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littledykeblue · 10 days ago

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(𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟏/𝟒: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑)

──𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊 (𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐍𝐎𝐖);

(drummer!sevika x reader): your friend invites you to see a band you have no interest in. that is, until you see the sexy drummer.

wc: 8.9k | cw: drummer!sevika, new fan!reader, dom top!sevika, bottom!reader, oral sex (r! & s!receiving), biting, scratching, hair-pulling, mating press, doggy style, a little spanking, strap-on usage, pet names: doll & baby, blink & you'll miss it dry humping, MINORS DNI.

note: this is part one of four in a mini-series i'm going to put out! the others will be vi, caitlyn & jinx aka the rest of the band. hope you enjoy this first installment!

It's pure chance that you end up standing outside in line to see a band you know next to nothing about. Your friend, Raven, just so happens to work at a pretty popular music venue, and she takes turns offering your whole friend group free tickets. Usually, you only cash in for bands you already like. No need to spend a whole night primping and standing in a sea of sweaty strangers just to be underwhelmed.

But this time, Raven insists. Says you'll want to go. If not for the music, then for the spectacular eye candy.

You ask her for the band’s info, figuring a quick scroll through their Instagram will be enough to decide whether it’s worth the effort.

Hotwired.

Cool name, at least. You pull up their page and immediately wonder how you’ve made it this far in life without even hearing about them. Every single member? A complete knockout. It's almost suspicious.

You don’t even mean to, but soon you’re moving over to Google. Once you manage to collect yourself and pick your jaw up off the floor, that is. It’s immediately clear they’ve got a loyal (and horny as hell) fanbase, made up mostly of women who are deep in the trenches.

Jinx does lead vocals. She looks like an edgy punk fantasy brought to life, all smeared eyeliner and that permanent shit-eating grin. Her scandal list reads like a greatest hits album: breaking paparazzi cameras, getting banned from festivals, allegedly attending an orgy or two. That last one may or may not have been debunked, but nobody really cares.

Then there's Vi, the guitarist, and easily the one with the sluttiest internet presence. Just from surface-level scrolling, you can tell the girl’s allergic to shirts and addicted to sticking her tongue out in literally every picture. You kind of get it. If you had a tongue piercing, you’d show it off too.

C.K.’s their bassist and easily the most mysterious. She’s always wearing a mask in every photo, and there are entire threads dedicated to speculating who she really is or why she never shows her face. She's got basically zero solo content. No interviews, no side accounts. The only time you ever see her is through blurry crowd pics or carefully curated shots on the band’s main page.

But the one who really stops you in your tracks is the drummer. Sevika. She’s clearly the oldest in the group and by enough that it’s become part of her brand. If you had a dollar for every time someone called her “mommy,” you could quit your job and live off the passive income.

It doesn't take long before you’re deep in her personal pages, scrolling through photo after photo, each one somehow hotter than the last. If you had to pick favorites, you’d be stuck between a pic of her holding some grinning girl in a headlock (because you wish that was you) or a candid shot of her half-sprawled on the tour bus couch, shirt rucked up just enough to show a hint of stomach and whatever tattoo’s inked there. It causes a delusional fantasy of seeing the tattoo in full, up close and personal.

If you weren’t sold before, you definitely are now. It’s only after you’ve been scrolling for the better part of an hour that it occurs to you: maybe you should actually listen to some of their music. Just to be sure. After all, no amount of raw sexual magnetism is worth two hours of garbage sound at floor-shaking volume.

Hotwired sounds exactly how you expected them to sound: fast, loud, and chock-full of debauchery. Beautiful.

Just like that, you’re hooked. Fully on board. You start counting down the days like it’s Christmas, and somehow, each one drags slower than the last, like time itself is conspiring against you. You keep yourself sane by cycling through outfit options and FaceTiming Raven late at night to workshop looks and lock in the plan. She promises she’ll make sure you get the real experience, not just general admission hell.

Eventually, Saturday rolls around.

You show up to the venue with your makeup sharp and your outfit toeing the line of try-hard, feet already bouncing from nerves and excitement. The line out front snakes down the block, full of people in ripped fishnets and smeared eyeliner, all buzzing with the kind of feral energy that comes from knowing you might lock eyes with your parasocial crush for two seconds if you stand in the right spot.

Right on cue, the Hotwired tour bus rolls past, slow enough to make you wonder if the band's inside looking back at all of you, too. It's blacked out with a massive decal stretching across one side: a grimy chrome version of their logo with electric blue slashes through it, like claw marks.

The second it passes, the crowd screams like it’s the second coming of Christ. You can't lie—you want to scream a little, too.

Then the front doors crack open and Raven steps out, scanning the crowd. She spots you almost instantly, waving you over. You push through the line, ignoring the side-eyes and muttered complaints, until you’re at the front. The bouncer squints down at you, arms folded like he’s about to be a problem, but Raven just gives him a pointed look and a playful nudge.

“Come on, Jakey,” she says, all syrupy. “You know she’s with me.”

He rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “One of these days, Rae…”

“And it still won’t be today,” she cuts in, already grabbing your wrist and pulling you past him. He lets you both through without another word.

Inside, the venue is way cooler than you expected. It’s grungy in that on purpose way, walls covered in layered gig posters, old stickers, and marker-scrawled graffiti.

The stage is low and intimate, set against a wall of distorted LED panels, and the ceiling is just high enough to make you feel like the place might implode if the mosh gets too wild. The lighting is red-tinted and low, and the air already smells like cheap beer and heat.

You both make a beeline for the bar, down a quick drink that tastes like battery acid and sugar, and then squeeze your way up through the crowd until you’re right at the barricade. Prime real estate. Raven beams at you, smug as hell.

“God, I cannot wait,” you say, adjusting your top and already scanning the stage for signs of movement. “I'm probably going to come as soon as the first shirt comes off.”

"I wouldn't be too worried," Raven answers, grinning. "The same thing will probably happen to fifty other girls. Me included."

"I seriously can't believe you've been gatekeeping them from me. Bad friend." You shake your head in mock disappointment.

Raven nudges your shoulder with her own. "Don't be like that," she says, "you're the one who refuses to listen to anything new. It's like pulling teeth with you."

"Fair."

"But, let's not ignore the fact that I've got us in the splash zone," she says, jerking her head up towards the stage. "There's no better spot to get the band's sweat flung on you. Plus, you're much more likely to get shit thrown to you."

You throw your arm around her shoulder and grin. "You are the best."

Soon enough, the lights dip a little lower and a trio of guys jog out onstage. The crowd cheers, not as loud, but still excited. The opener's called Time Killers—some high-energy, slightly chaotic boy band with a surprisingly tight sound.

They don’t waste too much time introducing themselves, just launch into a fast-paced set full of pounding drums and catchy guitar riffs. They’re not the main event, but they do a damn good job of loosening up the crowd, bouncing around the stage, shouting into the mic between songs, cracking jokes about Hotwired being backstage drinking half the rider.

By the time their set wraps up, everyone’s a little sweaty, hyped, and more than ready for the main act.

The moment the lights dim again, the energy in the room spikes. There’s a shift in the crowd, a low wave of buzzing conversation, giggling, camera flashes, the rustle of people scrambling to get their phones out. You can hear the name Hotwired murmured like a prayer, over and over.

They don’t make a big entrance. No theatrical intro or pyrotechnics. The girls just start filtering onto the stage like they own it, which, based on the screams that immediately follow, they absolutely do.

You spot Jinx first, bouncing out like she’s been shot out of a cannon, grinning wide and immediately flipping off the crowd. Then Vi, strutting in all pink hair and tank top and shoulder muscles, throwing up a peace sign and mouthing something probably filthy to someone in the second row. Caitlyn walks on like a ghost, calm and unreadable behind that signature mask, bass slung across her back.

And then there’s Sevika.

She stalks. Head down, focused, with a thick cable slung over one shoulder and a case of hardware in her grip like it weighs nothing. She moves through the dim lighting like she’s been doing this forever, every motion efficient, practiced, precise. There’s something about the way she pauses to check the rigging on her kit, nodding once to herself before moving on to the next thing, that makes your stomach swoop. You can tell she’s the kind of person who doesn’t leave anything half done.

And then there’s the outfit.

She’s wearing a cropped black vest that clings to her chest and cuts off just under her ribs, exposing toned abs and a stretch of skin that shows more of that dark ink winding up her side. Tight black jeans hug her hips and thighs in a way that should be illegal, chains swaying at her sides with every step.

Her arms are bare, heavy with muscle and shining a little under the stage lights from sweat or moisture. Silver rings gleam on her fingers, and there’s a low-hanging necklace tucked just under her collarbone. Her drumsticks are shoved into her back pocket, and when she turns��Jesus fucking Christ—you catch a full view of her ass and have to actively fight the urge to grab the barricade for support.

"Pretty sure I just came,” you murmur, staring like you’ve forgotten how to blink.

Raven snorts beside you. “Close your mouth. You're drooling.”

You try to. You really do. But it’s hard when Sevika finally finishes setting up, drops into her stool with her legs spread, and starts rolling one stick across her knuckles while the other taps absently against her thigh. She glances out at the crowd, expression unreadable, but something about the way she scans the front row makes you feel like she sees you.

A ridiculous thought that is very fun to entertain.

The moment the final mic is tested and the lights slam to full brightness, Jinx charges to the front of the stage and throws her arms out wide like she’s about to dive into the crowd. The audience erupts—screaming, whistling, people on shoulders, someone in the back launching a glitter cannon that immediately gets sucked into the venue’s weak-ass ventilation system.

“HELL-O, MOTHERFUCKERS!” Jinx shrieks into the mic, voice cracking in a way that somehow makes her even hotter. “Hope you’re ready to get wrecked, because we came here to ruin your night in the best possible way!”

The crowd loses it again, people chanting her name, some already trying to crowd surf. Security looks exhausted and the first song hasn’t even started.

Jinx paces the front edge of the stage like a manic preacher, motioning behind her as she speaks. “You know us already, but we're gonna do introductions anyway because holy shit do we deserve to be screamed at tonight. On lead guitar, is my lovely sister, Vi!”

Vi throws up the horns and leans into her amp, strumming a heavy chord just to flex. The crowd answers with a shriek that nearly drowns out the feedback.

“We've got the ice queen herself on bass...the one and only C.K.!”

Caitlyn lifts her bass one-handed like it weighs nothing, offering the crowd a slow, deliberate bow. Someone near you yells, “Show us your face!” and immediately gets booed into silence.

“And in the back, banging the drums, which I know some of you wish you could be, it’s Sevikaaaaaa!”

You don’t know how Sevika can roll her eyes while still looking like she’s enjoying herself, but she manages. She twirls a stick between her fingers, then throws her arms up once and brings them down hard for a crack of the snare that shudders through your chest.

"And, of course, around here we save the best for last," she says, hopping off the stage and approaching...you. She holds out her hand as if for a handshake and you oblige as quickly as your brain allows you to catch up.

"I'm Jinx! Nice to fucking meet ya!"

Jinx grins and jumps back on the stage, spinning back toward the mic, breathless and grinning. “We’re Hotwired, you’re ours now, and this one’s called ‘Burn the Breaklights.’ Let’s see what you’re made of!”

The guitar tears in first, loud and dirty, then Caitlyn’s bass hits low and deep, and finally Sevika drops into the rhythm like she was built for it. The whole room moves. It's one of the songs you listened to on repeat earlier in the week, so you already know a good bit of the lyrics, already know the moment the beat’s gonna break, already feel your body falling into sync with it.

You and Raven lose yourselves in the moment, dancing like you’ve got something to prove, like the music's a possession. Her hair’s sticking to her face already and you're probably flashing everyone behind you every time you jump, but none of it matters.

Not when Sevika is on stage, muscles flexing with every strike, jaw tight, eyes laser-focused on the set. She looks absolutely lethal. Every time you try to look away, your gaze snaps right back to her. It’s like she’s holding the tempo of your heart along with the song. Every beat, every drop, every filthy crash of the cymbals—it’s her.

And yeah, you're watching the whole band. But you're watching her the most.

The rest of the show barrels forward like a freight train, no breaks, no mercy. Hotwired barely pauses between songs, each one bleeding into the next with sharp edges and screaming vocals, the crowd more than happy to go feral with them. You lose track of the setlist and, honestly, your sense of time somewhere between song four and five, when Raven boosts you up and the crowd takes you.

You float above the chaos for what feels like forever, arms raised, cheeks aching from how hard you're grinning. Hands guide you forward, and for once you don’t care about the potential for bruises or that someone definitely copped a feel on the way down. You land near the barricade again, wild-eyed and breathless, just as Jinx reappears center stage holding a massive water bottle.

She grins like a devil. “Y’all look thirsty,” she purrs, then proceeds to douse the first three rows, including you and Raven. It’s a full-body splash, soaking your shirt and leaving your hair damp.

Raven bursts into laughter, slapping your shoulder and yelling, “Told you the splash zone was real!” while you push wet strands out of your face and try not to melt on the spot.

Things only get weirder from there. Midway through the set, a man in a giant inflatable t-rex costume lumbers out from side stage like it's the most normal thing in the world.

Jinx doesn’t miss a beat—she grabs a mic stand like a weapon and launches into a full-on choreographed battle with him. The t-rex flails, Jinx spins around dramatically, and the crowd eats it up. It ends with her knocking him down (gently), then dropping to one knee and serenading him with what turns out to be a surprisingly heartfelt punk ballad about falling in love during a Godzilla rampage. You laugh so hard your stomach cramps.

Later, they open up the floor for an all-girl pit. Jinx leans into the mic, hair stuck to her face, absolutely unhinged as she screams, “If you see a man in this pit, fuck his shit up!” and the crowd loses it.

You hesitate for half a second before Raven shoves you in with a wicked grin. It’s wild and a little terrifying but weirdly exhilarating. Everyone’s laughing and pushing and grabbing each other’s arms to stay upright, and when someone does spot a guy creeping in from the side, three girls immediately bodycheck him out like it’s a sport.

By the end of the set, your voice is half gone, your limbs feel like rubber, and you know you’ll be sore as hell tomorrow—but you’re still not ready for it to be over.

The lights flare brighter, the stage bathed in reds and purples, and Jinx struts to the edge of the platform with a wicked grin like she’s about to start a riot. Her hair’s stuck to her face, eyeliner smeared to hell, shirt clinging to her body like a second skin. She’s practically glowing with sweat and adrenaline and the kind of manic joy that only comes from setting a crowd on fire for an hour straight.

“This our last one of the night,” she says, breathless and grinning. “But I’m gonna need a few pretty girls up here to help us close it out.”

That’s all it takes. The front row surges forward like a wave, everyone screaming and reaching, girls practically climbing over the barricade in the hopes of being noticed. Jinx motions to the band behind her. “Vi, Sevika. Make sure they're cuties!”

Vi gives a mock salute and hops off the stage, already laughing. Sevika follows, more reserved but clearly amused as her eyes start sweeping through the front row.

