#in september........... please forgive me..........

[seokminfilm]

just saw that pledis released the official military enlistment statement for dk and vernon today. please check in on your dk/vernon biased friends 😊😊😊

[mahouquino]

I wanted to try paint tool sai and ??? it’s great??? I enjoyed drawing my little boy, you guys can have this unfinished piece 🤲🏼

my little meow meow <333

[merakiui]

Just a thought, but you know why you like Skully so much? He is basically Halloween Riddle. Both are little Victorian lads with their prim and proper manners. Both have something they are obsessed with and insist that it must be done correctly. If you push them too far, prepare for them to go into a tantrum. Skully and Riddle 🤝

( ˶°ㅁ°) ! OHHHHH WAIT!!!!! You're very right about this!!! They do have similarities and qualities that appeal to me..... as expected, all routes lead to Riddle (the true number one) in the very end. orz they're both so dear to me.

My thought process for disliking and then liking Skully is surprisingly simple:

At first release: ew, it's Gojo.

After learning his personality: wait..... he's just like me fr. He's a pathetic gothic fanboy with dogboy energy and he's so cute and devoted to Halloween and a little messed up but still so precious!!!! OTL

Both of them are gentlemen dedicated to their own traditions and rules....... waaaa I adore them even when they are crazy and throwing a tantrum. <3 the only difference....... Skully has the height Riddle can only dream about. >_<

[persephoneflouwers]

I don’t want to be that person, but… I like art, you know? I studied art at high school and I was intrigued, but my knowledge is not that deep. I just know the basics, i guess? I like to pretend to know something about it, so let me pretend right now.

Okay, let’s pretend together. The first time I noticed the paint in Falling music video was probably April. I made my research. It was so random, but cute somehow. I had a laugh, clowned on tiktok and that’s it.

But then this picture dropped today.

So the portrait on the wall is this Ritratto di un giovane Uomo by Giovanni Bellini. I didn’t find anything about the meaning (but I’m just a med student with anxiety, so if an art student or expert could help please let me know) except for the name of the artist, I didn’t know much.

Bellini reminded of the Bellini cocktail, my favourite probably (fruity and sparkling Im up for it always).

Bellini was first invented in Venice, in a bar called Harry’s Bar. A pretty famous bar, a pretty famous gay bar in Venice. It was shot down by the fascists during the war because it was rainbow friendly. Years after artists like Hemingway used to go there and write his stuff. It was just a funny coincidence, I thought.

And now… this.

The new unseen from Falling music video are so aesthetic, very clean too… but there’s a fucking painting on this harry’s beautiful shot?

The painting is Il ritorno di Bucintoro al molo nel giorno dell’Ascensione by Canaletto.

Now Bucintoro is a golden boat and it’s coming home after some kind of war to celebrate a wedding between the Adriatic sea and the City of Venice.

Celebration of a wedding. September 28.

And apparently they used to end the celebration by throwing a ring in the sea.

Better that ring not be the peace ring, H!

Anyway. I don’t know what it is with this Venice obsession. I know Venice is a splendid city and my Italian heart is proud, but…? I don’t know what to do with these informations.

Do what you want. I’m just sitting here rewatching pose and studying infectious diseases :(

Edit:

I want to add this source by @aliensyndrome !

[godricgryffinsnore]

Everyone expected her to be the Head Girl.

No one expected him to be the Head Boy.

Kinda Jily coded but Harry/reader

It would be awesome if they are alive and see their son go through something similar.

Thank You!

What the Heart Knows ♡ | H.Potter ⋆˚꩜｡

"She drives me mad... and I think I’ve been in love with her since the first time she called me insufferable."

pairing : Harry Potter x fem!reader

summary : She’s the rule-following Head Girl. He’s the last person she wanted as Head Boy. Sparks fly, egos clash, and history might just be repeating itself—one argument (and accidental moment) at a time.

warnings : Light academic stress, Emotional tension / arguments, Lots of banter and bickering, Extremely fluffy slow-burn romance, Chaos caused by loving parents.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

della's note : Thank you so much for requesting lovie!!! Hope you like it <333 Oh and, I didn't know where to put Jily in the picture, BUT I have mentioned them somewhere in the story! Hope you enjoy <333

word count : 1.3k

navigation <3

banners : @/kodaswrld, @/omi-resources and @/cafekitsune

Everyone expected Y/N L/N to be Head Girl.

Top of every class since second year. Slayed every exam, organized every club, and managed to hex three different Slytherins in a single motion once, earning the awe of first years and the begrudging respect of every professor. She was the obvious choice.

Everyone expected Harry Potter to disappear after the war. Take time off. Rest. Heal.

What they didn’t expect was for him to be named Head Boy.

When the letter arrived in the mail over summer, Y/N sat at her desk, robes crisp, posture straighter than a wand. She opened her Hogwarts envelope with a well-earned sense of smugness.

Dear Miss L/N, It gives me great pleasure to inform you that you have been chosen to serve as Head Girl…

She smirked.

…alongside Mr. Harry Potter, Head Boy.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

Then reread the line.

She let out a single, strangled, “WHAT?”—startling her poor owl and knocking over an entire bottle of ink.

On September 1st, Harry showed up to the Prefects’ compartment like he had no idea the world had just ended.

She was already there, legs crossed, clipboard in hand, eyes narrowed like she was trying to Avada Kedavra him with sheer concentration.

He had the audacity to smile.

“L/N,” he said, voice obnoxiously smooth, “what a pleasant surprise.”

“Potter,” she replied, tight-lipped. “Let me guess. McGonagall chose you for your… legendary punctuality?”

“I was on time.”

“You’re three minutes late.”

“I was talking to Hagrid.”

“Did you lose your moral compass in the war along with your watch?”

Behind him, Ron snorted. Hermione elbowed him in the gut.

The air between them was electric—but not in any romantic sense. More like the kind of tension you get before a thunderstorm. Or a duel.

Harry took a seat across from her. “I organized the Prefect patrol schedule last night.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, you what?”

“Yeah,” he said casually, “color-coded it and everything.”

“With what? A crayon?”

Ron choked.

Hermione sighed deeply.

The other Prefects just sat in stunned silence, watching the fireworks begin.

It only got worse from there.

Every decision was a battle.

He was laid-back. She was exacting.

He thought curfews could be flexible. She thought they were divine law.

He smiled too easily, too often. She didn’t trust that kind of ease—not from someone who had survived what he had.

But the worst part—the absolutely infuriating part—was that he was... good at it.

Not because he knew all the rules, but because people listened to him. Trusted him. He made nervous first years feel safe. He helped students who’d lost family. He noticed when kids were hurting.

And sometimes—God help her—he even helped her.

Like the time she stayed up all night organizing a welcome event for the new first years. He brought her tea and a chocolate frog and didn’t say anything when he saw the bags under her eyes.

Or the time she sprained her ankle patrolling after curfew and he piggybacked her down five flights of stairs while cracking dumb jokes.

She hated that she kept noticing him.

Worse—she hated that he noticed her.

“You realize you’re completely obsessed with her, right?” Ron said casually one night in the common room as Harry watched Y/N argue with Hermione over the correct placement of punctuation in an event flyer.

“I am not,” Harry replied, affronted.

“She called you a ‘self-important gremlin’ yesterday and you smiled.”

“I was amused!”

“You were blushing.”

“Was not.”

“You saved the parchment she scribbled on.”

“That was because she wrote on my notes—”

“She insulted your handwriting. You saved it.”

Harry said nothing.

“Merlin’s beard,” Ron muttered. “You’re worse than my dad with his old Quidditch posters.”

But the problem wasn’t just their dynamic. It was that Y/N genuinely didn’t like him.

He wasn’t just a rival to her. He was everything she wasn’t allowed to be. Reckless. Loud. Forgiven. Free.

And the truth—though she’d never admit it aloud—was that a part of her hated him not just because he was cocky and careless, but because he could afford to be. He could break the rules and still be adored. She had to be perfect or be nothing.

That thought stung more than any insult he’d ever tossed her way.

One night in November, it came to a head.

They were meant to co-host a Prefect meeting.

Harry was late. Again.

Y/N had finished the agenda, passed out the parchment, explained the patrols, and rearranged the whole holiday schedule by the time he strolled in, wind-blown and apologetic.

“Sorry,” he said, brushing snow off his cloak. “I was with Hagrid—he needed help feeding the thestrals.”

“Hagrid has a whole department for that now,” Y/N said, eyes cold. “You just didn’t want to show up on time.”

Harry looked surprised. “It’s not that serious—”

“Oh, isn’t it?” she snapped, standing up. “Because it seems like every time I plan something, you show up late and throw it off, and I’m supposed to smile and say it’s fine because you’re Harry bloody Potter.”

“Y/N—”

“No,” she said, trembling now. “You don’t get to coast through everything. Not anymore. You don’t get to be a hero and then forget how the real world works.”

Silence.

Harry’s jaw clenched. His voice was quieter when he replied, “I never wanted to be a hero.”

She flinched.

The room went quiet.

Hermione looked between them, eyes wide.

Ron whispered to Dean, “Should we… be here?”

Dean whispered back, “No, but I’m invested.”

They didn’t speak for four days.

Y/N hated the silence. She hated that her chest ached when she didn’t see him. She hated that she felt guilty.

But more than anything, she hated the truth buried beneath it all:

She didn’t hate him. Not anymore.

