#and it's just had to be something i brush off this evening bc no one else really... cares

[frivolousimagination]

manhandled… gently? | clark k.

summary: if you (I) want clark kent's full attention, and if you (I) want him to just completely lose himself in touching you (me), you (I) should just say so. like it wouldn't kill you (you) to just admit you (you) wanna be manhandled by him…. or like, clark just wants to show you he loves you

word count: ~4.9k

warnings: making out, minors dni, soft dom!clark (?), def edging y'all bc this implies smut

notes: i am so nervous about this for whatever reason lmao

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God, you love Clark Kent. For silly things like his quiet mutters of gosh, golly, gee. For the widely impactful things such as the deep, genuine love he felt for the Earth and its inhabitants. And for the personal things too, like the mindfulness put into each of his touches in an effort to make them as gentle as possible. You trusted him wholeheartedly, in everything he did. 

Porcelain. That’s how it made you feel. The way the tips of his fingers would ghost over your skin, mapping out every possible inch of you. Never much pressure beneath his touch, he couldn’t risk it. What if you’d shatter into a thousand pieces? Even if just one wrong move was made? He’d sweep up the pieces if it came to that.

Clark did his best to brush it off on his gentle nature, which worked as an excuse for the first few months. But then you started to see it. Even in the seemingly smallest of interactions. 

He would do anything for you. He’d spend the day fighting bad guys, lifting fallen buildings, saving squirrels from the ground, and saving cats from trees. And yet, when he got home to you, he was at your service. His powers were great for saving the world, but they also helped him to pamper you. 

Even right now, the two of you are walking back to your place from a movie. Clark's hands found your waist and in a quick, careful motion he had you lifted and sat on a bench. Lifting you, casually moving your entire body as if it were nothing. You hadn’t even had the chance to process when he pointed out that your shoe was coming untied before he had you sat and himself knelt to the ground as he took care of the problem. 

Part of the truth very well could be his knee jerk reaction of kindness, but you knew that he reveled in the way your body reacted to his touch. Breath hitched, cheeks burning, and your hands gripping the edge of the bench for emotional stability if not physical. 

Clark’s focus on his task was unmatched. His brows were knitted together, eyes scanning up your leg as his fingers tied off the laces of your shoe. How could he peel his eyes away? You were the light of his life. His yellow sun, so he said when he was truly down bad. Which… when wasn’t he anymore? 

Clark relished these moments with you. Something small to hold onto when so many big things were happening all around. You are a focus point for him. 

His hand cupped the back of your ankle, lifting your other foot into place to fix that lace too, just in case. He was always fussing over you, always would. Or he hoped so.

When finished, he tapped the top of your shoe before taking hold of your hand as he stood. “Can’t have you tripping for anything but me.” His lips placed a soft kiss on your knuckles.

The line was cheesy, and only made partial sense, but it was very Clark. It brought a smile to your face, so he got what he wanted from it. He’d do much worse, say much more embarrassingly cheesy lines, if it meant you’d smile like that at him again. He had done much worse before. Pa had taught him plenty of puns and dad jokes over time.

Clark took hold of both of your hands, putting them onto his shoulders before finding your waist again. Your hands knew what was to come, gently holding onto him for support. And again, without thought, he lifts you up to swirl you back to the ground. 

His heart swells with joy as a laugh escapes your lips. His eyes watch yours shut as you press your foreheads together, seeking stability but also just seeking connection. It was another moment where he was reminded of his need for you. Another reminder that you are his sun, that he couldn’t do anything in that cape (that was currently tossed over a chair at your apartment) if he didn’t have these moments with you.

Wanting it to last for even just a second more, Clark takes one step over to turn, twirling you in a complete circle as he watches the way your eyelids crinkled shut. The feeling of weightlessness sent a tingling sensation all through you, pulling another quiet laugh from your lips. He needed the sound etched into vinyl. He needed a picture of how you looked right now stuffed into his wallet. He definitely already had the fact that you loved when he picked you up filed away in his file cabinet memories all about you.

When your feet hit the ground your hands slid down his shoulders, leaning forward and pressing your chest to his to keep yourself from stumbling. Clark ducked his head down, keeping your foreheads close within that gap between your height. His hands moved off your hips, up to your ribs where he made certain that you were stable on the ground. It made the butterflies in your stomach return. He always managed to do that.

Your eyes opened into his, and you should’ve known that he’d be looking at you like that. He lived for these small times, constantly seeking something to hold on to. So did you. A hunger deep in your stomach wanting to hold onto him for forever.

“All that for a loose shoelace?” You joke, bumping noses.

He hums, eyes flickering to your lips before giving you a soft kiss. “Imagine how much I would’ve done for a completely undone lace.”

This elicits another laugh from you, in which Clark’s palm presses against your ribcage so he can feel the moment too. It’s like it finally clicks into place for you. How much these things meant to him. He not just wants you, he needs you. 

It’s why these things came so easily to him. It’s why he noticed your lace loosening, and wasted no time fixing it for you. Why he gave you that extra twirl, and why his eyes were already looking over you even when yours were shut. You are in love with Clark Kent, and this you knew easily. What came now was… Clark Kent is in love with you. Truly, madly, deeply.

Thank god he was holding onto you, otherwise your knees might’ve given out right then and there. You hadn’t felt yourself smile like this since… well, just earlier in the day because Clark had been drowning you in compliments about how good you looked in his Metropolis Meteors cap. But, the point is, you felt absolutely, positively incandescent. 

“What’s on your mind?” Clark asks softly, hands gently tugging your sweatshirt back into place. Seems it had lifted up when he held you.

You can’t seem to wipe your smile. “You.”

“Me?” He asks with a chuckle. Whether he noticed or not, his cheeks had a slight tint of pink over them. 

When Clark asked what was on your mind it was because of the look on your face. Eyes sparkling, like you’d caught a glimpse of the aurora borealis for the first time. Like you were caught up in some fantasy that left you feeling ecstatic, or adventure driven. And it was because of him? He felt honored in some sense.

“Mhm,” you hum, reaching up on your tiptoes to give him a slow, soft kiss. “I was thinking about how sweet you are. How you always know exactly what to do to drive me wild.”

His eyes were shut as he returned the kiss, halfway opening as you pulled back to talk. He didn’t want it to end. “Drive you wild? Sweetheart, your shoe was coming undone, of course I tied it for you.”

Yes, of course. Because he was always taking care of you.

“But the twirling me around?” You ask, grinning at him knowingly.

He chuckles, eyes peeling away from your lips. He’d been caught. “It’s just… it’s so easy for me to pick you up, honey.”

Don’t you know it.

Your hand is on the back of his neck, bringing him down for another kiss. Call it a thank you. “Uh huh.”

He happily goes along, giving you a quick kiss before explaining himself more. “And you always smile when I do it.”

“Right.” Another kiss.

“You do!” He laughs as you catch his top lip in another kiss. 

“I agreed,” you point out. “But I do think there is more to it than that.”

He quirks up at that. Your lips connect for another quick kiss. “What are you suggesting?”

Your chest puffs with a laugh, smiling sweetly up at him. His curls hand managed to start looping around your fingers, even as short as they were. He knew exactly what you meant.

Clark loved the way that you fit so easily into his hands. He loved that you not only didn’t mind being lifted, or spun, or flown, or just held up in his arms, but you loved it too. You loved being his.

He feigns offense, one hand leaving you to push back his glasses that had fallen to the tip of his nose. “What could you possibly be suggesting?”

“That you like it just as much as me.” Which went unsaid. He’d already confirmed that, trying to brush it off on the fact that he did it solely for you. “And that we like it for the same reason.”

This was different, though. The same reason? Clark hadn’t really thought that possible, considering his point of view. Clark knows he is a simple man. Easy trusting, easy to fall in love, and easy to adore others. Not that you were a cynic, but that he is softer than any typical person. 

“Okay,” he grins. “Let's hear your reason, then.”

Clark is extremely attentive, more so than any other person you had ever been with. Of course, none of those relationships had worked out for one reason or another, but he was so wildly different. He didn’t do any of what he did just because he was your boyfriend, he did it because he wanted to. Because he knew you loved that movie and wanted to go see it a third time, because he knew you loved when he held you like that, because he knew you’d laugh at his stupid jokes, because he knew you. And you know that, because you know him.

The thought put you in seventh heaven. You could trust Clark, entirely. There was never a moment of questioning, never a time to second guess any of his words or actions. He is a loving man. He showed you this daily.

Your heart skipped, not nervous but excited. “I love it because I trust you.”

Cute. It made him smile. Such a simple admission, and certainly one that Clark would carry with him for the next several years of his life. He thought that was all.

Your continuation caught him off guard. That, and the way you inched closer to whisper in his ear again. “I love it because I would let you do absolutely anything to me, Clark Kent.” A kiss is left on his throat. “Because you are so careful, so intentional, that it makes my heart run a marathon even when all you do is hold my hand, or brush my hair from my face. And because you do it all as if it is second nature to you.”

“Because it is.” He says it like it’s easy.

What wasn’t so easy was feeling your lips on his neck, even just from one kiss. And the way your breath had ghosted over him in a whisper had him shifting his weight on his feet. If you weren’t still on the walk to your place, he would’ve done much more to act. Then again, so would’ve you.

Clark cups your cheek instead, an action appropriate for the public. “Because I love you.”

You were beaming again. It was funny how intertwined you were with one another. Was this the time for him too? Where he realized what it all was? If it wasn’t his moment of realization, it was at least where he said it to you for the first time.

“I love you too.” It’s easy to say. Probably the easiest thing you’ve ever said. 

The shared sincerity felt warming. Smiles mirrored across one another, finding each other in complete bliss of the moment. He was down again, kissing your lips with a much, much slower pace and patience than before. 

His lips were warm, as always. And your lips were soft as ever, a hint of your chapstick still lingering. You both tasted the popcorn you’d just finished off at the theater, giving a dash of saltiness to the sweetness of the kiss. Clark was getting lost, his tongue peaking out just slightly to meet you in another kiss.

His hands left your cheeks, going to your waist again. In his mind, there was no thought as he lifted you up into his arms, his palms flat against your back to hold you with stability. In your mind, your heart was running wild over the fact that he held you so carefully to keep you so close. 

His throat rumbles, a low groan escaping him with no remorse. It felt good. Holding you, your lips kissing again and again, but it was never enough. Especially not with your confessions. He just needed to show his appreciation.

When you feel your feet dangling, meaning he was really holding you up again, you hummed against his lips. “Clark.”

He continued his work, giving a lazy response. “Yeah?” 

You halfheartedly attempt to pull back, “Public.” His tongue brushes against yours. “We’re in public.”

Clark hums, “Mhm.” A small, small part of him couldn’t be bothered to care. 

You give in to one more lingering kiss before gently holding his face between your thumb and two fingers, physically stopping him from coming in for any more. He grumbles at this, frowning and opening his eyes halfway to express disapproval. How dare anything stop this moment?

“Okay,” he sighs, eyes stuck on your lips. He smiled to himself as he saw the way they hardly had any chapstick left, and how they had begun to puff up from every kiss. He had done that. “Okay. Your place is only two blocks away.”

It was like he was trying to reason with himself. Only two blocks. All he had to do was make it there, and then you’d be his. Entirely. 

When his eyes met yours, your breath hitched. That same hunger that lived in the pit of your stomach was in him right now. You saw it burning within his eyes, turning a dark blue that always filled you with excitement.

“You inviting yourself to spend the night?” You tease, fingers pressing softly into his dimples as you hold him.

His fingers wrapped around your wrist, removing your hand from its hold. He wanted zero obstacles in his way. It was now, too, that you remembered he could’ve done that the second you grabbed on. He liked being held by you.

“You don’t want me over?” He kisses your wrist, eyes glimmering beneath the glowing streetlamp. He wouldn’t go if you said the word, but he knew.

“‘Course I do,” you chuckle. You’d said it much quicker than intended, showing off your equal amount of desperation.

“Great.” Equally speedy response, he lets it boost his ego. 

With another quick kiss, Clark adjusts his grip around your waist and makes a quick motion to swing you into his arms bridle style. You take in a cold, sharp breath at his actions. The way he just swooped you up without having a single thought put into it, just wanting to get to your place as soon as he could. You could swoon, if he’d let you.

It was rare to see a deep, nearly intoxicated desire on Clark. He is typically so careful. So soft spoken, giving only the most gentle of grazing touches. His eyes typically gave a look that said he was filled with admiration, a need to worship and show you just how important you are. 

Right now they said that he was desperate to soak you into his very being, to touch every part of you and show you what those words meant to him. I love you.

Your cheeks were growing warm, a slightly welcome sensation in contrast to the cooling night air. Although flustered, you didn’t hesitate either. Arms looping around his neck to hold on– as if he would ever drop you anyway. At least it was an excuse to touch him.

“I’m going to hold you to what you said, by the way.” Clark remarks, taking large strides in his step. He wasn’t even looking at you with his smile this time, too caught up in his mind that was racing with all the ideas of how to spend the night. How to show you how he truly felt.

If he could get away with it he would’ve flown you to the apartment in a blink. He just wanted to be alone with you. His sense of urgency on the situation was striking. You liked seeing this side of him from time to time. Like he was starved.

“What I said?” You finally question. You were too caught up in him to know what he could’ve meant.

“Yeah,” he looks at you now. Desirous, eager, sure. His words roll out like they’re lightweight, “That you’d let me do absolutely anything to you.” 

Hearing your own words used against you didn’t typically feel so fulfilling or thrilling. But, God, he knew how to get you. And forget the burning in your cheeks, you felt it through your entire body.

Clark said it so comfortably. There was no threat, or reason for concern. Because, just like you had said before, you trust him.

You murmur, a teasing air. “You better.”

This successfully encourages him. You tried not to let your imagination get too carried away just yet, not entirely sure what ‘absolutely anything’ meant to him versus what it meant to you. All you knew was that you needed to find out.

At some point you’d made it to your apartment building, thankfully. Approaching the front door, Clark puts you down again though his arm keeps you wrapped close to him. He knew exactly what he wanted. Exactly what he’d do once you were up and shut out from the rest of the world.

“I wanna do it all tonight.” Clark says quietly, suddenly.

You watched the elevator doors slide shut in a rough, aged stagger. “That’s ambitious. We got enough time for your plans?”

What the hell did all mean? 

Clark laughs lightly by your side, his hand slipping beneath the back of your hoodie. “I mean… I want to do it all. I want you to… relax.”

This throws you back, catching on to his meaning now. When you look up at him you, unsurprisingly, see his cheeks turned a light shade of pink. The flame in the pit of your stomach flickered just slightly, finding him too cute. 

Play dumb, mess with him. “What’d you mean? Are you gonna do my chores for me or something? I’ll happily oblige.” 

He was too easy to tease. Yes, he still had that burning desire, but it looks so different on Clark. He was adjusting his stance, his fingers gently pinching you beneath the fabric. “No… but, I can do your dishes before I go since I dirtied them at lunch earlier.”

“You don’t have to do my dishes, Clark.” You nudge his side.

“But I will.” You knew he would. 

Jesus, could the elevator be any slower? You were really hating living in a ‘historic’ building at the moment. Historic was generous to begin with, but it was home.

He stops himself from rocking on his heels any more and leans close to your ear. His intention was to be quiet, even though no one was around to hear anyway. But it came across much differently.

“I mean that I–” his voice catches. You knew he was still blushing. His throat clears, “I want you to let me thank you for earlier. Or, to let me show you what it meant to me.”

The confession, he meant. The first verbal exchange of I love you.

His fingertips trace lightly up your spine. He was trying something new, this teasing in any place but the bedroom. For once in his life, he truly felt like he could do anything. You did that for him.

“I want you to sit back tonight,” he continued, kissing below your ear. “All night. I want to be the one exerting all my energy for you.”

Your own breath was catching now. “You’re Superman, your energy doesn’t really run out the same.”

You don’t expect it. His fingers gently pinch your side, “So it’ll be a long night.”

The elevator does that small bounce it always does, signaling you have reached your destination. You couldn’t be more relieved. Clark is somehow the first to step out, your own eagerness apparently not quite matching his. 

Fumbling around with your keys, you desperately search for the one to unlock that damn door. Clark smiles proudly to himself, somewhat relieved that the unfamiliar exercise had positively affected you. A small part of him felt foolish for even saying it, he wasn’t typically the type to be so forward. Well, forward for him.

Why not take it a step forward?

“Let me,” Clark’s voice is hushed. 

One hand rests on your’s, turning it over so he can take the keychain and help save you from any more cloudy-minded fumbling. He wasn’t helping your case, but he was certainly helping his own. Just a small act, a small touch, a small bit of connection.

He somehow manages to find the correct key and unlock the door with a completely steady hand. His nerves seemed much more relaxed than he expected. He assigned that reasoning to his anticipation of you.

His lips were on yours again the second you both walked in, Clark backing you up towards the door so it could be shut. As it clicked into place you were doing your best to kick off your shoes. He was reaching behind you to slide the lock into place. 

Your hands go to the edge of your shirt, ready to tug it off. He’s quick to catch you, pulling back from the kiss and looking down at you in complete confusion. His hands hold yours in place without effort. 

“Huh uh,” is all he manages at first. His tongue darts over his bottom lip. “I said I’m doing it all, I’m doing it all.”

You sigh with desperation, watching him fervently. “Can’t even help kick start things?”

“No, baby,” his tone is delicate, and he’s looking at you with that softness that you know he got from Smallville, not Metropolis. “I want to really show you what you mean to me. In every aspect.”

Clark soothes your hesitance with a couple more kisses, tongues meeting in your mouth. The second he frees your hands you drape your arms over his shoulders. This is probably the only way you’d be able to keep yourself from acting on any impulse, keep your hands away entirely.

He keeps up with his motives, lifting you up into his arms again. Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist. A deep groan comes from him, feeling you pressed against his waist and giving some much desired friction.

The kisses are becoming more and more thoughtless and messy as he walks you just off to the side, into the kitchen. Screw the bedroom, it was much too far away for his despair. He’d move you both there at some point, maybe for the next round.

Sitting you on the counter, his hands move down along your hips and to the outer sides of your thighs. Your back lacks much support, but it was a regret for tomorrow. You felt too good right now. Running on a high you’d only ever felt with Clark.

His lips found your neck, trailing down further with each kiss left. When he finds the spot he has memorized as if it is a lifeline, his lips linger and gently suck the skin there. He knew every sound that you would make and yet he was always yearning to hear it just once more. 

You slowly inhale, head rolled to the side to encourage him. Clark lives for the way your throat vibrates against his skin in an approving moan. Assuring him that he hadn’t forgotten how to make you feel incredible. You got so easily lost in him yet he’d always find you.

Your hands slip to the back of his neck, nails scratching into his hair in the same typical fashion. Used as an outlet for yourself, seeking all the stimulation possible. But it was also a small repayment for him. It drove him mad to feel your touch in any capacity. He wasn’t having it tonight.

Clark pulls away from your neck, “Sweetheart.” 

You barely refrain from a pout, feeling it was a little too dramatic. “What?” Though your tone was a bit more crabby than before.

He huffed a laugh, looking at you through half lidded eyes. It wasn’t like you to be… whiny. It was cute. But it was clear he was going to have to become more assertive on his position.

“Hands,” he replies as he peels your hands away from his neck, adjusting to hold both your wrists in one of his hands. “I meant it. The only thing you’re doing is feeling me.”

This returns your smile, watching and enjoying his sternness. Clark Kent has always been a giver. Always. It was just in his nature. But it seemed he was really going to live up to that tonight.

“Just keep putting your trust in me. Take it in. Let me appreciate you as mine.” His free hand returns to your thigh, slowly pulling your leg open to make room for his large frame to come closer. 

His waist is pressed to the edge of the counter, leaning forward to put his face just inches from yours. Your chest rises, trying to anticipate his next move but finding your attention stuck on his gentle grip on your wrists, and his light touch along your thigh. He took his time.

Pressing your palms against the cold counter, Clark effectively sends a chill through you. For a second, he applies a light pressure to the back of your hands. Your excitement finds you again.

“Keep your hands right here.” He mutters, eyes on your lips with a readiness to get back to his previous job.

You give a small nod, biting your bottom lip and watching him carefully. Both of his hands moved to your jeans, undoing the button and slowly pulling the zipper down. Your hips move with zero hesitation, knowing what came next. 

He pulls your jeans off with simplicity. You take the opportunity to try scooting closer to the edge, testing him every chance you get. It’s without success. He tosses the jeans aside before putting his hands on your hips and pushing you back down onto the countertop, moving you back exactly where you were. 

You grip the edge, frustrated that he wouldn’t even let that slide. All is forgiven as his fingers ghost over the bare skin of your thighs. He goes to the hem of your hoodie, nodding his head in motion for you to lift your arms. 

Reactively, your arms go above your head and Clark peels the hoodie off your body, tossing it off to the side with your jeans. Fingers tracing over your skin again, like you’re goddamn porcelain. Your hands return to their assigned place. 

And all is quickly un-forgiven as his hands settle on your… knees?

“Clark, c’mon.” You whine, head falling back.

“I’m getting there,” he laughs. His hand rests at the crook of your neck, thumb rubbing over your pulse point. “Look at me, honey.”

 With a dramatic sigh your head falls forward again. You look at him with a pout, not that it would really help your case. He had goals in mind. Benchmarks to meet.

“Be patient.” He says softly, fingertips trailing down your chest. His other hand’s fingers tap against your knee. “It’s gonna take some time for me to do this right. You’re art to me.”

Art. You don’t take one glance at a painting and move on. No. You take your time, absorbing every possible detail. Looking in awe at the smoothness of a marble carving. Appreciating the time it took to create perfection.

“Okay,” it’s all you can manage to whisper. Your heart was running wild.

“Okay,” he follows suit.

Your eyes follow him downward as he kneels in front of you. He traces down your legs, pressing a warm, lingering kiss on your knee. His hands hook behind each of your knees and he pulls you forward. 

So now you were allowed to be at the edge of the counter. 

clark kent masterlist

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[slvbum]

TOO SWEET ♡ Rafe Cameron!

content WARNING: Bunny!Reader × Rafe Cameron, angst (yes these are Rafe × Bunny before getting married)

♡ notie note . . . reposting this bc it got lost n the other acc lol

The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and honey, a warm haze curling around the edges of the room as Y/N pulled the tray from the oven. Her hands, dusted with flour, trembled slightly as she set the pastries down on the counter. They were perfect; golden, flaky, dripping with the sticky sweetness of her babushka’s recipe for medovik, a layered honey cake she’d spent all afternoon fussing over. She’d even tied a little pink ribbon around the tin, her signature touch, because Rafe deserved something special. He’d been so distant lately, all sharp edges and clipped words, and she thought maybe this would soften him up, remind him she was still here, still trying.

She was not like the others girls Rafe had been—not polished or calculating. Y/N was soft, naive in the way she saw the world through rose-colored glasses, always hopping around with a smile that didn’t quite match the storm brewing in Rafe’s eyes. She loved him, though. Loved him so much it ached sometimes, like a bruise she couldn’t stop pressing.

“Rafe?” she called out later that evening, clutching the tin as she padded barefoot into the living room of Tanneyhill.

He was sprawled on the couch, one arm slung over his face, the TV flickering some golf rerun he wasn’t really watching. He didn’t move when she said his name, just tilted his head slightly, blue eyes catching hers for a second before drifting away.

“I made you something,” she said, holding out the tin like an offering. “It’s medovik. My babushka taught me how to make it—it’s, like, super sweet, but I thought you’d like it.”

He sat up slowly, taking the tin from her hands without a word. His fingers brushed hers, and she felt that familiar jolt, the one that made her want to curl up against him and stay there forever. Rafe just nodded, a tight, closed-off thing, and set the tin on the coffee table.

“Thanks,” he muttered, barely looking at her. “Looks… good.”

She beamed anyway, because that was bunny, finding sunshine in the smallest cracks. “Let me know what you think, okay? I can make more if you like it!”

She lingered for a moment, hoping he’d say something else, maybe crack one of those rare smiles she lived for. But he just nodded again, eyes already back on the TV, so she slipped away, heart fluttering with a mix of hope and nerves.

The next day, she woke up early, practically bouncing as she thought about Rafe tasting her cake. She wondered if he’d eaten it yet, if he’d liked it, if he’d thought of her while he did. She padded into the kitchen for a glass of water, her oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, when she saw it, the tin, sitting on the counter exactly where she’d left it the night before.

Untouched. The ribbon was still tied, the lid still sealed shut.

Her stomach dropped.

She reached out, fingers brushing the cool metal, and popped it open. Every slice was still there, like she’d never even brought it to him. The air felt heavy all of a sudden, pressing down on her chest.

“Rafe?” she called softly, turning to see him leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching her.

He looked tired, shadows under his eyes, but his jaw was tight like he’d been clenching it all night.

“Why didn’t you eat it?” she asked, voice trembling despite her best efforts to keep it steady. “Did I… did I do something wrong?”

He shifted, looking away, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“Nah, it’s not that,” he said. “I just… I don’t eat carbs. Or sugar. You know that.”

Her brows furrowed, confusion flickering across her face. “But… you had that donut last week. At the Wreck. I saw you.”

Rafe’s eyes snapped to hers, something hard flashing in them before it melted into a flicker of guilt. He didn’t say anything for a second, just stared at her like she’d caught him in a lie he hadn’t prepared for.

“Yeah, well… that was different,” he mumbled, turning toward the sink like he could escape the conversation.

It wasn’t about the carbs.

She knew it, deep down, even if she didn’t want to admit it.

Bunny might’ve been naive, but she wasn’t stupid.

She stepped closer, clutching the edge of her sweater, her voice barely above a whisper. “Did I mess it up? You can tell me, I won’t cry or anything, I just—”

“You didn’t mess it up,” he cut her off, sharper than he meant to. He turned back to her, and for a second, she saw it; the way his eyes softened just enough to let the truth bleed through. But then he shut it down, fast, like he was scared of what she’d see. “It’s fine, alright? Just… drop it.”

