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tojisteddy · 4 months ago

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Ruthless

or: Country!Simon catches you attempting to tag his property, of course he has to teach you a lesson.

cw: 3.6k words, 18+ mdni, Country!Simon, alt universe, no use of y/n, some plot with smut, dub-con, spanking, breeding kink, p in v, creampie, age gap (Simon 29, reader 23), primal play & reencounter (if you tilt your head), pet names (little girl, city broad, lucky), fingering, lite pussy pronouns, degradation, lucky!reader

a/n: a scrapped Drabble turned into a full story cause I love plot

part 2!!! <3

You were running like your life depended on it.

It was dumb for you to even attempt to tag the Riley barn to begin with.

You knew that, your friends knew that, anyone in town would’ve warned you otherwise.

It all started with a little end of college fun, wreck havoc like the good ole days. Nothing out the ordinary. Something that supposed to be a silly little prank, saying goodbye to college and hello to adulthood by spray paint and a little egging.

Was it a little too much for your liking? Yes.

Just plain rude and disgusting because at the end of the day, what exactly did Ghost do to deserve any of this? But peer pressure is a nasty, annoying, bitch. Regardless of age.

The Riley Ranch had been rumored as evil and haunted, the only people who really interacted with the land being other farmers. Even when Simon Riley, the last standing of the family, came to church (on the rarest occasions), people kept their distance. Afraid his families “bad” energy would spread over to them.

They called him Ghost.

There was a fire at the families home, started by Ghosts father who was always in a rage. Your father made sure your family stayed clear of him when you visited, he wasn’t too kind to quote, ‘big headed, posey, no good, city slickers.’ No one thought his rage would grow so large into trying to kill his whole family.

No one one besides Ghost made it out that night, there was rumored to be a large burn mark on his back to prove it.

You’d gotten found too fucking quick, “What the hell do you think you’re doin?” His voice booming on the highway road.

Simon Riley was blessed to have ears like an owl. Heard the car pull up and stop on his property, the rumbling of the engine— a beat passes— the car doors slamming shut and the far off hushed giggles. Nothing new, people had passed his property to spook whoever the hell they were with. Try to show how “evil spirits” ran rampant on his land, even if they were, he hadn’t ask for them to be there. But they’d never stop. They’d do it before.

They’d do it again.

But he heard that can of spray paint shake and his boots hit the floor before he even realized it.

Not the brown farmhouse gate he’d spent so long sanding down as a child with the help of his grandfather. Not the white ranch fence he’d spend so long getting together as soon as the land was properly handed to him and in his name, that’d he hand painted himself and fixed up the grass so people knew better than to drop any litter there.

No fucking way.

Your friends were already in the mustang you’d arrived in, those bastards, revving the engine and zooming off. You dropped the can, more spray getting on the grass fuck, fuck, fuck— your brown eyes slowly looked up, meeting a more than livid pair blue eyes.

You wanted to squeak out, ‘im sorry’ but where would there be room for that? Not in between the ranch fence that already had a squiggly line and crooked smiley face with black spray paint on it created by yours truly. There would absolutely be no room for an apology when his face was already screwed up, jaw clenching from underneath the bandana that hid his face, eyes narrowing into slits.

Well duh, babe. Move those feet!

And you did, turning at a 90 degree angle and sprinting like it was the end of the world. Ghost mumbled a ‘god damn it’, and ran right after you, his boot quickly meeting a carton of unopened eggs.

Oh you were definitely in for it now.

You ran through the Egyptian wheat, tall as the eye can see, green leaves scratching your arms and legs. You prayed to God there wasn’t any crazy animals hiding in there. You were panting, taking a quick glance behind you and you could only hear rustling of the large plants that surrounded you, feet hitting the floor.

Then you heard a distant yell in the field, “[+], you get back here!”

Well it wasn’t exactly the hardest to spot you out, you looked like your mother— who looked like her mother. You came from a family known for actually being good people, never hesitating to help or providing when need be. You’d met Mr. Riley a couple times in your 23 years of life. Quick instances that you vaguely remember. But you knew his face, and he knew yours.

Your mom had been one of the few good people making sure he was well taken care of when he was younger, she couldn’t raise him like she had wanted to with having to travel back and forth from the city for work as a children’s author. But she’d made sure he was taken care of in whatever home he was placed in, encouraged him to join the Boys and Girls club, something to ground him.

“Just needs someone to look after ‘em is all,” she’d ensisted while braiding your hair one night before heading to meet him at his group home, fingers weaving through your curls with purpose, you were around eight. “Some kids need a lil extra love, show ‘em someone’s there for ‘em. Simon’s one of those kids, so is your older brother, even though he’s a pain in my side at times. They’re all good in their core— their heart. It’s important to have someone nurture it. Gods called me to do that.”

Though, the relationship strained when the foster system let him go. “He’s just having boy troubles. Boys go through those weird hormones when they hit a certain age. Wants to prove ‘imself as a man. They get real hard headed [+]. He’ll get over it ‘nd pull through. He always does,” she’d say. So certain. Undoubting. Like a sixth sense.

And Simon did manage well enough, clearly, for him to have a proper farm for himself, one that was properly taken care of and thriving. You’d visited with your mom two years back. It was so clear to you now. Your mother practically smothering him in a hug when she got close enough. Simon was awkward at first, but accepted it. His eyes and whole body softing by her touch. She’d been family when no one else would be.

He looked towards you, you met a gorgeous shade of blue, long blonde lashes to match his short blonde hair, face with a few noticeable scars and half his face hidden under a black bandana. You were standing a ways off so you couldn’t hear what he or your mother was saying, but you saw him nod toward you. Your mother saying something and him nodding in response. She waved you over,

“[+] you know Simon— I mean, Mr. Riley since you’re a grown man now, ain’t that right.” She laughed.

“Whatever you want ma’am.” He looks down at you and extends his hand. You take it, butterflies fluttering in your stomach, and give it a firm shake.

“Good seein you.” It wasn’t just words, he was sincere, caring. Like seeing an old friend.

You nodded, “ ‘S good seeing you too.”

He showed you the farm after that in his truck. The big house that was farther toward the woods, properly fixed after the fire a decade ago, the Egyptian wheat field, the horses and chickens and the new blue barn he was building to accommodate them, the horse training area used to break in horses no one else would. It was a lot of land, a lot of work, but you could tell by the sound of his husk voice, he was proud of himself and the work he’d been able to accomplish. Even more happy when your mom praised him.

It finally clicked: that barn— and right on time, you’d caught sight of it. Not the one Mr. Riley had been fixing when you visited, the old one. Large and in charge that had old wood, and was definitely falling apart. But you made a bee line for it anyway.

What other option did you have?

Your heart was practically beating out of your chest, nerves on a high because you didn’t even notice how close Ghost was to you before you ducked so he couldn’t grab you. Kicking his shin and dashing towards the barn that was bones.

“You damn brat! fuck me!” He cursed, hopping to ease the new pain on his leg before running right after you.

You undid the large wooden latch, sliding the doors open and immediately trying to slide them close. But his hand shot through the opening, a shiver runs down your spin.

Up the steps you went, the only place you could go, and Ghost was right on your heels, quick, almost silent— didn’t call him Ghost for no reason. You tripped and fell on a pile of hay and wild chickens went fluttering and clucking down to the barn floor, clouding your vision. Next thing you knew, Ghost finally caught you. His hands grabbed hold of both of your arms as you rolled around and thrashed underneath him.

“You fuckin asshole! Let me go!” You grunted, trying to kick your legs where the sun didn’t shine but completely missing when the older man closed your legs, gripping them together under your knees in his hands. He had you like a pig about to be roasted.

“You ruin my property but I’m the asshole?” The fucking audacity of you. “Gonna teach you a fuckin lesson cause clearly they don’t teach you city folk manners.”

With ease, Ghost sat himself down on one of the old hay bails, bringing you over his lap. He grunts, keeping you as still as you can, and then like thunder— his large calloused hand comes down to your plump ass, echoing in the empty barn.

“Mr. Riley!” You gasp, your head shoots up, eyes widening— there’s no way- was he giving you a spanking? The next one yanks you out of your thoughts, brutal, harsh, that makes you scream his name again, “Mr. Riley, that’s enough!” But he’s completely ignoring you.

“Spray painting my fences,” SMACK!

“Tryin to egg my house,” SMACK!

“‘Nd Ruinin my fuckin crops?!” SMACK!

“You’ve lost,” SMACK! “you’re damn,” SMACK! “mind! little girl!” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK!

You’re crying and whimpering, as his hand continues forming ripples in your ass. You’d gotten one singular whopping your whole life, from your grandma for breaking her good vase when she told you no ball throwing in the house. Life altering from one incident that made you into the goodest girl there ever was.

And then there’s this predicament, one that ripped your soul in two. One half fueled with hatred for doing something so crude— so audacious. And then the other that’s struggling to keep itself contained. one more hit that meets your tender bottom, one that hits you in a place you didn’t realize was boiling over— a smack to the ass that forces an egregious moan out of your trembling plump lips.

Simon stills, his eyes flicking over the state of you. You’re shaking, head down and legs finally not kicking. But he sees the way you try to hide yourself further into his lap, because you and he both know you just moaned because of a little whooping.

Oh— you're crazy.

You’d unknowingly created a fire and Simon would add lighter fluid to it.

He lifts the bottom of your short flower patterned dress, just to peak, you jump but still, your heart pounding even louder than it had before. And it’s a sight for the man to behold— your underwear soaked like the damn ocean. You squeeze your thighs together, trying to bring the hands down to hide the slick that was ever growing.

“D-don’t look.” You sniffle. Too damn cute.

But there’s a snicker, something that makes you look back at him and his eyes are shining with mischief, “My god, you’re a filthy lil thang, aren’t’chu?” It’s almost rhetorical, he’s not asking you, he’s asking your cunt. “Didn’t know you city broads were like that, learn somethin new every day, don’t you?”

You yelp when he yanks your underwear down to your knees, thrashing around once again, but Simon keeps you still. Your pretty pussys glistening as bright as sun on water, slick all over your fat second pair of lips. He brushes his fingers against them, sending shivers up your spine, you cant help but arch further into his touch.

You whine, “Mr. Riley-“

“—Shhhhh, gotta hear her,” he murmured, slowly slipping a finger in your drenched hole. Your pussys practically sputtering out with every thrust of his finger, slipping another one and coating it perfectly. He takes them out, sucking up the juices on his tongue that you’ve left on them, spitting down on your hole before stuffing his fingers back into you. He hums in satisfaction as you lose your mind, “such a fuckin slut, you just get this wet for anyone, don’t you?”

Your eyes reach the back of your head, breath hitching, “Nooo, I don’t- I wouldn’t!— ooh- agh- Mr. Riley!” your interrupting yourself with your own moans. Whatever anger you had before, folding into nothing.

He finally let’s go of your hands and you grip on to his leg, nails clawing at his jean cover thighs. Your stomach tightens running away as your orgasm builds but Simon follows, thrusting his fingers into your gummy walls even more, curving them to find your sweet spot with determination.

“Eaaasy now, don’t want to hurt you. Be good ‘nd cum. Know you want to, make a mess all over me darlin’.”

And that’s all it takes, with a twitch and a squeal, your cumming all over his hand. Simon thrusts his fingers a couple times, watching the wave of euphoria wash over you before sucking one of fingers clean, then bringing the other to your mouth.

“Come on, don’t be fuckin uppity, taste it lil girl” he tsked, you take the middle finger in your mouth, tasting your own arousol, swirling your tongue around it. Slowly pulling your head back with a ‘pop.’ It all goes straight to the blondes aching dick.

You hear it, the unbuckling of his belt, your stomach touching the tint that had built because of you. your mind finally snaps out of the trance he’s got you in. You barley manage to get out of his lap, scrambling through the hay, tripping over your underwear, on your as knees. Giving Simon the perfect view of your tender ass and the slick that’s dripping down to your thigh before you turn when you meet a wall. Pushing yourself into it.

“We- shit- someone- someone’ll come!” You ramble out, panting, still feeling the after effects of your orgasm. Your eyes avert to anything in this barn besides the man infront of you. But he made his way over to you, slow, stalking. And once he’s on his knees and hovering above you, he springs his cock from from his boxers. The blonde is hung, large and girthy, his tip strawberry red and leaking pre cum.

He bends down, sliding his fat cock between your wet folds, and then smacking his tip on your clit creating a plap, plap, plap. You can’t help but whimper at the sensation.

“You want it don’t you?” he whispers in your ear, taunting you, goosebumps wave over your skin. “Don’t want me all the way,” he traces over your belly, and then pokes right where your uterus is, “up here, hm?”

“Don’t want me to make you feel good pretty girl? Don’t wanna feel it once?”

Maybe it’s the adrenaline that’s pulsing through you, the way he’s looking down on you like you’re pathetic, dick crazed maniac. And maybe that’s exactly what you are, just once— you just want feel him stir your guts just. this. once.

“I do.”

And your soft voice is just enough for the brute to yank your legs open, Simon throwing your legs over his forearms and spreading your pretty hole open with just the tip. The man starts bullying himself inside the tightness of your pink walls.

He’s big. He’s too big. You hiccup, shoving at his shoulder while he’s splitting you in half, “Mr.Riley, ‘s so much! hicc- can’t. I can’t.”

He croons, slowly thrust more and more of his veiny length into you. “Come oooon city broad, thought you could take it? Don’t go runnin. Been runnin from me alllll this time little girl.”

“Bet you won’t do no shit like that again, ruining my damn property,” Simon hissed, smacking down your clit a few times. “Gonna fuck that nonsense outta that lil brain ‘f yours.”

“I won’t! I promise! Mmmph- I’ll be good! S-so good just for you. Always for you.” You mewled, one hands clawing at the wall behind you and other hand at his shoulder. He finally feels it, his cock reaching the very hilt of you, balls smacking your ass crack. The damn obscene sounds your syrupy pussy is making to keep him inside you, and his tip giving your cervix the messiest and he’s sure, the first kiss it’s ever received.

A baby.

You’d look so fucking sexy, being all plump with his fucking baby. He pushes your thighs back to you head further, jackhammering into your heat rough and mean.

“Five,” he mumbles, groping at one of your tits in his hand. Squeezing and kneading it like a vice.

“Wha-“

“You’ll give me five ‘f ‘em, won’t’cha? Make me a daddy.”

He’s talking nonsense, partially. Simon wasn’t dead set on five, he’d wanted a baseball team but he’d settle for whatever you wanted. One would do if it caused you too much strain. He’d take care of you and the baby, buy you whatever you asked for, have you sat on that back porch, in a rocking chair. Your hand on your full belly, watching him as he worked all lovingly.

Simon breath hitches, rolling his hips into yours with a grunt, fucking drunk at the thought of it. The thought of you, all while your pussy was squeezing on him like you were reading his fucking mind.

“C-christ almighty, I got lucky with you huh? A snug lil cunt like this deserves to be up filled up with my cum.”

You still couldn’t believe it, thee Simon Ghost Riley, was with you in this old barn fucking your brains out like you were fucking Eve in that damn garden, on top of a pile of hay. Both of you letting out moans and groans like animals that you’re sure anyone who stepped foot on property would be able to hear. It’s hot, and sweat is forming on both of your foreheads, your skin is sticky. Simon’s big balls hitting your ass every punch of his tip into you G Spot. both of your eyes hazy, stupid off the other getting off.

“Feel so gooood M-Mr. Riley! So much!” You keen, reach for the bandana hiding his face. He always pushes your hand away but then he remembers what you’re about to be— his lover, his wife— the mother of hic children.

“Mamma’s gotta know the face of ‘er children’s daddy right? pull it off.” And you do, tugging it. And god, maybe this whole ordeal got you lucky.

So damn pretty. A scar on his nose, another one at the end of his pink lips, blonde strands swaying everytime he ruts into you, “Mr. Riley’s sooo pretty,” you slur, talking to him like it’s some secret. You’re lucid in his cock, eyes squeezing shut in pleasure while you stomach coils up.

“Uh-uh, eyes on me city broad, look at me!” He squeezes your cheeks together, planting a fat kiss on your smooshed lips. He snaps his hips forward, and your head would’ve hit the wall from how good you feel. But Simons still got your pretty face in his hands.

“Gonna have ya allll bare foot ‘nd pregnant, waddlin yer cute ass ‘round here with a ring on that finger.” He’s telling you, as if this is already happened and he’s seein it with his own eyes. All you can do is moan at his words. You can’t even form a sentence at this point. Just nodding your ditzy little head while he gives you his dick.

“Gonna be a pretty fuckin mamma too, fu- shit baby, your pretty tits all full with milk for our kin— damn, you love the sound ‘f that dontcha? You can deny it all ya wont, but she’s achin for it.”

God, you are. She is too. You didn’t even know how greedy your pussy was being as he pistoned in and out of you, “Gonna— gonna cum, fuck I’m gonna-“

“-Yeah, thaaat’s it lucky, come all over your husbands cock.”

All you can utter is a ‘s-shit’ when your orgasm smacks you, your toes curling in your converses, thighs shaking in Simons hold.

The blonde gets you in a headlock, smooshing you down into the floor further, brushing your curls with hay out of your gorgeous face. rutting into you as your walls clamp onto him, begging for his all milk he’s able to give you.

Simon growls, and the strings of cum fill your womb. Your clammy bodies are still stuck together as he rocks the last bit of cum into. Mumbling while kissing your neck, “take it lucky it’s all yours. Gotta keep you nice ‘nd full if you’re gonna get pregnant.”

It’s quiet finally. The barn itself is old and creaks but you can hear the chickens right down the steps clucking, the cicadas chirping, the breeze passing through the trees. The only think you hear are his and your pants,

Simon scoops you up in his arms, adjusting your dress to cover the mess he’s created thats dripping down on that barn floor with every steps he takes.

“Mr. Riley, where are we- where are we going?” You hiccup, gripping onto his shirt. All you can look at is him, a little in shock, a little blissed out. The only thing your able to focus on is the handsome man holding you against his chest. The way his heart pounds louder as he looks down at you.

“To the house. It just won’t take after one go.”

a/n: a draft that’s sitting since last month. Luv you bubs. Can’t wait to write more country!simon

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upperranktwo · 6 months ago

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Getting a new camera lens in a couple days and I'm super excited!!!! It's gonna be higher quality than my current lens and is better suited for my needs!!! Not a fan of spending a few hundred quid but 😭 I'm sure it'll be a good investment!!!

