#second string melody

[finnlovesmangos]

Don't worry, I will post Their lore later, but rn have some puppet yuri

[screampied]

✧ ⁺˳ cw. fem! reader, rockstar geto, fıngering, dirty talk, p slapping, squırting, petnames, mdni.

rockstar geto who’s always been good at his hands. his fingers, he loves more than anything to use your pussy before a show to “lessen” his finger cramps from strumming his guitar strings.

“i think i like this melody better, baby,” he’d whisper against the soft shell of your ear — split white knuckles buried deep into your cunt. as you’re sat on top of his lap, your legs tremor as they’re continuously rubbing off against his leather pulled down jeans. “i know, i know,” he utters to you, delving in the fat tips of his digits in and out. within seconds, your coating the entirety of his fingers with his slick. as your head continuously thwacks back against his broad chest, you shudder once he smacks your sopping drooling cunt thrice. “mhm, atta girl. bare ‘round my fingers, that’s it.”

the deafening rock music in the background roar from the blaring speakers — his bandmates were rehearsing last minute whilst their lead guitarist was occupying his time doing this. “s- suguru,” you suck in a heaving breathe, feeling an electric twitch inside your cunt arise. geto had various rings that wrapped around his fingers, plunging in and out of your slippery arousal. every few seconds, you heard his low chuckle, strong designer cologne scent wafting against your flared slit nostrils. “gonna cum, sugu— suguru, fuuuck.”

“not yet,” he presses his lips against the inside of your neck, bringing another rude spank toward your sloppy folds. his palm dampens from each hit. “we didn’t even each the chorus yet,” and you gasp, feeling the jitter of your thighs once his fingertips prod against that spot over ‘n over. “c’mon, pretty. lets hear those sloppy vocals, huh?”

your entire body felt feverishly warm. as you were on his lap, back bristling against his leather zipped jacket, you dig your nails into his meaty thigh.

already, you were slumped, vigorously pawing at his grainy made jeans. geto’s fingers were long, slender, and abnormally thick. deliciously thick, he’s stretched your cunt out so good that it’s got you drooling for more inches. his fingers were perfect, and with every finger that stuffs into your gummy walls, you only imagined what his cock would feel like.

geto’s fingers were the perfect length for strumming a guitar, an even more perfect length to be burying each digit straight into your pussy.

“fuck,” he swears against your ear, teasingly flicking his tongue against your collarbone. as you squirmed on his lap, his two fingers curl into a bowling ball grip. you whimper, your moans sounded so sweet that he contemplated using them as adlibs for a new single. “that’s it, baby. soak my fingers, don’t be shy ‘ta be my messy girl.”

as your body ruts against his lap, the bedazzled lanyard that was thrown over your neck jostles against your shoulders. your pooling heat that steadily flutters into the bottom pits of your stomach only grew, intensifying within each second.

you were seeing splotches of bright white, everything felt like a fever dream. as your clenched jaw dangles open, you wrap weak fingers around his jerking wrist. “s- sugu, ‘m gonna,” and you get caught off by a cute mewl, glossed lips parting into a gasping circular shape. the squelches of your own pussy bounces off your ears.

plop after plop,

your mouth starts to water, envisioning yourself making a mess on the suguru geto’s fingers.

he found your frantic squirming adorable, the way your thighs shook and how your vocals were so naturally pitched. with a voice that sweet, you’d have such potential. “give it to me,” he grunts, feeling a poking pressure brew against his crotch. dark, blown irises gaze toward his lap and he’s getting hard. your ears rang, a shrilling sound going out one ear and the other. two fingers swirl around your cunt, profusely jackhammering against your g-spot until you let off cute pathetic sobs. “c’monn, let’s hear that slutty outro.”

with your brows contorting together, you only last for a few more seconds until you feel a sudden sensation gush straight out of you. a rippling wave sends you on a high — you could barely say anything but moan out the five syllables of his name in a lewd, needy way. over and over until its twisting on your tongue in constant repeat, your own personal orgasmic chant. you’re a puddled mess, left with your jaw dropped and eyes squeezed shut. brief tears stick against your lashes in pleasure as you feel your hips bucking against his lap.

“s- sugu— fuck,” you babble, feeling the intense curl of your toes. gnawing down on the skin that glues to your lip, you coat both of his fingers with a decent amount of your translucent slick. you’re in a euphoric daze — huffing out short breaths as he takes one good swab of his digits inside of your pussy, snickering behind you.

“did you just squirt on me, pretty?” and you were so dumb off his fingers you could barely register anything he said. his words were a sly whisper, he gradually pulls his digits out before slowly spreading them apart. as his black rings were all sheeny with arousal, he holds his hand up right in front of your face before waving it by your nose. “yeahh you fuckin’ did, guess you really are a messy girl, huh?”

you were completely too stunned to speak — you glance at his fingers with droopy eyes, feeling a cold breeze of air ghost against your cunt as your legs sprawled open even still. “s- suguru,” your full lungs could barely keep up with your irregular pants.

it was chaotic, your thighs continued to shake as your jaw tightens on its own. you could barely even murmur out any words and that’s when geto drags his fingers toward his own lips — popping them right into his mouth, savoring your sweet candied taste.

“mhm,” he lolls his tongue around the stringy honeyed slick that coats all down his twin digits. you’re still panting, hearing him sloppily suck his fingers clean before he uses a free hand to reach down between your legs - tugging on the lacey fabric of your panties. “good girl, ‘s so sweet. open ‘n taste it yourself, princess.”

with hooded half lidded eyes, you moan, parting your lips apart—pink twitching tongue curling around his incoming fingers. as you shamelessly lap your own mess on his digits clean, he gives the back of your head a kiss. “thaaaat’s it, clean my fingers for me.”

after you finish, geto couldn’t resist but have you lean over his keyboard stand. giving the left side of your ass cheek an autograph, he signs his stage name in bold cursive letters.

as you’re bent over, you puff out a single breath, the twisting of the strong scented marker tickling against your bare flesh. “heh, i hope you enjoy the show tonight,” and as the cap of the marker’s sticking out of his mouth, he gives your ass an abrupt smack.

geto hums at the little whiny squeal that rips out of your throat, witnessing the letters smear a bit from your ass and leaking onto his palm. with a sly smile, he pulls the center string of your underwear back toward its original position, spinning you around to place a vip pass inside of your bra.

the rockstar’s sexily slouched — manspread on a velvet red seat, the fur of the chair providing him luxurious comfort. with his head lazily cocked to the left, unkempt black strands flowing down his shoulders, a simple wolf cut, he simpers. “come ‘n see me after, baby, yeah?”

[fallenbratfiction]

mrs. miller ~ husband! joel miller x f!reader

A/N: I choked back a sob thinking of this, but it's just so beautiful 🥹. The full fic is coming this weekend! I came up with this while talking to @heavens-whore, who you should totally check out if you haven't yet. If you couldn't tell I love Pride & Prejudice wayy too much

✧ minors dni with my blog or fics. i am not responsible for your consumption

✧ do not repost, copy, or translate my work   

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Joel was out on the porch, tuning his guitar, the low hum of strings drifting into the night air. Inside, you moved around the quiet kitchen, fixing yourself a late-night cup of Earl Grey.

The screen door creaked softly as you stepped out. You leaned your back against the porch column, hands cupped around your mug, watching him. His fingers picked a slow, gentle melody. You let it wrap around you like a blanket and enjoy it while it lasts.

Joel glanced up at you and smiled as he played for a little longer, then set the guitar aside. He patted his thigh and reached for you.

“C’mere"

You set your mug down on the small table beside him and climbed onto his lap. His arms came around you without hesitation, holding you close against the cool breeze.

“How are you this evenin’, my dear?” he murmured into your hair.

“Very well... only I wish you wouldn’t call me ‘my dear’.”

Joel pulled back slightly, brow furrowed. “Why’s that?”

“Because it’s what my father always calls my mother when he’s annoyed about somethin’.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Alright, then. What am I allowed to call you?”

You smiled, fingertips tracing the collar of his flannel. “You can call me baby on weekdays... sweetheart on Sundays... and goddess divine—or angel sent from heaven—but only when you mean it.”

Your voice dropped to a quiet murmur on that last line. You looked up at him, eyes searching his, as if to underline it—mean it, Joel.

Joel didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you.

Steady. Warm. Quietly undone by you.

As if he was trying to memorize the exact shade of your eyes in this porchlight—how they softened when you were teasing but telling the truth. How they held just the tiniest glint of challenge beneath all that affection.

God he loved you so much.

He didn’t smile. Not yet. Just breathed you in as he reached for your face, his thumb brushed slowly over your jaw. Then finally, his voice—low, gravel-soft, he said:

“I don’t call you ‘baby’ or 'sweetheart' to pass the time. I call you that because I’ve been alone a long damn time, and it’s the only word I got for what this feels like.”

You looked at him—truly looked—and your chest ached a little with how much he meant it. The quiet conviction in his voice

“And what shall I call you when I am crossed?” he asked, voice dipped in playful grit, trying to lighten up the moment enough to make you smile. “Mrs. Miller?”

You tilted your head, lips curling.

“I like Mrs. Miller a lot,” you admitted softly, eyes holding his, “but it has to be something else.”

Joel gave you that look—the one where one brow lifts just slightly, like he’s intrigued and already bracing for whatever clever little thing you’ll say next. “Yeah? Like what?”

You smirked, fingers brushing his chest as you leaned in just a little. “How about ‘my fiercest trouble’?”

Joel let out a slow, gruff laugh. “That sounds about right.”

You smiled. “Or ‘the bane of my peace’?”

He grinned wider now. “Gettin’ dramatic on me.”

“You love it,” you murmured.

He didn’t deny it. Just leaned in close again, brushing his lips over your jaw.

“I’ll call you whatever you want,” he whispered, “long as you keep sittin’ in my lap like this and lettin’ me kiss you stupid.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but he was already leaning in to kiss you softly.

“Just wondering… if not when you’re cross, and not on weekdays or Sundays—then when will you call me Mrs. Miller?”

Joel looked at you for a long second. Then his lips tugged into a faint smile, something deep and unreadable in his eyes.

“I say it,” he murmured, “when I’m real damn proud.”

“Proud?” you questioned.

He nodded, eyes never leaving yours. “Yeah. When you say something smart, and shut a whole room up. When you laugh like that—like you forgot the world’s gone to shit. When I catch myself thinkin’ how lucky I am that you chose me.” He kissed your forehead, warm and lingering.

“When I can’t believe I get to be the one you come home to.”

He leaned in again, voice almost a whisper now.

“I don’t just throw Mrs. Miller around,” he said. “That’s the name I use when I’m lookin’ at my whole damn world.”

He kissed your forehead, warm and lingering.

“Mrs. Miller…”

Then your nose, soft and slow, like you were delicate porcelain.

“Mrs. Miller…”

Then, finally, your lips—his hand cupping the side of your face, thumb resting just under your ear.

“Mrs. Miller…”

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Stay tuned for the whole fic coming to you this weekend!!

✧ reblogs, likes & comments are deeply appreciated ♡  

✧ do not repost, copy, or translate my work  

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

⋆࿐໋ STRUNG TIGHT !

　ུᩧ　tws : rockstar mydei x fem!reader. nsfw/smut, creampie, bondage, dirty talk & teasing, sub & dom dynamics, clit play, dumbification, multiple of rounds, dirty talk & teasing, mild degradation, and slight restraint play. (Modern au)

　ུᩧ　synopsis : After a killer performance, Mydei’s still riding the high, strumming out lazy tunes in the back room like he’s got all the time in the world. You call him out—on the way he plays, the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. He just smirks, all cocky and unbothered, until you push him too far. One second, you’re teasing him, the next, you’re pinned to the couch, wrists bound with his guitar strap, legs spread as he plays you like his favorite song—slow, deep, and all fucking night.

The sound of a guitar hummed through the empty dressing room, lazy and sweet, like a song played in bed at sunrise. Mydei sat on the couch, long legs spread, fingers plucking at the strings without much thought. His golden eyes flicked up when you walked in, but he didn’t say anything—just kept playing, a smirk twitching at the corner of his lips.

“That was some performance,” you said, leaning against the doorframe. “Didn’t know you could play like that.”

He scoffed. “You say that every time.”

“And every time, you act like you don’t eat up the attention.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head, but his fingers never stopped moving. The melody was slower now, more careful—something soft, something intimate. You recognized it, a song you’d caught him playing before, always when he thought no one was listening.

“Another love song?” you teased, stepping closer.

His eyes darkened. “You tell me.”

You swore he did this on purpose—the way he played, the way he looked at you under his lashes, the way his voice dripped low when he spoke. You could feel the bass of the guitar vibrating in your chest, or maybe that was just your pulse, quick and eager.

“You play like you’re trying to get someone in bed,” you mused, standing between his legs.

He leaned back, fingers slowing as he studied you. “And?”

And. Fuck. You weren’t supposed to get caught up in him like this, but it was hard not to when he looked at you like that—half-lidded, lazy, waiting. You bit your lip, watching his hands.

“You play with your fingers more than a pick,” you murmured.

Mydei raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

You hummed, dragging your nails lightly down his arm. “I like that.”

The guitar was gone before you could blink, placed somewhere out of the way, and then his hands were on you—calloused, warm, pulling you onto his lap. His mouth found your throat, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss that made you shiver.

“Say it again,” he muttered against your skin.

“You’re good with your fingers,” you breathed, and his hands tightened around your waist.

His lips curled into a smirk as he slid his hand beneath your shirt, fingers tracing your ribs before palming your tits, rolling a nipple between his thumb and forefinger. The roughness of his skin against the sensitive bud sent a shiver straight down to your clit.

He chuckled when he felt you squirm. “Sensitive.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You kissed him, hard, swallowing the smugness right out of his mouth. He groaned, hands gripping your hips, rocking you against him. You could feel him, hot and thick beneath his jeans, and your head spun at the thought of him inside you.

One of his hands left your waist, reaching for his guitar strap that had been tossed onto the couch. Before you could question him, he had your wrists bound together, your arms pinned above your head as he laid you back against the couch.

“What—”

His teeth scraped over your collarbone. “You like my fingers, right?”

You moaned when two of them slid down, past the waistband of your shorts, teasing at your pussy. He groaned at how wet you were, spreading you open with ease.

“I bet,” he murmured, dragging his fingers over your clit in slow, teasing circles, “I could make you sing sweeter than any song I’ve ever played.”

His fingers slipped inside you, stretching you just right, curling against that perfect spot. The guitar strap dug into your wrists as you pulled against it, hips bucking against his touch. He watched you, golden eyes dark with hunger, his cock pressing against his jeans.

“You sound so pretty,” he murmured, pumping his fingers in and out. “Bet my cock would feel even better, huh?”

You whimpered, nodding frantically, but he tsked. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“Please,” you gasped. “Fuck me.”

He grinned, undoing his belt with one hand, still lazily stroking your clit with the other. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Mydei took his time, just because he could. His fingers stayed buried inside you, lazily curling with each thrust, dragging slick noises out of your pussy like he was playing some slow, teasing melody. His other hand gripped the strap around your wrists, keeping you pinned against the couch as he leaned down, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along your tits.

“You’re dripping,” he murmured against your skin, thumb circling your clit in time with the lazy strumming of his fingers inside you. “Maybe I should keep playing you like this all night.”

You whined, tugging against the strap, hips rolling up against his hand. He chuckled, cock heavy against your thigh as he let his teeth graze your nipple. The rough flick of his tongue sent another wave of heat through you, and you clenched around his fingers, making him groan.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he muttered, voice low and rough. “Gonna feel so fucking good wrapped around my cock.”

He pulled his fingers out, sucking them into his mouth like he was savoring the taste of you. The sight alone had you clenching around nothing, desperate for him to fill you up again. But Mydei was in no rush. He tugged his belt free, using it to loop around the guitar strap, anchoring your bound wrists to the couch.

“There,” he smirked, watching you struggle. “No touching.”

You glared at him, but any complaint you had died on your tongue when he shoved his jeans down, cock springing free. Your mouth went dry at the sight of him—long, thick, flushed at the tip. He gave himself a slow stroke, watching you with a smirk.

“Bet you wish you could touch me, huh?”

You whined, trying to reach for him, but the restraint kept you in place. Mydei laughed, leaning down to press a soft, teasing kiss to your lips.

“Guess you’ll just have to take it,” he whispered, lining himself up.

