#I can’t shake the rust

[rennyrose]

your liv and raz are my beloveds because (as a system) i've never seen good system representation in media and the love and appreciation you give them is so good. ily

And ily Random Citizen

[urmum-lovesme]

Bunny

Rafe Cameron x Maybank!Reader

summary: Struggling to keep her and JJ’s home afloat, Y/N turns to the only option that guarantees fast cash- stripping at a club on the Cut. But when Rafe Cameron catches her in the act, he sees the perfect opportunity to tighten his grip around her life.

a/n: I actually said I'd never do another series again but here we are 😼. Looollll anywho, Y/N literally is literally a walking definition of older child syndrome and her and Rafe hate eachother so much stop. This is gonna be such a good enemies to lovers get me outta here

warnings: mentions of drugs, smoking, drinking, a strip club (duh), naked women, drug dealing, aggressive behaviour.

(P1) (P2) (P3) (P4) (P5) (P6) (P7) (P8) (P9) (P10) (P11) (P12) (P13) (P14) (P15)

The faucet dripped steadily, each drop hitting the rust-stained sink with an echo that filled the quiet of the house. Y/N stood in the cramped bathroom, arms crossed, lips pressed together in frustration as she watched the slow but relentless leak. 

Another thing broken. 

Another thing they couldn’t afford to fix.

She let out a slow breath, running a hand down her face before turning sharply at the sound of footsteps thudding through the hallway. She knew them well—JJ, heading for the door, heading out. Again.

“JJ.” 

Her voice was firm, but it barely slowed him down as he moved through the house, searching for his keys. He muttered, pushing past the worn couch and shoving a hand into the pocket of his frayed shorts.

“Not now, Y/N, alright?” 

“JJ, seriously.” 

She stepped into his path, arms out now, forcing him to stop. 

“Can you just- can you talk to me for five seconds?”

“What?”

His blue eyes flicked up to hers, but there was impatience in them, already halfway gone even as he stood in front of her. Y/N clenched her jaw, gesturing back toward the bathroom. 

“Shit’s breaking faster than I can fix it. We need money and I can’t do this alone.”

“I’ll figure something out, okay?” 

JJ sighed, rubbing a hand down his face as he stepped around her, heading toward the door again. She let out a humorless scoff watching her brother avoid the conversation- once again.

 “What about that job interview at the gas station I told you about last week?”

She’d told him about it last monday, she could still remember begging the manager to give him a chance, given his reputation- well it wasn't the best. JJ’s shoulders tensed slightly, and for the first time, he hesitated. 

“Uh… yeah, about that…”

Y/N’s stomach dropped. She already knew the answer before he finished his sentence. She spoke slowly, warning in her tone.

 “JJ” 

“Look, me and the Pogues were fishing, and we kinda… lost track of time.”

He winced, rubbing the back of his neck. Y/N shut her eyes, exhaling sharply as she lifted her hands to cover her face. 

“Are you serious?”

“I mean, technically, I did show up. Just… a little late.”

JJ let out a half-hearted chuckle, like maybe that’d soften the blow. She dropped her hands, shaking her head as exhaustion settled deep in her bones. 

“Jesus, Jay. Do you even care?”

JJ frowned but didn’t answer right away. He knew he was being a little unreasonable- but in his defense he was just a teen. His silence however told her everything. She looked at him and momentarily took in his appearance, his messy blond hair, his summer kissed skin; she envied him a little, the way he was always out and about, not worried, never stressed. She muttered, turning on her heel.

“Forget it” 

“Y/N—”

But she was already walking away, back toward the bathroom, back toward the leaking faucet, back toward everything she had to deal with alone. JJ hesitated for a second, watching her go, then sighed and yanked open the door. And then it shut behind him, leaving Y/N standing there in the silence. She swallowed hard, blinking back the stinging frustration behind her eyes.

"Yeah," she muttered to herself, voice barely above a whisper.

 "Guess I'll figure it out myself."

After a while she had given up on the leaky faucet, cleaning up the house- to the best of her ability- before settling down in the kitchen.The stack of bills sat on the dining table, a messy pile of final notices and overdue warnings. Y/N stared at them, her fingers running over the edges of the envelopes, as if touching them could somehow make the numbers smaller, make the debt disappear. The utilities, the rent- hell, even the grocery bill? It was all piling up faster than she could keep up with. Sometimes she wished she could turn back time, move back to when she didn't even know about all of this, before she showed her dad she could look after herself - and JJ… maybe then she wouldn't have this constant weight on her shoulders.

With a sigh, she dropped her head down onto the table, resting her forehead against the cool surface. Think, think, think. There had to be a way to come up with money, something quick, something that didn’t involve relying on JJ, because clearly that wasn’t an option either now. Her mind raced through possibilities, but every idea led to a dead end. The front door swung open and then slammed shut. Y/N didn’t even lift her head as heavy, stumbling footsteps made their way inside. 

She knew that gait all too well. 

Her jaw clenched as her father mumbled something incoherent under his breath, his words slurred, laced with whatever shit he had put in his system tonight. She stayed still, hoping, praying, that he’d just pass out somewhere and leave her be. Without a word to her, he shuffled through the house, disappearing into her bedroom. Y/N pursed her lips, lifting her head slightly as she listened to him rustling around in there. She knew better than to go after him. Whatever he was looking for- money, booze, something to pawn- she wasn’t about to get in his way.

Instead, she pushed back from the table, standing up slowly, her hands pressing against the wood as she steadied herself. The house was too quiet now, except for the occasional sound of drawers opening and closing in her room. Her stomach twisted. She needed to get out of here, needed to fix this mess before it swallowed her whole.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She’d been driving with no real destination, letting the silence of the night and the hum of the engine settle her thoughts. She’s gripping the wheel tightly, her thoughts tangled in the mess of overdue payments, an empty fridge, and a father and brother who barely acknowledge her existence unless they want something.Then, as she’s driving through the dimly lit streets, she passes by it. The neon sign flickers, casting a dull pink glow onto the pavement, and without even thinking, she slams the brakes. Her car comes to a sudden stop in the middle of the empty street and can feel her seat belt digging into her chest momentarily, her heart pounding as she stares at the building.

It’s not like she’s never thought about it before. 

She’s heard things, seen the type of girls who walk in and out of there, all done up with money to spend. And right now, she has nothing- nothing but overdue bills and a house falling apart. Her hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. A part of her wants to just drive away, pretend she never even considered it. But another part of her- the part that’s desperate, the part that’s sick of drowning- knows this might be her only shot. She swallows hard, taking a deep breath before finally pulling her car to the curb. She sits there for a second, hands still on the wheel, staring at the entrance, she brings her hand up to rub it down her face, hand resting over her mouth as she thinks. 

Really thinks.

Then, before she can change her mind, she kills the engine and steps out.

The night air is cool against her skin, but it does nothing to settle the heat rising in her chest. Her heart is hammering, her stomach twisting as she closes the car door behind her. The pavement feels unsteady beneath her feet as she walks toward the entrance. The music from inside is faint but pulsing, the bass reverberating through the ground. She hesitates, staring at the worn-down exterior and the neon sign buzzing overhead. As she approached the door, something caught her eye- a flyer taped to the window, the bold letters glaring at her in the dimming light.

NOW HIRING

This is insane. 

She shouldn’t be here.

And yet, she doesn’t turn around, instead her fingers flex at her sides before she pushes the door open, stepping inside. The shift in atmosphere is immediate. The air is thick with perfume and alcohol, the dim lighting casting deep shadows across the room. The club isn’t packed- it’s late on a weekday- but there are still men scattered around, cash in hand, eyes glued to the stage. A girl moves fluidly under the colored lights, her body illuminated by pinks and blues as she wraps herself around the pole. Y/N swallows, forcing herself to keep walking, past the wandering eyes of men who glance at her but don’t linger. She doesn’t know exactly where she’s going, only that if she stops now, she’ll most likely lose her nerve.

She spots a bar toward the back and makes a beeline for it, hands slightly clammy. A woman stands behind the counter, pouring a drink for some guy in a suit. Y/N waits until she’s done before leaning in slightly. 

“Hey, um- do you know who I talk to if I’m looking for a job?”

The woman lifts a brow, gaze flicking over Y/N, taking her in. Then, without a word, she jerks her chin toward a door near the back as she picks up a glass on the counter and starts drying it. 

“Through there. Ask for Tommy.”

Y/N nods, her pulse jumping as she turns toward the door. This is it. She can still leave, still pretend she never came here. But instead, she takes a breath and pushes the door open. The door swings shut behind her with a dull thud, muffling the thumping bass from the main room. The air back here feels different- less suffocating, it’s dimly lit, the walls lined with old vintage posters of strippers and liquor crates, the faint scent of cigarettes lingers in the air.

Y/N’s eyes adjust quickly, landing on a man seated behind a cluttered desk, lazily counting a stack of cash. He looks to be in his late forties, broad-shouldered with thinning hair and a face that’s seen its fair share of rough nights. A half-smoked cigarette dangles between his fingers. He doesn’t look up immediately, just exhales a cloud of smoke before finally lifting his gaze to hers. His eyes sweep over her, slow and calculating. 

“You lost, sweetheart?”

“I saw you were hiring.”

Y/N shakes her head, her hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket.That piques his interest. He leans back in his chair, eyeing her with something between amusement and scrutiny. 

“That so?”

“Yeah. I—I need a job.”

She nods, trying to keep her voice steady. Tommy taps his fingers against the desk, sizing her up. 

“You ever danced before?”

Y/N hesitates for half a second, “No.”

He smirks like he expected that answer, responding with a slow nod as he places the money he was counting into an envelope labeled ‘Bambi’. 

“You got any experience bartending? Serving?”

“...I'm a waitress at the country club.”

His brow lifts, and for a moment, she thinks he’s going to laugh in her face. Instead, he sighs, rubbing a hand down his jaw, momentarily pausing as he closes up the envelope, puts it onto a pile and looks up to her. 

“So, what? You just walked in here hoping I’d throw you on stage?”

“I’m a fast learner.”

Y/N presses her lips together, shifting on her feet. Tommy watches her for a beat, then gestures toward the empty chair across from him. 

“Sit.”

She does, moving forward and lowering herself onto the chair in front of him, the leather squeaking a little as it makes contact with her bare thighs. He studies her in the dim light, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray. 

“What’s your name?”

“Y/N.”

“Well, Y/N,” he says, dragging the word out like he’s tasting it. “You don’t look like a girl who just woke up one day and decided this is what she wanted to do. So tell me- what are you really doing here?”

“I need the money.”

Y/N clenches her jaw. Tommy hums, nodding like that doesn’t surprise him as he taps the ash of his cigarette on the edge of an empty whiskey glass. 

“That part’s obvious.” 

He leans forward slightly as he continues, resting his elbows on the table. 

“But I need to know what I’m dealing with. You got people who’ll come looking for you? A jealous boyfriend? Strict parents? Any reason this might come back to bite me in the ass?”

Y/N hesitates, because the truth is- complicated. JJ wouldn’t approve, not in a million years, his sister working in a strip club? There was no way he would be happy about it, but the more she thought about it, he’s barely around- and besides she is the older sibling. And Luke? She doubts he’d even notice with the way he’s always high out of his mind. Yet deep down she knew, if he did find out it certainly wouldn’t end well.

“No,” she says finally. 

“No one’s coming after me.”

Tommy watches her carefully, like he’s weighing her answer. Then, with a slow nod, he exhales another stream of smoke and flicks his butt of his cigarette into the glass. 

“Alright, Y/N… I’ll give you a shot.”

Relief floods her chest, but it’s short-lived as he continues.

“First things first- you start off small. No stage, not yet. You’ll work the floor. Waitress, maybe some private rooms if you’re up for it. Tips are yours, but the house gets a cut. If you prove you can handle yourself, we’ll talk about dancing.”

Y/N nods, ignoring the way her stomach tightens at the mention of private rooms. She can handle this. She has to. Tommy gestures toward the door. 

“Come in tomorrow night. Nine o’clock. One of the girls will show you the ropes.”

“Okay, thank you.”

He hums out as Y/N stands up, gripping the back of the chair briefly before letting go. As she turns to leave her hand reaching out for the door handle, Tommy’s voice stops her.

“One last thing, sweetheart.”

She glances back.

“I hope you know what you’re getting into.”

His gaze is sharp, knowing. Y/N doesn’t reply. What could she possibly say to him? She just nods once and steps back through the door, back into the neon-lit haze of the club.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dressing room hummed with chatter, the air thick with the scent of perfume, body shimmer, and a mix of fruity smoke drifting around. Mirrors lined the walls, reflecting girls in various states of getting ready- adjusting lingerie straps, applying a final coat of lip gloss, securing thigh-high stockings into garter belts. Y/N sat at one of the vanities, leaning in close as she fixed the last flick of her eyeliner. Her figure was wrapped in black lace, tiny straps and sheer panels leaving just enough to the imagination- but she still had a few finishing touches to go. Naomi- better known as Bambi- was beside her, placing her straightener down and popping her gum loudly as she smirked at Y/N through the mirror. 

“You’re getting faster at this,” She mused, eyes flicking down to Y/N’s hands as she fastened a delicate silver choker with a small heart pendant around her neck. 

“First week, you were takin’ forever in here. Now look at you. A real pro, Bunny.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but smiled, smoothing out a stray strand of hair before reaching for her gloss. She teased, voice light but with that tired edge that never quite went away these days.

“Yeah, yeah. You gonna pat me on the head next?” 

“Mmm, maybe after your first private dance of the night. If you’re good girl.”

Bambi grinned and Y/N huffed a laugh, pressing her lips together to even out the gloss. A month and some into this life, and she wasn’t sure if she was settling in or just getting better at pretending she had. It was easier now- knowing the regulars, knowing what songs meant what, knowing how to smile just enough but not too much. The money helped. 

God, did the money help.

She glanced down at her phone, screen lighting up with a notification. 

JJ :  Staying at John B’s 

JJ  :  See you tmr

JJ  :  Good luck at work!!!

Y/N stares at the screen for a moment, her stomach twisting like it always does when she thinks about how much she’s keeping from him. He thinks she picked up an extra night cleaning shift at the country club since that’s what she told him. He has no idea that while he’s crashing at the chateau, she’s slipping into heels and stepping onto a stage under flashing neon lights. She locks her phone, pushing the thought away. 

Guilt won’t pay the bills.

“Busy night, you think?”

She spoke as she ignored the message, flipping the phone over and looking back at the girl next to her. Bambi gave a lazy stretch, rolling out her shoulders. 

“Always is on a Friday. High rollers’ll be in. You might get lucky.”

“Yeah, real lucky.”

Y/N scoffed, grabbing her perfume and spritzing it lightly over her collarbones. Bambi side-eyed her, then leaned in with a smirk. 

“Come on, Bunny. You might actually have fun tonight. If not, at least make it worth your while.”

Y/N just hummed, adjusting the strap on her heel as the familiar pulse of bass-heavy music leaked in from the club floor. The music thrums through the floor as Y/N steps out of the dressing room, the familiar pulse of bass settling into her bones. The club is alive tonight- packed booths, the bar swarmed with men flashing cash, neon strobes flickering over clinking glasses and loose laughter. Bambi walks beside her, adjusting the strap of her bra as she surveys the crowd. 

“It’s a good night,” she muses, eyes gleaming as a man waves down a waitress with a fat roll of bills in his hand. 

“Everyone’s in a generous mood hmm.”

 “Looks like it.”

Y/N hums, already spotting a few regulars scattered through the crowd. The air is thick with perfume and cologne, the scent of whiskey and something heavier and smokier lingering beneath. Girls weave through the crowd, balancing trays of drinks, draping themselves over men who let them. The DJ’s set switches, the bass rattling the room, A voice calls from near the DJ booth, and Bambi nudges Y/N with her hip, a smirk tugging at her lips as she sends her a little kiss.

“Knock ’em dead, baby.”

Y/N exhales, rolling her shoulders back as she steps into the chaos of the club. The energy is thick tonight- bodies packed around the stage, eager hands already tossing bills, the bass thrumming deep in her ribs. She grips the pole, the cool metal grounding her for a brief moment before she moves.The nerves are familiar but distant now, part of the routine; she’s used to it- the way the outside world fades the second she steps onto the platform.

Her body flows with the music, slow and teasing at first, rolling her hips as she wraps a leg around the pole and lifts herself with ease. She spins, the world blurring for a second, heels gliding effortlessly over the platform. A whistle cuts through the noise. A few more bills flutter at her feet.

She twists, sliding down with a deliberate drag before pushing herself back up, hooking her knee and arching her back; thighs squeezing the pole as she extends her body in a perfect line. The music pulses, dictating her movements- fluid and sultry. For a moment, there’s nothing but the heat of the lights and the electric charge of the crowd.

But then as she lifts her gaze mid-spin, her eyes catch on something in the far corner.

Two men in a booth, half-hidden in the dim lighting. They sit relaxed, a quiet presence amidst the chaos, yet people keep coming up to them- leaning in, hands subtly exchanging cash, small bags slipping from one palm to another. She doesn’t need to look too closely to know what’s going down. She presses her palm to the pole, as her feet hit the platform again, hips swaying slowly, her focus slipping back to the crowd in front of her, but something gnaws at her, pulling her attention back. Then, the lights shift, a quick flash of neon, just bright enough to cut through the shadows, and she sees him.

Rafe Cameron.

And he’s looking right at her.

Leaning back in the booth, one arm draped lazily over the seat, a glass of whiskey in his other hand. Her breath catches in her throat, her grip faltering just slightly as she steadies herself. But it’s too late. Her moment is stiffer now, the tension stretched between them, across the crowded room, and he’s locked in the way he watches her. Unblinking. She can’t tell what he’s thinking but she knows one thing for certain- 

He knows exactly who she is.

Y/N forces herself to keep moving, to stay in rhythm with the music despite the ice-cold feeling creeping up her spine. But it’s impossible to ignore the weight of Rafe’s stare. It lingers burning through the dim haze of the club. She glides down the pole, making sure to keep her expression smooth- indifferent. Her heart is hammering against her ribs, but no one in the audience would know it. They see only the show, the slow hypnotising sway of her hips as she lands back on the stage, the way her fingers tease at the hem of her lace bra before she moves toward the edge of the stage dropping to her knees. The song is winding down. One last arch of her back, one last deliberate sweep of her hands up her thighs before letting the final beat pulse through her body.

Applause, whistles, the sound of crisp bills hitting the stage.

She scoops up what she can as she stands, but her mind is barely there. Not when she can still feel the weight of him watching. As she steps offstage, she risks a glance toward the booth again.This time Barry is grinning, chatting with some guy in a backwards cap who’s slipping a wad of cash into his pocket. And Rafe- he’s still looking at her, Y/N’s breath catches as their eyes meet again and this time, he smirks. It’s small, almost lazy, but there’s something in it that makes her stomach flip.

Shit.

She rips her gaze away, hurrying toward the bar, barely registering the sound of heels clicking against the floor or the music thumping through the speakers. She drops her earnings into her basket at the end of the bar- before grabbing a glass of water. Her hands are steady as she lifts it, but her heart is pounding wildly. The bartender gives her a once-over as she wipes down the counter. 

“Damn, Bunny- y'look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“You have no idea.”

Y/N exhales, pressing the cold glass to her lips. Her eyes drift back to Rafe before she can stop herself. He’s talking to someone else now, some guy in a backward cap, shaking his hand as something small and discreet trades between them-

Fucking hell.

She jumps at the sudden touch on her arm, nearly spilling her drink. Whipping around, she exhales sharply when she sees who it is.

“Jesus, Tommy.”

“What’s up with you?”

“Nothing- It’s nothing.”

She responds as she shakes her head slightly, Tommy doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it slide.

“Someone put in a request for you.”

“Who?”

Y/N wipes her palm against her thigh, trying to shake the uneasy feeling creeping up her spine. Tommy leans in slightly, his voice calling out over the music as his head nods in the direction she was just looking. 

“Rafe Cameron.”

Y/N freezes and Tommy notices her stiff shoulders instantly. 

“Something I should know about?”

“Um… I think he and his friend are selling coke-”

“—I know” 

Tommy says easily as he picks up one of the clean empty glasses on the bar, putting it away. Y/N frowns at his words. Since the first day she’d started working here, he had stated to her he had ‘zero-tolerance’ for any of the girls doing coke… so how come now, Rafe Cameron was allowed to walk in here and make this his personal dealing spot. 

“But I thought you—”

“I made a deal with them,” he shrugs, “keeps people coming in, keeps them buying drinks. Business is business Y/N.”

“Right.”

Y/N purses her lips as he speaks and Tommy studies her for a moment, then gestures towards where Rafe was sitting, once again passing over something she couldn't quite make out to a man in a white shirt. 

“I can send someone else, but you’ll lose out on the cash for the night.” 

His voice has that slight edge to it, the one that tells her he won’t be making a habit of exceptions. She hesitates. She could probably say no. She should say no. But then she thinks about the pile of bills waiting for her at home, the ones she still doesn’t know how she’s going to all pay.

“I—” She clears her throat. 

“It’s fine.”

“Good. He’s waiting.”

Y/N exhales, setting her glass down with a quiet clink and then she turns, smoothing out her hair, checking her reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall. Rafe still leaned back in one of the lounge chairs, legs spread, arm slung over the back of the seat. Barry is beside him, but he isn’t paying attention to whatever he’s saying. His eyes are already on her.

Watching. 

Waiting.

She swallows hard, ignoring the way her pulse kicks up as she straightens her shoulders and starts moving toward him. Her heels click against the floor, her movements slow and she can feel the weight of his gaze. When she finally stops in front of him, Rafe tips his head slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Hey there, Bunny.”

Y/N clenches her jaw at the sound of his voice- low and smooth, edged with amusement. She doesn’t let it show, though. Instead, she gives him the same sultry smile she’s perfected for every other man who’s sat in front of her.

“Cameron” 

She says, tilting her head slightly, letting her fingers trail lightly over her bare thigh. Rafe grins like this is all some kind of joke. Like she isn’t standing in front of him in six-inch heels and a barely-there outfit, about to dance for him like she doesn’t know exactly who he is.

"Didn’t think I’d ever see you here"

His voice is smug like he’s savouring every second of this. Y/N bites back a retort. She wants to tell him to fuck off. Wants to ask him what the fuck he’s doing here, why he put in a request for her.

But she doesn’t. 

Because she can’t.

Her fingers twitch by her side as she takes a step closer instead, smoothly moving into his space. Rafe doesn’t move back. If anything, his smirk deepens as he spreads his legs a little wider and Barry chuckles beside him, knocking back the rest of his drink before running his hand over his head. He mutters, already moving to stand.

“ 'ight I’ll leave you to it,” 

But before he can leave, Rafe shakes his head, a smirk pulling at his lips,

"No, no—stay man."

Y/N’s stomach twists. She doesn’t want an audience, especially not Barry, she doesn't even want to be doing this in the first place. The club is still packed, neon lights flickering across the space. There are men scattered around, girls in their laps, some whispering things in their ears that’ll have them reaching for their wallets without hesitation. Y/N has done this a hundred times now. She knows the drill.

But this- this is different.

She inhales slowly as she notices Barry sitting back in his seat, eyes racking over her body and she has to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. She hesitant, her inner conflict gnawing at her mind but eventually she lets out a small breath a moves forward, swinging a leg over Rafe’s lap, lowering herself onto his thighs, moving her hips in a way that’s meant to tease. She lets her hands trail up his chest in a way that’s meant to be practiced and seductive. But then- his hand comes to rest on her hip.

Her whole body tenses.

Rafe notices. Of course he does. His thumb presses against the curve of her hip, just enough to make her teeth clench. Y/N forces a tight-lipped smile, shifting on his lap just enough to make it look like part of the dance- but really, it’s an attempt to put space between them. Her voice stays low, sharp beneath the sultry act.

"There’s a no-touching policy."

Rafe’s smirk doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens. His fingers stay right where they are, his grip on her hip solid, unmoving. He tilts his head slightly, blue eyes gleaming with something threatening.

"None of the policies here apply to me, Maybank."

He speaks out as his finger slips under the strap of her black thong, tugging on it and letting it snap back into position, the feeling causing a sharp sting on her skin. The way he says her last name- it’s teasing, taunting. Like he enjoys the way it sounds in his mouth and Y/N can’t help but clench her jaw at the thought, heat creeping up her neck.bShe doesn’t let her movements falter though, even as his words sink into her skin like a slow-burning ember. Her ass grinds down onto his lap intone with the song blaring out through teh clubs speakers, her fingers trailing over his shoulders, a practiced motion, a distraction- for herself more than for him.

“That so?”

She murmurs, voice light, teasing, playing into the role she’s supposed to be in. Rafe lets out a quiet hum, his thumb stroking over the thin fabric of her outfit.

“Mhm. I don’t think Tommy would wanna lose his best customers, do you?”

She bites down on the inside of her cheek at his words but th rhythmic roll of her hips never stops. She knows he' s pushing her.

It’s in his nature.

Barry lets out a low whistle from his seat which is followed by a chuckle. Her eye's drift over to him sitting his legs spread wide as he takes lazy sips from his drink.

“Damn didn’t peg you for this line of work Maybank. Not that I’m complainin’.”

Her spine stiffens, at she meets his eye's- yet she refuses to give them the satisfaction of leaving before the song is finished. Her focus shifts to Rafe, on the smug expression he wears as he watches her, like he’s got all the time in the world.

Like he’s enjoying this far too much.

Y/N exhales sharply through her nose. He’s trying to get under her skin. And it’s working. Rafe grins, his grip on her hips unwavering he taunts, his other hand sliding down to her thigh, drifting awfully close to her inner thigh as he tilts his head slightly.

“What’s the matter huh? You dance for all these guys, but you’re nervous around me?”

The song drags on, seconds feeling like minutes. Her body moves on instinct, performing for him, back arching as she struggles not to unravel under his gaze. And then, just as she starts to think she can get through this without losing it- he leans in. His breath fans against her ear as he speaks, voice just low enough for only her to hear.

“Wonder what your brother would think if he saw you like this.”

His voice is casual, but there’s something sharp behind it, something that makes her stomach twist. Her jaw tightens.

“That’s none of your business.”

“Just seems like something he’d wanna know,”

Rafe doesn’t even acknowledge her as she speaks, his full attention locked onto the way her hips are still grinding against him. He muses, tilting his head.

“Bet he thinks you’re a little cleaner or somethin' huh?”

Her pulse thrums in her ears, but she doesn’t let it show. Rafe’s smirk deepens, catching the movement. His fingers drum now against her knee.

“Relax, Y/N. I’m just making conversation.”

“Yeah? Funny, doesn’t feel like that.”

She scoffs under her breath. He hums, tilting his head as he takes her in, eyes darting down from her face. Her stomach knots, but she refuses to cower under his gaze. Instead, she leans in just enough that only he can hear her. “You know,” she murmurs, voice dripping with saccharine sweetness,

“most guys just pay and keep their mouths shut.”

Rafe tutted, a slow, mocking sound, then, before she can react, Rafe casually plucks a few crisp fifty-dollar bills from the stack in front of him. His fingers ghost along the curve of her waist before he shoves them right between her pushed up tits, tucking the money into her bra. Heat rushes to her face- not from embarrassment, but from the pure, seething hatred bubbling up inside her. Her jaw tightens, and she shoots him a glare so sharp it could cut glass. Barry, watching the whole thing unfold, bursts into laughter, slapping his knee like it’s the funniest thing he’s seen all night.

“Country Club” he wheezes, “she gon' kill you man”

“Nah,” he drawls, eyes flicking up to hers.

“She likes it.”

Rafe just smirks, leaning back lazily in his seat and she scoffs, the sound sharp and dripping with disgust, before snatching the money from between her tits and throwing it straight at him. The crisp bills flutter uselessly against his chest before falling into his lap, but she doesn’t care.

She doesn’t want his money- doesn’t want anything from him.

She shifts to push off his lap, to put distance between them, but Rafe moves faster. His hand snaps around her wrist in an iron grip, yanking her back down before she can escape. A sharp gasp slips from her lips as she stumbles into him, her free hand landing against his chest to steady herself.