#my current lens will still be helpful for wide shots and the new one will help me get those close up ones without a massive drop in quality #been on the fence for a while but i do photography so much so i'm gonna upgrade my kit a bit #may end up buying a new camera soon but probably not for a year or so #editing some pics rn to go on my insta i've done really well updating it everyday this year 😭#sky rambles ♡#getting it second hand because i'm not dropping like 800 on one #going for like 400 range

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westviewsoldest · 18 days ago

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Taking Care of You, Alright

Masterlist | Part two

Pairing: dbf!Joel Miller x Reader (no-outbreak au)

Summary:

A heatwave hits the week your dad went away with his girlfriend, leaving you (in his opinion) home alone and unable to take care of yourself, so who better to call to drop canned supplies over than his best friend, Joel? But you might be using that time to take care of yourself already...

Warnings: 18+ (mdni) talk of masturbation (brief act of it), fingering, handjob, brief attempt at a blowjob, minute amount of praise, age gap, dad's best friend trope (but Joel has only ever known you as an adult), brief p/v pronouns, reader has hair (length unspecified).

Word count: 5.7k

a/n: I read a fic like this MONTHS ago, and I cannot remember who wrote it, definitely a Joel Miller heatwave one but I'm begging if you know who it was lmk asap because I don't want to plagiarise or take without credit! This was just my take on the trope.

Also important to mention this is my first attempt at smut so it's a lot more low-key and mild compared to a lot of the stuff on here, I'm sorry! I'll figure it out soon!

You’d only known each other for two summers. But with the way Joel Miller consumed your mind, it felt longer. Much, much longer.

Joel Miller wasn’t supposed to be anything more than your dad’s new bff from across the road. A divorcé who had moved into your little suburban cul-de-sac, two and a half years ago, after his wife ran off with some younger man, dragging half his assets and half the custody of his teenage daughter with her. It had been a whole scandal. One that was whispered over fences by the horny housewives of husbands who started balding and spending the weekends on a recliner watching whatever old men like to watch. Because yes, Joel Miller was absolutely divine in that Jack Dawson, 80s erotic romance novel, take-me-I’m-yours way.

But your dad, Mark, didn’t buy into all that neighbourhood gossip. No, since you were a child he had always said that the strength of a person came from their ability to form opinions for themselves and stick with them. It was probably why he was the first one to show up on Joel’s driveway with a six-pack of cold beer and an easy: ‘welcome to the street’ and a ‘need help unloading those boxes?’ whilst the rest of the street theorised what a man that handsome must’ve done to lose a wife. Because seriously, who on God’s green earth would leave a man who looks like that??

Since then, they’d been the male equivalent of best friends forever. What’s the equivalent of those little bff forever necklaces that break in half? Sharing toolboxes? Giving the other their screwdriver whilst borrowing their hammer?

Either way, football games on Sundays. Joint barbecue duty every Fourth of July. Shared Christmas when both of their daughters were unable to make it (Sarah at her mother’s and you drowning under the weight of assignments and upcoming exams).

So naturally, when you came home from your first year at college for the summer, you met Joel.

Joel, who did not have a receding hairline and beer belly like you were led to believe. Joel, who did not look down on you and call you variations of ‘sweetheart,’ ‘darling’ or ‘doll,’ like the gross, older customers did at your part-time waitressing job.

No, Joel Miller had no right sounding the way he did. With that easy Southern drawl that was too arousing to be calming. Linguists or speech patternists (whoever the fuck with ears) should really study him.

And he certainly had no right looking the way he fucking did.

He was tall, broad, and sun-touched in the way that made it obvious he worked hard every day of his life, in the way that made his salt-and-pepper beard look hot as fuck instead of old. If it wasn’t his shoulders that were stretching his shirt it was his damn biceps that looked like they were about to snap his sleeves clean through like Captain America. And his hands? His veiny hands looked like the ones you had seen on those twitter posts, yes, those twitter videos.

He was older. Much older. Probably twenty years older. And still, when he said your name or paid you a fraction of attention it tugged low at your belly in a way that someone your age should not be feeling for anyone that’s a couple decades away from a senior citizen discount.

And now, finally graduated from college and temporarily moved back into your childhood home, you had all the time in the world to stare at Joel fricking Miller.

Your dad had left two days ago. Something about taking his girlfriend, Sandra? Shannon? Sharron? To the lakehouse for a few days for ‘peace and quiet’ or whatever that meant. They’d been dating for over half a year now, and to your relief and abundant gratitude your dad was still unwilling to introduce the two of you together.

You might have had at least eight years to get over your parents’ divorce, but that didn’t mean you wanted to see your dad all ‘loved-up’ with some other woman. Sickening. Parents should just stop having lives the second they have kids.

And a full house to yourself for a week?? Fantastic. Perfection. No father. No roommates blasting music at 3 AM and leaving dishes in the sink. Just you, a full fridge of leftovers, and the intoxicating freedom to walk around without a bra or pants on.

Until the heatwave hit, which technically suited those last plans, sure. But it sure made life ten times more uncomfortable. It was hellfire. Blistering. Your clothes stuck to your skin. The hardwood floor seemed like the only place to be. And closing the curtains only did so much.

But there was one saving grace.

One thing that had had you buzzing since your dad brought up the idea of getting away in the first place (Pun not intended).

Private. Adult. Time. (To put it politely.)

A large chunk of time spent between your thighs, to put it less so.

Being a woman was hard in the first place, so many extra angles to work out. Being a woman on some strong antidepressants? A lot harder. It often meant needing a larger amount of stimulation that you had quickly learnt guys, or at least the ones you’d suffered through college with, just didn’t match up to. You could only blame them so much when your own hand sometimes took forty minutes on a good day and an hour and a half on a bad one.

And as a well-adjusted adult, in the awkwardness of being in the same house you once held tea-parties in and ran around in princess dresses, or more importantly, the house your father lives in, you weren’t exactly comfortable pulling out your trusty vibrator. Naturally. Arguably, a reasonable discomfort.

That’s why you went through the lengths of hiding it in your underwear bag when he helped you move out of your old dorm room.

But he was gone.

You had the house to yourself, a new battery locked and loaded in.

So there you were sprawled across your bed, shorts long since kicked off somewhere on the floor, one hand between your thighs. Your vibrator sitting on your bedside table, ready for use once you built yourself up enough. Most people would probably include audiovisual stimuli too, some overdramatic, loud porn video off some weird site that probably farms your data, but you always found it too distracting. Too easily forgetting what you’re supposed to be doing in favour of focusing on the actress’ fake moans and whether a woman could really come that many times whilst you’re just broken. It’s like it in books too. Consecutive chapters dedicated to the smut, where the big, rugged cowboy gets the object of his desires and the bane of his existence, off three times with his tongue and twice with his dick. Not necessarily in that order.

You circled your clit, a firm pressure and a slow pace, that clockwise direction that you know your body will start to respond to, hips rocking to meet it. A soft moan. Fuck, has it really been this long? You count it in your head. Tuesday 27th… three weeks. Three long, fucking weeks. Made all the more torturous when you spotted Joel mowing his lawn a few days ago. Fuck–

Your fingers begin to glide more easily, the thought of Joel making you much wett– well, that was new. Most of the time, you try to focus on the sensation, the movement of your fingers, the different angles, creating scenarios in your head were also too distracting. But this– No, this was good.

And suddenly, a picture comes to mind. Joel, with his rough hands pulling at your thighs and greying curls between your thighs, his tongue following the same trail your fingers were now.

Fuck.

You’d have plenty of time to feel sick and perverted about this later.

And then the right spot.

Fuck, that’s it.

You blindly reach for your vibrator, needing the heightened sensation, not for your body’s lack of response like usual but instead to keep up with it. Just as you turned it on to the second setting, and pressed it to your clit, you were interrupted by an incessant round of knocking. You were probably mistaken, you told yourself (or desperately wished), so you kept going.

Thirty seconds later, another round of knocks.

You groaned in irritation, mentally considering to just ignore whatever package your dad must’ve ordered from Amazon and keep going.

Then the doorbell ringing repeatedly like someone was jabbing it with their finger. Fine. Fine.

“Coming,” you shout, dropping your vibrator to your bed in search of your clothes. “Or not anymore,” you mumble to yourself. Your shorts were crumpled at the end of your bed and shirt by your bedside drawers. You yanked them on, not even bothering to delay whatever asshole thought it was imperative you get to the door by putting on a bra or underwear.

You swung the front door open, face meeting the fist of said asshole, already poised to knock again.

Except, not an asshole.

Joel.

What the fuck was Joel Miller doing banging on your door?

Joel took one glance at you and froze. Skin glowing with a layer of sweat, hair sticking to your neck with only a thin, and very see-through tank-top on. He didn’t know what to try to avoid looking at first, the outline of your nipples in said tank-top or the ridiculously short shorts that had no business being so tempting. But perhaps the filthiest thing was your expression, flushed, chest rising with laboured breaths. Perhaps Mark wasn’t kidding about her overheating easily, good thing he got here in time.

The power-cut hit suddenly, the blistering sun disguising it until everyone’s fans turned off and the heat hit them full force. And what do old people do when faced with an annoying situation? Complain on Facebook. That’s how your father learnt what was going on in the area, quickly pulling up his contacts to call the one person he trusted, Joel, to quote unquote: ‘check in on her, we’ve already been gone six hours. Make sure she’s got plenty of non-perishables and water– oo, if you can, make sure she’s got a fan too! She overheats easily.”

And that’s what Joel intended to do, drop off enough supplies to keep you fed, happy and comfortable, make an uncomfortable joke at his own expense and try not to stare at you like the perverted, old man he was increasingly feeling like.

Because he noticed. Oh yeah, he noticed alright. The long-lasting stares across the room, the small blush that sprinkled your face when he greeted you, and the… not-so-subtle glances at his arms and jeans when you thought he wasn’t paying attention.

But you were his new best friend’s daughter. The unspoken rule in big, neon lights declaring: DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT YOU SAD SACK. Unspoken, because any normal 50-year-old-man wouldn’t even be thinking about you in that light. He certainly wouldn’t stare at your ass when you bent over, most likely wouldn’t wonder what you’d sound like with his cock stuffed deep inside you, and he definitely would not, under any circumstances, accidentally picture you when he had his hand fisting his throbbing cock in the middle of the night.

“What–” You clear your throat, trying to act like you weren’t just thinking about the man in front of you with his hands down your– “What are you doing? Here? My dad’s out of town.”

He ducks his head, running a hand through his greying curls. And you can’t help but notice they’ve grown since the last time you saw him, the same length you had just imagine grasping– “I know, he sent me. Told me to make sure you weren’t roastin’ in the heat.”

“Well, that’s very generous of you. But I’m fine so–”

“You don’t look fine.” His brown eyes trace over you again, cataloguing the way your clothes cling to your skin, the way your hair’s frizzing at the back and your face is flushed. “You look like you’re burning up.”

“I was just… exercising. So you can–”

He raises a thick eyebrow, crossing his arms as he leans against the doorway. “Exercisin’, huh?” He blinks, nods to himself, then pushes himself past with a large box of items.

“Where d’ya want this stuff?” He calls out in front of you, not even looking back as he makes his way into the kitchen.

You stand there frozen with shock. What the hell is going on? Your brows knit together. “What stuff?”

“Water. Battery-operated fans. Batteries. Non-Perishables.” He lists, unpacking each onto the countertop. “Nothin’ fancy, just enough to get you by until the power comes back on and you can use your fridge again. Make sure not to open it until then.”

“The power’s out?”

His head tilts in confusion. “You didn’t notice. Been out ‘bout an hour.”

“Oh.. anywhere’s fine.” You shrug, hoping to avoid him questioning why you hadn’t noticed a whole damn power outage.

If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. Instead his focus is on stacking the canned goods and opening the battery pack so he can put them into the fans.

“I can do that later–” You offer. Hurry up. Please.

He glances over his shoulder. “You’re sweating enough to hydrate a small town. Sit down, I’ll handle this.”

“Told you, I was just–”

“Just exercisin’, yeah, I heard ya.”

He clears his throat, turning back to the meaningless task he gave himself to avoid ogling you like a creep. “You eat somethin’ today?”

“And drank lots of water, so if you don’t mind–”

He ignores your attempts to shoo him away, turning the handheld fan on, and holding it out to blow directly on you. Big mistake. Because the hair that had been covering the front of your tank-top, blows back, showing off your cleavage once more. He coughs. Your hands wrap around the fan to hold it yourself. “Should drink some more. ‘Specially if you were exercisin’. Where’s your room? I got another–”

“No–”

He rolls his eyes, already moving down the hallway with the larger fan. He needed to get the fuck out of here, like three minutes ago when he didn’t know what you looked like sweaty and half-naked. The heat is crawling down his back, his jeans starting to feel tighter than they were before he parked in the driveway. He’s a strong man, prides himself on his physical strength, sure, but also his restraint, his tenacity, his ability to not paw at some women two decades his junior just because she’s showing a little skin. But poor Joel isn’t a saint, he’s a goddamn man with eyes and the personification of temptation and torture at his heels.

“Your dad said something about overheating easily, I’ll just set it up in your room.”

“Joel, don’t–”

But it’s too late.

His steps falter as he enters the room, eyes instantly dropping to the small, black device perched innocently on your bed. And then his mind starts playing this really sick, little game, picturing you using that exact thing, his blood burning from the inside out. His hand twitches with the knowledge that he’s going to be busy tonight, no matter how much he’ll try to not be a sick fuck and watch some gameshow instead of jerking himself off.

He clears his throat, dragging his free hand down the face. It’s a wonder his left hand is still clutching the fan.

“Joel!” Your hand lands on his back, body halfway through the doorway where he’s still frozen. But he doesn’t look at you, doesn’t move or laugh, or pretend like he hasn’t seen your toy. No, he just stands there. Frozen. From the obstructed angle of his face you can see a blush rising from his neck, spreading across his ears and cheeks.

“Fucking Christ,” he mutters, hand covering his mouth.

“I told you not to–” You finally squeeze your way through the small gap between Joel and the doorway, standing in front of him to try to block his eyeline. But with the height difference you’re at a disadvantage.

His eyes flutter shut as he takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t see that.”

“I just–”

He opens his eyes and immediately regrets it. Because you’re right there, standing in front of him in those damn clingy clothes, a flushed face and eyes wide enough to make him think that’s what you might look like satiated and thoroughly fucked. He can practically taste you on his lips, a blend of whatever perfume you use and the sweat dripping down your neck. He takes a step back, another deep breath. “‘S’alright, you’re a grown woman… you can do whatever you like behind closed doors.”

“I know. But I wasn’t expecting you— I just when the doorbell went– I thought it’d be a package or something, definitely not you! And I didn’t expect you to stay so long. Or come in here. Obviously I would have put it away—” You gesticulate wildly with every defense, your cleavage bouncing with each and every movement.

His eyes follow each bounce, and the line of sweat on your chest that has him wanting to lick it off you so bad his hands almost shake. “Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he grits out, eyes darting back to your face.

“Didn’t interrupt much, I wasn’t even close–” The words tumble out of you without thought and you mentally consider smashing your head against the wall in reprimand. What was wrong with you? “Not important–"

Christ, the images of what you might have been doing when he got here invade his mind tenfold. There’s a beat, him trying to gather himself, you trying to figure out what to say after oversharing. When he finally turns back toward you, there’s something in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. A look of pure, unfiltered hunger, his irises swallowed whole.

He gives a jerky nod. “S’pose you’re plannin’ on pickin’ up where ya left off.”

“Think it’s killed the mood, to be honest.”

His jaw clenches. “Right.”

There’s another wave of silence. This time, heavy and tense. Joel can’t take his eyes off you, you’re so close, so hot and pretty it’s hell trying to navigate.

You step back towards the bed, picking up the vibrator and keeping it clutched behind your back. Out of site, out of mind, you desperately pray. There’s not enough gaslighting in the world that could convince you the older man in front of you will forget this ever happening. Mortification rolls over you in waves, drowning you. Fuck, he’s supposed to be coming over for the barbeque next week too.

To your surprise, he asks: “Where the hell did you even get somethin’ so small.” Judging by the wide eyes avoiding your gaze, he’s surprised too.

“It’s a bullet.”

“Looks real damn convenient.”

“Discreet packaging too.” Has the world suddenly tilted on its axis? In what universe are you telling the man who has beers with your father every Sunday the beauty that comes with purchasing from Love Honey.

He hums. “Think it’s the kind of present you’re supposed to use on your birthday.” It’s been a while since he was last with someone, most of his experience coming from his ex-wife. It’s not like he’s completely virgin to the use of toys, even in the bedroom together, but it wasn’t exactly a conversation piece either. Not that they talked about much in those last years together. Between fighting about Jamie, the intern at her office who did turn out to be a threat, and talking about Sarah, communication broke down.

“It’s all I can use–” You cut yourself off. Again. What was it about this man that had you confessing your sexual preferences like a songbird under duress. What next? Were you suddenly going to list the names of every guy you’ve been with? The hidden list of kinks you hadn’t been able to explore with anyone yet? The last piece of media that turned you on? “Again, really not important.”

His eyebrow quirks, dark eyes full of curiosity.

“Just, y’know…” Kill me now, you think. “My medication makes it hard for me to… y'know. So it’s just easier to use this otherwise it takes too long and I get distracted and by then I’m nowhere close,” you rant.

Kill.

Me.

Now.

…

Please.

He blinks. “Oh.” He scratches the back of his neck.

You hum, fingers fidgeting with the small toy still hidden behind your back.

“Must…be different. Than doing it yourself, I imagine.” What the hell is he saying? He’s already gone past his usual boundaries by even bringing up this subject. But apparently his mouth’s out of his control now.

“The end isn’t as intense with this. Kinda sucks. But doing it myself… haven’t got enough practice to ensure I’ll finish quick enough.”

“Practice?” His jeans are unbearably tight, your silence doing nothing to encourage his feet to get himself the fuck out of here. His eyes trail over you again, taking in the way your chest is rising and falling with your laboured breaths, the way you keep shifting on your feet like you’re restless. But it’s not boredom or discomfort he can see on your face. He’s been with enough women to know exactly what arousal looks like.

He’s not thinking. He’s not even trying to stop the thoughts swimming around in his head. He’s just taking another step towards you, bringing his body closer. And before he can stop himself, before he can yell at himself to not cross into ‘creepy, old fuck’ territory, he’s reaching for the hand behind your back, the one with the vibrator, and bringing it between you. He clicks the button once before pushing the tip against your other palm, vibrations flooding it.

He turns it up with a click of the same button. It buzzes louder, the sound more intense. ”Which setting do you like?” He asks gruffly, eyes trained on the buzzing toy.