She didn’t drop it. She couldn’t.

“Then why didn’t you even try it?” Her lip quivered, and she hated herself for it, hated how small she felt standing there in front of him. “I made it for you, Rafe. I thought you’d like it.”

He exhaled hard through his nose, running a hand through his hair.

“I don’t need it, okay? I don’t need… this.” He gestured vaguely at the tin, but it felt like he meant her, too, and that stung worse than anything.

The truth was, Rafe hadn’t touched it because he couldn’t. Not because of some bullshit diet, but because every time she looked at him with those big, trusting eyes, every time she did something sweet like this, it twisted something inside him he didn’t want to feel.

He was falling for her—hard—and it terrified him.

He didn’t do soft. He didn’t do vulnerable.

He’d spent years building walls, and here she was, hopping right over them with her bunny smiles and her stupid honey cake, making him feel things he didn’t know how to handle.

But he couldn’t tell her that. So he lied instead, letting the excuse hang between them like a flimsy shield.

Y/N blinked at him, eyes glassy now, and nodded slowly.

“Okay,” she whispered, stepping back. “I’ll… I’ll just leave it here. In case you change your mind.”

She turned away, grabbing her glass of water with shaky hands, and slipped out of the kitchen before he could see the tears spilling over. Rafe stood there, staring at the tin, the weight of his own cowardice pressing down on him like a vice. He wanted to call her back, wanted to shove a piece of that damn cake in his mouth just to see her smile again, but he didn’t. He just let her go.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ©slvbun — written with love.

[shuastar]

of silks and steel (pt 2)

pairing: duke/commander!seungcheol x daughter of duke!reader (arranged marriage au) wc: 12.4k warnings: fighting, drinking, p in v, lowk dubcon bc it's never really said outright, you losing your virginity, fingering probably i dont really remember... a/n: hi guyss!!! im so so so sorry for the delay in literally everything i swear i was actually busy and not just fucking around... i'll try to get to all your requests in at least 3 weeks... <3 much love

TAGLIST FORM HERE

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part 2 seungcheol 

The wind bites. 

It cuts through silk, through composure, through the thin veil of formality that has iced over you like frost since you crossed the last valley into the north. Into his north. 

Seungcheol watches you from the corner of his eye as the palanquin slows in front of the estate’s outer courtyard, the stone path slick with melting ice, the pines still crusted white despite the sun of early spring. 

The gates swing open with ceremony. Heavy wood, carved with the emblem of Choi line, something Seungcheol had never expected to inherit, parting with the groan of age and authority. A long line of attendants bows in silence. Robes dark and heads lowered. Past them, his countless hanoks stretch in neat formation, curved roofs dusted faintly in snowmelt. The daemun, tall and looming, stands wide open as though to swallow you both whole. 

Even now, years after he has inherited the very estate that felt like a prison his entire childhood, Seungcheol shuddered at the thought of stepping foot into the ancestral lands, so to speak. 

You step out after him.

Not of your own volition – you’re guided, led, half-carried down by a maid whose accent you probably already clocked as northern. You walk with your chin tilted up too high, spine straight, even as the wind lashes at the hem of your crimson hanbok, and your embroidered sleeves flutter like dying banners. 

Your fingers twitch in the cold, tips turning slowly bleeding white. 

He catches it – you, curling your hands tight into the folds of your skirt. He catches the tremble in your breath as it leaves in a puff of mist. He catches the way you glance, just once, at the faraway peaks crowned in snow like deadly knives, and how your mouth sets immediately afterward – like regret. Disappointment. Or revulsion. 

You hate it. 

He can see it. 

The cold, the mountain air, this place. 

Him.

He can see it clear in your eyes. 

Without thinking, like something possessed him, Seungcheol shrugs off his cloak. His shoulders bare to the wind, his raised and faded scars exposed to the spring’s cruelty, he crosses the distance to you. With firm (and trembling) hands, he deftly clasps the fur-lined garment around your narrow and shivering shoulders. 

Note to self: buy her thicker gowns and cloaks.

He doesn’t say a word. Just a firm grip over the buckle, leather clasp against silk hanbok, hands lingering for a half second longer than they should as he pretends to dust off the shoulder pads. 

You freeze so dramatically Seungcheol almost laughs. 

The servants around you pause mid-bow. Your chin tilts up ever-so-slightly, and your mouth curves again into that sharp-edged smile. The one you wear like jaded armor. The one that nags him – that you’d rather shiver and freeze to death in the cold than ask for warmth. 

Your delicate fingers go up to brush against the fur. Seungcheol racks his brain if he asked Minwoo to wash it before he wore it. He’s not too sure. Worry flashes through his mind at the thought of you possibly touching remnants of someone else’s blood. 

“...Thank you,” you finally say, voice clipped. 

He doesn’t answer. Just steps back, gloved hands falling to his sides, and nods stiffly. A soldier. A duke. A man carrying the weight of a woman he doesn’t have the slightest clue how to protect other than shower you with the things he wishes you had. 

He leads you forward, past the bowed servants, rock-still as his cloak trails on the ground as you walk elegantly just a pace behind him. He walks slightly ahead, like he’s shielding you, though he knows it’s useless. These people lining the great hall know what the Capital has sent him. They’ve seen the letters. The proclamations. The red ink of imperial parchment. 

A bride from the South. 

A war prized all bedazzled in silk. 

He hates the way they look at you: curious, careful, taunting. Like you might shatter if spoken to. Or break everything in return. 

The inner hanok is warm, at least, and lanterns flicker from the eaves. Incense curls through the openings of the doors. 

When he pushes open the sliding panel, there’s a man waiting. Seungcheol barely even remembers Jeonghan telling him about the officiator. 

“Just for the formalities, Cheol.” 

Grey-robed, ink-stained hands. He looks vaguely Northern, and is kneeling by a lacquered writing table with scrolls unfurled and a brush horizontal over the top of an ink tray. Seungcheol doesn’t need to read the characters on the scroll to know what it says. 

Apparently, neither do you because he swears your face pales at least a shade lighter at the sigh in front of you. 

You hesitate at the threshold. 

Seungcheol thinks it ironic that this is what stops you: the official stamp. The seal of marriage. 

Your fingers press to the fur at your throat. Not delicately. With restraint – almost as if enough force around your larynx would push your fingers in and you’d die on the spot. 

When you don’t move, staring wide at the room (and him), Seungcheol turns towards you. His voice comes low. Controlled. 

“This is only to legalize what they’ve already announced.” He’s not too sure if it’s supposed to sound like a relief but it’s the only thing he can say. 

You look at him, finally, eyes cool, steady. Almost frightening, the way they train unwaveringly on his. 

“And after?” you ask. 

He pauses. 

“After, I will escort you to your quarters.” 

A beat. 

“You will not be disturbed,” he adds, and there’s a light of pride in him that is almost immediately extinguished when you look more pained at his last statement than everything else thus far. 

Your brow twitches and you step inside. 

He follows, sliding the door shut behind you, trying not to flinch at how finalizing everything sounds. 

The officiator hands him the scroll first. The characters of his name written in half-dried ink are familiar – the war notices, the Imperial scrolls, the King’s edicts, over and over again. And then yours: dainty, clean-cut, pretty (just like you), characters lined up neatly as if they were made for you and for you only. 

As he signs his name, he doesn’t watch the ink dry. He watches you. 

He watches you as you sit across the table like someone carved from the old stone cliffs of Hanyang – proud, untouchable, wrapped in red silk like a war flag too red for actual war. You don’t belong in this cold, unused, unoccupied house. Hell, even he lives away from this estate if he can help it. You belong in a hall of mirrors and moonlight. Somewhere war, somewhere beautiful. Somewhere where someone can match the regality of you and where the things you touch will turn as breathtaking as you. 

Not here. 

Not in this house.

And not in his life. 

Yet, your hand flows over the parchment, signing the contract. Your hand trembles less than his did and your eyes don’t waver as you hand the scroll back to the clerk, who looks only ever-so-surprised at the fact that you gave him the scroll and not Seungcheol. 

But even the clerk doesn’t say a word. He simply bows and leaves, like this is any other duty. Like sealing your fate away to him was just another to-do task in a day’s worth of an officiator’s salary. 

When the door slides shut, there is a thickening silence that is almost choking. 

He sits with it. With you. 

The brazier flickers but the heat doesn’t reach and you still look awfully cold in your Southern silks. Seungcheol wishes he could bring the sun down closer. Or flip the Earth so that you were back where you belong – where incense and citrus curls around you like perfume. Here, in the North, everything is sharp – stone, pine, and frost. You hate it already, he’s sure of it. And there’s a part of him that hopes you do. 

Almost. 

To save you from your misery, he clears his throat, straightening. 

“You can have the west wing,” he says. It’s surprising, the way his voice is even. Distant, almost, like he’s speaking to a fellow officer. He wonders when he can ever allow himself the privilege of calling you his wife without guilt, remorse, regret. 

“I’ll keep to the east.” 

You look at him, head tilted. There’s a familiar glint behind your sharp lashes that he remembers from the Academy. 

“How generous,” you muse. “I’ll need a compass to see my husband.” Your pause is almost threatening. “Go figure.” 

Seungcheol has to bite his tongue to not say something stupid. He doesn’t take the bait. He never does – something he learned the hard way. You’re too good with words and he’s too clumsy with his own feelings for any dignified response to make any sense. 

“It’d do us both good to be left alone.” 

He means it, really. You deserve to be left alone. You deserve peace. Time away from him. 

And yet, when you rise too quickly, and you sway on your feet, something cold in his chest cracks wide open. Before he can even blink, his legs are straightening and he’s out of his seat before both of you realize. Arms encircle your waist, hands large and gentle against your figure. The silk under his rough, calloused palms is almost like water – flowing, soft, clear. 

You’re warm. 

You smell like the sea and the tea you didn’t drink. 

Seungcheol swears you still use the same perfume from your Academy days. 

You freeze. 

So does he. 

You turn in his grasp, eyes locking. And in them, he sees some sort of confusion and unspoken ache swirling around in your orbs, like the way panic shoots through his body and nestles in his eyes. He blinks to try to get rid of whatever’s in his eyes that he’s tried to bury under five years of blood and command. 

He drops his hands almost immediately, too quickly, like he touched something sacred – like he’s unworthy. He tries to ignore the emptiness in his arms when you straighten, brushing a piece of your hair behind your ears, fixing the folds of your skirt with surgical grace. 

The distance between you expands like helium to a balloon. 

“You shouldn’t dress heavy for people you don’t want to impress,” he mutters, voice lower, softer. Internally, Seungcheol cringes at how stuck-up and self-absorbed that sounds, eyes drifting to the wall behind your head. He can’t bear to look at you in your face. 

Mid-step, you turn, looking over your shoulder. Your smile is almost blood-cutting. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snipe, and then as an afterthought, you add, “Commander.” 

He flinches at the title. He’s not your commander (let alone the husband you deserve, now). His throat feels itchy with the words building up in his chest and as his brows furrow, he’s relieved, at least, that you didn’t call him “your grace” or something like that because that would’ve been far worse of a delegation. 

Staring at the back of your head, he wants to talk. There’s a deeply hidden part of his soul that wants to reach out to grasp your wrist, pull you backwards so that your back meets his chest and bury his nose in your hair and tell you how much he misses you. How he used to time his dueling practices to your afternoon tea sessions. How he used to walk through the Academy’s library with Jeonghan to pass the windows just as you crossed the courtyard for your drawing group by the lake. He wants to tell you how he wrote a letter once – before everything – and couldn’t ever send it. Instead, he took it with him to his first campaign and then burned it in the barracks firepit with tears trailing down his cheeks when the campaign turned bloody because he couldn’t ever keep the thought of you in the same place as hot, irony blood. He doesn’t tell you how Jeonghan used to make fun of him for calling out your name every time he went under any mild painkiller.

You move towards the door. 

He follows and tries to ignore how it doesn’t feel like a husband following his wife but a soldier escorting a far nobler guest. 

When the door opens, the wind cuts colder. Your arms reach for his cloak around your shoulders (he deludes himself into thinking instinctively) and he can see your shoulders tighten when you realize you’re touching the same fur that used to sit atop his shoulders. 

The servants outside the door bow low as he follows you – you, walking ahead, the hem of his cloak dragging behind. 

And it’s almost stupidly, painfully ironic the way he’s always one step behind. 

He’s supposed to be leading you, except it feels like you’re leading him through the silence of a long, lantern-lit corridor of the estate, servants flanking the two of you. Your steps are quiet beneath the heavy drag of his cloak, the fabric pooling around your ankles like an unwanted shadow. As he gently murmurs out the directions, you don’t ask questions. Not about the layout, the history, the route, and definitely not about him. What he’s been doing for the past eight years. The campaigns he’s been on. The thoughts he had. And, fair, he didn’t either. 

And it’s fine. He isn’t in the business of answering questions anymore anyways. 

At last, he stops you before a tall set of polished redwood doors. The servants gently lower their lanterns to light the pathway. The fires burn almost immediately, yellow light glowing from the rice paper panels, soft and warm. It’s a poor imitation of the southern sun but he still slides the doors open for you. 

And your new prison opens itself, wrapped in northern silk, cold to the touch. 

Your room is massive. He made sure to organize it that way. Ordered the servants to clear the west wing for his “future wife’s” use and told them to periodically heat the floors. And now, the air is warm with the heat of the ondol wood. A folding screen carved with cranes and flowering plums separates the main chamber from your sleeping quarters. There’s a plush floor couch against one wall, a lacquered chest near the doors, and an antique writing desk that seungcheol pulled from his stepmother’s old room placed precisely before the wide rice paper windows. In the spring, he hoped you would open the windows to look outside at the gardens. 

Another screen sits folded in the corner – to separate you from guests, should you wish to host any. 

It’s so quiet it unnerves him. You can hear the koi pond outside. Past the sliding doors, a long porch looks out over the private garden – pines and stones and plum trees in early frosty bloom. Snow still clings to the edges of the tiled roof. The moonlight makes the slow fish glow beneath the pond’s still surface. 

Past this hanok, fifteen more wait for you, all of them part of your dowry in name. Seungcheol wonders if it’ll be enough for you. 

He stands beside you in the doorway, arms folded behind his back. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t know what exactly to say. His jaw works slightly, and he catches your eyes when you glance up at him, your eyes just a little wide in surprise. 

He looks back at the room. 

When you still stare up at him, he clears his throat. 

“I’ll have someone sent up to light the braziers near the bath,” he says finally, voice rough. 

You turn to him slowly, expression blank.

“Why? You don’t think I’m capable of lighting a fire myself?” 

He lets the jab pass. Though it hurts that you’d think he thinks of you that low. 

“It’s tradition,” he sighs, “for the steward to tend to the bride’s quarters on the first night.” 

You scoff. “And here I thought we’d forgone any tradition when we legalized the marriage without a proper ceremony.” 

Your words are biting, your expression even more so. But your eyes flicker down with some emotion he can’t properly place: guilt, maybe. Regret. Maybe just anger. At him, the king, the world. You were always hot tempered. 

He steps back but not before muttering, “Didn’t know you wanted a ceremony,” under his breath. 

You catch it, obviously, and it earns him a nasty glare as you slip his cloak off your shoulders. 

“If there’s anything you need-” Seungcheol is cut off when you fold the cloak gently and then shove it into his chest (a little too harshly for comfort). In the lighting, your eyes seem red-rimmed, though he doesn’t know why. 

You avoid his searching gaze. “I’ll be sure to send someone across the courtyard to your wing, Commander,” you respond, turning, letting the cloak go in his hands. Your fingers don’t even graze. 

Seungcheol swallows, rooted in place. “Don’t call me that,” he musters. He wills for you to not see the way his fingers dig into the fabric he’s holding. 

You give him a look, brow raising mid stiff bow. “Call you what? Your title?” You cock your head like he’s a piece of jewelry you’re studying to auction off at one of your father’s summer charity feasts. You give him a smile. “Should we revert back to names, then, Seungcheol? Just like old times?” 

The words hurt more than the way your face drops. 

But his heart thuds in his chest when his name rolls off your tongue. 

He doesn’t know what to say. 

You stare at him for three seconds, no more, before turning back. Half-way back into your room, you stop. 

“Let’s keep us where we are. None of us wants this anyways.” 

And with some cruel finality, you slide the door shut with a loud BANG!

Seungcheol leads himself back to his own wing with a bitter smile, breathing in the still mountain air like it’ll stop his lungs from burning and smoking from the inside.

–

y/n Tuesday lunch. 

Of all the days to see your newly-wedded husband, it’s a fucking Tuesday. Not even a meaningful Tuesday – like the first of the month, or his name day, or some ancestral observance. Just…Tuesday. And not even at an elegant hour like noon, high sun. It’s closer to when the shadows begin to cross the courtyard stones. At fucking 2 PM. Who eats lunch at two in the afternoon? 

And, sure, maybe it’s all your fault for asking, once, days after arriving (“Should I prepare for any shared meals?”), but he had to have known that it was a formality. A formality. As a wedded couple. 

He was silent, the only sound being his pen scratching his papers before he said, “Tuesdays. Lunch.” without even looking you in your eyes. 

You hadn’t meant to ask it that way – like you expected him to allot time away for you. You meant to ask if he was going to be your husband. And if he wasn’t, if he was going to at least pretend to act like one. Or maybe you just wanted to know if he hated you. 

Instead, you got monotone words, a dismissive gaze, and Tuesday lunch. 

You arrive a minute early to the dining hall to find him already seated at the head of the long table on the plush floor couch. His porcelain cup is filled already and there is a slight scent of flowers from the opened wooden panel doors. You can hear the insects chirp and feel the cold air cool the stuffy room, the 2 pm sunlight illuminating the brass plates. 

The table is too long for you to sit at the other end.

At least that should be the case, yet there is a place mat set up at the other end of the table, utensils and porcelain cup set up perfectly. In the middle of the table, there is an arrangement of low flowers and burning incense. 

When Gareum, the maid assigned to you by Seungcheol, slides open the door, you see his hand still from flipping through a stack of scrolls. 

When you step in, he looks up, blinking like he doesn’t know why you’re here until it finally dawns on him like a lightning strike. 

Seungcheol doesn’t speak when you survey the room and dismiss Gareum with a gentle word. You pretend not to care that she doesn’t move from her position until Seungcheol nods, dismissing her after you dismissed her already. She leaves the room in a low bow and a small thud of the wooden doors. 

You swallow, nails digging into your palms. 

The third week and still the estate’s servants were delegating you below them. 

With an incline of his head and a silent gesture for you to sit opposite him, he sets aside the scrolls. 

As if he’s even going to talk to you. 

If anything, he would just brood in silence and then ask an awkward question when the silence gets too tense for him. 

But you sit. 

And when you do, skirts still too thin for the chilly spring air of the north, you want to squeeze your heart until it pops and explodes. Because when you sit across from him, something in you still jolts painfully at the sight of a scar curling along the edge of his jaw, pale even midst the natural pale of his face. And your heart thuds to know that it wasn’t one that was there eight years ago. 

The door slides open. 

Footsteps. 

Servants. 

Clinks as two people set platters of food before the two of you. Your portion is ridiculously too much. And you’re unsure whether to think of it as an insult or something else. 

When Seungcheol dismisses them, you see the hard callouses decorating his palm, the skin around his knuckles slightly bruised. 

You swallow, looking down at the heaping portion of steaming white rice. The grilled fish sitting on the brass plate with its eye staring dead towards the ceiling. 

You have an overwhelming urge to throw your flat chopsticks at him. 

Instead, you bring a hand to your cup, taking a sip of your tea. 

When Seungcheol lifts his chopsticks, the two servants come back in with a soft knock. They bow before kneeling, gently placing steamed tofu and scallion pancakes in front of the two of you. 

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip. 

They’re your favorite. 

And from the way Seungcheol looks mildly guilty and embarrassed, you can tell that he didn’t mean to remember. Or maybe he did and your own eyes are just fucking with you. 

So you don’t ask. 

And you don’t thank him either. 

You just try to convince yourself that this is the least he could do. As your husband. And you stare at your food as Seungcheol eats. 

A beat. 

“Do you think me large? Or malnourished? Underfed?” you suddenly say, head lifting. 

There is a small bubble of pride when Seungcheol chokes on his rice at your words, coughing and spluttering, chopsticks falling to his tray. 

A servant hurriedly brings him water. 

You cock your head, studying his reaction. 

His eyes are wide when he looks up at you, incredulous. “What?” 

You gesture vaguely to the tray set in front of you, pointing at each dish. “This entire tray can feed at least three of your soldiers,” you comment. 

And maybe you’re being unfair. Maybe he just wanted to give you a good lunch. But you’re feeling petty, so you continue on. 

Your arms cross as you sigh. “So?” 

Seungcheol blinks owlishly, lips parting before closing like he’s at a loss for words. His eyes dart to the ceiling like he’s saying a quick prayer before he clears his throat. “Uhm I assure you that your meal is not enough for even one of my soldiers.” 

And then he looks back down at his own food as if ready to eat again after your outburst. 

“Is that supposed to answer my question?” you say, hands folded in your lap again. You don’t know why you’re still talking, especially in front of the servants who are now whispering from behind the sliding doors. 

Seungcheol stifles a sigh. “Y/n, can we just eat?” He looks up at you with tired eyes and you try not to flinch at the way he says your name. “If the portion is too much for you, just eat as much as you can. I promise I didn’t mean anything by it.” 

Any words you were going to say die in your throat. Seungcheol’s words are almost cathartic in the sense that it quells whatever feelings in your brain to almost complete silence. Miffed, you just sniff and pick up your chopsticks.

When you take your first bite of the fish and the rice, along with some marinated herbs, you see Seungcheol visibly relax. Especially when you nod appreciatively. 

By the time the last course is served – persimmon slices dusted with ground pine nuts – the silence has thickened into something unbearable. You chew slowly, carefully, wondering if he’s avoiding your eyes on purpose. He probably is. 

Of course he is.

You watch the way he lifts his cup – steady and slow. The way he doesn’t take a single bite of dessert. The way he glances at the folded screen behind you but never meets your eyes. 

“Don’t pity me,” you say quietly, placing your chopsticks down. 

That gets his attention. But barely. A twitch in his brow. A quick glance at your idle hands. 

“I don’t,” is his response. 

You raise your chin. 

“Then stop treating me like I’m made out of glass. Or regret, guilt, whatever you think I am.” 

He stiffens. The shadows move slowly across the floorboards. Even the servants’ whispers have hushed. 

He opens his mouth to say something. And then closes it. 

“You’re free to explore the estate,” he says instead, eyes flickering over to the opened windows. “Ride the forest path, visit the observatory, walk the garden, whatever you want. My steward will answer anything.” 

You think he means it as kindness. As an offering of sorts, maybe. No, you know he means it nothing as a snipe from the way his fingers drum on the table. 

But it sounds like distance. Like avoidance. 

As: I don’t want to see you.

As: I never wanted this.

As (and this is the scariest out of all of your thoughts and what-ifs): be the ceremonial wife you were meant to be.

So you don’t answer. And you don’t touch the rest of your persimmons. Your small fork stays clean until all the dishes are cleared and the last of the servants leave the dining room. 

You rise to your knees. And then your feet. 

A low bow that makes Seungcheol uncomfortable. You know he sees the deep crescent marks on the backs of your hand and the way you bite the inside of your cheek. 

You don’t even have it in you to say anything as you leave. 

And he doesn’t even stop you. He does watch you, though. You feel it on your spine all the way down the hall. 

–

The west wing is beautiful – too beautiful. Untouched in its purity. It’s made of smooth hinoki wood and warm-toned tatami mats, low sloping rooftops and shaded porches that overlook private gardens. 

Fifteen hanoks. 

All for you. All yours. 

One is a bathing house, another a study, another a small private tea hall with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with a book collection that cannot be Seungcheol’s. Save your personal hanok, the other are so lavishly unused that they feel haunted by the ghosts of Seungcheol’s ancestors. 

Several of them are, ironically, bedrooms. 

If you and Seungcheol were still on the kind of terms you once were, you might’ve joked. About the sheer magnitude of his wedding gift. Of the empty hanoks. 

“Shall I prepare the empty rooms for lover auditions?” 

You would have said it with a smile. And he would have choked on his tea. Maybe said something with a stiff and awkward laugh. Or something stiff and jealous like, “Don’t tempt fate,” or “You think I can share?” 

And for a second, you have an urge to pull that shit again. Now. 

But you can’t. Because that was years ago. 

Now, if you said that, you’re certain he’d just look through you. Maybe blink and walk away. Or worse – he’d go stone cold, distant, detached like how he’s been since you arrived. 

Yuna, your one handmaid you were allowed to bring up from the South, keeps trying to cheer you up, walking beside you with her sleeves tucked into her hanbok skirts. She points out flowers in the gardens that you’ve never seen when the only gardens you cared to walk were in the south. She laughs louder as to force you to also laugh with her and offers you candied chestnuts like it’ll fix the thousand li between your hear tand this cold, dreary place. 

Yuna suddenly clear her throat, stopping. “My lady, you should avoid the east wing,” she says, glancing nervously at the carved wood and stone gate that marks the line between your wing and his. “The Commander’s men are everywhere. If one of them see you–”

You wave her off, stepping over the raised threshold without flinching. “Yuna,” you sigh, straightening you skirts, “what can they even tell me? To not step a foot in my husband’s home?” 

Yuna sighs like she agrees and follows you in, though nervously. “My lady, you know it’s not proper–”

“--Proper,” you interrupt, “has never brought me much peace anyways.” 

Yuna groans, long-suffering, and you’re glad that she isn’t facing you to see that it’s the first thing she does that pulls a real smile out of you. 

The moment you step foot onto the eastern courtyard, the energy shifts. Imperceptibly but still. Servants pause mid-sweep, mid-step, mid-conversation. You hear a tiktiktiiiiiiiiik of a broom falling to the stones placed into the ground. A group of laughing maids suddenly have their laughter stuck mid-throat and their heads drop. 

