck you harder?”
“Yes—” you whimpered. “Please.”
Something in him snapped, just a little.
“God, you’re gonna kill me,” he muttered — and before you could even think to respond, he shifted.
Hands under your thighs, lifting—guiding—until your legs were hooked over his shoulders. The angle made you whine, made your head fall back against the pillows. He was deeper—so deep.
“There,” Harry said, voice wrecked and low, as he pushed back in deeper than before. “That what you wanted, sweetheart?”
You answered with a load moan, and he grinned.
His pace was rougher now, his hips snapping forward with a new kind of urgency — and yet, it was still him. Still Harry. Still your sweet, golden boy whispering the filthiest things right against your lips.
“You’re so fucking good for me,” he groaned, hands tight on your thighs, the angle forcing him deeper, until it felt like there was nothing he didn’t touch. “Knew you would be.”
You could barely breathe. The mirror caught every twitch of your body, every roll of his hips, the way your mouth dropped open in a silent cry each time he bottomed out.
“Look at you,” Harry rasped, following your gaze to the mirror and leaning in close. “Fuckin’ ruined for me. All mine.”
You whimpered, head spinning, body burning.
“You feel that?” he panted, each thrust a little harder now. “Feel how wet you are for me? You’re dripping, sweetheart.”
You nodded, whining — too gone to do anything else.
Harry leaned over you, folding you further beneath him, and his mouth found your throat.
“Gonna cum for me again?” he whispered, breath hot, teeth dragging lightly along your pulse. “You’re close, aren’t you? Can feel it. You always get so tight when you’re close.”
“Harry—” you gasped.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, one hand slipping between your bodies, fingers finding your puffy clit like he knew you better than you knew yourself. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”
Your body arched. The heat coiled low in your belly again, tighter this time, sharper — like it had been waiting for this.
“That’s my girl,” Harry murmured, rubbing quick, tight circles. “Be good for me, sweetheart. Want to feel you cum on my cock.”
And when you did — when your body clenched tight and your eyes fluttered shut — he kissed you through it. Messy and sweet, like he wanted to taste the way you shattered for him.
“God, you’re perfect,” he whispered, voice breaking as he fucked you through it, chasing his own edge now. “gonna—inside—”
You wrapped your arms around his back, pulling him closer. Your lips brushed his ear, and you breathed out, “Want it. Want you."
Harry lost it.
He came with a broken moan, burying himself deep, his entire body trembling above you as he spilled inside. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath ragged, mouth brushing your lips as he whispered your name like a prayer.
Silence settled, heavy and golden.
Harry was still inside you, still wrapped around you — arms curled beneath your back, your legs shaking where they still hung over his shoulders. And you realized you were both smiling. That tired, floaty kind of smile.
“You okay?” he asked softly, brushing damp hair from your face.
You nodded, dazed. “Better than okay.”
Harry laughed under his breath, warm and full of awe. “Knew you’d be the death of me.”
He slid your legs down slowly, hands gentle, and kissed your knees, your thighs, the inside of your ankle. And then he curled around you again, pulling you close.
You nestled into his chest, completely undone — and completely safe.
And when your eyes flicked once more to the mirror — to the reflection of tangled limbs, flushed skin, lazy smiles — you didn’t look away.
💭MDNI: voyeurisme, Pervy!Harry, Harry obsessed with you, Harry having inappropriate fantasties about you, very smutty at the end, fingering, Harry kind of lost in the fantasy.
A/N: I’ve had this idea on my mind for a while, I had the two first parts written out but was struggling to finish the fic, it took me a while but i finally did it! it’s very different from how i usually write harry but this was so fun to write!
—
Harry Potter had a problem.
Normally, Harry Potter was a gentleman. He was polite, he was kind, and he was most certainly, not a pervert.
Except when it came to you.
It started when he first heard noises coming from your dorm room.
Nothing… loud. Just enough to spark his jealousy a little too much.
The right thing to have done would have been to mind his own business— not grab his wand and invisibility cloak and sneak into your room.
But once he saw that you were in fact not with another man, and just had your fingers stuffed in your pretty little cunt?
He was ruined.
How was he supposed to walk away? It felt like he had been hit with “Petrifecus Totalus” and couldn’t leave.
You were so pretty.
And whiny. And sweet. And Harry just couldn’t bring himself to unglue his eyes from the way you touched yourself.
—
You had no idea you had an audience.
Not the first time. Not the second. Not the third. And every time after that.
And Harry had told himself he’d stop after the first. That it was a one-time slip—he got carried away, he wasn’t thinking, he was just curious. But when he saw you again in class, in the corridors, at dinner in the Great Hall, he couldn’t stop thinking about the way you looked all flushed and breathless, moaning like you were thinking of someone.
Like you were thinking of him.
That’s what he told himself, anyway. That’s why he kept coming back.
That’s why he watched you again the next night.
And again the night after that.
He knew it was wrong. Knew it was perverted, that it would change everything if you ever found out. But each time, it got harder to stay away. Because it wasn’t just watching anymore—it was the way you moved, the soft, breathy whines of need, the way your thighs trembled, the way your lips parted around—
His name.
“Harry,” you moaned, high and desperate, your back arching against the sheets.
Harry nearly came in his pants.
You were thinking about him.
You were touching yourself thinking about him.
That was all the justification he needed.
—
You sit across from him at breakfast.
Laughing.
Carefree.
Wearing that stupid cardigan with the loose neckline that keeps slipping off your shoulder. Harry’s trying not to look. Trying not to think.
But he’s starving in ways food can’t touch.
He stabs at his eggs, jaw tense.
You lean closer. “You good?”
Harry looks up too fast. “What?”
You tilt your head. “You’ve barely touched your food.”
He shrugs, forcing a smile. “Tired.”
That earns a sweet frown. “Late night?”
You have no idea how late. Or how many nights. You don’t know that he’s been memorizing the way your hips rock, the breathless catch in your throat when your fingers sink deep, the way you whisper his name like it’s a sin.
You don’t know that you’ve wrecked him.
“Something like that,” he says.
You hum, totally unconvinced, and reach across the table to steal a slice of toast off his plate. He lets you. Of course he lets you.
Because he’d give you anything.
—
And then there’s the library.
You’re seated beside him, eyes trained on your textbook, lips mouthing each word without realizing it.
Harry hasn’t processed a single sentence on his page.
The table is wide and polished, lit with soft candlelight. You’re hunched over your notes, twirling your quill between your fingers like you’re not completely undoing him.
And Harry—well, he’s gone somewhere else entirely.
Because all he can think about is dragging your chair back. Turning you to face the desk. Pushing your chest down until your elbows brace against the wood. That cardigan you’re wearing bunched up around your waist.
You wouldn’t make a sound, would you? Not in the middle of the library. Not with Madam Pince stalking around somewhere nearby.
But you’d be wet for him. He knows it.
You shift beside him, thighs brushing. He exhales slowly through his nose.
You sigh. “Merlin, I hate Arithmancy.”
He hums in agreement—at least, he tries to—but he’s distracted by how your voice drops in frustration, breathy and quiet.
Just like it had the other night.
In his memory, you’d been just like this: murmuring curses, getting impatient, needy. One hand curled under the sheets, the other gripping the pillow as you rocked into it. Saying his name like it was the only thing you knew how to say.
You stretch your arms overhead. Harry’s jaw tightens.
He closes his book.
You blink. “Done already?”
“Mmhm.” He doesn’t dare look at you. “Can’t focus.”
You frown. “You okay?”
No. No, he’s not okay. He’s sitting in a very public library, hard as a rock, imagining what it would feel like to tug your knickers aside and finally give in.
But he just nods. “Tired, I think.”
You smile at him, totally unsuspecting. Sweet as ever.
And that just makes it worse.
Because he knows—knows—if he leaned in right now and whispered in your ear everything he’s been thinking, you’d go breathless for him in an instant.
And Merlin, wouldn’t you look pretty, bent over this desk for him?
You reach for your inkwell again. Your arm brushes his.
Harry inhales sharply—too sharp. You glance at him, eyebrows pinched. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat, trying to sound casual, normal. “Yeah, fine.”
But he’s not.
Because in his head, you’re still bent over the desk.
That sweet cardigan is pushed up to your elbows, your fingers gripping the edge of the wood. He’s behind you, hips flush to yours, and you’re gasping his name in that same voice you used the other night when you didn’t know he was listening.
He’s hard. Painfully so.
And you’re just sitting there beside him, flipping pages like you’re not his favorite fantasy.
He shifts in his seat, one leg bouncing beneath the desk. His hand twitches on the table.
You glance over again, brow furrowed. “Seriously, what’s gotten into you?”
Nothing. Yet.
Harry clenches his jaw.
He snaps his book shut, the noise making you jump. “I need—uh. I need to get something from the dorm.”
You blink. “You want me to come with—?”
“No!” It comes out too fast, too forceful. He coughs, eyes flicking to the bookshelf like it might offer salvation. “No, it’s fine. I’ll be right back.”
You watch him stand, gather his things with trembling fingers, and rush off like the hounds of hell are on his heels.
You frown at the spot he left behind.
Weird.
Meanwhile, Harry? He nearly trips rounding the corner. The second he’s behind the stacks, hidden, he braces a hand on the wall and exhales through his nose. Hard.
He’s losing it.
You—sweet, brilliant you—are giving him nothing. No idea that you’ve made him come apart more than once just from the sound of your voice.
And now he’s stuck with the image of you bent over the library table, cardigan bunched, legs spread. Your lips forming his name the same way they had that night, only this time—he’s the one pulling it from you.
Fuck.
He squeezes his eyes shut, head thudding against the wall. “Get it together,” he mutters.
But there’s nothing to get.
Because you’re not his.
And yet, Harry knows—deep down, with the same certainty he casts spells with—that if he ever touched you like that?
You wouldn’t stop him.
You’d fall apart for him, just like you did when you thought no one was watching.
And Merlin help him, he wants to make that real.
—
And at the Quidditch match for the House Cup, Harry plays for you.
The roar of the crowd is a blur. He can’t hear it. Doesn’t need to.
His eyes are already on you.
You’re in the stands, scarf knotted loosely around your neck, your smile bright, face flushed with cold. You wave when he glances up, and it nearly kills him. Because you have no idea what you’re doing to him. No idea that he’s planning to fuck you senseless the moment this match ends.
The whistle blows.
He takes off like a curse on wings.
The wind burns his cheeks. The snitch gleams in the sun, darting like a streak of gold through the chaos. But all Harry can think about is you—sitting pretty, watching him, and how he’s going to make sure you never forget this game.
Every goal is personal.
Every dive, every twist—he does it for the way your eyes follow him. For the way you bite your lip when he leans low over his broom.
He hears someone yell his name—commentary blurs—and then he sees it.
The snitch.
It’s a brutal chase. Nearly clips a Slytherin beater to get it, but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t flinch.
He’s close.
And then—he’s got it.
The pitch explodes.
Gryffindors flood the field. Teammates shout, arms thrown around him. But Harry? His eyes are already back on you.
You’re standing, clapping, beaming down at him. His victory.
His whole body thrums as he jogs toward the changing rooms. Heart racing, limbs shaking, hard again before he even hits the locker door.
Because all he can think about now is getting you alone.
You. Spread out in his bed, soft thighs parted.
You. Gasping his name, shocked at how good he is with his hands. As if he hadn’t already studied your body in secret. As if he hadn’t already learned you, every breath and arch and moan.
You—finally his.
—
Outside the locker rooms, moments after the match, Harry steps out into the corridor, still toweling off his hair, clean clothes clinging just a little to damp skin. His heart’s still hammering, not from the win, but from one thought on a loop:
Where are you?
He scans the crowd outside—Gryffindors celebrating, chattering, high-fiving. Someone shouts his name. He barely hears it.
Because then—he sees you.
And suddenly the buzz of the win fades into background noise.
You’re lingering near the stands, wrapped in that scarf again, the one he likes too much. The one he’s imagined tugging loose while kissing down your neck. You’re glowing. Laughing at something someone said. You haven’t spotted him yet.
But he’s already walking toward you.
Purposefully.
Predatory.
You glance up just in time for him to reach you, eyes going wide when you take him in—cheeks pink, curls damp, skin flushed. He looks like he should still be on the field, all high-octane energy and unspoken heat.
“Harry—” you start to smile, but the look in his eyes silences you.
“Come with me.”
It’s not a request.
His voice is low. Thick. Still soft-spoken, still Harry—but laced with something you’ve never quite heard from him before.
You blink. “Wh—what?”
He steps close enough that you can smell his soap, clean and woodsy, the heat of his body still radiating through the cold air. His hand finds yours—calloused fingers lacing through yours like it’s second nature—and you don’t even think to argue when he starts walking.
“Harry, where are we—”
“Dorm,” he says, glancing down at you. “Need to… change.”
A lie.
But then again, maybe not. He is different. Changed.
The walk through the castle is quiet. Not in the awkward way, but in the something’s going to happen way.
The post-match buzz still hums in the air—distant cheers echo from the common room, music spilling from behind one of the walls, laughter bouncing up the staircases—but none of it matters. Not to Harry. Not when you’re beside him.
He hasn’t let go of your hand since the moment he found you. His fingers curl around yours like he’s scared you’ll vanish. He’s not pulling you along anymore, just holding—anchoring. Guiding you through the dark halls, neither of you speaking, both of you pretending the silence isn’t loud.
You glance over at him.
His jaw is tight. Hair still damp from his shower, curls a little messier than usual. He’s in casual clothes now—sweatpants and a fitted tee that does not help your brain focus—but he walks like he’s still in his Quidditch gear. Like he’s chasing something.
Maybe you.
Your shoulders brush. Once. Then again.
You can feel him watching you from the corner of his eye.
Finally, you break the silence. “Are you really just going to change?”
Harry slows his steps.
You don’t stop walking, not entirely, but you feel his gaze drag over you when he does. He doesn’t answer right away—doesn’t need to.
That look says everything.
It’s a warning. A promise.
When he finally does speak, his voice is low, almost amused.
“You came with me.”
It’s not a question. It’s a statement. He says it like that is the proof. That you’re here means you wanted this—whatever this is turning into.
Your breath catches in your throat. “You asked.”
His lips twitch. “And you said yes.”
He stops in front of a door.
You blink up at him, confused, until he lets go of your hand and presses a palm to the wood.
It swings open with a soft click.
His dorm.
One of the perks of being Quidditch captain—his own room. Private. Quiet. No one around to walk in and interrupt.
He doesn’t step inside right away. He just watches you.
You hesitate in the hallway.
Harry tilts his head, eyes scanning over you with a look that makes your knees wobble.
“Are you coming in?” he asks, soft. Careful. Not demanding.
Your heart hammers.
You nod.
He steps aside, letting you pass, but as soon as the door swings shut behind you, the air shifts.
You hear the click of the lock.
Then feel him behind you.
And his voice, low and near your ear, as his hands skims your lower back:
“I won that game for you.”
His hands settles on your waist.
Warm. Steady.
The way he touches you—like it’s a right, not a question—makes your breath stutter. Not rough, not forceful, but sure. Like he’s done this in his mind a hundred times already and knows exactly where his hands belong.
“You looked good today,” he says, voice low near your ear. “In the stands. Thought about you the entire match.”
You try to twist to face him, but his other hand joins the first—both resting on your hips now, pulling you gently back into his chest.
“Harry—”
“Shh.” He presses a slow kiss to your neck. “Let me have this.”
Your eyes flutter closed.
“I won for you,” he murmurs, nose brushing your skin. “Every save, every goal—I didn’t give a damn about the cup. I just wanted to win so I could bring you back here.”
His fingers squeeze lightly at your hips, dragging you back until you feel the length of him, firm and unavoidable, against the curve of your ass. He makes no move to hide it. Doesn’t apologize.
“Wanted to see you like this,” he whispers, “shaky, nervous. Wondering what I’m going to do next.”
Your heart hammers so loud you’re sure he can hear it. Your mouth is dry.
“You don’t—” your voice catches. “You don’t sound very surprised.”
His smile, when he speaks again, curls against your skin. “That you came with me?” He kisses just below your ear. “No.”
Another kiss, lower now.
“That you haven’t tried to leave?” His hands skim under your shirt, dragging up slowly, reverently. “Definitely not.”
Your skin burns where he touches.
“And this—” he murmurs, his hands grazing the underside of your breasts, thumbs brushing just shy of anything indecent, “—this is what I’ve been thinking about.”
Your breath catches.
But he doesn’t push. Not really. Not yet.
He just holds you there, waiting.
Letting you realize: he’s not going to ask. He’s not going to confess.
He’s going to take his time.
you’re going to let him.
And his hands are anything but hesitant.
They glide beneath your shirt, calloused fingertips tracing the soft curves of your stomach, your ribs, the swell of your chest. He touches you like he’s mapping something sacred, like he’s been aching for this moment—starving—and he can’t decide where to linger.
You twist in his arms, turning to face him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer. Chest to chest, breath to breath. You’re trembling—just slightly—but it’s not fear. It’s anticipation. It’s finally.
“I’ve thought about you too,” you whisper, voice tight with something fragile and real. “A lot.”
His eyes drop to your mouth.
He doesn’t kiss you.
Instead, he murmurs, soft and maddeningly smug, “I know.”
Your brows lift, a spark of heat rising behind your cheeks.
But Harry just keeps his eyes on yours—deep green and knowing—and doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t need to.
His hands slide up your back, splayed wide, dragging you against him like he can’t stand the space between you. His mouth finds your jaw, then the column of your neck, open-mouthed kisses that are a little wetter, a little sloppier than before. He’s losing focus. Letting instinct guide him.
And Merlin—his hands. So greedy. They’re everywhere now.
Over your hips, slipping beneath the band of your jeans. Skimming up your back again, pushing under your bra strap. One hand cups the back of your neck while the other traces lower, over your ribs, your waist, gripping possessively like he needs proof you’re real.
You breathe his name. Just once. Quiet.
It wrecks him.
He groans softly—almost soundless—but the way his hands tighten says enough.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he confesses into your skin, breath warm. “You don’t know what you’ve done to me.”
And yet, still, he’s careful. Even now, even with all this want beneath his skin, he doesn’t rip your clothes off. He takes his time.
Because he’s wanted you for so long, and now that he finally has you… he’s going to savor every second.
You tilt your face up toward his, barely an inch of space between you.
He’s so close—too close—but not close enough. And for a second, just one suspended heartbeat, you hesitate.
It’s Harry.
Harry Potter. Your best friend. The boy who can’t keep his eyes off you lately. The boy who touches you like he knows what you need before you do. The boy who just told you—without telling you—that he’s thought about this for a long time.
So you do it.
You kiss him.
It’s soft at first—uncertain. Your lips brush his like a question. Not shy, but cautious. Testing.
But Harry answers without words.
He groans low in his throat and kisses you back like he’s been holding this in for years.
His hands are on your face now—thumb brushing your cheek, fingers tangled in your hair—and his mouth is suddenly everywhere. Kissing like it’s the only language he knows. Like he’s trying to make up for every second he didn’t have you.
He walks you backward, gently, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of his bed.
Then he pauses.
Just long enough to break the kiss and look at you. His eyes are wild—hungry—but his voice stays low and careful.
“This okay?”
You nod, breathless, shaky from nerves. “Yeah.”
And that’s all he needs.
His lips crash into yours again—hungrier now. His hands are under your shirt, pushing it up with greedy impatience. His body crowds yours, not rough but full of intent.
He kisses you like he knows what you sound like when you fall apart.
Because he does.
And you—you kiss him like you’re only just realizing it. Like it’s all finally clicking into place.
Like you don’t want him to stop.
He kisses you again before you can say anything else. This one is different. Rougher. Hungrier.
And then he’s touching you—hands diving beneath your clothes like they belong there, greedy and reverent at once. He peels your shirt up, breaks the kiss only long enough to tug it over your head and throw it aside without even glancing. His eyes? Fixed on you like he’s never seen anything more important.
Your bra’s next. Tossed somewhere near the shirt.
His fingers splay over your ribs, your sides, dragging over bare skin like he’s trying to memorize how you feel under his hands. He palms your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, watching the way your breath catches with something like awe and pride.
Then he groans—actually groans—when you tug at his shirt like you need it gone.
“Off,” you whisper, breathless.
He yanks it over his head in one motion, and Merlin—he’s gorgeous. You’ve seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never for you.
Harry moves quickly after that. His mouth finds your neck, trailing kisses lower, while his hands make quick work of your jeans. When they hit the floor, he doesn’t even bother looking where they land. Because now, his attention is locked.
He steps back just a little to take you in.
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice low and thick. “You’re even better than I imagined.”
Your heart pounds.
You open your mouth to ask, imagined?—but the look he gives you shuts the question down before it’s spoken.
He doesn’t want to explain.
And you don’t really want him to.
Because then he’s kissing you again, guiding you down onto the bed with a hand on your lower back, his body following yours. His hands never leave you. They slide down your thighs, around your hips, back up your spine. Like he can’t stand the idea of a single inch going untouched.
Then he’s between your legs, grinding against your soaked panties, breathing harshly into your neck.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he mutters, voice wrecked, like it hurts to keep this slow.
You arch into him, whispering his name. “Harry—”
He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, green burning into you.
“You want this?” he asks. One last check.
You nod—fast, certain. “Yes.”
And that’s it.
Harry slips his hand into your panties, and when he finds how wet you are—already—his control fractures. He swears under his breath and kisses you like it’s a reward. Fingers slipping inside you with practiced ease, like he knows exactly what you like. Like he’s touched you before.
Because, in a way—he has.
But you don’t know that.
Not yet.
Your back arches when Harry slides two fingers into you—slow, steady, purposeful. He watches the way your mouth parts, the quiet gasp you let out, the way your hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, breath fanning over your cheek. “Just like that.”
His voice—it’s warm, low, smug. Because he feels how wet you are. Because your body reacts to his like it’s instinct. Because you’re clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.
“You’re so warm,” he groans, lips brushing your jaw. “So fuckin’ wet for me already.”
You whimper, legs falling further apart, as his fingers begin to move in slow, curling strokes. Expert. Confident. Not fumbling or unsure like you’d expected. No—Harry knows exactly where to press, where to stroke, when to slow down, when to speed up. Like he’s been practicing.
And you’re too dazed to notice the slip of pride in his smile.
“Feels good?” he asks, soft and low, lips trailing down your throat.
You nod fast, nearly breathless. “Yes, oh my god, yes—”
He hums, pleased, and presses a kiss to your shoulder. His pace quickens just slightly, his palm pressing against your clit as his fingers work you open, and your hips jerk against him without thinking.
His voice is a whisper near your ear, thick with heat and satisfaction.
“My fingers feel better, don’t they?”
You moan—don’t even catch the words fully. You just nod. Frantic. Eyes squeezed shut as he fucks you open with careful, greedy precision.
And Harry? Harry’s beaming.
Not in a sweet-boyfriend way.
In a fuck yes I knew it kind of way. All slow smirks and possessive hands and the low, gravelled sound of your name in his throat.
You’re losing it in his lap, gasping his name like a prayer, and Harry’s watching you fall apart like he’s already memorized the whole process.
You gasp—loud, desperate—when he curls his fingers just right again.
“Harry—don’t stop, please, don’t—”
That does something to him. You feel the tension shift in his shoulders, feel the way his other hand tightens on your thigh like he’s trying not to lose control completely.
He looks at you—really looks at you—eyes dark and hungry and so full of something you can’t quite name.
And he smiles.
Not sweet.
Not innocent.
Triumphant.
“You like this that much?” he murmurs, fingers dragging slow, lazy strokes inside you. “Didn’t expect you to beg so quickly…”
Your face burns, but your hips are rolling against his hand, chasing the rhythm he keeps teasing you with.
He leans in, his breath hot against your cheek. “That’s it. Keep saying my name like that.”
“Harry,” you breathe again, and he groans—deep and wrecked like he’s the one losing it.
“You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he whispers, thumb brushing your clit in a slow circle that makes your thighs shake. “How many times I’ve imagined you like this.”
You whimper. Your hands fist in the back of his shirt, pulling him closer.
“You’re so perfect like this,” he says, almost to himself. His lips brush yours, not quite a kiss. “So soft. So needy.”
You try to kiss him but can barely keep your mouth on his—you’re too close, too sensitive, every nerve singing.
“C’mon, love,” he coaxes, voice thick and warm, fingers pressing harder, faster now. “You gonna come for me?”
You nod helplessly, crying out again, and he just grins.
“I know you are.”
And he doesn’t stop.
He keeps his fingers moving, keeps his thumb circling just right, and his free hand slides up your back, grounding you, keeping you close as your hips stutter and your mouth parts in a broken gasp—
And then you’re coming.
Hard.
Clinging to him.
Shaking.
Whimpering his name.
And Harry—Harry holds you through it like he’s meant to, kissing your cheek, whispering, “That’s it. That’s my girl. Just like that.”
And when you finally catch your breath, blinking up at him in a daze, he’s smiling down at you like he’s never wanted anything more than this.
Your breathing slows—just a bit. Muscles soft and trembling, body still buzzing as you slump forward against him. Harry lets you, one hand stroking lazily up and down your spine, the other resting just at the curve of your thigh. Possessive. Warm.
You’re still straddling him, flushed and dazed, and he’s still fully hard beneath you.
You shift a little. Feel it.
He huffs a quiet breath against your neck, and it sounds very much like a groan.
You smile, barely.
“Still wearing too many clothes,” you murmur, voice hoarse.
Harry laughs low, his nose nudging your jaw, lips pressing a kiss just under your ear. “I know.”
You sit back on his lap as he leans away, and it’s blatantly obvious just how hard he still is. His trousers do nothing to hide it, and you feel his cock twitch against you through the fabric.
He sees the way your gaze lingers. Sees the flush deepen on your cheeks. He smirks, a little crooked. A little cocky.
Then—slowly—he lifts his hips just enough to push his trousers down.
You bite your lip.
And Harry—bare now, flushed and leaking against his lower stomach—catches your reaction like it’s the best thing he’s seen all day.
“You staring?” he asks softly, hands sliding back up your thighs. He tugs you forward again, dragging you over his lap until your chest presses to his. “Not that I mind…”
Your fingers trail down his chest instinctively. He’s warm. Solid. His muscles jump under your touch.
“You’re very handsy,” you murmur.
He hums, not the least bit apologetic. “You’re soft. And warm. And very naked on top of me.”
His hands curve around your waist again, fingers splaying possessively. He pulls you in—hips rocking just enough for his cock to nudge where his fingers had just been.
You gasp, hips jerking slightly, and he grins against your skin.
“See?” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You’re not complaining.”
You don’t. You just sigh, melted against him, your hands threading through his hair as he holds you there, rocking against you—teasing, not quite in yet, but close.
“Still feel good?” he asks, breath hot on your cheek.
You nod slowly, lips brushing his jaw. “You feel perfect.”
And Harry?
Harry’s eyes flutter shut for half a second—like your words alone undid him.
“C’mon, love,” he says, voice low and needy now. “Let me have you.”
Harry shifts beneath you, hands curling around your hips, guiding you into place. His touch is still gentle—but his grip has that quiet, firm urgency.
And then he lines up.
You shiver.
Because there’s nothing rushed in how he does it. No frenzy, no frantic kiss—just the way his gaze drops between you, then slowly lifts to meet your eyes again. Like he’s memorizing the moment. Like he doesn’t quite believe it’s real.
And when he presses in?
Oh.
It’s slow. Deliberate. He draws a breath through his nose as he pushes deeper, every inch feeding that pressure between your hips.
You gasp—hands clutching at his shoulders as your body gives way to him, stretching, tightening, your thighs trembling.
He feels it.
Feels everything.
“Fuck,” he whispers. The word is quiet. Shaky. Almost reverent. “You feel—”
He doesn’t finish.
Doesn’t need to.
Because you do.
You cling to him, mouth falling open on a choked little sound, one hand fisting in the sheets as he bottoms out and stills.
“Harry,” you breathe. “You feel so—so good.”
His jaw tightens.
His hands stroke your sides, up your waist, then down again like he’s mapping you. Worshipping. Holding you there, full of him, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded.
“This what you wanted?” he murmurs, voice low and steady, his lips ghosting along your cheek. “All those little sounds I heard… all those nights?”
Your face burns—but you can’t even look away. He’s watching you too closely.
“I’ve thought about this,” he goes on. His voice is quieter now. Rougher. “Thought about having you like this. Watching your face while I fill you up.”
He draws his hips back.
Pushes back in.
You cry out—soft, broken.
And he does it again.
And again.
Slow. Deep. Dragging every inch, watching the way your eyes flutter, the way your lips part, the way your body grips him like you never want to let go.
“Wanted to take my time,” he breathes, pace just beginning to build, steady and deliberate. “Wanted to be sweet.”
You moan when he hits that spot again, and he groans—really groans this time, low and wrecked.
“But I’ve dreamed of throwing your legs over my shoulders,” he confesses, voice hot in your ear, “and fucking you senseless.”
You shudder.
Your fingers dig into his back.
“Do it,” you whisper.
He growls—quietly, but it’s there—and then you’re flat on your back, legs hiked up, and Harry’s over you, braced on one arm while the other grabs behind your knee, pushing it up just the way he imagined.
And then—
He starts to move.
Not fast. Not yet.
Just deep.
Measured.
Relentless.
You’re gasping with every thrust, back arching, mind spinning—and he’s watching you, absolutely drinking in the sight of you falling apart under him.
“Look at you,” he pants. “So good for me. So fucking perfect.”
You moan his name again, and Harry—he shudders, thrusts sharper, like he’s chasing the sound of it.
The pace shifts.
Subtle at first. Just a little more urgency in the drag of his hips, a little less space between thrusts. But it builds, and fast—until the rhythm turns heady and hard, the slap of skin on skin filling the room.
Harry groans—deep, broken—like he’s feeling every inch of you, every pulse, every clench. And you? You’re a mess beneath him.
Back arched.
Fingers clutching the sheets.
Mouth slack with gasps and soft, ruined sounds.
He watches you—drinks you in.
“Fuck—” he breathes, nearly choking on it, eyes locked to where your bodies meet. “You look—”
But he doesn’t finish.
He just thrusts deeper, harder, makes your body jolt with every push, like he needs to see you break again and again.
And you do.
He’s hitting so deep it burns in the best way—your breath catching, toes curling, hands scrabbling at his arms, his back, whatever you can reach. You’re whimpering his name now, over and over, and it only spurs him on.
He doesn’t say it, but it’s there—in the way he moves, the way he grips your thighs, the way his gaze devours you:
I’ve seen this before. Dreamed of it. Watched you.
But this?
This is better.
Real.
Because now he gets to hear the sounds up close. Feel you tremble under him. Watch your face crumple when he thrusts just right.
You’re gasping something—words lost in the haze—and Harry leans in, one hand braced by your head, the other gripping your hip, steadying you for the next push.
And the next.
And the next.
He’s breathing hard now, pink flush blooming across his cheeks, hair damp and wild. You look up at him and it’s all there—the hunger, the awe, the want that’s been eating him alive for weeks.
“You feel—” he bites it off, jaw clenched. “So fucking good.”
He means it. You can feel it in the way his hips stutter, in the way his voice slips near a groan.
Your legs shake around him. Your hands fist the sheets, and then—when it’s all too much—you clutch at his shoulders, like if you let go, you’ll unravel completely.
Harry catches that.
He smirks.
Just a flicker.
He leans down—folds you deeper—and with your legs pushed nearly to your chest, he drives in harder.
The angle? Devastating.
You sob his name this time.
“Yeah,” he rasps, lips brushing your jaw. “That’s it.”
He doesn’t stop.
Doesn’t slow.
He chases the sound of your pleasure like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered. His rhythm messy now, wild, hips snapping into you as if you’re the best thing he’s ever touched—and you are.
Your body tightens.
Everything coils.
You’re close—so close—and he knows.
He can feel it in the way your thighs shake, the way your moans catch and stutter and dissolve into broken gasps.
And he loves it.
Because this? This is his.
He earned this.
Your body’s already strung tight, pushed to the edge again and again by the rhythm of his hips and the low, filthy praises ghosting past his lips. You’re soaked, flushed, wrecked—so close you’re practically trembling.
And Harry? He’s obsessed.
He wants to see you break.
So he drops one hand from your waist and slips it between your bodies, fingers deft, practiced—like he’s done this a hundred times in his head.
Because he has.
The moment he circles your clit—just right—you jolt.
“Harry—”
“Shh,” he murmurs, eyes dark, glued to your face as you fall apart for him. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
And he does.
His fingers never stop, matching the quick, relentless snap of his hips. The dual stimulation is too much, overwhelming and perfect, your body arching, legs shaking, mouth falling open in a gasp that’s more soundless cry than word.
Harry watches it all unfold—utterly rapt.
The way your back bows, your fingers dig into his shoulders, your thighs quake around his waist. You cling to him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.
“That’s it,” he breathes, half-strangled, as your orgasm crashes through you.
You shatter.
Pleasure rips through your spine, hot and endless, and Harry keeps fucking you through it—his rhythm staggering now, ragged and urgent, because you’re pulsing around him and he’s so close it’s painful.
You whimper something—maybe his name, maybe a plea—and that’s all it takes.
Harry groans, deep and guttural, and buries himself to the hilt as he comes, stars blinking behind his eyes.
He stays there.
Breathing hard.
Forehead pressed to yours.
Still inside you.
⸻
The aftermath is quiet.
Soft.
You’re both breathless, skin slick, hearts racing in sync.
Harry barely moves—just shifts enough to cup your jaw, gaze flicking over your face like he’s trying to memorize everything.
His voice is hoarse when he finally speaks.
“You alright?”
You nod. Still floating.
He huffs a shaky laugh, brushing your hair back.
“You’re… unreal.”
You smile, still dazed, and curl closer. His arms go around you automatically, tugging you flush against him.
You can feel the steady beat of his heart.
He presses a kiss to your shoulder. Another to your neck.
His voice is soft—softer than you’ve ever heard it.
“Been thinking about you for so long.”
He doesn’t elaborate.
Doesn’t explain.
But the weight of it settles between your ribs, warm and heady.
You nuzzle in, fingers tangling in the short curls at the base of his neck, and Harry sighs.
Content.
You’re still wrapped around each other, bare skin against bare skin, when you both drift into that quiet, hazy calm.
Your limbs are heavy and boneless, tangled with his as the haze of it all begins to settle. Harry’s still inside you, still holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip. He noses at your cheek, breath catching a little when you nuzzle into him like you belong there.
The silence is warm. Safe. Until you break it with a soft, breathless laugh.
“I’ve thought about this,” you murmur, fingertips ghosting along his spine. “About you.”
Harry stills. Not in fear—he’s listening. Hanging on every word.
“I mean,” you amend, a little shy now, “I’ve… thought about you like this. A lot.”
He pulls back slightly, just enough to see your face, and that boyish grin you know all too well starts to bloom.
“I know.”
You blink.
“What?”
His eyes go a little wide, like he’s only just registered what he said. “I meant—me too. I meant me too,” he rushes out, cheeks going pink, voice cracking with the sheer panic of it.
You stare at him for a beat, brows slightly furrowed… then snort.
“Your brain’s scrambled.”
Harry exhales hard through a laugh, presses his forehead to yours. “You have no idea.”
You hum, brushing your nose against his. “You’re not gonna disappear on me now, are you?”
His answer is immediate. “Not a chance.”
You curl tighter into him, tucking your head into the space beneath his chin. He wraps his arms around you, greedy even in the softness of the moment. You drift off like that, just lie there, letting everything settle.
And Harry?
He closes his eyes, smile faint and smug and hidden in your hair, like he hasn’t just gotten everything he’s ever wanted.
You'll never find out about his dirty little secret.
.⋆♱ summary: After a long week of work, all Joel wants is to relax in the arms of his sweet little wife. At least until you give him a haul of your new makeup purchases, and one small product stirs up trouble because of its name.
.⋆♱ a/n: This idea was born while I was going through my Sephora cart… So, yeah, that’s my excuse! By the way, I can’t believe I’ve already reached 238 followers... I’m gonna cry. This one is for my baby @pattwtf <𝟑 .ᐟ
.⋆♱ warnings: Smut at the very end, Obsessive! Joel (kinda…?), Soft Dom/Sub Elements, Makeup Kink, Mirror Sex, Repeated Orgasm Denial, Spanking, Pussy Slapping, Hand on Throat, Unprotected Sex, Creampie… And a lot of love! First time writing a complete sex scene btw (I'm scared)
.⋆♱ wc: 15.230 k
Friday had a way of loosening men up in all the worst ways.
By noon, the air smelled like cut lumber, diesel, sweat, and sawdust, the kind of smell that clung to skin long after the day was over. Hammers rang out in uneven bursts, a nail gun snapped somewhere near the back, and country music crackled low from a radio somebody had balanced on an upside down bucket by the porch steps.
Joel stood near the stack of framing lumber with a pencil tucked behind one ear and a tape measure hanging from his belt, scanning over the plans in his hand with the kind of focus that made most men think twice before interrupting him.
“Hey, I’m just sayin’,” one of the younger guys called from the far side of the site, loud enough for half the crew to hear. “If I’m takin’ her somewhere expensive, least she can do is not make me sit in the damn car for forty-five minutes waitin’ on her.”
A couple of snorts of laughter answered him.
Joel didn’t look up right away. He kept his eyes on the plans, jaw set, trying to decide whether the floor joists were gonna be a bigger problem than the mouths on his crew.
“She ain’t even late in a normal way,” another guy said, dragging a gloved hand across his forehead. “Nah, it’s always some little emergency. ‘Babe, I gotta redo my eyeliner.’ ‘Babe, I don’t like my hair.’” He pitched his voice higher in a cruel imitation. “I’m starvin’ by the time we leave the house.”
That got more laughter.
Tommy, who was up on the temporary decking checking measurements, sighed loud enough for Joel to hear. “Here we go.”
Joel still didn’t say anything.
He should have. He knew that. He knew the shape of this kind of conversation and exactly where it usually went. But sometimes, if you cut in too early, it only encourages idiots to perform for each other. Men like that got louder when they thought they had an audience.
“Mine puts on lipstick to go buy milk,” another one said. “Milk. From the damn grocery store. I told her, sweetheart, the dairy aisle is gonna fall in love with you.”
The laugh that followed was uglier than the last one.
Joel’s eyes lifted.
He knew these boys. That was the thing. Boys, most of them. Old enough to swing a hammer, young enough to still mistake being dismissive for being funny. He’d worked with all kinds over the years: good workers, lazy workers, drunks, hotheads, quiet ones, fools. The loudest were usually the least sure of themselves. Had to fill the air with something before anybody noticed there wasn’t much beneath it.
Still, that didn’t mean he had to listen to it.
“Hell,” the first one went on, encouraged now, “I don’t even get it. They complain they ain’t got enough time, then they spend two damn hours in the bathroom paintin’ themselves like they’re headed to some red carpet thing.”
Joel folded the plans once.
Another voice chimed in. “And then you gotta tell ’em they look pretty like you ain’t been lookin’ at the same face for three years.”
Tommy winced and muttered, “Jesus Christ.”
That was enough.
Joel started walking before he even fully decided to. He stopped a few feet from the group gathered around the sawhorses—three of the younger subcontractors and one laborer with more confidence than sense—and looked at each of them in turn.
Nobody spoke.
Joel nodded once. “Y’all done?”
The guy in the baseball cap gave a half shrug, half grin that died fast under Joel’s stare. “We’re just talkin’, man.”
Joel’s face didn’t change. “Ain’t what I asked.”
Silence.
He slipped the folded plans under one arm. “I said, are y’all done.”
“Yeah,” one of them muttered.
Joel took another step closer. “Then maybe y’all can get back to work and quit runnin’ your mouths long enough to remember I’m payin’ you to build a house, not stand around bitchin’ about women who apparently still choose to go home with you.”
Tommy turned away, rubbing a hand over his mouth to hide a grin.
One of the younger guys, John maybe, ducked his head. “We were kiddin’.”
Joel fixed him with a look. “That so?”
“Yes, sir.”
Joel hated being called sir. Normally he’d say so. Right now he let it stand.
He hooked his thumbs through his belt and looked between them. “Tell me somethin’. You got a woman at home who takes time gettin’ ready to go out with you, and your first thought is to complain?”
Nobody answered.
“That woman picked out a dress, did her hair, stood in front of a mirror decidin’ she wanted to look nice, and you somehow made that an inconvenience to you.” His voice stayed level, but the disappointment in it landed harder than if he’d shouted. “That what we’re doin’ now?”
The laborer with the red bandana shifted on his feet. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
Joel’s eyes cut to him. “That’s usually when a man oughta think a little harder about what’s comin’ outta his mouth.”
Tommy climbed down from the decking, landing beside them with a thud. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t need to. He knew Joel well enough to hear the line in his voice that meant this wasn’t just irritation anymore.
Joel went on, “You wanna know what I hear?” He tapped two fingers against the rolled plans. “I hear a bunch of fools complainin’ that somebody gives enough of a damn to wanna look good standin’ next to ’em.”
That got their attention.
One of them tried to laugh it off. “It ain’t that deep, Joel.”
Joel turned his head slowly. “No?”
“No, I just mean—”
“I know what you mean.” He took a breath through his nose. “You mean you’re too young and too selfish to understand that not everything a woman does is for your convenience.”
The site has gone quiet now.
Even the men who hadn’t been part of the conversation were listening, pretending not to.
Joel looked down at the open toolbox on the sawhorse, then back at them. “Some of you got girlfriends. Some of you got wives. And near as I can tell, not one of you sounds near grateful enough for the women keepin’ your lives stitched together when you go home actin’ like this.”
Nobody met his eyes.
“Maybe she takes too long in the bathroom,” Joel said. “Maybe she changes clothes three times before dinner because she wants to feel pretty. That ain’t foolishness. That ain’t vanity. That’s her wantin’ to feel good in her own skin, and if your reaction to that is to stand around mockin’ her with other men, then you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.”
Caleb swallowed. “We weren’t mockin’ them.”
Joel gave him a look so dry it bordered on pity. “Son, if you’re gonna lie, at least do it convincingly.”
Tommy barked a laugh and turned it into a cough.
A few of the older workers smirked into their sleeves.
Joel kept going, because now that he’d started, he knew exactly what was bothering him. It wasn’t just the words. It was the casualness of them. The way men could take something tender and make it small just because they didn’t know how to hold it properly.
“My wife,” he said, and that alone changed the air, made everybody listen closer, “can take as long as she damn well pleases gettin’ ready for anything she wants. Grocery store. Dinner. A walk down the block. I don’t care if she’s puttin’ on lipstick to sit in the livin’ room and watch television. If it matters to her, it matters. End of story.”
That landed.
Because when Joel spoke about you didn’t sound like a man making a point for the sake of winning. He sounded like a man stating a universal truth.
The laborer scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, but women don’t do all that for us anyway.”
Joel’s brow lifted. “Well, congratulations. That’s the first smart thing anybody’s said in five minutes.”
A few snickers broke the tension.
Joel didn’t smile. “No, they don’t do it all for you. That’s exactly the point. Maybe she does some of it for herself. Maybe it’s fun. Maybe it makes her feel confident. Maybe it’s the one damn thing in a day that’s just hers. And maybe instead of complainin’, you oughta learn enough respect to keep your mouth shut and tell her she looks beautiful.”
The man in the cap looked down at his boots. “Alright.”
Joel’s expression hardened. “That ‘alright’ better means somethin’.”
“It does.”
“Good.” He glanced between all of them. “Now pick up your tools and get back to work. We’re behind, and I’ve had about enough of hearin’ how burdensome it is that women continue to exist as full human beings.”
That actually got a real laugh, even from a couple of the guilty ones, though they had the decency to look embarrassed about it.
Joel let the silence sit a beat longer, then pointed at the framing on the east wall. “John, if you’ve got enough energy to complain, you’ve got enough to finish bracin’ that corner.”
“Yes, sir.”
Joel’s stare sharpened.
Caleb sighed. “Yes, Joel.”
“Better.”
The group broke apart at last, muttering to each other in lower voices now, heads down, hands moving quicker than before. Tommy stepped up beside Joel and watched them scatter back into usefulness.
For a second neither brother said anything.
Then Tommy glanced at him. “You feel better?”
Joel bent to grab the level off the sawhorse. “Not especially.”
Tommy’s mouth twitched. “You know they’re all scared of you now.”
“They oughta be scared of bein’ stupid in public.”
Tommy laughed under his breath. “That speech about your wife?” He nudged Joel with an elbow. “Bit dramatic.”
Joel shot him a look. “Wasn’t dramatic.”
“No?” Tommy grinned.
Joel set the level against the brace and adjusted it with one hand. “You got somethin’ useful to do, or you plannin’ on botherin’ me the rest of the afternoon?”
Tommy leaned against a stud, folding his arms. “I am doin’ somethin’ useful. I’m watchin’ you pretend that wasn’t personal.”
Joel didn’t bother looking at him. “Go measure somethin’.”
Tommy ignored that completely. “You thought about her, didn’t you?”
Joel checked the bubble on the level, shifted the brace half an inch. “I’m workin’.”
Tommy rocked back on his heels, pleased with himself now. “So when those idiots were yappin’ about women takin’ forever in the bathroom, you were thinkin’ about her sittin’ at the mirror?”
Joel let out a quiet breath and straightened. He should’ve known better than to engage. Tommy had the kind of nosiness only a younger brother could get away with, half affection and half appetite for trouble.
Joel grabbed the drill. “Tommy.”
His brother laughed. “Alright, alright.”
But he didn’t move away yet, and after a moment he said, softer this time, “You know, you were right.”
Joel glanced up and Tommy shrugged one shoulder.
Joel shook his head, but there was no real heat in it now. “You’re annoyin’.”
“Runs in the family.”
Joel drove the screw in with more force than necessary. “Go to hell.”
Tommy laughed and pushed off the wall at last. “Can’t. I work for my brother.”
Joel watched him go, then looked back out across the site.
Work picked up again in the wake of the interruption. The radio came back into focus. Men shouted measurements, wood scraped against wood, someone swore after dropping a box of nails. The day moved on the way it always did, one task into the next, one hour bleeding into another until the sun shifted.
But Tommy was right.
Of course he’d thought about you.
He had the moment those boys started talking.
He could picture you too easily.
Standing in the bathroom in one of his old shirts, hair pinned back, leaning close to the mirror with that concentrated little crease between your brows. Sitting at your vanity—your vanity, the one he’d built with his own hands after seeing your face fall when the one you wanted sold out before he could order it—surrounded by brushes and powders and little bottles that all looked nearly identical to him and yet somehow never were. Looking over your shoulder to ask him which earring. Holding up two lipsticks and asking if one looked too dark. Smiling when he got the answer wrong but tried anyway.
He never mocked any of it. Never would.
Half the time he didn’t understand what half those products were for, but that had never seemed like a reason to dismiss them. They mattered because they were yours. Because they brought something bright into your face. Because he had learned, over the course of loving you, that attention was a kind of devotion all its own.
That was the part those boys didn’t get.
Loving somebody meant noticing. It meant learning the shape of their rituals, even the ones that didn’t belong to you. It meant understanding that intimacy wasn’t just the big things like the hospital visits, funerals, marriage vows, bad nights or worse mornings.
Sometimes it was remembering the exact height she liked a table because she tended to hunch if it sat too low. Sometimes it was sanding the edge of a drawer three extra times so it wouldn’t catch on her dress. Sometimes it was building something beautiful out of wood and patience because she had looked disappointed for all of two seconds and that had been enough to undo him.
Joel drove another screw into place and exhaled slowly.
He hadn’t meant to build the vanity quite as elaborate as he did.
At first, he’d only intended to make something simple. Clean lines, sturdy legs, decent storage. Then he’d remembered the way your face had lit up describing the one you’d wanted, the little details you liked, the mirror shape, the drawers, the finish. By the end of it, he’d spent nearly three weeks in the garage after work, pretending he wasn’t enjoying himself every time you wandered in and tried to peek beneath the tarp he kept throwing over it.
When he finally brought it inside, you’d looked at him like he’d hung the moon in the bedroom with his bare hands.
That expression had stayed with him. It still did.
“Joel!”
He turned at the shout.
One of the crew was waving him over near the back of the house. Something about the window framing looked off. He tucked the level under his arm and headed that way, slipping back into the rhythm of the job because there was always another problem to solve, another correction to make, another young man to stop from ruining good lumber with bad math.
The afternoon wore down by inches, the light changed and the heat eased. By the time they started packing up, Joel’s shirt was stuck to his back, his shoulders ached, and there was sawdust worked so deep into the lines of his hands it would take a brush to get it out.
He signed off on the delivery order for Monday, checked the lock on the storage trailer, and made sure the site was squared away before anybody left. Tommy came up beside him with a clipboard tucked under one arm and a half finished bottle of water in the other.
Tommy studied him for a moment. “You tell her about this?”
Joel frowned. “About what.”
“The little feminist awakening you had in front of the crew.”
Joel shot him a flat look. “That what you’re callin’ it?”
Tommy grinned. “I’m callin’ it funny as hell. And yeah. You should tell her. She’ll eat that up.”
Joel shook his head and started toward his truck. Tommy followed for a few steps before peeling off toward his own, still smiling to himself like he’d been handed some private joke he planned on keeping.
Joel climbed into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and let the quiet settle around him for a second. He dropped his head back against the seat and closed his eyes just long enough to feel the day in his bones. Then he started the engine and pulled out onto the road.
The drive home wasn’t long, but it was long enough for his thoughts to drift where they usually did at the end of the week.
To you.
Maybe you’d be on the couch with a blanket over your legs and an episode of the Gilmore Girls half watched because you’d been waiting for the sound of his truck.
God, he could picture it so clearly it almost made his chest ache.
He thought, not for the first time that day, that the men back on that site had no idea how lucky they were if there was somebody waiting for them at all. They have no idea what a privilege it was to be known that intimately by another person. To have your favorite plate set out before you asked. To be greeted by the sound of their voice from the next room.
Joel flexed one hand on the steering wheel.
He thought of you in front of a mirror again.
Of your careful hands. Your patience. The little pleasure you took in things most men would dismiss because they had never learned how to look properly. He thought of how easy it was, in a world this ugly, to sneer at softness just because you didn’t know what to do with it.
He also thought, with a private heaviness he never quite voiced, of how much of your life lived in those little rituals. The tender ordinary things. The things he catalogued without meaning to. The products lined up on the vanity. The order you used them in. The brushes you reached for first. The colors you favored when you were happy, or when you were quiet, or when you wanted him to notice.
Joel always noticed.
And somewhere deep beneath that noticing lived the old anxiety he carried like a second spine, the one that made him prepare for loss even in the middle of joy. It came uninvited, as it always did, whispering its ugly what ifs into the back of his mind. What if one day you were too tired. What if one day your hands hurt. What if one day life turned cruel in some new and inventive way and you couldn’t do these things for yourself anymore.
He hated those thoughts. Hated the shape of them. Hated that fear had taught his mind to brace for impact even when nothing was wrong.
But still he learned.
The names of things. The purpose of things. The order of them. Not because he expected praise for it, and not because he ever intended to say any of this aloud. Only because if the world ever tried to take some small comfort from you, Joel wanted his hands ready, wanted to know enough to step in gently and give it back.
His throat tightened a little, and he swallowed it down.
By the time he turned onto your street, the sun was lower, the sky softening into streaks of amber and pale blue. Home came into view steady and familiar, porch light not yet on, the windows warm with the first signs of evening.
Joel eased the truck into the driveway and killed the engine.
For a second he stayed where he was, one hand still on the wheel, looking at the house like he did every now and then when the day had been long enough to make him feel the full weight of what waited inside it.
His true home.
Then he got out, shut the truck door, and headed for the front porch with sawdust on his boots, tiredness in his shoulders, and the faintest trace of a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth for no reason other than the simple fact that he was almost home.
You.
He pushed the front door open with one hand, already loosening up a little at the simple fact of stepping inside, and was met at once by warmth, soft lamplight, and the unmistakable smell of something good waiting in the kitchen. Then, Joel set his keys in the bowl by the door and shrugged out of his jacket.
“Honey?” he called, voice carrying low through the quiet.
“In here!”
Something in your tone made him pause.
A kind of carefully held excitement you were trying, and failing, to disguise as casual. Joel’s mouth pulled almost into a smile before he even saw you. He followed your voice into the kitchen and found you standing near the stove.
There you are, he thought, with that immediate, quiet hit of relief he never quite got used to.
You turned when he appeared in the doorway, and your face lit in a way that still undid him a little, no matter how many times he came home to it. “Hi.”
Joel leaned one shoulder against the frame for a second, just looking at you. “Hi, baby.”
He heard the roughness in his own voice and saw the way your eyes softened at it.
