#Fixing Cracks in Concrete

[repairconcretefloor]

Fixing Cracks In Concrete Is An Essential Thing

Epoxy injections, concrete patching, and sealant applications are common methods for fixing cracks in concrete. By addressing them correctly, property owners can prevent costly structural damage. Regular inspection and timely repair are practices to preserve the durability and safety of concrete structures.

[srjsteel]

Mistakes to Avoid When Installing Dowel Bars in Roads

Installing dowel bars in rigid pavement isn't only a technical necessity—it's an essential structural decision. When performed properly, it guarantees that load is transferred smoothly across slabs, stopping cracks, settlement, and long-term degradation. But too frequently, avoidable mistakes compromise the whole pavement. These errors aren’t just about bad work; they regularly stem from underestimating the function of alignment systems like construction rings and Super Rings, which might be essential for correct, long-lasting dowel placement.

1. Incorrect Alignment Compromises Structural Integrity

One of the first and most costly mistakes is incorrect alignment. Dowel bars must sit parallel to both the traffic flow and pavement surface. Any tilt, even slight, can lock the slab’s movement, causing cracking under stress. This issue is worsened when installers skip using construction rings or choose inferior alignment systems. Quality rings help keep dowel bars steady and aligned, especially under the vibration of concrete pouring.

2. Inconsistent Spacing Leads to Early Joint Failure

Closely related is the error of inconsistent spacing. Misplaced bars lead to uneven load distribution, which accelerates wear and tear at joints. This is where Super Rings prove vital. These specially designed holders ensure uniform spacing across the joint and maintain bar position even in high-speed construction settings. Without them, installers often rely on visual estimations, which almost always lead to performance failures.

3. Lack of Support During Concrete Pouring

Another frequent problem is insufficient support during concrete pouring. Dowel bars shift easily without firm anchoring, especially when heavy machinery moves across the pour zone. Without Super Rings, bars may sink or tilt, leading to long-term structural issues. Strong anchorage systems like construction rings provide the stability needed to prevent vertical movement and displacement.

4. Skipping Sleeves or Bond-Breakers Locks the Joints

Failing to use proper sleeves or bond-breakers on dowel bars is also a critical error. These allow the bar to move slightly within the concrete, accommodating natural slab expansion and contraction. Without this, joints lock, and cracks form rapidly. While dowel sleeves play their role, construction rings further ensure that bars don’t twist or bind within the joint, offering a secondary safeguard against restraint.

Using Super Rings with built-in protection features significantly reduces this risk. Combined with anti-corrosive construction rings, they extend the lifespan of both the dowel and the pavement structure itself.

5. Ignoring Cleanliness of the Joint Area

Debris and dust in the joint area are often overlooked but highly detrimental. A dirty joint prevents proper bonding and can cause the dowel bar to be misaligned or ineffective. Proper installation includes cleaning the joint and using Super Rings that resist moisture and prevent slippage. This attention to detail makes the difference between a five-year road and a twenty-year one.

6. Rushing the Curing Process Creates Irreversible Errors

Rushing the curing process is another common mistake. If concrete sets before final dowel bar checks, there’s no turning back. Using clearly marked construction rings allows for rapid visual confirmation of alignment and spacing before the pour hardens, preventing irreversible errors.

7. Compromising on Quality Costs More in the Long Run

Finally, cutting costs on materials leads to a chain reaction of problems. Choosing low-grade bars or cheap accessories might seem economical, but the long-term costs in maintenance and failures quickly add up. High-quality Super Rings and construction rings are not optional accessories—they are precision tools that ensure engineering integrity and project success.

Final Thoughts: Precision is Non-Negotiable in Rigid Pavement Installation

For engineers, contractors, and decision-makers, the takeaway is clear: installing dowel bars in rigid pavement requires more than bars and concrete. It demands precision, expertise, and the right supporting products. Every poorly aligned bar, every missing ring, adds risk. Investing in tested, durable solutions like construction rings and Super Rings doesn’t just prevent mistakes — it ensures a road performs the way it was designed to.

[kapilasteel]

Dowel Bars in Heritage Site Restorations—A New Preservation Standard

Dowel bars, once limited to road construction and heavy-duty industrial flooring, are now rewriting the restoration rules for heritage architecture. Their seamless integration with robust materials like TMT saria bars and reinforcement solutions from trusted TMT bar manufacturers is quietly establishing a new preservation benchmark. As the conservation industry evolves, structural reliability is no longer a luxury—it’s a non-negotiable standard. And dowel bars are at the center of this quiet revolution.

From crumbling colonial buildings to ancient temple courtyards, structures born in a different era are demanding more than aesthetic touch-ups. What lies beneath—the skeletal integrity—defines whether a site can survive for another century. Here, TMT saria bar proves invaluable, offering reinforcement with strength and ductility. But when it comes to load transfer and stability between aged slabs and restored surfaces, dowel bars are irreplaceable.

Why Heritage Sites Need More Than Cosmetic Restoration

Centuries-old buildings face multiple challenges—soil settlement, climate damage, layered renovations, and structural fatigue. Often, these vulnerabilities manifest not on the surface, but in the core joints where time has eaten into cohesion. Surface repairs may offer a visual revival, but without embedded support, even the grandest restorations fail within decades.

Dowel bars address this need by acting as load-transfer anchors, especially in horizontal joints, pavements, or between floor panels. In sites where restoration teams must retain original materials, dowel bars provide a subtle but powerful solution. They do not interfere with the aesthetic, yet they introduce critical reinforcement. Combined with the TMT saria bar, the structural synergy is unparalleled. Reputed TMT bar manufacturers now offer specialized variants tailored for restoration-grade performance, minimizing corrosion risk while maximizing lifespan.

Functionality and Precision in Fragile Structures

Precision is not just technical—it's a moral responsibility in heritage work. Every intervention must be calculated, respectful, and as reversible as possible. Dowel bars provide this flexibility. Inserted between slabs or walls to connect new components with the old, they allow for controlled movement while maintaining alignment.

In earthquake-prone zones or high-traffic heritage sites, this functionality becomes crucial. Unlike continuous reinforcement, dowel bars don’t create unnecessary tension zones. Instead, they absorb movement, stabilize vertical shifts, and prevent differential settling. Their compatibility with TMT Saria bars adds to their merit, especially when working with hybrid reinforcement designs. Today, leading TMT bar manufacturers offer bars with surface treatments and rib patterns optimized for bonding with dowel-supported joints.

Bridging Time with Technology

Modern tools are enabling restoration experts to go beyond surface conservation. Ground-penetrating radar, digital modeling, and material mapping are identifying weak joints that traditional methods overlook. Here’s where dowel bars step in as the quiet saviors—placed with millimeter precision, guided by scans, and executed without visual disruption.

These bars create bridges between the past and the future. Whether it’s connecting weathered marble floor panels or anchoring restored beams into century-old stone, they work silently behind the scenes. Coupled with TMT saria bar, which continues to serve as the structural backbone, dowel-reinforced sites gain newfound resilience—unseen but unfailing.

A Silent Innovation That’s Here to Stay

No buzzwords. No sweeping claims. Just a simple, steel-forged solution working quietly beneath the surface. That’s the magic of dowel bars. Their unassuming design masks a future-proof capability to protect, preserve, and reinforce where traditional methods fall short.

When paired with the unmatched tensile performance of TMT saria bar and the advanced metallurgy offered by established TMT bar manufacturers, they form a restoration system that respects the past while securing the future. As more heritage engineers and planners shift toward scientifically backed methods, dowel bars are poised to define the new standard in structural preservation.

For those entrusted with restoring the irreplaceable, the choice is no longer just aesthetic—it’s structural. And in that decision, dowel bars deserve their place as guardians of heritage.

[sweetonsin]

hi i saw requests were open…im in college and id love a story about how sarah is your room mate and youre out for the summer break and you realize you packed some of her things up and find an address and go to drop it off just to find out shes on a trip cross country.. bonus if joel is in the yard working on a car and asks about the college boys before splitting you in half on his cock :’) maybe joel has grease on him and sweaty with no shirt and reader is in either a 2 piece sports set or a short dress with lace and is the most beautiful thing he has seen in a long while xx

SWEAT AND SPIT

pairing: roommates dad! Joel Miller x reader

warnings: 18+, nsfw, piv unprotected, oral (f recieving), joel's hunnnggg, kitchen table hehe, shameful sex, large age gap (20s and 50s?), orgasm, creampies, pervyish! Joel, no outbreak au, sarah is still alive and well:)

wc: 3k

The sun’s brutal. Your thighs stick to the seat the whole drive.

The little box on your passenger seat sat halfway taped up. Sarah had left it in your dorm room — just a few things she’d forgotten to pack before summer break. You meant to drop it at her house on your way out of town, and now here you are, sweating through your dress and wishing you’d worn something that didn’t cling.

You pull up to the curb, killing the engine. Her driveway’s half-shadowed by a low carport. One truck. An old, dusty Chevy in the drive. The garage door is cracked open, the sound of a radio drifting through the heat.

You ring the doorbell. Wait.

No answer.

You knock again. Still nothing. You're hoping Sarah answers before you start sweating again.

Your hand’s on the knob when you hear it — a deep grunt, the clink of metal. Then—

“’in the garage!”

You follow the sound of his voice, careful not to let your sandals slip on the hot concrete. The sun’s behind the house now, casting long, soft shadows across the garage where he’s half-buried under the hood of a car.

Joel.

Sweaty, shirtless, and entirely unprepared for the way your stomach twists at the sight of him.

He wipes his hand on a rag as he straightens up, squinting at you in the golden light.

You can’t remember the last time you saw him up close. Maybe last fall when he helped Sarah move her mini-fridge up the dorm stairs. You remember thinking he looked too young to be her dad — all rough edges and callused hands, the kind of man who fixed things with his bare fingers and never once looked rushed doing it.

Now, he’s sun-baked and grease-slicked, sweat rolling down the curve of his throat. His jeans are riding low on his hips, clinging to his thick thighs, and his hands look even bigger than you remembered.

He eyes you slowly. Then—

“Well hey there, darlin’.”

You swallow. “Hi, Mr. Miller.”

His eyes drag down the length of you — slow and sharp. Your dress feels shorter under the weight of that stare. The cotton’s sticking to your back. You shift, subtly tugging the hem down.

He nods toward the box in your hands. “That for Sarah?”

“Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat. “She left it in our room by accident. Figured I’d bring it by since I was passing through.”

He scratches his beard, frowning.

“Girl didn’t tell you she left already?”

Your head tips. “Left?”

“Road trip. Left this morning.” His lips curl.

“Oh.”

He chuckles, low and warm. “You look surprised.”

“I just— thought she’d be here. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You ain’t intrudin’.”

He steps back, waves you toward the house.

“C’mon,” he says. “You can leave that in her room if you want. ‘Less you’re in a rush.”

You’re not. Not now.

You follow him inside.

The house is cool, a quiet contrast to the heat baking off the driveway. The scent of sawdust and something citrusy lingers in the air, mixed with whatever mechanic grease still clings to Joel’s skin.

You set the box down on the kitchen table, eyes adjusting to the dimmer light inside.

Joel nods toward the fridge. “You want something to drink? I’ve got water. Sweet tea. Maybe a soda if Sarah didn’t clear ‘em out.”

“Water’s fine,” you say.

He grabs one and slides it across the counter to you. You unscrew the cap and take a sip, grateful for the distraction. You can feel the sweat drying on the back of your neck. The heat clings to you even here, in the quiet hum of the kitchen.

He cracks open a beer for himself, leaning against the counter across from you. The way his arms fold over his chest makes every muscle in them flex, slow and casual.

“So,” he says, voice rough like gravel, “you just finished up the semester?”

You nod. “Yesterday, actually.”

He gives a soft whistle. “Bet you’re glad to be done.”

“I am. It was a long one.”

Joel takes a sip, eyes not leaving yours.

“What’re you studying again?”

“Medicine. I think.”

He smirks. “You think?”

“I keep changing my mind.”

“You got time to figure it out.”

He pauses. Tilts his head a bit.

“Sarah says you’re one of the smart ones.”

You raise an eyebrow. “She say that before or after she scored higher than me?”

Joel chuckles, the sound low and real. It makes your skin prickle.

His eyes fall to your collarbone when you laugh — just briefly. But enough that you notice. Then they flick back up to your face, unreadable.

“How’s college life treatin’ you otherwise?” he asks, tone deceptively casual. “All them parties and boys and whatnot?”

You shrug, fiddling with the plastic bottle cap.

“It’s...fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Most of the guys there are…” You pause. “Boring. Or high. Or still think calling me baby girl in a text is enough effort.”

He huffs, clearly unimpressed. “Sounds about right.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I ain’t surprised,” he says. “Just disappointed.”

He takes another long pull of his beer.

You glance up at him through your lashes. “Disappointed in me?”

Joel smirks. “Nah. Just them.”

You shift your weight. The room feels warmer now, or maybe it’s just him — the way he’s watching you, like he’s not sure if he should or not. Like he’s trying to decide if it’s okay to want the things he’s already thinking.

Your eyes fall to his chest — the sweat still clinging to the curve of his throat, the fading tan lines, the patch of hair low on his stomach disappearing into his jeans. You bite your lip.

Joel notices. You can tell from the flicker in his eyes.

There’s a long pause. Neither of you speak.

Then he pushes off the counter and nods down the hallway.

“Sarah’s room’s the second on the left,” he says, voice quieter now. “You can leave that box there.”

You nod, turning to go. But you feel his gaze follow you — heavy on your hips, your bare shoulders, the back of your legs.

You’re almost sure you imagined it.

Almost.

You walk down the hallway slowly, aware of how silent the house is.

Sarah’s room is where you remember it, door cracked slightly open. The bed’s made, surprisingly neat for someone who usually has shoes on the floor and gum wrappers under her pillow. You place the box on her desk, careful not to knock over a cup of pens.

You glance around, hands fidgeting at your sides.

She’s got a few photos up — old Polaroids, clipped to a string of fairy lights. Her, some friends, a couple of blurry ones that look like concerts. One of her and Joel, too. It’s older — he’s got fewer lines in his face, less gray in his beard. His arm’s wrapped around her shoulders. He’s smiling.

You stare at it for a second too long, then look away.

Behind you, the wooden floor creaks.

You turn — and Joel’s leaning in the doorway.

“Everything alright?”

You nod. “Yeah, just…uh— looking. Sorry–..”

He gives a short, almost sheepish smile. “Didn’t mean to hover. Just figured I’d see if you found the place alright.”

You nod again. He doesn’t move. Neither do you.

Your eyes flicker — a mistake. Arms crossed over his chest, beer bottle dangling from one hand. There’s a smudge of grease near his ribcage, and another on the inside of his wrist. His hair’s pushed back with sweat, a little curl behind his ear.

You don’t remember Sarah’s dad being this hot.

Like, at all.

But then again, you’ve never really looked. You’ve never stood in his daughter’s bedroom in a short summer dress, watching sweat roll down his neck while he leans in a doorway like he’s waiting for you to say something. Do something.

“I forgot how hot it gets here,” you mumble, more to yourself than anything.

His brow lifts just slightly. “Yeah. That heat’ll knock the wind outta you if you’re not used to it.”

He takes another sip of beer, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Your eyes follow the movement. His forearm flexes, veined and dirty, and it doesn’t help that your dress is clinging to the sweat on the back of your thighs and every breath feels like it’s sticking to your skin.

Joel shifts, slowly dragging his gaze over the room — not lingering, but looking. And then, for a beat too long, he looks at you.

You catch it this time. The flicker of his eyes to your chest, where your dress dips just slightly too low. Your skin prickles.

Your arms instinctively cross, but you hesitate halfway through the motion. Because what if that was just…you being weird?

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Didn’t mean to stare.”

Your cheeks heat. “It’s okay.”

He clears his throat. The silence stretches again, thick and warm.

“I should probably let you get goin’,” he says finally. But he doesn’t move.

You step past him into the hallway, and he shifts just slightly to let you through — not quite touching you, but close enough that you feel the heat radiating off his body. That scent again — oil, sweat, beer, and something woodsy underneath.

You nearly stumble. It’s not even noon and you feel drunk on him.

He follows you back to the kitchen, slower this time. You feel his eyes on your back.

You turn around when you reach the table, grabbing your bag and water bottle. Joel leans against the fridge now, arms braced behind him. His abs flex as he shifts.

You glance at the doorway. Then back at him.

“So… I guess I’ll let you get back to the car.”

Joel lifts the bottle in a slow shrug. “She’s not goin’ anywhere.”

A pause. He scratches his beard, eyes dragging over your dress again — slower this time, less shy.

“You, uh...you got a guy waitin’ on you?” he asks, like he’s trying to sound casual and failing a little.

You blink. “Back home?”

“Anywhere.”

You snort. “No.”

He hums, something unreadable in his expression.

“Boys these days don’t know what to do with a girl like you, huh?”

Your stomach flips.

You swallow.

“Meaning?”

Joel shrugs. Still looking. Still slow. “Meanin’, you show up at my door, wearin’ that pretty little thing, bein’ sweet as ever… I doubt half those kids you go to school with know what they’re missin’.”

The heat surges between you. It’s heavy. Slow. You’re stuck somewhere between flustered and dizzy.

You grip the edge of the table behind you, unsure what to say.

Joel doesn’t move. Just watches you — eyes dragging from your lips, to your throat, to the hem of your dress, which is maybe a little shorter now that it’s ridden up your thighs from sitting, from walking, from this heavy tension he’s not helping defuse.

Joel shifts first. Just a step forward.

You hold your breath.

Another.

He’s close enough now that you have to look up to meet his eyes. They’re darker than before. Tired, maybe, but sharp. Focused.

“You sure there’s no one?” he asks again, voice barely above a whisper. “No one who’d mind me standin’ this close?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

He exhales through his nose, jaw ticking.

“Didn’t think so,” he mutters.

He takes one more step and reaches past you — slow, deliberate — to set his empty beer bottle on the table beside your hand.

And as he pulls back, his fingers graze your waist. Light. Just barely there. But enough.

You shift, breath catching.

Joel doesn’t pull away this time.

His fingers slide over the curve of your hip, slow and reverent, then up your side until his thumb brushes the edge of your ribs.

His other hand lifts, brushing a piece of hair from your cheek. Your breath hitches.

“Goddamn,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “You’re somethin’ else.”

You whisper his name — a question, or maybe a warning.

“I shouldn’t,” he says. But he doesn’t let go.