They make a whole damn show of it, taking their time, dragging it out, pointing at random girls then shaking their heads like they’re not quite right, just to drive the crowd insane.

You’re crammed up against the barricade, half-smashed by girls on either side trying to crawl over you. One of them elbows you in the ribs and you wince, gripping the rail to stay upright.

Then Sevika’s in front of you.

She’s massive up close, towering and flushed from the heat, vest clinging to her body and dark ink gleaming under the lights. She looks right at you, eyes dragging down once—deliberate, slow—then reaches out and grabs you by the waist like it’s nothing. You barely get a word out before she hauls you up, slinging you over one shoulder like you weigh nothing at all.

The crowd screams.

You catch a brief flash of another girl being thrown over Sevika’s other shoulder, but you can’t see who it is—just that you’re both being carried through a sea of flashing lights and flailing hands. You’re deposited back on stage with all the grace of a sack of laundry, but when you right yourself, blinking against the brightness, you realize the other girl Sevika grabbed is Raven. She’s laughing, eyes wide, clearly having the time of her life.

Vi drops two more girls off, and Jinx bounces over, practically vibrating with excitement. “Alright, you guys,” she says into the mic, pointing with a flourish. “I want you to dance for your fucking lives. This one goes out to every pretty, punk girl in this crowd tonight!”

The band slams into the final song like they’re possessed. It’s dirty and fast and fun as hell, the kind of track you can’t help but move to, and that’s exactly what you do. You let it take you, let your body roll with the beat and the bass and the screams of the crowd. Jinx loops an arm around your waist at one point, dragging you into a messy, chaotic spin before grinding against you in rhythm with the chorus.

Vi makes a little show of guiding one of the girls down on her knees; she stands with her legs spread on either side of the girl's lap and starts in on her solo. She makes those string sing and the girl under her seems to be having the time of her life. The crowd fucking explodes.

You don’t even care how sweaty you are or what you look like. You just dance, laugh-singing the lyrics you half-remember, head tipping back as the lights pulse and the drums pound. When the final chord hits, the sound crashes down like a wave, and the entire venue moves as one—cheering, screaming, lights flickering wild and strobing.

Sevika stands as the last echoes of the drums fade. She pulls one of her sticks from the kit, the end cracked and splintered and walks it over to you. She presses the worn, warm stick into your palm and winks.

You don’t even try to act cool about it. You just stare down at it, dazed, while security helps you and the others off the stage and back over the barricade.

"Goodnight, you heathens! You've be a wonderful crowd!"

You and Raven slip out through the side exit marked Employees Only, the one she mentioned earlier, where the bands usually dip out to avoid the chaos at the front. The alley behind the venue is dimly lit and smells like smoke and spilled beer, but it’s quiet, tucked away from the thrum of the still-buzzing crowd. You’re both flushed and half-drenched in sweat, breathless in that post-show haze, riding the high and crash all at once.

Raven fishes a crushed cigarette pack from her purse and slides one between her lips. “Got a light?”

You open your mouth to answer, to say no, but let me check, but a voice cuts through the quiet, low and unmistakably rough.

“Here.”

You both turn.

Sevika’s standing a few feet away, cigarette tucked into the corner of her mouth, shoulders slouched like she’s been here the whole time.

Her leather jacket’s heavy with patches and pins, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and the silver zippo she’s holding out gleams in the streetlight, engraved with something you can’t quite make out. Her gaze flicks between the two of you, but then it lands on you and sticks.

Your breath catches. There’s no stage lights now, no distance, no wall of noise. It’s just her. Big as hell, close enough to smell the smoke, and somehow even hotter like this—casual, confident, not sweating a damn thing.

“You looked real good on stage,” she says, eyes narrowing just slightly, like she’s still sizing you up.

It's entirely possible that you might just float away. “Oh. Uh, thanks. You—you too. Sounded. You sounded good. The whole time.”

Raven coughs into her fist, poorly masking a laugh.

Sevika smirks, nods once like that’s all she needed to hear. Then she jerks her chin toward the drumstick you’re still clutching for dear life. “Want me to sign that?”

You don’t even hesitate. “Yes. Yes, please.”

She pulls a sharpie from her back pocket and scrawls something across the wood—longer than just a name. She caps the marker with a flick, hands the stick back, and says, “Keep it to yourself.”

You nod. Maybe too fast. Words are hard when she’s looking at you like that, relaxed and a little amused, cigarette smoke curling between you.

“Y’all have a good night,” Sevika says, slipping the lighter back into her jacket. She gives Raven a quick nod and you one last glance before turning and heading off down the alley, boots heavy on the pavement.

It takes you a second to remember how to breathe. Then you look down at the stick.

Sevika’s number is written right there in blocky print.

“Oh my god,” Raven hisses, grabbing your arm. “She gave you her number. You're so fucking in there, dude!”

“I—what do I do? Should I text her? What if she invites me to her hotel room? What if she actually wants to hook up?”

Raven looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “First of all, we’ve got our protocols. You text me your location, share your location, take the selfie timestamp, we do the whole checklist. Second—babe, you only get one life. And that woman just handed you a golden opportunity.”

You nod slowly, dazed. “I need a shower first.”

“Yeah, no shit. We’re going to my place. It’s closer.”

You pocket the drumstick like it’s breakable and follow her out of the alley, heart pounding harder than it did in the pit.

You’re sitting cross-legged on Raven’s bed, freshly showered, skin still warm from the water and nerves buzzing under the surface. Your hair’s damp, your hands are clammy, and your thumb is hovering over the glowing green call button on your screen. Sevika’s number is typed in. Still feels unreal. Raven’s already changed into her sleep shorts and an oversized tee, lounging beside you like this is all very normal and not a life-altering decision in the making.

“Just do it,” she says, biting into a granola bar like this is nothing. “She gave you her number. She signed it on a fucking drumstick. She wants you to call.”

You take a steadying breath, nod once, then hit the button before you can talk yourself out of it. It rings once. Twice. Three times.

Four.

“Yeah?” Sevika answers, her voice low, a little gravelly, definitely tired but not annoyed. It curls in your ear like smoke. “Who is this?”

You clear your throat. “Uh. It’s me. From the alley. With the drumstick.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then:

“Oh.” Her tone shifts, interest sharpening like the flick of a lighter. “I was wondering when you’d call. Wasn’t sure if you would.”

You smile, cheeks heating even though she can’t see you. “Why’d you give me your number?”

“Thought you were cute.” She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Felt like it was mutual.”

Your heart skips. “It was. Definitely was.”

Another pause, this one slower, more thoughtful. “You cool if I come pick you up?”

Your breath catches. You glance over at Raven, who’s staring at you with huge eyes and mouthing holy shit. “Are we...are we gonna hook up?”

Sevika laughs—a real one, low and genuine. “Only if you want to, doll.”

Your stomach flips and your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to. “Yeah. I do.”

Raven silently screams, her hands waving in the air before she plants both fists into the comforter like she’s watching a playoff game.

“Send me the address,” Sevika says. “I’ll swing by soon as I can.”

You nod, then catch yourself. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll send it.”

“See you in a bit,” she says, then hangs up.

You lower the phone slowly. Raven grabs both your shoulders like you just won a gold medal. “SEVIKA is on her way to pick you up. What the fuck. You’re gonna have to tell your future kids about this one.”

“I’m not gonna have kids,” you mutter, dazed.

“You might after tonight!”

You groan and flop back onto the bed, phone clutched to your chest like some cheesy teen rom-com. Raven throws you a pair of lip glosses and demands outfit approval.

"What happens in that hotel room will be concerning to the general public," you say, grinning.

Raven squeals. "And I can't wait for you to get back here so you can give me every juicy, disgusting detail!"

The distant rumble of a motorcycle reaches you before the headlight cuts through the quiet of Raven’s street. You step outside just in time to see Sevika roll up—heavy boots planted as she kills the engine, the machine still humming under her. She’s wearing the same leather jacket from earlier, helmet tucked under one arm, and she looks unfairly good with her hair pulled back, a fresh cigarette behind one ear.

“Hey,” she says, voice low and unreadable.

You manage a breathless, “Hi.”

She holds out a matte black helmet. "Want help?"

You nod, and she steps in close, fitting it over your head and buckling it gently beneath your chin. Her fingers brush your jaw—intentional or not, it still makes your heart skip. She checks the strap, gives it a little tug, then nods in approval.

“Put your arms around me,” she says, already mounting the bike again. “Hold on tight.”

You slide onto the seat behind her, hands fumbling slightly before you wrap your arms snugly around her waist. Her torso is solid under the leather, the bike humming beneath you, and you can smell her cologne.

Then you’re off.

The city streaks past in a blur of streetlights and neon signs, wind rushing past your body, your heart pounding louder than the engine. You don’t know how long the ride lasts—fifteen, maybe twenty minutes—but when Sevika slows and pulls into a quiet hotel parking lot, you’re not ready for it to end.

She kills the engine and dismounts first, then helps you off like she’s done it a thousand times before. She pulls a cap from her jacket pocket and a pair of sunglasses from the other, handing them to you with a small smirk.

“Just in case there’s anyone waiting around,” she says. “You wouldn’t believe the kind of creeps who’ll sell a blurry photo for a couple hundred bucks.”

You nod and slip both on, grateful for the moment to compose yourself. Sevika reaches for your hand—no hesitation—and laces your fingers with hers like it’s no big deal. She leads you inside, her grip firm but steady, only releasing your hand once you reach the elevator.

She steps in first and turns you around so that your back is facing the small overhead camera in the corner. The doors slide closed with a soft ding, and you can feel her eyes on you as you pull the cap off, then the glasses.

“C’mere,” she murmurs.

You face her, and she lifts her hands to your hair, smoothing the parts that got windswept on the ride. There's a stubborn bit that refuses to lay right and she tucks it behind your ear, her knuckles dragging slow along your cheek.

The moment lingers.

Then Sevika leans in and kisses you—soft at first, her lips warm and unhurried, but the second you respond, it tilts hotter. Her hand slides to the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist, and you melt into it, helpless against the way she feels. You lose track of time in the haze of it until—

Ding.

The doors slide open and Sevika breaks the kiss with a breath, but not a word. She takes your hand again, tighter this time, and leads you down the hall with singular focus. You pass a door that swings open just as you’re walking by.

Jinx steps out, half-dressed in a tank and cutoffs, hair a chaotic mess. “Yo, Sev, do we have any more—?”

“Fuck off,” Sevika says without slowing, without looking back.

Jinx laughs. “Rude.”

Sevika stops just long enough to unlock her door and yank it open, ushering you inside before pulling it closed behind you with a satisfying click. The lock turns, the sound final.

Sevika’s on you with a purpose, crowding you back against the door with the full heat of her body, her mouth claiming yours in a kiss that’s immediately filthy.

Hot and open-mouthed, all tongue and teeth, the kind of kiss that leaves your head spinning and your knees already getting soft.

You gasp into her, but she doesn't give you a chance to speak, her hands already gripping your hips like she owns them. You feel her smile, dark and dangerous, against your lips as you let your fingers explore—first the firm planes of her stomach, defined and solid under the hem of her shirt, then lower, to her ass, where your hands squeeze without hesitation.

That earns you a reaction.

Sevika groans into the kiss, deep in her chest, and grinds her hips against you, slow and deliberate. You feel everything: how solid she is against you, how good she knows it feels to make you feel this. Her mouth moves to your jaw, to your neck, biting and kissing like she wants to leave evidence.

“I see you're done with the shy shit,” she mutters, before grabbing you by the back of your thighs and lifting you clean off the floor.

Your breath catches with a startled sound that turns into a moan as your legs instinctively wrap around her waist. She holds you up with just one arm, effortless like it’s nothing. Her other hand slips up the front of your shirt, rough fingers dragging over your stomach and up to your chest.

She doesn’t even bother with the bra—her hand finds your tit and gropes, slow and possessive, her thumb circling your nipple until you’re arching into the touch.

She pulls back just enough to look at you. Really look. You’re panting, lips kiss-swollen and eyes already half-lidded, your makeup smudged from the ride and the kiss and her mouth all over your throat.

“Goddamn,” Sevika says, quiet, almost reverent. “You really are a pretty little thing.”

You smile, dazed, about to say something—

“Shame, really.”

You blink. “What is?”

She grins, teeth flashing as her eyes drag across your face. “That I’m gonna have to ruin all that pretty makeup.”

"Oh my god, please." It comes out a little more desperate than you intend for it to, but Sevika seems deeply pleased by the turn of events.

She slips her hand from under your shirt and steadies you against her hips before walking the both of you toward the bed. The way she moves is careful, but the heat in her eyes never dims. When she lays you down, it’s with a gentleness that throws you off after the rough edges of the last few minutes. Her hand lingers on your thigh as she still stands above you.

“You still want this?” she asks, voice quieter now, more grounded. It’s the most serious she’s sounded all night. “No hard feelings if you don’t.”

You shake your head so fast it’s almost pathetic. “I do. I—like, really do.”

Sevika’s expression softens, just slightly. “Then get undressed.”

You scramble to obey, stripping off your shirt first, then your shorts, both discarded over the edge of the bed without much ceremony. Her eyes never leave you. She watches the way you move, takes in every inch of exposed skin like she’s memorizing it, and the intensity makes heat rise in your chest. You fight the stupid reflex to cover yourself.

“I like the matching set,” she murmurs, stepping closer, the fronts of her thighs pressing into the mattress as she leans forward. She hooks a finger under your waistband and snaps it lightly against your skin. “Put this on for me?”

You nod, breath caught in your throat. “Yeah.”

“I appreciate the effort, doll,” she says, and leans down to kiss you again, mouth hot and teasing. She nips your bottom lip, not hard enough to hurt but enough to pull a gasp from you. “Think you’ve earned a little treat, hmm?”

“Please,” you say, dazed and already too far gone to pretend otherwise. She could ask for anything right now and you'd probably give it to her.

True to her word, she climbs onto the bed, settling between your legs with all the casual confidence in the world. The sight of her down there—strong shoulders framed by all that jewelry, hair messy from your fingers, her mouth so fucking close—is enough to knock the air out of your lungs.

Your hands slide into her hair without you realizing it, fingers curling, needing something to hold on to. She grins up at you, a slow, wicked thing that curls at the edges of her lips.

“You can pull,” she tells you, voice low and sure. “Bite me, scratch me, scream my name. I like it all.”

The mental image—her skin marked up by you, bruises blooming across her chest, fingernail lines trailing her back—makes your head spin. But then Sevika drags you out of that thought with the swipe of her tongue, slow and deliberate, straight through your soaked folds.

Your mouth falls open.

She doesn’t ease into it. Her whole mouth is on you, her tongue pressing in deep before she pulls back to suck your clit into her mouth, hard and focused. Loud, wet sounds fill the room, and every moan that spills from her makes your body twitch. She likes it, you can tell. Likes how wet you are, likes the way your hips buck despite yourself.

