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yuujispinkhair · 3 months ago

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NERD!SUKUNA HEADCANONS - Part 1

Modern!Sukuna x Reader (female). College AU. 2k words 18+, fluff + smut (Sukuna has some dirty fantasies about Reader. The actual smut will be in Part 2). "Enemies" to friends to fuckbuddies to lovers. Reader is shy and struggles with her grades. Sukuna is a genius but bad at feelings ;) Minors don't interact. Divider @/.lacedolliee. Credit for the super sexy fanart of Nerdkuna goes to my sweet friend @winterrbluess. The pic was used with Winn's permission 🖤 You asked if someone could write a little something about your fave sexy nerd, and I couldn't resist ;) I hope you'll enjoy it!

Nerd!Sukuna, who looks like a bad boy but is actually at the top of all his classes and a huge nerd when it comes to his studies and his various interests. Very intelligent, passionate, and hardworking. Sukuna always wants to be the best in everything he does.

Nerd!Sukuna, who could be one of the most popular guys on the whole campus if he wanted to, with his good looks and impressive height and fit body. But he keeps everyone at arm's length, not giving a fuck about popularity and not wanting to get distracted from his academic success.

Nerd!Sukuna, who once beat up a football player who tried to make fun of Sukuna's passion for all things history-related, and ever since that day, no one dared to bother Sukuna again.

Nerd!Sukuna, who is arrogant and condescending and thinks (rightfully so) that no one is fit to hold a candle to him. He is constantly looking down on everyone around him and would rather spend his free time perfecting his skills and studies than doing something useless.

Nerd!Sukuna, who hates group projects and prefers to work alone because everyone else is just holding him up, and Sukuna has to control all of their steps to fix their mistakes.

Nerd!Sukuna, who rolls his eyes in annoyance when he gets paired up with you for an assignment. A shy little thing whose name he never heard before, which means you are definitely not playing in the same academic league as him.

Nerd!Sukuna, who towers over you with his backpack slung casually over his broad shoulders and his tattooed face cold and hard when he informs you that he expects you to work hard and not fuck up his grades, or he will make your life hell.

Nerd!Sukuna, who is fully convinced this will be a disaster when he sees you wring your hands nervously and promise him you will work your ass off for this assignment because you really need a good grade so you can pass.

Nerd!Sukuna, who is a control freak who plans everything ahead and, therefore, doesn't let you have a word on how often you meet or when or where. He doesn't like having people over at his place, but he invites you over anyway because his kitchen table is his favorite place to study.

Nerd!Sukuna, who fixes you with a stern look through his nerdy glasses as he shoves a huge stack of books across the table, informing you he expects you to read all the needed information, which he already marked for you with various color-coded sticky notes. "Because you probably don't even know what we need for this assignment."

Nerd!Sukuna, who is surprised by how thoroughly you work and by the questions you ask him, which let him know you aren't as dumb as he thought.

Nerd!Sukuna, who likes how you hang on his lips when he explains stuff to you, clearly impressed by his detailed knowledge. And maybe, just maybe, he intentionally lowers his voice a bit more, just to see you get all nervous when he is talking in such a husky way, almost as if he isn't explaining political intrigues in the Heian era to you but rather telling you what he wants to do to you in his bed.

Nerd!Sukuna, who finds devilish joy in seeing how flustered you get around him and how clearly intimidated you are by his tall and broad body and his tattoos and arrogant attitude.

Nerd!Sukuna, who has to admit (only to himself) that getting paired up with you isn't too bad because at least you give your best, and you are actually kind of cute. The kind of sweet, shy girl who usually doesn't cross paths with him.

Nerd!Sukuna, who catches himself watching you during study time in his kitchen or in the library. He tells himself he is just checking if you really do your work, but his gaze mostly lingers on your glossy lips, which wrap around your pen while you focus on something or on your nose, which looks super cute when you scrunch it up in confusion.

Nerd!Sukuna, who isn't one to brag because he thinks that is something for losers, but he can't help but mention casually some of the academic awards he already won just because he is getting addicted to the buzzing in his veins when he sees the way you gulp hard and get all shy and cute on him, muttering something about how you struggle to even stay in college.

Nerd!Sukuna, who usually loves to be a little sadist and make fun of people who have bad grades, but somehow, he can't bring himself to do that when it comes to you.

Nerd!Sukuna, who instead surprises himself by reaching out and ruffling your hair, telling you that he will help you with your studies.

Nerd!Sukuna, who forms a strange little companionship with you, almost looking forward to your meetings and even preparing an extra plate of snacks for you.

Nerd!Sukuna, who usually isn't someone people would refer to as nice, but who drops his arrogant and mocking attitude at least a little when he is in his kitchen with you and instead jokes around with you and feels his heart throb weirdly when you get his humor, and laugh about his even most sarcastic remarks.

Nerd!Sukuna, who likes it when you come out of your shell more and more, joining in on his playful teasing or telling him about your favorite books and shows.

Nerd!Sukuna, who accidentally overhears you telling your classmate that you don't have time to go to the coffeeshop with her because you are already meeting your friend Sukuna after class, which leaves Sukuna standing in the middle of the hallway for a whole thirty seconds, with his mouth hanging open, completely stunned and looking like a brainless idiot as his mind tries to wrap around the fact that you see him as your friend when Sukuna never had a friend before.

Nerd!Sukuna, who makes sure to bake your favorite muffins and prepare your favorite type of tea before you come over that afternoon, wordlessly showing you that he values your companionship, or friendship, as you called it, too.

Nerd!Sukuna, who feels a small smile tug at his usually smirking lips when he sees your big happy smile and hears your sweet "For me? Oh, thank you!" when you see the plate with muffins on your place at his kitchen table. And yes, he refers to it as your place, and the thought makes him feel strangely warm.

Nerd!Sukuna, who playfully teases you for your Hello Kitty pens and glittery pink notebooks, asking if you are in some "Little Princess Kindergarten Club" or something. Only for you to march up to him the next morning before class to press a Hello Kitty text marker set against his chest so he can join the club, too, causing Sukuna to sit in class with a stupid grin on his face for a whole hour.

Nerd!Sukuna, who likes how easy things feel with you. How he can put all his hard work into your assignment and also see you working hard on it, but also have this light-hearted, playful banter with you, making him realize how boring and dry his afternoons used to be before you became his assignment partner.

Nerd!Sukuna, who has to admit that you definitely aren't as bad of an assignment partner as he thought you would be. He even allows you to fill out a whole page all by yourself, which is the biggest compliment he can give you.

Nerd!Sukuna, who catches himself playfully flirting with you, smirking smugly when he catches you staring at him when he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "See something you like, princess? Aww, no need to be embarrassed. I know those glasses look sexy on me."

Nerd!Sukuna, who loves to tease you like that and who ducks just in time when you scream in embarrassment and throw a pen at him while looking so fucking cute that Sukuna just teases you even more.

Nerd!Sukuna, who is quite happy with how your assignment is going. Usually, he would do the whole presentation by himself because he trusts no one else to deliver it the way he wants to, but Sukuna knows how shy you are about talking in front of the class, and Sukuna wants to teach you how to lose that fear.

Nerd!Sukuna, who just smirks at you when you complain loudly, "I can't do that! I am so bad at presenting things. I get all nervous and flustered, and then I mess up. Please do it yourself, Sukuna! You are so much better at this!"

Nerd!Sukuna, who tells you, "If you always run away from everything that scares you, you will never make it in life. So, nope. You will do your part. But aren't you such a lucky girl that you have me as your teacher?"

Nerd!Sukuna, who makes you stand in front of his fridge and practice your presentation over and over again while Sukuna sits on the kitchen chair, long muscular legs spread, tattooed arms crossed in front of his broad chest, occasionally pushing his glasses up as he watches you with an amused expression on his tattooed face, providing a brutal but honest opinion and actually helpful advice.

Nerd!Sukuna, who isn't just an overly critical and perfectionist asshole, but also someone who gives praise when he thinks it is deserved. And you, his cute little assignment partner, really deserve it. Sukuna walks over to you, stopping in front of you with a broad grin, "You did really well, princess. I'm proud of you."

Nerd!Sukuna, who wonders why your pupils look so blown out all of a sudden when you tilt your head to look up at him, stuttering in a slightly breathless voice, "Th... thank you. You were a really good teacher."

Nerd!Sukuna, who laughs and pets your hair as he smirks at you, saying something about how he could teach you lots of other things, too. Not sure anymore whether he is still just teasing you or if he really means it in a sexual way.

Nerd!Sukuna, who realizes he has a little big problem when he starts noticing the way your tits get pushed up and almost spill out of your shirt when you press a stack of books against them. Or when he loses his thread because you decided to wear a sexy little skirt, and now Sukuna can't stop thinking about how cute it would look if you were bouncing on his cock while still wearing that little skirt. Or when you suck on your stupid Hello Kitty pen, and Sukuna can't help but imagine how those sweet glossy lips of yours would feel wrapped around his cock instead.

Nerd!Sukuna, who tries to suppress those thoughts though, not wanting to mess this assignment up.

Nerd!Sukuna, who feels like encountering a world boss in a computer game, when you have a breakdown at his kitchen table, the evening before your presentation, crying and sobbing because you are nervous and convinced you will fuck up. And suddenly, Sukuna finds himself comforting you, gently caressing your arms with his large hands while murmuring reassurance to you. "Hey, stop being a brat. I know you can do it. You learned from the best, after all, didn't you, princess? And you got me. Just look at me the whole time, ok? Nothing bad can happen when you just look at me."

Nerd!Sukuna, who is surprised by how protective he feels over you at that moment. You are sitting in front of him looking like a wet cat, with your eyes all red and swollen from crying and snot running out of your nose, but somehow you still look so fucking cute to him, and somehow you make him so much softer and less rational than he usually is.

Nerd!Sukuna, who sighs and growls, "Oh, just come here." sounding annoyed but contradicting it by pulling you into his strong arms and holding you until you feel ok again. Sukuna still complains that you got his shirt wet with your tears, but his words lack the bite.

Nerd!Sukuna, who is genuinely proud of how much you improved when he watches your part of the presentation the next day. He even catches himself smiling a real smile at you when he congratulates you after class.

Nerd!Sukuna, who experiences a strange fluttery feeling in his stomach when you smile back at him and put your small hand on his tattooed biceps, "Thank you, Sukuna. It was really nice working with you."

Nerd!Sukuna, who manages a "same," but then just stands before you, opening his mouth and closing it again, not knowing what else to say because there are too many thoughts racing through his mind, and all of them seem to be too honest. And you do the same, shuffling around shyly, looking at him with wide eyes, parting your lips, but no words come out. And so both of you just lift a hand in an awkward farewell gesture and leave on opposite sides of the hallway.

Nerd!Sukuna, who tries to tell himself he is glad that your assignment is over and he can work in solitude again but then ends up staring longingly at the empty chair at his kitchen table, where you used to sit those last few weeks.

Aww Sukuna, do you miss us? ;)

I AM VERY ATTRACTED TO HIM AAAHHHH please, Kuna, tell me more about history and physics and every other subject that there is!!! You are so sexy!! 😘😘

Winn's fanart of Nerdkuna made me swoon so much and fall in love with him, and I always picture him as being at the top of classes anyway, so I think it was really time to finally write about him living his best nerdy life.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the headcanons! I will post Part 2 in a few days 💗 Will Kuna find a way to get us back onto his kitchen chair?

Comments and reblogs would be very sweet!

Here is Part 2

#sukuna x reader #sukuna fluff #sukuna smut #sukuna #sukuna x you #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk smut #jjk x you #sukuna x y/n #jjk x y/n

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lisalamona · 4 months ago

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Three Is Company

. Summary: When they realize you are insecure about your place in your relationship, Odysseus and Penelope take matters into their own hands to show you that you are loved and cherished. . Pairing: poly! OdyPen x gn! Reader . Warnings: Insecurity about one's place in a relationship, swearing, physical intimacy (non-sexual), implications of sex if you squint . Notes: Today's a rainy day, and I honestly just wanted to stay in bed all day, so this is kinda self indulgent. It doesn't help that I'm very hormonal and feeling lonely right now, I gotta cope somehow, y'know? Art taken from peachyytown's would you fall in love with me again animatic Hearts devider made by @saradika-graphics, taken from this post small rant at the end

The pleasant warmth of the sun kissed your skin, its soft golden glow coaxing you from your slumber. Your eyelids fluttered open sluggishly, only to immediately squeeze shut again as the light pierced through your drowsiness. A grimace tugged at your lips as you tried to adjust, your body reluctant to leave the comfort of sleep.

Above you, leaves rustled softly, stirred by the gentle breeze drifting in through the window. The air smelled faintly salty, tinged with the scent of the nearby sea and the lingering coolness of the morning. The only other sounds in the room were the slow, rhythmic breaths of those still lost in sleep, accompanied by the occasional faint murmur from someone still deep in sleep.

For a moment, you simply laid there, caught between wakefulness and the tempting pull of sleep. The warmth of the sun made you sluggish, inviting you to close your eyes again and bask in its embrace like a lazy house cat. You reached up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes in a useless attempt to will yourself awake, but the weight of morning still clung to you.

Without warning, something small and light tumbled onto your face—a delicate olive branch, no longer than your hand, with just a few leaves clinging to its slender stem. Your breath hitched for a split second before realizing it wasn't some bug descending upon you, just a harmless gift from the tree. Exhaling softly, you plucked it from your face and held it up, turning it this way and that way against the golden sunlight. The leaves, a muted but still beautiful green, glowed at the edges where the light caught them, their veins intricate like tiny rivers stretching across a map. The branch itself was slightly twisted, its bark smooth and cool under your fingers, a quiet reminder of the tree standing over you.

A gentle shift beside you pulled you from your quiet observation. The sound of a body stirring, fabric rustling against skin, brought you back to reality—the present, the now. You turned your head and found them: Penelope and Odysseus, nestled together in peaceful slumber, their arms loosely wrapped around each other as if the gods themselves had sculpted them from love and devotion. The sunlight spilling through the window cast a golden glow over them, highlighting the curve of Penelope's cheek against Odysseus' chest, the way his fingers rested lightly on her arm. It was a scene so effortlessly perfect, so achingly serene, that for a moment, you could do nothing but stare.

No, not a scene—a masterpiece. They weren't just part of a work of art. They were the art itself. And you? You were merely the spectator. No matter how close you stood to it, how much you admired it, you would never be part of it.

The thought hit harder than expected, lodging itself somewhere deep in your chest. A reality check, sharp and sobering. If you weren't awake before, you sure as hell were now.

And so, you made your decision. You had a long day ahead of you, after all.

For a moment, your face fell as you took in the sight before you, drinking in what you would never have—one last time. You savored every detail, memorizing the way the golden morning light kissed their skin, the slow, steady rhythm of their breathing, the warmth that lingered in the air between them. You tried to etch it into your mind, as if holding onto the image would somehow let you carry it with you for the rest of the day.

With a quiet exhale, you steeled yourself. Time to move.

Slowly, you sat up, the weight of sleep still clinging to your limbs. You ran a hand over your face, brushing away stray hairs that had tangled in your lashes and wiping away the dried trail of drool on your chin with a small grimace. Stretching your arms above your head, you felt your back and shoulders crack with a satisfying pop, the stiffness of sleep ebbing away.

Careful not to disturb the two sleeping beside you, you peeled back the covers and slipped your legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cool beneath your feet as you stood, taking a moment to regain your balance. Moving as quietly as possible, you gathered your discarded belongings from the night before, every movement deliberate, every breath held as if the very air itself could betray you.

The tall double doors leading to the rest of the palace stood before you, a silent threshold between the comfort of this room and the world beyond, where the quiet hum of servants beginning their morning routines barely registered in the distance. You reached for the door and carefully—so carefully—began to pull it open, just enough to slip through unnoticed.

The gods, it seemed, had other plans.

A groan—low, deep, and deafening in the once serene quiet—echoed through the chamber as the door resisted, protesting your escape like some cursed relic refusing to be moved. The sound was atrocious, like a rusted gate being wrenched open after centuries of abandonment. Alright—maybe that was an exaggeration, but to you, in that moment, it might as well have been a war horn announcing your departure. You winced, every muscle tensing as if you could will the sound away.

And then—

"Where are you going?"

Shit.

You froze.

Odysseus' voice, low and rough from sleep but sharp with instinct, locked you in place. Slowly, you turned your head to find him sitting up, one hand planted on the bed for support while the other remained on Penelope's arm. Even after all this time, even here, in the safety of his own home, his body still reacted like that of a soldier—trained to wake at the first hint of disturbance, a guard dog forever on edge. His tired eyes, heavy with both exhaustion and years of hardship, fixed on you, silently demanding an answer.

Beside him, Penelope stirred at the sudden movement, her brow creasing as she hovered between dreams and wakefulness.

Shit.

Swallowing hard, you finally forced the words out.

"I—I was—"

The sentence faltered before it could fully form, the weight of his gaze pressing down on you like a boulder. Your throat felt tight, your mind scrambling for an excuse, a justification—anything—but nothing sounded right. You cursed the damn door for betraying you, for dragging you into this conversation when you had so carefully tried to slip away unnoticed.

Odysseus didn't rush you. He simply watched, eyes never wavering, waiting with the same patience he carried in battle, as if you were an opponent yet to make your move.

Finally, you forced yourself to say it.

"I was just leaving."

A single brow lifted. His confusion was obvious, but something else lingered beneath it—something heavier, something that made your stomach twist.

"You always do this..." His voice was steady, but there was a hint of disappointment threading through it, subtle yet sharp enough to make you flinch. "You leave before we even get a chance to look at you in the morning."

You felt yourself shrink under his words, as if you could make yourself small enough to disappear entirely.

Before you could even think of how to respond, Penelope stirred, shifting against Odysseus as her eyes fluttered open. His gaze softened immediately, dropping to her as he ran a comforting hand along her arm, a silent reassurance that everything was fine. You felt another pang in your chest, a familiar ache that you had learned to swallow down like bitter medicine.

But in that moment, you were also grateful. Grateful that his eyes had left you, even if only for a second.

The thought of bolting—actually sprinting out of the room and retreating to the safety of your own—flashed across your mind. But before you could act on it, Penelope's gaze settled on you, sharp despite the haze of sleep. Now, two pairs of eyes pinned you in place.

"What's happening?" Her voice was low, laced with quiet concern.

"They were just leaving." Odysseus answered, not looking away from you.

"Why?" Penelope's questioning glance flickered between you and her husband, her brows knitting together.

Odysseus let out a breath, the sound barely audible but weighted with something unspoken. "I ask myself the same thing."

Their gazes searched yours, trying to find something—anything—that would give them an answer. You did everything in your power to avoid meeting their eyes. But there was something about them, about the way they waited, that hurt more than if they had just let you go. Their patience, their quiet understanding—it burned more than any harsh words ever could.

You didn't want patience. You didn't want kindness. Because when it was inevitably taken away, when reality came crashing down and reminded you of your place, it would hurt a thousand times worse.

You just wanted to get out of there.

"So?"

You swallowed thickly, forcing down everything else you wanted to say.

"I thought you two would want to be alone when you woke up."

The words were barely above a whisper, strained and hollow, but they heard them. You could tell by the way their expressions shifted, by the way their patience turned into something softer—something that made it even worse.

"Why would you think that, darling?" Penelope's voice was gentle, too gentle, and it cut deeper than she could ever know.

Desperate to escape, you blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"Why would you? I mean, look at you—" You gestured vaguely, frustration tightening in your chest. "What more use could I possibly serve?"

Their faces fell, their warmth dimming into something softer, something unbearably gentle. The way they looked at you—like you were something precious, something loved—made your stomach twist. You mistook it for pity, and that only made your frustration grow.

"...Dear." Penelope was the first to move. Slowly, deliberately, she freed herself from the covers, approaching you with the careful grace of someone stepping toward a wild animal. Like if she made one wrong move you'd bolt.

You hated being treated like that. But the worst part was knowing why they did it.

And yet, you couldn't stop yourself from keeping your walls up. Even if it only made the feeling worse.

She stopped just before you, close enough that the warmth of her skin reached yours. You tried—really tried—to look away, to avoid those deep, knowing eyes, but your body betrayed you. You met her gaze despite yourself, and she held it, searching for something in you, something you weren't sure you had anymore.

Then, gently, she reached up and cupped your cheek.

You wanted to pull away. You should have pulled away. But your body refused, leaning into the warmth before your mind even caught up. You cursed yourself for the lapse and forced yourself to still.

"Is that what you think?" Her voice was quiet, almost pained. "That we just use you and then cast you aside? That you're disposable?"

Her thumb brushed over your cheek, feather-light. Every second, it became harder to keep yourself together.

"It's hard not to." You admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Her brows furrowed. "Why do you think so lowly of yourself?"

You scoffed, the disbelief bubbling up before you could stop it. "Of myself?"

"Yes." She said simply.

Then, with unwavering certainty, she added, "Why would we ever do that to someone as brilliant, as capable, as extraordinary as you?" She tilted her head, watching as her words struck something deep within you. "We are the lucky ones. If anyone should be afraid of not being good enough, it's us."

Your breath caught.

"...You don't mean that." You murmured, barely holding back the sting in your eyes. You refused to cry. You would not cry.

But she only held your gaze, unwavering. "I mean it with my whole heart."

Before you could respond, Odysseus' voice cut through the quiet.

"Come here."

Both you and Penelope turned. He was still sitting on the bed, watching you carefully. He patted the empty space beside him—the one Penelope had left behind just moments ago. His expression was unreadable, a strange mix of exasperation and something softer, something that told you he wanted you to understand.

Penelope withdrew her hand from your face but held it out to you instead, giving you the choice.

You hesitated.

Every instinct screamed at you to turn away, to run before this kindness could turn to something else. But despite your mind's protests, despite the tightness in your chest, you reached out.

Your fingers barely brushed hers before she closed the distance, wrapping her hand around yours and giving a reassuring squeeze. It was cool against your skin, soothing in a way you despised—because it felt good. Because it was comforting, and you weren't sure if you deserved it.