You crossed to him without hesitation, and he opened an arm automatically, catching you against him with all the ease of a long habit. Your hands slid around his middle carefully, as though you knew exactly where the day tended to settle in him, and his palm spread over your back. He bent to kiss the top of your head first, breathing you in, then your temple, then finally your mouth, the kind of kiss that means that he was finally at home now, and home meant you.
“You smell good,” you murmured against his mouth.
Joel huffed a tired laugh. “Smell like sawdust.”
“But it's sexy,” you said, pulling back just enough to look at him.
That did make him smile. His thumb brushed once at your waist. “That so?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
He let his gaze move over your face, lingering a beat too long because something about you felt gently charged tonight.“You been waitin’ on me?”
You widened your eyes with exaggerated innocence. “Maybe.”
Joel studied you. “That look usually means you’re hidin’ somethin’.”
You gasped softly. “I’m offended.”
“No, you ain’t.”
You tried not to grin and failed. Joel watched the smile break across your face and had the strange, familiar thought that if he died tomorrow, this would be the shape of heaven in his head. You in the kitchen, looking pleased with yourself. The light warm on your skin. The house quiet around you both. Something cooking. The weekend beginning at the edges of the room like a blessing neither of you had earned but both of you needed.
He brushed his knuckles along your cheek. “What’s for dinner?”
Your whole expression brightened. “Sit down and I’ll show you.”
That got a low chuckle out of him. “Bossy.”
“Just tonight.”
“That’d be a first.”
You swatted lightly at his arm, laughing, and he caught your wrist before you could move away, tugging you in just enough to kiss you once more, this time with a little more intent, enough to make your breath catch and your fingers curl against his shirt. Then he let you go before either of you leaned too far into it, because there was still dinner on the stove and because he knew that if he stood there kissing you too long after a week like this one, he might never make it to the table.
He washed up at the sink while you moved around the kitchen putting the last things together, and Joel watched you in the window reflection while the water ran over his hands. You kept glancing at him like you had something else to say. Something you were sitting on. He knew you well enough to spot the tells now; the little smile you bit back for no reason, the extra care you took with the plates, the way your body seemed almost too still whenever you were trying not to blurt something out too soon.
“You gonna tell me what’s got you lookin’ like that?” he asked, drying his hands on the dish towel.
You set a plate down. “Like what?”
“Like you’re about two seconds from spoilin’ your own surprise.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Joel pulled out his chair and sat, eyes never leaving you. “Baby.”
You laughed, soft and guilty, and finally brought the plates over. “Fine. Maybe I’m just happy it’s Friday.”
He accepted that with a slight tilt of his head, though they both knew that wasn’t all of it. “That much, I believe.”
Joel took the first bite of the tender meat you've cooked for him and closed his eyes for half a second before he meant to.
You noticed, of course.
“That good?” you asked, trying not to sound too pleased.
He opened his eyes and looked at you over the table. “You fishin’?”
“Yes.”
Joel leaned back slightly in his chair, chewing, making a deliberate show of considering it. “Might be the best thing I’ve eaten all week.”
You laughed, and the sound of it loosened something in him he hadn’t realized was still tight.
That was the thing about Friday nights with you. The workweek wore him down and you gathered him back together. Not all at once. Just piece by piece. A hot meal. Your voice across the table. Your foot brushing his under it. The look on your face when he reached for a second helping like he hadn’t spent the whole drive home pretending he wasn’t hungry.
He told you a little about work. Not too much. Just enough for you to follow the shape of his day. A delivery that came late. A measurement that had to be redone because somebody hadn’t listened the first time. Tommy nearly stepping backward off the decking because he’d turned around too fast while arguing with one of the electricians.
You laughed at that. “Was he hurt?”
“No.”
“Then I can laugh.”
“You already were.”
“I know.”
Joel watched you talk, watched your hands move when you got animated, watched the way you leaned in when you were interested in something he’d said as though there might still be new things to learn about him after all this time. It made something warm and almost painful spread low in his chest. He’d never been very good at making speeches about love. But if anybody had asked him where most of his peace lived, he would’ve had to point right here. To this table. To your voice. To your company at the end of the day.
At some point your foot slid against his calf beneath the table and stayed there.
Joel’s eyes flicked up.
You were smiling down at your plate, pretending not to notice what you’d done.
His mouth twitched. “You bein’ sweet, or are you up to somethin’?”
You looked up, all innocence again. “Can’t it be both?”
He held your gaze for a beat, then reached for his glass. “That answer concerns me.”
“It should.”
He laughed under his breath.
When the plates were nearly empty you rose to clear the table but when Joel started to stand with you out of instinct, you pointed at him.
“Sit.”
He blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I mean it. You worked all day. Sit there.”
Joel settled back slowly, one brow raised. “You order me around awfully easy for somebody this small.”
You gathered up the dishes with a smile. “And yet you listen.”
“Sometimes.”
“Most times.”
He gave you a dry look. “Don’t push it.”
You disappeared into the kitchen with the plates, and he sat there listening to the music of you moving around… water running, cabinets opening, cutlery clinking softly against ceramic. Domestics sounds. He loved them with a ferocity he kept mostly to himself.
When you came back, you weren’t empty handed.
Joel’s eyes dropped to the plate you set in front of him, and he went still for half a second.
Not just any pie. Apple pie. His favorite. Still slightly warm, the crust golden, the scent of cinnamon and butter rising up before it had even properly touched the table.
You folded back into your seat trying and failing to look casual. “There’s ice cream too, if you want it.”
Joel looked from the plate to you. “You made pie?”
Your expression softened. “I did.”
“For me.”
The corners of your mouth lifted. “Well, I don’t know many people who get this emotional about apple pie, so yes. For you.”
Something in his face must have shifted, because your own expression gentled further.
Joel glanced back down at the dessert and let out a quiet breath through his nose, almost a laugh, almost not. “Christ.”
“What?”
He looked at you again. “Nothin’.” His voice came out lower than before. “Just… thank you, baby.”
You leaned your chin into your hand. “You’re welcome.”
He took a bite, closed his eyes and opened them again. “That’s real good.”
Your smile went luminous. “Yeah?”
“Mm.” Another bite. “Dangerously good.”
You watched him with such open fondness it made him shake his head a little and look back at the plate, because being adored that plainly still makes him blush some days.
“There’s more,” you said after a moment, like you couldn’t possibly hold it in any longer.
Joel looked up, chewing slowly. “More pie?”
You laughed. “No. Although yes, there’s more pie. But that’s not what I meant.”
He set his fork down. “Alright. Go on.”
Your eyes brightened immediately. “I restocked everything.”
He frowned mildly, trying to follow. “Everything.”
“For the weekend.” You started counting off on your fingers. “Coffee. The good kind you like.”
Joel felt an involuntary little stab of gratitude so strong it was almost ridiculous. “You got coffee.”
“I got coffee,” you confirmed. “And beer.”
His brow lifted. “Beer too, huh?”
“And your barbecue chips. And the pretzels you pretend you don’t like that much but somehow always eat. And those peanuts Tommy keeps stealing every time he comes over.”
Joel stared at you for a second, then leaned back in his chair with a quiet exhale, one hand coming up to scrub over his beard. “You’ve been busy.”
Your face softened into something tender. “I wanted you to have a nice weekend.”
There it was again, that precise, deadly thing you did to him without even trying. You said simple sentences that landed somewhere deep because they carried more than the words themselves. I wanted you to have a nice weekend. As if his comfort was something worth planning for. As if the shape of his rest mattered enough for you to think ahead about coffee and snacks and the exact beer he reached for first.
Joel looked at you for a long moment. Then he said, quieter, “C’mere.”
You got up at once and crossed the space between you, and he drew you gently between his knees, one hand settling at your hip while the other curved around the back of your thigh. He tipped his head back to look at you properly. Your hair had fallen forward a little, your expression open and sweet and expectant, and the simple sight of you there, taking such obvious pleasure in taking care of him, nearly undid him.
“You didn’t have to do all that,” he said.
“I know.”
His thumb rubbed once over the fabric at your side. “Then why’d you?”
You looked at him like the answer was the easiest thing in the world. “Because I love you.”
Joel’s throat moved.
He knew better than most men how dangerous those words could be when spoken carelessly. How people used them as decoration. As habit. As currency. But you never did. When you said them, you meant them all the way through.
He rested his forehead briefly against your stomach and let the quiet sit. Then he leaned back enough to press a kiss there through your shirt, right above your navel, and felt the little shiver that ran through you.
“You keep this up,” he murmured, “I’m gonna start thinkin’ again that you’re after somethin’.”
You smiled down at him, fingers slipping into his hair. “Maybe I just missed you.”
That, too, he believed.
Joel turned his face and pressed another kiss to the heel of your palm before letting you go. “Alright,” he said, clearing his throat a little as you stepped back. “Now I’m definitely suspicious.”
You laughed, gathered the pie plate, and turned away before he could see too much of whatever was passing over your face. Joel watched you go, watched the sway of your body as you moved around the kitchen, watched the little lightness in you that had only grown since he came through the door.
He knew now with certainty that you had something planned, he just didn’t yet know what shape it would take.
Once everything was cleaned up and the kitchen restored to order, the evening softened around the two of you. Joel checked the locks out of habit, turned off the extra lights, and came back to find you already collecting his towel from the linen closet before he could ask for it. He took it from your hands with a low, amused noise.
“Baby, I can get my own towel.”
“I know you can.”
“Then why am I bein’ supervised?”
You stepped closer and smoothed a hand over the front of his work shirt, over the dust and wrinkles and the tiredness still hanging off him. “Because you’ve had a long week.”
Joel looked down at you. “And?”
“And because I like taking care of you.”
His expression shifted into something softer, more serious. “I know you do.”
You held his gaze for a moment too long, and once again that same curious charge moved through the room. Not enough to name yet. Just enough to feel.
Joel tipped your chin up with two fingers and kissed you slowly, until your body leaned into his and the hem of his shirt bunched a little in your fists. When he pulled back, he lingered close enough that your breath still crossed his mouth.
“I’m gonna shower,” he said.
You nodded. “Okay.”
He narrowed his eyes slightly. “You say that like you’re plannin’ somethin’ while I’m gone.”
You widened your eyes. “Maybe I’m just going to… fold laundry.”
Joel let out a short laugh. “That lie was insultin’.”
“Go shower, Miller.”
The way you said it, bossy and faintly pleased with yourself, made him shake his head as he turned toward the hallway. “Yes, ma’am.”
He heard your little triumphant laugh behind him all the way to the bathroom.
The shower was hot enough to ache pleasantly over his sore body. Joel stood under it longer than usual, one hand braced on the tile, letting the day rinse off him in layers. The dust fell away first, then sweat, then whatever lingering irritation had stayed with him from the workplace. By the time he stepped out, the mirror had fogged over, and the house beyond the bathroom door had gone quiet in that particular evening way that meant you were no longer puttering around downstairs.
He dried off, wrapped the towel low around his waist, and dragged one hand through his damp hair before stepping into the bedroom.
And stopped.
You were waiting for him.
Not in bed, not curled up under the covers with a Jane Austen book or half asleep with the lamp on. You were seated at the bedroom vanity with your back mostly to the door, posture straight, legs crossed at the ankle, like you’d been there long enough to settle into the moment. The vanity itself caught the warm glow from the bedside lamp making you look almost ethereal. He looked at the whole scene at once and felt something inside him go very still.
You’d changed into a nightgown while he was in the shower, your hair arranged just so, your expression reflected in the mirror as you looked at him through it with a smile too small to be innocent.
Joel stayed by the bathroom door for a second, towel slung low, water still cooling on his shoulders. “There it is.”
You turned slightly in the chair. “There what is?”
“The surprise.”
You tried to look confused. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He huffed a laugh, already moving toward the bed. “Sure you don’t.”
Joel sat down at the edge of the mattress, elbows resting loosely on his knees for a second as he took you in. Then his gaze dropped to the box in your lap—black and white stripes, tissue paper peeking out the top—and his mouth twitched.
“Sephora,” he said.
Your face brightened at once. “I went today.”
“I can see that.”
“You said I should get myself something nice.”
“I did.”
“And I listened.”
That made him smile properly now. “I’m learnin’ that can be dangerous.”
You angled the box toward yourself protectively. “No take backs now, Miller.”
“Ain’t askin’ for any.”
He leaned back slightly, one hand braced on the bedspread, and watched as your fingers slipped beneath the tissue paper with excitement. He recognized that look on you too. The one that made you seem younger and softer all at once.
You glanced at him over your shoulder. “Do you want to see?”
Joel’s eyes moved from your face to the box and back again. “Baby, you know I got no earthly clue what half that stuff is.”
“I know,” you said sweetly. “That’s why I’m going to explain it to you.”
He laughed under his breath and settled in, already knowing he was done for. “Alright, then.”
And because it was you asking, because it mattered to you, because he loved the sound of your voice when you got excited about something, Joel gave you his full attention.You shifted in the chair until you were facing him a little more fully, one leg tucking beneath you, the Sephora box still balanced carefully in your lap like something precious. Joel stayed where he was at the edge of the bed, damp hair curling slightly at the ends, towel slung low around his waist, watching you with attention.
You dipped a hand into the box and pulled out the first item. “Okay. We’re starting easy.”
Joel’s mouth twitched. “That suggests we ain’t stayin’ easy.”
“We are not.”
He nodded once, resigned already. “Go on, then.”
You held up a sleek bottle. “This is primer.”
Joel frowned faintly. “Primer.”
“Yes.”
He leaned forward slightly, forearms braced on his thighs. “Like paint.”
You stared at him for a beat, then sighed. “I knew you were going to say that.”
“Well, it’s called primer.”
“It is not a paint primer.”
Joel tipped his head. “How do I know that?”
“Because this one costs thirty eight dollars and if I ever put it on a wall, you’d have me committed.”
That earned a low laugh out of him.
He reached for the bottle, and you handed it over. Joel turned it in his hand, studying the label with the seriousness of a man trying very hard not to look like he was reading another language. “So what’s it do?”
“It goes on before makeup.”
“Hence the name.”
You squinted at him. “You can either be respectful during my presentation, or I can pack everything up and go to bed.”
“Presentation?” he repeated, eyes warm now. “Baby, are you givin’ me a seminar?”
“Yes.” You folded your arms. “And if you’re lucky there’ll be a practical demonstration.”
Joel’s gaze flickered over your face for half a second, before he handed the bottle back. “Now that sounds promisin’.”
You ignored the way your stomach fluttered and went on. “Primer makes everything sit better on the skin. It helps smooth things out, helps makeup last longer, and sometimes it gives you a certain finish.”
He blinked. “A finish.”
“Yes. Glowy. Matte. Blurring. Hydrating.”
Joel was quiet for a second. “That all different from just… face?”
You laughed. “Yes, Joel, that is different from just face.”
He gave a solemn nod. “Alright. Good to know.”
You placed the primer on the vanity and reached into the box again. “Next: concealer.”
Joel watched the little tube appear in your hand. “Lemme guess. Covers somethin’.”
You pointed at him. “See? This is good. You’re learning.”
He leaned back a little, smug enough to annoy you. “I ain’t dumb, darlin’.”
“I didn’t say you were dumb.”
“Your tone did.”
“My tone is educational.”
“That so?”
“Yes.”
Joel’s smile deepened, but he let you continue.
“Concealer can be for dark circles, redness, blemishes, whatever.”
His brow furrowed almost immediately. “You don’t have any of those things on your pretty face, baby.”
You stared at him, then softened a little despite yourself. “That’s sweet, but that’s not the point.”
He looked genuinely unconvinced. “Seems like the point exactly.”
“No.” You set the concealer down with a small huff. “The point is not fixing some horrible flaw. It’s just… enhancement. Evening things out. Playing around. Feeling put together.”
Joel nodded slowly, eyes still on your face. “Alright.”
You narrowed yours. “You still look like you disagree.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I can disagree privately.”
“You are not disagreeing privately. Your whole face is disagreeing.”
A laugh escaped him then. “You know my face too well.”
“I do.”
That landed softly between you.
Joel’s gaze stayed on you and you had the strange feeling that he was not just watching you talk… he was memorizing you. The way your fingers handled each item. The way your voice changed when you were explaining something you liked. The way you lit up when he listened properly.
He did listen properly. That was the thing.
You cleared your throat and reached for the next item before the moment got too soft to bear. “Okay. This one is blush.”
Joel nodded. “I know blush.”
“Oh?”
He gestured vaguely toward his own cheekbones. “Pink.”
You blinked at him. “That is both offensively simple and, unfortunately, correct.”
He looked pleased with himself.
You held up a compact and opened it, letting him see the soft rosy color inside. “Blush goes on the cheeks. Sometimes a little on the nose too. Depends on the look.”
“The look,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“You got multiple looks?”
You gave him a flat stare. “Joel.”
“What? I’m askin’ questions.”
“Of course I have multiple looks.”
He held up both hands in surrender. “Alright, alright.”
You turned slightly toward the mirror and tapped your cheek. “Blush can make you look healthy, fresh, sweet, sunkissed, romantic—”
Joel interrupted. “Sweet.”
You glanced back. “Yes.”
He tilted his head. “You already look sweet.”
Your expression betrayed you then, a little smile creeping in despite your best efforts. “You can’t just say things like that in the middle of my explanation.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m trying to be serious.”
Joel looked at you for a beat, taking in your face, your excitement, the slight pink that had risen in your cheeks before you’d even put any actual blush on. “That may be the problem right there, baby.”
You laughed softly and reached into the box again. “Fine. No more compliments until the end.”
“That doesn't sound natural.”
“It’s a rule now.”
“Seems harsh.”
“You’ll survive.”
He considered that. “Debatable.”
You had to look away for a second because the sight of him sitting there barely dressed, all broad shoulders and damp hair and sleepy amusement, making himself the world’s most attentive audience for a makeup breakdown, was almost too lovely to process in one go.
You pulled out a small palette next.
Joel squinted. “That one looks expensive.”
Your face changed instantly. “It was a little expensive.”
“A little.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
He extended a hand. “Lemme see.”
You passed it over carefully, and Joel turned the compact in his fingers. The palette was heavier than he expected, the case clicking softly when he opened it. Inside were shades of brown, gold, rose, and deep muted plum, each one arranged so prettily it almost did make sense that you’d looked delighted pulling it out of the bag earlier.
He studied it in silence for a moment.
Then, very seriously: “These are all nearly the same color.”
Your mouth fell open. “Joel!”
“What?”
“They are not.”
He looked at the palette again, then back at you. “Baby, I’m lookin’ at seven versions of brown.”
You snatched it from him with exaggerated offense. “This is taupe. This is a soft rose. This is bronze. This is a champagne shimmer. This one is mauve.”
Joel blinked slowly. “That last one was definitely still brown.”
“It was not.”
“Looked brown from here.”
“You are impossible.”
He grinned then. “Maybe. But I’m listenin’.”
You held the palette protectively against your chest. “Eyeshadow,” you informed him, in the tone of someone recovering from a great insult, “is what you put on your eyelids.”
“I gathered.”
“It can change the whole mood of a look.”
He raised a brow. “Can it?”
“Yes. Soft. Smoky. Dramatic. Fresh. Sultry.”
Joel’s expression altered at that last word, barely. “Sultry, huh?”
You pretended not to notice. “Yes.”
“And you’re sayin’ that like it’s a normal thing to tell me while sittin’ there lookin’ like that.”
“Like what?”
He looked you over once, slowly enough to make your pulse jump, then brought his eyes back to your face. “Like you know exactly what you’re doin’.”
The silence that followed lasted a beat too long.
Then you cleared your throat again. “Anyway. Moving on.”
Joel let out a quiet laugh but didn’t argue.
You pulled out a fluffy brush, and his brow furrowed. “That one for paint too?”
You gasped. “Joel!”
“I’m kiddin’.”
“No, you’re not. You think all of this is construction supplies in disguise.”
He looked at the brush. “You gotta admit there’s some overlap.”
“There is absolutely no overlap.”
“That primer still sounds suspicious.”
You shook your head, smiling helplessly now. “This is an eyeshadow brush.”
He gave the brush a dubious look. “Seems too soft to do much.”
“It’s not supposed to do much. It’s supposed to blend.”
“Blend what?”
“The eyeshadow.”
Joel leaned back and rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Alright, hold on. So first you put color on your eyelid.”
“Yes.”
“Then you use another tool to sort of… smear it around.”
“It is not smearing. It is blending.”
He nodded gravely. “My mistake.”
You pointed the brush at him. “Mock me again and I’ll use this against you.”
Joel looked at the brush, then at you. “Sweetheart, I am not afraid of a tiny fluffy weapon.”
You fought a smile and lost badly. “You should be.”
“What, you gonna do my makeup in my sleep?”
That image hit you so suddenly and vividly that you nearly laughed. “Honestly? You’d look gorgeous.”
“Would I?”
“Yes. Maybe a nice neutral eye to enhance your hazel eyes or something soft and romantic with berry tones.”
Joel gave you a long look. “You flirtin’ with me or threatenin’ me?”
“Bit of both.”
“Mm.”
His voice dropped on that little hum in a way you very deliberately chose not to think about too hard.
Instead, you kept digging through the box and grabbed a lipstick. “Okay. This one you know.”
Joel’s gaze landed on the tube and warmed immediately with recognition. “Now that one I know.”
You looked pleased. “You do?”
“Yeah.” He pointed lazily. “That’s similar to the color you wear when we go out somewhere nice.”
You paused.
Then slowly: “What?”
Joel shrugged, like this was obvious. “The darker one.”
You blinked at him. “You know this shade?”
“Could pick it out in a lineup.”
You stared.
His expression shifted, a little wary now. “What?”
“Joel.”
“What.”
You turned fully toward him on the stool, lipstick in hand. “Are you telling me you can identify my lipstick shades?”
He frowned as if the question itself were strange. “Some of ’em.”
“Some of them?”
“Well, not by all the names,” he said. “Those names are ridiculous.”
You narrowed your eyes. “What do you mean, ridiculous?”
He held out a hand, and when you passed him the tube he read the label aloud with a face like he was being personally offended by it. “‘Rosewood Whisper.’” He looked up. “That’s not a lipstick shade. That’s some fancy car freshener scent.”
You laughed so hard you had to grab the edge of the vanity.
Joel kept going, encouraged now. “Y’all never just call somethin’ red. No. It’s ‘midnight garnet seduction’ or ‘velvet sin’ or ‘spiced fig dream.’ Sounds like a fancy cocktail menu.”
You were laughing openly now, shoulders shaking.
He pointed the lipstick at you. “And I’m right.”
“You are a menace.”
“I’m observant.”
“That is not the word I would’ve used.”
Joel smiled and handed it back. “It’s the one I’m usin’.”
You twisted the lipstick up and held it near your mouth. “So which one is this, then?”
He squinted. “That’s not the darker dinner one.”
“No.”
“And it’s not the peachy one you wear with that cream sweater.”
Your eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
Joel blinked once. “What.”
“You know the peachy one?”
He shifted slightly on the bed, suddenly looking like a man who had stumbled into revealing more than intended. “Baby, I got eyes.”
“No, no. That’s not just eyes. That’s data collection.”
A reluctant smile pulled at his mouth. “You say that like it’s criminal.”
“It is deeply suspicious.”
Joel looked down, then back up at you. “You want me not to notice?”
It got you in the chest a little.
Your voice softened without permission. “No.”
He nodded once. “Then I'll keep noticing.”
You looked at him for a moment, then turned back toward the mirror before he could see too much on your face. “Well,” you said, trying for lightness and getting only halfway there, “for the record, this one is newer.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And it’s not for every day.”
Joel watched your reflection. “Special occasion?”
You glanced at him in the mirror. “Maybe.”
His eyes held yours there for one quiet second before you broke the look and set the lipstick down.
You reached for another item. “Okay, next: highlighter.”
Joel exhaled. “That one also sounds like office supplies.”
“It does not.”
“It absolutely does.”
“It makes the high points of the face catch the light.”
He nodded slowly. “Now that, I understand.”
You blinked. “Really?”
“Sure.” He pointed gently toward you. “Bit on the cheekbone. Maybe here.” He gestured near the inner corners of his own eyes with shocking accuracy. “Makes things brighter.”
You stared at him, deadpan.
Joel’s mouth twitched. “Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?”
“How do you know that?”
He shifted one shoulder. “Seen you do it.”
“When?”
His expression was almost offended now. “What d’you mean, when?”
You let out a breathy laugh. “No, I just—I don’t know. I didn’t realize you were paying that much attention.”
Joel went quiet.
Then he said as a matter of fact, “I pay attention to you all the time.”
The words settled over the room.
There was no vanity in the way he said it. He sounded like a man stating something as ordinary and unremarkable as the weather, when to you it felt like being handed his heart in the simplest possible form.
You swallowed. “I know.”
His gaze lingered on your reflection. “Do you?”
The question was gentle enough to hurt.
You looked down at the highlighter in your hand, then set it beside the rest. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I do.”
Joel didn’t answer right away. He just watched you, something tender moving beneath the calm of his face, and then the moment loosened because he cleared his throat and tipped his chin toward the clutter spreading over the vanity.
“So how much of that did you buy?”
You laughed, grateful for the release. “Rude.”
“I’m serious.”
“You told me to treat myself.”
“I did not expect to finance a full cosmetic expansion.”
“Expansion,” you repeated, grinning.
“Looks expensive enough to be one.”
You picked up two little containers. “These were mini sizes.”
Joel narrowed his eyes. “That means they’re small.”
“Yes.”
“Not cheap.”
You sighed. “No.”
He nodded like a man whose suspicions had been confirmed. “Thought so.”
You held up another gloss tube. “This one was on sale.”
He gave you a long look.
“It was!”
“That phrase’s dangerous in your mouth.”
“It’s not dangerous.”
“Darlin, every time you say somethin’ was on sale, somehow three bags appear.”
You put a hand to your chest. “I can’t believe you’d stereotype me like this in my own bedroom.”
Joel laughed and the sound of it curled around you like a warm blanket.
He rubbed his hand over his beard and nodded toward the products. “Alright. So what else we got.”
You brightened immediately and began lining them up in order like you were preparing to teach a masterclass. “Skincare.”
Joel made a face.
You caught it instantly. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say nothin’.”
“Your face said enough.”
He leaned back on one arm. “How many steps?”
You looked away. “That depends.”
Joel groaned quietly. “Baby.”
“It depends on the night.”
“That means too many.”
“It does not mean too many.”
“How many.”
You started counting under your breath. “Cleanser. Serum. Moisturizer. Eye cream if I feel like it. Sometimes an exfoliant, but not every night, obviously. And then if my skin is dry, maybe—”
Joel held up a hand. “I blacked out halfway through that.”
You laughed. “No, you didn’t.”
“Felt like I did.”
“Skincare is important.”
He gave you a skeptical look. “You’re twenty seven, not ninety.”
“That has nothing to do with it.”
He watched you for a second, then asked with suspicious sincerity, “Is that why there are so many tiny bottles in the bathroom that all look exactly the same?”
You gasped. “They do not look exactly the same.”
“They absolutely do.”
“That one has niacinamide.”
He stared.
You lifted another. “This one has hyaluronic acid.”
He kept staring.
You held up a third. “And this one is peptides.”
Joel blinked once, then slowly dragged a hand down his face. “You just cast a spell at me.”
You burst out laughing.
“I’m serious,” he said, though he was smiling too now. “That sounded illegal… like drugs and that stuff.”
“It’s not illegal, it’s skincare.”
“Same difference.”
You shook your head, still smiling, and then your fingers dipped back into the box one more time.
Joel watched your expression change before the product even cleared the tissue paper.
His brows lifted. “What’s that look for?”
You bit back a grin. “Nothing.”
“Sweetheart.”
You looked over your shoulder at him with eyes far too innocent. “This one’s just… funny.”
Joel straightened a little. “Funny how?”
You held the tube in your hand but didn’t show him yet.
He narrowed his gaze. “Why’re you hidin’ it?”
“Because you’re going to be immature.”
Joel actually looked offended. “I am never immature.”
You stared at him.
He waited.
Then one corner of your mouth lifted. “That was embarrassing for both of us.”
A laugh escaped him. “Alright, fine. Little bit.”
“Little bit,” you echoed, unconvinced.
You turned the tube in your fingers, smiling to yourself now, and Joel could already tell from the expression on your face that whatever came next was going to amuse you entirely too much.
He shifted closer to the edge of the bed without even meaning to, curiosity plain on his face now. “C’mon, then. Lemme see.”
You looked at him, still grinning. “Promise you’ll behave?”
Joel met your eyes. “No.”
That made you laugh again and you lifted the last item slowly, ready to show him the thing you already knew was going to make him lose it.You held it up between two fingers with a grin you were making absolutely no effort to hide now, the little metallic pink tube catching the warm bedroom light as you turned it toward him.
Joel squinted at the label.
Then he went very still.
His eyes moved across the words once. Twice.
And then, exactly as predicted, he barked out a laugh so sudden and unguarded it startled even him.
You pointed at him immediately. “Don’t.”
That only made it worse.
Joel bent forward, one hand over his mouth now, shoulders shaking as the laugh hit him again, deeper this time, rough and helpless and impossible to stop. He looked up at you with tears of amusement practically threatening in the corners of his eyes and repeated, disbelieving, “Better Than Sex?”
You stared at him, trying very hard to look stern and getting nowhere. “Joel.”
“Baby.” He shook his head and laughed again. “No. I’m sorry. I know I’m supposed to be respectful, I do, but that is the dumbest damn name I ever heard in my life.”
“It is not dumb.”
“It is ridiculous.”
“It’s marketing!”
“Marketing by a thirteen year old boy, maybe.”
You slapped a hand over your mouth to stop your own smile and failed miserably. “You said you were going to behave.”
“I very specifically did not promise that.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to be mean.”
Joel sat up a little straighter, still grinning, and held out a hand. “Lemme see it.”
You hesitated just long enough to make a point, then passed it over. He took the tube carefully, turning it in his fingers like maybe the name would somehow become less absurd if he looked at it from another angle but it did not.
He read it aloud again, slower, like he was trying to understand how a real company with a real boardroom and real adult employees had come to this decision. “‘Better Than Sex.’” He looked up at you. “There was nobody in that office brave enough to stop this?”
You laughed despite yourself. “Apparently not.”
Joel stared down at the tube. “Who approved that?”
“People smarter than us, probably.”
“No, ma’am.” He handed it back with quiet authority. “Ain’t no smart person names a mascara after sex.”
You took it from him, smiling now. “That’s because you don’t understand branding.”
He leaned back on the bed again, one hand braced behind him, expression dry. “Then explain it to me.”
You drew in a dramatic breath and straightened in the chair like you were about to defend a thesis. “Alright. The point is not that the mascara is literally better than sex.”
Joel immediately cut in. “Well, that’s disappointin’, because that is very much what they printed on the tube.”
You glared at him. “Would you let me finish?”
He made a little go ahead gesture with his fingers, though the smile was still pulling at one corner of his mouth.
“The point,” you repeated, “is that it promises drama.”
Joel’s expression remained skeptical. “Drama.”
“Yes. Big lashes. Volume. Length. Impact.” You held the tube up between you both like a piece of courtroom evidence. “It’s not subtle. It wants attention.”
He looked from the mascara to you. “So the mascara is flirtin’.”
You narrowed your eyes. “I hate that you made that sound logical.”
Joel’s mouth twitched. “Ain’t wrong.”
You rolled your eyes and unscrewed the tube, pulling the wand out with a soft wet click. “Look.”
He leaned forward instinctively, curious despite himself now, watching as you angled the wand so he could see the brush.
Joel frowned. “That’s it?”
You looked at him. “What do you mean, that’s it?”
“It’s just a little spiky stick.”
“It is not a spiky stick.”
He pointed. “That’s absolutely a spiky stick.”
“It’s a mascara wand.”
Joel nodded once, solemn again. “That’s what I said.”
You shook your head, smiling in spite of yourself, and turned toward the mirror. “You are impossible to educate.”
“Yet you persist.”
“Because I’m committed.”
“To what, exactly.”
“Improving you.”
Joel’s low laugh followed you into the mirror. “Good luck with that.”
You angled closer to the glass and lifted the wand to your lashes. “Okay. So mascara darkens them, lengthens them, thickens them—ideally.”
“‘Ideally’ don’t sound confident.”
“Because some mascaras clump.”
Joel frowned. “Clump.”
“Yes.”
“That bad?”
“It can be.”
He was quiet for a second. “How many problems y’all got in that industry?”
You laughed under your breath. “More than you could possibly understand.”
He watched your reflection carefully as you started applying the mascara with slow, practiced movements, the brush catching at the roots and pulling upward. Joel had seen you do this before, of course. More than once. But there was something different about being invited into it this closely, being talked through the steps like he belonged there in the middle of the ritual instead of merely passing by the doorway while it happened.
He found himself following every little motion.The steadiness of your hand. The slight concentration in your face. The way your eyes widened a touch as the lashes separated and darkened.
“Waterproof,” you reminded him, glancing at him through the mirror.
Joel nodded. “That part I understand.”
“Do you.”
“Sure. Means it won’t run if it gets wet.”
“Exactly.”
He folded one arm across his chest. “Good for rain.”
You smiled. “Yes.”
“Cryin’.”
“Yes.”
“Humid weather.”
“Yes.”
Joel considered that, then squinted at the tube as if he could extract more information from sheer suspicion. “And that’s it?”
You took your time with the other eye, far too aware now of the way he was watching. “Not exactly.”
His voice changed a little. “No?”
You kept your gaze on the mirror because looking at him directly would’ve been too much too soon. “No.”
Joel waited.
He had that patience when he wanted to. He could make silence feel like a gentle and guiding hand at the small of your back. You felt him watching as clearly as if he’d touched you, and it made your skin go warm in places you were trying very hard not to think about yet.
You cleared your throat softly. “It also says it holds up against sweat.”
Joel made a small thoughtful sound. “Alright.”
“And…” You adjusted the wand, pretending great interest in the angle of your lashes. “Other… things.”
Joel didn’t move right away, didn’t speak either. The quiet between you lengthened until it had weight, and when he finally did say something, his voice came out rougher than before.
“What kind of things.”
You looked at him in the mirror then.
There was the answer.
You turned back to the mirror and gave your lashes one more slow coat. “Fluids.”
Joel let out a breath through his nose that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so much like restraint. “Darlin'.”
“What?” you asked, all false innocence.
He looked at the back of your shoulder, then up to your eyes in the mirror again. “You know exactly what.”
You capped the mascara with careful fingers, buying yourself a second. “I’m explaining the product.”
“That's what this is.”
“Yes.”
He nodded once, but his eyes stayed on you. “Seems awfully selective.”
You smiled faintly. “It’s an important feature.”
“Is it now.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Joel leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, gaze intent enough to make the room feel smaller. “So let me get this straight. Some genius came up with a mascara named ‘Better Than Sex,’ and then another genius decided to advertise that it survives…” His eyes moved over your face, dipped to your mouth, then back up. “Fluids.”
You swallowed, trying not to show it. “That seems to be the implication.”
He sat with that for a second. Then, very dryly, “That may be the most committed sales pitch I’ve heard all year.”
You laughed, but it came out weaker than before.
Joel watched you set the tube down on the vanity, watched the way your fingers lingered on it for a fraction too long. “And you bought this because…”
“Because it had good reviews.”
“Mm.”
“And because it’s supposed to make lashes look dramatic.”
His gaze flicked up to the mirror again. “Mission accomplished.”
Your breath caught a little at how simply he said it.
You looked at yourself then, partly to avoid looking at him. The mascara had done what it always promised to do: your lashes looked darker, longer, fuller, framing your eyes in a way that made your whole face read differently. Less soft. Less sleepy. Sharper somehow. More deliberate. Your eyes looked bigger, yes, but definitely not innocent.
You turned on the stool, one hand settling in your lap. “Well?”
Joel didn’t answer immediately.
He just looked.
His gaze moved slowly over your face, taking in what had changed. The lashes now casting longer shadows against your skin. But he was not just looking at the makeup. He was looking at you inside it. At the way you wore it. At the confidence that had crept quietly into your posture because you knew you looked good and you wanted him to know you knew.
It made his heat tighten behind his ribs.
“You’re pretty,” he said at last.
You made a face immediately. “Joel.”
“What.”
“That is not a serious review.”
His mouth twitched. “Didn’t say it was.”
“I’m asking about the mascara.”
“Mm.” His eyes stayed on yours. “And I’m answerin’ honestly.”
You tried not to smile and failed. “Be specific.”
Joel let out a quiet breath, like he was indulging you, but there was no impatience in him. Only attention. “Alright.”
He stood then.
Joel crossed the small distance between the bed and the vanity until he stood just behind your chair, close enough that the warmth of him slid over your bare shoulders before he even touched you. In the mirror you watched him lift one hand and rest it lightly on the top edge of the vanity, caging you in without quite meaning to. His other hand came to your jaw, fingers rough and warm as they tilted your face very slightly toward the light.
Now you could barely breathe.
Joel studied your reflection and yours alone, his eyes narrowed in concentration as if he were trying to get this right. “They do look longer.”
His thumb brushed once, barely there, near your chin. “Darker, too.”
You kept still.
His gaze lingered. “Makes your eyes look…” He trailed off.
You looked up at him in the mirror. “Look what?”
Joel’s eyes met yours there. For one suspended second he seemed to debate with himself. Then he gave in, just a little.
“Like trouble,” he said quietly.
Your heart stumbled.
He looked down at you then and whatever he saw on your face must have reached him, because something in his expression softened even as the heat stayed.
You tried for lightness. “That’s not very technical.”
Joel’s mouth curved. “You want technical?”
“Yes.”
He leaned down just enough that his voice brushed near your ear. “Alright, then. They make it hard to look anywhere else.”
You exhaled shakily.
He stayed there a moment, close enough that your whole body had gone aware of him in pieces. The smell of soap from his shower. The quiet scrape of his thumb when it moved once more against your skin.
Then, because you needed the thread picked back up before it snapped entirely, you looked at the mascara on the table and said, with a little too much brightness, “And it’s waterproof.”
Joel laughed softly, the sound low in your ear. “You already sold me on that part, darlin’.”
You swallowed. “Did I?”
“Yeah.”
He straightened just enough to look at you again in the mirror, one hand still resting beside you on the vanity. “Only thing I’m still unclear on—”
You turned your head slightly. “What’s that?”
His eyes dropped to your mouth, then lifted again, maddeningly calm. “Whether all that advertising’s true.”
The words landed between you dangerously.
You stared at him.
Then his hand slipped from your jaw, slow enough to feel deliberate, and he stepped back just one pace, enough to give you air without really undoing what he’d started.
His voice, when it came, was gentler. “Though I should probably mention”—his eyes moved over your face once more—“you didn’t need it.”
Your expression softened despite yourself. “Need what?”
“Any of it.” He nodded toward the products scattered over the vanity. “The primer, the blush, the dramatic flirtin’ mascara with the terrible name.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re beautiful without all that.”
You looked down for a second, smiling helplessly. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“I know.” You glanced back up at him. “But that’s not the point.”
Joel nodded slowly. “No. I know it ain’t.”
There it was again. The understanding, the quiet way he met you where you actually were instead of simplifying you.
His gaze moved to the mascara one last time, then back to your eyes, still darkened and dangerous in the vanity light. “Still,” he murmured, voice gone rough at the edges again, “I gotta admit.”
You waited.
Joel’s eyes held yours.
“It does look real good on you.”
You looked at him through the mirror.
He looked back.
And then his gaze drifted over the products scattered across the vanity and he said, low and thoughtful, “Seems a shame, though.”
Your brows lifted. “What does?”
“All that effort.” His eyes came back to your face, to the lashes you’d darkened on purpose, to the mouth that had been trying not to smile for the last thirty seconds. “All that makeup.”
You turned a little more in the chair. “What about it?”
Joel’s mouth twitched faintly. “Gonna go to waste.”
You stared at him for half a beat, then let out a tiny laugh. “Waste?”
He gave one slow nod, like this was the most reasonable point in the world.
“How exactly is it going to waste?”
Joel shifted his weight, one hand catching the knot of the towel at his hip for the briefest second before falling away again. The motion was absentminded, but your eyes dropped there anyway, and when they lifted back to his face he had already noticed.
That did not help.
His voice dipped lower. “Well, darlin’… unless I’ve badly misunderstood the shape of this evening, I figured we’d be goin’ to bed before too long.”
The words themselves were almost innocent.
Almost.
You felt the silence that followed settle over the room, and for one suspended second you didn’t answer.
Joel noticed that too.
His eyes narrowed just slightly as he watched your face, watched the way your fingers tightened in your lap, watched the little shift in your breathing. He knew that look by now. Knew the exact moment a thought took hold in you and turned from playful to dangerous. It was always there first, in your eyes. That glint. That pause. That split second where he could practically see the idea forming before you ever said a word.
And judging by the way his chest rose on a slow inhale, he knew this one was going to be trouble. The kind of trouble he never once tried very hard to avoid.
“You’re awfully quiet,” he murmured.
You stood from the vanity slowly, turning fully to face him now. The height difference between you always felt more pronounced when he was like this, with his eyes fixed on you with that patient, dangerous attention that never rushed and never missed a thing.
You stepped closer.
Joel’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then lifted again.
“How do you mean, waste?” you asked softly.
His expression shifted, something amused and warmer than amused flickering through it. “Darlin'.”
“No, tell me.” You tilted your head just slightly. “Because from where I’m standing, nothing’s being wasted.”
Joel let out a quiet breath through his nose, almost a laugh, except there was too much heat in it now to really be one. “That so?”
“That so.”
You could see him trying to read you, trying to decide whether this was still teasing or whether the ground had shifted under his feet without him noticing.
Then his eyes moved over your face again, slower this time, taking in the lashes, the mouth, the expression you were making no attempt to soften.
When he spoke, his voice had gone gravel deep. “Baby.”
That one word should not have felt like a hand sliding over bare skin. And yet you took the last half step in, close enough now to feel the heat coming off him, close enough that if you lifted your hand it would land on the center of his chest. The towel sat careless and unfair around his waist, his hair still damp, his whole body loose with the kind of comfort that only existed in private, in the quiet safety of home, in the hour when the rest of the world stopped mattering and there was only this room and this man and the way he was looking at you now.
You smiled teasingly.
“It’s not going to waste,” you said.
Joel held very still.
“No?”
You shook your head once, eyes never leaving his. “No.”
He swallowed.
That was it. Just a tiny movement in his throat, but you caught it, and the satisfaction of being able to do that to him with so little nearly made you bolder than you already were.
Joel’s hands remained at his sides, though you could tell by the tension in them that it cost him something now. “Alright,” he said carefully. “Then I’m listenin’.”
You let your gaze flick down his chest and back up, deliberately mirroring the way he’d looked at you before. “I’ve been thinking about this mascara all day.”
That got his attention in full.
“All day,” he repeated.
You nodded.
Joel’s mouth curved, but it was thin now, held back by effort. “Should I be worried?”
“Probably.”
He laughed once under his breath, but the sound came out uneven. “You say that awful casually.”
You took another inch of space, enough that the edge of your nightgown nearly brushed the towel at his hip. Joel didn’t move away. If anything, he seemed to brace without meaning to, like his whole body had recognized the shift before his mind could catch up.
And still you made him wait.
“I’ve been waiting,” you said, voice softening, “to see if it’s actually as good as it claims.”
Joel stared at you.
His eyes searched yours, and when he spoke, his voice was so low it barely seemed to cross the space between you. “Baby…”
You smiled wider.
“So no,” you said gently. “Nothing’s going to waste.”
He exhaled slowly, chest rising under the warm lamplight, and there it was again, that look. That exact look. The one you knew got under his skin every single time. Part disbelief, part desire, part the dawning realization that he was no longer in control of the direction this night was taking and that, worse, he did not want to be.
Your fingers lifted at last, just enough to rest lightly against his chest.
Joel’s eyes dropped to the touch.
Then back to your face.
And you gave him the line like a gift.
“I’ve been waiting all day,” you said softly, “to test with my husband whether this mascara really holds up to everything it promises.”
Joel went completely still.
His jaw tightened just slightly. His hand flexed once at his side. His eyes dragged over your face as though he were seeing you and the trouble in you with punishing new clarity.
Then he laughed, just once.
And when he looked at you again, whatever amusement had been there before had burned down into something darker.
“Jesus,” he muttered, almost to himself.
Joel’s hand came up then, rough fingers finding your waist with slow intention, like he was giving himself one last chance to be careful and already knew it was too late.
“Baby,” he said, and this time it sounded like a warning aimed at both of you.
His hand tightened slightly at your waist, thumb pressing in just enough to ground himself, or maybe to make sure you were real and not something his tired brain had invented after a long week and a hot shower and too much time thinking about you.
You tilted your head, lashes dark and deliberate, exactly like you’d intended. “What?”
Joel let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, except there was no real humor left in it now. Just pure heat turned into desperate need. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”
You smiled. “That’s not very reassuring, you know.”
“Ain’t meant to be.”
His eyes dropped to your mouth, lingered there just a second too long, then dragged back up like it cost him something.
He shifted his weight slightly, like he was bracing for something he’d already decided not to stop.
“Say that again,” he murmured.
Your breath caught. “What part?”
“All of it.”
You held his gaze, fully aware now of how close you were, how little space there was left to hide behind anything safe. “I said,” you began softly, fingers still resting against his chest, “that I don’t think anything’s going to waste.”
Joel’s jaw tightened.
“And,” you continued, quieter now, stepping just a fraction closer, “that I’ve been waiting all day…”
His hand slid from your waist to your hip, like he was mapping out the line of you again just to be sure.
“…to test it with my husband,” you finished.
The silence that followed was thick.
His control was still there, you could see it in the tension of his shoulders, in the way his grip hadn’t tightened too much, in the way he was still choosing every movement instead of letting instinct take over completely.
But it was slipping.
And you could feel that too.
Your hand moved slightly against his chest again—just enough to tempting him—and that was all it took.
Joel closed his eyes for half a second, like he was giving himself one last moment of control.
Then he opened them again.
And whatever had been holding him back was gone.
“Alright,” he said, voice low and dangerous in that quiet way that meant he was done pretending this wasn’t happening. “You wanna test it?”
Your pulse jumped.
He leaned in just enough that his breath brushed warm against your cheek, close enough to make your thoughts scatter without even touching you yet.
“Let’s see how well it holds up,” he murmured.
That was the moment everything tipped.
His thumb dragged slowly along the curve of your hip. “All day, huh? Thinkin’ about me ruinin’ it?”
“Every hour.”
A low, dangerous sound rumbled out of his chest. He spun you around so fast your breath caught, pressing your front against the vanity edge until the cool wood bit into your hips. The mirror reflected everything: your flushed face, the new mascara, Joel towering behind you like a man who’d just been handed permission to lose control.
“Look at yourself,” he ordered, voice right against your ear. One big hand slid up your sternum, fingers spreading wide over your throat, not squeezing, not yet, just resting there like a heavy reminder. “You’re gonna watch every second while I fuck that pretty makeup right off you.”
Your eyes met his in the glass. His were dark, pupils blown, jaw tight with restraint he was already losing.
“Yes, Joel.”
He hummed approval, free hand shoving the towel away. It dropped to the floor with a soft thud. His cock was already hard, thick, flushed dark at the tip and curving up against your clothed ass. He dragged it slowly between your cheeks, teasing, letting you feel exactly how much he meant every word.
“Gonna start slow,” he murmured, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Deep. So you feel every inch stretchin’ that tight little pussy while you keep those eyes on the mirror. Then I’m gonna fuck you stupid. And every single time you’re about to come…” His fingers flexed around your throat. “I stop. You’re not comin’ till that mascara’s runnin’ down your cheeks like you’ve been cryin’ for me. Understand?”
You whimpered, nodding frantically. “Yes—please—”
He kicked your feet apart wider, one hand still collared around your throat, the other sliding down to pull your panties aside. No patience left for taking them off. The blunt head of his cock nudged at your entrance, already slick from how long you’d been teasing each other.
“Eyes on the mirror, darlin’,” he growled. “Don’t you fuckin’ look away.”
Then he pushed in. One long, slow, relentless inch at a time until he was buried to the hilt and your mouth fell open on a broken moan. The stretch burned so good your lashes fluttered, but you kept your eyes open, locked on the reflection like he’d commanded.
“Fuck,” Joel breathed, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second. “So goddamn tight. Always so perfect for me.” He rolled his hips once, grinding deep, letting you feel him throb inside you. “Look how pretty you look takin’ me. Those lashes still all nice and dark… for now.”
He started moving then. Slow, deep drags that pulled almost all the way out before sliding back into your dripping cunt. Every thrust dragged against that spot inside you that made your toes curl. His hand stayed firm around your throat, thumb stroking the side like he was petting you while he ruined you.
“That’s it, baby. Watch yourself get fucked.” His voice was pure filth now. “See how your tits bounce every time I bottom out? See how your mouth opens like you can’t even breathe right? That’s my cock doin’ that to you.”
You moaned, the sound loud in the quiet bedroom. Your hands gripped the edge of the vanity so hard your knuckles went white. The mirror showed everything: the way your eyes were already glassy, the faint sheen of sweat starting on your collarbones, Joel’s broad body behind you, muscles flexing with every controlled thrust.
“Gonna take my time,” he rasped. “Gonna fuck you so deep you forget your own name before I even let you come.” He snapped his hips a little harder on the next thrust, making your breath hitch. “But not yet. Not till I say.”
He kept the pace torturously slow for what felt like forever. Long, rolling strokes that had you whimpering and pushing back against him, chasing more. Every time your moans pitched higher, every time your walls started fluttering around him, Joel would still completely, buried deep, and just hold you there.
“Not yet, baby, not a chance,” he murmured against your neck, biting down lightly. “Feel that? Feel how full you are? That’s where you belong, baby. Stuffed full of my cock while you watch yourself fall apart.”
“Joel—please—”
“Please what?” He flexed inside you, grinding slow circles. “Use your words. Tell me what you want while you’re lookin’ me in the eyes.”
“I need to come,” you gasped, voice shaking. “Please let me come—”
His hand tightened just enough around your throat to make your pulse jump. “No, sweetheart,” He pulled out almost completely, then sank back in so deep your knees buckled. “Not till those lashes are ruined. I want black streaks down your pretty cheeks. I want you lookin’ like you’ve been cryin’ and chockin’ on my dick.”
He started fucking you harder then, still controlled, but deeper, faster, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. Your mascara was already starting to smudge at the corners from the tears of frustration gathering in your eyes.
“Look at that,” he groaned, eyes locked on the mirror. “Already runnin’. My pretty little wife’s mascara can’t even handle a little foreplay. What’s it gonna do when I really start wreckin’ you, huh?”
He picked up the pace, hips snapping forward harder, the hand on your throat keeping you upright and forced to watch. Every thrust jolted you forward against the vanity. Your lashes were definitely smearing now, faint black tracks forming under your eyes.
“Fuck, baby, you’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he growled. “Pussy’s greedy tonight. You love to watch while I ruin you, don’t you?”
“Yes—yes, Joel—”
He reached around with his free hand and found your clit, giving it a light, stinging little tap with two fingers. You cried out, hips jerking.
“Uh-uh,” he scolded, tapping again, harder this time. “No comin’. Not yet.” Another sharp little slap right over your swollen clit. “This pretty pussy’s gonna wait till I’ve got black tears runnin’ down your face.”
Joel kept fucking you hard and deep, hips snapping forward with that relentless rhythm that had the vanity creaking under your hands. He leaned in close again to whisper in your ear.
“Who’s the most beautiful woman in the world, baby?”
You laughed. A broken, desperate sound that turned into a moan halfway through because he chose that exact second to grind against your spongy spot. Joel’s hand cracked down on your ass in a sharp, stinging spank that made you jolt forward. He didn’t miss a beat, cock still buried to the hilt.
“I asked you a question,” he growled. Another hard thrust. Another spank, this one right on the same ass cheek, making your skin bloom hot. “Who’s the most beautiful woman in the world?”
Your voice came out wrecked and breathless.
“Me—fuck, Joel— it’s me.”
He was grinning in the mirror. He rewarded you with a deep, punishing stroke that made your eyes roll back.
“That’s right,” he rasped, spanking you again. “My beautiful girl. Say it again while I fuck you.”
“It’s me,” you sobbed, voice cracking as an orgasm threatened to rip through you. “I’m the most beautiful woman in the world.”
Joel groaned low in his chest, hips snapping harder.
“Damn right you are,” he muttered almost tenderly while he kept pounding into you. “And don’t you ever fuckin’ forget it.”
He fucked you like that for what felt like hours with hard, deep thrusts interspersed with those cruel little clit slaps every time you got too close. Your mascara was a mess now, dark smudges under your eyes, streaks starting to run down your cheeks every time a tear slipped free.
“Goddamn,” Joel muttered, voice wrecked. “Look at you. So fuckin’ pretty when you cry for me.” He slammed in harder, grinding against your spongy spot again. “Almost there, baby. Almost got you lookin’ exactly how I want.”