Then she’s burying her tongue inside you, her nose pressed tight against your clit, and it’s too much, not enough, perfect. You can’t help the way you grind down against her, chasing every ounce of pressure. Your grip in her hair tightens, probably bordering on painful.

But Sevika just groans, the sound rumbling straight into your core, and slides a hand up to your stomach to pin you in place.

“Just stay still,” she mutters, mouth brushing wet heat against you, “and take it for me.”

You try to stay still like she asked. You really do. But it’s impossible with the way her mouth is working you over, like she’s got something to prove.

She’s relentless—no breaks, no mercy—tongue curling and flicking in a rhythm that feels obscene in the best way. The hand pressed to your stomach keeps you from squirming too much, but your legs are shaking and your fingers are locked in her hair now, tugging with each desperate half-aborted roll of your hips.

Your vision blurs at the edges. Your head falls back against the bed with a ragged sound that might be her name. And when the heat finally crests and crests and then snaps, it hits like a punch in the gut. Your whole body tenses, thighs locking around her head as you cry out, louder than you mean to, legs trembling with the force of it.

Sevika moans into it, like she's savoring every second, riding it out with slow, indulgent licks that make your stomach twitch.

You try to catch your breath, chest rising and falling fast, but Sevika doesn’t move away. She kisses your inner thigh once. Then again. Her hands stroke over your legs, gentle now, grounding. She lets you breathe. Just for a moment.

Then she’s back, mouth brushing against your still-sensitive clit with a teasing hum.

“Think you’ve got another in you, doll?” she murmurs, already kissing her way up your inner thigh again. Her voice is warm now, low and coaxing, like she already knows the answer.

You whimper, your hips giving a weak twitch toward her mouth even as your legs tremble with aftershocks. "Y-yeah."

“That’s what I thought,” she says, smug and soft all at once.

She takes her time now. Her mouth moves slow and deliberate, licking through your folds with featherlight passes and pressing gentle, wet kisses to your clit. The overstimulation hits sharp at first, your thighs jolting under her hands, but she soothes you through it.

“So fuckin' pretty,” she murmurs, breath hot against your skin. “Even when you’re falling apart.”

Her hands stroke up and down your thighs, lazy and tender. She palms the meat of them, lets her thumbs trace soft circles until you’re relaxing under her again, the sharp edge of sensation melting into something sweeter.

“You’re doing so good for me,” she adds, voice low and full of heat. “Just let go. I got you.”

You bite your lip, overwhelmed and wrecked and somehow still burning for more. Your hips start moving on their own, rocking up into her mouth, and Sevika hums her approval. Her tongue moves with slow purpose, dragging you up and up again until your fingers are tangled tight in the sheets and you’re begging without even realizing it.

The second orgasm is softer. Like your body is unraveling instead of bursting. You moan her name as your thighs clench, your back arches, and your entire body goes loose under her hands.

Sevika kisses your pussy one last time—slow and warm—before finally pulling away, her face slick, her grin downright criminal.

“Fuck,” she mutters, dragging the back of her hand across her mouth. “You taste even better than I imagined.”

You can’t speak. You don’t even try. All you can do is lay there, dazed and ruined, as Sevika presses one last kiss to your thigh before finally crawling off the bed. You hear her crack her back and exhale like a boxer between rounds.

“You still got more for me, or do you think you’re about done?” she asks over her shoulder, heading for the mini fridge tucked into the corner of the room.

You’re half melted into the mattress, still catching your breath, but you sit up enough to catch the water bottle she tosses your way. It’s one of those tiny ones that might as well be a sip, and you kill it in seconds. Sevika watches with a smirk, arms crossed over her bare chest.

After a beat, you mutter, “Give me, like, twenty minutes.”

She laughs, low and warm and amused by your commitment. “You sure? Not every day you get to wear out a groupie.”

You roll your eyes, but your grin gives you away. “It’s not every day you get to fuck a rockstar, either. I’m making it count.”

“Yeah, you are,” she says, grabbing the remote and flopping down on the bed beside you. She sheds her jeans and shirt in one smooth motion, leaving her in nothing but a sports bra and a pair of boxers that sit a little crooked on her hips. She doesn’t seem to care.

The TV comes on to some late-night rerun, but you’re not really watching it. You’re more focused on how Sevika leans back against the headboard and opens her arms like she’s inviting you in.

You take the invitation.

Your head ends up in her lap, and her hand finds your hair almost instantly. She scratches gently at your scalp, twirling strands around her finger, trailing soft touches down the side of your face. It’s lazy and warm and kind of unfair how good it feels. You could fall asleep like this, safe between her thighs with the dull buzz of the TV in the background.

But after maybe ten, fifteen minutes, your fingers start to drift.

You let your nails rake lightly along her thigh, aimless at first, but then you start tracing slow lines higher and higher. Sevika hums, a lazy warning you don’t heed.

“What are you up to?” she asks, voice low, indulgent.

You glance up at her from her lap and smile. “Can I eat you out?”

Sevika raises an eyebrow, clearly pleased by the request. “Fuck, yeah,” she says, already shifting her hips. She lifts up so you can tug her boxers down her legs and toss them somewhere across the room.

You get a little rush from the sight of her: already wet, glistening, the proof of her arousal slick on her thighs. Just knowing that she got like this from going down on you is enough to make your head spin all over again.

So you start slow, just for a second, before you sink your teeth into the soft flesh of her inner thigh and bite. Hard.

Sevika lets out a sharp breath and flexes beneath you. Her hand tightens in the sheets beside her, but she doesn't stop you. Doesn’t want to. You sink another bite a little higher, then lick over the mark you just made, feeling her muscles jump beneath your tongue.

Your hands grip her thighs tight, nails digging in, not gentle at all now. You want her to feel you.

“Fuck, that mouth,” she groans, hips twitching toward you.

You get to work for real, licking a stripe up the center of her, then circling her clit with your tongue just enough to tease.

“Don’t hold back, doll,” she tells you, voice ragged but sure. “C’mon. Show me how bad you wanna impress me.”

You do. You really do.

She groans your name, threading her fingers tighter in your hair as your mouth drags wet and firm over her clit. Her thighs bracket your face and you feel her start to grind into it, chasing the pressure, not shy about what she needs.

“You’re so good at this,” she murmurs, voice dipping into that same low register that makes your spine light up. “So fuckin’ eager. Knew you’d be like this.”

Your hips press into the bed without thinking. She keeps going.

“Keep that tongue right there. Just like that, yeah. That’s it, baby. You’re making me proud.”

You moan against her, desperate now, and she laughs, wrecked and fond.

“God, you like hearing me talk, don’t you?”

You nod, mouth still busy, and Sevika rewards you with a groan so filthy it vibrates straight through you.

“Then earn more of it,” she growls. “Don’t stop now.”

Sevika’s breathing gets heavier. The muscles in her thighs are twitching under your grip, her hand tight in your hair now as she guides you exactly where she wants you.

“Fuck, baby! just like that,” she growls, low and rough. “Don’t stop. Don’t even think about it.”

You keep going, your mouth locked on her clit, tongue moving in tight circles, your grip firm as you hold her in place. Her hips are starting to roll, slow and unrestrained, chasing the rhythm. Her growls turn to moans, strained and filthy, falling from her lips like she’s already on the edge.

“Gonna come all over that sweet mouth,” she grits out. “You gonna take it for me? Be good and take it?”

You answer with a desperate noise, nodding against her just enough to make her groan again. She plants both hands on your head and presses you harder between her thighs, grinding against your mouth.

“Ohh, fuck—fuck, fuck—”

Her voice cracks as she comes, body tensing hard around you. Her thighs clamp tight on either side of your face, and you can hear the breath rip from her lungs in a guttural sound that’s half curse, half praise. She holds you there, trembling through the high, hips stuttering against your mouth until the worst of it passes.

When she finally lets up, her hand slides gently to your cheek, her thumb rubbing over the damp skin. She strokes along the curve of your jaw, then drags that thumb over your bottom lip.

“Open,” she murmurs, watching you with heat still burning behind her eyes. You do. She presses her thumb inside, slow and deliberate, and grins when you suck it instinctively.

“Good girl,” she says, and you’re already shivering again.

Sevika pulls you up her body in one smooth tug, hands warm and sure as they slide up your sides. When your lips meet, it’s messy, open-mouthed, all tongue and teeth and hunger. Her hands trail down to your ass, gripping it in both palms, like she’s trying to ground herself with the feel of you.

She feels you humping against her thigh, subtle but obvious, your body already begging for more. She breaks the kiss with a crooked smirk. “Oh? You ready for me to fuck you now?”

You nod, breathless, flushed, still clinging to her.

“I figured,” she murmurs, voice dipping into something darker. “Get on all fours for me, doll. Be good.”

You do exactly as you’re told.

Hands pressed into the sheets, knees spread, chest lowered like submission comes naturally. The room is quiet for a beat, save for the rustle of fabric, the dull zip of a bag opening behind you. You hear the soft thud of something heavy being set down, followed by the low click of buckles, the faint stretch of elastic, and the subtle shift of weight as Sevika moves behind you.

You don’t have to look to know what’s coming.

Then you feel it. The press of something thick against the swell of your ass. It drags slow and deliberate along your soaked folds, the pressure of it undeniable.

“Feel that?” Sevika murmurs, one hand sliding across your hip. “You’re about to take every inch of it.”

Your breath catches as the tip nudges your entrance, slick already clinging to your thighs. She doesn’t give you time to overthink it—just starts pushing in, slow but steady, giving you the stretch inch by inch. You gasp, biting into the pillow, your body gripping around her as she fills you completely.

And then she starts to move.

Sevika fucks like a force of nature, brutal and relentless. Her grip on your hips is bruising, nails digging into your flesh with each thrust. The sound of skin slapping skin echoes through the room, matched only by the ragged moans pouring from your mouth.

“Look at you,” she growls, voice close to your ear now. “Taking it like you were made for it.”

A hard spank lands across your ass, sharp and stinging, and you cry out, the pain shooting straight through your core.

“So fuckin’ wet for me,” she spits. “Dripping down your thighs. Bet I could slide another toy in and you’d still beg for more.”

“Sevika,” you moan, wrecked and breathless, clinging to the sheets. “Please—more, fuck, don’t stop—”

“Oh, I’m not stoppin’,” she promises, slamming into you harder, the snap of her hips making your arms buckle. “Not until we've ruined these fucking sheets. Not until you scream for me.”

Your moans pitch higher, blurring into sobs of pleasure as the coil in your belly pulls tight. You feel your climax crash through you—sudden, all-consuming—and Sevika doesn’t let up. Not for a second.

She presses one hand flat to your lower back, holding you down, keeping your chest against the mattress while she fucks you through it. Every thrust punches the air from your lungs, your legs shaking beneath her, your orgasm stretching into something messy and endless.

Sevika doesn’t waste time after that.

She flips you with ease, palms steady on your hips, and settles between your legs again, the strap dragging hot and slick along your sensitive folds. Your body jolts with the contact, overstimulated and twitching, but she doesn’t push in just yet. She leans down, eyes locked to yours, breath brushing your lips.

“You still with me?” she asks, voice husky.

You nod, a little shaky. “I—yeah. I just don’t know if I can come again.”

Sevika smiles, slow and devastating, and kisses your cheek. “Don’t need you to come, baby. Just need you to feel good. Can you do that for me?”

"Yes. Fuck, yes, Sev," you answer as she drags the toy through the slick mess you've made between your legs.

Then she lifts your legs, hooking them high over her shoulders. “Hold these up for me,” she says, guiding your hands to the back of your thighs.

You do, for a little while.

She presses into you again, deep and steady, sinking all the way in until her hips meet yours. You both groan in tandem, your bodies clenching around each other. The position drives the strap deep, dragging against that spot inside you just right. It’s too much, but somehow not enough.

Sevika’s pace starts slow, calculated. She's watching you the entire time, studying your face, your mouth, the way your chest rises and falls.

Her own pleasure is mounting fast: her breath growing heavier, her face flushed, brow furrowed in focus as she grinds into you with a rhythm that has you seeing stars.

You're whining now, panting, squirming under the weight of sensation. “Fuck, I can’t—can’t hold them anymore—”

Sevika shushes you, not slowing down. “It’s okay, baby. I got you.”

She takes your legs in her arms, folding you tighter, pressing you into a deep, delicious arch as her hips grind harder into yours. You're pliant under her, fingers gripping at her back now, clawing down her sides, holding on like your life depends on it. She fucks you slow and deep, chasing something now—her own release evident in the way her rhythm starts to falter.

You bite your bottom lip hard enough to taste blood, eyes fluttering open just enough to watch Sevika. God, she’s a sight—head thrown back, jaw clenched, her abs flexing with each motion, a quiet string of curses falling from her mouth as she works her hips into yours like she’s trying to fuck you into the mattress.

And when she starts to fall apart, it’s all the more beautiful for how she keeps holding you through it. Still kissing you. Still murmuring filth in your ear. Still grinding into you with the kind of focus that says she’s not done giving you everything she has.

The sun's just starting to creep over the skyline when Sevika pulls up to Raven’s place, the low rumble of her motorcycle cutting through the early quiet of the neighborhood. The sky is still a little pink around the edges, and the world hasn’t quite shaken off the night yet. You’re tucked behind her on the bike, arms snug around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder as the engine dies.

Sevika pulls off her helmet and looks at you, a slow grin tugging at her lips. She reaches over and helps you undo yours, fingers lingering a little longer than necessary beneath your chin.

“You good?” she asks, her voice still that gravelly, just-woke-up tone that makes your stomach flip.

“Yeah,” you say, smiling. “Kinda feels like I dreamed all of that, though.”

She chuckles and leans in to press a kiss to your cheek. It’s surprisingly soft for someone who handled you like that only hours ago. “Nah,” she says. “I’m real. And so was all of that.”

Your fingers fidget in your lap. “So…is this like, a one-time thing? Or...? I gotta be honest with you, Sevika, I've never hooked up with anybody like you before.”

“Doll,” she says, cutting you off with a look that’s half fond, half amused. “You think I give my number out to just anyone?”

You try not to smile too hard. Fail.

Sevika taps the side of your thigh with two fingers, a wordless cue that it’s time to hop off. You do, handing her the helmet back and smoothing your hair down as best you can.

“I’ll call you,” she says, sliding her helmet back on. “Promise. This isn’t the last time you’ll see me.”

And with that, the engine revs back to life, and she peels off down the street, her silhouette disappearing into the city just as the sun fully crests the buildings.

You’re left standing barefoot on the curb, last night’s clothes still smelling like her skin and cigarette smoke, Sevika’s phone number burned into your contacts and her touch in your memory.

Raven opens the door for you, coffee in hand. “So,” she says. “You gonna tell me everything, or do I have to drag it out of you?”