He’s close now.

Too close.

Rafe’s smirk fades slightly, replaced by something more irritated as he stares up at her. His fingers tighten around her wrist, his grip just bordering on painful, a silent warning.

“I’d be real careful, Bunny”

Rafe murmurs, his voice low and laced with something that makes her stomach uneasy. Her breath catches, but she refuses to look away, her glare burning into him. He tilts his head slightly, his smirk creeping back as he studies her reaction.

“You wouldn’t want your brother to hear about this little conversation, would you?”

The words hang heavy between them, and she swallows hard, her pulse hammering. Y/N sits there, her body tense, her expression carved from pure, unfiltered hatred. Every fiber of her being screams at her to move, to slap that smug look off his face, but she doesn’t. Because if Rafe tells JJ… she doesn’t know what she’d do.

He watches her, sharp and calculating, before plucking the discarded money from his lap. He folds the crisp bills between his fingers in half, before bringing them up to her face. His eyes stay locked on hers, and his lips curl into that insufferable smirk.

“Open up”

He murmurs, voice taunting but firm. Her jaw clenches and she doesn’t move. Amusement flickers in his gaze, but there’s something else there too- something that tells her that she'd not got much choice now. He lifts a brow, daring her to defy him and she hates herself for it, but after a long, thick moment of silence, she slowly parts her lips. Rafe hums in satisfaction, slipping the folded-up bills between her teeth.

“Atta girl”

He muses as she bites down, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary before he pulls away. He leans back lazily in his seat, studying her with open amusement, eyes flicking between the money in her mouth and the fire still burning in her gaze. She can tell he’s so fucking satisfied. The song finally comes to an end, the heavy bass fading into the low murmur of conversation and clinking glasses. The second the last note plays and a new one begins, she jerks her wrist free from his grasp, ripping her hand away like his touch burns her.

Her mind is racing- anger, humiliation, and something else she doesn’t want to name all tangling together in a storm inside her chest. She stands abruptly, plucking the money from between her lips with two fingers like it’s tainted. Without even sparing him a glance, she turns on her heel, ready to put as much distance between herself and Rafe Cameron as possible.

But then- she feels it.

The sharp smack lands right on her ass, firm and unapologetic. A small gasp passes her lips and the audacity of it sends white-hot anger surging through her veins, and she whips around so fast her hair nearly follows the motion. Barry is already laughing, a deep, wheezing sound, blowing out a thick puff of smoke as he watches the scene unfold like it’s the best entertainment of the night.

And Rafe?

Rafe just grins up at her, infuriatingly relaxed, his expression unreadable save for the smug amusement dancing in his eyes. Then, as if he hadn't already done enough, he puckers his lips, blowing her a lazy, taunting little kiss to her. She stares at him, disgust and fury twisting in her chest, her fists clenching at her sides- heart thumping heavily in her chest as she becomes certain of one thing.

She’s never hated anyone more in her life.

taglist: @xoxosblogsblog @moonywhisp3rs @i-love-gvf @my-name-is-baby @ltristessedureratoujours @stoned-writer @mariamadison6-blog @rafecameronswhoore @lovelytoomusic @rafesgurl @mysticbby2009 @vanessa-rafesgirl @silkenthusiasts @partygirl14 @amterasuu @xoxo-ada @icaqttt @willowpains @ivysprophecy @mauvesmax @larema121 @ggraycelynn

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

Yandere Slasher x Reader

Staring down at the icy water below, you sobbed. How could you have known? How could you have possibly known that your life would unravel in a single, dazzling instant? Life was strange that way, you supposed—one moment, you were laughing with your friends, paddling down the river, and the next, their bodies were staining the current red.

You wiped your eyes with trembling hands, the stickiness of sweat clinging to your fingers. Carefully, you stepped over a corpse, its glassy, unblinking eyes staring up at nothing. Your stomach twisted, bile clawing up your throat, but you swallowed it down.

The wind howled through the trees, a bitter, keening sound, and crows cawed mournfully from their shadowed nests. A shudder wracked your body, and you swallowed your anxiety with a gulping, desperate whimper.

That man—that awful, blood-slicked masked man—was still out there. Lurking. Waiting. Watching.

Hours dragged by, and he hadn’t found you.

You were shivering in a tree’s gnarled embrace, the rough bark biting into your arms and legs, when you heard it—the slow, crunching of heavy boots against dead leaves. You froze, breath caught in your chest, fingers digging into the mossy branch beneath you. Your heart hammered, each beat a desperate, panicked drum. Maybe he wouldn’t look up. Maybe he’d think you’d run further. Maybe—

A creak. The tree shuddered. You bit your tongue, stifling a gasp, but your terror gave you away. The masked man’s head tilted up, the crude, dirt-streaked mask covering his face. His clothes hung in filthy tatters, stained dark with mud and crimson blood.

You didn’t even have time to scream. A massive, calloused hand shot up, fingers closing around your ankle like a steel trap. With one brutal yank, you were wrenched from your perch, the world spinning in a blur of twisting branches and sky. You hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. Pain blossomed in your side, but before you could even curl in on yourself, that iron grip seized your arm.

He dragged you, half-limp and stumbling, through the forest. The world around you blurred—tangled underbrush, clawing vines, the endless, shadowed trees whispering in the wind. You tried to fight, digging your heels into the dirt, clawing at his hand, but it was like trying to pull against a mountain.

The cabin appeared out of the mist, an ancient, sagging thing with rotting timbers and a door that hung crooked on its hinges. The windows were black, smeared with filth. Your heart sank.

Inside, the air was thick and stale, the darkness pressing close. The man shoved you forward, and you stumbled, hitting the warped, splintered floor. Rusted chains hung from the wall, and without a word, he looped one around your ankle, snapping the iron cuff shut with a brutal finality.

You scrambled back, pressing yourself against the wall, breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. He loomed over you, his breath a slow, rasping growl behind the mask. For a moment, he just stared—those wild, animal eyes boring into you. Then, without a sound, he turned and left, the door slamming shut behind him.

The hours stretched into a sick eternity. The darkness seemed to pulse, shadows crawling at the edges of the room. Panic gnawed at you, your fingers scrabbling at the iron cuff, but it was hopeless. The metal was old, but solid.

Then, the door groaned open. The masked man entered, a dripping, bloodied slab of raw meat in his grasp. He approached, crouching in front of you. Slowly, he held it out—pushing it toward your face.

Your stomach twisted with a sick, frantic revulsion. The smell was sharp, metallic.

“I-I can’t…” Your voice was a broken whisper, shaking so violently it was barely audible. “Please. I… I can’t eat raw food.”

His head tilted, the mask’s rough edges catching the dim light. He didn’t speak, just stared at you for a long, unbearable moment. Then, slowly, he stood. The raw meat dropped from his hand, smacking wetly against the floor. He turned and stepped out, the door creaking shut behind him.

Silence. Time crawled by, thick and choking. Then, the door opened again. The man entered, now carrying something that was charred black, still sizzling. He crouched before you, holding it out again. The meat was overcooked—burned in places, tough-looking. But it was no longer raw.

He waited, head cocked, those wild eyes watching you with a strange, expectant intensity.

Your shaking hand reached out, and you tore a piece off. It was like chewing ash, but you forced it down, wincing at every bite. His gaze never left you. He didn’t move. Not even a twitch. His unblinking eyes bore into you, tracking every slow, hesitant bite you took. The charred meat was bitter, crumbling between your teeth, each swallow scraping down your dry throat. But you ate. You forced yourself to, your gaze never daring to rise fully to his.

And he never looked away.

When you finally finished, your stomach twisted, but you fought against the urge to throw up. He leaned closer, and for one dizzying moment, you thought he might reach out and touch you. But he didn’t. He only stared. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he stood and walked out, the door creaking shut behind him.

Darkness swallowed the room. Silence wrapped around you. You tried to fight the exhaustion gnawing at your bones, fear pricking at every nerve. But eventually, sleep dragged you under, your body crumpling against the cold, splintered wall.

You dreamed of blood.

Red, staining the water—your friends’ laughter twisting into screams. Their bodies drifting beneath the surface, limbs tangled like twisted reeds, faces pale and empty. The man’s hulking shadow loomed behind them, the crude, grinning mask dripping dark, sticky trails. He moved through the river like a monster, slow and unstoppable. And then he saw you. He lunged—

You woke with a choking gasp, the dream’s claws still raking at your chest. Panic crushed you, your breathing coming in frantic, ragged bursts. Your vision swam, the darkness of the cabin feeling thick, pressing close—

A weight settled on your forehead. A massive, calloused hand, rough and filthy, pressed against your skin.

You froze, your breath caught, your heart a pounding thunder. The masked man was crouched in front of you, his dark eyes fixed on your face. His hand was hot against your sweat-slicked brow, the pressure firm but not painful. He leaned closer, head tilting slightly, as if studying you.

Your breath trembled, but your body was locked in place, paralyzed by fear. He didn’t speak—he never spoke—but something in his gaze seemed to shift.

Then, just as suddenly as he’d appeared, he pulled his hand back. He stood, the old wood creaking beneath his weight, and walked away. The door groaned as it opened, then thudded shut again, leaving you shivering, the ghost of his touch still burning on your skin. You stayed awake after that, too shaken to sleep again. The darkness felt alive, pressing against you from every corner of the decaying cabin. Your breaths were shallow, your pulse a frantic rhythm in your ears. You rubbed at your forehead, trying to scrub away the sensation of his touch.

Hours must have passed. Time twisted strangely in the darkness. Your throat was dry, your muscles stiff and aching. Hunger gnawed at you, but the thought of that charred meat turned your stomach.

The door creaked open again.

Your body tensed instinctively, your hands gripping the cold chain around your ankle. The masked man stepped in, his hulking frame filling the doorway, blotting out the thin slivers of pale light behind him. His mask seemed even dirtier now, streaked with dried mud, one edge cracked, exposing a bit of dark, matted hair. His wild eyes found you immediately.

He carried something in his filthy hands—an old, metal cup, its edges dented and rusted. Water sloshed inside, some of it spilling to the rotting floor as he crossed the room. He knelt in front of you again, and without a word, thrust the cup forward.

You stared at it, then at him. Your mouth felt like sandpaper, your tongue sticking to the roof. But you hesitated. Was it clean? Did it matter?

His head tilted slightly. When you didn’t take it, his thick fingers wrapped around your wrist. He guided your hand to the cup. You flinched but didn’t fight. Slowly, you raised it to your lips, tipping it cautiously.

The water was stale and metallic, but you drank it greedily, too desperate to care. Some of it dribbled down your chin.

When the cup was empty, he didn’t pull away immediately. His hand still gripped your wrist, a faint, pulsing pressure against your racing pulse. Then, his thumb brushed against your skin.

You froze, breath caught in your throat.

He released you, rising in a slow, heavy motion. The cup clattered to the floor, rolling a little before settling. Without a word, he turned and walked out, the door groaning and slamming shut behind him.

Your heart thundered in the silence. You stared at the rusted cup, your wrist still tingling where he’d touched you.

Was he trying to take care of you? Or was this something else—something darker, something worse? Your mind raced with possibilities, each one more desperate than the last. You were his prisoner. His toy. His… his what?

You couldn’t stay here. Couldn’t live in this darkness, in his strange, silent shadow. Your eyes fell to the chain at your ankle, thick and rusted but solid. Your fingers probed the iron cuff—cold, heavy. No matter how you twisted, it wouldn’t slide off.

But there had to be a way. Some weakness. Some escape. Even if you had to…

The door crashed open.

You flinched, a startled gasp escaping you. The man stormed in, faster than before, and your heart lurched. His breathing was louder, harsher, almost a growl beneath the mask. His shoulders heaved, and something dark and wet dripped from his hands—water? Blood? You couldn’t tell in the murky light.

He moved directly to you, and before you could even think to shrink away, his massive hand closed around your jaw. The pressure was firm—not enough to hurt, but enough to lock you in place. His eyes blazed down at you, and his head tilted, that animal curiosity returning.

You whimpered, a tiny, broken sound muffled by his grip.

Then, slowly, his other hand rose, his thick, filthy fingers brushing against your cheek. A dark smear trailed across your skin. His thumb pressed gently, almost as though he were wiping something away. It was water. His hands were dripping with water. But the water on his hands was murky, tainted with dark streaks of grime. His attempt to clean you only smeared the filth across your cheek, leaving a sticky, mud-streaked cheeks. Panic clawed at you, your skin crawling beneath his touch, but your body remained rigid, locked in place by his iron grip on your jaw.

You tried to turn away, but his fingers tightened slightly, forcing your gaze back to him. His eyes searched your face, the erratic flicker within them giving no hint of reason, no trace of humanity. His breathing grew slower, his chest rising and falling like the tide.

“P-Please,” you whispered, barely daring to speak. “Please, let me go.”

His thumb brushed over your lips, smearing another streak of muck across them. He seemed almost… fascinated, watching the way your skin yielded beneath his touch, the tremble of your mouth against his rough, filthy thumb.

You squeezed your eyes shut, tears burning behind your lids.

“Please…”

For one dreadful, endless moment, you were sure he wouldn’t stop—sure that he would press harder, force you to endure the filthy, clumsy attempt at… what? Comfort? Control? You didn’t know. You didn’t want to know.

But then, abruptly, he pulled away. His hand fell to his side, leaving your skin streaked with dirt and cold with lingering dampness. He stood there for a moment, staring down at you. Staring.

Masterlist

[iydiamartinx]

THIS IS WHY THERE'S ONLY ONE BED

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader x Roy Harper

divider by: cafekitsune & omi-resources word count: 4.1k synopsis: Caught in a storm after a mission, you, Jason, and Roy are forced to share a motel room—where they end up helping you sleep in more ways than one.

a/n: It's 3 am and I'm half asleep editing this so I blame that for any errors or if anything sounds weird. To my Anon who requested this, I hope you liked it ♡ To my under 18 readers, sorry guys this one is not for you.

warnings: Dom Jason & Roy, DP...

The rain was biblical. A curtain of water hammered down from the sky as if the heavens themselves had opened up. Your boots sloshed through ankle-deep puddles as you sprinted from the abandoned warehouse to the rusted-out pickup Roy had hot wired earlier. Jason was right behind you, muttering curses under his breath while stripping off his soaked gloves.

“Hell of a storm,” he growled, slamming the door shut behind him.

“No shit,” Roy snapped, wringing out his drenched red hood. “We need to get off the roads before we hydroplane into a ditch.”

You leaned back in your seat, arms crossed, watching lightning carve jagged veins across the sky.

The only open place for miles was a flickering roadside motel that looked like it belonged in a slasher flick. Faded sign. Buzzing neon. A cracked Vacancy light sputtering in the window. The lobby smelled like mildew and nicotine.

“There’s only one room left,” you announced flatly after speaking to the man at the desk, dropping the key onto the table between you three with a dull clack.

Jason blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding, let’s just sleep in the car. and save the cash”

You shot him a look, arching a brow. “You want to sleep in a metal death trap during a lightning storm?”

He didn’t answer, but his scowl deepened. For someone who always claimed being adopted by a billionaire hadn’t changed him, his inner snob was definitely showing.

Roy leaned against the wall nearby, shaking rain from his hair. He let out a sigh as he dropped his soaked cap to his side, water dripping onto the already stained floor. “We’re lucky there’s anything at all,” he said. “I vote we take the room. Worst case, I steal a pillow and sleep in the bathtub.”

Jason’s jaw ticked. “I swear to God, if you snore—”

“Then you can sleep outside, princess,” you snapped, snatching the key back off the table with a roll of your eyes. “Let’s go.”

The three of you braved the torrent once more, pushing through the downpour as you made your way across the lot and veered toward the exterior staircase. Rain lashed at your backs, soaking through already-wet clothes as you climbed up to the second floor, your boots squelching against the slick concrete.

You were halfway down the corridor, counting the faded room numbers, when a figure stumbled toward you from the opposite end.

A man—middle-aged, soaked, and reeking of alcohol—swaggered closer, barely keeping his balance. His grin was crooked, yellowing teeth on full display as his bleary eyes landed on you.

“Well, aren’t you a looker,” he slurred, gaze crawling across your body without shame. “Hey honey, if those two can’t fuck you right, good ole Earl’s just next door.”

Before you could even respond, both Jason and Roy stepped in closer—shoulders squared, jaws tight, their bodies a wall between you and the leering man.

Jason’s glare could’ve shattered glass. Roy didn’t say a word, but the murderous glint in his eyes said plenty.

The man didn’t seem to get the hint—or maybe he was too drunk to care. His gaze dragged over you once more, slow and shameless, before he gave a greasy wink and turned, staggering toward the room directly beside yours.

The second his door clicked shut, Jason muttered, “I’m not above committing a felony tonight.”

Roy cracked his neck, still watching the door. “If he even says one more word, and I’ll help you bury the body.”

You sighed and rolled your eyes, brushing past your two overprotective best friends as you stepped up to your own door. The key rattled in the lock, and the motel door creaked open with a long, miserable groan—hinges rusted and squealing like the place hadn’t seen a maintenance crew in a decade.

You stepped inside first, flicking on the light—and froze.

Jason nearly ran into you. “What—?”

“There’s only one bed,” you said flatly.

Roy squeezed past the two of you, tracking wet footprints across the peeling linoleum as he took a good look around. “No couch either,” he muttered. “Figures.”

Jason scoffed and crossed his arms as thunder rumbled overhead, rattling the thin windows. “Great. This just keeps getting better.”

You groaned and scrubbed a hand down your face. “Okay. Someone takes the floor.”

Jason didn’t hesitate—his gaze snapped straight to Roy. “You.”

“Excuse me?” Roy scoffed. “Why me?”

You arched a brow, unimpressed. “What happened to stealing a pillow and sleeping in the tub?”

He paused. His gaze drifted toward the cracked bathroom door. Slowly, cautiously, he stepped closer and nudged it open wider. The second he got a full look inside, he recoiled in horror and slammed it shut.

“Absolutely not,” he declared. “That tub is fucking filthy. I’m pretty sure it’s harbouring the next stage of biological warfare.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Then floor it is.”

“Like hell,” Roy snapped. “I’m not waking up with roaches in my sleeping bag. Again.”

You looked between them, already regretting every choice that had led you to this moment. One bed. Two stubborn idiots.

Roy huffed and paced a few steps, running a hand through his wet hair. Jason muttered something under his breath that you didn’t catch—but whatever it was, it made Roy’s head snap back around.

Roy threw his hands up. “You always have to make everything harder than it needs to be, man. You’ve been bitching since we started this mission—either deal with it or go pout in the rain.”

Tension crackled in the air again, and then—predictably—the arguing began. IIt went on for over five minutes, neither of them backing down, and when it showed no sign of slowing, you sighed—loudly—knowing you had to step in before someone got thrown off the balcony.

“Yeah? You’ve got a big mouth—why don’t you use that to talk yourself into a better hotel next time?” Jason hissed, stepping forward.

“There was none available, genius,” Roy snapped. “And I didn’t talk to the man, she did!” He jabbed a finger in your direction, then took a step forward himself. “If you’ve got such a problem, go sleep in the damn car like you wanted to in the first place!”

“I don’t have a pillow!”

Roy threw his hands up with a dramatic huff. “You’ve got a bulletproof jacket. Fold it and use it as a pillow. Problem solved.”

You’d had enough.

“Enough!” you snapped, throwing your arms in the air. “Jesus. You’re worse than children.”

They both blinked, caught off guard.

“We’re all tired. We’re all soaked. And we’ve all nearly died at least once in the last twenty-four hours,” you continued, stabbing a finger toward the bed. “We’ll just share the fucking bed.”

Jason grumbled something under his breath. Roy muttered a reluctant, “Fine.”

You gave them both a look—sharp and full of warning—and they wisely dropped it.

Reluctantly, all of you agreed that you needed to wash off the blood and grime clinging to your skin and clothes. There was no arguing about it—just the silent, shared understanding that you couldn’t crawl into bed like this, no matter how dingy the bathroom was.

Jason went first, then Roy, each emerging from the tiny bathroom with damp hair and towels slung around their necks. Steam still curled out behind them in thick waves, spilling into the room. The scent of cheap motel soap mingled with warm skin, leather, and something distinctly masculine.

Finally, it was your turn.

You sighed, grabbing one of the boys’ extra shirts and a clean towel before slipping into the bathroom. The water was lukewarm at best, but it did the job, washing away the dried blood, grit, and hours of sweat clinging to your skin. By the time you stepped out, the storm was still howling outside, thunder rumbling like distant cannon fire—but the room itself had gone still.

Too still.

You tugged at the oversized shirt you’d pulled on—one of Roy’s, judging by the faint cologne clinging to the collar. The hem brushed your thighs, your panties just barely concealed beneath it. Barefoot, hair damp, you crossed the room slowly, wringing out your towel as the air shifted.

You rolled your eyes when you saw the narrow gap left between them on the bed—just enough space for you, if you didn’t mind wedging yourself between two immovable, half-naked walls.

Jason sat propped against the headboard, arms crossed, grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, a muscle shirt clinging to his chest like a second skin. Roy was sprawled on the opposite edge of the mattress, shirtless, his joggers slung low, hair still wet and clinging to his forehead in messy strands.

Both of them looked up at the same time.

And neither of them looked away.

You felt it—their eyes tracking every step, every slow drag of your legs across the floor. The cling of cotton to your still-damp skin. The subtle lift of your shirt as you moved, just enough to tease the curve of your ass before you dropped your towel on the back of the chair.

Jason’s jaw flexed.

Roy’s eyes moved slowly over you, lingering just a beat too long before flicking back up to your face.

It wasn’t like you’d packed pajamas before this mission. The plan was to get in, get out, and be home in time to crash in your own bed—if the storm hadn’t stopped you. 

Sighing, you moved to crawl between the boys, sliding into the narrow space they’d left for you. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, and for a moment, no one said anything. Just the low hum of rain against the windows and the occasional creak of the storm-battered building filled the silence.

But after a few minutes, the cold crept in.

The blanket was too thin to be of any real use, and the motel’s ancient heating system had clearly given up when the power flickered earlier. The chill slipped through the walls and into your bones, slow and merciless. You curled in tighter on yourself, trying to breathe through the shivers—but it must’ve been obvious.

Roy shifted beside you with a quiet sigh. “Please don’t kick me.”

You blinked, confused. “What?”

Before you could ask again, he reached over and gathered you up, tugging you firmly into his chest. His arms wrapped around your waist. The heat of him hit you instantly—bare skin, warm and solid, radiating through the thin fabric of your borrowed shirt. You gasped softly, surprised by the sudden closeness, but he didn’t let go. One hand slid to the small of your back, holding you steady against him.

“You’re freezing,” he murmured, the words more to himself than to you. His voice was quieter now, thick with sleep and something else—concern, maybe.

Then, behind you, the mattress dipped again.

Jason didn’t say a word as he moved in, slipping in close and tucking himself against your back. One arm draped over your waist, his palm brushing lightly against Roy’s where it still rested. You were surrounded now—bracketed on either side by heat and solid muscle.

It should’ve felt crowded. Uncomfortable.

But it didn’t.

Between the two of them, the cold started to fade, your shivering easing bit by bit as their warmth settled into you. Roy’s hand remained firm on your waist, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles against your hip. Jason’s chest pressed flush to your back, his breath ghosting across your neck with every exhale.

None of you spoke.

But your heart was pounding now—not from the cold.

From awareness.

From the way Roy’s thumb dipped lower, brushing beneath the hem of your shirt—lazy and unhurried—before retreating back to a more respectful place on your waist. To the way Jason’s fingers curled just a little tighter around you every time your body softened against his

Your thighs squeezed together. You tried to focus on the storm outside, but it was nothing compared to the quiet heat building between the three of you.

You swallowed hard, lips parting. “Thanks,” you whispered.

Jason hummed low against your ear. “Anytime.”

Time passed. Outside, the storm continued its relentless assault, but inside the room, everything remained still—except for your heartbeat, quick and erratic beneath your skin.

Jason’s breathing had evened out behind you. Roy’s grip had gone slack in front of you. For a moment, you thought they’d both drifted off.

But you hadn’t.

Not even close.

Trapped between their bodies—warm, solid, far too tempting—you were painfully awake. Every brush of breath against your neck, every inch of bare skin against yours, kept your nerves lit like live wire. The heat that had started as comfort was now simmering beneath your skin, licking up the inside of your thighs.

You shifted, slowly, unconsciously. Just a little, enough to press your legs together. Seeking relief. Something. Anything.

You nearly gasped when Jason’s grip tightened around your waist with bruising intent.

“Stop moving,” he growled low in your ear, his voice rough with sleep—or something very close to it.

You froze, pulse skittering. “I can’t sleep,” you whispered back.

Jason’s lips grazed your shoulder, and the quiet rumble of his breath rolled against your skin as he leaned in.

“You keep grinding against me like that, sweetheart,” he murmured, darker now, “and you’re not gonna be sleeping at all.”

Heat surged low in your belly, a sharp pulse of desire cutting through the haze.

Your breath caught as you felt Roy stir slightly in front of you, shifting just enough to press his thigh between yours again—close, far too close. You weren’t sure if he was awake. You weren’t sure if you cared.

Jason’s hand spread across your stomach, fingers splayed low, thumb stroking slow against the edge of your shirt. “What do you need, then?” he asked quietly. 

“I—” You swallowed. “I don’t know.”

A beat passed. His lips grazed your skin again. “You want me to stop?”

You shook your head before you could think better of it.

Jason’s breath hitched. “Then keep still, baby,” he murmured, teeth grazing your shoulder now. “Or I’m gonna.”

Behind you, he pressed closer, his body fitting against yours like it belonged there. His hand moved, slipping past the curve of your waist, between your body and Roy’s.

And then under the hem of your shirt.

You sucked in a quiet breath as his fingers dipped lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear. The touch was slow—testing, giving you a chance to back out but you only shoved your ass back into him, silently urging him to continue.

Jason groaned low, his lips brushing your skin. “Fuck,” he muttered, voice rough with restraint. “You’re soaked.”

You whimpered, barely audible, your hips twitching in response—but his hand tightened against you, holding you in place.

“Uh-uh,” he whispered darkly. “I told you to stay still.”

Your eyes fluttered shut, heat pooling deep in your belly, thighs squeezing around the hand still lazily exploring.

And then Roy stirred.

You felt the shift of his muscles in front of you, his hand moving to your waist—just inches from Jason’s—and his voice came low, hoarse with sleep and suspicion. “What’s going on back there?”

You opened your mouth to answer but at that same moment Jason slipped a finger inside of you and all that came out was a breathless sound caught halfway between guilt and desire.

Jason, maddeningly calm, murmured, “Someone couldn’t sleep.”

His tone was casual—too casual—for someone whose fingers were moving so deliberately, stroking you from the inside like he had all the time in the world.

Roy’s eyes opened fully now, sharp and glinting in the low motel room light. He looked down between you, the pieces falling into place with startling clarity. His voice dropped to a knowing murmur. “Well, shit, baby… you need help sleeping?”

Your body jerked when Jason curled his fingers just right, brushing a place inside you that made your head spin with pleasure. 

You whined as Jason curled his fingers towards that soft spongy part inside of you. 

A helpless sound left your lips, needier than you meant.

“Use your words,” Roy said, voice smoother now, dangerous in its ease. his gaze met Jason’s in the dark and Jason immediately stopped moving. 

You pushed your hips back instinctively, trying to find relief—but Roy’s grip held you firm.

Jason’s lips were at your ear now, breath hot. “We’re not doing anything unless you ask for it.”

Your throat worked around the ache building in your chest, in your stomach, between your thighs.

“Yes,” you gasped out, breathless. “Please—don’t stop.”

Jason’s fingers started moving again, slow but deliberate—teasing, then pressing deeper, dragging along every sensitive spot with calculated precision. He alternated his touch, one moment stroking inside you, the next circling your clit with maddening care. 

Your breath came faster, soft sounds escaping before you could bite them back.