You tilt your face up slightly. His thumb strokes just beneath your jaw.

“Why not?,” you whisper.

That’s it.

Joel kisses you like he’s starved for it.

There’s nothing hesitant anymore — just heat and hands and the groan he lets out when your mouth parts for him, soft and sweet. His tongue slides against yours, slow and messy, and you whimper when his hand grips the back of your neck.

You’re pressed between him and the table now, his hand sliding down to grip the back of your thigh. You’re pulled flush against him, your dress riding high up your hips.

He breaks the kiss with a breathless growl. His forehead rests against yours.

“You have no fuckin’ idea,” he rasps, “what you’re doin’.”

Your hand finds his chest — sweat-slick, warm, solid muscle under your fingers. You trail down, across his stomach, to where his jeans are already tented with how hard he is.

Joel grits his teeth.

“Christ,” he mutters. “You want this?”

You nod, eyes wide.

“Need to hear you say it.”

“I want you, Joel,” you whisper. “Please.”

He crashes into you again — kissing you harder this time. His hands grab under your thighs and lift you easily onto the table, shoving everything else aside. You gasp when your back hits the cool wood, legs spread and dress bunched up around your waist.

He groans at the sight of you.

“You wear this little thing just to drive me outta my mind?” he mutters, sliding your panties down and off your ankles. “Or do you always wear lace for no damn reason?”

You try to answer, but he’s already dipping down, kneeling between your legs like a man with nothing to lose.

This is so fucked.

You’re fucking your roommate’s dad.

On her kitchen table.

His tongue is hot, firm, devastating. He licks a slow stripe up your slit, groaning at the taste, then closes his mouth over your clit and sucks.

Your back arches. Your hands scramble against the table.

This is wrong. This is so, so wrong.

You’re moaning for him. Legs shaking. His beard scraping your thighs and his fingers curling inside you like he already knows what makes you fall apart.

You’re fucking your friend’s dad.

Her hot dad. Greasy and shirtless and built like sin.

And God, the way he eats. You try to quiet yourself, to hold it in, but he flattens his tongue against your clit and sucks, and your moan breaks from your chest before you can stop it.

Your spine arches. Your fingers grip his hair.

He groans again when you tug.

“Fuck—sweetest thing I ever tasted.”

You don’t last long. Not with his fingers pumping into you, his tongue working perfect little circles until your thighs are shaking and your moans are echoing off the walls.

“Sweetest fuckin’ thing,” he groans. “Gonna make you come on my tongue before I even fuck you.”

You want to say no. That he shouldn’t.

But your body doesn’t care.

Your body wants all of it.

The shame, the heat, the wrongness.

And when he pulls back and looks at you — mouth wet, eyes dark with something dangerous — you think:

This is horrible.

But you’ve never wanted anything more.

You come with a cry, and he doesn’t stop — keeps going, keeps eating, like he’s trying to make it last forever.

When he finally stands, his mouth glistens. His beard is damp with you. You’re panting, boneless, your dress rucked up to your ribs.

Joel leans over you, kisses you filthy, lets you taste yourself on his tongue.

You’re too gone to speak. Your hand fumbles with his belt instead, desperate.

He lets you, watching you through hooded eyes as you undo him, pull his cock out.

You pause. Stare.

“Oh my god,” you whisper.

He smirks. “Yeah?”

You wrap your fingers around him — thick, heavy, already leaking. He groans when you stroke once, twice.

He grabs your hips, lines himself up. The tip of his cock drags through your folds.

“You ready, sweetheart?”

You nod.

“Need you to use your words.”

“Please,” you whisper. “Joel, I need you.”

He pushes in slow — inch by inch. Watching your face. Groaning when your legs tighten around his waist and you cry out at the stretch.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight,” he hisses. “Takin’ me so good.”

He bottoms out with a deep, broken sound and holds there, buried inside you, chest heaving.

Then he starts to move.

It’s slow at first. Controlled. Deep.

You let out a breathy moan before you can stop it, but your head spins.

You shouldn’t want this.

You shouldn’t have let it get this far.

But God—

Your breath stutters with every thrust, each one grinding perfectly into that sweet spot.

Joel groans above you, gripping your thighs, watching the way your tits bounce beneath your dress.

He fucks harder now. Deeper. You’re gasping, crying out with each snap of his hips.

You come again with a sob, legs shaking around his waist, your fingers clutching his shoulders.

Joel groans, hips stuttering.

“Gonna fill you up,” he mutters. “Fuck, baby. You want it?”

“Yes—Joel—please—”

He thrusts once, twice more—then buries himself deep and comes with a rough, shattering sound.

The silence afterward is thick.

Joel's still leaning over you, arms braced on either side, chest heaving. His skin glistens with sweat, hair damp and curling at his temples. Your thighs are sticky with arousal, the air still thick with sex.

You don’t speak. You can’t.

Your dress is bunched up around your waist, and your panties are somewhere on the floor, forgotten in a heap of lace and bad decisions.

Joel looks down at you — and for the first time since he touched you, really looks.

Like he’s seeing it clearly now.

What he’s done.

Who you are.

Your breath catches when his hand slides down — and you expect more. Another grope, another filthy word, another pull back into his gravity.

But instead, his fingers grip the waistband of your panties from the floor. He lifts your legs slowly, gently — too gently — and slides them back up your legs, his thumb brushing the inside of your knee as he settles the lace back into place.

Then he reaches for the hem of your dress, still bunched above your ribs, and smooths it down with both hands. Tugs it back into place over your hips. Your thighs. Your stomach.

Like it never happened.

Like he can erase it with fabric.

You sit there, breath uneven, heart pounding.

Then he gives your thigh a small pat.

Not a smack. Not rough.

Just a soft, brief press of his palm.

Too casual to mean nothing. Too intimate to mean anything else.

You look up at him.

His jaw’s clenched. His eyes don’t quite meet yours now.

He steps back. Wipes his hand across his mouth like he’s trying to catch the taste of you still clinging to his beard.

He says nothing.

And it’s not cold, exactly.

It’s worse.

It’s quiet.

Shameful.

Like he wants to say something — but he doesn’t trust what’ll come out if he does.

He leans one hand on the edge of the counter, shoulders tight. Then glances toward the hallway, toward the front door.

Like he’s remembering this is his house. That this is his daughter's roommate. That he may have just ruined something.

Finally, after a beat, he mutters, “I’ll walk you out.”

And fuck it.

You let him.

Because the weight of what you just did feels better than whatever emptiness you’re about to walk back into.

The door creaks open, and the golden light outside doesn’t feel warm anymore. It feels blinding.

Joel follows you out slowly, like his feet are dragging, like every step toward your car makes the truth of what happened inside settle heavier on his shoulders.

The cicadas are louder now. A dog barks a few houses down. It’s normal out here, and that somehow makes it worse.

You walk a few steps ahead, down the front path, clutching your water bottle too tightly in your hand. You can feel the mess between your thighs, the cling of your panties he just pulled back up like he was fixing a broken rule.

Joel’s watching you. Arms crossed, mouth tight. Like he’s waiting for something. Or dreading it.

“I won’t tell,” you say softly. “You know that, right?”

His eyes flicker. Something in his jaw ticks.

He just nods.

No thank you. No explanation. Just a slow, heavy nod.

You hesitate again, and for a moment—God, just a moment—you think he’s going to say something. Anything.

But all he does is let his gaze fall down the length of you one last time. Not in that hungry way he did before. Not quite.

It’s almost sad now.

Like he’s memorizing a mistake.

Then you hear his voice, low and rough — like gravel, like regret.

“Better go,” he says. “Before I do something else I’ll regret.”

You turn to look at him, your breath catching.

His hand is still on the doorframe. His body tense, like he’s holding himself back from following. From pulling you back inside, dragging that dress up again, forgetting the whole world all over.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. Can’t.

And then, just like that, he shuts the door.

Not hard. Not gentle.

Just final.

You stand there in the silence, staring at the wood in front of you. Breathing. Swallowing.

Your panties are still damp. Your thighs are sticky. The inside of your chest feels hot and hollow at the same time.

You should feel disgusting.

And you do.

But there’s something else curled deep in your belly. Something like satisfaction. Like relief.

You lean your head against the door for just a second, eyes fluttering shut.

You know seeing Sarah again is going to be hell.

You know every night of homework, every smile she gives you, every casual mention of her dad’s name is going to taste like a secret you’ll never be clean of.

But God help you—

It might’ve been worth it.

[chromehoney]

yearning!bestfriend!smoke x black!curvy!nasty!fem!reader

You and Smoke been thick as thieves since before y’all even had teeth. Since you were two loud little brown kids playin’ in the sprinkler in your grandma’s yard, barefoot on concrete and dripping in popsicle juice. He was the boy who always ran. Ran to get what you wanted. Ran to fix what you broke. Ran to grab the extra cookie you were too scared to ask for.

And even when you got older—full hips, lip gloss poppin’, that spoiled little whine always curled in your throat—you still didn’t have to finish a sentence before Smoke was already halfway to doin’ it.

“Smoke, can you—?”

“I got it.”

“Wait, you know what I want—”

“I already do.”

That was y’all’s rhythm.

He’d never said how bad he loved you. Never said that when you called him your best friend, it made his chest hurt. He never told you how many nights he stared at his phone, waiting for a text that said “Come over.”

You never told him either. You thought he knew. Thought maybe he didn’t feel the same. So you started dating other people. Just a little. Just to test the waters.

But you still showed up at every function on Smoke’s hip. Like today—his mama’s birthday cookout. You in that damn white dress. Tight up top, short in the back, every inch of you jiggling and glowing. Everybody noticed. But he noticed first.

He saw you before you even walked past the fence. Watched your thighs bounce with every step, your gold anklet glinting, your curls pulled up with just enough down to frame that smartass mouth he’d kill to kiss.

He didn’t speak first. He just stared. Chain glintin’. Blunt burning slow between his fingers.

You plopped down next to him at the table, legs crossed, plate in hand, talking loud with his cousins like you ain’t been skipping his calls.

And that’s when Aunt Vi turned to you, fork paused halfway to her mouth. “So baby girl, you still single? Or you got a lil boyfriend now?”

You blinked. Swallowed. Peeped Smoke from the corner of your eye. Then softly, like you ain’t really mean it: “…I do.” The clink of Smoke’s fork hitting his plate was the only sound for a moment.

He turned slowly, eyes glued to you. Not moving. Not blinking. That quiet, slow anger in his chest boiling over in silence. “You do?” he said low, voice tight.

You didn’t answer. You looked at Aunt Vi instead.“He tall?” she asked, eyes twinkling.

“Mhm.”

“Cute?”

“…Kinda.”

“Got a picture?” You pulled your phone out, too quick. Nervous giggle stuck in your throat. Smoke didn’t take his eyes off you. He leaned back in his seat, arms folded, watching you show the picture. Your screen faced Aunt Vi, but he saw it too.

And his jaw clenched hard enough to crack.

Marcus. From the block. A dude Smoke knew. A dude who tried to be like him but couldn’t hold a candle. He stood slow. Walked around the table. Quiet as ever. Then reached down and snatched your phone right out your hand.

“What the hell—” “Get up,” he said. You blinked. “Smoke, don’t start—” “I said get. The fuck. Up.”He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t curse loud. But his tone wrapped around your neck and dragged you up out that chair like gravity shifted. Your thighs trembled. You followed. You had to.

He yanked the back door open and took you through the house—ignoring every cousin, every curious glance—into the den. The door slammed behind you. And then? Silence. Thick and hot and tight. Smoke turned, chest rising slow. “You really fucking with Marcus?” he said. Voice low. Not yelling, but shaking. “Marcus?”

“He nice,” you whispered, but your voice cracked.Smoke stepped forward. Your back met the wall. He placed your phone on the dresser like he was lining it up for later. “You know how many times I wanted to tell you?” he said, hand finding your waist. “How many times I had to sit there and watch you run off with them clown-ass niggas? You do that shit on purpose?”

“I didn’t know you—” “Yes the fuck you did.” You didn’t answer. His mouth found your neck first. Hot, soft, trailing down like it was muscle memory. Your hands fisted in his shirt. His touch wasn’t rough—but it was hungry. Desperate. Like something that’d been waiting too long to be born.

“Still lettin’ me do everything for you,” he murmured against your skin, tongue flicking just beneath your ear. “Still callin’ me first. Still wearin’ shit like this around my damn family.”

“I didn’t know you cared,” you whimpered. His hands slid down your thighs, cupping your ass, pulling your hips against his. “You the only one I care about.” He kissed you. Slow and deep, lips pressed like a seal. Like a brand.

When he lifted your dress, you gasped. His fingers found the soaked cotton between your thighs and he smiled against your mouth. “This for him?” he growled. “Or me?”

“You,” you whimpered.

He dropped to his knees, pulled your panties down slow, kissed your thighs like he had all day. Then, without warning, he lifted your leg and buried his tongue in you—slow. Groaning into your folds, fingers digging into your hips.

You came on his mouth in minutes, shaking, gasping, whispering his name like a prayer.

“Say it right,” he whispered, standing, dropping his sweats. “You know what to call me.” “…Pa.”He moaned. Deep in his chest. Lined himself up and slid in—slow, deep, smooth, until his whole body trembled. Your mouth dropped open. You wrapped your arms around his neck, eyes glassy.“You feel that?” he groaned. “That’s mine.”

He moved slow but heavy, rolling his hips deep inside you like he was making a promise. His lips on your neck, your collarbone, your cheek. His hand on your jaw. “I been waiting so long for this, bunny,” he whispered. “Ain’t nobody ever gonna touch you again.”

You were close again. Shaking. Crying now.

And then he reached for your phone. “Call him.”“What—” “Call that little nigga now.” With shaking fingers, you dialed. Voice trembling. He pressed the speaker on.

“Hello?” he spoke. Your breath caught. Smoke thrusted deep. You cried out, breath hitching. “I’m with my boyfriend.” Then Smoke grabbed the phone and ended it. And came inside you with a long, low groan that rattled your bones. His forehead rested on yours, breathing heavy, thumb wiping the tears from your cheek. “You’re mine now,” he whispered. “And I’m done sharing.”

A few weeks later…

You don’t even call him “Smoke” no more. It’s Pa this, Pa that. The whole damn block know what it is. He walkin’ with his arm around you like you made of gold and velvet. One hand resting on your hip, thumb rubbing that little space on your waist like it’s his personal territory. And it is.

You’re wearing one of the three diamond rings he bought you. Not engagement, not yet—but you keep tellin’ folks, “This one’s for my mouth, this one’s for my attitude, and this one’s ‘cause I’m spoiled.” He don’t argue. He just adds another.

And right between your collarbones? That chain. Thick, gold, glinting in the sun. His name on the pendant in soft cursive—“Elijah’s”—like a warning and a lullaby. He’s got one too. Yours. Tucked under his shirt but always there, lying flat on his chest, heartbeat pressin’ against the letters.

You’re headed to get ice cream, arguing playful in the heat. You want strawberry shortcake. He already bought it for you ten minutes ago and it’s in the car. He just like hearing you beg. And then, like a breeze cutting through the thick summer air, you hear two girls on the stoop whispering:

“—you ain’t hear? Marcus? That nigga gone. Shot dead couple weeks ago. Just now found the body in that alley behind Glenwood. Whole clip in him.”

You pause mid-step. Smoke doesn’t.

His grip on your waist tightens just slightly, just enough to make your stomach flip. He’s still walking, face neutral, but you catch the edge of his mouth. That little curl. That little smile.

He don’t say nothing. Just keeps moving. Pulls you closer, presses a kiss to your temple. You look at him. “Pa…” He raises a brow like he don’t know what you’re about to ask—but you don’t even finish the sentence.

You know better. You know exactly what that smile meant.

He ain’t ever gonna tell you what happened. But you can feel it in his kiss, in the way he holds your hand a little tighter now. The way he makes love to you like he got rid of every last threat.

That chain around your neck ain’t just jewelry. It’s a warning label. “Property of Elijah Moore.” And when the streets whisper about Marcus? Smoke don’t blink. He just licks ice cream off your lip and says: “Open your mouth, bunny. You know I don’t like repeating myself.”

last one yall… last one for the day.

@cursed-carmine for the dividers.

[honeyscara]

❝ Teasing ❞ – Geum Seongje

-weak hero

Synopsis: You send your boyfriend an 'innocent' picture just to tease him

Content/content warnings: Explicit content, 18+ MDNI! Seongje × fem!reader, seongje being dominant, dirty talk, overstimulation, light restraint, strong language, soft aftercare.

~4k words Whc masterlist

Seongje sat straight-backed in the bowling room, the fluorescent lights above casting a cold glare on the polished table. His sharp eyes remained fixed on the flow of conversation, the words bouncing back and forth between Baekjin and some other union guys.

Then his phone buzzed.

Just once—short, deliberate. Barely noticeable to anyone else. But to Seongje, it was immediate. His fingers twitched subtly, reaching under the table to check the notification. One glance at the screen and his composure cracked, if only for a second.

It was from you.

He tapped it open.

A photo. A very familiar shirt. His shirt. The crisp white of his school uniform, oversized on you, buttoned only halfway. And nothing else in sight.

His breath caught in his throat.

The image was innocent enough—if someone didn’t know what they were looking at. But he knew. That was his uniform. That was his room. And that smug little smirk you wore in the photo? Fuck. you were doing this on purpose.

His jaw clenched, fingers tightening around the phone. You were messing with him. While he was in the middle of an important meeting with Baekjin of all people.

“Seongje?”

He blinked. Baekjin had stopped talking, his eyes narrowing slightly at Seongje’s sudden silence.

“I—” Seongje stood abruptly, sliding the chair back. “i need to take this”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

The moment he was out the door, he was already calling you, the phone pressed tight to his ear, his free hand raking through his hair as he stalked down the hallway.

The line clicked. “You think you’re fucking funny?” he muttered, voice low and dangerous.

Your laugh spilled through the line, light and sweet with a devilish edge. Seongje pressed his lips into a thin line, already feeling heat crawl up the back of his neck. He ducked into a quiet stairwell, leaning against the concrete wall, one hand braced against it as if the cool surface could ground him.

“You're not even wearing anything underneath, are you?” he asked, voice rough now, lower, darker. The image of you in his shirt—bare, a few undone buttons, that smirk—burned into his mind.

You sighed dramatically through the speaker. “Mmm… maybe just your cologne,” you murmured. “Smells like you. Feels like you too. Kinda wish it was you though…”

His grip on the phone tightened.

