#without redoing it every step of the way

[nikovraskol]

What were the reactions from the family in the original timeline where reader died?

masterlist - crack baby

if u saw alfred being mentioned .. no u didnt i forgot he was dead oopsy poopsy

soul crushing guilt.

the moon is high in the sky, and everyone's gearing up for patrol, though they can each tell that there's a strange blanket of silence around the manor.

bruce is perplexed, but it's fine -- he's probably just tired, it's probably nothing.

then he sees your lifeless body in an alley and he's fighting tears, his stomach churning as he gazes down at you -- his poor baby, lying in a pool of your own blood, your eyes glazed over, lifeless.

when jason died, he vowed to never let another one of his children die ever again, not like this. so why? you weren't even a vigilante, you were just.

he dives himself into work, searching for the bastards responsible for your death, when he finds them -- he'll give them a firm beating, he'll convey his anger, not as batman but as bruce wayne.

dick is absolutely devasted, he can't bring himself to look at your body, his poor baby. you must've felt soso alone, scared as you bleed out. he wishes he could've spent more time with you, wishes that he took you out for dinner that one time. he buries himself in hero work, much like bruce, trying to distract himself -- but it doesn't work! everything reminds him of you. he wishes he could've seen you smile so widely at him, just one more time.

jason, on the other hand, doesn't try to distract himself. he reaches forward and searches for the murderes with a deep sense of rage. he understands you, he does! he knows what it feels like to be neglected, forgotten -- pushed aside as an afterthought as bruce pushes in another sibling in a place that should've been yours, you could've opened up to him, he could've looked back at you. he feels a burning hot rage, an itch for revenge -- but beneath his anger is a deep sense of vulnerability. of the knowledge that he failed you, his precious sibling. he doesn't think he can forgive himself.

tim doesn't believe it at first. you got shot on your way home from work? what a silly joke. and then he takes in the sullen expression on bruce's face and he faced with a deep sense of hopelessness. how .. unexpected. he doesn't know how to move on, you didn't play an intengral role in his life but as the days pass he's acutely aware of the small things you did that affected him, the way you would boil water before you went to bed for him, or how you'd leave some painkillers on the counter -- all those small things that seemed to meaningless to him, he's forced to acknowledge his own shortcomings as your brother. he doesn't know how to move on, he doesn't want to move on.

damian, poor damian, he's crushed. you're dead? you? his older sibling? sure, he may have bullied you since the moment you stepped into the manor, not once did he show you positive affection. but he cares for you! in his own, twisted way! he's faced with crushing guilt, unable to look in the mirror without seeing you -- without seeing the resigned expression on your lifeless face. he always knew you were weak, but dying to a few bullets? that's--.. he can't bring himself to belittle you, not anymore, not with the suffocating guilt he's forced to face.

they have no memories of you, aside from the small child you were, shyly observing from afar -- to the lifeless body you are now. they scavange for every picture they could find, anything they can to remember you by!

if only they had a chance to redo it, to show you just how much you mean to them. :(

[hauntedbyjoel]

Show Me How

pairing: joel miller x f!reader warnings: age gap | oral (f & m) | unprotected sex | dirty talk | praise | virginity loss | gentle aftercare | no outbreak word count - 5.7k summary - He’s told himself a hundred times it can’t happen. He’s too old, too close to her family, too careful. But now she’s standing in front of him, asking him for the one thing he swore he wouldn’t give.

︶⊹︶︶���୧︶︶⊹︶

You’d always told yourself it was harmless.

The crush. The looks. The way your stomach flipped when Joel said your name or glanced your way for a little too long. He was older—older in a way that should’ve been enough to stop this before it started. He’d known your family for years. Helped your uncle redo the kitchen. Fixed your car once when it stalled in your mom’s driveway. Brought over soup when you got sick last winter and couldn’t get out of bed.

He was just… around. Always steady. Always quiet. Always Joel.

And somehow, over time, that steadiness started to feel like gravity.

You learned his habits without meaning to—when he left for work, what time he ran errands, how he always wore that same faded Texas Longhorns shirt to mow the lawn on Saturdays. You pretended not to notice the way he looked at you sometimes, like he wasn’t sure if he should be. Like maybe he wanted to look away but didn’t.

You never let yourself believe he could actually want you. Not really.

Which is why showing up at his house tonight felt like something you weren’t supposed to do. Like stepping out of line in a way you couldn’t walk back from.

But you couldn’t stop thinking about it. About him.

About the fact that you were tired of feeling like the only one who hadn’t done anything—hadn’t been touched, kissed right, wanted for more than a second. And more than that, you were tired of not knowing. Of being afraid you’d do it wrong. Say the wrong thing. Be too soft. Too quiet. Not enough.

And if you were going to ask anyone—

It’d be him.

Joel, who never rushed you. Who always noticed. Who fixed things with careful hands and never made you feel small.

That was what brought you to his door.

And the second he opened it—hair damp, eyes tired, wearing sweatpants and a shirt you’d seen a dozen times before—your throat locked.

He blinked at you. Didn’t speak right away. Then: “You okay?”

You nodded, fingers curled in your hoodie sleeves. “Yeah. I was just… out. I didn’t know where else to go.”

Joel studied you for a beat, then stepped aside. “Come in.”

The door shut behind you with a soft click. You stood awkwardly in the entryway, clutching the sleeves of your hoodie like they might anchor you. Joel moved past without a word, walking toward the kitchen.

“Want some tea or somethin’?” he asked, already reaching for the kettle. “Still got the kind you like, I think.”

You nodded, unsure if your voice would even work right now. He filled the kettle. Lit the stove. Moved around the kitchen like this was just another Tuesday night and not the most reckless thing you’d ever done.

The house was warm. Familiar. You’d been here before—birthday barbecues, a couple of holidays, quick visits with your family—but never alone. Never this late. Never when the windows were dark and the only light came from that little flickering candle on the counter.

Joel glanced over his shoulder. “You can sit, y’know.”

You did. Quietly, on the edge of the couch like your body didn’t know where to land. Your heart wouldn’t stop stuttering. You weren’t sure what he saw when he looked at you, but it didn’t feel like much. Not yet.

He brought over a mug. Set it down on the coffee table. Then took the armchair across from you and let out a low sigh.

“So,” he said. “You wanna tell me what’s really goin’ on?”

You looked down at the mug. Steam rising. Hands still tucked in your sleeves. “It’s dumb.”

“Doesn’t sound dumb.”

You let the silence hang for a beat too long. Then: “Can I ask you something?”

Joel nodded. “Course.”

Your heart climbed straight into your throat.

You stared at the mug, every nerve in your body buzzing, fingers twitching. It wasn’t that you didn’t know what to say—it was that once you said it, everything would change.

“I don’t have a lot of experience,” you said finally. Quiet. Careful. “Like… any.”

Joel tilted his head. But didn’t say anything.

“I mean, I’ve kissed people. But I’ve never really…” You swallowed hard. “I just feel behind. Everyone I know has—done things. They know what they like. What to do. And I just… don’t.”

Joel leaned back a little. His jaw worked once. Still quiet.

“I’m not saying this right,” you said quickly. “It’s not that I want to rush or that I feel like I have to, I just—” You looked up, finally, and your stomach flipped. “You’re the only person I trust to… to teach me.”

He stared at you.

Not with shock. Not with judgment. Just stillness. Like he was trying to decide if you meant it—if you even understood what you were asking.

“Sweetheart…” he started, then stopped.

“I’m not trying to make things weird,” you rushed. “And I know it’s selfish. And I’m probably not even your type or whatever, and I’ll never bring it up again if it’s weird, I just—”

Joel didn’t say anything right away.

You could hear the second hand ticking on the clock across the room. The silence felt like pressure on your chest. You weren’t sure what you expected when you showed up here—but it wasn’t this. This long, still moment where he just looked at you like he didn’t know what to do.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Careful.

“You’re so young.”

It wasn’t harsh. It didn’t sound like judgment. If anything, it sounded like he was trying to talk himself out of something.

You stared down at your lap, throat tightening.

“I know,” you said softly, barely more than a breath. “You don’t have to say it.”

Joel sat up straighter.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, quickly but still gentle. “I’m not—I didn’t mean it like that.”

You gave a small nod, even though you weren’t really sure what to say. Your fingers curled tighter around the sleeves of your hoodie. Your eyes stayed on the floor.

“I just thought...” Your voice thinned out. You cleared your throat, tried again. “I just thought maybe—never mind.”

Joel’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” you mumbled. “You’ve always been nice to me and I... I shouldn’t have ruined that.”

His heart dropped. He saw your hands shaking, saw the way you blinked too fast.

Then he saw it—your lashes catching just slightly, that faint shimmer in your eyes before you ducked your head.

You were trying not to cry.

“Hey,” Joel said, gently. “Hey, no—don’t do that.”

You shook your head, swallowing hard. “It’s fine. Really. I don’t want you to feel bad. Or like I’m putting you in a weird spot. I just—”

Your voice cracked. You turned your face away.

And that was it for him.

“Aww, baby,” Joel said softly, barely more than a breath. “Come here.”

You didn’t move at first, but he was already leaning in, hand reaching out slow, warm, careful. His palm cupped the side of your jaw, thumb brushing under your eye like he could erase the tears before they fell.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he murmured. “You hear me?”

You nodded—barely. Joel’s other hand found yours, steady and sure, lacing his fingers between yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I just didn’t expect it,” he said. “Didn’t let myself think about it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you.”

Your breath hitched.

“I’ve wanted you,” he said, voice lower now, rough around the edges. “I just didn’t think I was allowed to.”

You looked up at him, blinking slowly.

Joel’s thumb traced your cheekbone.

“I’d take my time with you,” he said. “Make sure you felt safe. Make sure it felt good. I wouldn’t rush anything.”

You leaned into his hand just slightly—barely—but it was enough.

Joel’s eyes dropped to your lips.

“You still want this?” he asked.

You nodded, soft and breathless.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay, sweetheart.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. His thumb still brushed your cheek, your fingers still curled inside his. You were so aware of the space between you—barely anything, and yet everything. You could feel the warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing. It made you ache.

Joel hesitated.

“You sure you want me to kiss you?”

God, he really was trying. Still giving you an out, even now. Even when your whole body was already leaning in.

You nodded again, just as shy. “Please.”

That was all he needed.

Joel leaned in slowly—like he was afraid to startle you—and tilted his head just enough to brush his lips against yours. It was soft at first, barely a kiss at all, more like a question. When you didn’t pull away—when your breath caught and your hand tightened around his—he kissed you again, deeper this time. Warmer.

His other hand slid to your waist, grounding you.

You shifted closer without thinking, your knees brushing his thigh. Joel made a low sound in his throat, something surprised and almost pained. He pulled you gently, letting you settle in his lap with careful hands, like he didn’t want to scare you.

You felt so small like that. Not in a bad way. Just—held. His arms around you, his mouth on yours, the scratch of his stubble against your skin. Every inch of him was solid and steady.

He kissed you like he had time. Like he didn’t need anything else.

When he finally pulled back, his hand lingered on your cheek.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded, a little dazed. Your lips tingled, your heart pounding. “I—I’ve never kissed anyone like that.”

Joel smiled, soft and a little crooked. “Yeah? You did real good, sweetheart.”

Your cheeks burned, but you smiled too. You felt warm. Safe. Wanted.

And you still wanted more.

Joel kissed you again, deeper this time, like he was trying to show you what he couldn’t say out loud. His hands were warm where they held your waist, steady even though you could feel how tense he was—like he was holding back something big. Something sharp.

“Alright,” he murmured against your mouth. “We’re not gonna rush. Just want you to feel good.”

You nodded, breathless. “Okay.”

He leaned back, just enough to look at you. “Tell me somethin’, sweetheart.”

Your heart skipped. “What?”

His thumb brushed your cheek. “What’ve you done before?”

You blinked, nervous all over again. “Not much. Just… kissing. A little touching.”

“Okay,” he said softly. “That’s good. Just wanna know what you’re comfortable with.”

You bit your lip. “I want this.”

“I know. But I still wanna go slow.” He paused. “Has anyone ever touched you? Down here?”

His hand slid gently along your thigh, stopping just shy of where you were warm and aching.

You shook your head.

Joel’s eyes flicked to yours, his voice low. “And you?”

Your cheeks flushed. You nodded. “Yeah. A few times.”

He smiled—gentle, not mocking. “Good. That’s good, baby.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your neck. “I’m gonna touch you now. Just with my hand. That alright?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

Joel moved with such care—his fingers easing between your thighs, slipping beneath the hem of your shorts. When he found you already soft and wet, he groaned low in his throat.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You feel that?”

You nodded, shivering.

“This all for me?”

“Yeah,” you whispered.

“Shit,” he exhaled. “You’re soaked.”

His fingers moved slow, parting you gently. You gasped, your hips twitching.

“Too much?” he asked.

“No,” you said, breath catching. “Just… new.”

He kissed the side of your face, murmured, “We’ll take it nice and easy. You tell me how everything feels, alright?”

You nodded.

He stroked you carefully—exploring, learning. Finding the spots that made your breath hitch, your thighs tighten, your lashes flutter. His fingers circled your clit, featherlight at first, and you whimpered.

“There it is,” he said, voice husky. “That feel good?”

You nodded frantically, too overwhelmed to speak.

“You’re bein’ so good for me, baby. You let me take care of you, yeah?”

Your whole body was warm and buzzing, every nerve alive under his touch. When he slid one finger inside, slow and patient, you gasped.

“Okay?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” you said, breathless. “Feels… full.”

He smiled against your cheek. “That’s what it’s s’posed to feel like. Just one for now. Gonna get you used to it.”

He curled it—just a little—and you whimpered again. Joel groaned.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he rasped. “Look at you. All pretty and sweet, takin’ my hand like it’s the only thing you ever needed.”

You clenched around him, involuntarily. His eyes darkened.

“Shit. You’re squeezin’ me already.”

You whimpered. “I—I don’t mean to—”

“I know,” he said, kissing you again, slow and deep. “Don’t you dare apologize.”

Joel kissed you through it, his lips warm and slow while his hand moved between your legs—gentle but focused, like he already knew your body better than you did. He didn’t rush. He didn’t push.

He paid attention.

Your hips bucked when his thumb brushed over your clit again, light and teasing. You gasped into his mouth.

“That feel good?” he murmured.

You nodded. “Mhm.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you—his eyes dark, focused. “Yeah? You like when I touch you there?”

Your face went hot, but you nodded again, biting your bottom lip.

He smiled—soft, proud, dangerously patient. “Good girl.”

Then he went back to it. Circling your clit in slow, deliberate strokes while that one finger inside you pressed deeper, exploring every new reaction you gave him. You were trying so hard not to make noise, but your body betrayed you. Your thighs trembled. Your stomach fluttered. Your breath hitched and broke.

Joel noticed everything.

“Y’ever touch yourself like this?” he asked, voice low.

You hesitated. “Not… like this.”

He raised a brow. “Not like what?”

You swallowed. “Not this slow.”

Joel chuckled—quiet and warm against your skin. “That’s ‘cause you’ve never been taught right.”

His words hit low in your belly. You whimpered as he curled his finger again, hitting something deeper this time. Your legs jerked.

“There?” he asked, voice roughening.

You nodded, breath caught. “Y-Yeah—oh—there.”

Joel groaned softly. “Fuck, baby. You’re already close, ain’t you?”

You nodded helplessly.

“Think you can come for me? Just from my fingers?”

You whined. He took it as a yes.

His movements stayed slow, but more rhythmic now—his thumb drawing tight little circles, his finger pumping deeper, coaxing something out of you so carefully, so sweetly. You clutched at his shirt, fingers trembling.

“Joel,” you gasped, barely able to breathe. “I—I think I’m—”

“That’s it,” he said. “Let it happen. Let me feel it.”

And then you broke.

It hit you like a wave—sharp and hot and overwhelming. Your body seized around him, legs clamping tight as the pleasure surged up and through you. You cried out, loud and wrecked, and Joel caught it with his mouth, kissing you hard while his hand worked you through every second of it.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty when you come.”

You were shaking when he finally pulled his hand away—slow and careful. He kissed your forehead, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“You okay?”

You nodded, dazed, still trembling in his lap. “Mhm. Just… I’ve never felt anything like that.”

Joel smiled. “You’ve got a lot more to feel, sweetheart.”

He kissed you again—longer this time. Slower. But now there was something heavier beneath it, something hungrier.

When he pulled back, his voice was deeper. Rough.

“Can I show you more?”

You looked up at him. Your limbs were still jelly, your heart still racing, but all you could think was yes. You trusted him. Even like this. Maybe especially like this.

You nodded.

“Yeah. Show me.”

Joel smiled when you said it. Not cocky—just warm. Soft around the edges, like the tension in him had finally given way to something sweeter. He tucked your hair behind your ear with a gentle hand, his other still cradling your bare thigh.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Then lie back for me.”

You nodded, breath still shaky. Your skin was buzzing—still oversensitive, still warm, but already aching for more.

You obeyed without a word, heart thudding as your spine met the mattress again. The air felt cooler now against your flushed skin, your body still buzzing from the first time he touched you like that.

Joel moved with you, settling between your legs without urgency. He leaned down and pressed a kiss just above your knee—then another, higher up. It was careful. Unrushed. Like he wanted you to feel every second of it.

“I want you to tell me if anything doesn’t feel good,” he murmured against your skin. “You just say the word, alright?”

You nodded.

“Words, baby.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “I will.”

“Good girl.”

His hands spread your thighs, slow and sure. Not to expose you—at least, not just that. More like reverence. Like unfolding something precious.

And then his mouth was on you.

Not forceful. Not greedy. Just… exploring. His tongue traced slow, soft circles, tasting you like he was learning something new and didn’t want to miss a detail. Every shift in your breath made him hum a little deeper, adjust, draw it out.

“Doing so good,” he murmured, pausing only to kiss the inside of your thigh again. “You let me know if it’s too much.”

It wasn’t.

It was everything.

You tried to be quiet, but your body had other plans.

Joel’s mouth moved with slow, deliberate rhythm—tongue tracing lazy circles that built heat like kindling. He didn’t rush you. Just stayed right there, steady and patient, until your hips started to lift, chasing every pass of his tongue like it might save you.

And he noticed.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice barely a rumble. “That’s it, sweetheart. Let me have it.”

His hands slid under your thighs, pulling you just a little closer, anchoring you in place like he was afraid you might float off. And maybe you would’ve. Your hands gripped the sheets, searching for something solid as your breathing turned erratic.

“Joel—” you whispered, and it cracked.

He groaned low in his throat—like hearing you say his name like that did something to him.

“Feels good?” he asked, and when you nodded too fast, too desperate, he just hummed against you. “Thought so. You’re so fuckin’ sweet down here.”

The tension coiled again—hotter this time, faster. Your legs started to tremble, and Joel didn’t let up. Just flattened his tongue, applied more pressure, and listened to you fall apart.

“Don’t fight it,” he whispered. “Let it happen.”

You came with a sound that barely made it out—a soft, broken cry, thighs clamping around his head as you shook through it. Joel didn’t stop. Didn’t even think about it. He kept licking you through every wave, gentle and relentless, holding your hips like you might slip away otherwise.

Only when your body finally gave out—hips twitching, breath coming in shallow little gasps—did he pull back. His mouth was shiny, lips wet, beard damp. And his eyes…

Like he’d just seen something holy.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then leaned up slowly, palm cupping your cheek.

“There she is,” he murmured, voice like honey and gravel. “That’s my girl.”

Your lashes fluttered. You felt soft all over, unraveled, held together only by the weight of his gaze.

Joel smiled, just a little.

“You did so good for me, baby. So fuckin’ good.”

He leaned in before you could even catch your breath.

One hand still cradled the back of your head, the other brushing your thigh, grounding you. His mouth met yours in a way that felt earned—soft at first, just lips to lips, letting you settle into it.

You tasted yourself on him immediately.