Without a word, she led you back to the bed.

Odysseus gestured for you to sit, so you did. Then, he motioned for you to come closer, leaving space beside you for Penelope. You hesitated again, but once more, you complied.

The moment you were close enough, Odysseus moved.

He pulled you into him, arms wrapping securely around your waist. The suddenness of it made you flinch, but he didn't let go. His hold was steady, warm—unshakable in the way only Odysseus could be.

"...Why?"

It was all you could manage. You didn't understand—couldn't understand. Why wouldn't they just let you go? Why were they holding on so tightly? Were they toying with you, messing with your head? Was it pity?

Odysseus exhaled sharply, his grip tightening ever so slightly. "Why?" He repeated, incredulous. "Because we love you." He said, voice firm, unwavering. "Both of us. And I need you to understand that." His voice was rough, almost biting, but not out of anger—out of desperation. He needed you to understand. "How many times do we have to say it before you finally hear us?"

You swallowed hard, staring at Odysseus. His mismatched eyes—one deep brown, the other an almost stormy blue—locked onto yours, fierce with conviction. You had always found those eyes striking, but now, in this moment, they were inescapable, pinning you down with their sheer intensity.

Penelope nodded, her voice softer but just as firm. "We love you."

"You keep saying that..." Your voice wavered, cracking slightly under the weight of emotions you had no idea how to process.

"And we'll keep saying it," The king said, unwavering, "until you believe it."

And just like that, the dam broke.

The floodgates opened, and you couldn't hold it in anymore. A choked sob escaped your lips as the tears spilled freely down your cheeks, and you clung to Odysseus as though letting go would shatter you completely. He held you tighter, his grip steady, anchoring.

You felt Penelope's gentle hand rubbing slow, soothing circles up and down your back. The warmth of her touch seeped into you, grounding you, holding you together. You didn't see the way she and Odysseus exchanged a glance over your shoulder, but you could feel it—the silent understanding between them, the unspoken promise that they weren't letting go.

Slowly, carefully, they guided you back onto the bed, their hands never leaving you.

The cool sheets met your skin as they followed you down, their warmth pressing against you from either side. Penelope cupped your cheek again, this time brushing away the damp trails your tears had left behind. As she pulled back, your body instinctively followed, turning toward her completely. She giggled softly at your unconscious need for her touch and kept her hand there, thumb gently stroking your cheek.

Behind you, Odysseus adjusted himself to the new position, his strong arms slipping around your waist and flattening against your stomach, his body molding to yours. You felt the warmth of him pressing against you, the weight of his presence grounding. His chin came to rest in the crook of your neck, his beard grazing your skin—coarse yet strangely comforting. The ticklish sensation made you shiver, something he definitely noticed.

Your body was betraying you in the best way possible.

The walls you had so carefully built, so desperately maintained, began to crumble into dust. And yet... even with their warmth surrounding you, even with their hands anchoring you here, something inside you remained hesitant.

Your expression must have given you away, because Odysseus spoke first, his voice low, right against your ear.

"What's wrong, love?" His breath fanned against your skin, sending another set of shivers down your spine.

You swallowed, trying to steady yourself. "It just... doesn't feel right."

Penelope's brows knitted together slightly. "What do you mean?"

You forced yourself to take a deep breath, bracing for the vulnerability that would inevitably follow. "I... I don't feel like I belong here." Your voice was barely above a whisper. "You two have known and loved each other for so long. Sometimes I can't help but think that all of this was some kind of mistake. That I'm just... here for a little while, until it's time for me to go."

You broke eye contact, unable to bear the weight of Penelope's gaze any longer. It was a nervous habit you had.

"Hey." Her fingers gently caught your chin, tilting your face back toward her. "Look at me."

You did—despite the fear curling in your stomach.

"You are not a mistake, darling." She murmured, her eyes full of something too vast, too deep, to be anything but love. "We love you so much. Every time you leave, we pray for you to come back to us."

Odysseus hummed in agreement, pressing a soft kiss against your shoulder. "And you're not temporary." He added. "You're ours. A part of our lives now. That's not changing."

"...How?" Your voice came out small, uncertain.

Penelope smiled, running a hand through your hair as she spoke. "Because you make our lives better, just by being in them. Your laugh brings us joy, your presence makes even the hardest days feel lighter."

Odysseus' hand slid lower, resting on your hip, his thumb tracing slow, comforting circles over it. Not in a way that held any ulterior motive—just grounding, steadying. "You've become our everything, love," He murmured. "and we won't let go."

Then, before you could think of a response, Penelope began peppering your face with light, affectionate kisses—your cheeks, your forehead, the corner of your lips. You let out a surprised giggle, the sound bubbling up before you could stop it.

Odysseus followed suit, pressing playful kisses against the side of your neck, down to your shoulder and back again. His beard brushed against your skin, the sensation sending another fit of laughter through you as you squirmed slightly in their arms.

Penelope grinned and pressed one final kiss to the tip of your nose.

Odysseus leaned in close, his voice warm with certainty. "You are loved."

Penelope smiled. "Is that understood?"

You hesitated for only a moment before nodding, whispering, "...Yes."

And this time, you let yourself believe it.

For once, you didn't fight the warmth surrounding you. You didn't push it away.

You sank into it.

. Notes: All the energy I had left went into me trying to make this, so I'm gonna rant for a bit: Estoy tratando de encontrar mi estilo de escritura y la verdad es que me está empezando a frustrar. En general, me gustó cómo quedó este, y espero poder trasladar el estilo a ambivalence, pero esa historia ya está más inconsistente que la puta madre. Alguien ayúdeme, porfa 😭 no sé, es como que hay días en los que escribo la cosa más magnífica que escribí en mi vida, y al día siguiente escribo dos frasecitas de mierda 😭

#epic the musical x reader #epic x reader #greek mythology x reader #epic! odysseus x reader #epic! penelope x reader #odypen x reader #poly! odypen x reader #odysseus x reader #penelope x reader #penelope x reader x odysseus

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ikeuki · 6 months ago

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mama a riki behind you ! / 니키

( pairing ) nishimura riki x fem!reader ✶ grumpy x sunshine ; fluff — ( wordcount ) 811

ᯓ★ ikeuki’s note. fake emo alert ‼️ we all saw you giggling through the mirror… // this is my first post teehee ; i will post a proper introduction later on !!

synopsis. riki is so over today—picture day. he encounters someone who he thinks will only make it worse, but surprisingly makes it better?

picture day.

the most useless day, riki liked to call it. he would’ve ditched today but his friends agreed to just take the pictures in the morning and skip afterwards. now he was stuck, standing in this stupidly long line for a two second picture that would be going nowhere except the yearbook. if only he could prevent that from happening too.

riki just slouched against the gym wall, counting the minutes in his head before the period was over. the gym was filled with mindless chatter and camera shutters from every corner.

with common last names, all his friends texted him that they finished hours ago. they had already jumped the school fences and we’re hanging out, leaving riki to be stuck in this humid gym alone.

alas, he closed his eyes in an attempt to at least catch a couple minutes of sleep in these boring moments.

click. clack. click.

his eyes shot open. ‘what the hell is that sound?’ he thought to himself and searched for the maker of the sound.

he looked straight ahead to see you continuously tapping your shoe while holding a compact mirror. you applied a thin layer of lip gloss while trying to arrange your delicate curls in the perfect formation.

riki watched from behind as you panicked when a single strand went the other way. you then pulled out a comb and started fixing your part in a hurry as if this line wasn’t going to take another two hours.

then you began practicing smiles—a toothy grin, no teeth, eye smile, and so on! riki couldn’t help but laugh a little when he saw how seriously you were taking this.

he could tell you worked extra hard this morning to look your absolute best. even though he didn’t really know why you would for a school picture?

he had spotted you around school before, your sweet vanilla scent catching his attention when you walked past him. your curls bounced when you practically skipped to class, clutching your pastel notebooks to your chest and that charming smile you always had when talking and laughing to your friends.

wait. why did riki know that? he shouldn’t didn’t care about some random girl in his grade that smelled like sweet syrup!

nope! it’s just the sleep deprivation.

while posing into your small mirror, you caught the glare of riki, locking eyes through the compact. embarrassed, you shut the mirror and shoved it into your pocket. you refused to look behind you and kept your eyes on some random girl’s head in front of you.

you knew riki. more like you knew of him.

he always hung out with such a questionable collection of people—lee heeseung, park jongseong, park sunghoon, and sim jaeyun. always getting caught ditching class or smoking behind the bleachers. you knew better to steer clear of any of their ways. they weren’t even at school half of the time. spending it all in detentions if they decided to come once in a while.

but weirdly enough, you had a soft spot for riki.

only because you remembered him in elementary school, when he was a smaller, sweeter kid who was known as a ‘dance prodigy.’ your friend had attended the same dance studio as him, so you would always see him when visiting to watch your friend.

you had admired his skill and confidence back then, even developing a small crush on the boy.

but your dreams were soon crushed when you overheard him liking some girl in his dance class. therefore, you hadn’t interacted with him since, only a few lingering glances of acknowledging each others’ presences but avoiding anything more.

you think it may because you’re the only person that remembers him from childhood and who he truly is.

but you could just be thinking too much into it.

luckily, your name was called the next second and you quickly walk away from that awkward interaction. you sighed, fixing your hair for one last time and trying a couple more smiles.

“just smile like you always do.” riki whispered as he walked past you towards the exit.

your body tensed up as his shoulder brushed past yours and he turned slightly to look at you one last time before leaving the gym.

for a second, you thought you were imagining him saying anything but knew you were not hallucinating when he looked back. you stood there thinking of what he meant by ‘always do’ before the photographer snapped you out of your trance.

“ms. y/l/n, please sit in the chair.”

hurriedly, you sat on the little black stool and aligned your feet with the markers taped on the gym floor. you moved a couple strands to frame your face how you wanted it and looked straight at the camera.

“okay…now smile.”

and you did. like you always do.

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jobean12-blog · 1 month ago

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Hanging by a Moment

Pairing: Joel Miller x female reader

Word Count: 5K

Summary: Joel's wanted you since the moment he saw you...what will it take for him to make a move.

Author's Note: Between Cannes this weekend and the upcoming episode six of TLOU 2 I'm pretty much useless and my life revolves around the next Pedro pic/gif/vid that will ruin me. It's fine though. I had to channel it somewhere so here's some tension and smut and all the good stuff. Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: lots of tension, some fun, some fluff, flirting, meddling Tommy and Ellie in the best way, fingering, oral (f rec), unprotected p in v (wrap it in rl pls), light dirty talk and praise, Joel and his guitar

“Ellie’s out on patrol. Ben is inside drawing…what has you smiling like that?”

Tommy’s question goes unanswered as Joel continues staring straight ahead, his eyes bright and crinkled at the corners. Tommy turns to follow Joel’s gaze and let’s out a snort of laughter.

“No fuckin’ way brother,” Tommy says as he claps Joel on the back. “Good for you.”

Joel stares a second longer then swings his eyes to Tommy. “Good for me what?”

Tommy looks between you and Joel. “I’ve only seen you smile like that at two people, and neither are here, so…I’m glad you finally made a move.”

“I…what? I didn’t…do anything,” Joel stumbles.

Tommy frowns. “Then why are you starin’ like she belongs to you.”

Before Joel can reply you part with Dina and start walking toward the two men.

“Hi,” you say to them then turn your eyes to Joel. “I think I found something you can use to file those saddle slots.”

Joel’s mouth lifts into a soft smile. “Thanks,” he says.

“I’ll bring it by after lunch,” you tell him.

“Saddle slots?” Tommy asks as he watches Joel watch you walk away.

“For the guitar,” Joel grumbles before he turns on his heel.

Your knock goes unanswered, so you gently push the door open and call his name. Still no answer but you hear the tap of wood and the plucking of strings as you head toward the living room.

“Joel?”

He spins around, his safety glasses slipping down his nose.

“Hey,” he says gruffly. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I knocked but I figured that. I have the file.”

You hold up the tool and he smiles.

He wipes his hands on his jeans and reaches out for it. You watch in silence as he carefully files down the edges of the saddle slots, every so often blowing over the wood to clear the shavings.

“I don’t know what you’re doing but it looks really beautiful already.”

When his eyes meets yours they’re soft and his expression filled with gratitude . “I hope she likes it.”

“She will,” you assure him. “Will you teach her to play?”

“If she’ll let me,” he says lightly.

You step closer and lean over the instrument, lifting a hand to lightly run it along the shiny wood. Your next words of admiration are cut short because his warm, strong hand covers yours, guiding it down the neck of the instrument and over the curve of the body.

“The top is made of a softwood, probably cedar and the sides and back a hardwood like mahogany,” he explains, his hand still leading yours.

The feel of him more than his words shocks you silent and you hold your breath.

“The different types of wood present different tones,” he continues.

You find yourself leaning into him subconsciously, and he squeezes your hand before releasing it.

“I can’t wait to hear you play it,” you whisper, still recovering from the contact of his skin.

“What time are Ellie and I leaving tomorrow?” Joel ask Tommy as they add more hay to the horse stables.

“Eight am sharp,” Tommy says with a smirk.

“What’s that about?” Joel says frowning.

Tommy shrugs but his smile widens as Ellie approaches.

“Did you tell him?” she asks Tommy, her eyes sparkling.

“Tell me what?” Joel grumbles as he rests his hands on his hips.

“You’re doing patrol tomorrow, but not with me,” Ellie says excitedly.

“What do you mean?” Joel asks, his tone dangerously low. “You’re not thinkin’ of goin’ out on your own…?”

“No,” Ellie says, waving him off. “I’m staying behind to train with Jesse.”

“I don’t understand,” Joel says with an exasperated sigh. “Why can’t you two just be straight with me.”

“I’m giving you a chance to make your move brother,” Tommy says with a wink.

The next morning with the fog of a humid night still hanging in the air you wait by the gate for Joel. The clip clop of hooves turns your head, and you see him leading Shimmer your way.

“Only one horse?” you say as you pat Shimmer’s side.

Joel’s gaze finds yours and his dark brown eyes stare at you so unapologetically it unnerves you in a way.

“Tommy says the others need rest.”

You give him a shaky smile and wait as he lifts himself onto the horse and then offers you his hand. You take it, his warm and calloused fingers strong around yours as he helps you up behind him.

“Comfortable?” he asks once you’re settled.

“Yes,” you say quietly, all at once aware of every sense- the way you’re pressed up against Joel’s back, the cool morning breeze along your heated skin, the smell of spice and leather.

You remain quiet for most of the ride, enjoying the warmth from the rising sun and the way it plays off the mountainsides, bathing the newly growing flowers and vegetation in a soft glow. The sounds of birds chirping and animals scurrying made things feel almost…normal.

“I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed springtime…and the fact that all the snow ‘s melted.”

You feel him laugh. “You’re tellin’ me. We never saw snow in Texas.”

It’s a quiet patrol and you and Joel pass the time with easy conversation about whatever comes to mind but when midday hits the sun is strong overhead and you’re both hot and in need of water. He stops Shimmer by a small stream and helps you off, first taking your hand then surprisingly grasping your waist, slowing your descent as you slide off the horse and into his arms.

“Thanks,” you breathe out.

He nods but doesn’t release you. Not until Shimmer whinnies and stamps forward a few steps for a drink.

Joel heads to the stream and starts to take off his flannel, revealing his forearms and biceps, the muscles flexing and tightening as he reaches down to fill his canteen. He takes a long sip, the strong column of his throat shifting with each swallow and you suddenly feel more thirsty than ever before in your life.

After a small lunch and a water refill you’re back on Shimmer, headed to one last spot before returning for the day.

“Those clouds don’t look very good,” you mumble as you glance out west to the darkened sky.

“They don’t,” Joel agrees. “It feels like rain.”

“Do you think we’ll make it back in time?” you ask.

As if on cue, Joel’s radio emits static before Tommy’s voice comes through asking for your location.

You listen to the conversation, your stomach sinking when Tommy says the rain has already reached them.

“Think we’re gonna have to find a safe house to wait out the storm,” Joel says as he clicks off the com device.

Thunder rumbles far in the distance and the corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk. “Better get movin’.”

Just as he shoulders past the dilapidated door the rain drops start to fall. He holds a finger to his lips and tucks you behind him, stepping quietly and slowly into the house. He shines his flashlight in the corners of the room, the dark clouds now blotting out most of the days earlier sunshine and casting shadows all around you.

You wait, your grip on his shirt tight as you follow in step. When he’s satisfied the house is clear he clicks off the flashlight and his shoulders relax.

“Looks ok,” he says.

When you don’t release his shirt he looks down at where your hand is still fisted in the soft material. You track his gaze and release it quickly.

“Scared?” he teases.

You shake your head and let out the breath you were holding in.

An hour later you’re seated on the dusty floor, laughing as Joel tries to land the broken pieces of a vase into another that’s still intact.

“Your aim stinks,” you laugh.

“I’d like to see you do better,” he says.

You stand and hold your hand out for some of the pieces, staring down at him and waiting for him to move over so you can sit in the right spot. He shoves to the side but only enough for you to sit with yourself plastered to his side. Something sparkles in his eyes and is lips curl just a millimeter before he motions with a tilt of his head for you to take your best throw.

With a wry smile you line up your throw and launch it, missing the opening of the vase by half a foot. His body shakes next to you, and you elbow him in the side.

“Oof,” he mumbles before going quiet.

You try again but fail to get it inside the vase.

“I have to stand up!” you say determinedly.

“Don’t think that’s gonna do any good,” he jokes, and you give him a solid side eyed glare.

After your fourth missed throw, instead of his laughter, which you were prepared for, his hand meets the small of your back, and you sharply inhale at how warm and massive his palm is over the thin fabric of your tee shirt. He had to have felt it, the way you jolted at the contact, but he holds you steady and sure as he positions your body.

“Try now,” he says, his voice low.

He fixes the angle of your elbow then with a reluctance you can sense he moves away. You take the shot and get it inside the vase without even hitting the edge.

“YES!” you cheer far too loudly, the sound echoing around the emptiness of the house.

Both you and Joel go still, his eyes darting around as he takes a step closer to you. A sound outside the house startles you, your gasp catching in your throat when you see a shadow move outside the window. Joel wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you behind him, pressing you into the wall as he walks toward the kitchen. He reaches behind his back, his hand brushing along your stomach in the process, and pulls out his knife.

You wait, barely breathing as whatever is outside continues to pass the window. After several heart stopping moments, it turns and you realize it’s just a deer grazing outside the house, it’s large ears turned upward and out as if to listen itself.

“Shit,” you sigh, relaxing against Joel.

When he turns around to face you his body is merely an inch from yours, his eyes searching your face when he asks, “you ok?”

“Yeah,” you tell him, swaying closer. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” he whispers. “It’s fine. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

You give him the best smile you can and wait for him to step back but he doesn’t, instead, leaning forward and crowding you against the wall. His eyes drop to your mouth, lingering before he drags them back up and his lips part. You let out a shuddering breath, your eyelashes fluttering along your cheeks and your breath hitching when you feel his fingertips graze your neck.

The shrill sound of static and Tommy’s garbled voice breaks you out of the moment and you both move away with an intake of air. Joel let’s out a sigh and grabs the walkie talkie.

“Looks like we’re goin’ to be spendin’ the night,” Joel says as he watches you closely.

You can’t sleep. Despite the coolness of the rain filled night and the coziness of your sleeping bag, your body is heated, and your mind is racing. You decide to explore the house. Glancing at Joel’s sleeping bag it appears he’s still in it but it’s hard to tell under the blanket of darkness. Quietly, you creep free of the cocoon of fabric and tip toe toward the back of the house. Any other sounds of the night are muted by the consistent downpour of rain and the worn wooden floors are cool under your bare feet.

“Ah, and here I was thinkin’ I was alone.”

You jump at the deep voice, blinking repeatedly in the darkness as your eyes adjust. Slowly, a figure comes into view, a dark shadow that the closer it gets the more you recognize as Joel, broad shouldered, arms crossed over his chest and a small smile pulling at his lips.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.

“Not really,” you answer as you lean back against the kitchen counter.

You can’t see his eyes clearly in the dark, but you can feel them like warm rays of sunshine on your skin. You rub your hands over your bare arms, your tank top suddenly feeling paper thin, while minutes ago you felt too hot in your sleeping bag. Taking his time, but with purposeful steps, he moves closer to you, resting along the counter next to you. Your fingers curl around the edge of the grimy Formica, as if the action will keep you from reaching out for him.

“Why are you up?” you ask.

His face turns toward yours. “Wanted to make sure I could keep watch…keep you safe.”

You inhale deeply and his eyes fall to where you chest expands. “I like that you want to keep me safe.”

His nostrils flare, eyes searching your face, lips parted like he wants to speak but something holds him back. You watch the bob of his throat with his heavy swallow, the hollow area where his neck meets his collarbone as it ebbs and every muscle in your body tightens, your legs squeezing together.

He’s close enough now that even through the shadowed veil of night you can see the intensity of his gaze and feel his warm breath caress your cheek.

“I like to protect what’s mine,” he husks, his nose barely skimming yours.

At your gasp of air, his lips tilt upward, and warm fingertips brush the outside of your thigh, just above your knee. You feel the goosebumps erupt in a wave over your skin and he leans closer, his hips pressing into you, the large bulge between his legs brushing your stomach and outlining every substantial inch of him.

He has to know you feel it, has to know you’re just as affected, but just as suddenly as he’s right there, he steps back, turning away as your breath rushes back with a kick.

“Get some sleep darlin.’ We have an early start tomorrow.”

The next morning, the rain clings to the grass in sparkling dew drops and the air smells of damp earth. Shimmer trots away from the small town, away from what almost happened last night, and back toward reality. You try not to lean into Joel, but the uneven ground bobs you up and down, back, and forth, and constantly into his body. His tee shirt is thin enough that you feel the flex and shift of his back muscles beneath it and you can smell his skin, lightly dampened with sweat from the rising sun.

You reach Jackson without incident and part ways with Joel, quiet and reserved. Fortunately, you’re able to keep busy the next few days, catching up on various chores you missed and some much-needed sleep.