Your legs were shaking. You were babbling —please, Joel, please, I can’t, I need— but he just kept going, relentless, edging you right to the brink and then stopping or slapping your clit until the orgasm retreated.
One final hard thrust and he stilled again, buried to the hilt, hand flexing around your throat.
“Look at yourself,” he ordered, voice rough. “Look how ruined you are.”
In the mirror your reflection was wrecked: You were shaking, tears spilling faster, mascara dripping off your chin onto the vanity. Joel looked feral behind you with his hair damp with sweat.
“That’s it,” he growled. “That’s the face I wanted. Now you can come, baby. Come all over my cock while I watch those tears run.”
He didn’t give you time to answer. He fucked you with brutal, perfect strokes that hit exactly where you needed every single time. His hand left your throat only to slide down and rub tight, fast circles over your clit, no more teasing, no more denial.
“Come on, baby. Let go. Soak my dick while I ruin the rest of that mascara.”
The orgasm crashed into you like a freight train. You screamed his name, walls clamping down around him, body shaking so hard he had to hold you up. Black tears spilled freely down your cheeks now, mascara running in messy streaks all the way to your jaw.
“Fuck—yes—that’s my girl,” Joel groaned, voice breaking. “Look at you. So fuckin’ beautiful when you fall apart for me.”
He fucked you through it, hips stuttering, chasing his own release. “Gonna fill you up, baby.”
One more thrust and he buried himself to the hilt, coming with a low, guttural moan, cock pulsing hot inside you. He kept grinding through it, milking every last drop while you trembled and cried in his arms.
For a long moment the only sound was both of you panting, the mirror fogged slightly at the edges from heat and breath.
Joel stayed inside you, arms wrapped around your middle now, gentler. He pressed a slow, open mouthed kiss to the side of your neck, then another to your tear streaked cheek.
“Jesus Christ, baby,” he murmured, voice soft and wrecked. “You look like a goddamn dream.”
He reached over to the vanity without pulling out, grabbed the pack of makeup remover wipes you always kept there, and tugged one free with his teeth. Then, still buried deep inside you, he turned you in his arms, lifted you clean off the floor, and carried you the few steps to the bed.
He sat down on the edge, keeping you straddling his lap, cock still snug and warm inside you. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically. He cradled the back of your head with one hand and brought the wipe to your face with the other.
“Hold still, darlin’,” he said gently, voice full of that quiet affection that always undid you. “Let me clean my pretty girl up.”
He wiped your cheeks with slow, careful movements, thumb brushing tenderly under your eyes as the black streaks disappeared. Every few seconds he’d lean in and kiss you with soft, lingering kisses on your lips, your forehead, the tip of your nose.
“That mascara didn’t stand a chance, did it?” he teased between kisses, a crooked smile on his face. “Promised it was better than sex… and here you are with black rivers down your face after one round with your husband.”
You laughed, watery and breathless, and he kissed the sound right off your lips.
“Shh, I got you,” he whispered, wiping the last smudge away. “All clean now. My beautiful girl.”
He tossed the wipe aside and wrapped both arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. His cock twitched inside you, still half hard, like he wasn’t quite ready to leave yet.
“Love you,” he murmured against your hair, voice low and reverent. “Love you so fuckin’ much it hurts sometimes.”
You buried your face in his neck and smiled against his skin.
“Love you more.”
Joel huffed a soft laugh, hand stroking slow circles up and down your back.
“Nah, baby. Not possible.”
He stayed like that for a long time, still inside you, holding you close, kissing your temple every few seconds while the bedroom lamp cast a warm glow over both of you. The vanity mirror behind you reflected the two of you tangled together.
“Next time you buy somethin’ similar to ‘Better Than Sex,’” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, “I’m makin’ you wear it so I can prove it wrong all over again.”
You laughed into his neck, and he tightened his arms around you, heart beating steady against yours.
“Deal?” he asked, smiling.
“Deal,” you whispered.
⋆♱ Beautiful dividers from @saradika-graphics and @thecutestgrotto
wait omfg i was grinning and giggling the entire time reading this. you write so so beautifully and made this so engaging, like it didn't feel like 15k words in the best way possible. i could read this 10 more times rn.
He thought of how easy it was, in a world this ugly, to sneer at softness just because you didn’t know what to do with it.
Your face softened into something tender. “I wanted you to have a nice weekend.”
Clingy!Harry Potter x Reader -> MDNI: Suggestive content
🪄 Harry Being Needy During Exams - Read Here
Needy!Harry x Reader -> MDNI: Suggestive content, smut,
🪄 "This counts as studying..." - Read Here
Needy!Harry Potter x Reader -> MDNi: smut, slightly public sex
🪄Being Harry Potter's Favorite Person - Read Here
Clingy!Harry Potter x Reader -> Headcanons, SFW, fluff
🪄Lap Privileges - Read Here
Harry Potter x Reader -> MDNI: Heavy smut, established relationship, lap-sitting, semi-public sex, teasing, gentle possessiveness, slow-burn to indecent, soft dom-ish Harry.
🪄Not Like Them - Read Here
Harry Potter x Reader -> SFW, insecure reader, some gossiping, Harry comforts you, fluff
🪄Soft and Slow - Read Here
Harry Potter x Reader -> MDNI: Heavy smut, established relationship, mirror play, tender fingering (idk what to call it???), slow build, sensual tension, emotional intimacy, loving vibes all around even though it's smut
🪄Needy - Read Here
Harry Potter x Reader -> MDNI: Heavy smut, Reader gets caught humping Harry's pillow in his clothes, some teasing, Harry makes her grind on his abs, Harry loves how bad you need him, sweet and soft vibes, very loving while also filthy, aftercare included.
🪄Touch Starved Puppy Love - Read Here
Clingy!Harry Potter x Reader -> Pretty SFW, fluff, Harry’s clingy and desperate for any and all affection, whines when you pull away, general Harry being deeply in love with you vibes.
🪄Most Important Meal of The Day - Read Here
Harry Potter x Reader -> MDNI: Smut with no plot, oral (fem receiving), fingering, munch harry vibes, feral harry vibes, overstimulation, cuddles included.
🪄 Most Important Meal of The Day: Breakfast in Bed - Read Here
Harry Potter x Reader -> MDNI: Smut, oral (female and male receiving), Harry’s lowkey a munch, face sitting, 69, Harry being mildly feral for you, cuddles afterwards
🪄 Common Room Privileges - Read Here
Harry Potter x Reader -> MDNI: Short fic, smut, fingering, semi public, Harry talking dirty slightly, soft dom ish Harry
🪄All Over You - Read Here
Clingy!Harry Potter x Reader -> Mostly SFW, slightly suggestive at the end if you squint, friends to lovers, fluff, harry being in love with you, harry being very touchy,
🪄Mirrors and Lace - Read Here
Harry Potter x Shy!Reader -> MDNI: corruption kink but tender, soft dom Harry vibes but he's also a freak, lingerie, light bondage, oral (fem receiving), fingering, slight overstimulation, mating press (i think?), mirror play sort of, a LOT of dirty talk
🪄 “Cuddling” - Read Here
Harry Potter x Reader -> MDNI: Smut, lots of dirty talk and filthy praise, thigh riding, cock riding, cock warming at the end with some cuddling.
🪄Needy (but it’s Harry) - Read Here
Harry Potter x Reader -> MDNI: Smut, panty sniffing/kissing, oral (fem and male receiving), riding, etc.
🪄Friendly Competition - Read Here
Auror!Harry Potter x Auror!Slytherin!Reader -> MDNI: rivals to lovers, lots of sexual tension and innuendos, competition, smut at the end: some spanking, semi-public sex, some brat tamer Harry, slight fingering
🪄 Emotional Support Boobs™️ - Read Here
Harry Potter x Fem!Reader -> SFW: Fluff, comfort, Harry loves your boobs and is emotionally regulated by them.
Harry Potter x Reader -> MDNI: Smut, grinding/dry humping, no penetration, just sleepy grinding, Harry being kind of needy.
🪄 In The Quiet - Read Here
Harry Potter x Reader -> MDNI: Smut, thigh riding, needy!Reader, typical soft dom!Harry, soft and sweet
🪄 Lazy Mornings - Read Here
Harry Potter x Reader -> MDNI: Smut, sort of needy Harry, sleepy grinding, soft smut,
🪄 Touch Starved Comfort - Read Here
Harry Potter x Reader -> SFW: Fluff, sort of comfort if you squint, Harry loving you more than life, cuddling.
🪄 Dirty Little Secret - Read Here
Pervy!Harry Potter x Reader -> MDNI: voyeurism, Pervy!Harry, Harry obsessed with you, Harry having inappropriate fantasies about you, very smutty at the end, fingering, Harry fucking you senseless.
🪄 Clingy Gryffindor - Read Here
Harry Potter x Reader -> SFW: 100% fluff, Harry being hopelessly in love, very clingy, and very sweet.
🪄 Love Bites - Read Here
Harry Potter x Vampire!Reader -> Harry loves when you bite and drink from him, dry humping/lazy grinding, Harry loving neck attention (??? idk what to call it??), reader is the same age as Harry and also in Hogwarts (like how Lupin was a werewolf and still a wizard)
Summary: Dating Harry Potter, Seeker of your rival team, was your PR team’s worst nightmare.
A/N: I got inspired by all the Heater Rivalry tiktoks on my fyp. Full disclosure I haven't watched the show yet
Montrose Magpies’ newest Seeker!
(Y/N) (L/N) joins the Montrose Magpies, squashing any rumors of joining the Holyhead Harpies. Although this sparks speculation among those claiming she wouldn’t join due to a long-standing feud with existing players. Anyone see a catfight in the future? Will they be able to keep it reigned on the field?
The Evening Prophet never did subtle.
The paper landed on your kitchen table with a soft thump, its edges still warm from the owl’s flight. The headline bled ink and implication, and the photograph beneath it was—without exaggeration—the most horrendous one they could have chosen.
A picture from the very beginning of your career, baby-faced. You looked like a girl, not the woman you had grown into—the implication was obvious. Too frail, too gentle, too “female” to be part of the Magpies. They were saying you didn’t belong, subtly suggesting that the professional leagues were too rough for someone like you.
You didn’t react. Not outwardly, at least. You had expected this the moment you’d signed the contract, when you’d shaken hands with Montrose and smiled for the official photos. The Harpies had been the expected choice—the safe choice for any female player. Known for protecting their own, for ruthlessly managing media narratives, for keeping their players in line. And their players? The best women in the industry. But that was precisely the problem. Best women didn’t mean best players.
You folded the paper once. Then again. Set it aside. There would be a new headline tomorrow, another distraction.
"You can continue now." You murmured, looking at the makeup artist, who simply nodded and continued her work.
“Low-key.” Your manager had said with a straight face.
Low-key, apparently, meant a private room at a well-known wizarding venue, floating candles bearing the Magpies’ colors, and just enough press allowed in to make the event look organic.
After all, a party that looked cheap would signal lack of faith in their newest Seeker. A gaudy one? That would make you appear wasteful, frivolous—a woman squandering attention. You had dressed carefully, a tailored suit: masculine, yet subtle enough that you looked like a woman in a suit, not a woman wearing a man’s suit.
When you arrived, the cameras were already waiting.
Flashes erupted the moment you stepped inside, and you smiled easily, instinctively. You posed where they wanted you to pose, angled yourself to catch the light, offered them exactly what they needed and nothing more.
Your teammates greeted you warmly—handshakes, pats on the back, murmured congratulations. Careful warmth. Aware. Everyone knew tonight was as much about optics as it was about celebration.
Guests began filtering in. Players from other teams. Some friends, some acquaintances. Then, finally, the people you’d been waiting for: the Holyhead Harpies. Ginny Weasley, unmistakable with her sharp eyes and fiery hair, swept in with her teammates. A few extras in tow, including Dean Thomas, and—of course—Harry Potter, officially invited as a member of Puddlemere United, but arriving clearly as Ginny’s guest.
The room shifted when he entered. Always did. He carried that aura—legendary, watchful, infuriating. You didn’t hesitate.
“Ginny.” You said brightly, arms opening.
Her smile flickered for a fraction of a second before settling into something genuine, “Congrats, (L/N).”
You hugged her—firm, visible, lingering just long enough to be photographed. Your smile never faltered. The cameras loved it.
Two women. Two teams. No claws, no feud. Just sportsmanship.
Exactly the image you wanted.
Ginny leaned closer, voice low, “It’s not too late, (L/N). The Harpies would be happy to have you any day of the week.”
You giggled, chin up, keeping the moment public and polished, “I appreciate that, Gin. But the Magpies are my team.”
You kept the conversation flowing, angling your body just enough so the photographers could capture you with the Harpies, smiles broad and seemingly effortless. Every click of the camera was accounted for. Every shot controlled. While Ginny played along, there was one person whose gaze never wavered.
Harry.
He watched you. Jaw tight. Eyes narrowing as you moved through the room—never rushed, never uncertain. Always aware of where the light fell, where the cameras were angled, how the audience would see you. The way you seemed to anticipate every lens, every whisper, rather than flinching from them.
It made his skin crawl.
You caught his gaze briefly, offering him the same polite smile you gave everyone else. Neutral. Controlled. Public.
Harry looked away first.
And for the rest of the evening, he watched with growing unease. You weren't just putting on an amiable image. You were performing. Playing the game on a level he had never learned to respect—and that he couldn’t quite forgive.
Somewhere in the orchestrated smiles and flashing lights, a silent rivalry began to stir. Not just on the pitch. Not just with your teammates. But between you and him.
The sky over the Quidditch pitch was perfect, sharp blue—crisp enough that sunlight glittered on the polished metal of the hoops and the crowd’s banners. Half the stadium was devoted to Montrose Magpies fans, their colors fluttering along every railing, chants of early-season optimism bouncing off the stands. On the other side, the Chudley Cannons supporters waved their banners with equal fervor.
The Cannons were a decent team, but they were known for being… well, bad.
Which, in theory, should have made you relieved. After all, for your first official match as part of the Magpies, you were going up against a team with a long streak of losing to Montrose. Yet, instead of comfort, a coil of nerves wound in your stomach. If the streak ended, you would be the one blamed. The newcomer. The reason the long-standing record finally broke.
“Stay sharp,” Your coach murmured, hand brushing your shoulder as you lined up, “Eyes on the Snitch. Don’t let anything distract you.”
You gripped your broom tightly, chin up, shoulders squared. The whistle blew, and you shot into the air.
From above, the world simplified: hoops, players, and the golden Snitch darting like a gleaming star. The roar of the crowd faded into a dull hum. You could do this. You had always done this.
A Cannons Seeker swept low, aiming to cut you off, but your reflexes were sharp. You twisted, dipped, and soared past him, eyes locked on the glinting golden blur of the Snitch.
Halfway through the first quarter, you’d already intercepted two goal opportunities from the Cannons’ beaters. Every move was precise, deliberate—a dance of skill honed over years. Yet the mental weight of scrutiny settled on your shoulders like a heavy cloak.
From the opposite stands, your eye caught movement. Harry Potter. Standing with a few members of Puddlemere United. You shouldn’t have been surprised—plenty of other teams were attending, scouting the match. After all, it was the beginning of qualifiers for the Quidditch National Championship, which would determine bracket placement. Yet, for some reason, his presence threw you off.
The game was tight. Cannons played aggressively, but you were sharper. With a sudden twist, you swooped low, snatching the Snitch just above the stadium’s center field. The familiar, fierce thrill of victory hit as the crowd erupted around you.
And then you saw it: the flash of cameras, the collective gasp, reporters scribbling furiously. Perfect. Another headline would spin by tomorrow: “Montrose’s Seeker Steals Show—and Snitch—from Cannons.”
The crowd was still roaring as you dismounted from your broom, wind whipping through your hair. You could hear the Cannons’ fans grumbling, the Magpies’ section cheering louder, but all of it blurred together into the background noise of success. You’d caught the Snitch, and yet the real battle was only beginning.
Cameras swiveled toward you immediately, flashes popping like fireworks. You adjusted your helmet, brushing a loose strand of hair back, and gave them the exact smile they wanted: confident, poised, untouchable. Every movement was deliberate. Every gesture calculated to convey competence without arrogance. You had learned long ago that appearances mattered as much as skill.
Reporters swarmed as you made your way down the steps, pens scribbling, quills racing, magical cameras clicking from every angle.
“(Y/N)! How does it feel to take the season opener in such a dramatic fashion?” One shouted.
You tilted your head, the practiced ease in your posture easing the tension in your shoulders, “It feels amazing to contribute to the team’s win. Everyone worked incredibly hard out there, and I couldn’t have done it without my teammates.”
Another reporter pressed, a mischievous edge in his tone, "Did you notice that Harry Potter was attending the match? He did attend your congratulatory party, did he not?"
Your manager gave you a subtle nudge, “Keep it clean. They’re circling.”
Your lips curved into a polite, neutral smile, “I appreciate the support of fans and colleagues alike. It’s always great to know people are watching closely—it pushes me to perform better.”
From across the pitch, you caught him again. Harry. Arms crossed, jaw tight. He didn’t like that answer, didn’t like that smile, didn’t like that you were controlling the optics while he could only watch. He let out a quiet huff, shaking his head.
The press room smelled of stale parchment and ink, mixed with the faint tang of sweat and excitement from the day’s matches. You stepped in first, posture impeccable, smile poised, eyes bright but controlled. Cameras pivoted immediately, reporters scribbling as you approached the table.
It was almost pathetic that, since starting professionally with the team, the most challenging thing you had to deal with wasn’t the pace of the game, or rival players trying to cut you off—it was the bright flashes of the cameras and the struggle not to squint.
Your teammates were the first to face the questions: strategy, teamwork, opinions on the opponents, rest, recovery, training. You watched, calm, waiting. And then the reporters finally turned to you.
“(Y/N), congratulations on your season opener! Do you worry that, as the only woman on the team, you might… distract your teammates?”
For a moment, you could hardly believe what you were hearing. Sexist questions weren’t new—you’d been trained for them, coached on responses, given bullet points and possible scenarios. You had practiced keeping your smile even under provocation. But this was so blatantly ignorant it made you blink in surprise.
Then, with controlled composure, you forced out a laugh, “Haha, honestly, we see each other as siblings more than anything else. I’d rather chew a jean jacket than date any of them.”
A ripple of laughter went through the audience, easing the tension. You continued, voice calm, polished, “When we’re training together, we work as parts of a whole—organs of a single body. A family. I hope that answers your question.”
The reporter nodded, thanked you briefly, and moved on to your teammate.
You weren't asked to speak again for the rest of the night.
The press room felt different when Harry entered. He didn’t bother with practiced smiles or careful posture. Cameras swung toward him, flashes strobing, but he ignored them, shoulders slouched, expression flat and slightly irritated.
Questions came quickly, reporters eager to provoke a statement from the Quidditch hero.
“Harry, your thoughts on today’s match? Was it harder than you expected?”
He exhaled, “Fortunately, our training came in handy. The Wasps were formidable opponents.”
Another reporter leaned forward, “And what about the Magpies’ new female Seeker? She’s drawing a lot of attention—as a Seeker yourself, do you think she’ll be a serious competitor this season?”
“I consider all members of all teams serious competitors,” Harry said, jaw tight, “It would be extremely arrogant to assume otherwise just because she’s a woman. And honestly, that question was pathetic—you should be better at your job, considering you’re a man.”
A pause. Then a bold reporter pushed further, “It’s interesting you only speak up when we speak about her. We saw you at the Magpies’ welcome party. And today, you were watching them play. Are you… paying special attention to (Y/N)?”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling like the question tasted sour, “I went because I was invited. That’s it. I watch the game. Not her. She’s my opponent. I couldn’t care less about the rest.”
“But you were there… twice, and you seem awfully troubled about talking about her,” The reporter pressed, “Seems like a lot of attention for someone who ‘couldn’t care less.’”
“Right,” Harry said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “I just love coming in for my job and having to talk about someone I’ve never even met while you leeches try to squeeze a gossip story out of it.” He threw his hands up, exasperated, muttering under his breath, “Bloody ridiculous.”
Reporters scribbled furiously. Every word, every tone would be dissected and spun into a headline tomorrow. And yet, Harry didn’t care. Or at least, he didn’t pretend to.
He looked back toward you once, lips tightening. Not with admiration. Not with anything that could be publicly named. But with irritation, disbelief that you could navigate the media so effortlessly, that you could perform control and poise while he struggled to breathe through his own disdain.
A final question landed: “Do you respect her as a player?”
Harry scowled, voice low and sharp, “I’m not answering any more questions relating to this circus. If you have questions about my job, go ahead. If not… might I suggest a career with Witch Weekly or Entertainment Tonight, not Quidditch Times?”
The sun was still warm, softened by the slow tilt of afternoon, when you arrived at the hospital wing’s special courtyard. Banners in assorted Quidditch colors fluttered overhead, charmed to sway even without wind, while the low hum of excited chatter filled the air. Children and parents gathered in small clusters, laughter ringing out in bursts, anticipation crackling beneath it all.
You hadn’t been thrilled about taking a day off from your rigorously structured training schedule. Your body ran on routine, on repetition and discipline. Still, a small, quieter part of you had looked forward to this.
You loved kids.
What soured it—just a little—was the knowledge sitting heavy in the back of your mind: you weren’t here because you were the most available Magpie, or the most senior, or even the most decorated.
You were here because you were a woman.
As if two of your teammates weren’t fathers. As if compassion was something assigned by gender.
You smoothed your jacket, rolled your shoulders back, and stepped into the courtyard.
You weren’t surprised to find Harry Potter already there, crouched slightly to be on eye level with a small group of kids, laughing easily as one of them animatedly described a goal that was clearly exaggerated by at least thirty feet. It was common knowledge—almost a brand at this point—that he was good with children. Always gifting his Snitch from a winning match to some wide-eyed kid in the stands.
“(Y/N),” He said when he noticed you, straightening. His voice was low, polite. Neutral, “You’re here too.”
“I am,” You replied smoothly, forcing your tone into something equally civil, “It’s nice to officially meet you, Potter.”
You extended your hand, fingers relaxed, posture impeccable. You knew the cameras were on you—you could feel them the way you felt weather changes in your joints. This was choreography. This was professionalism.
Harry looked down at your hand.
Then back up at your face.
One eyebrow lifted, slow and unimpressed.
The moment stretched—thin, awkward, almost sharp.
And then—
“IT’S (Y/N) (L/N)!”
The shout was so sudden and so joyful that it cut clean through the tension.
You turned, instinctively, and whatever irritation you’d been carrying dissolved on impact.
A little girl sat in a wheelchair a few feet away, her face lit up like she’d just spotted the Snitch itself. She wore a black-and-green jersey, clearly homemade, your name stitched boldly across the back. Not your number.
Your birthday.
Your breath caught.
“Oh,” You said softly, already moving toward her, “Hi.”
Her parents hovered just behind her, smiling with the kind of fond exhaustion that came from loving fiercely and constantly. The girl bounced in her seat, hands gripping the wheels.
“I’m your biggest fan,” She announced, as if this were an established fact, “I watch all your matches. Even the replays.”
You crouched in front of her without thinking, the world narrowing down to the space between you, “Is that so? I love your outfit today.”
She lit up like a summers day.
“We had to get it custom made,” Her mum added, laughing a little, “They didn’t have any official ones yet.”
Your heart twisted.
“Well,” You said, eyes bright, voice warm, “that simply won’t do now, will it? I’ll send you a proper Magpies jersey. Official. With the right number.”
Her mouth dropped open, “Really?”
“Really,” You promised, “And maybe a spare. Just in case."
She laughed, high and delighted, and launched into an enthusiastic breakdown of your last match—where you’d cut left instead of right, how fast you’d dropped, how she knew you’d seen the Snitch before anyone else.
You listened. Truly listened.
“I want to be a Quidditch player too one day!” She exclaimed, beaming—then her smile faltered, just a little. Her fingers tightened on the arm of her wheelchair, “But… I don’t think I can.”
Her parents started to speak at the same time, instinctive reassurance ready on their tongues, but you were already speaking up before they had the chance.
“I think you can, love.”
She blinked up at you, surprised, “Really?”
“Of course,” You said without hesitation, “We’re all magic, aren’t we? Maybe they’ll invent a broom one day that makes it possible for you. Or a position. Or a whole new way to play.” You smiled at her, warm and certain, “And with someone like you—who loves the game this much—it’s hard not to believe you’ll have a stellar career in it.”
You glanced over your shoulder, searching.
“Isn’t that right, Potter?”
Harry hadn’t realized how intently he’d been watching you.
He stood a few paces away, arms crossed over his chest, expression unguarded in a way it almost never was. Thoughtful. Softened. Like he’d momentarily forgotten where he was—forgotten cameras, expectations, even himself.
At the sound of his name, he straightened abruptly, caught out.
“Yeah,” He said after a beat, clearing his throat. He stepped closer, crouching slightly so he was eye level with the girl, “She’s right. Quidditch changes all the time. It didn’t look like this when I was a kid. No reason it won’t change again.”
The girl’s eyes flicked between the two of you, shining, “So… I could really do it?”
Harry smiled, the first sincere smile you had ever seen on him, the sight of it sending a little jolt through your stomach, “I think the world would be stupid to count you out.”
Her grin returned full force, brighter than before, and she laughed, the sound carrying through the courtyard.
You met Harry’s gaze briefly.
He gave you the smallest smile he could muster and you chuckled, turning back to the rest of the kids.
As the afternoon wound down, the courtyard slowly began to empty. Children were guided back inside, parents offered heartfelt thanks, and the banners overhead dimmed as their enchantments softened with the fading light. The buzz of excitement settled into that gentle, satisfied tiredness that followed a good day.
You stood near the edge of the courtyard, speaking quietly with your assistant as she scribbled notes onto a charmed clipboard.
“Please make sure a few official jerseys get sent over,” You said, your tone firm but warm, “Different sizes. And some merch too—scarves, pins, whatever we can spare. For the hospital wing. Especially for that girl.”
Your assistant nodded immediately, “I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you,” You added softly, “I don’t want it announced. Just… send it.”
“Got it.”
She hesitated, then glanced past you, her expression shifting to mild surprise. She tipped her chin subtly in that direction.
You turned with a polite smile already in place, expecting to see the girl’s mother again—who had been thanking you profusely all evening.
Instead, you found Harry Potter standing a few steps behind you.
“Potter.” You greeted, neutral and composed.
“Harry.” He corrected automatically. Then he paused, as if reconsidering, before holding out his hand.
This time there was no performance to it. No awareness of angles or cameras. Just a simple, offered gesture.
You looked at his hand for a moment before taking it.
“Listen,” He said, his grip firm but brief, “I wanted to apologize if I was acting like a dick earlier.”
Your brows lifted slightly, surprise flickering across your face—followed by something closer to amusement.
“Honestly?” You said, “I was actually going to thank you.”
His expression shifted, “For what?”
“For sticking up for me in the press room,” You replied evenly, “You didn’t have to do that. Setting the record straight.”
Harry shrugged, visibly uncomfortable with the praise, “I don’t really care for the whole… song and dance. Interviews, speculation. All of it. I’m more focused on the game.”
A corner of your mouth curved upward, “I agree. I think it should be about the game.”
For a moment, you stood there in shared silence—not awkward, not tense. Just two players, worn down in the same way, quietly aligned on something that actually mattered.
“Well,” Harry said eventually, shifting his weight, “Good luck this season.”
“Same to you,” You replied, “But don’t expect me to take it easy on you just because I’m indebted to you, Pot—Harry.”
He huffed out a laugh, “I wouldn’t expect you to.”
He turned to leave, then paused, glancing back once. Not lingering. Not searching.
Just acknowledging you.
And that, somehow, felt like the real beginning of something.
You should’ve known the bigger teams weren’t going to take the qualifiers too seriously. Point accumulation mattered—of course it did—but everyone knew notoriety carried weight. Legacy teams always landed softer brackets. Always got the benefit of the doubt.
That didn’t make the pitch any quieter.
The stands roared long before the whistle blew, restless and hungry as Montrose and Puddlemere United lined up opposite one another. Two historic teams. Two fanbases that adored their own and despised everyone else.
And standing across from you, adjusting his gloves with deliberate calm, was Harry Potter.
“Shake hands!”
You stepped forward without hesitation, clasping his open palm in a firm, efficient shake before pulling away just as quickly.
“Good luck.” He said.
The words barely registered.
Once you were in the zone, language stopped meaning anything. Your ears tuned only to wind and motion, to the faint metallic zip of something fast and golden somewhere above. You gave him a brief nod and swung onto your broom.
The whistle shrieked.
You launched.
The sky shattered into movement—players streaking past, Bludgers roaring like cannon fire, the Quaffle flashing between hands. Somewhere above it all, the Snitch glimmered, teasing and elusive.
Puddlemere played aggressively.
Too aggressively.
A Bludger clipped past your shoulder—too close—forcing you to veer sharply. Another followed almost immediately, angled to catch your side if you hadn’t twisted away in time. You clenched your jaw and adjusted your flight, refusing to look rattled.
They want a reaction, you told yourself. Don’t give them one.
But it didn’t stop.
Every time you gained altitude, a Bludger chased you off. Every time you dipped toward a flash of gold, one screamed past your ribs.
From the corner of your vision, you saw Harry notice.
His head snapped toward his Beaters, jaw tightening.
The third Bludger passed close enough to rattle your teeth.
Something in him broke.
“Oi!” Harry shouted mid-air, breaking formation, “What the hell are you doing?”
The match stuttered—just a fraction—but it was enough.
One of the Beaters scoffed, affronted, “I was preventing her from getting the Snitch—”
“—and screwing up my chances as well,” Harry snapped, “Knock it off.”
The referee’s whistle sliced through the air, sharp and furious. One of the coaches called a timeout.
The crowd erupted.
You landed hard, boots skidding slightly as you marched straight toward Harry.
“What the hell was that?” You demanded, “Do you have any idea what you just did?”
He frowned, “They were doing that on purpose.”
“Oh, and because I’m a woman, I need Saint Potter to speak up for me?” You shot back.
“They were hazing you,” He said, frustration bleeding through his voice, “Taking the mickey when they should’ve been focused on the Chasers. I wasn’t just going to—”
“I don’t need you to speak up for me, Potter,” You snapped, fury sharp and unfiltered, “I have my own team for that.”
You jabbed a finger into his chest, “Don’t interfere again.”
He stared at you, stunned—truly stunned.
You turned sharply, stalking past him, glare cutting straight through your own beaters, “Do your job.”
The whistle blew again.
You kicked off and flew—heart hammering, anger burning clean and bright—leaving Harry behind.
The women’s locker room was nearly empty by the time you finished changing.
Most of the team had already left—some to celebrate, some to cool off, some simply exhausted. The air was thick with the lingering scent of sweat and cleaning charms, the echoes of laughter long faded. Your kit sat folded in your bag as you toed off your boots, movements slow and deliberate.
Only when the door shut behind you did the adrenaline finally drain.
You stepped into the corridor, shoulders aching, mind still buzzing with the match—and nearly collided with a solid wall of a person.
Harry.
He stood just outside the locker room, arms crossed, weight shifted back on his heels like he’d been pacing. His head snapped up when he saw you.
“Oh,” You said flatly, “Here to walk the poor damsel in distress back to her hotel room, are you, Saint Potter?”
“Why are you being such a prat?” He shot back.
You laughed—sharp, humorless, “I’m being the prat? You’re the one who screwed everything up.”
“I was only trying to help,” He said, frustration rising, “They were targeting you. You could’ve been hurt.”
“Help who?” You asked.
He hesitated, “What?”
“You said you were trying to help,” You repeated, your voice dangerously calm, “So tell me—help who? Because it certainly wasn’t me.”
You stopped walking, “You know what you did out there? You made it look like I couldn’t handle my own match. We beat you today, but tomorrow the tabloids will say Puddlemere took it easy on us because Montrose has a girl instead of actually acknowledging how we played.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“It doesn’t matter what you meant,” You cut in, “What matters is how it looks.”
“I thought I was doing the right thing.” He said, quieter now.
“I know,” You replied, “And that’s what makes it worse.”
You stepped back, the exhaustion finally settling into your bones.
“I don’t need you to protect me,” You said, “I need you to respect me.”
For a moment, it looked like he might argue—justify, push back, say something that would only dig the hole deeper.
Instead, he exhaled.
“…Right.”
You nodded once, “Good.”
And then you walked past him, leaving Harry Potter alone in the corridor.
The flowers arrived the next morning.
You almost missed them—set neatly on the rolling cart you’d ordered room service on. For a moment, you assumed they were part of the hotel décor until your eyes caught the small card propped carefully between the stems. Your name was written clearly across it.
A simple bouquet. Wildflowers, wrapped in plain brown parchment, tied with twine. Nothing flashy. Nothing designed for cameras.
You picked up the card, sliding it from its perch between the flowers. The handwriting was unmistakable.
I’m sorry for overstepping yesterday. Congratulations on the win. You deserve it.
— Harry
You bit your lip, tracing the letters of his name with the tip of your finger. It was brief, quiet, unassuming—and entirely Harry. No flourish, no dramatics, no unnecessary charmwork. Just accountability. A small, private smile tugged at your lips as you glanced back at the flowers.
Carefully, you placed the card on the coffee table along with your breakfast, pushing aside today’s edition of the Daily Prophet.
“Did Puddlemere Take It Easy on (L/N)? Montrose Seeker’s Victory Under Scrutiny.”
You returned to the hospital a few days later without cameras. You’d been thinking about that sweet little girl ever since—wondering if she liked the presents, if the jerseys fit, if she’d watched the match highlights like she’d promised. Maybe you’d even invite her and her parents to a game, once things settled.
You weren’t entirely sure why she’d stayed on your mind so stubbornly.
Maybe it was because she wanted to be like you before you’d even properly made a name for yourself. Maybe because she looked at you like you were something extraordinary, and you felt an unexpected, aching need to live up to that version of yourself.
So you came back.
Just you, a paper bag of Honeydukes sweets tucked under your arm, and a quiet hope that you wouldn’t be intruding.
The courtyard was brighter than you remembered—sunlight spilling over warm stone, laughter echoing softly. You spotted her immediately.
She sat in her wheelchair, completely absorbed in a game with another child. A boy—about her age, maybe a little younger—hovered a few inches off the ground on a toy broom, kicking his feet lazily as he floated. His hair was a brilliant, unmistakable shade of blue.
You smiled before you even realized you were doing it.
“Hey,” You said gently as you approached, “Looks like I’m interrupting something very important.”
She looked up, eyes widening, “(Y/N)!”
You hurried to her side before she could try to move, crouching down to pull her into a careful hug. “It’s so nice to see you again, love,” You said softly, “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Teddy.”
The boy turned toward you, chin lifting immediately, eyes sharp with the absolute confidence only children possessed.
“It’s nice to meet you, Teddy.”
“(Y/N) is the Seeker for the Montrose Magpies.” She announced proudly.
“I’m better.” He added instantly.
“Are you?” You asked, playing along.
It was hard not to laugh at the sight of his puffed chest and ruddy cheeks, but you bit your lip instead and offered him a Chocolate Frog. His face lit up immediately as he tore it open, holding up the card—Viktor Krum.
“Yeah. My uncle says so,” He said, “I’m going to win the Quidditch World Cup. I already know how to do dives.”
“Do you now?” You asked. “What kind?”
“All of them.” He said confidently—when he had realized too late he couldn’t name a single one. Chocolate smeared across his mouth, he shrugged.
You spared a glance at the girl beside you and felt your chest tighten. She hadn’t noticed his hesitation at all—she was staring at him with complete awe.
You bit your lip.
You loved children.
The three of you talked for a while—about Quidditch teams, favorite plays, how fast a broom really had to go to count as impressive. Teddy was charming in that slightly arrogant, wildly earnest way, interrupting constantly, correcting you once (incorrectly), and declaring—more than once—that he would absolutely beat you one day.
“Of course you would,” You told him solemnly, “After all, your uncle said so.”
He beamed.
You were mid-story—something exaggerated about nearly crashing into a commentator’s box—when a familiar voice drifted across the courtyard.
“Teddy.”
You looked up.
Harry stood a few steps away, hands in his pockets. When his gaze landed on you, he froze—genuinely startled.
Teddy brightened immediately, “Uncle Harry! (Y/N), look—this is my uncle! He’s the second best Quidditch player!”
You couldn’t stop yourself from laughing this time. Harry looked absolutely mortified.
He crossed the grass toward you, gaze flicking briefly over the kids before settling back on you, “I didn’t know you were coming today.”
“I didn’t tell anyone,” You replied honestly, “This one’s unofficial.” Then, glancing at Teddy, you added lightly, “Your nephew’s very confident.”
Harry snorted, “Godson. And yes—that’s one word for it.”
You laughed—soft, genuine—and something in Harry’s expression shifted. Not tension. Not irritation.
Something warmer.
The kids quickly fell back into their own conversation, far more interested in arguing about broom speeds than involving either of you. You didn’t feel awkward this time. You didn’t feel watched.
You looked at Harry through your lashes. “I got the flowers,” You said quietly, “Thank you.”
A faint red crept up his cheeks—whether from the cold or not, you couldn’t say, “You deserved them.”
A little while later, Teddy was swept away by his other uncle—grumbling loudly about how unfair it was that he had to leave when you were clearly in the middle of an important Quidditch discussion. You laughed, waved him off, promised him a rematch someday.
Only then did you gather your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you headed toward the main exit.
And froze.
Through the tall glass doors, you could see them.
Cameras. Long lenses. A cluster of figures lingering far too deliberately near the hospital gates, pretending—badly—to be minding their own business.
Your stomach dropped.
What the hell?
Your first thought was fury. Your second was panic. Who had tipped them off? A healer? A parent? Someone who’d recognized you? It didn’t matter. If they caught you walking out—if they caught you walking out with Harry Potter—
No. Absolutely not.
You stepped back instinctively, heart hammering, your mind already scrambling for an exit strategy.
“Everything okay?”
You startled.
Harry stood just behind you, brow furrowed. You opened your mouth, closed it, then exhaled sharply.
“There are paparazzi outside,” You said under your breath, “If they see us leave, it’ll be a mess.”
His jaw tightened as he glanced toward the doors, instantly understanding.
You rubbed a hand over your face, frustration bleeding into your voice, “How likely do you think they’ll spin this into some sort of story? It’d be stupid of them to try and wrench a scandal out of this—we were visiting sick children.”
He studied you for a beat while you kept talking, words tumbling over each other. Then his expression shifted—decisive.
Before you could ask what he meant, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a familiar, silvery fabric.
Your breath caught.
Before you even realized what you were doing, you reached out, fingers brushing the cloth. It was softer than you expected, almost like velvet. “Wow,” You murmured, “I’ve never seen one in person.”
When you looked up, Harry was a hair’s breadth away.
You startled, nearly stepping back—until his hand closed gently around your wrist, stopping you. Not tight. Just enough to keep you close.
“We’ll go together,” He said quietly, “They won’t see us.”
“That’s—are you sure?”
“Yes.”
There was no hesitation in his voice.
He lifted the cloak and gestured you forward, “Come here.”
You stepped into his space, the distance between you disappearing far too quickly. The cloak settled over both of you, the world vanishing in a blink—your body swallowed by invisibility, the air suddenly warmer.
A suffocating heat crept up Harry’s neck. The last time he’d had someone under the cloak, he’d been twelve. Even then, he and Ron had constantly bumped into each other. It was foolish to assume two fully grown adults wouldn’t end up pressed together.
Your shoulder brushed his chest. His hand hovered at your back for a second—uncertain—before resting there. Light. Respectful. But you felt like his fingerprints were being seared into your skin.
“Okay?” He whispered.
You nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see it, “Okay.”
You moved together carefully, steps slow and synchronized. You could feel his breathing—steady, controlled—while yours felt far too loud. Every small movement was magnified: the brush of fabric, the faint heat of his body, the way his fingers flexed slightly against your spine when you stumbled over a loose stone.
“Stay close.” He murmured.
“Frankly,” You whispered back, “I don’t think I could get any closer.”
His quiet huff of laughter brushed your ear—and then he froze, realizing just how near your mouth was to his.
The air shifted.
You both went still, bodies aligned almost instinctively, every movement careful. The sounds around you faded, replaced by the soft rustle of the cloak and the thud of your own heartbeat.
You stepped when he did. Slow. Silent.
As you passed through the doors, voices drifted through the air.
“…swear I saw someone go in earlier—”
“Potter’s been spotted around here lately—”
You sucked in a sharp breath you didn’t release until you were a full block away.
Only then did Harry stop.
“I think we’re clear.” He whispered.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
You were still under the cloak. Still close. Still wrapped in secrecy and shared adrenaline.
You looked up at him, barely visible in the dim light, and realized your hand was still gripping his sleeve. Hidden beneath the cloak, you couldn’t quite make out his expression—but you caught the way his gaze dropped, just briefly, to your mouth.
You knew yours did the same.
His hand was still at your back.
And neither of you pulled away.
The silence stretched—heavy, expectant—until it felt like it might snap. You became acutely aware of everything at once: the warmth of him, the way the cloak muffled the world, the fact that your faces were already so close that pulling away would take more effort than staying.
Harry swallowed.
“This is probably—” He began, voice low.
You didn’t let him finish.
You weren’t even sure who moved first. Maybe it was mutual. Maybe it was inevitable. All you knew was that the space between you disappeared in a quiet, decisive moment.
His lips met yours.
Your hand loosened on his sleeve, fingers sliding up instead, resting lightly against his chest. He inhaled sharply, and the sound alone sent a shiver through you. His hand at your back pressed in just a fraction more, grounding, steady.
There was something about knowing you were hidden from the rest of the world that made everything else fall away. The city noise dulled. Time blurred. You leaned into him, deepening the kiss, and the world felt impossibly far.
No fans. No cameras. No expectations.
Just the two of you.
Your arms slipped around his neck, and he responded instantly, hands settling at your waist, pulling you closer like it was instinct. You gasped softly when he pressed you back against the brick wall, not trapping—just there. Present. His other hand came up, cradling your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you.
“Harry.” You breathed against his mouth.
The sound he made was quiet and wrecked—half frustration, half relief—and the kiss turned deeper, more urgent. Your fingers slid into his hair without thinking, tangling, tugging just enough to make him hiss softly into your mouth.
And then—just as suddenly as it began—he stopped.
Not pulling away completely. Just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard as reality crept back in around the edges.
“We—” He exhaled, clearly struggling, lips brushing your skin as he spoke, “Do you want to go back to my place? I think at this rate we’re going to suffocate under here.”
You laughed softly, breathless, heart still racing, “Yeah.”
Still, neither of you moved.
After a beat, he pressed one last kiss to your lips—slower now, softer, reverent—like a promise rather than a question.
“Then,” He murmured, hand squeezing yours beneath the cloak, “Let’s go.”
You woke slowly, drifting up from sleep on a lazy breath, only to realize what had pulled you from it.
Harry’s fingers.
They traced idle patterns up and down your bare waist, slow and absentminded, like he was half-awake himself—muscle memory more than intention. Wherever he touched, goosebumps followed, your skin prickling in protest against the cool morning air.
You sighed, a quiet, content sound, and shifted closer, attempting to burrow back into the mattress. If you could just disappear under the duvet—become part of the sheets—surely no one could make you leave.
“Love,” Harry murmured, voice rough with sleep but fond all the same, “Wake up. You’ve got practice this morning.”
You responded with a whine, the sound muffled as you pressed yourself against him, tucking your face into the warm curve of his neck. His skin was warm, familiar, smelling faintly of sleep and him, and it made the idea of leaving bed feel almost cruel.
“I don’t want to go,” You complained softly, “It’s freezing outside. It’s warm under the covers.”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating lightly against your cheek, and an arm came up to cradle your head, fingers threading through your hair.
“Well,” He said mildly, “It wouldn’t be so cold if you’d worn clothes last night like I suggested.”
You huffed, pushing yourself upright just enough to glare down at him—though with sleep still clinging to you, it came out more like a squint. You gathered the duvet tightly around your shoulders, affronted.
“Fine,” You declared, voice hoarse, “I’m wearing clothes around you from now on. Never again will you catch me without.”
His lips twitched. Then curved fully into a grin.
Harry raised an eyebrow, entirely unimpressed by the threat. “Now, now,” He said, amusement dancing in his voice as he tugged you back down into his arms, “Let’s not make decisions we’ll both regret.”
You sighed as you settled against his chest again, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat dangerously lulling. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, unhurried, affectionate in that easy way that had become second nature over the past month.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
This—slow mornings, shared warmth, teasing complaints—had slipped so seamlessly into your lives that it felt strange to remember there had been a time before it.
You almost drifted off again.
Almost.
Your eyes fluttered shut. Your breathing evened out. Harry felt it immediately.
“Oh no you don’t,” He murmured, amused, giving you a gentle squeeze, “You fall back asleep and I’m getting blamed for it like last time.”
You groaned, dragging yourself upright again with visible effort, "Well I wouldn't be so tired if you hadn't worn me out so badly last night."
He laughed softly as you swung your legs over the side of the bed, shivering when the cool air hit your skin, "I didn't exactly hear you complaining."
You rolled your eyes, grabbing your jumper from the chair and tugging it on.
He watched you for a moment—hair messy, movements uncoordinated, very clearly not a morning person—and his expression softened in that way it always did when he thought you weren’t looking.
You glanced back at him—hair a mess, glasses crooked on the bedside table, looking far too comfortable in your shared space—and felt that familiar warmth bloom in your chest.
"I'll see you later." You said softly, reaching back to steal a quick kiss before standing.
And even as you shivered at the cold air and went in search of clothes, you knew you’d be counting the hours until you were back under the covers with him again.
A couple more weeks passed during the gap between the qualifiers and the tournament, and somewhere in between packed schedules and stolen moments, the two of you settled into something easy.
Mornings together when schedules allowed—sleepy murmurs, tangled limbs, Harry always insisting on making tea even when he was running late. Evenings spent sprawled on opposite ends of the sofa, feet inevitably finding each other, half-watching whatever was on while you talked about everything and nothing. Matches, practice drills, gossip from the league, the weird dream he’d had the night before. Comfortable silences that didn’t need filling.
Harry had taken to keeping one of your hair ties tucked beneath the cuff of his glove.
A good luck charm, he’d proclaimed solemnly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
You’d teased him mercilessly for it—told him he was so deep in the honeymoon phase that he wanted something belonging to his biggest opponent physically on his person. He’d only shrugged, grinning, utterly unbothered.
“Seems to be working, doesn’t it?”
And slowly, almost without you noticing, whatever had once crackled between you—sharp, electric, all tension and stolen glances—began to soften. It didn’t fade. It deepened. Settled into something steady. Safe.
It felt… solid.
Comfortable.
Real.
So when you unlocked your flat one evening after a brutal day—training unforgiving, muscles aching, head pounding—the faint light spilling from the living room was what first caught your attention.
Had you left a lamp on?
You took another step inside.
No. This wasn’t overhead light.
This was softer. Warmer. Flickering.
You froze just inside the doorway.
The living room glowed with candlelight—dozens of them, scattered carefully across shelves, the table, even the windowsill. Curtains drawn. Fairy lights twined lazily along the edges like someone had taken their time with it all. The table was set. Properly set. Plates, cutlery, napkins folded with suspicious effort.
And there—standing awkwardly beside it all, hands hovering like he didn’t quite know where to put them—
Harry.
He looked up the moment you stepped in, bracing himself.
“Hi.” He said, sheepish and hopeful all at once.
You just stared, a giant smile spreading across your face as the exhaustion of the day evaporated instantly.
“…Harry.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, “You mentioned the other day that you hadn’t had a proper night off in ages. And I know I’m not… exactly known for big gestures, but—”
He gestured vaguely to the room, candles flickering obediently.
“I thought I’d try.”
Something warm and tight bloomed in your chest, that familiar feeling he’d started giving you more often than not.
Instead of answering, you crossed the room in three quick steps and launched yourself into his arms with a delighted squeal. He barely had time to react before you were peppering kisses all over his face, pushing his glasses up into his hair so you could properly smother him.
He laughed, startled and breathless, “Hey—!”
“This is such a fire hazard,” You laughed between kisses, “but it’s perfect. I love it.”
His arms came around you automatically, steadying you, “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You leaned in and kissed him properly then—slow, lingering, full of quiet appreciation. He melted into it without hesitation, hands finding your waist like they always did, grounding and familiar.
When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, smiling.
“Don’t worry,” He said softly, “It’s all takeaway. I didn’t cook.”
You laughed, bumping your nose against his.
“Oh thank Godric.”
He grinned, proud and relieved all at once, and as he led you toward the table, fingers laced with yours, you had the distinct, grounding thought that this—this warmth, this ease—was exactly where you were meant to be.
Soft light filtered in through the curtains, the city muted and slow below. You lingered in that half-awake haze longer than usual, wrapped in warmth that was—unfortunately—just the duvet.
Frowning, you shifted, reaching out instinctively… and found the space beside you empty.
Confused, you pushed yourself upright, hair a mess, blinking the sleep from your eyes. After tugging on one of Harry’s jumpers—far too big, sleeves swallowing your hands—you padded through the flat in search of him.
You found him on the balcony.
The doors were cracked open, letting in a bite of morning air. Harry stood barefoot against the railing, a mug warming his hands, the city stretching out behind him. When he turned and saw you, his expression softened instantly.
That smile.
The quiet one. The private one. The one that had nothing to do with the outside world—and everything to do with you.
“Morning.” He said.
“Morning.” You replied, stepping closer, rising onto your toes to press a brief kiss to his mouth.
Brief didn’t last.
It never did.
The kiss slowed naturally, deepened without urgency. Familiar. Easy. His free hand found your waist, thumb brushing lazy, absent-minded circles against your hip as if it belonged there—like it always had.
You laughed softly about something inconsequential, something that wouldn’t matter in five minutes, and he leaned down to kiss your temple, lips lingering just a second too long.
Neither of you noticed the movement across the street.
The long lens.
The quiet click.
By the time you pulled back, foreheads resting together, there was already someone lowering their camera from behind a van parked far enough away to feel safe. Far enough that details blurred. That faces softened into silhouettes.
All they caught was the shape of him—messy hair and glasses unmistakable even at a distance—and you, half-hidden in an oversized jumper, face turned away, framed by pale morning light. His hand at your waist. Your head tipped back slightly as he kissed you.
Intimate.
Suggestive.
Just unclear enough.
Later that day, the photos would surface quietly at first. Cropped. Zoomed. Grainy.
Harry Potter spotted outside private residence.
Mystery woman seen sharing intimate moment.
Is the mystery woman Montrose Magpies’ new Seeker?
Moments when Harry Potter and (Y/N) (L/N) were seen together.
Fans would argue. Commentators would speculate. Your name would be tossed around in maybes and italics—but never confirmed. The angle too distant. Your face never fully visible. No clear proof.
Back in the flat, blissfully unaware, Harry pressed one last kiss to your lips before pulling back.
“You should get inside,” He said lightly, “It’s cold.”
You smiled, leaning into him anyway, “I’m happy where I am.”
And somewhere across the street, the paparazzi smiled too—already knowing they had exactly enough.
The flat felt smaller than it ever had.
Not claustrophobic—just tight. Like the walls were leaning in, listening.
You paced the length of the dining area, bare feet skimming the floor as your eyes skimmed the chaos spread across the table. Newspapers layered atop one another in uneven stacks—The Daily Prophet, The Evening Prophet, Witch Weekly, Quidditch Today, Wizarding World News, The Godric Gazette. Big outlets. Small ones. Tabloids pretending to be respectable and respectable papers pretending they weren’t salivating.
Every headline said the same thing in a different font.
You reread them anyway.
Sources suggest.
Industry insiders hint.
Mystery woman.
Rising star.
Harry Potter spotted.
They were everywhere now—camped outside team practices, waiting near your agency, lingering outside cafés you used to feel safe in. You’d dodged cameras twice already today, hood up, head down, heart racing like you’d done something wrong just by existing.
You didn’t hear the door open.
You felt it.
The air shifted—subtle but unmistakable—and then the sound of the door closing, deliberate and sharp. An invisible presence crossed the room before resolving into Harry, the cloak pulled off his shoulders and tossed aside like it had offended him.
His hair was still damp from a rushed shower, jacket thrown on like he hadn’t been able to sit still long enough to dry properly. His jaw was clenched, eyes dark and stormy.
“We need to talk.” He said.
You stepped aside silently, giving him room.
The flat felt smaller with him in it. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed against your ears, begging to be broken.
“They showed up at Teddy’s school today,” He said, anger barely contained, “Reporters. Cameras. Asking questions.”
Your head snapped up, “What?”
“They were trying to get something out of me,” He continued, pacing once before turning back toward you, “Trying to bait me. They crossed a line.”
Your chest tightened. You’d known the press was relentless—but Teddy had always been off-limits. Harry had guarded that fiercely. Before meeting him, you hadn’t even known his godson’s name.