Warm. Humid. Faintly salty. It made your whole body shiver.

You pulled back, eyes fluttering open like it surprised you. Joel didn’t move far. His forehead rested against yours.

“Sorry,” he said, voice a little rough.

You shook your head. “No. I just… I’ve never…”

His thumb stroked your cheek. “It’s alright.”

You blinked up at him, still a little dazed. “That was… nice.”

Joel huffed a soft laugh, like he wasn’t sure what to do with that word. “Nice?”

You nodded, suddenly shy again. “I liked it.”

His smile turned quieter—almost reverent.

“Good,” he murmured. “That’s all I wanted.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time. Your fingers found the hem of his shirt, pushing it up slowly, and he let you. Let you explore his skin, the soft stretch of his stomach, the trail of hair leading down beneath his jeans.

And still, he didn’t rush.

Just kept kissing you—until your body relaxed fully beneath his, until the last of your nerves melted into heat.

Joel pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing under your eye.

“You alright?” he asked, quiet.

You nodded. “I want to… I want to do something for you.”

His brow creased, surprised. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

Your voice didn’t shake that time.

Joel hesitated like he was going to argue again, but then his gaze softened, and he gave the smallest nod. He leaned back against the pillows, watching you carefully—curious, cautious, but clearly affected.

You sat up slowly, heart pounding. Reached for his waistband with trembling fingers, giving him one last glance for permission. He lifted his hips, helping you ease his jeans down until he was bare to you.

Joel’s eyes darkened, but his voice stayed low. “You ever seen a man before? Like this?”

You shook your head, heart thudding. “Just… in pictures.”

He chuckled, more breath than sound. “Yeah?”

Your cheeks burned. “Not those kinds of pictures.”

He smiled, slow and fond. “Didn’t say they were.”

You swallowed. Then curled your fingers around him.

God—he was warm. Heavy. Hard already. You inhaled sharply as your hand moved, just a little, feeling the weight of him against your palm.

Joel groaned. Quiet. Barely restrained.

“Jesus, baby…”

You looked up, eyes wide. “Did I do something wrong?”

He shook his head fast, eyes pinched. “No. Fuck, no. Just—been holdin’ back too long.”

You smiled, nervous but proud. Then you started to stroke him—tentative at first, just trying to feel out the rhythm.

Joel let out a soft, broken sound and tipped his head back.

“Just like that,” he muttered. “You’re doin’ so good.”

Your confidence grew with every soft grunt he made. Every time his hips twitched or his hand gripped the edge of the couch harder.

“You wanna try your mouth?” he asked, voice rough with restraint.

You blinked. “I… yeah. But I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Joel’s eyes locked on yours—hungry and warm all at once. He cupped your cheek. “That’s okay, baby. I’ll teach you.”

You shifted down between his legs slowly, your knees pressing into the couch cushions as your hands settled on his thighs. He was already breathing heavier, watching you with those dark, heavy-lidded eyes that made your stomach flip.

“Start with your hand,” Joel murmured, voice low and coaxing. “Get comfortable first.”

You nodded, wrapping your fingers around him again. The weight of it still shocked you. How hard he felt. How hot.

You gave him a slow stroke. Then another.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Just like that. You’re doin’ perfect.”

The praise made your cheeks burn.

You looked up at him, a little shy. “Tell me what to do.”

Joel groaned. “Jesus, baby.”

His hand moved gently to your hair, not pushing, not guiding—just resting there. Steady.

“Kiss the tip,” he said softly. “Start there.”

You leaned in and pressed a hesitant kiss to the flushed head of his cock. His breath hitched. You did it again, slower, then let your tongue flick out to taste him.

“That’s it,” Joel said. His voice had gone hoarse. “Just your tongue, nice and easy.”

You licked a slow stripe up the underside, watching his stomach tense. He was biting back a sound, jaw locked tight.

“You can put it in your mouth now,” he said, rasping. “Only as much as you want.”

You parted your lips and wrapped them around him—just the tip at first. He exhaled sharply, hips twitching. You stilled, looking up at him in alarm, but Joel shook his head fast.

“Don’t stop,” he said. “You feel so fuckin’ good.”

You sank a little deeper, hollowing your cheeks. He groaned, one hand tightening slightly in your hair, still not pushing.

“Use your hand too, sweetheart,” he said. “You’re so good, baby. So fuckin’ good for me.”

Your hand stroked the base while your mouth worked the rest. You tried to keep a rhythm, breathing through your nose just like he told you.

When he swore under his breath, you felt it in your chest.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did. Eyes wide, lips stretched around him, cheeks flushed.

He groaned—deep and wrecked. “Fuck, that’s it.”

You took him deeper, feeling your throat tighten, your eyes sting. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t—not with the way he was looking at you.

“You okay?” he managed to ask, even through the haze.

You nodded around him, and he growled.

“Goddamn. You were made for this.”

You pulled off slowly, a little breathless, a string of spit catching between your lips and the tip of his cock. He was flushed, panting, hands clenched into fists beside him.

“Holy fuck,” he said, voice blown out. “You sure you’ve never done that before?”

You laughed quietly. “I told you I’d be a fast learner.”

Joel leaned forward and pulled you into his lap again. His hands were everywhere—your back, your thighs, the side of your neck.

“You still sure about all this?” he whispered.

You nodded. Quiet. A little nervous. But you didn’t look away.

His hand brushed down your thigh, then between your legs—stroking over you slowly, making sure you were ready. “Feels like you are,” he whispered. “But I need you to tell me.”

“I want you to,” you said, barely louder than a breath. “Please.”

He exhaled like that did something to him. Something deep.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m gonna go slow, alright? Real slow. You just hold on to me.”

You nodded again.

Then he lined himself up, hand guiding, the heat of him settling right where you were softest. “You let me know if it’s too much.”

The pressure started before you could prepare for it—warm and wide and stretching you in a way you didn’t expect. You gasped, instinctively grabbing his arm, nails digging in.

Joel stopped instantly. “Too much?”

“I—I don’t know,” you whispered. “It just—hurts a little.”

He leaned down, kissed your forehead, your cheek, your jaw.

“I know, baby,” he murmured. “You’re doing so good.”

His hand found yours, threading your fingers together. Then he kissed you again—slow and deep, distracting, stealing your focus from the tight pull of your body adjusting to him.

Bit by bit, he eased in further, pausing when your breath hitched, pressing kisses to your mouth until the discomfort dulled to something else. Something warmer.

When he was fully inside you, Joel didn’t move. He just held himself there, breathing hard against your skin. “You okay?”

You nodded, stunned by how full you felt. “I think so.”

“God, you’re tight,” he whispered. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

His hand brushed your hair back, and he kissed you again—gentler this time, slower. “Tell me when I can move.”

You blinked up at him, dazed, breathless. “Okay… now.”

Joel started to move, just barely. A gentle pull back, then a slow press in, rocking his hips with an almost reverent kind of care. He didn’t take his eyes off your face—not for a second.

“You’re doin’ so good,” he murmured. “Feelin’ okay?”

You nodded, still a little overwhelmed. The stretch still lingered, but there was something else starting to build beneath it—heat, pressure, something that made your toes curl when he pushed a little deeper.

He felt it.

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice rough with restraint. “There she is.”

He moved again, a little more confident this time, keeping his pace slow and steady. One hand stayed laced with yours. The other braced at your waist, thumb stroking gently over your skin.

Every inch of him felt impossibly warm. Full. You couldn’t believe how close he was—how real it was. And yet he still treated you like you might break.

“You okay?” he asked again, quieter now.

You bit your lip. “It… feels weird. Good. But—intense.”

His eyes darkened a little, smile soft at the corners. “Yeah? Gonna get better, sweetheart. Promise.”

He leaned down, kissed the side of your neck, murmuring something you barely caught—so tight, so sweet, can’t believe I’m inside you. The praise made your cheeks burn, made your hips tilt up without thinking.

He groaned. "Fuck, baby. Careful—you keep doin’ that, I won’t last long."

You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, heat buzzing through your chest and down your spine.

“I don’t care,” you whispered. “I just want to feel you.”

Something about that must’ve broken the last of his resolve, because Joel kissed you again—messy this time, like he needed to feel your mouth while he kept moving inside you, slow but deep.

You gasped into the kiss when he hit a spot that made your whole body jolt.

“There?” he asked, voice low and strained.

You nodded fast. “Yes—God, Joel—”

“That’s my girl,” he murmured. “Just let go. I’ve got you.”

He kept hitting that spot, rhythm just right, hand tightening around yours like he could feel every wave of heat building inside you. You were shaking, thighs trembling, nails digging into his shoulder—

And then it happened.

You came with a breathless cry, body locking up around him, vision going hazy at the edges. Joel groaned, burying his face in your neck as he lost it too, hips stuttering, voice rough against your skin.

You must’ve dozed off at some point, warm and aching and curled into Joel’s side, barely able to keep your eyes open.

He didn’t fall asleep.

You stirred when you felt his hand brush your thigh—gentle, coaxing. Not trying to start something again. Just checking. Making sure you were okay.

“Hey,” he murmured. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

You blinked, disoriented, but nodded. He helped you sit up slowly, one hand steady at your back. You winced just a little, hips sore, thighs still trembling—and he saw it.

“Easy,” he said, voice softer now. “I got you.”

Joel guided you to the bathroom, flipping on the dim light. He grabbed a towel, ran the tap until it was warm, and knelt in front of you like it was the most natural thing in the world. You watched him in the mirror—his face focused, his touch careful as he cleaned you up with slow, steady hands.

“Still okay?” he asked, glancing up at you.

You nodded, a little breathless. “Yeah. Just… sore.”

“That’s normal,” he murmured. “First time’s not easy. But you did real good.”

You looked down, cheeks burning.

He noticed that too. Stood up. Pressed a kiss to your forehead.

When he walked you back to bed, he helped you lie down, then disappeared for a second. You heard the fridge open, the sound of water filling a glass.

Joel came back with a bottle of ibuprofen and handed you the water. “Take a couple. You’ll be stiff in the morning.”

You gave him a sleepy smile. “What, no post-sex pancakes?”

He grinned. “Tomorrow.”

He climbed into bed beside you again, tugged you into his arms like he needed you close to sleep. You let your body settle into his chest, warm and safe and still humming from everything that happened.

His fingers traced your spine, slow and rhythmic.

“Get some rest,” he said. “M’not goin’ anywhere.”

You believed him.

And for once, that was enough.

[chansdoll]

방찬 ─── red

[ ⟡ ] ── NSFW, MDNI!  ✁ idol bf!chanx afab!reader , rough sex , no prep , unprotected p in v , safe word used , channie is angy in this this was a request ♡ i hope you like it ! [ 1.1 k words ] ♡ masterlist

after a long, exhausting day, you lay curled up on the bed you shared with your boyfriend, chan, waiting for him to return home. you knew today had been stressful for him—his boss was reviewing the album he had spent countless hours perfecting. if anything needed to be changed, it would mean more late nights, more frustration, and more pressure weighing on his shoulders. chan was a perfectionist, and having to redo something, no matter how small, always put him on edge. 

you and chan had established a free-use dynamic, mostly because it worked for you both. chan was always busy, and nine times out of ten whenever he came home from work you were too tired to fulfill his needs anyway. 

when the bedroom door finally opened, you immediately sensed his agitation. he walked in with heavy steps, his jaw clenched, brows furrowed, and his dark eyes shadowed with frustration. his muscular arms flexed as he set his bag down, veins visible from what you could only assume was an intense gym session—one that clearly hadn’t helped him cool off.

“hi, baby,” you greeted softly, your voice gentle, almost cautious, as you sat up on the edge of the bed.

he barely spared you a glance as he pulled off his beanie, ruffling his damp curls. “hey,” he muttered.

you frowned, setting your phone down and giving him your full attention. “what’s wrong?”

he didn’t answer—not with words. instead, he took a step forward, towering over you, his gaze heavy and unreadable. your heartbeat picked up. chan rarely got truly angry, but when he did, it was intimidating.

before you could say another word, his hands were on your face, cupping your cheeks as he crashed his lips against yours in a rough, desperate kiss. you gasped in surprise but quickly melted into him, sensing his need for release. his hands roamed your body, and soon, he had you pinned beneath him, his palm wrapping around your throat in a loose but firm grip. his frustration poured into every movement—the way his fingers dug into your skin, the way his hips pressed insistently against yours.

without warning, he flipped you onto your stomach, tugging your nightgown up and your panties down in one swift motion. you barely had time to process before a sharp smack landed on your ass, making you jolt with a soft gasp.

the sound, the reaction—it only seemed to fuel him. his large hands kneaded the flesh before teasing the entrance of your cunt with the head of his cock. your breath hitched, and you gripped the sheets.

“chan—”

another slap, harder this time. then, without hesitation, he pushed into you, stretching you in one deep thrust. you whimpered, trying to glance back at him, but he gripped your hair, pressing your face into the mattress as he set a relentless pace.

there was something different about him tonight—something almost dangerous. he wasn’t speaking, wasn’t checking in. his grip was unyielding, his thrusts forceful, his touch rougher than usual. the air felt thick with his frustration, and suddenly, an unsettling feeling crept into your chest.

your breathing became labored, not just from the overwhelming sensation but from the way he pressed you down, restricting your movement. the usual pleasure was overshadowed by discomfort.

“ch—chan,” you tried to speak, your fingers clawing at the sheets. he didn’t respond.

your heartbeat pounded in your ears.

“r-red! red!” you gasped out, your voice strained.

his body went rigid the second the word left your lips. the haze of frustration clouding his mind lifted in an instant, replaced by something colder—dread. his grip on your hair released immediately, his hands pulling away as if he had touched something scalding.

“shit,” he breathed, scrambling to move off of you.

you took in a shaky breath as you finally had room to move, your fingers still gripping the sheets like a lifeline. chan hesitated before gently touching your back, his voice softer now, laced with guilt.

“baby… are you okay?”

you turned over slowly, your chest rising and falling as you tried to steady your breathing. his eyes were wide, no longer dark with frustration but filled with worry. his lips parted as if to say something else, but he clamped them shut, jaw tightening as the weight of what had just happened sank in.

you swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. “you weren’t listening to me.”

his heart twisted painfully at that.

“i know,” he murmured, running a hand through his curls in frustration—this time, not at his job, but at himself. “i wasn’t thinking—i wasn’t in the right headspace. fuck, i should’ve stopped before we even started.”

he reached for you, but you flinched just slightly. barely noticeable, but to chan, it was like a knife to the chest. his stomach dropped. had he really scared you?

his hands curled into fists, his nails pressing into his palms as he forced himself to stay still, to not touch you until you wanted him to.

“i didn’t mean to hurt you,” he whispered, his voice cracking.

your eyes softened at the raw remorse in his expression, but the lingering unease in your chest made you hesitate. you had always wanted to be there for him, to help him through his stress, but tonight had been different.

“i know you didn’t,” you said softly. “and i want to help you, chan. i always do. but… you were too rough this time. i was scared.”

his breath caught in his throat.

scared.

he felt sick.

chan swallowed hard and finally reached out, slower this time, giving you the chance to pull away. when you didn’t, he gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin in a silent apology.

“i’m so sorry,” he murmured. “i let my frustration take over, and i wasn’t thinking about you—about us.” he exhaled shakily, his other hand moving to lace his fingers with yours. “that’s never going to happen again. ever.”

you squeezed his hand lightly, finding comfort in his warmth, in the sincerity in his voice. “i trust you, chan,” you said. “i just need you to talk to me. if you’re upset, tell me. we’ll figure it out together.”

his eyes glistened, and he nodded, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “i will,” he promised. “i swear i will.”

he pulled you into his arms, holding you close, letting his warmth surround you as he gently rocked you back and forth. you felt the tension in your body slowly melt away as you rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“i love you,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

you sighed softly, your fingers curling into his shirt. “i love you too.”

and as chan held you, he made a silent vow to himself—to never let his anger blind him again.

taglist: @ritsmith @bluesungology @jeonginsleftcheek @babigriin @tirena1 @nickgurl4life

©chansdoll do not repost, translate, or copy my works in any way, shape, or form.

[radio-fmm]

Kitchen counter

Fluff drabble + gn reader

Masterlist

Law almost jumps out of his skin when he spots you drowsy on the kitchen counter, alone in silence underneath the white lights of the submarine, almost like a lucid dream

He approaches you from behind, keeping silent

He towers over you even when sitting down, his eyes wonder on your peaceful face, eyes closed, hand under your chin while the other stays clinging to your cup of tea

You hate tea, you must’ve been desperate, looking for a cure to your sleepless night

He admires you for a while, not noticing he may appear a little bit creepy just staring, but you look just so effortlessly dreamy

“I can feel you staring, Captain” you mutter, your voice soft like a summer breeze, but it shakes Law to his core

He takes a step back and panics, but as your giggles meets his ears, he relaxes, a smirk forming in his lips as he decides to sit beside you

“Sleeping on the kitchen won’t help you rest better” you let out a tired sigh, your head turning to your Captain

When your eyes meet, Law can’t help but wonder if you always look at him the way you’re looking at him now, full of adoration, like he’s the answer to all of your problems

The calmness of the late night allows him to unravel, savoring the moment of your shared presence, bodies tired and souls alight

“I just had a long day”

He knew this. At very early hours of the day, he had heard your loud screaming trough the hallways of the sub, bashing over Satchi and Penguin who had thrown away an important paper you had been working on when they were tasked with cleaning your office

So you had to redo the whole paperwork

Because of this, you were late for dinner and the worst thing imaginable had happened, you didn’t get any dessert

Your favorite part of the day

Suddenly, Law feels a weight on his shoulder, he turns to see your head nuzzled on his side, eyes lost looking at the emptiness of the kitchen. A new feeling forms in his heart, he can feel it reeling going a mile per minute, warmth irradiates from his flushed face, and even though this feeling is new and alien, he likes it

Another silence falls over both, but this one’s different, this one is sweet, homely and welcome, a silence that speaks louder than any words could

Scared, Law allows his head to fall over yours, the way his body fits with yours in prefect harmony makes his heart swell. He closes his eyes and prays for this moment to remain forever, he wants you all to himself like this everyday

After a while, your weight falls slack, he peeks to see you completely asleep. He smiles to himself, a hand traveling to push away the lost strands of hair, showing him a full picture of your beautiful face

Big mistake

Another wave of that same emotion he felt moments ago washes over him, what were you doing to this poor man?

What was he to do now?

Ever so gently, he removes his arm to support your back while the other goes down to your feet so he can pick you up bridal style, keeping you close to his chest. As he walks you to your room, he feels you clenching at his shirt, looking for his warmth

He lets you down light as a feather, but a part of him doesn’t want to let go, a part of him wants to take you away

He peeks at Ikkaku’s bed praying to every god above that she hasn’t woken up, to his delight she is fast asleep without a care in the world. He tucks you in with the outmost care, before he stares at you yet again, burning this moment into his memory

“Good night” he whispers, making his way out to his bed

As he drifts to sleep he wonders if having you by his side every night would help you sleep better

It’ll help him sleep better that’s for sure

[malsmind]

antisocial!reader 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 vampire!matt 𝐚𝐭 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲

✰ - content warnings: ✦ underage drinking ✦ mentions of social anxiety ✦ mentions of injuries & blood ✦ pet names ✦ a LOT of tension ✦ male masturbation ✦ getting caught ✦

wc - 3.2k

the party was loud. too loud. bodies packed into some random kid’s house like sweaty sardines, music shaking the walls, the sticky scent of cheap beer and perfume making your throat itch. you’d been trying to keep your distance—stuck close to your best friend while chris hovered nearby, trying to keep a lid on matt’s temper before shit inevitably exploded. and it was already close. you could tell. you were leaned against the kitchen counter, plastic cup in hand, watching it all from across the room. matt was all sharp edges tonight. jaw clenched, hands fisted in the pockets of his hoodie, his stare practically burning holes into the side of some douchebag’s face across the room. you didn’t even know what set him off, but he was on edge—restless, dangerous, way too close to snapping. every little thing seemed to piss him off. his lip twitched when people got too close. his knuckles were white.

chris was already trying to calm him down—had been for the past twenty minutes, whispering shit to him with an annoyed look—but matt wasn’t listening. hadn’t even spared you a glance. not that you expected him to. not after that night. you hadn’t spoken since. hadn’t texted. hadn’t even looked at each other at school or when you studied with your best friend. it was easier that way. pretending nothing happened. pretending you didn’t kiss him. that he didn’t let you. that the heat in your chest from that moment didn’t still flicker up at the worst possible times.

but tonight, that flicker turned into full-blown flame. because not even five minutes later, you heard it from the living room. loud. angry.