In front of you, Roy had pushed your shirt up with one hand, the fabric bunching beneath your arms. He groaned when he got a full view of you in the dim light, his palm splaying across your ribcage, thumb brushing up toward your breast.

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice dark and reverent. “You’re so damn pretty like this.”

You squirmed in their grip, overwhelmed and desperate for more, caught between Roy’s roaming hands and Jason’s sinful fingers.

Jason’s mouth was at your ear again, his voice low and rough. “Think she likes the attention.”

Roy leaned in, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your collarbone as his hand gently cupped your breast. “Think she needs more.”

You whimpered, body caught in a tug-of-war between their hands, their mouths, their voices—both of them touching like they wanted to learn you from memory.

“You still with us, sweetheart?” Jason murmured.

You nodded shakily, voice barely a whisper. “I want…”

Roy smirked against your skin. “Yeah?” he murmured. “Then tell us, baby.”

But your words dissolved into a moan as Jason’s thumb found just the right spot—and from the way Roy’s eyes darkened.

“Come on, baby, use those words or we’ll stop and leave you all needy and aching.” Roy urged with a croon as he leaned down to a suck a nipple.

Your back arched off the bed with a cry and shakily you said, “I want you both, I want you both to fuck me.”

Jason stilled, his breath catching. Roy’s eyes darkened as he looked up at you with a gaze full of sin, “Then you’re gonna get exactly what you asked for, baby.”

In one smooth motion, Jason hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and tugged them down. The fabric slipped down your legs, discarded somewhere in the dark. Then he shifted behind you, his hands firm as he guided you up and over, so you were straddling Roy. 

You hadn’t even realized he’d shed his sweats.

The heat of him pressed against you, your thighs trembling slightly where they framed his hips as your pussy leaked all over him.

“Grind down on him—get that cock all nice and wet,” Jason ordered, guiding your hips down against Roy’s throbbing length.

Roy groaned, his hands replacing Jason’s on your hips as he began to guide you, sliding your slick pussy along the length of his shaft. You whimpered, each pass of his crown catching your clit and making your thighs tremble.

Behind you, Jason shifted again, gently pushing you forward, folding you over Roy, and began trailing hot, wet kisses down your spine—deliberately going slow—until he reached the curve of your ass. At the same moment Roy latched onto your nipple, nipping sharply, Jason sank his teeth into your flesh, drawing a cry from your lips.

“If I didn’t want to be inside of you so bad,” Jason muttered, voice thick with restraint, “I’d spend hours marking this body.”

Roy groaned his agreement, mouth full of your tits as he alternated between them—sucking, licking, worshipping each one with desperate, hungry attention. His hands forcing your hips to keep grinding down on him.

Jason pulled back just enough to swipe two fingers through your arousal, then spread it across your tight entrance. He took his time, gentle and slow, as he began teasing you open.

You barely had time to breathe before he pushed a finger inside—right as Roy finally sank into your pussy.

A keening whine escaped you at the stretch, at the burn, as both of them filled you. Your arms shook as you tried to hold yourself up, overwhelmed by the way they began immediately moving—one slowly thrusting in as the other eased out, keeping at least one of them buried deep inside you at all times.

Jason soon slipped in a second finger, slowly stretching you wider. Your lashes fluttered, breath catching with every movement, all thought drowned beneath the mounting pleasure.

“It’s too much,” you panted.

“Come on, baby,” Roy murmured against your skin, his voice thick with teasing heat. “You haven’t even taken Jason’s cock yet.”

“Too big,” you panted, voice breathless and shaky. “You both won’t fit.”

God, Roy was barely fitting already—the stretch had you trembling, every nerve lit as you struggled to breathe through the fullness of his cock and Jason’s fingers.

“You can do it, doll,” Jason crooned, mouthing kisses along your neck before his lips brushed your ear. “Don’t you want to be a good girl and take us both?”

A cry slipped from your lips as Roy suddenly snapped his hips upward sharply. You could only nod—dazed, dizzy on the sudden pleasure—barely processing what you were agreeing to.

You whimpered when Jason pulled his fingers from you, and then Roy eased out too, leaving you feeling suddenly cold and achingly empty.

“Patience, baby,” Roy murmured, gently shushing you. “It’s Jason’s turn to get his cock all nice and wet.”

Jason sank into your pussy slowly, thrusting just enough to coat himself in your slick heat before pulling out again, dragging a moan from your throat.

Roy returned almost instantly, pushing back inside you in one smooth motion, his grip tightening on your hips to keep you still and filled—right where he wanted you.

Your body tensed again as you felt the head of Jason’s cock line up behind you, pressing against your stretched entrance. He went slow, easing in inch by inch.

Your arms gave out beneath you as a cry tore from your throat, the stretch and burn overwhelming. “Oh fuck… it’s too much.”

Roy’s fingers found your clit, rubbing slow, soothing circles as he whispered gently, “You can do it. That’s it, baby… you’re taking us so well. Just relax for Jay, and push out against him.”

You were so tight around him that Jason had to grit his teeth, jaw clenched in restraint, holding himself back from sinking into you in one hard thrust.

All three of you let out a collective sigh as Jason finally bottomed out inside you. You were so fucking full. For a moment, neither of them moved, giving you time to adjust to having them both buried deep inside you.

Eventually, it was you who broke the silence with a low, desperate whine, trying to shift your hips—seeking friction—but failing, too overwhelmed and too thoroughly impaled to properly move.

Jason and Roy shared a grin at your needy state.

“Does our greedy girl need more?” Jason teased.

“Please,” you begged, all but sobbing. “Please, please, please.”

Your eyes rolled back as they finally started moving. They found a rhythm quickly—deep and stead strokes. The friction of both their cocks dragging along your walls was nearly too much, specially as their pace quickened, slamming into you and forcing screams of pleasure from your throat.

“Yeah, there we go, doll,” Jason grunted, his voice rough and ragged. As he hauled your limp body up by the throat. “Scream for us. I want that sleaze next door to know exactly how good we’re fucking you.”

His hand tightened around your throat while his other hand snaked in between you and Roy, fingers finding your clit, rubbing in tight, relentless circles.

It didn’t take long after that.

Your body stiffened between them as the tightening coil inside you finally snapped. White-hot pleasure surged through your veins, stealing the air from your lungs and washing your vision in blinding light. For a moment, the world slipped away, your awareness fading into static. You barely registered their own release—hot and sticky—painting your skin as they followed you over the edge.

When you finally came to, you were cradled in Roy’s arms, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath you, while Jason knelt between your legs, gently cleaning you up carefully.

“You back with us, doll?” Jason murmured, his voice low and warm.

“Fuck,” you croaked, a tired laugh bubbling past your lips. “This is one hell of a way to help a girl sleep.”

[honeyandruin]

Idle Hands - Auto Shop Teacher!Joel Miller x Reader : PART TWO

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Pairing: Auto Shop Teacher!Joel Miller x Reader (college AU)

Summary: Part two of Idle Hands as so many have requested. After the night in your car, you tried to believe it was a mistake (and failed). But back in class, the tension is impossible to ignore—and when jealousy gets the better of him, you both learn you were never going to stop.

Warnings: 18+ only. MINORS DNI. Age gap, explicit sexual content, JEALOUS JOOOOEL BABY, unprotected sex, choking, rough sex, possessive Joel, teacher/student dynamic, praise & degradation, power imbalance, aftercare.

Word count: 3k (please don’t hate me that it’s a shorter one than the usuals)

A/N : I tried tagging everyone who asked to be tagged, and if it didn’t work, I’m so sorry!

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The shop smells like motor oil and old concrete.

You stand in the doorway a beat longer than you mean to, gripping the strap of your bag so hard your fingers ache.

Joel is already there, the hood of a rusted-out sedan propped open in front of him. He’s bent over the engine bay, forearms braced on the frame, jaw dark with stubble.

When he straightens, you swear he feels you watching him. His head turns—just slightly—and your eyes catch.

For a second, everything from last week floods back at once: the heat of his mouth, the low sound he made when you begged. The way he’d buried his face against your throat and whispered the filthiest things you’d ever heard.

He doesn’t look away.

His gaze drags down your front—like he just can’t help it—and when he drags it back up again, something in his expression flickers.

He’s trying to be neutral. Professional. But he isn’t ignoring you. And that almost makes it worse.

You take a slow breath, moving to your usual workbench. He watches you go, wiping his hands on a rag he keeps tucked in his back pocket.

“Morning,” he says, voice low. It’s the first time he’s spoken to you since he left you in your car with your hands still shaking.

Your heart beats too fast. “Hi.”

He hesitates like he wants to say something else. But the classroom door bangs open behind you—other students filing in, heavy boots echoing across the concrete—and whatever he was going to say dies before it can reach you.

You drop your bag on the stool, pulling out your notes and trying not to fidget.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him watching you a moment longer before he clears his throat and calls the class to order.

“Alright,” Joel says, voice steady but quieter than usual. “Listen up.”

He shifts his weight, bracing one hand on the edge of the workbench, the other still worrying that rag.

“For your final project, you’re gonna do a complete brake system overhaul. Pads, rotors, calipers—front and rear. You’ll bleed the lines, verify pressure, and log every step. If it doesn’t stop on the test drive, you fail.”

Someone groans behind you.

“Yeah,” Joel says flatly. “That’s the point. It’s meant to be hard.”

He sets the rag aside, crossing his arms over his chest. “If you have questions, you ask. Don’t guess. Don’t half-ass. And don’t touch anything you’re not ready to finish.”

His eyes flick to yours again—just for a beat—and your stomach flips.

“Get started,” he says, voice low. “I’ll be around.”

The group breaks apart in a shuffle of boots and muttered complaints. You exhale slowly and pick your way toward your assigned bay, heart thudding.

You spend the next half hour working in silence, carefully removing the first caliper. You can feel Joel nearby—hear the scrape of his boots, the low murmur of his voice as he checks on the others—but he doesn’t come over to you.

You’re trying to focus. Really. But the memory of his mouth on your skin keeps blurring the edges of everything.

That’s probably why you don’t notice Kyle until he’s too close.

“Careful,” he says, leaning an elbow on your bench. “You’re gonna strip the bolt if you keep wrenching it like that.”

You pause, glancing at the caliper bracket in your hands. “No, I’m not. I’m backing it off a half turn at a time so I don’t crack it.”

He smirks, ignoring you. “If you want, I could help you after class. Maybe go over it together? Over dinner?”

Heat crawls up your neck, part embarrassment, part annoyance. You set the part down carefully, wiping your hands on a rag.

“I’m good.”

“You sure?” He tilts his head, smile widening. “No offense, but it looks like you’re struggling. Wouldn’t want you to mess it up.”

“She’s not.”

You both turn.

Joel is standing a few feet away, arms folded tight across his chest. He’s not pretending to check the other bays anymore. He’s just watching.

Kyle shifts, trying for casual. “Yeah, I just thought—”

“You thought wrong,” Joel cuts in, voice low. “She’s doing it right. Let her work.”

Something in his tone makes Kyle’s smile flicker. He glances at you like he expects you to jump in. When you don’t, he huffs a little laugh and backs away.

“Whatever you say.”

You don’t look up until Kyle’s gone. When you finally meet Joel’s eyes, they’re darker than before—something quiet and furious simmering underneath.

“You don’t need him,” he says, voice rough.

“I know.”

He holds your stare a second longer. Then he pushes off the beam, turns, and walks away—like he has to physically remove himself before he does something about it.

***

The rest of the afternoon drags.

You try to keep your head down, focused on reassembling the caliper and logging each step in your notes. But every time you glance up, Joel is there—never watching directly, but close enough you feel it anyway.

You can tell he’s making himself stay occupied. Finding excuses to check inventory, update paperwork, do anything that keeps him from looking too long.

And you hate how much you like it.

By the time the clock above the door clicks past six, the last of the class is packing up, slamming their lockers shut. Someone mutters a goodbye on the way out. Another kid laughs, cursing about how much his hands hurt.

You pretend to be absorbed in double-checking your torque specs, but your heart is hammering.

You don’t look up until the door closes behind them.

Then it’s just you. And him.

Joel is at the desk again, one hand braced on the top, his other rubbing slow over the back of his neck. He looks tired. Not the usual end-of-the-day tired—something deeper, heavier.

You wipe your hands on a clean rag and gather your notes, forcing yourself to move like nothing feels different. Like the room isn’t too quiet. Like the memory of his mouth on your skin isn’t still playing behind your eyes.

Your boots scuff over the concrete as you cross to his desk.

He doesn’t look up.

“I finished the checklist,” you say, voice softer than you mean it to be.

He flips a page in the logbook, staring at it without reading. “Leave it there.”

Your pulse thuds in your throat. “Joel.”

Nothing. Just the tick of the old clock above the tool cabinet.

“I don’t—” You hesitate. “I don’t want this to feel like a mistake.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t lift his gaze. “It was a mistake.”

You swallow, fingers flexing on the edge of his desk. “You didn’t look like you thought that at the time.”

He drags a hand over his mouth, exhaling slow. “Don’t.”

You take a step closer. The air between you feels too thin.

“You don’t mean it,” you whisper.

He lifts his head then, finally meeting your eyes—and whatever you were braced for, it isn’t that look.

Wrecked.

His hand curls into a fist on the desk. “You think this is what you want?”

You don’t back down. “I know it is.”

He shakes his head, rough and disbelieving. “You don’t.”

Your voice drops, steady and soft. “Then show me.”

His breath shudders out. For a long second, he just looks at you—like he’s waiting for you to take it back. Like he’s hoping you will.

You don’t.

And that’s when he moves.

He comes around the desk in three slow steps. Stops just shy of touching you, so close you have to tip your head back to meet his eyes.

His hand lifts—hesitates—then finds your jaw. His thumb drags along the edge of your mouth, the touch so careful it makes your heart ache.

“You have no idea what you’re asking me for,” he says, voice low and ruined.

Your heart hammers so loud you’re sure he can hear it. His thumb drags across your lower lip, callused and warm, and you see the moment something in him fractures.

“I’m asking you to fuck me,” you breathe.

He goes still. Completely, utterly still.

A ragged sound tears out of his throat—half growl, half plea—and then his mouth crashes down onto yours.

The kiss isn’t careful. It isn’t soft. It’s all teeth and heat and desperation, the kind of kiss that feels like it’s been clawing at him for weeks. His hands find your hips, dragging you into him so hard you lose your breath.

“Jesus,” he mutters against your mouth, voice hoarse, like he hates himself for how good this feels. “Fuck—”

You don’t give him time to second-guess it. Your hands slide up under the hem of his work shirt, feeling the heat of his skin, the hard planes of his stomach. He shudders when your nails scrape lightly over the trail of hair leading lower.

“Goddamn it,” he rasps, and without breaking the kiss, he reaches past you.

The heavy thunk of the deadbolt sliding home is deafening in the hush.

He keeps his mouth sealed on yours, like he can’t bear to stop touching you long enough to think about what he’s doing.

He walks you backward, slow but unrelenting, until your hips hit the edge of the nearest workbench. The cold metal bites through your coveralls. You gasp, and he swallows the sound, groaning into your mouth like it’s killing him.

His hands are everywhere—palming your ass, squeezing your hips, dragging up your ribs. When he finds the zipper at your chest, he hesitates for just a heartbeat.

“You sure?” he mutters, voice wrecked. “You fuckin’ sure?”

“Please,” you whisper.

That’s all it takes.

He tugs the zipper down in one slow pull, the rasp of it loud in the quiet. His palm slides over your chest, thumb brushing the thin fabric of your bra. The contact makes your knees threaten to buckle.

“You have any idea,” he growls, mouth hot against your throat, “what you do to me?”

You try to answer, but he’s already dragging his mouth lower—nipping at the side of your neck, the curve where it meets your shoulder. His free hand rucks the coveralls down your hips, bunching them at your thighs. You feel the rough scrape of his calluses on bare skin, and the noise that slips out of you is embarrassingly needy.

“Look at you,” he mutters, lips brushing your ear. “All fuckin’ sweet now. All mine.”

You drag your hands up his chest, fisting the collar of his shirt to keep yourself steady. He catches your wrists, pins them to the workbench behind you, and holds you there like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You think that little shit had a chance with you?” His voice drops lower, almost a snarl. “You think I was gonna stand there and watch him touch what’s mine?”

The possessiveness in his tone makes your breath stutter. “Joel—”

“That what you want?” he demands, words hot and ragged against your mouth. “Some fuckin’ boy who doesn’t know what to do with you?”

“No,” you gasp, thighs clenching around his hips. “Want you.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, like it’s breaking him to hear it. “You fuckin’ do.”

He lets your wrists go—only to shove your coveralls the rest of the way down. The cold air kisses your skin, and he palms your ass, dragging you flush against the thick line of his cock straining his jeans.

“Feel that?” He grinds against you, making you whimper. “That’s what you do to me. Every time you look at me like you want it.”

Your hips rock into his, chasing the friction. “Please.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, voice rough, “gonna give it to you, baby.”

He kisses you again, messy and deep, while his hand drags between your legs. When his fingers find how wet you are, he groans like he’s in pain.

“Fuck me,” he rasps, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re drippin’.”

His fingers slide through the slick heat, circling your clit just hard enough to make you bite your lip. He watches every reaction like he can’t look away.

“You want me to take my time,” he mutters, thumb pressing harder, “or you want it fast?”

“Fast,” you gasp. “Please—I—”

He cuts you off with a low, filthy laugh. “Course you do.”

He doesn’t waste another second. One hand fists in your hair, tilting your head so he can kiss you again while the other tugs at his belt, freeing himself. The blunt head of his cock bumps your thigh, hot and heavy, and your breath breaks.

He flips you before you can think, palms flattening between your shoulder blades, pressing you down against the cold workbench.

“Stay,” he growls, his voice so deep it scrapes something raw out of you.

You brace yourself, fingers curling around the metal edge, and look back over your shoulder.

His eyes meet yours—dark, starved—and something in them flickers.

“Gonna fuck you so good you forget about every other man,” he mutters. “Gonna fill you up so full you remember you’re mine.”

He drags the head of his cock through the slick between your thighs, teasing you just long enough that you whine.

“Say it,” he rasps, hips nudging forward, the stretch already making your vision blur. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You,” you choke out, voice breaking. “You—fuck—”

“That’s right,” he breathes, sinking deeper. “All fuckin’ mine.”

When he bottoms out, his hand wraps around the front of your throat, tilting your head back so he can hear every gasp. His hips pull back—and when he slams forward again, the sound it makes is obscene.

Your fingers slip on the workbench. His grip tightens around your throat—just enough to hold you steady—and his other hand slides over your hip, guiding you back to meet each punishing thrust.

“Christ,” he mutters, voice ragged. “So tight—so fuckin’ sweet for me.”

You whimper, every thrust sending sparks up your spine.

“That little shit,” he pants, hips snapping harder. “Thought he could even touch you—”

He drags his hand lower, finding your clit, rubbing rough circles that make your knees buckle.

“Tell me,” he growls, breath hot in your ear. “Tell me who makes you come.”

“You,” you cry, voice splintering. “God—Joel—please—”

“That’s right,” he breathes, voice cracking. “Only me.”

The pressure builds so fast you can’t think. Can’t breathe. His cock drives into you, relentless, and you know you’re close—so close—

“Come on, baby,” he groans, thumb pressing harder, pace turning erratic. “Come for me.”

Your vision goes white. You shatter around him, hips jerking back into his as your orgasm crashes through you—hot, blinding, unstoppable.

He doesn’t stop. Keeps thrusting through it, hips snapping against your ass, low curses pouring from his mouth.

“Fuck—gonna fill you up—”

You can feel every ragged breath, every shudder, right before he finally spills inside you with a rough, broken sound.

When it’s over, he stays there—forehead against your spine, breath gusting across your skin.

As the last tremor leaves your body, you collapse forward onto your elbows, cheek pressed against the cool metal.

Joel doesn’t move for a second. Just stays bent over you, his hand splayed wide across your stomach, breathing like he’s just run every mile he’s ever owed.

After a moment, he drags in a shaky breath. His palm slides up, brushing the underside of your breast, lingering like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice wrecked.

You nod, your throat too tight to speak.

He slips free with a low groan and tugs your coveralls up enough to give you a shred of modesty. Then his hand cups the back of your neck, warm and heavy, like he can’t stop touching you even if he tried.

“C’mere,” he says softly.

You let him help you turn around. Your legs are unsteady, and he notices—his big hand bracing your hip until you’re upright. You can’t look at his face for a second. Not when you feel so wrung out. So full.

His thumb drags along your jaw. “Look at me.”

You do.

His eyes flick over your face, something complicated and unspoken in them. Guilt, maybe. Hunger that hasn’t faded. A tenderness you weren’t ready for.

“You wanna come by my place?” he asks, voice low. “Get cleaned up…maybe eat something?”

Your heart does something traitorous in your chest. “Yeah. I—yeah.”

His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “Good.”

He steps back, adjusting himself and tucking himself away with one hand, moving like a man who knows he’s going to hell and still can’t bring himself to care. He re-zips your coveralls, slow and deliberate, his knuckles brushing the tender skin of your chest.

When he’s done, he smooths the zipper flat. His thumb grazes the little metal pull tab.

“You got a dorm room, right?” he says, trying for casual and failing. “Probably not a lot of privacy there.”

You huff a laugh, still a little dazed. “Tiny. Thin walls. You’d be…pretty hard to hide.”

He lifts a brow, mouth tugging at the corner. “Yeah? You think I’m worth hiding?”

“Think you’re worth a lot more than that,” you murmur.

A groan rumbles in his chest—soft but unmistakable. He dips his head, pressing his mouth to yours, slower this time. Not careful, exactly. But different.

When he finally pulls back, he nods toward the door. “C’mon. I’ll drive.”

You trail him toward the door, your heart still tripping over itself.

Just as he unlocks the deadbolt and pulls the handle, you clear your throat.

“So…” you say, voice small but teasing, “does this mean I pass?”

Joel goes still.

Then—very slowly—he looks back at you over his shoulder. His eyes are still dark, but there’s something softer there now.

“No,” he says, voice low. “Means you’re gonna need a lot more practice.”

And before you can think of something smart to say, he leans in and kisses you again—like he already can’t wait to fail you all over.

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Here is the second part that yall asked for! I hope I did yalls requests some justice. @boscogirlsworld, @pixieeee101, @glitterspark & @kaseynsfws 💚🫶🏻

[misswynters]

Ekko being protective while you are expecting

– short drabble

featuring. ekko x pregnant! reader

this was a late night thing so if there’s any mistakes let me know

Bright, golden sunlight filtered through the cracked glass of Zaun’s upper levels, casting a warm glow over the patchwork city. Rustic smell lingered throughout the entire city even in the places were you would think it would be. It was a sharp contrast to the pristine towers and polished streets of Piltover, but you’d come to love the chaotic beauty of Zaun. Its grit and resilience mirrored the spirit of its people, and despite everything, it had become home.

You adjusted the basket on your hip as you weaved through the narrow alleys, a small smile on your lips despite the slight strain in your back. The sounds of the city surrounded you: children laughing as they ran between stalls, the hiss of steam escaping from overhead pipes, and the occasional distant hum of machinery. Though Zaun was far from perfect, it had a heart. A fierce and determined spirit that had drawn you to it.

A boy darted out from a corner, his face smudged with dirt and his eyes wide with curiosity. “Miss!” he called out, holding up a small metal trinket he’d likely scavenged. “For good luck!”

Your heart melted at his gesture, and you crouched carefully to meet him at eye level. “Thank you, sweetheart,” you said warmly, taking the trinket and ruffling his hair. “Here, this is for you.” You handed him a piece of fruit from your basket, earning a toothy grin before he bolted off, his laughter echoing through the alley.

“Shouldn’t be out here on your own,” came a low, familiar voice from above.

You straightened, glancing up to find one of Ekko’s scouts perched on a rusted ledge, his sharp eyes scanning the area. He nodded at you before disappearing into the shadows, leaving behind only the faint sound of his boots against metal. You sighed, shaking your head with a mix of amusement and exasperation. Ekko.

Ever since you’d told him you were expecting, his protectiveness had gone into overdrive. If he wasn’t by your side, he made sure someone else was. and it wasn’t just for appearances. You knew how much he cared, how deeply he felt the responsibility to keep you safe. But it didn’t stop you from feeling a bit smothered at times.

You resumed your walk, stopping occasionally to hand out bread or share a kind word with someone in need. It was who you were, helping others brought you joy, even if it meant ignoring the occasional twinge of discomfort in your back. But as you reached out to give an elderly woman a loaf of bread, you felt a familiar presence behind you, the air around you shifting.

“Thought I told you to rest,” Ekko’s voice came, soft but firm.

You turned, your heart skipping at the sight of him. He leaned casually against the corner of a building, his staff slung over his shoulder, his sharp gaze fixed on you. His white hair gleamed in the sunlight, and there was a mixture of exasperation and fondness in his expression as he approached.

“I’m fine, Ekko,” you said, offering him a small smile. “I was just—”

“Helping people,” he interrupted, his lips quirking slightly. He stepped closer, his presence grounding, and his eyes softened as they drifted to the curve of your stomach. “I know, you’re always helping people.”

“It’s important to me,” you replied, your hands resting over his as he reached out to touch your bump. His palm was warm and steady, and for a moment, the world around you faded away.

“I know,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s why I love you. But you’ve got to let me take care of you now. Both of you.”

The sincerity in his tone made your chest tighten with emotion. You leaned into him, letting his strength envelop you. “You already do,” you whispered, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. “I’ve never felt safer.”

Ekko chuckled softly, wrapping his arms around you. “Good. Because I’ve got eyes everywhere, just so you know. You can’t take two steps without someone reporting back to me.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t suppress a laugh. “I figured as much. You’re like a hawk.”

“Damn right,” he said, his lips brushing against your forehead. “You’re my whole world now. You think I’m just gonna let you wander off into danger?”

“Danger?” you teased, raising an eyebrow. “I was handing out bread, not fighting Chem-Barons.”

He laughed, the sound low and rich, as he pulled you closer. “Doesn’t matter. This place has its risks, and I’m not taking any chances. You’re extremely important to me.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you reached up to cup his face, your fingers brushing along his jawline. “I’ll be careful,” you promised, your voice soft. “For you, the boy who worries.”

“For me,” he echoed, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. “And for them.” His hand rested protectively over your stomach, his touch radiating warmth and love.

Ekko’s arms lingered around you for a moment longer before he sighed, resigned. “Fine,” he muttered, his tone light but firm. “But I’m coming with you. Not taking my eyes off you.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his protectiveness, even if it sometimes felt overbearing. “I don’t need a bodyguard, you know.”

He raised a skeptical brow. “You’re carrying our kid in Zaun. You need a whole army.”

Despite the exasperation in his words, there was no mistaking the affection in his voice. He took your basket from you, his staff resting casually on his shoulder as he fell into step beside you. “Lead the way, sweetheart,” he said, a playful edge to his tone, though you could see how his eyes darted to every shadow and figure as you moved through the streets.

You stopped occasionally to talk to people—an older man with a limp, a mother trying to soothe her crying baby, a group of kids selling hand-crafted trinkets. Each time, Ekko hung back slightly, letting you do what you did best but staying close enough that he could intervene if needed.

At one point, you crouched to hand a young girl a piece of fruit, smiling as she thanked you with wide, grateful eyes. Ekko’s gaze softened as he watched, a quiet admiration blooming on his face. This was why he fell for you. Not just your kindness but the way you carried it so effortlessly, even in a place as harsh as Zaun.

But as the day wore on, the basket grew lighter, and your steps began to slow. You passed by a rickety stall that had toppled over, its contents—a pile of salvaged wood and fabric—spilling onto the ground. Without thinking, you bent down to help the vendor gather the scattered pieces.

“Careful,” Ekko warned, his voice sharp with concern as he moved closer.

“I’m fine,” you said lightly, reaching for a particularly large plank. But as you tried to lift it, a sharp twinge shot through your back, and you let out a soft gasp, immediately straightening up.