You just smile and walk inside, cheeks still warm, heart still hammering

#𓆩♡𓆪 ─ blue is typing... .ᐟ #sevika #sevika x reader #sevika arcane #sevika smut #sevika x you #series: hotwired #lesbian #arcane smut #rockstar!sevika #drummer!sevika #🕷 ─ littledykeblue

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theglassofmiddleearth · 8 days ago

Text

Imagine Being Isekai'ed into KPOP DEMON HUNTERS. (part 8)

HERE IS PART 8! Sorry I've been working on more music projects! (LMK If u wanna hear my cover of no seperation from heavens official blessing) THIS IS THE FAN SIGNING OF HUNTR/X AND SAJA BOYS! (PSA my tag list is full sorry guys! please enjoy sorry I'm late!

Previous - Next

‘Alright boys, let's settle down.’ Jinu said, crossing his arms and walking towards the group.

‘Hm.’ The boys relented, easing their slightly intimidating stances.

‘So, the hunters are having a fan signing in two days hm?’ Beom narrowed his eyes, moving to his favourite spot on the couch, crossing his legs. Huh, kinda like a cat claiming its territory.

‘How long do those usually take?’ Rae took his place in Y/N’s gaming chair, turning to face where Y/N was standing in the kitchen.

‘Maybe half a day?’ Y/N supplied, still looking somewhat confused. She wasn’t entirely sure of what had just conspired around her.

‘I see.’ Min sat down to her left, resting his elbow on the marble countertop, his tone light.

‘Why?’ Y/N turned, looking at the oldest man who was running his fingers through his hair.

‘Might wanna pay you a visit is all.’ Min’s eyes glinted with mischievousness, his smirk saying everything she needed to hear.

‘You can’t kill them.’ Y/N poked Min’s cheek, drawn by his smooth, unblemished skin. She shook her head, moving toward her PC to turn it off.

To Min’s credit, he only turned a light shade of pink, as he brought his hand down to hover over the spot the girl had touched. His purple hair falling back into place as he savoured Y/N’s touch.

‘But you’re saying we can visit?’ Beom gave a devious smile, lifting his eyes from his phone momentarily.

‘You don’t even have the tickets to go to the fan signing.’ Y/N laughed, spinning around as her computer monitor turned black, standing to walk back to the kitchen.

‘Hm, I think you forget what we’re capable of.’ Beom’s eyes flashed a golden colour, before turning back into his humanesque eyes.

‘That's true… I hear one of the body guard’s likes handsome men.’ Y/N looked amused, staring at Beom’s steadily reddening face.

‘NO, I MEANT HYPNOSIS.’

‘Ohh.’ Y/N chuckled, hiding her laughter behind her hand. ‘Yes of course Beom-ie. The hypnosis!’

‘How come Beom gets a nickname?’ Abel grunted, still standing behind Y/N.

‘Why are you still behind me?’ Y/N blinked, shifting her neck to glance at Abel.

‘Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to darlin’.’ He crossed his arms, eyes glinting with unspoken desire, moving to sit down on one of the counter chairs.

Y/N gave a confused look, as Jinu set down a bowl of soup in front of her with a clink. The soup’s scent wafted toward her, hearty, warm and inviting.

‘Jinu, if you do this for me everyday I might as well make you my wife for real.’ Y/N let a breath of content out, picking up her spoon and digging in. A peaceful smile spread over her lips, letting the soothing broth slide down her throat.

‘Are you proposing?’ Rae chuckled. ‘You know that marrying Jinu would mean marrying all of us too?’

‘That is true. We’re a package deal.’ Jinu gave a forlorn smile, before looking at his friends with the same soft smile.

‘Huh, having five pretty husbands is better than one!’ Y/N joked, completely missing the flash of hope, resonating off of the men’s faces.

‘Hmm, I won’t let you forget this.’ Jinu whispered, watching as Y/N brushed her thumb finger over her lips.

‘Hmm? Did’ya say something?’ Y/N asked, standing to get herself another bowl of soup.

‘The rice is ready. Have a bowl of that and soup, then you have to go to bed. You’ve been awake for too long.’ The black haired man replied, without missing a beat.

‘Mmh, what are you, my mother?’ Y/N whined, as her bowl was taken gently from her hands by Abel, who was now scooping rice into it.

‘No, we’re your wives, remember?’ Min said, his head laying to rest on his arm.

‘And such pretty wives you’ll make!’ Y/N nodded, thanking Abel with a nod, as the muscular man gently set down her last bowl of food.

The room began to blur, as Y/N continued to pick up her spoon. Listening to the men chatter around her, slowly becoming a lullaby. Dozing off was inevitable, seeing as she had definitely overworked herself

‘Shh, look, she’s nodded off again.’ A voice whispered, soft and teasing.

‘Y/N does realise we’re men right? Even worse, we’re demons. Does she have no care for her own safety.’ Beom sighed, walking toward the girl who had fallen asleep.

The youngest man bent his knees, sliding his arm under Y/N’s legs, putting an arm under her back. He gently slid the girl from her sleeping position, bringing Y/N to the ensuite in her room.

Y/N had two toothbrushes for some reason, an electric one and a regular one. Beom opted for the electric one, seeing as it would be easier to brush Y/N’s teeth that way. He chuckled at the cartoon stickers on the toothbrush.

‘Come on open up.’ Beom muttered, wetting Y/N’s toothbrush, applying a mint toothpaste.

Beom gently pulled Y/N’s jaw down, turning the electric toothbrush on to the lowest setting, brushing over Y/N’s teeth gently.

‘Okay Y/N-ie. Time to rinse.’ He whispered, ‘Spit it out.’

Y/N gargled the water weakly, before spitting it out back into the sink.

‘That’s my girl.’ Beom smiled, picking Y/N back up, walking out of the bathroom.

Laying Y/N on her bed, Beom took notice of another presence in her room.

‘Don’t forget to wipe her face.’ Min walked forward with a warm towel.

‘Thanks Min 형.’ Beom held his hands out, as the oldest man placed the warm town into his grasp.

‘It’s nice to see you taking care of someone else now, for a change Beom-ie.’ Min gave a subtle smile, patting the youngest on the head.

Centuries ago, when they took in Beom. They had found him, hollow and void of emotion in the underworld. It genuinely was heartwarming to see that Beom had developed his own sense of compassion. Gwi-ma had made it almost impossible to have any emotions other than shame and anger.

The underworld was his pen of cattle, ready for disposal at any moment. His demons no more than play things for him to pass the time as the Honmoon drew closer and closer to being closed.

And yet, there was something these five boys had since long lost.

Hope

Hope in the form of a girl, who had freed Abel and Beom.

Hope that ignited a spark in them that had been extinguished for centuries.

‘Urgh.. I’m still hungry,’ Y/N whined, in a half asleep state, opening her eyes slightly to spot the purple haired man.

‘You can eat tomorrow morning. No one’s taking your food. Come on now, it’s time to sleep.’ Min hushed the girl, placing a reassuring hand on Y/N’s face.

‘Thanks for taking care of me Beom. You too Min.’ Y/N brought her hand up to touch Min’s hand, for a brief second. ‘Min, you have such pretty eyes.’

A flash of white blue and gold. Just like the one Beom and Abel had experience. A ripple of iridescent colour echoed through Min’s patterns as Y/N’s hand fell limply to her side.

‘Wha-’

‘Shh!’ Beom hushed the older man, quickly putting a hand over his mouth.

‘Wah wash dat.’ Min mumbled, gently peeling Beom’s hands off his mouth, staring incredulously at the now lightly snoring girl.

‘That was what caused Gwi-ma to think we were dead.’ Beom looked at Y/N, heaving a sigh. ‘Me and Abel also felt the same spark. Although, we aren’t sure what causes it.’

‘But how could she just-’

‘She also doesn't know. Y/N said that it could be something to do with the fact that she was meant to be a hunter.’

‘Meant to be?’ Min looked confused.

‘Yes, meant to be. She can see the Honmoon and see the lines but apparently she can’t use spirit power to create a weapon.’ Beom explained, pushing Min out of the room with his hands. ‘She also said we had to stay quiet. Jinu wouldn’t be happy if he found out this was possible.’

‘But what if Jinu found out he could be free too? I can ignore Gwi-ma but he's actually just not in my head anymore. He’s completely gone!’ Min whispered excitedly, looking as if he had been healed from a century long headache.

Beom paused, contemplating his response.

‘But you heard him, he said Y/N was just a means to an end.’

‘Right…’

‘Is she asleep?’ The mentioned man piped up, startling Beom and Min as they eased the bedroom door shut.

‘Yeah, she’s down for the night.’ Beom recovered quickly, smoothing out his handsome face from its momentary, anxious display.

‘That's good.’ Jinu nodded, before slinging his arm around Beom. ‘I grabbed a bowl of soup for you. You better drink every drop of it.’

‘Did you-’

‘I put extra salt in it just how you like it.’ Jinu nodded, crossing his arms triumphantly

‘Okey I’ll eat it.’ Beom power walked over to the kitchen, forgetting about the previous situation. His mind was now focused on the bowl of soup waiting for him in the kitchen.

‘Two hundred years and he still enjoys salty food.’ Min shook his head, looking amused.

‘Wasn’t salt used as a trading tool back in your day grandpa?’ Jinu jeered, nudging his oldest friend with his elbow teasingly.

‘Why you little.’ Min quickly twisted Jinu into a playful headlock, dragging him to the kitchen.

‘Hey, hey! I was kidding! Come on grandpa, it’s time to go back to the retirement home!’ Jinu continued, as Min released him.

‘You brat.’ Min gave a soft snort, shaking his head.

–

The fan signing came, Y/N had spent the morning pleading to the men to leave the Hunter/x girls unharmed.

Honestly, she wasn't sure how they were going to get into the fan signing. They didn't camp out like the movie, they had spent the morning pestering Y/N, wanting her to stay home.

‘Guys, I promised to go. They're my friends.’ Y/N sighed, staring at the downcast group. They genuinely hated the idea of Y/N being anywhere near Huntr/x. Not because the girls were hunters, but because they seemed to also share an interest in what the Saja Boys had already deemed as their girl.

‘Are we not your friends?’ Min whispered, as if not wanting to know the answer.

‘What? Yes. Okay look, if I let the tiger-’

‘Derpy.’ Jinu cut in, looking hopeful.

‘Okay, if I let Derpy come with me, will you guys stop pouting.’ Y/N said, trying to fight a smile, watching five handsome men speak in hushed whispers. Deciding amongst each other of this was good enough for them.

‘Okay. But can we come if we don't kill Hunter/x?’ Rae asked, his dark lavender eyes were wide, pleading.

‘HAH. If you can somehow get in, sure! You underestimate their staff.’ Y/N turned around, walking towards her front door to pull on her shoes. Derp had since appeared out of a portal, striding over to Y/N, rumbling a question for pets. One that Y/N happily gave, giving Derpy scritches under his chin.

Five pairs of eyes, flashed bright yellow for a second from behind Y/N, all filled with a touch of deviousness.

‘I’m heading out now!’ Y/N called out, blissfully unaware of the challenge that she had unknowingly issued. ‘Come on sweetheart, we’re gonna go meet my friends!’

‘Oh, we are so crashing that stupid fansign.’ Beom smirked, watching Y/N wave as the elevator doors closed.

–

‘Alright, team! I know everything is Saja, Saja, Saja. But we’re gonna turn it, Huntr/x, Huntr/x, Huntr/x!’ Bobby cheered, the three girls stretched as Y/N walked into the room.

‘Y/N/N!’ The girls chorused, standing up from their table.

‘Hey girls! I’m here!’ Y/N walked over, letting herself be enveloped in a group hug. ‘Hey Bobby! Hope you’re doing well!’

‘I’m doing good! Glad to see you’re up and awake!’ Bobby replied, before looking around, checking if anything else needed organising.

‘We’re so glad you’re here! We missed you so much!’ Zoey chirped, dragging Y/N to stand behind where the girls were sitting.

‘Zoey, it’s only been like a day and a half max.’ Mira chuckled before adding, ‘No but for real, we have missed you.’

‘You’re still down to have us over after the fan sign right?’ Rumi asked, eyes round and earnest.

‘Of course! We can have dinner and then come back to mine to record!’ Y/N nodded, giving Rumi a soft pat on the head.

‘Oh my gosh, I want a headpat too!’ Zoey whined, grabbing Y/N’s other hand, placing it on top of her own head.

‘You’re so cute Zoey.’ Y/N gave a soft hearted grin, patting Zoey’s head.

‘Okay girls! These fans have been sleeping on the sidewalk all night for this! Let’s get started!’ Bobby smiled, watching the interaction.

‘Happy fans, Happy Honmoon!’ The girls whispered, clinking their pens together.

‘Alright, let's bring ‘em in!’ Bobby called out to the security, as the doors opened.

Y/N frowned as she watched five sleeping bags huddle to the front of the line. Surely it wasn’t… Wait, how did the boys show up in the movie again? Y/N put her finger to her chin, tapping it thoughtfully.

‘And who should I make this out to?’ Rumi hummed, without looking up.

‘To Y/N’s biggest fans.’ A hauntingly familiar voice said.

‘Oh no…’ Y/N slapped a hand on her forehead in disbelief as the boys dropped their sleeping bags, jumping into a quick group pose.

‘It’s the Saja Boys!’ The fans chorused, cheering excitedly.

The three Huntr/x girls let out a collective groan, snapping their pens. Y/N however, gave a menacing glare (as menacing as she could). Staring at the demon boy band. In return, the group of boys beamed at her, finding Y/N’s anger to be akin to a puppy throwing a tantrum.

‘It is an honor.’ Bobby gave a fake smile. ‘Table, now!’

‘Joint signing!’ The fans gasped, half of them moving to the other table.

‘We’d lose half the fans?’ Rumi gaped.

‘The Saja Boys will sit with us!’ Mira called out, displaying a fake, yet beautiful smile, whilst Zoey waved unenthusiastically.

‘Genius.’ Bobby smiled, tears running down his eyes.

‘Same table?’ The fans said in hushed whispers.

‘Y/N’s ours.’ Rae snickered, sitting next to Mira.

‘Y/N called me cute not even five minutes ago.’ Zoey bragged, taking a jab at Beom who was reluctantly sitting down next to her.

‘Yeah? Well she called me handsome.’ Beom spat back, crossing his arms, face twisted in a somehow still attractive scowl.

‘Hey Y/N.’ Jinu smiled, coming to sit on the chair Y/N was standing in front of. Y/N couldn’t see his face but she could practically hear the smugness dripping off his tongue.

‘Jinu…’ Y/N sighed, as Derpy rubbed his body on Y/N’s legs, having reappeared now that the Huntr/x girls were facing forward.

‘So, apparently you’re part demon.’ Jinu whispered to the girl who was glaring knives into the side of his face.

‘Yeah, and?’ Rumi snarled, signing a poster and handing it to a fan with a smile.

‘I didn’t think you’d share that with your friends.’

‘Oh, no! I love sharing.’ Rumi rolled her eyes, wanting to keep her cool in front of Y/N and her fans.

‘If only I could smash in your demon face right now.’ Mira growled at Abel, signing a poster before changing her face to one of gratitude for the fan. ‘Thanks for coming!’