“The next one,” you breathe out, the act of clenching your thighs doing nothing to help with the growing dampness.

He turns it up again, the toy getting louder, more powerful, the vibrations powering through both of your hands. He lets it go on for what could have been thirty seconds or thirty minutes, you can’t tell. “This one?”

“It’s the highest.”

And then his hand is enveloping the one holding the vibrator, directing it lower. And lower. “Can I?”

A small whine is all that comes out when you try to nod. Then he’s lowering it over your shorts, getting a sick satisfaction from the way your breath hitches, and your free palm wraps around his spare wrist. His hand lowers to grip your hip, causing your palm to slide up to his bicep, fuck– Your hand squeezes it as he presses the vibrator closer, until you’re practically riding it. The muscle flexing against your palm is enough to have you hurtling over the age in ways you never have–

He draws rough circles over your clit with the point, and suddenly you’re completely off balance. Off-kilter. Entering the twilight zone. “That feel good?”

An embarrassingly loud moan.

He’s breathing hard, watching with an intensity as you come apart in his own hands. He’s starting to feel a little dizzy, the room becoming too hot, his head spinning with all the things he wants to do to you, with how damn good you looks right now, how good you feel in his arms– His imagination was sorely lacking this past year, because nothing, nothing could even come closer to this. “You can say the word, and I’ll stop.” He rasps out, shifting closer until his erection is pressed against your leg.

The words barely register over the fluttering in your stomach, not quite the beginning of an orgasm, but close, so close to something near it. You can’t even find it in yourself to consider telling him to stop, to use your brain to recognise just how fucked up this situation is. “Need more,” you sigh. “Too– Too many layers.”

He swallows hard, and he’s somewhat convinced he’s died and gone to some very generous part of Heaven. He pulls the vibrator away, bringing his hands to the waistband of your shorts, yanking them down with a swift motion. His eyes run over you, taking in the lack of underwear, the mess accumulating between your thighs and the damp spot on the abandoned shorts. ”Fuck baby, you’re making a mess’a yourself,” he groans.

He’s laying you down on the bed in seconds, his arm cushioning your head, keeping his weight off your body beneath him. In a flash he’s lining the bullet up with your clit, this time only turning it up to the second setting. It took a herculean amount of control to stop himself from just throwing it across the room in favour of grinding his clothed cock against you.

He holds it there, letting it buzz directly against your clit with no mercy. ”Like this?” He chokes out. His eyes never leave your face, taking in the way you’re biting your lip, the way your hands are clenching his shoulders.

“Circles–”

“You’ll get what I fucking give you when I give it to you.”

You cry out, thighs shaking with the contradictory amount of not enough and too much.

“Look so pretty like this,” he rasps out, feeling the way they clench around his hand.

Another moan escapes you as his hips unconsciously piston into your side.

You don’t know how long passes before he begins to draw circles again, the movement only making you mew louder. “You’re taking it so well. Think you can handle more, can’t you?” He lets go of the toy, bringing your hand down to take over for him, before using his hand to pull your tank-top down, just enough to free one of your tits. He brushes his thumb over the sensitive bud, soaking in the pretty, little reactions he gets from you.

He pinches, loving the sharp intake of breath and the way your thighs squeeze tighter around your own hand. Don’t come. Don’t come. Don’t come, he thinks to himself. But fuck, if this isn’t the best sight he’s seen. “Open your legs for me. Keep them open, I wanna see.”

“Sorry,” you breathe out.

“There you go. That’s a good girl.” He pinches again, the praise slipping out before he can stop himself. His eyes dart from your pussy to your eyes, trying to garner your reaction. Joel knows he’s a man of intense interests, interests that a lot of people might shy away from or find disgusting. Light praise might be the least of them, but he knows if you let him open that can of worms, there’s only a short amount of time before it all comes out. He has to reel himself back, remind himself you’re a lot younger, probably a lot less experienced. He doesn’t want to push too much too soon, especially with how impulsive the past fifteen minutes have been.

You force your legs apart, grinding against the vibrator still forced against your clit. “This good enough for you, Mr. Miller?”

His hand stutters over your nipple, his head dropping to your collarbone with a painful thump. “Don’t you dare call me that,” he groans. And as you’re about to apologise for suddenly making it weird, he says: “Not if you want me to not come in my pants like I’m a fucking teenager again.”

Did you just hear what you think you heard? And then you feel it, the faster piston of his hips against your thigh.

He nips at your neck, teeth pulling at the skin. You should probably warn him, tell him to not leave any marks, but the words escape your brain the second he starts flicking your nipple again.

“Think you can take my fingers too?”

The despair of clenching around nothing has you nodding eagerly. He pushes himself back up on his elbow, hovering over you as one of his callused hands makes the descent, knocking into the vibrator and teasing your slit.

“If I knew what a needy girl you are,” he slides a finger in, curling to find your spot. “I’d have taken care of you a lot sooner." Your lack of a reaction has him sliding in a second, causing you to arch into him. Much better, he thinks.

”You’d just take whatever I give you, wouldn’t you?” His voice is hoarse, and it’s taking every fiber of self control not to push his jeans down and bury himself inside you. “Fuck– squeezing me so tight. That’s it.”

You clench around him again.

“Can you take another?”

“Please–” Your focus wanes from the toy in your hand, taking more pleasure from his three fingers spreading your cunt and curling. You feel the heat start to spread in your abdomen, holy fuck.

Your needy whines are going straight to his dick. ”That’s it, baby. Take what you need.”

“I’m gonna– I’m so–”

“Fuck, you’re so pretty when you’re a needy mess.” His thumb pushes between your clit and the vibrator, rubbing firm circles over and over. You click the vibrator off, aiming for the bedside table but dropping it to the floor instead.

“Fucking drooling all over me.” Joel’s cock throbs against his tight jeans, desperate for relief. “You been thinkin’ about me too?”

“Yes–” You moan out, pressure building as you push against his hand. So close. So close. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, sharp nails clawing at his shirt as the pressure shatters and you’re coming around his hand with a cry. He works you through your orgasm, rubbing smaller circles until your hips jump with the overstimulation. Your body goes limp when he pulls them out, body satiated and brain flatlining with the rush of dopamine.

“That’s it. That’s it,” he cooes, leaning his head on one of your thighs. He’s still not ready to float back down to reality, the one where this is the shittiest thing he’s ever done to a friend. Still not ready for this to be over.

And when you sit up, he expects you to curse him out, to look at him with pure disgust and hatred at what he’s just done. But instead, he feels your hand cup the large tent in his jeans, palming at it. His head snaps up, opening his mouth to ask what you’re doing, but one look at the pure, wrecked expression on your face and your glossed-over eyes has him pushing against your palm.

“Takin’ what you need again?” He chokes out. Maybe it’s easier that way, if he pretends like he’s doing you the favour, instead of taking responsibility. Later, he thinks to himself, later he’ll take responsibility for this, feel the guilt he deserves but until then...

You make quick work of getting his jeans open, hands pushing at them to try and get them to join your shorts on the floor. His hands meet yours, helping to get them over his legs before you push at his chest until the positions are reversed: his back against the bed, you hovering over him. Your hands trail over the buttons of his shirt, pulling at them individually and popping them open.

His eyes slam shut the moment your hands worm their way down his stomach, rubbing at the greying hair. He grips the bottom of your tank-top, yanking it over your head with enough force that it makes a small ripping noise. He palms at your swollen breasts, praying to whatever divinity there is that he’ll be able to remember them.

“Just wanna see him,” you tease, palm rubbing over the prominent tent in his black boxers.

“You gonna take good care of him?”

“Promise.” You bring your mouth over him, pressing a kiss against the tip, over the damp patch darkening the material covering it. He groans, hips cantering up. You take pity, pulling them down until they join the rest of the pile.

Despite your generous imagination, and man was it vivid, he’s bigger than you pictured. The head of his thick length, red and swollen, already leaking small beads of pre-cum.

You wrap your fingers around him, and he curses. It’s been a long time since he’s had someone that isn’t his own hand stroking him, and he’s suddenly a little worried he might end this too quickly. But fuck do you look too pretty, cock dripping between your fingers, tongue licking at your lips like you’re debating if he’d let you taste him. He’s just surprised he wouldn’t have to beg. ”Fuck, I’ll mess those pretty fingers up if I’m not careful.”

“Gonna make them glisten, Mr. Miller? I’d prefer my face but–”

His eyes roll to the back of his head, ”You’re gonna make me come just talkin’ like that. Wish you brought that filthy mouth out sooner.”

Your hand strokes faster, twisting on the upstroke and one of his hands envelopes yours, helping to apply more pressure. “That’s it, pretty girl. Doin’ so good f’me.” The other lifts to your chin, thumb brushing against your bottom lip. “You gonna let me put that dirty mouth to better use?”

You nudge the hand covering yours away, lowering your mouth to his aching cock. It twitches against your lip, and you lift your eyes to his as you take him into your mouth inch by inch. His hand slides past your cheek, fingers gliding to the back of your head to grip your hair. “Look so pretty stuffed full of my co–”

He’s interrupted by your phone buzzing on your nightstand, screen lighting up. You ignore it, hollowing out your cheeks until you feel Joel freeze under you. He pulls your mouth off him with a wet pop.

“What?” You ask, worried that you were doing something wrong. It’s been a long time since you last went down on a guy–

“Your dad’s calling.”

“Oh.”

Part two here

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #the last of us #joel miller x you #westviewsoldest #joel miller smut

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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 10 months ago

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Yandere Hybrid Town (1) | Only Human

In a world filled with humans and hybrids attempting to find balance with one another, you are but a simple human trying to integrate into the town on the property your late grandparent bequeathed to you. The town just so happens to have a small population of farming hybrids, with hardly any other humans around.

“So you’re the inheritor…(Y/n)? (L/n)?”

“Yes, I have my I.D. if you want to check.”

“..Right….but the owner of the original property was a hybrid…you are not.”

“Not that it matters. But my grandfather’s partner was a Wolf hybrid…They both agreed to give it to me when they both passed.”

“I..see.”

It might be right to call it racism or maybe more accurately it’s specism and the townsfolk aren’t all that keen on hiding it. They openly sneer at you when you do come to town, whispering loudly about what they’ve heard, and rolling their eyes if you have the gall to ask them a question.

“Can I get these bags of mulch in bulk?”

“...so what are ya talkin’ to me for? Just grab ‘em.”

“Your sign says to ‘ask for more at the front desk.’”

“...Fine dirt monkey. How much?”

It doesn’t bother you…sometimes. You mostly spend your days on your property, having picnics in the open fields you now own. Spending time renovating your cottage with all the custom plumbing and electricity you learn to install yourself. Wouldn’t want some unfriendly technician in town doing it instead. Anyways you get into the routine of sustaining yourself in your lonesome working from home and relying on your savings to help you enjoy your new life. That doesn’t stop until the one fateful day…you’re lounging on your deck when you hear something faint. It sounds like crying.

“Waaaaa!”

It sounds like a child…which isn’t unfamiliar, after all your neighbors do seem to be a little family. Of course, they don’t want to talk to you but that’s fine.

“Waaaa!”

It sounds pretty intense but you’re sure it’ll stop soon.

“Waaaaa! Somebody help, please!”

Now it feels wrong to ignore it any longer. You quickly fix yourself to head over, driving the tractor that you ride across your property to the fence that represents the beginning of your neighbor’s property. It was short work to hop over the fence and hear the crying persisting. Running to the back porch of the house, you see a little dog boy crying his heart out.

“I heard you crying what’s wrong?”

The kid starts blubbering wiping at tears and snot on his face. After some calming pats between the ears and some promises to help you can get a clear picture.

“Mama fell ‘ver and she won’t wake up!”

You run inside to find exactly that. A dog woman face down on the floor while the soup on the stove boils out and whatever’s in the oven beginning to smoke. Stopping the appliances you flip over the woman in search of a heartbeat and breathing. Thankfully you find it and ask the little boy where you can lay her down. He points you to the bedroom down the hall passing by another bedroom and a bathroom.

Once you’ve laid her down, check her temperature, and decide in your not-so-expert opinion that she’s suffering from a fever. Assuring the little dog boy you have him help you carry some cold water and a rag to place on her head. While making sure she drinks some water, you finally get to talking to the little dog boy who’s started to calm down now.

“That was real brave of you, good job for asking for help.”

“Big brother always said I gotta since I’m too tiny to do much myself.”

“Well, I thought you were very helpful and you don’t seem that tiny to me.”

“Thanks!”

“No problem! My name’s (Y/n).”

“And my name’s Titan! By the way (Y/n) I’m real hungry!”

That’s how you ended up cleaning the dishes, Titan’s mother started and using what you could to make something new. You stuck with one of your old family recipes, relying on your memory the best you could to avoid another charred disaster. Eventually, you finish up able to set a plate in front of Titan who is more than happy to dig in.

“More! More!”

“Okay Titan just a little bit more but you can’t eat it all we’ve got to save some.”

“Whyyyy!?”

“Because your mom hasn’t eaten yet and I’m sure your brother will want some when he gets home–”

“But he’s never aroun’ we’ll be waiting forever for him to come!”

Creak.

“Titan who is this?”

The new voice comes from a much larger dog man with a sturdy build, sun-kissed skin, and overalls barely hanging off his shoulders. His ears are narrowed back and his shoulders are hunched as he easily towers over you. With Titan’s help, you explain how you came to help and that his mother had fainted, likely from the fever she had. When you show him to her, his bared teeth and impending growl quiet down. Fussing over her as he checks for any sign that you might be lying. Finding that you’re not, he skeptically accepts the meal you made as you alternate watching over her and entertaining Titan–who’s far too chipper for a pup ready for bed.

“Hey uh, wanted to apolog’ze for earlier”

“For what?!”

“Fer how I acted when you’re just helpin’ out.”

“Oh, it’s okay! I’m just happy no one’s hurt.”

“I’m also sorry for misjudging you. I think I had the wrong impression bout ya.”

As you continue to chat with the young dog man–Tank you both work together to finish up whatever chores his mom would usually do. Between you both Titan is convinced to finally get some sleep if it’s in your lap close to his mom. Tank suggests you stay over bashfully offering his bed if you need it. You decline, encouraging him to get some much-needed rest considering he was working on the farm tomorrow.

“A-a-are you sure you don’t want to stay in a bed? I feel like it’s the least we could do.”

“No worries Tank, I’m going to watch over your mom until this fever breaks. Besides I don’t have the heart to move Titan now.”

“Fair I guess. Hopefully, I’ll see ya tomorrow?”

“Yeah if I’m not still here in the morning you can come to my place anytime.”

His fluffy tail wags a lot harder than he likes at that.

“R-really?”

“Yeah, anytime!”

With another ‘thank you’ he’s off to bed. It isn’t until sunrise that the fever breaks and the dog-hybrid mother is coming to. Assuring her that her boys and the food she left in the oven are not burning the house she calms down to thank you.

“Oh thank you thank you I don’t know what I would have done without you!”

Where you’ll have to fight her off from her barrage of kisses, hugs, and propositions to stay long enough for her to cook something for you to take home, as much as you wanted to stay and indulge in her acts of thanks, you missed your bed and it was plenty exhausting now that you were being spoken to positively. Convincing her that you were such a short drive away that she didn’t need to keep you too much longer and after promising that she and her boys were welcome anytime you could finally go home.

“You promise?”

“Yes, Miss Tiffany I promise, anytime you’d like.”

“Just not now?”

“Yes, not now so please get some rest!”

Back in the comfort of your home, everything is more or less the same except for the recently obsessed friendly neighbors who make all the quiet time you used to have nonexistent.

“Wake Up! Wake Up! Let’s play!”

“Egh Titan how did you get in here?”

“Through your doggy door!”

“But I don’t have one!”

“Now you do!”

Thus begins the first few to fall for the lone human in this hybrid town. Hardly shy about their newly discovered attraction as they fill their dull hours up with time next to you. Lucky them as your neighbors they’re the only ones privy to your addictive affection and comforting scent.

“Oh! I was about to drive over to drop off Titan!”

“What a coincidence! We were just coming over to have dinner at yours!”

“Huh?”

“Well, you did say we can come and thank you anytime!”

“So we figured why not now!”

“In fact, maybe every week we come over to yours and you come over to ours!”

“I mean I guess-?”

“Wonderful Titan, Tank clear the kitchen I’m going to make this dinner the best yet!”

“Yes’m!” “Yes’m

The Dog hybrid family next door is all too eager to take up all of your time. Since the moment you moved in they’ve been eager to truly get to know you, woefully settling with the distant wafts of your scent during a favorable breeze. Unlike others in the town their curiosity for the human was a positive one blaming it on their all too friendly instincts they couldn’t deny the urge they got to close to the distance between you two. But alas everyone in the town was so averse to the idea they were pushed off the desire for far too long but after your sweet words and intentions, they’d be foolish not to return the affection.

“(Y/n) if you’d like me to cut the grass, I don’t mind.”

“That’s really sweet, Tank but I told myself I wouldn’t allow myself to sit back and let others do all the work.”

His tail droops at that. “Ah I see.”

“But you won’t tell me to go away will you (Y/n)? After I made that doggy door and everything.”

“You just chewed a hole in my door and I’m not saying you can’t stop by Tank I just don’t want it to be because you’re doing more work.”

His tail is wagging a mile a minute again. “I don’t mind if it’s for you!”

With your canine hybrid neighbors so close it’s hard to forget you were ever left alone. Now quiet and sometimes confrontational trips are filled with at least one member of the family accompanying you. Willing to bargain at stores for you or impressively growl when the cashier’s being a tad too snippy. It does make you nervous when the tiny Titan politely asks the nosy bird-woman who had the nerve to whisper about you to a ‘nice chat’ in the alley between the store. Returning with tufts of feathers and blood in his baby teeth. Or how Mama Tiff will oh so politely mention her bloodhound heritage at the fox bullies that hang around your car. Or when Tank all too eagerly pulls you into his side when he finds you cornered by the snake librarian.

“Back off my human!”

After any confrontation, you’ll ask your questions. Head on or round about they’ll all only smile at you, tail wagging wildly behind them. As if they’re proud of the slight fear in your eyes when you ask what that was about.

“We just want to protect you! You are only human after all!”

Part 2: It's Here!