And then he was pushing in, stretching you open inch by inch, his cock sinking deep into your pussy with a slow, agonizing drag. Your back arched, a breathless moan spilling from your lips as he filled you up completely.

“Fuck,” he groaned, hips pressed flush against yours. “You’re squeezing me so tight.”

He pulled back, almost all the way out, before slamming back in, setting a deep, steady rhythm. The guitar strap creaked as you strained against it, hips bucking to meet his thrusts. Mydei leaned over you, his breath hot against your ear.

“You sound so fucking good,” he panted, dragging his cock along your walls, making sure you felt every inch of him. “Better than any song I’ve ever played.”

His fingers found your clit again, rubbing tight, fast circles that had your thighs shaking. The overstimulation made your head spin, pleasure winding tighter and tighter in your core.

“Mydei—”

“Come on, baby,” he coaxed, voice low and rough. “Sing for me.”

The orgasm crashed into you like a wave, pleasure bursting through your body as you clenched around his cock, moaning his name like it was the only thing you knew how to say. Mydei groaned, fucking you through it, his thrusts growing sloppy as your pussy tightened around him.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises. “Gonna come inside you—”

You gasped, nodding frantically, and that was all it took. Mydei slammed into you one last time, his cock pulsing deep inside, filling you up with warmth. He stayed there for a moment, catching his breath, before slowly pulling out, watching his cum drip from your pussy with a satisfied smirk.

He reached down, tracing his fingers through the mess he made. “Gotta admit,” he murmured, pressing one last kiss to your lips, “I think I like playing you better than my guitar.”

Mydei didn’t waste a fucking second. He still had that lazy, cocky smirk on his face, but the way he fucked you? There was nothing lazy about it. Every thrust was deep, slow enough to make you feel every inch of his cock stretching you open, but hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

“Shit—look at you,” he rasped, watching the way your tits bounced with every snap of his hips. “Already fucked stupid, huh? Thought you had so much to say a minute ago.”

You did. You really did. But your brain was a mess, thoughts drowned out by the thick drag of his cock, the tight pull of the guitar strap keeping your wrists bound above your head. The only thing spilling from your lips now were breathy moans and little whimpers, legs twitching around his waist as he bullied his cock even deeper inside you.

“Fuck, you’re gripping me so tight,” Mydei groaned, rolling his hips just right, brushing against that spot that made your vision blur. “You like this, don’t you?”

You nodded, too dumb and desperate to care how pathetic you looked beneath him. His fingers found your clit again, rubbing fast, sloppy circles that made you whine. The pleasure was too much—his cock stretching you open, the rough pads of his fingers pressing into your swollen clit, the heat pooling in your stomach, coiling tighter and tighter until—

“Don’t—don’t stop—”

“Oh, I’m not stopping,” he growled, pace getting rougher, sharper, making your whole body shake beneath him. “Not ‘til I break you.”

And fuck, he did. Your back arched, your mouth falling open on a silent scream as your orgasm slammed into you, making your pussy clamp down around his cock like you never wanted to let him go. Your body was trembling, tears pricking your eyes from how fucking good it felt, and Mydei groaned, grinding against you as he fucked you through it.

“That’s it,” he murmured, licking a slow stripe up your throat before pressing a kiss to your jaw. “So fucking pretty when you come on my cock.”

You should’ve been embarrassed by how wrecked you sounded, by the way your body twitched and shook, completely at his mercy—but you weren’t. Not when Mydei was looking at you like this, eyes blown, jaw tight, chasing his own release.

“Fuck—gonna come inside you,” he panted, thrusts getting sloppy. “Gonna fill you up real nice—make sure you remember who owns this pretty little pussy.”

Your brain was too melted to do anything but nod, legs tightening around his waist, urging him deeper. He groaned, hips stuttering, and then he was spilling inside you, warmth flooding your insides as he buried himself to the hilt.

For a long moment, he didn’t move, just let himself feel it—your walls fluttering around him, the way your body trembled from the aftershocks. Then, finally, he pulled out, groaning at the sight of his cum dripping from your pussy, smearing along your thighs.

“Fuck,” he muttered, fingers dipping between your legs, pushing some of his cum back inside. You twitched, overstimulated, and he chuckled.

“So dumb for me now,” he teased, rubbing lazy circles against your clit just to watch you squirm. “Can’t even talk, huh? Bet I fucked all the thoughts outta that cute little head.”

You whimpered, barely able to move, and Mydei just smirked, leaning down to kiss your cheek before finally untying your wrists.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to your jaw. “I’ll play with you again real soon.”

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

[beloveds-embrace]

Until the Last Loop: When the Hour Strikes

(Your doom is drawing nearer and nearer, and now you see the signs that will lead to it)

poly mercenaries 141 x princess reader, time loop

Masterlist | Part One | Part Two

Chaos eventually bloomed like rot within the castle walls, just as you’d expected. It began as whispers- always, in every life. Soft, serpentine murmurs slipping through the cracks of stone and shadow- but they spread quickly, clawing their way into the hearts of servants and courtiers alike. The air grew heavy with suspicion, thick as the scent of burning wax and spilled ink.

You felt it before you heard it.

A shift in the way the guards tightened their grips on their spears, in the way your maids avoided your gaze as they fastened your corset too tightly, fingers trembling against your spine. The silence when you entered a room was not the silence of reverence but the hush of fear- of vultures circling, their wings brushing against the walls.

You knew this song. Far too well.

The opening notes were always the same, a familiar melody of betrayal and inevitability, and like every time… the chords struck ominously. Sharp. Harsh. As if the unseen hand twisting the strings were far bolder.

And then the letters came.

Three sealed envelopes left abandoned in the corridors- no names, no crests, just ink blotted into thin, cheap parchment. The first was delivered to the head steward, its contents enough to send the kitchens into disarray as accusations flew. Poisoned wine. A plot to kill the king. Fingers pointed, but no evidence surfaced beyond the words themselves.

The food you were served was always cold and on occasions, spoiled.

The second letter found its way to your father’s study. You hadn’t been there when he read it, but the rage in his voice cracked through the halls like thunder. Words like “treason” and “execution” followed you even after the doors slammed shut.

The third appeared in your chambers. Unmarked. Unsigned.

But unmistakably meant for you.

You turned the paper over in your hands as the candlelight flickered against the script. It bore no threats- only a single sentence, written in a trembling hand:

Trust no one.

You burned it before the wax dripped too far. It didn’t warm the cold ache that burrowed itself in the tendons of your neck.

Of course, your “protectors” had to be aware of everything- maybe they even knew better than you of what rumors were spreading about you, and just as they’d done in most of your latest lives, they try to help:

Soap was the first to storm into yours room, expression thunderous, brows furrowed and his voice tight in his anger.

“Ye need to tell me if ye’ve seen anyone suspicious,” he said, pacing like a caged animal. It was nice to see that you weren’t the only one to feel like that “Anyone lurking where they shouldn’t be. Even if it’s one of the servants.”

You almost laughed at the absurdity of it. Suspicious? In this place, everything was suspicious. Every glance, every word spoken behind closed doors, every breath held too long. No one could be trusted, not really. Everyone and everything was another knot on the noose to go around your neck.

But you bit your tongue, folding your arms against the cold that crept through the stones. “You think it’s one of them?”

He stopped, turning to face you. “I think it’s someone close. Someone who knows enough about ye to make this believable.”

The implication lingered between you, unspoken but heavy.

Soap didn’t say it, but you saw it in the way his eyes flickered to the ashes in the hearth where the letter had burned, in the way his hand hovered near the hilt of his dagger.

“It’s not me.” You sighed.

“I ken, lass.” He said it too quickly, like he was reassuring himself more than you. Then he ran a hand through his shabby hair, exhaling sharply. “But someone wants it to look like it is.”

You scoffed, turning away from him at last. If your hands were shaking, he said nothing of them. “You and I both know someone could come, admit to spreading rumors, and my father would still believe I am to blame. Let it go, Johnny.”

“Lass…”

You had no reply for him. Why would you? You had given up. All you had left was just attempt to ease the fear that constantly plagued you like a swarm of flies.

Ghost was next. He came with shadows clinging to his heels, his presence a weight that settled over the room like the storm clouds of cold winters.

“Who gave you the letter?”

You stared at him, fingers curling into your skirts. They were rumpled, not fully cleaned, but you cared not. Bit by bit, you were nearing the striking hour and everyone around you was a constant reminder of the ticking seconds. “No one. It was already here when I came back.”

Ghost said nothing, the mask leaving him as unreadable as always, but his silence was suffocating.

“Do you think I’m lying?”

“No.” A grunt. A pause. “But I think someone’s lying to you.”

His words burrowed under your skin, sharp and invasive. You didn’t want to believe him, didn’t want to acknowledge the seed of doubt taking root in your chest.

But it was there. Growing and spreading its invasive roots.

Ghost lingered even after the questions stopped, his eyes never leaving you, as if he thought you might disappear if he looked away for one second. You should have found it unnerving, but instead, it felt like armor- thin and brittle, but armor nonetheless.

After him, Gaz found you in the gardens, the dying roses from before now nothing more than brittle stems and scattered petals. He didn’t speak at first, didn’t press, just sat beside you.

And for once, you didn’t feel the need to fill the silence. Your tongue stopped being a weapon several lifetimes ago; you’d rather have it still in your mouth when you were executed, rather than brutally ripped off for “spreading filthy lies” against your beloved father.

It was Gaz who broke it, eventually. “… We’ll figure it out. We are all searching leads, you know.”

You turned to look at him, searching for something- reassurance, perhaps, or conviction- but found only quiet determination. You wished you could bathe in such an emotion, but…

“Even if it’s too late?” you asked softly.

“It won’t be.”

The certainty in his voice twisted something inside you, fragile and aching. You didn’t want to believe him..

Couldn’t allow yourself such a hope, after all the lives you’d been robbed of. You knew they didn’t like this attitude of yours, found it strange; how certain you were of your early demise.

Price, on the other hand, was a pillar- unshakable and steady in a way that felt rare amidst all the chaos unfolding around you. While the others hunted for answers, sharp and swift, Price moved differently. Slower. More deliberate.

Ghost had told you Price had always been like that; a born, patient hunter. He never rushed, never panicked. Instead, he listened. Observed. Held the room together with nothing but the weight of his presence.

“There’s more to this than letters and rumors.” He said one evening, his voice low as he studied the map of the palace spread between you. Distantly, you noted that his writing was not the same as the one on the letter. “Whoever’s behind this knows what they’re doing.”

You swallowed, the words curling tight in your chest. It made it hard to speak, to think, but you didn’t allow yourself to drown just yet. “Do you think it’ll matter?”

His eyes met yours then- calm and steady. Grounding.

“It matters,” he said quietly. “All of it does, princess. Your insistence on dying so soon is almost making me uncomfortable.”

You ignored his second service; no one would truly understand. It wasn’t the answer you’d been expecting, but it was one you found yourself holding onto anyway.

Because as the days stretched and the shadows pressed closer, Price didn’t falter. He never looked at you the way others did. Never let the whispers of treason or guilt change the way he stood beside you.

When the tension twisted sharp and the weight of it all threatened to drag you under, he didn’t flinch.

He stayed.

And it wasn’t in words or reassurances- it was in the small, steady things. The way he made sure you ate, quietly setting a plate down beside you when your hands were too unsteady to hold a fork. The way he noticed when the walls felt too close, wordlessly leading you outside to breathe.

He was a tether when everything else threatened to break apart.

You never questioned it- never questioned him. Had no energy to do, so why would you question one of the few who didn’t look at you like you were a speck of sticky dirt under their shoes?

Because Price wasn’t like the others. He didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep. He didn’t fill the silence with pretty words.

He simply stayed.

And even when you felt like the world was caving in, that was enough.

By the end of the week, the castle was a hornet’s nest of accusations and fear. The kitchens were searched. The servants were questioned. Even the guards began turning on each other. The hour of the accusations had struck, and now the hour of your execution was nearing.

You were tired- bone-deep, soul-deep. The kind of exhaustion that even sleep couldn’t ease. Not that you slept much these days. The nightmares saw to that, clawing at the edges of your mind until the walls between dream and waking began to blur.

You stared too long into the mirrors, searching for someone you might still recognize and finding only the hollow reflection of a girl who had died too many times to keep pretending she was still whole.

I can’t keep doing this.

I am going to die again. And again. And again.

If anyone- if they- heard you pacing your rooms like a restless animal, no one came in to check you. If they heard your sobs, they knew no comfort offered would soothe you.

One night, after your father visited, after he made you kneel and kiss his feet and swear that you were not attempting to overthrow him, you broke.

Loud, pained, terrified sobs tore through your chest, raw and unrelenting. You pressed your hands to your mouth, desperate to muffle the sounds, but it did little to silence the grief clawing its way out of you.

Your knees buckled beneath the weight of it, and you crumpled to the floor, trembling as the cold seeped into your skin. The walls of your chambers felt smaller, closer, as though they were closing in, suffocating you.

You didn’t know how long you stayed there- folded in on yourself, shivering and broken. Minutes? Hours? Time had lost its meaning, stretching endlessly as your thoughts spiraled.

The door creaked.

You flinched, your breath hitching as shadows shifted across the floor. You didn’t look up. You couldn’t.

Not until a warm, heavy cloak was draped over your shoulders.

Price knelt beside you, silent as he settled onto the floor. He didn’t speak, didn’t try to pull words from you. He only sat, solid and steady, his presence filling the room like the glow of dying embers- quiet, but enduring.

And for the first time that night, the sobs began to slow.

(Part Four)

[heliosunny]

Hello love your writing style and ideas !!

can you write au siren reader x Phainon but not the kind that sings with sweet deception—hers is a quiet, haunting presence, a being who does not need to lure with honeyed songs. . She does not chase her prey; she waits, watches, lets the prey come to her and whether by choice or by fate, all who cross her path will find themselves drawn into the abyss.

I wrote the yandere one is Phainon *cough if I'm mistaken, please forgive me.

Yandere!Phainon x Siren!Reader

Phainon had spent his life hunting monsters.

The sea was full of them—things with too many teeth, too many eyes, lurking beneath the waves where no man dared tread. He had slain creatures the size of ships, things whispered about in fearful legends. The bounty was good, the thrill intoxicating.

But you were something else entirely.

You looked at him from the water’s edge. A haunting silhouette against the crashing waves.

He had been told sirens lured men with songs, full of honeyed lies, but you did not sing. You did not need to. Something deeper, something older called to him. The tide lapped at his boots, coaxing, beckoning.

He should have turned back.

Instead, he returned. Again and again. Until the sea smelled less like salt and more like you, until the nights on his ship felt hollow without your gaze watching.

The first time, it was a corpse.

Phainon stood at the water’s edge, the scent of blood thick in the air. The body—a man, throat slit clean, slumped from his grasp and hit the waves with a hollow splash.

“I thought of you” he murmured, “While I was cutting him open. I wondered if you’d like it fresh.”

The second time, the offering was still alive.

The man kicked, thrashed, screamed. Phainon held him by the hair, forcing him to kneel in the shallow water. The fear in his victim’s eyes was nothing compared to the madness in Phainon’s own.

“She’s watching” he whispered to the struggling man, “You should feel honored.”

Then he looked up, as if seeking approval. His hands trembled—not with hesitation, but with exhilaration. “Do you like it better this way? When they’re still warm?”

Phainon smiled. “I’ll bring more.”

---

Phainon sat on the shore, a strange grin playing at his lips. The moonlight turned his silver hair ghostly, his hands moving deftly over the instrument. He did not look surprised to see you—no, if anything, he looked satisfied.

“You’re here” he mused, fingers never faltering.

The melody shifted, softer now, coaxing. It did not pull like a siren’s song, but it lingered in the air, refusing to be ignored.

“Can you understand me?” His voice was almost teasing, “Or have I been speaking to the waves all this time?”

You replied him with nothing but silence.

Phainon chuckled, but there was no humor in it. His hands stilled on the strings. “You know,” he said, “I’m an expert.”

“If you don’t come to me, I’ll find a way to get you myself.”

The tide licked at the shore, rising as if in warning. Phainon's fingers pressed idly against the strings of his instrument, though the song had long since faded.

“I was starting to think you were nothing but a shadow in the water.”

You did not respond.

The wind howled between you both, salty mist clinging to your hair.

“You believe you can take me?” You asked at last.

Phainon laughed. It was not the laugh of a man deterred, but of a man entertained. “Oh, dear siren,” he murmured, standing slowly, his boots sinking into the wet sand. “You mistake me.”