Somewhere between the arguments and the shared cups of tea and the slow, quiet way he watched her—like she was something he couldn’t figure out but wanted to—her feelings had shifted.

It felt like betrayal. To herself.

She didn’t want to fall in love with him.

She didn’t want to be another girl who loved Harry Potter.

But she was.

And she didn’t know how to stop.

Harry, meanwhile, was a disaster.

He wrote and rewrote a confession letter five times.

Ron read the fourth draft and said, “You sound like a dying poet.”

Hermione read the fifth and said, “Just talk to her, you idiot.”

So he didn’t send it.

Instead, he left it in their shared Head dorms on her desk.

He didn’t expect her to find it.

He definitely didn’t expect her to storm into the Great Hall, holding the letter like it was a live bomb.

“Is this a joke?” she asked, standing in front of him with every eye in the room turning to watch.

Harry stood slowly. “No. It’s not.”

“You like me?”

“Yes.”

“Since when?”

He smiled faintly. “Since you cursed Malfoy in fourth year. Maybe before.”

She looked furious.

“You’re infuriating,” she said.

“I know.”

“You’re egotistical. Reckless. Ridiculous.”

“I am.”

“You make me insane.”

“I know that too.”

Silence.

Then—absolutely, infuriatingly—he said:

“I like you, Y/N. You don’t have to like me back. But I needed you to know.”

She stared at him.

And then, for reasons she’d never fully understand, she grabbed his collar and kissed him.

It was messy. Angry. Beautiful.

Ron clapped.

Hermione sighed like she’d been waiting since second year.

From their cozy little spot in the afterlife, James Potter screamed, “SHE KISSED HIM FIRST, LILY!”

And Lily, through proud tears, replied, “Told you she would.”

Y/N and Harry were unbearable after that.

Still arguing. Still competitive.

Only now, they held hands between classes and made out behind the library stacks and occasionally got caught cuddling in the Astronomy Tower.

Ron begged them to be less obvious.

Hermione bought them matching bookmarks.

They graduated at the top of the class—together, of course.

And years later, when their own son stormed into the kitchen yelling about a Prefect girl who drove him insane, they looked at each other and just laughed.

Because some things, thankfully, never change.

[annyeongzj]

maybe this time — j.jh (pt.2)

highlight. "please don't go. please. i'm—" he exhales shakily, and when you turn back to look at him, his eyes are wet. jeong jaehyun, who never cries. jeong jaehyun, who smiles through everything. "i'll do anything. i'll be whoever you need me to be. just—don't walk out that door. i can't watch you leave again. i can't."

pairings. nonidol!jaehyun x fem!reader

genre. angst, non idol fic, college au, smut 18+

tags. angst, college au, communications major jaehyun, non-idol au, second chances, situationship, slow burn, yeaner jaehyun, exes to lovers, miscommunication, trust issues, emotional hurt/comfort, smut with feelings, needy jaehyun, desperate jaehyun, jaehyun begs, crying during intimacy, soft dom jaehyun, making up, hopeful ending, realistic fiction

warnings. desperate sex, begging and pleading, repeated apologies during intimacy, deep kissing, sloppy undressing, body worship, breast worship, praising whispers, fingering, oral sex female receiving, cunnilingus, clit sucking, tongue fucking, penetrative vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, size difference, height difference, smaller female reader with taller male, missionary, prone bone, eye contact, hair tugging, gentle aftercare, cuddling, holding tight, yearning desperate male character, no condom (lets pretend she's on bc, i forgot condoms again forgive me)

wordcount. 7k

part 1. | masterlist

it's 8:47 in the morning when your phone buzzes.

you're already awake, sitting cross-legged on your bed with a cup of instant coffee going cold on the nightstand. the screen lights up with his name, and you stare at it for a solid five seconds before flipping the phone face-down.

jaehyun.

you don't pick up. you haven't picked up since sunday.

the call ends. a minute later, a text comes through.

jaehyun: you awake? i'm outside

you don't reply. you don't even open it. the read receipt stays off, and you let your thumb hover over the notification before swiping it away.

outside your apartment building, jeong jaehyun is sitting in his black kia k5, engine idling, one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding his phone. he's wearing that gray hoodie you used to steal from him back when things were different. back when you still believed him.

he waits.

five minutes pass. then ten.

he checks his phone again. nothing.

he runs a hand through his hair—freshly cut, shorter on the sides, the way you once said you liked—and exhales through his nose. then he pulls up your chat history, scrolling up to see the last time you actually responded to him with more than one word.

you: ok

you: sure

you: thanks for the ride

that was friday. three days ago. before everything shifted again.

he types out another message, thumbs moving slowly like he's weighing every word.

jaehyun: did i do something?

he stares at it. backspaces. types again.

jaehyun: you have class at 9 right? i can drive you

send.

he tosses his phone onto the passenger seat and leans his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes. the campus isn't far—fifteen minutes with morning traffic—but he's been coming here every tuesday and thursday for the past three weeks, ever since you let him back in. or at least, let him try.

rewind to a month ago.

september. the semester had just started. you were walking out of the communications building, earbuds in, bag slung over one shoulder, when someone fell into step beside you.

"you're walking fast."

you didn't have to look. you knew that voice.

"what do you want, jaehyun."

"to walk with you."

"i didn't ask."

"i know. i'm offering."

you kept walking, faster now, but his legs were longer and he had no trouble keeping up. he didn't say anything else, just walked beside you all the way to the bus stop, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, that stupid dimple flickering at the corner of his mouth like he was holding back a smile.

when the bus came, he didn't get on. he just stood there on the curb, watching you find a seat.

the next day, he was there again.

and the next.

by the end of the week, you finally cracked.

"what is this, jaehyun? what are you doing?"

he tilted his head, feigning innocence. "i'm walking you to the bus stop. is that a crime?"

"yes. it is. you lost the right to walk me anywhere."

the playfulness in his face flickered, something more serious bleeding through. "i know," he said, quieter. "i'm trying to earn it back."

you didn't believe him. you told yourself you wouldn't. you told yourself that jeong jaehyun was all charm and no follow-through, a communications major who knew exactly how to talk to people because that's what he was good at—talking. saying the right things. flashing those dimples and getting away with everything.

but he was persistent.

he started driving you to campus on days your schedules overlapped. he'd show up with coffee—your order memorized, even though you'd only told him once, months ago, before everything fell apart. he'd buy you lunch from that overpriced sandwich place near the library and leave it on your desk during your afternoon lecture without asking for anything in return.

he was doing all the right things.

and you hated that it was working.

mid-september to early october.

it went like this:

tuesday morning, he picks you up at 8:30 sharp. he's never late. the car smells like his cologne and the vanilla air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. he asks about your assignments, your group projects, the professor who always mispronounces your name. he doesn't talk about himself unless you ask, which you rarely do.

thursday afternoon, he's waiting outside the communications building with two cups of iced tea. "you look tired," he says.

"thanks. that's exactly what every girl wants to hear."

"i didn't say you look bad. i said you look tired. there's a difference."

you roll your eyes, but you take the tea.

saturday, he takes you to a hole-in-the-wall ramen place in hongdae. "you're paying," you remind him.

"obviously."

"and this isn't a date."

"obviously," he repeats, but there's a smirk tugging at his lips, and you hate that it makes your stomach flip.

he tells stupid jokes. like, genuinely stupid ones—dad jokes, knock-knock jokes, puns so bad they physically hurt. he does it on purpose, you know. he wants to see you crack. he wants to see that involuntary twitch of your mouth before you catch yourself and bury the smile under a scowl.

"why did the scarecrow win an award?" he asks one evening, driving you home.

"i'm not doing this."

"because he was outstanding in his field."

you groan, loud and exaggerated. "that's not even funny."

"then why are you smiling."

"i'm not."

"you are. your cheek is doing that thing."

"my cheek doesn't do a thing."

"it does. right here—" he reaches over, finger hovering near your face, and you swat his hand away before he can touch you.

he laughs. dimples on full display. and for a moment—just a moment—you forget why you were supposed to hate him.

but the thing about jeong jaehyun is that he's always been too good at this. too smooth. too effortless.

that's the problem.

you've known him for two years now. you met in intro to mass communication, ended up in the same study group, and somehow fell into something that felt like it could be real. he was charming then, too. flirty. always finding excuses to sit next to you, to borrow your notes, to ask for your opinion on his projects.

for a while, you thought it meant something.

when you walked away, he didn't stop you. didn't chase you. didn't text or call or show up at your door. he just let you go, like it didn't matter. like you didn't matter.

so when he showed up in september, all apologies and coffee runs and dad jokes, you didn't trust it. how could you? jeong jaehyun was a communications major in more ways than one—he knew how to say the right things, how to deliver the right lines, how to make you feel like you were the center of his universe even when you weren't.

you kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

and then saturday happened.

saturday, october 11. minji's dorm room, 9:14 pm.

you're sitting on her floor, back against the bed frame, scrolling through your phone while she rummages through her closet for something to wear to her birthday party next weekend.

"so minseo isn't coming," minji says, tossing a black top onto the bed.

"wait, why?"

"because jaehyun's coming."

your thumb freezes mid-scroll. "what?"

"yeah, i invited him. you guys are talking again, right? i figured it'd be fine."

"no, i mean—why isn't minseo coming just because jaehyun's there?"

minji pauses, turning to look at you. there's a flicker of something on her face—realization, maybe, or regret for bringing it up at all. "oh. you didn't know?"