“Y/N,” he warned, but his voice betrayed him—already thick with need.

“What?” you purred. “You’re the one who left me all alone… I got bored. Thought I’d remind you what you’re missing.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, lips twitching into a smirk. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“Am I?” you whispered, sultry and sweet. “If you were here… what would you do, Seongje?”

He tilted his head back against the wall, jaw clenched. There was a long pause. You could hear the way he breathed—deep, heavy, trying to keep control.

His reply came slow, deliberate. “I’d make sure you couldn’t walk by the time I’m done.”

Your breath hitched, and he heard it—grinned at it.

“I’d pin you right against the bed wearing only that damn shirt,” he went on, voice now a smooth growl.

“And I wouldn’t even take it off. Just push it up, make you beg for more, make you say my name until your throat’s sore.”

You were silent now, biting your lip. The tension was electric even through the phone.Then Seongje chuckled—low, cocky.

“What? Quiet now? Thought you wanted to play.”

Your voice came out breathless, almost a whimper. “Seongje…”

He ran a hand through his hair again, composing himself just enough to speak clearly. “Just wait till I get back. Stay in that damn shirt and don't touch yourself,” he added firmly. “That’s mine to take care of.”

And before you could respond, the line cut—he’d hung up.

But not before whispering one last promise:

“Hope you can still talk by the time I’m done.”

.

.

.

Your heart had been racing since he hung up.

You did what he told you—stayed in his shirt, bare and mind spinning. The silence after the call was deafening, filled only by the distant ticking of the clock and the heavy thump of your pulse in your ears. Every second that passed just built up the tension, the anticipation.

Then came the knock. Sharp. Urgent.

Before you could fully process it, you were already moving, bare feet against the floor, hand trembling slightly as you reached for the door. You opened it—

And then you couldn’t even breathe.

Because Seongje didn’t say a word.

He didn’t smirk.

Didn’t greet you.

He grabbed you.

One arm snaked around your waist and shoved you inside as his other hand slammed the door shut behind him. The next thing you knew, your back hit the wall with a dull thud and your breath caught in your throat. His mouth was right there—hovering, dangerous, lips parted just slightly as his eyes scanned you, slow and hungry.

“You’re so fucking bold, huh?” he breathed out, voice low and rasped with restraint. “Wearing my shirt, sending me that shit during a meeting?” He laughed, but it wasn’t amused—it was dark, crazy, hungry.

His hands slid under the hem of the shirt, fingers grazing your bare skin. “You think I wouldn’t lose my fucking mind the second I saw that? You wanted me like this, didn’t you?”

You barely managed a word before his lips ghosted over yours—close enough to feel, not close enough to satisfy.

He smirked, tilting his head. “You gonna answer me, or you already too dumb to think?”

One of his legs slid between yours, pressing in just enough to make you shift, and his grip on your waist tightened.

“I rushed here,” he muttered, eyes dropping to your lips. “Didn’t even end the meeting with Baekjin. Just got up and left like a fucking maniac.”

Then, a pause—his eyes flicked back up to yours.

“Now you’re gonna pay for it.”

And with that, Seongje crashed his lips into yours like a wave breaking against a cliff—unrelenting, wild, needy. There was no softness in the way he kissed you, just raw heat and the taste of revenge for the hell you’d put him through. His hands gripped your hips with bruising force, pulling you flush against him like he couldn’t stand a single inch of space between your bodies.

You gasped into his mouth, and he took it as an opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding past your lips with a growl low in his throat. He tasted like mint and something darker—bitten-back frustration, lust sharpened into chaos. The wall was cold at your back, but Seongje’s body was burning.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered against your lips, breathless as he kissed down the side of your jaw, his voice ragged. “Do you know what you did to me?”

You whimpered when his teeth grazed your neck, and he chuckled—completely unhinged and loving it.

“You remember what I said on the phone?”

You nodded, breath shaky. “Y-Yeah.”

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear as he whispered, voice dark and dangerous.

“Good. ‘Cause I’m about to do every single fucking thing I promised.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you again—his grin crooked, pupils blown wide, hair falling into his eyes.

“And baby, I hope you’ve got all night.”

Before you could even catch your breath, Seongje grabbed you by the back of the thighs and lifted you with ease. You yelped, arms instinctively wrapping around his shoulders as he carried you through the hallway like you weighed nothing, his mouth still attacking your neck with feverish kisses and the occasional bite that made your toes curl.

“You’re mine tonight,” he growled into your skin, lips dragging hot along your collarbone. “Mine to ruin, mine to fuck senseless, mine to hear screaming my name.”

He kicked the bedroom door open with his foot and didn’t slow down. The second your back hit the mattress, he was on you—hovering over you with that look in his eyes. That manic, beautiful kind of obsession that made your stomach twist and your thighs clench.

His hands yanked the shirt open, buttons popping and scattering across the sheets as he groaned at the sight underneath. “Fuck… just like that, baby. Just like I imagined.”

He didn’t give you a second to speak before pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, the other sliding down your body like he owned every inch of it.

“Remember what I said?” he rasped, lips ghosting over your jaw as his knee nudged your thighs apart. “How I’d pin you down, leave this shirt on, and make you beg?”

You nodded, chest heaving, lips parted in anticipation.

Seongje smirked—feral, cocky, dripping with heat. “Good. Then shut up and take it.”

And then he kissed you again—hard—as his body sank down against yours.

He didn’t waste time.

With your wrists still pinned above your head, Seongje leaned down and dragged his tongue slowly along the side of your neck, letting out a low, guttural groan that vibrated against your skin.

“Look at you,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Already squirming and I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

His free hand slid between your legs, palm pressing against the heat there through barely-there fabric. You bucked your hips up instinctively, but he just pressed harder—teasing.

“Uh-uh,” he clicked his tongue. “You don’t get to be impatient. You started this, baby. You don’t get to rush now.”

He kissed down your chest, nipping and licking as he went, only pulling away to rip the last remaining layer from your body like it offended him. His shirt hung open on your body, collar half-off your shoulder as you writhed beneath him, and he looked up at you with a crooked grin and wild eyes.

“God, you look so fucking good like this,” he muttered, sliding two fingers along your folds. “So wet for me already—were you touching yourself before I got here?”

Your breath hitched, and that was answer enough.

He laughed—deep and amused, but dark. “You’re unbelievable,” he growled,

Then his fingers sank into you—slow but deep, and you gasped, hips lifting off the bed, only for his palm to slam down on your thigh to hold you still.

“Stay the fuck down,” he snarled, pace quickening. “I said I’d make you beg, didn’t I?”

He curled his fingers just right, brushing that spot inside you that made your vision blur, and you cried out his name.

Seongje leaned down, licking over your bottom lip before biting it. “That’s it. Moan louder. Let the whole damn neighborhood know who’s making you feel this good.”

His fingers picked up a brutal rhythm, and you were already close—your body shaking, nerves on fire, your moans getting desperate.

But just when you were about to fall apart, he pulled away.

“Wha—Seongje!”

He smirked, licking his fingers slow. “Tasted too good to let you cum that easy, babe.”

Your body was trembling—slick, sensitive, and on the edge of unraveling. Every nerve screamed for release, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps as you looked up at him, eyes glassy with need.

But Seongje just watched you for a second—his head tilted, lips parted slightly, pupils blown so wide you could barely see the brown in his eyes anymore. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, the veins in his forearms flexing as he braced himself above you, hand still glistening from your arousal.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and ruined, almost awed. “Completely wrecked and I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

He leaned in, dragging his fingers up your thigh—slow, deliberate, possessive. “You feel that?” he asked, letting two fingers press lightly against your core again, not pushing in this time, just resting there to tease. “All this wet, this mess… this is mine.”

You whimpered, hips twitching, eyes begging for more.

That crooked, cocky smirk returned to his face—half dangerous, half starving. He leaned closer, his nose brushing yours.

“Good,” he whispered, his voice like silk over steel. “Because I’m about to ruin you.”

Then, finally, he sat up just enough to reach down—and with slow, sharp precision, undid his belt. The leather unbuckled with a soft snap, followed by the low clink of metal that made your breath hitch. His eyes never left yours as he slid the belt out of its loops, letting it drop to the floor with a heavy thud.

“I’ve been thinking about this since the second you sent that photo,” he muttered, his tone dark and husky. “And now that I’ve got you right where I want you…”

His fingers trailed down your chest again, this time with intent.

“Now I’m gonna fuck you like I promised”

He shoved his pants down just far enough to free himself, thick and already rock hard, veins prominent, tip flushed and glistening. The sight alone made your thighs tremble—and Seongje noticed.

“Shit, you’re shaking already?” he huffed out a laugh, gripping himself at the base and giving a slow, teasing stroke while watching your every twitch. “Poor baby. You gonna cry when I stretch you out?”

Your breath caught, and he grinned like the devil.

He settled between your legs, grabbing your thighs and dragging you down the bed until your hips were at the edge of the mattress. “Keep those eyes on me,” he growled, lining himself up. “I wanna see your face when I slide into this perfect pussy.”

And then—fuck—he pushed in.

He didn’t go slow. No warning. No mercy.

You gasped—back arching, mouth falling open—as he bottomed out in one deep, possessive thrust that stole every thought from your head.

“Shit,” Seongje groaned, voice cracking with restraint. “You’re so fucking tight—gripping me like you missed this.”

He gave you no time to adjust. He pulled back and snapped his hips forward again, setting a brutal rhythm that made the bed frame slam into the wall and your moans turn to choked cries.

One hand grabbed your throat—not squeezing, just resting there, claiming—and the other pressed down on your hip, pinning you in place as he fucked into you like a man possessed.

“This what you wanted, huh?” he growled between ragged breaths. “You wear my shirt, send me that filthy little pic while I’m in a fucking meeting, knowing damn well I’d lose my mind?”

His hips slammed into yours harder.

“You wanted this,” he hissed, leaning down, sweat-slicked skin against yours. “Wanted me out of my mind, fucking you into the mattress like an animal.”

You couldn’t even answer—just desperate moans and breathless nods as he ruined you in the best way possible. Seongje kissed you again—biting your lip this time, tongue sliding hot and needy into your mouth as he fucked you through every word he promised on that call.

“I told you,” he whispered against your lips. “You were gonna regret teasing me.”

Then he slammed into you again, and again—and you knew…You were going to feel this for days.

"Fuck– seongje.."

You were already falling apart—legs shaking, throat hoarse from moaning his name like a prayer, your nails digging into the sheets for any kind of grounding. But Seongje wasn’t even close to done.

He could feel your walls fluttering around him, could see the way your eyes were rolling back just before you came—and he loved it.

“Fuck—there it is,” he hissed, grabbing your jaw and forcing you to look at him. “Cum for me. Right now.”

And you did.

Your body arched violently, pleasure crashing through you in waves, pulse pounding in your ears, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity of it all.

But Seongje didn’t stop.

“Ah—wait—!” you gasped, trembling beneath him, overstimulated and still twitching.

“Oh no, sweetheart,” he growled, voice rough and wrecked as he kept thrusting into your oversensitive core. “You’re not done. I said I was gonna ruin you, remember?”

He was relentless—slamming into you at a punishing pace, watching your face twist in pleasure-laced agony. Your hands scrambled for his arms, anything to slow him down, but he grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head again.

“Take it,” he snarled, sweat dripping from his temple as he leaned in.

You were babbling now—words lost, cries spilling from your throat as the overstimulation pushed you past the edge again, this orgasm hitting harder, shaking your entire body.

“Fucking hell,” Seongje gasped, eyes dark, wild, obsessed. “You’re still clenching—shit, you like this, don’t you? Getting fucked dumb—my perfect little mess.”

You didn’t know how you had anything left to give. Your body felt like it had been set on fire and then thrown into bliss—shaking, overstimulated, soaked. But when Seongje leaned over you again, sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes, lips brushing against your jaw, you couldn’t help the way your hips lifted for him again.

“Good fucking girl,” he breathed, kissing the side of your face, still grinding into you—slower now, but deeper, cruel in how perfectly he hit that spot that made you cry out. “Still moving for me. You’re so damn pretty when you break.”

Your hands fumbled up his back, weak and twitching, fingers digging into his slick skin. “Seongje—s’too much—gonna—”

“One more,” he panted against your lips. “Just one more, baby. C’mon. Let me feel you fall apart one more time.”

And when he snaked a hand down between your bodies to rub your overstimulated clit—fast, precise, unforgiving—you screamed.

It hit hard, too hard—your thighs clamped around him, your body arching off the mattress like you’d been shocked, and your voice cracked into a sob as you came with a force that made everything go white.

Seongje cursed under his breath—“Fuck, fuck, that’s it—” and with one last, deep thrust, he buried himself inside you and came hard, groaning your name like it was the only thing keeping him together.

He stayed there for a moment—both of you breathless, tangled, and shaking—before he finally moved.

“Shit,” he murmured, brushing sweaty strands of hair from your forehead. His tone had changed now—lower, softer, laced with something achingly tender. “You okay, baby?”

You could barely nod, your voice gone, lips parted in a dazed smile.

Seongje pulled out slowly—whispering apologies as you whimpered at the sensitivity—and then reached down, gently wiping between your legs with the shirt he’d thrown off earlier. He kissed your thighs afterward like they were sacred, then crawled up beside you, arms wrapping around your spent body.

“Damn… look at you,” he whispered into your hair, pulling the blanket over both of you. “You’re everything”

His lips pressed against your forehead.

“I got you. Always.”

And he held you close, fingers tracing soft circles into your back as your heartbeat slowed, the world quieting into warmth and safety in his arms.

You didn’t know how long you lay there wrapped in him—your cheek pressed to his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, his fingers lazily combing through your hair. You’d melted into him completely, your body boneless and buzzing in the aftermath.

“You still breathing, princess?” Seongje murmured with a soft laugh, brushing a kiss to your temple.

You made a noise that was somewhere between a hum and a whimper.

“Didn’t mean to wreck you that bad,” he teased, shifting slightly so he could look down at you. “Actually… nah. I did. You looked so fucking good begging under me, baby.”

He grinned as you weakly smacked his chest, then caught your hand and kissed your knuckles. “Alright, alright. You earned it. Stay right here.”

Before you could argue, he was already sliding out of bed, grabbing a pair of joggers and padding out of the room—muttering something about "taking care of his girl."

Ten minutes later, he came back with a tray: cold water, your favorite snack, a warm damp towel, and the softest oversized hoodie he owned.

He placed the tray carefully beside you, then sat on the bed and opened his arms. “C’mere, baby.”

You let him pull you into his lap, hoodie first, then a kiss on your cheek, then he fed you a bite of the snack with a satisfied smile like he’d just scored a victory.

“You looked so pretty in my shirt earlier,” he said between sips of water he handed you. “But this look?” He ran a hand down your bare thigh, where it peeked out from under his hoodie. “Post-sex glow, legs shaking, wearing my clothes—fuck, I’m obsessed with you.”

You laughed tiredly, cheeks burning. “You’re ridiculous.”

Seongje grinned. “Only for you.”

He nuzzled into your neck, breathing you in, arms wrapped tight around you as he whispered, “No one else gets this. No one else gets you. I’m gonna take care of you so well, baby. Always.”

And he meant it.

Because to Seongje, spoiling you wasn’t just about snacks or kisses—it was about worshipping you in every way. Even if that meant holding you for hours, stroking your hair until you fell asleep against his chest, protected and loved, exactly where you belonged.

[science-hoes]

Safe & Sound

Jack Abbot x Reader

Warnings: PTSD, panic attack, hallucinations, graphic descriptions

Description: A stormy night in Pittsburgh causes Jack Abbot to fall into a PTSD-induced psychosis episode, and the reader does everything in her power to bring him back.

Jack Abbot Masterlist

——

The night shift was slow in the Pitt (but you didn’t dare mention it aloud). Aside from traumas coming in by ambulance, there weren’t many patients in Chairs. Nobody wanted to go out in the severe weather that night. The winds howled against the building, creating ghostly whispers with the rain that slapped concrete.

You were fascinated by the unusual weather. Usually, if it stormed at all, it was quick with little fanfare. But the system moving across Pennsylvania tonight had every local news station showcasing their meteorologists like it was coverage for the Olympics. In fact, that’s what the TVs in Chairs had on constant loop since you arrived for your shift.

Gloria had reminded everyone at shift change of the protocols in case of severe weather, usually reserved for blizzards. Backup generators, spare on-call rooms, yada yada yada.

But the storm outside was majestic. So dangerous yet so powerful. Something about it intrigued your deepest curiosity. You could only see the flashes of lightning from the exit to the ambulance bay, but the growling thunder supplied a nonstop soundtrack for your shift.

“We’ve got a high school basketball player coming in via ambulance after passing out during a game. He’s conscious again after some IV fluids but still needs some electrolyte labs and monitoring. About five minutes out.” The charge nurse snapped you out of your daydreaming.

You quickly sat up and nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll head on out there.” You replied.

The nurse raised an eyebrow. “You mean in that hurricane?” She questioned.

You shrugged, standing up from your desk. “I’ll stay under the bay. Don’t want them to get lost in all this rain.” You joked.

The doors to the ambulance bay glided open as you approached them. You snatched a sterile gown and tied it loosely around your waist. Finally, you were able to stand outside and watch the storm. The sky lit up with magnificent cracks of lightning followed by rolling thunder, and the rain was thick enough to blur the bar across the street, only its neon “OPEN” sign visible.

You heard the automatic whirring of the doors behind you, along with wet footsteps trudging through the tiny river formed by the slope of the bay combined with heavy rain. “You’re gonna catch a cold if you wait out here.” The voice warned.

You peaked over your shoulder to see Jack Abbot wrapping a sterile gown around his waist to match yours. You rolled your eyes. “Thanks for the advice, grandpa.” You teased.

Jack scoffed, coming forward to stand beside you. He assumed his usual soldier stance, broad chest puffed out, arms crossed behind his back, head held high. “I’m not old enough to be a grandpa.” He defended.

You smirked, admiring the way the lightning in the sky reflected off his silver curls. “You look like you are though.”

Another look of disbelief washed over his face, his mouth agape at your audacity and those whiskey eyes rolling back. You couldn’t tell if he was seriously offended or not. “I look exactly my age.” He said.

“Which is…?”

“Classified.”