“oh yeah? why don’t you shut the fuck up before i give your fucking face a redoing?”

you turned your head so fast you nearly spilled your drink.

matt.

your stomach dropped when you pushed through the crowd, chris already halfway in between them, trying to hold matt back, but it was too late. matt lunged—shoved the guy hard enough for him to stumble, and then fists flew. people gasped, pulled back, drinks spilled. you felt your heart in your throat.

fucking idiot.

your social anxiety evaporated with the rage that took its place. before you even realized it, you were grabbing matt’s arm—tight, firm—yanking him back from the chaos.

“come the fuck on,” you hissed, ignoring the mess of voices around you. he jerked at first, trying to resist, but you weren’t having it. your grip was unrelenting. “dude, stop,” he snapped, trying to pull away. “get off—”

“no. shut the fuck up and move.”

he blinked at you, caught off guard. but you didn’t give him time to recover. you dragged him out of the house, past gawking faces and hushed whispers. you could feel his eyes on you as you stormed toward your car, yanked the door open and shoved him into the passenger seat like a damn toddler.

“jesus christ,” he muttered, breathless. but he didn’t stop you. didn’t argue when you started the car and peeled out of there.

the silence was thick. the kind of quiet that made your teeth grind. you didn’t speak, hands clenched on the wheel, heart pounding too loud in your chest to think. and matt didn’t say a word either. which was weird. for him. he only looked at you, and kept looking. even when you pulled into your driveway, even when you stepped out and slammed your door. he followed like a shadow. no protests now. you threw open the door to your house, letting him in without a glance, heading straight for the bathroom. he didn’t sit until you pointed at the couch like you were dealing with a dog. he sat. you came back with the first aid kit, slamming it down on the coffee table. his lip was split. cheek scratched. knuckles bruised. stupid fucking boy.

“don’t move,” you snapped.

he raised an eyebrow. “what the hell is this, the ER?”

you pressed a cotton pad to his lip and he flinched hard. “jesus—ow, fuck. you’re hurting me, dude.”

“well fuckin’ stop squirming like a little bitch and we’re good,” you muttered, pressing harder. “could’ve just kept your stupid mouth shut and none of this would even happen. fuckin’ dickhead.”

he went quiet. mouth shut. eyes on yours. for once. finally. his breathing shifted. heavier now. more deliberate. you noticed, even if you tried not to. your hand hesitated just slightly, hovering near the cut on his cheek.

“why’re you nervous?” you muttered, voice low. “the fuck’s all that attitude gone now?”

his cheeks flushed. just faint, but enough.

he swallowed. “i dunno. you’re all up in my fucking face… who wouldn’t… get nervous…”

your breath caught. you pulled back slightly, trying to ignore the way your hands shook. “just relax, matt, please.” your voice was quieter now. raw.

you bit your lip. old habit. always did it when you focused. hard enough this time that you tasted blood. and that’s when everything changed. his pupils dilated. breath hitched. he tensed—every muscle in his body pulled taut like a bowstring. his eyes weren’t on your face anymore. they were locked on your lips. and not in a horny way. in a dangerous way. your heart stopped.

“…matt?”

his eyes snapped back up. he blinked. twice. like trying to shake something off.

“you’re bleeding,” he muttered, voice thick. not quite his own.

you licked your lip out of reflex, the taste of iron sharp on your tongue. “yeah, it’s nothin’. i do that sometimes—”

“don’t,” he cut in quickly. sharply. his voice cracked, like it hurt him to speak. “just—don’t.”

you stared at him, silent. frozen. he turned away. dragged a hand down his face. shook his head like it might clear the fog.

“i should go,” he said after a second, standing too fast. but you caught his wrist before he could bolt.

“wait.”

he froze.

“just… just sit for a second. please.”

he turned, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable. still flushed. still tense.

“why?” he asked. and it wasn’t sarcastic. wasn’t smug. it was almost soft. like he needed the reason.

you didn’t know how to answer that. because you didn’t want to be alone tonight? because something about him made you feel less… cracked? because when you looked at him, all angry and broken and bleeding, it made something inside you ache in a way that wasn’t painful, just familiar? you looked up at him, unsure what he saw in your eyes. but whatever it was, it made him sit back down without another word. you finished patching him up in silence. and when it was done, he didn’t move. didn’t speak. you didn’t either. you just sat there. both of you bruised in different ways. both of you pretending not to feel whatever this was. whatever it was becoming.

the blood was still there. matt’s eyes hadn’t left your mouth in minutes. dried now, but stark against your skin—this tiny, dark smear across your bottom lip where your teeth had broken through earlier. and it shouldn’t have mattered. it was barely anything. but to him? to what he was? it might as well have been a full-course fucking meal. he was trying. fuck, he was trying not to look. jaw tight, hands clenched into fists in his lap, shoulders drawn up with the strain of it. but the scent of it—metallic, warm, yours—lingered in the room like smoke, and his fangs ached just below the surface, a dull, familiar throb that scraped against every inch of self-control he had left.

you were still so close. crouched in front of him on the coffee table, legs tucked under you, your fingers stained with a little of his blood from the cleaning, your lip still bitten, your face so damn soft in the low light. and you were looking at him like that—like you weren’t scared. like you trusted him not to do anything stupid. he was going to lose it. but then—

“you’re staying the night.”

his head jerked up. “what?”

you just blinked at him, flat, unimpressed. “what what?” you echoed, like he was the dumb one. “knowing you, you’d go back there and beat that guy’s ass. again. you’re staying.”

he blinked. once. twice. that soft flush returned to his cheeks, and he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, glancing toward the door like maybe if he looked hard enough it’d open and he could ghost out of here before he did something stupid.

“and your parents?”

you rolled your eyes. “not home.”

he was silent. for a long beat.

you stood up, stretched a little, then disappeared down the hallway—leaving him alone in the quiet hum of the living room with the smell of your blood still hanging in the air, and the echo of your command in his head. you’re staying. it shouldn’t have gotten under his skin the way it did. shouldn’t have made his stomach twist with something warm and uncomfortable. but it did. it always did, with you. the way you talked to him. like you knew him. like you didn’t buy his act.

he heard your voice again after a moment, muffled from the hallway. “you want something to wear, or are you gonna sleep in your bloodstained hoodie like a psycho?”

he snorted, loud. “i am a psycho.”

you padded back in with some oversized t-shirt in your hands. one you probably slept in, he guessed, and that thought alone made him feel something tight settle in his chest.

you tossed it at him. “shower’s down the hall. towels under the sink. don’t bleed on my sheets.”

he raised an eyebrow. “you planning on tucking me in too, sweetheart?”

you gave him a blank look. “you wish.”

he huffed a laugh, caught the shirt, and stood—shoulder bumping yours as he passed. your lip was still stained. and he still couldn’t look away. he didn’t move for a second. just stood there in front of you, holding that old, stretched-out t-shirt in one hand, the other still balled into a fist by his side. the space between you throbbed—full of something he couldn’t name, like a pulled wire ready to snap.

your lip. still stained red.

and fuck, it wasn’t fair. you were standing there, all casual and stubborn, in your little tank top and shorts, like you hadn’t just dragged his ass out of a party like a pissed-off girlfriend, cursed him out in your living room, cleaned up his mess like you cared, and told him to stay the night like it didn’t mean anything. like it wasn’t driving him insane. matt wasn’t used to being looked after.

especially not by you.

and now, here you were. blood on your mouth. still touching his skin in places—his jaw, his temple, the side of his neck where your thumb had pressed in too hard. and you didn’t even seem to notice. but he did. god, he fucking noticed.

“matt,” you said finally, voice a little more cautious now. like you could sense the shift. “go shower. you’re gross.”

his lip twitched, but he nodded, saying nothing, and moved down the hall. he wanted to leave the bathroom door cracked, needing the faint sounds of the house to stay grounded. needing the space, but he closed it anyway. the water ran hot, nearly burning, but it helped. the sting reminded him to stay in control. reminded him he was still human enough to pull it back. barely.

𖤓

you knew he’d been in there too long. at first it didn’t register—just the sound of the water running behind the closed door while you sat on the edge of your bed, half-heartedly pretending to scroll through your phone. your fingers were idle. your mind wasn’t. you kept replaying it. his face. that stupid fight. the way he let you drag him out like he wasn’t twice your size and full of rage. the way he sat still and let you clean him up, even when you weren’t gentle. especially when you weren’t gentle. the way his breath stuttered when you snapped at him. when your lip bled and he couldn’t take his eyes off it. he hadn’t said much since. just listened to you mutter and nodded, eyes dark.

but now it was pushing thirty minutes, and the sound of the water hadn’t stopped. you blinked down at your screen again. a minute ticked by. another. your stomach twisted. you didn’t know what the hell possessed you to get up. maybe it was just genuine concern. maybe it was that same stupid tug in your chest you felt every time he looked at you too long. or maybe it was the part of you that needed to know—needed proof that you weren’t just imagining the way he was staring. like he wanted to bite. like he wanted to fuck.

your feet were quiet on the hardwood, like you were doing something wrong. your breath caught a little when you got close enough to hear it—not just the water—but him. low, quiet sounds slipping through the half-cracked bathroom door. you froze. his breathing was uneven. heavy. labored in a way that had nothing to do with steam. you stepped closer, barely. heart in your throat now.

then you heard it.

a soft curse. the distinct sound of skin on skin. a sharp inhale. a low groan, almost swallowed by the water pressure. you should’ve walked away. fuck, you should’ve.

but you didn’t.

you stood there, knees weak, face burning, biting down on the inside of your cheek hard enough to sting. you imagined him leaning against the tile, water pouring down his back, head tipped forward. imagined his fingers around his cock, jaw tight, lips parted, thinking about—fuck.

you turned around so fast you nearly tripped over your own feet, stormed back to your room and slammed the door a little too hard, heart hammering, thighs clenched, pulse between your legs. you sat on the edge of the bed again, tried to breathe through it. but your mouth was dry. your whole body was buzzing. you could still hear him in your head—those sounds. that voice. quiet and fucking desperate in a way he never let anyone see. you didn’t know how long it was before the water stopped. you didn’t know how long it took before you heard the bathroom door open, the sound of his footsteps in the hall, the faint creak of your door as he pushed it open without knocking.

your eyes snapped up. he was standing there, towel low on his hips, hair wet, chest rising and falling like he’d just been through hell. his eyes locked with yours. and you knew. instantly. he knew you’d heard.

you could see it in the way his mouth twitched, in the way his pupils were blown wide, like he hadn’t really finished what he started.

“couldn’t find the clean towel,” he said, voice rough. teasing. but low. darker than usual.

you didn’t say anything. couldn’t. just swallowed hard and looked away, blood rushing in your ears.

“you good?” he asked, stepping a little further into your room. towel still barely holding on. water dripping down his chest.

you nodded, still not looking at him. “fine.”

matt let the silence stretch. let the tension crackle like a live wire between you. and when he finally spoke again, it was low. almost soft.

“you heard me.”

your eyes snapped to his.

“i—”

“it’s fine,” he cut you off. but his voice was tight now. jaw clenched again. not angry—something else. restrained. careful. “fuck, angel. it’s not like i don’t want you to know.”

you stared. breathless.

he smirked, tired and wrecked. the kind of smirk that wasn’t smug—it was desperate. worn down. his eyes raked over you, slow. “you gonna tell me to get dressed, or you want me to stay like this?”

you didn’t answer. and he didn’t move. you stared at him—dripping, flushed, towel hanging too low on his hips, eyes dark and pinned to you like you were something worth sinking his teeth into. and maybe you were. god, maybe you wanted to be. your thighs clenched involuntarily at the look on his face. like he wanted to devour you. like you were the reason he’d been in the shower so long, with the water turned all the way hot and his hand moving over his cock, head thrown back against tile while your name probably slipped past his lips like a fucking prayer.

“matt,” you breathed, throat dry.

he took another step forward. slow. deliberate. his smirk was gone now. whatever bravado he walked in here with? it cracked beneath the weight of the silence between you, thick and humming.

“come here,” he murmured.

your heart stuttered. “matt…”

he leaned down, towel shifting a little with the movement. his fingers ghosted over your jaw, barely touching, but it was enough to make your skin light up like a struck match.

“we both know you want me too, baby.” he said, voice low, breath brushing your lips now. “you’re looking at me like you’re starving.”

you were. and he wasn’t wrong. but that didn’t mean—

you turned your head, jaw tensing. “you’re drunk.”

he exhaled sharply through his nose. like he expected that. like he hated that you were right.

“i’m fine.”

“matt.”

“i know what i’m doing,” he insisted, fingers tilting your chin back toward him. “and i want you. have wanted you. even when you drive me fucking insane.”

you stared at him. at the honest desperation in his voice. at the sheer want he wasn’t bothering to hide anymore. and god, it was tempting. every fiber in your body screamed to give in, to feel his mouth against yours, to drag that damn towel off and crawl into his lap, into his skin, into whatever the fuck had been building between you all summer long.

but no. not like this.

you pressed your hand to his chest, firm. “matt. you’ve been drinking. and you just fought someone. and you jerked off in my fucking shower.”

he blinked. laughed once. kind of breathless. “you weren’t supposed to hear that part.”

“i know,” you said, trying not to let the warmth creep up your neck. “but i did. and you’re still dripping water all over my floor.”

“you’re changing the subject.”

“yes,” you snapped, hand still on his chest. “because i’m trying really hard not to do something really fucking stupid.”

his gaze flickered. softened a little.

you swallowed hard. “don’t make me be the responsible one right now.”

for a second, neither of you moved. his fingers were still near your face, your hand still pressed to the heat of his chest. the air between you felt like it might snap. but then matt exhaled. slow. pulled back a little. ran a hand through his wet hair, muscles tight with restraint.

“you’re right.”

you didn’t expect him to say it. you just blinked at him.

he dropped onto the far end of your bed with a heavy sigh, towel hitching up slightly but thankfully not abandoning ship. he dragged a hand over his face. groaned softly. “fuck. i hate when you’re right.”

you tried not to smile. your heart still hadn’t slowed.

“get dressed, asshole.”

“yes, ma’am,” he muttered. “wouldn’t want to ruin your precious self-control.”

you rolled your eyes. turned toward your dresser, mostly to hide your face. but deep down, you were already dreading how much harder it was gonna be to pretend nothing had shifted between you. because it had.

you both felt it. and next time?

next time, you weren’t sure you’d be able to stop it.

dividers by @issysh3ll

[inocentuure]

being in a secret relationship with jackie

it’s late september in wiskayok, and the air is starting to cool, but the bleachers behind the field still burn a little from the sun if you lean back too long. you’re sitting there now knees pulled up, chin resting on them watching jackie lace her cleats like she’s in a nike ad and not a dusty new jersey town with one decent gas station.

she’s got her practice jersey bunched up around her waist and her hair in a high ponytail that you’ve seen her redo at least four times in the past ten minutes. she’s nervous.

“you’re gonna be late,” you murmur, kicking her shin gently.

jackie looks up with a grin like the sun came out just for her.

“you say that like you don’t like watching me get in trouble.”

you roll your eyes, but the truth is, you do. there’s something funny about miss perfect jackie taylor getting chewed out by coach martinez because she spent fifteen minutes behind the bleachers “hanging out” with a girl no one knows she’s dating.

she tugs the tongue of her cleat, then leans over and kisses you quickly so fast you barely feel it, and so soft you feel it everywhere.

you blink at her.

“that was lame.”

“shut up.”

but she’s grinning again, her whole face lit up, cheeks pink like she’s still nervous, even after all this time.

“you said no lipstick today.”

“i said no smudgy lipstick,” you tease, “there’s a difference.”

jackie exhales, flops back on the grass beside you.

“i hate this part.”

“what part?”

“this part where i have to go be ‘jackie taylor’ and not just... me. with you.”

her eyes flicker to yours, cautious and soft. “the real part.”

you reach over and gently run your fingers over hers, the way you’ve done a thousand times in the dark during your so-called “sleepovers.” the ones where you watch clueless or scream until your stomach hurts from laughing and then fall asleep wrapped around each other like a couple of dorks who don’t want morning to come.

jackie’s always the big spoon. even when she pretends she doesn’t like cuddling.

(“you move too much,” she said once, halfway through a sleepover. and then held onto you like a damn koala all night.)

you squeeze her hand.

“we’ll get out of here someday, jack.”

she looks at you like she wants to believe it. like she almost does.

“you think there’s a place where we can do this without sneaking around behind bleachers and pretending we’re just best friends who are really into sleepovers?”

“i think there’s a place where people won’t care if you kiss me in daylight.”

you pause.

“...and where your mom doesn’t give me the evil eye every time i show up with a duffel bag.”

jackie groans. “god, she totally thinks we’re hooking up.”

“we are hooking up.”

“yeah, but she knows.” jackie hides her face in her hands, then peeks out between her fingers with a half-laugh. “she made me go to confession after your last sleepover. confession, y/n. i told father donnelly that we were practicing lines for romeo and juliet.”

you snort. “which version? the one where juliet takes her top off?”

jackie shoves your shoulder but she’s laughing now, that full-bodied laugh that makes her eyes crinkle and your chest ache a little because you love her.

(not the soft kind of love, either. the kind that punches a hole in your ribs when you realize how deep in you are. the kind that doesn’t go away even when you’re pretending it’s nothing.)

the whistle blows across the field and jackie winces.

“i have to go be the captain now.”

you nod. “yes, ma’am.”

she stands, then pauses and looks down at you, sun behind her like a halo, even though she swears too much and forgets to turn in her english homework half the time.

jackie taylor—homecoming queen, golden girl, certified overachiever.

she steps closer, crouches down, and kisses you again. slower this time. longer. warm and familiar and just a little desperate.

“friday night?” she whispers. “movie night?”

you grin. “if by ‘movie’ you mean thirty minutes of pretending to watch empire records before making out until my mom threatens to come in, then yes. movie night.”

jackie tugs her ponytail tighter, smiles.

“it's a date.”

she jogs off toward practice, and you stay there for a minute longer, heart still thudding, already counting down the days until you can be alone again.