#yandere x reader #yandere x you #lovelyyandereaddictionpoint #yanderexrea #yandere #yanderes #yandere harem #yandere hybrids x reader #yandere hybrid #yandere hybrid x reader #yandere dog hybrid #yandere dog hybrids #yandere hybrid town #yandere hybrid town x reader #yandere monstober #yandere monsters #yandere monster x reader #yandere monster

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humanjarvis · 4 months ago

Text

call it what you want

synopsis: when you visit a gathering of childhood friends, they’re wary of you and caleb’s relationship. and while you take it in stride, he takes it to heart.

tags: fluff, angst, heart to heart, happy ending, calebmc judged by childhood friends for their relationship, mc withstands it but caleb withdraws, barely yandere caleb, he does watch mc when they’re apart though, caleb breaks somebody’s teeth with his evol, calebmc relationship depicted as the jumbled up mess that it is, there’s not really pseudocest though, calebmc are each other’s first kiss, caleb is insecure, mc comforts the hell out of him, references to caleb’s mental illness, allusions to sex. inspired by “call it what you want” by taylor swift pairing: caleb x fem!reader, reader is mc word count: 8.1k (woah!)

a/n: behold my thesis on the intricate siblingfriendpartnership of calebmc. it’s the best thing i’ve written and i’m so glad. but also this has ended up doubling as my 2k followers special 🎉🎉🎉 that is an unfathomable amount of people subjecting themselves to my writing and i’m seriously so grateful. thank you for motivating me to create! anyway, i truly hope you get something out of this, but even if you don’t, i’m proud of it 💞

“C’mon, pip-squeak. We can't ignore it forever. I’m here now, and I'll be right by your side. All those bad memories…you won’t have to face them alone anymore.”

“I know. And I’m glad. But still, it’s…different now,” you smile weakly, failing to suppress a heavy sigh.

Caleb was in Linkon for the week, having put his foot down about his well-earned time off. And you, having gotten used to the constant Fleet interruptions, had gone the extra mile to make him unreachable: locking his communicator in your bedside drawer.

After three days of making new memories—you’d ticked the movies, the zoo, and a concert off your list—his love for nostalgia had finally gotten the better of him. He’d set his sights on reminiscence, and all morning, he’d been pestering you to visit your old neighborhood. Where your childhood home had once stood.

“We can just take a look around. Five minutes, tops. Aren’t you curious about that old playset you used to drag me to? Always made me spot you under the monkey bars in case you fell. I’m sure they miss you,” he teases, hope shining in his ametrine eyes.

And as you picture it—the iron bars of the jungle gym, now rusted with time; the grayish, well-traveled cobblestone streets; the wild honeysuckle bushes scattered around the block—you know this is a battle you can’t win.

“Fine,” you huff. “But you’re driving.”

“As if I’d refuse. And hey,” he softens, grabbing your arm gently. “If it’s too much, let me know. We’ll come back right away.”

***

Your stomach roils as familiar street signs come into view.

Green lawns and picket fences. Symbols of safety you could no longer trust.

Humming along to an old pop hit on the radio—a valiant attempt to distract you—Caleb turns into your neighborhood, and you clench your teeth involuntarily.

Luckily, you don’t have too much time to worry. Because seconds later, he pulls over a few houses from home and puts the car in park.

You sit for a moment. Watching. Breathing.

Thinking of how the last time you came here, he was dead.

“I’ll race ya,” he says suddenly, shutting the engine off and throwing his door open. And with a strained chuckle, you follow suit.

You lose on purpose, slowing your steps the closer you get to Gran’s house. You know he can tell.

But soon, you run out of room to stall.

As you stand beside the “FOR SALE” sign, feeling like a stranger, the freshly polished wood and foreign color scheme deepen the pit inside your stomach.

Caleb whistles lowly. “Sure looks different, doesn’t it?”

But you’re not listening. You’re remembering.

You remember the smell—the charred scent that stuck with you for so long after the explosion, your nostrils blistered from too much blowing. The way ashes fell endlessly from the sky, and you didn’t know what—or who—they were made of. The last-minute salon visit you’d had to schedule to chop the singed ends of your hair off.

“C’mon. That playground is just this way,” he offers, coaxing voice saving you from too much rumination.

“Okay,” you whisper, sliding your hand into his.

It was an age-old lesson, one you’d learned a hundred times: summer heat and monkey bars don’t mix.

As you flinch away with a startled hiss, Caleb casually pulls spare gloves from his pocket—as if he kept them on him for a situation like this—and carefully slips them onto you. For someone whose hands dwarf yours, they fit suspiciously well.

“Up you go,” he sings, lifting you to reach the handles. And just like all those years before, he walks beside you as you cross, steadying you with his gentle touch.

When you reach the end, instead of jumping down, you shift your momentum to swing backwards, skater dress twirling with the motion.

But as your front faces the street again, you realize your mistake a moment too late.

“Oh my gosh, is that who I think it is?!”

As a vaguely recognizable voice squeals, you freeze in place, hands squeezing around the iron bars in a death grip.

“Oh, it totally is! You haven’t come around here in forever—it’s so good to see you!” the voice continues.

Turning your head—slowly, like the main character in a horror film—your eyes land on an all too familiar figure. Sarah, a girl around your age you used to envy for her toy collection, stands just feet away from you, long leash corralling a massive German Shepherd held tightly in her manicured hand.

With two light taps on your back—Caleb’s signal for you to come down—you loosen your hold and land almost gracefully on the pea gravel below.

This was a situation you’d only been in once before. When Gideon had crossed paths with you at the cemetery and learned his dead friend was, well…not.

In any case, the circumstances then had been rare enough for you to carry on without establishing a protocol. And now, as you stand at the mercy of someone with no reason to keep Caleb’s secret, you’ll be forced to improvise.

“Hi…Sarah,” you grin awkwardly, fiddling with your hands in front of you. “Thought you’d have moved by now.”

“Nope!” she chirps, not catching your apprehension. “We’re gonna give it one more year. After my husband saves up from his new job, we want to travel a bit before settling down.”

You nod brusquely.

“By the way, we haven’t really seen you here since the accident. I’m so sorry about your grandmother and Caleb—I know how close you two were. But—oh! Excuse my manners,” she pivots, looking behind you as if a lightbulb flicked on overhead. “Who’s th—”

Sarah’s tanned face blanches.

“Hey Sarah. It’s been a while,” he greets casually.

And the woman in front of you looks between you both as if she’s seconds away from siccing that dog on you.

“You…caught us at a bad time,” you giggle nervously. “It’s kind of a secret, but…that was a…false report, after the explosion. Caleb actually managed to flee the area with a few burns. The authorities just kept the whole thing under wraps in case it was a targeted attack, or something. So I’ve been keeping an eye on him ever since!” you smile tightly, squeezing his dry palm with your clammy one.

“Oh…well…what a relief, I guess!” she chuckles uncomfortably. “Well…if you’re not laying too low, Caleb,” she starts, extroverted nature beating out her rationality, “we’re having a get-together with all the neighborhood kids tomorrow! You guys should totally come. We’d hate to miss our favorite duo—you were always so funny, nagging each other like siblings.”

You bristle at the term, gripping Caleb’s hand so tightly it could bruise. “Um, thanks for the offer, Sarah, but we…” you trail off, looking at him to help you.

“We’d love to come!” he doesn’t.

“Uh, we…would?” you question, perplexed by his sudden enthusiasm.

“Yeah, why not, pips? It’d do you good to reconnect with some of the girls you liked hangin’ around. Plus, I’ll be right there with you,” he smiles brightly.

Though his reasoning barely quells your anxiety, your heart softens at the gesture.

“Alright, then,” you turn to Sarah. “We’ll be there.”

The old mall down the block is halfway through renovations.

Neon orange construction cones litter the parking lot, and every door but the main entrance is sealed off with yellow caution tape.

Navigating through the weekend traffic, you and Caleb wander through the swarming, noisy corridors, leaving store after store empty-handed.

You don’t know what to wear.

Meeting so many people after such a long time…there’s an irrational need to impress, to look like you have your life together.

And somehow, every outfit seems off on you. It’s not false advertising—the mannequins are gorgeous as ever. But there’s something about you that ruins every look.

As you rummaged through different displays, Caleb had done some light hovering—staying near, but letting you do your own thing, overall.

But as you return another dress to the rack with a frustrated growl, he swoops in to put his scary intuition to good use.

“This would suit you,” he grins kindly, brandishing a pastel blue sundress. “Wanna try it on?”

You eye the fabric skeptically. It’s not your usual style, but you take it into the dressing room anyway.

And of course, the first thing Caleb picks out for you is perfect.

“Told ya,” he laughs when you call him inside, back hugging you in the mirror. “You look beautiful. ‘Course it helps that it was my idea, and all.”

Swatting him gently, you giggle as you try to push him out of the cramped space, grunting with annoyance when he sandbags you.

“Get out of here!” you protest. “We still have to find your outfit, and the mall closes soon.”

“Okay, okay, I'm going,” he relents cheekily. “Snap a picture for me before you take it off, though, alright?”

***

Once you’d paid—or he’d paid, having levitated your purse in the air while you scowled at him—you’d dragged him over to the men’s section, where you’d found an outfit just his size with a similar color scheme.

He’d preened when you held it out to him, puffing his chest out with pride at the fact you knew his tastes so well. And in his sparkling eyes, you’d spotted a flicker of possessiveness as he looked between your clear garment bag and the clothes in his hands, not so subtly comparing the blues to each other.

And evidently, with the way he’d refused to even try anything on before heading back to the register, he’d been satisfied.

As you make your way back to his car, Caleb tugs you in by the waist to claim your lips in a tender kiss.

“It’s perfect,” he breathes. “It’ll be perfect. And even though we’ll be matchin’…I get the feeling you’ll be the one people can’t look away from.”

Caleb’s hand is on the small of your back as you step through Sarah’s front door, but it leaves you as he encourages you to mingle. “Go catch up,” he urges with his signature grin.

You know what he’s doing. What this whole thing has been. A way to push you out of your comfort zone, a prolonged apology, and a promise to be less overbearing, all in one.

He needs it just as much as you do. Needs you to know that he’s trying. So as you nod softly and make your way through the throng of laughing faces, you hope he sees you trying, too.

Sarah’s parents had both been lawyers, and if the diplomas lining the far wall of the living room didn’t make that clear enough, the sheer size of their house sure did.

The layout is vaguely familiar—Caleb had been friends with her older brother, and you’d practically begged him to tag along on playdates so you could see the fancy house down the street.

As you take it all in—the flat screen TVs (plural) broadcasting different channels, the iridescent streamers lining the bannisters, the variety of appetizers spread out across the first floor—you only grow more envious.

Turning away with a petty huff, you focus on the people instead. As you study faces new and old, you wonder how many guests here brought their partners. How many know that you brought yours.

Sarah—ever the gracious host, never the gossip—had informed the attendees about Caleb’s situation in hopes that he wouldn’t be bombarded the second he stepped inside. And it was working, somehow, as far as you could tell. Aside from a few wary glances sent his way, people greeted him just like they did before: as the golden boy whose presence was a gift.

At some point, as you’d hovered aimlessly by the drink table, a girl you remembered fondly had strolled up to you. Marley, her name was. With her lively eyes, kind smile, and eagerness to play dolls with you, she’d been your closest non-Caleb friend in the neighborhood.

“Who would’ve thought the girl next door would grow up to be a hunter, huh?” she jokes, gently elbowing your ribs.

“It’s really not that special,” you laugh, halfheartedly dodging her pokes. “Just something necessary, I guess, since the Wanderers came. I thought it’d be cool, high-stakes action movie stuff every day, but I kinda feel like a firefighter saving a cat from a tree sometimes.”

“Oh, please. You’re practically a superhero! Caleb, too, being a whole pilot and all. Time really flies—I still remember when he helped you set up your lemonade stand that one summer,” she giggles. “You were always so in sync.”

“Still are,” you smile softly, gaze subconsciously finding Caleb from across the room. He's chatting in a group of his old buddies, but as always, it’s like he can sense you looking at him. His eyes find yours in an instant, as if he already knew where you were standing—because of course he did—and he shoots you a boyish wink.

“But, if you don’t mind me asking,” Marley hesitates, her eyes shifting perplexedly between you. “Are you two…together…now? You seem even closer than you were as kids, if that’s even possible,” she mutters sarcastically, talking from the side of her mouth.

As the question hits you for the first time that night, you plaster a big, fake smile on your face. “We sure are! It was five months last week.”

“Well, congrats, I guess,” she tries to exclaim, but her confusion stunts her sincerity. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s just…I never expected you guys would date! You always seemed more like…ah…friends,” she cringes, her own fake smile twitching slightly.

Friends.

As the word fights its way out of her mouth, likely beating several less polite alternatives, the weight of her hesitance is not lost on you.

“Friends, huh?” you echo, and your smile is real this time. A show of your teeth, a hint that she’s just entered dangerous waters. “What kind of friends grow up in the same house, Marley? Raised by the same person, and all. Pretty rare if you ask me,” you cock your head in mock contemplation. “C’mon, what do you really mean to say?”

You’d been taught well.

“Okay, okay!” she huffs, folding like a lawn chair under the pressure. “I always thought you were like siblings. Thought you guys thought you were like siblings. I’m just surprised, is all.”

“There’s nothing to be surprised about,” you nod curtly. “You lived next door, not with us. You don’t know how we felt about each other.”

Your voice is robotic as you meet her with a deadened stare. No matter how much you’d expected it, no matter how much you’d prepared, the judgment catches you off guard.

The rumors, the gossip—it’s one reason you thought Caleb would decline the invite. To protect you, if nothing else. But with a bitter, inward laugh, you guess that him trying means letting you be in situations you might’ve begged him to shield you from.

“I need some air,” you decide suddenly, interrupting Marley’s frantic apologies to turn toward the door. “It was nice catching up.”

A cool breeze kisses your exposed skin as you watch the fireflies blink from the patio. And as beautiful as they are, glittering in the night sky, there are other things on your mind at the moment.

If Caleb was ever a brother to you, he was the best brother anyone ever had.

You’d seen the way your friends acted with their brothers. Always kept a watchful eye on their interactions, as if comparing their relationships to yours. Middle school, high school, college.

And over all those years, no brother had ever been as attentive—as doting, as patient, as loving—as Caleb.

After the explosion, when you were left to deal with your feelings alone—no nagging, oversized puppy to distract you—you’d pondered how you saw him. Deep down, under the structure and order and propriety that was forced upon you too young. Regretted that it was too late to ask him how he saw you.

And if those quiet nights crying so hard it felt like drowning had taught you anything, it was this: as much as Caleb was brotherly, he had always been more—so much more than what he had to be to you.

He could’ve shut himself in his room for hours, leaving you to fend for yourself. He could’ve ghosted you the minute you no longer went to the same school. Could’ve found a girlfriend, had kids early, and moved his real family far away from you. All these things, you’d seen happen.

But through it all, Caleb had stayed, and he’d done it with his signature smile. Even when you’d worried he’d outgrown you, had outpaced you with his stellar achievements, he’d just pinched your cheek with a fond grin. Who d’ya think I do all that for, silly? he’d laughed.

By your reunion, when he’d stared down at you so cruelly, you’d known what he was to you. The only man you’d ever loved, in all meanings of the phrase. That’s why it had hurt so much.

And Caleb had scared you off. Your feelings were fragile, only newly realized. But his…were developed. Intense. More intense than you were ready for, coming from someone who’d been off-limits for 15 years.

So you’d resisted. Resisted his spiraling admissions, resisted the feelings you knew he had for you, resisted his frantic attempts to steal you from the world.

It would take time for you to accept a love like his. You’d told him as much five months ago—that you needed to meet in the middle. And he’d promised to try.

As the days went by, you got used to treating him like a lover. To putting new meanings behind every touch. And every time you kissed him, he carved out more of his own paradise in your mind, escaping the liminal area he’d occupied in unfulfilling restraint.

It was only in moments like this when prying eyes and hushed whispers wore you down. People who thought that, because they knew you once—for a summer, for a semester, for a school year—they knew who you were and how you felt. But there was something paradoxically mercurial about you and Caleb: the more you stayed the same, the more you changed. And only the two of you were privy to it.

Even still, some leers and questions got to you, just as they had tonight. Apprehension and a resented sense of shame had filled your gut, as if you’d been “caught” stealing from your own wallet.

But of all the things Caleb was to you, only one mattered: he was yours. And as a firefly lands on your outstretched palm, twinkling beautifully in the darkness that threatens it, you know no one can take that from you.

Caleb had had better nights.

He’d had worse, for sure—agony and loneliness come to mind—but he’d definitely had better.

He��s spent this one mingling among the names he hadn’t cared to remember, all as an attempt to show you he won’t cage you in. You can have fun, have friends outside of him, as much as the thought makes his stomach churn.

And what better way to start than with people he already knew? Baby steps.

As he cranes his neck to find you again (which shouldn’t be hard, since he just has to look for the one dressed like him), he vaguely registers an incessant buzz of a voice talking his ear off. Jared, he calls himself.

“Anyway, I can’t believe you did that to her. That’s fucked up, man,” the voice says, clapping Caleb’s back with an obnoxious chortle.

And as much as he needs to find you, Caleb really wishes he’d spared some of his attention for the homunculus beside him.

“What exactly are you implying?” he asks lowly, lifting the hand from his shoulder with a firmness that any sober person would find threatening.

He’s almost certain you’re not in the room, now, your calming presence lost in the sea of discarded memories. Alarms sound in his head at the realization, only to be drowned out by something more damning.

“It’s just…you grew up together! Had the same grandma. That's like your sister, dude. But you know what, to each their own. The way she looks, I can’t say I would've held myself back any better than you did. Probably worse, man. Matter of fact, you fucked her y—?”

The force of Caleb’s Evol clamps Jared’s mouth shut.

And, if his muffled yelp is any indication, hopefully breaks a few of his teeth, their bloodied chips settling on his tongue.

“This sorry excuse for a conversation is over. Leave. Now. And if I see you talking to her on your way out, I’ll make sure you never get the chance to again.”

Jared nods fearfully, and after one last snarl, Caleb lifts his Evol, albeit begrudgingly. It takes Jared a few seconds to notice his newfound freedom, but the moment he does, he’s scurrying out of the house. Good.

You’re back in Caleb’s sight, now. But as he takes in your shy smile, the faint melody of your laughter filling his keen ears, he doesn’t feel the comfort he normally would.

Instead, he feels his dog tag.

Your precious gift to him. A symbol of how you needed him, of your anticipation that he’d always be in your life. Of his hope that one day, you’d return his feelings.

He recalls the once comfortable weight, the way his body heat would flow into the cool metal, linking it to him in a warm embrace.

The chain now burns against his throat.

Jared had been brash.

Crude, crass, and certainly cocky, thinking he was deserving of you.