"didn't know what."

she hesitates. "they had a thing. like, months ago. minseo said it was serious. or at least, she thought it was."

the room feels smaller.

"when," you hear yourself say.

"i don't know exactly. around june? july? she didn't really talk about it until recently. i think she's still kind of hung up on him."

june or july. months ago.

the same months when jaehyun was supposedly realizing he made a mistake with you. the same months when he was allegedly thinking about you, missing you, regretting the way things ended. the same months he later described as "hell" when he was trying to win you back.

apparently, hell looked a lot like getting serious with minseo.

"hey," minji says, reading your face. "i'm sure it's not—i mean, you know jaehyun. he's..."

"yeah," you cut her off, voice flat. "i know jaehyun."

you leave her dorm twenty minutes later. you don't cry. you don't even feel sad, exactly. it's more like a dull, familiar ache—the same one you felt last spring when you realized he wasn't going to come after you. the same one that told you, over and over, that you were never as special to him as he was to you.

of course.

he's jaehyun.

a face like that, a smile like that, a way with words like that. why would he ever settle for one person when he could have whoever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and call it "just having fun" when things got too real?

you were an idiot for thinking anything had changed.

sunday, october 12. you start ghosting him.

it's subtle at first. you don't answer his good morning text. when he calls, you let it ring. when he sends a follow-up message—you okay?—you leave it on read.

monday passes the same way. he texts three times. calls twice. you ignore them all.

by tuesday morning, he's standing outside your building like clockwork, and you're still in bed, coffee gone cold, phone buzzing against the mattress. the vibration stops, starts again. he's calling.

you don't pick up.

outside, jaehyun checks the time. 8:52. your class is in eight minutes. if you don't leave now, you'll be late.

he calls again. straight to voicemail this time—not because your phone is off, but because you rejected the call.

that's when it hits him. this isn't a busy morning or a dead battery. this is deliberate.

he stares at his phone screen for a long moment. then he opens his chat with minji.

jaehyun: hey, random question. did something happen over the weekend?

three dots appear. disappear. appear again.

minji: uh

minji: i might have mentioned the minseo thing

minji: sorry, i thought she already knew

jaehyun closes his eyes.

minseo.

he presses his forehead against the steering wheel for a solid ten seconds, then straightens up and puts the car in drive. he doesn't speed off dramatically—he's not that kind of person. he just drives, merging into morning traffic, heading toward campus because he doesn't know where else to go.

he's not angry. he's not even defensive. he just feels... stupid.

because here's the thing: minseo was june. early june, right after finals, when he was trying to convince himself that he was fine. that he didn't mess up with you. that there were other girls, better girls, girls who didn't look at him like they expected him to fail.

minseo was nice. minseo was fun. and for about three weeks, jaehyun let himself pretend it could be something more. but it wasn't. it didn't matter how pretty she was or how much she liked him—she wasn't you. every conversation, every date, every kiss, he was thinking about someone else.

he ended it in july. told her he wasn't ready for anything serious. she cried, which made him feel like absolute garbage, and he spent the rest of the summer alone, replaying every mistake he'd ever made with you.

that was the summer that changed him. or at least, he thought it did.

he thought he could come back in september and prove it.

but old reputations die hard, and jeong jaehyun knows exactly what he looks like. the guy who never takes anything seriously. the guy who bounces from girl to girl. the communications major with the dimples and the charm who could sweet-talk his way out of anything.

he knows that's what you see when you look at him.

and right now, sitting in his car in the hanyang university parking lot, he's realizing that he might never be able to change that.

wednesday. thursday. friday.

you keep ghosting. he keeps trying—but quieter now, less persistent. a single text in the morning. a single text at night. no calls. no showing up at your building.

jaehyun: i know you're ignoring me. i'm not going to force you to talk

jaehyun: but when you're ready, i'll explain. about minseo. about everything

jaehyun: i'm not asking you to believe me. just to listen

you read them all. you don't reply.

it's easier this way, you tell yourself. easier to cut him off now than to let him in again and get burned. he's jaehyun. this is what he does. he's probably already moved on to someone else.

(he hasn't.)

(he's been going to class, coming home, and sitting in his studio apartment with the lights off, staring at the ceiling and wondering how he let this happen again.)

saturday, october 18. minji's birthday party.

you almost don't go. but minji is your friend, and you're not going to let jeong jaehyun ruin that. so you put on a decent outfit, fix your hair, and show up at the rooftop bar minji rented out, determined to have a good time.

jaehyun is already there.

you see him the moment you walk in—standing near the railing, talking to someone from your communications seminar. he's wearing a black button-down, sleeves rolled up, hair pushed back. he looks good. annoyingly good. but there's something off about him. his smile doesn't reach his eyes. his dimples are nowhere to be seen.

you look away before he can catch you staring.

you spend the first hour avoiding him. it's not hard—the party is crowded, and you're good at making yourself small. you stick to the edges, nursing a drink, laughing at the right moments, pretending you're fine.

then you step outside to get some air, and he's there.

the rooftop has a smaller balcony section, semi-private, and he's leaning against the railing with his back to the door. his phone is in his hand, but he's not looking at it. he's just standing there, shoulders slightly hunched, like he's carrying something heavy.

you should turn around. you should go back inside.

instead, you clear your throat.

he turns. when he sees you, his whole body tenses—shoulders drawing back, hand tightening around his phone. for a second, neither of you speaks.

"hey," he finally says. his voice is rough, like he hasn't used it in a while.

"hey."

a pause.

"you've been avoiding me," he says. it's not an accusation. just a fact.

"yeah."

"can i ask why? or do you want me to figure it out myself."

you cross your arms, leaning against the doorframe. the october air is cold against your skin. "i heard about minseo."

he doesn't flinch. doesn't look surprised. "i figured."

"so?"

"so nothing." he turns to face you fully, and you're struck by how tired he looks. dark circles under his eyes, jaw tight, none of that easy confidence he usually carries. "minseo was a mistake. i was—i don't know. i was trying to get over you. it didn't work."

"wow. that's very romantic. i'm sure she loved hearing that."

"she didn't," he admits. "i ended it badly. i'm not proud of it."

you don't say anything.

"i know how it looks," he continues, voice quieter now. "i know what you think of me. the guy who's always 'just having fun.' the guy who doesn't take anything seriously. and maybe i deserved that reputation. maybe i earned it. but i'm not—" he stops, exhales. "i'm not that guy anymore. or i'm trying not to be. i wouldn't have spent the last month driving you to class and buying you lunch and telling you stupid jokes just for fun. that's not what this was."

"then what was it."

"it was me trying to show you that i changed. because i knew telling you wasn't enough."

you look at him. really look at him. the tension in his shoulders. the uncharacteristic lack of dimples. the way his hand is shaking slightly against the railing.

you want to believe him.

but you've wanted to believe him before.

"jaehyun," you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "you let me walk away last time. you didn't fight. you didn't chase. you didn't even text. and then you spent the summer with someone else, and you expect me to believe that i'm different?"

he flinches. actually flinches, like the words hit him physically.

"i know," he says. "i know i messed up. i know i keep messing up. but i'm still here. i came back. and i know that doesn't fix anything, but—"

"but what."

"but what do you want me to do." his voice cracks on the last word. "tell me what to do and i'll do it. i'll stop trying if that's what you want. i'll leave you alone. but you have to tell me, because i'm not going to walk away this time unless you ask me to. not again."

the city hums below you. somewhere inside, minji's party continues—music, laughter, the clinking of glasses. out here, it's just the two of you and the cold october wind and the weight of everything unsaid.

you don't answer right away.

and for the first time in two years, jeong jaehyun doesn't try to fill the silence.

he just waits.

it's been two weeks since minji's party.

two weeks of him trying. not in the loud, performative way he used to—showing up unannounced, buying your coffee, filling silences with jokes. quieter this time. more careful.

he took his time, sucking gently, then softer, like he was trying to memorize the way you felt under his tongue. his free hand rested on your ribs, fingers spread wide, the size difference clear in how easily his palm covered so much of you. he switched sides, mouth warm and unhurried, little hums vibrating against your skin when your back arched slightly. “you always feel so good like this,” he murmured, lips brushing the underside of your breast before he kissed lower, open-mouthed and slow.

he texts once a day. not good morning or good night, nothing that expects a response. just small things. a song he thought you'd like. a photo of the campus cat that always sits outside the communications building. once, a voice memo of him attempting to play a song on his guitar, which he's terrible at, and he ends it with a self-deprecating laugh that you replay three times before you catch yourself.

you don't reply. but you don't block him either. you're not sure what that says about you.

on tuesday, you see him in the library. he's at a table near the window, head bent over a textbook, earbuds in. he doesn't notice you. you stand there for maybe fifteen seconds, watching the way his brow furrows when he's concentrating, the way he taps his pen against his lip. then you leave before he can look up.

on thursday, you run into him outside the communications building. literally run into him—you're rushing to your afternoon lecture, not looking where you're going, and suddenly there's a solid chest and familiar hands steadying your shoulders.

"sorry—" you start, then stop. it's him.

"hey." his voice is soft. his hands drop from your shoulders immediately, like he's afraid of holding on too long. "you okay?"

"yeah. fine. late for class."