‘Oh, is that so?’ Jinu snickered, leaning back to look at Y/N. ‘Y’hear that husband?’

‘Jinu! Hush!’ Y/N whined, pushing Jinu’s head back up to its natural position.

‘Are you two whispering?’ A fan asked, looking at Y/N and Jinu with a smile.

‘Uh-’ Y/N panicked, darting her eyes between Jinu and the fan.

‘Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me!’ She pointed to her shirt, a drawing of Y/N and Jinu together with a shipname.

‘Wha-’

‘Thanks so much!’ Jinu beamed, whilst Rumi fumed, scribbling her autograph onto a poster.

‘We’re not-’ Y/N protested, as the fan left, replaced by another person.

‘Did you know Y/N’s seen us shirtless before?’ Abby jeered quietly, provoking Mira.

‘Yeah? Did she run away from how ugly you are?’ Mira sneered, signing another poster, her pen almost breaking from the sheer force behind it.

‘Mm, she’s so cute isn’t she?’ Rae hummed loud enough for Y/N to hear, signing his own poster.

‘Rae, shh.’ Y/N put a finger to her lips, a heat creeping up her neck.

‘Anything for you, my dear.’ He grinned, enjoying the reaction he received.

‘Y/N will never like you more than me.’ Zoey hissed, before beaming at another fan, handing them their signed poster. ‘Thanks so much for supporting us!’

‘Yeah? Well I can be cute, but you can’t be handsome.’ Beom grinned maliciously.

‘I could so be handsome.’ Zoey said indignantly, turning to look at Y/N.

‘Y/N! Do you think I could be handsome?’

Y/N looked puzzled, not entirely sure of what was being asked of her.

‘I think you could be handsome if you want to, Zoey. Why?’ She tilted her head, blinking.

‘Nothing! Love you Y/N!’ Zoey smiled victoriously.

‘Y/N, who do you think is cuter! Me or this person.’ Beom asked, shoving Zoey discreetly.

‘Beom, come on, behave.’ Y/N walked over, smoothing down the boy’s hair quickly in an attempt to calm him down. At the same time, she placed a warm hand on Zoey’s shoulder, effectively reassuring Zoey.

Derpy gave a rumble, which seemed to be a laugh.

‘Yeah, I’m glad this is amusing to you.’ Y/N chuckled quietly, walking back to her spot behind Jinu.

‘Yeah? Well we’re going over tonight to Y/N’s apartment so beat that.’ Rumi huffed, before smiling at another fan.

‘You’re not gonna like what-’ Jinu began as Y/N put a gentle hand on his back, halting him instantly. The man stilled at Y/n’s touch, turning slightly to spot Y/N shaking her head.

‘Uh, well, she’d have more fun with us.’ Jinu restated, understanding the meaning behind Y/n’s touch. The way Y/n’s hand lingered on his back, set a small flame of comfort, flicking in his chest.

‘Well too bad.’ Rumi smiled triumphantly. ‘She’s ours.’

‘Yeah, for tonight.’ Jinu bit back, slouching slightly in defeat.

‘I don’t get a say in this do I?’ Y/N raised an eyebrow, as Derpy circled figure eights against her legs.

‘Of course you do Y/N!’ Both said in unison, before glaring at each other.

‘Oh boy…’ Y/n sighed, before backing away from the two leaders, who seemed to be ready to start another argument.

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cameronsbabydoll · 18 days ago

Text

your kids asking the cod men (+konig and graves) about area 51

a/n: i know area 51 is in the US but this is just a fun crack fic

♡ john price (dad mode: engaged)

you’re washing dishes in the kitchen. wearing that robe he bought you. your youngest is drawing on the fridge whiteboard. your oldest, spoon in hand, squints up at him like a little detective.

“dad, do aliens live in area 51?”

price, sipping his tea, doesn’t miss a beat:

“they did. we evicted ’em in ‘98.”

you laugh softly. “john—”

“one of ’em tried to take your mum on a date,” he adds, folding the paper, eyes twinkling. “had to break four of his fingers. little green shit never came back.”

he winks at you. you roll your eyes. your kid is stunned.

and later? your child draws an alien with a broken hand and writes “DADDY GOT HIM” on the page.

♡ soap mactavish (unhinged uncle energy but dad edition)

he’s making pancakes in the kitchen. shirtless. your toddler’s sitting on the counter with pancake batter on their nose.

“daddy, do you have alien friends?”

“aye,” he says, flipping a pancake. “one of ‘em owed me five bucks. i never forget.”

you walk in mid-convo and he’s just saying:

“—and their hands are like spaghetti. weirdest handshake ever.”

you: “johnny.”

soap: “babe. he asked.”

later, your kid tries to shake your hand using only four floppy fingers.

♡ gaz (the realist but turns into a menace)

sitting on the sofa with a kid on each side. watching cartoons. sippy cup half-empty. suddenly:

“dad? what’s in area 51?”

he sighs. dramatic. long.

“tax fraud, mostly.”

you giggle from the kitchen. but then—he leans in real close to the kids, drops his voice:

“but one time, i saw a guy walk through a wall. he’s probably still there.”

you shout: “KYLE.”

he grins. the kids are silent for the next twenty minutes, watching the door.

♡ ghost (dad of silence, until he isn’t)

your kid is colouring next to him at the table. he’s drinking coffee in complete silence. you’re folding laundry.

“dad, are aliens real?”

he doesn’t answer at first.

then, softly:

“only met one. didn’t speak. just stared.”

your child: :o

“it blinked sideways,” he adds, sipping his mug. “still see it in my dreams.”

you: “simon.”

“what?” he shrugs. “builds character.”

your kid doesn’t sleep that night. neither does he. bonding.

♡ graves (suburban menace. king of dad lies.)

he’s mowing the lawn. your kid runs up with popsicle-stained hands yelling:

“dad, are aliens real?!”

he stops, takes off his sunglasses.

“kiddo, not only are they real—your mum was one.”

your child: screams

you from the porch: “phillip!”

“how else you think she got eyes like that?” he calls, grinning.

later, he lets your kid wear his sunglasses and says,

“you see any green guys? tell your old man. we’ll handle it.”

♡ könig (gentle giant, terrified)

you’re all sitting on the couch. popcorn. cartoons. one of your kids looks at him and whispers:

“papa… what’s in area 51?”

he stiffens. visibly. clutches the bowl.

“we… we are not allowed to speak about it,” he says, voice trembling slightly. “they made us sign… papers.”

you: “honey. you can tell them it’s just a base—”

“no,” he says, deadly serious. “they scan your teeth.”

your kid slowly covers their mouth.

later, you find tinfoil hats made out of cereal boxes in their room.

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jellyfishsthings · 24 days ago

Text

The Things You Say

navigation , dc navigation

Summary: Jason yearning for a nerdy girl who constantly talks about her new books or new science inventions, he doesn't understand shit and they have to look stuff up constantly trying to keep up with her

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

Jason knew pain. He knew the taste of blood and the sound of a heart flatlining. He knew what it was like to dig his way out of a grave with his bare hands, lungs full of dirt and rage. He knew war. Loss. Fire.

But none of that prepared him for the experience of falling for someone like you.

He also knew two things for certain:

One: he was not, and never would be, a science guy.

Two: he was completely, helplessly in love with the weird girl who never stopped talking about subatomic particles like they were fairy tales.

He met her in a bookstore, because of course he did. Gotham’s oldest secondhand shop, tucked between a closed-down deli and a tattoo parlor. She was in the nonfiction aisle, holding a hardcover titled Quantum Entanglement and the Fabric of the Cosmos, murmuring to herself while frowning at the margins.

Jason should’ve walked away. Should’ve grabbed his Hemingway and gone.

But instead he found himself saying, “Is that English?”

She looked up.

Big glasses. Hair half-up, half-falling. A tiny scowl, like he’d just insulted her childhood dog. “It’s physics.”

He blinked. “I gathered. Still looks like math’s evil cousin.”

That got a laugh. Or something like it. A half-smile, crooked and unsure, like she didn’t laugh often and wasn’t sure she should now.

Jason tilted his head. “You work with this stuff?”

“I study it.” She pushed the book against her chest. “I’m trying to understand quantum coherence in biological systems. Mostly theoretical. I bore people.”

“I don’t mind theory,” Jason said, which was a lie, but a nice one.

She stared at him for a long second. “You’re trying to flirt with me.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “How am I doing?”

“Terribly.”

He grinned. “You want coffee?”

She hesitated.

“Not a date,” he added quickly. “Just... if you want someone to listen while you explain quantum thingies.”

“Quantum thingies,” she repeated. “Tempting.”

It was supposed to be one coffee. It turned into four. Then dinner. Then late-night texts, where she sent him screenshots of new studies and he replied with bad memes and pictures of books she’d made him read.

Jason wasn’t used to this—whatever this was. There was no game here. No dramatics. Just this girl with a constellation of freckles and a mouth that moved too fast when she got excited.

She’d sit cross-legged on his couch, hair up, socks mismatched, spouting things like:

“Did you know cephalopods can edit their own RNA in real time?”

Jason, who was halfway through re-reading The Count of Monte Cristo, would look up and go, “Cepha-what?”

“Octopus brains. They’re insane.”

He had a notes app. No joke. It read:

Quarks (ask which one is the cute one)

Octopus RNA = science magic

Don’t say atoms are tiny planets—she hates that

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to understand. He did. Desperately. Because her eyes lit up like stars when she talked, and Jason wanted to know what it was like to hold a universe like that in his head.

Because you talked about neutrinos over coffee. Neutrinos. Subatomic particles. And you said it with a smile like it was common small talk, like most people spent Sunday mornings curled up reading quantum mechanics papers instead of the funnies.

Jason pretended to get it. He even nodded sagely.

He did not get it.

"They're fascinating," you said once, feet tucked under you on his old beat-up couch, eyes lit like they held galaxies. "Like these ghosts of matter. They pass through everything, almost impossible to catch. It's like trying to bottle a secret."

"Uh-huh," Jason said, staring at your lips. Not because he was being disrespectful. But because they moved when you talked, and sometimes he understood those more than your words.

He googled them later. Spent two hours falling down a scientific rabbit hole so steep he got a headache, just so he could maybe ask the right question next time. So he could deserve to be in the same room as your mind.

You never made him feel stupid.

You never made him feel like he had to prove himself. But Jason was built of sharp edges and pride. He came from alleys, from blood-streaked streets and textbooks that were ten years too late. You were made of stardust and curiosity, of words that leapt like fire from your tongue.

He wanted to meet you there.

So he read. And re-read. Fell asleep listening to science podcasts he barely understood. Texted Tim questions like, “What the hell is a muon?” and got responses like, “Why are you asking me this at 2AM?”

You were working on something new. Something about microfluidics, which sounded made-up but wasn't. Your whiteboard was filled with squiggles and Greek letters, and Jason stood behind you one afternoon just... watching.

"You know," he said finally, leaning a shoulder against your wall, "I'm starting to think you might be the smart one in this relationship."

You turned, brow quirked. "Only just starting?"

Jason laughed. It cracked something open in him. "You know what I mean."

"I do," you said, crossing to him. You had ink on your fingers. Pen behind your ear. Your shirt was inside out. Jason thought you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. "But I'm not in love with me. You are."

He blinked.

You kissed his cheek, then went back to your board, humming. As if you hadn't just sent his soul straight out of his body.

Jason spent that night learning about laminar flow.

Sometimes, you talked so fast you forgot to breathe. You’d get this wild look in your eyes, like the whole universe was cracking open and only you could see it.

Jason lived for that look.

You told him about CRISPR once, gesturing wildly with a fork in a shitty diner, eggs going cold.

"It’s gene editing," you said. "Like molecular scissors! You can cut DNA—literally edit life. Isn’t that insane?"

Jason chewed his toast. Nodded. Took a mental note to google "molecular scissors" the second you hit the bathroom.

He didn’t get it. Not really.

But he loved how your face lit up. Like discovering was your religion and you were halfway to ascension.

He wanted to believe in something like that.

The problem, of course, was that he kept falling harder.

It hit him slow at first—like rain soaking into the collar of your coat. He’d look up in the middle of a lecture she didn’t know she was giving and realize he hadn’t heard a word.

Because she was smiling. Because she was alive in that moment in a way that made the world blur.

And then one night it hit him all at once.

They were on his fire escape, watching the sky turn blue-black over Gotham. She had her legs pulled up to her chest, hoodie sleeves covering her hands, talking about something called CRISPR and how gene editing could eventually reverse certain degenerative conditions.

Jason lit a cigarette. Didn’t smoke it. Just let it sit in his hand.

“You ever wonder,” he said, “how you ended up where you are?”

She blinked. “All the time.”

“I used to think I was supposed to be something. Like... some big cosmic screw-up happened and I got turned into this.” He gestured vaguely. “A walking wreckage.”

“You’re not a wreck.”

Jason didn’t answer. Just watched her through the smoke.

“You read the books I send,” she whispered. “You ask questions. You try. That’s more than most.”

He looked away. “You make me want to try.”

She leaned into his shoulder, quiet.

That night he dreamed she was stardust and he was gravity. Always falling toward her.

Jason didn’t call it love. He didn’t know if he deserved to.

But he was the one who brought her soup when she got sick, even if he burned the rice.

He was the one who asked her to explain particle spin six times and still got it wrong.

He was the one who, during one of her meltdowns about failing a grant application, cupped her face and said, “You’re brilliant. If the world can’t see it, that’s not your fault.”

She cried into his shoulder for an hour.

One night, you fell asleep with your notes scattered across his bed. Jason gathered them carefully, reading snatches as he did.

"Theoretical modeling of fluid behavior in low-gravity environments..."

He smiled.

You’d joked once that you were building something for NASA. He wasn’t sure if you were actually joking.

He sat beside you, brushing hair from your forehead. You sighed in your sleep.

Jason Todd, child of Gotham's gutters, held your research like it was sacred.

He didn’t understand the math. But he understood what it meant to love something so fiercely you stayed up nights chasing it.

He understood what it meant to chase you.

It wasn’t easy.

You didn’t always get his silences. His scars. The way he sometimes drifted mid-conversation, haunted by a past he couldn’t shut up.

But you waited.

You asked.

You never made him feel like a puzzle to be solved. Just a story worth reading slowly.

One day he caught you reading War and Peace. Not for class. Not for work. Just... because.

"You know that’s, like, a thousand pages, right?"

"Only 1,225," you replied without looking up. "You should try it."

Jason chuckled. "You trying to turn me into a nerd, sweetheart?"

You looked at him then, all sharp eyes and soft affection. "You already are. You just don’t know it yet."

When you said "I love you," it was after explaining something about black holes.

Jason had no idea how you got from "gravitational collapse" to "I love you," but he wasn’t complaining.

He’d spent so long being angry. Being alone. Being something sharp and armored.

You cracked through it all with equations and post-it notes, with quiet mornings and whispered facts about tardigrades.

You made him laugh. Think. Google shit.

You made him feel.