So as Caleb watches you chat among a mixed group of guests, swirling his full cup in agitation, he decides he doesn’t care about the delivery. It’s the content that troubles him.

Because Jared, in his drunken state, had managed to hit a nerve Caleb had tried to sever five months ago.

Are you sure you want this? he’d asked you shakily. Want it from me? With me?

And in clear confirmation, you’d claimed his first kiss.

But even still, the thoughts lingered at the back of his brain. That he was tainting you, taking advantage of you, stealing your life away.

He knows Jared isn’t worth the scum beneath his shoe, but those unsavory thoughts made his own worries resurface.

And as fickle as his mind was, he’d only ever known to trust it.

So when Caleb sees you beam at another man’s compliment, glowing like you’d been sent from heaven itself, he feels like maybe he’d been right.

For the rest of the night, Caleb dreaded the drive home. Luckily, you’d slept for most of the way back.

But as he parks outside your building, gently rousing you from your sleep, the feeling returns in full force.

“Good morning,” you giggle, stretching drowsily. “Sorry I fell asleep on you—I can’t remember the last time I talked that much. Did you have fun?”

“Something like that,” he says, popping the driver’s door open. “You?”

“I did, I think,” you start, opening your own side and sliding out of his car. “I really did. It was a little rough at first, but it got better. What about you? Anybody try to stab your brains out? Since you’re undead and all.”

He chuckles dryly. “Not exactly.”

As you trudge toward your apartment, Caleb trails behind you. You’re so dazed, you almost don’t notice it. But you miss the familiar warmth of his left hand.

Your tired fingers quiver as you fail to unlock your door, and with a gentle nudge, Caleb slides the key in for you.

Mumbling a “thank you,” you step through the doorway, making space for him to follow. When he doesn’t, you turn to face him, frowning lightly in confusion. Gleaming in the moonlight, the metal threshold separates your feet: yours on the inside, his on the outside.

“I’ve been called back to Skyhaven. It’s nothing too serious, but I’ll have to cut this visit short. Don’t worry about me.”

The words pierce your chest like a dagger, but his cold delivery twists the knife.

“Oh,” you breathe, not knowing what to do or where to look or how to hide your disappointment. “I didn’t know they had any way of contacting you. Your communicator’s still in my nightstand, you know,” you quip lamely. “But I guess four days has to be enough this time. I’m lucky to have gotten that.”

Smiling weakly, you lean in to kiss him. But with his sudden reservation, the moment is more chaste than you’d intended.

As he starts to turn away, you instinctively grab his hand. “Are you…is everything okay? You’re being weird,” you whisper, eyes searching him in concern.

“No I’m not,” he retorts, forcing life back into his voice. The weight of his hand ruffling your hair feels wrong, somehow, and his airy tone is a contrast to the darkness in his gaze. “Get some rest, pip-squeak.”

Caleb never thought the jewelry box you’d left at his place would come in handy.

He had no use for it—the only piece he truly needed to preserve stayed looped around his neck at all times.

But as he stares at the silver chain hung carefully on a hook, its ruby-crested apple dangling in the evening sunlight, he silently thanks you for your forgetfulness.

It’s been two days since he returned to Skyhaven, but the events of that night remain fresh wounds in a fragile mind.

I can’t believe you did that to her.

To you. Not with.

As if his love was an assault.

All his life, Caleb had tried to show you only the good sides of him. To tamper down his intensities so you’d eat from his palm. You were a skittish thing, failed one too many times by an inadequate world. So he’d approached you gently, practicing docility until it became second nature. To keep his eager hands from defiling you.

He’d molded himself into whoever you needed him to be, never admitting what he wanted to be to you. All so you would tolerate him, want to keep him around for his services, if nothing else. Because as much as he claimed to protect you, your safety was his anchor. If you were loved, warm, and unharmed—if he kept you that way—then every consequence was worth it.

He’d learned to live like a chameleon, his temperament matching your mood. And as much as a forgotten part of him yearned for identity, it was a role he’d settled into playing—until his weakened back had snapped under the pressure.

When you’d confessed that you felt the same—that you loved him in more ways than the one you should—he’d deluded himself into thinking those years of restraint were over. That he could stop watching over you and start walking with you. That you would fall from propriety hand in hand.

He’d never thought himself naive. Always launched himself ahead of the curve so that would never be an option for him. Naive was something someone with his responsibility couldn’t afford to be.

But now, as his lifeline swings back and forth on its new perch, jingling with what could only be mockery, the feeling swallows Caleb whole.

It would’ve killed him to see you with someone else. He’d had nightmares about it every month, save for the last five, ever since he was a teenager. But even if you chose to live with someone else by your side…at least he would have gotten to see you do it. To watch you be happy, carefree, without you wondering if it was your right to be. Without the guilt of robbing your life from you, tainting your purity with his sin.

He knew you were wary. You’d gotten better about it—at hiding it, at least—but he could still feel the panicked clench of your hand in his when someone looked at you too long. You were trying, for him, just as he tried for you. But if trying meant the unfiltered scrutiny that Jared had spewed could one day reach you, it wasn’t worth it, he decided.

You deserved more than the headache he’d give you.

***

The days drag on.

Caleb’s vacation ends as little more than purgatory, and when he dons his Colonel uniform once more, the Fleet’s affairs feel his presence now more than ever.

He’s sharper now, meaner. Mistakes that would usually earn a light slap on the wrist now end in termination. Figurative or literal, the recruits aren’t sure.

He knows he’s spiraling. He hears the whispers: “The Colonel’s finally lost it” met with “As if he ever had it.” But rebuke from any voice but yours doesn’t reach him.

During flights, he plays his missions a little less safe, making rash decisions sure to end in incident, eventually. He justifies it, in his head, by thinking that maybe an injury would inflict upon him the suffering he deserves.

He’s been drifting, lately. Through the hallways, through the streets, through space.

But aimless as he is, Caleb can’t bring himself to desert you completely. Those 15 years of gentle servitude had become so ingrained in him, he thinks a total cutoff would only make him more reckless. So he pacifies you with brief, polite answers, sharing none of his usual charm and emoticons. This flighty, diluted version of himself was all that he could offer.

But each day, when Caleb stumbles back into the necessary solitude of his house, wheezing with overexertion, he heads straight to the hidden room where you’d discovered his bionic arm. Where, under dark wooden panels, a row of monitors hide.

Their feeds are clear as they’ve always been. Your cubicle, your route home, your front door, your kitchen. Your bedroom.

And until he succumbs to exhaustion, Caleb watches you.

Watches you sift through reports, eyes open but unseeing.

Watches you stumble on the way home, your foot catching on a stray root that he would’ve spotted in time.

Watches you crumble, after a while, and curl up on the side of your bed where he always slept.

Watches until the rhythmic rocks of your crying body lull you to sleep in place of his heartbeat.

As the clock strikes midnight, you complete your count to 23.

It’s been 23 days since you’d received anything more than a one-word response from Caleb.

At first, you’d given him grace—thought he just wasn’t feeling well. He was always one to withdraw from you when sick, locking himself away for a while before emerging like nothing happened.

But even then, he was never this curt with you. He always reassured you that he was okay.

Days passed, and the mysterious illness theory flew out the window. As you fired off another concerned text, all but pleading for him to say something, you wondered if he was mad at you—but what could you have done? Not to mention that when he was mad at you, it usually ended with him apologizing, somehow. It’s always Caleb’s fault, huh? he’d cooed at you, rubbing your back tenderly. I’m sorry, baby.

Something was just…wrong. Terribly, scarily wrong. And whatever it was, you had to figure it out alone.

With a frustrated growl, you snatch your phone up from its place on your nightstand and scroll to your latest messages, hoping he’s decided to take you out of time-out.

you: hi. i know you’re probably sick of me asking, but can you call when you get a chance? haven’t heard your voice in a while.

>:( : later.

Nothing. He was giving you absolutely nothing.

You want to scream. Want to hunt him down, grab him by the collar, and thrash him around for being so difficult. But as your gaze flits to the photo on your desk—a silly selfie you’d taken on your first official date—your heart constricts from how badly miss him.

You miss him so desperately that the pain in your chest is worse than when he left for college. At least you’d known he would come back to you, then.

As hot tears well in your eyes—far from the first time—you remember the words he’d written to you once, never intending for you to read them: “Any man who makes you cry isn't worth your time,” you repeat, snorting softly at the irony.

But unluckily for him, Caleb wasn't any man.

Any man wouldn't braid your hair from childhood to now, never teaching you to do it yourself because he wasn’t willing to give up doing it. Any man wouldn't skip the senior trip he’d saved hundreds for just to nurse you through a stomach bug. Any man wouldn't dedicate half his life to making sure yours was painless.

So no, Caleb wasn’t any man. He was smart, skilled, and devoted. He was reliable, doting, and selfishly self-sacrificing. He was the reason you’d grown up so well, always wanting to make him proud. And he was yours.

Tugging harshly at the roots of your hair—a habit he’d always tried to break—you pace around your bedroom like a frenzied animal.

You were going to go to him, that much was obvious. To ambush him and make him explain what you’d done for him to discard you like this. To apologize, if he’d hear it.

But how, if he wouldn’t give you the time of day? The man lived in a giant sky fortress, for God’s sake. And with his neverending suspicions, it wasn’t like he trusted any other members of the Fleet enough to give you their contact informati—

Except, you interrupt yourself, freezing mid-step. He did.

Liam.

Caleb’s faithful adjutant, the one you’d spoken to—or spoken at, while he looked at you unnervingly—just a handful of times.

Sometimes, bad ideas are the only ones available.

Retrieving your phone from where it lies face down on your rumpled blanket, you scroll and scroll to the bottom of your contact list, where Liam’s name stares back at you forebodingly.

Steeling yourself with a shaky nod, you press call and wait with bated breath. He answers on the second ring.

“Miss, may I ask why you’re calling? Are you in any trouble?” his deep, dispassionate voice, devoid of any true concern, rings out.

You swallow thickly before trusting your voice enough to sound as anything more than a pitiful squeak. “I-I have Caleb’s communicator,” you maneuver skillfully despite your nerves. “He left it at my apartment. Can you take me to him? So I can give it back.”

“You’d be better off turning it in to one of our administrators. The Colonel is very busy right now and—”

“Take me to him, please,” you repeat stubbornly, raised voice echoing off ivory drywall.

“Miss, I'm only allowed to speak with you if you’re in immediate danger. I'm under strict orders not to facilitate any interaction with the Colonel.”

He’s going to hang up soon, you panic. And then your only chance is gone.

A flare of anger heats your skin as you realize you don’t have an appointment to see your own boyfriend. The one who can pester you and break your boundaries with a barely apologetic smile, but shuts you out the second you try to do the same.

Channeling your tears from earlier—they still line your eyes, after all—you sniffle into the speaker. Desperate times…

“What do you think will happen when I tell him you made me cry? You won’t be under any orders anymore,” you bait him quietly, relying on the fragile hope that Caleb was still as fiercely protective of you as he’d been before.

The pregnant pause on the other line tells you you’d succeeded. “I…” he clears his throat. “Please arrive at the Skyhaven airport at your earliest convenience. I'll be there to take you to the Colonel.”

When Liam’s aircraft lands on the familiar floating island, you rush out with a muttered “thanks” and jam your thumb onto the sensor.

But as the doors slide open and you stomp inside, the silence you’re met with tells you Caleb isn’t home.

Sighing heavily, you survey your surroundings: the spotless kitchen, barren like it hadn’t been used in weeks; the dust collecting on his most-used surfaces; the tray on the coffee table, missing its usual array of apples. Had he been eating? Had he been coming here at all?

Your worries carry you through the other rooms, but none hold the answers to your questions.

And as you step into his bedroom, the place you were most likely to find a clue, you wish you hadn’t.

Because there, hanging tauntingly on a familiar looking jewelry box, is Caleb’s dog tag. The chain he never went without.

The ache in your chest becomes a gaping void.

Blood rushes to your ears and makes them ring so loudly that you can’t hear the despondent noise you make. On unsteady feet, you lurch farther into the room and lower your trembling body onto the mattress.

As you stare at the mahogany jewelry box, looming mockingly on the dresser, you think the walls spin around you.

In all the years you’d known Caleb, he had never been one to just give up—so what about you was so condemnable that it finally made him?

He wasn’t here to answer.

So you take the chain for what it is: resignation. Eviction.

It feels like you shouldn’t be here anymore. Like you’re an intruder in a sacred space. Like maybe you shouldn’t have even made it in, but he just hadn’t had the time to axe your thumbprint from the system yet.

You need to leave. That much is clear. But here, stranded in the sky, you don’t exactly have a getaway plan.

Without the leverage of Caleb’s love, you doubt Liam would take too kindly to being threatened again, just hours after the first time.

As fruitless minutes tick by, it’s clear that waiting is your only option. But as you curl up in the center of the bed, chest heaving with labored breaths, you no longer anticipate Caleb’s return.

When your eyes blink open in the dead of night, you know he’s there before you see him.

The air in the room feels different. Heavy and charged, like just before a thunderstorm.

Anything could happen when you face him. But he’s deprived you of so much lately, that at least something would.

Shoving the thought to the front of your mind for motivation, you raise your head to find him in the darkness of the room, lit only by a lone streetlight.

And the sight of him makes your stomach drop.

Caleb, uniform torn and tattered, slumps against the wall closest to the bed, eyes closed and head lowered.

A smear of blood paints his cheek, and as you zero in on it, you notice the eyebags so dark they look like bruises. Like he hasn’t slept in days.

But even with his eyes closed, you should know by now that you don’t have the time to ogle him.

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

“Where else would I go?”

And those violet irises find yours.

“Do you regret it? That you have nowhere else to go?” he asks softly, bloodshot gaze searching your huddled form. Checking, like he always did.

No is your immediate answer. But you figure you should ask him first. That way, when you say it, he might actually believe you. “What?”

“Do you regret what I’ve done to you?” he elaborates, voice dropping near the end.

The explanation doesn’t help. “What have you done to me, Caleb?”

He winces at the phrasing, though he knows it’s not an accusation.

Cocking his head cynically, he lets a hollow chuckle escape. “I shouldn’t have pushed you to go to that party. Guess that’s what I get for trying.”

“What are you talking about?” you probe, shifting to the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me,” he mimics, “is that I’m trying to stay away from you. For your own sake.”

“You weren’t there to see it. Hung up in another room, or outside, or something. It was the only time I lost sight of you,” he recalls bitterly. “And this guy started mouthin’ off about how fucked it was for us to be together. Said I was sick for the things I must’ve done to you.”

A sliver of understanding eases the tension in your muscles. But you need to hear it from him. “And you believed him?” you ask, eyeing him warily.

“It wasn't him who I had to believe. I already knew. Have known, for a while now, no matter how much I tried to pretend I didn’t. The way I thought my hands deserved to touch you—it’s a sin, isn’t it? One you shouldn’t have to carry. That’s why I left—so you could live a life unburdened by me.”

At his words, an all too familiar irritation stirs within you. Alongside sadness that he’d thought it best to feel this way alone.

Pushing forcefully off the bed, you kneel between his knees, gripping his bloodied face between your hands. “Who said you had permission to leave?” you ask lowly, and you hear his voice in yours.

“I asked you what happened that night,” you continue. “More than once. And I'd have listened if you told me. Would’ve been there to tell you that none of it mattered. But you said it was nothing—another way to protect me, I guess. And then you left me on my doorstep, wondering how I’d hurt you.”

Caleb’s mouth drops slightly, but you don’t let him interrupt. “When you said you would try, you overlooked one thing. Part of trying is considering how I feel. Like when I saw your necklace—how do you think I felt? I thought…you didn’t want me anymore. That you’d decided I was too big a burden for you,” you breathe, and when your voice breaks at the end, Caleb covers your hands with his.

“If your sin involves me, you don’t get to live through it alone. You pulled away from me without wondering if I wanted to be complicit. If I wanted to share it with you. You don’t get to make me a victim without asking if I feel like one. And I never have.”

He freezes at that, gazing up at you imploringly. When he finds what he’s looking for, he turns his head slightly, lips brushing your wrist in a hesitant kiss. “I know—” he swallows. “I know you feel ashamed sometimes. Of being with me, now, when I was who I was to you. Even if you don’t want to be, when we go out together, I can feel it.”

“You’re right,” you nod simply, and he fails to stifle a choked gasp. “But I don’t let it change anything.”

Now, it’s Caleb’s turn to ask. “What do you mean?”

“Remember Marley?” you start softly, stroking his tousled hair. “Girl I used to play dolls with when you were too busy? She asked about us, too. And I told her the truth: we’re together, and we’re happy, and our story is ours. It’s not just your choice, Caleb. I’m with you because I want the same. I always have.”

And as much as you know he wants to believe it, to accept it and move on, things were never that simple with him.

“You don’t understand,” he murmurs shakily, returning your hands to your lap as if they’ve burned him. “I can't…I've only ever wanted to keep you safe. No matter who I had to be to you. And when you let me have you—how I want to, how I’d wanted to…I wasn’t strong enough to turn you away. I’m not strong enough to do what’s best for you,” he whispers with glistening eyes.

Slowly, gently, you reach out to him a second time. To splay a hand on his exposed chest, to get him used to the feeling of your touch again.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” you murmur, stroking your thumb against him. “Because I think you’re very strong.”

“I thought you were strong when you saved me from those bullies in middle school. Still remember the black eyes you gave them. When I saw that…I thought you were a hero. And I wanted to be just like you.” Pausing, you lean down to kiss his collarbone, and though he shudders, you take his pleading gaze as a sign to continue.

“I thought you were strong when Gran got really sick, and you had to do everything. Cooking, cleaning, taking me to school. And you did it with a smile.” Giving him one of your own, you cradle his flushed face in your hands, stroking his darkening cheeks tenderly. Violet eyes watch you with disbelief—a reflection of six months ago, when you’d entrusted your first kiss to him.

“And when you kissed me back that first time? When I felt how much you wanted to, how you kept it bottled up inside you for so long—I thought you were so strong,” you whisper, mouth hovering over his. “You’ve always been strong, Caleb. It’s why I love you so much.”

In time with his sharp inhale, you press your lips to his. But as large hands flex against your sides, he doesn’t respond to your touch.

So you press harder, deeper, as if your kiss will awaken what’s dormant within him: his molten, unabashed need for you. The need that holds purity in its paradox, even if he doesn’t know it yet.

And when you circle your hand around his throat, where his necklace once collared him in your name, Caleb kisses you back.

It’s an exploratory kiss, but a passionate one. As if your reacquainted lips are making up for lost time.