You giggled, and he couldn’t help but smile as his eyes remained fixed on the path to the ambulance bay. The red lights of the rig danced off the pools of rain in the street as it approached. The sirens were nearly masked by the looming thunder. Suddenly, the wind picked up, blowing the rain horizontally. You screeched as the freezing water drenched you head to toe in a matter of seconds, but laughed at the cathartic feeling. Jack held his hands over his forehead, trying to shield his eyes, a practiced maneuver he learned for billowing sand instead of water.

“It’s just some water, you won’t melt!” He called out to you, his voice fighting to be heard against the gusts of wind.

You flashed a grin at him and hurried over to the ambulance as it rolled under the cover. “Come on, old man!” You yelled back.

The EMTs hopped out and pulled the gurney out of the back, trying to work quickly in the rain. Within seconds, it was clear that speed had no benefit in the situation. Every single person, including the young patient, were soaked from the monsoon.

As you introduced yourself to the basketball player, a flash of lightning, more brilliant than the others, nearly blinded you. The ensuing sound wasn’t like the rumbling thunder that had plagued the night, but more of a deafening crackle. After you regained your senses from the sensory overload, you could see the flag pole sizzling, burning hot at the top.

“Holy shit!” You screamed, standing straight after realizing your body naturally cowered to the ground in response.

The rain had plastered your hair to your face, obstructing your view, so your hands gripped onto the metal rail of the gurney as you helped push it inside. “Let’s go!” You screamed, leading the way to the automatic doors.

Once you were out of the rain, you swiped the hair over your forehead and gave a smile to your patient. “Sorry about that!” You said. “We don’t usually waterboard our patients before treating them.” You teased.

The kid laughed and wiped the water off his face. “It actually felt pretty good. I was really hot.” He replied, but you noticed the shivers hitting his body from the cold air of the Pitt.

You pushed the gurney with the EMTs into Central Three at the instruction of the charge nurse. “Are you cold, baby?” You asked the patient, using the same term of endearment that you used with all pediatric patients.

He nodded. “Yeah, just a little.” He underplayed, his teeth involuntarily chattering.

You tilted your head to the outside of the room. “I’ll go get you a warm blanket.” You offered.

The rest of the team began to help the kid move to the hospital bed, and you began your journey to the linens closet. You turned the corner to the secluded room in the corner, a bit inconvenient when every room had to have new sheets after every patient.

The scanner beeped at the proximity of your badge when you pulled it from its reel, and the lock illuminated green to grant you access. You opened the door and stepped in, making a beeline for the coarse, white blankets.

But you heard breathing. Loud breathing. Fast breathing. In the darkness, only illuminated by a distant fluorescent light, you spotted a body slumped in the corner of the room. When you stepped forward, the squeak of your Hokas on the wet floor alerted him. His head snapped up.

You saw a ghost. Pale, clammy skin. Eyes blown wide. Breathing anything but normal. But you recognized the reflection of the silver hair in the light.

“Doctor Abbot?” You called his name, unsure if the apparition was truly your stoic attending.

His breathing was staggered but quick. Too quick. “I think I was hit.” He grunted.

You noticed his hands putting pressure on his abdomen. You ran to his side and placed your hands over his, still beaded with raindrops. “Let me see.” You ordered. “From the rig?”

His hands only pressed down harder, refusing to let you move them away from his injury. “No, no. It needs pressure.”

“Doctor Abbot, please move your hands so I can help you.” You demanded, your tone hardening.

He shook his head, grunting through pain, sweat and rain dripping from his forehead. You grabbed his wrists, trying to pry them, but your strength was nothing compared to his. “I can’t. I can’t.” He mumbled over and over.

You finally grabbed his face, squeezing firmly on either stubbled cheek. “Jack. Look at me. I need you to listen to me. I’m going to help you.” You said. “But you have to let me.”

Jack’s bronze eyes focused on yours, looking for any signs of danger, any signs of an enemy. Finally, he reached up with one hand to your wrist and pulled it down to where his other clutched his abdomen. You peeled the damp black shirt up, revealing rippled muscles and stainless steel dog tags hanging around his neck. In another situation, you would have spent an eternity trying to memorize each toned crease of his upper body.

He hissed at the air exposure, throat flexing his Adam’s apple to hold in yelps of pain. But the further you went up, the more you realized what was going on. He had been putting pressure on a deep, ragged scar. One that was no longer pink but beginning to blend into its surroundings, stretched like a lightning bolt across his skin, twisting and turning, mirroring the ones in the night sky. The pads of your fingers brushed against the slightly raised marks, and Jack let out a strangled cry of pain.

“Jack.” You breathed.

But he wouldn’t look at you. His chest heaved, and you knew he was going to get dizzy from hyperventilating. He clutched the dog tags around his neck.

“My name is Lieutenant Colonel Jackson Abbot. I was with the-“ he cut himself off at another wave of pain. “O Neg. I’m…I’m O Neg.”

“Jack. Baby, look at me.” You tried the term of endearment like you did with pediatric patients, just like you did with the patient back in Central Two.

No change. The sounds leaving his lips were desperate and frightened. Finally, you grabbed his face again, forcing him to look in your eyes. You could see that he was far, far away. Not in this place. Not in this time. A psychosis episode.

“I saw…I saw Simmons. He got hit in the neck, and…” He trembled, voice cracking like a teenage boy’s.

“No, Jack. No. You’re here with me. We are in Pittsburgh. We’re at work.” But your words fell on his deaf ears.

You felt powerless in that moment as well. You were an emergency room resident for fuck’s sake, but you had never seen a PTSD-induced psychosis episode, not like this. Standard protocol would’ve been an injection of haloperidol to reduce hallucinations and alleviate his agitation. To sedate him. But that would draw administrative attention to Jack, and something deep in your chest told you to keep this as private as possible.

Without wasting another second, you took in a deep breath to your chest, expanded your soft palette, and began to sing.

Just close your eyes

The sun is doing down

You brushed your thumb up and down his grizzled cheek in the same tempo as your words. Jack didn’t react to the touch, but his eyes fixated on your mouth as your lips moved.

You’ll be alright

No one can hurt you now

Your other hand came to rest on his bare chest, over his heart, icy hands sending a shiver across his warm skin.

Come morning light

You and I’ll be safe

And

Sound

Your soft mezzo voice drifted away in the silence of the room. Jack’s breaths had more depth now, more consistency. His glassy eyes reminded you of a recently passed patient, devoid of life and emotion. But he wasn’t hyperventilating anymore.

Just when you thought he might be coming back to your reality, he reached into the pocket of his cargo pants. With tears in his eyes, a new addition to his wrecked appearance, he handed you a concealed pocket knife. “I need to to stab me in the foot.” He whispered in between pained grunts.

You shook your head, pushing his hand away. “Jack, I told you. Listen to me. You are in Pittsburgh, and-“

“I know where I fucking am!” He cut you off through clenched teeth, threatening to crack at the sheer force. “I have a prosthetic right foot, and I need you to stab it like it’s a fucking snake. I need to see you do it.”

The desperation in his voice was unsettling as he shoved his pocket knife back to your grasp. You hesitated for a moment, but his next cry of pain spurred you into action. You took the knife from his hand, brushing your fingers against his rough knuckles, and switched the blade out of its safety position.

“Right foot.” You said aloud as your oriented yourself to make sure you didn’t slice the wrong foot.

You reached for the hem of his right pant leg to expose his leg, but Jack jerked back. “No!” He snapped. “It doesn’t work if you do that. Just stab my foot.”

What a fucking crazy situation. His chest heaved, dog tags glistening in the dim fluorescent light. The look in his eyes would haunt your dreams forever. The pain, the desperation, the helplessness.

Finally, you drew your arm up and came down with a searing force, the blade slicing through his shoe and coming to an abrupt halt as it met the titanium inside.

Jack let out a groan that you could only describe as orgasmic, the tension in his body dissipating. Your hand trembled as it let go of the pocket knife, stuck in his foot like an axe in a tree. Just like he said, it was a prosthetic. No blood, no additional yelps of pain.

Tears fell down your cheeks, and you took in a deep breath that you had been depriving yourself of. Then another. And another. And before you knew it, you were crying in full force.

Jack stared at you through heavily hooded eyes for a few moments, but then he reached out a shaking hand. “Come here.” He breathed. “Please.”

Wordlessly, you accepted his offer. He wrapped his arm tightly around you, concealing you against his warm body. For the first time since you entered the room, you realized how cold you were from your soaked scrubs and cold hospital air. One of your arms wrapped around his back, and the other rested on his shoulder. The hot tears from your face began to roll his chest, a sensation that helped ground him further.

When your own cries began to wane, Jack grasped your hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry I made you do that.” He whispered, pulling your knuckles to his lips.

Your eyes remained fixed on his foot, pocket knife sticking out. A sight you had seen in many other patients before for one reason or another. But not like this. Usually in a real foot.

You had heard about stories like this before. Amputees needing mirror therapy or acupuncture to get rid of phantom pain. Once before, an old attending of yours from med school told a story about a veteran who needed his prosthesis stabbed to confirm that it wasn’t real, that he couldn’t feel the pain.

Jack shifted, reaching for his right pant leg, and pulled up. You moved out of his embrace, away from him. He froze, eyes fixed on you like a hawk.

“Please.” He whispered, with a desperation that differed from his tone earlier. “Don’t leave.”

Your eyes met his, and it was a new vulnerability that you had never seen before. Like he was scared. Not psychosis-induced.

“I’m not going to leave you alone.” You promised, and moved back to the opposite end of him, settling on your knees at his feet. “Can I help you?” Your fingers brushed at the hem of his cargo pants.

Jack let out an exhale of relief and slumped against the wall again, tension leaving his shoulders. His silence was confirmation. Slowly, you rolled the wet fabric up, up, up. Until metal ended and his skin began, around his knee. There was an obvious strap that kept the prosthesis in place, and you tugged it loose. Carefully, you removed the artificial limb, and he let out a slow exhale as the pressure changed.

You realized that most of the prosthesis was a socket for his shin, that his amputation was below the midline of his tibia. He absentmindedly reached for the prosthesis, and you handed it to him so he could set it aside. Your hands hovered over the newly exposed skin.

“Does it hurt?” You asked.

Jack sighed. “Just aching. It always aches.” He mumbled.

Your eyes flicked up to meet his. “Can I…?”

A question you couldn’t finish. You didn’t know how. It felt weird to ask. Bordering inappropriate or offensive. But still he nodded, knowing the end to your intimate request.

Your fingers slid against his skin, pushing deeper and deeper. Massaging the truncated muscles. Kneading against the scar line from the closure. The tiniest sounds of relief fell from his lips, and if you had listened closely enough, not as focused on helping him feel better, you would have heard your name involuntarily falling from his lips like a prayer.

“Am I hurting you?” You asked, unable to decipher his sounds of pain from pleasure.

Jack shook his head, swallowing hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “No.” His voice was hoarse. “No, it feels…”

He wanted to say ‘good.’ But the truth was that it didn’t. It still hurt. Still ached. But not as intensely. You were numbing him. Distracting him. Pushing the pain into different areas to give the hotspots a break.

“I was discharged six years ago…” He breathed.

You shook your head. “No. You don’t have to explain.”

“We were away from camp. Routine checks in the field. Then, an IED…” He swallowed hard. “I didn’t know what had happened at first. I didn’t have a seatbelt, so I was thrown from the Jeep. Simmons was, too. The rest of them…they burned.”

You had halted your soothing hand motions unconsciously, listening to every word, every breath like your life depended on it.

“Simmons had shrapnel to the neck. Carotid was lacerated.” His voice began to shake again. “I was the only survivor.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Jack didn’t look at you, just stared up at the ceiling, trying to forget the memories he recited to you. His hand traced over the wretched scar that slithered across his abdomen, his fingertips brushing against the uneven skin.

“I heard an explosion tonight, and…I was there again. In the sand. Bleeding out.”

The confirmation to your diagnosis. PTSD-induced psychosis. In that moment, you were grateful you hadn’t gone to get help. You weren’t equipped to handle the situation yourself, but…

“And you brought me back.” His voice cut through your thoughts. “With that siren call.”

Jack had that half smile on his face, the one you had seen only a handful of times when he thought you weren’t looking after he’d whispered praise for a risky procedure. Your heart skipped a beat, but you matched his smile sincerely.

“Music makes new paths in the brain. I thought I could reach you that way.” You explained.

His lips pulled up until his smile was complete this time. “Like a fucking angel.” He mused. “Grabbing my deformed ass from hell.”

The compliment seeped into your chest, and you knew he could see your blush in the low light. In a surge of bravery, you leaned down until your lips brushed again his knee, searing a kiss against the skin. Then another, a little lower on his shin. Another below that. And one more on the ridged scar.

His breath shuddered at the foreign contact, and you felt him shift under your touch. Your name passed his lips, louder this time, in the same cadence of his prayer from earlier. Your doe eyes locked on his as you pressed a final kiss on his scar.

“You are not deformed.” You scolded, rubbing a hand up his shin. “You’re perfect.”

—

A/N: Thank you for reading!! This will probably end up being a two-part fic with the second part being more focused on the reader reminding Jack how beautiful his body still is, if you know what I mean 🤭😮‍💨

[marvelishmanda]

For You, Exactly As You Are

You wake up tired, scroll bad news until it blurs. Answer emails, jaw clenched tight— or can’t even bear to look.

You say “I’m fine” with three tabs open—rent, repair, relief— and one on how to sleep through the stress, or how not to sleep all the time.

You forget. You snap. You soften. You try again.

If you are carrying children, parents, partners— meals, medications, moods— and no one asks how you’re doing, this is me asking.

Not just if you’re managing. If you’re okay. If you’ve been held, or fed, or even seen.

How are you, really?

If your brain jumps tracks mid-sentence, mid-plan, mid-dream— if the dishes feel impossible, if you forgot again and hate yourself for it— please hear this: you are not alone. Not at all.

This world wasn’t built for minds like yours, but that doesn’t mean yours is wrong. It means you’ve been trying to bloom through cracked concrete, drinking whatever rain you could reach, and still—still—you flowered.

If the world was made for standing without thinking, for walking without fear, for climbing stairs without pain, for seeing every sign, for hearing every word—

If holding a pen, a fork, a steering wheel costs more energy than you have, if you measure your day in spoons left, not hours passed—

you are not broken. You are not a burden. The burden is stairs with no ramp, streets that swallow wheels, silence when you ask for help.

If rest feels dangerous, if joy feels stolen, if you’re so used to pushing through you forgot how to just be— you’re not the only one.

The world wasn’t built for you. Not for most of us, was it? But you are here anyway, making it work how you can.

That is not failure. That is survival. That is a kind of brilliance.

You are not failing. You are not falling behind. You are responding to a world that punishes tenderness.

And still— you are kind. You are trying. You are here.

If you wonder whether I mean you, I do. Even if the voice says "not me," I still do.

Come as you are: tired, tangled, beautiful.

You don’t have to fix yourself to deserve rest. You don’t have to be better to be loved.

You already are loved.

Still.

Still.

[capaic]

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[srjsteel]

Should Dowel Bars Be Used in Rural Road Construction?

Rural roads are more than just pathways—they’re lifelines. They carry not only vehicles but also the hopes of farmers, the daily commute of schoolchildren, and the pulse of local economies. Yet too often, these roads tell a familiar story: endless repairs, unexpected cracks, and surfaces that don't last a season. Harsh weather, poor drainage, and weak construction joints take a silent but steady toll. This is where solutions like dowel bars and HR coils become crucial—not as afterthoughts, but as essentials for building roads that endure.

Why Rural Roads Fail Differently

Unlike urban highways, rural pavements often suffer not due to traffic overload but from improper joint handling. Many fail not because of high volume but because of what lies beneath—unstable subgrades, erratic water tables, and inconsistent slab bonding. This leads to joint deterioration, faulting, and slab displacement, quietly eroding the strength of the pavement over time.

The Role of Dowel Bars in Road Longevity

Dowel bars in road construction address the core of this issue—they offer a stable connection between adjacent slabs, enabling them to share loads evenly. This means when a wheel crosses a joint, the load doesn’t fall entirely on one side. Instead, it’s distributed, reducing stress concentration and minimizing wear. For roads that see tractors one day and water tankers the next, that’s a game-changer.

How HR Coils Complement the Structure

What adds even more resilience is when HR coils are introduced into the slab framework. Known for their tensile strength and flexibility, HR coils help the concrete accommodate temperature fluctuations and minor ground movements without cracking. Together, dowel bars and HR coils form a structural duo—one anchors, the other flexes.

Why It Matters for Rural Settings

The synergy is particularly vital in rural settings where monsoons swell the soil and winters harden it. Roads built without these reinforcements often display early signs of slab shifting and joint misalignment. In contrast, those using dowel bars in road designs maintain their geometry for years, with only minimal maintenance required.

A prime example lies in rural Karnataka, where test sections using dowel bar-jointed slabs showed 40% fewer cracks after three years compared to traditional methods. Engineers on site observed reduced faulting even with consistent agricultural vehicle movement. These are real-world outcomes—not theoretical assumptions.

Dispelling the Cost Myth

Still, there’s hesitation. Some believe dowel bars are suited only for expressways or expensive urban projects. But modern civil engineering proves otherwise. With newer installation methods and modular reinforcement designs, rural contractors can adopt these systems without overshooting budgets. What once seemed "overbuilt" now fits smartly into cost-effective, sustainable planning.

In fact, the upfront investment in dowel bars and HR coils translates to fewer repairs, reduced downtime, and lower life-cycle costs. Instead of spending on patch-ups every monsoon, the funds can go toward road extensions or drainage improvements. For local authorities working with limited resources, that shift is monumental.

More Than Materials—It's a Commitment

Beyond the technical benefits lies an emotional one—reliability. Villagers begin to trust a road that doesn't disintegrate under their daily journeys. Children reach school safely. Farmers deliver produce on time. That’s not just engineering—that’s impact.

So, should dowel bars be used in rural road construction? Without a doubt. Their presence ensures that roads don’t just exist—they endure. When paired with HR coils, the result is a reinforced promise: a path built not just to connect but to last.

Conclusion

Rural roads deserve more than makeshift fixes. They need structural foresight. Dowel bars and HR coils offer that foresight—a solution rooted in strength, experience, and long-term value. These elements transform vulnerable stretches into robust lifelines, empowering rural communities to thrive with confidence. The next time a road is planned in a village, let it be more than just concrete. Let it be commitment, reinforced.