Ekko was at your side in an instant, his hands on your shoulders. “What happened?” he asked, his voice steady, though his eyes betrayed his worry.

“Just… a twinge,” you admitted, wincing slightly. “Nothing serious.”

He didn’t look convinced. “Let me see.” Without waiting for a protest, he gently guided you to lean against a nearby wall, his hands running lightly over your back. “Does it hurt here?” he asked, pressing gently along your spine.

You winced again, and his jaw tightened. “That’s it. You’re done for the day.”

“Ekko—”

“No,” he said firmly, his hands resting on your hips as he looked you in the eye. “You’re done. You’re already doing too much. What if something worse happens? What if—”

He stopped himself, taking a deep breath to steady his voice. The panic was there, just beneath the surface, but he refused to let it show. Instead, he leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours. “I don’t like seeing you get hurt,” he said softly.

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his words. Reaching up, you cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing against his skin. “I’m okay,” you whispered, meeting his gaze. “I promise.”

But Ekko wasn’t having it. He pulled back, taking the basket and slinging it over his shoulder. “We’re going home,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And you’re not carrying anything heavier than a pillow until this baby’s here.”

Despite the sternness of his words, his hand was impossibly gentle as it found yours, intertwining your fingers as he led you back through the streets. Along the way, he shot sharp glares at anyone who so much as looked at you the wrong way, his protective instincts kicking into overdrive.

When you finally reached the hideout you shared, he helped you settle onto the bed, fussing over every detail. He would bring you water, adjusting the pillows, even insisting on propping up your feet.

“You’re ridiculous,” you teased, though your smile betrayed how much you appreciated his care.

“Yeah, well, you love it,” he shot back, his grin softening as he sat beside you. His hand found your stomach, his thumb brushing in gentle circles. “I just want to keep you comfortable.”

“You already do,” you said, leaning into him. “More than you know.”

Ekko leaned down to kiss your forehead, his lips lingering there. “Still,” he murmured. “I’ll always do more.”

As the two of you sat there, the weight of the day finally beginning to fade, you realized just how lucky you were. To have someone like ekko be the father of your child.

[bcksbarnes]

the faster we're falling

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: bucky is, unfortunately, dragged to a busy club on a saturday night. he hates the loud music and strobe lights and just wants to leave, until you catch his eye. cw: 🔞 suggestive content (mdni)

word count: 2K

It was Joaquin who convinced Bucky to go out that night. Something about being mentally 100, but physically 30 and needing to meet new people to have fun with … blah blah blah. Bucky doesn’t really know since he completely tuned him out and just said yes to shut him up. Somehow Sam had found a new right hand man who had just the same amount of zest for life as he did, how utterly adorable.

Clubs were not his scene, though he had surprisingly been in his own fair share of them from missions that required him to stake out some hit he had who liked the companionship of the cute go-go dancers. It made him itch to think about what kind of sleazebags roamed some of those he had been to - they were mostly full of activities that no one would want to be a part of.

But, of course, the club Joaquin wanted to take him and Sam to wasn’t like that. No, it was a place where the lights were too bright and colorful, the drinks were a bit sweeter, and the music was too loud. It was a place that, surprisingly, intimidated Bucky beyond belief.

He tried really hard to remember what his life was like before the Winter Soldier, he remembers having fun flirting with anyone he could, because he could. But, it had been years since then and he wasn’t sure he was capable of even doing that anymore.That was his former self, the Bucky before the trauma and the bad things - the one that didn’t wake up sweating and panting through another panic attack. 

All of it accumulated into the wallflower he was now, quiet and brooding. Dating didn’t come as naturally as it once did, let alone talking to someone who made his heart race, but he tried to convince himself he just needed to clean off the rust and get things moving again. 

The other thing that clubs had that scared the shit out of Bucky? Dancing. Now, don’t get him wrong, back in the day he had his fair share of swing dancing with a beautiful partner on his arm - but the things people were doing in this century? Bucky’s sure his body didn’t know how to move like that. 

“Don’t be so grumpy,” Sam said as three men finally settled on a spot by the bar, his hand clasping Bucky’s shoulder. “You need a night out from time to time, man.”

“I do get a night out, most of them don’t require this many sweaty bodies.” Bucky calls out over the loud music; a song he definitely did not know. 

“You know that getting your system updated doesn’t count as a night out, right?” Sam can’t help but get the jab in. Bucky bites down on his cheek as he pushes his friend playfully, tempted to curse him out, but Sam’s loud cackle as he regains his balance makes any slight tension melt.

Bucky wasn’t kidding though. Saying the club was crowded was putting it mildly, it was filled to the brim, and the super soldier stood out like a sore thumb which inherently made his palms sweat.

“Here!” Joaquin called, handing back two shots and two beers towards Bucky and Sam before turning back around to pay the bartender.

Bucky looked down at the shot glass and frowned, this definitely didn’t look like a normal spirit. Despite the darkness in the room, he could still make out the light yellow color of the liquid.

“What is it?” He asks, brows furrowing as he tries to wrack his brain for anything that looks this color.

“Green tea shot!” Joaquin smirks as he grabs his own glass after shoving his wallet back into his pants pocket. “Drink up!”

“Great…” Bucky mumbles as he shakes his head before downing the shot. Weak . And since Bucky couldn’t get drunk … Tastes like shit.  

He can’t help but let out a sigh as he turns to face the crowd, the beer clutched tightly in his hands as he brings it to his lips, his eyes passing over the room. He had already taken the time when he walked in to make sure he knew where every point of entry was in case of emergency, which was good because the second his eyes land on you he’s sure he would have forgotten to check.

There you were, in the middle of the dance floor, a wide smile on your face as you swayed to the music. Time felt like it had slowed as Bucky zeroes his gaze in on you. It felt like a moment right out of a movie scene, your hands moving up and down your body and into your hair, the sweat on your collarbone glistening in the blu-ish purple strobe lights that line the dance floor. You looked so carefree and happy, it was breathtaking. The hairs on his arm raise, feeling the goosebumps run straight through him. 

Bucky doesn’t register for a moment that his beer has completely missed his mouth, dribbling down the front of his shirt until Joaquin grabs his arm.

“Ah, shit.” Bucky mumbles to himself, turning back around to the bar to wipe himself off. Through all of it, his mind keeps replaying the moment he saw you, his body was moving on auto pilot. 

When he turns back around, you’re gone, as if you were just a ghost there to taunt him for a split second. How was that possible? How did he manage to witness the most invigorating moment of his life and then it was gone in a flash? Blue eyes frantically search the rest of the bar until he spots you again, you were grabbing your friend at the corner of the bar, wanting them to come with you to dance. 

“Uh oh,” Bucky heard Joaquin say next to him. “Looks like Buckster over here has his eyes caught on someone.”

“Don’t call me that ever again.” Bucky says, his eyes stay trained ahead of him, fixated on you. He feels Joaquin hand him another shot glass, but he doesn’t bother taking a look at it this time as he downs it, the burning in the back of his throat telling him it was something a little stronger this time.

It for sure wasn’t liquid luck, maybe his brain short circuited, because soon he was pushing his away through the crowd towards you. What the hell is wrong with me? His brain was screaming at him to stop, the thoughts were loud and he felt like he’s about three seconds from a panic attack. What the fuck? What the hell am I doing? I can’t just  -

“Hey.” Bucky calls out to you over the music, a different song that sounds vaguely familiar but he wouldn’t be able to name. 

You’re startled slightly by the voice behind you, but by the look on your friends face whoever it is would definitely be worth your time. Slowly, you turn back, greeted immediately with the chest of a man who could be a God if you didn’t know any better. Your eyes painstakingly take their time to finally meet his gaze, this handsome stranger looks back at you with the sweetest look you’ve ever seen.

“Hey.” You call back. “Do we know each other?”

“No,” Bucky says, a flicker of a smirk adorning his features. “But I’m hoping we can get the chance to.” There it was, the cog in the machine was spinning once again.

You can’t help the flip your stomach does as he speaks, the line was simple, but effective. It’s not that you hadn’t been flirted with at a club, usually it was unwanted attention. But this? This was fully welcomed. 

You give a look back at your friends for a moment, your eyes widening as your features say well damn . Handing one of them your drink, you spin back around towards Bucky and grab his metal hand, leading him back out towards the dancefloor you once occupied.

It takes him by surprise, he doesn’t let people touch his metal hand often nor do people seem to gravitate towards it as their initial reaction. The warmth in his body spreads at how soft your hand feels in his, like the two of you were made for this moment.

Regret isn’t the right word to describe what Bucky was feeling, because he didn’t regret walking up to you (even if he could see Sam and Joaquin pointing and talking about him from the corner of his eyes). It was more of an alarm going off in his brain that he would now have to try and dance with you, years of being an assassin definitely gave him stiff hips. 

You’re not one to judge though, instead opting to enjoy the moment as you stand chest to chest, your hands gripping his biceps as you start to sway your hips softly with the music. He looks taken aback by the forwardness of it all, the slight awkward undertones of his personality dying to get out. 

“Relax! We’re just dancing” You yell over the music, your hands sliding down to grab his wrists, moving his hands to your hips, hoping it would encourage him to release a bit of this pent up anxious energy he had. 

Bucky finds himself trying to move with you though it’s off beat for a moment, until a song he actually knows comes on. It has a loud bass but a slower tempo and all of a sudden the world shuts down. His eyes close as he lets the beat move through his body, his hands on your hips pulling you in closer towards him.

You can’t help it and decide to turn in his arms as he pulls you in close, so now your back is pressed against his chest. The change in song turns the fun club atmosphere into an intimate setting almost immediately. 

It’s almost as if the club is on mute, as if something shifted and time was moving so carefully that all either of you could focus on were the ways you moved together. Bucky’s hands gripped your waist tightly, his flesh hand splayed across your stomach, the heat from his touch would have left burns if they could. 

Your breath hitches in your throat when you feel how strong he is, the way he has the lightest touch on you but it feels like he’s enveloping your body slowly. Bucky’s head bows down so his lips are level with your ear, you can hear the way his breathing hikes as you grind down on that one spot each time. 

It makes Bucky’s knees want to buckle each time. He can’t remember the last time he was pressed so closely to someone like this, let alone to make his body respond. The arousal spread through his body, forcing him to remember what it was like to feel so alive again. It was electrifying.

You and Bucky are hypnotized in the moment, your hand snaking behind you to rest on the back of his neck while the other rests on the metal arm he has on your waist. And despite the crowd of bodies around you, the smell of his cologne floods your senses, you were sure if you ever smelled it again he would be all you thought of.

Neither of you are drunk, but both of you are completely intoxicated.

The excitement seems to run through each of you, you can feel the way he pulls you closer to him, the way your head leans back onto his shoulder. It’s all natural, happening without pressure or outside forces.

Bucky’s lips ghost over your neck catching the way your pulse increases as he does so. All you can think about is ripping his clothes off, all Bucky can think about is how inappropriate it would be to take you in front of all these people.

“I’m Bucky.” He whispers in your ear, his nose nudging against your skin. 

Fuck, he wanted you.

He listened to you breathe out your name.

Scratch that - now he needed you.

[heliosunny]

Hiiii have you ever watched sousou no frieren or frieren beyond journey's end?. If so then could u please write mage+elf reader × yandere phainon. I was able to finaly watch them recently and the main couple caught my attention. I imagined that phainon was that kind of soft spoken and delusional yandere type.

Feel free to take you time>>>

Hero's Quest

Yandere!Phainon x Elf Mage!Reader

The cave trembled, dust sifted through the cracks in the ceiling. Phainon clenched his sword, but there was no enemy to fight, only the slow, inevitable collapse of the earth beneath them.

Lucien was bleeding, Rya was exhausted, and Eno was trapped, cursing under his breath as he struggled against the slab of rock pinning him down.

Phainon slammed his fist into the ground. "Damn it."

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. They were close to the Demon King’s fortress. Suddenly, they saw light, a streak of silver-blue split the darkness. The collapsing ceiling stilled mid-fall.

And then you appeared. An elf, gliding above the chasm, your staff gleaming from the spell you used. You didn’t look at them, just flicked your fingers.

Phainon’s stomach lurched as the world tilted, then righted itself, the ground firm beneath his boots once more. They were on the surface.

By the time he caught his breath, you were already a distant silhouette against the clouds, vanishing as quickly as you’d come.

"Who was that?" Rya asked.

Lucien exhaled "A mage?"

Phainon stared at the empty horizon. That effortless power, he wanted to team up with you.

Eno groaned, dragging his battered body upright. "Next time," he muttered, "let’s not walk into any other trap."

Phainon barely heard him. That night, as the others slept, he kept his eyes on the stars, half-expecting to see a streak of light against the dark.

The fire crackled gently under the night sky. They were still recovering from the deathly trap. Phainon sat apart from the group, sharpening his blade. Rya muttered something like a healing incantations under her breath despite her sleep.

The bushes rustled.

Everyone immediately woke up, grabbing their weapons.

A man stumbled into the clearing, clutching a rusted hatchet with trembling hands. “Leave your food. All of it,” he rasped. “Or I’ll gut you and take it myself.”

Lucien stood, sword half-drawn. “You’re outnumbered and outmatched.”

Rya raised her staff. “Back off, or we won’t be so kind.”

But Phainon stood slowly and stepped forward.

“You’re shaking.”

The man flinched, eyes darting between them.

“You hungry?”

“What—?”

Phainon turned, knelt, and scooped half the stew into a spare bowl. He handed it to the man. “Here.”

Rya’s voice hissed behind him. “Phainon, what are you doing?”

“He’s starving.” Phainon said simply, without looking back.

The man stared down at the food like it was a hallucination. His lips trembled as he took the bowl with both hands. “I—…thank you.”

He ate like a man who hadn’t tasted warmth in days.

“You… you going up the mountain?”

“We are.”

“To kill the demon king.” Eno added, still eyeing him with suspicion.

The man went quiet for a long moment, then sat down beside the fire.

“I came from a village at the foot of that mountain. I was out hunting three days ago.”

Lucien frowned. “What happened?”

The man didn’t cry. His face had gone far beyond grief. “The demon king’s hounds descended at night. When I came back.. everything burnt to ashes.” His voice shook. “I buried what was left...”

Silence blanketed the group.

Rya lowered her staff. Even Eno looked away.

Phainon stared into the flames.

When the dawn came, the man stood beside the edge of the trail, axe slung across his shoulder.

“I can’t follow you,” he said. “But I hope you kill that demon so no one else goes through what I did.”

Phainon nodded. “We will.”

With that, the man turned and vanished back into the trees.

The mountain loomed ahead, taller, darker than it had looked before. But the group didn’t falter.

Rain began to drizzle by the time they reached the small village tucked between the mountains, lanterns swaying like sleepy fireflies. An inn waited for them, a sign creaking with the wind: ꋪꍟꌗ꓄ꀤꈤꁅ ꃅꂦ꒒꒒ꂦꅏ.

Inside, it was quiet. A fire crackled in the hearth. No other guests. Only one figure stood at the center, a hunched woman in layers of patterned cloth and jangling beads. Her skin was a shade of crumbling parchment. She smiled before any of them spoke.

“Ah… you’ve finally arrived.”

Rya hesitated. “You were expecting us?”

“I’ve been waiting,” the old woman said, “The hero and his swords. You walk toward the demon king with such conviction… and yet your hands tremble.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your blades are dull. Your future, uncertain. If you want to succeed… seek the hidden vault. Only then can the demon king fall.”

The group stood silent, her gaze turned to Phainon.

“You, especially..”

BOOM

The door flew off its hinges. And you walked in.

Hovering just above the ground, wind wrapping around your cloak. Without a word, your staff glowed in your hand.

You pointed it. “ᚠᛚᚢᚲᛏᚢᛊ ᛚᚢᛗᛖᚾ.”

A beam of concentrated mana fired like a spear.

The old woman hissed, her form glitching, twisting, and then everything around them shattered.

The illusion peeled back, and in its place stood two demons, now sizzling and crumbling into black ash where they’d once disguised themselves as harmless wood. One had its claw inches from Eno’s exposed neck.

The group stared at the space the inn had once been.

Phainon’s eyes locked on you. His sword was still sheathed.

You turned to leave again.

That same attitude like you didn’t even care that you just saved them again.

“Wait.”

You paused.

“You’ve saved us twice now.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” you said, not even looking back. “I just hate demons.”

“Then help us kill the worst one.”

That made you stop.

A gust of wind tousled your hair as you finally turned.

“If you really want the demon king gone, then stand with us.”

You looked at him, saw the conviction in his eyes.

“Fine.”

And then your staff drifted lower, planting softly on the ground. You stepped down, landing with the grace of a falling feather.

The storm came fast. Even Phainon’s stubbornness couldn’t argue against it.

“Trees won’t hold against this.” Lucien muttered, shielding Rya with his arm as thunder cracked across the sky.

You sighed, clearly irritated. You hated wasting energy on trivial things like weather, but even you could see it, this was no passing shower.

“Hold on.” you said.

You raised your staff toward the sky.

“ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛊᛁᛏᛟ ᛚᚢᚲᛖᚾᛏᛟ.”

The rain was gone. You dropped to one knee, the cane clattering beside you as your body pitched forward slightly. Your breathing was heavy.

Phainon was already at your side before anyone else.

“You alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

Without waiting, Phainon scooped you up in his arms. You were light.

“Put me down.”

“Not a chance.”

---

The others were already speaking with the startled innkeeper, trying to secure rooms and request the use of the kitchen. Apparently, this place was known for its hot baths, it couldn’t have been more perfect.

Phainon carried you up the stairs, careful not to jostle your staff still clutched in your fingers. He laid you on a futon in one of the guest rooms, then turned toward the door.

“Stay here. We’ll bring food.”

The scent of something warm - food - filled the air an hour later. You emerged from the room, hair damp from a quick bath, looking slightly more like yourself.

Rya waved you over. “You made it out of bed.”

You sat down at the low table, “Only because I smelled ginger and garlic.”

Phainon set a bowl in front of you. “We used the inn’s kitchen. Lucien’s good with spices. Eno tried to poison it but I stopped him.”

Eno gave a lazy shrug.

You took the first bite like someone trying not to show just how starving you were. But the silence that followed was telling.

It was good.

Phainon watched you, elbow on the table. “Delicious huh.”

You glared over the rim of your bowl.

“You’re welcome.”

You grunted in response but kept eating, faster now.

After dinner, you leaned back against the wall, “You’re all incredibly naive.”

Rya blinked. “Excuse me?”

“To think you could kill the demon king with chipped blades” you said bluntly. “He’s not some cursed spirit you can cleanse. You need more.”

Lucien frowned. “We’ve trained—”

“And yet you walked into a death illusion and nearly died because of some demons.”

That shut him up.

Phainon didn’t seem offended. “So what do you suggest?”

“You need real weapons. Forged by someone who’s seen demon blood before.”

Eno leaned forward, interested now. “You know someone?”

You nodded. “We’ll leave for the blacksmith tomorrow. She won’t like seeing me again, but she owes me a favor.”

Phainon raised an eyebrow. “Ex-friend? Ex… something else?”

“Don’t push it.”

He held up both hands in mock surrender, but there was a grin tugging at his lips now.

“Rest up. Tomorrow, we start getting serious.”

Then you walked off toward your room again.

The sun was barely up when the group set out, the rain finally behind them but the path ahead slick and steep. You were slouched, half-awake and unbothered, cloak pulled tightly around your shoulders. The others were ready to move, but you… not so much.

“Hey,” Eno whispered to Rya, gesturing toward you. “Are they… asleep while walking?”

“I think so?”

You let out a soft, annoyed groan and tugged your hood lower over your face. “Too early....”

“Unbelievable…” Lucien muttered.

Phainon just sighed, then turned his back to you and knelt. “Come on.”

You didn’t hesitate. Within seconds, you were on his back, arms loosely looped around his neck, chin against his shoulder. Your staff was lazily strapped to your side, your finger occasionally lifting to point through the trees as you mumbled directions.

“Left.”

“Straight.”

“Right… no, your other right.”

Rya watched in silence as Phainon carried you without complaint. “He’s just… letting them sleep up there?”

“Apparently,” Lucien said. “This is the person who vaporized two demons in one blast?”

“You're heavy.”

“No I’m not,” you said sleepily. “You’re just weak.”

He huffed but didn’t argue.

By midday, you arrived.

The forge was buried into the mountainside, half-hidden by ivy and stone. Smoke curled from the chimney, and the clanging of metal rang out into the crisp air. This was the kind of place people didn’t find unless they were told exactly where to look.

Phainon set you down with a grunt. You stretched your arms with a yawn, hair slightly mussed, and walked forward like you’d just woken from a ten-minute nap.

The forge door opened.

And there she was. A tall, broad-shouldered woman with soot-dark skin and a scar across her brow. She wore a blacksmith’s apron, gloves.

“...You!!”

You offered the smallest smirk. “Laria.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here again.”

You shrugged. “You owe me.”

She scowled but didn’t argue. Her eyes scanned the group behind you, pausing on Phainon. “These the lambs you dragged into your mess?”

“They’re planning to kill the demon king,” you said, already wandering toward the anvil. “They’ll die without better gear. You're the best.”

Laria grunted. “Damn right I am.” She tossed aside her gloves and crossed her arms. “Fine. I’ll help. But I don’t have enough materials for a full set. Demon-forged steel doesn’t grow on trees.”

Rya spoke up. “We can look for those materials.”

“You’d never find enough in time. But…”

She looked at you. Then at Phainon.

“There’s one sword..”

“What sword?”

“It’s buried in a ruin not far from here. The legends say only the true hero can pull it free.”

Eno raised an eyebrow. “That sounds conveniently cliché.”

“It is,” you replied. “But it’s strong enough to rival the demon king’s blade, if it accepts the wielder.”

“So you think I’m that hero?”

“I think we’ll find out.”

Rya frowned. “Wait, you want to separate?”

“Two teams,” you confirmed. “You three stay with Laria. Help her gather what materials she can use. Phainon and I will go to the ruins.”

Lucien opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, then glanced between you and Phainon, then wisely shut it.

Phainon gave a single nod. “Let’s go.”

“Try not to die!” Eno called after you.

You didn’t answer, just waved lazily over your shoulder, already walking into the misty woods.

Phainon followed, just a step behind.

The entrance to the ruin had those carved sigils along the arch half-worn by time.

You stepped in first, staff lit at the tip like a torch. “Watch your feet.”

Phainon took a step forward and you immediately grabbed his arm.

“Not there.”

“What?”

You knelt and tapped a seemingly normal tile with your staff. It shimmered.

“Would’ve launched spears from the wall.”

Phainon blinked at the wall beside him. Sure enough, faint slits ran across the stone. “...Woah.”

“Keep walking like that and we’ll never make it past the first floor.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Didn’t realize you were an expert in booby traps.”

You raised your cane and chanted under your breath. A soft shimmer of light passed over his eyes.

“What was that?”

“A detection spell. You’ll see the traps like I do.” You smirked, clearly pleased with yourself. “Designed it myself. Took three years to get it stable without causing blindness.”

Phainon was impressed. “You’re full of surprises.”

“Obviously.”

The first chamber passed quickly with your guidance. Phainon’s new enchanted vision making it easy to sidestep the remaining runes. The second room, though, was another story.

The moment you crossed the threshold, your magic flickered.

“Anti-magic stones,” you muttered. “They’re buried into the walls here.”

Phainon looked ahead.

A crumbling stone bridge stretched across a dark chasm, narrow and half-collapsed. On the far end, several grotesque creatures waited. They have skull-headed, long-limbed things with blades for hands and no eyes.

“They can smell us.” you whispered. “But only if we move too fast.”

Phainon frowned. “So we can’t sneak past.”

“I can’t fight like this.”

“Then I’ll handle it.”

Before you could argue, he stepped forward. The beasts hissed and charged as he met them head-on, but he was outnumbered, and the bridge was far too unstable.

You gritted your teeth.

Then your eyes landed on the stones embedded high on the side wall.

You glanced at the monsters, then at Phainon’s back.

“Screw it.”

You climbed, gripping the half-cracked wall, you dragged yourself upward toward the source. Your magic refused to activate, but your body could still move. With effort, you reached the cluster of nullifying stones and ripped them free.

The moment you tossed the first one toward the monsters, it exploded with a wave of destabilizing energy. The beasts shrieked, faltering mid-attack.

Phainon didn’t miss a beat. He cut through two cleanly and dodged the third.

Then he looked up and saw you, now barely clinging to the side of the wall. “Are you insane?!”

You grinned, panting. “Maybe. Now get me down.”

He sheathed his sword and raced to the end of the bridge, where a frayed rope hung. Without a second thought, he looped one end around his shoulder and the other around your waist after dragging you down from the wall.

“You’re stronger than you look.”

“Hold tight!”

He leapt, the rope snapped forward like a whip, and you both swung across the chasm, the ruined bridge crumbling behind you as the last creature tried to follow and plummeted instead into the abyss.

You landed hard on the other side, tangled slightly together.

You rolled off him with a huff. “That was reckless.”

“You threw magic-nullifying stones at a horde of murder beasts.”

You grinned. “And it worked.”

He looked at you, your flushed face, the dirt on your hands, the little flicker of pride in your smirk and laughed.

The final chamber lay beneath a ceiling of crystal, faint starlight filtering in from cracks above. A stone pedestal stood at the center, ancient runes etched into its base. But there was no sword.

Phainon stepped forward. “Are you sure this is the place?”

You paced slowly around the pedestal. “The magic seal’s still active.” You narrowed your eyes. “It should be here.”

A low growl echoed from the shadows behind the columns.

You both turned.

Something stepped out.

Tall, vaguely humanoid, its body covered in blackened plates of armor that seemed to melt into its skin. Its face had no eyes, only a mouth stitched shut with gold wire.

Phainon drew his sword instantly. “What is that?”

You stepped back. “That… is the sword.”

He whipped his head toward you. “I’m sorry—what?”

“This is part of the trial, only the chosen can return it to its original shape.”

“Well, I’m flattered.” Phainon muttered, dodging a swing from the creature.

Phainon blocked a flurry of attacks while you cast more spells for distraction. Even without full mana, you could still make a difference.

“Try striking the runes on its chest!”

Phainon dove forward, landing a clean slash across the glyph-marked plate. The creature recoiled, then began to glow. Its body shimmered, warping unnaturally.

You held your staff steady. “Now!”

You and Phainon struck at the same moment.

When the smoke cleared, a sword hovered in the air above the pedestal, spinning slowly before settling gently in place.

Phainon stared at it. “That’s more like it.”

You gave him a lazy grin. “Congratulations, hero.”

By the time you both returned to the forge, the sky had gone dark.

You looked like you’d walked through a war zone. Phainon’s coat was torn, your own cloak was shredded at the hem.

Rya was the first to see you.

“What happened to you two?!”

Eno asked. “Did someone eat you and spit you back out?”

Lucien stared. “Is that the sword?”

Phainon raised it slightly, letting the light catch the blade. “Yeah. It fought back.”

The blacksmith, Laria, snorted from the forge entrance. “Damn thing’s still got personality, huh?”

You waved them off. “We’ll explain later. Right now, I need food, a bath, and twelve hours of sleep.”

Dinner was hearty that night. Venison stew. Hot bread. Even some spiced wine someone had managed to trade for. You sat with your feet up, your magic finally returning to normal.

Phainon, on the other hand, barely touched his food—his eyes glued to the sword resting beside him. He turned it over, watching the way the runes lit when his fingers grazed the hilt.

Rya leaned toward him. “Are you going to sleep with it, or—?”

“Maybe.”

That night, while the others slept peacefully, Phainon dreamed. He stood alone in a black void, then, from the darkness, it appeared.

A figure cloaked in shifting shadows.=

“Phainon.”

He instinctively reached for his sword, but found only air. The figure chuckled.

“You’ve taken the sword. Now let’s see if you’re worthy of it.”

“Who are you?”

“Not your enemy. Not yet. I’m here to see who you really are.”

Then came the questions. Would you kill to save the world? Would you sacrifice a teammate? A friend? Yourself?

“What is your greatest weakness?”