You guide him with the steady suction of your lips, and when you tug at his frayed lapel, Caleb takes the lead.

His tongue surges into your mouth, reclaiming what he’d missed, and you moan at the welcome intrusion.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, backing away slightly. “Sometimes I just wonder…if you’d be better off without me.”

“I wouldn't,” you soothe, pulling him in for a reassuring peck. “You’re a part of me. I want you wherever I am, whichever version of you will have me.”

“All of them,” he mumbles against you. “And then some.”

And as you slip his hand under your shirt, there’s no reluctance in his tender grasp. Like he belongs there.

Soft strokes on your bare shoulder wake you as the sun rises.

“I missed seein’ you like this,” murmurs the voice you’d missed just as much.

“And whose fault is that?” you chide, cutting your eyes to glare up at him playfully.

“Mine,” he concedes instantly. “All mine.”

“Mhm. Speaking of,” you begin, stepping out of bed gingerly. “If you’re going to be my Caleb, there’s one more thing you need to do. Close your eyes,” you instruct.

And Caleb complies—something that’s come easy the past six months.

The room is silent for a moment, with only the distant sounds of jet planes piercing the air.

Then, a soft clink.

And as the mattress dips with your return to him, Caleb lifts his head instinctively. And the cool surface of metal slips around his neck.

As Caleb spares you a glance from the passenger’s seat, the apple charm on his dog tag glints in the sunlight.

Row after row of familiar houses comes into view, but you seem calm, this time. Unburdened.

With some compliments and exaggerated enthusiasm, Sarah had been more than happy to host another party. And you’d been more than patient as you’d encouraged Caleb to attend.

He’d been cautious, at first, for obvious reasons. But you didn’t dare push.

So as the date loomed closer, he’d decided to try.

And when you cross the threshold hand in hand to a sea of curious faces, the tension he expects to compress his pulsing heart never comes.

Instead, something kinder blossoms: pure, weightless pride.

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felixandresims · 1 year ago

Text

Happy New Month, everyone :),

Estate Part 2 includes 36 objects, most with a colour palette of 30 tones.

You asked if I could create wooden stairs, and I think it was about time to follow your wish. I played around with the steps and studied Georgian stairs; they look especially nice cantilevered. The railings for my Chateau Set were ornate, while most Georgian Stairs I saw have simpler cast iron railings. This Set includes:

Georgian Doors, Closed, Open and a separate door frame

Georgian Doors, Closed, Open and separate door frame, shorter Proportion

Georgian Double Doors, Open and separate door frame

Arches with Columns

Round Arches

Stairs

Stair Landing Extensions

Functional Railing

Functional Fence

Railing and Fence as Objects

Two Different Chandeliers with two wall heights

Rustic Timber Floor Boards

Parquet Floor, Parquet Floor Trim

The wallpapers shown are coming next month. Since the latest update, the ceilings have looked strange, so I skipped the ceiling paints. I hope the Sims fixes that soon.

This Set is on Early Access, and you can find it here

I hope you enjoy continuing with your estates, and Happy Simming !!!!

Lots of Love,

Felix xxx

#ts4cc #ts4 cc mm #ts4 cc finds #ts4cc download #ts4 maxis match #ts4 mansion #ts4 interior #felixandresims

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xuchiya · 1 month ago

Note

ANGST arranged marriage San please 😖 like so angsty my heart drops but also please like allude to comfort at the end otherwise my heart might stop

the contract husband || choi san || request

| genre: angst with comfort. husband! choi san. | mentions: marriage of convience. mean san but he will be soft soon. mention of san has a lover before he got married.

word count: 5.7k

The rain didn’t stop the day you married Choi San.

It didn’t drizzle or soften into something romantic—it poured, relentlessly, as though the sky itself was mourning. The clouds had wept from morning until now, thick and heavy sheets hammering the earth like sobs no one dared to speak aloud. The wedding bells rang, but their sound—meant to symbolize joy and new beginnings—was hollow, clanging like distant echoes in a tunnel you couldn’t escape. What was supposed to flutter your heart only worsened the pounding in your head.

This wedding wasn’t a celebration. It was a performance.

The reception had long begun, though you felt like a guest in your own life. You wore a second dress—something lighter, shinier, stitched with elegance—but no amount of fabric could hide how stiff your smile felt. Your cheeks ached from holding it up, a porcelain doll carved into place. You wanted to peel the day off your skin like a costume that clung too tight.

Weddings were supposed to be unforgettable—a core memory carved into the heart. But this one, you knew, would haunt you instead. A memory that would replay in your mind like a scratched record—over and over again, even when you begged for silence.

Outside, guests huddled under umbrellas, their hems soaked and shoes squelching against the marbled floors. They filed in one by one, murmuring polite congratulations with smiles more rehearsed than heartfelt. These weren’t your friends. These weren’t even strangers. They were your father’s loyal employees—people who bowed more to power than to people.

You remembered standing at the altar, the garden outside drowned in grey, the flowers you chose weeks before now beaten down by rain. You had looked out at that storm and thought, “How fitting.” The heavens cried louder than either of you could.

You glance down now at the ring on your finger—a thin gold band that shone with cruel clarity under the reception lights. It gleamed like a joke. A promise without a heart behind it. Your happily ever after had been reduced to ink on a contract. San’s signature, your signature. Two strokes of a pen and a lifetime of pretending.

This wasn’t love. It was logistics.

A union not of souls but of stocks and legacy. It had always been this way—your life negotiated by others, your future traded like currency for someone else’s security. You were the daughter. The heir. The bargaining chip.

You sighed, quickly catching it and smoothing your features again as another guest approached. A man with a wrinkled smile and distant eyes—the type of man who shook hands with your father in boardrooms, not the kind who remembered your name. You nodded, playing the part. You always did.

But then—amidst the blur of suits and champagne flutes—you heard a voice that pulled you back to something real, “I last remember you—you still had pigtails and two broken teeth.”

You turned, and there she was. Your old neighbor. The woman who used to exchange fruits with your mother over the fence, who slipped you candies and told you fairy tales with wrinkled hands and kind eyes. The only one who ever showed up without asking for something in return.

She didn’t know the full story—didn’t need to. She could feel it. The falseness of this day. The absence of the groom. The ache behind your smile.

She sat beside you, settling quietly in the chair where San should have been. You didn’t even flinch. The word husband still didn’t sit right on your tongue. Not when the boy you once adored had become a man you barely recognized—distant, unreadable, hollowed out by expectation just like you.

Your grandmother figure patted your arm gently, her touch warm and grounding, “Happy endings don’t always wait at the end,” she said softly.

You looked down, brows drawn, the corners of your lips tight. Your voice cracked beneath the weight of everything you weren’t allowed to say, “I won’t even have that… not even in my other lives.”

She only chuckled softly, a knowing warmth in her weathered eyes, “Oh, dear… it’ll just be today. But I promise you—it will get better. Look…” Her wrinkled fingers lifted, pointing across the ballroom. You followed the direction of her gesture and your gaze landed on a small group of men.

Choi San. Your contract husband.

He looked unfairly perfect today. That tailored gray vest hugged his torso like it had been sewn by the gods themselves—crisp lines, subtle sheen, every button carefully done except for the rolled-up sleeves of his striped shirt, betraying a casual arrogance that somehow made him even more irresistible. The pale blue stripes added this quiet, intellectual edge, and don’t even get me started on that black tie—slim, elegant, like he was trying to behave but kept forgetting he was a trouble incarnate.

And those glasses? Please. Wire-thin, perfectly perched on his nose, making his sharp jawline and dark hair look even more devastating. He was talking with his colleagues so easily, tilting his head with that little smirk that said he knew exactly how good he looked, voice low and teasing, like silk over gravel.

He wasn’t just handsome. He was composed, magnetic, impossible to ignore. The kind of man who made you forget what you were saying mid-sentence. The kind of man who could make the whole room feel smaller just by glancing in your direction. And the worst part? You were in love and he doesn’t.

And the pain of one-sided love didn’t begin on your wedding day. No, it started long before—when you first learned who your contract husband would be.

Choi San. A name you hadn’t uttered in years, but one that had never truly left your heart. You’d buried those feelings six years ago during your college days, back when love was just a passing ache and not the lifeline you clung to now.

He had been a friend of a friend. You only met him a handful of times, usually when Seonghwa brought you along to small gatherings, campus events, late-night dinners. But even then—just from those few brief moments—you knew. It was love at first sight, or something terrifyingly close to it. You’d find your thoughts drifting back to him for days after, replaying the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, how his laughter seemed to echo louder than the rest.

He had been warm then. Kind. Effortlessly charming. The kind of person who made you want to believe in timing and fate.

And when the announcement came—when you were told you were to be married for the sake of your family’s legacy—you hadn’t expected it to be him. But the universe, in its twisted irony, had chosen San. You had stood there, stunned, the name echoing in your ears like a whisper from the past. But when you turned to face him, he didn’t even flinch.

There was no surprise in his eyes. No softness. It was just silence, the mere thought of bringing up about your bond back then would only increase the emotions swirling inside his chest, so you kept it to yourself and be more vigilant on your choice of words.

It was as if every memory you’d clung to—every soft smile, every shared laugh—had been erased from his heart. Like they had meant nothing. His features were composed, unreadable. But his eyes were different now—hard, cold, as if they'd forgotten how to look at you the way they once had. From that moment on, he became someone else. A stranger draped in the skin of someone you used to know. The warm boy you fell for was gone. In his place stood a man who kept his distance, who answered with clipped words and silent glances. He was polite when necessary, detached when possible. Cold—almost deliberately so.

And still, you loved him.

A quiet, stubborn kind of love—the kind that didn’t make sense to anyone but you. Those who knew would only shake their heads, whisper behind closed doors about how naive you were. Gullible. Foolish. Blind to the way he treated you. They said you clung to a fantasy, to a man who barely looked at you, who left you with silence and half-hearted gestures.

And maybe they were right. But even so, you stayed. You hoped. You held onto the fragile belief that one day—someday—your feelings would be returned. That beneath all his cold distance, there might still be a part of him waiting to love you back.

When the day of the wedding came, the venue was everything out of a fairytale. Floral arches, soft lights, strings of pearls, and an aisle meant for dreams. A little girl’s fantasy—but a bride’s quiet nightmare.

Because not everything magical is meant to feel real. San stood at the altar like a statue—stone-faced, still. He didn’t turn when you approached. Didn’t smile. He didn’t reach for your hand until the officiant gestured for it, and even then, his touch was mechanical—gentle, but empty. When he slid the ring onto your finger, his jaw was locked tight, his shoulders strained beneath his perfectly tailored suit.

There was no love in his eyes. No pride nor hesitation. Only duty, an obligation he has to fulfil. A role he was forced to play.

And when it came time for the ceremonial kiss, his lips merely brushed your cheek—a formality more than a gesture. Fleeting. Hollow. A ghost of affection that never quite arrived. Then, later that night, he sealed your fate with a single line. “Don’t wait up for me,” he said coolly, loosening his tie with practiced indifference. “This room is yours. I’ll stay in the study.”

And that was three months ago. Three months of pretending. Three months of cold dinners and colder silences. Three months of separate rooms, separate lives, and separate hearts. And yet, somehow, your love for him still lingered—quiet and uninvited, like the echo of a dream you couldn’t forget.

The mansion was too big for silence—and yet, somehow, it echoed with it.

Every footstep felt like it traveled forever, swallowed by the polished floors and tall, hollow ceilings. Even the ticking of the antique clocks seemed louder than your own voice. The halls were pristine, untouched, like a museum of a life that wasn’t being lived. The air was cold, not from the weather, but from absence. It was a house built for grandeur—yet all you could feel in it was emptiness. The loneliness didn’t scream. It settled quietly into your bones.

You passed like ghosts—brushing past each other in the mornings, shoulders nearly grazing, eyes barely meeting. Sometimes you wondered if he even saw you at all. Breakfasts shared in silence. Evenings spent in opposite corners of the same room. You lived parallel lives that never intersected—like two actors stuck in different plays, sharing a single stage. You shared a last name, but not a life. A bed in title only. A love story that never started.

It wasn’t hatred. Not exactly. Hatred, at least, was loud. Hatred burned. This was something colder, something quieter—like fog that never lifted and the clouds of gray stayed still, covering what is left of the blue sky. It wasn’t even indifference, because sometimes he looked at you like he wanted to say something but swallowed it instead.

And that was worse. Because it meant there was something there, something unspoken. But never enough.

When his eyes met yours, there was always a flicker—something sharp and unreachable. Was it guilt? Regret? A memory he didn’t want to hold? Or worse, did he blame you? Did he see you as the lock on the door he never wanted to enter? Every time you searched his face for something—anything—you found only that wall. Cold stone, smooth and impassable.

But you tried. God, you tried—over and over again—to make things lighter, softer, bearable for the both of you. You smiled when he didn’t. You spoke when the silence stretched too long. You left the door open, just in case he ever decided to walk through it.

But every time you took a step forward, he took three back. And nothing echoes louder than the silence of a breaking heart.

Still, you stayed. Still, you hoped. Because you were stubborn—foolishly, fiercely so. Because love, real love, doesn’t die easily. Not when it began so softly. Not when it bloomed from something innocent, untainted by bitterness. Not even when it was one-sided.

Not even when it hurts.

And you were determined to make a change.

You knew you weren’t the strongest emotionally. You weren’t made of steel, and you never pretended to be. But this—this—was where you drew the line. Where you faced the very thing you’d always struggled with: fighting for what you wanted. For what you deserved.

You had loved Choi San since your senior year of college—quietly, patiently, from the sidelines. And though your love had never been loud, never demanding, it had lasted. And now, for the first time, you were ready to try. Not for validation. Not for approval.

But for him.

You were reaching out. You made breakfast once—his favorite, remembered from years ago. You had gotten up before the sun, the mansion still draped in blue shadows. The kitchen light flickered softly above you, casting a golden glow on your quiet effort. Eggs, rice, and seaweed soup. Just like he liked it back in college—when things were simpler, lighter, when the distance between you hadn’t yet turned into a wall. The kitchen smells like comfort food—but it’s not comforting at all. It’s heavy, oppressive. The steam clings to the walls like it’s trying to fill the silence between you, but the silence is too wide. Too cold.

He comes in without a word. Doesn’t even glance your way.

The door clicks softly behind him, and he walks like he’s already miles ahead—his hair still damp, swept back neatly, accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw, the resolute cut of his cheekbones. He looks every bit the Grand Duke—polished, powerful, untouchable. His vest is pressed, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal expensive cufflinks. The suit jacket slung over his arm completes the picture. Ready for meetings. Strategy. A future that doesn’t seem to include you.

You hear your own heartbeat before your voice even comes out.

“San-ssi… wait.” It’s barely a whisper, but it’s enough to make him stop—just long enough to glance over his shoulder. A flicker of acknowledgment. That brief second is all you need, and yet it still takes effort to pull the next words from your throat.

“Please…” You swallow. “Please have breakfast before you go.” The silence stretches between you like a taut thread. His gaze shifts—finally—not to you, but to the table. You’ve laid everything out: a warm soup still steaming, fried eggs arranged neatly, fresh rice, a small plate of pickled radish, even a slice of orange peeled just the way he used to like it. Like muscle memory.

He turns his back to you, “I don’t eat breakfast.” He starts toward the door again, and your fingers twitch—instinctively reaching out, though you don’t move.

“At least,” you say softly, “have the soup. Just a few bites. It’s… it’s cold outside. Your stomach will hurt if it’s empty.”

You curse yourself for the way your voice shakes at the end. You didn’t mean to push. You know better—this is a contract marriage, just ink on paper. Expectations were never part of the deal. But still… you couldn’t help it. You didn’t want to be strangers under the same roof.

There’s a pause—heavy, uncertain. Then, a slow exhale, “…Fine.” He turns and walks toward the table. Shrugs off his coat and drapes it neatly over the chair before sliding into the seat. You hold your breath as he picks up the spoon and lifts it to his lips. A faint puff of steam. One sip. Another. And then… he stops. His hand lowers.

“Now stop pestering me.” The spoon clinks against the bowl as he places it down with surgical precision. He rises to his feet, collects his coat without looking at you, and walks out. No thank you. No acknowledgment. Not even a glance. Only the sound of the front door slamming shut behind him, loud enough to jar the silence he left behind.

You stand there, rooted to the floor. “Take care…” you whisper. You try to smile—try to be the version of yourself who could pretend—but your lips won’t cooperate. The corners tremble. The effort tastes like iron.

You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to press the ache back into place. The room is still warm from the soup, but you’re freezing from the inside out. It feels like frost coats your ribs with every shallow breath you take. You don’t know what hurts more: the sting behind your eyes or the hollow in your chest that grows heavier with every morning like this. All you wanted was for him to look at you—really look—and remember who you were to him once. Friends. A bond forged before title and duty and distance hardened his heart.

But now there’s only a shadow in his eyes.

And you’re left standing alone in your own kitchen, holding your heartbreak like something fragile you don’t know how to set down. Loving a ghost who doesn’t know you’re haunting him too. The room is so quiet you can hear it—your own heart breaking. And somehow, you wonder if he hears it too.

If he does… would he even care?

The second time you both shared the same space and time was during a thunderstorm—the kind that blanketed the sky in slate gray and rolled thunder deep enough to rattle the floorboards. Rain lashed against the windows like it had something to say. The power had already flickered twice, the fireplace barely holding its glow. A single book lamp clipped to the spine of your novel cast a soft halo of light onto the page, the only other source of warmth in the room besides the slow-breathing embers.

You were curled on one end of the couch, lost in the unfinished book you bought a few days ago. Words blurred and sharpened between each flash of lightning. Across from you, he sat with his laptop open, glasses slipping down his nose, eyes flicking between email replies and graphs you didn’t pretend to understand. The storm hummed between you—constant and low, a pressure in the air that made your skin buzz.

A bolt of lightning tore through the sky so violently it lit the entire living room like a snapshot—bright and blinding. A second later, the thunder cracked. Sharp. Immediate.

The power cut out. Silence rushed in.

Your breath caught, and instinct took over. You reached out, without thinking—just a small touch, the barest brush of your fingers against his. Not even a full gesture. Just… closeness. Humans. Unspoken. Comfort in the dark. But he flinched. Hard. Pulled away so fast it startled you more than the thunder. It wasn’t loud—but it felt loud. Like something inside you had been exposed and immediately dismissed.

Like your touch had burned. You stayed frozen, hand still halfway between you. The air felt colder somehow, heavier. The rejection sat between your ribs, thudding louder than the storm itself. He didn’t say anything—no apology, no look back.