It’s like walking into sacred ground barefoot and dressed in night silk. 

They look at you like you don’t belong. Like you’ve taken the place of someone more deserving. 

A lone servant drops into an uncertain bow. 

So you ignore them – just like how you have ignored every and all insults thrown your way in the past. 

You step and step and step until you’re toeing off your shoes on the stone block, climbing three short steps to enter the main hall. 

And you come to a realization: the east wing is nothing like the west. 

Ironically (and unbelievably), it’s colder, less used. The smell of dew-crested wood is much more prevalent here, though you think that there are almost three times the number of servants stationed in the east wing than yours. Each wooden floorboard either creaks or bends with your weight and you can almost feel the oozing of generations from the ceiling beams. 

You find the library by accident. 

It’s a low, sprawling structure, half-covered in ivy and pine needles from the outside. The wooden doors are heavy and the sliding and hinging rice-paper windows are pushed open to let in the cool spring air. From the ceiling beams are hanging scent pouches that fill the wide room with the faint scent of lilac and lilies. 

Inside – really inside the library – it’s more austere than yours. There are countless towering shelves of ledgers, war records, tightly bound scrolls. There are books bound in leather and parchment, velvet and cotton, and scrolls sealed with imperial stamps. Right below a portrait of a man (presumably dead now), is an old ceremonial sword, maybe from three generations ago, perhaps used in battle. But you guess it was most likely given as an imperial gift. It rests on its holder, refracting rare beams of sunlight leaking in through the opened doors. 

Yuna worries over your shoulder, peaking every-so-often into the hallway. 

“My lady–” 

“-The halls are empty, Yuna. Come inside,” you sigh, padding over to a bookshelf filled with what looks like textbooks. 

Yuna mutters something to herself before finally following you inside, albeit reluctantly. 

You run your fingers across the spines, scanning the titles. And then you hear it – a dull, rhythmic impact. 

Thump.

Crack.

Pause. 

And then again. 

Your eyebrows scrunch together, scanning the room. 

Nothing. No one – save you and Yuna. 

So you cross to the far end of the room where a window overlooks the lower courtyard. 

And that’s where you see him. 

Seungcheol. 

He’s shirtless and his bare chest, muscles rippling, is slick with sweat. His hair is tied back and when he turns, back towards you, your hand goes to rest on the windowsill at the sight of his God-given back muscles. A blade slashes through the air and then it all comes into focus:

There are more than a thousand of soldiers in formation, slashing and parrying in formation drills across the courtyard. Training yard, probably. 

But his skin is gleaming, steam rising from his body as though even the cold air can’t even quite touch him. Now, he walks between his soldiers – and you try to quell your flushing cheeks at the way his brows furrow, arms cross, and then he says something low and imperceptible to a soldier. He moves like he’s training his half-shirtless men for another war. Like they’re playing with controlled fire, not some wooden sword. 

With each step he takes, it’s like he takes your breath away with him. 

Closer now, you can see his scars, worse than you imagined. 

One new slash marks his ribs, another on his lower back. You can count more than three on just his shoulder alone. The one on his jaw ripples with every clench of that muscle. 

And then he moves to the middle, soldiers parting around him. 

He unsheaths his sword, the metal gleaming in the afternoon light.

With the same sword, he thrusts the point at a soldier standing in the circle, hair pushed back with sweat, cheeks a little red, tan skin shining. 

The same soldier points at himself as if to ask Me?? And then steps forward with Seungcheol’s nod. 

Around him, the soldiers pair off into twos. 

And then he starts. 

A lunge, a parry, a yell in the general direction of his partner’s head, a side-step, and then a jab. 

The soldiers follow in synchrony. It looks more than just a drill – like an advancing force. 

Your hand tightens on the windowsill. 

Chaewon’s words ring in your head: Y/n, they send the Capital soldiers to his winter trainings. Apparently. 

You knew the Capital send their young officers north to train with him. You saw it, even, with the boys choosing the military path in the Imperial Academy being sent off in their final years to the north in your grade. You saw it when you danced before other men in the Capital, hearing complaints of young military officers at imperial feasts about the grueling winter trainings up north. 

You just didn’t realize what it meant. 

What kind of man the boy you had once known had become. 

There’s a small light of pride that flickers in your stomach, even through the pain you had buried it under. 

Your weight is now almost solely on your hands, body leaning out the window, basically. 

Yuna rushes beside you, eyes flickering down at what – or who – you were looking at. 

“My lady!” she gasps, hand lightly hitting your shoulder repeatedly. “We mustn’t! This isn’t-” 

But you barely hear her. 

Because just then, almost in slow motion, you see Seungcheol straighten, bark an order to the side, sheath his sword, and lift his head. 

And like something possesses him, he scans the courtyard before his gaze collides directly with yours. 

He freezes. 

Your eyes widen, body stuck half-outside of the opened window. 

Steam curls off of his shoulders, his chest heaves, and his brows furrow as if trying to decipher whether it is really you. 

You swallow. 

For a breathless moment, he does nothing. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t move. There is a small part of you that curls into yourself with fear – would he yell at you? Lecture you? Scold you for coming into his personal space? But his face twitches in confusion – like he had never expected you to ever be where he was. 

He stares at you like you’ve just walked straight into his pulse and punched his jugular. 

It’s almost cinematic – all the soldiers around him move in fluid precision, sweating bullets even in the chilly weather, yet he stands in the very middle, stock-still, eyes locked on yours. 

When the tan soldier drops his sword mid-parry, the clatter of the wood breaks the focus. 

Seungcheol blinks as if clarity washes over him. And without breaking eye contact, he bows. Not at his waist but with just his head. The same way he does when he passes a court official. 

You don’t know why your heart hurts when he does that. 

Only that it does – painfully. 

That and the fact that you can’t bring yourself to look away. 

When his gaze drops and he turns away, you stumble back from the window with a choked gasp, cheeks hot, breath uneven, fingers clenching the folds of your skirt. 

Stupid. 

Stop reacting like this. 

Why do his eyes still make you feel like you’re the only thing in the room he sees – even when you know he resents having to. Even though you can feel something else in his gaze that’s deeper than just guilt or regret or pity. 

Yuna hovers by the door, nervously glancing back towards the corridor. Her lips are straightened in a tight line as she wrings her hands. 

“My lady…” she trails off, glancing back at the corridor. 

You sigh, waving her off. “Go on,” you murmur, looking outside the window again. Soldiers are now on benches, laughing and playfully hitting each other, drinking water with desperate gulps. “I’ll be fine,” you mumble. 

Yuna gives you one last worried look before she listens to you, slowly padding out of the library backwards, bowing low to you before rushing down the hallway towards your wing. 

You stay. 

The library smells like cedar and ink and dried herbs. The windows still let in the spring air that’s edged with frost. You can still hear the soldiers’ laughter echoing from the courtyard as you run your fingers along the spines of the old textbooks. You drag your fingers along the shelf until you find a stack tucked half behind an old box of correspondences – thick books bound in dark leather. Some of them are cracked with age, the spine creased and bent. 

At the top of the stack is a record of old military formations. The second is a well-annotated copy of The Ethics of War with Seungcheol’s name scrawled in the top corner with his handwriting, strokes long and rushed. The third is a mess of loose sheets tied together with faded twine. Papers jut here and there, and most of them – at second glance, you realize – are half-written letters, receipts, doodles. 

Curious now, you pull one free. It’s a note – scribbled musings – with half-translated proverbs from old philosophy texts and quotes about destiny and desire. 

You go through the whole stack. Skimming through most of them, entirely reading through only a few pages. 

And then you find it. Near the middle – something different. 

It’s different from the rest, torn from what appears to be fine stationery. It’s slightly wrinkled like it had once been stuffed somewhere – like a pocket or a bag. You recognize the script almost instantly – his. His from when he was still nineteen and prideful and confused – maybe. 

The words written on top are what make you stop. 

Dearest Y/n. 

Y/n. 

You. 

It’s addressed to you. 

So you read it. 

Once. 

Twice. 

And then a third time. 

Dearest Yn, I don’t know what to say that won’t sound like pure cowardice, but I keep replaying what I said to you. It’s all I can think of. How you flinched, how I made you cry, how much I regret everything that left my mouth that day.  All I wanted, I think, was to be someone you would like to look at – to be worth something to a soul like you.  I keep hearing your voice when I’m supposed to be studying. Whenever someone says your name in the hallways, I’m turning like they’re calling for me. I see your eyes in my blade and your smile in the morning water. I see you even in my dreams.  And I know this isn’t anything. It’s too late and too much but if I don’t say it somewhere, I’ll forget how it felt to mean it.  Just know this: you are the only thing I ever wanted that didn’t feel like duty – that wasn’t forced onto me.  Yours always.  C.S.C.

Your hands shake and your eyes scan the words over and over again, so desperate to find more than just his words on paper. More than his past-tenses. 

And so you don’t hear him until it’s too late. 

Until he’s already slamming the library doors open, wind and heat following him like a storm. 

Choi Seungcheol – half-dressed, skin flushed and steaming from exertion, eyes sharp – sees you standing in between the shelves with the note in your trembling hands and papers scattered on the wooden floors. 

He sees the note. 

He sees you. 

And he’s across the room in seconds. 

His brows furrow as he snaps, “What the hell are you doing?” 

You swallow, slowly looking up, the half-written letter still between your fingers. “Reading. Obviously.” 

He scoffs. “That’s private.” 

“It has my name on it,” you counter, stepping back when he comes forward. 

He grabs for it but you pull back, just out of reach. It feels weirdly good to taunt him like this. 

“Why didn’t you send it? Because you thought I’d laugh at you?” you ask, voice too calm. 

His jaw ticks. “Give it to me.” He stretches out a hand at you. 

“Why?” you laugh, the paper of the letter crumpling. “You’ve kept it for years. Hidden it like everything else.” 

“Because it’s fucking mine,” he growls, step forward. “And you don’t get to read something just because it has your name on it that I wrote when I was nineteen and pissed off and–” 

“-and in love?” you jab, head tilting up to look at him in the eyes. 

You can see the way that lands like a blow. His mouth snaps shut. 

The silence between you pulses. Outside, the wind rattles in the paper doors. His scent is overwhelming. 

You hold up the letter, leaning back to read it properly. “You are the only thing that I ever wanted that didn’t feel like duty.” Your voice cracks as you laugh softly at the words. “Is that a joke now? Or just a lie?” 

“Don’t do that.” 

“Don’t do what, Seungcheol?” you scoff out. He flinches at the call of his name. “Quote you to yourself? Remind you that for one fucking second, maybe you felt something that was real? Or maybe that whatever you use to excuse yourself from feeling like a human being is leaking onto others?” 

“I said don’t, y/n.” His voice is louder now. Not a yell but it hits like one. His body basically has you trapped between him and the bookshelf behind you. 

So you lean forward, shoving the letter into his chest, hearing the paper crumple. “I never asked for this marriage,” you hiss, eyes sharp. “But I never asked to be treated like a stranger either.” 

He scoffs. “You think this is easy for me?” His laugh is bitter and humorless. “You think I wanted this?” 

“Then why keep that letter? Why write it at all?” 

“Because!” he barks. “‘Because I wanted something that I had no right to want. And I ruined everything.” 

You freeze, hand pressed against his chest through the letter, breath stuck in your throat. 

He breathes heavily, chest rising and falling under your palm like he’s still training. His fists are clenched and one hand rests on yours. 

He looks at you with pained eyes. 

You let out a mirthless laugh. “You still think I’m too good for you,” you whisper. 

He’s quiet. 

You step closer. He flinches. So you take another step. 

“Do you know what’s worse than being called a prize, Seungcheol?” you say, soft and shaking. “Being worshipped and then fucking abandoned. Like you’d rather turn to stone and kill yourself than admit you fucking loved me.” 

Your voice cracks and something flickers in his eyes. Pain maybe. Or regret. 

But he doesn’t reach for you. 

Instead, he gently pries your hand off of the letter, taking it off his chest and shoving it into his pocket, stepping away from you like you burn him. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispers. 

“Why? Do I make you uncomfortable? Full of emotions you can’t name?” 

He opens his mouth like he’s going to respond but then shuts it, turning on his heel and leaving. The door slams shut behind him. 

And you’re left standing pressed against the bookshelf, in the wreckage of words you should never have read and said. And the feeling that maybe he’ll never be brave enough to finish them in front of you. 

--

You’re barefoot. 

Yuna begged you not to wander, but your rooms feel like cages. Gilded cages that are too warm and filled with useless things you feel like you can’t touch. You need air – something you’ve been realizing more and more often as the hours pass by in this godforsaken estate. Silence. A reason to stop thinking. Anything. 

But you didn’t mean to end up in the north wing again. 

And yet…

Choi Seungcheol, in a black robe, hair damp from the storm that passed only minutes ago, stands before you beneath the overhang like something carved out of the dark. 

He hears you. You know he does. 

But when you step closer and closer, socks padding on the wooden floor, he stays silent, facing out towards the bonsai trees that were flung this way and that minutes prior. 

When you get close enough to smell the cologne on him, he sniffs. 

“The west wing not enough for you?” 

His voice is cool, detached. 

Your foot stops mid-air before coming back down. A scoff. 

“I was walking.” 

Seungcheol hums. “You’ve been doing a lot of that.” 

You don’t dignify him with a response. And the space between you two turns thick with rain and unsaid things. 

You sigh. “Why did you keep that letter?” 

He doesn’t answer immediately as his breath catches. Like he didn’t expect you to say what you said. 

“Because it was unfinished,” he mumbles. 

“You could’ve burned it. Or given it to me.” 

“There was no point.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because whatever I felt then, it doesn’t matter anymore.” 

You try your best to hide the way his words hurt. But either way, his words knife down your throat and you can feel traitorous tears well up in your eyes. 

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. 

Stupid for thinking you were over him. Stupid for thinking he wasn’t over you. Stupid for thousands of reasons but the stupidest for gaslighting yourself into believing that him not caring wouldn’t hurt. 

“So that’s it?” you murmur, scoffing. “You hate me.”

That finally gets a reaction out of him. From slightly behind him, you can see the way his jaw tightens, his brows drawing slightly closer. Like you had just slapped him. 

He rises to his feet. 

“You think this is about hate?” 

You bite the inside of your cheek. “You avoid me. You can’t look at me. You act like I’m some weight on your shoulders that you never asked for.” Your voice rises with every word you say. 

“Because you are!” he snaps. Just for a second, his own eyes blow wide at his words as your face twists into aghast. “This marriage wasn’t supposed to happen.” 

The words are sharper than any blade and you flinch at the volume of his voice. You feel the uncomfortable hotness behind your eyes as you try to calm yourself down. 

Your voice breaks before you can harden it again. 

“Then say it,” you whisper. You can’t quite clearly see him now from behind all of your tears that have invaded your space into your eyes. “Fucking say it. Say that you don’t want me here.” 

He looks down at you. Really looks at you – hair damp, robes wrinkled, trembling, tears coating your cheeks, standing barefoot in his world that you had surreptitiously barged in. 

And he says nothing. 

So you scoff, the backs of your hands brushing away the remaining tears from your eyes. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

You turn to leave, shoulders rigid, heart pounding so loud that you can’t hear anything else except for your own loud breaths. 

There’s a sudden tug on your shawl and you come to a stop as you feel a hand wrap around your shoulder. 

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he says, voice low. “You’ll get sick.” 

You wrench free from his grasp, shooting him a glare. “Don’t pretend to care now, Commander.” 

Your title for him is bitterness wrapped in audacity. It’s final and it hangs between you like a slammed door. 

Still, he reaches back for you, fingers grasping your wrist. 

“I never pretended,” he mutters. 

But then he does what he always does. He lets go too fast and step away like the distance could erase what just happened. 

You stand frozen, now facing his chest. 

You see him swallow. 

“Good night,” he says. It’s cold and distant like he can’t bring himself to say anything more. 

And with that, having said his last words, apparently, he walks away. 

You don’t have it in yourself to stop him. 

So, instead, you stare after him, eyes tracing the outline of his back and flowing robes. You stare after him with your heart thudding an irregular rhythm in your throat and your breath locked behind your ribs. 

His good night sounds like good bye. Like he’s reiterating the fact that you feel like he’s already gone. 

Like he wants to forget you ever came and try to convince you that you want the same. 

——

It’s Tuesday. 

The one day he promised. 

A useless little peace offering: a midday meal. To him, something to distract him from the incessant sweat pooling at his back from late-spring training. 

A midday meal. Nothing more. 

But for some reason, you clung to it. 

Stupid, maybe. But in a house built on so-called duty and ghosts of the dead, it was the only thing that felt close enough to a choice. 

So you get ready.

You wear a soft pink hanbok. You pin your hair with the comb your father bought for you in the Capital. The one with the cherry blossoms carved into the bone. You even fucking paint your lips. 

And you sit. 

And you wait. 

The foot comes. Steam curls from brass pots. Dishes lie in symmetry. Your place is set. His is empty. 

The doors stay silent, unmoving. 

Minutes pass. 

Then an hour. 

Yuna keeps glancing at you from the corner she’s standing in. You can feel the pity radiating off of her. 

You opt to say nothing. Just sit silently, staring at his empty seat, hands folded politely in your lap, knees aching from the way you kneel. 

By the second hour, you’re sure the tea has cooled. And you’ve stopped checking the clock. 

By the third, you don’t have enough rage in you to feel an ounce of humiliation. Only cold. Cold from his empty seat, from the opened window, and the long-gone echoing cries of the soldiers. 

Your voice is monotone as you murmur, “Clean it,” to the servants. “Throw it all out.” 

Yuna hesitates from her corner, stepping closer. “My lady, he may still–”

“-he won’t,” you snap, words final and flat. 

You don’t look back to confirm the shuffling of socked feet. Instead, you rise without a word and return to your chambers – a long walk back in the warming weather. 

You pass by soldiers and servants who avoid your gaze like they know something you don’t. Something your own fucking husband won’t tell you. And as your door slams shut behind you, you blink back the tears welling in your eyes. 

And until near midnight, you stay seated on your floor couch, brush firm in your hand and scratchy parchment beneath your palm. 

And then the murmur of low voices. Yuna’s is distinct. Something about you sleeping. 

Heavy footsteps. 

A knock. 

One. 

Two. 

Pause. 

You don’t bother answering. 

It’s him, anyways. 

You don’t move, just continue painting. 

You hear him sigh. 

“It’s me.”

His voice is muffled by the wooden door. 

He says that as if you wouldn’t know it’s him. As if you had anyone else in this godforsaken place who would come visit you at the dead of night. 

So you stay quiet, dotting stars on the parchment. 

“I forgot,” he mutters. 

You slowly turn your head when the door to your bedroom slowly slides open. He’s standing in the threshold, hair damp with sweat and dust marks on his socks. You wonder if he even went inside all day or if he simply buried himself in drills, patrols, punishments, and anything else that let him forget you existed. 

You scoff. “Three hours.” Your voice is quiet. Not angry. Just hollow. 

He looks down at the floor, hands behind his back. “I got pulled into-”

“-don’t give me your bullshit lies,” you snap. 

His head snaps up, eyes wide. Whether at your tone or at the curse word, you’re not too sure. 

You set your brush down. Your sleeves are streaked with ink. So are a couple of your fingers. You stare at your supposed husband like you’re instinctively trying to memorize how disappointment wears on his face. 

You purse your lips. “It wasn’t important to you. Just say that.” 

“It was.” 

You’re so sick of his lies. 

“You didn’t even send a message, Commander.” 

“Don’t call me that,” he mutters. 

You make a face. A laugh, soft and bitter. 

“You always do this,” you say. “You keep me at arm’s length and then expect me to read your fucking mind. As if I haven’t spent years trying to understand you already.” 

“Because it’s better if you don’t,” Seungcheol snaps. “If you knew how much of me is already ruined–” 

“-You’re assuming I don’t?” 

That shuts him up. 

“You think I don’t know what blood smells like, Seungcheol?” his name slips off your tongue by habit. “What men say when they think I can’t hear them? What it’s like to be passed from one noble hour to the next like a prized vase, only to end up in a horribly ironic marriage with a husband who can’t even look me in the eyes for more than three seconds?” 

A flicker of something crosses his face as he swallows hard. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” 

You shrug. “But you did.” 

A beat. 

When he doesn’t say anything, you let another pass. 

“God,” you mumble to yourself, fingers digging into the bridge of your nose. You lift your head back up with a strained smile. “Go,” you say quietly. “Or stay. But stop making me wait for you.” 

You turn back towards your screened window before you can see the guilt that cracks across his face. The way his hands flex like he wants to reach for you. Before you can feel yourself crack under the pressure of everything. Before you do something stupid (because as much as you don’t want to admit it, he looks handsome in the candle-lit lighting of your room. And because as much as you don’t want to tell him, the first thought that shot through your head in the welcome feast was relief – that he was unhurt – and then longing – for the relationship you once had.). 

He doesn’t leave.

You feel his presence — tense, breathing heavy — just behind you. 

One step. 

Two.

You don’t turn around.

“Don’t do this now,” you whisper.

“I missed it because I didn’t want to want it,” he says. The words come out rough. “I thought if I stayed away, it would be easier.”

You close your eyes.

It would be easier, you think, if he hated you. But he doesn’t. And somehow, that hurts more.

You wait for the sound of retreating footsteps.

But instead—you suddenly feel his hand, tentative, at your shoulder, brushing your silk.

It’s quiet. 

Just him behind you, watching as the moonlight pools over your lap like spilled milk. 

And then you hear the faint clink. 

In his hands: a bottle of sake. Not just any sake. The kind from your school days. Expensive, imported. Creamy label, a name you used to murmur like prayer when you'd scrape coins together for one stolen sip.

“I had them bring this up from the cellar,” he says quietly. “Was saving it for something else, but...” He trails off.

Of course he remembers.

You wish he hadn’t.

“Can I take a little of your time?” he asks.

You should say no.

But something in you — pride, ache, hunger — nods instead.

He pours. The sake is clear and cold, almost sharp. The kind that stings before it soothes. You lift the cup to your lips and drink before he even sits.

It burns beautifully.

“I thought I was the one who drank more,” he murmurs, watching you.

You shrug. Your second cup goes down quicker.

“Maybe I’m trying to forget.”

“Forget what?”

“Take your pick,” you say, looking away with a bitter smile. “The marriage I didn’t choose. The home I didn’t want. The husband who didn’t show.”

His shoulders tighten. He doesn’t answer. Just pours again, slower this time. His own cup barely full.

“You’re not drinking,” you say, quieter now.

“I don’t need to,” he says. “You’re right in front of me.”

You blink, cup halfway to your mouth. You don’t know if that’s meant to be sweet or cruel. Or maybe he’s just saying it because he knows you won’t remember it the next day – an excuse to be vulnerable, maybe. With him, it’s always hard to tell.

You drink again.

“Why are you here, Seungcheol?”

Ah, shit. His name again.

“To apologize.”

“You already said that.”

“Not properly.”

You scoff. “There’s a proper way to apologize for abandoning someone at lunch?”

“For abandoning you in general.”

That stops you.

Definitely because you’re drinking. He wouldn’t say that if you were sober.

He’s still looking at you. Not like you’re delicate. Not like you’re distant royalty. But like you’re something he's scared to break by reaching for too soon.

“You’ve changed,” he says.

“Everything has.”

“Not everything.”

“No,” you agree bitterly. “Just me. Just the life I wanted.”

He looks down.

“You’re angry,” he says, not as a question.

“Would you like me to smile instead?” you ask, pouring again. “Would that make it easier?”

He doesn’t flinch. But you can feel the words hitting their mark.

“They all treat me like a relic,” you say. “You. The court. The king. Something precious to be kept quiet and still. I’m a marriage. I’m a treaty. I’m a name on parchment. I’m not a person.”

“You’re a storm,” he says suddenly. “You always have been.”

You freeze. “What?”

He looks you in the eye.

“You talk like you’ve been silenced, but you’ve never been quiet a day in your life. You walk into a room and it stops. You fight for your place. You curse when you’re angry. You drank me under the table when we were nineteen and then beat me in archery the next morning. You laughed like you didn’t care who heard.” He swallows. “You are everything they don’t deserve.”

The silence after is deafening.

You wish you weren’t tipsy. You wish your heart didn’t betray you every time he says something like that.

“Does that statement apply to you too?”

He looks down, fiddling with the cup in his hands. “ I don’t know how to keep something – someone – that good,” he finally says. “Not after what I’ve done. Who I’ve become.”

Your breath catches.

And his eyes — dark and steady — don’t waver.

“I remember you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Before all of this. I remember the way you used to look at me. And I remember how it felt. Like I was worth something.”

Your hand trembles.

The ache in your throat swells until it nearly chokes you.

Because you remember too.

You remember the way you used to light up when he entered a room. How it felt to have your chest flutter just because he smiled. That long-ago version of yourself, soft and untouched, untouched by all of this.

But he doesn’t smile now. He stares like he wants to reach across the table and break every wall you've rebuilt since.

And you let him.

The kiss is hard. Messy. Open-mouthed and breathless and angry.

You taste the apology in his mouth, even though he hasn’t said it. You taste regret and guilt and sake and everything else that’s lingered between you for years.

It’s not a kiss of love.

It’s a kiss of devastation.

You tug him closer, fisting his collar like you're trying to wring the truth from his bones. He exhales roughly, hands braced on your waist, dragging you up and over the table like he can’t stand another second not touching you. The bottle tips, sake spilling, but neither of you care.

The futon behind the screen is a blur.

He lifts you with barely restrained urgency, arms hooked beneath your thighs. Your robe parts. The silk of it pools uselessly at your hips. The lamp flickers low, oil nearly out.

You feel the way he still holds back. His hands tremble just slightly as he kneels above you, letting you down onto your mattress like you’re something sacred.