[cbeargyu]

I loved the taehyun step siblings fic and I would love to read the soobin one you mentioned😭 can you pls post it🥺

sinners

summary: you were an orphan, quiet and careful, when soobin’s family took you in. they gave you shelter, a new name, and a place at their table—but what bloomed between you and soobin was never meant to grow. you didn’t see him as a brother. he was the boy who looked at you like the sky was something he could touch if you asked him to. your love began in secret—beneath candlelight, beside old barns, and behind locked doors—and it survived the storm of shame, rejection, and exile. years later, your daughter gyuri starts asking the questions you never answered, uncovering the shadows of your past. 

pairing: step brother!soobin x adopted sister!reader

genre: historical fiction, slow burn, forbidden romance, family drama, generational angst, emotional intimacy, bittersweet nostalgia.

warnings: forbidden romance (pseudo-incest, adopted siblings), themes of religious guilt, emotional tension, grief (mention of death of a spouse), strained parent-child relationships, implied sexual content (non-explicit), mention of underage intimacy in historical context, family rejection, generational trauma, secret-keeping, emotional vulnerability.

wc: 12,1k

notes: you guys know how much i love that late 80s/90s vibe… i don’t even remember how this idea came to me honestly, but i really hope you enjoy it. truth is, i rewrote this like three times—i tried adding a bunch of explicit smut but it just didn’t sit right in the end. felt like i wasn’t digging deep enough into the story and ughhh this was supposed to be the final version, i swear. i don’t wanna touch it again or i’ll end up redoing the whole thing from scratch lol. anyway, hope you enjoy it 🫶🏻

year 1999

it was your 39th birthday.

you sat at the head of the low dining table in your traditional house, a small cake resting in front of you with a single sky-blue candle flickering gently under the warm glow of the paper lanterns above. your family sang happily, voices echoing softly across the wooden beams of your home, and you smiled—genuinely, though modestly—at their thoughtful gesture.

to your left was your eldest daughter, choi gyuri, already bearing the subtle weight of adolescence in her slouched shoulders and disinterested gaze. to your right sat your youngest, choi beomgyu, bright-eyed and clapping enthusiastically, barely able to contain himself—because in your modest home, sweets were a rare and treasured delight.

and directly across from you sat the man who had known you longer than anyone alive.

your childhood friend. your confidant. your lover.

your husband.

choi soobin.

he wore a plaid shirt rolled up to the elbows, tucked meticulously into black dress pants cinched with a worn brown belt. he looked every bit the part of the respectable village schoolteacher, the kind who children admired and parents trusted without question. but beneath that calm, clean-cut image—beneath the way he smiled at your children, beneath the way he handed you a bouquet of dahlias with quiet reverence—there was something else. something deeper. older. sharper.

you accepted the flowers with a bashful smile, lowering your head as you inhaled their sweet scent. then you stood, smoothing your apron, and moved toward the kitchen to place them in fresh water, before retrieving a knife to cut the cake. beomgyu, ever eager, practically jumped into his seat, clapping again as if it were his birthday. gyuri hesitated, dragging her feet to the table, arms crossed. her father reached out to ruffle her hair—a gentle attempt at warmth—but she merely sighed under her breath and looked away.

you returned, slicing the cake into careful portions, serving each plate with delicate precision. you began with your husband, placing the dish before him with a slight nod, avoiding his gaze. he smiled softly and murmured a polite thank you, to which you only replied with a small nod, your hands folding in front of you, retreating.

gyuri watched this with a twitch in her brow. her mother—always so composed, so obedient—seemed like a woman from another century. a servant to her husband, not his equal. a ghost of a woman with a gentle voice and tired hands who never looked soobin in the eyes when she spoke to him. who called him not by his name, not with affection, but with the formal, distant title of “dear husband.”

to gyuri, something was off.

she had never seen them kiss. never seen them touch in any way that seemed truly intimate. and while she knew her parents were devout catholics and perhaps conservative in their ways, it didn’t explain the total absence of warmth. it didn’t explain why the most tender phrase her mother ever used for her father sounded like it belonged in a prayer, not a marriage.

it made her wonder.

what were they like when no one was watching?

because beneath the silence… something buzzed. a current of secrecy wrapped around her parents like smoke. sometimes she caught them exchanging glances across the room—brief, loaded, and unreadable. sometimes she noticed the way her mother’s hand would linger on the hem of soobin’s sleeve as she passed him tea. or the way soobin’s jaw would tense when someone brought up their respective families.

which was rare.

no one ever talked about the grandparents. not on your side, not on soobin’s. gyuri only knew that you had been orphaned at eleven, and that soobin—once heir to a large estate—had cut off all ties with his family over some unresolved, unspoken rift. there were no photos. no names. no stories. just silence.

and that silence had grown like a weed in gyuri’s heart.

there were nights she would lie awake, thinking of all the strange pieces: her mother’s unwavering devotion, her father’s cold poise, their refusal to speak of the past. she wondered if her mother had been forced into marriage, if her father had taken advantage of her, if something awful bound them together. but the truth—buried deep in the folds of your shared history—was stranger, more haunting.

you had been taken in by soobin’s mother after your parents died, because your mothers had once been dear friends. what had begun as a noble act of charity turned into something the village—and the family—would one day label as sinful. for as you grew in that house, under the watchful eye of soobin’s mother, you and the boy meant to treat you like a sister grew closer… in ways that defied blood and duty and the cold rules of religion.

at sixteen, you were no longer a child. and Soobin—eighteen and earnest—could no longer pretend that his feelings were brotherly. when his mother discovered the truth, she saw it as betrayal. a violation. her fury scorched everything. she condemned you both as ungrateful, as impure. she accused you of seducing her son, of shaming her house. and soobin… he stood by you. for the first time in his life, he defied his family, abandoned his name, and disappeared with you into the countryside, leaving everything behind.

together, you built a life out of the ashes of disgrace.

in a village far from seoul, among hills and rice paddies, you made a home in a modest hanok, raising your children with quiet pride and guarded love. you went to church every sunday, your rosaries worn from constant use, your souls constantly seeking forgiveness for a past neither of you would ever renounce.

and yet—despite the piety, despite the sacrifices, despite the masks you wore for your children and the neighbors—there was nothing holy in the way you touched each other when the doors were closed.

there was nothing brotherly about the nights when soobin pressed you into the wooden floor of your room, his hands in your hair, your rosary beads tangled between the sheets. you were still sinners. still burning.

but that part of you—of your marriage—remained hidden, sacred and profane, between the creaks of the old wood and the shadows of candlelight.

and gyuri… she was starting to hear those creaks.

you were eleven when you arrived at the choi household, a thin little thing swallowed up in a dress two sizes too big, the hem dragging slightly in the dirt behind your scuffed shoes. your hair had been braided that morning with trembling fingers, not with care, but with the quiet desperation of needing something—anything—to hold onto. clutched tight in your hands was a bouquet of dalias, their petals already wilting, curling inwards with the kind of sadness flowers seem to carry when they’ve been pulled from the earth too soon. they had sat on your mother’s grave just that morning, and you had taken them before leaving, dirt still clinging to their stems. not out of disrespect, but because you needed something of her, a piece of her scent, her favorite flower, her last offering to the world. they were all you had.

mrs. choi was kind, in the way women are when they’ve been raised to smile through expectations. she met you at the gate with a soft expression and hands that moved quickly—brushing your shoulders, smoothing your braid, plucking a leaf from your sleeve like she was trying to erase any evidence of your sorrow. she ushered you in with the firmness of someone who had done this before—inviting, but brisk. you remember the smell of the house before anything else: something like soy sauce and wood polish, and a faint floral scent that didn’t belong to your mother. it was strange to step into a home that was already warm, already full of someone else’s laughter and footsteps and silence.

she introduced you to her daughters first—two girls, both older than you, both wearing matching pinafores and the exact same look of quiet suspicion. they didn’t say much, only offered stiff little nods and a glance that lingered just long enough to let you know you didn’t belong. and then, she gestured toward him. “this is soobin,” she said, like she was handing you a pair of mittens or naming the weather.

he was thirteen. awkwardly tall for his age, all elbows and sharp angles, his hair falling slightly into his eyes. he had dirt under his nails, a smudge of something on his cheek that looked like oil, and a mouth that seemed permanently on the edge of some secret thought. his gaze met yours for only a second, and then dropped—like looking at you too long might expose something he didn’t want anyone to see. he said nothing. neither did you.

you stood there with your wilted flowers and your aching chest and your fingers trembling from holding on too tight, and in that silence, something shifted.

he couldn’t think of you as a sister. not even for a moment.

he tried. for the sake of his mother, of the idea of family. he kept his distance, polite but distant. he wouldn’t sit next to you at dinner. he never offered to share his candy. he didn’t look at you when you crossed the hallway in your oversized nightgown, dragging a pillow behind you like a ghost. but he watched you. when you weren’t looking, when you were curled up on the porch with your head on your knees, crying so quietly it barely made a sound. when you whispered to your flowers, begging them not to die yet. when you stared at your plate and blinked too much because the soup reminded you of her.

you didn’t speak to him much in the beginning. you didn’t speak to anyone, really. everything felt foreign—the food, the air, the way the girls whispered behind doors, the way mrs. choi hummed songs that weren’t lullabies you knew. but soobin... he was different. he was quiet too, in a way that made space for your grief. he didn’t ask questions. didn’t tell you to smile. but sometimes he left things on the edge of your desk—a mango candy, a piece of folded paper with a doodle of a cat, a small rubber eraser shaped like a strawberry. small things, nothing dramatic. but enough to say: i see you. i know you’re here.

as you both grew older, the quiet began to change. he started to fill out, his voice cracked, his limbs became less awkward. you watched him help his father at the factory, lifting sacks that looked too heavy for his back but never once did he complain. he would come home with his shirt sticking to his skin, his arms smeared with sweat and grease, and something inside you stirred that had no name yet. he started smoking, poorly, like a boy trying to understand what made a man, and you watched from the second floor window as he lit a cigarette behind the shed, cupping it with one hand like a secret.

you noticed how he argued with his mother when she scolded him, how he slammed doors when frustrated, how he bit his nails when he was nervous, but no matter what, he never skipped school. never missed a test. he would throw pebbles at your window at night when he couldn’t sleep, just so you’d peek through the curtains and roll your eyes at him. he liked making you roll your eyes. he said it made you look less sad.

and somewhere along the way, something else bloomed.

you stopped looking at him like a housemate, like the boy you were supposed to call ‘brother.’ you started looking at his hands, long and veined, stained with ink from the homework he scribbled down too fast. you watched his mouth when he chewed gum, when he muttered curses under his breath, when he grinned after winning a bet. you listened to the sound of his footsteps down the hall, the way his door clicked shut every night at 10:07.

you didn’t understand what you were feeling at first—just that it wasn’t the same warmth you had for the girls who braided each other’s hair and gossiped in the kitchen. it was something else. something heavy and warm, like the sun sitting low in your belly. and you knew, even if you couldn’t say it out loud: soobin wasn’t your brother. not to your heart. not to your body. not in the way you caught yourself staring when he wasn’t looking, or how his name felt softer on your tongue than any other word.

he had changed your world the moment he saw you standing there with your dead flowers and broken heart.

and you had changed his, too.

he just didn’t know what to do with it yet.

you were fifteen, maybe a little older, but still young enough to call it curiosity—though in truth, it was far more than that. the summer was thick with heat, and everything around the house had slowed to a drowsy lull. the trees hummed with cicadas, the air tasted like metal and dust, and the scent of boiling soy lingered in the corners of the kitchen long after dinner was cleared. you had taken to escaping out back, into the barn where the air was still and dense, where the light filtered through slats in golden beams that danced with motes of dust like fireflies.

he was already there when you arrived. you paused in the doorway, eyes adjusting to the amber gloom. he was sitting on a stack of old burlap sacks, his sleeves rolled up, shirt stuck to his back, a lit cigarette dangling between his fingers even though he wasn’t smoking it. he looked older like that. worn in. dangerous in a way that made your heart twist in your chest.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he said without looking at you, his voice low, almost careful.

“neither should you,” you replied, just as quietly, closing the door behind you.

you didn’t mean to sit so close. you hadn’t planned it. but there was a pull between you, invisible but certain, that made you drift toward him like gravity itself had changed direction. the silence stretched, but it wasn’t awkward. it was thick, electric. the kind of silence that buzzed in your ears and made you hyper-aware of the space between your knees, your fingers, your breath.

he glanced at you then. not in that way he usually did, not like a passing look or something casual. this time it was deliberate. his gaze caught yours and didn’t let go. your stomach flipped. you wanted to look away. you didn’t. couldn’t.

“your braid’s messy,” he murmured.

you reached up instinctively to touch it. he reached too. fingers brushing yours. and for a second—barely even a second—you both froze.

that was it. that was the moment.

his hand didn’t move away. and neither did yours. your fingers were touching now, not quite entwined but pressed together, uncertain, trembling with the awareness that you were crossing a line that no one had drawn out loud, but that you both felt.

he shifted, just a little, just enough to close the breath of space between your shoulders. your thigh touched his. the fabric of your skirts rustled against the coarse material of his pants. you heard the softest intake of his breath and realized it matched the way your own lungs had stalled.

and when he looked at you again—really looked—there was something new behind his eyes. something tender, but also hungry. a question. a truth.

“you’re not my sister,” he whispered, like it hurt to admit it, but more than that, like he couldn’t keep pretending anymore.

and you didn’t flinch. didn’t correct him. because you weren’t. not in your heart. not in the way you had begun to trace the shape of his body in your dreams, or the way your thoughts wandered to the curve of his neck, the roughness of his hands, the softness of his voice when he was half-asleep and called out for someone—maybe you.

you nodded, just barely.

“i know,” you breathed.

and that was the first permission.

nothing else happened that day. no kiss. no confession. just that quiet, burning truth. your fingers, still touching. his hand, warm and trembling like yours. the silence stretching again, but now laced with something heady and forbidden and sacred.

a promise, unspoken. an understanding.

the beginning of the end of pretending.

the second time it happens, it feels different.

not like the first—the accidental touch of hands as you both reached for the same rusted pair of shears outside the shed, and your fingers had lingered a moment too long. that first time had left your stomach in knots, your breath caught, your chest rising and falling too quickly as he quietly pulled his hand away and murmured, “sorry.”

but this time... this time there’s no accident.

it’s late, the sun long set behind the ridge of hills, and the house is asleep, wrapped in silence except for the occasional groan of the old wood settling into the cold of night. you should be in your room. you should be under the covers, eyes closed, heart still.

but you’re not.

you’re barefoot, quiet, holding the hem of your nightgown in one hand as you creep down the hallway. you don’t even know what you’re looking for. or maybe you do—but you’re not ready to say it aloud.

not even in your mind.

you find him by the back door, half-shadowed in moonlight. he’s sitting on the bench where they usually leave baskets of vegetables from the garden. the window above him spills silver across his cheekbones, and his shirt is loose, sleeves rolled up, collar open. he’s always been handsome, even before you understood what beauty meant. but now... now there’s something dangerous about the way his eyes find yours, like he’s been waiting.

you hesitate. he doesn’t speak. neither do you.

his gaze drops, just for a second, to your bare feet. then travels up slowly, too slowly, until it meets your eyes again. and in the space between your lungs, something flutters wildly. heat creeps across your skin, shame and longing tangled like vines. you’re not a child anymore. and neither is he.

he nods toward the empty space beside him.

you sit.

for a while, there’s only silence.

the kind of silence that isn’t empty, but thick, heavy with everything unsaid. your knees almost touch. your arms almost brush. and every breath you take is a little harder to swallow.

when he finally speaks, his voice is low, a rasp in the dark.

“can’t sleep?”

you shake your head.

he leans back, hands braced behind him, elbows sharp against the wood.

“me neither.”

more silence.

but now it’s louder.

because you feel it.

the pull.

your hands are clasped tightly in your lap, knuckles white, trying to anchor yourself to something safe. but your eyes betray you—they wander, tracing the curve of his throat, the way his collarbone moves when he swallows.

“you’ve changed,” he says suddenly, not looking at you.

you stiffen. “what do you mean?”

he exhales through his nose, almost like a laugh. “you don’t cry as much anymore.”

you glance down. “i still do. just not where anyone sees.”

“i see you,” he says.

the words hit you like a match to dry leaves.

you turn to look at him, really look. and he’s already looking at you. the kind of look that strips you down—not your body, not yet—but something more.

he sees all the parts you try to hide. and he doesn't look away.

his hand lifts. hesitates in the air between you.

then slowly, so slowly, it brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

his knuckles graze your cheek.

and you swear your breath leaves your body.

“you’re not my sister,” he murmurs, voice thick, hoarse, sinful.

and you whisper back—because it’s the only thing your throat can manage—“i know.”

his hand lingers. the warmth of his touch a brand on your skin.

he doesn’t kiss you.

he could have.

god, you wanted him to.

but he doesn’t.

instead, he stands.

and before he walks away, he says, “go back to bed, y/n.”

but you don’t sleep that night.

not even a little.

the barn is quiet at night.

too quiet.

you’re standing in the middle of the hay-covered floor, arms crossed over your chest, breath shallow. the wooden beams creak with the wind, and the air smells of earth, dust, and something older—memories soaked into the grain of the walls.

you came here looking for silence.

but he found you anyway.

soobin steps in through the side door, the same door he always slips out of when he’s trying to disappear for a few hours. there’s something about him in the moonlight—like a ghost from your dreams or a boy made of secrets. his hair is a little messy. his lips a little parted. and he’s looking at you like he already knows. like he feels it too.

“you followed me,” you say, not turning to face him completely.

“i always do,” he answers softly.

he walks closer. slowly. like he’s giving you the chance to run. but you don’t.

you can’t.

“you shouldn’t be here,” you whisper.

“neither should you.”

you finally look at him. and something in you folds. caves in. aches. because his eyes are saying everything his lips won’t.

and maybe… maybe you’ve waited long enough.

“do you think about it?” you ask, your voice trembling, “what would happen… if we let it happen?”

he doesn’t blink.

he doesn’t flinch.

he takes another step, then another. until he’s right in front of you.

your chests almost touch.

your fingers almost brush.

“i think about it every night,” he breathes.

your heart stutters.

“soobin—”

but he’s already reaching for your face, gently, reverently, like he’s holding something sacred. his thumb strokes your cheek, slow and warm, and he leans in just enough for his forehead to touch yours. your breath mingles. your lashes brush.

“tell me to stop,” he murmurs.

you don’t.

you tilt your chin up. just enough.

and he takes it as permission.

his lips meet yours softly at first—so soft it barely feels real. a ghost of a kiss. a breath. a promise. your eyes fall shut as your hands lift to his shirt, fingers clenching the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

he kisses you again. deeper. longer.

his mouth moves against yours like he’s waited years to memorize the shape of it. and maybe he has. because everything about this feels inevitable. like gravity. like fate.

your back bumps against the wooden post behind you. he cages you in with one arm beside your head, the other curling around your waist, drawing you in like he can’t get close enough. and still, you want more. your bodies fit together like pieces of something ancient—unfinished until now.

his lips trail down to your jaw, then your neck, each kiss burning hotter than the last.

“this changes everything,” he whispers.

you nod, eyes fluttering open, chest heaving. “i know.”

“but i don’t care,” he says.

and when he kisses you again, it’s with a hunger that leaves you breathless.

this isn’t just a kiss. it’s the start of something irreversible.

something beautiful.

and forbidden.

and yours.

the back wall of the school gym was cracked and sun-bleached, half-covered with faded graffiti and vines that curled like claws. gyuri sat on the cold concrete ledge, her legs pulled up, hands wrapped around her knees. the others were older, louder, and more careless. but she didn’t mind. she liked to watch. to listen.

hyunjoo was tossing rocks at a rusted trash bin, each metallic thud sharp against the dusk. sungchan smoked lazily, leaning back against the wall with his hoodie halfway down his arms.

gyuri broke the rhythm.

“do your parents ever lie to you?” her voice barely carried.

sungchan rolled his eyes. “they lie all the time. it’s their thing.”

“what kind of lies?” gyuri pressed.

“the kind that don’t matter,” said hyunjoo. “the kind you get over when you’re not fifteen.”

miyeon exhaled sharply from her place near the fence.