"right. yeah. go." he steps aside, clearing the path. "i'll—see you around."

he doesn't say anything else. doesn't push. and somehow that's worse than if he had.

friday night, it rains.

you're at a house party in hongdae, a friend of a friend's place, and the whole night you've been restless. the music is too loud. the crowd is too thick. you keep checking your phone even though no one's texting you.

then minji grabs your arm, tipsy and grinning. "jaehyun's here."

your stomach drops. "what?"

"yeah, minho invited him. he's in the kitchen."

you don't go to the kitchen. you stay in the living room, wedged between the couch and a bookshelf, pretending to be interested in a conversation about someone's internship. but then the crowd shifts and there he is, leaning against the kitchen counter, a red cup in his hand, listening to minho talk about something with a polite half-smile on his face.

he looks tired. he always looks tired these days.

his eyes find yours across the room. he doesn't wave. doesn't smile. just holds your gaze for a moment—long enough to make your chest tight—and then looks away.

at 1 AM, people start leaving. you're outside waiting for a taxi, rain coming down in sheets, your thin jacket doing nothing to keep you warm. your phone is at 4%. the taxi app says 25 minute wait.

a car pulls up to the curb. black kia k5.

the window rolls down. "get in."

you hesitate. everything in you says no. everything in you says yes.

"i'm not going to try anything," he says, and his voice is so tired, so genuinely drained, that you believe him. "you're going to freeze out here. just let me drive you home."

you get in.

the drive is silent.

rain hammers the windshield. the wipers squeak rhythmically. jaehyun doesn't turn on music. doesn't try to fill the silence with dumb jokes or easy conversation. his hands are at ten and two, eyes on the road, jaw tight.

when he pulls up to your building, he doesn't turn off the engine. just sits there, waiting.

"thanks for the ride," you mumble, hand on the door handle.

"wait." his voice comes out strained. he clears his throat. "can we talk? not here. not in the car. somewhere. my place is close. five minutes. that's all i'm asking. five minutes, and if you still want to leave after that, i'll drive you back myself and you never have to see me again."

you should say no. you know you should say no.

"fine," you hear yourself say. "five minutes."

his apartment is small.

studio, really. a bed pushed against the far wall, a desk cluttered with textbooks, a guitar case gathering dust in the corner. fairy lights strung above the window—you remember helping him put those up. last year. back when things were simpler.

you stand near the door with your arms crossed. he stands near the kitchen counter. three feet of space between you. it feels like a mile.

"okay," you say. "talk."

he takes a breath. then another.

"i don't know how to do this," he admits. "i've been trying for weeks and i keep getting it wrong and i don't know—i don't know how to prove that i'm serious. that this is serious. that you're not just some—some game to me."

"maybe because you've treated everyone like a game for two years, jaehyun." your voice is sharper than you intended. "maybe because every time i let myself believe you, i find out about another girl. eunji. soyeon. minseo. how many more are there that i don't know about."

"there's no one else." he steps forward. you step back. he stops. "there hasn't been anyone since july. i ended things with minseo because she wasn't you. because no one is you. and i know that sounds like a line, i know that's exactly the kind of thing i would say to get out of trouble, but i swear—"

"swearing doesn't mean anything to you."

"what do you want me to do." his voice rises, cracking at the edges. "do you want me to get on my knees. do you want me to call minseo right now and let you listen. do you want me to—" he breaks off, running both hands through his hair, tugging at the ends. "i don't know what you want from me. you won't tell me. you won't let me in. you just keep shutting me out and i'm trying—i'm trying so hard and it's never enough."

"because you let me walk away." your voice shakes. your eyes sting. you refuse to cry. "last spring. when i found out about eunji. i wanted you to stop me. i wanted you to fight. and you just—stood there. you let me go like it was nothing."

"it wasn't nothing."

"it looked like nothing."

"i know." his voice drops. "i know what i did. i think about it every day. i think about your face when you walked out. i think about how i didn't chase you. i think about what a coward i was. and then i spent the whole summer trying to convince myself i was fine and i wasn't. i wasn't fine. i'm not fine now. i haven't been fine since you left."

he's close now. you don't remember him moving, but he's close. you can see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, the red rims around his eyes, the way his chest is rising and falling too fast.

"you're so good at this," you whisper.

"good at what."

"talking. saying the right things. making me feel like i'm the only person in the world. it's what you do, jaehyun. it's what you've always done."

"it's not an act." his voice breaks. "it was never an act with you. i know i messed up. i know i gave you every reason not to trust me. but i'm not—" he stops to take a shuddering breath, "i'm not performing. i'm not trying to win. i just—i just want you. that's it. that's all it's ever been."

you shake your head. "i can't do this again."

"do what."

"this." you gesture between you. "the hoping. the waiting. the finding out i was wrong about you. i can't."

"then don't hope." he steps closer. you don't step back. "don't trust me. don't believe a single thing i say. but stay. just—stay. give me a chance to show you. not tell you. show you."

your throat is tight. "jaehyun—"

"i know i'm selfish." his voice is barely above a whisper now. "i know i'm asking for something i don't deserve. but i'm asking anyway. please."

the word hangs in the air. please. jeong jaehyun doesn't say please. jeong jaehyun doesn't beg. he's too proud, too confident, too used to getting what he wants without having to ask.

but he's asking now.

something in you cracks.

"i should go." your voice barely audible. "this was a mistake."

you turn toward the door.

he moves faster than you've ever seen him move.

his hand catches your wrist—not hard, not grabbing—just stops you. gentle. desperate.

"don't." the word comes out strangled. "please don't go. please. i'm—" he exhales shakily, and when you turn back to look at him, his eyes are wet. jeong jaehyun, who never cries. jeong jaehyun, who smiles through everything. "i'll do anything. i'll be whoever you need me to be. just—don't walk out that door. i can't watch you leave again. i can't."

"jaehyun."

"i know." he steps closer, still holding your wrist, thumb pressed against your pulse. "i know i'm too late. i know i should've done this a year ago. i know you don't owe me anything. but i'm begging you. i'm actually begging you."

his other hand comes up, hesitant, hovering near your face like he's afraid to touch you without permission. his fingers are shaking.

"you're the only thing i've ever been sure about," he whispers. "and i ruined it. i know i ruined it. but if there's even a tiny part of you that still—"

he doesn't finish.

he kisses you instead.

it's not smooth. it's not confident. it's desperate and messy and his lips are trembling against yours, one hand still around your wrist, the other finally cradling your jaw like you're something precious. he kisses you like he's drowning and you're air. like he's been waiting months for this and he can't believe it's happening.

"please," he breathes against your mouth. "please, please, please—"

the word becomes a chant, a prayer, broken and breathless between kisses. his forehead presses against yours. his eyes are squeezed shut. a tear slips down his cheek and lands on your collarbone.

"tell me to stop," he says. "tell me you don't want this and i'll stop. i'll stop. i swear i'll stop."

your hands are in his shirt. you don't remember putting them there. his heart is pounding so hard you can feel it through the fabric.

you don't tell him to stop.

the sheets were already warm under your back when jaehyun kissed you again, his hand steady on the side of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw. his mouth moved slow and deep, the kind of kiss that tasted like the mint from earlier and the faint salt of his skin. he kept murmuring sorry against your lips, the word slipping out between breaths like he couldn’t stop it. “sorry… i just—don’t go yet.” his voice was low, rough at the edges, nothing dramatic, just real and tired.

he tried to pull your shirt up but his fingers caught in the fabric, clumsy from how tightly he was holding on. you lifted your arms and did it yourself, tossing it aside onto the floor where his clothes already lay scattered. the cool air of the room hit your skin for a second before his mouth was on you, warm and immediate. “fuck… so pretty,” he breathed, the words barely above a whisper as he leaned down. his lips closed around one nipple, soft and wet, tongue circling slowly while his hand cupped the other, thumb brushing over it in lazy strokes.

he took his time, sucking gently, then softer, like he was trying to memorize the way you felt under his tongue. his free hand rested on your ribs, fingers spread wide, the size difference clear in how easily his palm covered so much of you. he switched sides, mouth warm and unhurried, little hums vibrating against your skin when your back arched slightly. “you always feel so good like this,” he murmured, lips brushing the underside of your breast before he kissed lower, open-mouthed and slow.

your pants came next. his hand fumbled at the waistband, pushing them down your hips but struggling with the angle on the bed. you raised your hips and helped slide them off along with your underwear, kicking them to the foot of the bed. jaehyun sat back just enough to yank his hoodie over his head in one motion, revealing the lean lines of his chest and stomach, skin already starting to flush. he was taller, broader in the shoulders, and when he leaned back over you the mattress dipped under his weight, making your smaller frame feel even smaller beneath him.

his fingers found you first, two of them sliding through your folds before pressing in carefully. “is this okay?” he asked, voice husky, eyes flicking up to yours. you nodded and told him to shut up, the words coming out breathy. he gave a small nod, lips pressing together, and focused. his fingers curled inside, slow and steady, thumb brushing your clit in gentle circles. the wet sounds were quiet, mixing with his heavy breathing and the low creak of the bed whenever he shifted. he watched your face the whole time, dark eyes steady, breathing through his mouth as he worked you open.

after a minute he slid lower, shoulders settling between your thighs. his mouth replaced his fingers, tongue flat and warm as he licked a slow stripe up your center. he groaned softly at the taste, the vibration traveling through you. he ate you out without rushing, lips closing around your clit and sucking gently, then releasing to lick again, over and over. his hands held your thighs apart, fingers pressing into the soft skin, keeping you spread for him. because of his height, his long arms reached easily, one hand sliding up to rest on your stomach, feeling the way your breathing changed.