He didn’t always understand what you said. He never fully grasped string theory.

But he learned her favorite coffee order, and the way she curled her toes when she was focused, and how to tell when her anxiety was starting to spiral.

He learned how to love her without needing to understand every atom.

Because she made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t a cosmic mistake after all.

He was just a man. With a girl. And a heart that beat a little faster every time she said, “Hey Jay, guess what I learned today?”

And that?

That he understood perfectly.

And that was enough.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd #jason todd x you #jason todd imagine #jason todd one shot #jason todd fanfiction #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood fluff #jason todd fluff #dc comics #dc comics x reader #dc comics x you

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dogwithbird · 1 month ago

Text

Dirty Work

When you need a bit of lovin' 'Cause your man is out of town That's the time you get me runnin' And you know I'll be around

Your husband should've known better than to leave you all alone in that big house with Joel Miller.

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

no outbreak contractor!Joel Miller x Reader

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word count: 4.1k

Warnings/Tags: no outbreak au, author rambles, infidelity, smut, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), joel miller is a man of few words and multiple orgasms

(this has been sitting in my drafts for over a year and i finally got the motivation to finish it, it's a bit of a re-imagination of the first fic I wrote because I <3 kitchen sex)

Read below or on AO3 ->

It was wrong. You were married. You’d said “I do.” In sickness and in health. ‘Til death and all of that. You had moved across the country for him; left your friends and family behind. You quit your job for him. You cooked for him. You cleaned for him. You were talking about trying for a baby, even. He loved you, and you loved him.

But your husband was gone on business trips increasingly frequently. You saw a smudge of red lipstick — not your shade — on the collar of his shirt when you did his laundry. He’d moved you to Texas, where you knew no one, and left you all alone in a big house that he insisted on making even bigger. Maybe he expected you to look elsewhere, too.

The house he bought had only been built a couple of years ago, the one that you’d described to your oldest friend as a temple to bland opulence. Naturally, your husband thought it needed to be updated. Expanded upon. A new detached garage and a complete kitchen renovation were good places to start, he supposed. He told you the kitchen renovation would be your “little project,” the garage his, and made sure to tell the contractors there was no budget before he set off for his second business trip that month.

Your husband showed affection by letting you spend as much money as you could and occasionally with increasingly passionless sex. The former was more satisfying, and so you told the contractors you wanted the most expensive Carrara marble countertops they could track down.

Miller Contracting came highly recommended to your husband by your new neighbor Mrs. Collins, who said they were a "pure joy to have around.” You understood why: the brothers were very handsome. The older one caught your eye especially. He introduced himself as Joel, wiping grime onto his pants before offering his hand and a preemptive apology for the mess. Sometimes you had a hard time pulling your gaze from his broad shoulders. A single curl at the nape of his neck would entrance you. More than once, you found yourself staring at the tool belt slung low around his hips—a hammer pushing the hem of his shirt up just enough to expose his tanned torso. He was completely oblivious to how hot and bothered his mere presence made you, which somehow made you want him even more. It wasn’t normal how many times a week you found yourself with your hand down your pants thinking of Joel. It couldn’t be normal that you fantasized it was Joel, not your husband, sleeping next to you on the rare occasion your husband was home.

You needed a distraction from temptation. You tried to make a life for yourself in Austin. Or, if not a life, at least keep yourself occupied and out of the house. Tennis and shopping and massages could only fill so much of the void. You busied yourself with various boards and societies and leagues at your husband’s request: it was a good way to make connections, he said, to make friends before you start having kids.

In the beginning, your interactions with Joel were brief and practical. Joel would ask about fixture placements or clarify blueprints the architect had drawn up, and you’d find yourself too focused on the veins in his forearms to respond right away. Once, when Tommy was running late, he asked you to hold a two-by-four steady while he cut it, and you stood shoulder to shoulder, the sharp scent of sawdust and his skin overwhelming your senses. You felt the vibration of the saw through the board and wondered what it would feel like to touch him, just for a moment. When he looked up, your eyes met for a fraction too long. Neither of you said anything.

Joel stayed late one evening, finishing the countertop installation long after Tommy had gone home for the day. You offered him a celebratory drink and he accepted to your surprise, leaning against the island with you. The silence between you stretched, not awkward but thick. When he set the glass of your husband’s whisky down, his fingers brushed yours. You didn’t move away. He looked at you for a long moment, then back at the glass.

“She’s gorgeous, Joel,” you murmured, drawing your fingers along the length of the new marble countertop. The slab was cold and smooth beneath your palm, a coolness at odds with the heat rising up the back of your neck. It was your favorite slab out of the four you’d vetted with Joel, the one you’d insisted upon even when he warned you about its endless tendency to stain, how every glass of red wine or ring of coffee would etch a memory into it forever. Still, you wanted it, and so, there it was: a swirl of creamy white, mottled and streaked, luminous under the new pendant lights. You slid your hand across the veiny surface all the way to the edge and back again.

The rest of the house felt hollow, half-lit by the lingering sunset, but here the air was thick and warm with spice and plaster dust and the faintest trace of sandalwood—Joel’s deodorant, you’d realized, after catching a whiff of it more than once on his discarded shop towels. The kitchen was only lit by a work lamp on the floor behind you, casting your shadows onto the new, bare wall in front of you.

Joel glanced up from his glass at you, a smirk spreading across his face, “mhm,” he nodded in agreement, “real beauty.”

You raised your glass, whisky trembling among an oversized ice cube, and with a gleeful bravado you declared, “To the most beautiful countertop this side of the Mississippi.” Joel suppressed an amused snort but dutifully picked up his own glass and held it toward yours. His hands were broad and nicked in places with old scars; the juxtaposition of a laborer’s calluses wrapped around a delicate tumbler made your pulse quicken. As the glasses met with a restrained clink, the sound sparked in the stillness like the strike of a match.

The whisky scorched a path down your throat, igniting a heat in your chest that had nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with the man sitting six inches from you. The discrepancy between the polite, measured conversation and the animal yearning in the air made you giddy, almost lightheaded. You felt like a teenager who’d never been kissed, pulse racing.

Joel’s voice startled you, the low register of it vibrating through your chest. “Is your husband gonna mind that I’m here this late?” he asked, and the words fell into the heavy air like an ice cube shattering on tile. You could tell he regretted them as soon as they were out—his jaw flexed, a faint flush blooming along his cheekbones. The question itself was so at odds with the moment you’d both let yourselves slip into. You’d half expected him to lean in, to close the last gap between your faces, but instead he’d summoned your husband back into the room.

You searched Joel’s face, trying to decide if he cared about the answer or was simply fishing for a reason to excuse himself before something happened. Maybe he was only being gentlemanly. Maybe it was a test, and you’d already failed by not mentioning your husband first. Maybe you’d misread the entire situation and made a fool out of yourself.

“Not like he’s here to know,” you said, and it came out much sharper than intended. You cringed in the next instant, hating the way the bitterness in your voice had hung a hard, ugly edge on the air. You hadn’t meant it as confession, or even as a complaint. You didn’t elaborate, didn’t ask Joel to consider the last time he’d seen him there, though you hoped he thought about it.

You tried to remember what rules governed these sorts of situations. Was fidelity measured in minutes, in miles, in the number of times your husband remembered to call you before bed? Was loyalty a question of what you did, or what you wanted to do? Every woman in your family had opinions on this—your sisters, your aunts, your own mother. You’d heard them compare marriages by the way their men failed them: the ones who drank, the ones who gambled, the ones who left red marks and bruises.

You understood that every marriage was an accumulation of secret grievances, some profound and some petty, most never spoken aloud. Your mother’s plight was familiar: the husband and father who spent all day in the garage with an AM radio and a case of Bud Light, the one who started out promising all the right things but, by their fifteenth anniversary, didn’t even pretend to believe in anniversaries at all. Your Aunt Lisa’s husband once spent the mortgage payment on poker. Aunt Carla’s husband crashed a car into a neighbor’s fence and blamed it on an allergy pill. And the women, for all their complaints, hung on. You watched as they grew used to disappointment and pain.

Your husband didn’t yell or drink or gamble. He wasn’t cruel, not really. Instead, he was just … gone. When he finally returned home from a trip, he was tired, and when he wasn’t tired, he was distracted. He bought you nice things and urged you to spend freely to fill the void. His unprovable infidelities seemed inconsequential comparatively.

You’d never allowed yourself to say it, certainly not to anyone who really knew you, and especially not to him. You told yourself it wasn’t so bad. You told yourself that you didn’t deserve to complain, not when other women had it so much worse. The truth was that you wanted to be seen, and touched, and loved, in a way that didn’t feel perfunctory or purely transactional.

You wondered: if you had children, would this be the version of marriage they’d inherit? Would your daughters one day sit in their own kitchens with their own friends and think back on their mother with sadness and a twinge of pity? Would your sons learn to vanish as a means of survival? Maybe this was just how it was, and always would be.

You did not tell Joel about your birthday last year, when your husband hadn’t called from New York: you celebrated by ordering takeout and eating it, cross-legged, on the living room carpet with the TV on mute in fear of missing the phone ring. You did not tell him about the feeling that had crept up on you that night: something like grief, but also like relief, as if you’d finally been granted permission to admit that you were completely alone. You did not tell him about the time you’d found your husband’s text messages to an assortment of women with unfamiliar names, or the way you’d convinced yourself it didn’t matter, since he’d never admit to it and you didn’t care to bring up. You didn’t tell him how you sometimes lay awake for hours, the ceiling fan spinning its blades like a roulette wheel and tried to imagine a version of your life where you didn’t have to wait for someone to finally come home to you.

The unspoken truth was this: you had already left your husband. You’d just never had a witness to it before.

Could Joel see all of this in your face? Was he quietly adding up your loneliness and cataloguing it alongside all the other minor tragedies he encountered on the job. Maybe he’d heard it all before. Maybe every house he worked in was just a different flavor of the same sadness. Bored housewife after bored housewife, looking for an outlet.

You didn’t owe Joel the whole story — couldn’t have given it if you tried — so instead you watched the way he took your answer, slow and considerate, his hands fitting around the glass as if he might squeeze it into something new.

You became hyper-aware of everything: how close you and Joel were standing, how neatly his boots aligned with your bare feet on the hardwood, how the light from the work lamp painted you both in muddled relief against the still-blank wall. He smelled faintly of sweat and something comfortable—laundry, warm skin. It made your stomach clench.

You reached for your glass again, but Joel gently took it from you and set it on the counter. He didn’t break eye contact. He didn’t lean in, not exactly, but his presence tilted towards you, shifting the gravity in the room. You saw the subtle tremor in his hand as he placed your drink down.

“Tell me to leave,” he whispered, as if he was afraid the house might overhear.

You didn’t.

Couldn’t.

You stared at each other through the silence, and out of the corner of your eye, you saw your distinct shadows cast on the wall by the work lamp become one.

His mouth was on yours before you had a chance to breathe. Hot, rough, desperate.

He broke the kiss only to lift you—strong hands gripping beneath your thighs, setting you on your new countertop like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your knees parted instinctively, heart thundering, pulse thrumming so loud it filled your ears.

His hands slipped under your dress. Callused fingers dragging up your thighs slowly, reverently, igniting sparks under your skin. And then he paused, his hand stalling along your wet slit.

His eyes met yours, dark and burning. And then he crouched down, nudging your legs over his shoulders as he dove between them.

You made a sound — breathy, shaky, resembling his name — but he was already there. Already sinking to his knees, already kissing up the soft, trembling inside of your thigh. His mouth was hot and open, each press of his lips reverent and greedy, his stubble rasping your skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake. When his teeth scraped gently, teasing, you flinched. You didn’t care if he left a mark. You wanted him to. Something to find in the mirror tomorrow, a secret bruise that would confirm that this was not just a dream.

The first swipe of his tongue through your folds made your hips jerk like you’d touched something electric, your spine bowing as your fingers slammed down onto the countertop behind you with a loud, ungraceful thud. A breath left you like a punch. “Fuck,” you gasped, eyes fluttering.

Your husband had never just… dove in like that. Never knelt between your legs like he couldn’t wait, like it was an instinct, like he’d die if he didn’t taste you. The few times he’d gone down on you had been cautious, transactional—bookended by negotiations and implied debts. You’d had to convince him. And afterward, you’d had to fake your moans so he’d think he was doing a good job. Bastard.

But Joel—he groaned like he meant it, like he’d been starving for this. That sound vibrated into you, low and raw, and then he latched onto your clit, sucking hard enough to make your vision blur. Your knees nearly buckled. You barely kept yourself upright with one hand gripping the counter, the other tangled in his hair, fisting it tight. He didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he leaned in harder, letting you use him for balance while his mouth ruined you.

You came fast. So fast it shocked you, ripped the breath from your lungs. One second you were gasping, the next you were gone, unraveling with a strangled cry. The orgasm crashed over you like a wave that didn’t wait for permission, hot and dizzying, legs trembling around his shoulders as your stomach seized and fluttered and let go. Your head tipped back against the cabinet behind you, jaw slack, fingers still clutching his hair.

When the white faded from your vision, Joel was still there, slow and deliberate now, licking you through the aftershocks, as if easing you back down. As if soothing the very nerves he’d just lit on fire.

You breathed out his name then and finally loosened your grip, letting your hand fall to his shoulder. Your legs were still shaking. You weren’t sure they’d hold you.

Somehow, you found the strength to lift them, one then the other, back down to the floor. It wasn’t graceful. You slid off the counter, your thighs sticky and weak, bracing yourself as your feet hit the ground. Joel looked up at you, lips wet, pupils blown wide.

Joel stood, chest heaving, face slick with you, eyes dark and dazed, and kissed you again. You tasted yourself on his tongue and the whole thing felt perverted and wrong — and you didn’t care.

He pulled back just enough to speak, a string of his spit clinging between you.

“You come like that for your husband, darlin’?”

You shook your head, breath still catching. God, you’d never come like that for anyone.

Joel’s lips curved, slow and smug, but there was something else in it too, something awed. Like he was proud of what he’d done to you. Like he wanted to do it again just to prove it wasn’t a fluke.

“Thought so,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your cheek, then dragging it down your jaw, tracing the edge of your lips. “You had that … look.”

Before you could interrogate him – what fucking look? – he kissed you again. You pulled him closer, feeling the hard press of him through his jeans.

He shifted against you, so slightly, but the friction made you gasp. You thought you couldn’t handle anymore but the weight and heat of him gave you a second wind. He kissed you deeper, his hands sliding up your sides, your dress somehow still on.

Your hand slid down to feel him, fingers fiddling with his belt in a poor attempt to get his pants off.

You wrapped your hand around him and felt his cock twitch in anticipation of your next movement. You stroked him once, maybe twice, your thumb teasing along the head, slick with precome.

“Shit,” Joel hissed, jaw tightening. His hips jerked forward into your fist.

But then he grabbed your wrist, fingers curling around it tight, pulling your hand away like he was barely holding on. “Don’t — fuck, darlin’, don’t.”