“Ah… there it is.”

His heart jumped.

“Fascinating. So let’s test that.”

Before he could react, the dream shattered, his body jolting upright, drenched in sweat.

But the worst part wasn’t the nightmare.

It was the cold, metallic ring now encircling his wrist.

Silvery, smooth, fused to the skin. Not a bracelet.

He scrubbed it with water, soap, even tried to burn it with a spark of magic. Nothing happened.

And every time his mind wandered to you, the metal crawled up, just a little. He hid it beneath his glove.

Two days later, the first gate of the Demon King's territory opened.

The sky was darker here, red-tinged clouds swirling overhead.

Their first enemy awaited.

A horned monstrosity, standing twice a man’s height.

The battle was brutal.

Your team fought in perfect rhythm—Lucien tanked its blows, Rya healed, Eno found gaps and slipped his daggers through.

You held your ground at the center, flinging incinerating magic.

Phainon swung his sword, but something was off.

His footwork, usually flawless, faltered.

Lucien glanced at him mid-fight. “You alright?!”

“Yeah.”

He felt the weight on his wrist spreading. The metal had crawled up to his forearm. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to move.

But then he heard you shout his name.

His eyes snapped toward you.

His heart skipped.

And the metal surged.

His hand stiffened.

He nearly dropped his sword.

He forced his body into action, cutting down the monster’s legs just before it could pounce on Rya. The creature shrieked and finally collapsed under a final team assault.

Cheers rose. But Phainon stood back, gripping his right arm tightly.

Rya touched his shoulder. “Phainon? You’re pale. You sick?”

He forced a smile. “Just tired. I’m fine.”

You frowned slightly but didn’t press him.

Later, while the others rested by the fire and you were perched up in a tree to scan the next path, Phainon sat alone.

The metal now reached his elbow.

It fed off his feelings. The more his thoughts drifted to you, the faster it grew.

He couldn’t let anyone know.

The next battle came swiftly, another guardian at one of the Demon King's gates. Not as powerful as the last, but fast.

You hovered slightly above the group, your cane gliding over the terrain. You looked down, half-expecting Phainon to gesture again to give you a piggyback ride.

He didn’t.

“I’m getting tired.”—a phrase that usually earned an eye-roll and a solid lift onto his back, he didn’t even look up.

Just a soft chuckle. “Then fly.”

Your fingers tightened on your staff.

He kept his distance the entire time. When you struck down a fire beast with a perfect shot, he didn’t offer a nod like he used to. When Rya stumbled and you helped her up, he didn’t meet your eyes.

Even when you were close enough to stand beside him after the fight, his back turned.

That night, the group camped near the edge of a dry canyon.

Phainon sat apart, facing the cracked rock, glove pulled tight over his right arm. The metal had now passed his elbow. He could barely curl his fingers.

He missed the casual banter. Missed the fleeting weight of you clinging to him half-asleep during a teleport jump.

But now, every time he thought about you— The metal crept higher.

He closed his eyes and slept.

The void returned.

“Tell me what this is. What’s happening to me?”

“It’s the Sword Trial’s consequence. If you carry the blade but fail to carry what’s in your heart… you become like the one before you.”

Images flickered: that beast they’d fought at the ruin.

“He was the last wielder. He let his feelings spiral. It consumed him. And so, the sword consumed him in return.”

“So what, I’m just doomed? Because I—?”

“Solve it, or become nothing more than a blade waiting to be held.”

He woke before dawn.

The others were still asleep, save for you, sitting a little distance away, pretending not to be watching him.

You’d had enough.

Later that day, while the group rested after a minor skirmish, you approached Rya, Lucien, and Eno.

“He’s acting strange.”

Rya frowned. “You want to confront him?”

You shook your head. “I don’t want to corner him if he’s not ready.”

“Then what do we do?” Eno asked.

“I’m going back to the ruin.”

All three stared at you.

“I want answers. If whatever this is started there, maybe it left something behind.”

Lucien hesitated. “You’re going alone?”

“I’ll take a few days. You all avoid any major fights until I return.”

Rya looked concerned. “What if something happens while you’re gone?”

You looked over at Phainon, standing distant and stiff by the ridge—his hand clenched like it hurt.

You lowered your voice. “Something already is.”

That night, you packed quietly and left before sunrise. Your cane lifted you from the camp, gliding above the clouds.

The ruin was as cold and empty as you remembered.

You scoured the pedestal. The walls. Every crack.

But there were nothing. No answers waiting to explain Phainon’s strange behavior.

You sighed, frustration bubbling. This place had given you only questions and curses.

That’s when the ground trembled.

“What a surprise. The elf came back alone.”

You turned slowly, staff already raised.

A demon stood near the cracked archway—slender and tall, draped in layers of red, his eyes glowing. He looked half-human, half-serpent, and full of himself.

“One of the king’s right hands.” you muttered. “Perfect.”

“You think you stand a chance without your little hero?”

The blast of power that followed your whisper split the ceiling in two.

The demon didn’t even have time to beg.

Emitted from the demon, hovered toward you, an orb of residual essence. It sank into your chest.

Voices.

Not all at once.

Thoughts.

You could hear them. Like faint echoes threading the air.

One at a time.

You returned to camp midafternoon, gliding down from the sky.

They were by a slow, shimmering river. Lucien was baiting a hook while Eno tried to nap on a log.

You landed softly. Everyone turned.

Phainon looked up, visibly surprised, but his expression quickly fell back into its guarded calm.

Rya came over first. “You’re alright?”

You nodded.

Lucien grinned. “Catch anything out there?”

“Caught a demon.”

That shut everyone up.

“...And?” Eno asked, sitting up.

“It’s dead,” you said. “But it left something behind.”

Your eyes were on Phainon, who had quietly turned back to the river.

You strode toward him.

“Wait—”

Your cane slammed softly against the ground. “ᛊᛏᛁᛚᛚᚨ ᛗᛖᚾᛊ.” The spell hit him before he could dodge.

You stepped closer, raised a hand and placed it gently against his chest—right above the heart.

“I want to know.”

His thoughts came like thunder, deep and layered and loud beneath the surface:

“Don’t let them see. Don’t let them worry.” “It’s crawling up my arm.” “Why now?” “If I lose this fight—if I lose myself—I don’t want them near when it happens.” “I’ll turn into a sword. I know it.” “I can’t stop thinking about them.” “I can’t stop it from growing.” “Please. Don’t touch me. Please.”

You pulled your hand away slowly.

Phainon’s head lowered slightly, ashamed.

You undid the spell.

He looked at you fully for the first time in days.

And still, he tried to smile like none of it mattered.

“So,” he said quietly, “now you know.”

Phainon sat on the log like a man headed for the gallows, his right arm hidden beneath the long sleeve of his coat.

“I should’ve told you.”

His voice was rough with guilt. “If I don’t stop it, I’ll become like the last wielder..”

Then Rya stood up and slapped him square across the shoulder.

“You idiot!” she snapped. “You could’ve died, and we would’ve had no idea why!”

Lucien rubbed his temples. “You’re lucky the elf here figured it out before you fully turned into a metal statue.”

Eno just huffed. “I knew something was off. Just didn’t think it’d be that dramatic.”

You, sitting beside the fire with your staff resting against your knee, said nothing at first.

Your eyes didn’t leave him.

Phainon looked at you, he wanted to explain himself further, but your expression made him stop.

You simply asked, “What do you want?”

“What?”

“This curse feeds on desire. So what is it that you want?”

Phainon looked down.

He didn’t say it.

He couldn’t.

So the group, after some yelling, a bit of pacing, and more than one nervous look at his wrist, decided there was only one thing to do.

“Let it play out,” Lucien muttered. “Wait until his next dream.”

Phainon agreed, reluctantly.

And the next hour? Eno caught two fish and declared himself superior to nature. Rya made a stew out of it, Lucien added spices, and the meal turned out surprisingly good.

You sat beside Eno, mostly because he handed you the bigger bowl.

Phainon watched from across the fire, chewing slower, his eyes flicking over to you, then narrowing just slightly.

You laughed at something Eno said.

That was it.

Phainon stood, walked around the fire… and sat directly between you two.

“Someone’s territorial.”

Phainon didn’t respond, but his shoulders were a little straighter now.

You side-eyed him, the corner of your mouth twitching.

The metal in his arm pulsed faintly beneath the fabric.

He didn’t care.

Later, the fire dimmed. The team dozed in their tents or curled beneath cloaks under the stars.

You laid by the edge of the firepit.

But you weren’t asleep.

You waited.

Time passed.

Phainon sat up slowly, bracing his back against a log, staring at his hand in the moonlight.

You watched from behind half-lidded eyes.

He rubbed his forehead. His brow was drawn, his thoughts weighed down.

The familiar black void greeted Phainon like an old friend he didn’t ask for.

“I want a cure.”

“Desire feeds the curse. But desire also frees you, if it’s honest.”

The shadow stepped aside, revealing something behind it:

A vision of a house. Inside was a table with mismatched chairs. Your laughter echoing from a garden.

He reached for it, but the vision dissolved into mist.

“You've seen it now. That’s enough.”

Phainon jolted awake.

And froze.

Because you were barely a breath away, kneeling in front of him, staring dead at his face like you’d been examining a strange statue.

Your lips were dangerously close.

“Hey—!”

“You’re awake.”

“Am I? I was having a nice dream. And you’re here trying to steal my first kiss?”

You tilted your head, deadpan. “I was checking your pulse.”

He touched his mouth. “Still counts.”

You rolled your eyes. “Who’s going to take responsibility then?”

“That’s what I’m saying!”

You sat back finally, still watching him. “Did you at least ask the shadow about the cure?”

Phainon rubbed the back of his neck. “Kinda. It mentioned a place. A hot spring that heals anything.”

Your eyes lit up slightly.

Then, your cane struck the ground.

The entire team reappeared in a lush valley, surrounded by fog-draped trees and steaming rivers winding through flower-choked meadows.

Lucien collapsed to the ground, stunned. “What the hell just happened?!”

You yawned. “Healing spring.”

Then you promptly curled up beside the luggage and fell asleep like teleporting all those people across three regions was just another light errand.

Phainon stared at you, then looked around.

He followed the steam trail toward the spring. He stepped in, letting the water climb past his knees, then to his chest.

The pain in his arm eased.

He watched in awe as silver peeled away, melting into light and disappearing up into the steam. His hand flexed freely again.

He returned to camp, wet sleeves pushed up, steam clinging to his skin.

You were still asleep beside the bags, arms tucked beneath your head.

And beside your foot lies little patch of wildflowers.

Phainon sat down and picked a few.

He wove them clumsily into a crown.

He set it gently atop your head and leaned back beside you.

“It worked... But we need to end this. Return the sword. Or it’ll start again.”

His voice dropped lower.

“I’m not afraid of turning into a sword anymore.”

“…But I am afraid of never getting to build that house I saw.”

He looked at you, the crown tilting slightly in your hair.

“I want to make it real.”

---

The warmth of sunlight tickled your cheek. You stirred awake on the grass… only to realize it was silent.

The luggage was still where you left it, untouched. Your cane rested at your side. But the others, they're all gone.

You stood up slowly, scanning the misty valley. No sounds of chatter. Just mist. Trees. And something strange on the hill ahead.

A house. With a stone path and a wooden door just slightly ajar.

It hadn’t been there before.

You gripped your staff tighter and walked toward it.

There he was.

Phainon, sitting at a table beside the window, hands folded, smiling gently.

“Phainon the human?”

He stood, approaching you.

You narrowed your eyes. “Where are the others?”

He didn’t answer.

You stepped back.

Then you stared directly into his eyes.

They didn’t reflect light.

“...You're blind” you murmured.

He tilted his head like a broken puppet.

You ran. The door warped behind you as you burst out. The house shimmered and collapsed into smoke.

Eight long, jagged legs. The false Phainon let out a horrible screech as its skin peeled away, revealing a massive spider. With blind, weeping eyes, half-stabbed and oozing black blood.

You sprinted across the field, heart hammering.

A dark cave ahead.

You dove in, and there they were. Cocooned tight, your friends hung from the walls. Lucien’s sword still stuck out of one of the monster’s severed eyes, he must’ve done damage before they were taken.

Phainon stirred first, gritting his teeth.

“Y/N!!!!”

You slashed through the webs. “The fake you kissed me.”

“WHAT? WHY? HOW? WHEN? WHERE?... Nevermind, I’ll kill it.”

Together, you helped the others down. Lucien cracked his knuckles. “So what the hell was that thing?”

“Probably the demon king's pet,” you said.

Eno spat. “Creepy spider. Great.”

“Just a warm-up.”

You emerged from the cave, the spider already waiting, thrashing through the trees with rage. Its illusion no longer working, it screeched in fury, flailing to grab you all in its legs.

“Focus on the legs!” you yelled.

Your cane spun, hurling arcs of searing light through the mist. Rya cast a wave of fire across one limb while Lucien charged in. Eno appeared atop its back with a dagger to its spine.

Phainon sprinted beneath its body, severing joints with sharp, merciless strikes.

It screeched and dropped, just enough for you to leap forward, driving a spell into its eyes.

It exploded into black mist.

The team stood together, panting, more focused than ever.

“We’re close,” he said. “I can feel it.”

You nodded.

Your team left the valley behind, heading into the deadlands where the Demon King awaited.

One last fight.

As expected from the Demon King’s lair - twisted architecture of bone and obsidian.

Magic surged. The ground cracked beneath your feet.

You were sucked into a trap, meant to isolate the strongest of the group.

You slammed into a dimension made of mirrors. You pounded on the wall of the void. But you couldn’t get out.

Back in the real world, the Demon King sat hunched on his grotesque throne.

“You depended on your precious elf,” he sneered, “Without them, you are nothing.”

Phainon stared up, sweat rolling down his brow. Beside him, Lucien was barely standing.

“You should’ve killed us when you had the chance.”

The battle raged.

The Demon King was furious, his power shaking the walls with every roar. But one by one, each blow from your side chipped away at him.

He didn’t expect them to last this long.

Only Phainon was left standing.

Where are you…

The sword in his hand pulsed.

It responded to his fear.

But in that hesitation, the demon made an attempt to attack Phainon.

Phainon raised the sword, but not fast enough.

But just before the strike hit, something ignited.

A shockwave burst from his body.

The curse flared once more, coating his entire right arm in silver. His torn tunic blew off with the blast, his chest marked with glowing runes.

The sword levitated for a second, then locked back into his grip.

The Demon King stumbled back.

Phainon raised the blade. “You took my friend from me.”

He launched forward.

Each slash left trails of light in the air. The king roared in fury, casting waves of darkness, but Phainon cut through them with savage clarity.

But the king wasn’t dead yet.

A sharp crack split the room.

You dropped through the air, the dimensional prison shattered behind you.

You just raised your cane and let loose a searing stun spell, knocking the Demon King to his knees.

“Phainon—now!”

He surged forward and drove the sword through the monster’s throat.

Ash scattered.

The lair cracked apart slowly around you.

He took one look at you and stepped forward.

“I thought I lost you.”

He wrapped you in his arms, pulling you close, body still trembling.

“I’m never going to leave your side again,” he murmured, “Not in this life. Not in the next. Never again.”

“…At least put some clothes on first.”

He blinked, pulled back slightly.

Looked down.

“…Oh.”

The rest of the team groaned behind you.

Lucien: “Gods, can we go now?”

Rya: “Let them have their moment.”

Eno: “Please tell me someone packed him a shirt.”

The Demon King was dead.

Villages once choked by fear now echoed with laughter. Markets reopened. Children ran through the streets with wooden swords pretending to be you or Phainon or whoever made the final blow.

The team scattered back to their homes.

You and Phainon?

The sword hummed in Phainon’s hands as he stepped forward, the pedestal before him glowing faintly.

You stood beside him.

He looked at you once before he placed the blade back into the stone, and it locked in with a low, final thrum, like the closing of a door.

“…Now what?”

You didn’t answer at first. Just turned, slowly gathering your things.

“You’re leaving?”

You nodded. “There are other places I want to see. Other things I want to do.”

Phainon stared at you. “Then I’ll come with you.”

“No,” you said. “You need to go home.”

“I don’t want to go home,” he said, “Not without you.”

“We defeated the demons together. Doesn’t mean I promised anything beyond that.”

His expression crumbled a little.

“…So all those moments meant nothing to you?”

“They meant something. But not everything.” You softened. “You’re still sorting yourself out, Phainon. You’ve seen one vision and decided that’s the rest of your life.”

You turned again.

He stepped forward. “Then tell me what to do. Just—don’t leave.”

You looked back. “You’re strong, you’ll survive.”

And with that, you began to walk.

He watched your figure disappear. One step. Then another.

“…Fine!” he shouted behind you.

“I’ll do it! I swear—if you take another step I’ll hang myself right here in this stupid ruin!”

You stopped. Slowly turned.

He was climbing dramatically onto the edge of the pedestal, cloak flapping behind him like some tragic prince with absolutely no dignity left.

“Right here! I’ll become a legend—‘The Hero Who Died of Elf Rejection!’”

You squinted. “Phainon.”

“No no—don’t stop me now! I’m fully committed!”

He took a wobbly step like he might actually fall.

“I fought demons for you. I turned silver for you. I cried in a damn hot spring!”

“…You really cried in the spring?”

“Not the point!”

He gestured to the sky. “All I want is for you to come home with me. You don’t even have to marry me yet. I’ll propose every day if I have to. Just—don’t leave.”

You sighed.

Walked back slowly.

“Get down.”

“You’re not going to stop me?”

“I am stopping you. Come down and stop embarrassing yourself.”

“…Is that a yes?”

“It’s a ‘we’ll see.’”

He jumped down, grinning wildly, wrapping his arms around you before you could slip away again. You didn’t return it, but you didn’t pull away either.

The road back was long.

But this time, you didn’t walk it alone.

And Phainon?

He didn’t mind waiting.

Even if he had to propose every day for the rest of his life.

[opt1mistic]

i physically can’t stop thinking about spiderman!rin….like hes rotting every part of my brain. so i thought i should share my thoughts..

you’re dangling.

actually dangling—off the jagged edge of a rusted fire escape, fingers torn raw from the grip you can barely hold. the wind nips at your skin. your breath stutters in your throat, lodged somewhere between a scream and a prayer. below, the alley yawns black and bottomless. one slip and you’re gone; smears of blood splattered over copper bricks. chunks of flesh, guts, and brains. a soundless body in the dark.

and then—thwip.

the world jerks and suddenly, you’re not falling anymore. your sweaty fingers arent slipping off the railing and a yelp escapes from your mouth. it was quick but filled with fear that you had slipped and are now flying to your death.

but no, you’re just flying.

well not actually—he’s flying, and you’re in his arms. holding on for dear life against his body.

his arm locked tight around your waist, the solid heat of his body bleeding through that cursed suit. spiderman—rin—pulls you out of gravity’s grip. the city blurs into streaks of light and metal, every swing a breathless snap, until you’re landed on a rooftop.

he hits the ground hard, feet touching concrete, but he doesn’t let go. not for a second.

he tears off his mask, jaw clenching like someone pissed him off. lips a thin, furious line. eyes wide—not with anger, but with worry and fear.

his hands are on your face before you can even inhale. tilting your head up. forcing your eyes to meet his.

“are you stupid?” he spits, voice low and shaking with something sharp. “you could’ve died.”

“i didn’t,” you breathe, barely audible. “you caught me.”

“that’s not the point.”

his fingers twitch against your jaw, holding you too tight. “you shouldn’t have been there. i told you to wait for me. why the fuck didn’t you—”

“i didn’t know…” you whisper, and it sounds too honest, too soft. broken.

“…i didn’t know they were following me.”

and something in him cracks. just a flicker. just for a breath. but it’s enough.

he exhales, pulling you into him so tight, until your head rests against him. his heartbeat is chaos. it’s thumping against his rib cage like a ticking bomb that’s ready to explode any second now.

“if i’d been even a second—one second later…”

“you weren’t.” you say it into him, into the place where his ribs cage his fear.

“you weren’t…” you repeated quieter.

his arms curl tighter around you, like he’s trying to suffocate you but not with hate or aggression—but with fear and worry of what could’ve happened.

he was never meant to need someone like this. but you’re not just someone. you’re you.

“i’m not losing you,” rin murmurs, voice rough and breathless, like he’s forcing it through his teeth.

“i’ll save you every time, i promise.”

[tokkiwrites]

꒰ ꪆ୧ ꒱ SUℳM𝛢RY ⌢ ꒰੭. Heartbroken and lost, you find your peace in the strangest place — or maybe, in the rough hands of a stranger who feels more like home than anything you've ever known.

˖˙ ᰋ ── 𝖙ags ˚ trucker joel miller x fem reader, no outbreak au, afab reader, strangers to lovers, hurt comfort, soft joel, age gap (mentioned like once), slight angs, found family themes, reader is in a vulnerable mental state, themes of family problems, abandonment themes, sex with a stranger, shower sex, unprotected p in v, head m receiving, some fluff.

𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒﹙ʚɞ˚﹚ 𝖓ote: wooow who is this??? guys i just have so many ideas like i want to keep on writing sm i hope you wont get tired. idk what this is but i craved some trucker joel so yeah. this is not proofread soo...lmk if u want a pt2!!! hope u enjoyyy 🎀🐇🌟

You hadn't even known they were leaving.

No call. No letter. No warning.

Just gone.

The late afternoon sun beats heavy against your back, turning the asphalt into a slow, shimmering sea. Somewhere down the block, a dog barks once. It sounds lonely.

You stand there on the cracked sidewalk, a single suitcase dragging heavy behind you, staring up at the place that once tethered you to the earth.

It looks smaller now.

Older. Sadder.

The windows are dark. The porch swing hangs lopsided, one chain snapped clean through. The garden is wild now, strangled with weeds.

And then there's the sign.

Staked crooked in the dry grass.

FOR SALE.

Faded letters, rust blooming along the edges like sickness. Your mouth is dry. Your throat is tighter than it should be. You step closer, slow. One foot in front of the other, like maybe if you just knock on the door, they’ll open it, laughing, some cruel surprise party for the daughter they forgot.

Maybe they’re inside right now.

Maybe.

But you can already feel the lie breaking apart inside you. No car in the driveway. No porch light left burning. Not even a note tucked into the mailbox.

Nothing. They’re gone.

They left without a word.

Your palms are sweating. Your heart hammers helpless against your ribs, each beat growing louder, louder, until you can’t stand it anymore. You sit down hard on the curb, scraping your palms against the concrete. You barely feel it.

The ache opens up inside you like a sinkhole. A hollow thing, sharp around the edges. You drag in a broken breath and press your fists against your eyes but it’s no good.

The tears come anyway.

Hot. Ugly. Unstoppable. Not the pretty kind you see in movies. No trembling chin, no single glistening tear. Just sobbing, red-faced and snotty, body hunched in on itself like you could somehow hide from the shame of it all.

You must look ridiculous. A full-grown girl weeping into her hands on a shitty little sidewalk in the middle of nowhere.

A few cars roll past. None of them slow down. The sun keeps sliding westward, pulling long shadows behind it, and still you sit there. Too heavy to move.

By the time the low rumble of a truck grinds into the gas station across the street, the sky has cracked itself into a thousand bruised colors. Orange. Violet. Sickly gold.

You don't look up. You don't think you could bear it.

Not until you hear boots and the slow, heavy crunch of them over gravel. You freeze.

Instinctively shrinking into yourself, holding your breath.

"Figured you might need these." A voice. Rough. Warm. Older. You look up through a curtain of tear-blurred lashes. A man stands over you. Sunburnt skin. Faded jeans. Sleeves rolled up to thick forearms. Hair gone silver at the temples.

A stranger. A trucker, maybe.

In his hand there's a fistful of gas station napkins, crushed and slightly oily, but clean enough.

You blink at him. The late sunlight outlines him in gold, makes him seem almost unreal.

Some part of you wants to tell him to go away. That you’re fine. That you don’t need anybody. But you’re not fine. And the kindness in his face is so rare it slices you right open. You reach out and take the napkins with shaking fingers. "Thanks," you whisper, voice breaking apart like wet paper.

He crouches down without being asked, one knee cracking softly under the strain. "Didn’t mean to scare ya," he says, low and careful. "Just saw you sittin’ here lookin’ all broken up." You try to smile, try to pull yourself together, but a fresh sob bubbles up before you can stop it.

The man frowns softens. He shifts closer, careful like he’s approaching a scared doe. "Hey now," he says. "Ain't no shame in it, darlin’. World kicks hard sometimes." You wipe your nose, mortified. Your skin burns with embarrassment.

"IㅡI didn’t know they were gone," you choke out, the words spilling uninvited. "I didn’t knowㅡ they never even told meㅡ" His mouth draws into a thin, grim line. He doesn’t say Jesus or what the hell’s wrong with them or any of the things he could say.

He just nods. Understanding. Like he’s seen this kind of hurt before.

"Families," he mutters, almost to himself. "They can gut you worse’n any knife." You let out a strangled laugh. It sounds ugly, broken, but it’s better than crying. He huffs out a soft breath, like he’s relieved to hear even that.

You’re staring at him before you realize it. At the steady set of his jaw, the faint scar running through his eyebrow, the careful way he holds his hands.

Like he knows what it’s like to hold something fragile. And for one aching second, you lean forward and try to kiss him. It’s clumsy. Salty with tears. Desperate in a way you don’t mean it to be. You feel the scrape of his stubble against your cheek, the stunned heat of his mouth, but just as fast his hands are on your shoulders, gently pushing you back.

"Hey," he says again, voice tight. "Hey. No. Not like this." You stumble backward, cheeks flaming, tears stinging anew. "Iㅡ I’m sorry," you stammer. "I wasn’tㅡ I didn’tㅡ" He’s still crouched there, breathing hard, dragging a rough hand over his face like he’s mad at himself. "You’re not thinkin’ straight," he says. "You’re hurtin’. That ain’t the way this should start."

You press the napkins to your face again, wishing you could disappear. The shame is thick enough to choke on. He hesitates. "My name's Joel." He looks out toward the highway, then back at you. "You got somewhere to stay tonight?"

You shake your head miserably. His jaw tightens. He scrubs a hand through his hair. "I got a room down at that old motel, just off the 45," he says finally. "It ain’t much. But it’s safe. Two beds. Nothin’ will happen you don’t want, I swear it."

You stare at him, every nerve screaming at you not to trust a stranger.

You nod. "Okay," you say, small. Something eases in his face.

"Alright then," he says, rising to his feet with a grunt.

He holds out a hand. You hesitate then reach out and let him pull you up. His hand is big and rough and calloused, but it holds you carefully.

Like you’re a porcelain doll. You follow him toward the truck, the sky bleeding itself dry behind you.

The motel is even sadder than you pictured.

A squat strip of rooms sagging under their own neglect, washed in the sickly orange of buzzing neon lights. Joel pulls his truck into a cracked parking spot and cuts the engine. You fidget with the hem of your sleeve.

"You sure?" Joel asks, voice low. "Last chance to change your mind, darlin'." You glance over at him. The dashboard lights throwing sharp shadows across his face. There's no pressure in his voice. No expectation.

You nod. His mouth pulls into something that isn't quite a smile, but almost. He gets out first, boots hitting the ground with a heavy thud. Comes around to your side and opens the door like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You slide out, clutching your suitcase tight, trying not to feel like a little kid lost at the fair.

The motel office is locked up for the night, but Joel already has a sad looking brass key. Room 2. He leads the way down the sidewalk. He opens the door, steps aside to let you in first, giving you space.

The room is as bad as you expected.

Scratchy bedspreads. Faded floral curtains. A humming mini-fridge in the corner that sounds vaguely threatening. But it’s clean enough. And it's safe. The first thing Joel does is toss his duffel bag onto the bed nearest the door.

"You can have the other one," he says, jerking his chin toward the second bed. Sheets still tucked in tight. Untouched. You set your suitcase down and stand there awkwardly, wringing your hands. Joel watches you for a long moment.

"You want somethin’ to eat?" he asks. "I got some stuff in the truck. Nothin' fancy, but it's somethin’."