[littlejoels]

you’re already halfway out the truck, facing the empty and abandoned gas station before joel even cuts the engine, heels clicking on the cracked concrete, that playful sway in your hips. your skirt flutters indecent with every step, barely skimming the bottom curve of your ass. you don’t fix it, you kinda like knowing he’s staring.

“joel, baby, i want snacks,” you call over your shoulder.

his boots hit the ground behind you, in a familiar rhythm; you don’t even have to look—his eyes are crawling up your legs, his jaw clicking, fingers flexing like he’s trying really hard not to grab you right here in the lot. “ain’t no snacks left, darlin’. this place’s picked clean.”

you know the shelves’ll be bare, the air stale and hot, every cooler warm and humming useless, their contents long expired or long gone. doesn’t stop you from pushing open the door, bell above it long dead, just a dusty jingle of chain. inside smelled like heat and baked plastic, motor oil and cigarettes. your flipflops slap across the tile, the hem of your tee lifting.

you hum to yourself. “i’m gonna find a magazine. something about fashion or porn.” joel chuckles behind you, that low gravelled sound that melts straight down your spine.

“you got a whole stack in the backseat already, sugar puss. ain’t enough to keep that pretty head of yours busy?”

you bend lowly under the faded rack of dusty paperbacks and old celebrity mags, ass tipped high in the air. joel's presence was a fiery heat at your back and when you weren't paying attention, his hand lands square on your ass, the sound loud in the dead space of the station, echoing off empty aisles. your breath catches, eyes wide as you whip your head around with a scandalized gasp. “joel!”

he’s grins, ardor feeling his eyes. “you bend like that again, and we ain’t makin’ it back to the truck, sweetheart.”

you straighten up, legs now a little weaker than they were two minutes ago. you pull a magazine from the rack—something with a half-naked man on the cover, water-streaked abs and dead eyes—and hold it up like a prize. “i found one, i love it.”

joel’s already wandering down a different aisle, fingers brushing dusty cans and half-torn wrappers. nothing edible, nothing useful, all ruin.

you trail after him, still sipping from the cherry soda you brought with you; the coolness of it pops sharp on your tongue, sugary and cloying, and you suck it slow, letting the bottle linger between your lips just to see the tick in joel’s jaw when he turns and catches the show.

“you’re a menace,” he mutters eyes glued to your mouth.“i know,” you sing, batting your lashes. “but you like it, baby. don't forget. that part”

his hand finds your waist before you even notice, thumb grazing your skin as he presses you into the empty shelf. “you tryin’ to rile me up out here in the middle of nowhere?”

you glance up at him through your lashes, lips glossy, teeth catching on your bottom one. “maybe i’m bored. maybe i need a distraction.” joel’s hand dips lower, gripping you. “let’s find somewhere quiet,” you whisper, wrapping your fingers around his wrist, dragging his palm down the front of your skirt. "so i can read to you."

he groans loudly as you press your lips to his neck, breath ghosting over his skin.

“you like my stories, don’t you, baby?” joel’s hand fists in your hair. “i like your mouth.”

the station has a bathroom in back, door hanging crooked on broken hinges, floor cracked, mirror spiderwebbed and rust-flecked, the usual in an abandoned gas station.

you toss your magazine onto the cracked sink, already reaching for the hem of your shirt, peeling it up slow, bra catching and lifting your tits high and round, begging to be touched. you then hop up on the counter, spread your leg allowing your short skirt to bunch around your waist, the glint of your panties .

“you gonna read this one with me?” you ask, curling a finger at him. “or do you want me to read it to you while you’re busy?”

he doesn’t even answer—just starts undoing his belt. well, that’s answer enough for how you’ll be spending the rest of the trip, isn’t it?

special tags: @inbred-eater , @carmysdoll , @lowrisemiller, @bluemerakis

[dollyfiles]

showing up to boxer!rafe’s final match even though you two are already broken up

cw: fluffy angst, exes, past relationship, regrets, comfort

you told yourself you weren’t gonna go.

swore up and down you’d stay home, maybe check the results online later, maybe watch a highlight reel on instagram if you were feeling nostalgic or bored or whatever.

but when the night actually came… your body didn’t listen. your heart definitely didn’t. somehow you found yourself standing in line outside the arena, jacket sleeves pulled over your hands, nervous leg bouncing like you were the one about to step into the ring.

it had been a year. a full year since you and rafe called it quits. or, more accurately, let everything spiral until there was nothing left to hold onto.

the fights were brutal. not physical, god no, but emotional in that deep, aching kind of way. miscommunication turned to distance, distance turned to resentment, and suddenly, you two were more strangers than soulmates.

and yet. you were here. in a crowd of screaming fans, heart thudding harder than it should’ve, because no matter how things ended, a piece of you was still his biggest fan.

when he stepped into the ring, the whole place shook. his name was on every sign, every screen. people were chanting, whistling, yelling. "rafe! rafe! rafe!" they echoed like a war cry, fists in the air and feet stomping against the concrete floor. but all you could do was stare.

you hadn't seen him in a year. not in person, at least. just the occasional headline, the grainy clips of him knocking someone out in the third round, and that stupid post-fight smirk he'd flash before raising his glove. god, it used to drive you insane.

he looked the same. maybe a little leaner, sharper in the eyes. but it was still him. the same walk, the same little jaw twitch he got when he was focused, same black tape around his wrists that you used to help him wrap back when everything was still okay.

when the fight started, and you couldn’t sit still. every punch, every dodge, every hit he took made your chest tighten up. but he was good. so good. he moved like he’d been born for it. too fast, smart, ruthless but not reckless.

and when the final bell rang and the referee raised his hand, declaring rafe the winner, the new national champion, you couldn’t help it. you jumped to your feet and screamed his name like your throat didn’t hurt, like your heart hadn’t cracked a dozen times in the past year.

“let’s go, rafe!” you were clapping, screaming, smiling through the tears you didn't realize had built up. “that’s my boy!”

except… he didn’t know you were there.

of course he didn't. he hadn't heard from you in months. you'd both let it all fall apart. and by the time either of you were ready to fix it, too much damage had been done. pride had spoken louder than love.

he was doing the usual victory stuff, arms in the air, coaches clapping him on the back, cameras flashing in his face. he had that cocky little grin on, the one he used to flash at you when he caught you staring.

but then his eyes started scanning the crowd. you didn’t even realize you’d moved closer until he stopped moving. and then he froze when he had spotted you.

it was like time stopped. like the ring disappeared and the noise faded and there was just you and him, locked in this weird, charged silence across the mess around you two.

the jacket you were wearing was his. the one he gave you after your first trip to the beach, back when he was trying to pretend he wasn’t already falling. it still smelled faintly like him, even after all this time.

you saw his chest rise. fall. rise again, but slower this time. like he was trying to breathe but forgot how. and then came the look.

not the “holy shit, she’s here” kind of look. not even the “i didn’t expect this” kind. it was deeper than that. softer. almost broken. like that old wound inside him tearing open just from seeing you again.

you didn’t wave. didn’t smile. just stood there with your hands shoved into the front pocket of his old carharrt jacket, blinking back the sting in your beaming eyes.

and rafe? he didn’t look away for a second. not when his trainer tried to pull him into a post-fight interview. not when fans were screaming for his attention. not even when the lights got brighter and someone shoved the championship belt into his arms.

because for the first time in forever, your eyes were on him. only on him. and he wasn't about to look away.

he just kept staring. cause maybe, if he stared long enough, you’d come down to the ring and fall into him. or he’d wake up back in your apartment, bruises and all, with your fingers running through his hair and your voice telling him he did good.

but this wasn’t a dream. you were real. and god, it hurt him.

because he realized, in that one aching, breathless moment, that even though he’d won the fight… he might’ve already lost the only thing that ever mattered to him in the first place.

tags: @ribbonbiter @soangelbaby @bradshawed @bambiribbon @rotapathetic @rafessecret @inspiredangel @et6rnalsun @st6ined @acklesangel @nemesyaaa @rafekisser @deansbeer @littlelamy @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lacyydollette

[lilirae00]

Delay of Game - Part 1

Summary: A long-awaited reunion on game night doesn’t go as planned, but Paige and Azzi find that closeness isn’t always what they expected.

Word Count: 3.4k 

Warnings: none really. Just sexual innuendos, intimacy, and references to sex. 

Masterlist

—

It had been three weeks. Twenty-one goddamn days since Paige had last touched her. Since she’d last heard Azzi’s low, breathy moans in her ear instead of tinny through a speaker. Since she’d pressed her mouth to the curve of Azzi’s throat and felt her squirm, biting her lip to keep quiet.

Now Paige was sprawled on her Dallas couch, one bare foot braced on the coffee table, her phone angled so she could watch Azzi’s every tiny expression. 

Azzi was lying sideways in her DC bed, hair a wild mess, tank top strap slipping down her shoulder in the most distracting way.

Paige’s voice was already husky from too much grinning. “You gonna fix that strap, or are you trying to kill me?”

Azzi raised a brow but didn’t move it. “It’s comfortable like this.”

“Uh-huh.” Paige shifted on the couch, biting her lip. “Three weeks, Fudd. You’re cruel.”

Azzi smirked. “I’m not the one posting shirtless selfies from the weight room.”

Paige’s grin sharpened. “Oh, you liked that?”

Azzi didn’t even blink. “I saved it.”

Paige choked on a laugh, heat immediately flushing her face. “You’re an actual menace.”

Azzi stretched, the movement making her top ride up her ribs, exposing just a hint of taut stomach. Paige’s eyes tracked it shamelessly.

Azzi noticed, of course. “Enjoying the view?”

“Azzi.” Paige’s voice dropped an octave, low and wrecked. “You know I’d pay actual money to have you under me right now.”

Azzi flushed all the way to her ears. But she didn’t look away. “Yeah?”

Paige swallowed hard. God, yes.

Silence fell. Hot and electric.

Paige couldn’t stand it. She licked her lips slowly, deliberately. “I’m gonna ruin you when I see you.”

Azzi’s breath hitched audibly over the line. Her fingers flexed on the blanket. “Big talk for someone on the other side of the country.”

“Oh, I’ll back it up.” Paige’s voice was a dark promise. “In DC. After the game. Your place. Don’t even try to sleep.”

Azzi’s mouth actually dropped open. Paige wanted to frame the moment forever.

“Cocky,” Azzi managed, voice cracking.

“Confident,” Paige corrected.

Azzi shook her head, trying to fight the growing grin. “You’re fucking impossible.”

Paige’s eyes softened even as she smiled back, heart pounding. “And you fucking love it.”

Azzi’s breathing was uneven. She tucked her chin, but Paige caught the way her lashes fluttered.

“I miss you,” Paige said quietly, all the teasing gone for just a moment. “Miss… all of you.”

Azzi’s face crumpled just slightly, vulnerable in a way she only ever was for Paige. “Me too.”

They didn’t say anything for a minute. Just watched each other.

Finally Azzi exhaled, rough. “Just get here already.”

Paige’s grin came back slow and sure. “Counting the hours.”

They stayed on until Azzi was half asleep, her voice going soft and slurred with exhaustion. Paige listened to every sigh like she could bottle it up for later. She didn’t hang up until Azzi’s breathing evened out completely.

When she finally did, Paige let the phone rest on her chest.

Three fucking weeks.

Just a few more days.

She was going to make every second count.

—-

Paige’s sneakers squeaked on the polished concrete as she turned the corner into the dim service hallway behind the DC arena. 

She knew she shouldn’t be here—should be in the visitor’s locker room with her team—but fuck it. She hadn’t seen Azzi in person in 23 days.

She spotted her instantly. Azzi was leaning against the wall, Mystic warmup gear unzipped just enough to show the white tank top beneath. Her hair was tied back in her pre-game braid, flyaways already escaping, like always.

Paige stopped dead, chest tightening. God, she’d missed her.

Azzi’s face lit up when she saw Paige. It wasn’t a big smile, not the way she greeted teammates or coaches. This one was small, private, reserved just for her.

“Hey,” Azzi breathed.

Paige was already moving, crossing the last few steps fast and grabbing her at the waist. Azzi let out a tiny squeak before Paige’s mouth was on hers.

They’d both thought about this moment too much. Planned it. Craved it. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was weeks of pent-up need, Azzi’s fingers bunching in Paige’s jersey, Paige’s thumb pressing hard into Azzi’s hip.

Azzi’s back hit the wall with a muted thud. She gasped, breath hitching against Paige’s mouth, and Paige kissed the sound right out of her.

Azzi finally pulled back, panting, eyes huge. “Paige—Jesus. We have a game.”

Paige didn’t move far. Her forehead rested against Azzi’s. “I know.” Her voice was wrecked, low and unsteady. “I know. Just—fuck. I needed to.”

Azzi’s fingers were still twisted in her jersey. She didn’t let go.

They both just breathed for a second. Heavy. Messy.

Paige tried to laugh, but it broke halfway. “Your coach is gonna kill me if you go out there looking like you just got mauled.”

Azzi snorted, lips still red and swollen. “Yeah? Well. Your problem for starting it.”

Paige’s grin turned wicked for a heartbeat. She ducked to press one more quick, hard kiss to Azzi’s lips, like she couldn’t help it.

Azzi grabbed her wrist when she tried to pull away. Her voice was rough. “My place tonight.”

Paige’s mouth fell open a fraction. She swallowed. Hard. “Yeah. Your place.”

Azzi’s eyes flashed, something dark and hot that made Paige’s knees threaten to buckle.

Azzi let go of her wrist reluctantly. “Go. Before we really get in trouble.”

Paige exhaled shakily. She dragged the back of her hand over her mouth, trying to wipe away how absolutely undone she felt. “Good luck tonight.”

Azzi’s smirk was tired but real. “You’re gonna need it more.”

They separated slowly, glancing back at each other even as they moved off in opposite directions.

Paige’s heart was pounding so hard it hurt. She let her fingers brush her lips once more, imagining she could still taste Azzi there.

Three weeks, she thought.

Tonight was going to be worth the wait.

—

Game time.

Paige stood at the free-throw line, spinning the ball in her hands, trying to focus on the rim and not the pair of brown eyes burning holes in her from across half court.

Azzi was pressed into the Mystics’ defensive stance, jaw tight, ponytail swinging with every shuffle. 

But Paige knew better. She’d seen the way Azzi’s gaze flickered south, tracking the bead of sweat slipping down Paige’s throat.

It had been three weeks since they’d touched. They were both wrecked.

First quarter was all professional—sharp cuts, disciplined rotations. But even then, they snuck glances. Azzi biting her lip when Paige hit a fadeaway. Paige smirking when Azzi nailed a three from the wing.

Second quarter was more heated. Paige switched onto Azzi on the perimeter, and Azzi’s eyes gleamed with challenge. 

Paige’s hand settled on Azzi’s hip—too long to be defensive technique—and Azzi shoved it away with an indignant huff. But her mouth twitched.

“You’re asking for it,” Paige muttered, low enough for no one else to hear.

Azzi’s lashes lowered. “Tonight. Promise.”

Halftime couldn’t come fast enough.

They both pretended to listen to coaches in the locker rooms, but Paige could barely keep her leg from bouncing. She wiped her face with a towel and tried not to think about Azzi’s arms, glossy with sweat, shoulders straining under the weight of expectation.

Third quarter was chippy. Azzi fouled Paige on a drive, their bodies colliding hard. Paige fell back, but Azzi’s hand shot out to steady her even as the ref blew the whistle.

Their eyes locked.

“You okay?” Azzi rasped, out of breath.

Paige nodded, chest heaving. “Yeah. You?”

Azzi swallowed, nodding too fast.

Neither let go right away.

Fourth quarter was tighter. Game tied. Azzi hit another corner three and let her mouth fall open on the exhale, breathing hard. 

Paige’s stomach twisted watching her, knees weak in ways that had nothing to do with basketball.

When the final buzzer sounded, Dallas squeaked out the win by two. The crowd roared.

Paige found Azzi in the handshake line.

Azzi tried for stoic, but her lips trembled with the effort of it. Paige grabbed her, one arm slung around Azzi’s shoulders, pulling her in for a hug that lingered too long.

Azzi buried her face in Paige’s neck for half a heartbeat.

“See you soon,” Paige murmured into her hair.

Azzi’s fingers dug into her jersey, nails scraping her side. “Yeah. Soon.”

They parted ways in the tunnel, Azzi vanishing toward the Mystics’ locker room, clutching her warmup jacket to her chest like armor.

Inside the locker room, Azzi sank onto the bench. Her hands were still shaking—not from the loss, but from anticipation.

She peeled off her jersey, tugged down her shorts, ready to speed-shower and get back to her apartment for the night they’d promised themselves for weeks.

That’s when she saw it.

A bright, unmistakable red stain.

Her heart stuttered.

She blinked once. Twice.

She hadn’t even felt it start.

Her throat closed. She balled up the shorts in her fist and pressed her eyes shut.

Fuck.

She sat there, frozen, disappointment crawling up her ribs. The night they’d both been counting on—wrecked before it even began.

Meanwhile, in the visitor locker room, Paige’s body was still running hot. She couldn’t stop grinning. Her teammates teased her about the hug in the handshake line.

“Y’all gonna get into trouble tonight, Bueckers?”

Paige just snorted, biting back a grin she couldn’t hide. She dragged a towel over her face, trying to cool off and hide her red cheeks. 

God, it’s been too long.

She could practically feel the buzz in her bones, imagining Azzi’s apartment in DC, the bed she’d barely gotten to see all season. She thought about Azzi’s shampoo in the shower, the spare blanket she always stole to wrap them both up.

Tonight. Finally.

—

Paige leaned against the cool concrete wall of the arena tunnel, one ankle crossed over the other, pretending to scroll through her phone but not seeing any of it. She’d showered fast, barely letting the trainer ice her knee, hair still damp against her neck.

God, hurry up, Az.

She wanted to see her. To pull her in close, to pick up where they’d left off in the hallway before tip-off. She kept picturing Azzi’s hands on her face, the way she’d whispered tonight.

Finally, the locker room doors opened. Players trickled out, a couple nodding at Paige or giving her a polite smile. And then there was Azzi.

Paige straightened immediately, grin starting—until she saw Azzi’s face.

She looked pale. Lips pressed tight. Bag slung over her shoulder like it weighed a hundred pounds.

Paige’s heart gave a weird little lurch. She forced the grin to stay.

“Hey, superstar,” she teased, voice low and gentle.

Azzi didn’t quite meet her eyes. She just nodded, pressing her lips together even tighter.