At least, until the middle of the week when Ellie drags you over to her house to show you the new guitar Joel gifted her. When you walk inside there’s no sign of Joel and you deflate with disappointment, the realization that you’ve missed him hitting harder than any time before.

Ellie excitedly chatters over the instrument as she shows you everything, even strumming some chords Joel’s started to teach her. You can’t help but feel her happiness, especially knowing how hard Joel has worked to fix the guitar.

“Maybe you’ll teach me after you learn more,” you tell Ellie with a smile.

Before she can answer you hear Joel’s gruff voice. “I’ll teach you to play.”

He emerges from his bedroom, running a hand along his bearded jaw while the muscles tick as he looks you over.

“Yeah?” you ask with a raised brow, trying to appear nonchalant.

“I’d love to,” he says, his words soft, subtle.

Ellie’s eyes swing back and forth between the two of you, her brow furrowed. “I’m just gonna go show this to Dina,” she squeaks. “See you guys later.”

She rushes off with the guitar and a slam of the door.

You cross your arms over your chest and drop your gaze. He’s across the room before you can register the movement, his thick fingers pressed under your chin to lift your eyes to his.

“Joel…”

“Don’t say my name like that, darlin’,” he warns, his eyes flicking to where you’ve pinned your bottom lip with your teeth. “Not unless you want…”

“Want what?” you interrupt.

He steps closer, his hand reaching out for your cheek and brushing along your lip to pull it free of your teeth. The pad of his thumb rubs the spot, slowly, teasingly, until your lips part with a gasp. His hand sweeps back, gripping the nape of your neck lightly. He pulls you in, and your eyelashes flutter along your cheeks.

The sound of boisterous laughter fills the air, and you hear the turn of the doorknob before Ellie and Dina bound in, breathless and smiling.

“Oh shit,” Ellie says, her smile falling before rising again now laced with mischief.

“I thought you said they were fighting?” Dina asks, her smile matching Ellie’s.

“They were,” Ellie says through the side of her mouth.

Joel’s teeth grind and Ellie’s smile widens. “I’m just gonna grab the tuner then we’ll be out of your hair.”

She rushes over to the table and rips the tuner off, sprinting back toward Dina and pushing her out the door.

For a long moment, Joel watches you, a million indecipherable emotions surging in his eyes. You watch the muscles in his jaw tighten; watch the way he slides his hands into his pockets as if it’s the only way to keep them from reaching out to touch you. He lets out a long, slow, and steady exhale, and then the door opens again, and Tommy appears.

“Need your help with somethin’,” he says, looking to Joel before his eyes slide to you apologetically.

Joel walks you back to your house, leaving you with a mumbled apology and following Tommy to the town hall. You flop back on your bed, covering your face with a pillow before screaming into it. Then you pull it off and stare up at the ceiling, your legs bouncing against the mattress. Your nerves are buzzing, and you’re entirely too restless and turned on. You lay there for a long time, forcing yourself to calm your breathing, placing your hands on your chest to follow the rhythmic rise and fall.

Just the pressure of your hands and the brush of your fingertips has you inhaling sharply, your thoughts shifting immediately to Joel and how his hands would feel along your bare skin. You flatten your palm to your stomach and let your mind continue to drift.

The way his eyes seem to devour you every time he sees you, like it’s the first and last time he will.

The words he spoke…he protects what’s his.

Every stolen touch and almost kiss…what would his kiss feel like.

Your knees drop open, your hand sliding between your thighs.

You can smell his skin, feel the growl of want rumble through his chest as he pins you to the bed.

A pulse shoots between your legs, and you chase the sensation with your fingers, running them through your wet folds before circling your clit. You moan and arch into the touch, imagining every touch, every whisper of his lips, until your fingers circle faster and your hips roll.

The faster your fingers move, the more your thoughts run wild, and you twist in the sheets, chasing the feeling as you slip a finger inside you.

Just then, a hard knock pounds the door. Your eyes shoot open, and you nearly kill yourself trying to get off the bed and to the door. Thankfully, your bedroom is in the far back of the house, so Joel is only in the living room when you walk out.

His brown eyes look darker than usual, and he smirks, letting his gaze sweep over you from head to toe. Your body hums.

“What were you doin’ darlin’?” he asks. “I thought I heard some…noises.”

“I feel asleep!” you say quickly. “And I think I was having a dream.”

He raises a brow and pops his knee out. “Hmm.”

“Is everything ok?” you ask, needing to change the subject.

“Yeah, just fine,” he says, “but we need to give our patrol report to the council.”

Then he turns and walks back to the door, holding it open for you.

After the meeting, Ellie’s back and requesting more guitar lessons so you leave them to it, not missing the way Joel’s gaze lingers on you until you disappear from view. It’s not until you’re out for an evening walk that you see him again, sitting quietly on the porch with his guitar over his lap.

He motions for you to come over and you do so without question, leaning against the porch railing.

“Where’s Ellie?” you ask.

“Doin’ something with Dina,” he says with a relaxed wave of his hand. “She had enough of me and my old man music.”

You cover your mouth to stifle your laughter and watch his face light up.

“What were you playing just now?”

“Some song from the 1980s…”

“I like it.”

He stands, taking the guitar with him.

“Here.”

You look from him to the guitar then take it in your hands, arranging it in front of you as best you know how.

“Like this,” he gently instructs, fixing first your hand positioning then your fingers. You try to focus on what he’s saying but instead can’t seem to stop the way your breath hitches at his touch.

His warm palm slides up your arm and he pulls you closer, pressing your back to his chest so he can show you how to play a chord. You can feel him hard against your lower back and you lose all trace of coherency.

“I know what you were doin’ earlier,” he whispers into your neck. “Heard you call my name.”

You whimper with need at this words and when he presses a soft kiss under your ear you have to lean all your weight into him to hold you steady.

“How long are we going to pretend?” he murmurs, his lips moving higher and skimming the shell of your ear.

You tremble in his hold. “Pretend what?”

“Pretend like you’re not already mine.”

Your next breath shudders out of you, and he takes the guitar from your hands and rests it to the side, then without warning spins you in his arms so you’re trapped between him and one of the posts of the porch.

“Yours…” you breathe out, confirming it.

He pulls you flush against him, lining up every part of your bodies in a way so possessive you feel your knees weaken.

His large palm runs between your breasts, up your collarbone, until his fingers wrap around your neck, squeezing just a pinch, and then releasing it to trail his fingers higher. His thumb sweeps over your bottom lip, and you open your mouth, tasting the salt of his skin. Your eyes connect with his, and his nose flares, his cock flexing against where your bodies are pressed together.

He groans, his next breath nothing but a hiss, his nose dragging along your neck with a deep inhale. His long fingers splay along your cheek, and he tilts your head up with the press of his thumb under your chin before his lips brush yours lightly.

The contact is too much and without wasting another second his lips are on yours, completely consuming. He presses you harder against the post of the porch , meeting your hips with his own. He grips your wrists in his hands, guiding them up over your head until they’re pinned along the wood of the post and he kisses you harder, biting your lower lip before soothing it with his tongue.

“Is this what you thought about as you were touchin’ yourself baby?”

He kisses you again, swallowing your moaned confirmation. He takes over where he has your wrists pinned with one hand, letting the other trail down your arm, your neck and down to your breast where he caresses the soft flesh.

His hands, one so powerfully restraining you, while the other dips lower, feather light, into the waistband of your pants, threaten to ruin you. You gasp and arch into the touch and his knee wedges between your legs to spread them open.

“I need to touch you,” he murmurs as he slips his warm finger beneath your panties, running a line through your wet desire as your entire body convulses with the contact.

You chase his lips, unable to do much more than lean into him, reaching with your mouth where he meets you with another all-consuming kiss. A cry slips past your lips when his finger brushes your clit, sliding deeper until he’s teasing your entrance.

“You’re so fuckin’ wet baby,” he hisses, slicking his finger before teasing your clit.

“Please Joel,” you practically beg.

“You’ve been drivin’ me crazy since the first time I saw you,” he whispers, his touch still light, still teasing, but his words full of desperation.

He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes locked onto your face as he slides one thick finger inside you. Your lips part and your eyes start to flutter closed.

“Open them,” he growls. “Look at me.”

You do as he says, his nose skimming yours as he starts to work his finger in and out. Your breathing accelerates and your hips move with his hand and when he presses his thumb to your clit you let out a cry of his name. He silences you with a kiss, only pulling away when he feels you tighten around his finger. You fall apart and he releases your wrists, your body sagging into his arms as he drags out your pleasure with slow strokes and soft praises.

You don’t know how you make it into the house, can’t remember him opening the door and pulling you inside. All you know is the feel of your back against his mattress and his fingertips seeking, roaming, gripping, and tugging. He meets every desperate touch of yours with one even more anguished of his own. Your hands tangle in his hair, his big hands covering your breasts before his mouth does. You gasp at the sensation and writhe beneath him.

He sits up only to tuck his thumbs at your hips, slowly dragging the fabric of your panties down your legs.

“You’re a masterpiece,” he murmurs before his eyes meet yours and he moves again, settling between your spread legs.

You rock your hips, whining when you feel the roughness of his jeans. He quickly unzips them and kicks them off, barely giving you a chance to admire him before he presses his palm to your inner thigh and opens you wider for him. You feel the press of him between your legs, hard, warm and like silk.

His hand on your thigh pushes harder and he slides down your body, your whimper at the loss of him quickly softened when his nose grazes your clit and his tongue dips inside you.

“Oh god,” you cry, your body shaking.

He answers by holding you even more steady, open, and wide as he buries his face between your thighs and licks and sucks your clit in a rhythm that drives you wild. Your hands fall to his hair, gripping hard the closer he brings you to your release. Your orgasm rushes through you, your hips rocking into his face and your fingers tangled in his hair.

You’ve barely caught your breath when he slides back up your body, kissing and nipping as he goes to find your lips, your taste on his tongue.

“You taste even sweeter than I imagined,” he whispers, his hips moving until you feel the tip of his cock right where you need him.

With a breathy exhale you press into him, closing your eyes and digging your nails into his broad shoulders.

“Keep those eyes on me,” he commands. “Understand?”

You open them with a nod, wetting your lips and rolling your hips.

He grins at your compliance, kissing you hard before his gruff voice rumbles against your lips. “Good girl.”

You would respond but he gives you a look, one filled with so much emotion it steals your breath, then he fills you. A shocked moan leaves your mouth, and his eyes stay locked on yours as he withdraws and slowly pushes inside again, stretching you open, his body trembling.

“Fuck baby,” he breathes, looking down to watch himself disappearing inch by inch.

His hand smooths along the curve of your waist, over your hip and to your thigh, squeezing before he hikes it higher, opening you up so he can push deeper. It’s too good, he feels too perfect, and you feel your next release building quickly. You slide your fingers down his arms, feeling the muscles in his biceps tight with restraint as he holds himself above you and sets a bruising pace. Your whispered plea for more is all it takes to snap his control, and the rush of sensations hits you all at once.

Your body shakes and you tighten around him, fueling his own release. He growls, dropping his head to your neck as a shuddering groan rips through him and you feel him pulse inside you.

For long moments, he just holds you, his damp forehead pressed against your skin, breathing labored and his body wrapping you in a warmth that feels like home.

“Fuck,” he sighs, smiling softly when his eyes find yours again. “You,” he whispers, kissing your lips. “Are,” another kiss. “Magnificent.”

He peppers your face with soft kisses. “Are you ok?”

“Yes,” you smile, “never been better.”

He sweeps his thumb along your cheekbone then cradles your face in his hand. “Good. Because I’m goin’ to do whatever I can to keep that smile on your face.”

#pedro pascal #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller tlou #joel miller imagine #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x female reader #the last of us #tommy miller #ellie tlou #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal cinematic universe

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lizzyiii · 11 months ago

Text

His Lady Love

pairing | young aemond x vampire!reader

word count | 4.1k words

summary | aemond becomes obsessed with his mother's newest lady-in-waiting. he seeks her comfort after aegon takes him to the brothel.

tags | AFAB reader, older woman/younger man (more like older girl/younger boy), delusional aemond, angst/comfort, aemond pov.

note | my first time posting, also I really wanted to see what it would be like with a vampire in hotd, PART 2 coming soon.

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 — 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

He was ten and two when Aemond Targaryen first laid eyes upon your bewitching figure. At first, he was convinced it was a mere trick of his own mind, a mere mirage conjured forth by imagination and longing.

Clad in a resplendent gown of deep wine red, you appeared nothing short of ethereal, your skin seeming to glow beneath the vibrant hue of her attire. Your hair, intricately braided into an elaborate updo, lent an air of regal sophistication to your youthful appearance. It was no wonder that you had swiftly ascended to the ranks of his mother's most esteemed ladies in waiting.

Despite his tender age, Aemond was keenly aware of the profound allure that you exuded. You could not have been more than eight and ten, and yet you possessed a rare and ineffable grace that captured his young heart with an instantaneous and profound intensity.

In that fleeting moment of their initial encounter, he became resolutely certain that, when he came of age, you would be the one he would take as his wife.

He despised them. The sheer sight of Aegon and his nephews filled Aemond with deep-seated resentment. It was a reminder of the injustice he felt deep in his bones. Aegon and those bastards, useless and undeserving, had been gifted with dragons, while Aemond, a true warrior, was left without one. As if to add insult to injury, they had gifted him a lowly pig, a cruel mockery of his situation.

Consumed by anger and grief, Aemond could not contain his rage any longer. He stormed into the Dragon Pit, the heat and fury of the dragons surrounding him. In the chaos, he narrowly escaped being burnt alive, only to find himself scolded by his mother.

And then he was seeking solace in her arms. Rare as it was for her to offer comfort, Aemond clung to her, desperate for any shred of comfort in the face of his overwhelming emotions.

Before their moment could fully settle, a soft, melodic voice filled the room. "Your Grace - Oh, I apologize for interrupting," your voice wafted into the chamber, causing Aemond to hastily pull away from his mother, his back turned as he hastily wiped away the traces of dirt and tears from his face.

Aemond straightened his posture and steadied his breath, turning to find you standing in the doorway, your eyes filled with genuine concern and compassion. He felt a pang of embarrassment as he realized he had been caught in such a vulnerable moment.

"It's alright, My Lady," his mother, Alicent, reassured you as you approached them. Aemond couldn't help but notice the weariness in his mother's expression. Did comforting her son take such a toll on her?

Alicent gave Aemond a brief, tightening look before turning to her lady-in-waiting. "Perhaps you could see my son back to his chambers," she suggested, her tone laced with a hint of exasperation.

It was clear that his mother was eager to pass him off to her lady in waiting, but Aemond couldn't bring himself to feel too upset. Since his lady love happened to be the one assigned to escort him, he had no complaints. Despite their six-year age difference, Aemond was confident that once he reached his maturity, their age gap would no longer matter.

"Of course, Your Grace," you said with a respectful bow of your head. Your gaze slowly shifted to the prince, and he nodded as he made his way out the door, with you following close behind.

"You're wondering about my appearance," Aemond murmured softly, his focus fixed straight ahead as the two of you strolled through the corridors of the Red Keep.

A soft chuckle escaped your lips, and Aemond savored the sound, filled with pride knowing he had elicited it. "Tis not my place to ask questions, My Prince," your warm voice filled his ears, "But judging by the ash and dirt on your fair skin, I would venture that you were likely at the dragon pit."

"It's unfair," Aemond grumbled indignantly, feeling an unjust injustice in the situation. Immediately, he wished he could take back his words, realizing that he had unintentionally come across as childish when he was supposed to be displaying to you his maturity and wisdom.

"The world can be cruel and unjust, My Prince," you replied with a saccharine sweetness in your voice, "But that is why it is imperative for you to assert your authority and take command of your destiny."

Aemond angled his head to catch a glimpse of your elegant profile, admiring not just your physical beauty but also the astuteness of your words. "And how can I accomplish that?" he inquired.

You turned to meet his gaze, your eyes locking and causing his heart to skip a beat. You bestowed him with a subtle yet meaningful smile before you said, "By refusing to accept a life you do not deserve."

"And what of you," Aemond inquired, "What do you believe you deserve, My Lady?" If you were to marry him, you would lack nothing; he was prepared to grant you any request you might make.

"It’s difficult to say," you murmured, tilting your head thoughtfully. Even that Aemond found endearing, "Some individuals believe they are worthy of the entire world, whereas I value simplicity."

Aemond raised an inquisitive silver brow, "Simplicity?"

"Stability and security. A serene life," you explained. Then you glanced down and offered him a warm smile, "Perhaps we can continue our discussion another time, your grace."

Aemond was scarred. Left disfigured and crippled, condemned to a life of one-eyed hardship due to the foolish actions of his bastard nephew. He had once thought it a fair exchange, an eye for a dragon, but now, lying in his chamber chambers, sedated by the potent poppy milk, he questioned his own judgement.

Aemond frowned as he noticed they had reached the doors to his chambers. Before he could utter another word, you nodded courteously and departed. He was determined to offer you a serene life. As his wife, he would spare no effort in providing for you. And in turn you would be his serenity.

As he lay there, disabled and near death, he longed for your presence. Perhaps that was why he willingly surrendered to the effects of the poppy milk, for it allowed him to see you in his dreams. He took solace in slumber, for it was there that he could find you, if only in his mind.

But despite his yearning to see you in waking life, a part of him hesitated. He did not want you to witness the repulsive scar that marred his once-perfect face, especially the swollen and oozing scar where his left eye once was.

The pain from his injuries radiated through his body, a burning fire within him that consumed all other emotions. Aemond's thoughts turned to vengeance, as he vowed to take back what was stolen from him. His mind was set on becoming the best warrior in the Seven Kingdoms, one to surpass even his uncle, Daemon Targaryen, and he would not rest until he had retribution.

He would not accept a life he did not deserve, as his lady love had told him. With the biggest dragon in the world by his side, Aemond was determined to become even better than his past self. And then, you would be his. His lady love would be his wife, and together, you and him would rule with fire and blood.

He longed to shed his skin. The scorching heat in the chamber had become unbearable. The wine she had offered him churned in his gut, causing him to fight the urge to expel it.

Following the feast of Aemond's thirteenth nameday, Aegon had hinted at a surprise for him. Little did Aemond know that his elder brother would lead him into the depths of a pleasure house. Without a chance to protest, Aegon vanished into a sea of bodies and silks.

Next, Aemond found himself ensconced in a chamber bathed in the soft glow of flickering candles. Obscene tapestries adorned the walls, depicting the most intimate of acts between man and woman. And then, a woman entered. She was of an age exceeding even that of his own mother.

She cooed at him, showering him with soft words and adulation. Soon, she was touching him, disrobing him. Aemond wanted to protest, to scream for her to stop, but his vocal cords betrayed him. His body quivered as she caressed him, whispering into his ear.

Once it was over, Aemond was left in a daze. His body no longer felt like his own. Swiftly, he scrambled to dress himself, fleeing the brothel in a disheveled state, He didn't care where Aegon was, all he could think about was reaching you.

His heart pounded in his chest as he raced through the secret passageways of Maegor's Holdfast, his lungs burning with each desperate breath and tears falling down his pale cheeks. He bypassed his own chambers and his mother's, instead making a beeline for the guest wing where he had roamed many times in an attempt to get a glimpse of you.

Finally, he reached her door and pounded on it frantically, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as he struggled to compose himself. He had to see you. He needed you.

As the door creaked open, his eye widened with the realization that you and him had not spoken since he had lost his eye, and he had carelessly left his eye patch behind in the brothel. He feared that you would see his disfigurement. Before he could flee, however, the door swung open.

You stood before him, ethereal and captivating. Your locks cascaded down, some strands delicately tucked behind your ears. Cloaked in a deep crimson silk robe, which accentuated your graceful form.

Though your initial expression seemed perturbed by the intrusion, it quickly softened as your gaze fell upon Aemond. Your eyes wandered over his disheveled appearance and his one glassy eye, and a wave of concern washed over your features.

And without a second thought, he threw himself into your soft body, wrapping his arms around your waist as he laid his head against your stomach. Almost instantly his tears returned and after a moment, your arms came around him hesitantly, offering him your comfort.

Gently, you extracted yourself from his arms and offered your hand to him and without hesitation, he took it. Your skin was soft, yet cold, providing relief to his overheated body. You led him into your chambers which was simple and minimalistic, but all Aemond could focus on was the coolness of your touch.

Guiding him to the chaise in your chamber, you gently urged him to take a seat. As you walked away, Aemond mourned the loss of your touch, but you soon returned with a goblet in hand, offering it to him.

With a hint of wariness, Aemond took a tentative sip, finding the water refreshing. He greedily drank, while your worried eyes remained fixed on him.

As he finished the water, you placed a hand on his wrist, your concern evident in your touch. "You must tell me what happened, my prince," you urged, your voice soft but determined.

Aemond’s gaze turned away, a tempest brewing in his heart. “Shall I summon your mother, then?” you suggested, your tone a mere whisper laced with concern.

At the mention of his mother, Aemond’s eye snapped back to yours, desperation flickering in his gaze. “No. No, please don’t do that,” he pleaded, his voice a hushed urgency.

Swallowing hard, Aemond felt the weight of his brother's casual cruelty descend upon him. “Aegon,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, “he said it was a surprise. A rite of passage, he called it. He told me it was time to… get it wet.” He faltered, the memory crashing over him like waves against a rocky shore. Closing his eye, he inhaled sharply as his pulse quickened, “I can still feel it. Her hands were everywhere, warm and suffocating. I didn’t know how to make it stop... so I just waited until it was done.” Pain and confusion tangled in his chest, threatening to spill over.

He felt your gentle touch then, your hand gliding from his wrist to envelop his own in a tender squeeze. “Oh,” you murmured softly, your voice a balm against the chaos within him

But as you slowly withdrew your hand, a wave of panic surged through Aemond, tightening his grip on yours. “No…” he breathed, desperation creeping into his tone. You hushed him gently, your grip reassuring as you leaned closer. “Calm yourself, my prince. I intend to run you a warm bath, to cleanse you of the filth from that place.”