“I don’t need to take you.” His fingers brushed over the hilt of the blade at his hip, not as a threat, but as a promise. “I just need to make sure you never leave me.”

----

Humans had no strength in the water. You knew this. Had seen them flail and drown, helpless against the current. Humans were fragile creatures swayed by fear, by curiosity, by the gentle pull of the tide. You did not need to sing, nor whisper sweet deceptions. You only needed to wait.

And they came.

The first was a sailor. He did not see you at first—only the glint of something pale beneath the waves, something shifting in the current. He stepped closer.

By the time he realized his mistake, the ocean had already swallowed him whole.

The second was younger, trembling as he peered over the railing of his ship, searching for whatever force had dragged his crewmate down. He never saw the hands that pulled him under.

The third did not even scream.

One by one, you took them, the water welcoming their bodies, their struggles fading into the deep. The abyss always called, and they, like all before them, answered.

splash

Phainon.

You turned, expecting him on the shore, but no—he had come from above, from a ship lurking just beyond the reach of the waves.

And before you could move, something cold snapped around your wrist.

Bracelet?

Phainon grinned, hair fanning in the water like silver thread, eyes burning with something near-manic. “Got you.”

Phainon had no place in the water.

He was human— no matter how steady his hands, no matter how many monsters he had slain. The ocean did not care. It did not recognize him.

And it swallowed him whole.

The weight of his own foolishness dragging him down. He had leapt in willingly, with no plan, no survival in mind.

Typical.

You swept him under without hesitation.

The current embraced him instantly, pulling him deeper, his body twisting in the tide. His fingers brushed against you, grasping for something, anything. But you had already let go.

Bubbles burst from his lips, frantic, uneven. His arms thrashed, desperate to break the water’s grip. It was pathetic.

You turned away.

And yet—

Something in you twisted.

A pull urging you to turn back.

You did not want to.

But you did.

You moved before you could think.

Your arms wrapped around him, dragging him up, breaking through the surface with force. His head lolled against your shoulder, his breath nonexistent. The waves carried you both, faster than they should have, as if the sea itself was trying to rid itself of him.

You pulled him onto the sand, his body cold, heavy. For a moment, you hovered, staring at the rise and fall of his chest—shallow, struggling, but alive.

You should not have done this.

With one last glance, you turned and slipped back into the depths, vanishing into the tide before he could wake.

----

The thing on your wrist pulsed, faint but constant, sinking into your skin like rot. A weight that did not belong, that was not of the sea. And worse—

It would not come off.

You clawed at it, pried at the lock, but the metal held fast, unyielding. The more you struggled, the more it burned, a creeping heat that should not exist in the abyss.

It was wrong. It did not belong here.

Phainon.

Even now, his presence lingered, his touch wrapped around you in this cursed thing he had left behind. He was not here, but somehow, he had still reached you.

And for the first time in your existence, the ocean did not feel safe.

---

The cave was silent, save for the steady drip of water against stone.

You sat near the entrance, where the tide reached just enough to lap at your legs. The bracelet on your wrist gleamed dully in the dim light, unyielding no matter how many times you tried to pry it off.

Your nails scraped against it, frustration curling deep in your chest.

Phainon had done this.

You did not know how, did not know why, but the truth was undeniable.

You should not have saved him.

Fine.

If you could not remove it yourself, you would find the one who had placed it.

And this time, you would not hesitate.

---

You had tracked him to this place. A hidden inlet carved into the cliffside, shielded from the open sea, the entrance barely visible against the jagged rock. It was a place humans rarely came, yet his scent lingered here, fresh, undeniable.

He had been waiting.

You emerged from the water slowly, deliberately, stepping onto the slick stone with movements far too steady for something that should not belong on land. Your tail had given way to legs, but the shift felt sluggish, unnatural. The bracelet burned against your wrist as if resisting the transformation, as if tethering you to something unseen.

You did not call for him. You did not need to.

You felt his presence before you saw him.

“You came.”

Phainon stepped forward, into the dim light filtering through the cave’s mouth. His clothes were damp, his silver hair still tousled from the ocean air.

“I knew you would.”

Your gaze drifted to his hands, resting casually at his sides.

Slowly, you lifted your wrist, the thing glinting dully in the weak light.

“What did you do?”

“Ah. You noticed.”

“Remove it.”

“I could,” he admitted, his voice light, conversational. “But why would I?”

“You have no power here, human.”

Phainon hummed, stepping closer, unbothered by the threat laced in your tone. “Don’t I?”

You stiffened. A slow, creeping heat crawled up your arm, spreading through your veins, dragging at something within you.

Phainon watched you carefully, eyes gleaming with that same maddening certainty.

“You feel it, don’t you? Now you’re bound.” His fingers twitched at his sides. “To me.”

“You think this will keep you safe?”

Phainon exhaled a laugh “Safe?” He leaned in just slightly, as if daring you to move. “Who said anything about safe?”

“I can take you with me,” he said, voice smooth, deliberate. “But I didn’t.”

The accessory on your wrist pulsed, a silent reminder of his touch, his claim.

“I gave you your freedom.” He tilted his head, studying your expression, his eyes gleaming like a predator waiting for its prey to realize it had already been caught. “And that’s generous of me.”

His smile sharpened, his chest rising and falling just slightly faster, as if he had been waiting for this—waiting for you to acknowledge him, to see him, to let him stand in your presence.

“Ah…” His voice came quieter, more breath than sound, as if he had to steady himself. “You’re—”

He cut himself off, exhaling a soft, shaking laugh.

Then, without hesitation, he dropped to one knee.

Not in surrender.

In devotion.

You stared at him.

Phainon—kneeling, breathing uneven, staring up at you as if he had finally reached the thing he had been chasing all this time.

This was a human. A creature of land, of fleeting years, of brittle bones and fragile flesh.

You did not take things like this.

You consumed, you drowned, you let them sink into the abyss and never resurface. You did not let them linger, did not let them follow you, did not let them worship you like this.

Your lips pressed into a thin line. “You are mistaken.”

“Am I?”

���You think you have done something that matters.” You lifted your wrist. “You think this changes what you are.”

His grin widened.

“Oh, I know what I am.” He tilted his head, silver hair falling over his forehead, breath still slightly uneven as he watched you, enthralled. “The real question is—do you know what you are now?”

You did not answer.

Because you did not need to.

You were what you had always been. A creature of the abyss. A hunter that did not chase, a being that did not need to lure, because all things that crossed your path fell eventually.

Phainon was no different.

And yet—he was still here.

Still breathing.

Still kneeling before you.

You lowered your wrist slowly. “You will get nothing from me.”

Phainon’s grin did not falter. “I already have.”

You moved before he could react.

Sharp teeth sank into his flesh, the taste of salt and blood blooming across your tongue. His breath hitched, but there was no pain—no fear—only that same maddening exhilaration.

You ripped yourself away, your eyes locking with his for the briefest moment—one final warning, one final denial—before the sea surged around you.

And then you were gone.

The cold water swallowed you whole, the ocean embracing you once more. You did not look back.

But Phainon—

He remained kneeling, staring at the crimson dripping from the fresh wound on his hand.

Slowly, he exhaled, his fingers flexing as if memorizing the sting.

Then he smiled.

A deep, satisfied grin, as if the pain only proved something he had already known.

You had left your mark on him.

And that, to him, was enough.

----

The land felt unnatural beneath your feet.

It was not the first time you had taken this form, but it had never felt like this before—heavy, constricting, a shape that did not suit you.

Still, you moved without hesitation.

Phainon’s dwelling was easy to find. He had left traces of himself everywhere—the scent of salt and steel, the remnants of blood staining the docks, the unmistakable pull of the thing on your wrist that told you he was close.

He had made no effort to hide.

You entered with ease, silent as the tide, your presence slipping through the space like a current unseen. He would not know you like this. He could not. To him, you were just another figure in the world of men, another stranger walking paths that were never meant for you.

“You should’ve knocked.”

His voice cut through the still air.

Phainon stood just beyond the dim candlelight, leaning against the wooden frame of the room, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. He looked... amused.

“Well?” His eyes glinted, sharp and knowing. “Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?”

Your gaze flickered past him, tracing the walls of the dimly lit room.

They were covered in remnants of things that did not belong on land.

Bones, scales, preserved limbs from creatures that had once moved through the depths with silent grace. And among them—stuffed figures, carefully stitched, resembling the very things he had hunted. Trophies. Proof of conquest.

A silent declaration of power.

This was the world he belonged to.

You turned your attention back to him. “I apologize,” you said, your voice smooth, carefully measured. “I did not know this was your home.”

Phainon’s gaze didn’t waver. He was studying you now. Not like when he looked at you in the water. Not like when he had dropped to his knees, breathing uneven, his voice trembling with something unhinged and worshipful.

This was different.

Because he did not recognize you.

You offered the slightest tilt of your head. “My name is—” you paused, giving him a name that was not your own, one that fit the form you had taken.

Phainon didn’t react immediately. He simply held your gaze, as if assessing whether you were worth acknowledging at all.

“Hm.” He pushed off the wooden frame, stepping fully into the dim light. “And what do you want?”

To hunt the monster in front of you. Him.

----

You moved carefully, your steps barely making a sound against the worn floor. Phainon had already gone to sleep—or so you had assumed. His breathing had evened out behind closed doors, his presence heavy but unmoving.

It gave you time.

Your fingers ghosted over surfaces as you searched, slipping between shadows, eyes scanning the strange collection that surrounded you.

The house was decorated with death.

Everywhere you looked, pieces of creatures long lost to the sea were displayed like trophies—monsters pinned to walls, their hollow eyes frozen in expressions they had never worn in life. A cruel mimicry of their existence, preserved only to serve as proof of their defeat.

And among them—

Some were familiar.

The curve of a fin, the shape of a claw, remnants of things that once swam in the abyss where you ruled.

You turned your attention back to your search. You needed something—anything—to break the annoying thing on your wrist.

Eventually, your steps led you into a smaller chamber. The air was damp, cooler than the rest of the house.

A bathroom.

Your eyes flickered toward the tub—and stilled.

The water was filled to the brim.

Strange. Phainon had gone to sleep. Humans did not need water in such quantities.

The liquid was still, reflecting the dim glow of the lantern outside the doorway. But as you stepped closer, a ripple passed through its surface—slow, unnatural, like something unseen had disturbed it from below.

You ignored the faint unease creeping into your chest, instead stepping toward the sink. If nothing else, you would wash your hands, rid yourself of the lingering sensation of this place before continuing your search.

The water ran cool over your skin, grounding you. You let out a slow breath, muscles relaxing just slightly—

Then your gaze drifted back to the tub.

The water’s color was wrong. Dark, shifting. A shade that did not belong in a home on land, thick with something more than just salt. It almost seemed to breathe, pulsing in slow waves against the porcelain edges.

Your brows furrowed.

Push

A force slammed into your back before you could react, knocking you off balance. Your hands caught the edge of the tub for the briefest second before another shove drove you forward—

And then you were submerged.

The second the water swallowed you, your body betrayed you. Pain lanced through your legs, twisting through your bones like an unseen force was dragging you back to what you were meant to be. The shift came violently, your skin splitting, merging, reshaping.

The familiar weight of your tail returned, but—

Your upper body remained unchanged, still locked in its human form, even as the rest of you was forced back into what you truly were. Panic surged, but before you could push yourself free, fingers curled over the edge of the tub.

Phainon. Again.

His grip was steady, his knuckles white against the porcelain as he leaned over you, looking down with something unreadable in his gaze.

This had been planned.

“Caught you.”

"You know," he murmured, flexing the mark of his injured hand, the blood welling where your teeth had sunk deep, "I almost didn’t recognize you."

He tilted his head, gaze dragging over your face, your body—your still-human form above the water, the betraying flicker of your tail below.

"But you should’ve been more careful."

A breath of laughter escaped him, "The way you move. The way you watch." His eyes gleamed, sharp with something close to amusement. "You were always so quiet."

He leaned down, one hand braced against the porcelain, keeping you caged.

"But no human has ever looked at me the way you do."

"No human hesitates before speaking like you do."

"And no human would ever think they could hide from me."

His free hand lifted, trailing over the water’s surface, fingertips barely grazing the liquid that had forced your transformation.

"Now that you’re here…" He hummed, his expression unreadable, but his next words were clear, "I think I’ll keep you."

Water surged as you twisted violently, your tail thrashing against the porcelain. With a sharp flick, you sent a wave straight into Phainon’s face, forcing him to pull back, the liquid splattering against his clothes, his skin.

You didn’t waste a second.

Hands gripping the sides of the tub, you tried to pull yourself free, the weight of the water slowing you down but not stopping you. Your muscles tensed, every instinct screaming to get away, to get out, but a strong hand clamped onto your shoulder.

Before you could react, Phainon shoved you back down.

The force sent you crashing beneath the surface, the water swallowing you whole. It dragged at your skin, the strange substance wrapping around you like a second set of hands, pulling, twisting—

And then the last remnants of your human form shattered.

Your body shifted entirely, the final traces of your disguise ripped away as your tail fully emerged, scales gleaming dark beneath the unnatural light.

You gasped sharply as you resurfaced, claws scraping against the slick porcelain, but before you could lash out, something warm pressed against your shoulder.

Teeth.

A sharp sting bloomed as Phainon’s mouth closed over your skin.

A growl rumbled in your throat, low and threatening, but he didn’t pull away. His fingers dug into your arm, holding you in place, his breath warm against your damp skin.

The pressure of his teeth lingered even as he finally released you.

Then he lifted his gaze to meet yours, and the look in his eyes sent a chill down your spine.

"That," he said, "was for trying to run."

Before you could pull away, his grip on your wrist tightened.

Then, without hesitation, he sank his teeth into your hand.

A sharp sting shot up your arm.

"Let go."

You did what you must, you commanded him to.

For a moment, his fingers slackened, his pupils dilating slightly. His body swayed just the faintest bit forward, caught on the hook of your call, just as countless others had before.

But then—

His breath steadied.

A slow, knowing smirk spread across his lips.

And from beneath his soaked shirt, he pulled something into view.

A dark, worn amulet hung from a chain, the metal glinting in the dim light, etched with carvings you could not immediately decipher.

"Did you really think it would be that easy?" His voice was calm, almost amused, his grip tightening once more.

"Why do you think I can hunt other ones?"

Your eyes snapped to the amulet, realization settling in.

That was why he had been able to hunt. Why your kind had never been able to pull him into the depths as easily as the others.

Your attempt to escape was swift—your body surged forward, water splashing violently as you twisted, tail coiling with the force needed to propel yourself away.

But Phainon was faster.

A hand shot out, seizing your wrist with a strength that sent a jolt through your bones. Before you could react, before you could tear yourself free, a sharp yank sent you crashing back into the water.

The tub overflowed, liquid spilling onto the floor, but neither of you cared.

You thrashed, snarling, claws raking against his arm. But Phainon only gritted his teeth, his grip ironclad as he pressed down, forcing you deeper into the water.

The strange substance swirled around you, clinging, binding, warping.

Your muscles locked. A cold sensation seeped into your skin, into your veins—an unnatural weight, something that latched onto the very essence of what you were. Your vision blurred for a moment.

You tried to lurch forward, but your body barely responded.

And Phainon—Phainon only watched.

"You feel it, don’t you?"

You bared your teeth, refusing to acknowledge it. Refusing to let him see the way your chest tightened, the way your limbs felt heavier.

But he already knew.

His hand lifted, fingers brushing the bracelet still bound to your wrist.

"It’s not just some ordinary restraint," he continued, tilting his head. "You thought I was careless, didn’t you? That I just let you slip away before?"

He leaned in, "I was never letting you go."

You hissed, tail lashing, but the motion was sluggish, weaker than before.

"Fight all you want," he mused, fingers pressing lightly against your jaw, tilting your face toward him. "It won’t change anything."

"I told you, didn’t I? If you wouldn’t come to me…"

His fingers trailed down your throat, resting lightly against your collarbone.

"I’d find a way to take you myself."

You had underestimated him.

And now, you were his.