Paige didn’t call her on it. She just stepped in and took the bag off her shoulder without asking, looping it over her own. She bumped their arms lightly.

“C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”

They walked side by side through the loading dock and out to the car, the city buzzing around them. Azzi stayed quiet, fingers twisting the strap of her duffel. Paige opened the passenger door and nudged her in with her hip, pressing a fleeting kiss to her temple.

Azzi didn’t lean in like she usually did.

Paige tried not to let her stomach drop.

The ride to Azzi’s apartment was silent except for the low hum of the radio. Paige tapped the steering wheel, stealing glances every time they hit a red light. Azzi stared out the window like it was the only thing holding her together.

When they parked and went inside, Paige felt her pulse spike.

Azzi fumbled with her keys, her fingers shaking. She finally got the door open and stepped in, dropping her bag hard enough it thunked against the floor. 

Paige set her own stuff down carefully and turned to say something—

—but Azzi was already crying.

Like she’d been holding it in for hours and couldn’t anymore.

Her shoulders shook violently. She slapped a hand over her mouth like she could keep it in, but the sob tore out anyway.

Paige’s heart split right down the middle. She rushed forward, grabbing her by the arms.

“Hey—hey—Azzi—baby—talk to me. What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Tell me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Azzi just cried harder, trying to turn away. Paige wouldn’t let her.

Azzi’s voice cracked, barely there. “I—I started my period. In the locker room.”

Paige blinked. The panic bled out of her in an instant.

“That’s…that’s it?”

Azzi’s head snapped up, furious and humiliated all at once. “That’s it?” Her voice cracked. “Paige, we haven’t seen each other in three weeks. All I wanted was to come home with you and fuck. I needed it. Not to be—ugh I just really needed you tonight.”

Paige’s mouth twitched despite the tears in Azzi’s eyes. She let out a helpless, breathy laugh.

“Oh, baby…”

Azzi glared at her. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not,” Paige promised, dragging her thumbs over Azzi’s wet cheeks. “I’m just—god, Az, you’re so fucking cute when you’re mad.”

Azzi made a strangled sound and pushed at her chest weakly. Paige didn’t budge.

“Look,” Paige soothed, voice going low. “We can still have sex. You know I don’t give a shit about a little blood.”

Azzi’s nose scrunched, horrified. “Ew. No. I—Paige, I don’t want to. We’ve never…I don’t…”

Paige pressed her lips together, nodding quickly. “Okay. Okay. It’s okay. I get it.” She tucked Azzi’s hair behind her ear. “We don’t have to. I swear it’s fine.”

Azzi sniffled hard, another tear escaping. “I just wanted tonight to be perfect.”

Paige pulled her in, hugging her so tight Azzi made a squeak of protest.

“It still can be,” Paige murmured into her hair.

Azzi sniffled again. “How?”

Paige pulled back, cupping her face.

“Easy. I’m gonna get you your softest blanket, your giant glass of water, your heating pad. I’m gonna put your stupid favorite movie on. We’re gonna lie on this couch and make out until you forget you’re mad at me for being understanding.”

Azzi let out a tiny, begrudging laugh.

Paige kissed her nose. “And if you want, I’ll even rub your stomach and tell you you’re the most beautiful girl in the world. Because you are.”

Azzi sighed wetly, shoulders relaxing.

“God, you’re annoying.”

Paige grinned. “Takes one to know one.”

They shuffled over to the couch together. Paige made good on every promise. She tucked Azzi in, handed over the Advil and water, draped the blanket over her legs. She even helped her tie up her hair when Azzi complained it was sticking to her face.

Finally, Paige collapsed beside her, tugging Azzi onto her chest.

Azzi sniffed, pressing her face into Paige’s neck. “This isn’t what I wanted.”

Paige rubbed slow, warm circles on her back. “I know. But it’s not nothing.”

Azzi was quiet a long time before whispering, “I can still…get you off, if you want.”

Paige’s heart cracked open all over again. She hugged her tighter.

“As much as I want that,” Paige murmured into her hair, “I think it’s only fair I wait with you.”

Azzi let out a shaky, relieved breath.

They lay there in the glow of the TV, Paige’s fingers drawing absent patterns on Azzi’s hip, Azzi’s breathing finally evening out.

Paige pressed a last, lazy kiss to Azzi’s temple and cracked a tiny, mischievous smile.

“Well. At least we’ve always got FaceTime.”

Azzi groaned against her neck but Paige felt the laugh rumble out of her anyway.

They both fell asleep smiling.

—

They hadn’t even planned on moving from the couch. But somewhere around midnight, after too many soft kisses and half-asleep murmurs, Paige had tugged on Azzi’s hand and whispered, “C’mon, let’s go to bed.” 

They’d tiptoed like kids trying not to wake anyone, giggling when Azzi tripped over the blanket they’d dragged halfway across the living room.

Now it was dawn in D.C., light spilling in slanted stripes across Azzi’s bedroom. Paige blinked blearily at the pale walls, her arm a heavy band around Azzi’s waist.

Azzi groaned in her sleep. A real, pained noise that twisted something deep in Paige’s chest. Paige instinctively pressed closer, her hand sliding down to rest low on Azzi’s belly. She started rubbing slow, gentle circles over the warm skin just beneath Azzi’s sleep-shirt.

“Shhh, baby. I got you,” Paige whispered into her hair, voice hoarse with sleep.

Azzi stirred, eyelids fluttering before cracking open just enough to glare at Paige, even while her lip wobbled.

Paige gave her a crooked, sleepy grin. “Morning.”

Azzi scrunched her nose. “Mmm. Cramps. Go away.”

Paige huffed a soft laugh and kept up the soothing strokes. “You know I take care of you, baby.” She dipped her head to press a lingering kiss to Azzi’s hairline.

Azzi sighed. She turned her face into Paige’s chest and mumbled something Paige couldn’t make out.

“What was that?” Paige teased, voice brightening.

Azzi’s voice was muffled but annoyed. “Don’t be all cheerful at me. I’m dying.”

Paige barked out a sleepy laugh. “Drama queen.”

Azzi swatted her hip without any force. Paige just grinned bigger.

She let her eyes sweep over Azzi’s sleepy, rumpled, devastatingly pretty face. Her messy curls. Her flushed cheeks. Paige’s heart did that stupid, traitorous squeeze.

“I think waking up with you like this is better than sex,” she announced with smug sincerity.

Azzi’s eyes flew all the way open, narrowing dangerously. “You cannot be serious right now.”

Paige’s grin turned devilish. “Okay, okay. Maybe not better. But it’s definitely second place.”

Azzi snorted, though her face softened. “Dumbass.”

Paige leaned in and kissed her, slow and lingering, until Azzi let out a soft whimper against her lips.

Eventually Paige broke away, sighing into her hair. “Shit. I need to get up. Team bus leaves in an hour.”

Azzi immediately clutched at her shirt. “No.”

Paige bit her lip, trying not to melt at the raw need in Azzi’s eyes. “I know, baby. I don’t want to either.” She cupped Azzi’s face, brushing her thumbs over damp lashes as tears welled.

Azzi sniffled hard. “God, I hate this. I hate being like this.”

Paige kissed the tears as they fell, one by one. “Hey. None of that. You’re perfect. Even when you’re hormonal and mean to me.”

Azzi tried to scowl but it broke apart with another sob. Paige just held her tighter.

When the crying eased, Paige grabbed her phone from the nightstand and pulled up her calendar. She stared at it, thumb hovering over the screen.

“10 days,” she murmured.

Azzi blinked up at her. “Huh?”

Paige exhaled, heart heavy. “Next time we play you guys. In Dallas. 10 days.”

Azzi’s eyes brimmed again but she nodded hard, determined. “We can do it. Right?”

Paige pressed their foreheads together, voice thick. “We can do it. That's nothing.”

They kissed one more time, slow and shaky, like it needed to hold them over for all ten days.

Eventually Paige sighed and started climbing out of bed. Azzi watched her move around the room, pulling on jeans and her team-issued sweatshirt. She sat on the edge of the mattress like she didn’t know how to let Paige go.

When Paige was finally ready, bag slung over her shoulder, she walked over and cupped Azzi’s face. They kissed again, harder this time, desperate.

“I love you,” Paige breathed.

Azzi’s voice broke. “I love you too.”

Paige turned and walked to the door. Azzi followed, feet dragging. At the door, they kissed one more time. It felt like goodbye and a promise at once.

Paige gave Azzi one last squeeze. “You okay?”

Azzi sniffed. “No. But I will be.”

Paige kissed her forehead. “Good enough.”

She turned and finally made herself step into the hall. Azzi watched her go, biting her lip so hard it hurt.

The door closed with a soft click.

Azzi’s back hit the wood, breathing ragged. She wiped her face with the heel of her hand and let out a wobbly, humorless laugh.

But before she could even turn away, there was a knock.

She froze.

Pulled the door open.

Paige was standing there, face crumpled like she was in physical pain.

“I don’t know if I can wait 10 days,” she blurted.

Azzi barked out a watery laugh, grabbing the front of Paige’s hoodie and yanking her back inside.

The door slammed shut behind them.

[maskedbyghost]

Please do like more bestie simon stuff, where’d he’d do anything and everything for you so discreetly that you don’t even notice, then just casually admits he’s in love like he just told you he got some tea for base. Just like the ”bestie” fix you wrote😋😋

I believe it started with the gloves.

You forget them after training one morning, and it's nothing new; you always forget something, but they’re in your locker before your next session, clean, dry, and folded.

Then it’s the hoodie you left on the range. It shows up two days later, and it's already washed. The same goes for the spare charger you lost, the one that just magically ends up on your bunk with no note. You figure someone’s being nice, but no one says anything. No one takes credit.

Then it’s your boots. You mention that they’re starting to rub, and a week later, they suddenly have your exact size in the model you actually like, even though they’ve been out for months.

It keeps going with little things.

Your favorite protein bars are back in stock. A cracked mug you loved was replaced without a word. Your reports? Suddenly flawless. No red marks, no nitpicks, nothing.

“Do you think I’m, like, haunted?” you ask Soap one night while stretching.

“Haunted,” he repeats. “By what, a ghost?”

“I’m serious. My locker jammed last week—I couldn’t even get it open—and then the next morning it’s fine. Like, not just fixed. Like it was never broken. And my nameplate was polished.”

Soap raises his brows. “You think a ghost did that?”

“I don’t know! I just know I didn’t fix it.”

He snorts. “Oh. That’s not a ghost.”

“…What is it then?”

“Mate. That’s Ghost.”

You stare. “You’re kidding.”

He shakes his head. “Saw him after you stormed out of the locker room, all pissed off. Waited till no one was around, pulled out a screwdriver like it was nothing. Fixed the hinge and wiped it down like a bloody maintenance guy.”

You go quiet.

—

You start paying attention after that. Really paying attention.

Simon walks behind you when you’re both in crowds. Waits outside rooms without saying why. Walks with you after meals like it’s a coincidence, even though you know your schedules don’t line up.

He lifts the heavy stuff without being asked. And it’s never a big thing. He does it all like it’s just something that happens.

You try to call him out once.

“You’re like my silent guardian angel or something,” you tease, flopping onto the rec room couch next to him. “All these little favors and no credit?”

Simon doesn’t even look up from the file he’s skimming.

Later that night, you find him up on the roof like always, sitting in his usual spot with two mugs of tea. He passes one to you without a word.

You sit next to him. He waits.

You lean back against the concrete, glancing at him. “So. You’re not denying the angel thing?”

He takes a slow sip and shrugs.

“‘m not your angel.” He pauses before he shrugs again. “Just in love with you, is all.”

You blink. “Come again?”

He completely ignores us as he raises his mug. “Also got your favorite blend. The mess hall ran out, so I got it off Price’s stash.”

“No, no, back up.” You shift to face him fully. “Did you just say you’re in love with me just like that?”

He shrugs. “Thought you knew.”

“How would I know?!”

He looks at you, totally deadpan. “Who else am I doin’ paperwork for?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. “Simon!”

He chuckles. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad, I’m in shock.”

Another sip. “Same thing, really.”

You shake your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

He finally turns toward you, shoulder nudging yours. “So, what now?”

You pretend to think as you sip your tea. “Well. I guess I kiss you. And then maybe I let you keep doing my reports.”

Simon huffs. “So I do get something out of it.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh yeah. All my love and a mountain of paperwork waiting.”

He bumps your shoulder again. “Worth it.”

-------------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog

[inkieun]

Pretty Little Thing — Geum Seong-Je x F!Reader (hyun-tak's sister)

His smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—slow, crooked. The kind that said he wasn’t seeing a person. Just… something he could get his hands on. “Well, well,” he said, voice smooth like oil over something sharp. “Didn’t know you came with accessories, Hyun-Tak.”

tw: mean!seongje, dark!seongje, noncon, hairpulling, degradation, exhibitionism, someone getting hit with a belt and lots of dirty talk and blood mentioned as well

wc: 4.6k words

This was requested, and I loved every second of bringing it to life. Keep the requests coming!!

“Hey. You heard anything from Baku?”

Sieun’s voice cut through the air like a dull blade. He didn’t look at Hyun-Tak when he asked. Just stared out at the road, where the light was dying slow against the concrete. The orange glow of early evening stretched long across the ground.

Hyun-Tak exhaled. “No. I haven’t.”

That silence after — fuck, it was loud. It wasn’t the kind you filled with small talk or jokes. It was the kind that dragged its nails down your back, whispering he should’ve called by now.

They stood in a loose circle near the edge of the station. Just the three of them. Waiting. Not for some unspoken tension or invisible weight hanging in the air — just for Hyun-Tak’s sister. The one who always showed up late, always with a smile, always ready to stir the stillness like it bored her. They waited because she made them wait.

The crowd moved past them in a quiet blur — office workers heading home, a girl with a rolling suitcase bumping over the pavement, an old man tossing crumbs to pigeons on the curb. 

They hadn’t heard from Baku in days.

No messages. No sarcastic memes. Not even the usual late-night rants about bad customers and fried chicken grease.

Not since the incident.

A group of teenagers had come into Baku’s dad’s fried chicken shop. They were loud, joking around, flashing fake IDs to buy alcohol. They looked old enough. Baku’s dad didn’t question it. It was a busy Friday night. Orders were piling up. He was tired, distracted. So he sold them the drinks. That should’ve been the end of it. Then someone snitched. And most people had a good guess who it was. The boys who bought the alcohol weren’t just random teenagers—they were part of The Union, a gang known around town for stirring up shit and getting away with it. The police showed up a hours later. Started asking questions. Things escalated fast. Baku’s dad lost his temper—tried to go after one of the boys. No one was hurt, but it was enough. Enough for the cops to arrest him.

The whole thing felt too perfect. Like a setup.

And all signs pointed to Seong-Je.

He’s been trying to get Baku to join the gang for months. Dropping hints. Making quiet threats. Letting him know that saying no wasn’t something The Union took lightly.

But Baku had said no anyway. And he’d meant it.

So when the police suddenly showed up and everything came crashing down, it didn’t feel like bad luck.

It felt like revenge.

Hyun-Tak shifted his weight, hands in his jacket pockets, jaw clenched. “I’m worried about him,” he muttered, eyes fixed on nothing. “Tomorrow after school… maybe we should check in.”

The moment held — just long enough to ache.

And then—

“BOO!”

The scream ripped through the air, shooting straight up Hyun-Tak’s spine. All three of them jolted as if a gun had gone off right next to them. 

“What the actual fuck?” he snapped, whipping around.

I laughed—loud and sharp. Maybe a little cruel. “You should’ve seen your faces,” I said, still catching my breath. “Absolutely priceless.” 

Jun-tae cracked this little smile, all quiet and reluctant. sieun? same neutral face, like always. unreadable. but i caught that twitch in his jaw — he was trying not to laugh. i saw it.

“this guy…” i thought, watching him from the corner of my eye. the way he stood — slouched a little, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, like he’d been carrying a weight around all day and was too tired to hide it anymore.

Hyun-Tak shoved a hand through his hair, scowling. “Why the hell would you do that? I nearly had a heart attack!”

“Because it’s fun,” I shrugged, already turning on my heel. “Let’s go. Before Mom starts blowing up our phones.”

I didn’t wait for them to follow. The sky was shifting now — soft pink bleeding into indigo, the clouds stretched thin like bruises across the horizon. Streetlights flickered but didn’t fully turn on, like the city was stuck between inhale and exhale.

Their footsteps trailed behind me.

Three shadows walking quiet through golden light and the ghosts of words we hadn’t said yet.

The laughter hadn’t even faded when we heard it—a sharp whistle, quick footsteps, something off behind us. Then—“Shit,” Hyun-Tak muttered. “Don’t look back. Just walk.”

I looked back. Of course I did. And there they were. 

Ten of them at first, cutting through the crowd with that slow, deliberate kind of walk that said they didn’t need to run to catch you.

The Union. Not all of them. But enough.

“Why now?” Jun-tae whispered, voice barely holding together. “We didn’t even do anything—”

“They don’t need a reason,” Sieun said quietly. “They just need a mood.”

That was when we broke into a run. We didn’t scream or shout or call for help. We just moved, fast and quiet, like instinct had finally taken over.

People didn’t stop us. City noise swallowed everything. We weaved through people, past honking cars and blinking crosswalks.

Hyun-Tak shouted over his shoulder, “Cut through here!” and then we were off the main road, darting into the side alley we thought we knew. We’d taken this shortcut a hundred times. But this time, it didn’t feel familiar. This time, it felt like we were walking into a trap. We didn’t stop until the alley swallowed us. Breathless. Hearts pounding.

And then—footsteps behind us, slower now, confident—and when we turned, they were already there; ten shrinking to seven, blocking the exit, blocking the light. 

Seong-Je stepped forward from the center like he’d been waiting for this moment since forever. His jacket was clean, his smile cleaner. But his eyes? Dead cold.

“Well,” he said, voice low and almost amused. “Look who ran straight into our arms.”

Jun-tae tensed. Sieun didn’t move. Hyun-Tak dropped his backpack slowly, like preparing for something he didn’t want to do. Me? I couldn’t stop staring at Seong-Je. 

Seong-Je took another, hands in his pockets like this was just another night, like we were just another problem he could stretch into something fun.

His gaze flicked over us one by one—Jun-tae, Sieun, Hyun-Tak—and then landed on me and stayed. Something in the air shifted. His smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—slow, crooked. The kind that said he wasn’t seeing a person. Just… something he could get his hands on.