You shake your head. Your stomach feels twisted into knots. "Water, then," he mutters to himself.

He crosses to the mini-fridge, crouches down with a soft grunt, and pulls out two water bottles.

He cracks the cap on one and hands it to you. "Here you go, darlin'," You take the bottle and sip gratefully. Cool water rushing down your raw throat.

Joel lowers himself into the chair by the window and the old wood creaks under his weight. He stretches his long legs out, resting his forearms on his knees, and looks over at you.

"You got anybody you can call?" he asks. You shake your head again. He scrubs a hand over his jaw, the rasp of it loud. "That’s a damn shame," he mutters. "You don’t deserve that." Your chest squeezes tight and you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood. "Thank you," you whisper. It’s all you can manage.

It feels stupid and small and nowhere near enough. Joel tips his head like he heard you anyway. For a while, the only sound is the hum of the fridge and the distant buzz of the neon sign outside. The whole world feels like it’s folded itself down to this one room and this one moment.

You sink down onto the bed across from him, clutching the water bottle in both hands. "I'll take first watch, if you want." You blink at him, confused.

He smiles, just a little. "Ain’t no locks on these doors worth a damn," he says. "Rather keep an eye out. Make sure nobody bothers you." Something hot and unfamiliar twists low in your stomach. A rough, tender kind of feeling, one you didn’t even realize you were starving for until now.

You curl your legs up onto the bed, tucking yourself into the smallest shape you can make. "Thank you," you whisper again, voice cracking. Joel just leans back in the chair, arms crossed loose over his chest, boots planted solid on the floor.

You wake in the dark.

For a second, you don’t know where you are.

The room is still. But you remember Joel.

Your heart calms a little. You lift your head from the pillow and squint across the room.

He’s still there.

Sitting in that same battered chair, not really asleep. The lamp on the nightstand is still on, dim golden light painting the sad looking walls. You sit up slowly, the blanket pooling around your waist.

Joel stirs when he hears you move and lifts his head.

His eyes find you instantly, bleary but alert, making sure you’re alright. "Sorry," you whisper. "I didn’t mean to wake you."

"You didn’t," he says. He runs a hand through his messy hair, the soft gray at his temples catching the light. "You need somethin', sweetheart?"

You open your mouth then close it again, suddenly too shy to say it. But Joel waits, patient as ever. You pick at a loose thread on the blanket and breathe in slow through your nose.

you whisper, "Will you come sit closer?" Joel goes still. Some battle raging behind his eyes.

Then he stands up, slow. He lowers himself onto the edge of your bed, careful to leave enough space between you that you could still escape if you needed to. If you wanted to.

You shift, just slightly, letting your knee brush his thigh. "You sure?" he murmurs. It would be so easy to say no. But you nod again instead.

The tears come out of nowhere. One minute you're fine, the next you're crumbling. Crumbling into a thousand jagged pieces. "Hey, hey," he murmurs, shifting closer. Without thinking, you press your face into the crook of his shoulder, clutching fistfuls of his worn flannel. He wraps his arms around you.

You sob into him. Ugly, gasping, hiccupping sobs and Joel just holds you through it. His hand rubs slow circles over your back as his mouth brushes your hairline. When you finally pull back, Joel lets you go without a sound. Your face is a mess, tearstained, flushed, swollen but you don’t even care. He tips his head down to meet your eyes.

"You alright now, darlin'?"

You nod. But you're impulsive, so you lean forward and press the softest kiss to his stubbled jaw. Not a kiss that asks for anything or a kiss that demands.

Just a thank you. Just a please stay.

And he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t tell you no.

Not this time. He just presses his forehead against yours, breathing you in slow and shaky.

You wake a little before the sun. The cheap motel curtains let a little light bleed through. Joel is still sleeping. Or at least, his eyes are closed.

You slip out of bed quietly, your body aching in ways you didn’t even realize from the long day before. Sticky with sweat. Heavy with sleep.

You need a shower. Desperately.

You gather the little toiletries you bought from the gas station last night and tiptoe to the bathroom.

The water comes alive with a groan of old pipes and a thin hiss of steam. You step under the spray, shivering a little at first, then sighing when the heat seeps into your skin. Washing away the grime, the dust.

You’re half-done, shampoo stinging your eyes, when you realize you forgot your clean clothes. They're still folded neatly by the bed, in the other room.

Shit.

You wrap your arms around yourself, but there's no towel in the tiny bathroom either. Just bare skin and dripping hair and a racing heart. "Fuck this..." you whisper. "He’s still sleeping. Just real quick." You crack the door open and peek out. Joel's heavy figure is still sprawled across the bed. Face turned into the pillow, blanket rucked around his waist.

You tiptoe out.

Naked, dripping. You reach the edge of the bed, your fingers brush the hem of your clean shirt, but that’s when you hear the shift of sheets. Then the low and scratchy sound of a man clearing his throat.

You freeze. Like a deer caught in the center of a long, empty road. Joel is awake. Very awake, actually.

Sitting up, eyes wide and dark and fixed on you. His gaze drags over you, his hands clenching in the bedsheets like he’s holding himself back with everything he’s got. Heat floods your whole body. You can't move. Can't think.

You're naked, soaking wet, standing in front of a man you met less than 15 hours ago. "Shit—" he rasps, dragging a hand over his mouth, looking away fast. "Shit, darlin’, I thought you were still in the shower—" You scramble backward, grabbing your shirt against your chest, face burning hotter than the sun. "I—I’m sorry, I thought you were still asleep—!"

Joel swings his legs over the edge of the bed, palms raised like he’s trying not to scare you. "It's alright! Ain’t your fault." He keeps his eyes carefully averted, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jump.

You hurry back into the bathroom, slam the door shut, heart trying to punch its way out of your ribs.

You lean against the wood, gasping, mortified.

But for a moment you pause. With your palms flat on the door, heart still hammering, you call out to him. "Joel?"

"Yeahㅡ" you can hear the hesitation in his voice. You squeeze your eyes shut as your cheeks burn. "Will you come wash my back...please?" The quiet drags out for a second too long. You almost lose your nerve. Then the floorboards creak and his rough voice come through again.

"Yeah, s-sure 'Course I will." he stutters. This giant hunk of a man was blushing, and you could hear it in his voice. The door opens. Finally. He steps inside and shuts the door behind him. You turn away, back into the shower, giving him your back, the damp curve of your shoulder blades. You can feel his stare.

When he finally touches you, it’s like fire. His hands are rough, careful, sliding soap over your back, your shoulders, the nape of your neck. Everywhere he touches, your body lights up. And when his hands slip around to your front and you don’t stop him. You don’t want to stop him. You turn in his arms.

Still slick and warm and trembling. Finally he lifts your chin and kisses you like he’s been dying to. Soft at first. Then deeper, needier, like he’s finally giving in.

Joel kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. His palms flatten against your hips, fingers spreading wide like he wants to memorize the feel of you. You clutch at his shirt, the old cotton clinging damp to your palms, dragging him closer without thinking, needing to feel him, needing more.

He groans low in his throat, the sound rumbling against your chest, and suddenly it's like something inside him snaps. He picks you up, just lifts you like it’s nothing, your bare thighs hooking around his waist, your wet skin sliding against the denim of his jeans.

You gasp into his mouth, and he carries you, stumbling, until your back hits the cool tile wall. "Fuck," he breathes against your jaw, "Fuck, you’re killin’ me, baby..." You can feel him, hard and aching pressing into you, and it sends a desperate heat spiraling through your belly. Your hands roam up under his shirt, tracing over rough scars and thick muscles, greedy and shy all at once.

He shudders under your touch, dropping his forehead against yours, trying to catch his breath. "You sure about this?" His voice is hoarse, wrecked. "Don’t gotta do nothin’ you don’t want, sweetheart."

Your throat feels tight, but you manage a shaky whisper."I want to. IㅡI want you." Something shifts in his face. He kisses you again, slower this time. Like he’s worshiping every little gasp, every brush of your lips against his. One hand slides down between your bodies, rough fingertips skimming the inside of your thigh then finally finding its way to your wet fold, and you whimper into his mouth.

He smiles a little at that, a small crooked thing that makes your knees even weaker. You can barely hold on. "S'alright," he murmurs, soothing, "lemme take care of you, little girl."

He touches you with maddening patience, two fingers deep in you, dragging every tiny sound out of you until you’re shaking in his arms, crying out against his neck. "good girl, so pretty, you’re doin’ so good for me, sweetheart —" and it wrecks you even worse.

You want to cry so bad.

You manage to push yourself off of him, sinking down to your knees and looking up at him through tearstained lashes. A little gift, you said, for taking care of you. He groans, his head all over thinking how is this even real. You looked straight out of one those pornos he used to rent back when he was about your age, face flushed and mouth full of cock. "Shitㅡ Atta girl...Y-eah, please keep goin'" he whimpered through bared teeth, hands roughly gripping your hair. His hips were barely kept from snapping like he wanted to. He wondered how it'd feel to fuck your throat, but he didn’t want to force you right now.

Your tongue swirled and lapped around his head, saliva and precum mixing and dripping down onto the shower floor. Your jaw hurt, and knees even more, but you didn’t want to stop. Not until you made him unravel.

Your thoughts are cut short by Joel, pulling you off and up. "Don't make me come yet, baby. Gotta feel you around me first." Oh, how your heart twisted. When he finally sinks into you, slow and careful and thick, your head tips back against the wall with a broken sob.

Joel curses under his breath, clutching you tighter, pressing kisses to your damp cheeks, your temple, your throat. "Shhh," he breathes, rocking into you with aching sweetness, "I got you, baby. I'm right here." And you believe him. For the first time in a long time, you believe someone. You cling to him like a lifeline, gasping his name over and over, as the whole world narrows down to just this.

His cock slides in and out of you rapidly, reaching places you didn’t know felt this good. He fucks you deep and hard, and for the first time you're actually not faking anything. It's all raw, and beautiful and sad at the same time. You cry and he kisses you hungrier, eating up your sobs as his length throbs inside of you. You're all broken again, in his arms, body jolting as he bites your shoulder.

Maybe you'll regret it later. But who cares about later when it seems like today is all you have. When he is all you have. Maybe he's a murderer on the loose, maybe he'll hurt you. Maybe it's the pain controlling you, but it feels right. Just right.

Your vision is blurry, and your head is fuzzy with him, that familiar feeling in your lower belly blooming again. Finally you come undone in his arms, shaking, crying and moaning all at once. He holds you closer, if thats even possible, and spills inside of you, his soft groans filtering through the ringing in your ears.

When it’s over, he doesn’t let you go. Just holds you there, cradled against his chest, both wet and sticky. Dirty and clean. Ugly and rough. "Was real brave of you," he whispers rough into your hair, pressing a kiss there. "Comin’ out here. Trustin’ me."

You smile against his skin through tears, small and trembling.

Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was just stupid luck. But you found him. Or he found you. Either way, you hope he won't let go any time soon.

[velaenam]

𝟏𝟎-𝟒

                                                                         ◦ ♡

𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 – non!mc. caleb deals with the events after getting deployed. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – NSFW!! (18+) wartime setting/era, swearing, hand job, mature themes, sexual themes, angst, PAIN. LITERAL ANGUISH notes – not proofread. haha..im so sorry, you'll still love the story right..? right..?? LOL 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 2 of 3 | previous chapter / next chapter — reblogs comments & likes are appreciated. let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist!

caleb sits on a rusted ammo crate, elbows on his knees, the weight of the sky pressing down on him. feels like a gut punch. he wants to go home. gunfire echoes in the far hills, sharp and distant like a memory you try not to think about. the air is thick with smoke and burnt earth, but in this moment, everything feels muted—like the world’s holding its breath… for you.

he pulls off one glove with his teeth, fingers fumbling into the fold of his helmet. it’s there, right where he always keeps it. the polaroid. the sweet polaroid of his beloved woman..

it’s a little bent at the corners now. worn from the way he keeps unfolding and folding it. but the image is still clear. your lips are glossed,your eyes laughing and cheeks flush with absolute embarrassment as he held you in an almost bridal position. his hand in your hair.  his eyes soft. a piece of warmth in a place that has none.

the girl who called him sweet. the one who laughed at his fake radio voice and looked at him like he was a poem to be loved, not a soldier. he stares at the photo for a long time. like if he looks hard enough, you’d speak. like you’ll lean through the image and remind him he’s still a man. still human. still yours. to come home..

caleb presses the photo to his lips. “soon,” he whispers. his voice barely makes it past the wind. “i promised.” 

caleb’s still holding the photo when boots crunch over gravel behind him. he doesn’t look up—he already knows the rhythm of those steps. it’s tom, call sign iceman . loud, lopsided, always dragging his left foot like it owed him money.

“you moonin’ over that girl again, brother?” tom’s thick accent shines through the sounds of planes above them. he grins, plopping down beside him with two steaming tin mugs. he offers one to caleb, who takes it with a quiet nod.

“you’d think she was the only woman in the world, the way ya look at that thing.”

caleb lets out a dry chuckle, tucking the polaroid back into the fold of his helmet like it’s sacred. “she’s not. but she’s the only one that looked at me like i was something worth coming home to.”

tom hums, blowing on his coffee. “mine’s got this way of fussin’ at me when i forget to call her sweetheart. like it’s a crime against the state.” –  “you forget on purpose just to hear her yell,” caleb smirks.

“damn right i do,” tom laughs, shaking his head. “that woman’s got fire. married up and i know it. but i love her like life itself. we got two kids already. tryin t’ be there for the third.”

they sit there for a moment, sipping coffee, watching the sun try and fail to break through the smoke-choked sky. he thinks about you, what you’re doing now. wondering if you’re still in that damn bar. maybe he could take your fine ass back home and give you a couple of kids himself.. or maybe he could be your house husband while you put your degree to work. either way, win win for him. 

“what’s the first thing you’re gonna do when you get back?” caleb asks, voice low, almost like he’s afraid the question might jinx them.

tom doesn’t hesitate. “take her dancing. somewhere with shitty music and bad lighting. doesn’t matter. i just wanna spin her around till she’s laughing so hard she can’t breathe.”

caleb smiles into his cup. “you soft bastard.” – “what about you, captain war hero– or should i say, lieutenant war hero?” tom bumps his shoulder against caleb’s. “you gonna find your girl and write her a sonnet? propose?”

caleb shakes his head, gaze far away. “nah. not yet. just wanna take her out somewhere quiet. real quiet. where she can wear whatever she wants, and i can hold her hand in the open. maybe get her a slice of apple pie.”

tom squints, quizzical at his odd and random choice of dessert, “apple pie?” a beat as they pause, then, “yeah,” caleb says, eyes soft. “she laughed like apple pie.” – tom  blinks. “...what the fuck does that even mean?”

“don’t worry about it,” caleb mutters, cheeks pink, trying to hide behind his mug.

“nah nah, you don’t get to drop poetry on me like you’re some socrates or somethin’ and just walk away from it,” – “socrates wasn’t even a fuckin’ poet.” tom  grins. “jesus, you are in love.” caleb shrugs, a small smile forming in his face as he fake punches tom. doesn’t deny it.

they sit in silence for a bit longer, the kind of quiet that only happens between people who’ve nearly died together. then caleb says, almost too soft to hear, “i promised her i’d come back.”

tom’s palm connects with calebs chest, patting him in a brotherly manner. “then you better keep that promise.”

dear captain caleb,

i don’t even know where to start. it’s been a month since that night, and somehow i still hear your voice in my head like it’s trying to call me back on a poor shoddy makeshift radio i don’t have. “10-4, captain caleb out.” i still laugh when i think about it. you were so serious about it too. pardon my french but that was kinda sexy. you should pretend to be a pilot next time we make love ;) .

... i miss you. i miss you so bad it feels like i swallowed a stone and it never passed. i’ve replayed that night more times than i can count—how your fingers fit between mine, how you kissed me like i was something soft and fragile. i know we didn’t have a label or promises or anything, but god, caleb… you made me feel chosen. and i’ve been holding onto that feeling like life is depending on it.

i graduated. can you believe that? your girl finally made it out with a degree and a tiny piece of paper that says i’m supposed to know what i’m doing now. i still don’t. but hey—i’m the manager at the bar now. yeah. me. in charge. the same girl who threw a bottle of tequila at a patron for slapping her ass.

they still do “thank you troops” night, and sometimes i wonder if the bell will ring and it’ll be you walking in, tired but looking for me. i know it’s stupid. i know how this works. but i still glance at the door more than i want to admit…

anyway—this letter’s getting long, and i know you probably don’t have time for much reading. so i’m tucking a little surprise in with this. it’s... well. let’s just say it’s a polaroid of me. not one you’ve seen before. think burlesque..risque. think red silk and not a whole lot else. thought maybe if you missed me—really missed me—you’d want something to look at that might help.

don’t worry. it’s just for you.

come back safe, caleb. i mean it. i don’t care how long it takes. just come back. you still owe me that date, remember?

all my love, the girl who still thinks you’re a war hero– which.. you will be after you come back.

♡

caleb reads the letter twice. once with trembling fingers. twice with a shaking breath. he’s sitting alone in the back of the hangar, a single bulb swaying above his head, casting long shadows on the concrete. the air smells like oil and gunpowder and something dying in the distance. but your words cut through the static, warm and bright like you wrote them in candlelight. he sits in silence as he listens to troops around him outside, but not in the room.

his thumb grazes the edge of the polaroid. thinking about it.. burlesque red. lace and soft skin. your smile like a secret only he gets to know. the kind of picture that could kill a man in the middle of war.

caleb exhales hard through his nose, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. he presses the photo to his forehead like it might cool the storm behind his eyes.

“fuck,” he mutters. caleb was a powerful man, but lust was a different beast. 

the longer he stared your beautiful lingerie the harder his dick twitched. to press his fingers against your soft and supple breast, and to kiss every inch of you again like he did that night. the translucent fabric leaves little to no imagination as he fumbles his belt, unzipping his uniform. 

he was rock hard. his cock twitching to be inside you, to watch you suck him dry. caleb stares  at the photo as he palms the tip of his dick, his moans quiet like a mouse, but his pleasure skyrocketing. his jaw tightens, teeth gritting at how divine it felt. he was long overdue to cum. 

his fingers trace his tip, slowly tracing circles until he got tired and slow stroked himself, lazily and slowly thrusting into his hands. he rubs his cock on your polaroid, imagining that it was your skin that he was rubbing it on. his moan grew an octave louder, thanking god that the sounds of tanks, planes and helicopters– and men shouting, were stifling his voice. 

though – he felt shameless. he was jacking himself off in the middle of a battlefield, but he needed this. he needed to give into his pleasure, because after all, you did send him such a beautiful photo to remind him that he was still a man, that you missed him greatly and dearly. 

caleb starts to thrust harder, his fingers wrapping tighter on his cock. his face red with want and embarrassment as he stared down at your gorgeous smiling face. he bites his lip, to silence himself. it was loud but he still wanted to not chance it.

he keeps pumping until he feels his head spin. his heart beat quickens, his breath getting ragged and his carnal instinct overtaking him. his cum shoots– into your risque polaroid, and his eyes roll back slightly, thinking as if his cum just landed on your beautiful face in front of him. 

he catches his breath, ragged with need, as he quickly goes to wipe the polaroid off from his nut, and quickly cleans himself, before zipping his pants and getting ready to go back out.

caleb’s name echoes through the camp.

“lieutenant caleb, sir! you’re needed at the ridge, immediately! colonels orders! ”

he stands immediately, instincts snapping into place like clockwork. the softness in his shoulders fades, replaced by the rigid posture of someone who can’t afford to hesitate- especially with that sound of urgency. he tosses the rest of his coffee, glancing once at tom, who sits on a dented supply crate chowing down on a chili mre like fat kid with cake.

“hold down the fort?” caleb says, already halfway to the tent flap.

“yeah, yeah. go be heroic, lieutenant,” tom nods with a mock salute.

the flap swings shut behind caleb, leaving tom in the dust of his wake. tom rolls his eyes, stretches his back, then turns toward caleb’s cot. it’s nothing special. just a stiff mattress, dusty boots beneath it, and caleb’s personal sack propped against the side like always. the one no one’s allowed to touch.

except caleb left it half open today. tom doesn’t mean to snoop, he swears he doesn’t, but something peeks out—just enough to catch his attention. a photo.

he blinks, leaning forward, the corner of the image curled just enough for him to pull it free. he expects the bartender girl. the polaroid caleb always kept close, the one he waxed poetic over like she was god’s own muse.

but it’s not her.

it’s another woman with soft, proud eyes, —nothing like the girl with the saddened smile at the dock. this woman’s holding a baby. maybe 11 months old. curly hair. wide cheeks. a onesie with ducks on it.

tom freezes.

the handwriting on the back is delicate, almost like a whisper.

our baby says goodnight, always waiting for you, and so am i. love, mc.

tom exhales, slow and shaky, holy shit!  he stares at the photo a second longer, the reality sinking in like cold water.

“you son of a bitch…” he mutters. he puts the picture back exactly where he found it, seals the sack shut, and sits back down on the crate, mind spinning. he looks toward the tent flap, still swaying from where caleb had disappeared.

so many things suddenly make sense.

the silence. the restraint. the almost in caleb’s eyes whenever he talked about you. 

tom drags a hand down his face, like he was guilty by association.

caleb was never just in love.

he was already someone else’s.

“ this dumb fucking bastard. ”

i hadn’t seen him in a year and a half.. i wonder if he misses me.. the letters stopped coming about a couple months ago.. i wasn’t given any updates on what was going on, and if… he was…no... all i know is that– i miss him. i miss the scent of him when he hugged me. i miss the way he calls me sweetheart.. i want him home. 

“mommy mommy!” my eyes snap open, to see my beautiful baby boy babbling to me in his high chair. i blink slowly before i give him a sweet little grin, as i go to pinch his cheeks and raise the bowl to feed him. 

after he goes to take a nap, i go to the bathroom. i lift my hands on the cold sink, staring deeply into my face. eye bags, messy hair– when was the last time i even went out with my friends? i don’t look good.

.

the baby woke up crying again. third time tonight? maybe fourth. i’ve honestly stopped counting. i lift him from the cradle, his tiny fists balled up like he’s fighting the whole world. his cheeks are flushed, lashes stuck together with tears. snot from the crying. i hold her against my chest as i pat him back to sleep– or as best as i can, but i go on. i bounce him gently, swaying as i stare off into the window and the moon. my back hurts. my wrist hurts. and my heart.. oh my heart.

they sit down. her back hurting from the walk. caleb was careful, gentle, as he held her and supported her on her way down to the chair. he sits next to her, his widened childish grin very visible. he then takes a look at the sky as if he’s daydreaming in a field full of flowers. his merriment, a sign that this was his dream: “i’m so excited pipsqueak. i love you. i can’t wait to be a father.” 

‘you were so proud of me. of the baby growing inside me. you’d kiss my stomach every night like it was sacred tradition.’  i tear up at the thought, lips trembling with overwhelming sadness. ‘god i wish you were here.’ 

. 

i open my eyes, listening to the trumpets go off. i lay there longer than i stay awake. the peacefulness surrounds me as if i am in heaven. no crying. just silence as the trumpets die down. i can’t believe i’m saying this but– i’m happy for the silence. it reminds me that there are good parts in life.. not that the baby is bad… 

i used to daydream about being a mom. i thought i’d be better at it. softer. more patient. but i get angry sometimes. not at the baby, never him. just at the world. at caleb. at myself for crying quietly into my pillow so my son doesn’t have to see me fall apart.

i go through the motions like muscle memory. warm bottle, rock him gently, hum a lullaby even though my throat is raw. and sometimes, only sometimes, i talk to caleb out loud like he’s still here. like he’ll answer me back from the hallway or the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes and wrapping his arms around my waist like he used to.

“i folded your shirts the way you like,” i whisper sometimes, even though no one’s listening.

today i found one of his old t-shirts. the one he wore religiously back when we were in college. his aviation shirt that he wore loud and proud like a silly kid. it was stuffed in the back of the closet like a forgotten piece of a past life. i held it against my face. it didn’t smell like him anymore. it just smelled like time. it looked like time as well. it was worn out– can’t even make out the words anymore.

i sat on the bathroom floor and cried until my stomach cramped. the kind of sobbing that makes you want to scream but you can’t because the baby’s asleep in the next room.

i just want someone to take care of me for once. sometimes i wonder if he’s still mine. i don’t want to think that. i feel sick for even writing it. but when the letters stopped coming, something inside me went quiet. and that silence has been growing.

maybe he’s just too busy. maybe he doesn’t know what to say. maybe something happened. or….. or… maybe he’s found someone who doesn’t look like she’s unraveling at the edges.. who is happier.. or prettier…. god, i hope not. but the fear lives here now. curled up next to me in bed, whispering things i try not to believe. but i still set his plate out at dinner. every night. just in case. i feel like a stupid woman gone insane, but i can’t help it.

i heard the door before i heard my name. the jingle of keys. the shuffle of boots. then…his voice.

“baby?”

i froze. hands still in the dishwater, heart leaping into my throat. i almost didn’t believe it. i didn’t move until i saw his silhouette in the kitchen doorway.

it was him. god, it was really him.

caleb.

my caleb.

i dropped the dish towel and ran. threw my arms around him so hard i thought we might both fall over. he caught me like he always used to—arms strong, steady, wrapped around me like armor. i sobbed into his neck, breathing in the scent of dust and metal and something familiar underneath it all.

“you’re home,” i whispered, voice cracking. “just for a few days,” he said.

i nodded against his chest, too busy memorizing his heartbeat to care about the details. our son stirred from the other room, like he could feel something had shifted. caleb looked toward the sound, then down at me.

his face didn’t match mine. i was all joy and disbelief. he was... something else. tired. distant. ready.

we sat on the couch later that evening. our son asleep in his arms, little fists balled up against caleb’s chest. it was one of those picture-perfect moments. one i would’ve killed for six months ago. then he cleared his throat.

“i pulled some strings,” he said, softly. i blinked. “what?”

it was quiet…. the quiet that i had experienced months and months ago…

“i... arranged something. the papers should be finalized by sunday.”

papers? 

it didn’t hit me all at once. it sort of hovered there between us, like fog creeping in through the cracks. then i saw it. the manila envelope on the coffee table…

divorce.

“you’re kidding,” i said, even though i already knew he wasn’t. he shook his head. didn’t look at me. just cradled our baby like he couldn’t look at both of us at once.

“caleb,” i said, and my voice cracked on his name like it didn’t want to come out. “you’re divorcing me? this weekend?” he nodded. still quiet. like being silent would make it softer.

i wanted to fucking vomit. to throw all his shit out of the house. to slap him. to break down. 

“after everything? after this?” i gestured toward the baby, toward the house, toward the life i’d been dragging uphill by myself for a year and a half. “you came home just to leave me?”

he finally met my eyes. and that’s when i saw it. he wasn’t just tired. he was already gone.

“you came home just to..... leave me?” my voice is barely a whisper now. he nods. again. silent. again….that’s what sets me off.

“no. no, fuck that, caleb – say something. don’t just sit there and nod like this is something we both agreed to. i have been waiting for you faithfully. i have been fighting for you. for us. i raised your son by myself, and you walk in here and hand me paperwork to fill out like im a fucking kid with homework?”

his jaw tightens, his eyes darken. he doesn’t look away this time. “don’t act like you didn’t know this was coming.” i blink. “what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

caleb sets our sleeping son down on the couch with careful, practiced hands– like a man who still remembers how to be gentle.. and.. and it breaks me even more. he rises slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, and for a second i see the tension brewing in his shoulders like a thunderstorm.

“i’m not stupid, okay?” he says finally. “i’ve seen the way you talk about zayne.” my stomach drops, “…what?”

“don’t play dumb,” he snaps, sharper than i’ve ever heard him. “it’s always zayne this, zayne that. you write him letters. you talk about how he helped you fix the fence. how he brings you groceries when it storms. how he’s always there. comforting you. you think i don’t see what that means?”