He nodded, though a nervous knot twisted in his stomach, and watched as you glided away into the adjoining bathing chamber. As Aemond took in the chamber surrounding him, he noted its unadorned simplicity. No treasures adorned the walls, no personal tokens to lend a semblance of warmth or familiarity. Yet, a heavy goblet rested on the table before him, catching his eye. The reddish liquid within gleamed like blood in the dim light, causing a shiver to race down his spine. He forced his gaze away, willing himself to ignore the unsettling thought as he waited for your return.

Moments later, you reemerged, the soft fabric of your robe trailing behind you. “Your bath is ready, my prince,” you said gently, cradling in your arms a neatly folded bundle of his clean clothing.

“How did you retrieve my clothes so swiftly?” Aemond asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

You averted your eyes, but he caught the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Your chambers lie but a breath away from mine."

But his chambers were on the other side of the castle?

Aemond's heart raced, not out of insecurity concerning his form — for he considered himself a Targaryen, and his lineage was his strength. Yet, the hole of his left eye gnawed at his pride. You met his gaze with an equal measure of courage, undeterred by the scar that marred what once was a handsome countenance. It was still the body of a boy, and though he was thirteen, he could not shake the flicker of embarrassment that flared in his chest.

Stealing a furtive glance towards you, Aemond found comfort in the fact that your eyes were cast downward, filled with allocation rather than scrutiny. With a swift motion, he shed the last vestiges of his clothing, and with that, slipped into the warmth of the steaming bath. As the water enveloped him, a sense of relief washed over him, mingled with surprise. The oils that swirled within the bath carried your fragrance, soothing and familiar, reminiscent of sunlit fields and the gentle sway of blossoms in the breeze.

"Shall I fetch a maid, my prince?" You asked, your voice soft and gentle. Your eyes finally settled upon him, he could detect an undercurrent of genuine concern.

"No," he replied curtly, his tone sharper than intended, the remnants of his pride still gnawing at him.

Aemond could hear you hum softly as you came to kneel by the edge of the bath, your fingers trailing in the water as you offered him a placating smile, radiating warmth that contrasted sharply with the chill of the world outside. Aemond’s gaze remained fixed on you as you began to scrub away the remnants of what had happened just before.

“Does it still hurt?” you asked softly, your eyes momentarily flitting from his face to the scar that bisected it before you continued your ministrations, your cloth gently gliding over his skin as if to erase the memories of that night.

“Stings sometimes,” Aemond replied, a shadow of shame dancing across his features.

You nodded, your hands deftly working to cleanse his face, but your gaze lingered on his empty eye socket—an echo of loss and pain that pierced deeper than any physical wound.

He cast his gaze downward, feeling the familiar pang of discomfort rise. “It’s… ugly,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

With an unexpected tenderness, you cupped his face in her hands, guiding him back to meet your gaze. “No, my prince,” you countered softly. “Not ugly. Merely different, a testament to your strength. You might even adorn it, you know.”

Adorn it? Aemond raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued despite the prickling pride that flared. “With what?” he asked, fixing his single violet eye upon you, momentarily captivated.

A gentle smile danced on your lips, a flash of mischief flickering in your expression, illuminating your features in the dim light. “Why not place a jewel in it, perhaps? What’s your favorite jewel?”

He shrugged, a habitual defense against showing too much of himself. “I don’t know,” he replied, his voice low.

The question hung in the air as you added, “Mine are sapphires."

Aemond’s thoughts drifted momentarily, recalling the dresses you had worn, swirling fabrics in hues that bespoke your grace. A pang struck him; “I’ve never seen you in blue.”

You shook your head dismissively, your eyes averted, as you responded, “It does not suit me, my prince."

“Impossible,” he mumbled, the word escaping in a barely audible whisper. He found it hard to believe you could not wear something so exquisite and innocent as blue, just as he found it hard to believe himself worthy of your affection. You were a jewel in your own right, far surpassing the treasures of the crown and the markets.

Once Aemond was freshly scrubbed clean and clad in his simple garments, the flickering torchlight cast shadows upon the stone walls of the Red Keep. You regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and concern. "Are you ready to retire to your chambers now, my prince?" You asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Aemond's heart sank at the thought of leaving your presence. The heavy weight of what had occurred a few hours ago felt more burdensome than ever. He cleared his throat, struggling to imbue his tone with the command expected of a Targaryen, "I wish to stay here."

Your brow furrowed slightly, and he could see the hesitation in your eyes, but you nodded nonetheless, leading him back toward your bed where you made to arrange the bedding around him. His lone eye followed your every movement, drawn to the curves of your form and the gentle way you tended to him. As you turned to leave, Aemond’s instincts took hold. With a swift motion, he grasped your wrist, his grip tighter than he intended. "Stay with me."

Your expression shifted to a sternness reminiscent of his mother, a reminder of the propriety and decorum that governed your lives. "That would be most inappropriate." Your tone was firm.

"Please," he murmured, his voice dropping to a near pleading softness.

With a heavy sigh that betrayed your weariness, you succumbed to his request, moving to the far side of your bed and, to his joy, sliding beneath the sheets. Aemond felt a rush of daring coursing through him like wildfire; he subtly shifted closer, resting his head on your chest. For a brief moment, he feared rejection, his thoughts racing to the taunts of his nephews and the ache of the void left by his lost eye. But then, as if sensing his need for solace, your arms enveloped him, warmth flooding through the cold shadows of the brothel.

In that cocoon of stolen intimacy, Aemond found refuge. The bitter weight of Aegon’s taunts, the pain of his injury, and the disquiet of the brothel faded away like whispers in the wind. He was no longer Aemond, the one-eyed prince; he was simply a man seeking comfort from the woman he loved.

Weeks after, Aemond strode into his chambers with the weight of the day's demands heavy upon him, only to halt in his tracks at the sight of a delicate gift-wrapped parcel resting atop his oaken table. Unease prickled at the edges of his mind as he approached, an unfamiliar crested insignia embossed on the fine paper hinting at its sender. With practiced grace, he unwrapped the offering, and there within gleamed a sapphire so vivid it whispered of the sea’s depths, glinting alluringly in the candlelight.

A smile unbidden flickered across his features, for he knew—knew it was from you. A token of your affection, bright as the glory of House Targaryen itself. It swelled his heart, igniting a warmth that had grown chill. He could envision your soft gaze as you selected the gem, the way your laughter danced through the air like the sweetest song.

Determined to express his gratitude, he spent the day scouring the halls of the Red Keep, threading his way through the throngs of courtiers and servants, all the while searching for your familiar figure. But fate, it seemed, had conspired against him. The hours slipped by like sand through his fingers, and as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, casting long shadows throughout the stone halls, bitterness sank into his bones.

After the evening meal, his resolve led him to seek his mother. With a furrowed brow, he pushed the door ajar and entered, expecting to find answers from her. But the sight that greeted him was far from comforting. Alicent sat hunched over a letter, the wax seal shattered beside her, her expression dark and heavy with unspoken words that lingered in the air like the scent of damp earth before a storm.

“Aemond?” she murmured, as if startled from a reverie, her voice a mere whisper, laden with melancholy.

He watched her for a moment, his previous thrill of joy eclipsed by her obvious distress. “What troubles you, Mother?” he ventured, stepping closer.

Alicent lifted her head, her expression a fragile mask that crumbled the moment she met his gaze. A semblance of a smile teased her lips, but the sorrow beneath was palpable. “All is well, my son,” she lied.

He knew the bond his mother shared with you, the girl who had nestled herself in the depths of his mother’s affection, unlike the numerous ladies-in-waiting who flitted about like storm-dodging sparrows. To Alicent, you were not merely a servant but a girl she cherished as if you were her own blood.

But Aemond’s sharp eye caught the glimmer of distress that lingered in her tone. He advanced further into the room, his gaze honing in on the parchment that lay forgotten in her delicate grasp. “What is it?” he pressed, his heart beginning to thrum in his chest, sensing the foreboding weight of something unsaid.

Alicent's voice was tinged with sorrow, a shade that unsettled Aemond's heart as she whispered the name of his beloved, “It is from her.” The chill of her words struck him like winter's breath. “She has decided to leave the Keep."

In that moment, it felt as though the very foundations of King's Landing trembled, the walls echoing his anguish. Aemond's heart tightened painfully, a dragon's fang sinking into his chest, yet Alicent remained blissfully unaware of her son’s turmoil as she set the letter down upon the polished mahogany table before turning away, her silhouette retreating into the shadows of her room.

Stinging tears threatened to spill from the corners of his eye. You could not have forsaken him; you would never abandon the bond the two of you shared, so why had you departed? Aemond seized the letter, his hand shaking with urgency, his eye darting across the elegant script. You had spoken of a deep homesickness, a yearning to reconnect with your family. You graciously thanked his mother for her kindness during your stay.

Yet, amidst your carefully penned words lay an abyss of uncertainty. No mention of where you had gone, nor any promise of when—or if—you would return. Only your name, signed with elegant flourish and the seal of your house—a sigil that felt as foreign to Aemond as a stranger’s face.

— Mikaelson

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd aemond #the originals #mikaelson #vampire!reader

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seumyo · 2 months ago

Text

when life gives you a kuroo tetsurou who’s helplessly in love.

NOTE. when life gives you tangerines inspired! but this is not as angsty <33

Kuroo, for all his seventeen years of living, was still getting used to the farm life.

He was as thin as a willow reed and walked on the sandy edge of the main road that wound through their small coastal village like a sleepy snake. A woven bamboo basket dangled from his elbow, mostly empty except for two daikon and a packet of tofu wrapped in wax paper. His hair stuck to his forehead, and his face was slightly flushed—not from the sun (though maybe it did play a part), but because you were up ahead.

You were walking fast, faster than someone your size should, and the sound of your feet hitting the ground in short, stubborn stomps made his heart squeeze. You were carrying two buckets filled with what Kuroo assumed were freshly caught fish from your father’s boat. As he had thought earlier.

“[Name]!” He called out, lengthening his stride, “Wait for me!”

You didn’t turn around.

Ouch.

“[Name]! You’ll hurt your shoulders again if you carry both of those all the way down the shore by yourself.”

“Again?” You sighed at this point. “I’ve done it before,” you told him without stopping. “You’re not seriously following me all the way to the coast again, are you?”

“I’m not following,” he said, stepping alongside you now, trying to match your brisk walk. His voice was softer than yours, slightly shaky, not from nervousness exactly—but from restraint. “I was just… out. Walking.”

You turned around sharply, your eyes barely meeting his as the sun shone down on you two, though whether from exertion or something else, he wouldn’t tell. “Tch. You always say that. You walk behind me, you linger at the docks when my father’s boat returns, and then you suddenly have errands in the market at the same time I do. Do you think I’m stupid?”

“No!” Kuroo blinked, clearly startled. “I mean, no, of course not! I just… I think you could use the company. And help with carrying the catch.” He offered you a crooked little smile, like he was embarrassed even as he meant it. And he meant it. Every word.

“I don’t like your company.”

“Ouch—please be nicer to me!”

You frowned, shifting the buckets. “You can't even carry one of these, you know that? Last week you tried and dropped all the mackerel in the dirt.”

“I was… distracted.” He pouted, lips softening into a line, brows tugging together in that pathetic way of his that always made you annoyed for exactly four seconds before you wanted to sigh and forgive him. “That only happened once.” Kuroo glanced down at his hands, then muttered, “Twice.”

“And when you tried to help my father untangle the nets, you fell into the water and cried.”

“I didn’t cry,” he said quickly, though his ears turned red. “I just… got saltwater in my eyes.”

You laughed, loud and unfiltered, the sound mixing with the screech of seabirds flying overhead. He thinks he must be coming down with an illness because his chest suddenly feels tight.

“I’m not useless,” he added softly, after a pause. “Even if I can’t dive like you or carry heavy things, I can… distract the crows.”

You glanced at him again, and this time, your smile was small, more like you were trying not to laugh again. “You wave your arms like a scarecrow, Tetsurou. You look ridiculous.”

“Your scarecrow, at the very least,” he mumbled under his breath, looking away.

“You know what?”

“What?”

“You could be useful. Carry this one; it’s lighter.”

“Wait—ow! Heavy,” he wheezed quietly, balancing his basket on one arm and a bucket in the other. You looked at him flatly. “I— I was wrong. It’s not very heavy at all; I can handle it.”

You made your way to the market, where the tide was gently lapping against the dock—distant and familiar. An array of stalls greeted your path, and you took the initiative to greet a few vendors on your way. The village dogs barked at gulls nearby. You dropped your bucket and rolled your sleeves further, while Kuroo did the same beside you and tried to copy your movements—though his long, knobby fingers didn’t move with the same confidence.

Just a quick break before delivering the fish to the customer.

“You don’t have to keep coming with me me,” you said after a moment, your voice quieter. “Your mother’s going to shout at me again.”

Kuroo looked down at the pavement. “She’s just…” he paused. “She’s proud? Doesn’t like fishermen much. Says your family takes more than they give.”

“She threw an egg at me last week.”

“I know!” Kuroo said quickly, face twisting in horror. “I tried to stop her—I even blocked the second one with my arm!”

You chuckled, then sighed, then began walking again as you adjusted your grip. “You’ll get in trouble, too. What if she stops feeding you rice again?”

“She only did that for two days.” He paused. “I ate sweet potatoes.”

Your gaze flicked to him, lips twitching. “You really don’t give up, do you?”

“No,” he said softly. “Not when it’s you.”

You looked away, the wind tugging at your slightly worn-down clothes. Just then, Kuroo turned just in time to see his mother barreling out from behind a stall, holding a straw broom in her hand like a weapon.

“Don’t run, Tetsurou! I told you not to hang around that girl again!”

“Mother, please—she’s not—she didn’t do anything—”

“You call sneaking around and making eyes at a fisherman’s daughter nothing? I saw you two loitering by the harbor last week and again outside the tofu shop!”

You didn’t wait to hear more. You grabbed the other bucket from Kuroo and took off running down the alley behind the teahouse. He didn’t even hear you say anything—you just ran.

Kuroo spun toward his mother, panic rising. “Stop, Mother, she’s just trying to help her family!”

“She’s just using you to get better prices at the market! She even haggled with old man Yamada! We’re not like them, Tetsurou! We're farmers! Proud people!”

Kuroo’s attempts at keeping his mother at bay faltered. He stood awkwardly, unsure what to say.

But you, from far off, yelled back, “I earned that discount! His cabbages were half-rotten!”

His mother screeched again.

“Mama, they help us a lot!”

“Help her family seduce mine’s son, you mean! If your grandmother were alive—“

“She’d say you’re being cruel!” he shouted, surprising them both.

His mother froze. Her expression darkened. “Don’t talk back to me, Tetsurou.”

Eventually, his mother stormed off, muttering about curses and disobedience, leaving Kuroo with slumped shoulders and his words clinging to him like a knife. The other bystanders just nodded approvingly; something about humbling his mother was just what she deserved.

Much later, when the sun had begun to dip behind the hills and the tide crept lazily back to shore, Kuroo found himself wandering the edge of the beach where the fishermen’s boats were tethered. He spotted you near the rocks, skipping flat stones over the surface of the water.

You didn’t look at him, but you didn’t run either.

“I heard the miso lady gave you rice crackers for dodging my mom again,” he said sheepishly, wiping the smut off his cheeks to at least make himself look presentable.

You sniffed. “She said I was quick. Like a fox.”

“You are. A pretty one.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re hopeless.”

“I know.”

A silence passed, interrupted only by the gentle lap of waves and the distant rustle of cicadas.

“She’s going to make me sleep with the chickens again,” he murmurs.

You sighed. “You’re the only boy I know who’d get kicked out of his own house for helping a girl.”

“I’m the only boy you know who likes you this much,” he said, scratching his cheek. “Even if I can’t swim or carry stuff or stop my mom from launching eggs.”

Your gaze softened. “You’re a fool.”

“I know. Trouble’s worth it if it means seeing you smile.”

“Uh huh.”

“And you’re worth being foolish for.”

You didn’t say anything to that. Just looked at him with a strange, tired affection. Then tossed him a fatty tuna you’d caught earlier from the bucket beside you.

It smacked him right on the shoulder.

“…ow.”

You smiled. “Next time, try not to defend me too much to the point of getting kicked out. The climate’s getting colder these nights.” You fiddled with the sleeve of your shirt, just a little. “And... I think you can spend the night in my brothers’ room if you want. Sleeping next to chickens is awful.”

And under the setting sun, with the scent of salt in the air and his heart thudding like a taiko drum, Kuroo realized—he didn’t care how many buckets he spilled or how many times he got chased through the market or how many times you looked at him unimpressed.

If you cared about him just as he cared about you, then he thinks he’ll be ok. This is where he wants to be, beside you.

He nodded. “Right. I’ll keep that in mind.”

458 notes · View notes

jaesvelvet · 2 months ago

Text

reconnection

SUMMARY ➤ You've been longing for Robert Reynolds for seven years now. No matter how hard you try to let him go, your heart refuse to do so but after a weird moment of being trapped in your own nightmare, you finally found Robert. On a local news along side with the new Avengers.

PAIRING ➤ Robert (Bob) Reynolds x fem! reader

GENRES ➤ Angsty with happy ending

WARNINGS ➤ THUNDERBOLTS* spoiler ahead A tiny part of suicidal scene, reader is in deression but no one's helping, and mention of drugs

WORDS COUNT ➤ 4k words

NOTES ➤ it took so long for one fic and i'm sorry about it!!! i thought i was ready to be back but i was so insecure of my writing to the point i've had to disregard my two enha's fic )): also it's so obvious that i already watched thunderbolts* ^^ the movie was so good i had to write for bob's character.

Soon after Robert announced that he is going somewhere to get himself on a track– nobody would even guess he would volunteer himself to an untrusted medical research. Presumming the naive man would surrender himself as soon as the doctor said it would turn him into a better man– he must have signed whatever papers given without having second thoughts.

Robert tries to be better, but at the end of the day, he cannot escape the household he’d been living in. You’re the only one who can truly see how hard it is to avoid all the drugs, lean into a healthy life, and live a life without any disturbing surroundings. But he keeps coming back to square one.

He always asked you to leave him once he relapsed, but you stood there, firmly. He was so sure you’re here because of sympathy and not because of him. He wants to believe in you but it’s not that easy because at the end of the day, he always ended up alone.

In late 2020– three years before The Avengers found a way to bring back half of the population, he had enough of this shit. He slowly began to realize that you’re here because you want to. The hopeful feeling slowly began to rise inside of him after so long. With his parents having been blipped, he finally can breathe. No more fights, screaming and sounds of hitting. He is lowkey on Thanos’s side in this war but keeps his mouth shut, you lost half of your family in the blip and he simply does not want to hurt you; the person whom he cares most about.

But he only works on his plan, seven years later. Thinking he cannot leave you like this, not when your emotional state is not stable. And the other reason— he is broke and needs more than his ‘savings’ to change himself.

He landed in Malaysia after hours on the air, his smiles wide, thinking of how he can be a better person after this project and how he can finally prove to everyone that he isn’t just a useless human being. Ah. the thoughts of your ‘I’m so proud of you, Robert” lingers in his mind. He would text you if his phone wasn't confiscated by the researcher, he assumes it would be hours of research and everything will change after that.

Robert soon curses at himself as soon as he hears that he is not the only volunteer they had, they all died during the trial but it is too late for him. He is trapped in the metal coffin that they put him in. He tried to scream and punch everything but it was all useless. Soon he feels the temperature slowly rising up and his body feels tense all of sudden scares him. At this moment he thought that staying alive would be the ideal prayer he can utter right now. He couldn’t die now, not with your face still haunting his thoughts.

His whole body started to ache, his energy slowed down and his scream got slower. His body can’t take whatever they gave him right now, but it looks like the thing is being forced down inside of his body. He cannot even wriggle in pain due to limited space, the only words he could utter at that moment was “Stop…”

The void left by Robert’s absence weighs heavily on you as you grapple with uncertainty of his fate.

“You’re wasting yourself waiting for him”

You try your best to move on. Your friends told you that a meth addict was better off without you anyway, you tried to ignore them but the pain of longing is much worse than you think. For seven months you couldn’t meet anyone to replace Robert, you can’t understand the exact reasons why your heart still longing for him, the probability of him died in some foreign country is high and you are ready to accept the fact that Robert is gone but your heart still couldn't fathom this ‘statement’.

“Maybe he was there somewhere…” is the only excuse you can give to your friends although deep down, you don’t even know what to expect anymore.

Your high hope of Robert make you all alone, your friends start to keep of their distances on you, your siblings seems to give up to support your stance of ‘Robert is there somewhere’ and your parents seems to accept that their daughter might suffers from some mental health problem but do nothing to help– they thought paying for psychiatrist and medications are waste of money if you still hoping for the man.

And that’s when you decided you are better alone anyways. Starting your day in your rented apartment with leftover food from last night, settling into the couch that your sister handed down to you when she’s decided to move from New York and suddenly your surroundings turning black all of sudden.

Your breathing unsteady at first, thinking that this is a dream– or did you depress enough to start hallucinating things? You gulped down your saliva, nonetheless you start walking– very slowly, searching for a starting point but all of the sudden the black scenery quickly turns into an airport. The day was sunny and there’s a lot of cars parked at the waiting area; it felt like a deja vu for a moment before you spotted two familiar figures hugging outside of your parents car.

It was you and Robert.

You walk closely with the two of you hugging. You tried to hold your tears but failed when you saw Robert’s face when he broke the hug.

“I’ll be back better than before, then we can talk about us. I promise you this time” Robert said with a gentle touch to your cheek before you both parted ways.

“Please don’t go…” you sobbed. Your voice trembling with desperation. But it was clear– you were invisible to them. As Robert’s figure grew smaller and smaller in the distance, the scene suddenly reset. Again, he turned to leave and once again your tears went unheard. You shook your head, whatever this was, it seems like you’re trapped in your own nightmare.