you threaded your fingers through his hair, the strands soft and slightly damp with sweat already. he made a low sound when you tugged lightly, tongue pressing firmer, circling then flicking. the room filled with the quiet, wet noises of his mouth on you and the occasional hitch in your breath. he stayed focused, switching between slow licks and gentle suction, building it steadily until your hips started shifting against his face. he didn’t speed up, just kept the same deliberate pace, like he wanted to draw it out as long as possible.

when he finally pulled back, his lips were slick, chin glistening. he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and moved up your body, kissing your stomach, then between your breasts, then your mouth again. his cock was hard and heavy against your thigh, the tip already wet. he reached down, guiding himself to your entrance, rubbing the head through your folds a couple times before pressing in.

he went slow, eyes locked on your face the entire time. “fuck,” he breathed as the head slipped inside, the stretch real and full. inch by inch he sank deeper, hips pressing forward until he bottomed out, pelvis flush against yours. a heavy breath left him, chest rising and falling visibly. he stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust, forehead dropping to rest against yours. his hand stayed on the side of your face, thumb stroking your cheek.

you breathing harder, bodies moving together in the quiet of his apartment. he reached between you, fingers circling your clit again, the added stimulation pushing you closer. his thrusts faltered a little when he got near the edge, hips snapping forward with more urgency. “cum with me,” he said against your ear, voice strained. “please.” you clenched around him and he followed right after, burying himself deep with a low, heavy groan. his hips stuttered, pulsing inside you as he came, warmth spreading. he kept moving through it, shallow thrusts to draw it out for both of you, until the tension finally eased. his arms shook slightly as he held himself up, breathing hard against your neck.

he didn’t pull out immediately. instead he stayed buried inside, forehead pressed to yours, both of you catching your breath. his hand stroked your side slowly, gentle now that the intensity had peaked. after a minute he carefully slid out, a soft wince from both of you at the loss. he reached for the towel he’d left on the nightstand earlier, cleaning you first with careful wipes, then himself. nothing was said, just the quiet sounds of fabric and breathing. when he was done he pulled you against his chest, your smaller frame fitting easily into the curve of his taller body. his arm wrapped around your waist, hand resting on your stomach, fingers tracing idle patterns. the sheets were tangled around your legs, damp with sweat. he pressed a lazy kiss to the top of your head, then another to your shoulder, his breathing slowly returning to normal. the fan kept spinning, the streetlight outside casting soft shadows across the room.

his fingers kept moving on your skin, slow and soothing, like he was still trying to keep you close even after everything. the apartment was quiet again, just the two of you tangled together on his bed, bodies warm and spent. he didn’t say anything more about leaving.

for now it was just this—skin against skin, his heartbeat steady under your cheek, the real, messy aftermath of two people who weren’t ready to let go yet. he shifted once, pulling the blanket up over both of you, then settled back, holding you tighter. his leg draped over yours, the height difference making it easy for him to surround you. sleep started to pull at the edges, but he stayed awake a little longer, fingers still tracing your skin, breathing slow and even against your hair. the night stretched on like that, quiet and intimate in his small bedroom, the outside world far away for the moment.

afterward.

the room is quiet except for breathing. the rain has stopped outside. his fairy lights cast soft yellow shadows on the ceiling.

you're on your side. he's behind you, arm draped over your waist, face buried in the back of your neck. he hasn't let go for twenty minutes. his fingers trace absent patterns on your stomach.

"are you awake," he whispers.

"yeah."

"okay." a pause. "i just wanted to check."

silence.

"i meant everything," he says. "before. during. all of it. i meant it."

you don't answer.

"you don't have to say it back," he adds quickly. "you don't have to say anything. i just wanted you to know."

his arm tightens around you. his lips press to the nape of your neck. soft. almost hesitant.

"i'm not going anywhere," he murmurs. "not this time. even if you push me away. even if you tell me to leave. i'm staying. i'm going to keep staying until you believe me."

you turn in his arms. face him. he looks young like this—eyelashes still damp, lips slightly swollen, hair a mess from your fingers. vulnerable in a way he never lets anyone see.

you reach up. trace the line of his jaw with your thumb.

"okay," you say.

his eyes widen. "okay?"

"okay. i'll—try. i'm not promising anything. but i'll try."

the smile that breaks across his face is small. tentative. nothing like his usual grin. but it's real. you can see it in his eyes—the dimple appearing, just barely.

"that's enough," he says. "that's more than enough."

he pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin. you feel his heartbeat against your cheek. steady. steady.

outside, the city hums. inside, jeong jaehyun holds you like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

maybe you are.

for now, that's enough.

[thelockedtomb-archive]

Welcome to The Locked Tomb!

Here are some guidelines to make your stay more comfortable:

CONTENT WARNING: Ianthe Tridentarius. Just, like, in general. At all times.

Wait, was that a reference to [your mama/studied the blade/none pizza left beef/ariana grande/etc/etc]?? Yes. Yes it was.

Look up "unreliable narrator" in the dictionary. You will see four images: Gideon Nav, Harrowhark Nonagesimus, John Gaius, and Nona.

Nobody even cares about Babs.

Hang on, am I....meant to be getting turned on by this scene?? Yes. Yes you are. It's okay. This is a safe space 😘.

We don't talk about Dulcinea.

It is best to not consume soup while reading TLT.

Gideon is always drawn in fanart with bare arms. No, her arms are never uncovered in the books. Yes, we are all very okay with this.

Do not (DO. NOT!!!) start reading Harrow the Ninth until you have secured an experienced TLT reading buddy. If you cannot find one, one will be appointed for you. Contact them every 5 minutes while reading.

Gideon the Ninth is the only "normal" book in this series. Enjoy this normalcy while it lasts.

While reading HtN, there will be many times when you will want to burn the entire series, want to die, to murder the people who recommended this series to you, and will generally question all your life choices and cry out in despair, "why are you doing this to me??? What did I do wrong in my life to deserve this?? WHY??????" This is normal. See rule 9.

Puns are funny automatically.

Nona is a gift. Nona loves you and everything about you. You deserve Nona.

Upon completing Nona the Ninth, you will be granted entry to The AlectoPause, where we all sit in a circle and rock back and forth, letting out occasional wails of pain and suffering, as we wait for the "final" book in the series. We all enjoy this; it's great.

Remember that this is a series about redemption and the power of forgiveness, none of which is possible without first committing sins.

And finally: Frontline Titties of the Fifth is not a real publication. I'm so sorry.

...WELCOME, AND ENJOY!! <3 <3 <3

Notes & Additional Reading:

1. As of 30th September 2025, there were 399 works on AO3 with the tag "Content Warning: Ianthe Tridentarius"

2. See also: Reddit

3. The remarkable thing is that all four of these unreliable narrators are unreliable in distinct, unique ways.

4. And it's okay if YOU don't care about Babs either. Babs cares enough to compensate for this.

5. See, for example, Harrow the Ninth, Ch. 27, which is the most explicitly explicit lesbian sex scene ever written in the history of ever, despite technically, arguably, not containing literal "lesbian sex".

6. ...we don't talk about [CENSORED] either

7. If you MUST consume soup, please use the following recipe: "cut up an onion, burn it at the bottom of the pot, put in a few vegetables, and then some meat. It won't taste like anything, so put in a few teaspoons of salt, and then it'll taste like a few teaspoons of salt."

8. We all had a meeting and agreed upon this.

9. You think we're joking about this?? WE ARE NOT. Harrow the Ninth is widely regarded as the "best" book in the series, and is so, so, SO beloved, a masterpiece, a thing of beauty- and yet! Almost everyone is entirely miserable the first time they read it.

10. You will, eventually and deeply, love the "un-normal-ness" of Harrow the Ninth and Nona the Ninth. .....eventually. {cough}

11. And you will, by the end, know "why". There will be multiple points that will have you squealing/jumping up and down/squeezing your reading buddy with unabashed joy. But oh man, you gotta earn it first.

12. Don't agree? We'll let you cowsider that for a moonute or two. Wouldn't want any beef with you.

13. Nona loves everyone and everything. She doesn't know you, but I promise you, she loves you unconditionally. She is your reward for enduring the punishment that is Harrow the Ninth. Accept this blessing.

14. Will Alecto the Ninth really be the last book in the series? Who knows!!

15. Despite the sometimes cavalier (ha!! see rule 12) attitude of TLT fans, we are, in fact, aware of how deeply fucked up many of the characters' actions are, and how deeply fucked up their entire society is. There is a reason why [CENSORED] [CENSORED] referred to as "[CENSORED] Jesus".

16. Frontline Titties of the Fifth is not a real publication yet. YET.

[cowboylik3miller]

BACK ON THE HORSE

Joel Miller x you [f.reader.] — smut

[MINORS DNI!] 18+

Summary

September 26th was always reserved for Joel Miller in your calendar. Hell, in Jackson’s calendar as well.

Everybody knew it was his big day, even if he didn’t like spending it with strangers, still stung by the past. Spending it with family, though?

That was something entirely different.