[sknyuz]

threaded to you | h.j.s. (joshua)

synopsis — the one where joshua plans a week-long getaway leading up to your birthday—and a little more. pairing — joshua hong x gn!reader tags — fluff, established relationship, proposal!, joshua is a sweetheart, domestic callbacks to ur relationship, comfort cw — none, i believe !! just hold onto ur hearts ❤️‍🩹

wc — ~2k a/n — another tooth-rotting fluff to add to the collection, requested by @teddy08-09 (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

masterlist

for the next five days, you would wake up to the sound of waves crashing softly outside your window and the scent of warm pastries already drifting in from the kitchen.

it’s your birthday week, and joshua insisted on whisking you away—somewhere private, cozy, sun-drenched. the kind of place where time slows down and mornings start with sleepy kisses and shared coffee on the balcony. each day has its own little adventure. joshua doesn’t overload the schedule, he knows you ‎too well for that. instead, he’s curated moments—quiet, intentional ones.

day one is exploring a hidden beach he found months ago, the two of you building little towers from driftwood and shell fragments. that night, he gives you the first bracelet. it’s made of woven cord and tiny beads, and on it is a date—the day you met.

“i remember everything you said that day,” he tells you quietly, brushing sand from your knee. “i knew you were the one.”

day two is filled with laughter at a local artisan market. he buys you snacks from every stall you glance at for more than five seconds, and you both get henna tattoos for no real reason other than why not? later, when you’re back in the villa, he brings out another bracelet. this one has a string of characters: 2 0 2 1.

“that was the year that i asked you to be mine,” he says, threading it gently around your wrist. “still the best decision i ever made.”

day three, he drags you to a pottery class. it’s a mess. joshua’s clay bowl collapses into itself with a dramatic flop and you laugh so hard you almost fall off your stool. he pouts, dramatic as ever, but when you finally get your wobbly creations back to the villa, he asks you to check inside the pot you made, and there it was, the third bracelet:

this one simply reads: lovey. your favorite nickname for him.

“because you say it with that tone that makes me feel like the softest version of myself,” he says, resting his forehead against yours.

day four is calmer. a boat ride at golden hour, your hand resting over his on the railing as the wind tangles through your hair. there’s no rush, no noise. just the two of you, floating along the water while the sky shifts into warm hues of orange and pink. as the boat drifts, he pulls out his guitar, strumming softly.

the sound of the strings, delicate and intimate, fills the quiet air, and you find yourself leaning closer, your head resting against his shoulder. joshua plays a few songs for you, some soft melodies you’ve never heard before, others familiar tunes he’s played just for you on nights when you both stayed up too late. each note feels like a thread weaving your hearts tighter together as the sun slowly sinks behind the horizon.

that night, after dinner, he gives you a bracelet with your initials. simple. classic. still enough to make your heart flutter.

and finally—the night before your birthday.

you think the surprise is the private chef joshua hired for the night, who’s currently serving you perfectly grilled steak and pouring deep red wine into your glass. the lights are dim, the candles flickering, and joshua’s wearing your favorite cologne. the setting is straight out of a movie.

but he pauses before dessert. “wait,” he says, slipping away for a second. when he returns, he’s holding a small, velvet-lined tray with a single bracelet resting in the middle. it’s similar to the others, handmade by him, soft threads twisted together with care. but this one says:

marry ♡ me?

the question is spaced by a tiny heart charm, delicate and golden.

your eyes lift to his—wide and glimmering, the candlelight catching in them like tiny stars. your breath catches. the rest of the room fades.

it’s not just the bracelet. it’s what it means. what he means. every little moment leading up to this—every inside joke, every early morning coffee, every soft look across a crowded room—they all rush back in like a wave crashing at once. and suddenly, it all makes sense. you’re still holding the bracelet in your hand like it’s fragile, sacred. like it holds your whole history woven between the threads.

as you take the bracelet from him, your fingers brushing against his, joshua looks at you—eyes full of something deep, something tender. there’s a quiet longing in the way his gaze lingers, like he’s been waiting for this moment all along, holding onto something bigger than just a question. it’s not the kind of look that just says “i love you”—it’s the kind of look that speaks to a lifetime. you feel your chest tighten at the weight of it, the tenderness of the unspoken words hanging in the air.

he watches you carefully as you fasten the bracelet around your wrist, his fingers lingering just a little too long when they touch yours. his smile is soft, almost wistful, and there’s a faint glimmer of vulnerability in his eyes, like he’s holding back, like he’s been waiting to ask you this for longer than either of you realize.

“it’s not a ring just yet,” he says softly, voice a little shaky, “not until you say yes.”

his gaze doesn’t waver from you, filled with the quiet ache of someone who’s ready to give everything, just waiting for you to take that step with him. your chest tightens, and your eyes blur. your heart—god, your heart is racing in the best possible way.

he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the actual ring box—simple, elegant, shining just like his smile when he kneels in front of you.

your hands fly to your mouth before you even realize it, lips trembling as your tears fall freely, but there’s no panic behind them. no hesitation. only something so sure it feels like gravity itself.

he’s kneeling, waiting. but not with fear in his eyes—just love. the soft, steady kind that’s always made you feel like you could finally breathe. you lower your hands, heart thudding like a drumbeat under your ribs, and blink away just enough tears to really look at him. and you say it—like it’s the only answer that’s ever made sense.

“yes,” you breathe, voice cracking from the tears. then again, louder. firmer. lighter. “yes, joshua. of course i’m saying yes.” you’re already nodding before you can stop yourself, laughing through your sobs, reaching for him because you just need to feel him. need to hold him. need him to know you mean it with everything in you.

his watery grin breaks into something helpless and radiant, and he stands up to wrap you in his arms, holding you like the world could fall apart and he’d still be okay as long as you’re here. you bury your face into his shoulder, clutching his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you from floating off into the stars.

you feel him slip the ring onto your finger with trembling hands, and it fits perfectly. and you whisper one more time, right against his ear, like a secret you’ve been carrying for years: “i’ve always known it was you.”

later that night, after the excitement, after the tears, after the thousand kisses and the way he tucked your hand in his like it was meant to be there forever—you sit out on the deck, gazing fondly at the stars and the shoreline below.

joshua steps out onto the deck, “ooh, careful, my love. hot, hot. hot!” a bowl of steaming hot ramen he carefully brought over to you.

his secret recipe. the one he made you on your third date, when it rained and every restaurant was closed. it’s not what someone would call fancy, not even close to the meal you just had—but it tastes like home. like all your shared laughter and late nights and whispered dreams rolled into one warm, savory bowl. a tradition at this point.

“still your favorite, right?” he murmurs, resting his head on your shoulder. you nod, tasting the broth, bringing the bowl down onto your lap, and nudging his side. “always.”

you’re curled up beside him on the wooden deck, barefoot and wrapped in the cardigan he swore you stole from him years ago (well, you never denied it). your legs are tucked under you, the bowl of ramen resting between the two of you. and even after everything—the private chef, the wine, the whole trip—this is the part of the night joshua loves most.

you, with sleepy eyes and ramen broth on your lip. you, still giggling every few seconds like you’re not sure this is real.

you’re his fiancée.

his heart thumps all over again.

he watches you sip from the bowl, humming quietly in approval. and that’s when it really hits him—not in the grand gestures or the spotlighted proposal—but here, in this tiny, tender moment. when you’re completely at ease, barefoot and glowing under the soft moonlight, still wearing every bracelet he made you like you just came out of a taylor swift concert.

oh, how he loves you. his deepest affections braided into every thread.

not in the fleeting, dizzying way he used to think love had to be. not like the songs that burn out by the third chorus. this is something else. something rooted and warm. love, to him, is you in this exact moment—humming with ramen in your mouth and one sock missing.

he can see it all in his head now, clearer than ever: mornings with your bedhead and grumpy pout, years from now. road trips where you fight over playlists and still end up singing together at the top of your lungs. anniversaries where you both forget the date and end up laughing on the couch with takeout. matching mugs. matching rings. the soft click of your shared key turning in the door

he thinks about how you always reach for his hand in your sleep, how you trace little hearts on his palm when you’re nervous, how your nose scrunches every time you tell a lie (you’re a terrible liar, by the way), how you say his name like it means something softer than just syllables.

he leans over, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “you’re really gonna marry me?” he asks, half-whisper, almost like he’s checking.

you glance at him, wide-eyed, soft smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “mm... i think i already did. haven’t we been married this whole time? maybe only i knew, though.” you huff proudly, flashing him a cheeky grin.

he laughs, breathless. the kind of laugh that comes from deep in his chest, where he’s been holding everything in since he met you.

she’s gonna be mine forever, he thinks. i get to love her for the rest of my life.

and he swears, in that moment, he’ll never take it for granted. not one second. not one sleepy morning or late night argument or grocery store trip or forehead kiss. he’ll love you through all of it—your quiet, your chaos, your every version. he’ll love you even when you leave your mug in every room of the house, even when you steal all the blankets, and even when you forget to charge your phone and panic about it three times a week. he’ll love you through the ordinary, and make it feel like magic.

because you’re it. his home. his heart.

and tonight, under the stars and surrounded by the bracelets you now wear like a timeline, joshua knows—there’s no version of forever he wants without you in it.

𐔌 . ⋮ taglist .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ @ateez-atiny380 @alien0n3arth @cuppasunu @dhaliaa1211 @seokminfilm

[majestyeverlasting]

Hello lovely <3

Can I please request a Joel miller x reader oneshot where the reader had a really bad run in with infected on a patrol and then when Joel comes home to find her all panicked he comforts her, gets her cleaned up and into bed .etc. ??

Thank you🥰

𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 | 𝐣𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

contains non-explicit nudity

Pairing Joel Miller x Female Reader

Summary After a brush with death while on patrol, Joel assures you and himself that you're still here as you wind down for the night [outbreak, fluff, 3.3k]

A/N Thank you so much for this amazing request, anon! This is my first fic of 2025, and I appreciate your patience as I took a little break to transition into the new year. I’ve decided to make this fic a part of the From Here on Out universe. I hope you guys enjoy! 

∘°∘♡∘°∘

Chatter and swells of laughter rest at a minimum amid the Tipsy Bison. Only half the usual Friday night patrons have trickled in so far, peppered around the establishment with drinks in hand. The air is thick with the scent of sharp spirits and stale beer. String lights cast everything in a dim, warm glow. 

Beneath the clunk of Joel’s booted footsteps, the floor is sticky. A few nods are directed his way as he saunters towards the bar, which he returns with a tip of his cowboy hat. In the ten months since he arrived in Jackson, he’d built up a reputation for himself. One that was revered and feared all the same. Fading into the background wasn’t an option anymore. 

If folks still didn’t know his name, they undoubtedly recognized him when he walked into the room. That easy, measured stride. Those brows oftentimes furrowed in thought. Those dark, knowing eyes that were humble enough to know he had a lot more to learn. 

The older man wiping down the counter tosses the rag over his shoulder as Joel approaches. Old stains are splotched down the front of his white shirt. But he’s happy to see Joel. A quiet, jazzy piano melody flows from the billiard room. 

“Howdy Clyde,” Joel drawls as he sits. A few barstools down, a pair of friends talk over beer. “You hiding Duke Ellington back there?” 

The man snorts with a shake of his head. “Good ol’ Dennis. Does this a few times a year,” he says. “Comes in, drinks, plays like it’s paying.” 

Joel gazes through the archway to where a couple people shoot pool. Dennis and the piano are just within sight.

“He ain’t too shabby,” Joel says. 

“Not at all,” Clyde agrees. “‘scuse me for a second.” 

Joel listens to the piano as Clyde goes to refill beers. 

He knows you’d appreciate Dennis’ playing. You were drawn to live music like a moth to a flame. Joel realizes then that he misses you. It’s a peculiar feeling that always seems to compound by the end of the day after being apart. You patrolled together when you could, but he’d been on the roster to volunteer at the community stables today. 

It was good, honest work. Peaceful too. There was no need to be on guard, and he didn’t have to talk to anyone unless someone was particularly keen on striking up a conversation. Being with the animals did a lot more for him than he’d ever expressed out loud. 

Back in front of Joel, Clyde braces his thick weathered hands on the counter, “So how’s Alamo? Came bearing good news for me, I hope.” An attentive furrow has formed between his bushy brows. 

Alamo, Cldye’s Stallion, was recovering from what the veterinarians diagnosed as a mild case of the flu. 

“He’s doing much better,” Joel assures. “Got him to eat and drink more than yesterday. He let me lead him around the corral for a couple laps.” 

Clyde’s eyes are grateful. “Thank God. I don’t know how you do it, man.” Joel smiles at the man’s relief.  “What can I get you?” He quirks his thumb to the wall of bottles behind himself. 

There’s a decent selection. Moonshine, applejack, mead—whiskey, which always sounds particularly good these days. 

Joel purses his lips in brief consideration before saying, “I’m okay tonight. Gotta get home to my lady.” 

Clyde hums in understanding. “Smart man,” he says. “I’ll catch you later.”

Outside, it’s cold enough for Joel to see the frost of his breath. People bundled in coats, hats, and scarves mill around because, despite the chill, it’s just another evening in Jackson. Snow still covers the ground from last week’s snowfall, and more is due any day now. The sky is white with promise as the last of the sun’s light lingers near the horizon amid dustings of pink. 

The community center buzzes with life as he passes by. A few people talk outside, and multiple heads can be seen through the windows. Just as he’s about to avert his gaze and continue on his way, his brother bursts through the doors. 

Tommy lifts his hand to signal him to wait even though Joel doesn’t intend to keep walking away. Relief is etched all across his face. 

“There you are,” he claps his gloved hand onto Joel’s shoulder. “You’re a hard man to find when you wanna be.” The slightly frazzled tone of his voice contrasts the casualness of his words. 

Worry stirs within Joel as he meets his brother’s gaze. “Hey. What going on?” 

Tommy wets his lips as he considers how to phrase the news. “Before you freak out, everybody’s alright,” he starts. “Just a bit shaken up.” 

Joel swallows the lump in his throat. He already knows it’s about you. He wishes he were wrong, but wishing never changed what his gut already knew was cemented in time. 

“Your girl and her patrol partner had a run in with some Clickers earlier this evening while they were out,” Tommy continues, and Joel’s jaw tricks. “No bites, thank God. And they managed to take ‘em all down.” 

An avalanche of guilty, frustrated, and relieved thoughts crash onto Joel all at once. Tommy loosely follows after him as he takes a few composing steps away to run a hand down his beard. Heat has risen in his face to the point where it almost doesn’t feel cold anymore. He can hear his heart in his ears.

“Where is she?” Joel finally asks. It almost sounds like there’s a small ball of cotton stuck in his throat. 

“At your place with Ellie. Her uncle Nate dropped by too,” he says. “She was askin’ for you, and I told ‘em you were on the way.”

It’s days like this that make Joel wish you hadn’t rejoined the patrolling rotation. With or without him. 

He’s is about to walk away, when Tommy adds, “She handled herself mighty fine out there. Both of  ‘em did.” 

•••

Death was no stranger to anyone in Jackson, but you’d never stared so directly into the face of a being that embodied such a definite, unyielding sense of finality. Never seen fungal decay so intimately that it made your skin crawl from the inside out. 

There had been four Clickers earlier that evening. Three taken out by your partner, Langdon, and the final one by you after tumbling to the ground. 

In your struggle, chunks of snow had crept into your jacket and dusted across your face. The bitter chill hardly registered from the moment your back hit the ground. Neither did the sound of your pistol firing as the hulking, distorted figure begin to crawl overtop of you. All you could hear was the sound of your own heartbeat like a heavy tribal drum in your ears. Endure, survive, endure, survive. 

Only after Langdon drug you from beneath the limp Clicker, and hauled you to your feet, did you realize you were releasing frantic sob-like whines with every exhale. 

The entire scene won’t stop playing in your head. Electricity still hums beneath your skin. 

“Joel should be here soon,” Ellie assures again, in part for herself. 

He was always better in situations like these. Always knew what to say because he’d lived these same horrors himself, not a handful of times like she had, but countless since 2003. When it came to providing comfort, she always felt as though she was blindly grasping for the next right thing to say or do. 

But you were grateful to have her here all the same. If nothing else, she knew how to sit and be present. And after being asked to share an account of what happened by countless members of the patrol board, being with her as you wait for Joel is the peace you need. 

When you notice the worried way she’s chewing on her lower lip, you reach out for the glass of water she’d sat on the coffee table for you. You take one shaky sip and realize you’re a lot thirstier than you though you were. You drain it in a few big gulps. Ellie straightens up with a sense of having something right. 

“I’ll go get some more,” she says, taking the cup from you. 

Creaks arise on the porch soon after she heads to the kitchen. Then comes the faint jingling of keys. Joel pushes through the front door with a concerned furrow between his brows. It smooths when his eyes fall on you sitting in the living room. 