“I want to go public,” Harry said immediately, “Tonight, if possible.”
Your heart dropped straight through the floor.
“No.”
He blinked, genuinely taken aback, “No?”
“No,” You repeated, firmer now, “Absolutely not.”
He stared at you like you’d switched languages mid-sentence, “Why?”
You let out a short, incredulous laugh, “Why? Harry, are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious,” He snapped, “They already have photos. They’re already speculating. This half-in, half-out thing just gives them more room to dig. They’re not going to stop—they’re going to push harder. This is the better option.”
“For you.” You shot back.
His brows furrowed, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” You said, voice rising despite yourself, “that I have worked too hard to be where I am right now. I’ve spent years clawing my way here, and I am not letting it get reduced to being Harry Potter’s girlfriend.”
His jaw tightened, “You’re acting like being seen with me is some kind of liability.”
“That’s not—”
“You’re willing to keep hiding,” He cut in, frustration spilling over, “to keep dodging cameras, letting paparazzi invade our lives like parasites, all for what? Your image? A couple of brand deals?”
You stared at him, stunned, “Do you even understand what something like this could cost me?”
“So I’m supposed to stand on the sidelines,” He shot back, “While you decide when I’m worth the risk?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
The words hung there, heavy and cruel.
You didn’t trust yourself to speak for a moment. Instead, you turned, grabbed the Invisibility Cloak from where it lay slung over the couch, and held it out to him.
"Here. Take it."
Something in his expression fractured—not loudly, not dramatically. Just enough to hurt.
“I need space,” You said quietly, “I can’t do this right now.”
He looked down at the cloak in his hands, then back at you. A sharp scoff escaped him.
“Fine,” He said, too quickly, already turning toward the door, “Take all the space you want.”
The door shut behind him with a final, echoing click.
And suddenly, the flat felt bigger than ever—wide open, hollow, and unbearably quiet.
The press conference room was a cage. Bright lights, microphones angled at you, cameras flashing like impatient lightning. You were sitting behind the table, Harry only a couple feet away—but he felt like miles. You hadn’t spoken to him since the fight, letting your managers handle all communication. Not that he had made an attempt either.
You straightened your shoulders, lifted your chin, and forced the practiced calm onto your face. Your hands rested lightly on the podium, and you focused on the questions rather than the relentless scrutiny behind them.
“(Y/N), are you going to officially confirm the rumors about your relationship with Harry Potter?” A reporter asked, sharp and insistent, cutting straight to the point.
You inhaled, steadying yourself. Every cell in your body wanted to flinch, wanted to vanish, but you didn’t. You had to do this.
“No,” You said, voice measured but firm, “We are not in a relationship. I’m sorry if any speculation has misled anyone. That is not the case.”
Flashes went off as your words echoed across the room. You could almost hear the spin already forming, the tabloid imaginations firing. You forced a polite nod at the next reporter, who immediately jumped in.
“So, there’s nothing at all happening between you two?”
“Nothing.” You confirmed again, repeating the word with quiet conviction. You felt a hollow ache in your chest, a faint but persistent echo of what had been. There was no turning back now.
“And Mr. Potter? Who was that woman at your house then? Is there truly nothing going on between the two of you?”
Harry took a small breath, leaning toward the mic. His voice was clipped, careful, deliberately cold.
“The woman in the picture has requested that her identity not be revealed. As for Seeker (L/N), there is nothing going on between the two of us. We are not—and will never be—anything beyond professional colleagues.”
The words landed like a heavy weight in your chest. Sharp. Bitter. Final.
You realized, in that instant, that the relationship was over. Not just in the public eye. Not just to the fans, the reporters, or the endless speculation. But in the quiet, in the private spaces you had shared, in the stolen moments and whispered touches. Over.
You stared at the table, pupils shaking, jaw clenched as tightly as you could to keep the cameras from capturing the quiver in your lips.
The press room hummed with murmurs, questions bouncing back and forth like ricocheting Bludgers—but you didn’t hear them anymore. You were acutely aware of the absence beside you, of the warmth that was no longer there.
You straightened once more, forced a polite smile, and answered the next question.
The press conference room emptied with a steady hum of footsteps, clicking heels, and rolling chairs. Reporters muttered to one another, editors scrambled for quotes, and the flashes of cameras finally faded as the last staffers packed up. The microphones were lowered, the bright lights dimmed, leaving behind only the faint scent of polished wood and stale coffee.
You lingered just outside for a moment. Everyone had already gone home; the building was empty now. You were certain Harry had left—most of the reporters had followed him outside, hungry for one more quote, one more headline—while you had hidden in the bathroom, palms braced against the sink, willing your reflection to look composed.
Finally, you stepped back inside.
The room was quiet now, eerily so, save for the low hum of the ventilation system. Chairs were pushed neatly under tables, cables coiled away, the podium standing empty and impartial. Your fingers grazed the chair where he’d been sitting, and the memory hit you all at once—the hurt, stunned look on his face in your flat that night, followed by the careful indifference he’d worn the next time you’d seen him.
That was when you noticed it.
A single hair tie, lying forgotten on the table.
Your chest constricted, a sharp, breath-stealing pang of everything you had lost—of everything you’d never really been allowed to keep.
You knelt, fingers trembling as you picked it up. The room seemed impossibly vast and unbearably empty all at once. You sat on the edge of the chair, tracing the familiar stretch of the band between your fingers, memories flooding in uninvited: candlelit dinners, whispered jokes in hotel rooms, quiet mornings on the balcony, the way he’d pulled you close beneath the invisibility cloak. The laughter. The warmth. The softness of it all.
And then, as if the silence itself were cruel, the sound of your own breathing filled the space.
You swallowed hard, forcing your chest to steady—but when your gaze drifted back to the seat Harry had occupied only hours earlier, the emptiness of it finally broke you. A sob tore free before you could stop it, sharp and aching, born from the foolish, lingering hope that he might still be there.
You slipped the hair tie around your wrist, the tightness biting into your skin until it felt like your blood might stop flowing—though maybe that was just the numbness of heartbreak settling in.
Rising to your feet, you wiped the last of the tears from your face.
You had your life. Your team. Your game.
And maybe, one day, he would understand.
The hospital courtyard was quiet in the late morning sun, a soft warmth spilling over the stone pathways and flower beds. You carried a small bag of Honeydukes sweets and a few little gifts for the girl in the wheelchair who had captured your heart months ago. You couldn’t stop thinking about her lately.
She spotted you immediately, eyes lighting up and hands gripping her wheelchair as she wheeled herself closer. “(Y/N)!” She called, spinning a little in delight.
“Hey, love,” You said softly, crouching beside her so she didn’t have to reach, “It’s so good to see you again. How are you today?”
Her face was radiant as she grinned at the little bag of sweets, “I’m great! Teddy says he’s teaching me new moves.”
You glanced at the boy hovering nearby, perched on a tiny toy broom with his brilliant blue hair catching the sun. He puffed out his chest, chin high, that infuriatingly confident way children have when they’re convinced the world revolves around them.
“And… is your godfather with you today?” You asked carefully, hope flickering behind your question.
Teddy’s grin faltered just a little, and he shook his head, “Nope. I’m with Uncle Draco today.”
You smiled, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Inside, your thoughts churned. Probably for the best, you told yourself. You weren’t sure what you’d even say if Harry were here. Apologize? Explain? Try to make him hear your side? You knew it wouldn’t be simple, and neither of you would walk away unscathed. The problem wouldn’t vanish with a few words.
Your gaze swept over the courtyard. The sunlight glinted off the broomsticks and the small makeshift goalposts. For now, this simple scene—the girl laughing, Teddy puffing his chest out like a tiny champion—was enough. It reminded you of why you had stayed grounded, why the world of headlines and rumors had to stay at arm’s length.
“Uncle Draco says he’s sick,” Teddy added suddenly, leaning a little closer as if sharing a confidential secret, “But I heard him tell Granny Cissa that he broke his heart. I didn't know you could break that."
The words landed heavily in your chest. You froze, gripping the bag of sweets a little tighter. A pang of guilt—sharp and relentless—stole the breath from your lungs. He’s hurting because of me, you thought. And I can’t just fix it. Not now. Not like this.
You crouched fully to Teddy’s height, reaching out to ruffle his blue hair, a grounding gesture for both of you. “I see,” You said softly, forcing yourself to smile, “Well… I’m glad he has a little godson who cares about him."
You shifted your attention back to the girl, kneeling beside her wheelchair to pull out a few small gifts from your bag. The two of them erupted with excitement, inspecting the sweets and little trinkets as if they were treasures from the wizarding vaults themselves. Teddy immediately stuffed a chocolate frog in his pocket, nodding proudly, and the girl squealed with delight at a tiny Montrose Magpies pennant.
“Do you want me to show you a new move I learned?” Teddy asked suddenly, hopping slightly on his toy broom.
You laughed, leaning back slightly to give him room to strut, “Oh? You think you can show me something I haven’t seen before?”
“Of course I can!” He said, puffing up his chest even more.
“You’ll have to show me,” You replied, laughing, “I might need to take notes so I can stay ahead of you.”
The three of you played for a while, small competitions on balance, little flying maneuvers, and “strategic” sweeps across the courtyard. Teddy’s confident chatter, the girl’s laughter, and the tiny bumps of their brooms were a welcome distraction from the pounding of your heart. And yet… even in this light, you felt the emptiness where Harry’s presence should have been.
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand what you would be giving up if you went public. And it’s not fair to him. Or to you.
You took a deep breath, straightened, and whispered to yourself, “It’s probably for the best.”
The flat felt emptier than ever. The quiet pressed against your chest like a living thing, refusing to let go. Harry had barely slept, barely eaten. He hadn’t gone out beyond practice and the occasional walk home, claiming he needed to keep his mind clear. That had been his rhythm through the entire National World Cup, and now, with the final match between Montrose Magpies and Puddlemere United looming tomorrow, he insisted he needed to go to bed early to rest. But Hermione, Ron, and Ginny knew better.
They arrived as soon as the workday ended, bustling around his kitchen like he wasn’t even there. Dinner was soon laid out, wine poured, the aromas of roast and fresh bread filling the flat. Harry’s glass was shallower than theirs, a small, quiet reminder that he had barely touched anything all day. Finally, they turned toward him.
“You’ve been hiding for days. We know (Y/N) isn’t here. What’s going on, Harry?” Hermione asked, her voice calm but firm.
He ran a hand through his messy hair, staring at the floor, the weight of his own thoughts pressing down, “We… we broke up.”
Ginny froze, mouth opening in disbelief, “Why? I thought everything was going great between you two?”
Ron leaned forward, concern creasing his brow, “I thought the press conference was just a ruse. You’re saying there was nothing going on between you both?”
Harry shook his head slowly, “No. Not anymore. She… she wanted it to stay private. And I… I said I wanted to go public. She… couldn’t risk it. So… it’s over.”
Ginny’s brow furrowed, eyes sharp, “Wait a second. She wanted to keep the relationship hidden, and you wanted to go public… and so you both broke up? Am I hearing this right?”
“I didn’t want it to be hidden like I was some kind of shameful secret.” Harry muttered defensively.
Ginny didn’t even bother softening her tone, “Harry, open your eyes! Do you even understand what she deals with every single day? She’s worked so hard to make the media somewhat neutral about her, to be on the same playing field as any other male player. And you—what? Expected her to throw all that away for… your magical dick?”
Harry flinched under her intensity, “I—I didn’t—”
“You were being selfish!” Ginny snapped, “Being a female Quidditch player is brutal! I have my teammates to fall back on. But do you even understand how alone she must feel? Always trying to make a name for herself among men? Carrying everything on her shoulders? Did you even think about the consequences for her?”
Hermione stepped closer, her voice steady but cutting, “Ginny’s right, Harry. This would have blown over for you in a couple of months because you have the privilege of being a man. But for her? It could have destroyed her entire career. Every match against your team would be scrutinized. If she lost any match, it’d be because she was too distracted by her relationship. If she won, it’d be because the great Harry Potter helped her train, or because the other players held back. Any question from the press would be about you—your plans, your private life—not about her career, her skill, her dedication. Did you even think about that?”
Harry’s face went pale as the weight of their words sank in. He sank heavily onto the edge of the couch, hands clasped tightly, shoulders hunched, “I… I didn’t know. I thought… I thought if we were open, it would make things easier. I didn’t think—I didn’t realize she had to deal with all of that.”
Ginny exhaled, frustration softening into empathy, “It’s not just her, Harry. Every time I make a public appearance with another man, there are stories about me cheating on Dean. Reporters ask what kind of bra and knickers I wear during games, how I deal with my period—more than about my actual training regimen. Being a female athlete in the public eye… it’s relentless.”
“Like it doesn’t suck for the rest of us.” Hermione murmured, taking a slow sip of her wine.
Harry’s hands curled into fists, knuckles white. His eyes, usually so guarded, filled with raw emotion—a mixture of guilt, frustration, and dawning understanding. “Fuck… I owe her an apology. I… I need to go see her…” His voice cracked, and he stood abruptly, pacing toward the door, hand already reaching for his coat.
Ginny stepped in front of him, arms crossed but her tone gentler now, “Harry, hold up. Maybe do it after the match tomorrow. The last thing she needs is to be distracted before the most important game of the season.”
Harry froze, coat in hand, eyes flicking to her in frustration, “I can’t just… wait. I need her to know—"
Hermione leaned forward, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder, “I know how badly you feel, Harry. But trust me, if she screws up tomorrow because you threw her off her game, she will always resent you. Be patient."
Harry exhaled sharply, letting the tension drain from his shoulders just slightly. He took a slow, grounding breath, hands unclenching. “After the match.” He murmured, almost to himself, nodding.
And for the first time in days, he felt a spark of peace. Not complete, not even close—but enough to know he wasn’t going to give up.
The stadium was a storm of rain and roaring fans, the sky an unbroken sheet of gray as the Montrose Magpies and Puddlemere United prepared for the National World Cup final. Water slicked the pitch, and the smell of wet wood and earth mingled with the metallic tang.
The crowd was relentless, voices rising and falling like waves against the storm, but all of it faded into the background of your focus. Around you, teammates were adjusting, stretching, preparing—but your focus was singular: Catch the snitch.
As the captains called for the customary handshakes, the line of players stepped forward. Harry’s hand extended, and yours met his.
It lingered.
Longer than necessary. A moment suspended in the downpour. His fingers pressed just slightly into yours, grounding you, connecting you in a way that the rain could not wash away.
“Good luck.” He murmured, just enough for you to hear. You nodded, letting your shoulder brush against his briefly, pretending not to notice the warmth, the familiarity, the ache of it all.
You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Game face was on. Tunnel vision engaged. Your shoulders squared, jaw tight, heart hammering—not for him, but for the game.
The whistle shrieked.
Brooms launched, tearing through the rain-slicked air. Bludgers whistled past, the Quaffle flashed, Chasers darted and blocked with precision. Flying in a storm was entirely different from normal play. Your broom swayed with every gust of wind, raindrops stinging your eyes and streaming down your face, making it that much harder to spot a snitch.
Then, chaos.
One of Puddlemere’s Beaters swung wide, a Bludger spinning with lethal intent—but it wasn’t you they were aiming for. Your peripheral caught the sharp green of Harry’s uniform just in time. The Bludger struck him square in the side, sending him sprawling, his broom shuddering violently before splintering mid-air.
Your stomach dropped, a lead weight sinking to your knees.
“Harry!”
You didn’t hesitate. Launching yourself forward, you leaned into your broom with everything you had, wind and rain lashing at your face, rain blurring your vision.
The fall was slower in your mind than in reality. You chased him through the sheets of rain, heart clenching as he tumbled, arms flailing.
You reached out, managing to catch him, slow down his velocity—but the broom shattered completely. Harry fell.
Hard.
The sound of impact made your chest seize. A collective gasp erupted from the crowd. Rain blurred everything into a chaotic smear, but you could see him lying there on the slick grass, unmoving.
“Harry!” you screamed, voice cracking, the sound barely audible above the roar of the storm and the stadium. Your broom skidded to a halt as you slammed it down, sliding across the grass as you dropped to your knees beside him.
Your gloves slipped, fingers trembling as you pressed against his shoulder, his jaw, shaking him gently. His face was pale, eyes closed, blood beginning to gush from a cut at his temple.
“Harry! Harry, stay with me!” You screamed, voice cracking as panic clawed through you.
Tears ran freely now, mixing with the rain, soaking your hair and face. You pressed your cheek to his damp uniform, trying to hear if he was breathing, feeling his throat to check his pulse. Your chest heaved with sobs, arms trembling as you shook him again, desperate for any sign of movement.
Medical staff swarmed in a flurry of motion, wands raised, charms muttered, blankets thrown over him to shield from the rain. You were pushed back slightly, every muscle coiled, trembling with sobs as the metallic tang of blood mixed with rain assaulted your senses. You tried to step back, tried to let them work—but every fiber of your being screamed to stay close, to hold him, to make him open his eyes.
Your knees shook and you almost collapsed right then on the wet pitch, rain plastering your hair, drenched to the bone, shaking uncontrollably. Your breaths came in ragged gasps, heart hammering, tears blinding your vision.
The whistle blew again, but it sounded hollow to you, lost beneath the roar of your own panic. The roar of the crowd was a ghost compared to the storm inside your chest as you stared at the pool of blood staining the grass.
The hospital room was quiet, punctuated only by the soft beep of the monitors and the occasional rustle of sheets. You’d been waiting here for hours—or maybe it felt like days—every second stretching painfully as you sat just out of reach, unable to do anything but pray and pace.
Then, finally, a flicker of movement.
“Harry?” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper.
His eyelids fluttered, then opened, focusing hazily on you. Relief, overwhelming and immediate, ripped through you. Without thinking, you rushed to his side, gripping his hand in both of yours, tears spilling freely.
“You’re awake! Oh, thank Merlin, you’re awake!” You breathed, half sobbing, half laughing in disbelief.
Harry’s lips curved into a weak, teasing smile, “See… see what happened the second I took off my good-luck charm?”
You blinked through the tears, letting out a strangled laugh that was more sob than sound. “You absolute idiot,” You whispered, shaking your head, “Don’t scare me like that ever again.”
He coughed softly, then his voice softened, sincerity threading through the teasing. “I… I’m sorry,” He murmured, “For everything. For the fight, for how I acted before… I was selfish. If you want to keep this—us—private, that’s what we’ll do. We’ll do whatever you want.”
Your chest tightened, lips pursed, voice trembling as you spoke, “Harry… they know. The tabloids… they’ve been talking about me being camped here for like four days. After crying over your unconscious body like some war widow. There’s no way we can really go back from this.”
Despite the weight of your words, a small, helpless smile tugged at your lips. You gently ran the tip of your thumb along the peaks of his cheekbones, tracing the lines you knew so well.
His eyes softened, guilt and love mingling in their depths. “I… I’m sorry.” He murmured, voice low, almost breaking.
You swallowed, leaning closer, brushing your lips against his cheek in a gentle, grounding kiss. “Harry,” You whispered, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, “I don’t regret any of it. None of this. I’d rather this than you be hurt even worse. It’s a no-brainer.”
He exhaled, a long, shuddering breath escaping him, and shifted slightly so you could crawl into the bed beside him. You rested your head near his shoulder, your hand still entwined with his. His arm found its place naturally, draping across your back, pulling you close, grounding you both in the quiet aftermath.
“We’ll figure this out.” He whispered, the words rough but steady.
You nodded against his chest, pressing another kiss to the side of his head—half against his temple, half tangled in his hair. “We will.” You breathed, letting the tension drain from your shoulders.
For the first time since the accident, and perhaps since the fight that had almost torn you apart, you let yourself truly exhale.
The Daily Prophet – Lifestyle & Sports Section
“Finally Official: Potter and (Y/N) Spotted on Vacation Together”
After weeks of rampant speculation, the long-rumored relationship between Puddlemere United star Harry Potter and Montrose Magpies’ Seeker (Y/N) (L/N) has finally been confirmed.
Sources report the couple was recently spotted enjoying a private vacation in the Scottish Highlands, strolling along the cliffs and clearly taking time to enjoy the off-season following Montrose Magpies’ hard-fought victory in the National Quidditch Cup. Some question the validity of the win, given that Puddlemere’s star Seeker was incapacitated during the match.
This revelation comes months after the infamous press conference in which both Potter and (Y/N) publicly denied any romantic involvement. At the time, the denials left fans and journalists skeptical, fueling whispers of a secret relationship. Now, with these vacation sightings, the truth has finally emerged: the two are very much together, and clearly enjoying their first proper break as a couple.
bonus:
The sun was bright over Hogwarts, catching the gleam of the Quidditch pitch and bouncing off the stands where students were already settling in. You and Harry had retired years ago—both of you having given your all to Quidditch, to each other, and now to your family—but some things never changed. Some things were impossible to leave behind.
And today, it was all about James. Your firstborn was making his debut for the Gryffindor team, and you and Harry were losing it before the match had even started.
Years ago, you never thought this would be possible. During the height of your career, you were adamant against having children, determined that putting your body through a pregnancy in your prime would be a huge mistake. Harry, your loving husband after three years of dating, had agreed. But once the second World Cup was behind you, and you had handed in your retirement papers, satisfied with the progress you’d made in your career… well, life had a funny way of surprising you. That very night, after the announcement, you had climbed Harry like a tree.
And now, you were standing in the stands with your two other children, Albus and Lily, as well as Teddy, all five of you screaming yourselves hoarse for your little boy.
“YOU CAN DO THIS, JAMES!” You shouted, bouncing slightly in your seats, oversized Gryffindor scarves wrapped around your necks, water bottles and snacks forgotten.
Harry’s glasses fogged from his own excitement, fists clenched with barely contained enthusiasm. “GET ‘EM, JAMES!” He roared back, throwing his arm around your shoulders and nearly knocking you off the bench, “SHOW THEM WHAT YOU’VE GOT!”
The whistle blew. Brooms launched, slicing through the rain-slicked air, and James was immediately in motion, diving and dodging with the same brilliance he’d inherited from his parents. You were practically on your feet, half-screaming, half-laughing, hands flailing as if your cheers could somehow reach him mid-flight.
You watched as he soared forward, scoring a goal almost instantly. Your voice rang out over the chaos of the crowd, “THAT’S MY BOY!”
The match continued in a blur of speed and skill. Every pass James made, every dodge of the Bludgers, had you and Harry holding your breaths, screaming, cheering, clapping, and at one point, nearly toppling out of the stands.
Then it happened—the winning goal. James threw with precision, and the Quaffle soared into the hoops. Your seats erupted—not with the students’ collective gasp or applause, but with your combined, thunderous, uncontainable cheering. Harry jumped up, spinning in the stands, and you found yourself clapping so hard your hands stung.
“I’m so proud of him,” Harry said, eyes shining, leaning down to kiss your forehead, “Proud of us too. We have the next legendary Quidditch player on our hands.”
You laughed through tears of joy, wrapping your arms around him. “We did good,” You murmured, pressing your head against his shoulder, “We did really, really good.”
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
Summary: Don't fall in love with your best friend unless you're ready to have your heart broken.
A/N: Happy Belated Valentine's my babiesss sorry it took so long to post i actually got pretty sick last weekend so i wasnt able to finish the fic on time but i hope you enjoy!
credits to @saradika-graphics for the divider
As a child, Harry had once stumbled across a series of books Dudley had received for his birthday—a gift he’d promptly discarded in a tantrum after declaring he’d wanted a new gaming system instead.
Harry hadn’t exactly known how to read at the time. He’d pieced words together slowly, sounding them out in whispers late at night beneath his cupboard blanket. But somehow, he’d managed to salvage one of the books from the rubbish bin, thankfully not too stained or torn.
That rescued copy had become one of his most prized possessions.
Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief.
He’d read it over and over again until the spine cracked and the pages softened at the edges. He remembered thinking, even at ten years old, how impossibly oblivious Percy was. How could someone be so blind? Annabeth’s feelings were practically written in flashing neon letters. Surely anyone with half a brain—or at the very least, a pulse—could sense what was happening around them.
Harry had thought it ridiculous.
Fate, apparently, had thought it hilarious.
By the time he reached his sixth year at Hogwarts, it seemed the universe had turned around, smacked him square in the face with that old paperback, and laughed.
Because he had somehow managed to fall hopelessly, painfully, irrevocably in love with one of the most emotionally intelligent people he knew—
And you were completely, utterly oblivious.
The irony was cruel.
You, who had noticed Ron’s ears turning red every time Hermione spoke too passionately about something. You, who had quietly pulled Harry aside months before anyone else caught on and said, “Ron’s falling for her, isn’t he?”
You, who had called Seamus out for his embarrassingly obvious crush on Lavender Brown, comparing him to a child tugging at pigtails during playtime just to get a reaction.
You, who could tell Hermione was in a foul mood simply based on the way she tied her hair that morning.
You—who read people like open books.
Couldn’t tell that your best friend was madly in love with you.
And had been for two years.
At first, Harry had thought he was doing a decent job hiding it. He wasn’t exactly known for emotional finesse—Hermione had smacked him upside the head more than once for being clueless—but he figured he could at least manage subtlety.
Apparently not.
Hermione had fixed him with a long, unimpressed stare one afternoon in the common room and said, very slowly, “Harry. You follow every word she says like a lap dog. You are not fooling anyone.”
He’d nearly choked on his tea.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Ron had snorted. Hermione had rolled her eyes.
The worst part?
They were right.
Everyone had noticed.
Everyone—except you.
So Harry tried something different.
He stopped hiding.
He started calling group outings with Ron and Hermione “double dates,” saying it lightly, casually, as if it were a joke—but watching you carefully for any sign of understanding.
There was none.
He’d draped his arm around your shoulders whenever you sat beside him, heart hammering as you leaned into him without hesitation.
You’d only smiled and continued talking, completely unfazed.
Last Valentine’s Day, he’d even gathered the courage to give you a card.
Not anonymous. Not vague.
A proper Valentine.
You’d stared at it for a moment, eyes wide and soft, and then you’d hugged him tightly.
“That’s so sweet of you, Harry,” you’d said. “You didn’t want me to feel left out.”
He’d felt something in his chest cave in so suddenly he’d almost wondered if it would show on his face.
That was the day he’d given up.
You clearly weren’t interested. You clearly didn’t see him that way. Because surely—surely—no one could be that blind. Not you. Not the person who noticed everything.
And yet.
He still didn’t tell you.
He couldn’t.
Because losing you altogether was not an option.
He could survive loving you quietly.
He could survive pretending.
He could survive swallowing it down every time you curled into his side or stole his jumpers or whispered that he was your safe place.
But he could not survive you walking away.
That would undo him in ways even Voldemort never had.
So he chose silence.
He chose the quiet torture of it.
And he told himself that it was enough.
It had to be.
But Merlin—
You made it painfully, excruciatingly difficult.
It was one of those mornings where his uniform just didn’t want to listen. Harry had barely managed to get dressed. His shirt was wrinkled and stubbornly refusing to stay tucked into his pants, and his tie… well, his tie was acting like it had a mind of its own. No matter how many times he twisted and adjusted it, it refused to sit flat.
Part of him wanted to leave it in his dorm and run late, but he’d already lost two points for Gryffindor yesterday—leaving his robes behind because he was far too warm—and he’d be damned if he lost more, not when Slytherin was creeping up.
So instead, he kept undoing and redoing the insipid tie, the knot now looking like a wriggling little snake.
“Oh, this is driving me crazy.” You said, stepping up to him like you did any other day, batting his hands away from the tie.
Before he could respond, you were behind him, hands on his shoulders, fingers brushing the collar of his shirt. He froze.
“Stay still, Haz.” You reached around him, adjusting the knot with the precision of someone who had done it a hundred times before. Your fingers lingered at his throat, and Harry’s stomach decided to stop functioning altogether.
He watched your soft hands, then flicked his gaze to your face, keeping his breath shallow. He dared not move too much; one accidental graze of your hand on his chest and he was certain he would faint.
“There we go,” You said happily, smoothing down his shirt, “Now you won’t lose us points for being a slob.”
There was a moment of quiet after you stepped back. Harry adjusted his glasses nervously, feeling the faint ghost of where your fingers had been. He tried to focus on the tie, but all he could think about was how effortlessly close you’d been, how natural it had felt for you to reach around him, and how his heart was hammering in his chest for no reason he could explain.
Harry wanted to argue that he was not a slob—he was a fool. A fool for you. But all that came out was a breathless, “Thanks.”
You shrugged, smiling faintly. “Anytime.” And with that, you were gone, leaving Harry standing in the common room, sparks crawling down his body from where your hands had pressed against his shoulders.
It started with a bang.
Not a catastrophic one—not the sort that sent stone crumbling or Death Eaters Apparating—but the unmistakable crack of a spell gone wrong, followed by the shrill screech of something that definitely should not have been screeching at two in the morning.
Harry was upright in bed before he was fully conscious.
“What—?” Ron mumbled from across the dormitory, hair sticking up even worse than usual.
The corridor outside erupted into noise. Doors opening. Voices overlapping. Someone shouting, “Seamus, I swear—”
Harry shoved on a pair of joggers and grabbed his glasses just as the portrait hole burst open downstairs and Professor McGonagall’s voice rang up the staircase.
“All students are to gather in the common room immediately!”
Brilliant.
Within minutes, the tower was chaos—students stumbling down in mismatched pajamas, half-awake and grumbling. Ron looked like he might fall asleep standing up. Dean was laughing. Seamus looked guilty.
Harry was scanning the staircase.
Hermione clambered down, hair in messy braids, Crookshanks tucked into her arms.
And then you appeared.
Sleepy. Disoriented. Rubbing at your eyes.
And—
Wearing his Quidditch jersey.
It swallowed you whole.
The hem brushed dangerously high against your thighs, revealing a pair of barely-there shorts beneath. One shoulder of the jersey slipped lower than the other, the collar stretched from wear. Your hair was a mess, curling around your face, and you looked so soft and warm and real that for a second Harry forgot how to breathe.
You padded over to him barefoot, squinting blearily as you offered him a sleepy smile, and he felt butterflies slam their insistent wings against his diaphragm. No one should look this beautiful straight after waking up.
Heat crawled up his neck.
“I—” He cleared his throat, trying very hard not to look at your legs. Or the way the fabric clung to you, “I don’t remember giving you that.”
You blinked at him, still half-asleep.
“Oh. Yeah,” You said casually, glancing down at yourself as though you’d forgotten what you were wearing, “I think I stole it, like… a year ago or something. It’s my favourite sleep shirt.”
You yawned.
Actually yawned.
As if you hadn’t just detonated something inside his ribcage.
Harry wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.
But you didn’t notice.
You shuffled closer without thinking—because you always did—and leaned lightly into his side, your head brushing his shoulder as you crossed your arms against the chill of the stone floor.
It was instinctive.
Unthinking.
Comfort.
His entire body went rigid for half a second before he forced himself to relax.
For one reckless, dangerous second, something warm and foolish bloomed in his chest.
You fit far too perfectly there.
It was hard to believe you weren’t meant to be.
His arm twitched at his side, resisting the urge to wrap around you. To make the picture complete.
Instead, he swallowed.
“You could’ve asked.” He muttered.
You smiled without opening your eyes.
“Like you would’ve said no.”
His gaze drifted down before he could stop himself—the oversized jersey, the way it brushed your thighs, the faint outline of his old Quidditch number pressed against your chest.
His.
And yet not.
You tugged absently at the hem, “Don’t worry. I’ll give it back one day.”
He forced a shrug, “Keep it.”
You hummed contentedly and leaned into him more fully, completely unaware of the war waging inside his skull.
McGonagall was still lecturing Seamus about reckless spellwork. Students whispered. The common room buzzed with irritation and half-suppressed laughter.
Eventually, detentions were handed out and it was declared safe to return to bed. One by one, people began climbing the stairs again.
You murmured a sleepy goodnight and pressed a brief kiss to his cheek before heading up.
Harry watched your retreating figure.
And the name stretched across your back.
Potter.
Something in his chest clenched painfully.
This—this was it.
As close as he would ever get.
The only way he would ever see you with his last name.
On the back of an old, worn jersey.
Harry had been wandering the castle corridors with a tray in his hands—two steaming mugs of tea and a small plate of treacle tart he’d grabbed from the kitchens—because honestly, you looked completely drained, buried under a mountain of books in the library, and he couldn’t just leave you like that.
“Here,” He said softly, setting the tray beside you, “Thought you might need… something.”
You looked up from your notes, hair tumbling across your face, eyes half-lidded with focus. “Haz,” You murmured, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips, “You’re a lifesaver.”
Harry felt his chest warm at the soft praise, giving a small, almost embarrassed shrug, “Well… someone had to. You’ve been at this for hours.”
You took a careful sip from your tea, and your eyes flickered up at him, almost surprised. “Exactly how I like it,” You murmured, setting the mug down with a satisfied hum. You leaned back, stretching languidly, hair falling messily over your shoulders, and reached for a tart, “Honestly, you’re amazing, you know that?”
Harry blinked, trying to keep his composure. “The flies are starting to gather here because they think you’re a corpse, you know.” He teased lightly, but the truth was harder to hide. Even like this—bare-faced, hair tousled from running your hands through it constantly, lips soft and slightly bitten—you looked gorgeous. Effortless. Bright. Dangerous in a way that made his chest tighten.
He tried to act casual, sitting on the edge of the table, but his mind refused to cooperate. Every movement you made, every tilt of your head, every lazy stretch—it all pulled his attention like gravity.
Then, as if the universe were deliberately cruel, you looked straight at him. Your eyes softened, warm and unguarded, and you spoke like you weren’t even thinking about the weight of your words.
“You know,” You said casually, almost absentmindedly, “anyone who ends up with you is going to be really lucky.”
Harry froze. His stomach dropped.
“Haz?” You blinked, tilting your head slightly, noticing his silence, “Are you even listening?”
“I… yeah.” He croaked. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to throw the treacle tart at the wall. He wanted—he wanted everything that was impossible.
You smiled softly, leaning back against the table, entirely casual, completely unaware of the storm you’d just unleashed. “You’re such a great friend, you know. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you sometimes.”
Friend.
Harry’s chest tightened painfully, his throat constricting, a lump rising that refused to go down. Of course. Of course that’s how you saw him. All this praise, all this warmth… and none of it was for him in the way he longed for.
You can’t possibly say all this if you don’t have an idea, he thought bitterly. You must know… and you’re saying it anyway.
He remembered all the little ways he had shown he cared—ways no one else would notice. When Hermione had nearly ended up in the hospital wing while cramming for her OWLs, he had stayed behind in the dorm with you, drilling you with flashcards, quizzing you until your eyes drooped. You should have known that this wasn’t ordinary. That this was special treatment.
He swallowed hard, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Right. Yeah. Of course. You’re… right.”
You hummed, picking up your tea again, completely oblivious, eyes returning to your notes, leaving Harry sitting there, trembling slightly, heart racing and shattering all at once.
As soon as February first hit, Valentine’s Day decorations began infecting the castle like a rash—pink banners strung across archways, enchanted cherubs flitting through corridors with tiny golden bows, heart-shaped confetti drifting lazily from the ceiling.
Harry had never thought he’d hate the color red.
But here he was, absolutely detesting the sight of the red paper hearts hanging from every doorframe in Gryffindor Tower.
He should’ve told that blasted Hat to sort him into Slytherin.
At least then the common room wouldn’t look like it had been violently attacked by romance.
He was sitting in an armchair, pretending to read, when Ron dropped heavily into the seat across from him. Seamus sprawled on the sofa, hands tucked behind his head.
“So,” Seamus began casually, like he was commenting on the weather, “Valentine’s Day coming up.”
Harry didn’t look up from his book, “Fascinating.”
Dean snorted, “You finally going to confess your undying love this year, or are we continuing the proud annual tradition of pining in silence?”
Harry’s head snapped up, “Sod off.”
Ron grinned wickedly, “Oh, come on, mate. We’ve got bets going.”
“You have bets?” Harry demanded.
“Yeah,” Dean said, nodding seriously, “Whether you’ll confess, or just stare at her like she’s the last slice of treacle tart on earth.”
Ron shrugged, “My money’s on the staring.”
Harry threw his book down, “I do not—”
“You absolutely do,” Seamus cut in, “Every time she laughs, you look like someone’s cast a Patronus straight into your ribcage.”
Harry opened his mouth to argue.
And then closed it again.
Ron leaned forward, elbows on his knees, “So? You gonna tell her?”
Harry hesitated.
Just for a second.
Because part of him wanted to.
Merlin, he wanted to.
The thought had been clawing at him ever since that afternoon in the library.
He wanted to drop to his knees. To tell you he loved you and always would. That he would do whatever it took to make you feel like the most special girl in the entire world. That he would adore you until the end of time if you let him.
No one else would ever love you the way he was willing to.
With every single fiber of his being.
With a kind of devotion so limitless, so boundless, so unconditional that it scared even him to recognize it. The kind that made him feel like every cell in his body would willingly come apart if you asked him to.
And then—
Dean laughed lightly, “She probably wouldn’t even realize, to be honest.”
That one landed wrong.
A sharp, painful twinge in his chest that seemed to connect to his stomach, to the tips of his fingers, to his jaw.
Ron nodded, “Yeah. You could get down on one knee and she’d just go, ‘Haz, are you feeling alright?’”
The boys burst out laughing.
Harry didn’t.
Because that was the worst part.
They weren’t wrong.
His jaw tightened.
Ron tilted his head, studying him now instead of teasing, “You ever think maybe she doesn’t know because you let her not know?”
Harry’s stomach twisted.
“That doesn’t even make sense.” He muttered.
“It does,” Ron said, quieter now, “You do everything for her. You look at her like she hung the moon. But you never say it. So she doesn’t have to face it.”
Dean leaned back, voice softer than before, “Or maybe she does know. And she’s pretending.”
That one felt like a punch to the ribs.
So hard he felt his breakfast crawl up his throat.
Harry stood abruptly, “You’re all mental.”
“Just saying!” Seamus called as Harry headed toward the stairs, “Valentine’s Day’s a good excuse!”
“Yeah,” Ron added, “Worst she can say is no.”
Harry paused at the bottom step.
He didn’t turn around.
Worst she can say is no.
But that wasn’t what terrified him.
What terrified him was the moment you’d realize how deep his feelings actually ran.
Because you—kindhearted, careful, endlessly thoughtful you—would pull back.
You’d grow cautious.
You’d stop sitting so close. Stop stealing his scarves. Stop crawling into his bed when you couldn’t sleep.
You’d feel guilty for ever letting it look like he had a chance.
And he would lose you.
Not just the possibility of you.
You.
His best friend.
The girl he had loved quietly for longer than he dared admit.
And that—
That was a risk he wasn’t sure he could survive.
The knock on Harry’s dormitory door was soft.
Too soft for this hour.
He looked up from where he was sitting on his bed, glasses slipping halfway down his nose, “Yeah?”
The door creaked open, and you slipped inside, already in your sleep clothes, glancing at him to make sure he was awake. When your eyes met his, your shoulders relaxed, and you stepped fully into the room.
“Hi.” You said quietly.
Harry’s stomach dropped at once, “What happened?”
You sighed, shutting the door behind you. “Ron and Hermione had a row. It started over something stupid and turned into something not stupid. They’re both pacing like caged animals, and I figured…” You shrugged, “They might need space.”
Harry nodded slowly. That made sense.
“And?” He asked gently.
“So I was wondering if… if it’s okay if I sleep here tonight.” It sounded like courtesy more than a real question—you were already walking toward the bed, looking tired and small in a way that made it impossible to say no.
His heart skipped.
“Course,” He said instead, softer now, “You know you don’t have to ask.”
Your shoulders relaxed immediately. “Thanks, Haz.”
You climbed into his bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world, lifting the blankets and sliding beneath them.
The air shifted.
This wasn’t new. You’d done it before—after nightmares, after late-night talks that blurred into sleep, after studying until your eyes burned.
It wasn’t new.
But something about tonight felt different.
Harry swallowed.
For the first time, the thought flickered through his mind before he could stop it—
Why not Ron’s bed?
Why here? Why were you so comfortable beside him that you didn’t even hesitate, didn’t even consider the empty bed across the room that would stay empty all night if history had anything to say about it?
The question burned at the back of his tongue.
But he bit it down, watching as you settled into his pillow, getting comfortable. He lay down more slowly, painfully aware of every inch of space between you, of the warmth your body gave off in the cool room.
The dormitory was quiet except for the distant whisper of wind against the windows.
You turned onto your side, facing him, “Night, Haz.”
“Good night.” He said quickly.
You hummed softly in response, already drifting off.
It took less than five minutes.
Your breathing evened out. Your body went slack with sleep. One of your hands shifted unconsciously, brushing his shirt before coming to rest there.
Like it belonged.
Harry stared up at the ceiling.
Wide awake.
Every nerve in his body felt lit. He could feel the warmth of you beside him, the steady rhythm of your breathing, the faint scent of your shampoo clinging to his pillow.
You were so close.
So close he could have counted your eyelashes if he’d turned his head.
And you slept.
Just like that.
No tension. No hesitation. No awareness of what this might mean.
Because to you, it didn’t mean anything.
That was what hurt.
You could fall asleep beside him without a second thought, while he lay rigid, afraid to breathe too deeply in case he woke you, afraid that if he didn’t move at all he’d never make it through the night.
He wanted to wrap an arm around you.
He wanted to pull you closer.
He wanted to know what it would feel like to hold you properly, to fit against you the way his body seemed to insist it was meant to. To bury his face in your hair. To memorize the shape of you by heart.
He wanted to ask why him.
Why always him.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he stayed perfectly still, staring into the dark, listening to the soft sound of your breathing.
That should have been enough.
But as the minutes dragged on and sleep refused to come, a cruel thought crept in—
If you knew.
If you knew how badly he wanted you…
Would you still sleep this easily?
Would you still crawl into his bed without thinking twice?
His throat tightened.
Beside him, you shifted closer in your sleep, your forehead brushing faintly against his shoulder.
And Harry finally closed his eyes.
Not because he was calm.
But because it was easier than letting himself cry.
Harry didn’t remember falling asleep.
If he had at all.
Grey morning light filtered through the curtains, pale and cold, painting soft lines across the dormitory ceiling. For a few seconds, he didn’t move.
Then he became aware of the weight against his chest.
You.
Your back was pressed to his front, your body curled slightly toward him as if you’d shifted in your sleep without thinking. Your hair brushed his chin with every breath. One of his arms was trapped beneath the pillow; the other had somehow slipped around the dip of your waist, pinning you to him.
He released you at once.
And your hips—Merlin help him—were pressed far too close.
He froze, blood rushing from his face and so far south he felt dizzy as his heart began to pound like he’d just finished a Quidditch match. He stared at the wall, terrified that if he moved even an inch, you’d wake up and realise how close you were.
But you didn’t.
You only shifted, nestling back into him, completely unconcerned.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut.
Of course you don’t notice, he thought bitterly.
Why would you?
A moment later, you stirred properly. You stretched, arms reaching forward, back arching slightly—still pressed against him.
“Mmm… morning.” You murmured.
Harry swallowed, “Morning.”
You didn’t jump away.
You didn’t gasp.
You didn’t even hesitate.
You just rolled onto your back and rubbed your eyes.
“Thanks for letting me sleep here.” You said easily.
He forced a laugh that didn’t sound right even to himself, “Yeah. No problem.”
You propped yourself up on one elbow, perfectly at ease, as though you hadn’t been curled into him moments ago.
It hit him then, sharp and humiliating.
You weren’t embarrassed because, to you, there was nothing to be embarrassed about.
You saw him as safe.
Familiar.
Harmless.
Not someone whose chest was still tight from the way you’d fit against him.
Not someone who’d lain awake for hours listening to you breathe.
Not someone who had imagined—stupidly, foolishly—that maybe this meant something more.
You slid out of bed and tugged on his jumper from where it lay across his trunk, “I’m starving. Want to go down to breakfast?”
“Yeah.” He said automatically.
There it was again.
That warm, affectionate smile.
And then you were gone.
The door clicked shut behind you.
Harry stayed where he was, staring at the empty space you’d left behind. The bed was still warm. Your pillow still indented.
He pressed his palm into the sheets where you’d been.
You could curl into him in the middle of the night and wake up tangled in his arms.
And it still didn’t mean what he wanted it to mean.
He fell back against the mattress and covered his eyes with his arm.
Valentine’s Day was a week away.
And he was running out of ways to survive this.
It started with the heat.
Not the warm kind he’d grown used to. Not the soft, almost pleasant flutter that came when you laughed too hard at something stupid he’d said. Not the quiet nerves that lit up under his skin when you linked your arm through his.
This was different.
This felt like something crawling up his spine and settling at the base of his skull.
You were walking beside him after Charms, talking animatedly about something Flitwick had said. Your hands moved when you spoke, brushing his sleeve, tapping lightly against his arm.
Usually he loved that. Usually he leaned into it.
Today, every touch felt like friction.
He nodded along, not really hearing you. The corridor felt too narrow. Too loud. Too bright.
You bumped his shoulder playfully, “Are you even listening?”
“Yeah.” He muttered.
He wasn’t.
He was watching the way your fingers lingered on his sleeve a second too long before dropping away. Watching the way you smiled up at him without hesitation, without thought.
You didn’t think about it.
You never thought about it.
By lunch, it had gotten worse.
The heat had spread — up his neck, across his cheeks. He could feel it burning there. He kept tugging at the collar of his shirt like he could air himself out.
Across the Great Hall, you were laughing with some boy from Hufflepuff. Leaning toward him. Head tilted.
Harry told himself it didn’t matter.
You laughed like that with everyone.
But something about today — something about the way the morning had felt, about the way you’d curled into him two nights ago and slept like you belonged there — made it twist wrong.
You sat across from him, smiling over your pumpkin juice, “You okay, Haz? You’re quiet.”
“I’m fine.” He said too quickly.
You tilted your head, “You sure?”
“Yeah.”
You didn’t push. You never did.
And that made it worse.
Because you trusted him to be honest. You trusted him to be steady. You trusted him to always be there without ever asking why he was there.
The frog in the pot, he thought bitterly. The water heating so slowly he hadn’t realized he was being boiled alive.
By the time you reached the staircase after classes, his nerves were shot raw.
You bumped his arm playfully, “You’re walking like you’re being marched to your execution.”
“Can you—” He started, then stopped himself, “Never mind.”
You blinked, “What?”
“Nothing.”
He took the stairs two at a time.
You followed.
“Harry.”
He didn’t answer.
“Harry, wait.”
He turned at the landing, irritation flashing in his eyes. “What?”
You stopped short. “What’s wrong with you today?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“You’ve barely looked at me all day.”
“Maybe I just don’t feel like talking.”
Your face fell slightly. “Did I do something?”
That question hit him like a jab to the ribs.
“No,” he said, harsher than he meant. “It’s not about you.”
“Then what is it about?”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
He walked away.
But you didn’t let him.
You followed him up the staircase, your steps quickening to match his longer strides. He was climbing like something was chasing him — like if he didn’t put enough distance between the two of you, he might actually combust.
By the time he reached his dormitory, his chest was heaving — not from exertion, but from the pressure building behind his ribs. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
You followed.
Now it was just the two of you.
The room felt smaller than usual. The late afternoon light slanted through the windows, dust drifting lazily in the air, completely unaware that something catastrophic was about to happen.
You shut the door gently behind you.
“If there’s something you want to tell me,” You said, trying to steady your voice, “just go ahead and say it, Harry.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
He stared at everything else in the room but you.
At his trunk. At Ron’s unmade bed. At the crack in the stone wall. Anywhere but your face.
He wasn’t sure if he was avoiding your gaze because he couldn’t bear to see the hurt there — the kind that would extinguish the flames raging in his chest.
Or because looking at you would only pour oil over them.
You hesitated.
Then you reached for his hand.
The contact was gentle. Familiar.
It felt like static shock.
Like a spark struck from flint. Like something small and bright landing in a room full of gasoline fumes.
His entire body reacted before his mind did.
He jerked away.
“Just—stop it.”
Your hand froze midair.
“What?”
“Stop touching me like that,” He snapped, “Stop acting like everything’s normal.”
Your brows pulled together, “Harry, I don’t—”
“That’s the problem,” he said, abruptly, raking his hands through his already messy hair, “You don’t.”
You stood too, confused, hurt beginning to bleed into your expression, “Don’t what?”
“You don’t think. You don’t notice. You just… do things. You hold my hand, you take my jumpers, you sleep in my bed like it’s nothing—”
Your breath caught, “We’ve always—”
“Yes,” He said sharply, “Exactly. You’ve always done it. And I’ve always let you.”
“Why are you acting like it’s a bad thing?”
“Because you don’t see how it’s killing me!”
The words ripped out of him before he could stop them.
They echoed in the quiet room.
You stared at him.
“What are you talking about?” You whispered.
He let out a hollow laugh that didn’t hold even a trace of humor, “You really don’t know.”
“Know what?”
He dragged a hand through his hair again, pacing now, restless and unraveling. The heat in his chest felt unbearable — like something burning through muscle and bone.
“I thought I could handle it,” He said, “I thought I could just… be whatever you needed. Your safe place. Your spare bed. Your extra person.”
His voice wavered, but he pushed through.
“I thought I could ignore the heat. The nerves. The way my stomach drops every time you look at someone else. I thought I could handle wanting you when there’s no possible future where you want me back.”
His throat tightened.
“But I was wrong.”
You stepped toward him, instinctively, “Harry—”
“No,” He said softly, “Let me say it.”
And finally — finally — he looked at you.
Really looked at you.
“I love you.”
Silence swallowed the room.
“I’ve been in love with you for so long,” He continued, voice shaking now, “that I can’t remember a time I didn’t feel like this. When I’m around you, I can’t think straight. It’s like everything else blurs out. Like I’ve gone blind to the world except for you.”
His hands trembled at his sides.
“And for a while… that was okay. I didn’t want to see anything else. I was perfectly content only looking at you."
His laugh was brittle.
“But it’s not easy, (Y/N). It’s not easy just hoping. Just waiting. Yearning for every single touch like it’s a gift. Taking whatever scraps of affection you hand me and pretending it’s enough.”
His voice cracked.
“I feel like a stray dog sometimes. Grateful for any little piece of love you throw my way.”
Your eyes filled with something as your throat began to ache.
“And I can’t keep pretending it’s not killing me,” He said, quieter now, but more raw than before, “I can’t keep smiling through it. I can’t keep acting like I’m not falling apart every time you don’t see me the way I see you.”
His eyes locked onto yours.
“You’re my everything,” He whispered, “But I’m just one of your things.”
The words nearly undid him.
“And that’s all I’ll ever be to you.”
The room felt too still.
Too tight.
He stood there, stripped bare, like he’d finally set down something he’d been carrying for years and didn’t know how to stand without it.
The heat in his chest wasn’t a flutter anymore.
It was a burn.
And it hurt.
Harry didn’t raise his voice when he told you to leave.
That might have been easier to bear.
He didn’t shout. Didn’t slam the door. Didn’t say anything cruel.
He just looked at you with that exhausted, hollow expression — like he had finally emptied himself of something he’d been carrying for years and didn’t have the strength to hold anything else.
“I think you should go.” He said quietly.
Not angry.
Not cold.
Just… spent.
For a moment, you stayed where you were. Your body refused to move, as if waiting for him to soften. To sigh and rake a hand through his hair and say he didn’t mean it. To reach for you like he always did when things felt wrong.
He didn’t.
He stepped back instead.
And that — that was what made your chest crack open.
You left without another word.
The corridor outside his dormitory felt longer than usual. The torches along the walls flickered gently, unaware that the world inside you had tilted off its axis. Students passed you on the stairs, laughing, arguing, whispering about homework and Quidditch and weekend plans.
Everything sounded distant. Muffled.
You couldn’t quite feel your feet touching the stone as you walked.
By the time you reached your own dormitory, your hands were trembling.
The room was empty when you entered. The late afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, soft and golden, dust drifting lazily in the air.
You shut the door behind you and leaned back against it, staring at the opposite wall.
Your heart was still racing.
Harry’s words hadn’t simply echoed — they had embedded themselves somewhere deep inside you, reverberating in slow, relentless waves. Every time you tried to steady your breathing, to anchor yourself in something solid and familiar, his voice would surface again.
I’m in love with you.
The way it had cracked in the middle. The way it sounded less like a confession and more like a wound finally tearing open.
You could still see him — pacing like a caged animal, hands dragging through his hair, shoulders tight with years of something he’d never let himself say. You had memorized his mannerisms over time. The subtle twitch in his jaw when he was frustrated. The way his fingers flexed when he was holding something back. The restless energy that clung to him whenever he didn’t know what to do with his emotions.
You’d thought you knew him.
But tonight had been different.
Tonight he had looked raw.