“parents have shit they don’t want to explain. maybe yours just had a fight. maybe they hate each other and pretend not to for your sake. why are you digging?”

gyuri looked down at the scuffed toes of her shoes. her heart buzzed. “my mom… she never talks about her parents. she acts like they never existed. and my dad, he’s… careful. with her. in this weird, quiet way.”

jaemin, quiet until now, glanced over. “so? it’s not your business.”

but a moment later, as the others argued over a broken lighter, jaemin leaned closer and murmured, “if you really want answers… check their drawers. the back of closets. old boxes. they always keep the truth somewhere they think no one will look.”

gyuri didn’t reply. but the idea burned into her mind like a secret too dangerous to speak aloud.

that evening, while you were out running errands—your cloth bag slung over your arm, your steps light down the dirt path—gyuri waited exactly nine minutes before pushing open the door to your room.

it was quiet inside, filtered with afternoon light, the tatami floor warm under her socks. she moved with practiced silence toward the chest of drawers you always kept locked. but the latch was old. with a little effort and a bobby pin, it clicked open.

papers. ribbons. folded cloths scented with lavender.

and photos.

she pulled out a faded photograph: a little girl, no older than six, in a pale floral dress, straw hat tilted, hugging a small bouquet of sunflowers. you.

your smile in the picture was wide, your cheeks round and eyes bright. it didn’t look like the mother she knew.

then—another photo, hidden between envelopes.

you again, but older. a teenager, your hair windblown, your eyes narrowed like you’d been laughing or crying. and beside you, soobin. he looked younger too, with his arm slung around your shoulders, a cigarette in his other hand, lips slightly swollen. your bodies pressed close, close enough to feel the heat through the photo itself.

gyuri stared at it, something tight in her chest.

this was not the calm, practical love she saw at the breakfast table.

this was fire.

the photo haunted her. not in the way ghosts do, but in the way questions do—questions that twist themselves under your ribs and refuse to leave, even when you close your eyes.

gyuri hid the picture beneath her mattress. for now. but the next morning, when you hummed softly while making barley tea and the radio whispered old songs from the kitchen window, she watched you with sharper eyes.

you didn’t notice.

you never did.

your hands moved with the grace of someone who had made peace with their days. folding his shirt just so. placing the thermos into his old canvas satchel. checking the weather by stepping outside barefoot, always barefoot, and squinting at the clouds.

when soobin came down the stairs, you straightened his collar. he bent slightly to kiss your cheek. it was all routine. all silence and smooth edges.

but gyuri saw it now—the way your fingers lingered too long on the buttons, the way he looked at you like a man who once knew chaos but had buried it beneath the soil.

and when he left for the school, driving that wheezing car that always coughed twice before starting, you stood at the gate until the sound faded.

only then did you return inside.

gyuri waited until your steps disappeared down the hallway before slipping into the back room again. not your bedroom—this time, the storage closet at the end of the hall. the one that always smelled of cedar and old cloth.

she found a wooden box tucked behind a stack of winter blankets.

inside: a handkerchief, embroidered with a sun. a wrinkled envelope with no stamp, just your name written in all lowercase letters. and a necklace—simple, silver, with a tiny locket that clicked open like it still remembered how to breathe.

inside the locket: a dried petal. yellowed, fragile. maybe from a sunflower.

gyuri sat back on her heels, heart stammering. what was this? a keepsake from before her father? or something that belonged to him… before he was him?

she wanted to ask.

but how do you ask someone about the pieces of themselves they’ve hidden?

that night, soobin came home late.

he looked tired. not in the way the body is tired—but the soul. the kind of exhaustion that clings behind the eyes. you met him at the door, towel in hand, wiping your damp hands from washing dishes.

“dear husband, you stayed late again,” you said softly.

he nodded, kissed your forehead, then leaned against the frame. “new kid. cried the whole hour. didn’t want to let go of his mom.”

you smiled, sad and gentle. “you used to be like that.”

“i was worse.” he laughed, a soft sound.

you watched him. and he watched you watching him.

the kitchen smelled of garlic and rice, of comfort. but the quiet between you suddenly felt charged. like static before a summer storm.

“gyuri,” he said.

you tilted your head.

“what about her?”

he hesitated. eyes dropping to the floor. hand curling slightly at his side.

“she’s… asking questions.”

you stiffened, barely. “what kind?”

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he crossed the room and poured himself a glass of water, fingers trembling just slightly as he set it down on the table.

“she’s too curious. like you were.”

you blinked. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he didn’t look at you. just stared out the window, where the moon was a thin white scar in the dark sky.

“you remember that night… outside the temple?”

your breath caught.

he never talked about that night.

you stepped closer, fingertips brushing the edge of the table.

“what about it?”

soobin’s jaw clenched. his voice dropped.

“i should have left town after that. should have gone somewhere far.”

you flinched.

“you didn’t.”

“no. because you kissed me like you meant it. and suddenly leaving didn’t make sense anymore.”

you stood there, silence thick and trembling between you. the kitchen light flickered once.

“you’ve never said that before,” you whispered.

he turned to you finally. eyes soft. aching.

“i know. and i don’t know if i ever should again.”

then he touched your cheek. one finger, barely there.

“if she finds out how it really began… if she knows the weight of everything we chose to forget…”

you swallowed.

“then we deal with it. together.”

but neither of you said what you were really thinking.

what if we can’t?

dinner was quiet. too quiet.

the clinking of cutlery against ceramic plates echoed louder than usual, like a metronome ticking down to something inevitable. the stew was warm, the bread fresh—but there was a chill in the air that had nothing to do with the autumn breeze outside the hanok’s wooden walls. gyuri sat across from you, eyes sharp, lips pressed into a tight line. beomgyu, as always, was oblivious—talking about school, a funny story from his literature class, a friend who forgot his homework.

but gyuri was watching soobin. not with affection or casual curiosity, but with the precision of someone looking for cracks.

soobin chewed slowly, eyes down. he hadn’t noticed the intensity of her gaze—yet.

“appa,” she said suddenly, voice smooth, too smooth.

soobin looked up. “mm?”

“why did we never visit your family?” she said, resting her chin in one palm, elbow on the table like she knew it would annoy you.

soobin blinked. “we talked about this before. it’s… complicated.”

“complicated?” gyuri’s tone was light, but her eyes were anything but. “is that why you’ve never even tried to reconcile? not even once? not even for us?”

soobin’s jaw tensed. he put his spoon down gently, the soft clink against the bowl somehow louder than necessary. “gyuri.”

“no, really,” she continued, still smiling, but her words were daggers. “you never thought maybe beomgyu and i deserved to meet our grandparents? or your sisters? or your old friends from the village? anyone from your past?”

“gyuri, that’s enough,” you warned softly, but your voice barely reached her.

“because it almost feels like…” she tilted her head, watching soobin intently. “you’re ashamed. or hiding something. like maybe… you weren’t supposed to marry mom?”

soobin’s head shot up. his eyes locked with hers, and for a moment, you saw the flicker of something primal. something raw. he looked like a man trying to hold the world together with two bare hands.

“what did you say?” he asked, his voice low.

“i said,” gyuri leaned forward, her voice cutting, “maybe you and mom did something that would’ve made your family disown you. something… sinful.”

“gyuri!” you snapped, but she didn’t even flinch.

“and maybe,” she went on, ignoring the rising tension in the room, “that’s why we live here. why we’re so far from everyone. why there are no photos from before. no stories. nothing.”

soobin pushed his chair back. not violently, not loudly—but the screech of wood against wood was enough to make beomgyu look up from his soup, eyes wide.

“stop it,” soobin said, barely holding himself together. “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

gyuri didn’t stop. her tone turned mockingly sweet. “or maybe i do.”

you moved before you could think.

the sound of your hand striking her cheek echoed across the table like thunder.

gyuri froze. so did beomgyu. even soobin looked stunned.

“that’s not how you talk to your father,” you said, breath trembling with fury. “you don’t get to sit there and act like you know what we’ve been through. like you understand.”

gyuri slowly turned her head back to you. her eyes shimmered—not from the slap, but from something deeper. fury. pain. betrayal.

“then tell me,” she said, voice breaking as it rose into a scream. “tell me what you’re hiding!”

you froze.

her words struck deeper than your slap ever could. your eyes widened. your heartbeat roared in your ears.

soobin stood behind his chair, fists clenched, knuckles white. his face was pale, mouth slightly open like he wanted to stop her—but couldn’t.

gyuri stood now too, breathing hard, staring at both of you with a fire that could burn the whole house down.

“i’m not stupid,” she whispered, trembling. “i see the way you two look at each other. like there’s something more than just love. like there’s a… weight. and i’ve always wondered why it felt like i was born from a secret.”

you opened your mouth to speak—but no sound came.

there was nothing you could say.

because the secret she was clawing toward wasn’t just a shadow. it was a truth buried deep beneath years of silence.

a truth with sunflowers and barn dust and trembling hands. a truth that still lived behind the locked door of your bedroom each night.

gyuri’s chair scraped back sharply as she stood, her breathing erratic and shallow, eyes glistening with unshed tears. the sting on her cheek had faded, but what remained was far worse—a wound that no reprimand could erase.

“i hate this,” she spat. “i hate this family. it’s all fake.”

you tried to reach for her, but she flinched away before your fingers could even graze her sleeve.

“don’t touch me,” she whispered.

and then she was gone—barefoot, running out through the wooden door of the hanok, her footsteps echoing down the porch, swallowed by the night. beomgyu started to rise, confused and unsure, but soobin shook his head gently.

“let her go.”

the house fell into a silence so thick, it hurt. only the soft crackle of the oil lamp by the wall offered a heartbeat.

you stood frozen in the middle of the room, hand still trembling from the slap you hadn’t even realized had landed with so much force. shame burned under your skin, and guilt twisted your stomach in violent knots.

you turned slowly to look at him.

soobin hadn’t moved. he stood there, staring at the space gyuri had just occupied, shoulders hunched forward as if the weight of her words had crushed something inside him. his lips parted slightly, but there was nothing left to say—at least not out loud.

you walked to him, slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal. your hand reached for his, the same hand that had struck your daughter, and laced your fingers with his.

“dear husband…” your voice cracked.

he looked at you finally. god, his eyes. they were the same ones that used to look at you through haylofts and chapel candles and whispered sin. the same eyes that had begged you to run away with him when the world turned against you. now they looked tired. defeated.

“we’ve hurt her,” he said quietly. “we’ve hurt her without meaning to.”

“i know,” you whispered, stepping closer, your forehead gently resting against his chest. “but how do we explain what they were never supposed to know?”

he wrapped his arms around you. it wasn’t lustful. not tonight. it was grounding. protective. desperate.

“maybe we don’t,” he murmured against your hair. “maybe we just hold on to what we still have.”

you stayed like that for a long while, swaying slightly, the cool air creeping in from the open door where gyuri had disappeared.

you remembered a night years ago when you were the one who ran—barefoot, tears in your eyes, with soobin chasing behind you. how he held you then, in a field of stars and silence, swearing that no matter how wrong the world said your love was, he would carry it like a vow. not once, not out loud—but every day, in every look, every secret touch behind closed doors.

and now here you were. grown. older. married. parents. but the sin never washed away.

“she’s not wrong,” you whispered. “we did something we can’t undo.”

“but we never regretted it,” he said, brushing your hair behind your ear. “not once.”

“no,” you admitted, looking up at him with tear-glossed eyes. “not once.”

he leaned down slowly, so slowly, as if kissing you in that moment might shatter something irreparable. but your lips met anyway, soft and solemn, like a prayer spoken through breath.

when you pulled apart, he didn’t smile. he didn’t need to.

because you both knew gyuri’s question had cracked open the past—and whatever came next, it wouldn’t be silence anymore.

the next morning arrived heavy with a silence that pressed against the walls like fog. the table remained untouched, bowls of rice cooling, untouched plates of banchan abandoned in awkward arrangement. the hanok, usually filled with soft rustlings, tea being poured, the creak of floorboards—felt like a house holding its breath.

beomgyu sat alone on the porch, his long legs folded, head resting against one of the wooden pillars. the air was still, early sun flickering through the slats in golden lines. he had barely touched his food. eyes puffy. quiet.

soobin found him there. he approached slowly, cautiously, as if stepping into a room mid-prayer. he stood for a moment before lowering himself beside his son, knees cracking, posture weighed with unspoken things.

"she didn’t come back," beomgyu said without looking at him.

soobin nodded. "i know."

silence.

"what happened?" beomgyu finally asked, turning his face, those dark eyes searching—gentler than gyuri’s, but sharp with their own awareness. "why did she say all that? why did mom slap her?"

soobin exhaled. "it’s complicated."

"it always is. but she’s not stupid. neither am i. i’ve seen how you two look at each other when you think no one’s watching. the way you… hold her hand. the way she disappears into the room with you for hours. it’s not just marriage. it’s something else. it always has been."

soobin closed his eyes, feeling the weight of every word press deeper into his chest. he wanted to speak, to explain, to protect.

but how do you tell your son that the woman he calls mother once arrived at your doorstep with a braid, a bouquet of wilted dahlias, and the saddest eyes you had ever seen?

he opened his mouth, but before anything came out—

—he remembered.

it had been a rainy afternoon.

she had just turned fifteen. her body had begun to shed its childish awkwardness, and the girl who once cried quietly in the corners of rooms had started to smile again, though only when no one was looking.

he was seventeen then, taller, broader, already helping his father in the workshop, muscles forming from labor, hands always smelling faintly of metal and pine.

she came in from the rain that day, soaked through her hanbok, her braid unraveling, clutching something to her chest.

"they trampled the dahlias," she whispered, trembling. "the neighbor boys. i left them by the grave and—"

she couldn’t finish.

soobin reached for her instinctively. hands warm, steady. he took the crushed flowers from her palms and placed them carefully in a bowl of water on the kitchen counter.

when she looked up at him, her lips trembled.

"do you ever forget her face?" she asked. "your real grandmother. or anyone who died?"

he shook his head. "no. not really."

she blinked rapidly. then nodded.

"i think i’m forgetting my mother’s voice."

that broke him. and before he could think, before he could breathe—he cupped her face. gently. reverently. his thumbs brushed her cheeks, wet from tears and rain. and in that moment, neither one of them saw the other as siblings.

her lips parted slightly, eyes wide but unafraid. she leaned forward. and so did he.

their lips met like a question. like a secret held too long.

when they parted, they stared at each other. and neither ran.

because they both knew, deep in their chests, that whatever had just happened—it was the beginning.

a love too strong for rules.

a devotion born not of duty, but of recognition.

and they never looked back.

the rain has been falling for hours now—thick and steady, soaking the ground, turning the gravel road to sludge, beating soft rhythms against the tiled roof above your kitchen. it’s well past dark, the dinner dishes washed and dried, the lamps dimmed, and the fire still flickering low in the hearth. you had tried not to look at the clock too much, had tried not to glance at the window every few minutes or keep imagining the sound of footsteps beyond the gate. but you failed. every few moments your heart skipped in your chest, waiting—aching—for her.

and then, just as the wind howled again and you stood from your chair with a hand to your chest, you heard it. the creak of the gate. the hurried, uneven footsteps through mud and puddles. the jingle of the latch being lifted with cold, clumsy fingers.

you rush to the door before anyone else can. and there she is.

gyuri.

drenched. breathless. her long hair plastered to her face, her clothes soaked through, clinging to her like wet fabric against porcelain. her cheeks are red from the cold, her eyes swollen from crying, her hands trembling at her sides. she looks exhausted. like she’s been running for hours and has only now remembered where home is.

you don’t hesitate. not even for a second.

you step into the rain, barefoot, dress billowing behind you, and you wrap your arms around her so tightly that she gasps. you don’t care that she’s dripping wet. you don’t care that her boots smear mud across your skirt or that your own hair is beginning to cling to your temples. she’s here. she’s safe. she’s in your arms.

“beomgyu,” you call behind you, voice shaking, “bring towels. now.”

but you barely hear your own voice. everything in you is focused on the girl in your arms—the girl who came from your body, who once fit into the crook of your elbow, who now stands almost eye to eye with you but still feels like your baby. your gyuri. your stubborn, wild-hearted, sharp-tongued daughter. the one who slammed the door and said things that broke you.

and yet here she is, returning through the rain like something half-drowned and half-redeemed.

you press your hand to her cheek, feel how cold her skin is. you smooth the hair from her face even though it’s soaked. your hands tremble as they touch her, as if trying to memorize her all over again. your eyes sting. and you can't stop them.

the tears fall without permission. silently. without sound. just warm trails down your cheeks as you kiss her temple, her forehead, the corner of her eye. her wet lashes brush your lips.

“you’re home,” you whisper, voice cracked and trembling. “thank god, gyuri… you’re home.”

she doesn’t say anything. not at first. her chin lifts slightly, defiant still. proud as ever. the tears on her cheeks mix with the rain, and she refuses to meet your eyes. but her hands clutch your dress tightly, fists balled against your waist like a child afraid to let go.

and then, quietly, like the softest confession—

she sobs.

her shoulders shake. a small, broken sound escapes her throat. she doesn’t speak, doesn’t explain, doesn’t apologize. but she cries. and you hold her even tighter, swaying slightly on the porch, the rain still falling around you both like the sky is mourning too.

beomgyu appears at the door with a stack of towels and wide eyes, unsure of what to do. you don’t even look at him. you just say, “leave them by the fire,” and he does, retreating quickly, sensing something sacred unfolding.

you guide her inside. you don’t let go of her for a long time. not even as you wrap her in towels, not even as she sits beside the fire and you kneel in front of her, drying her hands gently, brushing the water from her hair like you did when she was five years old and cried because her favorite dress got muddy.

she doesn’t speak. neither do you.

but your eyes say everything.

you’re forgiven.

you’re loved.

you’re my daughter.

and i will always open the door for you.

always.

gyuri sat on the edge of her bed, the room swallowed by darkness except for the faint glow of the streetlamp outside casting soft shadows across the walls. her clothes had long since been changed, the damp fabric replaced by the warmth of dry, soft fabric, but the weight of everything lingered on her shoulders. the fight. the words she’d thrown, the anger that had surged up from places she didn’t want to acknowledge. she didn’t regret them, not exactly. but as she sat there, your face came to her mind, soft and sad in a way that made her heart ache.

you had embraced her in the rain—soaked, cold, angry—and she hadn’t said a word about it. just held her, wrapped her in warmth, never letting go, even when gyuri had tried to distance herself. gyuri could still feel the dampness of your dress against her skin, the way you held her so tightly, as if afraid to let go.

it was a strange feeling, one gyuri had never truly known before. this kind of care. it wasn’t like how other parents might act. it wasn’t just about doing what was expected. it was something deeper. something that, sometimes, made her feel guilty.

the door creaked softly, and her mother had left her there, alone, with only her thoughts for company.

as the minutes passed, the tension in gyuri’s chest slowly began to loosen. she couldn’t explain it—didn’t understand it. but something inside her shifted. the anger, the frustration—it all started to fade away. and what remained was that feeling, the warmth of your arms, the unspoken words of forgiveness that hovered in the space between them.

she pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, feeling small again. the way you had always made her feel safe, even when she didn’t want to admit it.

but now, in the silence of her dark room, it was like she was seeing you in a new light. not just as a parent, but as a woman. someone who had her own history, her own battles, her own wounds. and gyuri didn’t know everything about you. didn’t know the full story. but she knew, deep down, that you had fought for her—for all of them. and maybe, just maybe, she had been wrong to shut you out. wrong to think she could handle everything on her own, without you.

there was still so much she didn’t understand about her family. so much she didn’t know. but as the night stretched on, with the soft sounds of rain tapping against the window, gyuri slowly started to piece together what she’d been too stubborn to see before.

you weren’t perfect. but you had always loved her. loved them. and that, more than anything, was something that gyuri could never push away.

the darkness of the room wasn’t so suffocating now. she could breathe again.

and for the first time that night, gyuri closed her eyes and allowed herself to let go of the tension in her shoulders, curling up in bed as a tear slipped down her cheek, swallowed by the pillow beneath her.

the chapel is small, quiet, and slightly hidden at the edge of the new town, nestled between low hills and the old almond trees that lean in like witnesses. it's not grand. the paint is chipped, the wooden pews creak when you sit, and the stained-glass windows cast warm, dusty colors on the stone floor. but it’s perfect. it feels untouched by the world’s noise—like this place was waiting, quietly, just for you and him. and that’s all you’ve ever wanted. a place to say “yes” to him without having to explain to anyone why your heart has already been his for years.