You look as small as you feel.

Aside from the absence of the sparkle that usually shone in your eyes, you seem as alright as you can be. Which is a much better than the image he’d conjured up in his head, despite Tommy insisting you’d made it back in one piece. 

“Hey,” he greets, carefully, like he’s talking to animal seconds away from curling in on itself. Like that’s all the bass he can muster into his voice.

“Hi,” you murmur, eyes tracking him as he shrugs off his leather jacket and hangs it up. His hair is curled at his ears and a little disheveled when he takes his hat off. 

The floor creaks under his footsteps as he walks to occupy Ellie’s former place. Without uttering a single word, he wraps his strong arms around you and pulls you into his chest.

You press your nose into his shirt like there’s no other place it belongs. He smells faintly of sweat, but mostly of the outdoors. Like air and earth. Breath and constance. Life. So warm, you forget all about the chill that has crept into the room. 

Ellie’s relieved to walk back in to the sight of Joel sitting with you. Your eyes have fluttered closed, so you only hear the sound of the refilled glass being set on the table. Joel meets the girl’s gaze with an appreciative nod. Thanks, kid. You did good. 

“I’m supposed to volunteer at craft night, but I can stay,” she offers. 

You peek up from Joel’s chest. “It’s okay.” 

“Are you sure?” She asks, and you nod. 

“Thank you,” you say honestly. 

“I’ll make you something cool,” she promises. 

When the door clicks shut behind her, silence settles between you and Joel as you rest in his arms. You focus on the rise and fall of his chest, the faint, steady beating of his heart. It says he’s here, you’re here. 

Even with your body cradled in his arms, the thought of losing you haunts his consciousness. Makes tension root through his shoulders, until he takes one long inhale and lets it out. As if shedding the remnants of fear, and dispelling it from his being. 

You can feel him letting his anxiety go, only for it to manifest as guilt within your own chest. 

“We were being careful,” you say, then swallow because the next words are harder to get out,  “They—they came out of nowhere.” 

Apology plagues your tone, and he knows he’s the reason why.  

On more than one occasion, perhaps to his own fault, Joel expressed that he’d rather you not patrol. There were countless volunteer opportunities around the commune, but after meeting him, you expressed your desire to start going out again. 

For the first couple months, you were only ever partnered with Joel because he insisted. It became something you did together, getting to protect the people you love and absorb the beauty of Jackson beyond the commune limits. 

Slowly, he came around to the idea of you being partnered with different people as he picked up other volunteer work.  

Now that you’d had your first close call, you can’t help but consider the possibility that Joel had seen a certain weakness within you all along. Maybe you aren't as vigilant as you thought, or a skilled shooter, or truly capable of holding your own. If it had been Joel, the Clickers probably wouldn’t even of made it within a thirty yard radius before they were shot down—

“Sweetheart? Hey, look at me,” he pulls away so he knows he has your attention. Except, he hasn’t exactly pieced together what he wants to say. 

After releasing a breath, he meets your gaze with an apologetic look of his own. 

“I know you were careful.” His tone is warm with sincerity. “You ain’t gotta justify anything to me.” When you don’t say anything, he keeps talking, “I’m sorry if I made you feel that way.” His dark eyes are earnest, hopeful as they flit across your face. 

You nod, and he wants to believe you’ve let his words sink in. 

“There ain’t a single person in this commune who knows what’s gonna happen when they step outside those gates,” he says. “Best thing anyone can be is prepared, and that’s exactly what you were out there today.”

Joel’s not expecting a response, but he can tell he’s finally gotten through. 

He takes your hand in his and presses soft kisses over your knuckles. After letting go, he eases off the couch to kneel at your feet. You admire the slight hunch of his shoulders as he moves to untie your boots, the delicate way he handles the laces as if they’re somehow a fragile extension of you. 

When he’s done, you angle your feet to make it easier for him to pull the boots off. Even then, he doesn’t stand up. He stays on his knees so you’re eye to eye. 

“How’s a shower sound?” He gently squeezes your knee and waits to follow your lead. 

It’s an illusion of control he’s offering for your sake. Really, it’s all him. After everything today, all you want to do is let go. Follow someone you know you can trust. Someone who always knows how to lead the way.

•••

Joel gets the shower started and, before long, both of you have stripped to your undergarments. He watches as you begin to pull your sports bra over your head, and helps you on the tail end because the strong elastic won’t set you free. 

You don’t meet his gaze again until after you’ve stepped out of your panties. Joel’s eyes rove over you with a quiet, fond attentiveness, and you realize he’s looking for bruises or any sign you’re in pain. 

“I’m okay,” you manage a small smile. 

“Okay,” he says, then runs a hand through his hair as if he still hasn’t quite accepted that you are. His bicep flexes as he does. The expanse of his chest is broad, dusted with dark hair. 

“I promise.” 

Finally, he nods like he believes you. “Go ahead and get in. See you shivering.” The bathroom hasn’t quite warmed up yet, and the window is drafty. Joel makes a mental note to get it resealed. 

You waist no time doing just that. A deep hum escapes you as the water meets your skin. 

From behind the curtain, you can make out the outline of Joel’s figure as he pushes his boxers down his legs. Over the sound of the running water, you can just barely hear him gathering your clothes to go put them in the hamper. 

When he joins you, there’s a gentleness to the way he lathers your body with soap. A diligence. The steam lifting around you carries the light, earthy scent of lemon balm. You let him run the bath sponge along your arms as the warm spray of the shower patters onto your back. 

When he’s done, you wrap your arms around him so the front of your bodies are pressed together. Without pause, he graces the sponge across your shoulderblades before gliding it down your back. He continues all the way down the curve of your backside. You pucker your lips against the front of his shoulder in a pert kiss. He kisses your forehead in return. 

It’s a miracle your legs have held you up thus far. If you were to let yourself go limp, a small part of you likes to believe you’d somehow float. That’s how relaxed you feel. But you have half a mind not to test the theory. The thought makes you chuckle, and Joel peeks down at you with a budding smile of his own. 

“What?” he asks lightly, but you shake your head and close your eyes. “Don’t fall asleep on me.” 

“‘M’not,” you murmur. 

Joel hums in feigned disbelief.  “That doesn’t sound very convincing.” He puts a hand on your hip in a silent request for you to turn around. 

When you do, he snakes an arm around your waist. Behind you, he’s a promise. All muscle, warmth, and wet skin. He runs the sponge over your breasts before dipping down to gently run along the undersides.

Your eyes flutter closed again, just as he presses his soft lips to the pulse beating beneath your ear. The shiver that tumbles down your spine makes you lean back into him, and he’s right there holding you up, getting you clean, weaving you so surely into the fabric of the present. 

He lets you do the same for him. Allows himself to relish the gentleness of your touch. 

Touching his forehead to yours, his voice is thick as he whispers, “Glad you’re okay.” 

The two of you stay in the shower long after you’re clean. 

Until the water runs cold. 

•••

The mattress dips as Joel crawls into his side of the bed. Per your request, candles burn on both of your nightstands, bright enough to provide a glow to see each other’s faces. His warmth is behind you before long, chest to your back as he drapes an arm over your waist. It’s a reminder that he’ll never let go. 

The room is quiet aside from your breaths and the occasional creaks of the walls. You rest a hand over Joel’s to run your thumb over his skin and along the bumps of his knuckles. 

“I’m terrible,” you say all of a sudden. Joel shifts behind you, prepared to counter even without the full context, but you continue, “I never asked about your day.”

Joel gives you a squeeze. “Probably would’ve bored you to half to death anyways.” 

A small smile buds on your face. “Half alive is better than nothing,” you say. 

A chuckle rumbles through his chest, vibrating straight into you. You’d wage wars to hear that sound. Cross oceans to reach it again. Joel feels you shake with a small laugh of your own, and it further solidifies that you’re going to be alright. 

“Let’s see,” he decides to humor you after a brief moment of silence. You turn around in his arms and touch your feet to his beneath the sheets.

“Everything went well at the stables,” he says. “Alamo's doing a lot better. Stopped by the Tipsy Bison to tell Clyde on my way home.” You can hear the tiredness in his voice, making it gruffer. 

“Aww, really?” 

Joel hums and places a hand on your hip. He draws smalls circles with his thumb. 

“He’s such a beautiful horse,” you think aloud. His coat is as black as the night. 

“I’m starting to notice a pattern,” you slip your hand beneath the hem of Joel’s shirt to splay over his side.

“What might that be?” he asks. 

“You making everything better. People, animals...” 

Joel huffs an amused breath through his nose, but doesn’t say anything. Maybe not everything, but he sure as hell knows he’ll never stop showing up. 

You scoot closer to him and allow your lips to find his amid the candlelight. Slow and steady like you’ve got forever. 

-

Thank you so much for reading! All likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated. I promise I see them all. 

Check out the From Here on Out Masterlist for more of this reader and Joel.

GENERAL MASTERLIST

[hwallazia]

ARCH MY BACK LIKE THAT VIOLIN – 최산

⋆ synopsis. chosen to perform a violin solo for a xmas recital, he practices tirelessly at home. the haunting melody fills the air, but it’s the way his fingers move masterfully over the strings that stirs something deep within you, leaving you shifting in your seat. when his sharp gaze locks onto yours, he realizes exactly what kind of performance you’re craving—and he’s more than ready to deliver.

pairing. boyfriend! san & fem! reader.

wc. 2,8k

warnings. soft dom! san, slight switch! san towards the end tho, praise kink, slight teasing, begging, pet names (my love, princess, sannie & more), san refers to reader’s tits as his girls <3, nipple play/sucking, unprotected sex (we don’t sponsor that here!), clit play, finger fucking, masturbation (f! receiving), big cawk! san, bulge kink, dacryphilia, breeding kink, creampie, san makes reader squirt for the first time!! (but not the last tho heheh)

nic’s notes ⋆ yesss she’s here, third ff of the xmas event! i had such a good time writing thisss, i insanely love violinist! san ಥ⁠‿⁠ಥ

“love, it’s pretty late. c’mon, let’s go to sleep.” you soothed warmly, peeking from the door as you stared at the standing figure of your boyfriend.

“lemme practice this just one more time.”

san stood in front of his black metallic music stand, which held the endless sheet music of a christmas carol. swift, feline eyes wandered through the paper as his index finger shifted over it and stopped once his phalange covered a certain bar whilst his palm grabbed his precious, dark wooden violin. he muttered something under his breath that you couldn’t quite understand, and you stepped into the room, closing the door behind you. “you’ve said that for the past 45 minutes.”

“i knoww.” he whined as he glanced at you pleadingly. after a heavy sigh, san continued. “it’s just that i can’t get this thing right. i keep on messing up the notes and i don’t know why.” in a smooth motion, he left his violin on his desk, right next to its dark brown, matching case.

with a soft sigh, you walked towards him and stroked his sides before your palm reached to cup his right cheek, san immediately nuzzled into your loving hand as he closed his eyes, melting into you.

“my love, you already know how to play it perfectly. the hard part is over—you’ve practiced so much, and it shows.” your calm, soothing voice almost like a lullaby to him. “it’s just the nerves talking right now. tomorrow, once you’re up there, you’ll shine like you always do.” you got on your tippy toes and pressed a small, yet endearing kiss on his rosy cheek. you held his face in your hands. “trust yourself, okay? i believe in you.”

san stole the cute smile plastered on your face with a big, fat kiss. his thin lips melted into yours perfectly as his tongue made its way through your oral cavity —not even asking for permission before enveloping yours in a weird coil. the insides of your mouth tingled deliciously as you felt your limbs numbing from the exquisite and pleasant sensation.

he broke the kiss, yet a string of saliva hung there like a bridge, connecting your bottom lips. your dazed eyes opened and met your boyfriend’s intoxicating, lovely grin. wasn’t that man such a fool for you.

“i love you, y’ know that? so goddamn much.” he whispered right above your lips. he was being careful, afraid that if he even grazed them, he’d dive right in again.

“yeah.” your voice cracked, but you couldn’t care any less. ‘cause that’s the effect choi san has on you, he’d leave you breathless with wobbly legs in just a couple of seconds.

though that kiss may not have lasted long, it felt as if you had traversed the entire milky way in just five seconds.

san chuckled before pecking your reddened lips again. “i’ll just practice this last one. and i promise.” he stuck out his pinky, ready to intertwine it with yours.

you glanced at him with narrowed eyes. “no need to make promises. i’ll just stay here and make sure that it’s actually the last one.”

“fine then.” he headed to where he had left his instrument to grab it again and position it below his chin; slim fingers held the bow and placed it gracefully over the strings. meanwhile, you had made yourself comfortable on the couch placed at the corner of the room, waiting expectantly for your boyfriend to start playing a song.

san’s brown irises travelled across the sheet music once again, before he exhaled, cloed his eyes and started moving the bow masterfully over the strings. a very joyful and beautiful melody began to pour out of the soundbox, the notes reverberated throughout the entire space and created a perfectly charming ambience.

his body swung side to side like a seesaw as he played those notes to perfection, skillful phalanges wandered through the fingerboard, gracefully pressing the tensed strings and emitting those notes he studied so tirelessly.

he looked absolutely majestic. the way his body connected with the music, the way his mind followed every memorized sound and just went along with what sounded and felt right, the way his brows furrowed as he swayed the bow over the strings.

he was one with his instrument, and you loved him so much for that.

as your irises scanned his frame, you mindlessly focused on his fingers, which moved fast, yet calmly over the fingerboard. suddenly, the melodic sound of his violin was overshadowed by the voices in your head, who only screamed how badly you wanted his fingers to hold you, to touch you. by then, the christmas carol would only echo in your eardrums.

you were so drowned in that man’s fingers that you didn’t notice when his cat-like eyes opened and gyrated his rocking body to meet your sitting figure. your thighs automatically pressed against each other, in search of some relief, but it only sent stronger and more consistent sparks into your excited clit. your thoughtless self shifted in your seat, and that’s when san knew.

you were getting off on that.

swift, devilish irises accompanied the sinful smirk that struck his face. he lowered his eyelids once again and purposely skipped a whole pentagram.

he had to help his pretty girl out.

and yet, the man finished the song quickly and perfectly. his eyes fluttered open and glanced at your flustered self, dark irises peered into your warmed cheekbones and dilated pupils.

the melodic echoes suddenly vanished and you blinked, san’s dangerous gaze already burying loving holes into your surprised and anxious expression.

a low hum vibrated through san’s chest. “i’ll give that one to ya. you were right, i actually could do it.” he said before putting his instrument back in its case.

you recomposed quickly, clearing your throat before standing up and wrapping your arms around his neck, closing the space between you and melting into a fondling hug. “of course i was. i’m never wrong when it comes to you.”

his expression softened even more as he kissed the tip of your nose. “cheesy.”

“learned from the best.” your eyes disappeared into two adorable crescent moons as your smile grew wider; cheeks puffing. the sight almost made san’s nose bleed.

he hummed in agreement, and in a matter of a few seconds, something about his stare changed, something that didn’t go unseen by you. before you could scramble through all the possible answers, he bent his knees and reached for the back of your thighs to lift you up. your body jumped from the surprise and your hands quickly clung onto his neck and back when he started walking, carrying you in his arms as if you were a baby.

which was partially correct, ‘cause you were his baby.

“where’re we going?”

“to our bedroom, baby. you said we needed to rest, right?” he replied in a honeyed, yet low tone—the one he knows drives you up a wall. “‘nd i gotta thank my princess for helping me out.” he paused briefly. “it’s only fair i help you back. right, baby?”

thanks to his long steps, you entered your shared bedroom in no time. san cautiously laid your body flat over the mattress, completely sprawled out in front of him.

“h—help me? what d’ya mean?” your blushed face scanned his, and you finally found the arousal lit inside his feline eyes.

“y’ think i didn’t notice you clenching your thighs together when i was playing the violin just now?” he purred into your ear as those fingers you oh so much desired glided over your upper thighs, painfully making their way down in slow motion

“i— i mean, i was feeling cold.” you blurted out. “it’s too damn cold in your studio, you’re mixing things up!”

your whining only made san’s smirk grow bigger. “oh sweetheart, we both know it wasn’t ‘cause of the cold.”

he patted your thigh softly, indicating you to lift your hips a tad. “lemme get you outta these.” you obeyed and he withdrew your black panties smoothly. you reminded yourself to enjoy your last minutes with your short satin nightgown because you knew that it was going to be the next fabric to fly through the air.