You looked up at him, breathless, eyes wide, scared you’d crossed a line.

“I’ll come in your fuckin’ hand if you keep that up,” he growled, voice thick with warning — raw, half-wrecked, smirk spreading across his face. “An’ I’m not done with you yet.”

You hopped back up on the counter in excited anticipation.

“Uh uh,” he tutted, pulling you off the counter.

You blinked, dazed. “What?”

Joel’s brow furrowed, mouth still red and wet from where he'd had you moments ago.

“The marble,” he said, nodding toward the countertop. “Ain’t fuckin’ you on it. You’re soaked, darlin’, and I warned you that a speck of dust could stain this thing.”

You almost laughed before he lifted you with one arm, the head of his cock still pressed against you, and shifted down to the floor in one practiced movement. He sat back against the kitchen island, legs spread, pulling you into his lap. You were both completely naked by now, clothes stripped at some point.

Joel’s cock slapped up against your belly and you reached for it, blindly greedy, wrapping your hand around the thickness, feeling the pulse of heat radiating upward into your palm. You glanced down at the length of it, envisioning how much it would fill you up. His skin was burning, lined with veins that throbbed under your touch; his whole body was wound tight, muscles bunched and trembling from holding back.

You tilted your hips up and guided the head to your entrance, stroking it through your slick, and then with a slow, deliberate motion, you pressed down. The stretch was immediate, stinging, and so, so good. You gasped and let your head fall back, the sudden fullness threatening to buckle your knees even though you were already straddling him on the kitchen floor. Joel gripped your hips in both rough hands and held you steady, but didn’t force you. He let you take him at your own pace, patient but obviously desperate, his teeth bared against a groan as you settled into his lap.

“Fuck. Yeah. That’s it, sweetheart,” he growled, voice low and tight, watching you through narrowed, dark eyes. “Sit right there on my cock.” It sounded like an offering.

You rocked your hips, tentative at first, and the movement made both of you moan at the same time. You braced yourself backwards on Joel’s legs until he leaned forward, hands still bracketing your waist, catching one of your breasts in his mouth and circling your nipple with his tongue.

You shifted your hands to his shoulders, gripping tight, using the strength of his body to steady yourself. Then you lifted and dropped your hips, finding your rhythm as heat coiled deep in your belly.

Joel groaned against your breast, then lifted his head, mouth dragging open and wet along your jaw, up to your ear. His hands left your hips to tangle in your hair, guiding your mouth to his, breath mingling, sweat slick between you.

“This what you need?” he rasped, voice muffled against your jaw.

You could only nod, words lost to the pleasure, your body answering for you as you rolled your hips again and again, chasing the edge he kept dragging you toward.

You kept riding him, slower now but deeper, each thrust sending sparks up your spine. The kitchen floor had vanished beneath you: there was only the heat, the slide, the stretch of him filling you again and again.

But your thighs were shaking harder now, the burn setting in - weak and quivering with every lift of your hips. Your rhythm faltered, a soft whimper slipping from your mouth as your legs began to give out beneath you.

Joel felt you tremble.

“I’ve got ya,” he growled, and suddenly his grip on your waist turned commanding, solid.

Before you could even brace yourself, he thrust up into you — hard, deep, relentless.

You cried out, the air knocked from your lungs, and clung to his shoulders as he took over.

His hands guided you, slamming you down onto his cock as he drove up to meet you. The new angle hit something inside you. Your moans turned ragged, your fingers clawing into flesh.

“Fuck, Joel –” you gasped.

“Yeah?” he grunted, fucking up into you harder now, his breath hot and broken against your neck. “Needed this, didn’t’ya darlin’?”

You nodded wildly, terrified he might stop. Your body was coming apart, unraveling under him. The slap of your bodies echoed off the tile and cabinets, the slick, desperate rhythm of it building and building and building.

He was unrelenting now, chasing the edge with single-minded focus, sweat slicking his skin, his thigh muscles tensing beneath you with every upward drive. You clung to him, helpless against the force of it, your mouth parted in a soundless cry as your orgasm crested fast and vicious.

It slammed into you like a wave breaking against rock. You jerked in his lap, spine arching, every muscle seizing. Part of you tried to escape, the stimulation too much, but Joel held you tight in his arms. A strangled sob left your throat as your vision whited out. You clenched down around him, and Joel groaned.

“Jesus—fuck—” he hissed through gritted teeth, his hands bruising your hips now, holding you down as he drove up once, twice more before burying himself to the hilt with a growl and spilling into you.

Neither of you moved, your forehead pressed against the sweat-dampened skin of his neck.

“You alright?” he asked, voice rough and low against your hair.

You could barely hear, heartbeat pounding in your eardrums as the room finally stopped spinning. You gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. Joel shifted, lifting a hand to cup the back of your head.

“Didn’t mean to take over like that,” he murmured, suddenly bashful. “You just — uh, you started fallin’ apart on me.”

You exhaled a shaky breath. A beat passed, then another, before you managed a weak, breathless laugh—hoarse and low.

“You think I’m complaining?”

His chest rumbled beneath you with a muted chuckle, but he didn’t let you go. Didn’t pull out. Didn’t move except to hold you tighter, like letting go might undo the whole moment.

And maybe it would.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #joel miller smut #joel miller #tlou fanfiction #tlou hbo #joel tlou #pedro pascal #also I know nothing about contracting/construction sorry!

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heritageposts · 1 year ago

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What does life in North Korea look like outside of Pyongyang? 🇰🇵

Hey, I'm back again with a very scary "tankie" post that asks you to think of North Koreans as people, and to consider their country not as a cartoonish dystopia, but as a nation that, like any other place on earth, has culture, traditions, and history.

Below is a collection of pictures from various cities and places in North Korea, along with a brief dive into some of the historical events that informs life in the so-called "hermit kingdom."

Warning: very long post

Kaesong, the historic city

Beginning this post with Kaesong, one of the oldest cities in Korea. It's also one of the few major cities in the DPRK (i.e. "North Korea") that was not completely destroyed during the Korean war.

Every single city you'll see from this point on were victims of intense aerial bombardments from the U.S. and its allies, and had to be either partially or completely rebuilt after the war.

From 1951 to 1953, during what has now become known as the "forgotten war" in the West, the U.S. dropped 635,000 tons of bombs over Korea — most of it in the North, and on civilian population centers. An additional 32,000 tons of napalm was also deployed, engulfing whole cities in fire and inflicting people with horrific burns:

For such a simple thing to make, napalm had horrific human consequences. A bit of liquid fire, a sort of jellied gasoline, napalm clung to human skin on contact and melted off the flesh. Witnesses to napalm's impact described eyelids so burned they could not be shut and flesh that looked like "swollen, raw meat." - PBS

Ever wondered why North Koreans seem to hate the U.S so much? Well...

Keep in mind that only a few years prior to this, the U.S. had, as the first and only country in the world, used the atomic bomb as a weapon of war. Consider, too, the proximity between Japan and Korea — both geographically and as an "Other" in the Western imagination.

As the war dragged on, and it became clear the U.S. and its allies would not "win" in any conventional sense, the fear that the U.S. would resort to nuclear weapons again loomed large, adding another frightening dimension to the war that can probably go a long way in explaining the DPRK's later obsession with acquiring their own nuclear bomb.

But even without the use of nuclear weapons, the indiscriminate attack on civilians, particularly from U.S. saturation bombings, was still horrific:

"The number of Korean dead, injured or missing by war’s end approached three million, ten percent of the overall population. The majority of those killed were in the North, which had half of the population of the South; although the DPRK does not have official figures, possibly twelve to fifteen percent of the population was killed in the war, a figure close to or surpassing the proportion of Soviet citizens killed in World War II" - Charles K. Armstrong

On top of the loss of life, there's also the material damage. By the end of the war, the U.S. Air Force had, by its own estimations, destroyed somewhere around 85% of all buildings in the DPRK, leaving most cities in complete ruin. There are even stories of U.S. bombers dropping their loads into the ocean because they couldn't find any visible targets to bomb.

What you'll see below of Kaesong, then, provides both a rare glimpse of what life in North Korea looked like before the war, and a reminder of what was destroyed.

Kaesong's main street, pictured below.

Due the stifling sanctions imposed on the DPRK—which has, in various forms and intensities, been in effect since the 1950s—car ownership is still low throughout the country, with most people getting around either by walking or biking, or by bus or train for longer distances.

Kaesong, which is regarded as an educational center, is also notable for its many Koryŏ-era monuments. A group of twelve such sites were granted UNESCO world heritage status in 2013.

Included is the Hyonjongnung Royal Tomb, a 14th-century mausoleum located just outside the city of Kaesong.

One of the statues guarding the tomb.

Before moving on the other cities, I also wanted to showcase one more of the DPRK's historical sites: Pohyonsa, a thousand-year-old Buddhist temple complex located in the Myohyang Mountains.

Like many of DPRK's historic sites, the temple complex suffered extensive damage during the Korean war, with the U.S. led bombings destroying over half of its 24 pre-war buildings.

The complex has since been restored and is in use today both as a residence for Buddhist monks, and as a historic site open to visitors.

Hamhung, the second largest city in the DPRK.

A coastal city located in the South Hamgyŏng Province. It has long served as a major industrial hub in the DPRK, and has one of the largest and busiest ports in the country.

Hamhung, like most of the coastal cities in the DPRK, was hit particularly hard during the war. Through relentless aerial bombardments, the US and its allies destroyed somewhere around 80-90% percent of all buildings, roads, and other infrastructure in the city.

Now, more than seventy years later, unexploded bombs, mortars and pieces of live ammunition are still being unearthed by the thousands in the area. As recently as 2016, one of North Korea's bomb squads—there's one in every province, faced with the same cleanup task—retrieved 370 unexploded mortar rounds... from an elementary school playground.

Experts in the DPRK estimate it will probably take over a hundred years to clean up all the unexploded ordnance—and that's just in and around Hamhung.

Hamhung's fertilizer plant, the biggest in North Korea.

When the war broke out, Hamhung was home to the largest nitrogen fertilizer plant in Asia. Since its product could be used in the creation of explosives, the existence of the plant is considered to have made Hamhung a target for U.S. aggression (though it's worth repeating that the U.S. carried out saturation bombings of most population centers in the country, irrespective of any so-called 'military value').

The plant was immediately rebuilt after the war, and—beyond its practical use—serves now as a monument of resistance to U.S. imperialism, and as a functional and symbolic site of self-reliance.

Chongjin, the third largest city in the DPRK.

Another coastal city and industrial hub. It underwent a massive development prior to the Korean war, housing around 300,000 people by the time the war broke out.

By 1953, the U.S. had destroyed most of Chongjin's industry, bombed its harbors, and killed one third of the population.

Wonsan, a rebuilt seaside city.

The city of Wonsan is a vital link between the DPRK's east and west coasts, and acts today as both a popular holiday destination for North Koreans, and as a central location for the country's growing tourism industry.

Considered a strategically important location during the war, Wonsan is notable for having endured one of the longest naval blockades in modern history, lasting a total of 861 days.

By the end of the war, the U.S. estimated that they had destroyed around 80% of the city.

Masikryong Ski Resort, located close to Wonsan. It opened to the public in 2014 and is the first, I believe, that was built with foreign tourists in mind.

Sariwon, another rebuilt city

One of the worst hit cities during the Korean War, with an estimated destruction level of 95%.

I've written about its Wikipedia page here before, which used to mockingly describe its 'folk customs street'—a project built to preserve old Korean traditions and customs—as an "inaccurate romanticized recreation of an ancient Korean street."

No mention, of course, of the destruction caused by the US-led aerial bombings, or any historical context at all that could possibly even hint at why the preservation of old traditions might be particularly important for the city.

Life outside of the towns and cities

In the rural parts of the DPRK, life primarily revolves around agriculture. As the sanctions they're under make it difficult to acquire fuel, farming in the DPRK relies heavily on manual labour, which again, to avoid food shortages, requires that a large portion of the labour force resides in the countryside.

Unlike what many may think, the reliance on manual labour in farming is a relatively "new" development. Up until the crisis of the 1990s, the DPRK was a highly industrialized nation, with a modernized agricultural system and a high urbanization rate. But, as the access to cheap fuel from the USSR and China disappeared, and the sanctions placed upon them by Western nations heavily restricted their ability to import fuel from other sources, having a fuel-dependent agricultural industry became a recipe for disaster, and required an immediate and brutal restructuring.

For a more detailed breakdown of what lead to the crisis in the 90s, and how it reshaped the DPRKs approach to agriculture, check out this article by Zhun Xu.

Some typical newly built rural housing, surrounded by farmland.

Tumblr only allows 20 pictures per post, but if you want to see more pictures of life outside Pyongyang, check out this imgur album.

#dprk #north korea #i've had this post unfinished in drafts for almost a year #also sorry about the spelling and potential formatting issues it's a nightmare to edit at this point #it was literally just meant to be a collection of picture and then the writing just sort of happened #enjoy the brief heritageposts history lesson i guess

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pathologicalreid · 9 months ago

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here with me | s.r.

four times Spencer feels out of place in your house after being released from prison, and one time it's like he never left

margotober masterlist

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: mom!reader, dad!spencer, post prison, crying, stephen walker's death, non-specified illness, baking, kissing word count: 3.58k a/n: i love this fic format i have been wanting to do it for ages. and here we are. as always-tell me how you feeeeeeeel

“I wanna stay home,” your daughter whined from her place at the kitchen table. She periodically reached to her sister’s high chair so that she could steal blueberries from her plate.

You hummed, pouring the egg mixture into the preheated skillet, “We played hooky yesterday, bub. We’ve gotta go back to school today.” Using a silicone spatula, you started to scramble the eggs.

She grumbled unintelligibly, dramatically sliding down the chair, “Livvy gets to stay home.”

Turning down the heat on the stove, you went around the counter and crouched in front of your five-year-old, “Well, Livvy’s two, and before you ask, Finn’s not going to school either.”

“Finn’s a baby, mom. He can’t go to school,” she told you proudly.

You frowned at your daughter, “It’s hard to be the oldest, honey. We can’t keep staying home.” Ruffling her hair affectionately, you get up from the floor and go back to the stove, you continue scrambling the eggs.

To your eldest, going back to kindergarten was a fate worse than death. It wasn’t strictly that she didn’t want to go to school, it was that she didn’t want to leave home. The sniffle from the table lets you know that this morning was going to be harder than you initially anticipated. “I wanna stay with daddy,” she cried, kicking her legs at the table.

Turning off the heat, you set the pan on a trivet before going back to the table, “I know,” you responded. Every time you thought you had run out of tears, new ones managed to find their way out.

Of your three kids, Eleanor was old enough to really feel Spencer’s absence. To your dismay, she ended up bearing some of the burden of her father being gone for three months. After staying with your parents for a few days, she was finally reunited with her dad yesterday morning, and they had been nearly inseparable since.

“Oh, Nell,” you sighed, cupping her cheeks in your hands, “I don’t know if daddy has plans today. He has a lot of stuff that needs to be done.