But you’re not. Not to him. Not anymore.

“You don’t have to pretend,” you murmur bitterly.

“I’m not,” he says. His voice breaks somewhere in the middle. “I just—fuck. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Too late.” You say it too fast, too low.

But he hears it anyway.

And still, when he touches you again — fingers gentle where his mouth was not — you shiver like you want it, like you need it.

And maybe you do.

You part your legs for him. Just a little. Just enough.

His breath stutters, a hand tracing the inside of your thigh like a prayer.

“This isn't...” he begins.

But you shake your head. “Just do it.”

And so he does.

He pushes in slow — slower than his own body wants, slower than what the tension demands — but it's not slow enough.

You silently thank the blown-out candles.

You gasp — no, cry out — the burn tearing through your spine as your body stretches around him for the very first time. Your nails rake across his arms, grabbing at anything, everything, because the pain is white-hot and sudden, like you're being split apart from the inside out.

He freezes immediately.

“Shit,” he breathes, eyes wide, chest heaving. “You're—?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

Your trembling is enough. The way you screw your eyes shut. The way you turn your face into the pillow and try to muffle the sound of yourself.

“You should’ve told me,” he says, pained. Like he just committed some great sin.

“Would it have changed anything?” you bite out.

He doesn’t respond. But his hand cups the back of your neck, forehead pressed to yours like he’s sorry. Like it matters now.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Then move,” you hiss. “Make it count.”

He does.

Slowly, achingly, he rocks into you, each movement a push and pull of pain and something deeper. The burn dulls — slightly — into a throbbing ache, but it's still too much. Not enough. Everything.

You grip at his back, nails leaving red slashes, legs trembling, tears slipping down your cheeks before you can stop them.

And he sees. He feels it.

“I didn’t want this to happen like this,” he breathes.

But you only tighten your grip around him. “It was always going to happen like this.”

Because this isn’t love. Not the kind you dreamed about when you were younger and untouched and full of hope.

This is what it means to break.

And he’s the only one who ever had the power to do it.

He buries his face in your neck, lips pressing there as if to offer something gentler — not with words, but with presence. With skin. With weight. He thrusts deeper, slower, until the sting blends into something else, something that coils in your belly, something warm and unrelenting.

“You’re—fuck,” he gasps. “You’re still so—”

But you kiss him again, cutting him off, refusing to let him say anything that sounds like love.

He picks up the pace, just enough to make you whimper.

He groans into your mouth, the sound torn and guttural, and it makes your stomach twist. His pace picks up—shallow, urgent thrusts now—just enough to make your breath hitch, your thighs tremble, your fingers dig harder into his slick back.

His forehead presses against yours, sweat dripping from his temple as he murmurs your name like he’s praying, like he’s not supposed to say it this softly. Not in the dark, not in this hidden room, not while his hips keep driving into you like he’s trying to lose himself.

“Fuck—I'm close. Where—”

“—Wherever,” you breathe, eyes screwed shut.

And when it happens—when your body clenches around him, the heat of your orgasm cresting so violently that you cry out into his shoulder—he’s not far behind.

A rough moan tears from his throat, deep and raw, and he thrusts in once, twice, then holds you flush against him. He groans your name like a benediction and thrusts through his own release. His entire body shudders above you. You feel it—the exact moment he lets go, when he finally surrenders. His hips press down, burying himself inside you, and then he’s spilling into you with a low, broken sound.

You can feel him pulse deep within—warm and insistent—each wave of his release stretching the moment unbearably tender. His breath catches. His chest heaves.

You cry.

Not just from the overwhelming ache between your thighs, or the heat in your gut, or the soreness that tells you you'll feel him for days.

You cry because everything hurts.

Because his voice shakes as he breathes out your name again, over and over, like he’s clinging to it. To you.

Like he doesn’t want to let go.

And maybe, for the first time, he holds you like it’s allowed to. Even though you both know this won’t fix a thing.

Your thighs still tremble when he pulls out, and you hiss at the sting. The mattress shifts as he leans up, propping himself on an elbow. For a long moment, there’s only the sound of your ragged breathing and the weak flicker of the oil lamp as it sputters near its end.

You push your hair out of your face, damp with sweat. There’s a thickness in your throat that hasn’t gone away. Your hands curl in the sheets when he moves to sit up beside you.

“Don’t,” you say quietly, not looking at him. “You don’t have to.”

Seungcheol doesn’t respond. He shifts anyway, rising to his feet, and you hear the quiet rustle of him pulling his robe back over his bare skin. You sit up slowly, pulling the blanket over yourself with shaking hands. There’s soreness everywhere.

He disappears behind the screen for a second. You think maybe he’s going to leave — maybe it’s easier that way.

But then you hear the sound of water being poured into a basin.

He returns with a damp cloth. Kneels beside you without a word.

You try to flinch away when he touches your inner thigh.

“Don’t,” you repeat, this time sharper. “You don’t owe me anything.”

He still doesn’t speak. He just wipes away the mess between your legs with maddening gentleness — like you might break if he breathes too hard.

You clench your jaw, staring at the ceiling, eyes glassy.

“I can do it,” you murmur.

“Let me,” he says.

And you let him.

When he finishes, he rinses the cloth and sets it aside. Then he stands, but only to turn his back.

“I won’t look,” he says quietly.

You blink at him. “What?”

“You should change.”

You stare at the muscles of his back, the tension in his shoulders. He’s stiff, hands clenched at his sides like he’s still trying to contain himself. Maybe he is.

It takes effort, but you finally rise on wobbly legs and walk behind him. Slowly, awkwardly, you undo the ties of your hanbok and let the silks fall, then pull your nightgown over your head. The fabric scratches against your sore skin.

He doesn’t move until you clear your throat.

“I’m done,” you say.

He turns, steps close again. You think maybe he’s going to say something — maybe now is when he’ll give you some excuse, an explanation, an apology.

But he just guides you back to the bed, quietly tucks the blanket around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your heart stutters when he brushes your hair off your face.

“You can go,” you whisper, not looking at him. “You don’t need to stay.”

“I know,” he says. And sits down beside you anyway, back against the wall, knees up to his chest.

You close your eyes. You don’t want to feel this. You don’t want to want this — the warmth of someone staying. Him staying.

It shouldn’t matter. He made his choice, long ago. He always makes it.

But when your lips part on a tired breath, a single slurred thought escapes, barely audible: “You’ll leave anyway.”

You don’t think he hears you.

But he does.

He doesn’t say anything. Just remains seated beside you, quiet. Present. And when your breathing finally evens out into sleep, he brushes your knuckles once with his thumb.

Just once.

And stays until the lamp goes out.

—

You wake with a jolt.

The cold hits first — the blankets have shifted, and your skin prickles with chill. Then comes the ache. A deep, dull throb between your thighs, spreading through your hips and lower back. You shift slightly and flinch. It's not unbearable, but it’s raw — like you’ve been hollowed out.

The oil lamp is long extinguished. Moonlight filters through the rice paper windows. A breeze slips through the cracks, rustling the outer screens of your hanok.

And he’s gone.

You turn your head, half-expecting his silhouette beside you, maybe curled up at the edge of the mattress or sitting at your writing desk with that furrow in his brow he always wears when thinking too much.

But there's nothing.

Not a fold in the bedding. Not a sound.

Nothing from last night.

You sit up, slowly, hands trembling as you press your palm to the space he once occupied.

Still faintly warm.

You change in silence and sit by your vanity, brushing your hair without looking at your own reflection. Your hands are careful, but you can’t ignore the slight soreness in your body, the reminder of how deeply he’d taken you — the way your first time had been marked by his absence just as much as it had been by his presence.

By the time you make it to breakfast, it’s already closer to noon. The courtyard is quiet. The servants greet you with practiced warmth, but Yuna’s brow furrows when she sees your expression.

“Should I prepare the pavilion for your tea, my lady?” she asks softly.

You nod. “Yes. Thank you.”

Usually, around this time, you can hear Seungcheol. His voice carries through the east wing corridors — low, steady, sharp when he speaks to advisors. Sometimes you can catch pieces of military jargon, strategy talk, the clipped, disciplined edge of a man born for war.

But today — nothing.

No steps. No hushed conversations. No heavy door closing as he disappears into the war room. Not even the sound of him training in the courtyard.

You spend most of the day reading in the pavilion, stretched out on one of the cushioned benches, surrounded by a soft breeze and the sound of koi rippling through the pond. You almost want to fall asleep again, if only to forget the silence.

He doesn’t eat lunch, by the words of the kitchen staff you overheard.

Doesn’t come in by midafternoon.

You pace the veranda once, twice. You debate sending a servant, just to ask where he went — but the thought makes your pride clench like a fist in your chest.

He left. Again. Let him.

So you sit. Wait.

Something you’re getting good at doing, you’ve realized.

Evening comes and passes. The sun dips behind the western hills. Lanterns are lit one by one around the estate. And still, no sign of him.

Until—

Just past the ninth hour, as you’re seated once more in the pavilion with your tea gone cold, you hear the unmistakable sound of hooves on stone.

You don’t turn immediately.

But you hear the main gate — the daemun — creak open. The sounds that follow are quiet but certain: boots hitting the stone walkway, leather and steel rustling as someone passes the perimeter guards.

You lift your gaze.

And there he is.

Seungcheol, returning under the veil of night, half-shadowed by the flickering lanterns lining the eastern wall. His haori is undone at the neck, hair mussed, cheeks wind-bitten pink, dirt smudged along his sleeves, a scroll tucked under one arm, eyes locked forward.

Like nothing happened.

Like he hadn’t been inside you just hours ago.

You watch him pass through the courtyard without even glancing at your direction.

He doesn’t look for you.

Doesn’t even fucking pause.

You wonder if you were just another obligation. Another compromise.

You don’t say a word. Just sip the tea that’s long since gone bitter.

And feel the ache in your chest become worse than the one between your thighs.

: ̗̀➛ of silks and steel

@gyuguys ; @theidontknowmehn ; @gyuhao365 ; @heelariously ; @asyre ; @peachytokki ; @chisskaa ; @vnstennis ; @armycarat2612 ; @living0livia ; @hanniehq ; @minhui896 ; @Syluslittlecrows ; @reiofsuns2001 ; @madywoopz ; @sillygoosegoose ; @idubiluranghae ; @seniorbarbie ; @arshiyuh ; @denimtangerine ; @cherrymoonchild ; @jungkookisthetypeto; @dutchelfandkpoplover ; @nahyuckism ; @so-da-1

[jkwrites-m]

Ghosts Can’t Be Dads

Drabble - Daddy Kookie

Pairing: idol!Jungkook x female reader

Genre: childhood lovers to exes, parents au, idol au, angst,

Word Count: 2k

Summary: One year gone. One love untouched. One heart waiting.

Setting: This drabble takes place 1–1.5 years post-ghosting. Y/N and baby Eun Ae live in America. Jungkook’s in Seoul prepping for BTS’s first mini-tour, unaware he has a daughter.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, angst, childhood lovers, abandonment, young (teenage) pregnancy, single parent, post-break up (ghosting) emotions, anger, depression, heartbreak, yearning, mutual pining, journals, unspoken feelings, grief, self-blame, mention of idol life pressure, some postpartum, references to the emotional cheating, no happy ending (yet obvi)

A/N: here’s a drabble (it was already written, it was originally in a later chapter but i wanted to give this to y’all) bc of all the love i’ve received these last couple days 🫶 srry for it being so sad 😭

Note: regular text is y/n’s pov, bold is jungkook’s (minus titles)

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1 year after ghosting -

I don’t know when the numbness turned to pain.

Maybe it was the morning I found her sock in my hoodie pocket. Pink, small. Barely there. I don’t even know how it got there- maybe she’d tucked her feet into my lap one night, like she always used to, and it slipped off without either of us noticing. I held it for a long time that day. Didn’t cry. Couldn’t. Just stared at it like it might explain something.

It didn’t.

Nothing does.

It’s been over a year since I blocked her. A year since I let fear, shame, and cowardice dictate every decision I made. A year since I let someone else get too close because I thought we could work it out.

It didn’t.

That girl- God, I can’t even remember her name now. She was loud. Pretty. Flirty in a way that made me feel wanted and sick at the same time. I let it happen. Let her talk to me every night after rehearsal. Let her laugh at my jokes, brush my hand with hers. Let her believe I was someone she could keep.

But I was never hers.

Not even for a second.

The messages stopped after a month. I couldn’t do it. Every time I typed something back, I saw Y/N’s face. Her eyes when she was tired. The way she’d curl into me at night, mumbled dreams pressed against my throat.

I never physically cheated.

But emotionally? I was gone long before I disappeared.

And I never apologized.

Not once. Not to her. Not to myself.

There are nights I can’t sleep because I swear I hear her voice in my head. Soft. Hurt. Asking why. I never had an answer. Still don’t. Just excuses and shame.

Tonight’s one of those nights.

So I do what I always do.

I pull out my journal. The one Namjoon gave me. Said it might help me start being honest.

And I write. 

═══════

JOURNAL ENTRY - Jungkook

I still miss her.

I don’t care how much time passes. I don’t care how much I try to fake healing.

I miss her.

I miss her mouth when she argued with me. Her hands when she made tea. The way she said my name like it meant something more.

I wonder if she ever cries over me. I wonder if she tells her friends I died just so she doesn’t have to explain the truth.

I wonder if she moved on.

God, I hope she’s okay.

Even if she hates me.

Even if she never forgives me.

I just hope she’s safe. Loved. Whole.

Because I’m not.

Not even close.

═══════

5 months postpartum -

I promised myself I wouldn’t write to him again.

That I wouldn’t keep a record of a man who abandoned me, who tore something sacred out of me and never once looked back. But some days… some days I still look for his name in my inbox like a fool.

He’s not there.

He hasn’t been there for over a year.

So I write instead.

To no one. To him. To the version of him I loved. To the version that loved me back.

═══════

JOURNAL ENTRY - Y/N

It’s been five months since I gave birth.

Eun Ae is… everything.

She giggles now. Real giggles. Sometimes when I feed her, she stares up at me and makes this face- this exact Jungkook face- and it makes me want to scream and cry all at once. How is it possible that someone so small can carry all of his mannerisms?

She babbles like she’s telling secrets. She sleeps with her hands balled under her chin like he used to. And her hair’s getting long. Thick. Dark.

She’s him.

She’s me.

She’s ours.

And he’ll never know.

Part of me used to hope he’d reach out. That he’d apologize. That I’d open my email one day and see some long, gut-spilling message with the subject line: I’m sorry.

But he didn’t.

So I stopped hoping.

I don’t hate him the way I used to. That’s the worst part. I want to hate him. I deserve to.

But I just… I just feel empty where he used to be.

I wonder what he’s doing. If he thinks of me. If he thinks of the way I used to tuck his hair behind his ears when he was too tired to hold his own head up.

I hate that I still love him.

I love that he gave me her.

I hate that he never gave her him.

═══════

I almost texted her today.

Just to say something.

Anything.

But what do you even say to the woman you abandoned and emotionally cheated on?

“Hey. Sorry I ghosted you. How’s life?”

I close my eyes and think of what she’d look like now.

I think of all the milestones I missed. Her birthday. Holidays. The way she probably learned how to be strong without me.

I wonder what kind of music she plays in the car now.

I wonder if she sings to someone else.

I wonder if she ever lets herself miss me.

═══════

I didn’t mean to get mad.

It wasn’t like he did anything wrong.

He was nice. Polite. He held the door for me during my lunch break and said something like, “You’ve got the kind of smile that makes a man forget what day it is.” I laughed- just out of shock and told him I wasn’t interested.

He backed off right away. Even apologized. And I told him it was fine. That it wasn’t him.

It was me.

I walked back to the break room in a daze, my chest twisting the whole time.

Because for one second- I forgot what it felt like to be wanted.

And the first person who popped into my head?

Him.

Of course it was him.

Jeon fucking Jungkook.

The man who smiled like summer storms. Who used to call me baby with that low, teasing voice like he had a secret. The man who ghosted me, blocked me, replaced me with silence and nothing else. The man who told me I was his everything… and then walked away like I was nothing.

I threw away my lunch. Didn’t eat the rest of the day. Just paced the back room and tried to scrub his name from my brain like it was something you could unlearn.

Later that night, after Eun Ae went to bed, I sat on the floor with my knees pulled to my chest, and I wrote.

═══════

JOURNAL ENTRY - Y/N

A stranger called me beautiful today.

And all I could think was, “You haven’t seen him.”

You haven’t seen the boy who kissed my collarbone like it was a prayer. Who cried into my hair the night he received his trainee contract. Who slept on the floor next to me when I was sick because he didn’t want me to feel alone.

You haven’t seen him.

So don’t tell me I’m beautiful.

Don’t tell me I could have anyone I want.

Because I had him.

And he left.

And I’m still trying to find all the pieces of myself he took with him.

═══════

Later that week, I got a text from a number I hadn’t seen in a year or so.

Hanni: “YO- look who I saw downtown!”

Attached was a blurry photo of a glowing billboard.

“BTS TOUR – SOLD OUT”

His face was massive. Centered. Laughing.

I stared at it for a long time. The way his hair was styled now. How much broader he looked. How bright his smile still was.

He didn’t look like someone who missed me.

Didn’t look like someone who wrote secret journal entries or whispered apologies into empty rooms.

He looked happy.

And for some reason… that hurt more than anything.

I deleted the message.

Didn’t reply. Didn’t cry.

Just stood there, in my kitchen with cold tea and an aching heart, and felt everything settle into something sharp and final.

I didn’t get the happy ending.

I got a baby and a memory.

So that night, I opened my journal again and I wrote the last thing I’d ever write to him.

═══════

JOURNAL ENTRY - Y/N

You’ll never read this.

You’ll never know the weight I carried or the fire I walked through.

But I need to let this go. For real this time.

You don’t get to be her dad. You don’t get to be my past or my future.

You’re just a lesson now.

And I’m done bleeding for it.

So goodbye, Jungkook.

In every way.

I hope you’re okay.

But I hope I never see you again. 

Because I can’t care anymore.

Not for you. Not for us.

Never again.

═══════

I closed the notebook.

Didn’t cry.

Didn’t scream or tear anything up.

I just… sat there.

The silence wrapped around me like static, humming against my skin. The lamp buzzed quietly in the corner. The baby monitor crackled once and went still again.

Eun Ae was asleep.

I should’ve been too. But I couldn’t stop looking at the notebook. Even closed, it felt like it was staring back at me.

Like it knew what I’d done.

That I’d buried him. That I’d stopped waiting. That I’d chosen to live.

And maybe that was supposed to feel empowering.

But all it felt like was grief.

A different kind of grief.

The kind where no one sends flowers. No one holds your hand. No one says, “I’m sorry you lost the love of your life while he was still alive.” No one says that.

But it’s true.

I brushed my fingers across the cover. Just once. Just enough.

And then I got up. Walked to the kitchen. Poured myself a glass of water. Sat on the floor with my back against the cabinet and stared at nothing.

My heart didn’t hurt like it used to. It didn’t ache and break and twist.

It just felt… hollow.

Like a house someone moved out of. Like something echoing.

And somewhere, in the dark part of me that still dared to believe in things- I hoped he was listening.

That he could feel it. That he’d missed me too.

But wishing only ever left bruises.

So I stopped.

And I sat.

And I let it be quiet.

Because there’s nothing left to say when someone doesn’t come back.

Not even goodbye.

═══════

I stare at my phone long after the screen goes black.

Not because I’m waiting for it to light up.

Not because I think she’ll reach out first.

Just because it’s the closest thing I have to her now.

This screen.

This silence.

This stupid rectangle that held everything once—her name, her voice, her heart.

Now it’s just… blank.

And so am I.

I’ve drafted messages. So many.

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay?”

“I miss you.”

Dozens. Hundreds.

Some that rambled.

Some that said nothing at all.

But I never hit send.

Because how do you apologize for disappearing?

For ghosting someone who would’ve walked through fire for you?

How do you explain that you let go, not because you stopped loving them, but because you didn’t know how to hold on while your world was spinning too fast?

You don’t.

You just… don’t.

I’m never going to reach out.Not because I don’t want to.

God, I want to.

But I don’t deserve her anymore.

I let fear decide.

And I waited too long.

And whatever we had? Whatever I shattered between the silence and the selfishness?

It’s gone now.

I closed my own door and now I have to live on the other side of it.

But every time I scroll too far and see a photo from then- 

Us.

Young.

Laughing.

Undone by nothing and everything- it kills me all over again.

Because no matter how much I try to convince myself that time heals, or that we both moved on, or that she’s better off- 

The truth is simple.

I still love her.

I think I always will.

But I hope she’s happy.

Wherever she is.

And I hope she doesn’t look back because I’d never forgive myself for pulling her under again.

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♡ requests are welcome ♡ taglist ♡

These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

═══════

Posted: 07/31/2025

Taglist: @mar-lo-pap @lovingkoalaface @whoa-jo @kiliskywalker666 @sucker4jeon @annpeachy-blog @kaiparkerwifes @nikkinikj @asyr97 @jjkluver7 @bammbi-jeon127 @kookoo-kachoo @angelsdecalcomania @kayswatanabe @kelsyx33 @tatamicc @llallaaa @chromietriestowrite @k1ll1ngcl0wns @jahnaviii @mfsitscho @traumaanatomy @yu-justme @bangtaniess @roseda @hottigerboba @xumyboo @bangtansfav-7 @ggukieskookie @granataepfelchen @blubird592 @mellyyyyyyx @gukkiemybaby @likeesapphire @magicalnachocreator @suker4angst @taetaecatboy @somehowukook @busanbby-jjk @ecomidnight @cuntessaiii @jungshaking @nbjch05 @baechugff @jakiki94 @songbyeonkim @xmiaacxio @smoljimjim @welcometomyworld13 @marihoneywk @fiddlebiddls @battlingmyowndemons @rinkud @withluvjm

[nimueshell]

Hiii Nimue can I request for husband sukuna killing a guy because he was perving on us at the beach bc we love a crazy man☺️

ooooo, I love how you think. Lemme write up a quick little drabble for you my lil demon.

Substance: violence, blood mentioned, mentions of sukuna's double dicks, sukuna loves his wife, reader is over his shit

The sun was merciless that afternoon, a molten disc hanging high above the shoreline, its glare bouncing off the glittering surface of the ocean. The waves rolled in slow and steady, hissing softly as they curled over the sand, the air thick with the sharp scent of salt and sunscreen.

Children shrieked in the distance as they darted in and out of the water, their laughter cutting through the steady hum of seagulls. Yet all of it felt muffled from where you sat, the whole world shrinking down to the chair beside yours and the man who occupied it.

Sukuna leaned back in his seat like a king watching over his domain, every line of his body coiled with authority. His chest was bare, the sun glinting off the black tattoos that twisted and curled over his skin, making them look like they were alive.

His swim shorts were black, simple but stretched tight across his thick thighs, a careless contrast to the intensity that simmered in his face. His eyes, blood-red and gleaming even brighter under the sunlight, carried the kind of sharpness that made it hard to breathe if you were the one caught in their path.

You tugged lightly at the strap of your red bikini, a shade that matched his eyes almost perfectly. The fabric hugged you like a second skin, smooth and scarlet against your pale shoulders, the sun catching the sheen of the sunscreen that lingered across your curves.

He had been the one to pick it out, muttering something about how no other color suited you, and the way he had looked at you when you’d tried it on had made it clear you weren’t meant to argue.

It wasn’t until you bent forward to shake the sand from your towel that you felt it, that prickling sense of being watched. The gaze was heavy, blatant, lingering far too long on the swell of your breasts and the curve of your hips. You didn’t need to look to know exactly where it was coming from.

Sukuna’s chair creaked under the sudden shift of his weight. He leaned forward slowly, forearms resting against his knees, his chest rising and falling in steady, controlled breaths that did nothing to soften the tension in his jaw. The tattoos across his chest seemed to ripple with each inhale, as though his rage lived within them, ready to be unleashed.

“You see him, don’t you,” he said at last, his voice low and dangerous, every word vibrating with restrained fury.

The man a few feet away hadn’t even bothered to look away yet, oblivious or perhaps too stupid to realize he was staring into the territory of someone who would carve him into the sand without hesitation.

And as the salt-heavy breeze tugged strands of hair against your face, you knew there was no question of if Sukuna would act, only when.

The salty wind tugged at your hair as you leaned over in your chair, brushing your lips softly against Sukuna’s cheek. The warmth of his skin was like holding your hand too close to a flame, dangerous but intoxicating, and you whispered a quiet plea in his ear.

“Baby, don’t. Just ignore him.”

Your hand rested on his chest, your fingers brushing over the black tattoos that rippled faintly under his steady breathing. You kissed him again, just under his jaw this time, hoping to pull his gaze back to you. But his blood-red eyes had already gone razor-sharp, fixed on the bastard across the sand who was still staring at your breasts like he had a death wish.

“Too late for that,” Sukuna muttered, his voice like gravel.

Before you could say another word, he was already up, the chair groaning as it flipped back from the force of his movement. Sand kicked up in his wake as he strode across the beach, and your heart sank as you watched him close the distance. The man barely had a second to flinch before Sukuna’s hand clamped onto the front of his shirt, dragging him from the chair like a ragdoll.

You let out a long sigh, settling back against your towel as the first scream split through the warm summer air. The sound didn’t even make Sukuna pause.

“You like staring at my wife’s tits, huh?” Sukuna snarled, his voice carrying easily over the crashing waves. The man choked out a panicked plea, but Sukuna’s words cut through it, low and vicious. “Thought you could sit there and drool like a mutt? I’ll show you what happens to dogs without leashes.”

The thud of flesh meeting flesh echoed across the sand. Sukuna’s fist slammed into the man’s ribs with a crack, followed by another scream, then another punch, until the sound was less human and more a wet, broken sob. He threw him down into the sand, straddling him like prey beneath a predator.