“I’ll check the fuse box,” San murmur before standing up and disappearing down the hallway, laptop still humming faintly with its battery light.

And you sat there. Alone again. The storm outside felt smaller compared to the one brewing quietly in your chest. You let your hand drop into your lap, your fingertips tingling from a touch that hadn’t even happened. You told yourself it was nothing. You told yourself you were being dramatic. But the thing about loneliness is that it feels louder in the dark.

The last words you heard — so simple, so unintended — were what finally shattered whatever fragile thread had been holding you together.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way. It was just dinner. His birthday. You had spent the entire afternoon trying to make it feel special, to soften the growing distance that settled like a wall of glass between you. You told yourself it didn’t need to be perfect — just enough to remind him that you were still here, still trying, even when it felt like he wasn’t.

So you climbed the stairs to his study with every step, you rehearsed your lines: something light, something kind. Maybe he'd smile. Maybe he'd look at you the way he used to. Or maybe consider being acquainted instead of being completely strangers.

But right as you reached the door, knuckles hovering mid-air, his voice bled through the wood — low, muffled, but unmistakably his.

“I didn’t want this.”

You froze. At first, your heart knocked louder than your fist ever could. Then silence fell heavy in your chest, as if your ribs had caved in to keep it from breaking. You didn’t mean to eavesdrop. You never wanted to know like this. But curiosity, or maybe desperation, kept your feet nailed to the floor. Your hand dropped limply to your side as you leaned in, barely breathing.

“I didn’t want any of this,” he said again, voice rough and frayed, like someone who had been holding something in for far too long. There was a tremble in it — not from anger, but from exhaustion. Like he’d been carrying too much for too long, and now it was spilling out in a room where you weren’t meant to hear.

“I didn’t choose this marriage.” The words fall like a blade, slicing through the quiet — and through you. There’s a pause, one that stretches too long, too heavy. Your eyes flick around the hallway as if looking for something to hold on to, anything to make this moment less real. But nothing comes. And when the next words land, it’s like your heart tears straight from your chest.

“Every time I look at her, I think of what I gave up — what I lost. I lost her because of this marriage. She told me to focus on my wife, but I know she’s hurting because of this!”

The breath stutters out of your lungs. Not like a gasp. Not like a cry. But like something breaking — something vital that doesn’t come back. You don’t wait to hear more. You can’t. Not when the silence that follows feels like it’s cracking open your ribcage, spilling everything you were holding onto.

Who was she? The one he gave up for this marriage?

The thought alone sends a sick, twisting feeling through your gut. Did she come before you? Was she someone he still held in his heart during the vows, the dinners, the nights you tried so hard to believe were real?

You thought you had time. You thought, maybe, love would come eventually.

But now it all feels like a lie wrapped in routine. Your throat tightens. Your vision begins to swim, and your legs start to move — more from instinct than thought. You stumble backward, the hallway suddenly too narrow, the walls too close, like they’re closing in on your every breath.

You don’t know how you make it to the bedroom — or if you even make it fully inside. Maybe you collapse just past the doorframe. Maybe your knees give way the moment your fingers curl around the doorknob. But you hear the soft click of the door shutting behind you, and then—

Your body caves in like it’s been waiting for this moment to fall apart.

And then the tears came. Not in sobs—no. You gasp, like you’re drowning on dry land. Each breath feels like a battle. Each cry, a jagged thing caught in your throat. It’s the kind of heartbreak that makes you fold in on yourself, arms around your ribs as if you could somehow hold the pieces together. The kind of pain that feels physical, like grief itself is clawing its way through your chest, trying to tear something loose.

You loved him.

God, you loved him. Quietly. Stubbornly. Painfully. For years.

You cradled that love like it was sacred, something worth waiting for. Something that might finally bloom if you just held on long enough. You memorized the shape of his silence, learned how to live in the shadows of his indifference. You reached for him a hundred times with trembling hands, never once asking for more than he was willing to give—and yet, you kept reaching.

Maybe that’s the cruelest part of all. That even now—even after hearing him say he didn’t want this, after realizing he had never truly seen you as someone worth choosing—some part of you still held on. Some part of you still hoped. You cry until your throat is raw, until your body feels hollow, until there’s nothing left but the eerie quiet that follows a storm. And in that silence, the truth settles in like dust on a forgotten shelf.

It all makes sense now.

The early mornings. The late nights. The way he barely looked at you across the dinner table, the way he seemed to flinch when your fingers brushed. It was never you. It was never going to be you. Maybe there was respect—some shred of duty he tried to honor. But love?

No. That had always belonged to someone else. And the worst part isn’t just that he loved another. It’s that while you were trying, giving, hoping—he had already been comforted in someone else’s arms. And that made you sick as your attempts were probably making him uncomfortable while he is still with someone.

And in that moment, you wished — God, you wished — you had stayed downstairs. Stayed safe in ignorance. Because now you know. This day… this birthday, it wasn’t a celebration. It was either your release — the final sign to let go of whatever love you were still foolish enough to hold — or a curse, proof that no matter what you did, no matter how much you gave, Choi San would never choose you.

And you were alone and a fool this whole time.

When the moon was high and the tears had finally run dry, you found yourself turning toward the window, where pale moonlight spilled across the floor like a silent witness to your grief. Your heart no longer ached—it simply felt... numb. Hollowed out. Every breath you took now came with a subtle stagger, the kind that lingered in the chest long after the sobs had stopped.

You wanted to stay. God knows you did.

But the thought of him loving someone else—being devoted to someone else—settled into your bones like frost. And suddenly, staying felt more like cruelty than courage.

After all, this was never a love story. Just a contract signed in convenience, not affection.

You closed your eyes, took one last breath, and stood.

Your gaze drifted toward the top shelf of the closet, where your luggage waited—untouched, collecting dust like the parts of yourself you had set aside for him. With a heavy heart and steadier hands than you expected, you pulled it down and began to pack. Quietly. Carefully. One piece of clothing at a time, as if folding away the life you never got to fully live.

By the time the first traces of dawn kissed the sky, your feet were already moving—carrying you down the grand hallways of the mansion you once shared. The silence echoed around you like farewell.

Outside, the air was cool. Crisp. Still unfamiliar.

You glanced up toward the bedroom window one last time, heart tightening—but not breaking. Not anymore.

A sigh escaped your lips as your driver hoisted your luggage into the trunk. You apologized softly for waking him up so early. He only offered a tired smile, “It’s my duty to give you proper service.”

You were gone before San ever stirred from bed. Not that he’d notice. Not that he ever truly had.

Three days passed. Not a single word from San. No calls, no messages, not even the faintest sign of worry or regret. The silence on his end said more than any explanation could, and it solidified the truth you had been avoiding: there was no space left in his heart for you. Whatever hope you had clung to was now nothing more than a delusion, one that withered the moment you realized someone else had already claimed what you had been quietly, desperately fighting for.

The only person who showed any concern was Seonghwa, the only friend who had always tried to stay neutral in the middle of your fragile marriage. He stopped by your apartment once, gently asking if you were okay before leaving behind a bag of groceries and a look of quiet sympathy. His presence felt like closure—a soft but firm reminder that you no longer belonged in the world you once shared with San.

That evening, you returned from the convenience store dressed in baggy sweatpants and an oversized sweater, the soft cotton doing little to warm the cold that settled deep in your bones. In your hand was a black plastic bag filled with snacks and two bottles of soju you planned to finish before the night was over. It was a far cry from the delicate dresses and soft perfumes you used to wear around the mansion. There, you adorned yourself with hope, with effort, with the constant wish that maybe, just maybe, he would notice. Here, alone, you wore exhaustion—both emotional and physical.

As you climbed the narrow stairs toward your apartment, your heart jumped when you spotted a sleek, familiar car parked near the curb. It looked just like his—same model, same color, same quiet presence. For a moment, your breath caught in your throat. But just as quickly, you forced yourself to exhale and shook your head in bitter self-mockery.

"Not every car with the same brand is his, stupid," you murmured to yourself, pushing down the flicker of foolish hope that rose uninvited.

You punched in your code, stepped inside, and were met with the dim hum of the apartment light flickering on. The space around you was quiet, almost painfully so. It wasn’t home, but at least it didn’t lie. You took off your shoes, dropped your bag on the floor, and settled onto the carpet, unpacking your snacks one by one with the heavy detachment of someone just trying to pass time.

Scrolling through Netflix, you chose the first series that didn’t remind you of him. You weren’t watching to enjoy anything—you just needed noise to fill the silence. But before the opening credits could even begin, a soft knock interrupted the quiet hum of the TV. You frowned, eyes darting toward the security screen, which had lit up automatically at the sound. You stood up, walking towards the small screen attached to the wall next to the dining area. And there he was.

San.

Soaked from the rain, hair clinging to his forehead, breath uneven, eyes shadowed with something unreadable. For a heartbeat, you stared, trying to convince yourself that maybe it was a glitch. Maybe he had the wrong apartment. Maybe—God help you—he had come here by mistake, looking for her.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. You were ready to turn away, to let the unanswered knock echo into the silence, when his voice came through the speaker, soft and raw.

"I'm sorry..." You froze. Your heart clenched painfully in your chest as you stood in the middle of your apartment, unsure whether to stay or ignore. "I just..." he exhaled, voice barely holding together, "I was in love before we got married. And I lost her. Not because of you—just... time. Life."

You are listening now intrigued with the sudden confession—not just hearing, "I resented everything after that,” he continued, his voice shaking. “Especially the things I couldn’t choose. The things I couldn’t control.”

He paused, and the silence that followed carried more weight than all the words that came before, you saw how his eyes shook as if they were looking for your eyes or if you were , listening the whole time, "But I never meant to hurt you."

You move silently towards the door, your heart had taken control of your moves after hearing his side, your fingers twisting the knob as you pushed it slightly open for him to catch a sight of you— out of your normal dresses. You ignore the way his eyes shine, your voice was quiet, not accusing—just tired. “Why now?”

“Why come here now?”

He swallowed thickly, stepped closer, and though he made no move to reach for you, there was something unsteady in his posture, like even standing there cost him more than he’d admit, “Because for the first time, whenever you weren’t in the house,” he whispered. “And it was unbearable.”

Your heart squeezed. It was cruel, how much you still wanted to believe him. But the wounds were still fresh, and your trust was buried somewhere beneath the debris of all the days he chose silence over you, “That doesn’t mean anything,” you said, voice quivering. “You told me you never wanted this.”

He looked down, rain still dripping from his lashes. “I didn’t choose the marriage,” he admitted. “But... I’m choosing you now.”

There was no grandeur in his words. No desperation. Just quiet truth, spoken by someone who finally understood what it meant to lose something they didn’t take the time to see.

His gaze to yours was soft and honest, and this time, there was no wall between you—only the weight of everything left unsaid, “I’m not saying this because I feel guilty. Or because I think I deserve anything from you,” he said slowly. “I came here because somewhere along the way, you became a part of me. And if you’ll let me… I want to stay. This time, for real.”

You didn’t run into his arms. Not tonight. Not yet. The ache inside you hadn’t magically vanished, and the rain outside hadn’t fully stopped. Quietly. Carefully. You opened the door—not all the way, just enough. Enough to let him in from the rain. And in that small moment, something shifted between you. The silence didn’t disappear, but it softened. The space between you didn’t close entirely, but it no longer felt impossible to cross.

The rain stopped not long after.

And this time, as San stepped over the threshold, he wasn’t here because of a contract. He was here because he finally chose to be your husband.

i'm so so sorry, my loves if it's late!!

#ateez #ateez imagines #ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez scenarios #ateez fluff #san ateez #ateez san #ateez choi san #san fluff #san x reader #choi san #san #choi san fluff #choi san x reader #ateez choi san angst #ateez angst #san angst

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harryspet · 7 months ago

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rough hands, soft chains [2] r.cameron

[warnings] dark!rancher!rafe x bimbo!cowgirl!reader, arranged marriage, rancher au, manipulation, size difference, DUBCON, loss of virginity, rafe is HUGE, breeding kink, little editing, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK 18+

a/n: i only tag people who reblog the fic AND let me know their thoughts, thank you :)

In which you meet your new family, the Camerons, and learn Rafe's true intentions.

word count: 5.1k

rough hands, soft chains masterlist

The spare outfit you’d packed for your failed escape attempt was a delicate two-piece set in white. The long-sleeve, cropped sweater that featured a soft ruffle trim that barely grazed your midriff, paired with a high-waisted, flowing skirt that swayed with every step. The lightweight fabric was a reflection of your usual preference for comfortable clothes. A handful of other items hung in the closet, clearly not yours, but you couldn’t bring yourself to accept whatever offering the Camerons had left for you.

After giving your reflection a look, you turned your attention your room. You floated over to the vanity, a rustic wooden display decorated with gold trinkets. You’d only packed the essentials, meaning you’d limited yourself to mascara, concealer, blush and lipgloss. You slid onto the matching stool decking to touch up your makeup, wiping away the smudged mascara and applying a fresh coat of lip gloss. Lip gloss always had a way of brightening your mood, even now. You certainly knew how to get dolled up, like Rafe said, and lucky for him, you liked makeup and clothes that made you feel breezy and feminine.

When the room grew quiet, Rafe’s words rattled around in your head. You’d always done what your father had said, let him lead you in all aspects of your life, because you trusted him. You couldn’t wrap your mind around how your father expected you to trust someone else. In the end, he was the reason you were here now. He’d handed you over to someone else, like, what? A trade deal? The whole thing was completely unreal.

Something caught your attention outside the large windows. Rolling pastures stretched out before you, dotted with fences and patches of wildflowers swaying gently. Your gaze drifted toward the yard below. Rain trickled down slowly but you realized the figures moving in the distance, behind a tall white fence, were Juliet and John B. Making his way to the fence’s edge, now adorned in a work jacket and dark hat to protect from the rain, was Rafe.

They were soon deep in conversation. Your eyes lingered on Rafe’s figure a little too long before shifting to Juliet, whose movements were graceful and unbothered. She had been alone for so long, your father had been forced to sell the other three horses your family owned years ago, and her care had undoubtedly suffered as your father’s health declined. Surely, the Camerons had at least a hundred horses and the resources to ensure Juliet was well cared for and had proper company. For a moment, you wondered if she might be happier here, happier than even you.

You were grateful for the distraction when a knock came at your door an hour later. You expected it to be Rafe, but a fleeting thought made you pause, would Rafe even bother knocking?

When you opened the door, you were surprised to find a dark-haired girl standing there, no older than fifteen. She was smiling, her eyes full of curiosity.

"Hey," she said, giving you a once-over with a playful look. "I’m Wheezie, Rafe’s little sister.”

So this was the other Cameron sibling? You smiled instinctively and offered your hand. "Oh, hi! I’m Y/N."

You blinked, studying her more carefully. She looked nothing like Rafe, and in that moment, she seemed almost... approachable. Less intimidating. Her warmth, however, felt almost out of place given the situation.

"I like your outfit," she said, her gaze scanning your clothes and makeup. "And your makeup. Ugh, I wish I could do mine like that. Sarah never has time to show me how."

“Sarah?” you asked, a little confused.

"My older sister," Wheezie explained, raising an eyebrow as if surprised. "Rafe’s never mentioned her?"

You shook your head, realizing she might think you'd known Rafe longer than just today. “Uh, no. He hasn’t.”

"Well, there’s three of us," Wheezie continued, her voice casual. "And Rose, our step-mom."

“Oh, okay,” You nodded, taking in all of the information. You weren’t at all used to meeting new people, “It’s nice to meet you. Can I ask you if Mr. Ward is home yet? I kinda need to speak with him.”

Wheezie’s expression shifted slightly, a hint of disappointment flickering in her eyes. “Him and Rose have been gone all day. Cattle auction, I think. They probably won’t be back until dinner.”

You tried not to let the disappointment show on your face. It wasn’t urgent, but you had hoped to speak with Ward sooner rather than later. Part of you wanted to officially see the contract he’d wrote up with your father. Could two men really decide together that you should be married off? Was that still legal? Wheezie, sensing your hesitation, brightened up and added, “I could show you around the house in the meantime.”

You thought about it for a second, then smiled. “Sure, that would be nice.”

Joining Wheezie out in the hallway, your tour began. Wheezie led you to Rafe’s room first, just beside yours. “He likes to keep it locked,” she said with a grin, “Or else I’d totally snoop around with you.”

You liked her instantly. Moving down the hall, you passed Ward’s study, a room that felt both timeless and functional. It had a desk covered in papers and shelves filled with books. Next was the master bedroom, a room with dark wood furniture and soft linens.

Finally, Wheezie opened the door to the library. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled the room, and large armchairs were scattered around a grand fireplace. It felt like the perfect spot for quiet moments.

You couldn’t help but feel small in this place. It held the warmth of a family home but it was massive, the ceilings too high, and had decor that screamed “we’re wealthy”.

Downstairs, the living room was the first stop, a grand space with towering ceilings. Soft leather sofas and enormous windows that offered a breathtaking view of the stretching land and mountains in the distance.

Moving through the open archway into the kitchen, you took note of counters made of polished stone, dark wood cabinets, and the appliances all state-of-the-art. The kitchen was bustling with a couple of workers, one chopping vegetables at the counter, the other pulling something out of the oven. You noticed a door that led out to a terrace.

“These are all Rose’s renovations. She’s really into interior design, and all that stuff.”

“And the people. They work here all the time?” you asked, intrigued.

“My Dad can grill, but Rose doesn’t cook at all. So they get help,” Wheezie explained with a shrug. “I think she likes having everything perfect, you know?”

“She does have really nice taste,” You spoke genuinely, fumbling with your fingers as you looked around.

Past the kitchen was the dining room, where a long, weathered table was set for what could easily be a dozen guests. The chandelier above was massive, its crystals catching the light and casting a glow over the room.

Wheezie led you into the garage next. The space was expansive, with polished concrete floors and a collection of vehicles parked neatly in their spots, sleek trucks, a few SUVs, and a couple of classic cars you assumed were more for show. Near the back of the garage, you spotted a few horseshoe-shaped saddles hanging on the wall, alongside an array of hunting gear. There were rifles and ammunition neatly organized on the shelves, a few pairs of boots stacked by the door, and weathered hunting jackets hanging from the walls. It was practical, but still had the polished look of the rest of the house, like nothing here was ever out of place.

“Do you ride?” Wheezie asked as you took in the details of the room.

“Yeah, I have a horse named Juliet,” you grinned. “Do you?”

“I can,” Wheezie replied with a shrug. “I’m not great at it. Sarah’s better, and Rafe—well, he’s good at things like that.”