“Well, well,” he said, voice smooth like oil over something sharp. “Didn’t know you came with accessories, Hyun-Tak.” 

No one moved.

“I mean—” he looked me over like I was a new toy, “You always this quiet, sweetheart? Or just shy around guys like me?” My heart was hammering, but I didn’t flinch. I wasn’t going to give him that. Still, I felt Hyun-Tak shift beside me. He knew. I knew. We all knew what this was. “She doesn’t talk to rats,” Hyun-Tak snapped. Seong-Je ignored him. “Pretty thing,” he murmured. “Bet you’d look real cute scared. Wonder what you sound like when you cry.”

My stomach turned. I tasted metal. Hyun-Tak moved. Fast. I barely caught the blur of him lunging before one of Seong-Je’s guys slammed him into the wall with enough force to shake the ground. Jun-tae shouted. Sieun looked ready to swing. And I—I couldn’t breathe because I was scared. He looked at me like I was a prize. A thing. 

But Seong-Je just raised a hand, like he was done playing. Like none of this had been real to him.

“No fun if she’s not screaming,” he said with a shrug, turning his back. “Don’t worry, Hyun-Tak. We’ll talk again soon.” He looked at me one last time. Slow. He didn’t walk away. Seong-Je turned back around, that same sick grin tugging at his mouth. “You know,” he said, voice too casual, “we could make this interesting.”

I froze.

His eyes found Hyun-Tak’s. “Let’s settle this old-school. Just you and me.” Hyun-Tak didn’t say anything. Just stared him down, chest heaving from the adrenaline. “If I win…” Seong-Je dragged the words out like he was tasting them, “I get a little time alone with your sister.” My blood turned to ice. “The fuck you just say?” Hyun-Tak growled.

Seong-Je shrugged. “Just a taste. I won’t even leave a mark.”

Jun-tae swore under his breath. Sieun’s fists were already clenched.  Hyun-Tak was already stepping forward. “No deal,” he said, voice like gravel. “But I’m still gonna knock your fucking teeth out.” Seong-Je’s smirk widened. “That’s the spirit.” And then it started.

It wasn’t a street fight. It was vicious. Fast. Brutal. Seong-Je was all precision and spite—every punch a punishment, every hit like he was trying to prove something.

Hyun-Tak landed a few, sure. But the Union boys flanked close—laughing, taunting. One of them tripped him. Another grabbed his hoodie long enough to slow him down.

Seong-Je didn’t fight fair. He never did.

A punch to the stomach. A knee to the ribs.

Then an elbow that cracked across Hyun-Tak’s jaw and dropped him to the ground like a shot deer.

“Stay down,” Seong-Je hissed, standing over him. “Or I’ll go ahead and collect my prize.”

And that—That was it. I stepped forward. Jun-tae grabbed my arm. “Don’t,” he whispered.

I shook him off. Seong-Je turned to me, smug and stupid. I spat. Right at his feet. “Touch me,” I said, voice steady. “And you’ll wake up choking on your own dick.”

Something in his smirk faltered. I dropped beside Hyun-Tak, hands shaking, barely aware of the blood on his face or the way his breath rasped in and out. I just needed to make sure he was still breathing.

“Hey,” I whispered, my voice tight. “Stay with me, okay?” But then—Something yanked me back. Hard. The strap of my bag wrenched against my shoulder and I lost balance, falling backward with a sharp gasp. My palms scraped the pavement as I hit the ground.

I barely had time to turn before I saw him. Seong-Je. Towering over me like a shadow pulled loose from the wall. His hand still clenched around my bag. His eyes locked on mine.

And the way he was looking at me—Like I was something small. Something his. He leaned in, letting go of my bag strap, his fingers sliding up to grip my chin instead—firm, possessive. His smile was slow, deliberate. “Wow,” he murmured, voice like velvet. “You look so pretty beneath me.” My stomach twisted. I froze. My throat clenched tight as my mind screamed move, fight, run—but my body refused.

I wanted to scream. To shove him away. To do something. But my limbs felt heavy. Useless. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, drowning out the world, drowning out me. And in that moment, I felt small. Powerless. And he was so close.

I hated the fear crawling up my spine, hated how real it felt. Tears stung my eyes as Seong-Je's brutal grip tightened on my chin, forcing me to meet his cold, manic stare. The sickening grin twisting his handsome features sent icy tendrils of pure terror snaking through my veins. I was trapped, helpless, as he dragged me up to my knees, my body betraying me by refusing to fight back.

"Fuck, look at you," Seong-Je purred, voice dripping with cruel amusement. "Such a pretty little thing, all scared and trembling. It's fucking beautiful." He turned to the others, barking orders. "Dong-Ha, Seong-Mok, get the cameras rolling. I want every fucking second of this recorded." Without hesitation, Seong-Mok pulled out his phone, already flipping it to video mode and started recording.

Seeing the phone pointed straight at me made something in my chest collapse. Cold panic surged through me. My breath hitched. I turned my face slightly, instinctively trying to hide, even though I knew there was nowhere to go. The light from the screen glared like a spotlight, unblinking and cruel. And then Seong-Je laughed.

“Aww,” he said, voice dripping with mock pity. “Getting all shy now that the camera’s rolling?” He leaned in close again, his breath brushing my ear. “What’s wrong? You were making such pretty noises a second ago. Don’t tell me you’re camera-shy.” His words hit like acid—slow-burning and meant to leave scars. I clenched my teeth, blinking fast, my hands fists at my sides. Shame and fear tangled in my chest until I didn’t know which would break me first.

My heart jackhammered against my ribs, blood roaring in my ears. Panic clawed at my throat, choking me, as I watched Jun-tae struggle against the union thugs holding him back. No one could save me. No one was coming.

Seong-Je’s fingers clamped around my cheeks, digging in hard enough to bruise as he wrenched my face side to side—examining me like I was nothing more than meat. His eyes glinted with something unhinged, something wrong. That same look villains wore in horror films, right before they stopped pretending to be human. “Stop fucking around,” he growled, voice rough and full of heat. Spit hit my skin as he yanked my jaw back, grip punishing. “Be a good little slut and hold still.” The words struck like a slap—sharp, humiliating, meant to shatter. I squeezed my eyes shut, a broken whimper slipping from my throat before I could stop it. He leaned in closer, his breath brushing my cheek, thick with heat and cruelty.

“You like this,” he hissed. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”

I didn’t answer.

He stared at me for a moment, breath ragged, chest rising like he was barely keeping himself contained.

And then—he let go.

His hand dropped from my face fast and rough, like even touching me disgusted him now.

My jaw throbbed. My pulse raced.

And all I could do was sit there, shaking, heart slamming against my ribs. God, please make it stop. Please, someone help me. 

There was no help coming. Only the echo of cruel laughter bouncing off brick and the sharp bite of cold air against my skin.

He stood in front of me, eyes locked on mine—glinting with something violent. Something wrong. But it wasn’t just the danger that made my breath hitch. It was the way he looked at me.

He licked his lips, head tilted, gaze sliding down my body like he was cataloging every breath I took. “You look real pretty like this,” he murmured. “Scared.”

He reached for his belt. Slowly. Deliberately.

The leather whispered through the loops, one soft, ominous pull at a time. The sound was almost too loud in the quiet. Like a countdown.

I watched, heart pounding wildly, as he rolled the belt between his fingertips, the black leather glinting darkly in the harsh sunlight. His eyes never left mine, boring into me with a predatory intensity that made my blood run cold.

He folded the belt in half, the two ends dangling menacingly as he took a step closer, backing me up against the rough brick wall. The heat of the sun, the unyielding cold of the bricks, and the sheer, icy menace radiating from Seong-Je created a terrifying juxtaposition of sensations.

"Such a pretty little thing," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "So soft and helpless. I can't wait to mark up this delicate skin." He reached out, trailing the folded edge of the belt lightly down my cheek, the leather cool and smooth against the feverish heat of my skin.

I flinched, a choked whimper catching in my throat, but I remained frozen, paralyzed by the dark promise in his eyes and the cold, unyielding pressure of the belt. The world seemed to slow, every movement deliberate and laden with threat.

Seong-Je's hand slid lower, the belt dragging across the racing pulse in my neck, making me shudder. The air between us was thick with anticipation, the heavy silence broken only by the distant, muffled sounds of the city that seemed a world away.

He paused, belt poised just above my collarbone, his gaze locked with mine. In that moment, I saw the monster lurking beneath the handsome exterior, the cruel sadist who would take twisted pleasure in my pain and degradation.

Then, with a sinister smile, he raised the belt, and everything changed. The first crack of leather against skin shattered the tense silence, and my screams echoed off the alleyway walls as my nightmare truly began.

The belt came down hard across my breasts my shirt doing noting to protect me from the sharp sting of the leather biting into my soft flesh. I cried out, arching away from the brutal impact, but there was no escape from Seong-Je's relentless assault. He followed me, crowding into my space, pinning me against the rough brick wall with his body as he raised the belt again.

"Fuck, listen to those pretty screams," he growled, dark eyes glinting with sadistic amusement. "I knew you'd have a nice set of lungs on you." I looked up at him, terrified, breath catching in my throat. I could hear Hyun-Tak beside us, shouting—his voice raw, panicked, and cracking under the weight of it all.

“Please,” he begged. “Please, leave her alone! She didn’t do anything! I’m the one you want—take it out on me, not her, please—”

The sound of him begging shattered something in me.

“I’m the one you want,” he repeated, choked and broken now. “She’s my sister. Please, Seong-Je, I’m begging you!”

Seong-Je turned his head slowly, his jaw tight with something colder than rage.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped. The words hit like a gunshot, slicing through Hyun-Tak’s pleas like a knife. The look he shot Hyun-Tak could’ve killed. Cold. Merciless. Like a loaded gun aimed straight at his soul, then his attention was back on me, his fingers brushing my face with mock-gentleness that made my skin crawl.

“He’s so fucking annoying,” Seong-Je muttered with a smirk, like Hyun-Tak’s begging was nothing more than background noise. “Now… where was I?” Hyun-Tak’s voice cracked again in the background—still begging, still dragging himself forward on trembling limbs—until Dong-Ha stepped in and slammed a boot into his side, knocking the breath out of him with a brutal thud. 

Seong-Je tugged my shirt open with slow, deliberate hands, exposing the bruises and welts blooming across my skin—his marks.

“Look at you,” Seong-Je murmured, voice low and dangerous, like velvet soaked in sin. “Marked up so fucking pretty.”

The leather strap in his grip dragged across my chest, cold and smooth, tracing the line of one welt like a signature.

“I knew you’d have perfect tits,” he said, almost reverent. “Can’t wait to feel them in my hands—see how they respond when I take my time.”

He dropped the belt, the sound of it hitting the ground a dark promise. His hands replaced it immediately, gripping my breasts hard enough to bruise, fingers sinking into the soft flesh. He squeezed and kneaded, his touch rough and demanding, bordering on painful.

I whimpered, trying to pull away, but he pulled me up fast from my knee, his hips pinning mine to the wall. I could feel his dick pressing against me through his pants, grinding against my stomach. Revulsion churned in my gut, but I was trapped, helpless to stop his exploration.

"Such a fucking tease," Seong-Je snarled, twisting my nipples hard. "Flashing your tits, flaunting this sexy little body. You knew what you were doing, didn't you?"

“Seong-Mok!” Seong-Je barked, voice cutting through the air like a whip. “Get over here.” Seong-Mok shoved Jun-Tae to the ground without hesitation, knowing he was too shaken to fight back.

“I want this on camera,” Seong-Je said, eyes never leaving me. “Every fucking second.”

Fear gripped me as Seong-Je fumbled with his pants, freeing his cock. Before I could react, he grabbed my thigh, hiking my leg up to wrap around his hip. I was forced to balance on one foot, the position leaving me vulnerable and exposed.

"Fuck, look at you," Seong-Je growled, rubbing the swollen head of his cock along my clothed slit, teasing, tormenting. "Such a pretty little thing, all scared and shaking. You want this, don't you? Want me to fill this tight pussy with my cock?"

I shook my head frantically, fresh tears spilling down my cheeks. "No, please don't-"

"Shut up," he snapped, hand fisting in my hair, wrenching my head back. "Don't fucking lie to me. I can feel how wet you are."

He punctuated his words by shoving my panties aside and driving forward, splitting me open on his thick shaft. I screamed, the sudden intrusion burning, stretching me past the point of comfort. He was so big, so hard, filling me completely.

"Fuck, so goddamn tight," Seong-Je grunted, starting to move. He set a brutal pace, pounding into me, the obscene slap of skin on skin echoing in the alleyway. "Gonna ruin this pussy, make it mine, right baby."

I tried to turn my face away from his intense stare, overwhelmed, degraded, but he grabbed my chin, forcing me to hold eye contact. His thumb pressed hard against my bottom lip, pushing into my mouth.

"Look at me when I fuck you, baby," he demanded, voice rough and ragged. "I want to see those pretty eyes when you come."

I whimpered, squeezing my eyes shut, but he just swore

"No, no, no. Look. At. Me," Seong-Je snarled each word, punctuating them with sharp thrusts that punished my cervix. His fingers dug into the flesh of my thigh hard enough to leave bruises, holding me in place as he railed into me.

Even with Seong-Je towering over me, every breath shallow and sharp, I could still hear Hyun-Tak—his voice breaking with panic.

“Please,” he begged, again and again. “Please, stop it!”

The sound of his voice tore straight through me.

It was desperate like something had cracked wide open inside him and all that was left was fear.

But Seong-Je didn’t even glance back.

“Shut the fuck up,” he yelled back still looking at me with that nasty smile on his face. But Hyun-Tak didn’t stop. He was still trying to crawl toward me, coughing, one hand dragging along the concrete as Dong-Ha moved to block him again. Behind him, Jun-Tae pushed himself up from the ground, shaking. “You’re sick,” he spat, voice cracking. “You’re fucking sick, Seong-Je—” He didn’t get to finish. Seong-Mok backhanded him hard enough to knock him into the wall, where he slid down, dazed but still conscious. And then Sieun. Still standing. Still silent. But his hands were clenched into fists so tight they were bleeding at the knuckles. His eyes locked on Seong-Je like he was memorizing every inch of him—planning something, but he couldn’t move.

"Fucking hell, you're gripping me so nicely," he groaned, hips slapping lewdly against mine. "Such a perfect little cock sleeve."

His other hand slid up my body, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. He wrapped his fingers around my throat, squeezing just enough to make my heart stutter. I gasped for air, dizzy from the lack of oxygen and the brutal pace of his fucking.

"Please," I choked out, voice raspy and weak. "It hurts... you're hurting me..."

"Hurts so good though, doesn't it?" he purred darkly, thumb pressing into my windpipe. "I can feel how much you love it. Your greedy little pussy is sucking me in, begging for more."

Seong-Je leaned in close, breath hot and ragged against my ear. "I'm going to fuck this pussy until it's molded to the shape of my cock," he promised viciously. "Until you forget your own name and only remember mine. I'm going to ruin you for anyone else."

His words sent a chill down my spine, a terrifying mix of fear and a perverse, unwanted thrill. I knew he meant every dark, depraved promise. He was going to break me and remake me into his twisted plaything, filming every brutal second of my defilement. The camera lenses felt like a thousand accusing eyes, immortalizing my shame.

Seong-Je's hips stuttered, his cock swelling impossibly thicker inside me. I knew he was close, knew what was coming. With a guttural growl, he pulled out abruptly, leaving me feeling hollow and violated.

"On your knees, babe," he barked, shoving me down hard onto the filthy alleyway. My knees scraped against the rough concrete, but I had no time to register the pain before Seong-Je grabbed my hair, yanking my head back. "Open up," he demanded, stroking his thick, angry red cock. "I want to see my cum dripping down your pretty face."

I whimpered, trying to turn away, but his grip was unforgiving. The first hot spurt of his release splattered across my cheek. I choked on a sob as he painted my face with his seed, each pulse of his cock leaving me more degraded than the last.

"Fuck, look at that," Seong-Je groaned, his other hand guiding Seong-Mok's camera to capture every humiliating detail. "Such a perfect little cum dumpster. You love this, don't you? Love being my personal slut?"

I shook my head frantically, but the words died in my throat as another stream of cum hit my parted lips. The bitter taste filled my mouth, making me gag.

Seong-Je finally released his grip on my hair, tucking himself back into his pants with practiced ease. He straightened his clothes, fixing the disheveled appearance, while I remained on my knees, his cum dripping down my chin and onto my heaving chest.

He turned to Hyun-Tak, his earlier frenzied state replaced by a cold, calculated demeanor. "Tell Baku," Seong-Je said, voice smooth and menacing, "that if he doesn't agree to join the union, this will be a daily occurrence. I'll make sure of it."

His eyes glinted with a cruel, twisted promise. "And if that's not enough motivation..." He paused, a wicked smirk playing on his lips. "I could always make your sister my new plaything. Let the union boys have a go at her too. Wouldn't that be fun?"

Hyun-Tak froze. The blood drained from his face, horror blooming wide in his eyes. Seong-Je turned away like he hadn’t just shattered the ground beneath us. “Let’s go,” he muttered to the union guys. And just like that, they disappeared into the alley’s shadows, taking their laughter and threats with them.

For a second, no one moved. The silence was deafening.

Then Hyun-Tak stumbled forward, faster than I could react, falling to his knees in front of me. His hands trembled as he reached for me—fixing my shirt, gently pulling the torn fabric over my chest, his eyes flicking up to mine with a thousand things he wanted to say but couldn’t. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so—are you okay? Are you hurt?” I shook my head, but the words were stuck in my throat.

Jun-Tae hovered behind him, scraped up and stunned, eyes wide like he couldn’t process what just happened. Sieun stood a few steps back, fists still clenched, breathing uneven. His gaze was locked on where Seong-Je had disappeared. Focused. Like something in him had just shifted. None of us spoke. Because there was nothing left to say.

fin

© 2025 mymelllllinda

[misswynters]

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝 Part One

pairing. ambessa x reader x sevika

warnings. kissing, sparring and kissing, touching, neck kisses, pet names (darling)

wc. i have no idea (i went overboard)

synopsis. You were sent on a mission to train sevika for an underground tournament, by non other than the tyrant herself, Ambessa Merdarda.

a/n. there needs to be more of these because i am in need. i keep making part twos because im indecisive also let me know if there’s any misspelling

note. it would greatly appreciated if you would not only just like, but also reblog & give me feedback. thank you!