Fingers dug into the man’s chest and ripped, the sound of tearing muscle mingling with the gulls overhead. Blood sprayed hot against the beach, staining the golden grains dark red.

Sukuna’s laugh was low, menacing, as he stomped down hard, the crunch of bone under his heel sharp and final. The head caved in with a sickening noise, the body twitching before falling still.

When he finally stalked back toward you, his torso splattered with blood, he looked more alive than he had all day. His tattoos gleamed under the mess, his smile sharp, dangerous, and almost satisfied.

You tilted your head, unbothered by the carnage, though your tone carried more exasperation than shock. “Did you really have to do that?”

Sukuna shrugged like you’d asked if he wanted another drink. “Needed a swim anyway.”

And before you could protest, his massive hand slid across the curve of your ass, squeezing possessively as he hauled you up and over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. Your squeal was muffled by the firm smack of his palm against your bikini-clad skin as he carried you straight toward the waves, his laughter mixing with the crash of the tide as though this was all part of the afternoon plan.

The waves were cooler the deeper Sukuna waded, the water slapping against his thighs before it crept higher, finally brushing his waist.

Salt clung to your skin, the breeze sticking your hair to your damp shoulders, but you didn’t even flinch when his palm smacked your ass again. You were used to this. Used to the screaming. Used to the way people scattered like flies when Sukuna’s temper snapped. It was just… Tuesday.

You shifted against him until he loosened his grip enough for you to wrap your legs snugly around his waist. The ocean rocked around you both, the current tugging lightly as if daring you to let go.

You rested your chin against his inked shoulder, glaring at him even as your fingers moved to smear seawater across the streaks of blood splattered on his chest.

“You know you can’t just rip open every guy that looks at me,” you nagged, your voice steady despite the warmth of your thighs pressed to his hips.

Sukuna tilted his head back, red eyes narrowing with exaggerated patience. “Sure I can. Might cook him up for dinner later. See if you taste better after.”

You gagged audibly, pulling back just enough to scowl at him. “That’s disgusting.”

He rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Relax. I’m joking. Mostly.”

You groaned, dragging your wet palm across the slope of his chest, washing away blood with the brine of the sea. The ink etched across his skin glistened, the tattoos flexing as his muscles shifted beneath your touch.

He watched you intently, his gaze heavy enough to make your stomach twist, until he leaned forward and caught your lips in a kiss. The taste of salt mixed with something darker, and his hum of satisfaction rumbled against your mouth.

When he pulled back, his voice was low, husky, almost smug. “You know, the blood got me a little turned on.”

Your eyes dropped instinctively, and sure enough, not one but two distinct bulges pressed against the fabric of his swim trunks, thick and impossible to ignore with your legs wrapped so tightly around him.

You groaned again, this time with a laugh, shaking your head. “You’re so fucking weird.”

Sukuna smirked, squeezing the underside of your ass with both hands as the waves lapped higher around you. “Yeah, but you love it. And you’re stuck with me.”

The ocean roared behind him, but the real storm was in his eyes, and you knew damn well there was no escaping either.

[stargazedwinchester]

sam post shower teasing reader if he should cut off his beard completely or not bc dean's been bothering him about it. but he's in a towel. and taunting basically. ( yes, it's supposed to be a request, not just a dream 🤭 )

༝༚༝༚ wendichester 🩷

ִ ࣪𖤐◞ ꙳ ๋࣭ ⭑ `keep the beard, lose the towel, sam winchester ༘♡

summary: dean has been bothering sam about his beard. he takes your opinion into consideration, although you would agree to anything he says since he's shirtless. and in a towel. word count: 500 pairing: sam winchester x reader girl are u trying to kill me 😵 (yes i had to include 2 pics of him sue me)

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

The sound of the bathroom door creaks open just as you were flipping through your book on the couch. You don’t look up. You don’t need to.

You know that sound. The quiet pad of bare feet on tile, the way the steam always lingers around the hallway like some dramatic intro. You know exactly who is standing there.

“So,” Sam’s voice echoes from the hallway into your bedroom. “Be honest. Beard or no beard?”

You finally glance up, and your eyes accidentally land on his bare chest. It glistens from the dampness of the shower, his hair pushed back and curling near his ears. His shoulders shine and the towel slings low on his hips like it belongs there. His hands are gripping the top of the doorframe, stretching just enough to show off every muscle he has no business showing off so casually.

“Dean says I look like a lumberjack who forgot how to shave.”

Your mouth opens, then shuts. Then opens again.

“Sam…” You gape, no words slipping out. He smirks. “I’ll take that as ‘keep it.’”

You set your book down on the bed, praying your voice doesn’t come out too strangled. “We’re really having this conversation now?”

“Why not now?”

“You’re in a towel, Sam. You’re baiting me.”

His grin widens, maddening and cocky. “You haven’t answered the question.”

You nod, tilting your head and narrowing your eyes at him. “If this is going to be a discussion about your beard, maybe put on pants first.”

“But that would ruin the effect.”

“Exactly.”

He stands in front of you now, leaning down where he’s close enough that the scent of his soap wraps around you. The kind of smell that makes you want to bury yourself in his chest and never come up for air.

You stare at him, your heart thudding like a warning bell. You lift your hand before your brain can stop you, brushing your fingertips lightly along his jaw. The hair is soft but coarse. He doesn’t flinch, just lets you touch him.

“I like it,” you whisper, “it suits you.”

Sam chuckles, low and pleased. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

You start to pull your hand back, but he catches your wrist gently, holding it between you. Something shifts in his expression, the smugness melts just a little. Something almost reverent.

Then he steps even closer, and your breath hitches. The warmth of him, the scent, the towel—God help you, the towel—it’s all too much.

“I think I’ll keep the beard then,” he says. “If it gets reactions like this.”

“Reactions like what?”

“Like the one where you’re about to spontaneously combust on your bedroom floor.”

You shove him lightly, face hot. “You’re unbearable.”

“Only when I’m winning.”

“And what exactly do you think you’re winning?”

He leans in just a little more. Just enough to graze the tip of his nose against yours.

“Your attention,” he whispers.

You swallow. Hard.

“Well,” you breathe, “mission accomplished, towel boy.”

[gigiii1sblog]

I LOVE YOU, IM SORRY 013

Chapter thirteen: Lacy.

warning: fluff, angst, sexual content, and more that I don't condone.

Y/N: FIVE WEEKS LATER

It started small, like most things that break your heart do.

A missed call here. A late reply there. The way Matt started turning his head instead of turning toward me. How he’d stay behind after filming or say he was too tired to come over, even though he used to fall asleep with his face buried in my neck like I was the only place he could actually rest.

I didn’t say anything at first.

Not when he forgot to text me goodnight.

Not when he stopped posting me.

Not even when he bailed on helping me pick out my tattoo design, something we used to talk about like it was a future we both believed in.

So, I got it without him.

It’s small. Under my rib. Quiet and sharp and mine.

The artist asked me if I was okay when I flinched. I smiled and said, “Yeah. Just tired.”

I’ve been saying that a lot lately. It’s easier than saying I’m unraveling.

I thought he was forever.

But now?

Now I’m not even sure he knows what my laugh sounds like when it’s real. When I’m not performing happy just to avoid scaring him off.

There’s a kind of silence that doesn’t feel peaceful.

It’s loud. It echoes. It scratches against your ribs and asks, What did I do wrong?

That’s what it became between us.

He still kissed me. Still texted “miss u” with a little heart.

But it felt like muscle memory. Like someone remembering how to love you instead of actually loving you.

I started pulling back, too. Not because I stopped caring, but because it was starting to feel like I was begging someone to choose me. Like I was holding onto a version of him that didn’t even live in him anymore.

And the worst part?

I still loved him through it.

Nick and Chris… they noticed.

Nick texted me a few nights ago:

NICK 🧸: u been quiet

NICK 🧸: did my brother piss u off lol bc i’ll fight him rn

NICK 🧸: (but also ily so say smth)

And then Chris, out of nowhere. He barely texts me, or anyone really.

CHRIS🕺: i saw the tat

CHRIS🕺: looks good

CHRIS🕺: matt’s stupid if he doesn’t see how lucky he is

CHRIS: u ok?

I stared at that one for a while.

Felt something sharp twist in my chest.

All I typed back was:

yeah. just tired.

Because it’s easier than saying:

“I miss him and he’s still mine, but I feel more alone than I ever have.”

“I threw him a party he doesn’t even remember.”

“And I think I’m starting to realize… maybe we’re already over. He just hasn’t said it out loud yet.”

MATT:

I didn’t mean to go looking.

I was just scrolling. Late. Couldn’t sleep. The house was too quiet, my room too still, and I kept checking my phone like something would change. Like she’d text me first. Like things would magically go back to how they used to be.

They didn’t.

And there she was.

Not a full picture. Not even her face. Just… skin. Her skin.

A sliver of her ribcage, the softest curve of her waist, and that tattoo. Black, delicate, new.

I felt it immediately, that punch to the chest.

Because I knew exactly what it was.

She’d talked about it for months. If it would hurt. If I’d come with her.

If I’d kiss it when it healed.

I said yeah. Said she’d look hot no matter what. But I didn’t follow through. I didn’t ask when she booked the appointment. I didn’t show up.

And now she had it.

She did it without me.

For herself.

I didn’t even know she went. Didn’t even know it happened until the rest of the world did.

And the worst part?

She looked good.

She looked like she wasn’t waiting on me anymore.

That’s when it hit me: she’s slipping.

And I’m the reason.

I stared at that photo for a long time. Longer than I should’ve.

My chest felt tight, like I’d swallowed something sharp.

There was a time when I knew everything about her, what time she fell asleep, which hoodie she’d steal next, the stupid way she danced when no one was watching.

And now I was learning about her from Instagram stories.

Like everyone else.

⸻

The DM came the next morning.

I was brushing my teeth, barely awake, when my phone buzzed. I glanced over, expecting a group chat or a mention.

Her name hit me like a punch.

The girl from the party.

I just stared for a second. My stomach dropped before I even opened it.

Hey matt, not sure if you remember me but I think we should talk.

My mouth went dry.

The toothbrush fell into the sink.

My brain went completely blank.

I read it again and again, but it didn’t help.

I couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

Couldn’t move.

And the only thing going through my head, louder than the panic, louder than the guilt, was this:

Y/N is going to hate me.

And I don’t blame her.

Y/N:

I always thought my ending would be Matt and me.

Not perfect, but permanent.

I thought we’d be each other’s home.

So when he asked, “Can we talk?” I knew.

He didn’t say it with fear. He said it with finality. Like he already knew what he was about to do would wreck me. Like it was the only option left.

My chest tightened instantly. I nodded, but the panic inside me screamed to run, to escape, to pretend none of this was real.

I followed him upstairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. The house around us was silent, but inside my head, the noise was deafening.

When he closed the door behind us, the world shrank to that room. His eyes avoided mine like they couldn’t face the damage he was about to do.

“I have to tell you something,” he said, voice breaking.

My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I thought it might stop.

Then he said the words that shattered everything.

“I love you. I’m sorry but I- .”

Those words landed like a knife twisting deep in my chest.

Before I could catch my breath, he looked at me, raw, broken, and said it.

“I cheated on you.”

The word hung between us, heavy and unforgiving.

“I had sex with a girl at the-,” he whispered, voice cracked with shame.

“At the party…”

The pain exploded inside me, sharp and cold and fierce.

My chest felt like it was splitting open, like something inside me was ripping apart and no part of me could breathe.

That party, the one I spent weeks planning, every detail picked for him.

The music we danced to, the cake I ordered just right, the people I invited to celebrate him and his brothers.

And he was somewhere else, with someone else.

“Why?” I managed to choke out.

“Why did you do it? Was I not enough? Did you not love me enough after these years?”

He swallowed, voice barely a whisper.

“I was drunk. It didn’t mean anything.”

But it did.

God, it did.

“It means everything to me,” I screamed, tears burning hot down my cheeks.

“It means something, to me.”

My whole body trembled with rage and heartbreak.

It felt like my chest was collapsing inward, squeezing the air from my lungs.

Every breath was sharp, every heartbeat a stab.

“I don’t deserve this,” I said, voice breaking.

“I deserve someone who loves me, who looks at me like I’m the only thing that matters.”

I needed to know. To understand the part of him I didn’t know existed.

“What is she like?” I demanded, voice trembling but fierce.

“Is she younger? Prettier? Skinnier? Smarter? Tell me.”

“FUCKING TELL ME.”

His eyes dropped to the floor.

“You guys kinda look alike,” he muttered.

My heart shattered all over again.

“Then why?” I whispered, voice raw and cracked.

“Why couldn’t it just be me?”

He said nothing.

I wanted to throw up.

“Did she laugh like I do?

Did she make you feel like I did?

Did she look at you the way I thought only I could?”

I was shaking so badly I could barely stand.

I turned to leave, desperate to escape the burning ache.

But just before I reached the door, he said it.

“She’s pregnant.”

Time stopped.

The room tilted.

My breath caught in my throat, heavy and broken.

I turned slowly, eyes wide and uncomprehending.

“What?”

“She messaged me,” he said, voice barely there.

“It’s been five weeks. She thinks she’s pregnant.”

The air became thick and heavy, pressing down on my chest until I felt like I couldn’t move.

The sharp pain inside my ribs spread, hot and dull all at once, like my heart was bruised and broken.

“no.. no, I- ,” I whispered, voice cracked.

He stepped forward, but I recoiled, afraid to let him touch the pieces of me he already shattered.

“Don’t,” I said, trembling. “Don’t try to make this better.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You never do,” I cut him off, tears streaming down my face.

“You say sorry, but your actions say otherwise.

You gave yourself to someone else, while I was right here, loving you with everything I fucking had.”

He opened his mouth, like he wanted to say something else, but the words caught in his throat.

I felt myself breaking, sobs wracking my body, deep and raw and ugly.

“I thought I you truly loved me.”

He looked so broken. So lost.

But it was too late.

I swallowed the last of my pain and said, cold and bitter:

“Congratulations on your baby.”

And then I left.

I didn’t remember walking out the door.

I didn’t remember picking up my keys.

Or sliding my shoes on.

Or saying goodbye to the life I thought I had.

But somehow I was in the car.

Somehow the engine was running.

And the streetlights were flickering past the windows like I wasn’t even real anymore.

My hands were gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles ached.

I didn’t know where I was going.

I just knew I couldn’t stay.

Not after that.

Not after the words that split my ribs open like they were made of paper.

“She’s pregnant.”

I blinked.

Hard.

But it didn’t help.

The tears were still coming, hot and quiet, sliding down my cheeks with nowhere to go. I didn’t sob. I didn’t scream. I didn’t even breathe right.

I just cried the kind of tears that come from deep inside, where the love used to live.

My phone lit up beside me.

Nick 🧸: IMessage 💬

Chris 🕺: IMessage 💬

I didn’t open them.

I couldn’t.

Not yet.

I turned onto the street with the long trees that used to look pretty in the fall. They were blurred now. Like everything else.

And I kept hearing my own voice, back in that room, trembling:

“I deserve someone who loves me, who looks at me like I’m the only thing that matters.”

I meant it when I said that.

Every word.

Because that wasn’t just a party. It was love. It was my heart on display. It was balloons and stupid matching cake toppers and a playlist full of songs I knew he liked even if he never said it. It was home.

And he burned it.

He burned it while I was laughing and dancing and loving him with everything I had.

I always thought it would be us.

Matt and me.

And a little version of us, with his eyes and my nose.

A white dress with a long train. A quiet home. A messy kitchen. A yard full of sunflowers.

Cats. Dogs.

A life.

We’d get old.

We’d be buried next to each other.

I thought that was love.

I thought he was love.

But now?

Now he’s just a scar I’m going to have to carry for the rest of my life.

And the worst part?

I still love him.

I still fucking love him. Even though I know he never really loved me right. Even though he let someone else touch him. Even though he made a baby with a stranger while I was planning forever.

I pressed harder on the gas.

The road blurred.

The world blurred.

And I kept driving.

Because I didn’t know what else to do.

Because going back would kill me.

And maybe driving away is the only way I’ll ever survive this.

⸻

I didn’t even lock the door behind me.

I just walked in.

And stood there.

Still.

Numb.

My fingers twitching at my sides like they didn’t belong to me.

My apartment smelled like lavender and vanilla. Like comfort. Like peace. Like him.

His cologne still clung to the sweater he left on the hook.

His name still sat in my phone like it meant something.

And his face…

His face was everywhere.

I stared at the first photo.

The one by the mirror.

It was us, smiling.

Me in his hoodie. Him in my arms. That night we danced in the kitchen, barefoot and half-drunk on laughter.

I remember thinking, this is it.

I remember whispering to myself, you’re safe now.

I didn’t think.

I just ripped it down.

The frame cracked against the floor.

My breathing turned sharp, wild.

Like I was drowning in the air.

Another photo came down. Then another.

The one in the hallway.

The polaroid on the fridge.

The ticket stub in the shadowbox frame he made me on our first anniversary.

I tore them down like they’d betrayed me.

Because maybe they had.

The dried flowers on the wall, baby’s breath, roses, yellow sunflowers he picked from a gas station once, I yanked them out by the twine.

I crushed them in my hands.

Petals flaked to the ground like ash.

The glass vase.

The one he brought me after I got my internship.

It was cracked already. From a drop months ago.

But this time I threw it.

It shattered into a hundred little pieces across the kitchen floor.

Then came the stuffed animals.

The bear he won me at the boardwalk.

The dinosaur I held when he was gone.

They all went flying.

Like they didn’t mean a damn thing.

Like he didn’t mean a damn thing.

And I dropped to my knees in the middle of it all.

A mess of glass and fabric and dust and memories.

And I screamed.

I screamed so hard my throat tore.

I screamed like the sound could reach him.

Like it could hurt the way he hurt me.

Then I cried.

Not soft. Not gentle.

I cried like my ribs couldn’t hold the pain inside.

I cried like my heart had finally figured out it was broken.

Like the love I gave him was leaking out of me with every tear and I couldn’t stop it no matter how hard I tried.

“I didn’t deserve this,” I whispered through the sobs.

“I gave you everything.”

“I loved you.”

“Why wasn’t that enough?”

I curled up in the wreckage.

Cold. Shaking.

And alone.

And I stayed there.

Because I didn’t know what to do next.

Because no one teaches you what to do when your forever becomes someone else’s mistake.

sorry to drop the bomb like that on you guys… I’ll definitely do a bit more chapter before this comes to an end.. I want to get more into the angst on the heartbreak.

𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶����𝘁ੈ❀

@izzylovesmatt @riggysworld @amiraisafreakokaysorry @ansteeze @pair-of-pantaloons @kitty-meow-meow44 @sturnslux3

@kalel2005 @sarahsturnn

@teheabrams @prettypriscilla

@my-world-is-poetry @sturniszn

@slutforchrissturniolo2

@alinagrace11 @beardedbernard

@matthewswifeyy @blindedheartp

@chrissfavoritecherry

@jaybirdie34

@courta13 @chriss-slutt

@chrissturniolobendmeovernow

@norahsturns. @chrattstromboli

@iluvchr1s @japblogs @akalizzygrantxo @sturniolobananas1 @franficc @oopsiedaisydeer @wesj11

[tittyinfinity]

No seroquel means no sleep for me I guess. I've been trying for hours

[shabadarada]

This is why I need to get outta my main account I'm intimidated by a lot of things near it

[helianskies]

underwhelming results day.

not because of my results. im very happy with my exam results. but no one else is in a celebratory mood so it's just me and a glass of wine sitting in the garden while everyone else. idk. stresses or whatever

[talaok]

Give up

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader

Summary: Once again you've found an excuse to invite your neighbor over, except for once you might be able to make him look past your age difference and have a little fun.

Warnings: big ass unspecified age gap, Jackson!Joel is a softie and he's nervous and he's not so very sure about this bc of how old he is + he's out of practice. smut| oral (m and f receiving) and swallowing you know what. sub!Joel vibez all around

Pt. 2 - Pt. 3

This wasn't anything new.

The fact that he was coming over wasn't at all surprising to either of you.

You always found a way to be around him, and no matter how he ignored your every attempt at flirting- he never said no.

It had taken all of two minutes.

You'd knocked on his door, your best little skirt and tight little top on, and faked a pout as you told him:

"There's something wrong with the shower again Mr. Miller"

To his defense, Joel really tried not to stare at your ass as you walked right in front of him to guide him to your house, but that fucking skirt seemed more of a joke than anything.

You both knew there was nothing wrong with your shower, the switch that granted the hot water had just mysteriously turned itself off once again.

This had been going on for months now, since he first arrived in Jackson... since you knocked at his door that one chilly morning to introduce yourself to your new neighbor-

All it took was one look, and you were hooked.

He was gonna be yours.

"there- 's hot" he nodded, shutting the water off once he'd made sure it worked properly again, before drying his hands on his pants.

"thank you so much Joel" you smiled wider than necessary "What can I do to thank you?"

And no, you didn't even try to make your words not sound dirty, quite the opposite actually.

He cleared his throat, his eyes breaking from yours in a nervous shift.

You always did that- had this annoying effect on him.

"'s nothing darlin'" he shook his head, "didn't even take five minutes"

"Still- I feel like I owe you," you said, biting down a smirk

Shitshitshit

"How 'bout some cake?" you suggested just as he was about to have a stroke.

"sounds good"

__ __ __

"'s real good darlin'"

"thank you" you smiled happily, watching him clear his plate in under a minute

Yeah... you were a great baker, what can I say

"you want another slice?"

"You spoil me sugar," he laughed, patting his belly "I can't"

"alright" You couldn't help but softly laugh as you placed his plate in the sink.

You caught him looking away just as you turned around, which made you smile to yourself, a smile that only widened when you noticed the chocolate on the corner of his mouth.

"Oh Joel"

"Mh?"

You sat beside him at the table, your legs brushing against one another as you leaned closer.

"You've got something... right here"

You swiped the chocolate off with your pointer finger, making a show of popping it into your mouth to clean it.

His eyes remained transfixed on you as your tongue licked your digit clean until you were finally done with a loud pop.

"Jesus"

"What?" you smirked, knowing exactly what  "that gave you some ideas?"

"babygirl-" he stopped you immediately, shaking his head

"Oh c'mon Joel" you pouted, your hand going to rest on his forearm "What's a girl gotta do to get you to give up?"

He blinked, looking at you intently and nervously altogether.

"Why do ya even care about an old man like me sweetie?"

You couldn't help but laugh "Have you ever looked in a mirror, Joel?"

You swore you saw pink flood his cheeks- the man was blushing.

"Plus you're kind... and funny when you want to.... and you make me feel-" you bit your lip, trying to find the right word "safe... you make me feel safe"

He scratched his beard, but you couldn't help but notice he hadn't used the arm your hand was still on.

"'m sure there's boys here that are funnier and kinder and make you feel even safer babygirl" he spoke gently "Pretty sure most of them are prayin' you give 'em a chance actually"

You hummed, raising a brow

"but what if I don't want them?"

"You want an old man instead?" he huffed out a self-deprecating laugh.

You rolled your eyes "How old even are you?"

"old enough to be your father darlin'"

God, maybe there was something wrong with you, but those words only made your need for him burn harder.

"so?"

"so I ain't even supposed to look your way babygirl- it ain't right"

"But why?" you pouted "Shouldn't I get to have a say in what's right and wrong for me?"

He sighed, not really knowing what to answer to that.

"What if I don't care?" you spoke softly, your pointer finger on his chest, circling his pec "What if I like you, Joel? what if I wanted to show you just how much right now?"

"sweetheart" he started, shaking his head

"You'd stop me?"

And there it was, the pause... your way in.

"Joel?" you called for him, your voice sickly sweet "Would you?"

He couldn't do anything but tell the truth when you were looking at him like that.

"I don't think any man in his right mind could or would ever stop you darlin'"

Satisfaction took over your whole body.

"no?" you teased, grinning like a cat "Not even if he's old enough to be my father?"

He sighed, what looked like resignation in his eyes.

"I'm just a man sweetheart"

And that- that got him the biggest smirk ever known to man.

There was no sound, it was like the word got quiet as you stood up, placed your hands on his thighs, and slowly kneeled between his legs.

He didn't know what to do, he was genuinely frozen, torn between guilt and attraction, the need to let go, to finally do this- that his brain was short-circuiting.

You took advantage of his silence, making quick work of his zipper, and pulling down his boxers just enough to free his cock...

All your speculations got proven right there- he was huge.

"oh wow," you bit down a grin as you watched your fingers struggle to wrap around his whole base.

You gave him a tentative squeeze, and the strained groan rumbling from his chest was just about the hottest thing you'd ever heard.

"y-you- f-fuck"

You stopped him before he could start protesting, your tongue sliding slowly on his tip before leaving a little kiss right on top.

"You're so big" you hummed, your tongue licking him up from base to head, feeling every vein and twitch of his member.

He was looking down at you just as you looked at him, and he seemed... mesmerized, like he couldn't believe this was really happening, that this wasn't another one of the dreams he'd get about you at night, and that it was really your lips wrapping around him.

Goddamnit

You had barely a little more than his tip in your mouth and he was already gone- and I mean gone gone.

He couldn't even remember why he'd spent so long ignoring your not-so-subtle hints-

Just a minute ago he wanted to tell you that no, you don't gotta do that, and ask you sure about this? - But now... now all he could do was throw his head back as he realized that his lack of practice these past few years had really gotten to him, and that he already had to grab at the chair beneath him with all his strength as he tried not to come embarrassingly fast.

You hummed around his cock, and he couldn't stop his hips from thrusting upwards, a small choking sound fleeing your throat.

"goddamnit, 'm sorry baby-"

But the moment he looked down at you, he saw everything but anger... you seemed happy- you were begging him to do it again with your eyes.

But he couldn't, and part of you already knew that.

He shook his head slowly, still trying to think as straight as he could given the situation, but while he was busy with that... you settled for the next best thing... you forced his manhood down your throat all on your own.

The groan he let out was damn near feral.