you stand at the entrance in a simple dress, soft and cream-colored, stitched lovingly by the widow down the street who still remembers when you were just a quiet girl walking alone to the bakery. your hands aren’t shaking, though your heart is loud in your chest. there’s no veil, no jewels—only your unpinned hair, your sun-kissed skin, and the bouquet of sunflowers you picked yourself from the edge of the field. the same sunflowers he once tucked behind your ear when you were seventeen and he told you he couldn’t live without you. the memory presses close to your skin as you step forward, your bare feet soundless against the floor.

soobin waits for you at the front, his hands clutched so tightly in front of him you’re sure his knuckles are white. his suit doesn’t quite fit—it’s borrowed from a cousin—and the tie is a little crooked. but nothing could make him more beautiful to you. he’s only twenty, but he already looks like a man who has chosen his path with his whole soul. he looks at you like you’re everything. and you are. to him, you’ve always been everything.

there’s no one here from his family. no tears from a mother, no handshake from a father. the last time you saw them, his mother couldn’t even meet your eyes, and his father had shouted so loud the walls shook. they had made it clear you were not worthy. not with your history. not with your name. not with the scandal of that summer still clinging to you like sin. they told him he was throwing his life away. but soobin had looked them in the eyes, said nothing, and walked out. walked toward you.

you’ve never had family to disappoint. no father to give you away. no mother to kiss your cheek and smile through tears. you’ve known the ache of empty chairs all your life, and today is no different. but it doesn’t hurt the same, not now. because every step you take toward him fills the hollow places you once feared would stay empty forever.

the priest’s voice is soft, worn by time. he says the words that have been said for centuries, but they feel new in your ears. he asks you if you choose him, and you say “i do” without hesitation. and when soobin says it back, his voice is low and steady, like a vow that’s already been living in him long before this moment. he slides the simple gold band onto your finger, hands trembling as they always do when they touch you. and then he kisses you. in front of god and sunlight and the smell of lilies—he kisses you like you’re his miracle. like you’re the salvation he never dared to hope for.

you walk out of the chapel hand in hand, the sun hanging low and golden behind the hills, and his thumb traces small circles over your knuckles the entire walk home. when your heels begin to blister, he lifts you onto his back and laughs when you call him ridiculous. you laugh too, pressing your face into his shoulder, breathing in the scent of sweat and sunlight and everything that is him. your home is small, paint peeling, the furniture mismatched. but it’s yours. it’s safe. it’s real.

and that night, under the flickering light of a single candle, he kisses you again—slower, deeper, with the weight of something holy. you undress for him like you’re unwrapping a secret you’ve kept only for him. and when his hands explore the curves of your body, they do so with reverence, with familiarity, with love that has never asked for permission. your first night as husband and wife is not hurried or wild—it is sacred. it is soft moans and slow breaths and eyes that never stop searching. it is whispered promises between each thrust, each gasp, each whispered “i love you” pressed into the skin of your throat and the shell of your ear.

and afterward, when he holds you against his chest, when your fingers find the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat and your limbs tangle beneath the thin blanket, there is only peace. only the kind of silence that means something has finally come home.

the next spring, gyuri was born. and a scowl that already reminds you of her father. you hold her to your chest and feel something shift inside you—like your heart just split open and poured itself into her tiny body. soobin cries when he holds her for the first time, rocking her gently and whispering that she is everything. everything.

your love never needed the world’s approval. you never wore it proudly in public or shouted it from rooftops. but behind the locked door of your bedroom, where the children never knock and the world can’t reach you, it still burns. it is magic, sacred, eternal. even now, when the house is quiet and your hair is no longer the same as when he first kissed you by the temple, he still undresses you like you’re the same girl who changed his life with a sunflower in her hand.

because behind that door, with the lock turned, with the moonlight brushing over your bare shoulders and his name whispered like a hymn from your lips—nothing has changed.

and everything has.

the following day, the heavy silence from the night before still lingered in the air. gyuri moved cautiously through the house, her steps softer than usual, almost hesitant, as if every sound she made could shatter the fragile peace they had reluctantly agreed to. her eyes would flicker to you and soobin when they were close, but she said nothing. there was still so much left unsaid, too many unspoken questions hanging in the space between them.

after breakfast, when the house seemed to quiet down, gyuri finally found herself alone with you in the living room. the weight of their secret hung over them, but you’d never let it show. you had mastered the art of keeping it buried, safe under layers of silence. you looked at her with a soft, almost sorrowful expression, but there was strength there too—something in her gaze that said she wasn’t about to back down. it was that same strength that had carried them through everything.

"gyuri," you began, your voice calm but with an undertone of resolve, "we’ve said this before, and we’ll say it again: there are things from the past... things that we simply can’t bring to the surface. some things are better left buried. not because we want to lie to you, but because some truths aren’t meant to be known. not now. not yet."

gyuri’s gaze flickered to her father, who was sitting on the couch, his eyes lowered in thought. he didn’t look up, but the silence between them spoke volumes. he agreed. you both did. you had made their peace with the past, even if it was a peace built on secrets.

"but..." gyuri started, her voice quieter than usual, uncertain. "don’t you think... don’t you think that if i knew the truth, i could understand? i could... i could make sense of things? you always tell me to be strong, to face the world head-on. but how can I do that when there’s so much I don’t understand about... about you?" her voice trembled slightly, but she held her ground.

your expression softened, but her tone remained firm. "there are things that, if you knew, would only hurt you. the truth you think you want could be a heavy burden to carry, gyuri. we protect you, and we protect your brother, by keeping this buried. some things should stay locked away, hidden in the past where they belong."

you look at her, and your heart aches. you want to tell her. you want to let her in, to tell her the story that’s been buried beneath so many layers of silence. but you know that revealing it would only break her. break all of you. some truths, you’ve learned, are too heavy to carry.

you can see the doubt in her eyes, but she doesn’t push. not anymore. instead, she takes a step back, her shoulders sagging with the weight of what’s unsaid. she lowers herself slowly to the floor, kneeling before you, her hands clasped in front of her in a quiet show of respect. her head bows, and you can feel the depth of her apology, even if she doesn’t say the words aloud.

"i’m sorry," she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion. "i shouldn’t have spoken to dad like that... or left the house. i didn’t understand." her hands tremble slightly as she presses them to the floor, as though hoping the act of humility will somehow atone for the anger she’d shown. the anger that came from a place of confusion and hurt, but a place you, too, had once known.

you kneel beside her, your hand gently resting on her back, comforting her in the way you always had. "it’s okay," you whisper, your voice soft but firm, the love for your daughter unwavering. "we understand. just remember that there are things we protect to keep you safe. it’s not about hiding the truth from you... it’s about protecting you from it."

gyuri remains still for a moment, her breath shaky as she tries to hold back her tears. she doesn’t look up, doesn’t try to meet your gaze. but you can feel the relief in her posture, the small weight lifting from her shoulders as she finally lets go of the anger that had built up inside her.

"thank you," she whispers, her voice barely audible now. "i won’t ask again. i just... i want to understand." she pulls herself to her feet, still not meeting your eyes, but her body language softer now, more vulnerable than before.

you pull her into a tight embrace, your arms wrapping around her, holding her close, not letting go. she doesn’t resist. you can feel the warmth of her body against yours, the beat of her heart under your palm. "i know, gyuri," you whisper into her hair. "i know you want to understand. but some things, you just can’t change."

you hold her for a moment longer, letting the silence stretch between you two. this is how it is now. this is how it will stay. you will continue to live with your secrets, your past buried deep within, and your children will carry on without ever knowing the full story. you’ll keep them safe, even if it means keeping them in the dark. it’s a sacrifice you’ll make, over and over again, for their peace.

when you finally pull away, you kiss the top of her head, feeling the weight of your decision settle around you once more. "we’re here for you," you say, your voice steady but full of the unspoken promise of your love.

gyuri nods slowly, a small, uncertain smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "i know, mom. i know."

and as she turns away, walking back to her room, you watch her go, the ache in your chest a quiet reminder of the love you’ve always had to protect—love that sometimes needs to stay hidden, even from those who deserve to know it the most.

it’s 2023, and gyuri is now 39 years old. she stands in the quiet living room of her home, staring at the old photo album she found in the attic earlier that day. the room is softly illuminated by the light of a late afternoon, with the fading sunlight casting gentle shadows on the walls. the scent of rain still lingers in the air from earlier in the day.

as she flips through the pages, memories flood back to her, each photo telling a story she once tried to forget. some are faded, some are torn, but they all hold a part of her past—a past filled with both joy and sorrow. she lingers on the picture of herself as a child, her six-year-old self dressed in a simple, but beautiful, floral dress, holding a small bouquet of dalias.

next, her fingers trace over the picture of her mother—you—as a young woman, smiling brightly, so full of life. and then, she stops. her gaze lingers on the next photo—the one of her parents on their wedding day. the two of you, so young, so in love, sharing a moment that was supposed to be your forever. soobin, her father, had passed away just a year ago, leaving her with a gap that could never be filled. he was her protector, her provider, and now he was gone.

gyuri gently places the album down on the coffee table, and for a moment, the house falls into complete silence. a deep, unsettling silence that reflects the weight of what she’s just seen. the family that once seemed so whole, now fractured. her father, the man who’d always been there for her, was gone. you, her mother, were now all she had left. after soobin’s death, you had moved in with gyuri, her husband, kang taehyun, and their son jeongin, who was now nine years old. despite the changes, the memories seemed to weigh heavier with each passing day.

as gyuri looks at the photos, she notices something in her mother’s eyes that makes her pause. there’s a heaviness in the air, something unspoken, something buried deep within you. she’s seen it before, but now, after all these years, it feels like the right time to finally ask.

gyuri turns to you, her gaze soft but searching. “mom,” she begins, her voice careful, “i’ve always wondered about these pictures. about you before… before everything changed.”

you stay silent for a long moment, the words you’ve kept hidden for years threatening to surface. you’ve kept so much from her, from everyone. the truth about your past, about who you were before meeting soobin. the pain, the love, the sacrifices—all buried beneath a veil of silence. but now, as gyuri looks at you with those eyes full of curiosity and longing, you know it’s time to tell her the truth.

you close your eyes briefly, taking a slow, steadying breath. then, with a voice barely above a whisper, you speak. “there are things you don’t know, gyuri. things i’ve never shared with you... because i wanted to protect you. but now, i think it’s time. you deserve to know.”

gyuri’s expression softens, concern growing in her eyes. “what do you mean, mom? what things?”

you don’t speak for a long time. the photo album rests open on your lap, but your gaze is no longer focused on the images—it’s turned inward, heavy with years of silence. gyuri sits beside you, quiet, respectful, but the tension in her shoulders reveals her anticipation. she knows there’s more. you feel it too. this moment has been waiting for decades.

finally, you shift, your fingers lightly brushing over the wedding photo. soobin, with his solemn eyes and gentle smile, standing beside you in the white chapel, the day the world seemed to stop for both of you. you were eighteen. he was twenty. you had never felt more certain—or more afraid.

“gyuri,” you say her name with the softness of a prayer, “what i’m about to tell you... i’ve never told anyone. not even your father spoke of it again. but you’ve always known something was different. i saw it in your eyes, even when you were young.”

she nods slowly, silent. you know she won’t interrupt.

you take a shaky breath. “we were sinners.”

your voice trembles, not with regret—but with the weight of the truth.

“people would say we were. and perhaps they were right. we weren’t related by blood... but the world wouldn’t have cared about that technicality. not in a place like ours. not in a time like that.”

gyuri blinks, confused, brows tightening.

“soobin’s mother... she adopted me.”

the words hang in the air like thunder before the rain.

“i was just a child when she took me in. i had no family, no name anyone remembered. i was a stray soul. she raised me as her own. gave me food, a roof, a school uniform. i was expected to grow beside soobin... like a sister.”

you pause, your hand clenched gently on your lap now, voice low.

“but i never saw him like a brother.”

your throat tightens. the guilt returns—not because you loved him, but because you had to hide that love behind closed doors for so long.

“i saw him grow taller, stronger, kinder. i saw the way he held books like they were sacred, the way he spoke when he was angry—so full of fire and righteousness. the way he looked at the stars, like they were speaking directly to him. i fell in love with that boy. and he... he looked at me not like a sister, but like i was the center of his world.”

you wipe a tear from your cheek before it falls.

“we tried to deny it. we tried so hard. but you can’t unfeel something like that. not when it consumes you.”

gyuri’s hands are folded tightly on her lap. her eyes are full, but her face remains still.

“when his mother found out... she was furious. betrayed. she called me names i’ll never repeat. she accused me of corrupting her son. she said i was ungrateful, a viper who’d been fed and turned to bite the hand that saved her. i was cast out. just like that. no farewell. no kindness. just the door, and the rain, and a suitcase that wasn’t even mine.”

you close the album now, holding it against your chest like a shield.

“but he followed me, gyuri. your father followed me into the night. and he told me that if the world condemned us, then we would build our own. that if god turned his eyes away, then we’d find a new kind of holiness—in each other.”

your voice breaks for a moment, but you smile through it.

“we found a chapel in another city. a small, crumbling place that smelled of wax and roses. no one asked questions. we exchanged vows with trembling hands and lips that had already known each other’s sins. a year later, you were born. our little miracle. our redemption.”

gyuri is crying now, silently, hands trembling on her lap.

you reach for her, gently brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, just like you did when she was a baby.

“i don’t tell you this to shock you. i tell you because it’s part of who we are. we weren’t perfect. but we loved fiercely. we defied every warning, every doctrine, every cruel whisper... because what we had was real. and that love—it carried us through decades. it gave us you.”

you lean forward now, resting your forehead gently against hers.

“so don’t hate your past, gyuri. don’t hate the pieces of us that had to hide. because without them, there would be no you. no jeongin. no home full of photographs and laughter. we did what we had to... for love.”

gyuri doesn’t speak for a long time. her eyes stay lowered, heavy with emotion, and for a second, you wonder if the truth was too much. too old. too strange to comprehend. but then she shifts forward, takes your hand gently in hers, and kisses the back of it with reverence—like a child greeting a sacred object. her voice is hoarse when she finally speaks.

“i’m sorry,” she whispers, “for everything i said. for the way i left. for how i judged you. i didn’t understand. i didn’t see...”

you shake your head gently, placing your palm on her cheek.

“you were just a girl trying to understand her world,” you murmur, “and we never made it easy.”

gyuri lowers herself slowly to the floor, knees against the wood, hands pressed together flat in front of her in that deep, traditional apology—one only offered when words are no longer enough. her tears fall quietly, but she doesn’t hide them this time. and you… you can’t hold back your own.

“appa would be proud of you,” you whisper, voice trembling with memory, “he always was.”

and it’s in that silence, the warmth of her reverence still lingering between you, that your thoughts drift—past the years of pain and secrecy, past the small house and whispered nights behind a locked bedroom door, all the way back to a moment that never left you. a single fragment of time, like a pressed flower hidden between the pages of a long-forgotten book.

you’re sitting on the grass, the warm light of late spring wrapping itself around your shoulders like a shawl. soobin’s arms are behind him, leaning back as he laughs at something beomgyu says—beomgyu, barely five years old, climbing over his father’s legs with a paper crown on his head. gyuri, only seven, is running barefoot across the small field, a ribbon tied in her hair, holding a wooden sword and pretending to battle invisible dragons.

soobin turns to you, and his eyes are so full of quiet love that it still takes your breath away. he doesn’t say anything—he doesn’t need to. his smile says it all. we made it. against everything, we’re here.

you remember reaching out and placing your hand on his cheek, the stubble rough beneath your fingers, the sun painting him golden. he kissed your wrist then, soft, grateful. and in that moment, you believed—fully—that whatever sins the world placed upon you were washed away by the love you had built together.

you blink back into the present, your hand still holding the photograph of that sunlit day. your fingers trace the faces, the ghost of his smile, the youth in your own eyes.

“he was everything,” you whisper, barely audible.

gyuri leans into your side, head resting gently on your shoulder.

“and so were you,” she says.

outside, the wind carries the scent of blooming dalias from the garden. jeongin’s laughter echoes faintly from the hallway where he plays. and for the first time in a long time, you let yourself smile—not with longing, but with peace.

because even if the world never understood the story you lived, your heart always did. and that… that was enough.

yes, you were sinners.

but you were also in love.

[spiritslashrrsadie]

First Impressions (GN!Reader) [Redo]

'Maybe first interaction with slashers? It would be perfect if Vincent Sinclair is going to be in it as well o(^▽^)o' Featuring: Vincent Sinclair, Michael Myers, Carrie White, and Stu Macher

Vincent Sinclair

He was lurking around the wax museum, fixing up some figures that had heated up a bit too much in the summer heat.

Bo and Lester hadn't said anything about bringing in any new soon-to-be-sculptures so he walked around freely, smoothing out every little imperfection he spotted.

But when the door swung open slowly, he dashed into the shadows. Bo was too loud and Lester was too clumsy to have made it this close to the museum without alerting him. Someone else was here, someone unexpected.

You

Your eyes took in every wax creation with wonder and awe, the attention to detail pulling a smile across your lips.

Vincent watched you admire the work, his work, with curiosity.

At first glance, nothing seemed to need fixing. But that couldn't be right, every sculpture here had been altered and improved in some way. Some had jawlines made sharper, some given fuller eyebrows or thinner hair. Everyone had flaws, everyone needed to be improved to be true art.

But not you. You seemed... flawless to him.

So it must've been something else, right? Like your voice, you may have been attractive but surely your voice was grating and unbearable.

"Wow.." You had sighed as you inspected one of his smaller creations.

Nope. Your voice knocked the air from his lungs. It was like a song that he had longed to hear but was never performed until now.

That cycle continued. For every flaw he imagined, you did something to prove him wrong.

By the time you were done in the House of Wax, Vincent had decided.

You weren't going anywhere until he found a flaw, even if it meant keeping you in Ambrose alive.

He has yet to find one.

Michael Myers

Peering through his white mask, Michael's steely gaze remained fixed on you from afar.

You didn't seem too interesting, definitely not a victim he would struggle with at least, but you would do for a first kill of the night.

You had been out with your friends when you elected to cut through an isolated alleyway to head home.

By yourself nonetheless (Seriously, it was like you were asking him to follow you)

So he crept up behind you, knife in hand, preparing to end the life of this attractive random stranger

But then you stopped. You stopped and turned to look at him with a curious smile.

"Am I in your way?" You asked politely.

You stepped to the side and just stared at him patiently, waiting for the masked man to continue on his way.

Michael just stopped and looked at you, confusion and bewilderment in his eyes.

What kind of crazy person gets followed by a masked killer and just... smiles at them? (Not that he was one to judge anyone's 'crazy' behaviors)

So Michael did something he hadn't done before. He willingly let you walk away with your life. Because for the first time, Michael was intrigued in a way that didn't invite his violent tendencies.

Of course, he continued to stalk you. You caught his interest after all and if anyone was going to hurt you, it was going to be him and him only.

Not that he would

Carrie White

Carrie was just sitting in the library during lunch, doing her best to remain hidden from the other students.

Head buried in her book, she hardly noticed when you approached her table.

"Is this seat taken?" You had asked, motioning at the chair across from her.

Carrie's brows furrowed and she remained silent, looking at you in confusion and searching for whatever group you were with to laugh at her.

But there was no one.

Hesitantly, she shook her head and you smiled at her.

It wasn't the mocking smiles she was used to or the ones that were a result of her torment, it was a real smile.

You sat across from her and attempted to start a conversation, not that she was really cooperating (but can you blame her?)

But you were genuine the entire time, even giving other students dirty looks when you heard them whispering about her.

You talked to her about her sewing, the classes you shared, plans for prom, and how annoying you thought Chris was

Her suspicion and confusion was obvious but when you asked if you could join her for lunch again the next day as you walked to your next class, she couldn't help but smile and nod.

Someone seemed to be nice to her, truly nice to her.

Someone who just so happened to be the most radiant person she'd ever seen.