The repeated scene in front of you causes you to feel light headed, you walk away from the scene, hoping for a way out and suddenly you’re in your own bedroom. You sigh in relief, your heart still pounding fast from the strange experience you felt. You’re about to land on your bed before a sound of cries could be heard. You brows furrowed, searching for the source of the sound around the bedroom.

You gasped in silence when you saw yourself on the floor, on the other side of the bed. Staring blankly at the pills on your palm.

You remember this moment, it was months after everyone returns from being a dust but not your Robert. It was tough for a few weeks, you can’t accept fate. There’s no news or phone call from him. You are tired of waiting for him after years of praying for him to come back in one piece. The pills on your palm was the answer, your soul is nowhere to be found, and maybe taking your own life would be ideal.

“This is not the way…” you sobbed.

The old version of yourself slowly turned to face you. A faint, almost bittersweet smile played on her lips as she raised the pills to her mouth and swallowed them in one gulp

“We are always alone” she whispered, the words echoing through the room like a curse carved into time.

You stood frozen, powerless. Watching yourself spiral, watching the weight of silent suffering crush someone who was—still is—you. It was unbearable. The isolation, the desperation, the quiet resignation etched in her face—it made you feel small, fragile. Pathetic.

You screamed every name you could think of, mom, dad, your sister and even Robert. Hoping if anyone could hear your desperate hoarse voice even if it is a faint sound but to your dismay, there’s no answer. You ran through the endless corridors, searching, pleading for a way out just to find every door you opened led to another nightmares of your past.

All of the painful memories greet you at every turn– echoes of moments you tried so hard to bury deep down in your head. It felt like you’d been running for hours, maybe even longer, your legs seemed to give out but you can’t give up just yet. The last thing you want is to die in the maze of your own sorrow and regret.

Then without warning, the darkness began to dissolve, the screams faded, the air lightened and the oppressive weight lifted.

And suddenly– you were back. Sitting on your couch, in your living room. Silence.

Everything looks the same… but you weren’t.

It wasn’t long enough for the news of the New Avengers broke, soon after the chaos of ‘the Void’ (according to the news) ended, Valentina Allegra de Fontaine; the director of CIA immediately announce of the new Avengers including Bucky Barnes, the former Winter Soldier and John Walker, the second Captain America that killed a civilian in public eyes. You don’t even trust the new group she formed, hell you couldn't care less at this point. You almost choked on your water as your eyes glued on the man on the right side of the group. A man who wears a blue crewneck sweater with light brown corduroy pants with curly hair that goes unnoticed.

The glass slipped from your hand and shattered the moment it hit the floor. You instinctively covered your mouth, eyes wide. Your breathing grew unsteady again. You froze in front of the television for a moment before a sudden phone call jolted you into reality.

Still shaken from the shock, you answered the call from your sister. A shaky hello is all you could manage at the moment.

“Am I seeing this right? Bob is on the television? Bob joining the Avengers?” she asked. Her voice was laced with impatience and disbelief.

“I- I don’t know… You see him too?” you asked her. It’s hard to confirm what you’ve been seeing after the ‘episode’ you had earlier.

“Duh! Everyone can see it! He disappeared for seven years just to be an Avengers? He looks so uncool with that ordinary outfit. Maybe I can help with his out–”

You ended the call, her ranting was more than enough to prove that you’re not hallucinating. The person on the television was Robert. Your Robert.

If you followed your instincts you'd drive to the Watchtower right now to confront him. But you stopped yourself. You need to be ready. If you’re going to face Robert, you have to be prepared– both physically and mentally. At the very least, you needed to look presentable to meet him after so long.

Your outfit wasn’t terrible and the makeup you’d applied to make you look presentable wasn’t bad either. Everything seemed fine– on the surface. But you couldn’t bring yourself to step out of the car. Your grip on the steering wheel was so tight to the point your knuckle turned white. It has been so long waiting for Robert. You should at least be excited to meet him right?

But in this case, you couldn't pinpoint exactly what you’re currently feeling right at the moment. Anger, Sadness, Anxious, Happy. It’s all blended into one.

A knock on your window pulled you out of your thoughts. A police officer stood outside, gesturing for you to roll it down. You did so without hesitation, your fingers still trembling slightly.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but you can’t park here,” he said politely but firmly. At that moment you realized that your car stopped near the building– which is crowded with cranes and construction workers.

“Oh... right. I’m sorry,” you murmured, trying to gather yourself. “I didn’t mean to stay long.”

He nodded, not pressing further. “Alright. Just be sure to move along soon.”

As he walked away, the pressure in your chest returned. You looked back at the looming Watchtower building for a few seconds. You decided to park a little further away from the building. A big sigh escapes from your mouth. You’re here. You waited seven years for him. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for.

This is it, you thought. No more stalling.

Your hand reached for the door handle, it is now or never.

“Where’s Bob?” Alexei asked, both of his hands carrying four bags of heavy grocery as if it's nothing.

“In his new room I guess” a man with blonde hair answered lazily, he was about to leave the pantry, his eyes glued on a foreign person behind Alexei.

“Ah, great. Does Valentina send us a new PR manager so her reputation is untouchable? Cause let me tell you, we owner her now, one bad decision she ended up with President Ross in the raft” the blond whinged.

“Ah no no… Valentina does not send her here. I am” Alexei clarified.

“You want us to have a PR Manager?” he asked, one brow lifted in confusion.

“No, fool. This is our number one fan!” Alexei chirped. A huge and wide smile could be seen from his face. He put the groceries down, and gently pushed you forward to properly introduce you to the man.

You recognized the man standing in front of you—he was the second Captain America after Steve Rogers. You were sure of it; the day he was announced, his face had been everywhere.

Walker’s confused expression quickly shifted to one of disapproval. He shook his head as he looked between you and Alexei.

“No… no… Alexei you can’t bring some random people in here! She could be some secret agent or something or just some creep!” he grumbled.

You’re about to open your mouth to defend yourself but Alexei cuts you off immediately.

“She is harmless. We’re going through security seven times, no guns and knives on her, I guarantee that”

Walker rolls his eyes back, first day as the new Avengers, Alexei already does so much work in marketing their team. The blonde let out a small sigh while the older male still trying to reassure him. Seeing the tense in the room, you clear your throats to gain their attention which is a success.

“I’m not a secret agent or some creep, I just want to meet Robert. I’m his friend” you speak up

“Bob got another friend?” Walker asked

You nodded your head slowly. Seems like Robert still uses the nickname ‘Bob’ to introduce himself to others. You dropped the nickname a long time ago, you thought the name Robert sounds too good not to use, besides he also likes being called Robert by you.

“I met her in the lobby. She begging to meet Bob, I thought she is a fan”

“Fans or friends. She cannot be in here. I’ll call the security–”

“Please! I’m begging you, I need to meet him, even for a minute.” you pleaded, the sound of desperation in your voice is noticeable which makes the stern Walker having second thoughts.

“Okay sure. But under one condition”

You expect the usual would be; having almost thirty guards surrounding you, security check for the nth time and you need to talk to him in the visiting area but your assumptions went straight out of the window when they ask a girl with platinum blonde hair or they called her as Yelena to accompany you to meet Robert.

You trailed along behind her silently to Robert’s room, the walk from the pantry isn’t that far, but on each step, your hand grew colder. You glance at Yelena, you’ve seen her once– on the news yesterday but even from that brief impression, she seemed confident, brave and a kind of person who genuinely cares for others. You could tell by how cautious she is before allowing you to meet Robert.

You didn’t even know what kind of relationship she had with him but you can’t help but feel slightly insecure. You used to be Robert’s safe place. You were always there for him, through every hell he endured. But now, it was Yelena the others trusted with him.

Was she really trustworthy?

You knew how naive Robert could be. That’s what worries you most—that this “new Avengers” crew might be filling his head with promises, just to turn him into their next lab rat.

“Well, Bob doesn’t mention he has a friend” Yelena spoke up, breaking the silence between the two of you.

You frowned slightly, a sharp pang tightening in your chest.

“He hasn’t?” Seven months—seven long months—you waited for him like a fool, and he hadn’t even mentioned you to his new friends?

A slow wave of regret crept over you. Maybe coming here was a mistake.

“Well, it’s only fair. We just met 48 hours ago and his memory is still hazy after the incident” Yelena answered.

You stop in your tracks and so does Yelena, the blonde girl turned around to face you with a confused face.

“I– is he okay?” you asked, the news hasn’t covered much about him, they only talk about the other superheroes hence you don’t even know why they took Robert as well. Does the medical research he went to seven years ago link into this chaos?

“Yeah, he’s fine. But just don’t pressure him into remembering things, he can’t control it yet” Yelena said.

“It?” you asked in confusion. What exactly happened to him?

“Uh, the thing yesterday, it was him– not entirely him but his dark side I would say”

You fell silent, a chill spreading through you. Had they already made him into their lab rat? For seven months, he has been suffering alone all these months?

Your steps grew heavier as you followed her through the quiet corridor. The sterile lights overhead flickered slightly, casting shadows that seemed to dance with your thoughts. Every footstep echoed your anxiety.

“Bob?” Yelena knocks on his door once before Robert opens it up, with a wide smile plastered on his face.

“They gave me a good bed!” he exclaims

“Uh yeah, good for you…” Yelena smiles at him, she hasn’t checked her room yet, too busy dealing with the superiors with Bucky. She took a look at Robert's room, it was huge and comfortable, much better than her old room.

“I think I want to request some books, vinyl records and oh! Maybe a huge TV–”

“Uh, Bob?” Yelena cut him off gently.

Robert turned, eyebrows raised—until Yelena stepped slightly to the side, revealing the girl who had been standing quietly behind her.

Robert froze, stunned into silence. It took him a few seconds to fully register the woman standing in front of him. But when recognition finally clicked into place, his eyes welled with tears, and his breath caught in his throat.

“Y/N”

Without another words you ran towards him and he caught you in a warm hug. It was surreal, almost unbelievable to feel Robert’s arms around your waist again. You had dreamt of this moment for so long and now it was all real, the realization broke you into tears as you clung tightly to him.

On the other side of the room, Yelena let a small smile form on her lips. It felt good to see people reunited, wrapped in each other’s arms, finding happiness again. She dreamed of that too—especially on the days that felt heavier than most.

Her found family meant everything to her. And now, with her sister Natasha gone, all she could do was keep moving forward. Still, deeply inside she longed for the same kind of peace the two of you had just found in each other.

“Seven months… I’ve waited for you for seven months, Robert” you speak up after a moment being in each other's embrace.

Robert wipes the tears off from your cheek while nodding his head.

“I’m sorry– everything happened so fast, one moment I was in a metal coffin and the next thing I knew I was in a vault and met them” he explained. From the moment Robert regained his consciousness inside the OXE Vault, everything felt like a blur to him. The sight of four strangers in cool suits locked in a deadly battle made him nauseous.

He can’t remember the details but he remembered the tension in his body and when he turned into the Sentry, it felt good. For the first time in forever, everything felt right. He wanted to fly straight to you and show how powerful he became but then again he suddenly collapsed after feeling a buzzing from his new costume and waking up once again not remembering anything.

He got a little too excited with the news of the new Avengers and the fact that he had a room of his own again. It was a lot to take in after everything. He hated that it distracted him, even for a second.

“I’m sorry” he added

You shook your head, this time it is your turn to wipe the tears off his cheek.

“I’m just glad that you’re okay. Everyday I pray for you to come back to me.” you snivelled.

“I’m here now, I will not leave you again. No more volunteer to any medical researchers shit” he slightly chuckle

You scoff at his banter, slowly removing your arms from his waist.

“You have a lot to tell me, Robert. I can’t wait for us to go back home and–”

“Um, not trying to ruin the moment here but he cannot go back home” Yelena cuts your word. You turn your face to her with a confused expression.

“What? Why? He is just civilian like me”

“Uh no… Apparently Bob is one of us now, the thing about medical research make him powerful” Yelena explained

You glance at Robert for a moment, then shift your gaze back to Yelena.

“So about the ‘It’ thing you said earlier–”

“Yup” Yelena Yelena answered before you could even finish your question—already anticipating it. She was worried Robert might try to force the memories back too soon.

“So, can I stay?” you asked her

Yelena seems caught off guard with your question, it tooks a second for her to make a decision.

“Just don’t let Bucky see you,” she said and left the room.

You turn to Robert again, now his face mirroring your facial just now– the confused look. You let out a small laugh and held both of his warm hands.

“She cares for you a lot, I can tell. I need to beat her in this one-sided competition” you joked. Robert smiles at you and caresses your cheek– the things that he always does to you, it was more like a habit when the two of you are close like this.

“She feels like a sister to me. A sister that I never had, I don’t know why though, but you… You’re the most special person ever in my heart. The person who trusts me the most. Thank you for waiting for me, I really appreciate you. I really do”

“I think I love you a little too much to the point that no one in earth can replace you”

“My girl, I love you too. So much! Gonna spend all of this moment with you forever!” He pulled you into a tight hug and spun you around, making you let out a small shriek in protest, laughing as you begged him to stop.

“I’m glad you found friends that truly care for you, Robert. Me and your other friends are always on your side, through thick and thin”

Robert’s heart is getting warm hearing your words. He grew so used to the word alone, he nearly forgot what it felt like to be surrounded by people who truly cared. His memories are still foggy, but after meeting the others yesterday, he knew one thing for sure. He is not alone anymore.

For the first time in forever, the void is finally filled with something beautiful.

#mcu imagines #the sentry imagines #the void imagines #thunderbolts #thunderbolts fic #thunderbolts imagines #thunderbolts x reader #lewis pullman x reader #lewis pullman #robert reynolds #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds fic #bob reybolds fic #bob reynolds x reader #robert reynolds imagines #bob reynolds imagines

514 notes · View notes

ivyyisbored22 · 4 months ago

Text

𝐒𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲—𝘉𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘹 (𝘧𝘦𝘮) 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

A Stray Kids drabble

Synopsis: Just thinking about Dad Chan...

Warnings: Mention of a needle. Baby shots, soft Chan, fluff.

Note: I came across so many baby reels on Instagram and so well, I wanted to write something quickly.

If this isn't your thing, you're more than welcome to skip it. Reblogs, likes, comments and feedbacks are always appreciated.

ɪ'ᴠᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴏꜰ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ɪᴛ ᴀ ᴍɪʟʟɪᴏɴ ᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ʙᴜᴛ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴘᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴡʜᴇʀᴇ, ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡ.

Word count: 0.7k

𝑬𝑵𝑱𝑶𝒀!

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Just thinking about Dad Chan...

The nursery was looming with the lingering scent of baby lotion and the cute giggles of your 6 month old baby, as you got her dressed for her check up. She was looking up at you with a huge gummy smile, her little hands wiggling in the air.

"Are you excited to see the doctor?" You cooed and the baby scrunched her little nose, "Oh, you are? Aren't you a brave girl?"

As you fastened the tiny buttons on her dress, the soft sound of footsteps approached the nursery.

Chan peeked in, hair slightly tousled from the morning rush, eyes immediately finding his little girl. His lips curled into a fond smile as he bent beside you, pressing a kiss to your temple and her chubby cheek.

“Good morning, princess,” he murmured, running his fingers through her wispy baby hair. “Are you ready?”

Your baby let out a happy squeal, her hands patting Chan’s face with newfound excitement. Chan smiled as he scooped the baby in his arms and walked to the car as you grabbed your bag and the essentials you might need.

At the doctor’s office, your baby sat on Chan’s lap, clapping her hands at the colorful art and posters decorating the walls. Chan was tapping his leg on the floor making her gently bounce up and down, giggling.

When the doctor finally entered, he gave you both a warm smile. “She’s growing beautifully. Everything looks perfect,” he said, flipping through the chart.

Chan sighed in relief—until the doctor added, “Alright, we’ll go ahead with her vaccination today.”

Chan stiffened instantly, arms tightening around your daughter. “H-hold on,” he stammered, his voice nearly cracking. “Does she have to?”

You gave him a deadpan look, but the doctor gave a gentle smile. "Of course but it's just a shot. She’ll be fine, don't worry.”

But Chan wasn’t convinced. As the nurse prepped the syringe, he looked like he was physically restraining himself from grabbing his baby and bolting out of the office.

“She’s so tiny,” he whispered, eyes darting between you and the nurse. “Can’t we—I don’t know—wait until she’s, like, ten?”

Before you could answer, the nurse instructed Chan to hold your daughter still. With heartbreaking trust, she looked up at her father, smiling with pure innocence, completely unaware of what was coming.

Then the shot happened.

The moment the needle pricked her chubby thigh, your baby’s face crumpled, her joyful babbling instantly turning into a loud wail.

Chan’s entire body tensed and his heart visibly shattered. “Oh my God, baby, I’m so sorry,” he blurted, his voice cracking as if he was the one in pain.

"All done," the nurse announced, placing a cute bandaid on her leg.

He kissed her forehead and cheeks frantically, his eyes welling up. “I’m so sorry, princess. Daddy didn't want this either.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose inhaling deeply. “Chan, breathe.”

But it was useless—he was already lost to his sorrow, whispering apologies into her tiny curls while she sniffled against his chest. The doctor reassured him that she’d be fine in a few minutes, but Chan was having none of it.

While you let your husband walk around the office trying to soothe the baby, you took her report card from the doctor, bidding a warm goodbye to him and the nurse, walking towards Chan who was now outside the room.

Once you were back in the car, your baby had already calmed down, sucking on her fingers while making soft cooing noises as Chan placed her on the car seat.

Chan, on the other hand, was still distraught, climbing into the driver's side and rested his head against the steering wheel. “That was the worst experience of my life.”

You reached over, rubbing his back soothingly. “Honey, she’s literally fine.”

He lifted his head to glare at you, eyes red-rimmed and tears brimming his long lashes. “She cried. Did you not hear that? I’m traumatized.”

Suppressing a laugh, you leaned over, pressing your lips on his softly. “You’re such a good dad,” you murmured against him. “She’s very lucky to have you hubby.”

Chan sighed heavily but melted into your touch, glancing back at the rearview mirror where your daughter was already dozing off.

“Yeah,” he muttered, still pouting. “But she’s never getting another shot again.”

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xx,

Ivyy

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ddejavvu · 1 year ago

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pairing: jake seresin x reader

summary: you ask jake to leave the room while you change

a/n: part two of the series, first one was james potter here!

Jake is already stripped down to his briefs, which makes it all the more confusing for him when you linger by the closet with apprehension etched into the lines on your face.

"Honey," You call, sweet as the moniker itself, "Can you leave?"

His brows furrow, his golden-tanned skin scrunching slightly, "Leave- like, the room?"

"Yeah, or turn around, or something? I'm gonna change."

You're expecting a quip, a protest, or any sort of typical Jake-ism, but instead you're met with the toned expanse of his back as he pivots to face the wall. For good measure, his hands fly up to cover his eyes, even though the only thing they'd be seeing is the white wall that's now in front of him.

"Go ahead, darlin'," He calls, his voice slightly muffled where his palms brush his lips, "Tell me when I can turn back around."

You're left standing there staring, and you won't pretend like his tight briefs are giving you a bad view.

"Jake," You laugh quietly, confused, "Aren't you gonna ask why? Or laugh, or refuse?"

"No," You can hear the frown in his voice, "Why would I do that?"

"Well- you've seen me naked before," You supply, the phone in your hands feeling useless now that Jake's reaction is so mellow, "It's not like I can really hide from you."

"You're not hiding." He reasons, "If you're not in the mood tonight, that's fine. God knows I can't keep it down when you strip, so it's a good thing I'm facing the wall right now, or I'd have to take a very long, very cold shower."

"Thanks, Jake." Is the last thing the camera hears before you press your thumb weakly against the button to end the recording. Your phone thumps softly against the mattress as you toss it aside, and when you give Jake the cue to turn around again your clothes are discarded but not replaced.

"Woah," Jake blinks, eyes wide and looking anywhere but at your naked form, "I thought you wanted a break?"

"It was for some tiktok trend," You admit, "But that was the hottest thing you've ever said to me, so now I'm in the mood. Plus, I was staring at your ass the entire time."

Jake's brows raise, and he finally lets his gaze drift over your face.

"Noted. Camera's off, right?" He tilts his head towards you questioningly, and at your nod he crosses the room, thumbs already hooked into the waistband of his briefs and tugging them off. "Good," He murmurs, briefs now discarded as his hands relocate to your waist, "'Cause what we're about to do would get you banned from the app for life, darlin'."

#jake seresin x reader #jake seresin imagine #jake seresin fanfiction #jake seresin x you #jake seresin x y/n #hangman #hangman x reader #hangman x you #hangman x y/n #hangman fanfiction #hangman imagine #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin imagine #jake hangman seresin fanfiction #jake hangman seresin x you #jake hangman seresin x y/n #top gun x reader #top gun maverick x reader

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wendichester · 18 days ago

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｡𖦹°‧ across the room⁴,

summary.you’ve seen sam around. he’s seen you too. all you’re both waiting for is the perfect opportunity to go from strangers to something more.

pairing. stanford!sam winchester x reader genre. soft smut ( mdni )

wordcount. 1263

notes / warnings. apologies that this took forever. but here it is!! // steamy make-out session, grinding, implied arousal, soft hair-pulling, handsy underclothes action, breathy dialogue. wearing sam's hoodie!!!

ᯓ★ read part 1, part 2, part 3

You don’t mean to wear his hoodie. It’s not a conscious choice, exactly.

You just… slept over. Totally innocently. There were notes and popcorn and exactly one (1) aggressively PG-13 cuddle session before you both passed out on top of the covers like you were in some romcom fever dream. And when you woke up, a little cold and very late, the only thing nearby was the hoodie he peeled off around midnight. So you threw it on. No big deal.

Except—it is a big deal.

Because the minute you walk into class, slightly flushed and chewing the drawstring, Sam sees you.

He’s already there, sprawled in the back row like he owns the place, hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows and pen dangling from his fingers. He’s mid-sip of coffee when you step through the door—wearing his hoodie, too-long sleeves bunched at your wrists, the neckline stretched just wide enough to hint that there’s probably not much underneath.

You don’t notice him at first.

But he notices everything.