“zayne is our friend–”

“was,” caleb cuts in. “was my friend. now he’s just the guy you fell in love with while i was out in the sky getting shot at.”

i reel back like he slapped me. “you think i planned that? you think i wanted to fall apart while you were gone? do you know how lonely it’s been, caleb? how empty this house felt without you? i was holding on by threads, and zayne…he– he didn’t ask for anything. he didn’t touch me. he just showed up.”

caleb scoffs, shaking his head, pacing now. “yeah. of course he did. he’s always been waiting for the right moment, hasn’t he?” i feel my chest heaving. the hurt burning so hot it almost blisters from the fucking pain. “i never slept with him.”

“you didn’t have to,” caleb says quietly. “you gave him the part of you that used to be mine.”

silence. that’s the one that breaks me. my arms wrap around myself, more out of instinct than comfort. i feel naked. exposed. furious. broken. “so that’s it?” i ask. “you come home, accuse me of being in love with zayne, drop a divorce on my lap, and just go?” he doesn’t answer at first.

then: “ i pulled strings to make sure it wouldn’t drag. this way, you can move on.”

“i didn’t ask to move on.” – “but you already did,” he says, and it’s not angry anymore. it’s just tired. wrecked. resigned. “and i think i did too.”

i pause. he was like a bastard, repeatedly dropping weights on me. and every weight weighed more and more.

“did you?” he looks at me. and that’s when i know. he won’t say it. but i see it in his eyes. there’s someone else.  somewhere.  someone who’s not me.

“get out,” i whisper. “what?”

“i said get the fuck out.”

sunday.

caleb sits on the hard bench in the waiting area outside the clerk’s office, back straight, hands in his lap. the papers are in a folder on his lap– signed, dated, pre-reviewed. the military expedited the process, which he thought would make it easier. cleaner. quick in, quick out. no mess. a thin stack of papers that’s about to undo years of life built together. it’s strange how light it feels.

he thought it would feel heavier. the door opens, and he doesn’t need to look up to know it’s her. he does anyway. she looks tired. not just tired– worn. her hair is pulled back messily, like she barely remembered to brush it. her coat is rumpled, one sleeve slightly pushed up. there’s no lipstick, no perfume. her eyes are puffy, red at the edges. she looks like she’s been crying in the car. behind her, zayne lingers. not close enough to touch her. just there. quiet, like a shadow.

caleb’s jaw tenses. she meets his gaze, then looks away. “hi,” she says, voice hoarse. he stays silent, then: 

“hey.”

they don’t hug. don’t touch. they just move into the office when they’re called, sitting stiffly across from each other with a worn wooden desk between them. the clerk is polite. efficient. her voice is soft, like she’s handling something delicate.

caleb signs the papers first. his hand doesn’t shake. he doesn’t look at her.

she signs second. hers does. she presses a tissue to her nose halfway through and quietly whispers “sorry” when her tears blot the edge of the signature line.

he can’t help it– his eyes flick over to her. and for just a second, something inside him aches. not for the marriage. not for what they had. but for her, looking like this. alone. Undone.

he clears his throat. doesn’t say anything. when the clerk brings up custody, he answers before the question is finished.

“i’m not asking for it.”

her head snaps up. “what?” and without a beat missed, “you’re already raising him. you’ve been doing it without me for a year and a half.” he keeps his voice level, calm. “i won’t fight you on it. he should be with you.” she blinks, like she wasn’t expecting it. like maybe some part of her thought he would make this harder. she was unravelling by the second.

“i’ll pay support,” caleb adds. “whatever you need. that won’t stop.” she nods, silent, jaw tight. this was no longer a battle she could fight. he was hellbent, and he never usually was.

zayne hasn’t said a word this entire time. just sits near the corner of the room, arms crossed, gaze cast downward. caleb notices the way he glances over every now and then, eyes flicking toward her like he wants to step in, to say something, to help— but knows better. because if he did, he’d get knocked the hell out.

when it’s done, the clerk gives them copies and a muted “take care.” caleb tucks his into the folder and stands. no one moves to speak. “guess that’s it,” he says. she wipes at her eyes and doesn’t look up. “yeah.” caleb takes one look at her before he mumbles,

“take care, pipsqueak.”  that did it for her.

caleb turns toward the door. as he passes zayne, their eyes meet for a second. just a flicker. there’s no fight. no words. just quiet understanding between two men who both lost and gained something neither of them can name. as he walks out of the door, he could briefly hear the faint sobs of his now ex wife. steel your nerves. he’d say to himself.

outside, the sky is gray. the air is damp. caleb doesn’t bother pulling his coat tighter– he doesn’t feel the cold right now. when he gets to the car, he sits for a while. he doesn’t start the engine.

instead, he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out the photo.

you.

the bartender girl, all red silk and soft smiles. frozen in time, untouched by war, by marriage, by regret. he holds it there in his hand.  and stares. and stares.

until something inside him starts to break loose and his chest pulls tight and he realizes…

he really did it.

it’s over. he can be with you like the way you deserve.

the station is louder than he remembered. or maybe he’s just quieter now. boots scuffing across the dirt, pilots calling out over static, the occasional mechanical clang from the hangar bay. it should feel like coming back to something familiar…. but it doesn’t.

caleb steps off the transport with his duffel over one shoulder and the same folder still tucked under his arm. the one with all the paperwork. he hasn’t let go of it yet. not really.

it doesn’t feel like closure. it just feels cold.

“look what the desert dragged back,” tom says, leaning against a stacked crate near the comms tent, squinting against the sun. “you look like a ghost.”

caleb lets a half-smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “feel like one too.” tom falls into step beside him, the kind of easy rhythm only forged through long nights and near-death moments. they head toward the barracks, letting the silence settle in like dust.

then, tom breaks it. voice casual, but not careless. “so uh… just so you know… i, uh… might’ve snooped.” caleb glances over, one brow raised. “your sack was open. when you left. didn’t mean to, but a photo was sticking out.”

caleb doesn’t react much. just keeps walking, a part of him smiles inside, chuckling almost. felt like two teenagers walking to class. “you see it?” he asks eventually.

“yeah. your wife. the baby. looked like a holiday card. kinda gut-punching, actually.” caleb’s quiet for a beat. then shrugs, slow and tired. “yeah, that’s whatever.” tom snorts, but there’s no humor in it. “doesn’t feel like ‘whatever.’ why keep it at all?if you were gonna go through with the divorce anyway.”

caleb stops walking. shifts the weight of his duffel, then lowers it onto the ground with a soft thud. his voice is quiet when he answers.

“i feel like a damn deadbeat.”

another pause. tom allows his friend to be soft. “he’s my kid, tom,” he says, voice rough. “he didn’t ask to be part of this mess. didn’t choose to be born to a father who didn’t know what the fuck he was doing.”

tom blinks. doesn’t say anything. just waits. caleb sits on the edge of his bunk, running a hand through his hair. “i wasn’t there when he was born. wasn’t there for his first steps. first words. i don’t know if he likes sweet potatoes or if he sleeps on his side like i do. i honestly don’t even know what eye color he has. since we got married i got pulled away to different missions, different countries... i missed everything.”

his voice gets quieter.

“and now i’ve made sure i’ll miss everything else.” tom exhales, cigarette burning slowly between his fingers. “you think that makes you a deadbeat?” — “what else does it make me?” caleb mutters. “some guy who left. who paid his way out.”

“you could’ve stayed.” caleb shakes his head, jaw tightening. “i didn’t love her, tom.”

that makes tom freeze. not because it’s shocking, but because it confirms what he’s suspected all along. “i married her because her grandmother backed me into a corner. old school– bloodlines, family name, all that shit. said if i didn’t marry her, i’d be ruining her future. ruining the baby’s. and i mean.. we’re childhood friends. man and woman who were stuck to the hip since we opened our damn eyes. what do you think would happen?”

tom leans against the frame of the bunk, arms crossed now, expression unreadable. “so you did the honorable thing.” “yeah,” caleb scoffs, bitter. “the honorable thing. and then resented it every day after.”

he rubs his hands over his face, voice muffled.

“i didn’t want to live like that. i didn’t want to live at all, for a while. war sounded cleaner than divorce. sounded easier. go out a hero, leave them a folded flag and a paycheck. maybe that would’ve been enough.”

“jesus fuckin’ christ, caleb.” — “i’m not proud of it.”

a long silence. then caleb reaches into his pocket. pulls out the polaroid. the other one.

the dock photo. holding you up, cheek to cheek.

tom glances at it, then back at caleb.

“her.”

“yeah.”

“you in love?”

caleb doesn’t answer right away. he turns the photo over in his hands like it might give him the words he doesn’t know how to say. “she made me feel like i wasn’t already dead,” he murmurs. “like there was still a version of me worth saving. even if it was just for a few hours.”

tom’s quiet, nodding slowly. “you ever gonna tell her about all this?” caleb shrugs.

“maybe..” a pause, “and what if she doesn’t want a man with this kind of wreckage?”

“then i’ll let her go,” caleb says, folding the photo back into his coat. “but i’d rather show her the wreckage than keep pretending it never happened.”

.

the sirens come fast.

no warning. no time to breathe. one second the base is still, the next it’s pure chaos—alarms screaming, boots slamming the ground, red lights flashing across hangar walls.

tom drops his cigarette and grinds it under his boot. “shit.” caleb doesn’t say a word. he’s already running.

the two of them sprint for the flight line, gear half-strapped, adrenaline thundering louder than the blaring horns. behind them, explosions crack through the sky. someone yells “incoming!” and the tarmac rattles under the weight of something falling from above.

enemy aircraft. sharp and fast.

caleb throws on his helmet, grabs the throttle, and thinks of you.

your laugh. your voice. your body tangled in his. that polaroid you gave him, tucked inside his flight suit.

you don’t know he’s up here. you don’t know he’s about to throw himself into the fire just to make sure there’s still a chance in hell he can see you again. he launches. followed by tom.

the sky’s already on fire– jets slicing through clouds, tracer rounds burning white-hot through the air. caleb banks left, tight and fast, heart hammering in his chest like it’s trying to rip through the suit. tom’s voice crackles in the comms. “got three bastards comin' in at 4 o’clock.”

“i see ’em.” he dives.

you flash behind his eyes again. your lipstick. your fingertips trailing down his neck. the way you looked at him like he wasn’t a soldier—like he was a man. a man you wanted. a man you trusted.

he can’t let this sky be the last place his name is spoken. “you better be waitin’ for me,” he mutters under his breath. “i swear to god, you better be.”

one enemy fighter locks on. missile warning blares. caleb twists, rolls under the fire, pressure slamming him into his seat. another pass. he clips the wing of the bastard on his tail– watches it spiral down in smoke and heat.

“two down,” he says, breath sharp. “how you holdin’ up?”

“still alive,” tom calls. “barely.”

caleb grits his teeth. turns hard into a climb, missile lock blinking red again. he pulls vertical, bleeding speed, letting the other jet overshoot him—and fires.

clean hit. the sky erupts again. you’re the only thing anchoring him now. not duty. not guilt. not even the kid he left behind. you.

you, waiting behind some bar, maybe still laughing with customers, maybe wearing red. maybe reading his letter and wondering if he means it.

he does. he means every goddamn word.

the final wave hits harder. three more fighters, slick and ruthless. caleb grits his teeth, pushes his jet harder. he’s burning fuel fast. sweat beads down the side of his face. “come on. come on.” he twists through a hail of gunfire, missiles clipping just behind him, smoke trailing in his wake. he feels the vibration in his bones.

you are the reason he’s still moving. still breathing. still alive. he’s not fighting for survival. he’s fighting to see your face again.

and if he makes it through this—

he’s going to find you. and tell you everything.

totally did not get emotional writing this.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ! - @leannathespacewerewolf , @rcvcgers, @sanzy4, @flwerie, @mcdepressed290, @genshingeeksworld, @rena-library, @petitepacifist, @kaemaybae,

[reveriebae]

Hi! I just wanted to say I adore your writing—especially the smut pieces you’ve done inspired by Daniel di Angelo’s songs. You capture the vibe of his music so perfectly, it’s honestly addictive 🔥

If you’re ever taking requests, I’d love to see you do something based on his song “Promiscuity.” It’s got such a sexy, messy, intense energy, and I just know you'd bring it to life in the most delicious way 😩🖤

Thank you for sharing your amazing work—you're such an inspiration!

REQUESTING PROMISCUITY IS SUCH AN EVIL🫠🫠 but sure, baby! I'll give you what you want😏

Promiscuity

pairing(s) : Yunho x reader

word count : 2146

summary : He cheated. You left. But you still came back—and Yunho makes sure you never forget why.

genre : smut

warning(s) : Heavy toxic relationship dynamics, Cheating (referenced but impactful), Emotional manipulation, Degradation + possessiveness, Dubious consent tones (power imbalance, pressure), Crying during sex, Verbal cruelty, Rough sex, choking (consensual but intense), Mental/emotional whiplash. Let me know if I missed anything!

Minors do not interact, 21 only!!

🪐smut under the cut 🪐

The hallway smells like someone’s leftover takeout and cheap weed, and the longer you stand in front of Yunho’s door, the more you hate yourself.

You should turn around.

You should delete his number. Block him for good. Go home, put on a face mask, and pretend like he never turned your entire spine to liquid with one look.

But here you are—three months, two breakdowns, and one fucked-up rebound later—wearing the short black dress you know he likes, standing at his door like you didn’t swear you'd never do this again.

The music thumps faintly from inside. Of course there’s music. Of course it sounds like something someone would fuck to.

You lift your hand to knock.

The door swings open before you can touch it.

And there he is.

Yunho.

Leaning against the frame, shirtless, a drink in one hand, eyes scanning you so slowly it makes your stomach tighten. His mouth curves into a slow, arrogant smile.

“Damn,” he hums, voice low and thick like honey poured over rust. “You look good when you’re lying to yourself.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You told all your little friends you were done with me, right?” His head tilts, tongue running over his bottom lip. “And yet—here you are. Middle of the night. Wearing that.”

You should slap him. You should walk away.

Instead, you cross your arms and lie.

“I came to talk.”

He laughs.

“Yeah? That what we’re calling it now?”

He steps aside, giving you just enough space to walk in, but not without brushing your hip with his. You feel the heat of his bare chest even through the thick air, feel his eyes burn through the back of your dress as you step inside.

Same apartment. Same dim lights. Same scent—him. Warm cologne and smoke and something darker.

You turn to face him.

“Why her?” you whisper. “Out of all people—you fucked my friend.”

He shrugs, walking to the counter and setting his drink down like you didn’t just drag your shattered pride into his living room.

“You weren’t around. She was.”

“That’s your excuse?”

“No excuses.” He leans against the counter, jaw tight. “I’m just not gonna lie to you.”

You swallow hard. Your throat aches.

“She told me everything,” you say, quieter now. “Every filthy little thing you did to her.”

He meets your gaze. Unflinching. Unapologetic.

Then he says it—just one line, but it carves through you.

“Did she tell you I moaned your name when I came?”

Your chest tightens. You can’t breathe. You want to slap him, scream, cry—leave.

But you don’t move.

He steps closer, voice dropping an octave. “Hate me all you want, baby. But I’m still the only one who knows how to make your legs shake just from kissing your neck.”

Your lip trembles. You hate that he’s right. You hate how fast your body reacts to him. You hate yourself for wanting him even now.

“I shouldn’t be here.”

“Then leave.”

You hesitate. He sees it. He knows he’s already won.

But just when you turn toward the door, he speaks again.

“I left the bedroom lights on.”

A pause.

“For you.”

You don’t speak when he closes the door behind you.

You just stand there, jaw locked, eyes burning—and legs already too warm.

Yunho doesn’t rush. He never does. He moves like he knows time bends for him. Like no matter how angry you get, how many times you swear him off, you’ll always come back just like this—silently begging to be ruined.

“You wore perfume,” he murmurs behind you, voice dragging over your spine like silk. “Didn’t have to. I already know how you taste.”

You whirl around. “Fuck you.”

A slow grin spreads across his face. “You keep saying that like it’s not exactly what you came here to do.”

He doesn’t wait for you to respond.

His hand is on your jaw before you can breathe—tilting your face up, backing you into the wall with all the gentleness of a warning shot.

“You’re mad,” he whispers, brushing your lips. “But not enough to leave.”

Your pulse races. You hate how his voice wraps around your gut, how your thighs tighten with every word. He leans in closer, forehead to yours, and murmurs like a threat:

“You should’ve slammed the door in my face the second I opened it, angel. But you didn’t. You looked me in the eye… and stayed.”

“I’m—” Your voice cracks. “I’m not here to sleep with you.”

He hums, eyes dropping to your mouth. “Then why are you already wet?”

You gasp, and that’s all he needs. His mouth crashes against yours—hot and vicious and impossibly slow at the same time. He kisses you like he owns you. Like he’s reminding your body who it belongs to even if your heart’s still bleeding.

His hands slide down, gripping the back of your thighs, lifting you like you weigh nothing. Your legs wrap around his waist by instinct.

“I fucked her,” he mutters against your mouth, dragging your back along the hallway wall as he carries you. “But she couldn’t take me like you do. Couldn’t look me in the eye when I broke her open.”

“Shut the fuck up—”

“No.” He pushes you into the bedroom. “You want honesty, right? Thought you liked it when I told you exactly what I did.”

The mattress meets your back before you can answer. His hand wraps around your throat—not tight, just enough to make you feel your heartbeat in your ears.

“You came here because you missed how it feels to be used.” He bites your lip. “Admit it.”

You shake your head, eyes glassy. “No, I didn’t—”

His thumb presses against your lips. “Then why aren’t you stopping me?”

You have no answer. You don’t need one.

Because your hands are already pulling at his sweatpants. Because your hips are already arching. Because your pride never stood a chance the moment he said your name.

“Take it off,” he growls, yanking your dress up your thighs. “All of it.”

You hesitate.

Wrong move.

Yunho smirks, hand sliding down to cup you over your panties. You jolt, gasping, and he watches your face like it’s his favorite show.

“I said take it off. Or I’ll fuck you with it on and rip it off later.”

Your fingers fly to the straps.

The dress hits the floor with a soft sound, but the silence afterward is louder.

Yunho takes a step back.

His eyes sweep over your body—your bare skin under the glow of those bedroom lights he “left on for you”—like he’s starving and you’re already halfway chewed.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You really let me fuck that up.”

You blink. “What?”

“This.” He nods at you—at your curves, your flushed chest, the way your nipples harden under his gaze. “You really let me go fuck someone else when this was mine?”

You scoff. “You fucked her while I was yours.”

He grins. “Still are.”

He doesn’t give you time to argue.

He kneels between your legs like worship, then spreads them apart like vengeance. His hand slides up your inner thigh, slow enough to make you twitch.

“Can’t even look me in the eye,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles over your soaked panties. “But your pussy’s screaming for me.”

“Yunho—”

“Shh.” He hooks a finger around the waistband and pulls them off in one smooth, greedy motion. “Open wider.”

You do.

You always do.

He groans the second he sees you.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasps. “Still so perfect.”

His mouth replaces his fingers without warning—hot, slow, deliberate. He eats you out like he’s got time to kill and demons to feed. Licks slow and wide, then short and fast, tongue curling right against the spot that makes your vision go white.

Your hands fly into his hair. He groans when you tug, eyes rolling up to look at you, fucked out and gasping, chest heaving like a whore in a dream.

“Don’t stop—oh my god, Yunho—”

He pulls back, lips glistening, jaw sharp enough to cut.

“I didn’t say you could cum.”

You stare at him, blinking through the haze. “W-What?”

“I said you missed me.” His hand slides up your torso, thumb brushing your nipple. “But you didn’t say it with your mouth yet.”

“You’re such a dick.”

“And you’re dripping for it.” He crawls back over you, cock thick and heavy between your legs now. “Say it.”

“No.”

He nudges the tip against your entrance, not pushing in—just threatening to. Your breath catches. Your legs tremble.

“Say you missed this dick,” he says, voice low and lethal. “Or I’ll make you sit on it and fuck yourself while I watch.”

Your pride burns.

Your body wins.

“…I missed it.”

He smiles. Not sweet. Not kind. Dangerous.

“How much?”

You stare at him—this man who destroyed you, ruined your trust, twisted your sanity—and you say the one thing you swore you wouldn’t:

“Enough to let you ruin me again.”

His cock slams into you.

No warning. No hesitation.

You scream—half from shock, half from the overwhelming stretch—and he groans like a demon exorcised.

“Shit—tight as ever. You missed this.”

He thrusts again. Deeper.

Your back arches, hands scrambling for the sheets as he picks up pace, rough and relentless, fucking you like he’s reclaiming territory that never stopped being his.

“Did she scream like this?” you choke out, head thrown back.

He laughs—a low, taunting thing.

“She cried,” he says, fucking into you harder, “but not for the same reason you do.”

You moan, hands clawing at his back. His lips find your throat.

“No one fits me like you do,” he growls. “And you fucking know it.”

His grip bruises your hips, dragging you to the edge of the bed as he keeps slamming into you—like he’s chasing the version of himself you once trusted and destroying it in your cunt instead.

“You think I feel guilty?” he pants against your mouth, sweat slick between your bodies. “You think I lost sleep?”

Your nails dig into his shoulders.

“You said you loved me,” you choke out.

He smirks.

“I do. But I never said I was good at it.”

Your body jolts with the force of his next thrust. You’re unraveling, but you don’t stop him. You couldn’t if you tried.

“Do you know how hard it is not to fuck you every night?” he growls, voice gravel. “But you wanna cry about one girl? One night?”

You gasp when he grabs your throat again, not tight, just enough to trap the heat between your thighs and your shame.

“I break your trust once,” he whispers, hips still rolling deep inside you, “but you still came back to get broken again.”

“Yunho—!”

He leans in closer, tongue teasing the shell of your ear.

“You love it. You love being the one I come back to after I fuck other girls. You love knowing none of them scream for me like you do.”

A tear slips from your eye, and he groans.

“Fuck, baby… are you crying?”

He slows down, thrusts deep and deliberate now—meant to hurt and please all at once. Meant to make you feel every single inch of how much you hate loving him.

“You gonna cum for me now?” he whispers against your lips. “Gonna let me fuck the pain out of you like I always do?”

You nod, barely able to speak. “Y-Yeah, please—”

“Say it.”

“I wanna cum,” you sob. “I wanna cum so bad.”

He kisses you like a war—biting, sucking, ruining.

“Then cum for me, angel. Cum on the same cock that fucked your friend—because it’s still yours.”

You break.

Your body tenses, pleasure crashing like a scream through your core as you shake in his grip, crying and moaning into his shoulder, completely wrecked.

And Yunho doesn’t stop.

He fucks you through it—chasing his own high now, muttering filth against your neck.

“This pussy,” he pants, “is fucking mine. I don’t care who else I touch, I always think about you. About this tight little hole—fuck—mine.”

He buries himself to the hilt, cumming hard with a guttural groan, body jerking into yours.

The room goes quiet except for the sound of both of you trying to breathe again. His cum starts dripping out of you while he’s still buried inside.

But he doesn’t move.

He kisses you—this time, soft.

Like none of it just happened.

Like your heart isn’t on the floor again.

[devdozes]

so fucking tired

The wind howls against the rooftop, cutting through the silence like a jagged knife. The city below is distant, blurred, insignificant. Lights flicker in windows, but none of them are for you. No one is looking. No one is searching. No one would notice if you were gone.

And maybe that’s for the best.

Your hands grip the rusted railing, cold metal biting into your skin. You stare down at the empty space below, where the world stretches on without you. It’s quiet up here, away from the expectations, the exhaustion, the weight of existing when you feel like nothing. Hatred boils in your chest, not just for the people who ignored you, forgot you, left you behind—but for yourself. You hate yourself the most. Hate that you still feel this way. Hate that you still want someone—anyone—to prove you wrong.

But no one ever does.

You take a step forward. The edge crumbles slightly under your foot. Maybe—

A firm hand yanks you back.

The force of it nearly sends you crashing to the ground, but instead, you’re pulled against something solid, unyielding. Arms wrap around you, holding tight, refusing to let go. The scent of ash and something familiar floods your senses, but your mind doesn’t register it fully, too drowned in rage, grief, exhaustion.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

His voice is rough, edged with something sharp—fear, maybe, or anger. You shove at his chest with shaking hands, trying to break free, but his grip is like iron.

“Let go!” you snarl, thrashing. “Let me go!”

“No.” Mydei’s voice is quiet but firm. Absolute. His golden eyes burn as he looks at you, as if daring you to try again.

Something inside you snaps.

You scream, voice raw, torn from somewhere deep and ugly inside you. You pound against his chest, against his arms, clawing, pushing, doing anything to get him to let go—to leave, to abandon you like everyone else. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t loosen his hold for even a second. He just lets you lash out, lets you break apart in his grasp.

Tears blur your vision, hot and overwhelming. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, and your body shakes so violently it feels like you might collapse under the weight of it all. “Why—why do you care?!” The words tear out of you like a wound splitting open. “No one cares! No one ever has! You—” A sob chokes you. “You don’t get to pretend you do!”

Mydei exhales sharply. Then, in one swift motion, he pulls you closer, pressing your forehead against his chest. His heartbeat is steady, grounding, real.

“I’m not pretending,” he says quietly.

You squeeze your eyes shut. “You’re lying. You’re just—you’re just like everyone else.”

His grip tightens, his voice rough and unyielding. “I wouldn’t be here if I was like everyone else.”

Your breath shudders, but you don’t push him away this time. You can’t. Because deep down, buried beneath all the hatred and the exhaustion, some small, desperate part of you wants to believe him. Wants to believe that someone might actually see you, might actually care.

You’re tired.

So, so tired. You hate everyone. So fucking much. But then why.

Why do your hands clutch weakly at his jacket, fingers curling into the fabric? Mydei doesn’t speak. He just holds you, unwavering, letting you shake and sob into him. Letting you break apart without looking away.

consider this as a vent or fanfic, sorry everyone. I'm sorry, for being so weak.sorry for being pathetic, Im sorry.

[juliettejwnewinesa]

Hiii I recently found your page and it’s so good I had an idea for seongje x shy reader: seongje is crazy and the reader strangely finds that attractive, after he gets into a fight the reader is in his lap completely flustered while teasing her and praising her while he smokes and it leads to eventual smut. (Request) have a good night <3💜

Title: “Like You Like This” Pairing: Kim Seongje x shy!Reader Word Count: ~6,500 Tags: post-fight tension, lap-sitting, smoking, possessive Seongje, teasing, praise kink, shy reader, slow build to smut, soft dom vibes, public-to-private tension, established feelings (barely admitted)

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

💥 PART I – Blood on His Hands, Stars in His Eyes

The first time Y/N sees Seongje fight, really fight, it’s horrifying. She shouldn’t be this calm watching someone get pummeled into the concrete, but something about the way he moves—fluid and brutal, like a beautiful disaster—makes her freeze.

The fight’s over before anyone can step in. One guy’s groaning on the floor, another is crawling back toward the alley exit.

Seongje just wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, spitting blood onto the ground like it’s nothing. His knuckles are red and split, and he doesn't even look tired.

Then he turns around, eyes wild, and finds her.

“You stayed,” he says, walking toward her. She blinks.

“I—yeah.”

His lip twitches. “Didn’t think you would.”

“I shouldn’t have,” she murmurs, voice so small he almost misses it.

But she doesn’t leave.

And that tells him more than any confession.

🚬 PART II – In His Lap, In His Grip

Later, it’s just the two of them behind an abandoned gym, sitting on a rusted-out bench. She’s perched beside him, cheeks burning.

“Come here,” Seongje says lowly, tugging her closer with two bloodied fingers curling into her waistband. “Sit.”

She obeys before her brain catches up.

One second she’s beside him, the next she’s in his lap, thighs over his, her heart racing like it might give out. He lights a cigarette lazily, eyes never leaving her face.

"You always blush like that?" he asks with a crooked grin, voice thick with amusement.

She hides her face in his chest. It smells like smoke, sweat, and something uniquely Seongje—danger wrapped in warmth.

“I-I didn’t think you’d want me close right now…”

“Why not?”