With the day coming up soon, your plan to outdo yourself from the year before almost crumbles. You have no idea what to give him, aside from a small little gift he probably doesn’t need anyway—but you’re a thoughtful girlfriend and you cannot leave him without, at least, a little treat. He’s not a hard man to please, although he still doesn’t know how to accept gifts, not after years of trauma.

You decide to surprise him and show him how much he really means to you.

In the end, things go sideways in a way you two will never forget.

Warnings

TW // age gap [unspecified, less than 20 years], detailed sex, dom!joel, sub!reader/on top for a while, cowgirl, breeding kink, creampie, no condom on, mentions of cigarettes and alcohol, oral [m.receiving] — blowjob, missionary, cum mentions, intense language, praise kink mixed with just slight degrading, slight choking, baby fever, mentions of death, making out, boobs, hair pulling, possessiveness, PTSD mentioned, joel’s horny for moans, once again DETAILED, porn with plot!! (that why it starts a bit later, don’t be fooled), pregnancy mentioned???, slight overstimulation

WORD COUNT

around 5,6k words ─ ·✶·

Note

second smut of mine — this time with joel!! love him so so much, happy birthday to him!! it’s september 26th when i post this, wrote this in time to celebrate his bdayyyyy

next up… after that, definitely some hurt/comfort with joel… and maybe some pre-outbreak joel smut? 😋

ps: u can read it with both versions of joel in mind!!

───── ⋆ ─────

Waking up on September 26th was never a good thing to Joel Miller after the world ended. He didn’t like acknowledging his birthday, the Outbreak Day, the day he lost his daughter, though it happened just a few hours into the 27th. As much as folks in Jackson tried to make this day something good, especially Tommy, Joel was never keen on the idea.

That was, until you marched into his life, boots crashing down the walls he put up.

You managed to make the past year good enough, that Joel Miller—the man who didn’t have an ounce of faith in him—believed in the world giving him a second chance at normal life.

Well, as normal as it could be, with mutated fungus running around.

Despite a few conflicts at first, a whole ass argument that lasted for a week, about you and your age, about him denying your feelings because of fear—“You’re too young for me, sweetheart, you don’t know what you’re sayin’”—Joel Miller ended up letting himself have you and accepting the love he was receiving. Therapy was one of the key reasons he managed to open up to you about what he’s done and how he lost his daughter, the key to his bundled up heart.

It was also then that he told you about his birthday, and how awful he felt whenever the day came around. How he struggled with going outside, the fear of people noticing him stronger than the will to work and help keep Jackson upright.

And it was then that you started planning on how to make your older boyfriend (because yes, that’s what you were calling him on a daily basis just to tease him) finally happy. He deserved that, more than anyone else. After years of loss and surviving purely on relying on distance and turning off his emotions, Joel Miller deserved to feel genuinely loved, and not pressured into it.

For him, accepting his own feelings was like finally forgiving himself for the loss of Sarah and Tess, and the things he did for Ellie.

It was a step in the right direction, as the local therapist had said.

In the end, after all your hard work, with your preparations starting a month earlier, Joel’s birthday went smoother and better than you (and him) expected. No one forced him to come to the main hall to celebrate, no one intruded when he tried to go on a walk in peace.

No one was breaching his boundaries, trying to claw their way into his closed off heart.

His birthday dinner consisted mainly of you, your love, Ellie and her jokes, Tommy’s teasing and Maria’s genuine warmth.

You were the one who prepared most of the food, with Maria helping you bake a pie. It was also you who gave him the present he’d bitched to you about for a while—some new guitar strings and leather you managed to trade for at the market. Although Joel sat stiff and silent for the first half hour, he didn’t feel pressured into anything, not at all. After the bourbon kicked in, he gripped your hand right on the table, not ashamed to be seen loving you, and started telling stories, even joking around with his brother.

You’ve never seen Joel this happy beforehand, ever.

You were proud of yourself—rightfully so—as you were the one who suggested a quiet evening in, instead of going out.

After the rest left, you finished up the dishes, with Joel hovering over you and constantly bugging you about how ‘he’s the birthday guy, he should be the one cleaning after the guests’. You just kissed him on the cheek and ran a hand through his greying hair, asking him to go sit on the couch.

The night followed with him reading you a book out loud, voice rough and full of comfort, and pouring you a glass of whiskey, even though you swore you hated how it tasted everytime he brought it out.

“Just one sip, girl, I know you like it. Don’t think I don’t see ya stealing it from my cabinet when I’m away,” he teased, his drawl full of Texas warmth, as he filled up your glass.

One glass turned into three, and before you knew, Joel had you on his lap, his lips relentless against yours. Safe to say, the couch didn’t see this much action since before Joel arrived in Jackson. You were practically making out like teenagers—which was a good sign. He could finally go back to what he didn’t get to have in his teen years, too busy raising Sarah since he was 19.

You truly were his second chance.

“The best birthday I’ve had in 20 years, darlin’,” he muttered to you that night, as you cuddled up close to him, your ear pressed into his chest. His heartbeat was calm—deep and loud, but calm.

It immediately lulled you to sleep.

You were safe, happy, full of love.

You never feared sleep when you lay beside Joel Miller, his arms around you like a safety blanket.

Now, a year later, you were tasked with a challenge:

To make this September 26th even better than the last.

And boy, oh boy, was this a task.

You didn’t have any spots left which you could show to him. Every patrol, every romantic walk around Jackson, every date—he knew most of the paths in the woods. He had everything he needed, you, family, emergency cigarettes, his favourite type of whiskey, wood to carve from, tools, books, and even his favourite records.

So what else could you give him?

There were six hours left before the big day, and you had to pray that the new carving knife you traded for and helped Tommy sharpen was going to be enough. Technically Joel didn’t need a new one, but you figured he’d appreciate the gesture anyway.

“Your last night before the big day,” you teased, watching from the doorway as Joel put on his grey shirt, pyjama pants stretched out on his body. Despite being a mess, the whole day of work wearing him out, he still looked as beautiful as ever, with eyebags under his eyes, his hair messy and greying. “How does it feel, old man? Your back all crackin’ and breaking down already?”

“One more comment and I’ll put you over my knee, girl,” he huffed, looking at you in the mirror and grabbed his toothbrush. You pushed off the doorway and stepped closer, standing on your toes to give his cheek a kiss, before grabbing your own toothbrush. You loved these domestic nights, when you and Joel didn’t have to do anything, free to enjoy yourselves and focus on peace. Underneath all his grit and roughness, Joel Miller was nothing if not a big, romantic softie.

And that part was what you cherished in him the most.

It was secret, yours only. Only you got to see his tired smile, the vulnerable look in his eyes, wrinkles reminding both of you how long he spent in this world.

Both of you brushed your teeth together, Joel’s arm pressing you against his side. His eyes in the reflection were locked on yours, admiring you. He was sap, totally whipped for you, like you had him wrapped around your little finger.

“I hope you knew better than to get me anythin’,” he drawled after spitting water and toothpaste into the sink. “I already got everythin’ I need.”

You spat toothpaste back into the sink as well, wiping your mouth on the back of your hand, and pressed your lips into a thin line.

Shit.

“Uh..”

He turned to face you, arms crossed over his chest, t-shirt sleeves straining on his biceps, like the material was ready to burst any minute. God, they were big.

He was one hell of a man. A good one, at that.

“Sweetheart..”

“I know!” You groaned. “But you give me everything, everyday. How can I not give you a gift for your birthday?”

“I got you, baby, you’re my gift,” he hummed, grabbing your waist. He pulled you close and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “So, you gonna tell me what you have in store for me?”

My pussy, you wanted to say, jokingly of course, but bit your tongue. No filthy thoughts.

Not yet.

“Nuh, uh, Miller. That’s still a surprise.”

“Shame, you usually spoil these, along with the secrets,” Joel shrugged and ruffled your hair, just to move away after a few seconds and tilt his head. “C’mon, it’s late, hun. Gotta go to bed if we wanna wake up before noon.”

You just nodded and followed him out, flicking the switch off. He didn’t wait and just immediately crawled under the covers. You, of course, joined him, snuggling close to him underneath the duvet. Your head lay on his chest, his heartbeat strong, but steady.

“Not reading today, grandpa?” You giggled, noticing how he didn’t reach for the book on the nightstand, along with his adorable reading glasses leaning against the night lamp.

“What did I tell ya about those nicknames?” His sigh was exhasperated. “Not in the mood for readin’ tonight. Like you said, I might be gettin’ old after all.”

“Mm. See, I was right.”

“Yeah, yeah, trouble. Keep telling y’self that.”

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, resting his palm at the small of your back through the fabric of your shirt (which, technically, was his shirt). His beard scratched your temple ever so slightly, warm breath fanning over the crown of your head. Joel hadn’t felt so much peace in days, only focusing on work and helping Tommy and Maria.

“Ready to wake up older with you next to me.” He pulled you in closer, arms tighter around you. His eyes fluttered shut, breath slowing down.

“Night, Joel.”

“G’night, hun.”

Joel wasn’t used to sweet dreams, not before you, not after Boston, not in Jackson. His house was full of demons, always haunting every part of his body, painful enough that he did everything he could to bury himself in work.

With you, he didn’t need it. He could finally try and heal, your presence grounding him and countering his mental scars.

This night, he didn’t have any dreams, for the first time ever since he met you. There wasn’t anything that woke him up in the middle of the night or made him squirm in bed, taunted by the dreams he had.

No. He slept quietly and peacefully, with you clinging to his side like a koala bear, his heartbeat steady.