You pushed yourself away from the door slowly, your back peeling from the cool wood. Your nose burned from the effort of not crying, and when you blinked, the tears spilled over anyway. You didn’t trust your legs to carry you very far, but somehow you made it to your bed before your composure gave way entirely. You sank down onto the mattress and bent forward, pressing your face into the nearest pillow as though you could smother the sound of your own thoughts.
The confession replayed again.
And again.
And then—
You inhaled.
And froze.
That wasn’t your pillow.
You lifted your head, blinking through the blur, and realized your fingers were fisted in black fabric.
Harry’s jumper.
Slightly oversized on you. Sleeves too long. The collar stretched just enough from where you’d tugged it absently while studying.
You hadn’t meant to keep it.
It had been one of those cold nights in the library when the wind rattled the windows and the castle felt more like stone than shelter. You’d shivered once — just once — and he’d noticed. Of course he had.
He’d shrugged it off his shoulders without hesitation, draping it over yours with that casual sort of gentleness that was so uniquely him.
Keep it as long as you want, he’d said.
You never gave it back.
Your throat tightened painfully.
Would you have to return it now?
The thought felt unbearable.
You sat up slowly, the jumper clutched to your chest, your gaze drifting around your dorm room as if you were seeing it for the first time.
Your eyes landed on your nightstand.
The half-open chocolate orange from Honeydukes — the one he’d brought back after noticing you’d been chewing your quill during exam week. He hadn’t made a big deal of it. Just dropped it beside you and muttered something about you needing proper sugar instead of ink.
Next to it, a folded scrap of parchment in his messy handwriting. Practice questions he’d written out to quiz you before Transfiguration. You’d teased him for highlighting almost every sentence.
A tiny golden snitch keychain rested beside your wand. He’d pressed it into your palm in Hogsmeade last winter, cheeks pink from the cold.
Reminded me of you, he’d said, eyes refusing to meet yours.
You’d laughed.
You hadn’t asked why.
It was everywhere.
He was everywhere.
Not in grand, sweeping gestures.
Not in dramatic declarations.
But in the quiet, steady way he had slipped into the empty spaces of your life and made himself at home there.
Your gaze lifted to the moving photographs above your bed.
There were dozens.
Most of them were group pictures—laughing, chaotic, alive. But your gaze snagged on the one from Christmas morning last year. You were mid-laugh, half-hidden by torn wrapping paper. Harry stood beside you, watching.
Not the gift.
You.
At the time, you had thought his smile was simple excitement, pride in having chosen well. Now, with the knowledge of his confession lodged painfully in your chest, you saw something else layered beneath it—something softer, something unguarded. A kind of careful devotion that made your eyes sting all over again.
Now you could see the way his expression softened at the edges. The way his eyes lingered, unguarded. Earnest.
Longing.
How many times had he looked at you like that while you were too busy looking somewhere else?
Your vision blurred again.
You slid off the bed and crouched by your trunk at the foot of it, fingers trembling as you rummaged through folded clothes and books until you reached the small wooden box at the bottom — the one you kept tucked away for things that felt too important to leave out in the open.
You brought it back to the bed and opened it slowly.
Inside were ticket stubs from Hogsmeade weekends. A pressed flower from the lake shore. A few scraps of parchment with inside jokes scribbled in ink.
And then—
You found it.
A modest piece of white cardstock, slightly bent at the corner.
Your favorite flowers charmed along the edges, frozen mid-bloom.
Be my Valentine?
The memory hit you all at once.
A sob broke free before you could stop it, the sound raw in the quiet room. You pressed your hand to your mouth, but it did little to steady you. You hadn’t meant to hurt him. You hadn’t even realized there was something fragile to protect.
But now that he had spoken the truth aloud, your memories rearranged themselves with startling clarity. The way his jaw would tighten when you laughed too brightly at someone else. The subtle shift in his expression whenever another boy lingered too long in conversation. The way his hugs always lasted a fraction of a second longer than necessary, as if he were memorizing the feeling.
You had seen the signs.
Some quiet part of you had always known.
It’s been like this for years.
Sneaking down to the kitchens together. Late-night study sessions that dissolve into whispered confessions about fears neither of you would tell anyone else. Sitting shoulder to shoulder at Quidditch matches, your knee pressed against his because neither of you ever moves away.
You always thought it was just that.
You and him. Best friends. A matched set.
Your chest tightens painfully.
The realization did not strike like lightning. It did not feel dramatic or explosive. Instead, it settled slowly into place, like something ancient and inevitable finally aligning inside you. You tried, for a moment, to imagine your life without him woven into it so seamlessly—the absence of his steady presence beside you in the Great Hall, the lack of his quiet warmth at your side during long nights, the empty space where his voice should be.
The thought hollowed you out in a way guilt never could.
This wasn’t simply remorse for hurting him.
It was grief at the idea of losing something you hadn’t realized you wanted.
You drew his jumper back into your arms and pressed it against your chest, breathing in the familiar scent as your tears slowed into something softer, more certain.
You loved him.
Somewhere along the way, your heart had chosen him quietly and without ceremony.
And now that you finally understood it, the only thing more terrifying than admitting it was the possibility that you had realized too late.
You hadn’t meant for it to stretch into days.
At first, it was only supposed to be a night. One evening to let the shock settle. To let his words stop echoing quite so violently in your chest. But the more you turned them over in your mind, the more you realized you couldn’t simply run back to him with something half-formed and call it love.
You needed to know.
You needed to be certain that what you were feeling wasn’t guilt twisting itself into something softer. That it wasn’t fear of losing him masquerading as devotion. That you weren’t just trying to patch the wound he’d opened with whatever words would make it stop bleeding.
So you kept your distance.
And it seemed Harry had no problem respecting that unspoken boundary.
He avoided you with a precision that would have been impressive if it hadn’t hurt so much.
He left the Great Hall early. Sat at the opposite end of the Gryffindor table, shoulders angled deliberately away from you. Took longer routes between classes, choosing staircases that added minutes to his walk if it meant not crossing yours. When you entered a room, he found a reason to leave it. When you tried to catch his eye, he found something intensely fascinating to study just over your shoulder.
It wasn’t cruel.
That was the worst part.
He wasn’t punishing you.
He was protecting himself.
Careful not to brush against you in passing. Careful not to linger too close in crowded corridors. Careful with his voice, as though speaking to you too long might crack something open again that he’d only just managed to stitch shut.
You caught him watching you once—only once—during Charms. Professor Flitwick had turned to the board, and for a fleeting second, Harry’s guard slipped. His gaze found you with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs.
There was no bitterness there. It wasn’t resentment.
It was restraint.
And that made your chest ache in ways you hadn’t expected.
By the time Valentine’s Day arrived, the castle was absolutely drenched in pink and glitter from the highest spires to the stone floors below. The enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall shimmered a soft rose-gold, petals drifting lazily down from an illusion of endless sky. Pink ribbons curled around every banister. The air smelled overwhelmingly of roses and sugar and something sparklingly artificial.
Harry hated it.
He sat rigidly through breakfast, jaw tight as the owls descended in a flurry of wings and parchment. Bouquets, boxes of chocolates, glittering gift bags—packages thumped down across the tables in rapid succession. Laughter erupted every few seconds as someone unwrapped something elaborate or embarrassing.
It was almost comical that Valentine’s Day had fallen on a Hogsmeade weekend this year.
A miracle.
Or some divine joke at his expense—Harry hadn’t quite decided which.
Dean presented Ginny with her bouquet in person, attempting nonchalance and failing spectacularly. Ron, flustered and pink-eared, kept checking his reflection in the back of a spoon before bolting off to meet Hermione. Even Seamus—Godric, even Seamus—had a date and left with an air of nervous triumph.
One by one, his roommates disappeared, pulled eagerly toward waiting hands and planned afternoons.
Harry remained behind.
He told himself he didn’t care.
He’d endured far worse than a holiday built on pink paper hearts and saccharine declarations.
But something about the exaggerated romance of it all scraped at him today. The floating hearts. The couples walking just a little closer than usual, fingers intertwined as if they were guarding something precious. It pressed against the hollow space in his chest and made it ache more sharply than he’d anticipated.
Stupid, really.
He was the one who had confessed. He was the one who had drawn the line. The one who had told you to leave.
And yet he hadn’t realized just how much it would hurt—not only to spend Valentine’s Day alone—but to spend it carrying the quiet understanding that whatever you had been before could never quite be the same again.
He pushed back from the table abruptly, appetite long gone, and made his way up to Gryffindor Tower. The corridors were noticeably quieter now, most students already filtering toward Hogsmeade or secluded corners of the castle.
The Fat Lady gave him a knowing smile as he muttered the password.
He didn’t return it.
By the time he reached his dormitory, exhaustion weighed heavy behind his eyes. He was fully prepared to throw his bag aside and collapse face-first into his mattress, to sleep the day away and wake up when the castle had returned to normal.
He pushed the door open.
And froze.
The room was dimmer than usual, bathed in the steady glow of candlelight. Flames flickered softly along the mantle and windowsills, casting warm gold across the stone walls. The usual clutter—Quidditch gear, discarded socks, scattered parchment—had been tidied away.
And there you were.
Hands clasped tightly around a small arrangement of flowers, as though you weren’t entirely sure what to do with them. Your shoulders were drawn back in visible determination, but your expression wavered somewhere between courage and terror.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Harry’s first instinct was disbelief.
His second was fear.
“You shouldn’t be here.” He said automatically, though the words lacked any real sharpness.
“I know,” You replied softly, “But I had something important I needed to ask you.”
His gaze flicked around the room again, as if confirming that this wasn’t some elaborate trick of exhaustion. The candles. The cleared space. The deliberate care in every detail.
“What is this?” He asked, his voice quieter now.
You swallowed, then stepped forward carefully—like you were approaching something skittish, something that might bolt at the wrong movement.
“You gave me a Valentine last year,” You said, the slightest tremor betraying you, “I thought I might return the favour.”
For a split second, something flickered in his eyes but it was swallowed almost immediately by something harder.
He let out a short, humorless breath, dragging a hand down his face, “Do you realize how cruel you’re being?”
The words hit you square in the chest.
“Harry, I—” You stopped yourself, forcing in a steadying breath, “I came to a couple of… epiphanies since we last spoke.”
He didn’t respond, but he didn’t interrupt you either.
You took another breath, slower this time, willing your thoughts to line up properly instead of scattering the way they had been all morning. Harry watched you closely, and you could tell he was fighting the instinct to step in, to calm you the way he always did when you spiraled. He knew the signs—the way your fingers twisted together, the way your gaze drifted when you were trying to find the right words.
He let you have the silence.
“I’m sorry.”
The words were small when they finally left you.
And he felt his stomach drop.
There it was, he thought. The careful tone. The softness. The prelude to rejection dressed up as kindness. He’d imagined this exact moment in the worst hours of the night—imagined you standing in front of him with pity in your eyes, explaining gently why you couldn’t give him what he wanted.
His shoulders went rigid without him meaning to. Something inside him began quietly folding in on itself.
“I’m sorry for taking so much time to think about this,” You continued, your voice trembling but determined, “And I’m sorry that you’ve felt this way for—God knows how long—and I was so blind to it. I’m sorry for keeping you at arm’s length and dangling something you wanted in front of you for so long. God, I can’t even imagine how that must have felt, because I’ve only just come to this realization a couple days ago and not being able to be around you has been killing me, and I’m such a terrible—”
“(Y/N), hold on.”
He stepped forward suddenly, closing the space between you before he could think better of it, his hands coming up to gently but firmly wrap around your wrists. Not restraining—just grounding. Anchoring you before you could spiral yourself into something cruel and untrue.
You stopped mid-breath.
Your chest was heaving slightly, eyes bright with unshed tears, and for a second neither of you moved. You had forgotten what it felt like for him to touch you. The warmth of his hands. The steadiness of his grip. A small, frightened part of you had begun to wonder if he ever would again.
Harry swallowed.
He hadn’t expected you to look like this—wrecked and earnest and terrified in equal measure.
You opened your mouth, and he nodded his head faintly, urging you to keep going.
“I—” You drew in a steadier breath this time, “You’re my first thought when something happens. You’re the person I look for in every room. When I’m tired, I want you next to me. When I’m overwhelmed, I look for you without even realizing it. And I kept telling myself that was just friendship. That it was normal.”
Your lips curved faintly, sadly, “But I realized that no matter what label I tried to place on it, what I feel for you, Harry, is not just friendship.”
His grip tightened—barely, but enough that you felt it.
Harry’s breathing had gone noticeably slower. Measured. Like he was forcing himself not to interrupt, not to hope too quickly.
“You’re not just some sort of placeholder,” You continued, your voice steadier now, “Or a spare bed. Or my extra person. Or my safe place because you were convenient.”
The room seemed to still entirely.
The candles crackled softly. Somewhere outside, a burst of cheers rose and fell again, distant and irrelevant to the world shrinking down to just the two of you.
Harry stared at you as though you’d begun speaking in a language he desperately wanted to understand but was afraid to mistranslate.
“If it’s not you,” You said, your voice breaking slightly despite your effort to keep it steady, “then I don’t want anyone else.”
His heart thudded once—hard enough it almost hurt.
“If that’s what love is,” You whispered, blinking away the dampness gathering in your lashes, “then I suppose I’ve been in love with you for a while now.”
For a moment, he didn’t react at all.
It was as though the words had struck him somewhere too deep to process immediately.
You watched it happen—the disbelief first. The instinct to protect himself from false hope. His eyes searched your face desperately for hesitation, for guilt, for anything that might suggest this was born of obligation.
He didn’t find it.
Something in his expression changed then. Not dramatically. Not all at once. But the tightness around his mouth eased. The guarded set of his shoulders softened. His hands, still wrapped around your wrists, shifted—sliding down until he was holding your hands properly now.
Reverently.
“Say that again.” He murmured, his voice rougher than before.
You let out a shaky breath, “I love you.”
The words didn’t tremble this time.
They landed between you solid and undeniable.
Harry’s eyes closed for half a second, like he needed that brief darkness to steady himself. When they opened again, they were shining in a way you’d rarely seen—unguarded, almost overwhelmed.
“You have no idea,” He said quietly, almost helplessly, “how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”
There was no accusation in it. No bitterness.
Just awe.
Blinking quickly to keep your tears from spilling over, you lifted the bouquet again with trembling hands. The gesture felt suddenly very small compared to what had just been said, but it mattered to you.
“Harry,” You asked softly, your voice braver than you felt, “will you be my Valentine?”
For a heartbeat, he simply looked at you.
Like he was memorizing this version of you—the one standing in front of him choosing him openly.
His hands left yours only long enough to take the bouquet, setting it carefully aside on the nearest surface as though it were something fragile and precious.
Then he stepped forward.
Hesitantly.
Cautiously.
As though he were afraid that one wrong movement might shatter the moment entirely.
He lifted his hands and cupped your face, thumbs brushing gently beneath your eyes where tears still clung to your lashes. His heart was pounding so hard he was certain you must feel it. He had imagined touching you like this more times than he could count, never truly believing he would be allowed to. Some part of him still waited for the illusion to break, for him to wake up from this dream all alone.
But you were real.
Warm beneath his palms. Trembling slightly where your bodies hovered just short of touching.
The way you looked at him—earnest, anxious and filled with anticipation—anchored him in the moment more surely than anything else could have. If this was a dream, then he decided he would stay in it. He would cling to it as long as it let him have you.
The restraint he had lived with for years finally gave way.
He pulled you into him, not roughly, but with a fierce, aching tenderness, arms wrapping around you as though he feared you might disappear if he loosened his hold. His forehead brushed yours, breath unsteady, and then he kissed you.
It was soft at first. Almost uncertain.
But when your lips moved against his, fitting together like divine puzzle pieces, the rest of the world seemed to dissolve. The candles, the room, the noise of the castle beyond the walls—none of it mattered.
All that existed was the warmth of his hands, the steady press of his chest against yours, and the quiet realization that you were no longer standing on opposite sides of something unspoken.
You pressed closer to him, and he held you as though he had been waiting his whole life to do exactly that.
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
Your secret, annual summer fling with your best friend’s brother was never meant to last — but when his mother catches you in his bed, everything changes. Cornered, he does the only thing he can think of: he tells her the two of you are engaged.
▸ PAIRING: Clark Kent x F!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, secret fwb to lovers, best friend's brother (kara is clark's sibling), fake engagement, hurt/comfort, fluff, semi-public sex (three smut scenes), thigh riding, so much miscommunication (guilty pleasure), insecurities on reader's part, jealousy, clark dirty talks, inaccurate portrayal of smallville (picturing super small town), reader has a shit ex
▸ WORD COUNT: 12.9K
▸ A/N: this fic was truly self-indulgent, all of my fave tropes in one place. this is part of @elixirfromthestars' arcade! i played elixir's hold 'em and ended up with a four of a kind (best friend's sibling, summer fling, sworn off relationships, and fake engagement). thanks for such a fun event mel <3 this is my longest work to date so splitting it into two parts - final one coming next week!! i love seeing your responses so any reblogs/comments/likes are always greatly appreciated mwah!!!
↤ main masterlist | part two ↦
Whoever thought it would be a good idea to spend a week of your precious and extremely limited paid time off in Smallville, of all places, should be pulverized. You could’ve been sipping margaritas in the Bahamas or traipsing around Miami Beach with a scrumptious cubano in hand. You could’ve been sitting at home in your perfectly comfortable couch with your perfectly comfortable air conditioning.
But no, you love your best friend Kara dearly, and she managed to convince you and a few of your friends to do the group’s annual trip in her hometown in Kansas. Oh, how you wish you could be Dorothy in that moment and find yourself on a yellow brick road rather than this sweltering airport.
Smallville in the summer is a far cry from your ideal vacation. The closest airport is two hours away and you’re greeted by the sight of a building that looks like it barely functions and hasn’t been upgraded since the Middle Ages. You had been cramped into a small airplane that you’re convinced does not have all of its nuts and bolts considering how much it rattled (you don’t want to think about the strange tilt of the wings). It takes you a full hour to get your suitcase from baggage claim that has no air conditioning; mind you, it’s because there is no overhead compartment, so they forced you to check your carry-on into cargo (an equally cramped space).
To make matters worse, Kara’s work forced her to delay her trip by one day which means you’re already locked in to arriving a full day earlier than everyone else, thinking that you’d get to spend some quality time with her after being separated for nearly an entire year (it’s been a rough year for both of you).
“How am I supposed to get to your house?” You had asked — more like whined after she told you the bad news.
She sounded even more upset than you. “Don’t worry, Clark will be there!”
Your heart had leapt to your throat at the thought.
Now, you’re faced with this incredibly difficult, exceedingly troubling situation. Said situation is basically being stuck in a car for two hours with Clark Kent.
Clark Kent stands at over six feet tall, sticking out like a sore — but stupidly delicious — thumb outside the airport. He’s in a pair of denim jeans and a t-shirt that appears to be fighting to keep its threads intact around his bicep. His long frame is leaning against a rusty red pickup truck.
The moment you push the doors open to step outside, his eyes spot you. Brilliant, bejeweled blue even from this distance. He covers that distance in no time with his ridiculously long legs, barely breathless as your name falls from his lips.
“It’s been a while,” he beams softly. His hand immediately commandeers your suitcase like the caveman-gentleman that he is. “How was your flight?”
You shudder at the sound of the tumbling cogs still echoing in your ear. “Terrifying,” you mutter, “how do you even fit in those tiny planes?”
The question sounds foolish now that you’ve said it out loud.
“Forget I asked.”
His smile is shy and sheepish as he blinks down at you. “Perks of the job, I guess.”
“I hardly think being an unpaid superhero should count as a job. Otherwise, I’d be reporting… someone to the Department of Labor for withheld wages.”
Then he laughs and the sound is buoyant and clear in this empty parking lot. You feel it spark warmth, tingling to your fingertips.
Girl, get a grip.
You fan yourself a little under the pretense of the disgusting heat. At least the air is cooler out here than inside that sauna. Your bare legs that stretch out from under your shorts certainly appreciate the kiss of the wind. You’re able to breathe a little easier despite the humidity.
An act that is short-lived when you notice how his gaze flickers to your exposed skin.
Clearing his throat, Clark stops when he reaches his truck. He carefully lifts your bag to the bed of his truck and straps it down. You eye it suspiciously.
His lips twitch with the threat of amusement. “It’s not going to fly out. Promise. Flat roads from here on out.”
“Don’t mean to be rude but might be faster if you just flew both of us back to your home,” you suggest with a raised eyebrow.
It would make it easier for you too to avoid being trapped with him for a full hundred and twenty minutes in a car with nowhere to go.
Clark chuckles as he swings open the passenger seat for you, even going as far as to offer you a hand to help you climb the height of the vehicle. You almost imagine the ghost of his hand pushing you up by your ass, but that’s just distasteful dreaming.
“I’d rather keep our mayor in the dark about how Superman had landed and was raised in Smallville. I don’t think that’s the kind of marketing the other guy would be interested in.”
“The other guy is really only popular in Metropolis so maybe he could use a bit of a boost from a bumfuck small town.”
He laughs again and you have to stomp on those ridiculous little flutters.
The drive is peaceful. With both hands on the wheel, Clark taps his finger against the leather to the rhythm of some pop song crackling through the speakers. He makes small talk to fill the silence. He asks you about life, about your job, about the tiny apartment you’ve been trying to furnish for the last few months. Cordial. Polite. Safe. All conversational topics that are reasonable for two friends.
That is, until he asks whether you’re seeing anyone.
It should be a normal question to ask a friend. Hell, even a stranger. But you know Clark better than that and you know the underlying curiosity underneath.
Heat creeps up your neck again. You feel as if you’re back in that cursed airport as you find your voice to respond to him. “No, not seeing anyone right now.”
He doesn’t even look at you when the corners of his lips tip up into a pleased smile. You knew what he was asking — and you basically gave him the green light. He takes your confirmation as permission.
His right hand slides off the wheel and lands on your thigh. His very large palm stretching across your leg.
You swallow thickly.
“This okay?” His voice is soft. Genuine worry laced into his question.
Instead of verbalizing your response, you only manage a nod as you prop an elbow on the door. Your face turns towards the deserted road outside to hide your embarrassment. To hide the racing of your heart. The anticipation bubbling beneath your veins.
It doesn’t take him long for his hand to slide higher and higher until you feel his fingers toying with the button on your pants. Deft fingers that pop it open easily. It’s terribly sexy how good he is at that.
He reaches down your pants, fingers skimming over the thin fabric of your panties until he finds your clothed slit. A delighted hum slips past the seam of his lips when he finds you already damp. His fingers trace along your sensitive lips, featherlight, but you’re eager enough that you find your hips jerking upwards in search of his touch.
Your chest rises and falls with the breath that hitches in your throat. “Are we really doing this already?” You rasp, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to prevent the moan from escaping.
You hate how responsive you are to him. How your body’s been trained to respond to him. That familiar touch eliciting those familiar sparks of electricity. No matter how many times he’s done this, how many times you’ve fallen apart in his hands, you’re no less receptive than the first time.
Clark chances a glance your way and simply murmurs, “Missed touching you.”
A whimper actually does crawl its way out of your throat this time. How are you supposed to say no to that? You let your legs fall open, hips lifting off the seat just enough so he can tug your pants a little lower, sneak his fingers in even deeper. He applies a little bit more pressure on your slit, you can feel your panties soaking up your juices.
“So wet already, honey,” he whispers.
Honey. The first time Clark used that pet name on you, you’d told him absolutely not. However, like everything else he’s done, you’ve grown used to it. Your insides turn gooey when he uses that sweet little nickname. Something so syrupy when he’s doing something oh so filthy.
“It’s been a while,” you mutter under your breath.
“Were you waiting for me?”
At that, you can’t help the defensive scoff that spits out of your mouth. “No.”
Maybe.
“When was the last time someone touched you?”
You don’t want to answer that. It’s an embarrassing answer — one that you fear will inflate his ego too much.
Unfortunately, your non-answer is answer enough.
“Been a while,” he echoes your earlier sentiment.
“Don’t get too full of yourself.”
“Why? Didn’t find anyone you liked these past few months?”
You press your lips together. The day that you admit you can’t seem to finish with anyone else, not when you’ve already had a taste — or ten — of Clark, is the day this world comes to an end. Not even Superman can pry this information out of you.
“No,” you answer easily.
Clark’s thumb presses down on your clit and you immediately jolt forward with a groan. His fingers tug the gusset of your panties to the side as he slides his fingers easily along your slick folds. He moans when he finds how quickly you coat his fingers.
“Me too,” Clark admits. “Haven’t been — gosh, you’re dripping — haven’t been with anyone since, you know, last time.” Whether it’s to save you from your own confession or Clark is just being his honest self, you don’t know. Still, you appreciate the thought.
Your face warms again with his words and maybe any other time, you would have the self-control or decency to stop him. However, in that moment, when you’re pent up from your frustrating flight and months of reaching your orgasm only by your fingers alone, you can’t help but appreciate his fingers on you.
You slide down a little further on your seat, granting him access to finally push his fingers inside you. Thick, long fingers that curl that delicious flash of friction in your pulsing cunt.
It’s criminal how good he is at this. At sex in general, really. You know that it’s partly attributed to his superpowers. Clark knows the rhythm of your heartbeat like it’s his own. It’s how he knows exactly when whatever he’s doing is working on you. How he’s learned what your body loves, what makes it burn. He can hear how your heart rate skyrockets when he slides his fingers deeper, when he does a slow drag out to pull a moan from your chest. He knows when he’s doing a good job, but it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t enjoy hearing you admit how much you want him out loud anyway.
He takes some sick satisfaction in making you ask for it.
“What do you want? Tell me.”
“You know what.”
“I need you to use your words, honey.”
Curse whoever ever said Clark is the good boy next door, the one who buys you flowers and opens your door. He does all that and can be so sweetly condescending in the sexiest way possible. While you’re usually irritated by any form of male patronization, there’s something about the way Clark does it.
Like he’s doing it for you because he knows you like it.
“Fuck me with your fingers, Clark,” you gasp as he begins to pump his fingers in and out of you.
Your vision of the road is a blurry mess, greens and browns melting together as your eyes roll to the back. Your head slams against the chair as your hands curl around his wrist. Clark doesn’t miss a beat, keeps stroking you with his fingers like it’s his purpose.
His eyes dart between the road and you, conflicted now that he’s started this game that he has to finish. He drinks you in, the sight of your neck stretching out as you tip your head back, as your hips lift to chase his fingers.
“I can’t— I’ll finish you when we get back. I need to drive—”
“Pull over.”
“What?” He balks.
“Pull over somewhere,” you pant, tightening your grip around his wrist to keep him there. You roll your hips to rut against his hand. The ball of his palm pressing against your clit as he finger fucks you until your brain is turned to mush. “Clark, please.”
You swear you hear him curse before he takes a turn down an abandoned dirt path. He uses his hand covered in your slick to put the car into park and, before he can utter anything, you’re unbuckling your seatbelt and climbing over to his seat, straddling his thick thighs.
Clark’s eyes widen, pupils blowing up as he looks at you. He groans almost painfully. “I’m so hard. I’ve been thinking about this all night.”
“All night?”
He eagerly nods as he helps you shimmy out of your shorts, leaving you in your drenched panties on top of him. “Knew Kara and the others were coming later. I couldn’t stop thinking about having you like this. Or at home. Wherever you’ll let me have you. Missed this pussy of yours.”
Your heart slams against your chest as your cunt traitorously throbs with the kind of desperation that would be concerning to feminism. “Yeah? Did you jerk yourself off thinking about me, Clark? Hope you kept your voice down so your parents wouldn’t hear you stroking this fat cock of yours to the thought of my cunt.”
“You—” he growls, “Sometimes I wish I could just slide myself down your throat to stop you from saying such filthy things.”
A smirk curls on your lips. “You like me filthy. You like me dripping all over you.”
Your fingers fumble with his pants this time, hurriedly yanking the fabric down to free his cock for your access. You’re quick to position yourself on top of him, tip hot red and angry dipping into your entrance. Your slick is already rolling down his length when Clark’s hand squeezes your hip.
“C-condom?” He asks. The reluctance in his voice is obvious. It’s not that he won’t fuck you without one. It’s that he doesn’t want to.
“I’m clean, are you?”
Clark nods and his expression morphs into parted lips and blue eyes blown wide as you sink on him. With your hands planted on his broad shoulders, you begin to ride him — slowly at first as you adjust to his size again.
He’s big. Too big sometimes. You’re lucky with how wet you are right now that the slide eases the burn of the stretch. His thick cock has your pussy tightening in resistance, but you keep going, all the way until he’s buried deep inside you.
“Feels so good,” he moans, “you’re always so tight, but you always make it fit, don’t you? You take my cock so well.”
Your pussy clamps down around him, your pace faltering with his words.
“Look at her. She’s swallowing me right up. She’s greedy, always taking me all the way in,” Clark coos as he watches his cock disappear into you over again, each time you burrow him deeper and deeper inside you. “My favorite pussy. She’s so pretty taking me in like this.”
You lean back and place your hands on his thighs as you roll your hips to drive him in deeper. “Fuck, Clark. Every time I see you, feels like you've gotten bigger.”
“No, honey, it’s just because your pussy tightens up,” he chuckles, fingers brushing your hips. “She just has to get used to me again. I’ll stretch you out, don’t worry. ‘M gonna make you feel so good.”
“Play with my tits,” you rasp. “Want your hands on my tits.”
You know what you’re doing. This is both for you and him. You’ve always loved seeing how big his hands are, how they cover your breasts entirely. How he can be both delicate and rough when he toys with your nipples.
His fingers unbutton your shirt slowly and, the more he does, the wider his eyes go.
Clark lets out a moan when he sees your nipples in the open air. “No bra?” He squeaks. “You went through TSA like this?”
Your lips tip up into a smirk. “Don’t worry, nobody gave me a pat down.”
“Better not have,” he growls low, “these are mine.”
Your pussy and heart flutter with his possessive declaration. You nearly bite out a snappy retort, asking him since when am I yours but the words fizzle out behind your ribs when Clark grabs your hips and begins to earnestly fuck up into you. He’s careful not to hurt you, but tests your limits with how hard he’s gripping you. You’re sure to bruise but these kinds of marks, he knows you don’t mind. You like when he stakes his claim.
His head dips to take one nipple into his mouth, one of his hands rising along your torso, thumb brushing the underside of your breast as he lifts it slightly. His tongue circles the peaked bud, hot and wet until you’re throwing your head back in ecstasy. He nibbles lightly on the sensitive skin, enough to draw out another whine from your throat.
“So pretty. You’re always so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin. “Pussy feels like heaven. So tight around my cock, honey. All mine. Tell me your pussy is all mine.”
You gasp when Clark thrusts up particularly hard, keen eyes searching yours. Swallowing, you hold on to the last thread of your pride as you resist the urge to cave into him.
“Come on, tell me. I won’t let you cum if you don’t say it.”
“Clark,” you whimper, “don’t be mean.”
“Not mean,” he murmurs, “just want you to tell me that this pussy is mine. That nobody else has touched it. That nobody else will ever touch it.”
It’s a terrifying admission, even in the heat of the moment. Deep in your gut, you know that no one else will ever feel as good as Clark. No one else will ever get you to finish the same way he does. Fireworks and heat streaking across your skin.
But you give in to him so he will give in to you.
“My pussy’s yours,” you cry out.
“Say it again.”
“My pussy’s yours. Only yours.”
“No one else can touch it. You’re always saving this pretty, tight pussy for me.”
“Fuck, it’s yours, Clark. Please, please, fuck— hnng, need to— I want to cum, please.”
Clark groans as he angles his hips just right so that he’s fucking into that delicious spot inside of you over and over again until you can’t find it in you to think or even breathe. The gasp is wrangled from your throat as he rips the orgasm straight from under you, your back arching as your fingers dig into his shoulders, the pleasure crashing over you in waves. Your body shudders against him as you feel him spill inside you, warmth painting your walls as he jerks a few more times.
You slump forward, forehead against his shoulder as he continues to cum inside you. You can feel the cum leaking from where you’re joined, too much for you to keep inside yourself. It trickles down your thighs, dripping onto Clark’s jeans as evidence of your little tryst.
A giggle slips past your lips as you sigh against him.
His clean hand (he knows you have a thing against it otherwise) reaches up to stroke your head as he turns to press his lips on your temple. “What’re you laughing about?” He mumbles against your skin.
“Just— this. We really couldn’t wait to find a bed to fuck.”
His chest rumbles with his laugh. “Well, my ma and pa are home too so we wouldn’t have had a chance until tonight.” He pauses, then says, “And we both know you can’t keep your voice down.”
You launch yourself back with a glare, hand weakly swatting his chest. “Hey, speak for yourself. If I sucked your dick, you’d be crying and begging for me to stop because you can’t handle it.”
“That’s just because I want to cum inside you instead of your mouth.”
Your cunt pulses around him, squeezing. Traitor.
“You like that, don’t you?” He grins easily.
“Whatever,” you mutter. Wincing, you extract yourself from him and feel more of his cum leaking from between your puffy pussy.
Before you can move back to the passenger seat, Clark sits you down on his lap. His hand settles on your inner thigh, thumb pressing against your swollen pussy lips to open you up to him. He watches as his cum dribbles out of your cunt, before he uses his fingers to fuck them back into you.
“Don’t want to waste it,” he smiles boyishly.
This fucker.
“You’re the worst.”
“You won’t be saying that when I tell you I’ve figured out the many other stops we can have along the way — you know, if you wanted a second or third round.”
You’re warm to the tips of your ears. “You’re insatiable.”
“It’s been a while,” he chuckles.
Clark’s parents greet you with a good dose of midwestern charm, followed by a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and Earl Grey tea. He regards you with mild amusement as you glance at him in alarm when his mother wraps you in a massive hug, telling you that she feels as if you’re one of her own.
“Oh, I’ve heard so much about you from Kara and Clark! It’s such a joy to finally meet you, honey. Come on in. Are you hungry? Did you want to clean up first? I’ve got some extra towels in Kara’s room for you. Clark, be a dear and show her around, will you? I just need to pull out the cinnamon loaf from the oven.”
It’s like a tornado, a whirlwind of movement all at once. A very pleasant tornado. Clark ends up giving you the comprehensive tour of the farmhouse. The Kent house looks fully lived in — well-worn vintage furniture with stitched florals, family photos dotting the walls and shelves to show any guest how loved the two Kent kids are, and touches of an old-fashioned home with typical cliché quotes hanging in frames or sewn onto throw pillows.
Clark blushes when you stare a little too long at the live, laugh, love painted onto a piece of wood above the toilet. “Ma loves that kind of thing. She buys a new one almost every time she goes into town.”
“Wish I had known, I could’ve gotten her another one for her collection,” you grin. “It’s sweet, Clark. Very charming.”
His smile softens slightly as he guides you to Kara’s room. “I’ll let you get settled in then. I have to help pa out with a few things, but let me know if you need anything. You have my number.”
Kara’s room is similar to the one she had in college. Posters of her favorite rock bands, pink wallpaper painted over with abstract murals that you find all too familiar. There’s a queen-sized bed in the middle of the room with frilly pink sheets that you doubt she picked herself. For the next hour, you unpack all your belongings, finding yourself dreading stepping outside and facing the music.
You had met Kara in college, freshman year, and the two of you were bonded for life. It started with a snooty remark from another student, and you and Kara had intervened at the same time, finding your sister-in-arms on day one. Two of you were similar in that you were both bull-headed, a little bit temperamental, but fiercely loyal. You loved her the moment you met her.
Sophomore year found the two of you unsurprisingly rooming together. The two of you were truly inseparable then. You thought you knew everything about her. That was until she said—
“My brother needs to come by,” she groans.
“You have a brother?”
That was when you were introduced to Clark Kent. Before you even met him, you had a strong inkling that you wouldn’t be a big fan of the guy. He was a year older than Kara but he was in a frat. Not that there’s anything wrong with participating in social activities on campus, but Greek life? Yes, you had formed your own preconceived notions about him.
So when Clark finally “swung by” to pick up one of his jackets while Kara was gone, you were caught off guard by the sight of this bumbling six-foot-four-mess who kept fidgeting with his thick-rimmed glasses. Clark, with his nervous smile and constant shifting, was a complete antithesis to Kara who had a permanent scowl and a sharp tongue.
Then you started seeing him everywhere on campus. You’ve seen him around before but now you can’t stop noticing him. He’s the mop of curls trying to shrink himself at the front of your English literature classroom, he’s the light laughter ringing across the dining hall, he’s the designated driver who physically gathered up the drunkards and piled them into the group’s car to send them home at the end of the night.
But he’s also the guy who’s always surrounded by some of the frattiest guys on campus and the guy who’s constantly swarmed by women grabbing at his biceps and running their hands down his chest.
“Your brother’s a bit of a player, huh?” You pointed out once to Kara, your eagle eyes focused across the room on Clark, who was humoring Bonnie from psychology as she yapped his ear off.
He didn’t seem to mind, laughing at whatever she was saying, which had her beaming.
Kara turned around, eyes following yours as you witnessed the atrocity that was Bonnie straight up flattening her manicured palm on his left tit. “Who? Clark?” She snorted, “The furthest. You can’t see it but that man is plotting the most polite escape route. Give it a second.”
Sure enough, the moment his eyes landed on you, they burned a brighter blue. He said something to Bonnie that had her pouting, turning to look at your table, before he made a beeline in your direction, sliding into the empty seat next to you.
“What happened with Bonnie?” You cocked an eyebrow.
“You know her?” Clark raised one right back. “She was, uh, talking about the frat’s winter gala thing.” His face distorted in a wince. “Asked me if I had a date.”
“Oh, while groping you?” Kara snickered.
Clark threw her a look. “Be nice. She meant well.”
“She meant she wanted your dick,” Kara noted then winced, “I don’t know why I just said that. I take it back. I don’t want to know about your sex life.”
His neck flushed a deep red as his eyes darted toward you for a brief second before he whipped his gaze away with a cough. “Anyways, I didn’t want to lead her on. So I told her I was already going with someone else.”
“Well, now you have to show up with a date,” Kara noted.
“Yeah.” Clark scratched the back of his ear then flicked his gaze towards you again. “Funny story.”
Dread sank into your gut. “Clark, no.”
“I’m sorry,” he flinched, “but she wanted to know who and I saw you and obviously I couldn’t say Kara so… here we are.”
“I have to go to your frat’s winter gala? Over my dead body.”
“It’ll be fun! Drinks and food. I’ll cover your ticket, obviously,” Clark pleaded. His blue eyes were shining in a way that made you melt. It was hard to say no to Clark Kent.
That was how you ended up as Clark’s date. That was how you ended up meeting your first ex in college. A fratboy of all people but he won you over with his sense of humor and charming smile. That was how you ended up with the most devastating heartbreak with a breakup that lasted all of one second over a text.
That was how you ended up swearing off relationships forever.
That was how you ended up in Clark Kent’s bed the summer you graduated college. One time turned to two turned to fucking on the kitchen counter while the others were asleep upstairs on your group’s annual trip. This “summer fling” became a recurring, annual rendezvous. As long as the two of you were single, you somehow always ended up in each other’s beds — or any other viable surfaces.
However, what was made very clear from the very beginning was that you were not looking for a serious relationship whatsoever. The last thing you needed was to get your heart broken again when you promised to focus on your career.
So this arrangement works.
You’re brought out of your reverie when a knock sounds on your door. Clark pops his head in, curls damp and glasses sliding down his nose again. He’s a little pink when he catches you midway through changing into a comfy t-shirt. A smirk curls on your lips. Even after seeing you naked all this time and talking like a fucking porn star during sex, Clark still blushes whenever he unintentionally catches you in a… compromising position.
“Um, ma wanted me to tell you to come down whenever you’re ready. We usually eat dinner as a family. If that’s okay with you.”
You finish shoving your arms through your shirt before bending down to reach for a pair of shorts. You hear the hitch of his breath behind you. Smirking, you slowly roll yourself back up. “Like what you see, Kent?”
“Don’t tempt me,” he grumbles under his breath. Your eyes fall to his sweats where he’s currently adjusting his not-so-little problem. “I can be quick. And quiet. If you want to.”
A laugh rises from your chest. “Keep it in your pants. I don’t want to be late for my first dinner with your parents.”
With a slightly disappointed sigh, he nods and guides you downstairs.
Dinner is as you expected — delicious food with a side of chaos. While Clark’s dad keeps mostly to himself, nodding along to whatever his wife is saying or whispering with Clark, his mother peppers you with endless questions about your life, your job, and your relationship with her children. “I’m so sorry we’re only meeting now! I hear so much about you from both of them. It’s such a shame.”
“I hope Kara only has good things to say,” you tease.
“Oh, Kara adores you but Clark also won’t stop talking about you.”
That catches you by surprise and you shift your attention to Clark with a curious look. “Is that so?”
There’s that pink again. Endearingly embarrassed. “Oh, yes,” his mom gushes, “tells me all the time what a sweetheart you are and how smart you are, how he enjoys watch—”
“Ma, how about some more mashed potatoes, hm?” Clark distracts her, offering a massive dollop of her potatoes. “How about you tell me what’s going on with the kitchen sink? Thought you wanted me to take a look.”
His mother is successfully distracted when she instead begins to fuss over everything wrong with the farmhouse. His father tries to reassure Clark that he’s got it under control and that he should just enjoy his vacation. Clark only nods along, partially listening. You know the look he has when part of his mind is far away from the conversation.
You can’t help but wonder what his mom was going to say.
After dinner, you insist that his parents get some rest while you and Clark do the dishes. It’s a back and forth for a bit, debating on whether guests should be doing chores, debating on whether you’re guests at all. Thankfully, you win when Clark manages to urge them out of the kitchen. Unfortunately, Clark is the actual winner when he also pushes you out of there for you to get cleaned up
You do a full scrubdown, washing away all the grease from the flight. The water is warm on your skin, much needed after a long day. You almost slide yourself into Kara’s mattress to sleep when you realize Clark missed one part of his tour.
So you tiptoe down the hall, careful not to wake the Kents with the creaking beneath your footsteps as you sneak into Clark’s room, closing the door behind you.
He has a towel wrapped around his waist, chiseled, bare chest on full display, as he frowns at his phone. He looks up, fumbling with the device when he sees you. His arms quickly go to cover his stomach and his legs, as if he’s at risk of exposing an ankle to a Victorian lady.
You roll your eyes. He clears his throat. “What’re you doing here?”
“You never showed me your room, I wanted to see if you had anything embarrassing in here. Like Superman plushies or something. Or your old porn collection. Maybe a Playboy or two.”
“I don’t… have any of those,” Clark says, pink to his ears.
“Sure, you’re telling me if I look in that drawer over there that I won’t find a couple of risque magazines?” You begin drifting in that direction and Clark is immediately in your path. You’re face-to-face with his pecs.
“Take my word for it.”
Sighing, you cave and instead wander around the rest of the room. It’s a quaint room. Small bed that you’re not even sure would fit him. Two small bookshelves with some reference volumes and novels you’ve heard him talk about before. Giant poster of the Mighty Crabjoys who Clark insists is very punk rock. Then there are a few trophies for a spelling bee, debate club, and a science fair — none for his athleticism, because you know for sure Clark would never use his gifted powers for selfish purposes. His desk has an ancient monitor that looks like a stack of brick and more books — comic books, more novels, and CDs (no doubt of the Mighty Crabjoys).
It’s simple and sweet. Kind of like him.
While you’re busy absorbing every inch of his bedroom, Clark has crept up behind you. His arms wind around your waist, lips pasting on your neck. You instinctively tilt your head, a moan bubbling up your throat. “Clark, your parents are down the hall,” you murmur.
“I can be quiet. I’ll make sure you are too,” he whispers as his hands begin to wander. One to cover your mouth and the other going between your legs. “I’ll make you feel good, honey.”
And that he does.
Your second day in Smallville starts off early. And warm. Incredibly, horribly warm. Your eyes flutter open to the wide expanse of creamy skin. Creamy skin on a very, very wide chest. Grunting, you try to push against him, to get his hefty arm off you, but he doesn’t even budge.
Clark grumbles quietly, tucking you deeper into his chest. “Sleep.”
“Clark,” you whisper-yell, “come on. I gotta get back to the room.”
“You’re already in a room,” he mumbles.
You peek up only to find him still with his eyes closed. “Your parents—”
As if on cue, your worst nightmare plays out in real time. You hear the creak first. You try not to panic, praying that it’s someone walking away from the door rather than towards it. But then you hear the knob twist. You feel Clark stiffen in real time, his entire body going taut like a board as his eyes slam open. The two of you don’t move fast enough; in fact, your legs are still tangled together when the door swings inwards.
“Clark, honey—” his mom’s words die out, undoubtedly when her eyes land on not one but two bodies in the very tiny bed that barely fits her son. Clark holds you in closer, tugging the blanket higher to cover your bare back. Your shirt is abandoned somewhere in the room — along with your underwear that hopefully isn’t visible to his poor mother’s eyes. Thankfully, you’re not facing the door, so you don’t have to subject yourself to whatever disappointed face she’s making. “What in the—”
“Ma! Why didn’t you knock first?” Clark coughs, sliding up only to bury you deeper under the blanket.
“Well, I wasn’t expecting you to have company at this hour, Clark.” There’s a sternness to her words that sends shivers snaking up your spine.
Not even a full twenty-four hours and you’ve managed to ruin your entire reputation with his mom. But if you could just explain this, then maybe—
“We’re engaged, Ma. Alright. We’re engaged!”
What the ever-loving fuck—
“Engaged?” Her tone has shifted significantly, delight clinging to every letter. “Oh my, oh goodness, what wonderful news! I want to say I didn’t see it coming but I did! My boy did talk about you all the time so it’s not much of a surprise.”
“I do not, Ma,” Clark retorts quickly.
She barely pays him any mind. “I have to tell your pa. This is exciting news! My first son! Engaged!” Then she’s scampering out of the room and Clark can only call out, “I’m your only son, Ma!”
The moment she’s out of earshot, your hands immediately fly.
“Ow! Ow! Stop that! Come on, stop it!” Clark flinches as you continue to barrage him with smacks from all angles. Not that it actually hurts. His hands immediately whip out to pin you down, his body hovering over yours. Your chest rises with every heaving breath while Clark just frowns at you, probably concerned that you’ve hurt yourself in your fruitless attempt to hurt him. “Are you done?”
Even in this situation, you can feel that familiar heat stirring between your legs. Clark’s handsome face above you, his one hand pinning you down, the other one on your hip, his stupid, big, beefy chest in front of your face. You hate it.
Unfortunately, this means Clark picks up on your heartbeat, the way your blood rushes beneath your skin at the sight of him.
His lips tip up. “Good?”
“Why in the hell would you tell your mom that we’re engaged?”
“I love my ma. Wonderful woman. Loves everyone dearly. Love is love, she believes in. She’s all about love.”
“So you tell her we’re engaged?"
Clark sighs, “Even with all that, she is very much still an old-fashioned woman from the Midwest. She would not approve of me… bedding a woman outside of wedlock. She would never forgive me if she knew what I’ve been doing.”
Or who he’s been doing — you.
“Oh my god, Clark.”
“I’m sorry!”
“Because you don’t want your mom to know that you stick our dick inside girls before marriage, you drag me into this and act like we’re getting married?”
Clark frowns, lips pinching together disapprovingly. “Girl. One girl. You. And yes, I panicked, I’m sorry. It’ll just be for this trip, alright. We’ll… explain it all away after.”
Another protest sits on the tip of your tongue, but the look on his face reduces you into a puddle. A puddle that molds according to whatever container Clark pours you into.
“Fine, okay, but what are we going to tell Kara? Or Lois and Jimmy when they arrive?”
He opens his mouth then promptly closes it. Thought so.
“We should think fast because I know for a fact Kara’s supposed to come in anytime now—”
Then you hear the screech, followed by the hurried footsteps, followed by the door once again banging open against the wall with the brute force of her strength. You’re surprised it’s still on its hinges.
And there she is.
“What the hell, dude? You’re engaged to him?”
Clark gives the two of you some space; that is, after he kicks Kara out long enough for the two of you to be decent.
This is the first time the two of you have ever woken up together.
In the years you’ve slept together, the countless nights you’ve spent in a pile of messy limbs, this is the first time.
The awkwardness that follows hangs heavy in the air.
“I’ll, um, I’ll give you time with Kara. I’m going to calm my parents down first, tell them not to overwhelm you. I’ll see you later?”
He says it like a question, like he isn’t sure if you would even see him again after this incident. And you know that it’s mainly his fault but you should’ve also been more careful. You knew what you were getting yourself into when you snuck in, you knew what you were looking for when you went to find him last night.
“Yes, Clark, I’ll see you later.”
Mild relief sinks into his features as he nods and exits the room.
It takes a bit of time to get Kara to stop hyperventilating or talking for even a second for you to get a word in. She’s still reeling at the fact that she saw her best friend and her brother in bed. Together. Naked. She may have also attempted to rinse her eyes with bleach.
After talking her off the ledge, you finally give her the basic answers.
“Yes, I’ve been fucking your brother.”
“No, we’re not dating.”
“No, Kara, how would we be actually engaged if we weren’t dating?”
Lois and Jimmy arrive shortly after and you thankfully get some reprieve from Clark when he goes to pick them up. Fortunately, Clark gives them the quick SparkNotes version of what transpired this morning. Unfortunately, you have to do the full run-down to once again emphasize that you are not actually engaged to Clark Kent.
Dinner is only an awkward affair for the people in the know. Clark’s parents remain blissfully ignorant, instead focusing on gushing about how thrilled they are that Clark has found somebody.
“You’re the first girl he’s ever brought home. It’s only right that you’re his fiancée! Now, I want to hear it from both of you — when did this all start? How did you know you were in love?”
Kara chokes on her chicken. Lois and Jimmy share wary looks. You shoot her a dirty look. Clark coughs, eyes sliding over to you for a nanosecond before returning to his mom. “Love at first sight when I saw her that first time.” Clark should be an actor, he sounds terribly convincing.
All you can say is “same.”
Clark kicks you under the table and you have to swallow your yelp. A dirty glare his way does nothing to deter him when he gives you a look that insists you give his mom an “actual” answer.
You wrack your brain. Beyond the good sex, Clark has mostly existed in your periphery. He’s Kara’s brother. Lois’ best friend. Jimmy’s partner in crime.
But he’s always been just Clark to you.
You just happened to be smart enough to put two and two together on him and Big Blue and, for some reason, that brought you closer.
But if you were to pick a point in which you could were to fall for Clark Kent, it would be that.
“I think it was around the same time. A first year was struggling through orientation week. First week jitters. Clark was an orientation leader at the time. He didn’t have to but he stuck with that kid almost that entire week. Saw him invite the kid to join for lunches with his friends, encourage him to make friends. It was sweet.”
Mrs. Kent looks absolutely awed. She whispers about how endearing that is.
However, all you can feel is the weight of Clark’s gaze on you. Steady, heavy. You risk a glance up.
His eyes are soft, a little misty if you squint. Lips with a slight up curve.
“I don’t know if I remember you back then.”
Heat kisses your cheeks. “That was before we were introduced.”
“You knew me?”
“Hard for you to not stand out as a six-foot non-football player.”
Clark chuckles.
“That’s so very romantic, dear. I’m so glad to hear,” his mom coos, “now all of you off to bed. It’s been quite a day, hasn’t it? So much good news! And you two should stay together — future newlyweds!”
You choke the same time Kara protests. “But she’s rooming with me!”
Needless to say, Kara doesn’t win this fight and, while Lois gives you a sympathetic look as she enters Kara’s room, you’re suddenly being shoved back into Clark’s room. The same room that got you into this mess to begin with.
“Clark, we need to get our stories straight if we want to be convincing.”
“Hmm, sure.”
“We need to talk about when we started dating and when you proposed — not to mention how you proposed! And the details matter, you know, so we should— are you even listening?”
Clark hums again, clearly not listening. “Sure, yeah. We should talk about it.”
He’s taking one step towards you then another and another until the back of your knees hit the bed. “Clark,” you warn, “talk.”
He ducks his head, brushing his lips against yours. His proximity is intoxicating. What were you saying again? Something about talking.
“Fell in love with me before you even knew me, huh? That’s cute,” he murmurs in a breath that you sharply inhale.
You bite back your embarrassment. “It’s just a story.”
“But you—” kiss “—noticed—” kiss “—me.”
“It was just, um, I was only, mmm, answering…” Your words trail off as Clark navigates his mouth south along your neck, laying you down on his bed, as he drops to his knees, hands parting your legs. “Clark, we need— ah.”
“Did so good today, honey,” Clark mutters, pressing wet kisses up your bare inner thigh. His teeth nip at your skin. “Now, let me take good care of you tonight.”
Your body is still sore and tingling when you wake up the next morning. When you stretch your hand over, you find the other side of the bed cool.