Pulling away from your touch, she frantically wiped the tears from her eyes, “I can do stuff too,” she whimpered.

She unwound your resolve like a ball of yarn, “I know you can, honey. I just…” you faltered. You had let her miss so much school over the last three months that the school had sent letters home, “We’ll just have to see.”

You sighed helplessly, standing back up and smiling softly at Olivia, who had successfully gotten blueberry juice everywhere. Returning to the kitchen, you put some scrambled eggs on Eleanor’s plate and put more in a bowl for Olivia, setting it aside to cool more before you give it to your toddler.

Putting the pan in the sink, you flipped on the tap before starting to clean it. While you kept a watchful eye on the baby monitor, you didn’t notice Spencer come downstairs and walk into the kitchen. In fact, you were completely unaware of his presence until he spoke, “Can I help with anything?”

You lost your grip on the pan, sending soapy water flying all over the kitchen as you frantically tried to catch the handle. Eleanor either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Olivia thought it was hilarious. “Oh,” you breathed as Spencer reached over and turned off the water, “You scared me.”

The two of you shared a timid glance, his hand ghosting over your waist as he walked past you to where the girls were sitting.

Biting the dead skin off of your lips, you finished rinsing the pan before setting it on a drying mat. You were wiping down the countertop when Finn finally woke up, and you dropped everything to go get him from his crib, almost like you were running on autopilot.

Unzip the sleep sack. Change the diaper. Get dressed. Cuddle him. Every morning. In that order.

Resting the groggy baby on your hip, you made your way back downstairs and into the kitchen, starting the bottle warmer and listening to the conversation between Spencer and Nellie.

“What if you go to school today, but on Friday we can both take the day off? We could go out for lunch,” he offered, crouching down so he was at her level.

She looked pointedly over at Olivia, who was happily eating the eggs that you assumed Spencer had given her, now thoroughly doused in ketchup, “Just us?”

Spencer nodded reassuringly, “If it’s okay with mommy, we can have a daddy and Nellie day.” He reached out tentatively and tucked some of her hair behind her ear, everything about him seemed so timid.

You looped around the kitchen table, ruffling Olivia’s hair before doing the same to Eleanor’s and even Spencer’s, which made Olivia giggle.

“Can I?” Spencer asked, nodding his head to the bottle that you had just grabbed from the warmer.

Blinking absently for a moment, you eventually nodded, handing Finn over to his dad along with the bottle, watching as Spencer cradled him, walking him around the kitchen while his bottle was clamped between his tiny hands. “Hey, girls, time to get dressed,” you said, forcing yourself to peel your eyes off of your husband.

Eleanor groaned but got up anyway, trudging up the steps while you followed with Olivia in your arms, feeling like you were missing something without Finn also in tow.

Nell made her way back down first, sitting on the couch and watching her dad, keeping an eye on him like she was afraid he was going to disappear before her very eyes. “Daddy?” She whispered, her voice barely audible from your place at the top of the stairs.

“Yeah?” He asked, you heard the sound of him setting the bottle in the sink.

She’s quiet for a moment before responding, “I missed you.”

Spencer’s footsteps stopped abruptly, “I missed you too, lovebug.”

You started to make your way down the stairs, letting Olivia go down on her own now that she wasn’t covered in blueberry. Eleanor looked at you with big eyes before helping her sister climb up on the couch. “Finny, Finny, Finny,” Olivia echoed.

Zipping up Eleanor’s school lunch in her bag, you sighed, hoping you were doing the right thing by sending her to school. “Hey, Nell,” you said, checking a new message on your phone, “Mrs. Jareau is here.”

JJ’s carpools had saved you multiple times while Spencer was in prison, you were just grateful she was willing to continue them.

Normally, she’d run out the door at the prospect of being able to talk to Henry, but this time she lingered by the front door, holding her backpack straps in her hands and staring at her dad, “Will you be here when I get home?”

He looked at you, a thousand emotions flashing in his brown eyes, and he squatted in front of her, “I’ll be here,” he said, holding out his pinky finger to interlock with her much smaller one. “I promise,” he said, kissing her forehead before standing up.

Once you knew she was off to school, you made sure Olivia was settled in on the couch and Finn was in his bouncer before going back to the kitchen to finish cleaning up. You were placing dishes in the dishwasher when Spencer came back.

“I’m sorry,” he said, leaning against the countertop and handing you a bowl to put on the top rack.

Taking the bowl, you didn’t look at him as you placed it in the dishwasher before putting a tablet in and pressing the start button, “I wish you’d stop apologizing.”

He stepped slightly closer to you, “I know. It’s just… watching you handle all three of them in the morning. It’s incredible,” he praised you. “I left you alone,” he said mournfully.

You shrugged, having never really thought of it that way, “You didn’t leave me alone. I had them,” you said, nodding in the direction of the living room, where Finn and Olivia were having a conversation that only the two of them could understand.

You sighed in relief as the shower water washed over you, an early afternoon shower just before Eleanor got home from school, the little ones were down for their naps, and you had to race against time before one of them woke up. It didn’t give you a lot of time to just sit under the running water, but you’d have enough time to wash your hair before you needed to pause the shower.

You had narrowly avoided disaster this morning when the girls’ breakfasts had been mixed up. Thankfully, you navigated a toddler meltdown that was triggered by the appearance of ham in her eggs. Poor Spencer was still confused even after you explained to him that she wouldn’t eat ham because it’s pink and pink is her favorite color.

It wasn’t something that made a lot of sense to you either, but the only person that it needed to make sense to was your two-year-old.

Rinsing your hair, you remembered how happy Spencer had been when he got Finn down last night. He’d spent the day talking about how babies don’t start to really recognize faces until they’re around four months old, and that was about how old he was when Spencer left.

Finn knew his dad. He’d even started reaching out for him when he wanted to be held but feeling comfortable enough to be put down for the night by him—it felt like a milestone.

The crying started right after you finished rinsing your hair, you quickly shut off the water and grabbed your towel off of the hook. Wrapping it around yourself, you dried off your feet before opening the bathroom. Sometimes when Finn cried while you were in the shower, you’d just bring him in with you to finish, but when you opened the door, his tears were already waning.

Spencer had gotten to him first, scooping him out of the crib in your room and holding him to his chest, “Hey, buddy,” he cooed softly, “What’s wrong?”

The baby chattered in response, gripping the cotton of Spencer’s t-shirt in his tiny fists and wiping his tears away.

“You’re alright,” Spencer whispered, placing him on your bed to undo his sleep sack, smiling at his son when he kicked his legs once freed. “You just wanted to be held, huh? Your sister was the same way when she was a baby,” he said.

Nell. He was remembering Nell as a baby, who slept best when she was being held and would cry if you were out of her line of sight.

Spencer turned around, stopping in his tracks when he saw you in the doorway, “Did you finish?”

You’d been caught, “Oh. Could you get a new soap from the hall closet? We’re out,” you fibbed, mindful of the way your hair was still dripping wet.

He frowned, “I just put a new one in this morning. Did you look on the caddy?”

Blinking, you shook your head, “No, my bad.”

You had already started closing the door when he called for you, “Honey?”

Pausing, you peeked out the door to look at him, “Yeah?”

“I’m here,” he told you, something urgent in his tone.

Your face warmed, the reminder of his presence making your heart race, “I—” you faltered, “I know.”

You had managed to get Nell out the door without a fight this morning with the promise of her father-daughter date tomorrow. Olivia was settled with her toys in your line of sight and Finn was in a sling. The baby hadn’t slept well last night, and you were fairly certain that he had a new tooth poking through. He seemed fine now, catching up on sleep while you wiped down the kitchen.

Spencer was across from you, filling out some required papers for his reinstatement hearing. He hadn’t fully committed to seeking reinstatement until you brought it up. Frankly, you were horrified by the fact that Spencer was under the impression that you would ask him to leave the BAU for any reason.

“What do you have planned today?” Spencer asked you, still focusing on the papers while making gentle conversation with you.

You raised your eyebrows briefly, “Really awesome exciting stuff.” You took a sip of your coffee before adjusting Finn’s sling. Very slowly, you were beginning to find a new routine with Spencer and the kids in the morning. Spencer was learning about everything that had changed, and you were learning how to give him more responsibilities around the house.

You needed to let go of the notion that you were still alone. Spencer hummed in response, laughing at your blatant oversell, “Like what?”

Smiling, you dried your hands on a tea towel before standing next to him, distracting him from his paperwork with the cuteness of a sleeping baby. “There is so much dirty laundry in this house,” you told him, “I’m surprised anyone has any clean clothes.”

“Anything else?” Spencer asked, placing one hand gently on your hip and pressing a tentative kiss to your lips.

You hesitated, “Uh, cooking?”

He looked at you curiously, “Cooking for what?”

Chewing on the inside of your lip, you looked over at Olivia, making sure she was preoccupied before answering, “Monica and the kids.”

Realization dawned over Spencer’s face, “Oh,” he breathed. It didn’t surprise you that Spencer had conflicting feelings about Stephen’s death, given that he hadn’t known him that well prior to his arrest, but he and his family had grown close to you in your husband’s absence.

You nodded, “There’s a meal train thing going on for them, so I was going to make some stuff and drop it there later.” Tentatively, you smoothed Spencer’s hair back, needing something to do with your hands, “Maya used to babysit a lot when I needed extra hands. I just want to feel like I’m returning the favor.”

“Can I come with you?” Spencer asked, tilting his head back to look up at you.

Smiling softly at him, you answered, “Of course.” You sniffled, “If we time it right, we could pick Nell up from school at the end of the day.”

He squeezed your hip comfortingly, “I love you.”

You leaned down and kissed him again, “I love you too.”

The chattering woke you up, Finn in his crib talking to himself as you glared at the alarm clock. It was just past three in the morning, and the second thing you noticed was that you were alone in your bed.

You sat up in a panic, worried you had dreamt the past few weeks until your eyes found Spencer’s watch sitting on his nightstand. Rubbing your eyes, you dragged yourself out of bed before getting Finn from his crib, taking his sleep sack off to make him easier to hold, “Hey,” you whispered, “Let’s go find daddy.”

It didn’t take you long, Spencer was sitting on the floor in the hallway, his knees bent to his chest as he looked into Nell’s room, her space nightlight providing a soft glow into the hallway.

“If you move to the left about a foot, you can see both of them at the same time,” you informed him.

He listened, shifting over so that he could see Eleanor and Olivia at the same time, both of them sleeping peacefully in their beds. Spencer looked up at you, “Why do you know that?”

You slid down the wall, taking a seat next to him and settling Finn lengthwise along your thighs, “At the beginning of March, Nell brought home a virus from school and gave it to Liv, and then one of them gave it to Finn. So, I’d sit out here in the hallway and watch the girls with Finny in my lap,” you told him, leaning your head on his shoulder. “Just so I’d be nearby if any of them needed anything,” you kept your voice at a whisper, rocking your legs in hopes that it would soothe Finn back to sleep.

Spencer didn’t respond for a moment, thinking through what you had said before finally speaking up, “No one told me they’d been sick.”

Humming, you smoothed the baby’s hair back, keeping it out of his face, “I didn’t tell anyone.” To this day, no one else knew that you had juggled three sick kids at once, “I lied to JJ and told her that I was keeping Nell home for a few days, and she didn’t push for more information.” No one had pushed you for anything in the past three months.

“Why didn’t you ask for help?” Spencer asked, leaning his head on yours and resting a hand on your knee.

You didn’t want to, quite honestly. You hadn’t wanted to have to call your mom or anyone from the BAU when you needed help because it felt like an admission of sorts. Admitting that Spencer was gone long-term and that you were a solo parent. “I don’t know,” you lied, “I felt like I had something to prove to the world.”

Spencer swallowed thickly next to you, “Did it work?”

Shaking your head, you sighed a breath of relief at his presence, “No.”

He was quiet for a while, likely wallowing in a pit of guilt that he had been constructing for weeks, “We should get him back to bed.”

“Spence?” You whispered, closing your eyes and listening to the sounds of your quiet house, “Can we just stay like this for a little while?”

Humming a confirmation, Spencer placed a gentle kiss on the crown of your head, leaving his hand resting on your knee while the two of you remained in the hallway, enjoying each other’s company.

“We should’ve done cupcakes,” you said mournfully, turning on the oven light to see that there was something very off about the cake you’d put in the oven.

Spencer hummed, looking at the recipe again to see if there was something you had missed, “Why didn’t we do cupcakes?”

You huffed, “The Pinterest photo I found was of a cake.” It was a perfect cake, complete with a purple graduation cap made out of fondant that you could put on the top. The only problem was you had severely overestimated your baking abilities.

“So,” Spencer started, “It’s your fault.”

Scoffing, you tapped his chest with a silicone spatula, “It’s the fault of whoever posted the original photo!”

Spencer smiled at you, a dopey look in his eyes despite it being one in the morning. “We should’ve asked Penelope to do the cake,” he told you, flipping over the recipe you had printed out.

“We can make a cake,” you retorted, you were throwing a very small party for Nell’s last day of kindergarten—the first time you’ve invited a group over since Spencer was arrested. “You have three PhDs and you don’t think you can bake a cake?”

He raised his eyebrows at you, “This might come as a surprise to you, but none of my coursework ever involved baking.”

You grinned at him, “That does surprise me, it’s basically chemistry,” you challenged.

Spencer rolled his eyes, “Okay, come here,” he said, pulling you into his arms by the fabric of your t-shirt.

Realization fell over you as you scrambled to get away, “No! You’re gonna put frosting on my nose again.” It would be his second offense of the evening.

He followed you into the living room where you tripped over a toy truck, causing you to fall to the ground. When he offered a hand to help you up, you tugged him to the floor, causing one of the balloons that you had previously blown up to pop.

You covered your mouth to muffle your giggles, waiting to see if the noise had woken any of the kids up.

The kids were all so happy to have Spencer back, but your stomach twisted at the realization that this was the first night you’d really felt like you had Spencer back. You loved the kids, but you haven’t had a moment without them since February.

“Hey,” you said to Spencer, rolling over and flinging a balloon at him for good measure.

Carefully, you rested your chin on his chest, staring at him while he tried to calm his own laughter, “Hi,” he said back, ruffling your hair affectionately.

You took a deep breath before speaking up again, “I missed you.”

You hadn’t said it yet. You’d developed some misconstrued fear of making him feel guilty if you’d told him just how much you missed him, but it was the truth. You missed him. He smiled softly down at you, almost as if he had been waiting for you to say the words. “I missed you too,” he whispered.

Slowly, you lifted yourself up and pressed your lips to his, kissing him. It was more than any of the quick pecks you’d shared in the last few weeks, it was real. His hands dug into your waist as if he was afraid you were going to disappear, but you stayed there. You stayed with him, and you always would.

Up until the timer for the cake went off, your phone buzzing in your pocket when you finally pulled away. Breathing heavily, Spencer asked, “Is it too late to ask Penelope to do the cake?”

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