Stu Macher

Like always, Stu was goofing off in the back of the classroom, ignoring whatever lesson the teacher was covering.

He'd noticed you a few times throughout the school year but was content with just looking for the time being.

But when Billy had brought up the idea of making you their next victim, Stu was strangely opposed to it, even more than when they plotted to kill Tatum

So Billy made him a deal. Find a decent reason to keep you alive other than 'they're good looking' and you could live! How generous of him.

So Stu crumpled up his assignment and tossed it at you, making a 'psst' sound to get your attention.

You turned around and mouthed a response, "What?"

Stu wasted no time in starting his silly flirting tactics, hoping to earn a laugh. Something pretty easy to achieve when it came to you, it seemed.

"You're dumb," you had chuckled quietly.

"Maybe. Definitely dumb enough to ask if you'll go out with me on Friday. Maybe watch a movie?" He responded.

"Only if it's a horror."

Stu knew he was done for.

Luckily, Billy accepted "Understands horror movies like we do" as a valid reason to let you live.

Redid this one on account that I had to seriously rush through it the first time, hope you enjoyed! Please send reqs, I'm sooo bored :'(

[blissfullsvn]

between the lines pt. 2

pairing. han taesan x reader genre. fluff, academic rivals to ???, college/university!au word count. 2.5k warnings. reader makes life-threatening remarks to taesan (jokingly... maybe...) (+ reader is allergic to coffee & shorter than taesan) a/n. read pt. 1 before this! but once again, the academic rivals are not academic rivaling here bcs they’re busy being (ironically) stupid 👎 anw, i hope you enjoy this! feedbacks are vv appreciated <3 pt. 1 | masterlist

taesan is kind of regretting his decision.

when you had reluctantly stood up and rested your weight over him, he was nothing but nervous. it was the first time you had ever been this close to him, your body directly pressing against his, and it took everything in him to not break into a bundle of nerves. or at least, not enough for it to be visible—he would rather redo that hellish test he took last week than make you see him like this.

his determination had proven to be difficult—extremely difficult—when he felt your cheek land on the curve between his neck and shoulder, the warmth of your breaths tickling his skin. he hoped you couldn’t see the goosebumps on his skin, or the way the hair on his nape stood.

that had been the only movement from you since he hoisted you up, and he was already walking out of the building, which took a considerable amount of time from the student council office. judging from how quiet you had been all throughout, he expected silence to blanket him all the way to your dorm as he assumed that you had fallen asleep again.

that was when his words had bounced back to slap him across the face.

the weight on his shoulder lifted, and he felt your gaze from behind him. “han taesan,” you called, breaking the quietness of the street.

“hmm?” he responded gently, and lifted you up to adjust your position.

you had allowed another beat to pass before you opened your mouth, and that was when the dam shattered.

taesan immediately slows down his steps in surprise, and he merely blinks at what he’s hearing. every single word you utter out only makes him more baffled, because what you’re saying should never be said aloud, especially in public. even now, you’re still throwing out the most creative expletives he could’ve gone his entire life without knowing, not to mention the concern you’re starting to instill in him over his own life.

but despite all of this, he can’t take you seriously when your cold has made your voice so nasal that all he can think about is how adorable you sound, on top of the fact that you’ve dropped your head to his shoulder again in the midst of your life-threatening remarks. your cheek is squished against his jacket, making your words come out in a mumble, and he can’t help but be absolutely endeared. even when you’re cursing at him like your rent’s due.

so, yes, he’s aware that maybe what you’re saying isn’t something which warrants a reaction like his, but how can he help himself when you’re even cuter in this state?

hence, even though you’ve cursed him out a total of 81 times within the past five minutes, he’s not offended. if anything, he’s amused, though he is seriously considering the depth of your feelings towards him.

“did you eat the wrong medicine?” you mumble slowly, eyebrows furrowed in genuine concern. “possessed by another entity?” you sniffle. “or shoved a pipe down your throat?—wait,” you pause, sniffling again. “that’s what i want to do... to you… but i’d be concerned if you did it to yourself….” you trail off, as if thinking about the possibility. “i digress. are you insane?”

taesan can’t hide the amusement that escapes in a form of a poorly-hidden chuckle.

“are you laughing?” your tone is accusing. “there’s seriously something wrong with you,” you say, and he spends another few minutes getting told off for everything he’s done wrong to you in your book. he remains silent the entire time, as he has been since you began talking, until he hears something that makes him feel indicted for the first time.

“...and that one time,” you sniffle, “you gave me a cup of coffee back in our first semester… you were trying to murder me, weren’t you?” you huff, but ironically, you’re tightening your arms around his shoulders.

“i genuinely didn’t know you were allergic!” he lets out almost petulantly, feeling incriminated. “if i had known, i would’ve never done that….” he trails off, then adds quietly, “there’s no way i would.”

you raise your head, looking at the empty roads beside the sidewalk as you ponder for a bit before your cheek falls back on his shoulder. “i’ll admit that was a bit of a reach. i won’t apologise though,” you say, and he can only let out an incredulous snicker. 

“and i suppose,” you add, “if you had such sinister intentions behind your pretty face, i would’ve been dead by now.”

taesan widens his eyes, slows his steps. the tips of his ears are hot, but he plays it off when he asks teasingly, “you think i’m pretty?”

“of course. i’m not blind,” is your immediate response. you say it so candidly that it catches him off guard, and his plan to fluster you instantly backfires on him. he’s just glad you can’t see his face, because he’s sure he resembles the red light ahead the empty roads.

“oh my god, han taesan.” you suddenly raise your head, looking down at him in disbelief. he panics at your reaction, ready to spew out excuses about why he’s full-on blushing, when he hears what you say next.

“did you offer to carry me home to distract me? to make me think about this moment over and over again and lose sleep over this and mess up my speech during the election so you can end up becoming the president? is this your grand plan?”

taesan has noticed that you become, for lack of better words, a yapper when you’re sick, but he didn’t think that your imagination would go overboard in this state too. nonetheless, he easily pushes the observation away when he deciphers the meaning behind your words and he doesn’t miss the chance to spin the tables around.

“i’m flattered, y/n,” he says, biting back his grin with a blush that’s still visible, but a lot more subdued. “i didn’t know i had this much of an effect on you.”

it seems you’ve finally registered what you just said, as he feels you freeze up behind him, and all he can do is try to suppress the smile that threatens to stretch across his face. he’s slowed down his steps considerably because he knows he’ll arrive at your dorm soon, but you’re already jumping off his back before he can realise.

“have a terrible night,” you say with a painfully straight face and walk off briskly, but halt in your tracks almost immediately.

“you left your bag,” taesan says, hiding his amusement behind his hand as he holds up the backpack he’s been carrying together with you.

you turn and stalk to him, grabbing it wordlessly before taking long strides away from him to disappear from his view.

when you wake up in the morning, it feels just as humiliating as the time you called han taesan when you were drunk (you had ended up cursing at him for fifteen minutes straight, and he somehow hadn’t cut you off once), which had become one of your top miserable moments in life.

no, this is even more humiliating, because at the very least you could use the excuse of intoxication before, but you had been fully sober this time.

it takes a little more effort to get up today, but before long, you’re heading out of your dorm quietly to not wake your roommate. despite being ten minutes later than usual, the student council office is still empty by the time you arrive. you can only be grateful, because the dread that had clawed at your skin as you stood before the door was intense—you really didn’t want to face him.

you find yourself hating the joy you dumbly felt a few moments ago, because the moment you take a seat, the door opens and of course it’s the person you wanted to avoid the most today.

you don’t greet taesan or even spare him a glance as you pull out your laptop and place it on the desk, but you see him inching closer from your peripheral vision. with your eyes lasered on your laptop screen, you pretend to not notice until he’s directly next to you and you have no choice but to address him.

wordlessly, he places a bag next to your laptop and walks to his usual seat on the opposite side of the conference table. your gaze follows him momentarily before you turn back to the bag. you take a peek and immediately raise an eyebrow when you see three different cold medicines, your favorite candies, and a cup of hot green tea—the same one you bought last night.

you look up at taesan, who seems to be darting his gaze everywhere but at you, but the door is already opening again as more members enter the office for the meeting. you keep your eyes on him for a little longer, who’s still adamant on not looking over, until you finally break your gaze when the meeting starts.

after you’re dismissed, you immediately call out for taesan, who looks up like a meerkat at your voice. you ask him to stay in the room for a little longer and pointedly ignore the meaningful looks from your fellow council members, who quickly file out of the room sensibly.

the moment the door shuts behind them, you raise the bag he gave you, shaking it slightly. “are you trying to bribe me?” you interrogate, straight to the point.

taesan only blinks, as if he's trying to process what you just asked, before his lips part and one corner of his lips quirks up in what can only be a scoff of disbelief. “are you serious?” he shakes his head, but not unkindly. 

“i mean—” you falter, finally realising how you came off. “thank you,” you say, and the way he instantly brightens up reminds you of a cat at the sight of treats. “but,” you add, and he shrivels. “why?”

he swipes his bottom lip with his tongue and flattens the hair on his nape as he says, “you’re sick.”

“i’m… aware,” you reply, forcing down the recent memories that floated to the top of your head. “i just—” you pause, looking down at the bag in your hands to gather your thoughts before you face him again. “people don’t usually do this for those they hate.”

taesan blinks. once, twice, thrice. the immediate rigidness from him is so noticeable that the air almost turns icy around you. you’ve never had a comfortable one, but the silence that falls over you is suddenly too loaded, too overbearing. 

but then his eyes lock onto yours, as if he’s finally seeing you, and the edges of his demeanour instantly melt away. he’s looking at you so softly, reminiscent of his expression in your memories, that it strangely makes you fidgety.

“y/n,” he calls, which suddenly feels too loud in the room with no one else but the two of you. he rounds the table and walks towards where you stand on the opposite side, stopping a few feet away. 

you look up at him, and it’s the first time you’re noticing how tall he actually is. like this, him staring down at you with eyes that hold too much, you feel a little… nervous.

though his expression is still construed as bewildered, you can feel his gentleness radiating from every cell, as if he’s holding a flower in his hands he’s afraid to crush. “i don’t hate you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “i don’t think i ever could.”

oh. you think, and you can feel the puzzle pieces start to align in your head. “but… you’re always trying to rile me up.” you find yourself furrowing your eyebrows in confusion, the pieces repelling each other again. 

he caresses his nape, looking down sheepishly. “i thought… we were having friendly banter,” he says, then looks over at you through his eyelashes. “i’m sorry for upsetting you,” he says, and the sincerity in his tone is so evident that it takes you aback.

“oh.” you think aloud this time, surprised by the unfamiliarity of the man before you. “it’s… okay,” you reply. then, you suddenly realise how dramatic you’ve been, and you feel your cheeks heat up uncontrollably. “i’m… sorry too, for all the times i’ve been rude to you.” you lower your head and shut your eyes, too embarrassed to look at him.

taesan laughs, a hearty sound that surrounds you like a warm blanket. you open your eyes, realising it’s the first time you’ve heard him like this, and look up to capture the moment. he’s laughing toothily, eyes crinkled into half-moons as he hovers one hand over his mouth. as you take in the sight of him in awe, you suddenly realise that this may be what has been beneath your emo rival’s irritating remarks all this time.

when you look back at all the times taesan has interacted with you, you don’t know why you thought he hated you. besides his tendency to, in his words, banter with you in class and the student council, he’s always tolerated your ridiculousness—from that call where he had simply asked if you needed a ride home after listening to your insults, to carrying you on his back all throughout the relatively long walk to your dorm just because you said it in passing.

you furrow your eyebrows. the puzzle pieces are moving closer again.

“taesan,” you call out before you can stop yourself. as of this moment, your mouth has disconnected from your brain as you try to fit the puzzle correctly, so you find yourself spitting out the question without a warning. “do you like me?”

the way he stiffens instantly would be comedic if not for the fact that you had asked a question that could break the truce you just formed. the realisation finally dawns on you, and panic starts to set in as you see his reaction. “you don’t have to answer that, i didn’t mean to—”

“y/n,” taesan cuts you off effectively. for a moment, only silence can be heard between you, and you hope he doesn’t catch your erratic heartbeat from your nervousness.

then, he offers a small smile. “give me a chance to answer this properly next time,” he says extra softly, as if he’s afraid of scaring you away. “for now, just know that, even if you drunk-dial me to yell at me again or curse at me all throughout another piggyback ride,” he softens, “i will never be able to dislike you.”

© blissfullsvn 2024. All Rights Reserved.

[rafeysbangs]

°🂶 ༘˚↷rafe is always just out of reach

warnings ; not proofread sorta... , simply just angst, sortof almost a mention of fwb? ish?, interpret this how you will as to yours & rafe's relationship !

notes ; HI !! i'm so happy to be back. srry this is straight up angst. but i hope you enjoy. can you tell uni is strangling me lol ( this was actually sitting in the drafts.. waiting... oops )

rafe cameron is an enigma you can’t quite solve. a puzzle with missing pieces, a shoreline that recedes every time you step forward. you think you have him—hands grasping the edge of something real—only for him to slip through like sand through parted fingers.

you watch him from the passenger seat, the engine humming beneath the weight of silence. his knuckles are tight against the steering wheel, pale from pressure. he’s always holding on too hard, to everything, to nothing. a boy who doesn’t know how to let go without breaking something in the process.

"you’re quiet," you say, just to fill the space. to remind him you’re still here.

his jaw flexes, a brief movement, barely anything at all. then a chuckle, low and humourless. "that’s a first."

it’s a dance, this thing between you—if you can even call it that. he keeps his distance, but it’s not apathy. it’s something else. something tangled up in the way his hands tighten around whatever’s in his grasp, the way his gaze lingers just a second too long when he thinks you won’t notice.

you do notice. you always do.

you see it now, in the way he shifts gears with more force than necessary. in the way his hands tremble when he runs them through his hair. in the way he looks at you, like he wants to say something but won’t, like it’s locked behind his teeth, rusted shut with years of unsaid things.

and you—what are you to him? a distraction? a reminder? a tether to something softer, something he doesn’t think he deserves?

"you don’t have to do that," you say, softer this time.

he glances at you, brow furrowed. "do what?"

"pretend like you don’t care."

his lips part, but no words come out. just a sharp inhale, a slow exhale. and then he laughs again—quieter, this time. almost bitter.

"maybe i don’t."

but he does. you know he does. it’s in the way he says your name, in the way he always finds you first in a crowded room, in the way his fingers brush against yours but never stay long enough. it’s in the way he pulls away just before he gets too close, like he’s afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t.

rafe cameron is a hurricane dressed as a boy. all storm and sharp edges, all lightning that never quite touches the ground. people talk about him like he’s reckless, like he’s all impulse and violence, but you know better. you see what they don’t—the hesitation, the flicker of something softer just beneath the surface. you see the way he clenches his jaw when he’s trying not to feel. the way he swallows words before they can make it past his lips. the way his hands shake when he thinks no one’s looking.

he is not empty, not hollow like he wants the world to believe. he is full of things he will never say, full of rage and grief and longing. full of a love he will never let himself hold.

and you—maybe you are just another thing he cannot let himself have.

you could reach for him, could close the space between you, could press your palm against the warmth of his arm and wait for him to lean in instead of pull away. but you already know how this ends.

he’ll let you get close. close enough to feel the heat of him, close enough to believe that maybe, just maybe, this time will be different.

and then he’ll slip away—just like always.

( no taglist bcs its wayyy to old um i'll be redoing that too so look out for a post - sorry guys ! )

[rhyrhy]

A daisy for every I love you

🌼 TY to @0h-basic for the post, this one’s for you pookie!

Mlist + (Note! this is farm life bc I love peaceful Abby)

You’d had your eyes closed for at least two minutes now. God, she was such a cornball sometimes, but you loved it. When you first told Abby how you felt, she hadn’t let you in so easily. Now, months later, you both had this silent competition of small gestures.

“Abs… can I open yet?” you asked, growing restless.

“No.” She dragged out the word in that soft, teasing tone of hers.

You sighed, resisting the urge to peek when you heard rustling a few feet behind you. But you knew better.

Abby always knew you had a thing for her hair, even if you never said it outright. Your fingers always found their way to her scalp, braiding it in the mornings while sitting on the sink, or that one time you washed it for her, the warm water and your hands soothing her in a way she’d never admit. So naturally, things started to slip.

Suddenly, her arms were too tired to redo her braid.

Or she’d just happen to find you in the bathroom while you were doing your hair, silently putting herself next in line. It was adorable, but you knew better than to tease her; privileges like that could be revoked.

For several moments, there was silence. You could hear her footsteps echoing faintly, circling you. Then, suddenly, you felt her presence directly behind you. Her breath was warm against your neck.

“Still got your eyes closed?” She asked.

“Yes, I didn’t peek.” You replied.

She hummed, enjoying the anticipation in your voice. Her hands found your shoulders, her touch surprisingly gentle. She leaned in, her lips barely brushing your ear as she spoke.

“Good. Now, hold out your hand. Palm up.”

You obeyed, and she took your hand, making your heart flutter. Then, something light and soft was placed in your palm. a small, hand-picked bundle of flowers. White daisies.

“You can open your eyes now.”

When your eyelids fluttered open, your chest tightened with affection.

“Oh my god, you are such a dork. It’s so cute.”

You glanced from the flowers to her face, unable to help the smile spreading across yours.

“You are adorable.”

Abby’s ears tinged pink. Adorable wasn’t a word people used for her, but coming from you, it made her heart stutter. She stepped closer, blue eyes locked onto yours.

“Adorable, huh? First time anyone’s called me that.”

You plucked a daisy from the bundle and tucked it into her hair, gently pushing a loose strand behind her ear.

“Well, you definitely are.”

Abby huffed out a soft laugh, shaking her head like she was trying to play it cool, but you could see the way her pink lips twitched like she was fighting a smile.

“You… gonna admire me all day, or are we finishing these chores?” she teased, nudging your arm before stepping past you.

Right. Chores.

The two of you had spent the morning working around the land—hauling feed, fixing up the fence near the barn, and doing whatever odd jobs needed to be done. It was hot, the midday sun beating down, and both of you were due for a break. So when Abby sat down in the shade beneath a tree, stretching her long legs out in front of her, you took it as an invitation to sit beside her.

The breeze was warm but gentle, carrying the scent of summer grass and earth. Your gaze flickered to Abby’s hair, golden brown strands messy from work, a few loose pieces sticking to her damp skin. Without thinking, your fingers twitched toward them.

“Can I?” you asked softly.

Abby cracked an eye open, already knowing what you meant. She let out a dramatic sigh, one that didn’t match the way she immediately turned her head toward you, giving you full access.

“If you must.”

You grinned, gathering another small flower from the grass beside you. Then another. And another.

As you started tucking them into her braid, Abby tilted her head, a smirk playing on her lips.

“You know, for someone who calls me a dork…”

“Hush and Hold still,” you murmured, carefully tucking another daisy into Abby’s braid.

She huffed but didn’t move, her head resting against the tree trunk. The warmth of the sun, the steady rhythm of your hands, the weight of an easy silence between you, it all felt nice. Comfortable in a way Abby wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to. You leaned back to admire your work, smiling at the sight of her golden strands woven with tiny white flowers, her face relaxed in a way you didn’t see often.

“There. Perfect,” you said, brushing a stray lock behind her ear.

Abby cracked an eye open, eyebrow raising. “You sure you didn’t just do this to make me look ridiculous?”

You scoffed, nudging her knee with yours. “No, you look cute. Really cute.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Didn’t push your hand away when you reached up, fingers gently threading through the loose strands framing her face.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The breeze ruffled the trees above, the distant sounds of birds and the occasional rustling from the barn filling the space where words could’ve been.

Then, finally, Abby sighed.

“Y’know,” she muttered, voice quieter now, “if you wanted an excuse to play with my hair, you could’ve just asked.”

“Oh? Is that an open invitation?” Your lips curled into a grin.