You pad out through the creaky front door to find three of your friends enjoying the crisp, unpolluted air of Smallville with cups of coffee, ones that Lois doesn’t have to douse with a whole can of sugar. Clark is still nowhere to be seen.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Kara yawns.
“Morning,” you mumble quietly. “Has anyone seen Clark?”
“He’s helping out at the barn,” Lois answers first, eyeing you with a strange twinkle in her eye. “Better yet, how about you tell us how long you and Clark plan on being engaged? Are we invited to the wedding?”
You give her a look. “If I ever get married, please know I’ve been kidnapped and cloned.”
“Is it really so bad?”
Cocking an eyebrow at her, you ask, “You of all people are saying that? Miss Independent?”
“Hey, I am voluntarily a solitary creature.”
“That’s because she bites the head off anyone who tries to approach her,” Jimmy chimes in, then turns back to you, “Clark’s not a bad pick. You know, if you were to get married.”
“No, he’s not,” you mutter — and it’s a truth that just slips out.
When you look up, Kara’s got her eyes narrowed at you but Lois — she’s got a curious yet strangely warm look in her gaze. It’s not an expression that you expect to see from her.
And Jimmy, well, he’s still half dizzy over the fact that you and Clark are fucking.
“I need to talk to him, we need to get our stories straight,” you clear your throat, glance wandering over to the barn some distance away.
“You guys still haven’t discussed that?”
“No, I tried talking to him last night but we got—” The ghost of Clark’s curls between your legs, soft strands tickling your inner thighs. The hot, wet drag of his tongue between your folds. His muffled moans, nose glistening.
“You taste like nectar from the gods.”
“I don’t wanna know!” Kara yelps, slapping her hands over her ears. “I see your face and I don’t wanna hear it. While I enjoy hearing about your sexual encounters, I don’t want to hear about my brother’s.”
You cough again, ignoring the warmth that’s flooded your cheeks. “Right, anyway, I’ll go look for him.”
While you’ve never experienced country living, you imagine this is close to what it’s like. The unappetizing aroma of manure, the constant croaking of nature, and the sight of Clark Kent in overalls.
Nothing but overalls.
Shining golden skin. Not a single drop of sweat. Curls mussed up only from the heat, but his breathing is stable even as he lifts bags of soil on his shoulder. Hundreds of pounds. Biceps flexing, veins taut.
Fuck.
“You’re awake,” he brightens when he sees you, dropping the bags off to the side. “How’d you sleep?”
Your brain short-circuits when he dusts his hands off. Now that there are no bags in the way, you can see everything. Broad, round shoulders. The curves of his arms. Lines running down the length of his forearm, you can practically taste the texture on your tongue. When his overalls shift just right, you get a glimpse of his dusky nipple that you’re desperately needing to wrap your lips around.
All you can picture is how good it would be to put your hands on his shoulders, bolstering you up while he presses up against you.
“You’re thinking what I’m thinking.”
Clark’s in front of you. His fingers curving around the back of your neck, thumb on your jaw to tilt your face up. His usually bright blue eyes are dark, pupils swallowing his irises.
“We should—” your breath hitches as his thumb goes down, pressing down on your pulse point on your neck. It jumps. You know he feels it.
“I can hear your heart racing,” Clark murmurs. “I like hearing it. I like knowing what you like — and you like my hand on you.”
“Clark, please,” you rasp.
“What do you need?”
“You.”
“How do you want me?”
You swallow, the image so vivid in your mind, like it’s a memory. “Holding me up.” You barely get the words out when Clark wrangles your legs around him, holding you up firmly with one arm as his other hand touches your cheek.
“What now?”
“I want you. Inside.”
“I can do that,” he smiles, leaning down to suckle lightly on your neck. “Anything else?”
“Must I tell you everything?” You grunt.
“I know what you want. I just like hearing you ask for it.”
With your lips pursed in defiance, you cross your arms over your chest. “If you ask me one more time—”
A yelp is wrenched from your throat when he finally (finally) brushes his thumb over your sensitive nipple peaking through the thin cotton of your shirt.
He gropes you gently, somehow manhandling you in a way that makes you feel desirable rather than disgusting. His blue eyes are shadowed, drinking in the way you shiver with every tug, every pinch.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs to the wind.
Clark tugs the shirt over your head, leaving you completely topless. Your arms immediately wind around your body in embarrassment, but he moves faster to extract them and deliver you a chiding look.
You’re sheepish when you tell him, “Someone might see us.”
“Mhmm, let them. I’m taking care of my fiancée.” His lips tug into an amused smirk when you roll your eyes. “Don’t be a brat.”
“Please, you like brats.”
“You know me so well.”
He dives forward and takes your tits into your mouth, showering them with cautious but delicious attention. His tongue is hot on your skin. You throw your head back as he drags his lips across your neck.
With swift hands, your shorts join your shirt in the pile of hay and Clark has unbuttoned his overalls to fall at his hips. His mouth stays on you the entire time — sweet and spicy at the same time.
Greedy hands lift you slightly higher, only to position you right above his straining cock. The vein in his neck jumps as he grits his teeth.
Clark eases you onto his cock, moving you up and down along his length like a toy, like you’re his personal fleshlight. Your pussy stretches around him, soaking his cock until you’re a whining mess.
“‘M gonna need you to keep it down,” he grunts quietly, neck flushed red as he bites down his own moan.
On cue, and as if to prove a point, a moan crawls up your throat. Clark’s hand flies up to slap over your face. Large palm over your mouth, your eyes wide at him. A whimper slides up your throat at the stern, scolding expression on his face.
“Honey, what did I just say?”
Your pussy clenches around him. His words are almost demeaning, but the gentleness with which they are delivered has you shivering and melting into his touch. “S-sorry,” you stutter pathetically, “I‘m sorry.”
“I know,” he whispers, “I know, but I need you to be quiet, okay. I don’t need my parents coming out and seeing us like this. They might make us marry on the spot.”
Heat spreads throughout every nerve in your body at his comment. It’s a joke, you know it is, but the idea of Clark claiming you as his with his cock buried inside you, painting you in bridal white inside out, has you tightening around him.
“Is that what you want?” Clark murmurs softly, his blue eyes twinkle with the kind of mischief that has your fingers tingling.
“No,” you scoff a little too quickly.
“Could put you in a dress. Marry you in this barn right now. Afterwards, I’ll take you outside against the walls while my family’s in here celebrating us. We’ll consummate our marriage.”
The image is painted so vividly in the back of your mind. You in a simple dress, hiked up, Clark fucking you into oblivion against the walls outside. Good god.
“I can feel her tightening around me, honey,” Clark chuckles. “She likes the idea.”
“Stop being silly,” you clear your throat, “you gonna fuck me properly or what?”
He mutters something about your mouth before fucking you in earnest once more. His thrusts are sloppy but no less powerful, his desire leaks through his stuttered hips, the uneven staccato of his breaths.
Pleasure builds and twists, coiling tight inside your stomach as Clark’s grip remains firm on you. Moans continue to pour from your lips like prayers to the god before you. He slides his hand up your throat again, squeezing gently, before bypassing it and covering your mouth once more.
“Gonna need you to keep quiet, okay. I love hearing your pretty moans but I can’t share that with anyone else. Can’t have my parents coming out here and seeing you like this. I can’t have them thinking you’re a filthy little minx, spreading your legs for me anytime, anywhere.”
Your eyes roll to the back of your head as another groan chases your tongue. His name is muffled behind his hand and you gasp for breath when Clark gives you some room to inhale.
“She feels so good around me. So tight. She’s been waiting for me all morning. Greedy thing, isn’t she? Fed her so much last night and she still wants more.”
“C-Clark, please. Shit. Oh fuck.”
“So good to me. I have so much to give her, she knows that, doesn’t she? That’s why you came looking for me. Wanted one more time even after last night. Maybe I’ll taste myself on you later.”
Jesus Christ. This man has a way of making you picture the most deliciously repulsive images in your mind. Him cumming inside you, his face between your legs, licking you clean until there’s no trace of him left. Maybe even coming back up and kissing you. The taste of him tangled in your tongues.
Clark’s hands tighten. His grunts shorten. His pleas desperate.
Before long, you’re coming apart in his hands, Clark tightens his hold around your jaw to muffle the sound of your cries as he spills inside you. He buries his own moans into your neck as he presses you deeper against the wooden beam. With how hard he fucked you, you’re surprised this barn is still standing. You had felt the pillar rattling behind you.
He huffs a breath before leaning backwards. His hand reaches up to brush away the sweat-dampened strands of your hair from your face. “Are you okay? Did I go too hard?”
Even after years of this arrangement, Clark is always so careful. You know he holds back his strength when he’s screwing your brains out. He could go a lot harder and sometimes you wonder what it would feel like for his patience to snap, for him to fuck you with no abandon.
You don’t think you’ll survive that.
But you also think you would deliriously enjoy that.
“What’re you thinking about?” Clark murmurs, “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” you swiftly say, “just— nothing.” Warmth floods your cheeks again. You’ve only just finished getting your brains turned to mush and here you are thinking about how much harder he could go.
“You’re thinking about something.”
“I’m thinking how we should really get our stories straight.”
Clark regards you thoughtfully, a contemplative expression carved into the creases on his forehead. Then he presses into you more, cock pushing back in. You can hear the squish of his cum inside you, an indecent little sound in the quiet of the morning.
“Okay, do you wanna talk now?”
“Clark,” you deadpan.
“What?”
Your cheeks are hot again. “Obviously not like this.”
“Alright, later then.”
Clark doesn’t look the least bit remorseful, lips stretched into a wide grin. He’s much too gleeful for a man who’s foiled your plans to be responsible again — with his dick.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Instead of spending the day puttering around the farm and watching Clark do manual labor in nothing but overalls (which isn’t necessarily the worst way to kill time), the Kents propose going to the fair that’s in town.
Clark insists that his parents could use his help while he’s around.
They insist that he should spend time with his fiancée.
The five of you pile into Clark’s truck; to avoid suspicion, you ride up front with him, throwing his parents a tight smile as you wave at them as the car treks down the dirt path. The three of them are bickering about something related to agriculture in the backseat while you — you find yourself once again distracted by Clark who looks far too good driving.
Sometimes, you think you need to get your brain rewired for being too easily stimulated by the sight of him. It’s like your brain is wired to tune into him, to every little detail from the way his eyes crinkle, how his lips pucker when he whistles, or that one vein along his arm that jumps every time he turns the wheel.
Your plan backfires when you stare at him a little too long, trying to think of how you could get the two of you to talk to get your stories aligned, and Clark ends up noticing how your eyes never stray too far from him. The corners of his lips tip up, pleased, then his free hand slides over your thigh once more.
It doesn’t do anything. It just stays there. A grounding presence.
The back of your neck warms and you blame it on the mid-morning sun.
The fair is nothing too crazy, you didn’t expect anything grand from a small town near Smallville. It’s more like a community event, with faces familiar to the Kents dotting the crowd. A small market lines the entry area, selling all sorts of trinkets and knick-knacks. Clark bumps your shoulder with his arm as you walk down the path.
“Don’t you like those things? You wanna take a look?”
You cock an eyebrow. “I do like them, how do you know that?”
“I see them all over your apartment,” he shrugs, “especially the flowery-looking ones.” You’ve started collecting miniature toys and figurines with flowers on them. Since you can’t seem to keep plants alive, your little addiction to buying the most useless pieces of paperweight is fulfilled by the replacement of real live decor.
“Oh. Yes, well, I have too many now so I don’t think I should even look at them. Otherwise, I’ll be tempted to buy.”
Beyond that, the fair opens up to game booths — your classic ring toss, darts, and shooting a water ducky — and attractions like pony riding, a petting zoo, and so on and so forth. It’s cute. It’s quaint. Nothing like what you see in the big cities. In fact, big cities have no carnivals like these. So maybe you’re a teensy bit excited.
“Wanna play?” Clark smiles at the obvious enthusiasm on your face.
Before you can answer, a shrill voice calls out to Clark. Well, it’s not really shrill, it actually sounds rather sweet — like the tinkling of bells — but you see the source of that sound and you feel an irritating itch in your chest.
“Willow! I haven’t seen you in a while.”
Oh, so he knows her. That ugly part inside of you wonders if he also has the same arrangement with her. But no, she seems nice. Like the girl next door. The kind of girl you marry — and not with a fake engagement.
They chat for a little bit and you’re on the sidelines watching them. Kara nudges you by your side. “We’re going to try the dunk tank. Jimmy has agreed to be dunked as long as we can aim. Wanna come?”
Your gaze flicks over to Clark for a second but find that he’s still eagerly chatting with this girl, so you put on your biggest smile and turn back to your best friend.
“Let’s do it.”
The four of you busy yourselves with the various games. Lois manages to dunk Jimmy four times. Jimmy then proceeds to win a free t-shirt to change into from the ring toss. Kara absolutely destroys Lois at basketball and you absolutely annihilate all of them at darts (pub nights are coming in handy after all).
You’re having a great time — a wonderful time — until you realize that Clark still hasn’t caught up. Every time you look over in search of him, he’s there helping a new person. First, it’s the old lady with her bags of groceries. Then it’s the little boy with his cat in the tree. Next, it’s the farmer who needs to unload his van of dozens of boxes.
And then it’s that girl — Willow, was it? — who is apparently a florist and is setting up the most beautiful little booth in the market.
It’s thoughtful, it’s kind. That’s who Clark is. But then you see him laughing and smiling and just being Clark and all you can feel is pissed. He’s here for you — all of you — so why is he busying himself with others? It’s incredibly selfish and guilt gnaws at your chest.
So you bite down that terrible feeling and instead focus on the others. You’re fine with this. It’s not as if you have anything with Clark, really. You’re friends who happen to fuck every summer. That’s all.
Maybe Clark is simply looking for something more long-term.
Your eyes wander to Lois. You’ve always thought that they would be a thing. Two incredibly smart people who work together, who have great chemistry. You know that Clark respects and adores her deeply, as evidenced by how much he talks about her. It seemed to be a matter of time.
Your anger doesn’t ease. Instead, you channel that rage into this shooting game. Clark has only just shown up, standing next to Kara with his gaze on you, a dopey smile in place.
You hit the target dead center again and again and again.
“That’s the first time today! You’ve got quite the skills, miss.” The guy at the booth says, both impressed and terrified. “You can pick any prize you want from the top.”
Clark whistles with his fingers and grins. “Good job, that was incredible.”
You hate yourself for immediately blooming with excitement at the compliment, especially when he’s left this group to tend to other people. How pathetic can you be?
The next words out of your mouth are not your best moment.
“Well, seeing as my fiancé is too busy to get me anything.”
You can see the moment your jab lands and the smile wipes off his face, replaced by a look of sheer surprise. You turn on your heel and make your way to the next game, teddy bear tucked safely in your arms.
It’s not that you’re immature. You’re not. You’re an adult. But it doesn’t mean that you can’t be a teensy bit petty.
Every time Clark tries to come close to you, you’re linking arms with Kara and traipsing off. When he calls your name, you pretend not to hear by cheering for Lois as she slams a hammer down on a strength-based game.
It’s an exhausting endeavor and you’re this close to giving up. Plus, the heat isn’t exactly letting up and you’re starting to feel a little woozy.
So when Clark approaches you again, you almost cave and lean on his broad frame for support.
“Hungry?” He asks carefully as his long legs finally catch up to you alone.
Your stubbornness nearly denies him once more but your stomach wins out when it growls. Loud.
Clark doesn’t tease you; he simply takes your hand and whisks you away to the little makeshift food court. He sits you down and begins going from stall to stall, collecting one dish after another until you’ve got a spread in front of you.
It’s all your favorite things — or similar ones that he thinks you’ll enjoy; he would be right.
You’re too busy stuffing your face to notice Clark wringing his fingers in front of you, fidgeting as he tries to get your attention.
“What?” You finally ask when you peer up after his nth time repositioning himself, shrinking so he would be in your line of sight.
“Can you tell me why you’re sulking?”
“I’m not sulking.”
He gives you a look.
“I’m not! I don’t care who you spend your time with.”
“Who?” Clark perks up, irises bright with curiosity.
Shit. You and your big mouth. Now you’ve gone ahead and given away too much, so you clamp your lips shut and shake your head. You shut down his every attempt to pry by focusing on eating instead.
He only seems to relent when he thinks he’s pushed hard enough, but, knowing Clark, he isn’t going to let the matter slide so easily.
You continue your day unscathed for the most part. You cling close to Kara who doesn’t seem to mind that you’re sticking to her instead of her brother. Of course, she shoots you questioning looks but the shake of your head prevents her from pushing.
You’re in the middle of cheering for Lois and Kara when a cloud of pink appears before you. You blink at it before you trace back the source of the dessert. Unsurprisingly, Clark stands at the other end of the cotton candy.
“You like this, don’t you?”
You mentioned once that you’ve always liked cotton candies. It’s all sugar, but that childish part in you relishes the way the fluffy treat melts on your tongue.
“I do, thank you,” you confirm, ripping apart a piece before popping it in your mouth. The strands dissolve into syrup on your tongue.
Clark looks at you expectantly, a tinge of anxiety in the slight fold of his brows. “Good?”
“Good,” you smile at him.
Perhaps you’ve been too hard on him today. He’s being a good neighbor and you’re giving him shit for talking to someone else.
The two of you aren’t exclusive. That’s the whole point of this arrangement. If he happened to find someone that he wants to actually date seriously, then you’d let him go.
Somehow, the thought makes your stomach churn.
“I got you something else.”
You look up at him and he digs around in his shirt pocket and pulls out a thin silver band. A crystal sits in the middle of it, sparkling no less brightly than a diamond. It’s simple, it’s sweet. It’s characteristically you.
“It’s nothing extravagant but you wear silver jewelry, right? I think this should fit.” Then Clark is taking your left hand and sliding the promise over your ring finger. The band sits perfectly snug. The crystal catches light and twinkles like it’s winking at you.
For all your pouting, Clark seems to know the perfect remedy.
“Just, you know, until the trip is over,” he adds nervously. “If that’s okay with you.”
You bring your hand up, watching as the ring glimmers underneath the afternoon sun. Your lips tip up in a small smile.
“Yeah, that’s okay with me.”
“And, if it’s any reassurance,” Clark adds, quieter, low enough that the others can’t hear — eyes trained solely on you, sharp and honest, “I only have eyes for you.”
Your heart beats against your ribs. Heat frames your face at the same time he smiles softly at you.
You don’t respond, but that’s answer enough.
The chill beneath your fingertips rouses you from sleep. When your eyes flutter open, Clark’s big, warm body is nowhere to be found. You remember falling asleep cuddled up to a living, breathing heater and now you’re shivering as you tug on an extra sweater. Your footsteps are quiet as you pad out into the hallway in search of him, navigating through the darkness until your eyes land on him, bathed in the moonlight on the bench outside.
Clark turns before the door even swings open. He must’ve heard you.
“You’re up early — or late,” he notes.
“So are you, what’re you doing awake?”
“Couldn’t really sleep, you?”
“Must’ve been all the cotton candy,” you say as you slide into the seat next to him.
The midnight air in Smallville is brisk, you’re beginning to regret not throwing on an extra layer. Clark senses your shivers and immediately scooches closer towards you, draping his flannel over your shoulders and tucking you in close. The draw of his warmth is too tempting to resist and you end up nuzzling into his shoulder.
“Could’ve stayed inside,” you flag quietly.
“The fresh air helps me think. Plus, it’s nice to take advantage of this away from Metropolis. Breathing in fumes doesn’t seem conducive to my health.”
“Good thing your only weakness is extinct,” you tease, bumping shoulders gently.
Clark smiles at you, soft and knowing. “It’s not my only weakness.”
You raise an eyebrow but he doesn’t elaborate, so you don’t press. Instead, you ask him what’s plaguing his mind.
“My parents,” he begins, “I worry about them. They’re getting older, things with the farm aren’t easy and we’re not in a position to hire any extra hands.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m thinking if I should move back.”
Your heart plummets, all amusement evaporating. You don’t know why you’re so disappointed by the thought. Although you don’t live in Metropolis, although you don’t see Clark very often, you’re only a city away, and even then, he still feels light-years away. “Move back?”
“Here to Smallville. I’m not sure yet.”
Your throat is tight when you attempt a joke, “What? And leave your fiancée behind?”
Clark’s lips curl. “Never. I’ll take you with me.”
Oh. Your chest warms. “What makes you think I’d go with you?”
“I’d just have to convince you,” he whispers, tilting his head to press his forehead against yours. His next words are soft, but they have your heart pressing against your ribcage. “And I can be very persuasive.”
A giggle falls from your lips. Clark shrinks himself, bending himself at a slightly odd angle to accommodate your height as you lean your head on his shoulder. The quiet moon is company you don’t want to humor tonight and Clark seems to agree when he rises to his feet and offers his hand.
The two of you drift back into his bedroom. Light still spills across his hardwood floors that whine below his heavy footfalls. But Clark shields you from the stark brightness, engulfing you in a comfortable night against his chest.
When you tip your face up, he’s already looking down at you. For a moment, he only searches your eyes. Looking for something you’re not sure you can provide.
However, he seems to find whatever it is he wanted when he leans down and slides his mouth over yours.
The kiss is soft. Slow. None of the usual heat and messiness that leads to hours of tangled legs and sweaty limbs. This one is patient, it’s kind. Clark tastes like tea and sugar, the kind of concoction that lulls you slowly back to sleep.
Before your consciousness slips away again, Clark murmurs a promise of sweet dreams.
You think you may already have that.
This farmlife experience is much more taxing than you expect. Hours of Harvest Moon on your old game consoles do nothing to prepare you for the ache between your fingers and the soreness of your shoulders. However, you suck it up and keep going because there’s no greater sight than Clark who delights in showing you the ropes.
You’ve fought off chickens all morning to feed them and take their eggs for breakfast. You’ve milked cows, delicate fingers wrapped around the hefty udders until you fill a whole pail. You’re grooming the horses and trying not to get your hair chewed out.
Again, it’s all worth it when you see Clark beam at you like the morning sun.
His eyes also keep wandering to your finger where he has already pointed out — “You’re wearing the ring.”
You blame the fever on your neck on the sun that’s barely risen. “I thought it would be best to wear it so your parents don’t get suspicious.”
The two of you do end up talking, agreeing on points in time that align for your supposed romantic development. It isn’t a hard task, not when you actually do remember those moments when you felt your strongest attraction towards Clark. The first time you slept together was redesigned as your first date. The arrangement of your… arrangement was reconfigured into a conversation about official labels.
Clark is close to your side, arms brushing as the two of you make your way back to the house. The basket of eggs hangs from Clark’s hand as his other one shifts to the small of your back — it hovers, present, but doesn’t touch.
He’s telling you a story from his days of youth and you’re throwing your head back in laughter. The emotions come easy here — honest in the early hours of dawn when it’s only you and him.
When you arrive at the house, you two spot Lois already nursing a steaming coffee mug in her hands. Her eyes dart between the two of you carefully, curious — almost calculating. Her lips quirk upwards at the sight and you’re almost shy by her response.
Unfortunately, Clark’s reaction has you stiffening. He clears his throat and takes a step out to the side. Away from you. Distance. You try not to let your hurt show but it feels as if there’s a giant stone sitting in the pit of your stomach that’s weighing you down, slowing your steps.
“What’s going on?” Clark asks, brows puckered.
It’s your turn to regard the two of them. Clark has always been comfortable with Lois. Kara’s teased him before for having a crush on her; perhaps that feeling still lingers. Worse yet, perhaps those feelings have only strengthened.
Once again, you reckon with the fact that Clark Kent is not yours. You have no right to be jealous, to feel possessive over a man who doesn’t belong to you. You were the one who put your foot down and swore off any actual romantic relationships, and Clark was never an exception.
If Clark wanted Lois — and if, by some luck, Lois wanted Clark back, who were you to stand in the way of true love?
So you force a smile and shake your head. “Nothing. I’m going to get cleaned up. I’ll see you later.”
“Wait—”
But you’re already turning on your heel and heading back inside the house.
+ sam: tumblr hit me with the block limit for the full fic so i figured this is a good separation point while i edit the second half!! happy ending i promise <33
"Clark, you hate me now?" You ask, stiffling a giggle as you walk a couple of steps behind him with your phone out and recording.
"Huh?" Clark asks in front of you, not stopping. His hands are full with bags.
You went for a little shopping spree, and ended up buying more shit than necessary. And Clark as always refuses to let you even lift a finger.
"Why aren't you holding my hand?" A small giggle escapes you as you see him manhandle all of the bags into one hand immediately. It looks very uncomfortable, but he doesn't seem too fazed by it.
He wiggles the now empty hand for you, and this time you laugh loudly as you reach out for it. "Sorry, sweetheart."
Clark says apologetically and you giggle even more. Why is your boyfriend so unbelievably sweet? Carrying all the bags for you AND apologising for not holding your hand? Yeah, you are a goner for this man.
"What's so funny?" Clark finally questions, the corners of his mouth up, too. "Are you recording?"
"Yes." You chuckle. And oh god, your friends are going to love this video. They were the ones that suggested that you should try this trend on your kind-hearted boyfriend.
"Okay." He just says, dropping a kiss to your forehead as you walk to his car. Your heels click against the pavement, you regretted wearing these kitten heels to go shopping an hour ago.
"Do your feet hurt badly, doll?" Clark asks, when he hears a soft wince from you. You never hit the stop button so the video keeps going.
"It's okay, we are almost at the c-"
You don't even get to finish your reply, when his muscled arm sneaks round your body and lifts you up.
You squeel and then laugh. You just fall in love with him even more when he does things like this. Your sweet, sweet boyfriend.
His hands are more than full now with all of the bags in one hand and you in the other, but his face screams happiness when he looks at you. Reflecting the feelings in yours.
-
Clark doesn't even ask about the video. Not until he comes to the Daily Planet and has the whole floor swooning at him, he learns about the little viral video you made.
You are in charge of sending Joel and Tess a radio transmission every week, letting them know they can come to the city for their delivery of pills. After nearly two weeks without a message, Joel decides he is done waiting. He is going to find you.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, no prep, a quickie?, softdom!Joel, QZ!Joel but add some fluff, imagine your favorite Joel, reader has no physical description (she's just sweet), english is not my first language, not really proofread. i mixed stuff from the game, the show, and made up things.
word count: 5.5k
a/n: so... i haven't been able to think about anything but QZ!Joel for the last month. he has to be manifesting me. pictures are from pinterest. dividers are by @/saradika-graphics
It has been two weeks since Joel last heard from you.
Exactly fourteen days since he'd gone to the radio tower and gotten the note with your coded message. The one your group is obligated to send every Tuesday at midnight, on the dot, to let them know there is no issue picking up that weeks package. Since you've been working together, you've never missed a transmission. That was until last week.
He's antsy, knowing he must wait until tomorrow morning to know if there was any message left tonight. He tries to wash away the worry with his trusted liquor. The dark liquid swirls around in his scratched up glass, as he turns it around on the table, placed in between his thumb and his middle finger.
The worry eats at him. Your group receives the drugs coming from Atlanta and stores them until him and Tess can arrive. It's what they bet their livelihood on. No matter how many shifts he takes around the QZ, nothing pays as much as the deals they make for those pills. If they don't receive this package, they won't have enough ration cards for what they plan to do.
Tess watches Joel from the kitchen, swirling her own glass around, but keeping his eyes on him. "I'm sure they're fine out there," she says. For Joel's nerves, but also her own. Then, she rounds the kitchen counter, and walks up to the small round table where he sits, taking a seat across from him.
"Hey," Tess says again, forcing Joel's gaze to meet hers, "Stop your worrying. They probably just got issues with the radio. I'm sure that we'll get the message tonight. We can pick up the package tomorrow."
Joel takes a deep breath and nods, aware that worrying does nothing for them right now.
"I'll go to the radio tower first thing tomorrow," she says. Tess drowns the rest of her drink in one big gulp, thinking it's the end of it.
"It was a big delivery, Tess," Joel says, just as she was about to stand up. He shakes his head, leaning forward on the wooden table, and pressing his hands against his temples. "Biggest one we've gotten in fuck knows how long. Coulda' gotten us through months." He stands up then, too stressed to sit for any longer. Knowing he should've gone out there the minute the message was late.
"Will," Tess corrects. "We will go get the package tomorrow. If there is no message tonight, we go see what's up." She pauses, seeing if she's getting through to him. If she is able to get him out of his head. "Yeah?"
Joel shakes his head again, not even considering her solution now. "No. I say we go now. We see what is goin' on out there, and we get back here before curfew. 'S been long enough, Tess. If there was an issue with their radio they woulda' fixed it by now."
She sighs.
Tess is not oblivious to how important this deal is, how much they need these extra ration cards right now, and how bad it would be for them if your team ceased to exit, be by FEDRA or infected. There is too much on the table for them to just sit and wait. So despite how much she wishes she could tell Joel he's overreacting, she, too, has a bad feeling about all of this.
"Okay," she says, walking over to her pack on the table. "Let's go."
The journey out of the QZ is slightly shorter than before.
Ever since the deliveries became more frequent, with the deal with your group and the deal with those coming from the QZ in Atlanta, Joel and Tess have had to find more secure passage ways. Shortcuts where they surely won't bump into any guards or other smugglers as they bring the merchandise back. The underground tunnels are safe for that, though they are way harder on their noses.
Joel pushes open the wooden plank at the tunnel's exit, letting Tess crawl out first. Once she's out, she holds it up with both hands, for Joel to climb out of the hole, too.
"Fuck, that's dusty," she says, just before letting the plank drop with a loud thunk. Tess wipes her hands on her denim jeans with a scowl on her face.
Joel walks ahead of her, passing the diner's counter and tables, to the exit where he can see all the growth of an abandoned city.
The sun shines brightly above them, illuminating all of the green around them. It would be pretty, if it wasn't the apocalypse what had caused all of this nature to thrive again. The cement that used to cover it, is now forgotten beneath dirty ponds and tall patches of grass.
Tess walks past him, leading the way to where the outcasts live.
Those who for some reason refused to live under FEDRA's protection, or those who have already had issues with it, are balled up together in the city. Often having to fight with scavengers and infected without any walls protecting them like in the QZ.
They make their way through crumbling buildings, and dark alleyways, until they finally reach the building where the back door leads straight to the city's unblocked streets.
They are greeted by some men talking in hushed voices against the walls. The guys pause their conversation for a second, wearily eyeing Joel and Tess up and down, before continuing like normal. Tess nods at them as only a polite form of acknowledgement, and thankfully, they nod back.
Joel feels uneasy in these tight streets. He knows that even in the QZ, there is no government keeping you safe. That it's a dog eats dog kind of world now, but at least in the QZ there are officers around pretending they keep order. Somehow, that still makes him feel like it's a little safer. Like someone would speak up if something unjust were to happen.
They walk past ripped tents where some sleep, stores made up of wood and metal sheets, sketchy people waving them over for no good reasons. Finally, at the end of the street, a man in baggy clothes and a dark hoodie jerks his head to follow him.
Joel and Tess's eyes meet, silently asking each other if they should, and in a split second, they agree to move forward.
"I hope we made the right call coming here," Tess says, her voice teasing.
"Mm, 'n I hope you were right about everythin' being fine out here," he says.
Toward the end of the alley, they see a tall, red brick building looming up ahead. Both of them slow their steps, a little skeptical about entering a closed space with a man they've never met.
"Hey, you," Tess calls.
The guy stops and looks back.
"We wanna talk with Scott. Are you one of his?"
Looking at him straight on, the guy doesn't seem like much of a threat. He looks more frail then they initially thought, and as he tilts his head up, and shows his face, they notice he's just a kid. A kid following someone's instructions, while having no clue what or who they're messing with.
"H-he sent me…?" The blue eyed boy says. "He said—" He swallows hard. "To give you the package and take…the ammo."
Joel scoffs. "'N why would he send you? What's he hidin' from?"
"Fireflies," he says. Joel and Tess immediately glance at each other, and the kid starts to panic. "Wait! They're not here! They came in a few weeks ago for guns and bullets. Scott gave them some, but he-he thinks they'll keep coming back. He says he wants nothing to do with FEDRA or the Fireflies. Not anymore."
"So he's not even in the city." Joel says, not needing extra confirmation.
Tess sighs loudly beside Joel, and makes eye contact with the kid. "Alright, show it to me."
The whole thing is suspicious, and not at all how they like to go about their deals, but they have no choice but to follow this random person to get their delivery. At this point, it seems that if they don't agree, they will be going back to the QZ empty handed.
They are led inside the building, which appears to be an old warehouse. Inside the corner office, the boy lifts up a dusty piece of cloth to reveal a simple cardboard box.
"See?" The guy says. "It's all here. We haven't touched any of it."
Tess glances at Joel, and then decides to take a look at it herself. She crouches in front of the box, and takes a sharp shiv out of her belt. She slices the thick duck tape sealing the box, before forcing it open to look inside. There are six columns of packets wrapped in newspaper, neatly organized inside the box. The fit perfectly together, leaving no room unused.
Tess scoffs, a genuine smile tugging at her lips as she gives everyone else her back.
She takes the shiv in her hand and cuts a straight line in one of the packets. Then, she digs her fingers in it to open the hole up. "Let's see if you're telling the truth," she says.
Joel steps forward and looks over her, at the tiny white pills that fill up the packet.
As soon as Tess knows Joel has seen them, too, she lets go of the packet for it to close on it's own, and quickly pushes the box's cardboard flaps back in place. Covering the merchandise from the kid.
"It's all there right?" They boy asks, nervously snapping his eyes between Tess and Joel. "They told me it was all there. I-I swear. I don't know—"
"Relax, kid. It is there," Tess says, making the boy let out a big sigh of relief. She picks up the box and places it between her arm and her hip, as she faces him again. "I still need you to take me to Scott though. I can't give the payment to some random kid."
The boy wrings his hands at his front, shaking his head already.
"You either tell them I'm waiting… or we leave with their payment. We've gotta be back in the QZ before curfew," Tess says.
Joel steps forward, not wanting any issues, but Tess lifts her hand to signal that she is handling it. So Joel stays quiet.
"What's it gonna be?"
In the end, the kid agrees to go look for Scott, or anybody close to him that Tess and Joel knows. He runs out of the building, holding onto his hoodie as it doesn't fall off his head. As soon as the boy is gone, Tess looks over at Joel, finding him pacing in circles, and looking out of the windows. Staring at the other worn down buildings.
When his eyes meets hers, Tess jerks her chin toward the entrance.
Joel shakes his head right away. "No, I'm stayin' here," he says, continuing to pace around.
She chuckles, readjusting the box over her hipbone. "I've got it covered, Joel. Just get out of here."
He stops, looking at her for confirmation. He knows he should wait for whoever is coming to arrive, for Tess's safety and the pills', but the pit in his stomach won't let him give up on his worry. He needs to see it for himself to believe it. To be able to go back to the QZ, and sleep tonight.
"You sure you don't need me here?" He says.
"I'm sure. Go do what you've gotta do," she says.
Joel stays rooted in his spot for a moment, not wanting to leave Tess to finish the deal on her own. She gives him one last reassuring look, letting him know she really has it covered. Joel nods, and walks out of the building toward the main street.
As he gets further along, his pace quickens, turning into a light jog as he passes all of the vendors and men on the sides of the street. Finally, he reaches the tiny, white rabbit painted at the bottom of a wall, right before having to turn into the alley, and he knows he's going the right direction.
Further down, he takes a left, down another alley that takes him to a larger street, this one lonelier than the others. He glances at his left, where the end of a cloud of smoke fills the sky, coming from where he knows they burn the infected bodies, before he starts jogging to his right, going down two blocks before another white rabbit appears. This one is right under the corner store's broken window. The rabbit there is not painted at its side. Instead, its painted straight forward, sat on his haunches with his legs at his front.
Joel rounds the corner and looks up at the metal staircases on the side of both buildings at each side, going up to the rooftops. He takes the wooden stick hidden behind the big dumpsters, and approaches the building next to the corner store's. The stick hooks over the staircase's last step, and he pulls it down until it won't go further down. The stick is put back in his hiding spot, before he climbs up.
He moves quicker after that. He's so close, and he can't wait any longer.
At the second to last floor, he reaches inside the shattered window to find the thick cloth. Then, he puts the cloth over the ragged, glass edges at the bottom, and carefully climbs inside without hurting himself. He makes sure to leave the cloth back inside before continuing on his way.
Walking down the hall, Joel cringes at how his boots make the wooden floors creak. He stops right in front of apartment 407 and lightly knocks. After a minute of no response, he knocks again. This time to the beat of 'Rudolph The Red Nose Reindeer'.
The sunlight seeps through the small window in your apartment, lighting up your entire studio apartment with the perfect amount of light.
You lay on your stomach as you read in your twin bed. An old sci-fi novel you and your friend managed to find in one of the abandoned apartments in the building, while you were meant to be scavenging for clothes. You flip the page, and flip yourself to lie on your back, holding the heavy book up in the air.
That's when you hear a faint knock.
You sit up and clutch the book to your chest. You are not expecting anyone today, so you fail to think of who could be coming unannounced, on a day like today, where you have nothing to do. You glance over at your closet, remembering if your gun has any bullets in it, but then the knock comes back, in that tune that makes you smile.
Joel is here.
You swing your legs over to the edge, and drop the book on the bed. In no time, you have rushed over to the door. You slide the two metal locks at the top, the one at the bottom, and then turn the one at the doorknob. When you finally pull it open, you reveal yourself to him. Standing there in your soft pajamas, and sporting the bright smile he knows you by.
"Joel," you giggle. The surprise visit makes you feel all giddy, despite his face showing no signs of the same excitement.
He steps inside and grabs onto your shoulders as he forces you further into your apartment. His foot reaches the back of the door, and he pushes it behind him until it slams shut. His voice is rough, with no sweetness found in it. "Where have you been, huh? No message from you in two weeks. What were you thinkin'?"
You immediately don't like how he's speaking to you. You furrow your brows and pout as you stare at him, choosing not to speak until he fixes his attitude. The fight drains out of him as soon as he sees your plush lip jutting out.
"Baby," he sighs, pulling you close to his chest. His hands find their place beneath the fabric of your shirt, touching your bare skin, and he breathes you in. He presses his nose to your hair, drowning in the smell of your bed hair. He can finally stop worrying. His arms snake around you, completely enveloping you now, and he shakes you a little brusquely. "You were supposed to send me a message." He pulls back just enough to look at you, noticing how quickly your pout turned into a grin.
"They told me not to send anything," you say.
"I know, but—" Joel lets go of you to close the door first. You straighten up your pajamas as he has his back towards you, as he secures every lock again. Then he turns back to you, and pulls you in just like before, bunching up your sleep shirt again. "We have our own deal, don't we? You let me know if you're alright. Every Tuesday, no exceptions." He lowers his voice to a low murmur then. "If the fireflies came, I wouldn't have known. Do you get that? I wouldn't have been here with you."
You take advantage of him being so close, and give his lips a soft peck. "But they didn't come," you say. And wriggle out of his hold, to step away from the door. You jump back on the bed then. Giddily waiting for him there, kneeling on the thin sheets.
His fists tighten at his sides, and he forces them open to wipe the sweat on his jeans. He is both incredibly relived that your safe, and angry that you don't seem to share his preoccupation. Joel doesn't want you to be afraid, but he wants you to atleast acknowledge the seriousness of the situation.
When you kiss him like you do, smile at him like you do, and wait for him on the bed like that. Looking like a fantasy he keeps believing is just that—a beautiful lie—he can't be angry when all he wants is to get lost in you.
Slowly, he steps forward into your space, stopping at the foot of the bed. "You're bein' careful, right?" He says. "Just like I taught ya'?"
"Mhm," you nod. You point at your beside table, "I keep a knife in my drawer," and then at your closet across from the bed, "and a gun in my closet."
"Good," he says. "That's real good, baby. Show me the gun."
You quickly get off of the bed, and walk towards your closet. You open both doors, and then crouch down to pull open the shoe cabinet at the bottom. Joel takes a seat on the bed while you do so.
When you stand up, you walk over to Joel with a cardboard box in hand. You set it between both of you as you sit next to him. "Here it is," you say, showing him the small revolver he gifted you, with all of the bullets scattered around in the box. "Oh. I forgot to put the bullets in," you pout, and look up to see him shaking his head in disapproval.
Joel takes the revolver, and helps you by slowly putting each bullet in its place. "This has to be loaded, baby girl. You know how to use it now, so no problem keepin' the bullets inside. It will save you time. You understand?"
You nod quickly, watching his fingers move quickly as every bullets plops into place, and biting your lip absentmindedly.
When he's done, he doesn't put the gun back in the box. He gets up and puts it in your bedside drawer. "Closet's too far away." When he returns, he stops in front in, looking down at you sitting on the bed. "I should get goin' now," he says as he cups your cheek, feeling you melt into his gentle touch. "Don't leave me hangin' next week, ya' hear?"
You let out a quiet whine, and place both hands on his belly, gripping the fabric of his shirt. "Are you really leaving so soon? I haven't seen you in two weeks." You gently pull him to you, scooting back on the bed as you try to get him on it. "Don't go yet," you plead with doe eyes.
"I have to," he says, keeping himself grounded in place as you continue to grasp at him. "Tess's waitin' for me."
"But I missed you," you breathe.
"I missed you, too," he confesses, still caressing your burning cheek. He loves how warm your skin gets when you start to get aroused. "More than you know," he says. He doesn't budge as you try to pull him down. Joel stands like a firm wall before you, unfazed by your pleading eyes or your desperate tugs.
"I haven't touched myself. Like you told me to," you whisper. The corner of his mouth twitches, but you don't catch it.
"Yeah? You've been good?"
His hands move to your ribs, pulling you up and off the bed. You follow without questions, standing on wobbly legs, but trusting that Joel won't let you fall. He easily turns you around, so he's the one to sit on the bed. With his thighs spread. He lets go of your body to lean back on his hands.
You shift your weight back and forth, from one foot to the other, rubbing your thighs together as you stand before him. The anticipation makes you nervous, but it is also what excites you the most. No knowing what he has planned for you.
"C'mere," he says, moving his chin down.
You immediately step forward, taking your spot right in between his spread thighs. His hands find your hips right away, and they brush upward until he hits the hem of your shirt. Then he very gently takes the fabric with him as his hands brush the sides of your waist, the sides of your chest. "Lift yer arms for me," Joel says, before pushing it up, up, up, and off of your body.
He's seen you like this so many times by now, that you shouldn't feel nervous about him seeing you naked. But the way his eyes linger on your chest, and how he quickly yanks you closer, makes you shiver with nerves anyway. Without asking, he starts pushing your pants down, taking your underwear with them. When the fabric hits the floor, you step out of it, and push it out of the way with one foot. You're always so obedient and eager when it comes to him.
When his hands find your waist again, he lets them wander at your sides, your back, until he grips your ass and pulls you flush to his chest. He kisses his neck while he kneads your skin, pressing open mouthed kisses along your side, and on your clavicle.
You whimper and tilt your head to give him more room, to let him devour every inch of your neck. You have never minded the beard scratches that he leaves behind. You only miss them when they start to fade away, and you know you still have to wait until he visits again.
"You're gonna ride my cock," he groans against your ear. "And you're gonna make me cum 'fore I gotta leave, 'kay?"
You eagerly nod, already breathless and blushing.
He works his jeans open and slides them down his thighs, letting himself spring free. The sight never fails to make you drool. It is even worse after all this time, because you know how good it tastes. He wraps his fingers around his shaft, and slowly pumps himself two times, dragging his thumb over his tip to spread his precum around.
Before Joel even says anything, you climb onto his lap, placing each thigh on either side of his. Your hand reaches in between your bodies, to touch yourself as he continues to work himself quietly. You dip your fingers in between your folds, and gather all the wetness that's dripping from your core. Then you wrap your hand around Joel, coating him with your slick, and mixing it with his.
He groans and squeezes his eyes shut, having waited so long to get you again, but he remains as still as he can manage, leaning back on his hands and letting you do all of the work.
The moment you sink down on him, it burns you a little. The stretch is a lot for you to take, and you'd never actually had to be quick. He has always worked you open with his fingers, or his tongue.
You ride him slowly, trying to get adjusted to the length and girth of him, but it's on the verge of being too much. Your thighs shake uncontrollably at his sides, and you can barely lift yourself up after sinking down. "It's—ah—really hard," you say, half moaning, half whimpering.
Joel hand lands on your ass cheek with a loud smack, before squeezing it roughly. "You can take it. Can't ya'?"
You whimper with tears at the corner of your eyes, waiting to spill. "I can!" you cry, tilting your head back as you try to set a quicker pace. You sporadically clench around him, letting him know how hard your body is attempting to adjust.
Going up and down, you believe you're setting a better pace. It begins to feel good for you now, and you let out a lewd moan up at the ceiling, letting your eyes roll back. Until Joel smacks your butt cheeks again, this time using both hands and squeezing them as the sting settles in. "You gonna make me cum or not? I ain't got all day."
The way he's able to mask how good you're making him feel is impressive. He only breathes hard, keeping his jaw locked tight when he's not speaking, and stares at you like whatever you're attempting to do is merely a tease for him.
You really, really want to make him feel as good as he makes you feel. You grab onto his shoulders and hide your face in the crook of his neck, putting your everything into the way your hips move. You bounce on his cock like you never have before, moaning against his neck because you're unable to hold back like he is. "F-f-fuck," you gasp in his skin, feeling your thighs slip further apart as you fuck yourself on him.
He maintains his arms behind him as he leans back, not helping one bit as you teeter the edge of falling apart. Only enjoying as you take him with you. What you don't see, is how his lips have now parted, and his eyes are rolled back now that he knows you won't see. He feels his abdomen tense up and let loose with every bounce you do, and he feels his balls drawing tighter and tighter. He won't last much longer.
"'S that all you got," he grunts through gritted teeth, barely able to mask how close he is. "C'mon, baby. Know you can do—hnghh— better than that."
That little slip in his tone, gives you the motivation that you need. Despite the burn in your quads and hamstrings, you fix your position to continue moving up and down his shaft. The slight adjustments makes him hit even deeper, and makes you arch your back in a silent cry.
You inhale sharply then. "I'm—gonna cum," you gasp. The fuzzy feeling in your core just grows and grows, getting hotter and stronger. As much as you try to hold back—controlling your breaths and focusing on something else—once you start to cum, it feels too good to stop it. You let the sensation take over your body and spread out from your core, hitting the top of your head, to the tips of your toes.
Joel feels it as soon as it happens. He feels how you flutter around him in strong pulses, and the hot gush that starts dripping out of you when you lift your hips up. He lets go while you're still cumming, letting himself moan while he thinks you won't notice.
You're body feels weak when you come down. You don't want to put your body weight on Joel, so you try to lean a little bit back. Joel catches you before you nearly fall backwards off his lap.
"Careful," he pants, all sweaty and red like you. "You did so good for me." He brushes the sweat damped hair off of your forehead and your neck, knowing you need to cool off. "Made me feel so good." He pulls you in then, to have your body slump on top of his. Your head falls onto his shoulder, not letting him see the tired smile spreading across your face.
Despite how tired you two were, you could not let yourselves fall asleep. As soon as you had caught your breaths, you'd gotten up and gotten dressed.
He stands before you while you sit on the bed. "I'll be able to get you yer' ID next month. I just need a few more ration cards to pay it off," he says while fixing his belt.
You give a small smile, looking down at your lap as you twist your fingers on it. "You really think it'll work? I've heard they're getting more strict with it, Joel. I don't want you to get in any trouble because of me."
The last thing you want is for this to somehow fall back on Joel. That he'll be targeted for smuggling you into the QZ. Or worse, accused of having a part in what your old group had done. The dream of living with him is always present and strong, but if the consequence of asking for too much is losing him forever, than you'd rather have things remain as they are.
"Maybe we should wait a little longer for things to cool down," you say.
"Baby," Joel says, taking a seat next to you. "FEDRA could come 'ere any day now. You think they don't know everythin' that goes down in the city? They won't leave this place untouched for long. I gotta get you outta here."
You are deeply afraid of that possibility, too. Nowadays, there is no place where danger and injustice won't find you.
You nod quickly, getting yourself together and realizing you should continue to trust Joel's judgment. "I know, I know," you say. "This can't be my home forever."
Joel doesn't say anything right away, which doesn't help ease your nerves. Both of you stay quiet for a while and only listen to the sounds of each others deep breaths. There is no easy way out of this predicament, or a simple solution he can offer to make you feel better. He can only tell you the ugly truth, so for now, it feels better to stay quiet.
You scoot closer to him, and let your head rest on his chest. His arms quickly wrap around you to pull you close. It is easy to find some level of comfort when you are together, that's why it's harder to accept that it cannot be forever.
"I promised to get you out of here," he says.
You remember the first time he made that promise, but you never held onto it too hard. Not because you don't believe in Joel, but because you know how ruthless your world can be. You shake your head against his shoulder and start to pull back. "You don't have to—"
"We could go somewhere else," he murmurs, and your eyes widen immediately. "Maybe Atlanta, maybe further west."
You lift your head up to find his eyes. While yours are wide with shock and fear, his are calm and decided. "W-what would we do? I mean, do you think that we could find a QZ that would let us in? What if they know about me?"
"Maybe we don't go to a QZ," he says, like he's genuinely considering it. "There's gotta be somewhere without any soldiers."
You swallow hard.
"I—I can't promise anythin' better than this," Joel says as he looks into your fearful eyes. "I can try to get you inside the QZ, give you a new identity, but things aren't that much better in there, baby girl. Not like you think. If we go—if you decide to leave with me, I could try to get us everythin' we need. A better gun for you, ammo, clothes, food… a car."
Aside from the fear and the uncertainty, the thought of him willing to head into the unknown with you warms up your heart. It is the only confirmation you need to know what he feels for you.
thank you for reading <3 i had a lot of fun writing this hehe
Summary: Joel is your neighbor in the trailer park with a dirty mouth who gives you orgasms.
Pairing: Perv!Joel Miller x Fem!Reader
Content warnings: modern no outbreak AU where Joel is not a dad, one Sons of Anarchy reference, one mention of Joel’s gut, sleazeball!Joel, ribbed condom joke, oral sex (F receiving), a few spanks, protected P-in-V, tit/nipple play, biting, dirty talk, Joel refers to himself as "Daddy" once (it surprised me but my heart told me to write it), aftercare
Word count: 2,577
Read on ao3 here | Pervy!Trailer Park!Joel Masterlist
Author's note: this is my post for celebrating 200 followers on here!!! yay!!! thank you everyone so so so so much!!! I want to kiss everyone!!!! I was lowk pulling for everyone to choose the Acacius story for this celebration post, but as I finished this one up, I started to like it more, so thank you to everyone who voted for perv!trailer park!Joel <3 it was very fun to write this Joel; I was only a little freaked out by purposely mischaracterizing him! anyways, thank you again to everyone who reads my works, everyone who likes, comments, and reblogs!!! I didn't realize how amazing reblogging is until I started posting on this account! (reblog your favorite stories!!!) okay I'm done rambling, so please enjoy pervy!trailer park!Joel <3
You moved into the trailer park about a year ago. You wanted to live below your means to save up for a house. Blue Moon Trailer Park mostly houses divorced guys, you realized. There are a few families, a few other single people.
Then, there’s Joel, your next-door neighbor. He’s single, never been married, doesn’t have kids, and in his late forties. He works in construction, and for fun, he ogles your ass and your cleavage.
The day you moved in, he was sitting on his porch, wearing just his green plaid boxers, a beer bottle in one hand, a joint in the other. As you started unloading your car, he went inside his trailer, put on some jeans and a plaid shirt that he didn’t bother buttoning, then met you at the trunk of your car.
“Need some help, darlin’?” he asked, wearing a toothy grin.
You didn’t respond at first. You tilted your head to the side in slight confusion.
He held his hand out and introduced himself. “Name’s Joel Miller. Noticed ya ain’t got anyone to help ya bring in all o’ your things. Just thought I’d offer.”
In all honesty, you were immediately attracted to him. Maybe you watched too much Sons of Anarchy, but there was something about a nasty, slimy guy that always did it for you.
A guy who carried himself with confidence, unapologetic for his less than (typically) desirable habits. This guy was sitting half-naked on his porch with a drink and a joint in his hand when you rolled up twenty minutes ago. Now, he had put a shirt on, sure, but he hadn’t even bothered to button it, his slight gut sticking out. Joel fits the bill for nasty and slimy perfectly.
You shook his hand and gave him your name. You let him help you bring your things in. When he picked up especially heavy boxes and grunted in exertion, you felt your panties grow slicker.
He must’ve fucking smelled it on you or something, because by the time the two of you finished, he was suggesting he help you christen your new bedroom.
//
After living in the trailer park for a while, you recently got a second job waiting tables on weekend nights just to keep busy.
Apparently, Joel hasn’t been taking it very well.
The text on your phone comes in just as you’ve plopped onto your bed, still in your waitress uniform.