You couldn't actually get all of it down there, it was the biggest dick you'd ever seen in your life after all, but you swore that with a little bit of practice (that he'd hopefully grant you), you'd get there.

Still, he didn't really seem bothered or in any way disappointed by your inability.

It was an indescribable feeling seeing this tough, rugged man shiver with pleasure before you, his eyes shut and knuckles white with the effort of gripping onto something.

"I- fuck"

He didn't even know what he wanted to say, he just... it felt so fucking good

Your head was back on bobbing up and down his length, and what used to be groans had turned to moans coming out of his mouth.

"Y-you've gotta-" he swallowed, his sentence interrupted by the feeling of your fingers playing with his balls.

"Y-you've got t-" to stop

But you were choking on his girth again

"I-'m gonna-" come

You watched him struggle with his words, his breathing, and his self-control with what would have been a huge smirk on your face if your mouth hadn't been so preoccupied.

You knew he was about to come already, it really wasn't hard to understand,

You also knew that if you stopped now there was a chance you'd get to do more later- but really, this was something too perfect to leave halfway done, and besides... you feared that if you went with your initial plan of straddling his lap and riding the man to heaven, you'd leave him traumatized.

So you didn't stop, you kept massaging his balls as you worked his dick in and out your mouth, ever so often forcing him as deep as you could and choking while drool and saliva dripped down your chin.

"J-Jesus, sweetheart- I-"

All his words came out in rugged breaths, barely coherent- his eyes were back on you, shadows of lust and need darkening his iris as his right hand went to your cheek, a gesture almost too sweet considering what you were doing.

"F-fuck"

And that was it.

He groaned so loud you probably could hear him from outside the house as he reached his climax, rope after rope of his come filling your mouth and throat.

Joel Miller had come in your mouth... and it couldn't have been any more perfect.

You didn't take your eyes off him for one second. You greedily swallowed all his spent as he breathed heavily, eyes still closed.

His dick was softening in your hand as you pulled his boxers back on top of it, a little wave of disappointment washing over your gut.

It's ok, I'll see it again soon

Just as you were plotting exactly how you were gonna get in his pants in the future, his voice startled you

"I-I don't know what to say"

A soft smile pulled at your lips

"You don't have to say anything" you reassured him as you sat back on your chair, your eyes inevitably falling back to where his boxers peeked from the unfasted fly.

"now- I won't keep you hostage any longer, 'm sure you have important stuff to do back at your house"

The frowns on his forehead deepened as his eyebrows came together in confusion.

"What?"

Now you were confused.

"I'm just saying- thank you for... this" You bit down a smile "You know how long I've been wanting it- and you can bet your ass we're doing it and more, again and again, and again" his eyes widened an almost imperceptible amount and you had to stifle a laugh "but... I'm letting you free for tonight"

He took his time to say something.

Silence wrapped around you for a good minute before he was able to mumble something.

"sweetheart-" he cleared his throat to try and clear his thoughts "I-I dunno how you're used to... bein' treated, but this ain't over"

A spark of excitement ignited in your belly

He couldn't mean...

"unless you want it to be, of course"

Oh my

"I definitely don't want it to be" you hastily spoke, almost breathless "but I would like to know what you... mean"

I mean, not to be prejudiced, but you very much doubted he could get it up again so quickly given his... well, age.

He cleared his throat again and you finally realized it was just a nervous tic and he didn't actually feel the need to.

"You should be on a bed" he avoided your question

You couldn't help but smile as you got up

"Such a gentleman"

"that's the last word that comes to mind right now" was all he grumbled

__ __ __

"sit"

that's all he said, and now there you were, sitting on your bed as he looked at you with a mix of lust and uncertainty.

Until he finally did it- he crouched between your legs.

He cleared his throat again, and you felt on the urge of cumbusting.

he was gonna eat you out

You'd only ever done this once, and even then you had to basically beg the guy, just for him to be god-awful at it.

Somehow you had a feeling Joel wasn't gonna be bad at all.

"You sure about this, yeah?"

You fought the urge to roll your eyes.

He could probably ask you to put it up your ass and you'd say yes.

"Yes Joel, I'm 100% positive"

He gave you a little nod, and his hands- his big, strong hands- went to your thighs.

You watched him as if he'd disappear at any moment as he slowly- oh so very slowly- took your skirt off.

He swallowed tightly as his eyes fell on your clothed cunt.

If you didn't know any better you would have guessed he was holding his breath as he got rid of your panties.

"Jesus Christ"

I shouldn't be doing this- I really shouldn't be fucking doing this.

She's not even half my age- she's a kid for god's sake- I'm fucking disgustin-

Every single thought in his mind turned to dust the moment you spread your legs- the moment your wet, drenched, pussy came fully into view.

"Y-you-"

he didn't even remember what he wanted to say- and he didn't remember when his thumb had decided to find your folds, but it had.

He heard a whimper leave your mouth and he felt his cock twitch in his pants, hardening again.

It usually took him a whole fucking hour to get hard again

He looked up at you, and you looked hotter than ever before.

Your cheeks were flushed, your bottom lip was between your teeth, and you looked so... perfect.

"I haven't done this in a- while"

As he spoke those words he hoped you'd think he only meant this... as if you'd actually care about how he hadn't gotten laid in years.

"'s ok Joel" you nodded, smiling encouragingly.

He swallowed again, his gaze slowly lowering.

He couldn't believe you were this wet for him- a pretty thing like you.

His thumb moved, gently sliding up and up and up, until he found your clit, earning another little moan.

Fuck

He circled the little bud, and your cries got a little higher and he swore- he swore going to hell was worth it, worth this.

He had to taste you- fuck, he'd been dreaming about the taste of you since he first saw you- So with all the carefulness in the word, he bent down, his lips finding your soft thighs.

He could see your belly inflate and deflate with your exited breaths as he kissed his way closer and closer to your heat, until he was right there, and he couldn't help but leave a kiss on your mound, on the hair covering it so very nicely.

"Joel-" your voice was strangled "please"

If it had been twenty years ago he would have said something cocky like "'s ok baby, it's coming", his whole demeanor would have been very different too. He used to be in charge in the bedroom, always- he used to feel smug and sure of himself, but now... now he was old and out of practice, and he was... he was nervous.

But all it took was to look up at you, at those beautiful pleading eyes, to find the courage.

You wanted this. You wanted him.

And you tasted better than he could have ever fucking imagined.

A deep, feral groan rumbled in his chest as his tongue passed between your folds, as he gathered all your slickness on his taste buds, all that sweet sweet juice that felt like fucking heaven.

Yeah, now I remember why I used to love this so much

You were moaning like a desperate little thing above him, your thighs squeezing his face as your feet clung to his torso.

And he was gripping the outside of your legs, keeping you as close to him as humanly possible, his face as deep in your core as it would go.

His nose was rubbing against your clit in a way that made you see stars, and he was still lapping, not focusing on anywhere in particular, just aimlessly and desperately feeding off of you.

"Oh my god Joel-" you gasped as two of his fingers found their way inside of you.

His movements were slow, he didn't wanna hurt you, and he wanted to find what made you feel good, which is why he kept exploring until his digits curled up into that sweet cushy part of you, and he felt you squeeze him as you threw your head back.

"f-fuck!"

Your left hand had traveled to his locks, gripping them tightly as your hips frantically moved against his face to try and seek more.

His mouth was focusing only on your clit now, thoroughly sucking on it- and just when you thought this couldn't get any better, that this was the most pleasure you'd ever experienced and there was no way he would be able to top this- another one of his big, thick fingers pushed into you.

The cry you let out was something Joel would be thinking of until he was six feet under.

Three of his fingers were so much more than what you were used to.

"J-Joel" you whimpered actual tears staining your vision as you looked down at him "Oh my fucking g-god Joel"

Your gut had been right. He was really fucking good at this

He was watching you, studying every little face you made as the squelching of his fingers moving inside of you filled the room together with your moans.

"I-I'm coming"

You could barely finish the sentence that the world went bright, and the purest pleasure you'd ever felt erupted in your body with a million different blasts.

For a whole minute, you were in another universe- and Joel eagerly enjoyed the show, not stopping his movements for even a fraction of a second.

You feared the moment you opened your eyes you'd wake up in your bed after yet another dream about this man- and yet he was still here, looking up at you with only adoration in his eyes.

He couldn't help but steal another little kiss on your core before he leaned away.

"well... wow" you smiled like an idiot, your breathing still a little labored "You know what you're doing Mr. Miller"

He didn't say anything, but you saw pink flush his cheeks again as he let your legs go, robbing you of his touch.

You would have been disappointed if it wasn't for the fact he was very clearly having trouble not having his gaze fall down to your heat.

You smiled to yourself as you accepted the skirt he quietly handed you.

Seeing you standing before him with it on when he knew you were bare and wet underneath made Joel's brain freeze for a moment, but that was of course, until you stood on your tiptoes, and placed a kiss on his cheek.

"thank you for this Joel"

Your voice was so sweet it sounded angelic to his ears- but the sweetness was replaced by something very different very quickly.

As you stood back down to your normal height, your body, being flushed against Joel's, came in contact with something that very much piqued your interest.

he was hard- very fucking hard

"no babygirl"

he was already shaking his head, crushing all your dreams

"but-"

"I can't" his tone was firm, although you could still hear restraint behind his words, like it was costing him a lot to say no.

"It feels to me like you very much can" you rebutted, smirking softly.

"I- it ain't right"

Oh my god

It took a lot not to roll your eyes "I thought we were past that whole thing" you said, cocking an eyebrow "Do I need to remind you what you were doing just a minute ago?"

"that's different"

"How?"

"it just is"

"what if I beg you Joel?" you purred, your best doe eyes looking up at him "What if I told you about how much I'd like to feel your cock inside of me? How desperate I am for it, Joel- how much I need it"

He was gonna go home and punch himself in the face for what he was about to say.

But it was true, he couldn't. It wasn't right- he needed... to think about it at least

"darlin'" he spoke softly "I can't... not right now"

there it is

The smirk that pulled at your lips was the most mischievous thing in the world.

"right now" you repeated his words, biting your lip as you played with the hem of his flannel "I can live with that- but Joel...don't even think this is over"

[kianamaiart]

🌟KIANAMAIART FAQ🌟

FAQ wahoooo!!

GENERAL QUESTIONS

Who are you?

I'm Kiana, I'm a queer, Japanese Jamaican woman, and a Director/Storyboard artist who works in animation. I'm currently at Disney Television Animation.

What are your pronouns?

I usually go by she/her but I don't really mind any pronouns~

Where did you go to school?

California College of the Arts (but I dropped out when I was hired at Disney)

How did you get hired at Disney?

My bosses found me on twitter. They liked my drawing style and asked if I wanted to take a storyboard test. I did, I passed, I got interviewed and moved to LA two weeks later to start storyboarding.

Your work seems familiar. What do I know you from?

I've been on the internet for a long time! It could be a number of things. As maimai97 on dA I had a comic about next gen Pokemon characters called Pokemon 25 Years Later. As kilala97 I had some popular next gen ponies and also had a Steven Universe gemsona named Larimar. I'm also @yamujiburo, known most for drawing Jessie x Delia (hanamusa) a lot. I also work professionally! I've worked as a storyboard artist and director on Disney Channel's Big City Greens, I was a storyboard artist on one of the Steven Universe anti-racism shorts and I was a storyboard artist on Pokemon: Path to the Peak. Most recently I've been on season 6 of Dropout's Game Changer!

What program and brush do you use to draw?

Default brush in Storyboard pro. Photoshop sometimes just for compositing or specific effects.

PPPIDWTBAMG QUESTIONS

What is this project?

This is a project that started off as a silly idea that has since grown into me creating a 10 minute pilot animatic.

When and where can I watch the pilot!?

Now and right here!

What would this series be rated?

Ideally like PG13/TV14! Or whatever they call it. Definitely more geared to a YA audience. Not completely kiddy but also not what most people would consider adult animation to be

What are you planning to do with the project now that the pilot has released?

Don't know yet! There has been a lot of studio interest and even offers, so I'm in the process of talking with them and seeing if I can find this show a home or if I want to try doing it on my own or if I want to even continue with it at all. I know you guys are curious, but even if I wanted to tell you I couldn't. Just trust that I will make announcements as they come~

You said Aika had teammates, will we see them?

Because of the studio interest and potential for more of this show, there's some stuff I'm still holding close to my chest. This is one of them.

Do the characters have parents??

Zira does! As for Aika and Eclipse, this is something I'm still developing and don't really know myself haha

What are the characters' sexualities?

Don't know right now. Headcanon away!

What Pokémon would each cast member have?

Here you go!

Is "Star Guardian: Guardian of the Stars" a reference to that vine?

Nope! It's more so a parody for just really long and redundant titles which I love. Similar to the title of this project, which is called "Pretty Pretty Please I Don't Want to be a Magical Girl"

[yasminawayne]

meeting in my bedroom?

SYNOPSIS: You were the beloved, helpful houseowner full of objects who were head over heels in love with you. Which would’ve been great if you weren’t completely dense to their flirting.

TAGS: GN!Reader, VERY suggestive, Everyone Falling for the Same Idiot, Mentions of alcohol / drinking (it’s a party), not proofread bc i lazy eheh...

W.C: 4.5K | CHARACTERS: Dorian, Dirk, Hanks, Volt, Eddie, Betty, Keyes, Hector

AO3: yasminwayne Ko-Fi: buy me a coffee!

Your entire house was deeply in love with you. Hopelessly and pathetically in love with you.

Which was… a bit of a problem.

Not for them, of course! For them, every brush of your hand, every conversation, every time you offered to help was another arrow through the heart! Proof that their feelings were mutual.

But for you? Well... you were just being nice. 

You always had been funny, patient, and warm. 

You gave everyone birthdays, even if they didn’t have one, just so they could feel celebrated. You mended them when they cracked, chipped, or broke. And you always handled them like they were something precious.

You were, quite literally, the glue that held the whole household together. So naturally, they fell for you. 

No one was entirely sure when it started. It was less like a singular lightning strike and more like a slow flood, realization blooming like ivy around the chest, subtle and soft and then suddenly everywhere. You would walk into a room, hair messy from sleep, holding a mug half-filled with tea you’d forgotten you made, and every eye would turn to you with the same expression of love.

But there was just one problem for them...

Their human was so, so, so horribly, painfully, devastatingly dense.

Dorian liked to think of himself as a door with standards. A gentleman of structure and duty. He had withstood years of rough treatment—slams, kicks, storms, and the occasional toddler with a marker.

But despite everything he’d already endured, nothing could have prepared him for you.

You padded barefoot out of the bathroom, damp from your shower, skin dewy, and towel hanging dangerously low. 

The hallway was quiet, sun slanting in through the skylight in lazy golden beams, warming the floor under your toes as you hummed something off-key. You smelled like soap and warmth and innocence, and it was driving Dorian absolutely mad.

He tried to avert his gaze, to maintain his usual composure, when a thump caught his attention.

"Oh shoot!" you gasped, chasing after something.

A hairbrush, Dorian registered distantly, just before it slipped from your hand again and clattered against the hardwood. It bounced once, twice, then came to a rest, pressed right up against the base of his frame.

Before he could even attempt to register what was happening, let alone help, you were already by him, reaching for it. You bent forward, and your towel, already scandalously low, hitched down just a little.

Then, suddenly, the backs of your thighs pressed warmly against his front, your ass making full, unintentional contact with his crotch.

Dorian froze. His entire frame locked in place. His hinges seized with a creak so soft it was barely more than a breath.

"Oops!" you said lightly, still crouched. "Sorry, big guy."

Big guy.

"Didn’t mean to bump into you," you added, voice bright and oblivious.

Brush in hand, you stood up and glanced back at him, one hand settling against his side. Your fingers trailed along his suit like it was nothing.

Something inside Dorian snapped. In one fluid, startlingly effortless motion, he reached around your waist, his arm wrapping across your stomach as he hauled you back against him.

You gasped, startled, as your spine collided with his chest. He completely dwarfed you, the breadth of his body enveloping yours, his height casting you in shadow even in the golden hallway light.

One of his hands slid upward, settling over your ribs. His palm alone spanned nearly the entire width of your torso, his fingers grazing the edge of your sternum.

"I do wish," Dorian muttered, his voice low and gravelly near your ear, "you’d stop calling me that."

You blinked up at him, that same unfazed, sunny smile creeping back up on your face. 

"What? Big guy?"

Dorian let out a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a grumble, low and rough in his throat. "You're doin' it on purpose now."

"But you are big!" you said sweetly, as if you weren’t driving a stake directly through his wooden heart. "And to be fair, you were in my way."

He just stared down at you, jaw clenched, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. For a long, loaded moment, he just stood there, trying to decide whether you were messing with him or were really this much of an idiot.

Then finally, after what felt like minutes, he exhaled sharply, muttering a low curse under his breath as he let go of you. 

You giggled, entirely unbothered, and gave his arm a light squeeze, right over the solid curve of his bicep.

"Guess I’ll just have to squeeze past you next time," you teased, nudging a hip against his side before walking away, towel swaying with every step.

Dorian huffed, pink creeping up his neck. 

"Hate to see you go," he muttered under his breath as his eyes followed you, "but love to watch you leave."

House - 0 | Homeowner - 1

Hector was overheating.

Literally, yes... his filter was long overdue for cleaning and his internal systems were running hot, but also in the other, far more inconvenient way. The emotional one. The one caused by you sitting on your knees beside him, pulling his panel open like you were undressing a lover kind of way.

It wasn’t good for his circuits. It wasn’t good for his systems. And it was absolutely catastrophic for whatever vaguely heart-shaped piece of him had decided it was a good idea to fall in love with you.

"I’m so sorry, Hector," you murmured, your brow furrowed in soft concern as you wiped delicately at the filter casing with the edge of your cloth. "I should’ve cleaned you days ago! I kept meaning to, but everything’s been so hectic lately. You must’ve been so uncomfortable."

He wanted to respond. Really, he did. But he was fairly certain that if he tried, his voice wouldn't work.

Instead, Hector emitted a soft, strangled click-hiss, his cooling fan sputtering to life.

You, of course, mistook it for a glitch.

"Oh no, that sounds awful!" you murmured, your voice full of guilt as you leaned in closer to inspect the exposed panel.

One hand of yours braced lightly against the edge of his casing for balance as you peered into the tangle of metal and heat. Your breath warmed the inside of his frame. Your fingers skimmed the edge of his vent. Your hair, damp from your shower, fell forward and brushed against his shoulder.

That was the moment Hector ceased to function as a coherent being.

His fans rattled audibly, and he briefly considered whether it would be more dignified to combust on the spot or simply roll back into the vents. 

"A-Ahm," he choked, voice static-cracked and strained as his systems tried and failed to recalibrate. "You’re... v-very close."

You didn’t move away. Instead, you looked up with wide, apologetic eyes and that same devastating softness in your expression.

"I know! Sorry—! I’m totally crowding your space, aren’t I?" you said, voice sheepish. "But your filter’s delicate, and I didn’t want to tug anything wrong. I’ll be quick, I promise."

Hector was going to die right here on the attic floor.

You resumed brushing the filter with small, circular motions. Flecks of lint came free like snowflakes, and every time you leaned in to inspect your work, Hector buzzed faintly in the chest.

"I don’t deserve this kind of attention," he said finally, voice quieter now, but more intentional. "N-Not unless you... mean it."

You looked up, soft and earnest, your eyes wide and full of the exact kind of kindness that had ruined his life.

"Of course I mean it! You take such good care of the house. Of me. I just want to return the favor."

"I wasn’t talking about the maintenance," he tried again, more firmly this time. "I meant your hands. The way you touch me... The way you speak to me."

You blinked slowly. Then lit up like you’d solved a puzzle.

"Oh! I’ve been watching a ton of HVAC maintenance tutorials on YouTube," you said proudly. "Is it working?"

Hector made a sound like he'd been punched in the chest.

"Yes," he said, flatly. "You’re very good at... modulation."

"Thank you!" you chirped, beaming at him as you resumed your gentle work. "Your filter’s almost totally clear, by the way. You’re going to feel so much better when this is done."

"I already feel better around you," he muttered.

You glanced up. "Hmm? Did you say something?"

"Nope... Must’ve been... one of my vents…"

House - 0 | Homeowner - 2

"Ah, ah—no, no, no, my dear," Keyes said, clicking her tongue and stopping you mid-chord with a firm press of her hand over yours. "That is not D. I don’t know what that one was, but it certainly wasn’t D."

You blinked up at her. "Oops! Sorry. My fingers have a mind of their own."

"Hmph," she muttered under her breath. "They should ask for directions, then."

With a sigh, she straightened beside you, every inch the proud, long-suffering teacher. You were not the composer she’d imagined when you first started tinkering at her keys. But still, you were… something. Despite being a hand-me-down, she’d become yours. You had carved out space for her and shown a stubborn eagerness to learn.

She guided you patiently, though her eyebrows betrayed her irritation. You were clumsy, untrained. And yet there was something undeniably charming, infuriatingly so, about the way you kept trying. The way you beamed every time a half-correct note rang out from her keys.

Keyes then heard three notes in a row, clear and clean, ringing out like an actual chord. You gasped, delight blooming across your face as you turned to her.

"Wow! I almost got that chord right. I’m totally getting better at fingering you!"

There was a pause.

There was a very long pause before the piano lid slammed shut with a violent clang, the strings inside shrieking in protest like she’d just tried to swallow a metal pipe. You flinched hard, yanking your hands back before the lid could slice your fingers clean off.

"What was that?!"

"Nothing!" she barked, voice jumping half an octave. "Just—a tuning fault! Environmental conditions. Hector! I do not like how he has set the temperature of this room."

You gave her the softest, most earnest look imaginable. A small frown, all concern and kindness. It nearly destroyed her.

"Aww, sorry about that. I bet you’d sound amazing if you were properly tuned. I already cleaned Hector’s filter, but I’ll take care of you soon, I promise!"

Keyes was burning. She could not deal with that kind of tenderness. Not from you. Not from the person who just said "fingering" her like it meant nothing. Like it was lunch talk. 

Then, as if that weren’t enough, you giggled and reached over to lift the piano lid again. Only to dramatically slam one of her lowest keys in a perfect imitation of her earlier screech.

"NAIIIIIIL on a chalkboard," you said, grinning wide. "Just like that, right?"

Keyes dropped her head into her hands.

House - 0 | Homeowner - 3

You were sitting cross-legged on the rug in the living room, surrounded by a battlefield of tangled laundry, a knotted-up clothesline, scattered socks, and five very stuck Hanks.

"You guys really need to stop trying to Hank-glide near the drying line," you said, exasperated but patient, gently working a stubborn knot off Hank 2. "This thing’s practically a choking hazard."

"Heh. You know what else is a choking hazard—" Hank 3 started, grinning from where he was half-hogtied in last week’s laundry.

"Don’t even finish that, bro!" Hank 2 blurted, voice cracking halfway through.

His face was scarlet, practically steaming. Hank 2 wasn’t even breathing at this point. He was just desperately pretending this wasn’t happening, not like this. Not with you this close, crouched over him, touching him like he hadn’t had dreams about this exact scenario.

"Hold still," you said softly, slipping your fingers under the clothesline tangled around his waist. "I’m gonna try to ease it off—"

You pulled hard, and the knot cinched immediately. It went down low, squeezing snug around Hank 2’s hips.

The poor hanger’s soul evacuated his body. The noise that came out of him started as a gasp but ended up as a breathless whimper.

"Oops!" you winced. "Sorry! I’m just trying to get you out without, like… yanking your frame clean off."

“I—I’m gucci,” Hank 2 managed to croak, not nearly as convincing as he thought. “Straight chillin’, homie.”

You tilted your head, frowning as you inspected the knot wrapped tight around his leg. “But… you’re really red. Is it cutting off your circulation? I can try wiggling it loose. It’s just… tight in here.”

That earned you a chorus of wheezing and muffled laughter from all around the room.

Hank 1, already freed and standing off to the side, cleared his throat a little too sharply. “Yeah. Tight. Needs gentle handling. Real finesse job, dawg.”

You glanced over your shoulder and grinned at him like he’d just handed you a compliment. “Mhm! Oh—hey, I’m gonna try to get Hank 5 loose first, but don’t worry! I’ve got magic hands.”

You wiggled your fingers proudly, flashing that sweet, innocent smile that had absolutely no business being as dangerous as it was.

“And you know, I’m super good with ropes,” you added casually, crouching down again to inspect the tangle near Hank 5’s thigh. “Sometimes you just gotta work it slow—back and forth—till it gives.”

“Back and forth,” Hank 3 echoed faintly, eyes fully glazed. “Right on, baby…”

The Hanks weren’t exactly the sharpest objects in the house, but with how dense you were acting, they were starting to think your head might actually be emptier than theirs. How were you going to say stuff like that, all sweet and serious, crouched between someone’s legs, and not realize what you were doing?

Hank 5 watched as you stepped over with that focused little frown you always got when you were being gentle. His head tilted slightly, eyes following every movement of your hands.

"You take care of us so much," he murmured before he could stop himself. It came out lower than he meant, rough around the edges, too honest.

You glanced up at him, beaming like it was the simplest truth in the world. "Of course! I love caring for people."

He flushed, hard. Something inside him flipped like a switch. He had no business thinking what he was thinking, but it was already there, thudding behind his ribs like a heartbeat.

Bet you’d love to take care of a baby, too, his mind supplied hazily. My baby. Ours.

He swallowed hard, biting the inside of his cheek before anything worse could slip out.

When the final knot slipped free and the line fell away from his leg, Hank 5 let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

The movement tugged the rest of the line taut, and with a soft snap, the section that had pinned Hank 2 finally gave way, freeing them both.

You lit up instantly. “Yes! Okay, that’s two down!”

You turned your attention to Hank 4, who was somehow tangled in both the clothesline and your pajama pants.

"Hmm. This one’s tricky," you muttered. "It’s wedged real deep."