“what’re you getting all shy for, hm?” he asked endearingly as he adjusted his position so he could be perfectly between your legs, a strange kind of mercy pouring out from every syllable he mouthed.

“‘s just embarrassing that i’m horny from only you moving your fingers. ‘s ridiculous, i feel like a teenager.” you spouted as the red on your face intensified. quick fingers covered the warmed skin of your face, but even quicker fingers tore them away.

“ohhh baby.” he cooed at you. “and why’s that embarrassing?” he muttered as he swiped his fingers up and down your dampened folds. a delicious spark ignited along your back, making it arch slightly, as goosebumps began to rise at the ghostly touch of his fingertips. “after all,” his fingers stopped wandering around. “you’re getting them wherever you want.”

he whispered lowly and pushed two fingers inside, unhurriedly twisting and turning them around. his digits were dug into a quite familiar place, and san already knew where to guide them. just as if he had studied your pussy to perfection.

meanwhile, you felt full, panting steamy puffs. with your head turning to the side, you mewled endlessly. “ughh sannieee, ‘s too slow.” you complained, your voice barely above a whisper, too shy to meet his gaze, your eyes darting nervously elsewhere.

he tsked and spanked the flesh of your outer thigh softly. “you know better than to ask for things that way, babe.” he spoke in a gravelly manner. “c’mon. be a good girl and look at me.”

with a big gulp, your eyes found the strength to meet his devilish stare. a proud smirk was drawn across his face. “that’s it. now, what do you need, love?”

“f—faster.. please, sannie.” you whimpered softly, praying he’d show some mercy and not tease you throughout the entire night.

because as much as you were embarrassed to admit it, it was true. you needed him. and right fucking now.

“that’s my girl.”

and who is he to deny you your wish. he immediately rammed his slim fingers into your slit, angling them differently every time as he tried to hit all the right places, and that special, gummy spot was soon found and stroked deliciously. a loud cry escaped your lips when he pressed his fingertips against your g-spot. san grunted as your moans sent sparks right to his hardened, restrained cock. he exhaled harshly as he grabbed the corner of your dress. “get this off, wanna see my girls.”

both of you messily got rid of that fabric san would describe as annoying. now, with nothing else that could stop him, he latched his lips onto your perked nipple, sloppily swirling his tongue all around the bud whilst his free hand attended the other one.

he wasn’t going to neglect any part of you.

meanwhile, you were an unleashed whining and writhing mess underneath him. your chest heaved with every breathless sound you emitted. you felt like he was eating you alive, any of his actions saturating every inch of your being, causing your skin to tingle helplessly.

if that was how heaven felt like, you’d beg god to never let you leave that moment.

‘cause fuck. you felt him everywhere. the tip of his tongue and finger gliding over your nipples, his digits pounding your messy, wet pussy, drenched with that creamy white essence. you could sense it all at the same time, and it was about to tip you over the edge.

he pulled away from your swollen nipple for a moment. “i feel you tightening around my fingers. you ‘bout to cum, princess?” he whispered in a velvety tone, one that made your eyes roll all the way back to your skull. and he didn’t let that go unnoticed. “oh you’re so pretty when you’re about to cum, rolling your eyes back. am i filling you up that good, babe?” a loud and broken whimper was all he got as a response, and at that, he chuckled deeply. “guess i am, huh?” he pressed a little kiss on your cheek, which was covered in a light layer of sweat. though san couldn’t care less. “what a pretty girl you are, coming all undone for me. how did i get this lucky, hm?”

something unknown stirred inside you—something that could be compared with the sensation of wanting to pee. an alert rang inside you, and your shaky hands tried to tear san’s hands off your body. “s—sannie. sannie, love. i need to- ngh! please, wait—ahh fuck!” you desperately cried out loud, dying of embarrassment already.

“let me make you cum first, sweetheart. you’re so close already.” he cooed at you before attaching his thumb toyour clit and start rubbing it in circling motions. with a broken scream, you felt liquid gushing out of you in a strange way, like a spray.

you exhaled breathlessly, soundless pants pouring out your mouth. your dazed eyes couldn’t focus appropriately, they just wandered around the room dizzily. after a moment, you could reorganize your thoughts and, at least, muttered an understandable sentence. “wh.. what happened.”

signs of confusion described your expression and san only stood there, wordlessly admiring your state. he blinked twice before speaking again. “you fucking squirted.”

“what? i squirted?”

“yeah you did, attagirl.” he trapped you between his strong, muscly arms, his frame completely covering yours. dark, sinning eyes analyzed every bit of your flushed, blissed-out expression quietly. “now on my cock.”

“i don’t even how i did that, san!” you squealed as your hands reached up to cover your shining face.

“me neither. i guess we’ll just figure it out together.” he hummed lowly. “give me six rounds.”

your eyes shot open as you separated your fingers, your eyes now visible from the crack of them. “six?!”

trembling knees and arms tried their best to support you, but san pounding you from behind wasn’t helping. your jaw hung open as loud cries and broken whimpers escaped your swollen lips helplessly, your eyes could no longer focus, and you had given up on trying to adjust your vision. san grabbed a fistful of your hair and arched your back into a perfect obtuse angle. “that’s fucking it.”

his name left your mouth like an endless mantra. every thought of yours screamed san and how good he was fucking you. “sannie” you blurted out his favorite nickname. “y’r so fucking deeeep.” tears started streaming down your face, and that drove san crazy.

“you crying? ohhh” he cooed mockingly. “y’r so— ugh fucking gorgeous when you c-cry, look at that.”

he let go of your hair and your head fell down immediately. his now free hand reached down your belly whilst he kept on hammering his big cock into your tight, gushing pussy. he pressed his palm flat against it and you lost it. an almost pornographic moan was heard from you. “can you feel me, love? feel me filling your tight little pussy all the way up?” he groaned as he sensed his cock emptying your belly and fulfilling to perfection, not leaving blank spaces. “attagirl. taking all my cock just like that like my good girl.” a loud spank reverberated through the steamy air.

you clenched around him helplessly as your quivering fingers struggled to grasp the messy white sheets. “c—cum, sannie, cum for me, please.”

you were begging for him to come? that immediately pushed san off the abyss. “y’ wan’ me to cum? wan’ me to breed you? ‘s that what it is, baby?”

you couldn’t formulate any answer, only vague and useless mewls poured out of you. so san kept on talking. “answer me, love.” he smashed his hips against the flesh of your wet ass. “i’ll only cum if you s—say so.” he exhaled a whine. he whined. “you’ll let me, r-right?”

oh how have the tables turned.

“yeah, my sannie. fill me up.” you managed to mutter.

“thank you—thankyouthankyouthankyou.” with just a few more thrusts, he emptied himself inside your warm, gummy walls with a loud grunt, coating your cunt in a pretty shade of white. when he pulled out to paint your ass with his shooting ropes of cum, a turbulent cascade sprayed out your pussy, soaking him up.

a proud, slightly tired smile appeared across his face. “i made you squirt again.” he muttered before lying down. he manhandled you like a doll so you could be laying on his chest.

you sighed breathlessly. “you sound like a toddler beating his brother in mario kart.”

he giggled. “it’s so mesmerizing though, being the only one who can make ya squirt like that.”

you lifted your head to look at him with confusion written all over your face. “what do you mean ‘like that’?”

“babe that thing’s a cascade. like it just sprays everything everywh—“ your hands quickly reached up his mouth and sealed it.

“okay babe, we get it. save the detail.” you deadpanned.

| masterlist

[yeagerprincess]

the fandom may be dead, but my love for Sal is eternal

Jealous!Sal Fisher x reader

Something about that guy just made Sal's fucking blood boil. The way he nudged you on the shoulder when he made you laugh, the way he'd talk about your hobbies and interests as if Sal didn't already know you like the back of his hand. He hated the way that asshole dangled his friendship with you right in front of his face, like he was taunting Sal with the idea of being close with you. And most of all, he fucking hated the way you didn't seem to notice. Always laughing off his dumb little antics under the excuse of "that's just how he is."

"I don't like the way he talks to you," Sal blurted out one evening as he lazily strummed at his guitar, keeping his eyes locked on the strings rather than on you. You looked up from your sketchbook, head tilted in confusion. "Who?"

"You know who. I don't like all those weird jokes he's always making when I'm around." Earlier that morning, you'd all decided to grab coffee together when your "childhood friend" covered your part of the bill, and no one else's, arm draped around your shoulders as he "jokingly" declared how a man must always provide for his woman. Sal had been strangely silent after that, to the point that even Larry called him on it and asked if he wanted to go home instead.

Sal sighed to himself and continued strumming away at his guitar, filling the air with sad, melancholic melodies to soothe his aching heart. "Oh, come on," you teased, "he's like that with everyone! Even with Larry!"

"Not with me."

You giggle. "What, are you jealous or something?"

"Big time," he admitted bluntly, cyan eyes still glued to his guitar. You started to fire up a round of your usual playful banter, but something seemed off this time. That silly little glint in his eye was long gone. His voice was monotonous, serious. You've never seen him so hardened before and it worried you. You slowly crawl towards him on the carpet, making him lift his gaze for just a second before returning his attention to his music. Music was always his go-to escape, and you loved that about him.

"Sal," you call quietly, but doesn't look up this time. He seems a bit embarrassed, shy even. He doesn't meet your gaze, even as you're sitting on your knees right in front of him. You lift your hands and place your fingers on his knees, gently caressing his skin with your thumbs as you whisper, "I'm sorry."

Finally, his eyes meet with yours. He stares expectantly, making your heart dance in your chest. "I really am. I guess I'm just so used to him acting that way that I didn't realize how much of a jerk he was being."

"Shouldn't be friends with jerks," he murmurs, then strums another slow, sad melody on his guitar. You sigh. "You're absolutely right, Sal. You're my boyfriend, not him. I should have told him to lay off a long time ago."

"And you should have let me cover the bill."

Sal's eyes dart back at you as you let out a loud, hearty laugh, making him smile underneath his prosthetic. Your laughter echoes, even after the notes from his guitar have faded. He's always loved that about you. "Yes, Sally Baby, I should have let you cover my bill." He always loved it when you called him that. For once, he thanked the stars for his prosthetic, for concealing the deepening blush on his cheeks. But even with it, his reddening ears are still a dead giveaway. You lean forward and kiss him on his cheek, leaving a black lipstick stain on his prosthetic. "Forgive me?"

When you hear a romantic, sensual melody easy its way from Sal's guitar, you know you've been forgiven.

[willyoubemycherryy]

What I hear now… (Salesman x reader)

Summary: Piano strings thrum in place of the ones belonging to your heart; playing a requiem for feelings that were never supposed to bloom or even make it.

Contains: angst, hurt, longing, conflicted feelings, music, confusion, he likes you in a way that isn’t homicidal and struggles to deal, you’re just emotional, fear and hopelessness with a few flickers of comfort

A/N- this is how I’m coping with TikTok being banned. I miss everyone so much right now. Cried writing this so I’m sorry.

｡ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶‌ ₊ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶‌ ｡˚ ｡ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶‌ ₊ ˚ ︶︶

This was new.

Tentative breaths shake the atmosphere of the unfamiliar space as you try to quietly adjust. You don’t even remember how you got here, to his apartment but here you are. It’s comfortable, furnished and organized with monochromatic colors and a piano in the middle of the large space and that’s when you remember.

You’d asked him after one of your trysts if he had any secret talents. The question- like you- was unusual but he answers out of the barb-teethed fondness he’s grown for you.

“I’m quite good on the piano.”

Your eyebrows shoot to your hairline at the unexpectedness and you wonder if anyone who’s ever known him knows about his hidden gift.

“You’ve gotta play for me one day.” It’s the first time he’s heard that word without any of the usual foreboding. Play. He can’t recall the last time he ever has in such a meaningful way. He surprises himself by agreeing, nodding with one of his pretty disarming smiles.

“Sure. Maybe I’ll even sing for you too.”

And that’s how you got here. Laying on plush carpet as you lean up on your elbows, next to the large piano as you watch the man sitting at its keys. He’s in a simple dress shirt with the forearms rolled up, black slacks and grey socks. Less put together as strands of hair fall in his face but still beautiful and you feel your heart ache. He shuffles closer before glancing down at you, smiling with the side of his mouth then turning back to the instrument. Seconds later music fills the quiet space around you, stopping your heart before it jumps to your throat as your recognize the melody from the first few notes alone.

He hears your gasp and knows you know exactly what song he’s playing but he doesn’t stop to taunt you- instead he keeps playing. Notes growing in volume then tempo as they spin over each other, cascading in and out of depth before they descend. You go still with wide eyes as you listen, lips shaking from the onslaught of sudden emotion and you swear you hear the words as he shatters your defenses with sure, precise fingers on ivory keys; leaving you bare in all the ways that matter and it’s as mesmerizing as it is heartbreaking.

It was a dangerous dance feeling what you’re feeling for him because he was so limited in both heart and character.

You still didn’t even know what he did for a living but you became familiar with him anyways, what was a fun convenient thing bled into something more with each time he sought you out.

The quiet life you maintained was like a soothing balm to the mangled parts of him he’d given up on healing years ago; accepting that he was just too far gone.

But then there was suddenly you. Scolding him on the train that he “shouldn’t bully the misfortunate” or else one day he’d wake up ugly and even agreeing to play one of his games only the beat him the first and only time you did, refusing to entertain him. Sticking your tongue out at him before getting off at your stop.

“Not hot shit now are you? Dirtbag…”, glaring with a curled lip as you walked off. Maybe it was then. You picked an issue with him not for profit but to stand up for someone you didn’t even know and he couldn’t wrap his head around it. So, he settled for his arms instead and you were nice but nicer when he was nice too and it gave him a glimpse into the other side of life. One he’d never given a thought to.

Yes; he might be able to live with you one day but he could never stay and you could never know why. He refused to drown you in the heavy blood of his world.

When he winds the chorus back, and you find yourself close to tears as you listen to each key; phantom lyrics ringing in your ears.

“I used to hear a simple song,

That was until you came along.

You took my broken melody-

and now I hear a symphony.”

You close your eyes to stop the water because when it rains it pours and against everything, unfortunately- you like him.

The final string of notes soften their crescendo as the song ends and silence fills the space once again. Even with the music gone, you still feel like crying.

He really was quite good on the piano.

You can’t keep your eyes closed forever though but when you open them, he’s already looking at you and your misty eyes, cooing at the tremble in your bottom lip.

“Aw. You’re sensitive to music too-?” You ignore the flippancy in his tone as you cut him off, voice small when you throw caution to the wind for the comfort you so desperately need right now before you fall apart wanting to keep something that was decaying.

“Can I please have a hug?”

Your request shocks him enough to knock his usual ever-present grin off his face for a minute before he wordlessly slides down to where your sitting on the floor, watery eyes firmly fixed onto the carpet before he pulls you into his lap, wrapping you in his arms and you stiffen before melting into him with a sigh, burying your head in his chest.

He doesn’t say anything. If he did, it would end in disaster because he’s never comforted anyone honestly in his life. He could’ve ignored you but he found he didn’t want to, instead he let you need him- wanted you to need him as he consoled you.

You were so unlike him. So different from the strife he normally caused and he wasn’t sure what to do.

“If I knew it would’ve upset you so much, I’d have said something pointless like solving a rubix cube.” You snort at that and the sound gives him a strange sense of relief.

“It’s fine, I’m not upset so don’t worry. It’s not like you.” He stays silent because he knows. He knows any kind of concern that comes from him is abnormal but it’s you.

“Getting soft on me-“

“I could make you cry again if that’s what you’d prefer?”

You two bicker way too casually for the amount of gaps in your relationship but somehow it fits, driving you to settle into him more with a deep breath, enjoying his scent. Neither of you knew what was going on but you’d cross that bridge when it got to burning. For now though;

“You can do that later but let’s just stay like this for a little while longer?”

“….”

“..alright.”

[hypotheticalkiss]

CLOSE ENOUGH TO BURN | JK [00]

You always carried dreams too big for your small town on the east coast — a place caught between the sea and the mountains, between reality and something softer, more distant. And your dream was clear: to become an artist, someone who could inspire a generation, just like you had once been inspired. Your place was on stage, singing the songs you wrote in the stillness of sleepless nights, in the dark quiet of your room.

But you didn't expect that once you got there, once the lights found you, you'd meet someone who understoo — the fear, the hunger, the ache. You didn't expect your heart to race louder than the notes in your songs. And what do you do when a feeling threatens everything you've fought so hard to build?