“You just fought two guys. You should rest.”

“I feel fine.” He exhales a thick plume of smoke, fingers tapping ash off the end. “Actually, I feel great.”

He leans forward, mouth brushing her ear. “You like it when I get like that, don’t you?”

She jerks back instinctively. “What?! N-No—”

“Liar.” His hand finds her waist, sliding slowly down her back until his palm is resting just above her ass. “You were shaking while you watched. Not scared. Excited.”

"I w-was just—worried about you."

"Mmhm." His other hand slips under her jaw, tilting her face up. “But your thighs are clenched. You know how I know?”

She makes a strangled sound.

He smirks. “Because I can feel it. You’re sitting right on me, baby.”

🔥 PART III – Fire Under Skin

“Still shy?” he murmurs.

Y/N can’t answer. Her body is frozen, burning. She’s never sat like this before, never this close, never with anyone like him. Her face is buried in his shoulder, but Seongje's grip on her hips holds her steady. There's no escape.

And she doesn’t really want to run, not from him.

“Look at me.”

She finally does—and the look on his face nearly ruins her.

He’s studying her like she’s art. Like she’s something worth wrecking gently.

“You don’t have to hide it,” he whispers, voice dark and sweet. “I know what you want. And I like that you like me like this.”

He takes a slow drag, exhales through his nose. The smoke curls between them. Then he stubs the cigarette out and tosses it away like it’s served its purpose.

"Don’t look away now. You wanted this, right?"

“I d-didn’t say that,” she stammers.

“You didn’t have to.”

His hand trails up her thigh, slow and teasing.

“Seongje…”

“You watched me lose my mind and then climbed into my lap like a good girl. What am I supposed to think, huh?”

She gasps when he pushes her hips forward—right into the hard bulge in his jeans. “Oh my god—”

He grins, teeth gleaming. “Nah. Not God. Just me.”

🛏️ PART IV – In the Dark, All Her Walls Come Down

They don’t make it to her house.

He pulls her into a nearby apartment he crashes at sometimes—bare mattress, busted lights, clothes on the floor. His mouth is on hers before the door’s even shut, fast and deep and possessive. Her breath hitches as he lifts her by the thighs, carrying her like she weighs nothing, tossing her onto the bed.

"You're so cute when you’re flustered," he whispers, crawling over her. “All shy and polite, but look at you now. Spreading those legs for me like you need it.”

She covers her face with both hands.

He chuckles, gently pulling them away. “Don’t hide. I want to see what I do to you.”

He kisses down her neck, her collarbone, her stomach. Every touch sends sparks up her spine. His fingers slip beneath her waistband, toying with the edge of her panties.

“You’re soaked already,” he says, voice husky. “Told you, didn’t I? You like me like this. Bloody hands, sharp mouth, all of it.”

“S-Shut up—”

“Make me,” he growls—and slides two fingers into her, slow and deep.

She gasps, thighs tightening around his wrist. He pumps them gently, curling them just right.

“You gonna come on my fingers just from this?” he teases. “So desperate for me you can’t even talk?”

“Seongje—!”

“Say my name again,” he whispers. “Say it like that.”

🔞 PART V – Raw, Rough, Real

Her clothes are gone before she realizes. His too. His body is warm, strong, scarred. He settles between her legs and just stares for a moment, drinking her in.

"You sure?" he asks, voice suddenly softer.

She nods quickly. "Please."

That’s all he needs.

He pushes in slowly, watching every twitch of her expression, every whimper. He goes slow at first—almost too slow—but once he’s fully inside her, all bets are off.

He fucks like he fights—relentless, all-consuming. But he worships her too, kissing her between thrusts, murmuring filthy praise against her skin.

“Such a tight pussy for such a shy girl.”

“Fuck, you feel perfect.”

“I could stay inside you forever.”

Her fingers dig into his back. Her breath stutters as he pounds into her, hips snapping, deeper and deeper.

"You like this? Being fucked by the guy you just watched beat the shit out of two assholes?"

She moans.

"Yeah. You do. I can feel how much you like it. You’re clenching around me."

She whimpers something incoherent.

He bites down on her shoulder. “I’m not stopping ‘til you come again. And maybe not even then.”

💞 PART VI – Afterglow

They lie tangled afterward, her head on his chest, their bodies still humming.

He lights another cigarette, breathes it in, then offers her the unlit end. “Want a taste?”

She takes it shyly, lips brushing where his just were.

“Next time,” he says after a while, “I’ll try not to fight. But if I do—”

She looks up at him.

“Will you still want me after?”

She nods.

He grins, triumphant. “Then I’ll bleed for you anytime, baby.”

[d0llcuries]

HIIII 🫶 i wanted to ask if i could request a neteyam x omatikaya readerrr where she’s caring for him while he’s healing from the bullet so it’s like just a bit after the war (bc in my head he didn’t die 😔😔😔) and she’s checking up on him making sure he’s okay distracting him from pain/the situation hopefully that makes some sense just some cute stuff like that hehe. (im delusional 💓)

THANKS BABE

KISS YOU BETTER

pairing(s): neteyam x fem!na'vi reader

summary: healing is a process. a slow, lonely and frightful one. you do what you can to be there for him, forever thankful to eywa that he still has breath in his lungs.

author's note: i am the world's fattest dillydallyer, i fear. bear with me folks please and thankss!!

neteyam’s chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, his skin too warm under your palm where his heartbeat drums, faint, beneath layers of gauze and healing paste. the evening light, watery and red through the fibers of the marui pod, filters down over him, casting a glow that makes his blue skin look brighter.

a faint lustre of sweat lies at his temples. you can’t tell if it is the heat or the strain of healing that makes him look fragile, but it is unsettling. it feels like months have passed since that day. the bullet. the blood. the scream that ripped from your throat like you could tear the world in half with it.

he's been in and out of it for days. sometimes, he wakes with a shudder, his fingers twitching as if he’s reaching for his knife or his bow or something to hold onto before his muscles relax and he lays dormant once again. you wonder, not for the first time, what he dreams of now. if he’s still out there, somewhere between life and death, between the stars and the ground, or if he’s here, with you, feeling the soft pressure of your fingers on his skin, the warmth of your breath on his neck. you wonder if he feels the way your hands shake, if he knows how scared you are, even though you don’t say it.

“yawne,” he murmurs, voice raspy, cracking around the edges. it’s the only word he seems to have the strength for lately. my love. you could hear it a thousand times, and still, it would twist your insides in knots, the feeling churning beneath your ribs like roots digging into soil that’s too dry to give way. he says it like it is his only bind to the world.

the air inside the tent is sticky, thick, a little too sweet with the musk of old herbs and the iron tang of blood. you can taste it on your tongue as you breathe, cloying, like when you bite too hard into a mango and the juice drips down your chin, half-spoiled, but still too good to stop. the world is settling outside the night drawing in like a slow breath and inside, the hush of it, the weight of it, sinks into your skin, pools behind your eyes, heavy and aching.

his lashes cast long shadows across his cheeks, his lips chapped and parted as he pulls in uneven breaths. you move carefully, your hands trembling just a little as they skim over his ribs, up to his face, cradling his jaw in your palms. he feels fragile. your body aches in ways you can’t describe, the knots in your muscles from sleeping beside him, always curled up in awkward positions, always watchful. your knees are sore from kneeling too long, your neck stiff from leaning against the wooden posts of the tent. but all that discomfort it feels so small, so inconsequential, in the face of his suffering.

you stroke his hair back, letting the braids slip through your fingers one by one. the roots are damp, curls matted against his scalp. you hum a little under your breath, some half-forgotten melody your mother used to sing when you were small, when the days felt longer and the nights less lonely. the sound barely reaches your ears, swallowed by the thick air, but neteyam stirs, just a fraction, his lips twitching like he's trying to smile, trying to remember how.

dried blood like rust staining the fresh bandages you’ve wrapped around him. your hands know the routine now. the careful unraveling of cloth, the soft hiss of his breath when the cool air touches the wound, the gentle pat of the herbs pressed to his skin. you move like you’re in a trance, like this is a dream, and maybe it is. maybe none of this is real.

you press another kiss to his lips this time, barely more than a whisper of touch, but it feels like a promise. i’m here. i’m staying.

you trace the lines of his collarbone, the curve of his jaw, your touch light, as if you’re afraid he’ll shatter under your hands. you won’t leave me, you think, pressing your lips to the hollow of his throat, you can’t.

you kiss him again, soft, featherlight kisses that brush his skin like a promise, like a prayer. and with each one, you hope—this one will heal him. this one will be enough. but hope is like the wind, you think. it slips through your fingers no matter how tightly you hold on.

so you lie there, listening to the sound of his breathing, the faint rustle of the tent, the hum of the forest, and you wonder how many more kisses it will take before he’s whole again.

his presence is a tether, thin as it may be, binding you here. holding you together, even though the world outside feels as though it has unraveled completely. you sit beside him, legs curled under you, skin tingling with exhaustion. your bones feel like they might fold in on themselves, but none of that matters. wake up.

a sound escapes him. his lips move—just the faintest twitch, but it is something. he is here.

“neteyam,” you whisper. saying his name and it aches to let it out.

his lips part, a dry rasp of breath slipping through, and you reach for the gourd beside you, lifting it to his mouth. the water pools in the curve of his lips, slow and steady.

“drink,” you murmur, your voice catching on the word.

he drinks, the water moving down his throat in quiet gulps, each one easing the tightness there, smoothing the lines of strain from his face. you watch the way his throat moves, the tension softening just a little. when he is done, you lower the gourd, your thumb brushing against his lips, catching the drops that linger there.

your breath catches in your throat as neteyam’s eyes flutter open, the softest sliver of gold peeking through the lashes you have been watching so closely, day after day. your heart leaps before you can even stop it, a wild, untamed thing in your chest, and you do not know whether to laugh, cry, or scream. your hands hover above him, trembling with the need to touch him, to pull him into you, but you stop yourself, knowing how fragile he still is. every fiber of your being is vibrating with joy, your body a live wire of emotions, but you hold yourself back, afraid of overwhelming him, of hurting him.

“nete!” you breathe, the word coming out as half-laughter, half-sob, and you are trembling with the effort it takes not to throw yourself into his arms. your fingers brush his cheek, feather-light, as if he might disappear if you press too hard. the ache in your chest is too much, too bright, and all you can do is smile down at him, wide and breathless, blinking back the tears that blur your vision. he is here, really here, and you do not know how to contain it, how to quiet the storm of happiness that surges through you. you lean down, your forehead just barely touching his, and whisper, “you are awake!” your voice shaking with the weight of all the things you cannot say, all the joy you cannot express without breaking apart.

“you should be resting,” he says, and the sound of it makes your breath catch again. you have heard this voice so many times, but now it feels new, fragile.

you let out a soft laugh, half surprise, half relief, your fingers drifting through his hair, catching the strands that have come loose from his braids. “so should you,” you whisper, feeling the way his body hums beneath your touch, the way his presence pulls you in like the tide, slow and unrelenting.

he makes a small sound, something between a sigh and a hum, and it vibrates through your bones, quiet and deep. his hand tightens on yours, just a little, but enough. enough to remind you that he is here, that you are tethered to him still.

“i missed you,” you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them, too heavy with meaning. it is not just the missing of these last few days, these long, aching hours. it is the missing of something bigger, something that stretches across time. something that you cannot name.

he hums again, and you feel it in the space between your ribs, that soft agreement. you missed him too, even though you were never really gone. his breathing slows, and for the first time in what feels like forever, there is peace on his face.

“you are going to get better,” you whisper, as if saying it out loud might make it true. as if the words might stitch him back together, might pull him from the edge of whatever dark place he has been hovering near. you press your lips to his brow, kissing the smooth skin there, untouched by the pain that has tried to claim him.

another kiss, this one softer, to the tip of his nose, then his jaw, your lips trailing down to the place where his pulse beats steadily beneath the surface of his skin. he is still here.

you press your mouth to that spot, feeling the rhythm of his life under your lips, and you think, “you know,” you murmur against his skin, “if kissing you could heal you faster, you would be running by now.”

his chest moves with a low sound, something between a chuckle and a breath, and it fills the space between you like music. it makes you smile, makes your heart stutter and swell, and you nuzzle into him, your face pressed against the warmth of his neck, your hand splayed over his chest, trying to anchor yourself in this moment.

“you are doing a good job, then,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, but it is full of something light, something playful.

your heart leaps at the sound, and you lift your head to look at him, to see the faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. his eyes are still closed, but there is life in him now, a flicker of the boy you know—the boy who makes you laugh, the one who makes you feel like the world is not such a terrible place after all.

“then i will keep doing it,” you say, pressing another kiss to his cheek, your smile wide and soft, full of too much feeling.

“do not stop,” he murmurs, and it is almost playful, almost light, and you can feel your heart swelling again, pushing against your chest like it might burst.

you press your forehead to his, your body melting into his warmth, and the world outside feels so far away now, like it cannot reach you here.

“i will not,” you promise, the words slipping from your lips like a vow, like something sacred.

the silence returns, but it is full now, heavy with the weight of everything you have not said, everything you do not need to say. his breathing steadies, slow and rhythmic, and your body sinks into his, your exhaustion finally easing, replaced by something softer. something that feels like peace.

and in this quiet, in this small, fragile moment, you feel it—the hope that has been hiding in the corners of your heart. you feel it blooming, slow and tentative, but there, growing in the space between you.

because he is still here. and you are still here. and that, somehow, is enough.

the sun was unforgiving, but you dug your fingers into the sand anyway, letting it gather beneath your nails, small grains cool against the heat that pressed down on your skin. the ocean sang before you, waves rolling softly toward the shore, brushing against your toes before retreating, almost shy in their touch. you tilted your face up toward the sky, letting the light cascade over you, trying to soak in its warmth, trying to let it chase away the heavy ache in your chest.

you didn’t know how long you’d been sitting there, but it didn’t matter. you came here often now, to this spot just beyond the village, where you could hear the water breathing, feel the sand shift beneath you, and pretend, for a moment, that everything was right. you dug your fingers in deeper, the sensation grounding you, pulling you back from the thoughts that threatened to drag you under.

neteyam was healing. slowly, carefully, but the wounds were still fresh, the memory of his blood staining your hands still too sharp. there were nights you woke with that same metallic scent in your nose, the image of him falling, so still and quiet, burned behind your eyelids. even now, as the sun beat down on you, your mind circled back to it—over and over.

you curled your fingers into fists, the sand slipping through them, leaving nothing but the feel of it sticking to your palms. you hated this. this waiting, this stillness. but you hated it more for him. neteyam wasn’t made to lie still. he was built for movement, for the hunt, for the wild freedom of the forest and sky. now, he was trapped. and in a way, so were you.

your eyes flickered toward the horizon, where the sea stretched out in endless blue. there was a celebration tonight—the metkayina’s way of welcoming a new season. you remembered the last one, how the village had come alive, vibrant and wild. you’d danced with neteyam then, under the stars, laughing as the ocean crashed around your feet. everything had felt light, easy. before.

now, the thought of going felt… wrong. how could you join in their joy when so much of yours was tethered to him, back in that marui, lying still and quiet? how could you celebrate without him by your side?

you pushed yourself up slowly, your body resisting the movement, as if it too was reluctant to leave this spot. you wiped the sand from your hands, shaking your head at your own thoughts. no neteyam, no joy. it was simple, really. without him, nothing felt complete.

the marui was bathed in soft light when you returned, the warm glow of the afternoon filtering in through the slats. it was quieter now, the village settling into the rhythm of evening. inside, neteyam lay where you left him, though his eyes fluttered open as you stepped closer. kiri and tuk were still there, but kiri shot you a small, tired smile, relief evident in the way her shoulders sagged.

“thank you,” she murmured, barely audible, as she stood, tugging tuk up gently. tuk looked up at you, her eyes bright as she offered a tiny smile, her fingers brushing your leg as she passed by. “he’s all yours.”

you nodded, giving her a grateful look before she slipped out of the marui, tuk trailing behind her, the sound of their soft footsteps disappearing into the distance. and then there was only the quiet. the kind of quiet that settled easily between you and neteyam, comfortable, familiar, as if it had always been this way.

you knelt beside him, your eyes tracing the lines of his face, studying the way the light played over his skin. his breathing was slow, steady, and for a moment, all you could do was watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers twitched slightly as if he was reaching for something just out of grasp.

“they are gone?” his voice broke the silence, soft and low, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“they are gone,” you confirmed, your hand instinctively reaching for his cheek, fingers brushing over the warmth of his skin. it was a simple touch, one you found yourself craving more and more, needing the reassurance of his presence, of his life beneath your fingertips.

he leaned into your touch, his smile widening just a fraction, though it didn’t quite chase away the exhaustion that lingered in his eyes. “good.”

for a moment, you just sat there, letting the quiet stretch between you, not needing to fill it with words. you had said everything already, in the days following his injury, in the long hours spent by his side, watching over him while he healed. the words weren’t important. this was. being here. being with him.

the soft hum of the village outside broke the stillness, the faint sounds of preparation for the celebration beginning to drift into the marui. laughter echoed from somewhere far off, the rhythm of drums picking up in the distance, the promise of festivity hanging in the air. but you didn’t care for it, not tonight. not when neteyam was still here, still recovering. the idea of leaving him behind, of being anywhere without him, felt impossible.

“the festival,” he murmured suddenly, his voice pulling you from your thoughts. his eyes opened fully now, locking onto yours with a quiet intensity. “you should go.”

your brow furrowed in confusion, tilting your head slightly as you searched his face. “why?”

“because you should,” he replied, as though the answer was obvious, his gaze flickering with something you couldn’t quite name. “you have not been out… you have not done anything in forever.”

“i do not need to,” you said simply, shrugging as though the thought had never occurred to you. because it hadn’t.

he shifted slightly, discomfort flashing briefly across his face, though he hid it well. “you should nkt miss out because of me. it is not fair.”

you blinked, the frustration flaring just beneath the surface. how could he think that? how could he even suggest that any of this was his fault, or that you were missing out on anything at all? he was here. and that was enough.

“neteyam,” you began softly, your fingers brushing over the curve of his cheekbone, trying to soothe the tension you saw building there. “i have fun wherever you are. it does not matter what is happening outside.”

his frown deepened, like he didn’t quite believe you, like he was still carrying the weight of guilt for everything that had happened—for being hurt, for making you stay. but you didn’t press him further. you knew he needed time to understand. you weren’t missing anything. the world could celebrate all it wanted outside; you’d remain here, tethered to him, with him.

the rest of the day unfolded in small moments. the kind that didn’t need words to fill them. you stayed by his side, sometimes talking, other times letting the soft sounds of the village drift in from outside, the lull of the ocean a constant, gentle presence. he watched you in those quiet moments, his eyes following you as you moved around the marui, his gaze lingering as though he needed the reassurance that you were still there, still with him.

the sun was low in the sky now, casting everything in hues of gold and pink. the sounds of the festival had grown louder, laughter mingling with the rhythmic beat of drums, the clinking of shells as decorations were strung along the walkways. the energy outside was palpable, the village alive with celebration, but inside your marui, the quiet remained.

neteyam shifted again, his body protesting the movement, though he masked the discomfort as best he could. his eyes flickered toward the entrance of the marui, the faintest trace of music filtering through the air.

he turned back to you, his gaze more focused this time, more determined. “go get something to eat.”

you blinked, your brows knitting together as you stared at him. “what?”

“food,” he repeated, his tone light but insistent. “from the festival. go grab some.”

narrowing your eyes, you studied his face. he hadn’t let you out of his sight for more than a few minutes in the past days, and now he was practically urging you to leave. “what are you planning?”

“nothing,” he replied. “i am hungry. go. please?”

your lips pressed into a thin line, clearly unconvinced, but you rose to your feet anyway, giving him one last look before slipping out of the marui. the air outside was cooler now, the night settling in around you, and you could feel the pulse of the village as you made your way toward the center, where the celebration was in full swing. your mind already drifted back to neteyam, wondering what he was up to, why he was so adamant about sending you away. it wasn’t like him. not now, not when he needed you.

the food spread along the long, low tables is almost too much to look at, piles of bright fruits and roasted fish, grains and herbs twisted into fragrant shapes, everything vibrant and rich, as though the night itself has bloomed into this feast. your fingers brush over the cool surface of a carved bowl, feeling the delicate grooves, the weight of the work that went into every small detail. you carefully fill your basket, trying not to disturb too much of the display, slipping a few extra pieces of fruit between the flatbread and smoked meats, thinking of tuk’s bright eyes when she sees what you have brought back. the thought brings a smile to your lips, but it is fleeting, tempered by the pull of responsibility that sits low in your stomach. neteyam is still weak, and you know he will not eat unless you bring him something.

“you are not staying?” tsireya’s voice is soft but lilting, a note of surprise carried by the night air as she steps toward you, her hair catching in the lantern light, strands of it glowing like spun copper. her eyes are wide and kind, her arms laden with shells strung together on thin threads, swaying with the easy grace of the ocean. she leans in, “you are always leaving so quickly. you should enjoy yourself tonight.”

you smile at her, tucking the basket closer to your side. “i wish i could,” you say, and it is the truth, though it feels like a half-formed thing on your tongue, like something left out in the sun too long. even as you speak, you feel the quiet distance between you and the festival, like you are watching it all from the other side of a glass wall. tsireya’s face softens, a flicker of understanding passing through her eyes, but before she can say anything else, tuk comes bounding up, her small hands tugging at the hem of your skirt, her face lit up with excitement.

“you have to stay for the dancing!” tuk’s voice is bright, her breath coming quick from her running. she looks up at you with such earnestness that it tugs at something in your chest, the way only a child can, her wide eyes reflecting the shimmering lights around you like she is holding the stars themselves. tsireya gives you a look, one that is all gentle encouragement, a soft nudge in the direction of the night’s festivities, and for a moment, just a moment, you consider it. staying. letting the music and laughter carry you for just a little while, letting the world slip away for a few hours. but then the weight of the basket shifts in your hands again, grounding you back to reality, and you know you cannot. not tonight.

“another time,” you say, your voice softer now, tinged with a quiet apology you hope they will understand. you brush a hand over tuk's cheek, feeling the warmth of her skin. “i promise.”

you returned as quickly as you could, stepping back into the marui with the scent of roasted fish and fruit clinging to the air. but the moment you walked inside, the food forgotten in your hands, you froze.

neteyam was standing.

his body was trembling slightly, one hand gripping the wall for support, but he was standing, his eyes bright with determination, his grin wide and boyish as he watched your stunned reaction.

“neteyam,” you whispered, barely able to speak, the shock freezing you in place. “what are you doing?”

“we are dancing,” he said simply, his voice soft but firm, as though this was the most natural thing in the world. as though this wasn’t a miracle.

you shook your head, taking a hesitant step forward, torn between wanting to scold him for pushing himself too far and being so overwhelmed with love for him you thought you might burst. “you should not be standing. you—”

but before you could finish, he reached for you, his hand catching yours gently, pulling you closer. “come on. just for a while.”

the music from the festival floated through the air, the soft, distant beat of the drums like a heartbeat, slow and steady. you let him guide you, your hands finding their way to his waist, careful not to press too hard, not to disturb the bandages still wrapped around his middle.

he moved slowly, his steps tentative but deliberate, and you moved with him, letting the rhythm carry you both, swaying gently in the small space of the marui. his breath was warm against your skin, his forehead resting against yours as you danced together, the world outside falling away.

“this is all i need,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath. “just you.”

you pressed your face into his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him, the warmth of his skin against yours. your heart swelled in your chest, the love you felt for him spilling over, too big to contain.

“you are all i need too,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion, your arms tightening around him.

and as the faint music played on, you stayed there, swaying together in the dim light of the marui, the world outside forgotten, everything you needed right here, in this moment, in each other.

[gottencents]

Love Between - Ningning

pairing. idol!ningning x streamer!reader

synopsis. Y/N is streaming a session of Rust, focusing on surviving a raid while interacting with her chat. However, her concentration is constantly interrupted by Ningning.

Y/N is sitting in her gaming chair, the glow from her computer screen illuminating her face as she focuses on her Rust stream. The chat is lively, filled with excited messages from fans eager to watch her navigate the chaotic world of the game. She’s surrounded by the usual noise of the game—gunshots in the distance, footsteps, and the occasional explosion. But despite all the virtual chaos, there’s a different kind of energy in the room today.

Ningning is sitting beside Y/N, casually scrolling through her phone, but she can’t help but sneak glances at Y/N as she plays. Her fingers brush lightly through Y/N’s hair, absentmindedly twirling a strand around her finger. Y/N glances to the side, raising an eyebrow.

“Ningning,” Y/N says, her voice laced with amusement, “I’m trying to focus on not getting killed here.”

Ningning giggles, not stopping her motion. “I know, but you look so cute when you concentrate,” she teases, her fingers continuing to comb through Y/N’s hair.

Y/N tries to ignore the warm sensation of Ningning’s touch, but it’s impossible. Her concentration slips, and she’s suddenly distracted by the gentle caresses. Her chat explodes with comments like:

“Is Ningning doing Y/N’s hair now? 😂”

“Oh my god, the soft vibes in this stream 😭”

“Ningning’s distracting Y/N, haha!”

Y/N smiles at the chat, shaking her head. “I swear, you all have no chill.” She takes a deep breath and turns back to the screen. “Okay, okay, I’m gonna focus now. I need to survive this raid.”

Ningning leans in closer, whispering just loud enough for the mic to pick up, “You’re not going to survive if you’re stressed. Relax, let me help you.” Her fingers lightly graze Y/N’s scalp, and Y/N can’t help but shiver at the sensation.

“Stop…” Y/N mumbles, her cheeks flushed slightly as she tries to focus on the game, but her eyes keep drifting back to Ningning. “You’re making me all… fuzzy.”

The chat erupts again:

“Y/N’s getting distracted by her girlfriend 😂.”

“THEY’RE SO CUTE OMG.”

“Is this a Y/N and Ningning ASMR stream now?”

Y/N laughs awkwardly, trying to regain some control. “Alright, alright. I need to get serious, I’m getting raided—”

But before she can finish, Ningning softly tugs at the strands of hair she’s playing with, and Y/N lets out a soft laugh, losing her focus completely. “Ningning, stop! I can’t think!”

Ningning’s playful smile widens, and she leans in even closer, her fingers working through Y/N’s hair even more. “Just relax, baby. I’ll make it all better.”

Y/N can feel her resolve cracking, her heart racing at the soft intimacy of the moment, especially with the whole chat watching. The comments flood in even more, teasing her:

“Y/N’s melting from Ningning’s touch 😳.”

“This is a whole mood.”

“I need to see this in person.”

Y/N looks at the chat, unable to hide her smile. “You guys are terrible, you know that? I’m trying to be professional here.” But she can’t keep the grin off her face as Ningning continues her gentle hair-play, her presence calming in a way that makes everything else seem distant.

Ningning leans in and whispers again, “Just a little longer, and then I’ll let you focus.”

Y/N gives in, her hands resting on the mouse and keyboard as she continues her stream, but she’s clearly more at ease now, thanks to Ningning’s gentle touch. As she continues to play, Ningning quietly hums, her fingers still running through Y/N’s hair, a soft background melody to the game.

The fans continue to watch, their hearts melting at the sweet, intimate moment between the two. In the chat, fans go wild:

“I want what Y/N and Ningning have.”

“Can I get a hug like that?”

“Relationship goals.”

Eventually, Y/N can’t keep it in any longer, and she turns to face Ningning, a bright, loving smile on her face. “You’re really making it hard to focus on the game, but…” she pauses, her eyes softening, “I think I’m okay with it.”

Ningning smiles back, her fingers finally stopping their motion in Y/N’s hair as she pulls her into a quick, sweet kiss on the cheek. “Good. Because I’m not stopping anytime soon.”

The chat explodes with heart emojis and exclamations of “Awww!” as Y/N laughs, finally feeling comfortable enough to let go of her nerves. The game continues, but the energy in the room is completely different now—calmer, warmer, filled with the quiet connection between the two.