And then, of course, because nothing ever lasted forever, sunlight spilled in through the windows, making Joel stir from his slumber. This man couldn’t sleep in even on his birthday, his habits rooted so deep down inside him, he couldn’t just ignore them. His eyes fluttered open and the first thing he noticed was you, snoring quietly (thank God you didn’t sound like a drill), your head still on his shoulder. Your plan was to wake up first thing in the morning, even before Joel, to prepare breakfast, but clearly it didn’t work out.

He watched you for a few more seconds before giving you a kiss on your head and slipping out of bed. There was no way he was falling back asleep.

So, he did what he did best when he woke up this early.

Got to work (meaning breakfast).

Joel truly didn’t know how gifts worked. He wasn’t used to just accepting something without giving a thing in return. Twenty years of apocalypse taught him to always trade and never trust generous gifts, especially from strangers. You weren’t a stranger though, neither was Tommy or Ellie, yet still he couldn’t just let y’all ‘spoil’ him. Sometimes he still felt like he didn’t deserve it. Didn’t deserve the care, the thoughts, the love.

But he tried to fix himself. Tried to fix how he looked at the world.

And maybe, with you, he really started to change for the better.

Breakfast didn’t take too long. He figured toast and eggs will be enough, with two cups of coffee for the both of you. While the eggs were frying on the pan, coffee still brewing, Joel’s eyes darted around the kitchen. He couldn’t find the pepper—he always left it next to salt, but this time it wasn’t there. He huffed under his breath, closing drawers and cupboards in search of the spice.

“There ya go.. who even puts pepper next to tomato sauce? Jesus Christ.. gotta tell her to stop movin’ shit ‘round here,” a grumble left his mouth and his head shook slightly.

Just as he was about to close the cupboard, a small bundle, wrapped in twine and hidden behind a jar of rice, caught his eye. It was small, so normally he wouldn’t even see it, but someone did a shit job with choosing the wrapping.

How the hell did someone find glitter wrapping paper in this time and age?

He knew he shouldn’t really touch stuff that wasn’t his, but something told him it was for him.

Then, it clicked.

Right, the gift you mentioned.

After finishing up with the eggs and eating his portion, he reached for the bundle, eyes narrowed. As he unwrapped it, his gaze fell upon a small, carving knife, sharper than the dull, shaky one he’s been using for the past month. His lips twitched, a smile forming on his face despite himself.

“Real original, honey,” he smirked to himself.

Your plan to give it to him after dinner? Busted.

The first sound you heard upon opening your eyes was a deep laugh, followed by steps thudding up the stairs. Your gaze flickered to the empty place beside you, a dent in the mattress suggesting Joel woke up not that long ago.

“Darlin’?” He called softly from the hall and pushed the door open with his hip, a tray in his hands and a small, barely wrapped bundle in the back pocket of his jeans.

Uh oh.

“Joel—?”

“Well, hell, good mornin’. Woke up just in time for breakfast.” He smirked, carefully setting the tray down on your nightstand. He sat down on the edge of the bed, watching you reach for the plate first, stomach growling. “How did my girl sleep?”

“Good,” you yawned, stretching your arms, “you didn’t kick me in the middle of the night, so, progress. What about you, grandpa?” Your eyes flicked to his while you stuffed your mouth full with the eggs.

“Mhm.” He shot you a look full of disappointment, but it wasn’t genuine. “Guess I slept okay, too. Might honestly need ya to move in, since you’re a cure to all my nightmares,” he drawled and flashed you a soft smile, dimples showing despite his age.

You just laughed, inhaling breakfast like you spent a month at a desert without any food. Joel’s cooking wasn’t as bad as Ellie always called it.

After you cleaned up the plate and walked to the bathroom to brush your teeth, Joel carried everything back to the kitchen, even doing the dishes while you were busy so you couldn’t argue about how ‘he should sit his ass down’.

When it was over, he met you back upstairs in the bedroom, eyes raking over your body as you pulled on his flannel. He sat down on the bed, watching you intensely.

“You know, I was supposed to be the one making you breakfast today,” you commented all of a sudden, breaking the silence.

“Too bad, you slept in,” he shrugged, then reached for the bundle in his pocket and took it out, flashing it before your eyes. “And by the way, y’need to work on your hiding skills, sweetheart.”

Your ears went red, cheeks hot. You physically felt your plans crash down, all because Joel Miller decided to snoop (he didn’t, it was you who fucked up with the hiding spot, but you still blamed him).

“I wanted to give it to you after dinner!”

“Uh-huh.”

“Not my fault you snoop so much, Miller. Ruining the surprise.” You crossed your arms against your chest, eyes narrowing, then softening after a short while. “..Do you like it, though?”

“The knife? Yeah. Yeah, honey, I do. Been needin’ a new knife ‘nyway,” Joel’s smirk softened back into a gentle smile, his hand putting the knife back onto the nightstand.

Your shoulders sagged, a pout appearing on your face.

“Y’know.. since you didn’t let me surprise you with the knife…” You started, eyes slowly trailing up his body, “…let me do it with something different.” A purr left your lips and with that, you moved closer and sank to your knees in front of Joel. He didn’t even have time to protest, before you spread his knees apart, fitting right between them. You unbuckled his belt with one hand, the other already teasing the zipper.

“Darlin’.. wait, slow down—“ his surprised grunt echoed off the walls, his hand coming to grab your hair, trying to stop you. “Jesus Christ, girl—“ He sucked in a sharp breath, feeling your fingertips brush against his boxers, fly already unzipped. He could feel himself get hard at your touch and scoffed, disappointed with himself at how easily you got him to take off his jeans.

“It’s your birthday. Lemme make you feel good, Joel,” you licked your lips and looked him straight the in the eyes, cocky and proud of yourself for making him feel so twitchy—a rare sight when it came to Miller. He wasn’t even capable of holding eye contact in that moment.

“Y’know you don’t gotta do it, baby.” Once again, he found himself trying to convince you of how much he didn’t need your mouth on his cock, despite already being half-hard, his voice tinged with heat. His breathing was irregular, heart rate quickened, plus, the way he looked at you showed how he truly felt about the idea.

You didn’t respond to his plea with words, pulling him out of his boxers instead, hand wrapping around his length. Massaging him slightly, thumb brushing the tip, you made sure to make Joel completely hard, aching and waiting for you to finally take him in your mouth. One of your palms came up to grip his thigh, the second slid up and down his dick, causing him to groan, hips jerking up ever so slightly. He was a strong man when it came to danger, clickers and such, but, fuck, you were enough to make him go weak in the knees, his resolve faltering.

“Just.. fuckin’ put it in your mouth, would ya?” Joel hissed and tightened the grip on your hair. “Slowly, don’t choke on it,” he guided, and your breath fanning over the tip was enough for him to curse under his breath. It wasn’t often that you sucked Joel off, him preferring to eat you out instead. He knew he was big and didn’t want you hurting yourself, even if you assured him you’d be alright.

When your lips finally wrapped around his blunt head, his dick twitched, sending shivers down his spine. He had to grab onto the mattress with his other hand, fingers digging into the material. You moved your head down, now taking almost all of him in, his tip hitting the back of your throat.

“Fuck,” his eyes fluttered shut, chest raising and falling rapidly. “Keep doing that, sweetheart,” he rasped while you started bobbing your head. Your tongue traced the tip slowly, savouring both the soft, faint taste of his pre-cum, as well as the way Joel’s dick was twitching in your mouth. Then, you moved your lips deeper down his cock, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked softly, humming around him just to feel his hips jerk against you due to the vibration. Slick coated his skin. Every stroke of your mouth was messier, bringing a different sound out of him—curses, your name or just moans.

“Girl—“ he hissed, grip tightening even more on your hair, before pushing himself deeper in your throat, causing you to gag. He immediately sobered up from the pleasurable haze upon hearing you choke, pulling your head up just slightly. “Sorry, baby.”

You just smiled up at him, tears prickling in the corner of your eyes. His dick, once again, hit the back of your throat, this time not causing you to gag this much, and Joel couldn’t stop himself from letting out a strangled groan, head falling back.

“God—Goddamn.. so deep, baby girl.” His palm slid to the back of your neck, pushing and pulling on it slightly to control your pace. Although your cheeks were starting to hurt, you kept going, one hand massaging the rest of him that you didn’t manage to take in.

“That—that’s enough.” Joel’s shaky growl was sudden, followed by a push against your shoulders. He tugged you off with a wet pop, drool dripping down your chin, your spit coating his dick, mixed with pre-cum. “Get up here.” He yanked you up by your hair, hands flying to pull down your pants. With shaky fingers he undid the button and slid down the zipper, pulling the jeans down with a sharp tug, earning a gasp from you.

“Joel—!”

“Wanna finish inside ya, not on your tongue.” His drawl was breathless, stern enough to stop you from arguing. “Breed ya ‘til it’s dripping down your legs. You get me, sugar?”

You nodded and crawled onto the bed, panties hanging off your ankle. Joel’s palms supported your hips as you straddled his lap, your aching pussy brushing against his dampened length. In the meanwhile, you took of your shirt, tits out on display for Joel to see. He didn’t hesitate, grabbing them into his big, rough hands and massaging them gently.

“So no condom?” Your lips curled into a smirk. That didn’t happen often with Joel—he always made sure you were safe. He was clean, of course, just like you, but whenever he could, he’d rather use a condom not to risk anything.