The way you tug the sleeves over your knuckles. The way you scrunch your nose at the overhead lights. The way you slip into the seat beside your friend, like this is just any other Monday.

Sam almost chokes on his coffee.

He forces himself to look away—forces his brain back onto psych terms and lecture slides—but you’re sitting three rows ahead and slightly to the left, and he can still see the hem of his hoodie covering your thighs.

When the professor announces a break halfway through, Sam’s on his feet before the words fully land. He doesn’t even think. Just follows the slow stream of students out into the hallway, scanning until—

There. You’re by the vending machine, punching in a number with a furrowed brow and your tongue pressed to your cheek. Sam’s dead.

“Hey,” he says, voice low as he steps up beside you.

You turn, startled. Then you smile, soft and sleepy-eyed. “Hey.”

He doesn’t kiss you.

He wants to—wants to back you against the glass and taste the cherry Chapstick you always keep in your bag. But he doesn’t. He just reaches out, slow and careful, and brushes his knuckles against the hem of the hoodie.

Thumb finding the drawstring. Fingertips brushing your hipbone. Barely there—but burning, all the same.

“Looks better on you,” he murmurs.

Your breath stutters. “Oh.”

He smiles, lazy and a little smug. “Wanna come over after class?”

You blink. “To… study?”

His hand slips to your waist. “Sure. We’ll call it that.”

You’re useless for the rest of the lecture.

You try to take notes, really—you even open a Google Doc and type “cognitive dissonance”—but the only thing dissonant is the state of your thoughts.

By the time you get back to his dorm, it’s raining again.

Of course it is.

You toe off your shoes and shrug out of your coat, only now realizing you never took the hoodie off. Sam doesn’t comment—just locks the door, tosses his bag aside, and turns to you with that look.

The one that says you’re mine, even if he hasn’t said it out loud yet.

You’re still dripping rain when he pulls you in.

It’s not rushed—not like last time, where it built slow and sweet and soft. This time, it’s now. It’s urgent. His hands are at your waist before you can speak, pulling you into him with a quiet, hungry sound in the back of his throat.

The door clicks shut behind you. Your coat hits the floor. And then his mouth is on yours.

God—his mouth. Hot and wanting, lips dragging yours open, tongue stroking like he’s already forgotten what it feels like to not be kissing you. He groans when you fist your hands in his t-shirt, tugging him closer. You can feel the tension coiled in his frame—like he's holding back, but just barely.

“Still cold?” he murmurs against your lips.

You shake your head. “No.”

He smiles—then presses you back until your spine hits the door, his body caging you in like you’re something he’s starved for.

"You’ve been driving me insane all day," he breathes, nose brushing your cheek. "In my hoodie."

“It was right there,” you whisper, breathless. “I didn’t think it’d be a big deal.”

Sam huffs a laugh, low and rough, and tilts your chin so he can kiss you again—deeper now, more tongue, more need. One hand slides up under the hem of the hoodie, skimming bare skin, palm splaying warm and greedy across your back.

And then you do it—shift your hips just enough to feel him. The hard line of him, unmistakable and pressing against your thigh.

He gasps. Like you short-circuited him. His fingers twitch at your waist.

“Shit—don’t do that,” he mumbles, eyes fluttering. “I’ll lose it.”

You do it again. Slow. Intentional. Your hips rock just enough to grind against him, and his whole body stutters. One arm slams against the door behind you for balance. The other—the other—slides down to grip your ass, dragging you closer so there’s no space left.

Your breath catches. His forehead rests against yours, both of you panting.

“You’re evil,” he whispers.

“Mm,” you hum. “I’m cold. Keep warming me up.”

That’s all it takes. He growls—growls—then fists a hand in your hair and tugs, just enough to tip your head back and expose your throat. His mouth latches on immediately, kissing and licking and biting gently at your pulse like he’s trying to mark you through restraint.

Your knees nearly give out.

His hoodie—your hoodie, now—rides higher as you rock against him, and when his hands slip under it, they're not careful anymore. They find the waistband of your bottoms, the curve of your waist, then—oh—up. Fingers dragging over the delicate fabric of your bra.

You shiver when his thumb grazes the swell of your breast. He pauses, breath shaky.

“You wanna stop?” he asks, voice strained.

You shake your head fast. “No. Don’t stop. Please.”

His mouth crashes into yours again, desperate. He lifts you—lifts you—like it’s nothing and carries you the two steps to the bed, laying you down without breaking the kiss. You clutch at him, wrapping your legs around his hips, your core grinding right into the hardness in his jeans.

He moans—full-bodied, ruined—and you swallow it down.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he rasps against your mouth.

You smile, smug and drunk on him. “You like it.”

His hands dive back under the hoodie. He palms your hips, your waist, your ribs like he’s mapping you. His fingers graze the underside of your bra again, this time bolder, brushing over the lace and the heat of you underneath.

You whimper. “Sam—”

“Yeah,” he breathes, “I know. I got you.”

He kisses you slow this time, filthy and reverent, and you melt under him completely. The hoodie swallows you whole, your panties the only thing left between you and chaos. And the way he’s looking at you—like you’re everything—makes your chest ache.

You’re soaked. And not from the rain.

His thigh slots between yours and you rock helplessly against it, fingers digging into his shoulders. His hoodie sleeves fall over your hands, hiding how you claw at him, how you pull him closer, how you don’t want him to ever stop.

“You’re not getting this hoodie back,” you whisper, half-drunk on his mouth.

He grins, kissing your jaw. “Good. Looks better on you.”

You giggle—high, breathless, aroused beyond belief—and yank him back down.

And for the next hour, that hoodie never leaves your body.

But everything else does.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

#sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x you #sam winchester fluff #sam winchester smut #sam winchester fic #supernatural #spn #.docx #d : across the room

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jubri-writes · 15 days ago

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Betrayal ⌚️

König x female!reader, unestablished relationship, reader is a civilian KorTac employee, fluff

Summary: König got himself one of those fancy sports smart watches after one of the other KorTac guys kept recommending it. Now he realises the thing has more functions than he initially thought.

Cw: anxiety mentioned

{author’s note: I write mostly x female/afab simply because that‘s my perspective and so it‘s easier for me. If you want x trans/male/gn or others, please tell me and I‘ll give it a shot, no promises on the quality though lol.}

Every. Single. Meeting. Heart rate optimised training here, VO2max stats there. Sleep quality. GPS capabilities. Integrated solar panel in the screen. Popov simply wouldn’t shut up about his new smart watch.

König didn’t even know what that V… O… whatever was; had to google it that afternoon after he got back to his office. Initially, this had all seemed unnecessary to him. Just another useless gadget, just another digital distraction. But then, Popov, who‘d been the company’s most notorious pencil pusher, ran a half marathon. And in a good time too. Yes, the man had been in the service long enough, had been a good operative in his younger years, but now? With him pushing 60 and that unmistakable gut that always threatened to break out of his uniform, no one had expected it. Although… the more König thought about it, Popov‘s gut seemed to be getting smaller and smaller too.

König ordered himself the exact same smart watch model the following weekend. The results were speaking for themselves, right? Besides, he barely ever treated himself to anything besides peanut butter protein bars and new gear. The watch arrived a couple of days later.

Now, two weeks in, he‘s slowly getting the hang of it. He was already fit to begin with, but still — König‘s runs get easier and longer, his VO2max is nine points ahead of Popov‘s, hell, he even takes his sleep more seriously. The gamification is working, he thinks begrudgingly as he‘s checking his stats one morning. He doesn’t even know all of the watch‘s functions yet, there’s simply too many menus and not enough time to watch YouTube tutorials for every one of them. So far, he‘s getting by just fine with the basics.

A knock on his door makes him look up. He calls for whoever it is to come in, the door opens and around the corner peeks… you. He‘s seen you before, on a small photo he quickly forgot about again, in some unimportant e-mail concerning new KorTac finance employees and a closed-due-to-maintenance printer room. But now... Scheiße.

He‘s holding his breath, he realises, and forces himself to exhale. You‘re pretty in real life, really pretty, and that‘s making him nervous. He swallows, feels his hands starting to sweat, bites his lip underneath the sniper hood. It‘s been a while since his social anxiety acted up, but now it seems to hit him like a ton of bricks. Talking to the other people at the PMC, soldiers or civilians — no problem, not for a long time. Extracting an asset from a war zone with bullets whirring past his head and grenades going off left, right and center— easy. Piece of cake. But you? Right now? With that warm smile and that slightly messy hairdo and the light coming from the window just right, making your skin glow like that? He‘s done for. He was never good at talking to women to begin with, but this — this is torture.

Finally, he manages a much too creaky "How can I help you?" and you step closer and introduce yourself. König tries to take deep breaths as you explain why you‘re here, but he has trouble focusing. Something about damaged gear? Write offs? Balance sheets? Some form he signed? God, you’re smart too, aren’t you? He certainly is no longer following. And then you hand him the clipboard, his fingers brush against yours for the briefest of moments…

Beep. Beep. Beep.

He stares at his wrist, where his watch is vibrating, beeping, blinking. On the display, there’s a message.

Abnormally high heart rate detected

Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. Verdammt. König quickly drops the clipboard onto his desk; pushes one of the buttons, then another one, until the message is gone and the damn thing stops making a scene. A few seconds tick by. He clears his throat and grabs the clipboard again. Signs his name where you indicate. Hands it back to you. Keeps his gaze down until you thank him.

When he looks up, you‘re still smiling, eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. You point to his watch. Please don’t make fun of me, he thinks, already bracing for yet another conversation with a pretty woman going south thanks to his anxiety.

"Always happens to me too when I see those numbers", you say as you roll your eyes playfully. There’s no malice in your demeanour, no ill intentions. And before he knows it, he laughs at your joke. Just a little, just for a moment, but it is genuine.

Once you‘re gone, König pulls up the KorTac regs on his computer. Turns out, he can ask you out without risking his job. But when he does, he thinks, he‘ll make sure not to wear that traitorous watch.

#könig cod #cod #call of duty #könig call of duty #könig x reader #könig mw2 #könig x you #fluff

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kiraavi · 23 days ago

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thaw & trickle

Note: This was written with Game Joel (Goel) in mind because he is my precious, handsome man and I love him dearly. Happy reading! CW: Smut, unprotected piv, pull out method, oral f!receiving, dirty talk, brat-taming vibes, overstimulation, grumpy x grumpy, forced proximity, canon-typical violence, mentions of blood and injury. Summary: Regrettably, you fill in for Tommy and end up on patrol with Joel during one of the worst winters to hit the valley. Joel's stubbornness leaves you stranded and alone. It's by chance that you stumble upon an abandoned barn. Word Count: 5055 Ao3 Link: Read here!

The wind slashes at you, howling through the valley like some beast awakened from its slumber. You tug your hood tighter over your head for what feels like the hundredth time and squint into the blinding white void ahead. Four feet, maybe five, is as far as you can see before the storm dissolves the details. Joel’s silhouette was eaten by the storm several minutes ago.

You’d told him—argued with him, really—that you should’ve hunkered down in the town you’d passed through earlier. But no, Joel had insisted on pushing forward, and you suppose that’s par for the course with him. The blizzard had descended upon the valley quickly and now you’re lost in the frozen hellscape it created. The wicked cold bites through your layers and you’re beginning to lose feeling in your fingers and feet.

Lady, your mare, stumbles beneath you, her usually sure-footed gait faltering as the snow deepens and is swept around you. She’s tired. You’re tired. The prospects are grim but stopping here may as well be suicide.

“Joel!” you shout, but your voice is ripped away by the wind and you receive no reply that you can hear over the whirring tempest. You try again, louder this time. “Joel! Goddamnit!”

Nothing. No answer. Just the wail of the storm and the crunch of Lady’s hooves in the snow. You grit your teeth, fighting the panic that wells up within you, threatening to sink its claws into you. Beneath the fear something else churns. Anger. Frustration. Helplessness. That stubborn, infuriating man. You get the feeling that he doesn’t like you—hell, you’re not sure he likes anyone, except Ellie. And even she’s been keeping her distance lately, which has only made his sour mood worse. But did he really dislike you enough to strand you in the elements? You grumble.

You should’ve said no. You shouldn’t have covered for Tommy and gone on this patrol. But hindsight’s useless now. If you don’t find shelter soon, you’ll end up another frozen corpse buried beneath the drifts.

Your teeth chatter and your grip tightens on the reigns. You wonder if under your gloves frostbite has set in. Then, through the dense curtain of snow, a shape emerges. A barn. Old and slanting to one side, but still standing. Relief floods your system as you lean forward and pat Lady’s neck. “Come on, girl. Just a little farther,” you mutter, your voice trembling.

A chain and lock rattle on the other side of the barn doors when you tug and try to pry them open with weak, shaking hands. But it’s no use and the doors won’t budge. “Fuck! Fuuuuck!” You shout into the nothingness that surrounds you, your frustrations vanishing somewhere into the endless expanse. You stumble back, dread planting itself in the pit of your stomach and blooming into fear. For a moment, you feel like you might cry, and the only thing that prevents you from bursting into tears is the worry that they might freeze over.

You glance around desperately, your breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts. The cold vapour feels like it crystalizes in your throat. There’s no way forward and no sign of Joel. Just you, Lady, and the gradually diminishing hope you’d been clinging to since you spotted the barn. Your gaze catches on a tractor parked along the wall. Several feet above it there’s an open window.

Clambering onto the icy metal is about as difficult as you expect. The frigid cold has sapped your strength and your balance wavers as your boots slip against the slick surface. Several times, you nearly lose your footing. By the time your fingers graze the window’s edge, your arms quiver with exertion. You feel brittle—as if another gust of wind might snap you in two. You curl your fingers over the lip and haul yourself up with every ounce of strength you can muster.

The window is narrow and the angle is awkward. Your backpack catches on the edge but you somehow manage to squeeze through. You tumble inside with a grunt, landing hard on the hayloft. The wood beneath you groans and before you can properly shift your weight, the planks splinter and collapse. You’re falling. The drop is far and you land with a sickening crack. The impact steals the air from your lungs. Pain blossoms from your ankle, radiating outward and shooting up your leg.

All you can do is lie there, trying to draw breath and gasping out. The cold presses in through the wooden siding of the barn but the pain in your ankle eclipses every other sensation. You can’t bring yourself to look at it—to lay your eyes upon your foot twisted in some unnatural angle. The thought makes you feel nauseous. You press your head back against the dirt floor, struggling to drag breath in.

Above you the rafters croak as if to taunt you. A screech rips through the barn and it’s now that you realize you’re going to die here. Not to the winter—no, you won’t have the privilege of succumbing peacefully—of being swept under a cold, numbing blanket of snow. Is this what you get for resisting a death to the elements? Something worse? Something violent, bloody, and cruel. To be alone and torn apart in the dark.

The runner is on top of you before you can draw your pistol, slamming into you. It screams and snarls as you brace your hands on its shoulders and desperately try to create distance. Its jaw snaps inches from your face as it draws closer. Its breath is hot and sour, fanning over your skin. Rancid. You’re losing. All your strength is gone, wasted on getting here—on climbing and stumbling into your own grave. And now, when you need it most, there’s nothing left. You’re running on empty. The runner’s teeth gnash closer. Your grip slips and you squeeze your eyes shut.

A gunshot pierces the air. The runner jerks and twitches before stilling. Something wet and warm splatters over you. The flailing creature above you goes limp, gurgling as it slumps against you. You don’t move. For a few moments you live there—in that split second before death and before your next forsaken breath. There is peace in that moment; a fleeting respite from whatever hell this world has become but you're pulled back into that reality. Shoving the corpse off of you, you look up.

Joel is standing over you, revolver held tight in his hand. His eyes are cold as he looks upon the scene and then they flit to you. He tilts the gun, directing the barrel toward you.

“Are you bit?” He asks.

“What the fuck?” you snap, your words serrated. You’re just beginning to catch your breath.

“Did it bite you?” he repeats, raising his voice. The words cut through the ringing in your ears that you didn’t even register until that moment.

“No, I’m not bit, Joel!” His name is like venom on your tongue as you sit up, propping yourself on your elbows. Your chest heaves, and you glare up at him. “How the hell did you even get in here?”

“The back door,” he says flatly, lowering the gun. His gaze flicks upward to the broken rafters. “You oughta check the whole building before you go tryin’ dumb shit like that. Christ, girl.”

Sure enough, behind him, there’s a door hanging ajar, snowflakes pouring in through the gap. You feel dumb. He makes you feel dumb. He makes you feel angry. You curse under your breath and a laugh bubbles up. You must be going insane and the look that crosses his face tells you he must be thinking the same thing.

“Well, maybe you oughta listen to your patrol partner,” you bite out, wincing as you shift your leg, “when she says to take shelter.”

The words earn you no response, just a blank look as he holsters his gun. You know you’re right, and he knows it too but he’s not going to admit it. It’s safe to say you’re just a couple of stubborn idiots stranded in a snowstorm.

Joel notices your injury after retrieving the horses from outside. Without a word or a second glance, he sets to work, rummaging through the barn until he finds the broken handle of a rake. You watch as he kneels beside you. He pauses.

“I have to set it,” he says and you swallow hard, but nod. His hands grasp your swollen foot. He gives you no count down and no warning before he snaps it back into place. You muffle your wail into your arm. His brows furrow in focus as he uses the straps from his backpack to fashion a makeshift splint. His hands are steady and sure as he ties it tight around your leg. You wince, a sharp hiss escaping you. He has the heart to mutter a quiet apology without meeting your eyes, and the sincerity catches you off guard.

The barn is standing, but only by the whim of a couple rusted bolts and a prayer. The building feels almost alive, or rather barely clinging onto life. It creaks and groans as the winds batter its sides, shuddering around you. You find yourself flinching and bracing for collapse every couple minutes or so. It’s better than nothing but the frigid air punctures the uninsulated walls. The cold is a punishing, formidable thing and you’re not sure you’ll last the night curled up in the corner of the barn. Your clothes are cold, damp, and bloodied, clinging to your skin. Your breath fogs the air as you watch Joel pacing the barn, boots heavy over the hay-strewn floor. He’s restless and his shoulders are drawn tight.

Finally, he circles back to you. In his hands is a blanket—or what might’ve been a blanket once. Now it’s little more than a fraying, moth-eaten scrap of fabric. He unfurls it with a flick, unleashing a flurry of dust that makes you cough and wave a hand in front of your face.

“Joel…” you mutter, your nose scrunching.

He doesn’t deign you with a response. Instead, he clears his throat and fixes you with a pointed stare. You arch a brow.

“You need to get outta those wet clothes,” he says.

“I’m fine,” you reply with a shrug, averting your gaze and pretending the hay on the ground to be far more entertaining than this conversation.

“You’re not fine,” he shoots back, “You’re gonna get hypothermia.”

The words settle between you and you roll your eyes, leaning your head back against the wall. You know that he won’t let this go and you’re not sure you have the energy to fight him. The thought of stripping down in front of Joel, the man you’re trying to convince yourself that you hate, makes your stomach twist. You think that maybe hypothermia would be preferable, and you’re tempted to say as much, but refrain, biting your tongue.

He tosses the blanket onto your lap and turns around. What a gentleman. You sit still for a moment, staring at the threadbare bundle of fabric. WIth a frustrated sigh, you begin peeling off your outer layers. You grumble as you wrestle out of them, your fingers numb and trembling as the zipper of your jacket catches and snags.

Joel doesn’t move. He stands a few feet away, his broad shoulders hunched and his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. When you’ve successfully wrangled your clothes off, you wrap the blanket around yourself. It’s itchy and rough, but dry. You’re not entirely convinced that it’s much better than stewing in your wet clothes, but at least Joel will stop huffing and grumbling now.

Night falls, swaddling the barn in darkness and the temperatures plunge with it. You can’t stop shivering, your arms wound tightly around yourself in a futile attempt to conserve warmth but the cold leeches from you, stealing into your rattling body. Joel is sitting a few feet from you, not that you can see him very well through the inky blackness. But you can make out the slow, even rhythm of his breaths and the occasional shuffle of his body. He must be asleep. Lucky guy. If only you could manage to get some rest too.

A hand clamps around your wrist, jolting you from whatever place your mind had been drifting off to. Calloused fingertips trail over your icy skin, brushing your palm.

“You feel like a fuckin’ corpse,” he says, drawing nearer. Suddenly, he’s right there, warmth radiating off him and bleeding into the air between you. Your body leans into it instinctively, like a moth to flame, but your brain tells you to stay away.

“Fuck off,” you snap and somewhere deep down, you regret it.

“This the thanks I get for savin’ your ass?” Joel mutters, but there’s no real malice, not so tender-hearted as to take offense. He doesn’t move away and instead settles next to you. His arm curls around your shoulders and he tucks you into his side. He is solid, exuding heat like a furnace—some solace amidst the plummeting temperatures.

Your head tilts up, and even in the dark, you can make out the faint curves of his face. A thin stream of moonlight seeps through the cracks in the barn and highlights his profile—his hair catching the light like spun silver, the bridge of his nose, and the subtle dip of the scar there. His eyes glint with something unreadable. He looks softer. All his sharp edges are a little more dull. It’s not the first time you’ve noticed how handsome he is. You just figured that it’d be the kind of thing you’d take to the grave.

“It’s the thanks you get for stranding us in a blizzard,” you say, and you feel rather than hear the huff of the tiniest laugh—his chest quaking beneath you and a puff of warmth against your forehead. It’s the kind of laugh that feels like it wasn’t meant to escape, and it makes your chest ache.

You shouldn’t be feeling this way. Not about Joel Miller. You’re supposed to hate his guts—he’s supposed to hate you. But as you sit there, pressed into his warmth, the lines blur. Your preconceived notions crumble. Hate was an over exaggeration, wasn’t it? It’s human to want. You’re human to want. It’s a lonely world out here.

Your gaze drops to his lips. They’re chapped and rough from the cold, as are yours, you’re sure. But you don’t care. You can feel the hitch in his breath. It’s almost imperceptible but you catch it. He noticed. And yet, he doesn’t move away.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.

But you do.