⊹ ࣪ ˖ PAIRING: jungkook x (fem.) reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ TAGS: mature language and content, yearning & longing, miscommunication, ups and downs of idol life and fame, pining, it's gonna be a journey!

⊹ ࣪ ˖ GENRE: idol!jungkook & idol!reader, slow burn, friends to lovers, fluff, smut, slice of life, celeb au, angst

PLAYLIST I MOODBOAD

⊹ ࣪ ˖ A/N: hi, i'm julia and this is close enough to burn! i'm been thinking about writing this history for while now, since 2023, and finally i have the guts to actually write. and i wanted to do a summary of this story first, i love angst and stories with miscommunication that span through years, and i decided to do my own. and i wanted to develop human characters, who make mistakes and get things right, and fall in love and are afraid and worried. i really like this story and i hope you do too! expect a slow burn, idiots who are in love with each other but can't see it so clearly and the ups and downs of fame, and how much a dream can cost. i really like this history and i hope y'all like it too ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪

PROLOGUE: First Notes

Gangneung, 2009

You wrote your first lyrics when you were thirteen, after spending days obsessed with a song you heard on the radio while your mom was driving you to school. “Don’t Know Why” was playing softly in the background on a quiet, uneventful morning when the second verse caught your attention — and that one line stayed with you all throughout the school day. Of course, you didn’t fully grasp the depth of its meaning back then, but you loved it so much that you wanted to create something just like it.

You started listening to Norah Jones every single day, and each day you tried to write something similar. But it always felt like something was missing — maybe a melody. So you devoted endless hours to learning the guitar. Your father, a longtime music enthusiast, had one at home, and one afternoon you managed to learn four chords. That alone was enough to light a spark in your eyes like never before.

You were beyond excited, and you dedicated every day after that moment to it — plucking the strings, trying to make sounds, or at least trying to. Every day, the moment you stepped into your house and felt the warm wooden floor beneath your feet, the first thing you did was run to your room, grab the guitar — now yours — and start playing. Your house wasn’t old or overly modern, just warm and cozy. The simplest room in the house was yours: light-colored walls, a low bed, and a large window overlooking the backyard and your dad’s pseudo-garden.

There was a study desk that held most of the mess — scattered books, crumpled or scribbled papers, and your beloved journal. The wall behind it was covered in posters, pictures of you, your friends, and your parents, and with all kinds of collages — your own little world.

Right next to it sat the guitar, once your father’s and now your favorite thing in the world. You spent countless afternoons with it, not worrying about anything except a chord, a progression, or maybe a melody. After listening to what was supposed to be the pleasant sound of strumming strings for so long, your dad decided it was time to teach you how to really play. Before long, you were in love.

Music was your passion, the guitar was your partner, and your lyrics were your love letters — or maybe something a little less dramatic than that. After all, there aren’t that many thrilling things for a thirteen-year-old to write about. But for you, there were. You wrote about everything: your cat, a chubby, lazy gray Scottish Fold with brown eyes named Tteok, one of your comfort foods.

You wrote about your school days, about the weird hairstyle that one girl in your class insisted on wearing, a song about your mom, or your dad, or sometimes both, and the life you lived in Gangneung — wrapped in a soft mist with the sound of waves in the background. Sometimes, it felt like your town existed outside of time, like nothing there needed to change too quickly.

And your parents loved your songs. Your mom would say you were incredibly creative and quick-witted. Slowly, they started to see that there was something more to this — maybe it wasn’t just a hobby or a phase. You and music had started to exist together, and neither of you seemed ready to let go.

It was an ordinary Saturday. You had finished all your tasks for the day and had gone to your best friend Jiwoo’s house. Her parents were in a chaos of fights that seemed to have no end, and you always kept her company so she could forget about an imminent separation. The two of you spent the afternoon watching Twilight, a shared obsession ever since you first saw the movie in theaters. Posters of some characters were already up on your walls, and you both sighed dramatically whenever you stared at them for too long.

You were lying on the living room floor, wrapped in a navy blue blanket, your feet cold despite the thick socks. It was December, and winter had already settled in — icy sea winds blew in from the east coast, and snow had started to fall. Your hands wrapped around a worn mug filled with ginger tea, the same one your mom always made — a little ritual you had at the start of every winter.

On Jiwoo’s old TV, a music program was playing — your latest obsession. You watched them every day, getting excited over the singers, who you soon learned were called idols, performing and singing. Sometimes, you just wanted to be like them — extraordinary. Watching those people sing and dance made your eyes light up, but deep down, you believed you’d never be like them. You didn’t think you had enough talent. Jiwoo even had a favorite group — 2PM — and she never stopped talking about them.

You liked some groups too. It was fascinating to watch those performances, to witness all that talent, and to imagine how hard it must have been for them to get there. But the song that caught your attention the most wasn’t from a group with flashy performances or complex choreography — it was from a woman.

She was allone on stage, wearing a white dress, she looked like she was floating through a mist. It was breathtaking. And then, she sang one of the saddest songs you had ever heard. Her voice was sweet, yet strong. You felt your eyes welling up with tears. You didn’t fully understand what she was singing about — you hadn’t gone through that experience yet — but somehow, it felt like you had.

You felt every word that woman sang, as if she was singing just for you. And something stirred in your heart — a feeling unlike anything you’d felt before. You wanted to be like her. You wanted to move people with nothing but lyrics, music, and your voice. You wanted them to feel with you what you were feeling with her. You wanted to be an artist.

“I want to be like her.” It came out like a whisper, a prayer, a promise — and a wish.

At fourteen, you started applying to every audition possible — almost every day, you recorded videos of yourself singing and playing instruments for any company that had open applications. Your mom and Jiwon helped you edit and send the recordings, and your dad even bought a camera just to film the videos. When the auditions were in person, your parents would drive you all the way to Seoul and wait outside with a corn dog and a smile.

You already played the guitar like a pro and took piano lessons three times a week. You also had singing lessons on Tuesdays and Thursdays in the afternoon. Your vocal coach was a middle-aged woman named Mi-sook — she was extremely strict but had more faith in you than anyone else. She rarely gave compliments and always pushed you to your limits. She was an amazing teacher, and you were lucky to have her.

The studio where she gave lessons was small and sat above a ballet school that her sister owned. Lessons always took place by a long black grand piano, aged and worn; its ivory-white keys had turned yellow with time, but still, you had never heard a sound so beautiful.

You practiced pitch, projection, breathing, and diction. Sometimes, you left the class barely able to speak. Your throat would sting, your eyes would burn, and you’d feel a strange weight in your chest, like you were chasing something still out of reach. Mi-sook said it was normal — “your voice is a muscle, and every muscle hurts when it grows” — and you believed her. You never dared to complain, because even with all the strictness, there was a quiet care in her gestures. When she saw you were on the verge of emotional exhaustion, she would simply put on a song and let you sing freely. During those moments, she’d sit beside you, eyes closed, listening as if every note mattered.

Your schedule was intense. In the mornings; you went to school, in the afternoons; you had singing and piano lessons, and somehow, you still found time to help your parents at their grocery store, which served the whole neighborhood. You barely had time to see Jiwoo, and she loved to complain about how her best friend had abandoned her. She could be quite dramatic, but deep down, she understood what you were doing and supported you completely.

Sometimes, you’d stand at the cash register with your headphones still hanging around your neck and your school notebook stuffed with folded sheet music. The floor always smelled like bleach and spices, and the sound of plastic packages scanning mixed with your mother’s voice calling out for more change. It was a familiar kind of chaos — cozy and known — you knew every corner of that place, from the always-tilted shelf to the register that jammed when it got too hot.

Even when exhausted, there was something comforting about the store’s routine. It was the place that grounded you, even when your mind was off dreaming about being a famous singer on stage, performing for thousands. Your dad would give you a quick smile when you arrived and sometimes leave a peeled tangerine in a little container by the register. “So you won’t skip meals again,” he’d say, in that practical way of showing love.

Jiwoo sometimes came to keep you company, especially when her house turned into a war zone — her parents fought constantly. It was hard to go a full day without some kind of argument. You didn’t quite understand how a couple could be like that. Sure, your parents argued too, but they always worked it out. You tried to be there for her; it was clear how much the situation affected her.

“I think if there was a Guinness World Record for longest continuous argument, my parents would win it easily,” she said, leaning on the counter while opening a bag of seaweed snacks — her favorite.

You gave her a sad smile. That must’ve been a terrible way to live. “Are they arguing again?” you asked while sorting some money at the register.

She shrugged, chewing.

“They always find something. From where my dad left his shoes to some ridiculous thing my mom bought. I stopped trying to keep up.”

You closed the cash drawer and locked it, stuffing the money into an envelope to hand to your mom. Then you shut down the computer and looked at Jiwoo again.

“Do you want to sleep over and watch an episode of You're Beautiful?" You asked as you picked up the seaweed snack and popped a piece into your mouth.

“I’ll sleep over, but only if your mom makes sundubu!” Jiwoo replied with a mischievous grin. She leaned on the counter with her elbows and made an exaggerated pout. “But it has to be her special version — with the soft tofu, warm white rice, and the pickled radish banchans, you know I love.”

You laughed, taking the key from your pocket. “I’ll ask her now. But if she’s in a bad mood, that’s on you.”

“If she’s in a bad mood, I’ll do the dishes. And you give her a shoulder massage. It’ll work, trust me,” Jiwoo said, grabbing her backpack and following you out the door. “Today, we cry watching episode five. I feel it.”

It was early March. Winter was slowly leaving, the cold air still lingered in Gangneung, making a slow, unhurried farewell. The sky was pale blue and clear, and the wind from the sea carried that salty, damp smell that clung to your skin.

You could still see traces of snow everywhere — little remnants in the corners of streets and sidewalks, memories of the winter that was on its way out. It was a strange feeling, like time was moving too fast, and yet you didn’t quite know how to feel about it.

School had already started — high school now — and it was weird to think about that. Your mom kept saying how grown-up you looked, and it stirred something restless inside you. You wanted to grow up, wanted to make all your dreams come true, but at the same time, it left you paralyzed.

It wasn’t exactly fear, but a mix of everything that was coming. You weren’t afraid of growing up — maybe what scared you was losing control. You felt like you were about to step into something bigger than yourself, and somehow, that made you feel vulnerable.

You kept auditioning. You were getting positive feedback — people praised your voice and the fact that you could write songs and play instruments — but no approvals came. You started to think maybe this dream was too far-fetched, and sometimes, desperation would creep in, and you’d only be able to picture a future you couldn’t quite grasp. It felt like chasing a mirage, and the closer you walked, the farther it seemed.

Life went on as usual — school, music lessons, helping at the store, and in your free time, writing every song you could. The guitar was your escape valve, the piano keys, your sanctuary. It was in the silence of your room, late at night, when everyone else was asleep, that you could pour your feelings onto paper.

Until one day, when you received the news that would change your life forever.

It was a quiet afternoon in Gangneung. The wind still carried a chill, but the city was slowly saying goodbye to winter and welcoming the promise of warmer days. It was mid-March, and spring was beginning to show its colors.

You were sitting on the couch, Tteok in your lap, purring while you petted him. He had been extra clingy lately. You were working on a school project — one you had, unfortunately, left to the last minute. The phone rang, and your dad, who was in the kitchen, rushed to answer it, drying his hands on a dish towel. His voice rang loud, as usual, but something shifted in his tone when he responded.

“Yes, this is Mr. Lee… Ah, yes, she’s here.”

You looked up, confused. He covered the phone with his hand and spoke with a barely-contained smile.

“It’s for you. Is that company that tou auditioned for in February, remember?… Dalbit.”

Your heart jumped.

You stood up quickly, causing Tteok to complain about the sudden loss of attention and warmth. You whispered sorry and walked over to your dad, heart pounding in your chest.

“Hello…” Your voice came out small and unsure.

“Hi, how are you?! Y/N is this you?” asked a man on the other end. You recognized the voice but couldn’t remember who it was — nerves had taken over.

“Yes, it’s me. Good afternoon.”

“Y/N, I’m calling to let you know and congratulate you — you’ve been accepted. We want you as a trainee at our company.”

The world stopped for a second. Your eyes widened. Your dad stood in front of you, anxious. The words hadn’t quite sunk in yet — had you really heard that?

“You… are you sure?” you asked, not realizing your voice was already choked with emotion.

“Absolutely. We’ll also send an email with more details, but we wanted to call you personally. You really impressed us!”

The compliment brought tears to your eyes, and your dad broke into the biggest smile in the world. After the call ended, he pulled you into a tight hug, nearly lifting you off the ground, shouting with joy. The noise brought your mom to the kitchen doorway, still holding a towel and looking alarmed. But she didn’t even finish her sentence. She stopped in her tracks when she saw you — phone in hand, eyes brimming with tears — and your dad laughing with quiet tears streaming down his face too.

“I did it!” you said as they wrapped you up in a hug, protective and warm, like they were holding the whole world in their arms.

You called Jiwoo, and she ran to your house. When she saw you, she threw her arms around you, shouting with excitement. “I can’t believe I’m going to have a famous best friend!” She was dramatic, as always, but her eyes said it all: she was proud, happy, and already feeling the distance.

Some neighbors who heard the news stopped by the store to congratulate you. And your teacher Mi-sook left you a handwritten letter at the studio — a neatly folded piece of paper that read:

“Keep singing like your life depends on it." written in her elegant handwriting. It made you smile.

In the days that followed, you packed your suitcase carefully. A few clothes, a composition notebook — the place where all the compositions were written, you most precious possession, the guitar that now belonged to you, and a small box of keepsakes — a seashell from the beach, photos with Jiwoo and your parents, your childhood teddy bear, and your journal.

Your room slowly emptied out, but your mind didn’t.

The mood at home was a mix of joy and longing — both feelings quietly present in every shared moment between you and your parents. They were proud, but also scared about you being alone in a big city like Seoul. You tried to act confident, but deep down, fear had made its home in you too.

You thought about everything — what waited for you in Seoul, the people you wouldn’t see as often, the life you wanted now, and how your dream suddenly felt just a little bit closer. And on the nights when you couldn’t sleep, and anxiety overtook you, you found yourself asking: am I really good enough?

And then the day came. The car was full, but quiet. Your mom held your hand in the front seat. Your dad kept his eyes on the road. The radio played some song that ended up becoming the soundtrack of that moment. And you watched Gangneung fade into the background.

When the signs for “Seoul” started to appear, your heart pounded harder.

It was a huge city, full of tall buildings and fast steps, but also full of possibilities — your possibility's. You would be staying in a small apartment with other girls around your age. You were happy not to be entirely alone, but also nervous to meet new people.

The building was in a quiet neighborhood. Simple, but cozy. You went up to the floor they’d told you, hands sweating and heart racing. Your parents helped you with your bag, and one of the other trainees opened the door and pointed you to your room.

It was real — you were in Seoul. You were a trainee. Your dream had just begun.

— i hope you enjoy the prologue, if you wanna be add in the taglist just comment 👇🏻✨ and i wanna hear y'all thoughts 💭

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Speech Development

Several stages of development have been distinguished in the first year, when the child develops the skills necessary to produce a successful first word.

FIRST 2 MONTHS

Apart from the cry patterns associated with hunger, pain, and discomfort, the first 2 months of life display a wide range of primitive vocal sounds reflecting the baby’s biological state and activities – as in the ‘vegetative’ noises heard while eating and excreting.

Some of the most basic features of speech, such as the ability to control air flow and produce rhythmic utterance, are being established at this time.

BETWEEN 6 & 8 WEEKS

There emerge the sounds generally known as cooing, produced when the baby is in a settled state.

Cooing sounds do not grow out of crying; rather, they develop alongside it, gradually becoming more frequent and varied.

They are quieter, lowerpitched, and more musical, typically consisting of a short vowel-like sound, often nasal in quality, and usually preceded by a consonant-like sound made towards the back of the mouth.

Strings of cooing noises soon emerge, and the sounds become more varied, as the baby begins to develop a greater measure of control over the muscles of the vocal organs – especially over tongue and lip movements and associated vocal-fold vibration.

BETWEEN 3 & 4 MONTHS

Cooing sounds begin to die away, to be replaced by sounds which are much more definite and controlled, often repeated, and produced with wide pitch glides.

It is a period commonly called vocal play, because the baby seems to take great pleasure in producing these noises, especially those made with the lips.