Joel scoffed, “No need for it if I wanna breed ya, no?” He shifted on the mattress to fully slip his boxers down, throwing them to the corner of the room, hands off your boobs. You didn’t wait for his guidance and orders, just slowly sank down onto him when he lined up perfectly, walls stretching around the head. Joel’s breath caught in his chest and a choked gasp escaped his lips when you stilled after taking him all, trying to adjust to the feeling of him inside you.

He was bigger than you remembered. More curved upwards than before, as well.

“Move,” a hiss fell upon your ears. Your eyes fluttered shut when you finally started, setting a slow, steady pace with your hips. Joel’s eyes dragged over you, from the way your chest heaved to the way your mouth parted when he throbbed deep inside.

You were mostly in control, with Joel not doing anything, just letting you take what you needed (it was him who needed it more than you). Every drop of your hips, every whimper coming from your mouth drove him deeper into pleasure, his groans getting louder, matching the pace of your movements. He wasn’t as loud as you, but he sure as hell couldn’t keep quiet when it came to having you ride him.

“Ya take me so fuckin’ good, sweetheart.” His gaze was half-lidded, eyes dark, mouth slightly parted, as he focused on watching your pussy move up and down his cock.

Your gasp turned into a moan when you felt him suddenly jerk his hips up, fucking into you, “Joel!”

He didn’t look guilty—no, in fact, he looked as if he was lost in the haze of what you were doing to him. His palms were cradling your hips, still not moving you, just slightly helping you keep your composure, like he was testing how long he could let you bathe in the bliss of having control over him—or, at least, some sense of it.

“Fuckfuck, shit,” you panted, grinding down to take him even deeper, his slightly curved cock hitting you in places you haven’t felt before. “Happy—” you gasped, “—Birthday, baby.”

He let out a sharp breath through his nose, his eyelids fluttering shut just for a second. Fuck, your voice, so breathy, was enough to make him dizzy. He often got off on hearing your sounds, never prompting you to stay quiet. Hell, he fucking hated when you stopped whimpering.

Joel Miller was the type of a man who never kept quiet in the bedroom. Whether it was his grunts, dirty talk or your moans, sex with him was loud. With the amount of times he hit the best spots deep inside you, knowing what makes you feel good, there was no way you’d stay silent—he was just too good, too skilled.

Not that you were complaining, of course.

Your nails dug into his chest, ripping the shirt off his body, when he shifted his hips upward, hitting another spot that made your vision blur, tears falling down your cheeks. You started grinding faster, chasing the high, the knot in your belly tightening with every thrust of his hips into you. Joel’s grip on your waist tightened, and his fingers dug into your skin, creating marks on it.

“You like watching me ride you, huh?” you managed, breathless, sweat building on your forehead, hair strands sticking to skin. “Like watchin’ me take you?”

His jaw clenched and his arm suddenly snuck around your back, pushing you tight against his torso, his belly warm against yours. His lips brushed your ear, “No, baby, I like watchin’ you think you’re in charge.”

Before you could protest, even mutter one word in response, your world flipped. The bed creaked as Joel rolled you onto your back in one effortless motion, pressing you down into the sheets. His lips sucked on the skin of your neck, bruises left like evidence of his hunger.

“Joel—”

“Shut up.” Joel’s voice was rough, final, with a hint of playful annoyance in it, his palm landing on your thigh. He raised your legs and wrapped them around his waist, offering better access to the deepest spots inside of you. “You had your fun. That’s over now, darlin’.” What he said wasn’t cruel, but thick with want—as if he was warning and promising you all at once.

Your chest was heaving underneath him, while he lined his cock against your wet cunt, dragging the blunt tip through your folds. One of his hands gripped your hips, while the other snuck up to your neck, squeezing it ever so slightly in just the right places—not enough to cut off air in a dangerous way, but enough to sharpen the stimulation. You could feel the strength in him everywhere, in the stretch of his arms holding you down, in the iron press of his hips as he suddenly shoved back into you in one slow, excruciating thrust.

The sound that tore out of you was half gasp, half moan.

Oh, how he loved those fuckin’ sounds.

“Yeah,” Joel rasped, mouth now hovering by your jaw, his beard scratching the skin, sure to leave slight burn marks. His breath was uneven, ready to break into a groan with every snap of his hips. “That’s what I fuckin’ wanted.”

With that, he pulled out almost to the tip, then drove back in, hard enough that your body jerked against the mattress. His hand moved from your hip to one of your thighs, hitching it higher against his waist, allowing him to dive deeper and hit one of your most sensitive spots. That caused you to whimper, his name ever so sweet on your tongue, mixed with broken curses and breathless moans. His calloused fingers traced over the delicate skin of your neck, stopping at a pulse point, your heartbeat fast under his touch.

“Fuckin’ Christ, girl—look at you. Younger than some of my scars, yet you still let an old man like me make you cry on his cock,” he hissed against your skin, pounding into you with raw hunger. The angle made your cries louder, tears sliding down your cheeks. Your hands tangled in Joel’s damp hair, curls falling down his forehead, bouncing off the skin with every thrust. For his age, his stamina was fucking nuclear. Sure, he often had to slow down just a bit to regain the strength, but he never faltered enough for you to lose the pleasure.

“Joel—! Please—”

His hand tightened around your thigh, forcing you open.

“Please what? You wanted this, baby,” he reminded. His trusts came steady, deep and unrelenting, dragging moans from your throat no matter how hard you tried to hold them back, biting down on your lip until it hurt. He pressed a hand over your belly just for a moment, feeling himself move back and forth inside you. “My cock’s stretching ya just right, darlin’. You were made for me.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, overwhelmed by it all.

“No,” Joel snapped, his free hand sliding up your neck to your chin, grabbing it tightly and forcing your gaze up to meet his. His eyes were dark, full of intensity which he poured into every move. “Look at me while I’m inside you.”

You obeyed, your lips parted as you stared up at him, the corners of your eyes wet from tears. His thumb dragged across your bottom lip, pressing, as if he wanted to slip it inside.

“That’s it, good girl.” His voice dipped into something dangerous. “Mine. Every fuckin’ bit of you. Only for me.”

His pace shifted, faster now, rougher, and the bed frame creaked beneath the force of it, the headboard thudding against the wall with a rhythm so obvious that every neighbour of yours definitely knew what was going on. His mouth dropped to your throat, kissing, biting, leaving marks like he wanted the entire Jackson to know you were his. Your hands flew to his back, nails digging into his sweat-slick skin.

“God, Joel—” you choked out, your walls tightening around him. He groaned deep at that, hips stuttering for half a second at the way you clenched around his dick.

“So fuckin’ tight, baby,” Joel rasped, voice muffled. “You wanna come, hm, sweetheart?”

You nodded, knot tightening low inside you. Your palm settled against his chest, wandering over all the scars and the rough chest hair he had. His response was a low growl.

“Say it, then.”

“i’m—yours—I’m gonna—” you panted.

Joel growled once again, biting down on your shoulder and making you yelp as his thrusts turned punishing, almost brutal, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the bedroom. The coil inside you finally snapped, white-hot pleasure exploding through your body, throbbing in your veins. You cried out his name, arching against him, thighs digging into his waist, eyes snapping shut.

“Joel!”

“There you go, cumming all over my cock.. atta girl,” he drawled.

He didn’t slow—not yet. He fucked you through the high, hearing your moans turn into downright sobs, tears wetting the pillow underneath your head. He dragged every last ripple of your orgasm out of you, adding to the haze, until you were shaking beneath him, your pussy throbbing. Only then did he let himself go, hips jerking, his rhythm faltering. He ground deep as he spilled inside you with a guttural groan, still thrusting into you.

“Fuckin’ hell— take it,” he rasped, face buried in your neck, teeth clenched. He held you tight, making sure all of his cum stayed inside, the idea of breeding you strong in his mind. “Look at you, my pretty girl. You did so well.”

He nuzzled his nose into your skin, inhaling the sweet, intoxicating scent as he tried to catch his breath.

It took the both of you a while to come down from the high, but when it was finally over after a few minutes, he stayed there. He didn’t pull out or lift himself away. He just propped himself on his elbows and glanced down at you, taking you in. Your skin was glistening with sweat, your face red, lips bruised from all the intense kissing, neck and collarbone full of bruises and teeth marks where he gently bit at you. His thumb brushed your cheek where a tear slid down.

“You..” he breathed out, almost to himself. “..drive me fuckin’ crazy.”

You laughed weakly, eyes barely open. “Could say the same thing about you, Miller.”

Joel leaned down and kissed you. This time, though, it wasn’t as rough. His beard scratched your skin, lips moving gently against yours.

”That definitely outdid the knife,” he admitted, planting soft kisses all over your jaw.

“So I’m a genius after all. Told you, Miller. I can keep a secret,” you chuckled, then your smile softened after a few moments passed. “Thank you, baby.”

“No, thank you for the best birthday in my whole life, sweetheart,” he sighed deeply, content. Then, a small smirk appeared on his face when he pulled away to glance at your face. He hummed quietly, a hand moving down to your stomach. “Especially if that takes.”

Your breath caught, eyes snapping up. “You’re.. serious?”

Joel laughed, warm, and pressed a kiss to your face. “Sugar, seeing you pregnant with my kid would make me the happiest man in this goddamn world.”