-Horny. R u up?
Is he serious? Did he seriously text you this at 3:00 in the morning, ten hours after you told him you’d be working until 2:00? Seriously?
Are you seriously putting your shoes back on and already crossing the eight feet of grass between your and Joel’s trailers?
…Yes.
You walk right in. Joel never locks his trailer when he’s in it, said he doesn’t see a point, and left it at that.
You’re greeted with the sight of Joel sitting on his couch, clad in his unzipped jeans and an unbuttoned denim shirt, with his cock in his hand.
“Thank the Lord,” he mumbles. “Get your pretty ass over here.”
You roll your eyes as you lock Joel’s front door, kicking your shoes off as you cross the living room.
“3:00 AM? Seriously, Joel?” you grumble. You stand in between his legs, undoing your jeans.
“Not like I forced you to come over here. Just asked if you were still up,” he points out, already slightly breathless as he lazily jerks himself off.
To the right of him, you spot old Playboy magazines.
You open your mouth again, but before you can give a speech about how offensive you find those magazines, Joel nods, saying, “Yes, seriously. Now c’mere. Need that sweet pussy real bad, baby.”
You push Joel into a lying down position, then shuck your jeans off, along with your panties, and kick off your shoes. He grabs the backs of your thighs and pulls you to the couch. You hover over his face, straddling his chest. He doesn’t waste time; he dives right in, pulling deep moans and groans from your mouth with ease.
He licks stripes up and down your slit until your thighs tighten around his head, a silent signal that he needs to get it together and actually eat.
Joel switches from long licks to concentrated swirls around your clit. You and Joel never really cared for drawing it out. The longest you’ve ever spent with Joel was an hour and a half, and that was only because he popped a viagra.
He feels your clit pulsate against his tongue, and that’s when he pushes you off him. You stumble back on his body while he sits up, his hands palming your bare ass.
“You worked a night shift at the diner, then came to my place to fuck,” he murmurs, his breath hot on your face, smelling of cheap whiskey and Marlboro Reds.
“So?” you groan.
“So... Someone likes me,” he teases as he pulls your shirt over your head, revealing the lace of your bra.
“Asshole,” you mutter as you roll your hips against his crotch.
“You’re not denyin’ it,” he hums in your ear, his hands still rubbing your cheeks.
“You got a condom or what?” you snap.
Joel shuts his mouth, purses his lips into a thin line, then nods. He reaches into his back pocket and holds up a single condom.
“Look,” he chuckles, waving the wrapper in your face. “Ribbed for her pleasure.”
You scoff and furrow your brow in annoyance, but pull his jeans down to his knees anyway so he can get the condom on.
“You’re scoffin’, but you know you like it,” Joel remarks as he rolls this condom over his hard length. “You just hate that you’re into me. The residential pervert, was how you put it last month, wasn’t it? Not like anyone’s gonna stone you for lettin’ me fuck you. We’re consentin’ adults, sunshine.”
“You think you could keep your mouth shut for five minutes?” you grumble as you hold him up to your entrance.
Joel clicks his tongue and gives a look of feigned offense. “Aw, baby, you know I always last longer than five minutes.”
You’re about to respond, but now he’s completely filling you, and you’re so full of him, so you have to moan.
“See? You love this,” he whispers.
“Yeah, yeah,” you mumble. “Big dick to match your fuckin’ personality.”
Joel’s hand comes down on your ass as you speak. A sharp pop pierces the air, and your moan follows.
“Hey, I’m bein’ nice,” he says, no anger in his voice. If anything, he might be a little hurt. “Didn’t force you to come over here. All I did was ask if you were awake.”
You don’t want to apologize because you know Joel isn’t being fully serious. Instead, you lean forward and kiss him, pulling a low growl from his throat. His hands move from your ass to your head, planting a firm grip.
“Mm,” you whine when he bites your bottom lip. “Jesus, fuck.”
Joel laughs, the sound deep and gravely in his chest. “You love this shit, dontcha, baby?”
“Shut up,” you pant, forehead heavily leaning against his.
His hands move from your head to your breasts, squeezing and kneading your flesh through your bra.
“You’re so pretty,” he whispers, a little less rough now.
You moan softly and shut your eyes for a moment, focusing on the feeling of his cock pistoning in and out of you, his hands on your breasts, his warm breath fanning against your face.
“Hey,” he murmurs, squeezing your breasts, just a little too hard, which has you inhaling sharply through your nose, your eyes opening wide. “Eyes on me, darlin’. Didn’t ask you over here just so you can hide those pretty eyes from me.”
You open your eyes but narrow your gaze and purse your lips, nearly likening yourself to an angry bull, Joel thinks, and it makes him smile.
“Attagirl. Yeah, is that so hard? Hm? I just wanna see ya. All o’ your pretty face, darlin’. Can’t come right if I don’t.”
Oh, he was doing so well. He just had to add that last part, didn’t he?
“Do you have some sort of contractual obligation where you have to ruin every remotely nice thing you say with a perverted afterthought? Huh?” you ask, rolling your hips harder against Joel’s.
He chuckles and thrusts up even harder, pulling a soft, pleasure-filled hiss from your lips.
“No,” he grunts. “Just don’t see a point in filterin’ myself when I know the way I talk makes you wet.”
You roll your eyes at that, and Joel grabs onto your jaw in such a way that has your lips puckering as he holds your gaze.
“Say it,” he demands, his voice low and husky.
You moan and ask, “Say what?” with a muffled voice as Joel keeps a tight grip on your jaw.
“Say you like hearin’ me run my dirty mouth.”
Joel doesn’t comment on the little gush of fluid he feels around his cock when you hear his words. He just keeps holding your gaze and waits for you to say the words.
“I-I like hearing you run your dirty mouth,” you say, your voice just a little higher-pitched than you’d like it to be.
Joel moans in appreciation, then shakes his head. “Mm, I don’t know, darlin’. I think what I actually wanna hear you say is that you love hearin’ me run my dirty mouth. Let’s try that, huh?”
You let out a soft whimper, then mumble, “I love hearing you run your dirty mouth.”
He nods in appreciation and lets go of your jaw.
“That’s my girl. Yeah, you’re such a good girl,” he praises as he plants both his hands on your hips and starts thrusting into you harder now.
You moan and lean forward, your hands planted on the arm of the couch behind him, your forehead against his as you watch his hips thrust up into you.
“Yeah, you like that?” he rasps. “Like watchin’ me fuck you? I can feel ya clenchin’ tighter around me. You’re just as fuckin’ perverted as me, aren’t ya, baby?”
“Shut up,” you moan, leaning your head back, moving your hands to his biceps, his thick, strong fucking biceps.
Joel doesn’t say anything; he just slaps your ass, which pulls a whiney moan from your throat.
“Yeah, you like hearin’ me talk, like watchin’ my cock split ya open, like it when I spank that pretty ass… You’re just too high up on that horse o’ yours to admit it.”
“Joel…” you moan, practically shaking on Joel’s lap now.
“Joel,” he mocks. “Don’t worry; I ain’t gonna make ya say it. Just somethin’ for you to stew on when you go home.”
You moan and lean your forehead against his again, your hands moving to his shoulders.
“I’m gonna come,” you whisper.
You feel him nod against your forehead. “I know, darlin’. You go on ahead. Show me how much you love hearin’ this nasty old man’s dirty mouth run. Go on. Be a good girl for me.”
That’s all it takes to have you turn into a shaking, whining mess. Joel fucks you through it, moves his hands to your breasts, massaging them through your lace bra.
Once you’ve come down, he whispers in your ear, “Okay, sweetheart. It’s Daddy’s turn now.”
You’re not expecting it, but you moan at his words. You’ve never called him that, and he’s never called himself that. It’s new and unexpected, and Joel doesn’t even realize it’s that word specifically that has you moaning. He thinks it’s just leftover from the orgasm he just gave you.
You don’t even realize you’re changing positions until the scratchy fabric of his couch hits your naked back.
Joel’s entire body covers yours, and he’s thrusting again, clearly focused only on his orgasm now.
“This pussy’s fuckin’ magic, darlin’,” he grunts above you.
“You’re fucking pussy whipped,” you whisper, and he snorts in response.
“Not a very nice thing to say, baby,” he laughs before leaning down to kiss your chest and tug at the lace of your bra with his teeth.
“Take this off. Wanna see that gorgeous fuckin’ rack o’ yours before I finish.”
You scoff in indignation at how crude his request was, but comply regardless, reaching behind your back to unclasp the garment, arching your chest in his face in the process, given the position you’re in. You toss your bra to the side once it’s off, and Joel immediately dives in, sucking on your nipple and taking it between his teeth, just edging it, not biting down.
“Nicest fuckin’ tits,” he mumbles around your nipple.
He lets go with a loud pop, a string of spit connecting from your nipple to his lips.
Then, he brings his fingers down to your clit. “Want you to come with me this time. Come on, I’m so close. Know you can do it. Still feel you squeezin’ and drippin’ all over my cock. Come on, pretty girl,” he coos before bringing his lips down to yours.
You bury your hands in his hair and bite down on his bottom lip, pulling a soft grunt of surprise from him, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Feelin’ feisty?” he rasps against your lips before ducking down and biting your jaw, then your collarbone, then the top of your breast, pulling a throaty moan from you each time.
You tug on his hair and present his chest to yourself. You take his nipple between your teeth and actually bite down.
Joel growls, but doesn’t pull away.
You clench around his cock, and he falls forward just a bit, inadvertently giving you access to his shoulder.
He moans, and his thrusts speed up.
“I’m gonna come,” he whispers, pressing down on your clit, pushing you over the edge with him.
You feel the warmth of his cum through the condom, and moan as your cunt flutters around him.
“Jesus, Joel,” you moan.
“I know, darlin’. It’s a lot, huh?”
He leans down and kisses you, gently this time. Then he turns the two of you on your sides, his back to the couch, so he doesn’t crush you. He keeps a tight hold on you so you don’t fall off, then buries his nose in your hair.
“You okay?” he whispers. “Didn’t go too hard?”
He’s asked this since the first time. Even though now the two of you know each other well enough to know the other’s likes and dislikes, he’ll still check in, just so you feel cared for.
“I’m okay. You okay?”
He nods and kisses your forehead. “You can stay over if you want. No pressure, though.”
You smile up at him and nod. “I’d like that, actually.”
Joel pulls you into the shower with him a few minutes later, taking care to be gentle and sweet. He dries you off and gives you a clean t-shirt to sleep in.
When the two of you get in bed, he tucks you in, then gets in on his side, before scooting over to the side you’re on just so he can hold you.
He’s just a big dick with big feelings.
He’s also the reason you’ve extended your stay in the trailer park. You had the money for a down payment two months ago.
Summary: You want to celebrate New Year's Eve with your boyfriend, but for some reason, he seems to be drifting further and further away from you, especially when you have your first drink.
Words: 8,5k.
Warnings & Tags: mentions of alcohol, kissing and a very traumatised steve. established relationship. angst WITH happy ending+hurt/comfort. very vague temporarily, outside the canon and more like an au. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).
Note: Soo plot twist, I’m enough in love with Joe Keery to write a fic of Steve without watching the whole series, just with my fuzzy memories of the first season, tiktok edits and my lovely friend maru<3 (@timesquarevils love uuu) who literally tell me everything i need to know. BE NICE WITH ME.
Steve Harrington didn’t like parties now.
And not in the casual, “eh, I’d rather stay in tonight” kind of way. No, he avoided parties with the bone-deep reluctance of someone who had once lived inside them and had clawed his way back out. It wasn’t visible at first glance; people who’d known him back in high school still carried a picture of who he had been in the past, the golden boy with sun-bleached confidence and a laugh big enough to fill an entire room. They remembered someone who thrived under cheap neon lights and the sticky heat of too many bodies packed together. Someone who found comfort in noise the same way some people found comfort in silence. Someone who used to be so effortlessly magnetic that even a bad party felt like a good one if Steve Harrington happened to be in it.
But you hadn’t been there for any of that.
You hadn’t grown up in Hawkins, hadn’t wandered the same cramped hallways or seen his name scrawled across the bathroom stalls or heard whispers of King Steve echoing between lockers. You hadn’t witnessed the rise or the fall, the messy evolution from the boy he was to the man he became. You didn’t know the version of him who’d broken things, hearts, rules, and expectations. You didn’t know the version who’d tried too hard to be the person everyone thought he already was.
By the time you arrived, Hawkins had already chewed Steve up and spit him out somewhere softer. You met the aftermath of the mess. The stripped-down, humbled, gentler version. The Steve who seemed permanently a bit tired around the eyes, who flinched at sudden chaos, who carried a quiet loneliness like a shadow he’d long stopped trying to hide. A Steve who cared too much, apologized too often, and listened like every word you said meant something deep.
So when he told you he didn’t really “do” parties, it wasn’t a dramatic admission. You assumed someone who spent half his life being practically adopted by a gaggle of kids, driving them to school, babysitting them, rescuing them from God-knows-what, wouldn’t exactly be the type who spent his nights dancing on tables or downing shots. It was simply part of him, woven in with the rest of the contradictions he carried. And because you weren’t a party person either, you accepted it without question. Loud, unfiltered nights had always felt like a performance you couldn’t keep up with. You hated the way the music never matched the mood, the way strangers pressed in too close, the way your head throbbed and your clothes smelled like smoke long after the fun had ended. So Steve’s aversion didn’t stand out; it fit neatly beside your own. It even felt like compatibility.
Still, you noticed his patterns.
They were impossible to miss once you started paying attention.
Whenever someone invited him somewhere; a birthday, a bonfire, a “low-key gathering” that was never actually low-key, Steve’s whole demeanor shifted. Not dramatically. His shoulders would go just a little tense. His fingers would twitch, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. His smile would hold, but thin out in the way polite smiles do when they’re stretched over something uncomfortable. His eyes would always, always flick to you, like a silent plea, a question, a hope that you might somehow telepathically say we don’t have to go.
He never outright refused at first.
Instead came the excuses, increasingly elaborate over time.
“I’m not feeling great,” he’d murmur, rubbing his forehead.
“I’ve got an early shift tomorrow,” even when he didn’t.
“Robin needs me,” which was believable because Robin always needed something.
“Henderson’s having…a Henderson issue,” which was vague enough to mean anything.
Or the classic: “Maybe next time.”
There was never a next time.
It worked flawlessly…until December arrived.
December made everything complicated for him. Not because he suddenly felt drawn to the festivities, not because he woke up desperate to hang garlands or pretend he liked eggnog. December complicated things because you were suddenly lit up from the inside, warm as a fireplace, buzzing with that soft holiday cheer he secretly loved watching take over you. You walked through the month like every streetlight had gotten brighter just for you, like every store window was a promise. Steve wasn’t built for that kind of brightness but he loved how it didn’t scare you. He loved how you never dimmed for him.
It had all started with a throwaway comment, something he’d blurted without thinking, because that’s how Steve spoke when he was comfortable. You were both sitting on the carpet in his living room, eating cold leftover pizza straight from the box, your socked feet tangled with his. He’d leaned back on his palms, stared at the ceiling like it might give him answers, and muttered that he hadn’t even realized the year was ending. How time felt weird in Hawkins. How days blurred together. How nothing changed unless it was something terrible. He said it casually, like brushing off dust. But you heard the crack underneath the sentence, the softness in his voice he tried to swallow. You heard a boy who felt suspended, stuck between heartbreaks and responsibilities he never asked for. You heard a boy who deserved so much more than another year slipping past him unnoticed.
And because you loved him—really loved him, in that loud way that makes Steve Harrington stare at you like you’re some miracle he isn’t sure he’s allowed to believe in—you decided that if he couldn’t feel the year changing, you would change it for him. That little ache he thought he’d hidden? Yeah. You caught it and held it like it was your job.
So you latched onto the idea of New Year’s the same way you latched onto everything that made him brighter. Suddenly, the New Year’s party he absolutely did not want became your new mission. Not a blowout. Not a rager. Just something warm and safe, something soft enough for Steve to settle into without feeling like he had to perform. A night that reminded him he was loved, that he wasn’t just drifting through time waiting for something to hurt. A night you believed, with your whole ridiculous, hopeful heart, that he deserved.
It started tiny, innocuous. A pack of gold confetti you tossed into the cart at the store because “why not?” Steve had given you that adorably confused look he always gave you when you made impulsive decisions, that half-frown, half-smile thing he did when he was pretending he didn’t find you cute. Then you picked up a string of warm lights, claiming they were “for ambience,” and he’d rolled his eyes, but he’d also taken the box from your hands and carried it for you like it was priceless. Then came the dress. You bought it because you wanted to look…right. Like if you were going to pull your boyfriend into a new year, you wanted to look like you were someone worth stepping into the future with. Steve didn’t know about the dress yet, but he would. And he’d lose his mind.
By the end of the week, your notebook had somehow turned into a full-blown battle plan: doodles, ideas, a list of snacks Steve liked more than he admitted, little scribbles like “make sure Robin doesn’t let him hide in a corner!!” and “midnight kiss :)” circled three times. You had decorations hidden under your bed, a bag of glittery nonsense stashed in your closet, and a vision in your head that made your chest feel warm every time you thought about it.
But of course, when the days started to pass, his excuses started.
One night, you were both pressed into the backseat of his car, the engine off, the hum of the streetlights outside washing everything in a soft golden glow. He had his hands tangled in your hair, one of his fingers brushing along your cheek as if he couldn’t decide whether to touch you or just look at you. His lips moved against yours with this warm, like he wanted to memorize the taste, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how unless he wrote it with his mouth. You could feel the tension coiled in his shoulders, the way he was trying not to fidget, not to make a sound, not to ruin the moment by thinking too hard about what came next.
And then, mid-kiss, he pulled back.
Just a few centimeters.
Just enough for his forehead to drop against yours, for his breath to ghost across your lips. His hair fell forward in messy strands, brushing your cheek. His chest rose and fell too fast.
“Uh…hey,” he murmured, voice low. The guilty-boy tone. The one he used when he’d already decided he was going to disappoint you.
You knew that tone. You felt it before he even said the words.
“I have to tell you something,” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheek like maybe he could soften the blow with touch alone. He didn’t look directly at you, he looked everywhere else. Your lips. Your collarbone. Your shoulder. The window. His own hands.
“I…don’t think I can go to the party.”
It hit you like a cold breath against the back of your neck.
Your face dropped before you could stop it, just a tremor of disappointment across your features, but Steve noticed. Of course he noticed. He always noticed when it came to you, especially when it made him feel like a goddamn villain.
He scrambled, immediately reaching for your hand, cradling it like it was breakable. His words tumbled out in a flood. “It’s not—it’s not like I don’t wanna, I just—I have a ton of stuff to do, and it’s kinda late already, and, uh, maybe I’m getting sick? And I didn’t sleep great last night so I feel weird and—”
You gently pulled your hand away.
Not mean.
Not slapping or yanking.
Just removing yourself.
And it gutted him instantly.
He froze, halfway through a lie he hadn’t even finished inventing. His eyes shot up to yours, wide and soft and horrified. Like you’d just held up a mirror to something he didn’t want to see.
“Oh God,” he choked, face crumpling. “Baby, don’t—don’t look at me like that.”
But you were. And it killed him.
He panicked in that sweet way so him: leaning in, kissing your cheek, your temple, your jaw, like he could coax the disappointment away. One of his hands cupped your face like you were something precious, something he was terrified of losing.
“I’m sorry—shit, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking as he tried to catch your gaze. “I didn’t mean— I just— I wasn’t thinking— I don’t want to ruin anything, I swear.”
He rested his forehead against yours again, eyes fluttering shut like he was praying to something.
“Okay, listen,” he breathed, brushing his thumb slowly over your lower lip. “Maybe it’s fine. Maybe I can go. I’ll go. If you want me there, I’ll go.”
He swallowed hard.
“I want to be there. I want to be with you. I just…I get stupid about this stuff sometimes.”
He opened his eyes then.
“So if you say the word…I’m yours. I’ll be there.”
And he meant every syllable.
“I really want you there.”
Fuck.
Steve Harrington didn’t fear the kind of things normal people feared.
Not anymore.
He’d already stared down the kinds of creatures that rewired your understanding of what “danger” even meant. Things with too many teeth, skin that peeled back like it was stitched on wrong, limbs that bent like broken branches but still moved with horrifying precision. He’d fought in basements that smelled like rust, decay, and something wet and ancient. He’d swung a nail-studded bat until his arms throbbed and his lungs burned, until the metal dug into his palms and left tiny half-moon scars. He’d dragged bleeding kids through tunnels lit only by adrenaline and stubborn hope, knees scraping against dirt and rock while the sound of chittering echoed behind them. At seventeen, he’d learned that real terror wasn’t loud. It was quiet, creeping, the kind that crawled up the back of your neck while the world around you split open into something unrecognizable.
So no, darkness didn’t scare him anymore. Neither did the crunch of leaves behind him or the low, gurgling growl of something unseen in the woods. Monsters were monsters. They were awful, yes, but they were consistent. Predictable. They wanted to kill you. They didn’t lie, didn’t judge, didn’t decide you weren’t enough. You could swing at a monster and it made sense.
People didn’t.
Fear, for Steve, had become something that seeped into him during stillness, in the quiet spaces between one heartbeat and the next. When the world wasn’t ending and he wasn’t holding a bat like a lifeline, when he was just a boy in a room, a boy in front of someone he cared about, a boy who suddenly had nowhere to hide his own shaking insides. That was when the fear slithered in. Human moments terrified him more than any interdimensional nightmare ever had.
Fear was you.
Not you in the literal sense…not the way you nudged his foot under the table when he overthought things, or the way you laughed at his jokes even when they were stupid, or the way your hand fit perfectly in his, thumb brushing the same spot on his knuckle like you were memorizing it. Not the way your eyes softened when he rambled himself into a corner. You weren’t frightening.
It was what you meant to him. What you had the power to do to him without even realizing it.
He could face a Demogorgon armed with nothing but a bat, a bad plan, and blind determination, but the idea of you finding out that he wasn’t as brave or put-together or invincible as he pretended to be? That he was just a scared kid who’d never learned how to stop feeling abandoned? That he’d spent so long being terrified he forgot what normal fear even looked like?
Fuck.
That thought hollowed him out.
And parties…parties were where that fear had been born.
Where it had learned to walk, to breathe, to whisper in his ear.
Steve didn’t talk about it. He didn’t know how to. He never told Robin, not even on their worst days in the video store when honesty came easier. He didn’t tell Dustin, because Henderson still looked at him like he was unshakeable, and Steve didn’t want to break that illusion. And he definitely didn’t tell you, not when you were the one person whose opinion could splinter him cleanly in half. The truth stayed under his skin like a bruise that no amount of time could fully fade, pulsing every time someone said the word party with too much excitement.
It wasn’t the crowd that bothered him. He’d spent years being worshipped in rooms like that, basking in the glow of being the guy people wanted to stand next to. It wasn’t the noise or the music or even the chaos, Steve had once been the chaos. It wasn’t the drinking or the sweat or the clatter of beer bottles being knocked over on sticky floors.
No. His fear lived somewhere deeper.
It lived in the memory of harsh bathroom lighting bouncing off the tiled walls, of the way his heart cracked in his chest while tears burned at the backs of his eyes. It lived in the echo of Nancy Wheeler’s voice, breaking him open with a few sentences that bled into the night. It lived in the awful realization that he had poured every piece of himself into someone only to learn, suddenly and painfully, that he was nowhere near enough.
He didn’t remember everything about that night, alcohol had fuzzed the edges thank Goodness, but he remembered the feeling. The shame. The sudden drop in his stomach when her voice, loose with liquor, cut through the noise of the party like a blade. He remembered how her words hit with unsettling clarity: how she said she didn’t love him, how she couldn’t even pretend. He remembered the sting of watching the girl he held so carefully shove him away with the truth spilling unfiltered from her mouth. The room had tilted, and every person around them felt like a witness to his humiliation, like they were watching the King of Hawkins High crumble into something small and pathetic. And Steve had stood there, sober enough to feel everything, drunk enough not to escape it. That night rewired him. Parties stopped being fun. Alcohol stopped being harmless. Love stopped feeling safe.
And what scared him most wasn’t the idea of you getting drunk around other people. It was what alcohol had done to someone he cared about once before. How it stripped away her restraint. How it let things slip that maybe she didn’t mean, or maybe she did and just never intended to say aloud. Alcohol made people honest, in the worst ways. It made them cruel without noticing, brave without thinking, blunt without caring. And Steve had lived the consequences of that honesty. He had lived the gutting moment of realizing he cared more than she did. That he saw forever, and she saw a mistake she needed to confess.
So when he thought of you, of your laugh, your warmth, the way you looked at him like he was someone good, it terrified him how much he had to lose. Because drunk people talk. Drunk people confess. Drunk people say the quiet parts out loud without realizing the shrapnel they’re launching into someone else’s chest. And Steve couldn’t shake the fear that if you ever drank too much, if the party ever got too loud or the night too long, you might look at him through a haze of alcohol and say something you didn’t mean to say sober…or something you’d never been brave enough to say sober. Something that told him he wasn’t enough. Something that shattered the world he’d built around you without warning.
He imagined it sometimes, against his will and better judgment, flashes of memory bleeding into unwelcome scenarios. You, slurring something sharp. You, pulling your hand out of his. You, laughing at the wrong moment. You, turning away when he reached for you. You, telling him that he was too much, or not enough, or that you didn’t feel the way he thought you did. He knew it wasn’t fair to think that of you, and it wasn’t because he doubted your feelings. It was because he doubted himself. Alcohol had once turned the person he loved against him in the span of minutes. And no matter how much he trusted you, he didn’t trust fate, or chance, or whatever cruel force had decided to teach him lessons through heartbreak.
And God, the idea of you waking up the next morning with a hangover and a vague recollection and maybe a pit in your stomach that he couldn’t interpret, it made him nauseous. Because he didn’t want you to ever regret him. He didn’t want to become another mistake, another story you told with a wince or a sigh.
Fuck.
And now here he was.
A New Year’s Eve party, the kind he used to walk into like he owned the place, the kind he once would’ve lit up just by stepping through the door. Except tonight the house felt too loud in a way that didn’t energize him. It was more like the noise pressed against his skin, buzzing along his nerves until he wanted to flinch. The music thumped low through the walls, lights flickered gold and blue, people laughed in bursts that felt too sharp, like glass clinking in a quiet room. The air smelled like cheap champagne, perfume, sweat, and the faint fizz of fireworks waiting to happen.
Steve sat alone on the corner of the couch, shoulders hunched slightly forward, elbows planted on his knees. He kept his hands locked together like he needed to physically hold himself in place. Anyone else might’ve mistaken it for boredom, maybe even for the stubborn aloofness he used to wear like a jacket. But it wasn’t boredom, it was tension. It was dread. It was the weight of memory settling in the hollow of his stomach.
He felt out of place in his own skin.
The party moved around him without really touching him, like he was sitting behind a sheet of glass. People floated in and out of conversations, someone yelled from the kitchen about running out of chips, someone else tripped over a rug and laughed it off, and you—God, you—were across the living room, laughing as you tried to help your friends find where the missing champagne glasses had gone.
You weren’t drunk. You weren’t even tipsy yet. But you were glowing, cheeks warmed from the heat of the room, hair slipping slightly out of place as you reached up into cabinets, opened drawers, gestured wildly while your friends searched around you. You looked effortless and alive. You looked like everything good about the night.
And he felt miles away from you.
He hated that. Hated how quickly old fears could climb back up his throat, how easily they could wrap around the present and choke the air out of it. Because nothing was wrong. Nothing had happened. You hadn’t said anything sharp, hadn’t looked at him with regret or distance or disappointment. You’d kissed him on the cheek when you arrived together, fingers lingering on his jaw for a second longer than necessary. You’d whispered, “Give me five minutes, babe. I need to help them find the glassware for the toast.”
That was all.
But as soon as your attention shifted, as soon as the crowd swallowed you up, something twisted inside him. That same old unease. That whisper of this is where it starts, even though he knew better. Even though he trusted you. Even though you had never once made him feel like he had to brace himself.
He watched you from the couch, watched the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear as you laughed, watched how your friends hovered around you with the kind of effortless familiarity he envied. You fit in so seamlessly, and he felt like the room dimmed around him. Like the party was something happening to him, not with him.
Someone nearby popped open a bottle of beer. The can hissed sharply. Steve flinched.
A reflex. A ghost. Something old.
He dragged a palm down his face, exhaling slowly, trying to shake it off. His jaw clenched. His knee bounced. He barely had a second to gather himself before someone dropped onto the couch beside him with all the grace of a bowling ball being tossed onto a mattress.
Robin.
Of course.
She didn’t even look at him at first. She just sat there, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the room like she was watching a disaster slowly unfold. Then she made a low noise, somewhere between a sigh and a grunt.
Finally, she turned her head and stared directly at him.
“Okay,” she said, voice flat. “What’s your deal?”
Steve blinked. “What?”
“What,” she repeated slowly, “is. Your. Deal.” Her fingers tapped rhythmically against her arm. “Maybe I need you to remember what night it is.”
He frowned. “I know what night it is.”
“Do you?” She arched a brow. “Because I’m starting to think you believe it’s National Brood Like a Moron Day.”
“Rob—”
“Nope.” She held up a finger. “It is literally New Year’s Eve. People are happy. You’re usually…not happy, but at least tolerable. You’re acting like somebody told you the world was ending at midnight.”
Steve exhaled through his nose, leaning back into the couch cushions. “I’m fine.”
Robin scoffed so hard the air around them vibrated. “Yeah, okay. Totally believable. Very convincing. Thank you, Mr. Academy Award Winner.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” She narrowed her eyes. “You’ve been staring at her for the last ten minutes like she is a bomb about to explode in your face.”
Steve’s head snapped toward her. “I— what?”
“You heard me.”
He groaned, dragging a hand over his face again. “I’m not— that’s not— I’m just…tired.”
“Tired?” Robin echoed. “Tired. At 11:09 pm. On New Year’s. At a party you willingly came to? With the girl you’re completely in love with—”
“Robin—”
“—and who is currently looking for champagne glasses like it’s a life-or-death mission.” Robin leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Which, for the record, is the only reason she’s not over here asking why you look like someone kicked your puppy.”
Steve’s jaw clenched. He stared at the floor.
Robin watched him for a beat. The sharpness softened, not much, but enough.
“Steve…” she said gently this time. “What’s going on?”
He let out a shaky breath. “Nothing. Just…parties, okay?”
Robin tilted her head. “Parties.”
“Yeah.”
“As in…the concept? The location? The historical invention of social gatherings? Be specific, dingus.”
He huffed out a humorless laugh. “You know what I mean.”
Robin didn’t speak. She simply waited in that particular way she reserved for moments where she refused to let him lie to himself.
After a long silence, Steve muttered, “I just don’t enjoy being here.”
Robin’s expression shifted, not surprise, not pity, just…understanding. “Because of her?” she asked softly, nodding toward the memory he hated. “Or because of her.” Her chin flicked toward you, still laughing with your friends, your hand gesturing wildly as you explained something about glass sizes.
He swallowed. “Both.”
Robin leaned back, letting out a slow breath. “Steve… she’s not Nancy.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?” she pressed. “Because you’re sitting here acting like she’s gonna turn around in five minutes, get tipsy, and break your heart in front of the streamers.”
He flinched.
Robin winced. “Sorry. Too much?”
“No,” he said quietly. “Because that’s…exactly what I’m thinking.”
“Steve,” she said, nudging his knee with hers. “She’s not gonna do that.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes,” Robin said, firm. “I do. Because she adores you. Like…actually adores you so much that get me sick.”
Steve fought a small, helpless smile. “You think so?”
“I know so.” Robin elbowed him. “And also, you’re being an idiot.”
“Thanks,” he muttered.
“It’s my job.”
Across the room, you finally found the glasses you’d been searching for, holding them triumphantly above your head. Your friends cheered, and you laughed.
And then your eyes found Steve again.
The second they did, your smile faltered. Not in a bad way. Just in that soft, searching way you reserved only for him. You excused yourself from your friends and started walking toward the couch.
Robin nudged Steve again.
“Try not to look like you’re about to flee the country,” she whispered. “It’s New Year’s. She wants to kiss you at midnight, not stage an intervention.”
Steve swallowed hard as you approached, heart thumping like it was desperate to outrun his ribs.
You crossed the room with purpose. Your steps soft, dress swaying around your legs with a shimmer that caught the lights just right. Steve swore the entire place dimmed when you moved; not because the party quieted, but because everything else just mattered less.
And then you were in front of him.
“Hey,” you said, voice warm and bright and impossibly gentle compared to the chaos buzzing behind you. “Why are you over here all alone?”
Steve opened his mouth to answer, but you didn’t give him the chance. Instead, you slid right onto his lap, effortless, like you’d done it a hundred times, like his body was exactly where you belonged. Your pretty dress rustled as you settled, one arm looping around his shoulders, your other hand flattening against his chest. The scent of your perfume washed over him.
His hands found your waist without thinking, palms warm against the fabric, fingers curling instinctively like they were afraid to let go.
You smiled, nose brushing his. “Hi.”
He felt something unclench in his chest. “Hi,” he murmured back, his voice softer than he intended.
You didn’t even seem to notice the shift in him. You were too busy talking, words spilling in that excited, rambling way that always melted him.
“Okay so, first of all, these decorations are insane,” you said, gesturing with your free hand toward the glittering strands of tinsel taped haphazardly to the ceiling. “Like, when I said I’d help set up, I didn’t realize Hannah meant she bought six feet of metallic fringe and thought it would just magically attach itself to the walls.”
Steve couldn’t help it, his lips twitched.
“And don’t even get me started on the banner.” You leaned in, eyes widening dramatically. “It says Happy New Year but the Y is literally upside down. Upside. Down. And everyone keeps pretending it’s fine but it’s not fine, Steve. It’s not.”
He let out a small laugh. “I mean, it’s kind of charming.”
“You’re defending the stupid banner?” you gasped. “You traitor.”
He shook his head slightly. “I’m defending you. You put it up, didn’t you?”
You paused. “…Maybe.”
His smiled deepened, and he pressed a hand to your hip, thumb tracing an idle circle through the fabric. You were glowing up close. Warm cheeks, bright eyes, lips curved in that way that made his heart do complicated, inconvenient things.
“You look really pretty,” he said suddenly, helplessly.
You blinked, caught off guard for only a second before a slow, warm grin took over your face. “Do I?”
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Like…stupid pretty.”
Your fingers played with the curls at the nape of his neck. “Well, thank you. You look pretty stupid too.”
He snorted, and you laughed, leaning your forehead against his. And God, that sound—your laugh—pulled him clean out of his spiral like nothing else could.
“See?” you whispered. “I knew you weren’t in a bad mood. You were just…missing me.”
He groaned, but he was smiling, and you could feel the tension easing out of him under your hands.
You brushed your nose along his jaw, soft and sweet. “You okay now?”
He didn’t even have to think about it. Not with you sitting on him like you were made to fit there. Not with your dress brushing his legs and your arms around his shoulders and your heartbeat thumping softly against his chest.
“Yeah,” he whispered, his voice dipping low. “I’m okay.”
And then he kissed you.
Soft at first, just his lips pressing into yours, warm and gentle, like he was grounding himself in the feeling. Your fingers tightened in his hair, and he kissed you again, deeper this time, letting himself fall into it, into you, into the safety you carried without even trying.
You smiled against his mouth. “You taste like…nothing,” you said between kisses. “Did you not drink anything?”
He shrugged. “Didn’t want to.”
You pulled back just enough to see his face, your brows drawing together. “Are you sure you’re okay? Really okay?”
His hand slid up your back, stopping between your shoulder blades, holding you close like he was afraid you’d slip out of his orbit.
“I am now,” he murmured.
Your expression softened, eyes warm in a way that made his ribs ache.
“Good,” you whispered, cupping his cheek with one hand. “Because I was about to drag you into the kitchen and force-feed you sparkling cider.”
He huffed out a laugh. “Sounds romantic.”
“It would’ve been,” you insisted.
He kissed your cheek, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth, each one gentle.
The party kept spinning around you both, counting down the minutes toward midnight, but right then, Steve wasn’t thinking about noise or crowds or memories that still stung. He wasn’t thinking about fear at all.
You were still curled in his lap, kissing him back like the rest of the party didn’t exist, when someone shouted your name from across the room.
“Hey! Can you come take a picture with the group camera?”
You groaned dramatically, forehead falling to Steve’s shoulder. “Why do they always remember I know how to use it?”
He smiled into your hair. “Because you’re perfect.”
“That is not a compliment right now,” you muttered as you slid off his lap like your body didn’t fully agree with the motion.
Steve already missed your warmth.
You smoothed your dress, still smiling like you weren’t, thirty seconds ago, kissing him senseless. You tapped his cheek before standing. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
“As if I’m going anywhere,” he said, eyes following you immediately.
You crossed the room toward the little table where the old Polaroid camera sat, some clunky, half-broken thing your friends insisted had “charm.” You picked it up delicately, brows furrowed in concentration as you tried to figure out which switch was the flash and which was the timer. You muttered something under your breath, something like why does this thing have twelve buttons? and Steve bit back a laugh.
God, he loved watching you.
Loved how busy your hands got, how expressive your face was when you were annoyed or excited or trying really hard not to break something.
You shook the camera once. Twice. Squinted at it like intimidation might make it cooperate.
Steve leaned an elbow on the back of the couch, chin propped on his hand, blatantly mesmerized. He wasn’t subtle about it at all.
Then someone appeared beside you—Mia, maybe, or Hannah—with two drinks in hand.
“Oh, here,” she said, handing you one. “You look like you need this.”
You blinked at the glass, then laughed. “Do I look that stressed?”
“Yes,” she deadpanned. “You’re fighting with a camera.”
You accepted the drink anyway, bringing it to your lips for a small sip before turning the camera over again. “Okay, but this thing is held together by hope and duct tape. I’m pretty sure it wants me dead.”
You lifted the glass without hesitation, laughing as someone teased you about the camera, and that was it.
That was the moment something inside Steve broke.
He tried—he really, genuinely tried—to swallow it down. To be reasonable. To be normal. To remind himself that this was you, not Nancy, not that night, not that version of him who had been bleeding out on a bathroom floor without any visible wounds.
But the room suddenly felt too loud.
Too bright.
Too familiar in all the wrong ways.
You took another small sip, humming at the taste. “Oh, this is actually good—”
Steve’s breath stuttered.
Robin glanced over at him from across the room, her expression sharpening instantly. “Steve?” she mouthed.
But he couldn’t answer.
Couldn’t move.
Couldn’t stay.
Your laugh hit him like a punch because he didn’t trust himself to believe it anymore. Not with alcohol in your system. Not with the way his stomach twisted, warning him, run, run, run.
Someone brushed past him on the couch, jostling his leg, and that tiny contact shattered what little control he had left.
Steve stood up too quickly.
Chest tight.
Vision tunneling.
He didn’t look at you, not because he didn’t want to, but because if he did, he might fall apart right there. And falling apart in front of you was his worst nightmare.
He slipped out of the living room, head down, weaving through bodies and noise and confetti like he was wading through smoke. Robin tried to grab his arm as he passed, whispering urgently, “Steve? Hey—HEY, where are you going?”
But he shook her off, barely managing, “I just…I need a second.”
“Steve—”
He didn’t hear the rest.
He was already pushing through the door, stepping into the cold night air like he’d been underwater for too long.
The door swung closed behind him, cutting off the music, the laughter, you.
He exhaled shakily, hands on his knees, trying to breathe through the tightness in his throat. The yard was quiet except for distant fireworks and the muffled thump of bass inside.
He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes.
“God,” he whispered to no one. “Not this. Not now.”
Because leaving you, even for a second, felt wrong. Like he’d done something unforgivable. But staying in there while you drank, while you looked so happy, while memories clawed up his spine?
That felt impossible.
He sank onto the porch step, elbows on his knees, staring at the ground as if it could steady him.
Inside, he knew you were laughing. Taking pictures. Enjoying your night.
And all he could think was:
Please don’t say something tomorrow that’ll kill me.
Please don’t prove I’m right to be scared.
Please don’t break my heart without meaning to.
A firework exploded prematurely in the distance.
He paced down the front walkway like the ground was on fire beneath his feet, boots scraping too loudly against the concrete, keys already clenched in his fist. His breath puffed out in sharp, uneven clouds, lungs working faster than his thoughts could keep up. He wasn’t thinking, he was escaping. Every instinct in him screamed the same command: get out. Get into the car. Shut the door. Sit in the dark with the engine off where nothing could blindside him, where memories couldn’t sneak up behind him wearing someone else’s face, where no one could hurt him without meaning to. The house behind him throbbed with noise and laughter and music, a living thing he needed to outrun before it swallowed him whole.
He reached the driver-side door, fingers trembling as they wrapped around the handle—
“Steve?”
Your voice froze him.
He froze mid-motion, breath hitching hard in his chest, the sound of his name pulling him back whether he wanted it to or not. Slowly he turned around.
You stood on the porch steps, framed by warm yellow light, your dress shimmering faintly as it caught the glow. You hadn’t bothered with a coat. Your arms were bare to the cold, your breath shallow and quick from hurrying after him, confusion written all over your face. Behind you, the party noise had dulled to a distant thrum, like the house itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
He swallowed hard. “You should go back inside.”
Your brows pinched instantly, the way they always did when something didn’t add up. “Why are you out here?” you asked, stepping down a stair. “Why are you leaving?”
He looked away, jaw tightening like he could physically lock the truth behind his teeth. “I just…need air.”
“That’s not air,” you said, moving closer, your voice sharp with something wounded underneath it. “That’s you trying to bail.”
He flinched, because it was true. Because you always saw through him too easily. Because that terrified him more than the drink still warm in your hand, more than the noise inside, more than the memories clawing at his chest.
“I’m fine,” he muttered, the lie weak even to his own ears.
“You’re lying.”
God, he hated how soft your voice was when you said it. How gentle. How careful. It made everything feel sharper, uglier…like he was the villain in a story he never meant to write.
“Just go enjoy the party,” Steve said, fumbling with his keys, the metal clinking far too loud in the cold. His hands were shaking now, and he hated that you could probably see it. “Seriously. It’s New Year’s. Don’t worry about me.”
“I am worried about you,” you snapped, stepping directly in front of the car door before he could open it. Your voice echoed slightly in the quiet street. “You disappeared, Steve. One minute you’re kissing me, the next you’re bolting outside like the place is on fire.”
He winced, shoulders caving in, the words hitting him square in the chest. You didn’t stop.
“What happened?” you demanded, hurt bleeding into every syllable. “Did someone say something? Did I do something?”
“No,” he said too quickly.
“Then what is it?”
He backed up a step, jaw tight, eyes darting anywhere but your face. “I said it’s nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
Oh.
Fuck.
That word again.
His eyes snapped to yours, sharp and panicked, like a cornered animal. Your anger cracked then, not loud, not explosive, but fragile.
“Did I…” Your voice wavered. “Did I make you uncomfortable? Was I—too much?”
“No,” he said, louder now, raw. “God, no. Don’t do that. Don’t make it about something wrong with you.”
“Then tell me what it is,” you said, hands out in front of you like you were begging and demanding at the same time. “Because you look like you saw a demogorgon, and you’re trying to leave without even saying goodbye.”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
The words died somewhere behind his ribs, tangled up in fear and memory and everything he’d never learned how to say without ruining things.
You swallowed hard, eyes shining. “You didn’t even look at me,” you said quietly. “You just ran. Like being in the same room with me suddenly felt wrong.”
“It wasn’t you,” he said instantly. Too fast. Too desperate.
“Then why won’t you let me touch you?” you whispered.
His breath stuttered, chest hitching like he’d been punched. You were standing inches from him now, your dress fluttering in the wind, mascara perfect and ruined all at once by the tears gathering in your eyes, tears he never meant to cause.
“I came out here thinking you were sick,” you said, voice breaking. “Or that something bad happened. I didn’t think you were trying to leave me on New Year’s Eve.”
“It’s not that—” He dragged a hand through his hair, panic seeping into every movement. “I just…I didn’t even want to come to this stupid party in the first place.”
Your breath caught.
“This stupid party?” Tears finally spilled over. “I only did this stupid party for you.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The words hit him like a memory slamming into place. Like harsh bathroom lights. Like a voice slurred with alcohol telling him he wasn’t loved. Except this time, he wasn’t the one being shattered.
He was the one doing the breaking.
“And now everything I do just feels like bullshit to you,” you finished, voice hollow.
Déjà vu wrapped around his throat, tight and unforgiving.
Except this time, he was sober.
Clear-headed.
Fully aware of every second he was ruining.
He stared at you, keys still biting into his palm, chest aching with the awful realization that the thing he’d been running from, hurting you, was already happening. He didn’t answer right away, because if he spoke now, something irreversible might come out. The truth was tangled and ugly and soaked in fear, and he didn’t trust himself not to weaponize it the way alcohol once had been weaponized against him.
You watched him unravel in real time.
“Well?” you asked, voice raw now. “Say something, Steve. Yell at me. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me I’m dramatic. Do something.”
He flinched at the edge in your voice. Slowly, he lifted his head.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said hoarsely. “I didn’t mean that you were bullshit.”
“But that’s how it feels,” you shot back immediately. “That’s how it always feels when you shut down and walk away.”
He swallowed. His throat burned. “I’m trying not to hurt you.”
You laughed, short and bitter. “Congratulations. You’re failing.”
The silence after that was brutal.
“I saw you take the drink,” he blurted suddenly, like ripping off a bandage he’d been worrying at for too long. “And something just—” He pressed a fist to his chest. “I panicked.”
You blinked. “What?”
“I panicked,” he repeated, quieter now. “I know it doesn’t make sense. I know it’s unfair. But I saw that glass in your hand and my brain just…went somewhere else.”
Your anger faltered, confusion bleeding through. “I took one sip, Steve.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I know. And that’s the worst part. Because you didn’t do anything wrong. You never do.”
“Then why does it feel like I’m being punished?” you whispered.
He had no answer for that. None that didn’t sound like an excuse. None that didn’t make him look as broken as he felt.
“I didn’t want to be there,” he admitted, voice shaking. “I didn’t want to feel like that again. I didn’t want to look at you and start being scared of losing you for no reason.”
Your face crumpled slightly at that. “So your solution was to leave me?”
“I wasn’t leaving you,” he said, the words tumbling out of him like he couldn’t hold them in anymore, like if he didn’t say them right now they’d choke him from the inside. His voice was rough, frantic at the edges. “I was leaving the situation before I said something stupid. Before I turned into someone you’d hate.”
You stepped back instinctively, arms folding over your chest like you needed the pressure just to keep yourself upright. The cold bit at your skin, the night sharp and unforgiving, but it was nothing compared to the way his words landed. “You don’t get to decide what version of you I can handle,” you said, voice steady even though everything inside you was cracking. “You don’t get to disappear and call it protection.”
He stared at you then, really stared, like the ground had shifted under his feet and he didn’t know where to stand anymore. His eyes were glassy, rimmed red, lashes clumped together with unshed tears he was clearly fighting like hell not to let fall. “I don’t want you to see this version,” he admitted, quieter now. Bare. “I don’t want you to look at me and realize I’m…like this.”
“Too late,” you said softly, and there was no accusation in it. Just truth.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Heavy. The kind that pressed into your ears and made your heart pound too loud in your chest. Somewhere inside the house, music thumped, laughter spilled through walls, glasses clinked, but out here, it was just the two of you and everything that had finally been said out loud.
“I love you,” he whispered at last, the words breaking apart as soon as they left his mouth, like a confession and an apology tangled together. Like something sacred he was terrified of ruining. “And that scares the hell out of me.”
Your throat tightened. “Loving me shouldn’t feel like a threat,” you said, tears burning behind your eyes.
“I know,” he said immediately, voice cracking wide open now. “I know. And I hate myself for it.”
Fireworks cracked in the distance, bright and almost cruel in the way they split the sky apart, spilling color where everything between you felt gray and fragile. Red. Gold. White. They bloomed and died too fast, like moments you didn’t get to hold onto. Inside the house, voices began counting down, muffled through thick walls and closed doors, joy leaking out in bursts that felt completely disconnected from the ache settling deep in your chest.
Ten.
You wiped at your cheeks with the heel of your hand, frustrated with yourself for crying and even more frustrated that he was the reason. Your breath came out shaky in the cold air. “I can’t keep chasing you every time you get scared, Steve.” Your voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.
Nine.
He took a step toward you on instinct, then stopped short like he’d hit an invisible wall. Like he was afraid that if he moved any closer, he’d ruin something beyond repair. “I’m not asking you to chase me,” he said, but even he knew how hollow it sounded.
Eight.
“Then what are you asking?” you demanded, finally looking at him fully. Your eyes were red, glossy, filled with hurt he never meant to cause and somehow always did anyway. “Because I’m standing here in the cold on New Year’s Eve, begging you to stay, and you still look like you want to run.”
Seven.
His chest tightened. His throat burned. “I want to stay,” he said, voice cracking under the truth of it. “I just—” He swallowed hard. “I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”
Six.
Your chest rose and fell as you forced yourself to breathe. The anger drained, leaving something sadder behind. Something heavier. “Then you need to learn,” you said quietly. “Because I can’t be the one paying for what someone else did to you.”
Five.
The words landed exactly where they were meant to.
Four.
He nodded slowly, the motion barely there, tears finally slipping free despite his effort to hold them back. Steve Harrington, who had fought monsters and stood between danger and everyone else, looked small under the open sky. “I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, like admitting it out loud might make it real.
Three.
“Then stop trying to leave,” you whispered.
Two.
He reached out, tentative, asking permission without words.
One.
Midnight hit.
Cheers exploded from inside the house, laughter and shouting and champagne popping all at once. Fireworks tore through the sky, brighter and louder than before, shaking the air around you. And something in Steve finally snapped, not broke, but shifted.
He didn’t think.
He didn’t hesitate.
He didn’t run.
He closed the distance between you in two quick strides, hands coming up to cup your face like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he’d been meant to do it all along. His palms were warm despite the cold, thumbs brushing over your cheeks with reverence, wiping away tears like they mattered, like you mattered more than his fear ever could.
“I’m not leaving,” he breathed.
And then he kissed you.
It wasn’t soft or careful at first. It was desperate, aching, his mouth crashing into yours like he was terrified the moment would disappear if he didn’t hold onto it hard enough. You gasped against his lips, surprise melting instantly into something raw and familiar, something that had always lived between you. His hands shook against your jaw, grounding himself through you, like you were the only thing keeping him upright.
Another firework cracked open the sky, painting your closed eyelids red and gold.
You kissed him back.
Your fingers fisted in his jacket, pulling him closer, pressing your body into his like you needed proof he was real, like you were anchoring him in place. The kiss slowed then, softened, turning into something tender and fragile and overwhelming, full of everything neither of you had been able to say. Apology. Fear. Love. Promise.
Steve rested his forehead against yours when you finally pulled apart, breath uneven, heart pounding like it might give him away.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice breaking completely now. “I’m so sorry. I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”
You closed your eyes, still holding him, your hands warm against his chest. “Then don’t.”
“I won’t,” he said.
And for the first time all night, for the first time in a long time, he meant it without doubt.
Fireworks bloomed again overhead, louder, brighter, the world celebrating a new beginning while Steve Harrington stood in the cold, kissing the girl he loved like it was both the first and last choice he’d ever make.
And this time…he stayed long enough to realize that maybe, just maybe, parties weren’t so terrifying after all.
summary: Jackson’s kindergarten teacher sure is sweet. Beloved by the community and gentle with the children, its no far feat for everyone to fall in love with her. Even big, bad, scary Joel Miller.
|| fluff, lil bit of angst cause joel miller is an anxious guy, miss honey coded reader (from the 1996 movie matilda), kindergarten teacher reader, canon compliant, easter eggs from tlou II, tenderness, flirting, yearning, joel is a big boy ||
a/n: let me just apologize cause I really don't know how to write fluff. there's not muchhhh plot here. just like...yearning. and kindergarten things. and yeah. but I had fun with it and it helped me with some writer's block :')
The baby boom in Jackson began about six months after you started to call the settlement home.
It wasn't very surprising. After all, safety had a way of loosening the grip of fear and letting love take root where survival had once ruled the mind. And when love was involved in a world with a lack of contraceptives… well, there were babies.
And oh, did Jackson have babies.
You'd only have to step out of the house to see the streets filled with the new beginnings of life. The air was soon full of coos and soft cries, followed with gentle reassurances passed between mothers and fathers, neighbors leaning in to lend a hand. It brought the town closer than ever before.
Somehow, childless and single, yet old enough to be trusted, you found yourself caring for the little ones while their parents tended to work or if they just needed some rest. At first, it was a baby here and there dropped off at your door for an afternoon. And then as word spread about how good you were with the children, your home began filling with tiny feet and bright eyes. Some parents even joked their children preferred you to them, which made you laugh but left you secretly honored.