Hank 4 looked down at you, lip caught between his teeth, cheeks tinged pink.

"Oh yeah," he grinned, voice dropping like he thought this was a very different kind of situation. "That one’s in real deep. Might need some serious effort to… ease it out."

"Might take a few tries," you agreed. "That’s fine. I think long, twisty cords are fun to handle."

From somewhere behind you, Hank 3 groaned. "Oh my god, bro. Bro."

With a few steady tugs, the final loop slipped free. The cord gave a soft snap as it came undone, and before you could even register it, Hank 4 let out a surprised yelp.

“Whoa—!”

He toppled backward in an ungraceful sprawl, limbs flailing briefly before landing squarely in Hank 1’s lap. There was a distinct oof from both parties.

“Okay! That’s four.”

Now, only one Hank remained.

You turned toward him, brushing a few strands of hair from your face as you assessed the last, worst knot job of the bunch. Hank 3 was slumped against the wall, half-pinned by a spiderweb of cord. It looped around his chest, through the sleeves of his wingsuit, and—

You paused. Blinked once. Then again, slower.

“Uh,” you said carefully, leaning in to poke at a stubborn knot. “Okay. So you’re… like, really tangled into my underwear.”

Hank 3 looked down at the spot in question. Then up at you.

"I’m good right here," he said, grinning way too brightly. "Don't need to untie me, gorgeous."

House - 0 | Homeowner - 4 | Hank #3 - 1

Dirk sat cross-legged on your closet floor, half-buried beneath a pile of costumes and old clothes. In one hand, he held up a glittery mesh crop top. In the other, what looked like the shredded remains of faux leather pants.

"So… Volt and Eddie’s Halloween party," you said, rummaging through a plastic bin with half-peeled stickers. "I want something cool. But also, like… hot!"

Dirk blinked up at you, adjusting the pirate hat you’d thrown on him earlier. "Is that why you dragged me in here? Costume triage?"

"Yep!" You held up a sheer, iridescent bodysuit with a smile. "Too much?"

Dirk made a strangled sound, his voice catching in his throat as he stared at the outfit. It barely qualified as clothing, and now all he could picture was you in it.

"Y—yeah. No, yeah. That’s… that’s definitely a bold choice."

You grinned, clearly taking it as a compliment. “Perfect.”

Then, you turned away and pulled your sweatshirt off in one smooth motion. Underneath, you were just in pajama shorts and a cami. You tossed the sweatshirt onto the pile beside him like it was nothing. 

Dirk, still sitting cross-legged on the closet floor, looked like you’d physically drop-kicked him.

You held the bodysuit up to your chest, turning toward the mirror. "Do you think Volt or Eddie would wear something like this? I want to match their vibe, y’know?"

Dirk let out a very soft, very audible groan through gritted teeth. "I think if you show up in that, nobody’s gonna be thinking about the damn fusebox."

You blinked, tilting your head. "Huh?"

He coughed once, looking down at the crop top in his hands like it held all the answers. "Nothing. You’ll look great. Totally… on-theme."

You brightened. "Perfect! Help me zip?"

He stared at you for a moment like you’d just asked him to diffuse a bomb with one hand while blindfolded.

"Yeah. Totally. Yep. Zipping. Great," he muttered, voice a little too low, a little too strained. Then he lifted two fingers, curling them in a lazy beckon. "C’mere, bug."

You turned around and stepped in close, presenting him your bare back. The bodysuit was already halfway up your thighs, hugging every curve like it had been poured on. Dirk’s breath hitched. His hands hovered, fingers twitching slightly before they settled on the zipper.

His fingertips grazed the dip of your spine as he slid the zipper upward, and you gave a little wiggle to help it along.

Once it was fully on, you turned to admire yourself in the mirror. "Okay, but be honest… Is this too sexy-scary? Or just scary-sexy?"

You bent forward slightly, twisting to check the fit. "It’s a little tight around the back…"

Dirk’s eyes bulged. "N-nope, it’s—it’s perfect. It’s barely clothing. I mean—it looks great. On you. In a way that’s… completely hot."

"You’re such a good hype man," you added, tossing him a wink. "I’d be lost without you."

He didn’t respond at first. Just nodded, very tightly. Then turned so fast he tripped on a hoodie sleeve and nearly ate the floor. 

"Are you okay?" you asked, half-laughing, half-concerned.

"Yup," he muttered, breathless and wrecked. "Totally fine. Everything’s fine. The universe is testing me, but I’m fine."

House - 0 | Homeowner - 5

Halloween night at the Breaker Box was loud. Thumping bass, flashing neon strobes, and fog machines in overdrive. 

Volt had wanted it to be big, a full spectacle, especially since this was the first time their human was going to be there. That was probably the only reason Eddie had agreed to it in the first place.

Eddie held down the bar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, expression locked somewhere between irritation and resignation as he poured drinks beneath the flickering lights. Volt, on the other hand, was in his element, gliding through the crowd, all confidence and charisma. 

"Hi guys!"

Eddie turned just in time to see you walk in, dressed for the occasion.

And immediately choked.

Not on a drink. Not on smoke. Just on you.

Your hair was a wild halo of static-kissed chaos, somehow framing your face perfectly despite looking completely unintentional. The outfit you had on was a sheer bodysuit layered under a cropped vest, fabric clinging and torn in just the right places. Flashes of skin peeked through: a sliver of hip, a glimpse of collarbone, the gleam of a screw-shaped clasp on the choker around your neck.

You were Frankenstein’s monster. And you looked good.

Eddie felt his whole system short-circuit. And clearly, he wasn’t the only one.

The crowd quieted for a second as heads turned, eyes wide. People stared. Someone actually dropped their drink. Heat spread across more than a few faces.

"Live wire—" Eddie muttered, voice low and a little strangled. "What the hell are you wearing!?"

You beamed at Eddie, bouncing slightly on your heels, proud as ever. "Frankenstein! Well, Frankenstein’s monster, technically. I figured I’d fit right in with you guys, you know... all alive and electric."

Eddie just stared. It took him a second to actually process what he was seeing. The way the vest clung perfectly to your frame, the delicate stitching tracing your thighs and collarbone, the gleam of bolt-shaped earrings catching the light. You looked like you belonged here. 

Like you belonged to him. 

To both of them.

"My, my," came Volt’s voice from behind you, silk-smooth and slow like warm static down your spine. "Isn’t this a lovely surprise?"

You turned cheerfully toward him, just as the next performer, Keyes, hurried up to the piano. You gave her a bright wave, beaming with your usual sunshine.

Face flushed, Keyes dropped onto the bench and launched into her piece like it might save her life, fingers flying over the keys as if she could outrun the image of you still lingering in her head.

Beside you, Volt let out a low whistle.

"You look like our third," he murmured, eyes trailing from your boots to your vest, lingering far too long on the space in between. His smile curled slow and dangerous, pure voltage wrapped in charm.

You turned to him, head tilted in confusion. "Third what?"

For a beat, something sharp and electric flickered behind his eyes. Then, with a wicked gleam, he recovered.

"Our third piece," Volt said, lips twitching. "You complete the look."

"Oh!" You laughed, delighted. "Yeah, that’s what I was going for! I based this on your outfits. Thought it would be fun to match."

Behind the bar, Eddie made a sound that could’ve been a groan. His hand slipped while wiping a glass, knocking over a shaker, which he caught with reflexes just a second too slow. 

“Mmm. They look great, don’t they?” Volt added smoothly, clearly enjoying the show, and the effect you were having on Eddie.

“Yeah,” Eddie muttered, voice low and hoarse. “If they’re trying to kill me.”

You turned toward him. "What? Sorry—didn’t catch that."

Volt chuckled, low and knowing, stepping just a little closer to your side. “You’re going to be the end of him.”

You blinked, tilting your head. “Why?”

Then you shifted, turned fully to face Volt, and that’s when Eddie saw the back of your costume. Or rather, the complete lack of it.

You see, what little fabric you had on in front didn’t quite make it all the way around.

Eddie dropped behind the bar so fast he nearly sent a bottle of rum flying. His ears went crimson. His entire face followed.

Volt, absolutely glowing with delight, slid an arm lazily around your shoulders like you were the night’s main event. Which, frankly, you were.

"Why don’t you come with me," he purred, steering you smoothly toward the dance floor, "before poor Eddison starts shorting out the liquor shelf."

House - 0 | Homeowner - 6

You yawned as you stumbled into the dim hallway, one shoe dangling loosely from your toes, the other long since lost to the dance floor. Glitter was smeared across your cheeks, streaked with sweat and eyeliner. The distant bass from Volt and Eddie’s Halloween party still throbbed somewhere deep in your skull.

You padded toward your room, dragging your feet like a glittery zombie, and found Betty sprawled across your bed, basking in the silver wash of moonlight spilling through the window. Her dark curls fanned over the pillow like a halo, and her lips curved the second she saw you.

"Well, well," she purred, voice all velvet and slow amusement. "Look who survived the electric rave."

You blinked at her, swaying like a drunk little sapling. "Betts… I think I danced so hard my toes forgot how to be toes."

She arched a brow, eyes glinting. "That would explain the outfit."

You hiccuped out a laugh and tugged your costume shirt over your head. Glitter exploded into the air like celebratory dust. "Too many layers. I’m like… a sexy onion."

Betty’s eyes followed the shirt’s arc as it floated to the floor, then snapped back to you, lingering as you struggled with the zipper on your pants. "If that’s what onions look like now," she murmured, watching you wiggle, "I need to spend more time in the kitchen."

"Whaaaat? Why would you do that?" you asked, half-wriggling, half-collapsing. "You’re a bed. Beds can’t be in kitchens."

Your pants finally gave up their grip, and you attempted to kick them off, only to faceplant onto the mattress.

Betty sat up slowly as her gaze ran over you, hunger wrapped in amusement. 

"Poor thing," she murmured, voice sticky with suggestion. "Sounds like you need someone to… take care of you."

You groaned into the sheets. "I need coffee."

She paused. "What if I offered… a massage?"

You rolled halfway onto your side and squinted up at her. "Oh my god, no. If anyone touches me, I might vomit glitter. I’m unstable."

Betty blinked, clearly unprepared for that answer. "Okay… how about a bath? Me, Bathsheba, and you?"

You peeled your remaining shirt off with the elegance of a molting animal and flung it vaguely across the room. "No time. Must become one with this mattress."

Betty, undeterred, slinked forward on her knees and leaned close, her lips brushing your ear. "You know… some people sleep better when they’re not wearing anything."

You let out a blissful sigh into her stomach, your voice muffled. "Wow… You smell like sexy marshmallows."

Betty fell flat on her back, staring at the ceiling in utter defeat.

"Sexy marshmallows," she repeated, deadpan.

You gave a solemn little nod. "So soft and squishy. I’d drink you with a spoon."

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then Betty let out a long, tortured sigh and wrapped her arms around you, pulling your half-naked, glitter-dusted form flush against her.

"You’re lucky you’re cute," she muttered, tucking you close as you immediately went slack and boneless in her hold.

She traced gentle circles over your back, eyes heavy-lidded.

"You know," she whispered, voice low and dangerous, "if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get me into trouble. Crawling into my bed, stripping down, whispering sweet nothings…"

You snored against her stomach.

Betty groaned, defeated once and for all. "Unbelievable."

House - 0 | Homeowner - 7

a/n: my laptop charger broke so im just trying to get my drafts out before it goes lowbat TT

my new charger comes in a few dayss so the part 3 to the 100 bfs fic will take a while

[sweetcalebb]

hii I love ur work bookie!!

brat tamer caleb nsfw? looks around nervously ..

Brat tamer Caleb ! ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

wc: 2.6k

a/n: hi bookie!! LOL no need to be nervous 😏 thank u so much!! that seriously means so much to me ‹33 hope this was okay. i can totally see caleb being a brat tamer, but only if u wanted him to be bc that man is DOWN BADD. like otherwise he would totally give in.

as always, DM me, comment, or send another ask if u wanted something else! i won't get butthurt. if anything i just get an excuse to write caleb more

——

Everything was completely fine. You were completely fine.

Until Caleb rolled his sleeves to his elbows and leaned back in his chair like he didn't know exactly what that would do to you.

Maybe you were a little desperate, but that wasn't news. You were always desperate for Caleb.

You shifted closer, brushing up against his side like it was just some innocent gesture. "Calebbb."

Caleb grinned, leaning down to hear you over the clinking glass and passing conversations. "Pipsqueaakk."

You pursed your lips and batted your eyelashes. It was an overused look, but one that always won Caleb over—he claimed it was "too pretty to resist."

"Aren't you a little bored?" You trailed your heel up his shin under the table, the touch drawing out a small chuckle. He knew that move. Knew that look.

"Mm.. maybe a little," he admitted. "But it'd be rude to leave a dinner you're supposed to have with your friends."

You frowned, leaning in even closer. Who cared about modesty anymore? Caleb looked too damn good to not be bending you over the table right now.

Alright. Down, girl.

"C'mon." You nudged him lightly. "We can just say a quick goodbye and be done."

But he still wasn't budging. If anything, he was liking this, letting an amused little grin tugging at his lips.

You chewed your cheek. What an ass.

"Please?" You brushed your lips against his ear, the gesture innocent enough to pass off as nothing. "I need you."

Caleb watched as you sat back. Oh, you were going all out.

The thought made him laugh. He loved you like this. Loved how desperate you were to be put you in your place. "You're being naughty tonight."

You sucked your lip between your teeth, shifting uncomfortably in your seat.

"I'm sorry, Pips," he huffed, shaking his head and taking a small sip of his drink, "but I think you can wait a little."

"Caleb—"

"You really wanna act all needy in front of your friends?" Caleb mused, casting you a sideways glance. Any protests you had left instantly melted away. It was hard to think when Caleb looked at you like that—all smug and sharp like he already had you exactly where he wanted.

"Just sit pretty. You'll get what you want in a little."

You huffed.

Just sit pretty?

No. No, absolutely not. Caleb had never resisted that look. Why the hell was he starting now, when you needed him so badly it hurt?

You crossed your arms and sat back in your seat, your eyes darting over your friends who all looked completely unbothered—laughing, drinking, eating.

God.

They had no idea that Caleb had just denied you.

And that you were going to make him pay.

The rest of the night you teased him.

You trailed your fingers up his thigh, flashing him an innocent smile when his eyes darted towards you. Sharp. Suspicious.

You didn't stop though. Instead, you brought your hand higher, stopping dangerously close to his groin. And when he didn't even flinch, you went higher. His hitched little breath was your cue to pull back.

Two could play this game.

You pulled your dress a little too low to expose more skin. You brushed your ankle against his more suggestively. You texted him the filthy things and watched as he read them, then spread his thighs subtly and shifted in his seat.

You were getting to him.

Deny as he might.

But he never broke. No. Caleb was too cool for that. He could give your leg a warning little squeeze and murmur dirty promises in your ear, but he didn't break.

Not even on the car ride home.

You sat there, elbow resting on the window and legs squeezed together.

"Tired?"

You blinked, glancing over at Caleb. He wasn't looking at you. Not then, anyway. But you saw it, heard it—the little upward curl of his lips and mocking lilt in his voice.

You sucked in your cheek. "Mmn. No, I'm feeling great. Actually," you shifted, squeezing your legs together a little tighter, "I think I'll help myself when I get home."

Caleb tensed slightly, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. "Play nice, Pips."

"I am playing nice," you hummed, turning your gaze back out the window.

Caleb let out a disbelieving laugh. You were annoyingly stubborn and he loved that. You gave him the perfect challenge. The perfect chase.

"Maybe I shouldn't."

Caleb's eyes darted toward you again. "What do you mean?"

You met his gaze again, lips soft and sweet, curled into the cute smile that told him you were up to.

"I'm just so—" you sighed, arching your back off the seat. Not too dramatic. Just enough to look real. "I'm so pent up. I don't know if I can wait 'till we get home."

Caleb scoffed. "You wouldn't."

You shouldn't.

You knew what he'd do to you when you got home. How'd he'd put you back in your place and God, if that isn't what you were asking for all night.

"I would," you murmured, eyes glued to him as you pulled your dress up and bunched it around your stomach.

Caleb let out a stuttered breath. But he didn't speak. He couldn't. Because were you seriously about to get off in front of him? In his passenger seat? To taunt him?

The answer was a resounding yes when he heard the first, slick slide of your fingers over your swollen bundle of nerves.

And you just smiled, lazily rolling up into your touch. Caleb's eyes narrowed.

THAT was it.

You finally had him.

You could feel it.

Without warning, he swerved onto a different street, pulling into an empty, dimly lit parking space, and turned the engine off.

"Get in the back." He stared at you, his chest falling and rising just a little too quickly. "Now."

A small part of you wanted to put up more of a fight. Reject him the way he'd so rudely done to you this evening. But the bigger, more needy part of you was already scrambling to the back seat.

You watched with bated breath as Caleb slipped out of the car, only to slip into the back seat with you.

He didn't tease or wait, just grabbed you and pressed you into the window. You gasped, hands grasping for something to hold onto.

Caleb leaned over you, his stomach pressing against your lower back as he murmured into your ear. "You're lucky I love you so much, you know?" He dragged his hand down your leg, then back up to slip it between your legs, and pressed two fingers against the damp fabric of your underwear.

"I could've made you wait 'till we got home, but I'm taking care of you right now."

You whined, helplessly nudging your hips back against his hand. "Thank you."

You didn't care how breathy or pathetic you sounded. You needed Caleb now.

Caleb huffed, nudging your panties to the slide to run his fingers through your drooling cunt. "Don't thank me yet."

But your body was already doing that, fluttering around nothing, begging for him to do something. And when he finally did, you nearly buckled.

You would've collapsed into the window if he hadn't been holding you.

"You're so wet," he awed, rubbing slow, deliberate circles over your puffy clit. "Were you like this the whole dinner?"

"Yes," you moaned out, your body jolting when he teased your entrance. It was barely the tip of his finger, but you were desperate and overeager. Any touch had your mind spinning.

"Naughty girl," he breathed, dipping his finger in your clenching hole for a second before pulling out and going back to rubbing.

You whined, pushing your hips back again.

You thought you had him.

That he was finally giving you what you were begging for all night.

Until he pulled his hand away.

"Uh-uh."

You breathed out a shaky sigh.

No, no, no.

Why was he stopping?

"Caleb—Please."

"Nope."

You fought every cell in your body not to push your hips back again. You knew you'd find nothing, but it was like instinct.

"You don't get to take after tonight. You just get to look pretty while I do this." His fingers found your slick folds again, but he didn't move. Not yet. "Understand?"

You bit your lip.

Caleb nipped at your ear. "C'mon, baby. Understand?"

"I understand," you whimpered.

"There you go." Finally, he started moving again, rubbing you in maddening little circles. He knew just the way you liked it. Knew you liked to be teased just a little.

So he'd slip his finger down and pump a finger in. Slow, steady, then go back to your clit when you thought you'd had enough.

But you weren't getting enough.

"Caleb, this isn't fair," you exhaled, dropping your head against the window like that might ease the ache between your legs.

"No? You don't think so, Pips?" He mused, words a little breathy.

Your skin prickled at the teasing lilt you heard. You knew it was pointless, but you shook your head away, the movement slow and pathetic.

"What isn't fair is you thinking you have the right to anything after you were touching me and sending me those dirty texts all night," Caleb gritted out, plunging his fingers in and curling them to hit that perfect spot inside you.

You gasped, unable to help the way your hips jerked back. "Yes! Oh, God!"

For a second, you had some semblance of relief before he was pulling out again.

"Pipsqueak... I thought I told you to keep still."

"You..." You paused, a whine tearing from your throat when he went back to the same agonizing movements on your achy clit. "You didn't explicitly say to stay still. You just—you just told me to look pr—"

"Don't get smart with me unless you want me to stop completely." His breath fanned over your neck. "And I really don't want to stop."

"Please don't stop!" You sunk your nails into the leather seat. "I'll be still. Promise."

Claeb groaned, moving his fingers slightly faster now. Maybe it was a reward, or maybe he just couldn't help it. You didn't know. Didn't care. He was moving faster and that's all that mattered.

Your breath left in uneven pants as the heat in your stomach coiled tighter and tighter with each pass of his fingers.

You were close.

So close.

Caleb was hitting all the perfect spots, circling the little bud between your thighs like he knew your body better than he knew his own.

You were almost there.

Just a little more.

Your lips parted with a silent gasp.

Then—

He stopped.

Gently eased his hand away and started pumping you, slowly.

You nearly cried. "No, no, no. Caleb—" You bit your lip to keep the pathetic sound from tumbling out. "Ca–Caleb, please! Just—I—"

"Shh, you're okay."

If you hadn't caught the mocking edge in his voice, you would've melted at the sweet words.

"Next time, don't tease me if you can't handle this."

You sighed, the sound breaking off on a whine. Your window was all fogged up, sweat and tears clung to your cheeks. You were a mess, and Caleb was completely fine. Teasing you. Feeling you, like you weren't losing your goddamn mind.

"I won't do it again," you blurted. "Just let me come. I wanna come..!"

Caleb huffed out a quiet laugh. "A brat and a liar." He slid his slick fingers back in your throbbing cunt, giving you just enough to make your toes curl, but not enough to push you over the edge. "Suchh a naughty girl today, huh?"

"'Mmno! I promise!"

Caleb sunk in knuckle deep and started curling his fingers, brushing over the spongy spot that made you see stars.

"Ah-ahh," Caleb murmured. "You know how I feel about broken promises."

"Caleb—P-please! Pro–promise!"

He laughed again, the sound making you clench around him. "You're making this worse for yourself, Pips."

You were close again. He was touching all the right spots, curling and uncurling his fingers in a way that made your eyes roll to the back of your head and your thighs tremble around his hand.

"You're close," he rasped, listening to the obscene squelch that told him you were so worked up it hurt.

You grit your teeth, nodding.

So close again.

He had to give it to you this time. He had to. You earned it, right?

Fucking wrong.

Just when you were about to come, he pulled away. Again. Fingers slick and warm.

Your whole body was screaming for release. He couldn't leave you like this. He wouldn't.

"I'm sorry!" you cried. "I'm sorry I teased you! Please let me come!"

"Yeah?" Caleb brought his fingers back to the mess between your legs and tapped them playfully against your slick flesh. The sound it drew was sinful. "I don't believe you."

"Caleb—!"

"Show me how sorry you are." Slowly, he pushed his fingers back in. "Fuck yourself on me."

Your breath caught in your throat. "I—I can move?"

Caleb's fingers twitched, eager to watch you lose yourself. "Mhmm. You can move."

"I can come?"

"Yep. Move, cum, whatever you want—as long as you do the work. Can you do that, Pips?"

You didn’t even answer—you were already grinding down, fucking yourself on his fingers like you needed it to breathe. You were moaning and panting on every filthy slide of his fingers.

"You look so pretty like this." Caleb gawked, watching every shift and twitch of your hips as you sank on his fingers over and over again. "Using my fingers to get yourself off—Fuck—"

He bit his lip at the little curse slipped out. He wanted to keep up the facade of indifference, but it was impossible when you looked and felt like that.

"Faster. C'mon," he rasped. "Don't you want it?"

"Mm'yes! I want it!" You didn't miss a beat. You moved faster, filling the car with your moans and cries.

The corners of your vision blurred as you chased down your orgasm like a woman possessed. You didn't stop. Didn't hesitate, not even when you felt your arms shake and your head lull forward against the glass.

"Caleb! I'm—Yes! Oh, God!"

"That's it. Right there, right there," Caleb encouraged.

And then you were finally coming.

Your orgasm ripped through you with a guttural cry. Your body twitched, wave after wave of arousal gushing around his slender fingers.

Caleb held you through everything, making sure you didn't collapse against the door when the aftershocks finally washed over you.

"Hey, you okay?"

When you didn't answer, panic flared in his chest. Had he been too mean? Did he hurt you?

Caleb shifted, sitting back and holding you in his lap.

"Hey, Pips."

"Mm."

He sighed.

"Don't do that to me. Are you okay?"

You didn't answer, just lazily curled into his chest and wrapped two shaky arms around his neck.

Caleb instantly melted into you, peppering your head with kisses. "You did so good, pretty."

You gave another quiet hum in response and he chuckled. "Are you sure you're okay?"

You nodded. "I'm.. very okay."

Caleb smiled. "Good." He pressed another kiss to your head. "Wanna stay like this for a bit?"

"Please."

He huffed. "Anything for you."

—

taglist <3

tags: @exe-toby @seungkwansflower @floatinginaer @halfawakeblobbu @heartyluv @starryeyed-apple @asiatic-apple @walrusbreath @sylvieisoffline @awquaz @purpleamethyst25 @pinksaiyans @beaconsxd @haleaf @politefawn @colonelpantysniffer @villainessobsessed @lioria @inlovewithsylus @tired7o7 @justwinginglife @itsmysmut @bitewiththis @littleboomerang @aenishas @honeymoonfleur @stargirlygirl @peachlycheetea @calebsbabyapple @goochfiddler99 @lewdcifer778 @minivia @bidisasterforevermore

[lowrisemiller]

ꜰɪᴇʟᴅ ᴛᴇꜱᴛ

you can imagine whichever Reed you want ;)

reed richards x assistant!fem!reader

you're reed richards’ long-suffering lab assistant. brilliant in your own right, you handle everything from data entry to inter-dimensional rift control. you’ve been nursing a hopeless crush on him for months. the man can design a quantum field stabilizer in his sleep, but he’s absolutely blind to the way you touch his shoulder a beat too long or always bring him his favorite coffee without asking. how could someone so brilliant be so stupid when it came to people?

masterlist | 4.7k words | MDNI SMUT | reed neglecting basic things bc scientist duh, reader(me) is DOWN BAD, reed is oblivious to everything that isn’t science, finger & oral f!receiving, reed stretching things, him being a nerd while eating ur pussy😍 unprotected piv sex DONT DO THAT ! aftercare:)

The lab was quiet, except for the soft scribble of pen on paper and the low, constant hum of equipment Reed swore was essential, even if it sounded like white noise to everyone else. You sat perched at your workstation, chin resting in your palm, eyes drifting from your screen to the man pacing ten feet away—muttering under his breath, brow furrowed, fingers twitching.