You’re close, inexplicably close, and his warmth has poured into you, thawing more than just your skin. You lean in slowly, hesitant, giving him the out you expect him to take. But your lips brush his. He tenses but there is no retreat and you feel emboldened. Yet weak. So you let yourself fall into him, pressing a little firmer. His beard grazes your skin. A moment passes, and then another and his resistance withers away, his hand sliding to the small of your back and tugging you impossibly closer. You reach up and cup his jaw, shaky fingers curling there as a soft sound is muted by his lips against yours.

It is everything and nothing. It consumes every other sensation and all the thoughts in your mind. You must be delirious. Has the frostbite reached your brain? You try to convince yourself that it is nothing more than mindless desperation that drew you in, and not some unequivocal, deeply buried attraction. His tongue swipes your bottom lip and you hum softly. It’s your cue to pull away.

“That’s the thanks you get for saving my life.”

He looks unsure at first—his hands hover just shy of you, held still. His gaze flits around, down and then back up to you. All of the steeliness in his hazel eyes has dissolved into an endearing awkwardness. And for a split second you think that you’ve ruined the moment, but then this look crosses his face. A little bit of a smirk. A little bit of smugness.

“Do I also get a thanks for splintin’ your leg?” He asks and you swear that your heartbeat stutters. You observe him for a moment, a sharp remark dancing on the tip of your tongue.

“You don’t get a medal for fixing the mess you made.” “That so?” he hums, tilting his head. One hand lands on your thigh, his finger tips feathering up, up, up. A shudder courses through your body and your good leg instinctively shifts, opening yourself up to him. Silent permission. A silent request. His gaze flicks down and heat rushes to your cheeks. “Still cold?”

“Shut up,” you hiss, still trying and failing miserably to disguise how utterly desperate you are for him. The blanket slips away and you find that you don’t much feel the cold when he’s so near, working you up—pushing you down. His shifts over you, his large frame enshrouding you.

“Mm, there she is…” he coos, moving his hands to undo the buttons of your shirt before coming up to cup your breasts. You let out a stuttered breath as he leans down and ghosts a kiss over your neck followed by another, and then another. He leads a trail between the valley of your breasts and down to your navel until he reaches the waistband of your underwear.

You tilt your head back and try to suppress the soft sound that threatens to fall from you. He nips at the fabric, pulling it back and letting it snap back against your skin. His nose brushes right against your clothed cunt and you swear he inhales, the scent tugging a low groan from his throat.

“Joel…!” His name sounds like a prayer on your lips—a frantic and eager plea. It’s embarrassing how quickly he’s made you melt. You’re nothing but a puddle beneath him. A pliant and helpless creature yearning for his warmth. You haven’t done this in so long, and now that it’s dangling in front of you, you’re realizing just how much you need it. You don’t think you can go another second without it—without him.

And he is just as eager—eager enough to forgo the removal of your panties and lave his tongue over the fabric. Your hips twitch and he has the nerve to grin. A quiet moan escapes you as he repeats the action.

“Would you- would you just get on with it?” Your voice doesn’t come out sounding the way you want it to, instead it’s pitched higher in a pathetic whine, and you know that it feeds right into his ego the instant he pulls away. Still, you can’t stop yourself from adding your next utterance. “Please.”

“Oh, what happened to all that attitude, hm?” He asks and you’re already beginning to feel dizzyingly frustrated. Is he really going to make this difficult? Is he going to relish in your desperation? Judging by the look on his face, you think you know the answer and it’s not one you like.

But instead he surprises you and hooks two fingers in your panties, shoving them down your legs. In the brief five seconds he’s pulled himself away from you, your body misses him. He returns, filling the empty space between you. His hands are at your sides, splayed across the supple expanse of skin. It renders the distinct differences in you and him—whereas you’re soft and tender, he is weathered and scarred, marked by the passing of time and the life he’s led. The cruelty of the world has not made itself a physical mark on your skin and he seems in awe of it.

Your impatience, however, is thinly veiled in the way your body seems to strain toward his, back arching as his hands chart a course down your body once more. He wrenches your legs wider, cupping them as he leans down to press a kiss on the flesh of your inner thigh. Your mind is muddled, and trapped in limbo between total shut down and acquiescence. Your brows knit together as he licks a stripe upwards before stopping just short of your dewy folds. You can feel his breath fanning over your cunt.

“Joel, I swear to God- ah!” The words lodge in your throat when he finally, finally flicks his tongue over your clit.

He has the nerve to retreat just to make a remark. “Sorry, what was that, pretty girl?”

“You’re a lot more handsome when you’re not talking,” you mumble, reaching down to clutch at his hair and yank him closer. It’s a lie. That low southern draw of his is sexy as hell, but that’s besides the point. He grunts and resumes the task at hand, licking into your pussy as though it is his final meal.

His tongue swirls around your clit before journeying lower to prod at your entrance. His nose bumps against the bud and he sweeps his gaze up to look at you, taking in the way your mouth has fallen open and your eyes, misty and saccharine, flutter. He is unrelenting and fervent, tongue tracing every contour of your folds in order to siphon each illicit, cloying sound from you.

You can feel it—that slow, languid build, and he can sense it. Your body warbles and rolls up into him, fingers still tangled in his silver locks, keeping him smothered up against your cunt. “Oh fuck… hah!” you curse, body drawing tight as you crest the peak of your pleasure. You hover there, in that vanishing second, on the precipice of something far greater, and you wish you could stay there—wrapped up in that blissful feeling, but then you’re falling further and further, your cunt clenching around nothing.

“That’s it… there you go,” he whispers praise. When he pulls away you notice your arousal slathered over the lower half of his face, droplets clinging to his beard. It’s sort of obscene but he doesn’t stay put for long. He runs his thumb up along the seam of your cunt, smearing your slick and stopping to swipe over your clit. “Did so good for me. So pretty.”

Your chest heaves and your hips squirm under the excess attention. “Nghh-! Give- give me a moment.”

Joel doesn’t let up though and you whine. “It’s just that…” he begins but pauses to slowly sink two thick fingers inside you, “you pleaded so pretty earlier. Is it too much for you already? Poor thing.” You hate him. You need him. You hate that you need him, and you hate that he knows exactly how to play into these stupid mind games. He knows how to coerce your surrender from you.

There is a part of you that wants to deny him, and shove him out into the blizzard if only it would prove to him that you don't need this so badly—prove that your needs did not revolve around him and that you aren't merely something magnetized to him, floating in his orbit. But he's the only thing keeping the cold at bay and to do so would also be to deny yourself.

And so, you choose not to dwell. You’ll allow him to rend you open and devour you whole because it feels nice to be able to for once. It feels right. The quivering relinquish of control that you can so rarely afford yourself. You are in the palm of his hand. It feels so nice to let your walls down and be swept up in sensation.

His thick fingers move with purpose, curling upward as he eases them in and out of you. Each stroke drags them along your front wall. Prickling sparks ripple through you, curling your toes and stealing your breath. Your body slackens further as you give in. Gone are your defenses, doubts, and restraints. Joel watches you, his gaze heavy and lips parted as he hangs onto each sound that falls from your lips, and works devotedly to unearth the next. He pulls them like threads and looks entirely too pleased with himself.

Wind howls outside, but the blizzard that rages on outside is long forgotten—a distant memory as Joel staves off the cold with nothing but his touch. Something churns deep in your core, unfurling and roiling in the pit of your stomach. You are ensnared in him. You fall apart for him. Unravel before him. The edges of your vision blurs as you're thrown off that ledge again, lurching as your walls convulse around his fingers. Yet, when the heat breaks, he is relentless, keeping you teetering on the edge of overstimulation. He refuses to let up and you toe the line between ecstasy and numbness.

“I can’t- no more,” you mewl shakily, but you don’t push him away—you make no effort to put distance between you. You trust that he’s got you. You trust in his capable hands.

Joel leans in closer, his breath feathering over your ear. “One more,” he murmurs, coaxing another brittle whimper from you. “You can give me one more, sweetpea.” He slides his fingers from your cunt and reaches to fumble with his belt. The buckle clatters to the ground but you barely register it. He shoves his jeans and boxers down in a single motion, and when he positions himself between your thighs, your breath catches. He’s big—girthy and veined, cock curving slightly upward. The tip is flushed and glistening. Your breath shutters and you begin questioning your capabilities. But his hands are careful as he adjusts your injured leg with the utmost care.

“I know you’ve got it in you…” His gaze locks with yours, waiting for the go-ahead. You’ve bared yourself to him, and he’s made you tender and compliant in turn. You give him your permission with a small nod, body aching in anticipation. “Atta girl.”

He aligns himself, the blunt head of his cock sliding along your slick slit before resting against your entrance. Then, in one deliberate thrust, he sinks into you, stretching you wide and cleaving you open. It’s intense, but then there is a deep, smoldering heat that envelops you and cradles you so delicately.

Joel groans, his head tipping back as your walls squeeze him tight. “Mhm,” he hums, his voice thick, “you needed this so bad, didn’t you?”

His words are like kindling, stoking the flames of your arousal. You clutch at him, one hand gripping his bicep while your other reaches around to rest on his shoulder blade before smoothing down his back. You yank at the hem of his sweater, rucking it up frantically. He moves back to tug it up and over his head, tossing it somewhere into the dark void around you. The darkness eats the article up and he returns to you, chest pressed flush to yours. The coarse thatch of his chest hair scraping against your skin.

Your body arches into his as he rolls his hips, sawing in and out of you. You muffle your moan by crushing your lips against his in a messy and frenzied kiss. His breath flitters beneath your nose, mingling with your own. One large hand kneads your thigh, hiking it up as he crowds closer and drives himself deeper. The kiss ends and the both of you gasp for air. Joel’s breathing turns ragged, each thrust punctuated by a grunt. His even rhythm falters.

“Struggling to keep up, old man?” You tease. Your brazenness has returned in full force, galvanizing him to pick up the pace. His eyes narrow and his expression darkens. His grip turns bruising. Your body jolts with the force of his movements.

“You were the one askin’ me to stop,” he grits out, words strained. His body trembles and you know that he’s close. He pauses and levels you with the most terrible look—one that tells you that you’re in for trouble. “I can still make that happen.”

You keen, bucking your hips up to regain that delicious friction. He stills your hips forcefully, and his cock threatens to slide free.

“No! No, please.” You can hardly recognize your own voice. It’s needy and forlorn—born and dredged from the depths of your need. “I do… I need you- please, Joel.”

His pupils dilate at your plea and something stirs in his expression. Finally he sinks all the way back inside, filling you completely. “That’s what I fuckin’ thought.”

He begins to fuck into you again. His pleasure is contingent on yours. Your mind is quickly going fuzzy. Everything else is unintelligible as that potent feeling brims inside you. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing it in vigorous circles until you’re quaking again—cunt fluttering and spasming around his cock. The pleasure is blinding, every nerve flaring alight as you fray beneath him. A cry tears from you.

“Shit- yes…!” he moans as you turn listless beneath him. He gets a few more stuttered, erratic thrusts in before pulling out and giving his cock a couple strokes. You watch through half-lidded eyes as he finishes, his spend spilling onto the ground. His brows furrowed and eyes shut. Teeth clenched and jaw set tight.

For a minute, the barn is silent save for the sound of your laboured breaths. Joel collapses somewhere beside you and you flop your arm out. The back of your hand lands on his sweaty chest, rising and falling with each inhale. He catches it, his larger hand engulfing it, and holding it there for a moment. Somehow it feels just as intimate as the act itself.

There’s movement, his arm is winding around your waist as he moves closer again. Well, he’s certainly better than some ratty blanket, and warmer. Maybe you’re a little glad that he had been so stubborn earlier and that you ended up here. You won’t admit that, though, not ever. As if his ego needs to be fed anymore. You gather yourself against him, letting yourself fit into his side.

“You’re not so bad,” you say quietly through the darkness.

Joel scoffs quietly, but you swear you can hear the smile in his voice. “You ain’t too bad yourself.”

192 notes · View notes

tttabii · 2 months ago

Text

— 심재윤 PUPPLY LOVE JAKE SIM X READER

note: slightly inspired by the kdrama twinkling watermelon. deaf!reader x band!jaeyun. word count: 6989

YOU NEVER REALLY ENJOYED THE SILENCE.

It was not like the romanticized kind of peace and quiet that people post to social media about—the kind that makes mornings sacred, the bookstore magical, and so on. Yours was a silence of absence. Of being out of the conversation. Out of the laughter. And perhaps out of safety, too.

You wore your wired earphones all the time, plugged in or not, as if to pretend you were wearing headphones. A barrier. A disguise. If they don't know, maybe they won't treat you differently. Maybe they won't feel sorry for you—or even worse, take advantage.

Like today.

The station buzzed with the evening rush hour, people moving in concert. You dropped your Mofusand keychain without noticing it, your little plush figure falling silently to the ground behind you while you swept away to the exit. You didn't hear the boy calling your name behind you.

Jake Sim bent down to pick up the keychain, only halfway smiling. He always noticed you—your neat little bun, the way your bangs framed your face, somehow, as always, looking calm. But when you didn't turn around, and he kept calling, his smile dropped entirely.

You were already gone.

He got off at the same stop. He always did. His house was near yours, and he'd long memorized the timing of your routine—not in a creepy way, but in that soft, teenage "I-like-you-so-I-notice-everything" kind of way.

But today was different. You weren't just walking ahead of him like usual. You'd vanished.

Then he heard it—laughter, too loud and too cruel—coming from an alley just a little ways off the main road. Jake's steps slowed. Something twisted in his stomach.

And then he saw you.

Your tote bag lay discarded on the pavement. Your damaged earphones dangled from it, useless. One girl held your arms back while a few boys circled, sneering and taunting. One of them reached for your skirt.

You screamed, but no one heard. Or at least, they pretended not to.

Jake did.

He didn't think twice. He was screaming before he even landed on the ground. "Hey! Get away from her!"

The group jumped at his voice, turning to see him shove the guy who was closest to you. He didn't look intimidating, but he had fire in his eyes—rage, protective and desperate.

"You think this is funny?!" he yelled, fists clenched. "She can't hear you, you assholes."

The girl was startled and released her hold on you. You stumbled forward, unconsciously falling into Jake's arms before even registering who he was. "It's okay, I got you," he said softly, wrapping his arms around you. "You're safe now."

You blinked up at him feeling a little disoriented, as tears streamed down your face. He made sure you were looking at his face, looking at the way his mouth moved. You're safe. Over and over, he said it, huge exaggerated mouth movements for you to see.

You nodded your head.

He pulled off his jacket and put it around your shoulders, very gingerly picked up your bag, and then the keychain he never got the chance to give back to you.

He held your hand in his, and walked the rest of the way to the café, not letting go.

Jake didn't lose his grip on you, not once—certainly not when you turned the corner toward the café, and not when you paused at the door, nor when you let your gaze fall in embarrassment, as if what had transpired earlier was somehow your fault.

He saw it all: the way you scrunched your shoulders inward; how your other hand trembled just enough for your fingers to twitch as if they were still recalling someone else's grip. He felt his heart ache.

The café door opened with a gentle ring.

"She's here," Jake said, quietly addressing the owner, an older, kind-faced man who had been washing mugs at the counter, who quickly emerged looking worried. "Something happened."

Jake described what he had seen, in low but steady tones, noting how he saw everything happen at once, but wanting to reassure you that you hadn't done anything wrong. The man's jaw clenched, briefly, and without a moment of thought he encircled you into a fathering hug. You didn't cry (perhaps because you were numb, or maybe you didn't want to collapse toward the ground in public), but you did keep your hand at the back of the owner's apron a touch longer than you might normally.

"She's off the clock today," the owner said with a determined nod.

"No—hold on," Jake interrupted, gently laying your backpack down. "Let her rest. I'll do her job today. I know how she makes the drinks—I've watched her for weeks." He smiled faintly, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's just until she's feeling okay. She can still get paid, right?"

The owner of the shop blinked, and then slowly broke into a chuckle. "You're her boyfriend?"

Jake's ears turned bright pink. "N-No—! I mean—not yet. I just... I like her. A lot."

The owner smiled and slapped him on the back. "You should be. She could really use someone like you. Her parents... they try. They're overseas, doing everything they can to try to get her hearing or at least set her up for a future. But, it's hard. She has always been alone."

That truth settled hard in Jake's chest like lead.

You were now sitting quietly at one of the tables near the window, an iced tea in front of you. Your fingers were twisted around the straw, and you were biting gently at the end—not even drinking it, just grounding yourself. Jake could not take his eyes off you.

"Can you help me talk to her?" He asked the owner.

The owner nodded, walking over and motioning to you in sign. You looked up slowly.

He wants to talk to you, the owner signed. He wants to ask if you're sure you're okay.

Jake stepped forward, gingerly placing your keychain on the table in front of you. "You dropped this," he said softly, hoping his eyes said what his words might not yet.

Your gaze fell to the little Mofusand plush, and for a moment, your lip trembled. You reached out, brushing your fingers over it before finally looking up at him, your eyes glassy with unspoken emotion.

Jake knelt down a little so he was at your level, then he looked at the owner to assist him. The owner translated again when Jake spoke:

"I'm sorry. I didn't understand what you were going through. But I understand now. And it won't ever happen again. Ever."

You stared at him for a moment, taken aback by the sincerity in his tone. And then you nodded slowly. Just once. A small, trembling movement—but Jake saw it. And that meant everything.

He smiled, a little sheepishly. "Teach me?" he said. "Sign language."

You blinked. And for the first time all day, the corners of your lips turned up into a tiny smile.

That was the day Jake Sim became your safe place.

The next day, the air was cool but soft, and the sun bathed the quiet streets in gold patch after gold patch. You had your tote bag slung across your shoulder again, earbuds tucked in—not that they worked anymore, but they were still your shield from the world.

Then you felt a tap on your shoulder that was gentle. You turned to find Jake there, smiling like he'd been waiting for you. He offered up a small notepad filled with floating letters and words, neatly written: "Can I walk with you to school and the train? My school is nearby too."

You blinked with a warm heart at his kind day one open act of friendship. You nodded, one of those slow nods. He smiled like you had just agreed to jump out of an airplane.

As the two of you strolled toward the train station, your steps side by side, students passing by whispered. Most of them were from his school, and they gawked quietly, muttering things like:

"Isn't that Jake Sim? The golden retriever from photography club?"

"He is walking her to school!"

"She's...the deaf girl, right?"

"She's really pretty though...I've never seen him with anyone before."

Jake didn't flinch. He didn't even glance their way. He was too focused on walking at your pace, occasionally scribbling things in his notepad to make you laugh or smile. You didn't need to hear it—his energy alone made you feel it. Safe. Seen.

At school, you waved goodbye, not expecting anything more. But Jake lingered, watching you disappear through the school gates, heart fluttering just like it did the first time he saw you—sitting in that café, headphones in, quietly brewing drinks with a focus and grace that pulled him in completely.

That afternoon Jake went back to his school, completed some light club duties, but mostly just carried around his camera for no real reason. Something felt off. Maybe it was you. He realized you hadn't yet shown up to the station.

Curious—and maybe a tiny bit worried—he decided he would check up on you. It wasn't as if he hadn't done it before. The front desk lady at your school blinked at him when he said: "I'm her friend. I came to take her home. I think she has after school activities?"

She nodded, "Art club today. Top floor."

So he went up the stairs, camera bouncing against his chest as he went, to peek into the art room. The door creaked gently as he walked in—and there you were. The room was filled with the smells of acrylic paint and pencil shavings, and late sunlight poured in across rows of stools and canvases.

You were at your usual spot, back to the door, anxiously brushing color onto a canvas.

And then he saw it. Jake almost gasped.

It was him. Your painting—there was no doubt about it—you had painted him. His hair, his smile, even the soft blur of light behind him as if caught in one of his own photos. You were painting him from memory.

Although a voice next to him startled him. "She only draws real people when they make her feel safe," your art teacher said, smiling knowingly. "Or when they have made contact with her heart."

Jake couldn't move for a second, his eyes glued on your concentrated state, brow slightly scrunched as you made soft strokes of light across the painting's cheek bones. You hadn't noticed him yet. But his heart was already full.

Jake's cheeks burned the split second your teacher asked, "Are you her boyfriend?"

He blinked, eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar as he clearly had not processed the question. His ears turned a deep pink, then red. He looked every bit the golden retriever boy everyone called him—loyal, soft-hearted, but now flustered beyond belief.

Your teacher beamed with understanding, as if she already seen through him. "You're someone she needs in her life" she said gently, watching the way his eyes never left your body. "A puppy always following her trail. I'm sure she'll accept you as her boyfriend if she decides to give in. It's hard for a deaf person to open up—they often think they're a burden."

The words echoed in Jake's mind.

Is that why... she always keeps to herself? Is that why she hides so much of her pain?

Suddenly, everything clicked. The reason why your earphones were always in. The reason why you trembled a little whenever they got torn. The reason why you looked away whenever people stared too long. And maybe the reason why he felt the urge to protect you.

Your teacher smiled at him one last time before walking toward you, softly signing that Jake was here to pick you up. You blinked, surprised, instinctively turning around—and immediately tried to cover your painting with a cloth. Jake's heart leaped when your eyes met his, so wide with embarrassment.

The painting was covered, but the color in your cheeks said enough.

Across the room, a couple of girls not in the deaf program whispered just loud enough for Jake to hear as he approached. "She probably blackmailed him or something. No way Jake Sim's into her."

"Yeah, she can't even talk to him. Poor guy's probably just being nice."

Jake stopped in his tracks, turning to them. The smile faded from his face. His usual soft features sharpened, eyes narrowing, jaw tight. "Do you talk about everyone like this, or just girls who are better than you?"

The girls flinched, going quiet immediately.

He didn't say anything more, just turned his back to them and walked towards you, softly touching your arm. You looked up, blinked several times, and still holding the bag with shy fingers.

And then Jake smiled, and all the warmth came back to his smile. He pulled out his notepad and wrote, "You don't need to hide the painting. I'm really honored, you know."

You flushed deeper and looked away, biting your lip before grabbing your bag and following him out. You didn't sign anything, but he didn't mind. Your presence was enough.