But it is perhaps more accurate to call it a time of vocal practice or experimentation.

AROUND 6 MONTHS

Vocal play gives way to babbling – a period of syllable sequences and repetitions which can last most of the second half of the first year.

To begin with, the consonant-like sounds are very repetitive:

Example: "babababa"

But at around 9 months, the babbling moves away from these fixed patterns.

The consonants and vowels change from one syllable to the next, producing such forms as [adu] and [maba], and there is a wider range of sounds, anticipating the sounds of the accent of English to be learned.

The utterances do not have any meaning, though they often resemble adult words – and of course adults love to ‘hear’ such words (especially mummy and daddy) in the baby’s vocalizations.

But babbling does not gradually shade into speech; indeed, many children continue to babble for several months after they have begun to talk.

Babbling is perhaps best summarized as a final step in the period of preparation for speech.

The child, in effect, ‘gets its act together’; but it has yet to learn what the act is for – that sounds are there to enable meaning to be communicated in a controlled way.

With the production of the ‘first word’, this final step is taken.

NOTE

However, the first word is not the first feature of adult language to be acquired.

From as early as 6 months, there is evidence that the child is picking up features of the melody and rhythm of the adult language.

Certainly by 9 months, strings of syllables are often being pronounced in conversation-like ways which adults interpret as communicative:

‘He/ she’s trying to tell us something’ is a common reaction to a piece of ‘scribble-talk’, and such speech-act functions as questioning, commanding, and greeting are ascribed to babbled utterances.

The melody and rhythm of often-used phrases, such as "all gone", are also likely to be heard long before the vowels and consonants are clearly articulated.

It is these prosodic features which are the first signs of real language production in children.

Prosody - the linguistic use of pitch, loudness, tempo, and rhythm; the study of versification

Source ⚜ Notes & References More: Children ⚜ Children's Dialogue ⚜ Childhood Bilingualism

[blasphemousclaw]

why Divine Beast Dancing Lion has the best soundtrack in the entire game

When I watched the first DLC trailer 6 months ago, I was so focused on Messmer that I never gave the lion dancers a second thought. But in a shocking turn of events, Divine Beast Dancing Lion is now my favorite boss in the whole game. To me, what makes this fight truly exceptional is its soundtrack, so I want to go through the music and outline all the things that make it so great!

What makes the music stand out is that it feels SO different from the rest of the OST… the majority of the boss tracks have a pretty similar style and instrumentation, but Divine Beast stands out in my opinion because of how it emphasizes its rhythm and texture.

Conceptually, this boss fight is first and foremost a dance — you are fighting two Hornsent warriors operating a lion costume based on the traditional Chinese lion dance in an arena that’s actually a giant stage.

The Chinese lion dance is typically accompanied only by percussion (drums, gongs, and cymbals). So naturally, Divine Beast’s soundtrack has much more pronounced percussion in comparison to the rest of the soundtrack, featuring heavy drum beats and cymbals, plus shouts and chants from the choir. The music is in a steady 6/8, with 2 beats per measure divided into three pulses (think 1 2 3, 1 2 3) giving it a lilting, dancelike quality (this type of meter is often used in folk and traditional dances!). And, in the boss’s second phase, the dancing lion’s lightning, wind, and frost phases each have their own music and are timed to transition as the music transitions. The whole boss fight is programmed like a dance, so when you fight the boss it feels like you’re dancing with it too!

The choir has a range of vocalizations that goes beyond singing melodies and harmonies; as I touched on before, they’re also shouting and chanting. The shouts are used percussively and help accent the rhythm of the dance, and the low chanting also brings to mind a sort of religious ritual? Which is exactly what this boss fight is… in Hornsent culture, the lion dance is a ritual for invoking divinity:

“A charm depicting the crazed, cavorting dance of the divine beast conducted at the tower festival. Raises potency of storms. Divine beasts are messengers of the heavens, and their rage mirrors the tumult of the skies, of which storms are the pinnacle.” (Enraged Divine Beast talisman)

The lion dancers, or “sculpted keepers,” are those amongst the divine beast warriors (themselves the chosen amongst the tower’s horned warriors) who truly excelled at divine invocation, and were “granted the honor of the lion dance” (Divine Beast Warrior Armor). In the boss cutscene, the Hornsent Grandam calls upon the divine beast to possess the bodies of the sculpted keepers, and rise again to defend the tower… so the lion dance, performed by warriors skilled in divine invocation, is essentially a ritual for invoking the presence of the divine beast within the dancers in order to commune with the heavens.

The sculpted keepers, having invoked the rage of the divine beast, are able to channel the forces of the stormy skies — lightning, wind, and frost. The force of the storm is represented in the music by quick runs in the high woodwinds and strings that come and go like gusts of wind. The music almost never lets up or loses momentum; it goes at a powerful, furious pace until the end, embodying the divine beast’s fury.

But the Divine Beast that we fight has an extra layer of emotion that goes beyond divine ritual:

“When the Impaler's army assailed the tower, the ritual of the lion dance was turned toward martial ends—its divinity, its fury, its light-footed beauty.” (Remembrance of the Dancing Lion)

What was once a beautiful ritual dance conducted at the tower festival was forced to become a weapon of war in order to fight against their people’s annihilation at the hands of Messmer’s crusade. And even this was not enough…

The Dancing Lion that we fight was slain, lying in a pool of dried blood, when it is miraculously awoken again with a fervent prayer. This is the last lion dance that may ever take place, giving us a mere glimpse of this ruined city’s long-vanished splendor.

Listening to the soundtrack, there is not only pride in the music, but also an urgent, visceral, warlike rage, a multitude of voices joining in a desperate fight for their civilization’s very survival.

[navydoves]

LADs Men as Rockstars 🎸

In another world, your love interest is renowned in the rockstar scene.

✎ᝰ a/n: i want to write individual rockstar stories for the LIs but im not sure who. each LI will have their guitar type next to their name for you guys to search up! but i don’t know rock/band terminology tho, bare with me.

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Xavier — Star Guitar

❥ xavier in a rock band is dangerous. he looks very gentle and soft, sometimes making the crowd think that his bunny-face is out of place in dark make-up and punk-esque clothing. but they couldn’t be more wrong, xavier was right where he needed to be. xavier found great pleasure in being up on the stage because for once he was choosing what to do with his life, and he wasn’t holding back.

❥ defying his normal tender voice when talking to crowds, he growls on stage. not just a little growl here and there, he fully growls into the mic when he gets passionate enough. the amount of energy he has onstage is second to none, there’s a reason why he’s the head of the band. the noise startles people a little bit once they realize it’s coming from xavier, but it’s a sound that fuels the crowd’s passion.

❥ on stage, his shaggy hair always gets in his face while he’s moving around and shaking his head, especially when sweat coats him and those silver strands get stuck to his forehead. this look is appreciated by fan photographers because it makes for sexy shots of his piercing blue eyes peeking out between his hair. he’s like a wolf in bunny clothing and that gruffness only comes out on stage.

❥ he also humps his guitar bad. xavier is one of those performers that gets a little aroused and eager while on stage, especially when he shreds his guitar. something about the ripping of the cords, the pain of the strings on his fingers, the melody in his veins, and the bass of the song thumping in his chest—god he can’t help himself. he humps his guitar as he plays, tiling his head back and groaning softly. the fans eat it up every. single. time. talk about sex appeal.

❥ xavier only ever uses one guitar and one guitar only. it’s a sleek blue one with yellow and white accents on its sides and face with one singular yellow star tassel attached to the headstock. he calls his guitar the star of the show and a has severe emotional attachment to it. he tunes it regularly and has an upkeep routine for it so he can ensure it’s ready to preform at its fullest for his lovely crowds.

❥ off the stage, xavier is rather shy. it’s almost crazy how different his two different personalities are. he never declines autographs or selfies with fans, but also shows no favoritism to any of them. he’s soft spoken and giggles softly into the mic whenever he asks the audience how his band did. and when the overwhelming majority screams in approval he blushes and smiles to himself.

“thank you all for coming, i do everything for you.”

Rafayel — Z-body Guitar

❥ rafayel is the absolute loudest on stage, but he also has the prettiest vocals. while he does let out a growl here and there, he sticks to singing and adlibs. unbeknownst to many, though, rafayel can hit incredibly deep bass notes making his range insane. he lives for the attention on stage, so showing off his vocal skills is a given at any show.

❥ rafayel is also a very big hype man. crowd too quiet? he’ll scold them and hype them up with just a few chants. he refuses to play for crowds that don’t sing along or make sufficient noise. why are you even here if you aren’t gonna truly enjoy what his band has to offer? his enthusiasm is what made him famous in the rock world, that and his incredible multifaceted skills.

❥ rafayel fucks with every instrument. drums, keys, the microphone. he only prefers the guitar because he finds it the easiest to play, making it the instrument that needs the least attention from him. he prefers his attention to be on his cuties.

❥ rafayel calls all his fans cuties. theres no discrimination with rafayel, he’ll give fan service to any fan boy or girl if they ask nice enough. blow a kiss? he’ll blow hundreds. stray loc of his hair? he’ll see if any loose strands fall out. titty grab? one squish for you. he’s a man for the people!

❥ rafayel also likes wearing revealing outfits onstage. sure, he’s not going full cock and balls out, but sometimes it’s damn near. he’ll wear slits on his upper thighs and opt for crop tops instead of wife-lovers. he’s also a fan of tight leather because he thinks it shows off his body. sometimes that isn’t necessary though, ‘cause he’ll end up half naked by the end of the show anyway. he likes showing off the various medusa and fish tattoos he has on his chest and back.

“you guys liked the show? yeah? be back tomorrow night then, i wanna see all your faces again, cuties!”

Zayne — Iceman Guitar

❥ zayne’s quite the enigma in his band. he only started a band to branch out from his classical music career. not used to the rock scene, he opted to stay in the back while the rest of the band mates took charge. it was only until he started to gain more traction as the “sexy guy in the back”, that he learned the exhilaration that came from being in front of an approving, loud crowd.

❥ zayne is also uncharacteristically good at guitar, it’s almost insane. any new song, new riff, new tuning, he learns with quickness and ease. he shreds like a monster and always has the anticipatory riff solos in the lives shows. every play has him feeling deep satisfaction that resonates within his performances and keeps the crowd’s eyes on him.

❥ he attracts people. he always stays in the same two spots on stage, either up right or up left, but usually no where else. but despite his stagnant position, people are drawn to him and his performance. he’s remarked as “hypnotizing” and “unintentionally erotic” whenever he plays, despite him rarely saying words apart from the occasional adlibs.

❥ during live shows he’ll grab a bottle of water and spill it atop of his head and shake it off. the feeling of the cool water dripping down his hair and face was nice, but what was even nicer was the scene of it. out of breath and sweaty already, zayne newly covered in water that was dripping down his neck was a sight that could get anyone wet—man or woman. but zayne never knows just how erotic he is, which makes it all the more better knowing that he’s not trying to be sexy. he just is incredibly sexy.

❥ zaynes popularity surprises zayne himself, sometimes. he’ll get bombarded by fans outside venues asking for his signature or pictures which strokes his ego internally. in the beginning he felt overwhelmed, but nowadays he just smirks and nods at his fans. he actually loves the rockstar life, he loves the attention, he loves the cockiness that comes with it, but he stays modest.

“ah… it’s always hard knowing what to say when we close a show, but i’m very grateful you all are here. i hope im not selfish in asking for more of your support.”

Sylus — Mockingbird Guitar

❥ sylus was not only born into the rockstar life, but also born for it. he fucking loves the stage, the crowds, the music, the passion of it all. he loves the power that comes with leading such a riveting and notorious band. he’s also front and center and refuses to leave that spot unless there’s a specific formation needed. otherwise, the main guy is always him.

❥ just like xavier, sylus is a big growler. he likes baring his teeth in a smile and letting out low rumbles of sounds that shake people’s chests more than the speakers do. his guitar follows suit and is always the one with the most powerful bass and sound throughout the band. calling sylus a powerhouse was an understatement, he is power incarnate when on stage.

❥ sylus’s signature look on stage is shirtless with a simple open leather jacket on. he shows just enough to keep people wanting more but not enough to give away everything. he’s a major tease and likes edging the crowd in more ways than one. he’ll purposely plan the delay of a beatdrop or riff just to get people antsy in their shoes before blasting them with sounds that can give someone an eargasm.

❥ sylus also has a small problem with getting turned on mid-show. it’s not something he realizes until someone points how there’s a large erection print on his pants, but he simply smiles at it and moves on, not caring enough to hide himself from everyone. he thinks shame is for losers who care about what other people think. so what if his cock is also making an appearance? just makes for a better show.

❥ sylus adores his fans. he’ll playfully flirt with them or dote on them in meet and greets but he knows not to take anything too seriously. he’s the typa of guy who’d have the reputation of being a playboy, but in reality, he’s very reserved. he spends most of his time outside of shows in his garage making music or in a friend’s basement playing poker like a nerd. the number thing his band mates tell him is how much pussy he could be drowning in, but sylus’s biggest wish is finding someone he could be loyal to.

“playing for you all never gets old, in fact it gets more exciting each and every time. i need more of you guys and i bet you all need more of me, right? haha… why don’t you find me at my next show?”

Caleb — Rickenbacker 381 Guitar

❥ caleb is quite the heartthrob of his group. popularity always seemed to follow him in social circles, and the rock scene was no different. he was never intended to be the leader of his group, but his charming personality and quick wit seemed to unite the members in times of need—bestowing him the leader. it’s the same on stage too. any potential rough or heckling crowds? just a playful scolding and smile was all it took to make people focus back on him.

❥ his role on stage is mainly main guitarist, but caleb serves powerful vocals when he needs to. he has a rich, powerful, and emotional voice that may not growl often, but does bring passion to the people. he can also go melancholy and almost romance the audience with his soothing low tones. the versatility of caleb makes him a renowned rocker, but he downplays his skills often for modesty’s sake.

❥ he’s very playful. he’ll do call and responses with the audience and take extra long with each fan in meetings while chatting very casually with them. he’s even tried to do crowd surfs but people complain about his heavy ass, big ass body. caleb doesn’t give off “celebrity” vibes, but instead, “boy next door.” it adds to his appeal because he always comes off very genuine and dedicated rather than cocky and dismissive.

❥ going back to the heartthrob point, caleb is known as a flirt due to his charm points. his winks, smiles—just the way he strums his guitar like he’s pleasuring a woman gets the girls (and guys) swooning for him. half of the time his charm is intentional and half of the time it’s not. sometimes his mannerisms on stage—like the way he rocks his body against the mic stand as if he were slow dancing—are all just throes of passion that manage to capture the hearts of the crowd.

❥ he does love his fans, though, and would go to many lengths to keep them happy. he’s very strict on not entertaining weirdos that paw at him, but he’s very tender with those who show genuine care. even if you were a new fan, caleb would give you an entire rundown on rock history and why he does what he does if he has the time to. he truly does feel sad saying goodbye to everyone.

“aw man, end of the show already? i felt like i was just getting started… please let me see you all again in our next concert, i’m not done giving you the performance of a lifetime.”

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a/n: i won’t lie, the entire time i was writing this i had this image in mind:

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

Rod Stewart - Da Ya Think I'm Sexy? 1978

"Da Ya Think I'm Sexy?" is a song by British singer Rod Stewart from his ninth studio album, Blondes Have More Fun (1978). It incorporates the melody from the song "Taj Mahal" by Jorge Ben Jor and the string arrangement from the song "(If You Want My Love) Put Something Down On It" by Bobby Womack. The song was released as the first single from Blondes Have More Fun in November 1978. It reached number one the UK Singles Chart and the US Billboard Hot 100. Billboard ranked it number four on its Top Singles of 1979 year-end chart. It also topped the charts in Canada and Australia. Royalties from the song were donated to the United Nations Children's Fund (UNICEF).

In 1997, the song was remixed by English electronic dance music group N-Trance for their second album, Happy Hour (1998). It was featured in the film A Night at the Roxbury the following year. This version became a hit in late 1997, topping both the New Zealand Singles Chart and the Czech Republic singles chart. Additionally, the song peaked at number seven on the UK Singles Chart and earning a double-platinum sales certification in Australia, where it charted at number three. In 2017, Rod Stewart released a remix version, which features a guest appearance from American band DNCE. They performed the song together at 2017 MTV Video Music Awards.

"Da Ya Think I'm Sexy?" received a total of 83,3% yes votes!