“Does Sarah live here too?” you asked, curious.

“Yeah, but she’s been MIA for two days.” Wheezie’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “You can’t tell anyone this,” she continued, glancing around before leaning in closer. “She and John B. are a thing. And she hangs out with his friends.”

“It’s a secret?” you asked, intrigued but still unsure of the family dynamics at play.

Wheezie nodded, her eyes flicking to the door as if checking for eavesdroppers. “My dad wants her to be with someone whose family is... more prestigious, if that makes sense?”

You processed that for a moment, nodding slowly. “But my family’s not... prestigious. But Ward wants me to marry your brother.”

A mischievous glint sparked in Wheezie’s eyes. She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, clearly enjoying the tension in the air. “Is it true that Rafe got you pregnant and that’s why you have to live with us?”

You froze for a split second, then blurted out, “I am not!” You suddenly realized how loud you’d been and lowered your voice, grabbing Wheezie’s hand as you whispered urgently, “I am not.”

“Other people don’t think I’m pregnant, do they?” You continued, “Because I don’t think I’ve done anything that could lead to that…”

You questioned yourself for a moment, feeling a pang of uncertainty. You’d learned about the birds and the bees just once, when you were eleven, and it had been before your mother died. After that, your education had been limited, and anything beyond what she'd explained was a blur of confusion.

What you were certain of, though, was that the kiss with Rafe couldn’t have led to that. You had never heard of anything like that happening from a simple kiss. To your knowledge, you needed at least to sleep in the same bed for that to happen, and you and Rafe hadn’t crossed that line. Before your mind could wander to that possibility, Wheezie spoke.

“I’m not trying to be rude, just curious,” She said with a smirk, her tone light and teasing. “No one around here tells me anything.”

A few hours later you entered the dining room again with Wheezie. You’d spend a good amount of time in her room and she’d explained more about her family, including more details about Rafe. You learned that she was Rafe’s soft spot. That he was cold to almost everyone except her. Ward had a lot of expectations for him and Rafe did about everything he could to appease his father.

“I think Rafe just wants to do things his own way,” Wheezie had mused. “But, you know, my Dad has other ideas. He’s been trying to get Rafe to be more... ‘like him.’”

Kindly, you’d accepted her request for you to help her with her makeup. You’d done hers like yours, with bright blush and shiny lipgloss. She was so excited that she practically skipped down the stairs after, her happiness infectious as she bounced in front of you. A part of you couldn’t help but smile. Was this what it was like to have a sister? The feeling was new and strange, but warm, like something you hadn’t realized you’d been missing.

Rafe looked you over, as if he was offended by your choice in clothing, “What did I do?” You asked, innocently.

Maybe he didn’t think your outfit was cute.

“Come sit next to me,” he said, his voice smooth but laced with something possessive, as if he were commanding you rather than asking. He waved you over.

You hesitated, looking at Ward, who gave you a reassuring, welcoming smile, and then at Rose and Sarah. Sarah’s gaze was sharp, watching you with a kind of calculating curiosity, while Rose barely seemed to notice, her eyes distant and uninterested.

You exhaled slowly, making your way over to the seat next to Rafe. Your knees brushed against each other but he didn’t move his.

“Everyone, this is Y/N. I’ve known her family for years, and after that everything’s happened, she’s going to stay with us. She’s been through a lot.”

“Mm-hmm,” Rose murmured, almost absentmindedly. “It’s lovely to have you here with us.” Her tone wasn’t cold, but it certainly wasn’t warm, either.

Ward’s words seemed genuine, but you didn’t understand fully why he spoke so kindly. The two of you were practically strangers. Wheezie smiled brightly in reaction. Sarah, on the other hand, was looking you over even more closely than Rafe. You could see the thoughts swirling in your mind.

“I have a question-” She blurted out.

Ward interrupted, “I’d watch yourself, young lady.”

“I just want to make sure everything’s clear,” Sarah said softly, her voice quieter now. “I’m just... trying to understand why, that’s all. A marriage seems a little bit rushed, don’t you think? They didn’t even know each other before today.”

“They didn’t?” Wheezie raised an eyebrow.

The pressure in the room increased, “Sarah,” Ward began to warn her but it was Rafe who spoke up next.

Rafe’s voice cut through the growing tension, his tone firm, almost possessive. “It’s not rushed, Sarah,” he said, turning to look at her. “It’s just what it is. No need to complicate it.”

You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, the sharpness of Rafe’s gaze making you shift uncomfortably in your seat. He answering for you, as if you didn’t have a say in how things were perceived.

Sarah didn’t flinch. Her eyes held a quiet defiance. As if to change the subject, Rafe continued, “What is that on your face, Wheeze?”

“It’s called makeup,” She shot back, annoyed, “Y/N did it.”

Rafe turned his head towards you, “It’s a little much for someone her age, don’t you think?”

“I think she looks really pretty. I started wearing makeup way younger than her,” You responded quietly but honestly, “That’s how you, like, get good at it.”

“See,” Wheezie stuck her tongue out at her older brother.

Suddenly, you felt Rafe’s hand touch your knee underneath the table. The warmth of Rafe’s hand on your knee sent a jolt through you, and for a moment, you couldn’t quite focus on anything else. His touch was unexpected, as though he’d done it without thinking, and yet, there was something deliberate about the way he kept his hand resting there.

Dinner was officially served moments later. Rafe’s hand remained there on your knee as you all began to eat the carefully prepared steak, potatoes and asparagus. Your steak was already cut into a pieces, a luxury that you didn’t even know others experienced.

Sarah pushed around her asparagus, “How do you feel about moving in with us so suddenly, Y/N? I mean, do you really know what you’re getting yourself into?”

You paused, unsure of what to say, your gaze instinctively shifting toward Rafe. His hand was still on your knee, but the grip felt firmer now, like he was holding you in place, keeping you from saying something that might upset the balance of things.

You bit your lip, trying to gather your thoughts, but when you opened your mouth, it all just came tumbling out. “It’s kinda overwhelming,” you started, your voice soft but a little unsure. “I miss… I miss my Dad. And you guys have all this land, and this house is so huge, it’s hard to wrap my head around it all.” You glanced at Sarah, then back to your plate. “And, like, I didn’t think I’d get married this young, but… if it’s really what my Dad wanted…”

You trailed off, feeling a little embarrassed. Sarah’s gaze softened slightly, “It’s a big step. Are you sure you’re ready?”

Up until that point, you hadn’t realized you had a choice in all of this. You could see she wasn’t questioning you out of judgement. She almost looked concerned.

“Enough, Sarah,” Ward spoke sharply, “This is bigger than what one person thinks is right. I don’t expect you to understand but it’s about responsibility. Rafe is growing up and he’s decided to take on new responsibilities. I don’t see why you can’t be supportive.”

“I just think she deserves more time to decide,” Sarah said.

“There isn’t a rush. I’m not rushing them, that’s for certain. Rafe and Y/N will take the time to get to know each other.”

The room fell quiet for a moment. You could feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on you. You glanced at him and noticed the subtle shake of his head, as if dismissing the entire idea. “What’s the point in waiting? You can plan a wedding in a few weeks, right?”

“Rafe, son, don’t you think two should spend some time together?”

“No, Dad, we’ll get married as soon as possible. If Y/N wants to have a real ceremony, Rose can plan it, but I’d be down to just go to the courthouse.”

Your breath hitched in your throat.

“Rafe,” Sarah leaned forward in her seat, “Are you actually crazy?”

How did we get here? You had no answers, just a rush of emotions you couldn’t quite put into words. Maybe you should’ve said something, but the lump in your throat made it hard to think.

“We’ll figure it out” Rafe said, cutting her off. He turned his attention to you, his gaze intense but unreadable. “Right, darling?”

The way he looked at you made your stomach twist. It was as though he was asking you to confirm something you didn’t fully understand yourself. You opened your mouth to respond, but Wheezie chimed in before you could.

“Dude, that’s like, so not romantic!” she exclaimed, scrunching her nose. “You haven’t even proposed yet!”

Sarah seized the moment, leaning back in her chair with a smirk. “Exactly. At least ask her properly, Rafe. Or are you afraid she’ll say no?”

The air at the table grew heavier. You glanced at Ward, who looked ready to intervene, but Rafe beat him to it. His lips curled into a tight smile, though his eyes flashed with something darker. “You think I’m afraid of that, Sarah?” he asked, his tone deceptively calm.

All you could think about was the way Rafe’s hand hadn’t left your knee, his grip steady, as if anchoring you to him despite the chaos swirling around the table.

“Can we drop it, please?” Rafe asked, his tone deep and final.

“I want Y/N to stay,” Wheezie decided.

“We all want Y/N to stay,” Ward clarified.

“Well, good,” Rose chimed in, her smile polished and hollow. “Then it’s settled.”

At the end of dinner, Ward leaned back in his chair, addressing you, “You’ll find we take care of our own here, sweetheart. Anything you need, you only have to ask.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. You weren’t sure what else to say.

“We should get going,” Rafe announced abruptly, pushing his chair back and rising to his feet. His hand left your knee, only to find the small of your back as he helped you up.

Wheezie pouted. “But we haven’t even had dessert!”

“Next time, Wheeze,” Rafe replied, his tone firm. “Come on, Y/N.”

You followed him out of the dining room, feeling the eyes of his entire family on your back.

“Where are we going?” You asked, trying to keep up with Rafe’s long strides. He’d given you his jacket and asked you to put on your boots, before guiding you out the front door. You clutched the jacket tightly, the night beginning to turn cool. The sky was still heavy with the remnants of rain but an orange and pink sun began to lower in the sky, peaking behind soft, gray clouds, “Rafe?”

High grass tickled the bare legs hidden beneath your skirt as you walked into the fields, “Just for a walk. That okay with you?”

“You know, sometimes I think you really don’t care what’s okay with me.” Rafe flashed you an amused look, “Oh yeah? Maybe I like making decisions for you.”

You snorted in disbelief but your heart fluttered nonetheless.

"What's the real reason you brought me out here?" You asked, pushing the conversation forward despite the tension.

Rafe stopped and turned to face you, his expression unreadable for a moment. He studied you, like he was considering his words carefully. "Maybe I just wanted to see you without all the noise around us. No distractions. Just you and me."

The ranch stretched out before you, vast and quiet. The ground beneath your feet was soft as you walked, fast enough to follow Rafe’s steps. A faint hum of crickets began to rise in the distance.

A modest building tucked near the tree line, far from the main house came into view, “That’s the ranch hand’s quarters,” Rafe explained, “You won’t need to be over there, it’s no place for a woman.”

The sun continued to hang lower as you walked, casting a golden hue over the land. Rafe led you further into the sprawling escape, pointing out different landmarks, “This land’s been my family’s for generations. But my Dad was the one who made it what it was today. It’s very important to me. This land and all the hard work that’s put into it.”

“My dad’s tough on me but it’s his legacy, you know? It’s more than just making money or raising cattle. I don’t know, I just want to protect what I have. Make sure my kids and my grandkids have it, ya' know?”

He didn’t look for your understanding, his words genuine, but the look on his face was guarded. He paused, his jaw tightening slightly, “You don’t to get to be part of something big and not feel like you’ve got to give everything you have to it.”

“What if…” Your voice trailed as you tried to collect your thoughts, “How do I know it’s something I want to be apart of?”

“As my wife, you’d stand beside me. You’d build with me. Raise our children. Make a home. You’d make everything that I’m working towards, worth it. That’s a life with purpose, yeah?”

As he spoke, his voice deep and steady, you found yourself drawn to the way his features seemed to soften, despite the intensity of his words. Those blue eyes were focused on you with an intensity that made your throat go dry.

He stood taller now, the weight of his words pressed in on you and you could see the full picture he was painting. It wasn’t just the land. It was you. It was him. It was a family.

“Yeah,” You agreed, the word leaving your lips before you could stop it. Your gaze drifted, almost involuntarily, to his lips. They were slightly parted, the edge of his mouth curling just a bit as he spoke, and for a moment, you forgot where you were.

“Yeah,” Rafe agreed, a knowing look on his face, and his hand found the small of your back, “I owe you something, don’t I?”

“Owe me?” Your voice faltered. What was he talking about?

Rafe didn’t answer right away. Instead, he simply pulled you forward, his hand firm against your back as he guided you through the tall grass. You didn’t have time to question him before the two of you reached a secluded barn, tall and clay-colored, tucked far away from the main house. The air smelled faintly of hay and wood, the earthy scent of the ranch settling around you. But you barely had time to take in your surroundings before Rafe was pulling you into him. His hand slid to the back of your neck, drawing you closer, until his lips were on yours.

The kiss Rafe Cameron had promised you.

All those thoughts you had about the land, the future, everything he’d said, it all slipped away.

Someone, something, had overtaken you. Something ached inside of you, a part of your very being that had never been satisfied. You felt like an animal, desperate, grabbing at Rafe’s shirt, wanting him closer. He was already pressed tightly against you but deep down you wanted more.

His lips weren’t as gentle as you remembered, they enveloped your mouth, his tongue tasting you, his arms keeping you where he wanted as he explored you.Without warning, he tugged you into an empty stall, the scent of hay and leather thick in the air. His hands were at the edges of your jacket now, pulling it open, his fingers brushing against your skin as the cool air of the barn nipped at your exposed flesh.

A startled yelp escaped your lips as you felt his hands bunching up your skirt, the fabric sliding higher until it was gathered above your hips. Your eyes flew open, but Rafe was relentless, his mouth still claiming yours with fervent, unyielding kisses. You didn’t know exactly how babies were made but you had a feeling you were getting closer than you’d ever had before. Before you could process it, Rafe lifted you effortlessly, his hands sliding to cup your bottom as he held you tightly against him. Part of you began to panic.

Then, with deliberate care, he laid you down. not on the rough ground but on his jacket, which was spread beneath you. Darkened eyes met your panicked ones. This was much more than a kiss. Although you’d enjoyed that part of the exchange, you weren’t sure you wanted more, “Rafe,” You whispered, your voice uncertain, as he moved his mouth from your lips to the sides of your mouth. Your mind raced, trying to keep up with the whirlwind of sensations. You pushed at his chest and felt you were pushing against a boulder. There would know way to get from underneath him, even if you tried, “Are… you gonna put a baby in me?”

He paused, lifting his head to look you in the eye and you had to remind yourself to breathe in that moment, “Jesus Christ. You’re something else, you know that?” Rafe grinned and some of your uncertainty went away. His reaction made the moment feel more lighthearted, like there wasn’t a boundary being crossed, like his intentions were innocent.

“I like the kissing,” You admitted, “It feels good b-but I’m scared–”

Rafe shushed you, peppering gentle kisses along your jawline, until he reached the side of your neck. Your thighs clenched tightly, your head tilted back, and you couldn’t control your moaning. Rafe spread your legs with his own, his jeans brushing against the smoothness of your thighs. He pressed his lower half into you and you felt something as hard as a rock, rubbing against your panties. It was then, your core started to feel like it was on fire.

“Don’t be scared, it’ll just hurt for a moment,” Rafe spoke against your skin, huskily, his voice almost sounding like he was in pain, “You’re just gonna lay still for me, I need you to help me to take care of something.”

“Hurt?” You questioned, your mind hanging on that word. Then you thought back to your question. He hadn’t really answered.

He seemed to ignore you again, his mouth moving lower on your body. He pulled your shirt down, and as your breasts spilled from their constraints, he left kisses on your nipples. Your head tilted back again when he took one of your nipples fully into his mouth, “Rafe,” You whispered but the sound of his name only seem to push him further. His fingers traced the edge of your panties before he slipped his fingers inside, brushing over your folds. You were wet down there, you realized, and mostly out of embarrassment, you started to pull away, “Please don’t touch me there.”

You watched his pupils dilate as he stared down at you intently. He kept one hand in your underwear and wrapped his other around your throat, quickly, as if his body was reacting instinctively to your defiance.

“Don’t tell me that,” Rafe said, almost growling, and your hands wrapped around his wrist, trying to push away his hand as you struggled to breathe, “I have to touch ya' here, darlin’. I’m gonna be your husband. This belongs to me, understand?”

Your eyes widened as he rubbed circles over your sensitive skin. Your hips bucked in reaction and you silenced your moans, knowing you only had so much air to breathe, “Say you understand. Say yes.”

You nodded your head quickly, “Yes,” You whispered.

You were grateful when he loosed his grip around your throat, “It’s a good thing you’re wet. Nothing to be ashamed of. Just means this is what your body wants, baby. You already want to make me happy.”

You weren’t quite sure at what moment your body decided to freeze. Your nerves were overwhelmed, of course, and it seemed like you’d come out less scathed from the situation if you did as Rafe said. You could stay still and take it. There was something happening with Rafe you didn’t understand but he was acting as though he needed something and you were only one who could provide it. You could stay still and take it if it would make him happy, right? It’s a good thing to make other people happy.

You focused on the kisses on your lips, the way his soft mouth moved methodically over yours. The faint jangle of metal pulled you back to the moment, a sound you barely registered until you felt the press of something impossibly hard, slowly pushing against a place you hadn’t realized could take him. His manhood, you assumed, what made him different from you. It hurt like he said it would but not for just a moment. Were all manhoods this size? This is what your body really wants?

“Relax,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing despite the edge of strain. His hand brushed over your trembling thigh, steadying you as your body tried to accommodate him. “You’re okay. I promise.”

He started to rock into you once you felt completely full to the brim. Initially, it felt even worse than him pushing all the way inside you. Tears fell and your breath grew rapid, “It hurts,” You whimpered, “It really hurts.”

“It’s okay,” He said, maintaining his pace, “You’re okay, darlin’. You’re doing great. It’s just your first time. Gotta get used to me, that's all.”

“Are-are you putting a baby in me, Rafe?” You asked, your voice an innocent whisper. His grip on you tightened as his rhythm grew more deliberate, his words spilling out in a low growl.

“Fuck yes, darlin’,” he said, his voice thick with unrestrained desire. “I’m gonna put a baby in you.”

His hands, his words, the pain between your legs that was slowly turning to pleasure, it made you dizzy, and you couldn’t keep track of your thoughts. You belonged to him? A baby? It didn’t make sense, but part of you felt comforted by the intensity of him. You trusted he knew more. Everything’s okay. You were okay. It felt like something you were supposed to be, so you let go and let him have you.

a/n: i only tag people who reblog the fic AND let me know their thoughts, thank you :)

#rafe cameron #rafe fanfiction #rafe smut #dark fic #rafe fic #rafe obx #obx rafe cameron #black!reader #rafe cameron x black!reader #sarah cameron #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron x reader

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