You’d seen that look a hundred times.

It meant he was close to a breakthrough.

It also meant you could scream I want you in morse code and he wouldn’t register it.

You sighed, clicking your pen against your notebook. He didn’t glance up. Not even when you shifted in your seat and stretched in a way that was definitely for his benefit.

Ten months.

That’s how long you’d worked beside him—helping with calculations, organizing lab notes, fending off media inquiries, even stopping one of his machines from literally catching fire last Tuesday. You’d poured yourself into this job. You knew his schedule better than he did. You brought him his coffee the exact way he liked it. You wear that plum lipstick because he’d once said it was a “pleasing wavelength” for visual stimulation.

He hadn’t looked twice.

You weren’t just harboring a crush at this point. No, this had evolved into something much more volatile—an emotional chemical reaction waiting for a catalyst.

And Reed? Reed was… oblivious.

Gorgeous, brilliant, maddeningly unbothered Reed Richards. With his rolled-up sleeves and distracted glances, the way he chewed on pens when deep in thought, the offhand compliments he gave without realizing they were compliments—“Your spatial reasoning is exceptional,” he’d said once, looking at your notes. You’d practically melted.

Now he stood a few feet away, talking to himself like always. You watched the way his hands gestured mid-air, sketching invisible shapes.

“Frustrated with the equations?” you asked, keeping your tone light.

“No, no. Just… considering variable Y’s response under quantum fluctuation,” he murmured, barely registering your voice. “Though I suppose an extra set of eyes wouldn’t hurt.”

He handed you the clipboard and your fingers brushed. He didn’t even flinch. Your heart did.

You took it wordlessly, biting the inside of your cheek. How could someone so brilliant be so stupid when it came to people?

Maybe that was unfair. Reed wasn’t cruel, or cold. He was kind in his own absent-minded way. But he had tunnel vision—for science, for discovery. He didn’t notice the things that didn’t present themselves in a neat, testable format.

Like how you lingered in his orbit.

Or how your eyes followed him when he wasn't looking.

Or how sometimes, after long days, you fantasized about climbing into his lap right in that damn desk chair and making him pay attention.

Your pen scratched against the clipboard now, pretending to read the data while you watched him from the corner of your eye. He was back to pacing, lips moving silently. His sleeves were pushed up again, exposing strong forearms, veins prominent, hands twitching like he needed to do something with them.

God, you were losing it.

You placed the clipboard down. “You ever think maybe the problem isn’t quantum fluctuation, Reed? Maybe it’s just human error.”

He blinked and turned. “Are you suggesting I made a mistake?”

“I’m saying maybe if you took your head out of the wormhole generator long enough to eat or sleep or…” You paused. Look at me.

“…notice things, you’d think clearer.”

He looked like he might ask what “things” you meant. But instead, he turned back to his calculations, nodding. “Duly noted.”

You stared at his back, silent for a moment. And that’s when the thought struck you: He’s never going to see it unless you make him.

He would go the rest of his life chasing black holes and entropy and would never realize the way you burned for him—not unless you showed him.

Your pulse skipped.

Your patience is snapping.

You were going to be an anomaly he couldn’t ignore.

It was a new day, but nothing had changed.

Reed was still buried in data, half-dressed in a rumpled button-down he probably hadn’t noticed had two buttons mismatched. His hair was slightly damp, like he'd showered ten minutes before walking into the lab and immediately got lost in thought again. You stood at your usual station, sipping lukewarm coffee and pretending not to glance over at him every thirty seconds.

You weren’t pretending very well.

This was your fourth twelve-hour day this week, and you’d long since passed the phase where your crush felt cute. It was heavier now—dense, loaded with tension you had nowhere to put. Not when he kept looking right through you, offering praise only when it was tied to data points or completed tasks.

Today, he barely looked up when you walked in, just said, “Morning,” like you were air and math and all the other constants in his life.

You sat your coffee down a little too hard.

“Sleep okay?” you asked, typing with one hand as you glanced toward him. His back was to you as he scribbled across the whiteboard.

“Didn’t,” he replied casually. “The formula’s been looping in my head since 2 a.m.”

Of course it had.

You nodded to yourself, refocusing on your notes—but your brain wasn't on line graphs. It was on how his voice sounded deeper in the mornings. Rough. Scraped thin. It was on how he'd rolled his sleeves again, unconsciously, like he was giving you just enough to fantasize about but never enough to touch. It was on how he’d leaned over your shoulder the day before, close enough to make you forget your own name, then pulled away without even noticing how stiffly you sat for five minutes after.

You were starting to feel stupid.

Or worse—transparent.

You tugged at the edge of your shirt, adjusting it subtly, then pushed your chair back.

“Reed,” you said after a moment, tone careful.

He glanced up.

You hesitated. You could say it. “Do you ever think about me when we’re not in this lab?” Or even just “Do you notice when I’m trying to get your attention?” But all that left your mouth was:

“…Do you want lunch?”

He blinked. “No, thanks.”

You smiled tightly and nodded. “Okay.”

A long beat passed before he added, “You should eat, though. Your concentration dips if you skip meals.”

That nearly made you laugh. He didn’t notice your new lipstick or the way you leaned closer when talking, but he noticed a dip in your concentration?

“Noted,” you muttered, turning away. Your heart was starting to feel like an overworked computer—on the verge of burnout.

Still, you stayed.

He asked you to help calibrate a device and you did, even though his hands grazed yours and he didn’t seem to feel it. You reorganized his notes for the hundredth time and he said, “I’d lose my head without you.” Your stomach flipped, and you cursed yourself for letting it.

Eventually, the day wore on. The lights buzzed overhead. He worked in silence. And you sat across from him, eyes on your computer screen but brain nowhere near it.

You weren’t going to say anything today. You weren’t ready. But you were closer.

You were watching him more intentionally now. Watching how he moved. Noticing when he forgot to eat, when his jaw clenched at a miscalculation, when he sighed like the weight of the universe had settled into his spine.

And more importantly… you were starting to plan.

Because if Reed Richards wasn’t going to notice you on his own, maybe it was time you made it impossible for him not to.

You started small.

A hand on his shoulder when you passed behind him—just a light touch, fingers lingering a little longer than necessary. A compliment you slid in while reviewing his data aloud. Your tone didn’t change, but your eyes watched his face this time, looking for any flicker of reaction.

Still, nothing overt.

But you were a scientist too, in your own way. You knew not all reactions happened in the open.

So you adjusted variables.

Today, you wore something just a touch more fitted under your lab coat. Nothing flashy. Just subtle. Intentional. Your lips were glossed in a soft cherry sheen and you had your hair tucked behind one ear, leaving your neck bare when you leaned over your notes.

You didn’t say much when you came in. Just a soft, “Morning, Reed,” as you brushed past him to your desk. He looked up. Briefly. His eyes caught on your profile, then flicked back to his screen. But there was… a beat. Just long enough to file away.

You smirked, barely.

He worked for hours, absorbed as usual. But today, you noticed something.

His eyes flicked to you more than once.

Quick glances. Measured. Like he was calculating a change in the room’s atmosphere. Like he felt something different but hadn’t yet assigned it meaning.

When he handed you a tablet to review notes, your fingers touched—warm, steady. This time, he paused.

Just for a second.

Not long enough to be certain of anything. But long enough to make your heart thud against your ribs.

You gave him a slow smile. “Thanks.”

He blinked and muttered, “Of course,” then turned away like he needed to recalibrate.

You kept working. Quiet. Focused.

But later—when you reached for a beaker on the shelf above his head—he stood behind you, offering, “Let me.”

You turned, close enough that your chest brushed his arm as you stepped aside.

He stilled.

You looked up at him, wide-eyed, like it wasn’t completely on purpose. “Thanks.”

His gaze flicked down. A flicker of something behind those eyes. He handed you the beaker wordlessly, but his jaw was set. Not tight. Just… aware.

There it is.

It wasn’t much. A subtle shift in the lab’s atmosphere. But it was enough to keep your spine humming, your thoughts racing.

You’d pushed the threshold.

And Reed felt it.

It happened again.

Reed forgot what he was saying mid-sentence. You were across the room, head bent over your tablet, pencil in your mouth, lab coat slipping slightly off your shoulder. His sentence just… stopped. Hung in the air unfinished.

And for once, he noticed you noticing.

You looked up slowly, eyebrows raised like well?

“I—” he cleared his throat, adjusting his collar. “Never mind.”

You bit back a smile.

Another day in the lab. Another carefully applied variable. You weren’t loud about it. Just present. Vivid. A little perfume on your wrist. Lip gloss again. A comment here and there, perfectly timed to stick in his head.

“Careful,” you murmured when he bumped into the desk beside you. Your voice was soft. A little amused. “You almost ran me over.”

He looked down at you, flustered. “Sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

Liar.

You knew he had near-total environmental awareness. Reed Richards didn’t miss anything. But lately, he missed a lot—because he was looking at you and then pretending he hadn’t.

You kept it casual. Calculated.

You’d brush past him with a hand on his back, stand just a little too close while looking at the same screen, ask questions in that tone you saved for only him.

He was unraveling slowly. Quietly.

You caught him watching once—when you walked away to grab a coffee. His gaze dropped to your hips and stayed for three full seconds before jerking back to the screen like he'd been slapped.

You pretended not to see. But your grin behind your coffee cup was downright smug.

Later that day, he dropped a tool and you crouched down to grab it first. When you stood and handed it back to him, your fingers touched. He held on a little too long.

You tilted your head, teasing. “Forget what you needed it for?”

He blinked down at your joined hands and pulled back sharply. “No. Sorry. I—”

He coughed. “I’m distracted.”

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t need to.

By now, you knew the exact cadence of his footsteps when he was deep in thought. The slow, uneven rhythm that meant he was pacing without realizing it, caught in his own mental spiral.

You could hear them behind you now—soft thuds on the concrete floor of the lab. Reed Richards, brilliant, infuriating man, walking through formulas with half his shirt untucked and his fingers twitching at his sides. His muttering was barely audible over the hum of the machines, but you caught bits of it:

“Non-linear increase… No, that’s not right. Unless…”

You didn’t look up. Not yet.

Instead, you sat at your workstation, half-focused on the screen in front of you, legs crossed slowly under the table—exposed just enough to draw the eye if someone were finally looking.

And he was.

Reed had been distracted for days now. You saw it in the way his gaze lingered when you bent forward to check wiring. The way his voice wavered slightly when you spoke too close to his ear. The way he’d started pausing in his work like something had thrown off the trajectory of his thought process—and that something was you.

It was working.

He still hadn’t named the tension, but it was eating at him.

So today, you’d decided: no more hints. No more tests.

You were going to prove it to him in a way he couldn’t ignore.

You stood slowly, walked to the central console where he was now bent over a string of data projections, brows furrowed. He didn’t notice you at first—not until you placed a hand lightly on the edge of the table next to his.

His voice faltered. “The waveform collapse pattern could still—”

You leaned in just enough that your shoulder brushed his. “Still what?”

He straightened slightly, blinking at the screen like it had betrayed him.

Your voice was quieter this time. “You’ve been off lately, Reed.”

He turned his head, barely. “Off?”

You tilted your head. “Distracted.”

He opened his mouth, closed it. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

You hummed. “I know. But I’m starting to think the problem isn’t in your equations.”

That got his attention. His eyes flicked to yours, guarded. “What do you mean?”

You let the silence hang for a moment. Then:

“I think the thing disrupting your work… is me.”

Reed went still. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out. He was computing. Processing. Trying to refute it. But his body betrayed him—his hand clenched on the table, his gaze briefly darting to your mouth before jerking away.

“I’m not—” he started. “You’re not a disruption.”

You smiled softly. “Then why do you keep looking at me like you’re afraid of what happens if you do it too long?”

He looked stunned. Then—guilty.

You took a breath, slow and steady. This was it.

“I’ve tried everything,” you said. “The lipstick. The touching. Standing so close you could feel my breath.” You leaned in, lower now, voice like silk. “And still, nothing.”

Reed was frozen in place.

“I think,” you continued, “that you’re just waiting for someone to spell it out.”

You stepped back, slowly, and hopped up onto the edge of the table in front of him—knees parted, one leg brushing his thigh. You leaned back on your hands, tilting your head like a challenge.

“Well, Reed?” you asked softly. “Do you need a demonstration?”

His pupils were blown wide. His breath caught. And his hands—god, his hands—hovered like he didn’t know where to touch first.

“You…” he said hoarsely. “You’re serious.”

You nodded, lips curled into a smile. “You want to calculate the pattern? Fine. Let’s start with some field data.”

You reached forward and took his hand—placed it firmly on your thigh.

He made a strangled sound. His fingers flexed. “This is… highly inadvisable.”

“Why?” you whispered, leaning forward so your lips nearly brushed his. “Because you’ve thought about it?”

His jaw clenched. “Yes.”

Your breath hitched.

“Every day this week,” he rasped, voice low now, broken open. “I’ve tried to ignore it. Tried to focus. But I’m… I’m failing. Every time you walk by me. Every time you touch me. I—” He shook his head. “I can’t think when you’re near.”

You dragged his hand a little higher, slow, teasing. “Good. Don’t think.”

And that’s when Reed snapped.

He surged forward, kissing you hard, like he’d been starving for air and only just found it. His hands were everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding up your sides, tugging your lab coat open like it was a barrier to understanding.

You moaned against his mouth, arms around his shoulders, legs parting instinctively as he stepped between them. He kissed like a man undone—like every theory he’d ever held was shattering under your touch.

“You have no idea,” he breathed against your neck. “How long I’ve been holding back.”

“Show me,” you whispered. “All of it.”

He groaned, low and guttural, and then his hands turned curious. Focused. Scientific. One settled at your throat, not squeezing, just holding—fingers spread like he was feeling your pulse, measuring your response. The other slid under your skirt, over the curve of your thigh, then—

“Oh,” you gasped, spine arching.

“I need to know,” he murmured, almost to himself, “what makes you tremble like that.”

Another touch. Another gasp. “That’s a reaction. Fascinating…”

“Reed—”

“I’m cataloging,” he said, voice filthy and analytical. “You’re the most compelling data set I’ve ever encountered.”

And then his fingers stretched.

Not just in confidence. Literally.

You whimpered as two elongated fingers traced up your inner thigh while another hand—normal-sized—cupped your breast through your shirt, thumb teasing slowly. The other hand remained at your throat, grounding you, steadying you.

He was everywhere.

“Can you feel what you’re doing to me?” he whispered, pressing forward until you felt the thick, hard line of his cock against your core through layers of fabric. “You’ve disrupted every model. You’ve introduced chaos.”

You pulled him closer, panting. “Then let it consume you.”

“Consider this your field test,” he whispered against your lips.

And then he kissed you like he was sealing a pact—hands spanning your body, holding you like something he’d discovered and didn’t intend to release. His mouth was hot and searching, lips sliding down your jaw, teeth grazing your neck. You gasped, clutching his shirt, and that one sound made him groan hard, hips bucking against you without thinking.

“You make that noise again,” he muttered, “and I swear I’ll never let you leave this table.”

You did.

Just to see.

A breathy, needy gasp as he licked a slow stripe up your throat—and his hands tightened on your thighs, dragging you closer to the edge of the table until your hips tilted forward and your clothed core was flush against the bulge straining in his pants.

He cursed under his breath, forehead pressed to yours. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

“Then study me,” you whispered, breath hitching. “Make sense of it.”

He did.

God, he did.

He dropped to his knees between your legs, hands spreading your thighs open as he looked up at you like you were divine—something to worship, something to break open and understand. His fingers pushed your skirt higher, until it was bunched around your hips. When he reached your panties, he paused.

“Wet already,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Stimuli, minimal. Response, immediate.”

You shivered.

Then—he pressed a kiss right to the center of the damp fabric. Slow. Gentle. Reverent.

Your hips jolted, and he smiled.

He peeled your underwear down your legs, lips brushing your inner thigh as he murmured, “I’ve never wanted anything this badly.”

Then he finally—finally—tasted you.

His tongue was hot and slow, dragging a firm, wet stripe from your entrance to your clit. You cried out, and he groaned like he could feel it in his bones.

And then the muttering started.

Low. Incoherent. So Reed.

“God—taste is sharper than expected… pressure response is increasing…” His tongue flicked faster, and your head fell back. “Sensitivity peak here—yes, that’s it, I knew it—”

“Reed,” you gasped, fingers burying in his hair. “You’re talking—”

“I’m studying,” he said against your clit, tongue relentlessly. “Don’t interrupt the process.”

You moaned.

He grinned. “Good girl.”

That made your whole body jolt.

Reed caught it instantly. “Huh. New variable: verbal praise. Noted.”

His tongue circled tighter, and then—another hand slid up your torso, not the one braced on your thigh. It was soft, gentle, and a little too synchronized.

You looked down.

Another finger. Stretching from the hand holding your hip. Long and curved and perfect.

“Multi-point stimulation,” he murmured between licks. “Let’s test your threshold.”

You whimpered as his tongue lapped at your clit while that second hand slipped beneath your shirt, under your bra, pinching your nipple softly. Another elongated finger curled between your legs, circling your entrance, teasing—but never pushing in.

“I need to see you come apart,” he said. “I need to feel it.”

And then he did it all at once.

Tongue flicking. Finger pressing deep inside you, curling like he knew. Fuck, was that another?—spanning your lower back to hold you down as you arched off the table.

“Oh my god—Reed—”

“Give it to me,” he whispered. “Let me feel what I’ve done to you.”

You shattered.

Your orgasm hit like a burst of static—crackling down your spine, clenching around his fingers, your legs trembling on either side of his head.

You cried out his name, again and again, and he ate it up, moaning like it was his reward.

When you came back to yourself, he was standing again—his hands all back where they belonged, his mouth slick and shining. He looked wrecked.

And then—his belt hit the floor.

“You think I’m done?” he rasped. “You think I’d stop at one data point?”

He pulled you forward—off the table, into his arms—and turned you around until your back hit the cool surface. His cock, thick and flushed, pressed against your slick entrance.

“I’m going to learn you,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “Every reaction. Every tremble. Every time you scream my name—I’ll know why.”

And then he pushed in.

All the way.

Slow and deep and perfect.

You sobbed into his shoulder as he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours, cock twitching inside you like even he was shocked how good it felt.

His breath hitched. “Oh… oh, fuck. You’re…”

He couldn’t even finish the sentence.

He started to move.

Slow strokes at first—grinding in, pulling out halfway, pushing deeper again. His hands explored every inch of you—mouth on your neck, chest, shoulder. He whispered your name like it was a formula. He muttered observations even as he fucked you harder.

“You clench when I say your name—tight around me, just like that—fuck—”

“Your back arches when I hit here—god, you’re perfect—”

“You feel like you want me to lose control—so I will.”

And he did.

He lost it.

His pace stuttered, then snapped—hips slamming into you with brutal precision, every thrust angle to hit that perfect spot. You clung to him, moaning shamelessly, barely coherent as he fucked you like he’d been waiting years.

You came again—harder this time—and he groaned so loud it echoed in the lab.

“Gonna come inside you,” he warned, wild-eyed. “You want it?”

“Yes, yes, Reed, please—”

He slammed deep and stilled, cock pulsing as he filled you, one last ragged cry falling from his lips as he buried his face in your neck.

You held him as he trembled through it, panting, hands tangled in your hair.

It took a full minute before either of you spoke.

Then, voice hoarse, he whispered:

“…I think I need to run a full repeat trial.”

After.

The lab was quiet, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex. You were still sprawled across the console table, legs shaking, chest heaving. Reed leaned over you, both hands braced on either side of your hips. His head was bowed, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin.

Neither of you moved.

Finally, he let out a shaky laugh.

“...I think I blacked out for a second.”

You let out a breathless huff. “Welcome back.”

He looked up. His hair was a mess—curling wildly at the edges, gray hairs damp with sweat. His eyes were wide and stunned and so soft, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And then he leaned in again, slower this time, and kissed you like he meant it.

Not a theory. Not a test. Just feeling.

When he pulled back, he looked at the mess between your thighs and the growing stickiness on his abs. When did his shirt come off? His brows pulled together, equal parts concern and fascination.

“I, uh—there’s a shower down the hall. Private. It's not… state-of-the-art, but…” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’d like to take care of you.”

You nodded, still dazed. “Okay.”

He helped you up with this heartbreaking gentleness, hands steady at your waist like you might vanish if he let go too fast. He gathered your clothes in silence, cradled your hand in his, and led you barefoot down the corridor to a sealed side room.

The lab shower was built for function—stark white tiles, a metal bench, one glass wall—but it felt almost sacred now. Reed adjusted the water temp with clinical precision before motioning for you to step in first.

Then he joined you.

And just… looked at you.

Not with lust, not yet. With wonder.

His hands were slow as he lathered soap across your shoulders, over your back, down your arms. He was quiet now, like something had settled deep in him. His thumbs traced gentle circles into your hips, his forehead brushing yours beneath the spray.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen today,” he said quietly. “Not like that.”

You met his eyes, searching. “You regret it?”

“No,” he said instantly. Then, softer: “I regret how long I ignored it.”

You swallowed.

He washed your thighs carefully, then cupped between them—not to tease, just to clean you, slow and reverent. You bit your lip and let him.

He kissed your forehead, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

Then you reached for him.

His cock was half-hard again—because of course it was—and when you wrapped your hand around him, his eyes fluttered. He leaned back against the wall, mouth parted, not stopping you.

“I want to try again,” he breathed. “When we’re not losing our minds.”

You smiled. “You want another trial?”

His head tipped back against the tile, a low groan leaving his chest. “God, yes. Multiple. Longitudinal.”

dividers by @cyberbeat @cursed-carmine 🏷️ @zevrra @bleed-4-bey @littlemillersbaby @millersdoll @pandapetals @kellielovesmovies @rafeysgirl5 @dearstcupid @ivuravix @worhols @hoeforsirius @axshadows @aj0elap0l0gist @ladyshrike

[pascalissmoked]

-Thighriding with Joel-

cw: thighriding, dry humping, hinting at sex, joel being a brooding mess, spicy time with grumpy joel basically

a/n: just a short drabble bc joel makes me feel funny things 😋

Joel had been in his brooding, lonely self for the past few days now. Stiff posture, arms folded, that look in his eye like the world had personally pissed him off. He hadn’t said much all day — barely a grunt during patrol, less than that when you tried to joke around.

You knew that look. He was chewing on something he wouldn’t spit out.

So you decided to make it worse.

You walked right up to him in the quiet of his living room, hands cold from the snow, cheeks flushed from the wind. He didn’t even look at you when you walked in. Just kept staring at the fire like it had offended him somehow. You kicked the door shut behind you, boots thudding on the floor, and leaned against the wall, watching him.

“Long day?” you asked lightly.

No answer.

You moved closer, slow. He didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t move. Just clenched his jaw tighter. You’d seen him like this before — wound up so tight he could snap steel in half. The only difference was now… he wasn’t pushing you away.

So you pushed first.

You stepped between his legs, palms on his thighs, and leaned down until your mouth brushed his ear. “You gonna keep sulking like a damn ghost, or are you gonna do something about the way you’ve been looking at me all week?”

That got his attention.

Joel’s hand shot up, gripping your hip like it was instinct. Not rough, but final — like now that he had you, he wasn’t letting go.

“You got a mouth on you,” he muttered, voice low and gritty.

You smiled against his jaw. “You’ve been ignoring me for three days. Figured I’d give it something to talk about.”

He finally looked at you — really looked. And the heat in that gaze made your stomach flip. His pupils were blown, breathing shallow, hands twitching like he was holding back something brutal.

“You don’t know what you’re askin’ for,” he said, more warning than protest.

You straddled his lap in one smooth motion, letting your weight sink into him. You felt the shift in his body — his breath hitch, his thigh tense under you, the sharp exhale against your neck. “Yeah, I do.”

Joel’s hands slid up your thighs, rough palms dragging slow, deliberate. “You come in here, wearin’ that little smirk... sittin’ on me like you fuckin’ own me…”

“Maybe I do,” you whispered, grinding against him. “Maybe you’ve been mine since the first time I caught you starin’ when I bent over that fence.”

He growled — an actual, low growl that rumbled in his chest. His hand tangled in your hair and yanked your head back, just enough to make your breath catch.

“You don’t get to talk like that and walk away.”

“Then stop me,” you dared.

Joel surged up, mouth crashing into yours — all teeth and heat and frustration finally breaking through. He kissed you like a punishment, like a promise, like he’d been starving for it and hated himself for wanting it.

You ground down harder, and he groaned — deep, almost pained.

Your hips moved on instinct now, chasing every ounce of pressure, every twitch of his thigh, every time his grip shifted to hold you down tighter, rougher.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Fuckin’ take it.”

You were so close it hurt. And Joel knew it — knew every breath that caught in your throat, every tremble in your thighs. His voice dropped to a low, dangerous whisper.

“C’mon, baby. Make a fuckin’ mess.”

That was all it took.

You came with a shudder and a whimper, fingers fisting the front of his shirt. Joel held you through it, breathing hard, eyes locked on you like he was watching something sacred — or maybe something sinful.

“You needy little thing,” he muttered, pulling your hips harder against his. “Could’ve had this days ago if you’d just said the word.”

You bit his lip. “Where’s the fun in that?”

His grip on you tightened. “You got five seconds to decide if you want this soft or if you want it the way I’ve been thinkin’ about since you showed up in this town.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Ruin me.”

Joel’s eyes darkened — like something inside him snapped free. And just before he dragged you down again, before his hands shoved under your shirt like he couldn’t stand another second of distance, he said—

“You fuckin’ asked for it, sweetheart.”

And you were so glad you did.