Sweat clung to your brow as you stepped into the training room, its atmosphere oppressive and bathed in a dim crimson glow. The walls, which were made of steel, echoed with every movement. Scuffed mats covered sections of the concrete floor, marked by years of punishment from brutal sparring matches. Ambient heat radiated from flickering red lights overhead, casting jagged shadows that seemed to ripple with every movement. It wasn’t an ideal space for training, but Zaun didn’t do luxury, and neither did Ambessa.

Ambessa’s voice rang out from the elevated platform at the far end of the room, her piercing gaze fixed on the two of you. “Again,” she ordered, her tone sharp enough to cut through the humid air. “Don’t hold back this time. You’re wasting my time if you’re not going to make her bleed.”

Resentment prickled under your skin, but you bit your tongue. Ambessa’s presence had been the only thing keeping you in this hell of an assignment. Training Sevika for an underground tournament had sounded ridiculous when the offer first came to you. Why would a battle maiden brute like her need anyone’s help. But Ambessa had insisted, claiming your expertise was “essential” to Zaun’s victory. She wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Sevika stood in front of you, her large frame coiled with tension. Her metal arm glinted under the lights as her breathing stayed steady. Her gaze looked betrayed with annoyance. She wasn’t thrilled about being told what to do, let alone by you. The feeling was mutual. “You ready for another bruising, princess?” Sevika taunted, cracking her knuckles.

Rolling your eyes, you dropped into a fighting stance. “Keep talking, and I’ll make sure your metal arm isn’t the only thing out of commission.”

Her grin was predatory. “Such big words for someone so small.”

The session resumed with a flurry of blows. Sevika lunged first, her movements quick despite her size. You ducked under her swing, your fist connecting with her side. The impact barely fazed her, but it was enough to get her attention. She retaliated with a sweeping kick, forcing you to leap back to avoid losing your footing. The clash of flesh and metal echoed in the room as the two of you exchanged blows, your mutual irritation fueling every strike.

Sevika was too strong to take head-on. So you relied on precision and agility, darting around her strikes and aiming for weak spots. But Sevika wasn’t stupid. She adapted quickly, her strikes coming faster and more calculated. Her metal fist grazed your ribs at one point, and the shock of it made you stumble.

“Getting tired already, sweetheart?” she sneered, wiping the sweat from her brow with her forearm.

“Hardly,” you shot back, charging at her with renewed energy.

Your next strike caught her off guard. A perfectly timed uppercut sent her stumbling backward. You didn’t stop, delivering a swift kick to her midsection that knocked her off balance. She hit the ground hard, her body slamming against the concrete with a grunt. For a moment, the room was silent except for the sound of your ragged breathing.

“Stay down,” you said, wiping your hands on your pants.

But Sevika didn’t stay down. With a growl, she lunged at you like a wild animal. Her strength caught you off guard, and before you could react, she had you pinned to the cold floor. The impact knocked the air from your lungs, and you gasped as her full weight pressed against you.

Sevika’s metal hand gripped both of your wrists, pinning them above your head. Her other hand rested on your shoulder, keeping you firmly in place. You struggled, but her strength was overwhelming.

“Not so cocky now, are ya?” she panted, her voice low and dripping with satisfaction. Sweat dripped from her forehead onto your cheek, and the heat of her body seeped into yours.

“Let me up,” you growled, glaring at her.

Her lips curled into a smirk as she leaned closer, her face mere inches from yours. “Now why would i do that? You look good down there.”

Your pulse quickened, though you told yourself it was from exertion. “You’re enjoying this wayyyy too much.”

“Maybe,” Sevika admitted, her voice a husky whisper. “But I think you are too.” Her chest heaved with every breath, the fabric of her tank top clinging to her damp skin. The scent of sweat and iron filled the air, mingling with something deeper, something unspoken. Her gray eyes bore into yours, challenging you, daring you to say something, to do something. But neither of you moved. The world outside the training room seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you in this heat of a moment.

“You’re stronger than I expected,” Sevika muttered, her voice softer now. “Almost makes me want to keep you around.”

“Almost?” you shot back, your voice tight. “Guess I’ll have to try harder.”

Her smirk widened. “You can try, but you wouldn’t succeed.”

Ambessa’s voice cut through the moment like a blade. “Enough!” she barked, her tone sharp and commanding. “If you two are done flirting, we have a tournament to prepare for.”

Ambessa’s voice thundered through the training room before either of you had the chance to speak. “What in the hell is going on here?” Her presence filled the room instantly, her commanding tone freezing both you and Sevika in place.

Her boots clanged against the concrete as she strode forward, her towering frame illuminated by the dim red glow. Dressed in training gear, Ambessa looked more like a war goddess than a general with her broad shoulders and powerful arms on full display. A simple black sports bra wrapped tightly around her chest as her glistened abs catch the faint light.

“Off,” she barked, her sharp gaze locking on Sevika.

Sevika, who rarely flinched at anything, hesitated for a split second before pulling back. Her expression was tight with frustration, but she obeyed, releasing your wrists and standing. The loss of her warmth was immediate as the cold floor pressed against your back.

Ambessa stepped in without missing a beat, gripping Sevika’s arm and pulling her upright effortlessly. “Do you think this is some kind of game?” Her voice was low, dangerous, as she squared off with Sevika.

Sevika yanked her arm back, her jaw tightening. “She hit me. I hit her back.”

“You pinned her like a street brawler,” Ambessa snapped, her voice cutting through the charged air. “This isn’t some tavern scuffle. You’re supposed to be training, not rolling around like a fool.”

“She’s the one who pushed me,” Sevika shot back, her chest heaving as she stepped closer. The heat in her gaze didn’t waver, and the muscles in her arms flexed with tension.

Still lying on the ground, you watched the two women square off, rooted in place by the sheer energy between them. Ambessa’s imposing frame radiated authority, her dark eyes blazing, while Sevika bristled like a cornered beast, her fists clenched tightly at her sides.

“Pushed you?” Ambessa’s voice dropped to a near growl. She took another step forward, her tone mocking. “What are you, a child? You’re supposed to be stronger than this.”

“Maybe if you didn’t bark orders from a balcony, you’d see how this fight actually went,” Sevika bit back, her voice dripping with venom. Her muscles tensed beneath the fabric of her tank top, the strain of holding back her frustration evident in every line of her body.

Ambessa’s laugh was sharp and humorless, cutting through the suffocating air. “Careful, Sevika. You’re one poorly thrown punch away from losing that metal arm.”

Sevika’s lips twisted into a snarl, her voice rising as she stepped into Ambessa’s space. “And you’re one more order away from learning I don’t take kindly to being treated like a damn pawn.”

Every word exchanged felt like a spark, each one igniting the fire between them further. You remained where you were, watching from the ground as the red lights painted their figures like some living, breathing battle scene.

Ambessa tilted her head slightly, her piercing gaze narrowing. “You think this is about you?” she asked, her voice quiet but filled with dangerous intent. She took a step closer, the heat from her body palpable even from where you lay. “You’re nothing without me. You wouldn’t have that arm, that strength, or this opportunity. So don’t test me, Sevika.”

For a moment, Sevika didn’t respond, her jaw tight as her gaze flickered to the floor before locking onto Ambessa again. Then, like a wave breaking, the anger in her expression shifted into something more intimate replacing it.

“Nothing without you?” Sevika’s voice dropped, her tone low and measured, sending a shiver down your spine. “You think you own me because you gave me this?” She raised her metal arm, flexing it deliberately. “Don’t fool yourself. I’ve earned every inch of what I am.”

Ambessa didn’t back down, stepping even closer until their chests were nearly brushing. “Then prove it. Because right now, all I see is someone too stubborn to recognize when they’re being tested.”

The air between them shifted. Their breathing was heavy, their bodies so close you swore you could see the tension vibrating between them. Ambessa’s hand raised slightly, and for a second, you thought she might push Sevika, or worse, strike her. But her fingers caught the strap of Sevika’s tank top instead, her grip firm.

“You talk about earning it,” Ambessa said, her voice softer now, her words dripping with sharpness. “But have you earned this?”

Sevika didn’t flinch, though her chest rose and fell faster, her gray eyes locked onto Ambessa’s dark ones. “I’ve earned more than you think,” she said, her voice just as quiet, though there was a slight tremor. The aggression in Sevika’s stance softened, though her muscles remained taut, her body coiled and ready. Ambessa’s imposing presence didn’t falter, but the edge in her gaze dulled ever so slightly.

“You’re reckless,” Ambessa murmured, her fingers still resting against Sevika’s shirt.

“Tyrant bitch,” Sevika shot back, though there was no bite to her words.

They were so close now, their tension-filled standoff transforming into something you couldn’t quite name. You should’ve looked away, should’ve gotten up and interrupted, but you couldn’t. The sight of them, Ambessa’s glistening abs under the red lights and Sevika’s tank top clinging to her damp skin. It was mesmerizing.

The sparring session between Ambessa and Sevika had turned into a spectacle of raw power and dominance. The two women circled each other, muscles taut and glistening under the red light as they calculated their next moves. The tension in the room was almost unbearable, the charged atmosphere making it impossible to look away.

Sevika lunged first, her movements swift. Ambessa parried with ease, her stature and experience giving her the upper hand. The clash of their bodies reverberated through the room, their strength evenly matched, though Ambessa carried herself with an effortless grace that only came from years of battle.

Whereas, you sat on the couch in the corner with your legs crossed and your hands gripping the cushion tightly as you watched. The intensity between them was magnetic, and you felt heat creeping up your neck as you took it all in. The way Ambessa’s muscles shifted with every movement, the sheer power in her strikes. It was impossible not to admire her.

Sevika grunted as Ambessa caught her wrist mid-strike, twisting her arm behind her back in one fluid motion. “You’re too easy to predict,” Ambessa said, her voice low and laced with authority.

Sevika growled, twisting to free herself, but Ambessa didn’t let go. Instead, she pinned Sevika’s arms together, holding them in place with one hand. The strength in that single motion was enough to make your jaw drop. You could see the flex of her biceps, the veins on her forearm standing out as she kept Sevika completely immobilized.

You swallowed hard, feeling your cheeks flush. It wasn’t just the display of power that made your stomach flip, it was the way Ambessa looked doing it. She was in complete control, her eyes burning with determination.

Ambessa leaned in close, her lips brushing against Sevika’s ear. Whatever she whispered was too quiet for you to hear, but the way Sevika’s ears turned pink told you enough. Sevika was blushing. Their breathing was labored, their chests pressed against each other in a way that blurred the lines between aggression and intimacy. They were similar in height and strength that it was hard to tell who had the upper hand, though Ambessa’s control of the situation made it clear she was the dominant one.

You shifted uncomfortably, trying to ignore the way your body was reacting to the scene in front of you. The way they moved, the tension between them. it was impossible not to feel flustered. Your eyes flicked to Ambessa’s back, the muscles there flexing as she held Sevika in place, and then to Sevika’s jaw, clenched tightly in frustration.

And then, with a sharp motion, Ambessa threw Sevika to the ground. The impact echoed through the room, but before Sevika could recover, Ambessa straddled her waist, pinning her completely. Her hands pressed into the concrete on either side of Sevika’s head, caging her in.

For a moment, they just looked at each other. Ambessa’s gaze was piercing, and Sevika’s was equally defiant, though there was a flicker of something soft beneath her frustration. The proximity between them was almost suffocating, their breaths mingling as they stared each other down.

From your spot on the couch, you felt a pang of jealousy twist in your chest. You hated to admit it, but the sight of them like this: with Ambessa in complete control and Sevika pinned beneath her. You couldn’t deny what it made you feel. You were indecisive, whether you wanted to be in Ambessa’s place or Sevika’s.

Ambessa finally broke the moment, her head turning slightly in your direction. “Darling,” she called, her voice smooth and inviting.

Your heart skipped a beat. She rarely used that tone with you, and when she did, it always made your pulse race. You stood hesitantly, your legs feeling weak as you approached them.

“C’mere,” Ambessa said again, her eyes darkening as she watched you. You obeyed without question, moving closer until you were kneeling beside the two women. Ambessa shifted her attention back to Sevika for a moment, her thumb brushing against Sevika’s jawline before she finally let go of her. Sevika sat up slightly, her breathing still heavy as she stared at Ambessa, her lips parted as though she wanted to a near whisper. "Do you want her?"

The question hit you like a shit ton of bricks. Your eyes widened, and you quickly shook your head. "What? No, I-"

Ambessa tilted her head, a faint smirk playing at her lips. "Come on. there’s no need lie," she said, her voice soft but dangerous. "I've seen the way you look at her."

It’s true i-" you started, but your words caught in your throat as Ambessa leaned closer, her hand coming up to cup your chin.

"You can deny it all you want," she murmured, her thumb brushing against your lower lip. "But I already know the truth." Behind her, Sevika shifted, her eyes narrowing as she watched the interaction. Her gaze flicked between you and Ambessa, her jaw tightening as though she was trying to figure out what to make of the situation.

Ambessa's lips curved into a knowing smile as she let go of your chin, her hand moving to rest on your shoulder instead. "It's nothing to be ashamed of," she said, her tone almost teasing now. "Desire is a natural thing."

You felt your cheeks heat up, unsure of how to respond. Ambessa's gaze was unrelenting, and the weight of both her and Sevika's attention made your head spin.

"Still," Ambessa continued, her voice taking on a more serious edge, "you should know where your loyalties lie." Her words sent a shiver down your spine, and you nodded slowly. With the inability to tear your eyes away from her. The room was silent for a moment, the tension so thick it was almost suffocating. Sevika finally stood, brushing herself off and crossing her arms over her chest as she stared down at the two of you.

Ambessa smirked, leaning back slightly but still keeping her hand on your shoulder. "Oh, I'm counting on it," she said, her tone dripping with confidence.

As the two women exchanged another charged look, you couldn't help but feel caught in the middle of something bigger than yourself. And yet, you didn't want to be anywhere else.

Ambessa stood there, towering over both you and Sevika, her sharp gaze locked on Sevika's defiant stance. The tension between them was thick, electric, but then something shifted in Ambessa's expression. A sly smirk curved her lips, and before anyone could react, she leaned in and pressed her lips against Sevika's.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was intense, fiery, and utterly captivating. Sevika's eyes widened in surprise at first, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she matched Ambessa's energy, their mouths moving against each other with such a desire that made your heart pound. You couldn't tear your eyes away from the sight. The sound of their labored breaths and the faint growls of dominance filled the room. They kissed as if they were trying to conquer one another, neither willing to back down. Sevika's hand shot up, gripping the back of Ambessa's neck, her fingers curling into her short hair. While Ambessa's large hands found Sevika's waist, pulling her closer.

Your cheeks flushed as you watched, your mind racing. It was undeniably hot. You clenched your fists in your lap, trying to ignore the heat pooling in your belly as you continued to observe the exchange.

Ambessa's teeth caught Sevika's lower lip, tugging it slightly before she pulled back just enough to smirk. "Is that all you've got?" she taunted, her voice husky and breathless.

"Not even close," Sevika growled, surging forward to capture her lips again, this time with even more hunger.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. The two women before you were locked in a battle of dominance, their bodies pressed so tightly together that it was hard to see where one ended and the other began. The red light from the room cast their silhouettes in an almost ethereal glow, accentuating the muscles in their arms and shoulders as they held each other.

You felt a pang of longing in your chest, wishing you could be part of that. Your eyes drifted to Sevika's lips. You imagined her pressing her lips against your neck. And then your gaze moved to Ambessa's hands, the thought of them holding you like that making your stomach flip.

You didn't realize you were pouting until Ambessa pulled back slightly from Sevika, her eyes flicking toward you. She chuckled lowly, her voice thick with amusement. "What's wrong, darling?" she teased, the pet name rolling off her tongue like silk.

You quickly looked away, embarrassed that she'd caught you. "Nothing," you muttered, though the heat in your cheeks betrayed you.

"Nothing, hm?" Ambessa stepped closer, leaving Sevika standing there looking both frustrated and dazed. She reached out, her hand brushing lightly against your cheek before trailing down to rest against your back. "I don't think I believe you."

Sevika, still breathing heavily, smirked as she noticed your reaction. "Looks like someone wants in on the fun," she said, her tone teasing but her eyes were dark. Your heart skipped a beat as Ambessa's hand pressed more firmly against your back, guiding you to your feet. "Join us.” she commanded softly, her voice leaving no room for argument.

You hesitated for only a moment before obeying, letting her lead you exactly where you wanted to be. Right inbetween the two of them. Her hand stayed firm against your back, her touch grounding yet electrifying.

"You've been watching like you want something," Ambessa murmured, her lips brushing against your ear as she spoke. "Well?"

"I..." You trailed off, unsure of how to put into words the mix of desire and anticipation swirling inside you.

"Shy now?" Sevika teased, stepping closer until her chest was nearly brushing against your back. She reached out, her calloused fingers tilting your chin up so you had to look at her. "Don't be."

The proximity of both women was overwhelming, their sheer size making you feel small and delicate in comparison. Ambessa's hands slid down to your hips, pulling you flush against her chest while Sevika's fingers trailed along your jawline.

"You're trembling," Ambessa noted with a smirk, her voice a low rumble against your back. "Are we making you nervous, darling?"

"I-i’m not nervous," you managed to say, though your voice betrayed you.

Ambessa chuckled, the sound vibrating through her chest and into your body. "Good," she said. "Because we're just getting started."

Before you could respond, Ambessa leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both commanding and intoxicating. Her hands tightened on your hips, holding you firmly against her as her lips moved against yours with expert precision.

You barely had time to process the kiss before Sevika's lips found the curve of your neck, her teeth grazing your skin in a way that sent shivers down your spine. The combination of their touches was almost too much to handle, and yet you craved more.

Ambessa pulled back slightly, her eyes dark with desire as she looked down at you. "Sevika," she said, her tone carrying a hint of command.

Sevika hummed in response, her lips still pressed against your neck.

"I think you want more," Ambessa said, a mischievous glint in her eye as she looked between you and Sevika.

Sevika smirked, her hand coming up to cup your cheek as she pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. "Then we shouldn't disappoint," she said, her voice low and full of promise.

As they both closed in on you, you couldn't help but feel excitement. Being caught between these two powerful women, their attention focused entirely on you, was a dream come true. And as their lips and hands began explored every inch of your body, you couldn’t resist.

THE NEXT PART

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