Over the years—how fast they go by when watching tiny humans grow—the babies turned to toddlers, who inevitably turned to children. By the time many of them turned three or four, you realized how badly they craved something more. Not because they were unruly, but because their minds were so eager to stretch and wander. They needed a place to learn, to play, to begin imagining larger worlds.
Soon, you were convincing Tommy Miller and his wife Maria to let you use a small building down the road as a school. You painted its walls with sprawling gardens, bees and butterflies and flowers blooming in bright murals on the outside. String lights were strung across beams, and with the help of a young man Jesse and his girlfriend Dina, you raided an elementary school in an abandoned town over the mountain. It had been left and untouched, after all, because who bothered with school supplies when the world ended? Yet you came away with treasures: coloring books and workbooks, crayons by the hundreds, pencils, scissors, paints, paper that hadn't rotted away in the twenty years it had been left. Your little building became a schoolhouse in no time, shelves full of books and crafts and trinkets found along the way. Each item seemed small, but meant everything to you.
And on your birthday, Jesse and Dina had surprised you with an entire chalkboard and a box filled with little white sticks. The moment you laid your eyes on it, you fell into their arms, laughing and weeping all at once.
Today, a warm spring afternoon, you were out in the community garden with the children, all of them crouched among the rows of mulch and sprouting harvest. You'd been teaching them about roots and leaves, how the soil and sun worked together to make things grow, how they love to lean towards the light. You taught them how there was some inexplicable thing about nature that liked to be sung to. Halfway through leading them in a cheerful round of You Are My Sunshine, you noticed Tommy Miller heading your way, a broad grin on his face and someone at his side.
You rose from your kneeling position, dusting the dirt from your palms and smoothing your yellow dress, calling out to the children, "You can pick off one vegetable each—and I do mean one, Joey!"
"Mornin'," Tommy said warmly upon your approach. His smile was so wide his freckle-dusted cheeks were flushed pink, radiating a kindness that always put you at ease.
"Morning, Tommy," you replied, leaning in to greet each other with a kiss on the cheek. You turned back to double check the rows of children—still eighteen heads like giggling blossoms between the thicket of greenery—before turning back to your visitor, a little breathless, "How are you?"
“I’m wonderful, honey, thank you,” he said, hands settling on his hips in his usual easy stance. “Wanted to introduce you to one of our new folks. This here’s my brother, Joel.”
"Hi, Joel," you greeted warmly, offering your hand. He inclined his head, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth as his thick palm closed around yours. He was so warm and gentle, fingers worn with rough calluses and his hand swallowed yours in its grasp. You suddenly caught yourself staring at the silver threading through his dark hair and the broad cut of his shoulders before you let go.
"Joel here's gonna be helpin' with that schoolhouse of yours," Tommy continued once your hands had parted, clapping his hand onto the broad cup of his brother's shoulder, "roof's been in bad shape since the winter. And he's the man to fix it."
"Oh, I'd really appreciate it so much," you replied, eyes brightening, until you hesitated, "I'll still be able to teach, though?" you glanced back at the children as you spoke, counting again, the instinct automatic. Still eighteen.
Joel spoke for the first time then, his voice low and even, pleasantly rough, "Yes, ma'am, shouldn't get in your way too much."
Your eyes flicked to him, startled by the warmth in his tone. “What a shame,” you said softly, catching yourself and smiling, "but I'm glad I'll still be able to teach."
Tommy’s eyes moved between his brother and you, quick and curious.
"Well, we'll let you get back to it," he said, his hand clapping one more time on Joel before giving you one more beaming smile. As his one hand left his brother's shoulder, the other found the small of your back in parting, light and friendly, "You take care now, honey,"
"You too," you returned, a blush reaching your cheeks as your gaze found Joel's once more. His eyes held yours for a fraction longer than polite, so pretty you wondered how many colors you'd have to mix to get the hazel right. And then he nodded his goodbye, and parted with Tommy.
Joel
You see, when Joel was younger—when he had a mortgage to pay and a job to keep and a house to care for—it riddled him with gut-wrenching anxiety. He would ignore it, and could usually keep his head on long enough to get through the day, wishing to hit his head to a pillow and sleep it off, only to be left wide awake at night, begging his eyelids to shut. He would toss and turn, pleading for his brain to shut off, to put away the worry and just let him fucking sleep. It was a specific feeling in his stomach then—he couldn't eat or drink much without it churning painfully in his gut. It got so bad he started taking little while pills to help with the sores in his stomach. That's when the doctor told him he had anxiety.
That's what he was feeling now.
That stomach rolling, wide eyed feeling, staring up at his ceiling.
But this time, it wasn't because he had a baby to feed in a recession or because he had to hold a job he couldn't be sure he had the next day. It wasn't about reminding himself about soccer dues or another part needed for his truck to even get to the job he wasn't sure he'd had.
No, no.
Joel Miller had a fucking crush.
It turned tides in his stomach even as he thought it.
Butterflies, he’d call it, you know, if he was five years old. He fisted his palms into his eyes, willing them to close, to let him fucking sleep. Twenty years into the end of the world and his brain was worried what you’d thought of him today. What that look in your eyes meant as you realized you’d be seeing him a lot more now that the roof to your school was so decayed from winter’s wet blanket the last four months.
The next few days did not make it much easier.
He and Ellie were given the rest of the weekend to settle in, to get their bearings and meet the other folks in town, and if anything the reprieve only made it worse. He kept seeing you—everywhere—in such small, ordinary ways that made it impossible to ignore the flipping in his stomach.
He saw you at the stables, saying hello to the horses and the parents of a young boy, your hand resting on the boy’s shoulder while you listened like nothing else mattered. That next night, he saw you outside the Tipsy Bison with a glass of wine in your hand, your cheeks pink as a man flirted openly with you and you tried to laugh it off as if trying not to hurt his feelings. Joel didn’t feel bold enough to talk to you yet, but every now and then, when he checked back to see if you were still there, you would already be looking at him.
You wore the prettiest things too: a yellow dress one day with little frills at the sleeves, pale pink the next, soft and muddy at the hem as you picked vegetables. Then, Sunday afternoon he saw you on your porch wearing a pretty blue one as you painted, a small bouquet of flowers tucked into your apron pocket.
And the people of Jackson loved you.
Little children brought you treats, the stable boy offering his apple to you, the bartender at the Tipsy Bison not letting you exchange a single thing for your drink. In the market a woman gave you flowers because they matched that blue dress, not allowing your objections to the thoughtful gesture. And when Joel slipped you into conversation that Sunday night at dinner at Tommy and Maria's, his brother was all smiles and pride at what you'd done with that building on the side of town. How the place made it feel like the old days, steadier and alive because of you. And then, almost baffled, Tommy added he couldn’t believe you’d been single, on your own all this time, always tending to the children and never worrying about anyone’s flirtations.
Joel didn't get any sleep that night.
On Monday morning, he was at the kitchen table, sunlight beaming through the window in pale stripes across the worn wood. Ellie sat across from him, kicking her feet with restless irritation as she hunched over her notebook. The only sound in the room was Joel's fork against the porcelain in front of him, and her pen scratching doodles in the lines of the paper.
Joel pushed his eggs around his plate, managing a few bites only because he knew better than to skip eating altogether. His stomach rolled anyway, just like it had been all night.
“Sounds to me like you’re bored,” he said around a bite of egg, swallowing the lump in his throat, forcing his voice to stay easy, normal. “And need a job.”
Ellie snorted, finally glancing up from the notebook, pen held aloft “Where?” she asked, and then pointed the pen at him, threatening. “And don’t tell me farm duty. That sucked so bad I can’t imagine why anyone would ever sign up for that.” She rolled her eyes dramatically, then set the pen aside and reached for a slice of apple, dragging it through the mason jar of peanut butter beside her plate before taking a bite. Mid chew, she added, “And no one will let me train for patrol yet.”
Joel stood and gathered her empty plate with his own, twisting the lid back onto the jar and sliding it out of reach before she could go back for more. She tended to like to stick her entire finger in the jar when she ran out of apple slices.
“Hey!” Ellie protested.
“Get up,” Joel said, jerking his chin toward the door. “You’re comin’ with me.”
“I can’t do manual labor,” she yelled after him, chair scraping loudly as she stood. “I don’t even know how to use a screwdriver!”
“Lucky for you,” he said, throwing on his boots, keeping his back to her so she wouldn’t see the way his jaw was set, “the job I got in mind requires minimal manual labor.”
He paused, glancing over his shoulder. “That is, unless you count havin’ to pick up and carry around forty-somethin’ pounds every so often.”
You
"Ellie here has been needin' a job," Joel explained on the doorstep of your schoolhouse. His eyes wouldn't meet yours the entire time he'd been saying hello, introducing Ellie as he stared at her. She was cute—red haired, freckle faced. And Joel had a soft smile as he looked at her, even though his arms were folded tightly across his chest. You wondered for a moment if the smile was saying something else between them, an inside joke you didn't know, a little smug and teasing as she elbowed him.
"Uh, hi," Ellie said with a polite grin, a little shy.
You smiled back, bright and sincere, "I'm really so grateful to have you," you said as you greeted the kids filing in around you. The schoolhouse was streaked with winter's melt, the sunflowers and bees now faded, "We're learning about the solar system today, so it'll be great to have an extra pair of hands."
You sounded a little exasperated, but really, there couldn't have been a better day for her arrival—paper mache, planets, glue and scissors and paint all in the hands of eighteen of Jackson's five year olds. Planning it had been exciting, especially when you'd found a book on Space Exploration for Dummies. But now, staring down the barrel of the day ahead, you were immensely grateful for the teenager to help out.
As the last child filed inside, Ellie followed, her face brightened and excited, and you turned to close the door and bid her guardian goodbye. As you reached for the handle, you caught one more glance at Joel as he finally looked up at you.
You wondered if it was winter’s last nip of the morning, or if he’d always been so pink in the cheeks, but you could’ve sworn Joel Miller was blushing.
The day carried on, and eighteen miniature solar systems came to life. There were planets strung on yarn and stars splattered with paint on black paper you'd spent all night painting the days before. Glue was dried between small fingers, markers rolled beneath desks, laughter filling the space. Ellie was absolutely radiant as she darted between tables to help the little ones.
"Did you know the moon smells like gun powder?" she'd asked, grinning as the kids gasped, "gun powder's the stuff they use to make weapons work, like when your parents go on patrol. Same stuff. Cool, right?"
"Did you know the first animals in space were fruit flies? Everyone always says monkeys, but nope—flies! They sent them for radiation exposure."
"Did you know the heat sheilds on shuttles are made of sand? No seriously!!"
By the third fact, you'd decided maybe she should've been teaching the lesson herself.
When the day finally wound down, gluey hands washed clean and paints capped, Ellie stood at the sink, carefully working the brushes under running water. She had gone a little quiet once the kids all left for supper, her voice soft when she finally spoke to you as you cleaned up. “Thanks for letting me… you know… help out.”
You smiled, pouring the cloudy rinse water into the basin beside her. “I think that was the best lesson yet. You were amazing.”
Ellie’s grin widened, freckles dancing across her nose, her eyes bright and alive. You shared a quiet, easy moment there, just smiling at each other.
There was a knock on the open door behind you, and a familiar voice called out.
"Ready to head home?"
You and Ellie both turned. Joel stood in the doorway, filling it with his broad frame, his shirt darkened with sweat at the collar and under his arms, hands dirt-smudged, a strip of white gauze wrapped around his left palm.
Ellie dried her hands quickly and grabbed her backpack, slinging it over one shoulder as she walked towards him. But instead of stopping in front of him, she went around, looking sheepishly up at him from outside, “Uh…Kat actually invited me over. We’re gonna hang out.” she shrugged, “Save me some dinner?”
Joel blinked, “I—okay, uh, yeah.”
Ellie’s eyes found you once more, “Thanks again, Miss!”
You waved her off with a small smile, then wiped your hands on your yellow apron, untied it, and draped it over the back of your chair. When you sat on the edge of the desk, the fatigue caught up with you all at once, settling into your bones as the quiet finally took hold. The room was clean now, desks straightened, floors swept, but the day still clung to you—glue under your fingernails, paint in your hair, the usual. There was an exhaustion in your bones, but the good kind, from a day well spent.
Joel stood awkwardly at the door for a moment, picking at the bandage on his left hand, shifting once before clearing his throat, “She tends to run her own schedule, sorry ‘bout that,”
You laughed softly, “She’s wonderful.”
He looked up at that, his eyes finding yours, and god, they really were so pretty. Every color from the forest under a thick, dark brow. He looked at you like he wasn’t expecting the praise, like the compliment hit somewhere tender.
“Yeah. She is,” he murmured, eyes dropping again, the pink returning to his cheeks.
You tilted your head, smiling gently. “She was incredible today. And the kids loved her. I think she taught half the lesson for me.”
“Well,” Joel scratched the back of his neck, bashful, “she’s always loved space, never stops talkin' about it whenever she can.”
“That’s a good thing here,” you said softly. “I could use someone who talks a lot. I’m usually outnumbered by eighteen little voices.”
You both watched each other for a long moment, and you felt like you were cataloging him. Broad shoulders, dark hair, that thick peppered beard and thick bottom lip. You blushed before trying to look away, but then something caught your eye.
“Joel?” you asked gently, your eyes finally realizing that bandage hadn’t been there this morning, “What happened to your hand?”
He seemed startled that you’d noticed, following your gaze down to the bandage as if it had only just occurred to him. “Oh. It’s nothin’,” he said. “Just… been a while since I done much construction. Roof was worse’n I thought. Should throttle Tommy for leavin' you to a rotted decking for so long."
You pushed yourself up from the desk without thinking, concern warming your expression as you stepped closer. “Still,” you said, “it must’ve hurt.”
He shrugged, trying to play it off, but he flushed pink again, “It’s fine. Really.”
But he didn’t pull away when you reached for his arm. You took his bandaged hand carefully, your fingers gentle as you adjusted the loose wrap, neatening it without comment. He went very still beneath your fingers, watching you the whole time, as if he weren’t used to being tended to, as if the simple act of care was something new and overwhelming.
“I’m glad you’re helping with the schoolhouse,” you said quietly after a minute, your fingers resting on the thick of his arm. “We really needed it. Tommy and Maria, I mean… and me.”
His eyes moved between yours, something shy in his smile. “Happy to,” he said. “Really.”
You couldn't stop looking up at him, studying him, watching him watch you. His beard had been trimmed since yesterday, the dark thick hair still threaded with silver, neater than it was, and the thought surprised you with how fond it made you feel.
Joel's expression was changing as you watched him. Your hand still laid on his arm, just delicate and gentle, not even putting pressure. You hadn’t realized how near you’d drifted until you were almost chest to chest, your breath catching a little at the space between you, at how solid he felt, how steady.
He lowered his arms slowly, careful not to startle you, and then his bandaged hand lifted, hesitant, as if he were asking permission with the motion itself. His fingers pinched a streak of blue paint caught in your hair.
"You really are somethin, miss honey," he murmured as he dragged the color from your hair.
"My name's—not—I—"
But you couldn't make the words form. It was your turn to blush and stammer, as his hand tucked the hair away, and he inhaled. You could feel your breath being stolen from him. His smile was shy but widening, maybe amused as he realized you were suddenly as nervous as him.
"What’re you doin’ tonight?” he asked quietly, hope threaded through the question. His voice was so low, so gravelly but soft. You wanted to close your eyes just to hear it like a hymn.
You hummed, a little delirious at the closeness, at the smell of the mint on his breath. You wondered if he'd gotten some from the garden before coming here.
"Nothing." you answered.
You realized then he hadn’t dropped his hand from your ear. He was still holding your face, thumb warm where it brushed your temple.
He hesitated, and you watched his eyes move around the focals of your face, your eyes, your nose, your lips—oh god—and it made your chest feel too small for your heart, made you suddenly aware of your own mouth, the way you were breathing.
And then, gathering his courage, he said: “Dinner?”
You lifted your hand without thinking, circling his wrist where it hovered, a quiet little anchor, and it was like the touch finally caught up with him. His breath hitched, his shoulders softened. This big, broad man suddenly unsure in the sweetest, most disarming way, offering you something fragile and waiting to see if you’d take it.
“I’d like that,” you said, smiling back, a little breathless yourself. “I can bring coffee, if you—”
His entire expression changed in a glimpse. The cautious set of his brows lifted, the corners of his mouth lifting wider, and his eyes sparkled like embers catching light.
“There’s coffee?” he asked, almost boyishly hopeful.
You couldn’t help the way your smile widened in return, your tongue finally finding its way back to you as you wet your lips and remembered how to speak.
“Every once in a while the bakery gets some,” you said softly. “I teach the owner’s kids, so… I usually get first dibs when it comes in.”
He let out a quiet breath that was almost a laugh, and only then seemed to realize his hand was still on your face. He lowered it slowly, careful, and you followed the movement without thinking, your fingers sliding from his wrist down to his hand until you were only holding the tips of each other’s fingers.
“That sounds….” he said, earnest and a little unsteady. “That would be real nice, honey.”
You looked at him for a long moment, both of you smiling in a soft, stunned way that felt too big for words.
“Walk me home?” you asked, quiet and hopeful.
He glanced out at the open door, the evening settling into purples and oranges, then back at you, and his hand slipped further into yours, squeezing it once.
✦ Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader
✦ Summary: Arthur comes back from Hell. But in the end, will you be his salvation or his demise?
✦ Warnings/tags: SMUT 18+, MDNI! p in v, coming inside, praising, comfort, mention of violence, blood and explicit physical wounds, trauma.
✦ Words: 5.6k
✦ a/n: It's finally here!!! I can't believe it!! I'm so nervous, hope this won't disapoint! Also I wrote this with this song on repeat so yeah, you can have it on in the background while reading.
Arthur's pic is mine, others are from Pinterest.
[AO3 here]
Part I - Part II - Part III
ARTHUR
This is the end.
This time, he's going to die, in a fucking dingy basement, captured by the O'Driscolls, beaten, blood rushing to his head and pressing on his temples like a wrench squeezing his bones.
He doesn't know how much time has passed in his cell. Minutes that feel like hours that feel like weeks. Every square inch of his body is in agony; he feels himself crumbling like a dry clay doll being stretched.
He'll end up dying here, alone or surrounded by this vermin, after everything that's happened.
After little Jack's joy, after John's return, after Abigail's smile, hunting trips with Charles, Uncle's awful jokes. After the warmth of your arms.
Arthur is suffering. Physically, that's for sure, but also mentally. Now, in the darkest hours of his life, after being battered, shot, and humiliated like an animal, the last scene he shared with you continues to torment him, as if to deliver the final blow.
The way you rejected him. He should have known better. It was all he deserved anyway, him and his ugly face, his murderous hands, and his heart of stone. A single question remains, then —why did it take you so damn long? The euphoria you had shared, like teenage lovers, had only served to make your separation even more unbearable.
A gentle stroll that ultimately leads a pig to the slaughterhouse.
YOU
Dutch had returned alone with that blonde snake. Something is off with this whole mission; you knew it from the start. The moment you had seen them leave camp together, you had inquired for information from Pearson and Hosea. The older one had also shared his doubts with you about the nature of the interview requested by Colm, his gray eyes gleaming with concern. A trap. It had to be one.
You try to busy yourself with something, anything. To suppress the heavy and overwhelming minutes of time, stretched out by the effect of anxiety. It's funny how time always passed differently when it came to Arthur. Normally, it would have seemed shorter, though. But this time… This time, time is like an endless fresco stretching on and on.
Night comes. You don't sleep well.
ARTHUR
Colm had left the dark room after twisting the knife in the wound. Strutting around him like a devil dancing around a bonfire, he had confided in him the details of his diabolical plan.
Setting up a false meeting with Dutch to lure him in. Search for him, knock him down and capture him to bring in Dutch and everyone else in his trap. Warn the law, throw all the gang into the lion's den. Quick and easy. Proper work. All his enemies gone, plus the benefit of having the Law occupied by a way juicier fish.
Realizing it, that's when something lit up deep inside his guts once again.
They were going to come. They were going to rush straight into danger. His family. They were going to die because of him. Most of the men, at first. And then, once all the fighters had been caught, hanged in a shabby town, and buried six feet under, what would happen to the others?
No. That's out of the question. The silence and coldness of the few square meters of his prison receive his promise. Between grunts of pain and fatigue, and a few cracks of his bones, he promises himself. He will get out of here. He will never be the burden that destroyed his kin.
He would live to see your lively eyes again and beg them to grant him one last glance.
✧.*
Swinging then swinging again. Like the pendulum of a clock. He then feels his heavy, aching body crash against the shapeless floor. The inside of his head is a shapeless mush after hours of pressure. His movements are punctuated by deep wheezes. He feels the chains being removed from his feet and heads toward the tiny office lit only by candlelight. Yes, yes! He would be fine, but only if he removes the bullet and heal the wound. "Ya always have to burn a bullet wound, Arthur. Otherwise it gets infected from the inside, and then there's nothing you can do but die of fever, I'm tellin' ya." Hosea's words guide him more than his own fried brain. The file burns through the flame of the candle. He twists it in the wound, the pain unimaginable, the sounds of his destroyed flesh disgusting. The horrors of this reality are overwhelming him. He feels his mind wandering elsewhere as his body, moved by its own will, executes the pain necessary for his survival.
The silhouette of your body through the fabric of your tent, on that very first night when it all began.
He presses on the hole in his skin, blood spurting from it like a mountain source.
The red of your shawl, left deliberately in his room, then its softness in his hands.
He grabs a rifle bullet left there, like a twist of fate, and pulls out the base with his teeth.
Your lips capturing his, all the times you did.
He sprinkles the powder on his wound. Half of it joins the blackness of the ground.
Your two bodies dancing with lust, his cock plunged deep into you.
He slowly, atrosioucsly slowly, brings the candle closer, the warmth spreads through his hand.
It's done.
A bliss like no one had ever given him before as he comes, the pleasure almost too good for him to bear.
A white pain splits his muscles and skull as the powder ignites, burning the damaged cells and eliciting a cry of pain from his dry throat.
Voices from his captors can be heard from the outside. Adrenaline rushes through his veins like tree roots sink into the earth.
Blackness, and then, when he came back to his senses, he was on his horse, riding through the night.
Now he must flee back home.
*
A stupid thoughts crosses his mind. Could he be able to speak about all that happened to someone? Could anyone understand how destroying it was?
No.
No, this was between him, his horse, and Death. What he had experienced was like a dive into Hell and one hand tearing it out. His own hand. He had escaped on his own. His body, pushed to its limits, was nothing but suffering flesh and creaking bones. Sa peau, chaleur et effritement. His eyes, bouillant and so tired that he could no longer keep them open. His hands, only joints vaguely made of nerves that he keeps on his horse’s neck out of pure self-preservation. His insides, a tangled knot of anxiety and anger. His soul? A remnant, a shred of what had once been a difficult life filled with misery and struggles—for survival, always for survival.
To live one more day.
Always live one more day.
At least one more day.
YOU
The characteristic sound of hooves on leaves at the camp entrance suddenly pulls you out of your dark thoughts. A silhouette slowly takes shape, staggering. A groan escapes it, barely human. A mass falls from what turns out to be a horse. Arthur's horse.
Wearing only his union suit, the man collapses on the ground with a cry of pain, unable to go any further, having finally reached his destination. His El Dorado. His salvation. Your legs move before you can even think about it, driven by a protective instinct you didn't know you had. You almost slip as you run to him, then fall to your knees beside him, the underside of your previously immaculate dress stained with mud.
His eyes barely open, he only seems to react when you call his name, fear and dread spilling from it like swamps during the most abundant floods. "Arthur!" The camp goes silent at your heart-rending scream, just a second of stillness and surprise, during which you can hear his hoarse voice whispering your name in an almost imploring whisper in disbelief.
Then, everyone's on him, as if a dozen crows had swooped down on their prey at the same time, crowding around him.
Mary Beth, then Karen, both echoing you by repeating his name in desperate calls for his sanity. Then a much deeper one —Dutch. It is only then that Arthur speaks again, focusing his last strength to croak the words out of his parched lungs.
"Told ya it was a set up, Dutch…"
"My boy, my dear boy, what?" His voice is genuinely concerned. You search, but you doubt you have ever heard him in such a state.
"They got me… but I-ah I got away." He still keeps his eyes shut. You can't help but place your hand on his. It's ice cold.
"Yeah, that you did!" Pride. One of Dutch's hands gently caresses his forehead for a brief second. Then, the commanding tone of the gang's leader is back. "Miss Grimshaw! I need help! Reverend Swanson?!"
Miss Grimshaw is the first to answer his call. You can hear her hurried footsteps in the leaves without even seeing her. Your eyes dart to the rest of Arthur's body. That's when the color strikes you. Red on red, peacock butterfly on a Dahlia —blood covering his union suit. The gaping hole that digs into the flesh between his collarbone and shoulder. A shiver of fear runs down your spine, and you force your gaze back to his face.
"He was gonna set the law on us…!" He exclaims louder, voice still as raspy as a razor on stones.
"Oh, of course he was!" Dutch spits as he slowly gets his most loyal soldier to sit. Arthur's face contorts in pain with every move.
You feel his hand closing around yours. Out of a survival instinct? Out of love? You feel guilty for thinking such a thing in a situation like this. He was alive. In critical condition, perhaps, but he had made it home, and he was alive. Hisfreezing fingers, even rougher than usual, cling to yours as if it were his way of clinging to life.
A new person bursts onto the scene of this distressing situation. A distressed Pearson apologizes profusely when he sees Arthur's condition. Dutch is quick to retort, bitterness at its peak, "It's a bit late for apologies! SWANSON!". The wanted Reverend finally joins you around Arthur, providing words of comfort.
Under Grimshaw's order, Dutch and Pearson lift him up, Arthur screaming from pain, the gut-twisting sound sending a shiver down your spine once again. They drag him to his tent and put him to bed. Arthur sounds almost delirious, laughing with his breathless voice, as if his lungs were made of coal.
"That's pretty Dutch! Ah, that's real pretty." He's out in only a few seconds, eyes closing again.
There's real worry on the gang chief's face. He asks Grimshaw to stay by Arthur's side. You don't wait for his permission to stay. As he retreats from Arthur's tent, the matriarch doesn't question your presence either. Seems like everybody, not only Mary-Beth, had totally understood what was going on between the two of you in the end. Were you the only one oblivious to your own feelings all this time? How fucking stupid you had been. Regret laced with shame settled deep in your belly as you sat next to Arthur to watch over him, unable to leave his side.
✧.*
The first five hours are the worst.
Arthur's condition isn't improving one bit. He's in a weird state, sometimes sleeping, sometimes barely opening his eyes, delirious, muttering words that only he can understand. A terrible fever causes beads of sweat to form on his forehead, and Grimshaw sends you to get water, several towels, and specific herbs from Hosea. The old man steps in several times when the matriarch needs to take a rest. Overall, a bit of everyone comes to take a peek at Arthur, the girls whispering kind words to him, the men standing awkwardly and wishing he would get better soon. Charles helps you clean his wound with an ointment of his own.
The only constants in the tent are you and Arthur's miserable health.
The first day passes.
Fortunately, neither Dutch nor Grimshaw asks for your help. Arthur’s fever is finally starting to break., after hours of agony. When he seems more awake, you try to feed him a very light broth specially prepared by Pearson, spoonful by spoonful. He still doesn't open his eyes nor talk, though.
You bring a few books and some sewing supplies to his bedside. Sometimes, when he’s too restless, you gently take his hand and hold it for several long minutes, thinking about the moment he left the camp for the last time. Other times you gently run your fingertips over his forehead or cheeks, hoping that the softness of your touch might bring him some comfort.
Once his fever has broken, he seems to sleep like a log—almost too soundly not to worry you— for hours on end. You hold your breath every time he does, wondering if he’ll make it through the night.
Regrets still surround you like vultures as you begin the second night.
✧.*
Arthur isn't exactly dreaming. His weakened mind strings together shapes, sounds, and memories. Faces also come and go, blending the past and the present in an unsettling dance. Hosea and Dutch, both young then old, Mary, Abigail, John. Jack's face turns into Isaac's, which turns into a grave topped with a peony. Mr Mason takes a photo of an injured deer and raves about the creature. Mary refuses his marriage proposal. His mother kisses him on the forehead. His father places his hat on his hair.
The bright dawn sun envelops him as he camps in the mountains. Its disk turns into a Cattleman revolver's cylinder. He fires hundreds of times as Dutch places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. The bullets fly like silver butterflies before exploding into a cloud of smoke.
Suddenly, a bright crimson color catches his eye. It's a bit like being disturbed by a glare from the light's reflection. He turns his head and sees a twirling shape escape and disappear into the darkness of his feverish delirium. He follows it.
The shape guides him through the different scenes of his life. Through his pains, through his joys. He reaches out to grab it. He runs after it now, the shape whirling and sparkling like a bird of paradise in the darkness. It is so close, he can almost feel it beneath his fingers. He closes his fist around it and...
A flash of light.
His eyelids open with difficulty onto reality, heavy and numb. His voice from beyond the grave shatters the deathly silence that had reigned in the tent until then:
"Wh-what the… [Name]?"
The sharp sound of an object suddenly being dropped on the floor rings in his ears.
"Oh my god -Arthur!"
You're looking at him with an infinite and desamring care he isn't used to, especially from you. Arthur doesn't understand right away. He takes a moment to acknowledge where he is —okay, his tent, on his cot. How his body feels —definitely bad, especially his bullet wound. And what he's doing —lying there in the dark, only an oil lamp illuminating the surroundings softly, and he's holding your hand. He's holding. Your hand. The precocious panic linked to his survival gradually subsides as he comes to terms with the fact that he is no longer at the O'Driscolls', that he has made it home. That it was over. He feels the warmth of your skin and gazes at your silhouette in the dim light, an angel after his ordeal.
That's when it strikes him. It was a shawl.
The red shape was a shawl.
"Y-you…" He loudly clears his throat, as if it could help get out the sounds more smoothly. "How long have I been out there?"
"Oh God, at least… At least two days."
"And asleep?"
"Two more."
The soudns of the night takes over for just a few seconds as he lets the information sink in.
"And you've stayed here?" He pauses, as if weighing his words, studying your face. "All that time?" Something in him already knew you did.
"Y-yeah, I mean, everyone came to check on you, you know, Dutch, Hosea, Grimshaw…" You realise you're lying to yourself. Nobody stayed at his side as you did. You push away your desire to lie. No more of that after losing him. After days of thinking he could die any second. You sigh, looking directly at him, "I mean… I guess I did."
Arthur's eyes are wide open for the first time in days. Their color pierces your soul. You had almost forgotten how bright they were. A blue so fierce and rich it could almost have come straight from the ocean. Except that instead of a storm raging through his irises, this time they evoked a sense of unexpected calm. Like the paradisiacal turquoise waters of a cove known only to the sea, where secrets and confessions are welcomed and sheltered in the warm sand.
There's a comfortable silence again. It holds everything between the two of you; his realisation that he was safe and sound again, that he had been out for so long, and your relief to find him in good health again. His deep, unused voice gently breaks it.
"Thank you."
Your fingers press his harder.
There's something in you that wants to jump and hug him so close, so dearly, just to make sure he was really there talking to you. There are so many things you wanted to say. You had thought about it at length, back when you were avoiding each other, and then he had left on that damn mission. But now that it was finally time, you couldn't. Nothing crossed your lips. You looked at him, pushing yourself, doing your best to shut down all the voices in your head that kept repeating you shouldn't.
"Arthur there's… There are things I want to say but-"
He patiently waits.
He always is, so patient. His kindness towards you after your rejection is too much, and you feel your defenses gradually crumbling until… You burst.
"I was so stupid! God how stupid I was, I never should have pushed you away! I just -I thought about what Mary-Beth told me and, and…" You feel the characteristic scorching on your eyelids starting, but it's too late now. You're launched like a locomotive, and there's no stopping you now. "And I was so scared I would hurt you, or you would hurt me, so I decided to get away from you but it was the worst decision of my life and now," Your voice quivers at the words, too grave to be said straight, "And now you almost died-"
"Hey. 'S okay."
"N-no, it's not! I've been horrible to you for nothing and-"
He calls your name in a more domineering way, making him wince in pain at his wounded muscles. "I said, it's okay, women. Don't make a sick man yell now, would'ya?"
He carefully lifts himself up on his elbows, just enough to reach your face with his hand. He wipes your tears, attentive as if he were painting the most beautiful piece of art he could dream of. He sighs.
"Just… Jus' come here."
And he pulls you close against him. And suddenly there are no more words needed. His arms close around you as you lie all against him, your own hands snaking his body. It's like you both need to press the other as hard as you can. His face buries in your neck, and he stays there as his hands hold onto your flesh hard. He breathes your smell, that same one he had fantasized so many times before. But now it was more than that, now it was like coming back home after being on the run for weeks and recognizing the spices of your kitchen, the cotton scents of your sheets and the woodsy aromas of the fire in your fireplace.
"I thought- God, I thought this time would be the last." His words are heavy with meaning, and it's not only the dehydration that makes them quiver. If you didn't know any better, you could almost feel him trembling against you.
You don't try to push him to talk more. You gently lace your finger in his hair, caressing him tenderly, receiving his feelings and words as they are.
"It's okay now. You're home. You're safe."
A heavy sigh, almost like a strangled sob, blurts from him, but you don't feel any tears against your skin. His hands hold you like you're the last person on Earth. Your own thoughts come back in your mind. Can a shattered heart nurse another one? You thought it was impossible. And yet, Arthur was the living proof it was possible, because he was the one mending yours piece by piece. You had looked at the whole problem in the wrong way.
The words cross your lips before you can think more about it:
"And… I love you."
You can feel him freeze, breath stopping for a few seconds before leaning back so he can look at your face.
"Ya mean it?"
"Yes, I thought about it. A lot. Those last days were… the worst days of my life. And not only the days when you were gone. I also mean, erm… Before that."
He hangs on your every word with an intensity that only he could muster. His blue eyes sparkle in the lamplight, shimmering with golden highlights against their blue backdrop, like thousands of stars reflecting off the waves. He palms the side of your face. You can almost see your words sink inside of him as his face gets closer, not darting away from you for one second.
Men crush under his stare. Girls fall in love. You, you find your way home.
"I love you too."
Your lips get back to one another as the caged bird comes back to the sky; impetuous, inevitable, liberating. You're both a pile of mingled limbs, touch searching, legs intertwined, chest and hips pressing. It's like everything left unsaid between the two of you had been sliced by the gravity of what had happened. Far from the soft sensation they're usually offering you, his skin is dry and cut, and you're wondering if it hurts him. He doesn't seem to care at all, touching you everywhere, tongue searching for yours, desperately.
His hips grinds against you, but a groan of pain cuts his move. You stop, worried, and ask him if he's okay.
"God damn it," He hisses, visibly frustrated. "I'm fine, I'm fine." He soothes you, but his eyebrows are crunched, his jaws tight. "I'll never forgive Colm for ruining our reunion."
He's joking of course, but you know him. Your fingers gently stroke his forearm.
"Take it easy, alright? You're still hurt, sweetheart."
"I know but…" His eyes dart away from you, a light blush that had nothing to do with his health spreading on his face, his mouth crooked in a pout. His pupils come back to you slowly, almost shameful. "I want ya."
"Arthur…"
"We'll do it slow."
"Arthur!"
"Don't worry, I'll stop if anythin' happens. Jus… help me get rid of this."
Stubborn as a damn log. At least he's still himself, you laugh to yourself. With a resigned chuckle, you carefully strip him from his union suit. It's still covered in sweat and blood, a reminder of what he had lived only two days ago. Once bared, he let out a sigh of relief, feeling like a snake shedding off its old skin. He turns to you as you take care of your own clothes.
His stare follows your every move, devouring your curves, mentally drawing every detail of you as if to compare with his memories. There's still this adoration, this burning passion, just like the very first time in that room in Rhodes.
You're naked now. The fresh air prickles your skin. He curses out loud, swearing he had never seen you that beautiful, not even in his wildest dreams, and Lord knows he had some real' nasty ones.
"Turn your back t'me." He asks in a drawl, opening his arms for you to settle against his chest.
He's spooning you from behind, cock pressed against your ass, that familiar torrid sensation spreading everywhere in your body. His big, strong arms, even though tired, cage you in and press your back against his chest. He leaves love-filled kisses on your shoulder, tracing a line of veneration in its crook. His right hand starts to wander on your chest to palm your breast, kneading gently, reverently. It's almost like he's discovering you again, and maybe after what he had been through, he really is. Like remembering how it feels to drink water after days in the desert. His fingers play with your flesh as he lets out an appreciative groan against your shoulder.
"God I've missed ya." He simply let out, and you can feel his cock twitching in neediness.
"I missed you too, so much, Arthur. I'm so sorry for what I've…"
"Shh." He hushes you, now heading for your belly, drawing circles there, dangerously close to the lower part of your body. "Don't talk about it anymore. S' okay, it's forgiven."
As if to prove his point, he palms your core, slipping the tips of his fingers between your folds. You both sigh in unison. Funny, how even in this state, he was the one taking care of you in that moment. Maybe that's what he needed to recover completely. His thumb settles on your clit, rough, hard, perfect like him. He presses and starts stroking it as he knows you like it. He relishes in your sounds, feeling a bit more alive each time he drags one out of you.
"That's it, girl. Thaaat's it." He encourages with a low rasp, hips slowly rolling against your rear, "You ready for me?"
"Y-yeah," Is the only word you can mutter, too deep in your pleasure already.
His hand reluctantly leaves your pussy as he aligns himself, pushing one of your asscheeks up. His cockhead penetrates you softly, slowly, and doesn't stop until he's in to the brim. God, does it feel right to be full of him again. He must feel the same, because his face is back in the crook of your neck and his breath is burning hot, tingling you there.
He slowly withdraws and shoves himself back again. It's slow, it's intense, it's everything you both needed. It's intimate. Despite having laid together so many times, this one feels like it's the first you truly feel each other's, making one, making love. He sets a gentle pace, but goes balls-deep each time he thrusts back into you. You can't remember any man hitting a spot that deep inside of you before, whether it's its length or the position, you don't fucking care, each time his cockhead bumps into the end of you, it drags a muffled scream from your throat.
Arthur is losing himself in you. Skin against skin, he can feel every inch of your body against his, and he couldn't die happier than buried like that inside of you. Your walls, wet and hot, are too incredible to feel after his descent into hell. It's almost too good to be true. Maybe he actually died, and that was Heaven opening its gate for him.
"I love ya". He repeats in your ears, before increasing his rhythm, just slightly. "Loved ya for so long. Damn, you're perfect t'me."
His praises have the effect of an electricity wave inside of you, making your back arch back, your ass pressing back against his hips, meeting his thrusts. "Shit, yeah," he curses in answer, "Ya better be prepared, cause we're doing this every god damn night to make up for all the days we lost."
You whine in acquiescence, lifting a hand to the side of his face. It's so different from a quick fuck, where you need him to go as fast as possible. There, he's building your pleasure gradually, every move of him inside feeling so good all along. His right hand is back on your clit, index and middle finger coiling against this delightful bud as he keeps pumping in from behind you.
"Arthur," You gasp, body tight and so ready for him to deliver you, "Honey, I'm so close."
"D'ya want me out or…?"
"N-no, you can come inside. I'm ready."
The implication of your answer makes his heart jump, from love, from desire, from joy, from too many feelings he can't even sort.
"Aah shit, shit!" Feeling his own relief coming, he can't help but indulge in bigger moves, balls and legs smacking against your ass, his forehead pressing against your neck in pure pleasure. A wave of sharp pain pierces back through his wounds, turning his grunts of pleasure into ones of ache, but he can't stop. He doesn't want to. He wants to make one with you until you're spent to your bones and purely satisfied.
Ignoring the distress of his wounded muscles, he concentrates on the only one that matters right now, shaft relentlessly plunging in and out of you, again and again and again. That last thrust so deep you scream out loud, and he finishes right there, shoved so deep inside of you, voice cracking in a hopeless moan. Your own orgasm crashes into you as your walls clench him, and it's perfection, reaching your peak with your pussy filled to the brim by him.
Completely spent, you both melt in that blissful state of satisfaction. Arthur stays inside, feeling so great like this, wanting to stay as long as he can. You feel him softening as your sounds turn into quiet sighs of fatigue and relief. His arms don't leave you either, instead holding you around your waist in a tender embrace.
"Mmh, ya still feel so good." He murmurs, eyes closed, on the verge of falling asleep like this.
"Could say the same about you." You retort, adding your hands to his arms.
The silence of the night cradles you both. You feel your own eyes closing. Minutes pass before Arthur finally gets himself off you, not without wincing.
"You alright? I did hurt you, right?" You try not to think about the double entendre of your question, turning your head so you can look at his face.
"S' nothing. And I was too close to jus' stop." He answers with a little chuckle.
You turn to completely face him. He hitches when your knee bumps into his and you instantly apologize. There was something so odd in seeing him so hurt when you're used to his body being a pile of marble. You feel him starting to drift away, but sleep doesn't come for you. Still, there's something that doesn't feel right, that still tightens your heart. You spoke out before he drifts completely into Morpheus's arms.
"Arthur… I really am sorry." You begin, wanting to continue, but his rough voice stops you.
"I said t'was forgiven, woman. And I always mean what I say." Unequivocal. There's still no point in arguing with a tree log.
You let his words melt happily into your brain, softly removing the chains tightening your heart. You bring your lips to his for a kiss, a tender one.
A loving one.
"I know."
✧.*
It takes Arthur two complete weeks to be back on his feet. You're by his side all this time. It's as if this ordeal had brought you even closer together than before, and in a way, that was exactly what had happened. Arthur is only too happy to be able to take something positive from it all. Like a sapling sprouting from the dark ashes after a village had burned down.
He didn't tell you what he saw when he dreamt during his fever, until a very long time.
Until, in fact, he is standing before you with a knee on the ground, a bright red bouquet in one hand and a gorgeous ring in the other, looking up at you with this devoted stare that melts your heart every time.
That's when he tells you. That this night, when he thought he was about to die, he thought about you to find the courage to burn his own wound. That it was you who carried him through sickness. That he had found his way back to life thanks to you. And since then, it had been true for every little moment with you, bringing him back the joy to be alive just as an angel of the Lord touches the damned with grace. Oh, how could he have known? That what had started as one of the most sinful acts he thought he had done would turned into the purest and most wonderful thing in his life.
It was more than he could have ever imagined.
And it was perfect.
Please consider interracting if you enjoyed! Reblogging and commenting is what get us going 🫶
a/n: Jesuuuuuus this is finally over. I can't believe I finally published this last part after all this time. I really hope it won't disapoint. I'm so grateful forthe love you all showed to this silly little series, and I really can't say thank you enough for all your comments and reblogs! Love you all!!
You were known as Hawkins High good girl, until you weren't (smut, p in v, fingering, language)
The desk- littered with papers, study notes and guides, lit only by the lamp that needed a new bulb. Your bed- cluttered with books and files and at the foot of it, clothes you were yet to worst between dirty and clean. You hand was cramping with pain at how tight you held your pen as you scribbled your notes.
But your mind couldn't be further from the task at hand.
A small creak from your bedroom door stole you attention.
"Good night, sweetheart," said your mom, peaking her head through the door. "Your dad and I are going to bed now, don't stay up too late studying."
You gave her a smile. "I won't, promise. Good night."
The door clicked softly shut behind your mom.
It wasn't long till another noise, smaller, insistent broke you from your thoughts.
You glanced at the clock first, eleven-thirty pm. On time, just as he said he would be. You set up your vinyl next, Hungry eyes, your favourite song of the moment.
There was more tapping at the window, small stones tapping on the glass. Any more, heavier, would alert your parents.
There was no time to sweep up the papers, hide the pile of clothes or make space on your bed. You gently pushed up your window and looked.
Steve was already half way up, using the hood of his precious car and your drain pipe to climb up like some prince in a fairy tale. He got to your window, holding tightly to the window pain with his foot lodged in a notch in the wall and drain pipe. "Special delivery."
"I thought I told you I was studying."
"Yeah, I know," he lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "Chemistry or Biology?"
You did not miss how his eyes raked down your body, taking in your own biology.
Steve pushed himself up, leaning over the threshold. "C'mon, I can help you study."
His lips met yours before any protest could pass your lips. He kissed away any thoughts you had of studying as he started slow, a gentle press of lips that quickly turned to his tongue prodding against the fat of your lip.
"My parents are down the hall," you mumbled against him, but your hands were already pawing at him.
Steve smirked. "Then we better study quietly."
He stumbled in, practically falling into your room.
"Shit- shit-"
"Shh!"
His foot caught in the window and he thudded in.
The two of you paused, a hand of yours on his arm as he stayed crouched like a ninja ready to pounce. You waited for a noise to pass from your parents bedroom down the hall.
You were still waiting in the room you'd grown up in when Steve's hands guided down to your hips, holding you as he bent and kissed along your neck.
You felt the reaction through your body, tingles running down your spine as his lips were soft and fluttering over your picking up pulse. "Steve, I really do have to study. The test is tomorrow."
He whined against your neck. "You've been studying every night all week, c'mon, it's Stevie time."
His lips found the crook of your shoulder and neck, finding a home there and taking his time in biting down.
It was instinct for your head to fall back to his shoulder, for your body to melt into his, for your core to pulse with need. You had denied yourself as long as you had denied him, this test taking up much of your time. You needed him as much as he needed you.
Steve was already breathless against your neck, an arm circling your waist and a large hand spawling over your sternum and pushing your backside into the hardness of his cock. He inhaled sharply, rocking his hips against your ass. "I've got something you can study."
In spite of the heat and the want you chuckled quietly. "That was corny."
Steve nipped at the slow red mark forming. "I know, baby, gimme a break, I'm desperate over here."
You turned in his hold, hands sliding down his sweater to go under and tease the hairs that adorned him. "How desperate?"
Steve only answered with a searing kiss, biting down on your bottom lip and soothing over the bite with his wet tongue. His hands were at your elbows, guiding you back to the desk, pinning you there.
Papers scrunched under you, notes falling and ink smudging as he lifted you there, kissing you while his hands worked under your shirt that was too big for you and one of his.
A hand groped a breast and he sucked in a deep breath.
"Missed you," he said, kissing down your neck, parting far enough to push your chair back and crouch down. "Missed you so much." He disappeared under the shirt and you felt his hot tongue and lips work over your other breast.
"St-Steve," you uttered, hands gripping the desk. "If I-If I fail this test it's your fault."
He moaned as he took your breast in mouth, the vibration urging you into him. "I can live with that."
It had started a year ago, Steve a senior, you a year below. Steve the king of the high school and you coined the good girl. The one who aced every test, because you studied excessively for every one of them. You were always the first to hand in your homework and get the extra credit in.
Heck, you already had collage applications ready.
But that night you'd gone to a party with a couple friends because the guy- Brad H- you had a school girl crush on was there. He'd even mentioned it to you while you were helping him study. You'd almost thought there was a reason he dropped that in- maybe he wanted you there.
But when you found him practically eating another girls face, you knew it had been a delusion.
You supposed it was that that had you in Steve Harrington's lap, naked from the waist down, his cock buried inside of you, pulsing as his hands helped you move up and down his length. It wasn't even a drunk mistake. It was an acumination of lingering glances across classrooms, you watching his games, him asking for your help in studying when he needed it.
He'd wanted you at the party as much as the guy's name you were struggling to remember.
"Oh fuck, yeah, just like that. Just like that," he mewled as you rode him like there was not tomorrow.
Steve was perched at the edge of the four poster bed, naked completely, sweat glistening off his chest. His feet were planted firmly on the ground as he helped you up and down.
"Steve," you whispered.
If anyone could have seen King Steve turned to a mess of need and want by Hawkins's good girl they'd have assumed the world would have been turned upside down.
"Say my name," he panted.
Your walls clenched around him and his fingers dug into you deeper, harder. "Steve."
He groaned. "Keep saying it, say it while you cum around me."
He helped you, thrusting up when he could.
"Steve, Steve, Steve," you moaned as you clenched around him, your release coating him, rolling down in delicious drips.
Steve's neck craned, groaning loudly over the thumping music. "Awhe- fuck!"
He lifted you up, settling you on the meat of his thighs just in time as his release spurted up in white, thick ropes. He jerked himself, getting it all out as his eyes locked on your heat and juices. "Aw shit."
Curls stuck to his forehead from sweat as he rested back on his elbows, catching his breath.
"Steve!"
"Hm, what?"
You looked down to the pretty little top you had worn for the party, now marked in streaks of his release.
Steve looked up, glancing a moment till he realised your distress. He wasn't mortified like you, he only smirked. "Whoops."
"Steve!" you whacked his chest against his rumble of a laugh. "What am I supposed to do? I have to go back out there!"
He was still smirking as he sat back up, his cock still standing to half attention. "Then you'll just have to come back with me."
"God you're so smart, so smart and beautiful, smart. Smartest person I know," Steve panted.
The library was closing soon, you had stolen time with Steve after dedicating the day for the test last period. You'd all but banned Steve from touching you, looking at you, even giving you a lift to high school. All in fear he would distract you.
Steve waited in the library since your last period to hear how you would do. You'd come in all smiles, showing the A. He'd washed you in so many praises the librarian had to come around and shush the two of you.
That was how Steve stole you away, hidden in a corner between bookshelves, praising you with fingers curling deep inside you, tongue brushing between folds in delight.
Steve lapped up your arousal like an eager dog. He'd wasted no time in falling to his knees, pushing down your skirt and praising you in long licks.
You were muffling your moans, the sort he loved to hear in the safety of a bedroom. But you'd never done anything so daring, yet there was no stopping Steve from showing his devotion when you'd come bouncing in, wide grin and happy kisses.
You bit on the back of your hand as Steve spread your legs wider, fitting himself between them. He flattened his tongue and spread it inside of you.
"Taste so smart too, taste like my girl."
You moaned against your hand, checking in the gaps of the shelf to ensure nobody was spotting you. "Steve," you dared out a breath.
He moaned as his tongue slipped between your folds, taking the best of you on his tongue. "Everyone thinks your good, huh?" he mumbled into you, kissing and slurping your arousal with little care of being so quiet. "Good for me. So good."
Your thighs quivered and Steve wrapped his fingers around your leg, keeping you steady.
"Say it," he said, looking up to you between your legs.
The coil in the bottom of your stomach tightened, calling to him.
He squeezed your thigh, kissing along the skin there and soothing where his fingers dug into you.
"I-I can't," you whispered.
Steve knew why, he just needed to hear you say it. Almost every time you stole unsolicited moments together, he was praising you with the words, dying to hear them from you. "You can, you're so smart you can say it."
"Steve," you whined quietly. "You're being mean." Your hand wined in his hair, tugging to get a look at him.
Steve nodded, tongue out and waiting. "I am, I am. Tell me."
His tongue took gentle strokes on your clit but he was not taking the strokes you liked.
Your mouth hung open wordlessly as your body tensed. "I'm good for you, Steve," you clutched at his hair tightly, pulling him in closer.
"So good?" he teased.
"So good."
Steve dived in like it was pleasure to himself. He found your arousal and licked it up before he took the tip of his tongue to your clit, circling it slow and drawing out your want.
Your breath hitched. "Steve I-"
At the burst of sound from you Steve reached up and shoved fingers into your mouth. Obediently you closed your mouth around his fingers, moaning stifled by him.
His own face shoved into your core, taking your release in mouth and tongue and even some on chin. It was everywhere and he loved it, all for him to clean up and take. But the warmth of his fingers in your mouth, the wet of your tongue circling them the familiar way it did his cock. It had him strained in his pants but this library would close before he could get inside of you.
He stayed nestled there as you came down from your high and only when you gave a nod did he slowly take out his fingers from your mouth, dragging his fingers down your neck and body to his own fingers, taking them into his own mouth quickly.
Suddenly your name was called through the library.
"Shit!"
The two of you scrambled, tidying yourself and brushing back hair, pulling at clothes to straighten and arouse no suspicion.
Steve pressed himself into the book shelves, hiding his erection.
"Oh, there you are," said the librarian as she found you. "I've got a date I need to go but you don't mind locking up for me, do you? You've done it before."
Before you could say another word she left the keys in your hand and smiled at you, gratefully.
"Thank you, I knew I could count on you, you're such a good girl."
Your cheeks lit up in flames at the words.
Steve snorted behind you.
But before the librarian could think much of it she was already leaving, giddy, bouncing on the heel of her feet. The door closed somewhere behind her, some sort of light ahead turning off.
Steve fell behind you, urging his hips into your backside like it was his secret weapon to get you. "Do you get wet when she calls you good girl?"
You whacked at his chest but Steve caught it, wrapping his fingers around your wrist and bringing it back behind his neck so he could reach your arm, kiss the skin there.
He smirked against your skin. "Do you mind if I check?"