The train ride to the coffee shop was quiet but not uncomfortable. Jake stood beside you, and every time the train shifted, his fingers brushed against yours. You seemed far away, a little off, fidgeting with your mad respect—twisting your sleeves, adjusting the strap of your tote, nibbling at your bottom lip.

Jake could tell your head was spinning; probably about the painting and probably about him. So, he wrote on his notepad again, folding the edge of the page and tearing it off; then, when you both were standing, waiting for the train at the platform, he slowly slipped the note into your palm.

You opened it slowly.

"I like you. I really, really like you. You're not a burden. You're the most peaceful part of my day."

You stared at the words, unmoving.

And when you looked up—he was already smiling at you, waiting patiently.

Jake wasn't in a hurry. He let you lower your walls slowly inch by inch—in the right way, and never pushed and always patient.

The first time you took his pen and wrote:"But I only met you two days ago."

He just smiled and ruffled your hair a bit, and then wrote,"I've been watching you for months. I just never had the guts."

Your cheeks were hot and you just nodded, speechless and your words gotten stuck somewhere in your throat. But Jake could see from your eyes that you were curious, maybe even hopeful.

But you were scared too.

Jake understood. Maybe you wanted him to court you. Maybe you just needed more time. Maybe both.

At the coffee shop, and on your break, you sat across from him and taught him one word at a time in sign language—your fingers moving slow and patient, your lips formed the words even though sounds did not come out. You wrote each of these on to his note pad, carefully.

He continued to clap along and began to nod his head, with his golden retriever grin.You handed him your personal sign language book—its pages creased and full of your tiny notes. It was your most treasured learning tool, and you were giving it to him. His heart soared.

He kept it close, even brought it to school.

The next day, he was surrounded by his rowdy friend group.

"Why're you reading that?" Heeseung asked, eyes wide.

Jay snatched the book before Jake could answer, flipping through. "Is this sign language?"

Sunghoon raised a brow. "Wait—you're learning for her?"

Jake just nodded. Calm and proud, "Yeah. I'm learning for her."

The teasing came immediately, all of it lighthearted.

"Jake's whipped."

"Our golden retriever's got a muse!"

"Is this why you skipped violin club?"

He only smiled, never denying it. He was smitten.

So when people said rude stuff about you—he would not stand for it. His regular soft energy evaporated in minutes, mass cold stares, tight jaws, eyes sharp. Even when girls tried to flirt with him, he just waved them off and said coolly, "I'm busy studying." Outside of that, Jake's world exploded with new creative energy.He was in a band with Heeseung, Jay, Sunghoon, Jungwon, Sunoo, and their junior, Nishimura Riki—a dreamy transfer prodigy guy from Japan with the softest smile and killer dance skills.

Jake played bass, rapped, danced—and was now writing a song.

About you.

A soft acoustic ballad done with warmth and tenderness. He practiced alone in his room, kind of singing quietly and strumming, he practiced the sign language version in front of him mirror.He had some day to play it for you, in your language.

Meanwhile in your world, you also seemed to be sketching Jake in your notebook more often than not. His profile face, his smile, and the way he tucked his hair behind his ears when he really concentrated. You wrote about him too—his gentleness, his presence.

You would wander the city on your walks, peering into hole-in-the-wall shops, hunting for something that would make you think of him. Something like a keychain. Or a pin that looked like a camera. It could be anything small—but meaningful.

You wanted to give him something. Not because he was your boyfriend—but because he was your safe place. Your one person who made you feel seen.

One day, while you were both taking your break, he started to sign. Not perfectly—but enough to get it. You were stunned.

He signed, "I want to learn more. From you."

You smiled. Softly. Slowly. It was shy. And when he lifted his camera to take a picture of you sipping your iced tea, you did not look away this time. You let him take that picture. He already knew how you despised coffee—it upset your stomach.

You loved tea. It calmed you down.

He knew you loved hotteok and cherries. Especially cherries. The way the red stained your lips made him feel like he was losing his mind—but he behaved himself every time he came over to your house. It was so big and empty—but your room? It was cozy, warm, and you. Hello Kitty plushies, small pop mart figurines, your favorite pieces of art and prints.

He belonged there, in your quiet world. He just didn't know yet—you were slowly, silently drawing him into it.

────୨ৎ────

Jake was down bad. Whipped. Head over heels. The whole damn fairy-tale-boyfriend-package without the title. He found out about the talent show—basically an annual spring festival for his school, where everyone else can come too including students from other campuses.

Perfect timing.

Time to make a move.

He would ask you to come the day before the concert. Right after exams. Right when you needed a break, and when he was finally ready to show you the song that he had put his entire heart into, in your language.

But in the meantime?Jake was going through it.He brought you iced tea every morning, sliding it across your desk without a word with a shy grin and a wink, and it still felt cold from the little cooler bag he would carry it in.

He literally walked into your school to do this, even when people would stare. Even when whispers would start.His friends, of course, never let him forget it.

"You're joking."

"I cannot believe you are rejecting girls who are literally goddess tier, for a girl that hasn't even kissed you yet."

"Jake. You're gone. So gone."

"She didn't even look at you today and you are still simping."

Jake? Unfazed. Loyal. Whipped. "She's worth it." was all he said.

There were times during the midterms that you hardly glanced at him, eyes glued to the drowning darkness of your books with highlighters smudged across your fingers, your sketchpad nowhere near you. Jake sat beside you, bravely not taking it personally.

You were stressed out. You needed your space, he got it.

But he couldn't help but wonder— Did you even like him back, or was he just your sweet loyal friend?

He didn't know that you sketched him. That your journal had pages and pages all about him. That you were just too shy—too much of a jumble of feelings and everything you wanted to say but couldn't find the words if you tried.

Sometimes he'd talk to you softly next to you while you worked, knowing you would never hear it, but needed to say it anyway.

"I like you so much, it hurts."

"I want to kiss you but I know you're not ready."

"You make me want to be soft forever."

You never noticed. But it was okay, because it made him feel better. Like saying it out loud, meant it wasn't just sitting there bottled up inside him.

One day, you were outside and saw a cat on the street, and you got all sparkly-eyed, and you crouched down and reached your hand out.

Jake panicked.

"No—no no no—don't touch it! It's probably dirty, baby—like...not safe!"

You blinked, lips slightly pursed in a pout.

He cracked instantly.

The next day he brought you to a cat café instead. Reserved a table and everything. Bought you a slice of strawberry shortcake too. You left with cat fur on your clothes and the softest smile he'd ever seen.

He was awkward with cats, being a dog lover instead but he wanted to see your cute little smile when you cradle the cat close to your chest as if it was your own child.

But now? During midterms? You barely had time to breathe. Jake didn't blame you. But the distance... it scared him. Had he moved too fast? Were you pulling away?

He had no idea.

You were just trying to get through the week—exams, art deadlines, pressure. What you did know, though, was that Jake still showed up with iced tea. That he still waited outside your school gate after your last class. That he still sat beside you, head tilted, watching you with soft eyes even when you didn't say much.

And that meant everything.

────୨ৎ────

Jake was losing it. Exams were finally over.

The festival was days away. He had been looking forward to asking you to come and see him perform his song—a song about you, for you.

Now? You were fawning all over Woo Do-hwan on the screen. Jake was standing behind the couch, arms crossed but one arm inconveniently draping over your shoulder as if he were laying claim to it (not that he would ever say that).

You, on the other hand, were way too busy staring at the TV, all curled up in an oversized shirt that, in Jake's opinion, practically slid off your shoulder leaving just enough for your bra strap to be visible that was slowly driving him crazy.

You were eating cherries. The juice had once again stained your lips and Jake was sweating his pants off, he knew he was going to lose his mind.Then it got worse.

A scene came on—the scene—where the male lead pulled the girl into his lap and kissed her like the world was ending.(His world was in-fact ending.) You were biting your lip, staring with your big, dreamy eyes, and Jake? Jake couldn't move. He was going back and forth between the screen and you.

Your shirt falling off. Your lips bright red. Your eyes sparkling. Your soft little sigh. That lip nibble.

With every breath in his chest, Jake leaned just a little, the front of his t-shirt brushed softly over the back of your head. He whispered, "Do you want that too?"

You didn't respond because you clearly couldn't hear him. You were still watching, unaware of how tense he'd gone behind you, his jaw clenched, his breath shaky. He looked like he was thinking—deeply. The kind of thinking that could make or break everything.

You turned your head a little, craning your neck to look at him, lips parted in curiosity. He immediately collected himself and smiled, signing something with his free hand as the other rested on your shoulder. "You really like him that much?"

You grinned, shy but excited, and nodded.

He rolled his eyes and gave you an incredulous look before signing: "He's not real. I am."

You blinked. A little caught off guard.

And then he signed again.

"Come to the festival."

You tilted your head, confused.

He picked up the pen and notepad from the coffee table—thankfully still nearby—and scribbled it down.

Come to my school's festival next weekend. Please? I want to show you something. Something just for you.

You read it. Looked at him. Then nodded slowly, chewing on a cherry while giving him that small, sweet smile that made him feel like his ribs might crack open from the pressure of loving you so much.

He smiled back and signed softly: "Good. It's a date."

Your eyes widened. He winked. Then he went to finish folding your laundry—like the golden retriever boyfriend-in-waiting he was—while trying very hard not to think about you in that oversized shirt... or Woo Do-hwan stealing your attention.

It was supposed to be the perfect day. Jake had left early that morning, and kissed your forehead with the softest kiss, and quickly signed to you with that big goofy grin of his.

"Wear something pretty. I'll be waiting."

He was so excited. The band was excited. All his friends, hyping him up to no end, joking about how happy he looked.

Jake, the cool, charming, calm one who never looked sad, couldn't stop smiling. He had practiced and practiced the song.

He had perfected every single chord. He had memorized every single sign. But more importantly, he had practiced how he was going to express that.

This song was for you. You were the girl he adored. The one who changed his outlook on the world. But you never showed up.

Your outfit was ready. Hair brushed, makeup done with care, your fingers trembling slightly in excitement. You clutched the cherry blossom pin he gave you once—nervous but happy.

Until it came.

A folded note slipped into your bag, probably by one of those girls. Written in harsh, angry ink.

"Isn't it a shame that he's basically using you for pity points? Everybody's going to crack up when they see you sitting there and watching him put on a fake show about being sad over some love song just to get attention. You're deaf, sweetie. He doesn't want you. He only wants the applause."

You looked at it for what felt like hours, then reread it. The lights inside your chest went out. You flickered the last little bit of hope away. You stood alone in your hallway with a promise you dressed up as a dream and felt like the biggest idiot on the planet.

Jake walked out onto the stage, guitar in hand, the other boys were setting up beside him. His heart rate was out of control—not from nerves, but from hope. He looked at your seat.

Front row. Reserved with your name written in pink cursive and a little cat sticker.

Empty.

And the spotlight was focused right there. Still empty.

He blinked once. Hard. Maybe you were just late? He cleared his throat and lifted the microphone to his mouth. "I... um," he started, letting out an nervous chuckle. "This song is really personal. I wrote it... for someone really special to me."

The crowd cooed. A few phones went up.

"She's not here yet, but I really hope she shows up. She's the reason I learned to hear.... even if it's silence."

He stopped. Then added, softly, hands shaking just a bit— "And if you are watching this later... well, I want you to know that I meant every part of this. This is for you."

Then, the music started, and he sang and signed—at once.

You didn't see it.

You were standing out in the rain, your cute outfit wet and clinging to your body, cuddled up in front of that little flower shop you both went to once.

The shop with the baby's breath and the soft pink carnations he helped you pick. You stood blankly looking at the window, tears pouring and blending in nicely with the rain rolling off your cheeks.

From inside, the florist, who could easily recognize your face gave you a concerned look but didn't interrupt you. It was clear you looked heartbroken, lost, and distressing.

Back at the school, Jake finally came off stage, fingers shaking, took his guitar off his well-worn shoulders, and his heart sank deep into his chest.

Then he heard it.

The girls. Laughing behind the bleachers.

"She really believed it, huh? Like he would actually be into her."

"Oh my god, did you see how serious he was? That's so embarrassing-"

"Do you think she's crying right now?"

Jake turned immediately, eyes dark, jaw set. "What did you say?" His voice was low. Dangerous.

They blinked. "It's just a joke-"

"No," he said, stepping forward. "You think humiliating someone is funny?"

The rage in his chest ignited. "You're the reason she's not here?"

They tried to brush it off—but he was already pulling out his phone. Texting his friends. Telling them to help pack up. He was going to find you.

Rain or not.

Jake had been running through about half of the city. The rain had been falling, drenched through his hoodie though he didn't care.

He checked the café, your bus stop, even the small bookstore at the corner whose front window you liked to slow down and look at.

Nothing.

His heart pounded like it was going to snap a rib. Then, he turned around the corner past the florist shop—the place where you both argued over whether it was daisies or carnations that looked better in the kitchen window, and...well, there you were.

There you were. Standing in front of the window with your head down, that pretty outfit emerging from the downpour, make up smeared, mascara swirling down your cheeks, fingers clenching that cherry blossom pin.

You looked like you were sitting there waiting. For something. For someone.

His stomach curled up. You got all dressed up for him.He called your name. Once. Wobbly and breathless. You didn't even flinch. He stepped a bit closer.

Forward, careful, in front of you. You finally looked up, eyes wide open red and furious. The florist inside noticed him immediately, clutching her mug like she was watching the climax of a drama unfold right outside her store window.

Your hands moved fast. Angry. Sharp. Your pout was trembling, but your signs were loud. "Don't talk to me. Don't look at me."

You signed again, more forcefully. "You think it's funny? Did they dare you? Was it some kind of game?" He couldn't keep up with how fast your fingers were going, but he saw the pain. The betrayal.

His heart ached.

Jake shook his head immediately, rain pooling in the bottom of his lashes, and signed, "No. No. That's not what happened." You scoffed and turned away, but he stepped in front of you again, desperate. "Please, just watch this."

He struggled to pull out his phone, his fingers fumbling with the cold, and there it was; his friend had sent him the video link—a recording of the performance, uploaded to the school's blog. It was shaky; it was the whole thing. He tapped play and turned the screen toward you.

Not the sound. Only the subtitles. The image.

It was him. On stage. Nervous. Eyes filled with hope.

You watched with your arms crossed and jaw clenched, unsure.Then, you saw him sign it. Each word."This is for her. The girl I love. She taught me to listen, even when there is silence. She's strong, and funny, and smart, and beautiful."

Your eyes widened. The way he gazed at the empty chair. Your chair. The way he bent his neck to gaze and search for you in the audience. The footage showed him signing the lyrics of his song, each movement full of heart, no hesitation. Not a trace of mockery. He meant every word, and he meant them for you.

Your fingers trembled as you put down the phone.Jake stepped closer, covering your hands with his own.

"I didn't know," he signed slowly. "I swear. I didn't know what they told you." His jaw was clenched in a way that made it seem like he was holding back tears of his own.

"I wrote that song for you," he continued. "Not anyone else. Just you."

You blinked, stunned, your lips parted but no signs were coming out yet. The weight of your misunderstanding and the pain you had been carrying all day cracked just a little under that look.

Then finally your hands moved, more slowly this time. Hesitantly. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

Jake gave you a sad, almost helpless smile as he stepped closer, gently tucking your wet hair behind your ear. His hands moved with purpose, signing carefully but with a tremble in his fingers.

"I wanted to see your smile when I signed the song live. That was all I could think about." He paused, brows furrowed as his hands hovered midair. "I'm sorry I didn't explain sooner. I'm sorry I wasn't there when they hurt you."

Your bottom lip quivered again, more tears slipping silently down your cheeks. You didn't move, didn't sign back right away. Just stood there—heart heavy, soaking wet, eyes searching his.

Jake didn't wait for a reply. He reached for you, pulling you gently into a tight, rain-soaked hug, holding you like he'd never let go again.

Then came the kiss.

Jake looked at you—rain dripping from his lashes, eyes filled with something warm and intense. He cupped your cheeks with both hands, gentle but certain, thumbs brushing over your skin as if anchoring himself.

You barely had time to process before his lips met yours—soft, careful, like a question he was too afraid to speak aloud. Your eyes widened at first, startled, but slowly fluttered shut as you kissed him back.

You tasted like your cherry lip gloss.

Sweet. Familiar. All his.

Behind the glass, the florist gasped audibly, scrambling to put together a bouquet with ribbon and free stems, already deciding she'd gift it to Jake to give to you. Romance deserved flowers—and this was the kind that made her believe in love again.

The next morning, the sun was back out. The sun had dried the streets, but for Jake it did nothing to cool him down.He strolled beside you holding your hand, with his backpack over one shoulder and yours hanging from your arm.

But he couldn't keep his lips off your face: your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. Jake was just rambling about how much he loved you, how you were his future wife (he repeated this part over and over, loud enough for anyone walking behind you or to the side of you to hear).

It didn't matter that you didn't hear what he was saying. He wanted the world to know. Specifically, he wanted those who were trying to belittle you to see it.

Jake's friends standing across the street saw you together and immediately got rowdy, cheering out loud things like:

"Jake's plotting plan is working!"

"She's got him whipped!"

"He is so down bad it's embarrassing!"

Jake only beamed, shamelessly proud.

When you got to the gates of the school, and there were a bunch of girls from the other school walking by, Jake caught a glimpse of them.

You don't even know what happened, so fast he turned to you and said goodbye with the most extended goodbye kiss —right on the lips, long and intended.

Your eyes went wide, and you swatted at him, trying to pry him off with flustered hands.

He giggled and quickly signed, "I'll pick you up after school. Don't miss me too much, darling."

Your ears were burning.

He noticed.

And loved it.

────୨ৎ────

You had graduated, and Jake had finally debuted. Three long months apart, during which he fought his way through the rigorous survival show, I-LAND.

It had been three months of hell for both of you—too many nights of loneliness and longing, missing each other. But through all the trials, he made it!

He was finally here, taking his first steps as a member of the idol group Enhypen, the moment he had been waiting for. But the second he could, he ran right to you; he didn't even greet his fans at first.

The instant he laid eyes on you, he pulled your body into his arms; didn't care that the cameras and the fans were around, he just needed to feel you close to him again.

He buried his face in the hoody, holding you like he had never planned on letting go and whispering repeatedly in shaky signs and soft words how he missed you. He had been away from you for too long, but he was never letting you go again.

Though Jake adored his fans, he couldn't shake the feeling that none of them could ever compare to you.

No one knew and understood him like you did, no one supported him like you did, no one made him feel so so seen like you did.

He had such gratitude for his fans despite there not being a proper quarterback, but they would never take your place, you were the one who he thought about every day when he was away.

He wanted to show them there was someone who had always stuck by him, someone who saw him for him. He had been through so much, but it was worthwhile because he did it all for you.

You were his grounding point, his thought process, he wanted everyone to know that.

Several months later, Jake asked you to come and see Enhypen for their first big concert. You hesitated, thinking about if you wanted to go or not, especially since you could not hear any music.

Jake didn't care. He remained positive, looking right at you with a bright smile, "I hired a sign language translator. They are going to be on stage, right in front of you."

He would find a way to bring you as close as possible to this concert experience he wanted you to experience.

You were important to him, and he figured no one would understand music better than you, even if you couldn't hear it. He's not asking you to be a fan, he needed you to be the person who always believed in him.

The night of the concert arrived, and the venue was filled with energy and excitement.

The lights flashed brightly across the stage as Enhypen began their performance. You were in the front row, your seat specially reserved for you, and the translator stood beside you, making sure you understood every single moment.

Despite the loud crowd, your attention was entirely on Jake. You couldn't hear the music, but you could feel it—feel the passion and energy that radiated off him.

Every time he glanced your way, a soft smile would tug at your lips. And then, in the midst of the performance, Jake did something just for you: he pointed directly at you during one of his fanservice moments.

You blushed, feeling the heat in your cheeks as you realized that, even in front of thousands, he was teasing you with a wink. He was having fun, but he was making sure that you knew he was thinking about you.

But it wasn't just the fan service. When Jake lifted up his shirt during the concert to flash his abs—they were a sight, very sculpted work of art, all glistening—you knew it was not for the fans.

It wasn't meant for the camera at all. You knew he was teasing you and wanted you to stop looking at Woo Do-hwan, and instead wanted you to look directly back at him.

It felt like a special moment just between the two of you, but still, you had to look away, embarrassed covering your face but your heart racing. The way Jake would cheekily tease you was what he loved to do, always eager to make you flustered.

A year passed since our last interaction, and things had changed in a drastic way. Jake was continuing to work hard and be a member of Enhypen, but he was holding a secret deep within for one long year.

Jake had been practically begging his company for an entire year to allow him to tell all of you about me at a live concert.

He couldn't hide me anymore. He wanted everyone to know who I was to him and why he had a translator on stage with him at every single concert.

And finally, his company said yes.

Jake stood on that stage, illuminated by that bright light, with all those fans watching him, and breathed out deeply before he spoke.

He signed for the translator to share with the audience, but you could still feel the weight of his feelings in his signs.

"Why do you see a translator at every show? I bet you've all wondered that." Jake said with a steady voice full of meaning.

"It's not just because accessibility is important. While that is a very important reason, it's because there is a person very special to me, who is always here supporting me, even when she can't hear the music."

The crowd went quiet because they seemed to understand the depth of his statement. Jake looked directly at you without wavering in his gaze.

"Even when she can't hear the music, she can feel the music. She feels the love, the passion, everything I put into it. She understands me more deeply and better than anyone else." He paused again and his gaze softened looking at you.

"She is my muse, my reason for writing, my reason for singing, my reason for standing here today." It was so quiet in the room you could hear a pin drop. "Her name is Y/n. She's the most important person in my life."

The fans were in shock, some even crying, while others cheered loudly. The translator was smiling as they relayed Jake's words, and you felt your heart swell.

Jake wasn't just sharing his story with the crowd; he was sharing you—the person who meant everything to him. As the crowd erupted in applause, you stood there, overwhelmed by the love Jake had just poured out for you. You didn't even have words to express it.

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