She shook her head, but there was no real protest in it. Just the ghost of a smirk, her fingers absentmindedly toying with the hem of your shirt as she muttered,

“Mm, yeah…I guess it is” she nodded, glancing at her braid, now layered in a sea of white petals and green stems. It felt like A daisy, for every ‘I love you’.

You knew she’d crack eventually. Big softie 

[writingbuckets]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞: 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐯𝐢

paige bueckers x podcaster!reader

wc: 3k

synopsis: Y/N and Paige’s relationship evolves from a slow burn to a deep, committed love as they navigate the complexities of their careers and dreams.

warnings: emotional tension, angst, jealousy, explicit sexual content, fluff, relationship growth

a/n: here's part 2 to the double update, it's 3k words of straight smut so beware and enjoy! btw i'm going to be redoing my tumblr and creating a masterlist and such, so if things look different, that's why <3

The air in your apartment was thick with anticipation, the kind of tension that hummed just beneath the surface, waiting to break. Paige’s hands remained firmly on your waist, holding you close, grounding you even as the room seemed to spin. Her forehead still rested lightly against yours, her breath mingling with yours in the small space between.

Neither of you spoke for a moment, the silence more telling than any words could have been. Her fingers flexed slightly against your waist, and you could feel the faint tremor in her touch, a quiet vulnerability that belied the confident persona she so often carried.

“Y/N,” she murmured, your name like a question, like a prayer.

“Yeah?” Your voice was soft, but steady, despite the pounding of your heart.

“I don’t want to rush this,” she said, her eyes searching yours, the sincerity in her gaze enough to make your chest ache. “But I also don’t want to stop.”

You reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. The way she leaned into your touch, like she couldn’t help herself, made your resolve crumble. “Then don’t stop,” you whispered, your voice barely audible but certain.

Paige’s response was immediate. She kissed you again, deeper this time, her hands sliding up your sides, her thumbs brushing over your ribs in a way that sent sparks shooting through you. Her touch was deliberate, confident but not overbearing, like she was learning you piece by piece, savoring every moment.

You pulled her closer, your fingers tangling in the fabric of her jacket before slipping beneath it, your palms brushing over the smooth planes of her shoulders. She shrugged out of the jacket without breaking the kiss, the soft thud as it hit the floor barely registering in your mind.

“Bedroom?” she asked against your lips, her voice husky and laced with restraint.

You nodded, your heart racing as you took her hand and led her down the short hallway to your room. The intimacy of the moment wasn’t lost on you—the simple act of inviting her into your space felt monumental, like crossing an invisible threshold into something deeper, something more.

Once inside, Paige paused, her eyes scanning the room before settling back on you. She looked almost shy, a faint flush coloring her cheeks that had nothing to do with exertion. “This okay?” she asked, her voice softer now, tinged with uncertainty.

You stepped closer, cupping her face in your hands. “More than okay,” you assured her, your thumb brushing over the curve of her jaw.

Her smile was small but genuine, and when she kissed you again, it was slower this time, more deliberate. She took her time, her lips moving against yours like she had all the time in the world, her hands mapping a path across your back, your hips, your arms.

The two of you moved together like a tide, ebbing and flowing, your touches growing bolder with each passing moment. Paige’s hands slipped beneath the hem of your dress, her fingers skimming over bare skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“You’re beautiful,” she murmured, her voice low and reverent as she pulled back just enough to look at you. Her tongue darted out, tracing over her bottom lip, flushed and slightly swollen from the intensity of your kisses. “Can’t stop looking at you.”

You couldn’t help but smile, one arm sliding around her shoulders while your fingers found their way into her soft, blonde hair, pulling her closer. “You’re such a tease, Paige,” you murmured, your voice low and playful.

She chuckled softly against your lips, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she gently guided you backward. The back of your knees hit the edge of the bed, and with a playful push, she leaned over you, her weight pressing you down onto the soft mattress beneath her. 

Her lips trailed from yours, skimming along your jawline with a slow, deliberate motion, leaving a trail of warm, wet kisses that sent shivers down your spine. As she made her way down to your neck, her breath hot against your skin, she slid the strap of your dress off your shoulder, the fabric whispering against your skin as it fell away. She paused for a moment, her lips lingering on your collarbone before she moved to the other side, repeating the same tender, teasing action with a soft sigh.

She leaned in closer, her hands guiding the fabric of your dress down with a gentle yet insistent touch. Her fingers traced the curve of your hips as she tapped the side, silently urging you to lift your body. You complied, lifting your hips off the bed just enough for her to fully slip the dress down, leaving you in nothing but the delicate black lace panties you'd chosen for the evening, their intricate pattern a stark contrast against your skin.

Paige's gaze flickered between your exposed chest and the barely-there lace of your panties, her eyes unable to decide where to focus first. With a deep, slow breath, she lowered her lips to your navel, pressing a tender kiss before she began to move upward, her lips leaving a trail of soft, lingering kisses along your stomach and ribs. As your attention wavered under her touch, she slid her index finger into the waistband of your panties, the motion teasing and deliberate. “You wear these for me, baby?” she murmured, her voice husky with desire. 'Was this your plan all along? To lure me back here, so I could take care of you?” 

Her lips were intoxicating, pressing against your skin with such warmth and softness that any coherent thought slipped away. A sharp gasp escaped you as her lips finally wrapped around your nipple, her tongue flicking out to tease, sending waves of pleasure through you. But when she didn't get the response she wanted, she pulled her finger away, the lace waistband of your panties snapping sharply against your hip, the sudden sting making you flinch. “When I ask you a question,” she said, pulling her lips away, her voice low and commanding, “I need an answer. Use your words, Y/N. Do you understand?"

"I'm sorry, I understand," you murmured, your voice breathless. She hummed in acknowledgment, a soft sound of satisfaction, and rewarded you instantly. Her lips moved to your other nipple, her warm, wet mouth enveloping it as her hand slid down the side of your stomach, tracing slow, teasing lines along your skin.

Just as the pleasure reached its peak, she pulled away, the sensation abruptly cut short. Standing tall, she began to unbutton her shirt, her movements slow and deliberate, never breaking the intense eye contact between you. "How badly do you want to be a good girl for me?" she asked, her voice low and commanding. Once her shirt was fully undone, she shrugged it off her shoulders, her gaze still fixed on you as she turned her attention to the buttons of her pants, each one undone with purposeful precision.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away, captivated by the way the muscles of her stomach tightened with each controlled movement, the swell of her biceps flexing, showcasing the strength in her every motion. The sight left you breathless, your body trembling with the intensity of desire, and you felt like you might shatter from the overwhelming need building inside you. Struggling to form coherent thoughts, you forced yourself to speak, your voice thick and raw. "So badly, Paige... I’ll do anything you want."

"Anything I want?” she asked, her lips curling into a confident smirk. Her eyes darkened with a mix of hunger and authority. “Take off your panties and spread your legs. Let me see every inch of you."

You eagerly obeyed, your heart pounding as you sought her approval with every movement. She stepped closer, her gaze intense, and reached out, her fingers gliding through your folds with a deliberate slowness. As she pulled them away, she shook her head in mock disappointment, a soft tsk escaping her lips as she looked at the glistening evidence of your arousal. "Such a needy girl," she murmured, "tell me, baby... this pretty pussy, it's all for me, isn’t it?"

"All for you… only you can make me this wet, you gasped, your body trembling as her fingers continued to trace through your soaked folds. Her touch was light, teasing, but it wasn’t enough. She lowered her index finger to your entrance, brushing it against you with a delicate, almost teasing touch that had you instinctively bucking your hips, desperate for more. She responded swiftly, placing her other hand firmly below your navel, holding your hips down with authority.

“Please, Paige,” you groaned, your voice thick with need. “I need more.”

“You’ll take what I give you,” she replied, her voice low and commanding, her tone taut with control. “Understand?” 

“Fuck, I understand,” you muttered, a mixture of desperation and surrender in your words. She pressed her hand harder against your stomach, grounding you, before sliding her finger inside. It was slow at first, but then she curled it upwards, the sensation sending jolts of pleasure through you as she found that sensitive spot deep within.

Moving her finger at a steady pace, she added another, speeding up her thrusts. You threw your head back in pleasure, all of the tension from the night finally being resolved. Continuing to hit the spongy spot inside you, you instinctively tried to close your legs, the sensitivity becoming almost too much. Paige was quicker, however, lowering herself to her knees in front of you, moving her arm to drape across your upper thighs, holding them spread open. “Close them again and I stop.”

That was the last thing you wanted, trying your hardest to keep your legs open. She brought her mouth to your core, licking a stripe from where her fingers were working at your entrance up to your clit, making you release a breathy whimper. She teased the top of your entrance with her tongue, meeting her fingers to lick up the arousal leaking around them.

“Taste so good, baby. Could stay here all day, watching you take my fingers like the good girl I know you are.” Her words failed to ground you, making the feeling of her fingers that much more intense. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.”

You tangled your hands in her hair and yanked, attempting to bring her mouth to where you really wanted it. She groaned in approval, loving the slight sting that came with having your hands tangled in her hair. Paige felt like she was in Heaven, teasing you as much as she could physically take in order to hear your moans and taste you for as long as possible. Deciding she had had enough, she ushered her mouth to your clit, sucking the muscle into her mouth, using her tongue to flick against it.

Your hand began to tug harder at her locks, the pleasure becoming too much to comprehend. The pain didn’t deter her though, it only made her suck harder, her fingers moving at a rapid pace. “Fuck, Paige, you’re gonna make me cum,” you cried out, your eyes squeezing shut at the intense feeling.

“Look at me,” she demanded, “let me see those pretty eyes when you cum.” You lifted your eyes to meet hers, the look in them almost predatory, and that’s certainly how you felt, completely at her control. 

Her arm keeping you pinned to the bed moved toward your breast once again, taking a nipple between her fingers and pinching. “I’m gonna cum, I’m cumming!” Your neighbors could probably hear you right now, but that was the last thing on your mind as your orgasm washed over you after what felt like hours of teasing. Your head slammed back against your duvet covers, your hand reaching down to grab Paige’s arm, attempting to stop her movements.

“Nah, c’mon, baby. Don’t tell me you’re quitting on me now. I know my girl can handle more than that.” You felt tears form in your waterline at the thought of another orgasm like that, you truly didn’t know if you could handle more. But when you met Paige’s eyes again, and you saw the desperate look in them, you couldn’t help yourself from letting go of her arm and bringing it up to your chest to play with your tits.

“My good girl,” she responded with a hint of pride in her tone. You relished under her approval, deciding then and there that you would take whatever she did to you if it made her happy. Resuming the fluid motion of her fingers, you felt a third finger slowly start to tease its way at your entrance. “Think you can take another?”

You nodded embarrassingly fast, wanting nothing more than to feel the tight stretch of your walls around her long and slender fingers. She withdrew her fingers, briskly slapping the inside of your thigh. “I told you to use your words, I know you don’t want me to be upset with you, right?”

You instantly shook your head before catching yourself in your mistake, “I would never want to make you upset, promise I can take another one,” you slurred out.  Paige wished she could take a picture of you right now, looking at her with your mouth slightly parted and a misty gaze in your wide eyes. She stared for a moment, wanting to commit the image to memory before she gently introduced her ring finger to your entrance. You felt like you were floating with how good she was making you feel, “feels so good, Paige, please don’t stop.”

“Sound so pretty when you beg, baby.” She sped up her fingers and brought her mouth back to your clit, fighting desperately to make you cum again. Your orgasm approached fast, surprising you with how skilled Paige was with your body. “Can feel you clenching around me, go ahead, let me have it.”

Her words were all you needed for the dam to break. Your stomach flexed and your legs twitched as you came, your second orgasm so much stronger than the first. Paige moved her fingers at a snail’s pace, helping you ride it out, wanting to prolong it as long as she could. “Such a good girl, Y/N, did so good for me.”

 When you finally relaxed, you felt her withdraw her fingers and you looked down at Paige to see her lips glossy and smeared with your arousal. Your cheeks flushed a shade of pink as you realized just how wet you actually were, throwing an arm over your eyes to hide from her teasing gaze. 

“Don’t go all shy on me now, you were pretty outgoing a few seconds ago.” 

You moved your arm to see that beautiful smirk plastered on her face, “I can’t stand you, you know that?” You grabbed the pillow next to your tired body and weakly flung it at her to try and quell your embarrassment. 

Unsurprisingly, she caught it easily, “Is that so?” she asked as she brought her hand back down to your core, watching intensely as your body jolted from the sensitivity. “She seems to love me.”

“Paige! Stop it!” you yelled. She softly laughed before moving to lay her body next to yours. You grabbed a blanket to cover up from the cold air in your bedroom while she propped her hand up on her hand. 

“Who would’ve thought? You’ve been shit talking me on your podcast for weeks and all I had to do was make you cum,” she teased. Your cheeks flamed red once again at the statement, attempting to roll over to escape her. She grabbed the blanket wrapped around your waist and rolled you back to face her, “Stop with that, wanna see you.”

Your hand moved slowly along the curve of her sharp jawline, fingertips tracing every contour with deliberate care. As you reached her ear, you let your nails graze lightly over the sensitive skin, continuing the gentle path down the side of her neck. A soft sigh escaped her lips, and her eyes fluttered shut at the sensation, her usually commanding presence momentarily softened.

Leaning up, you pressed your lips to hers, the touch feather-light and unhurried. Unlike the fervent kisses you’d shared before, this one wasn’t fueled by raw desire but by an intimacy that felt deeper. It was tender, almost fragile, neither of you making an effort to intensify it, simply savoring the delicate connection.

When you finally pulled back, her eyes opened, the expression in them warm and almost reverent. She reached up, her fingers brushing against your temple to tuck away the strands of hair that clung to the faint sheen of sweat along your hairline. With gentle precision, she tucked the strands behind your ear, her hand lingering there, as if to ensure the moment stayed suspended in time.

Her thumb brushed softly against your cheek as her hand lingered, her touch grounding you in the quiet intimacy of the moment. “You’re so beautiful,” she murmured, her voice low and filled with sincerity, as if the words had been meant only for you to hear.

The weight of her gaze made your chest tighten in the best way, warmth spreading through you like sunlight. You leaned into her touch, closing your eyes and letting the quiet between you speak louder than words ever could.

She shifted closer, wrapping her arms around you, pulling you into her embrace. You rested your head against her chest, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat a comforting cadence that lulled you into a sense of safety. Her fingers traced idle patterns along your back, and she pressed a kiss to the top of your head, lingering there as though she never wanted to let go.

In that moment, the world outside faded away, leaving just the two of you—connected, content, and utterly at peace.

[otterloreart]

Steps of creating a 3D model replica from scratch

trace photos of character from available and cleanest angles. attempt to get a 90 degree*, front and back, side profile and straight on of the face. save additional reference photos such as bottom of body, back, and various extra angles without tracing which may help reference later on.

*more on angles later, but trying to get a 90 degree from each side is the most realistic and practical option if you dont actually have the character you're copying

2. block out the body and head

and by block i mean, yeah, its made out of elaborate rectangles

4 aha, you thought I would hand sculpt those? no. no. I used the curve tool to add these swirls. And yes i exactly traced them over the drawings to match the original as best as possible. The end of the curve tool is flat by default so I added a few spheres to make the ends nice and round. (there is absolutely a way to make the ends of curves rounded but I did not feel like looking it up or messing with the settings)

this wasn't mirrored to the other side- I traced both sides of the body and the front from photos and sculpted the swirls for each side. I couldn't get a single photo of the swirls at the butt area so I just winged it.

6 I am struggling to not make Cha Cha look angry.

I feel like the eyes are basically traced off the original and yet she looks so much grumpier. maybe it just needs to be smoothed out?

I added a little definition to the area around the eyes and I do think it looks a little better. The more definition I add in this stage the better, because I prefer this to sculpting. However, if you're more adept at sculpting you would probably not make this as detailed.

7 Here she is after smoothing everything out in sculpt after remeshing, in both Eevee (left) and Cycles (middle/right). still trying to figure out how best to render things. For some reason her nose ended up lighter in cycles but i cant be bothered to fix that rn

On the previous step I made the elements of her face + ears mirrored but once I start sculpting I'm not using the mirror tool. In fact nothing ends up mirrored, even the back right foot is slightly shifted in position.

this is probably not even the final version, I think i might redo the smooth/sculpt part and fiddle with the underlying shapes (basically go back a step)

Cha Cha's face. is one of the most difficult things to sculpt. It is extremely difficult to understand the shape of the underlying sculpt because there aren't any photos of her with the eye paint removed. There are so few of her out there I don't think anyone would willingly remove the paint to make a custom or anything unless it was in truly awful condition, and I dont think that has ever happened.

I have saved dozens of references from a number of different sites- these pics here are from etsy, the above was from the wiki. Her eyes are different from every single other pony and pony and friends- they're so bulging, so round, the eyelashes are longer. It's wild.

I can only see all the things that are wrong with it.

It's basically impossible to get something like this 100% perfect unless you have like, a set of turnaround photos all from the same angle that you can match up to the camera. You can basically overlap references with the camera view but you will never know the exact angle so if you make edits from multiple angles like this you'll inevitably not match each angle and then have to go back and adjust the angles and then you're fiddling with it infinitely. That's why I usually go for the "trace 4 angles and make the rest up as you go along" method.

I don't want to spend _too_ long on every model I make- the Takara pony which took 6 months really shows how far down the rabbit hole I will go with something like this, and it's just not practical. But I think with a slight amount of fiddling I can match the reference a little better.

[pugh-bug]

Needy

One shot

sub Art Donaldson x dom reader - smut

This was so fun to write! I hope you all enjoy and please let me know what you think it genuinely means so much just getting one comment - also if you want to be tagged in all future Art x reader fics let me know <33

——————————————————————

“You can’t be serious.”

It was Art…again. Ever since you’d slept together he’d been knocking on your door more and more. The confusing thing was that his visits didn’t concern sex, he’d want help with things - little things like finding his phone or keys. When that got ridiculous to redo he started faking illnesses, some more convincing than others, asking you for medicines or bandages. Now here he was again, puppy dog eyes gazing at you - desperate for some glimmer of hope or affection. How you pitied him.

“Patrick beat me again.” His eyes turned to the floor.

“Is that supposed to impress me?”

No part of you was surprised, Art had been getting beaten by everyone recently. You’d stopped coming to his games to save yourself the embarrassment. The boy needed pushing, or motivating somehow. You looked at his little head, bowed in shame like a dog. “Come in then.” He practically jumped at that.

Once Art had gotten comfy, sitting cross legged in his shorts on your bed awaiting orders, you sighed. “You can’t keep letting Pat beat you, coming here and looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

You took in his slightly flushed cheeks, his doe eyes under the pile of blonde curls and the slight craning of his neck to show he was listening.

“Like that.”

Art smiled a smile you almost returned but couldn’t quite bring yourself to. He was demanding to be lead on - begging for it. Well, you wouldn’t.

“If I’d known you were gonna be this needy I’d never have fucked you.”

His smile didn’t falter at that. He was annoyingly positive sometimes, full of complaints when he wanted attention but never cross when he was being told off. Art just wasn’t one for giving up. You shrugged off your jacket and sat next to him on the bed, ignoring the way his eyes admired every inch of you.

“I’m glad you did.” Art grinned, feeling proud as he remembered you stripping in front of him and swallowing his cum as he whimpered. He saw it as his greatest achievement, far more impressive than any dusty tennis trophy. All he wanted, more than Wimbledon - more than fame more than anyone was you. You consumed him, you had since first year. Since he first plucked up the courage to ask you to a Stanford party and your friendship with Patrick had given him a doorway. One he refused to step out of.

“You’re beautiful.” He whispered, staring at your face in awe - his hand edging towards your own on the bed. You felt something at how earnest he was, something akin to warmth but something you couldn’t deal with just yet. “Careful.” You warned. “Just think before you speak.”

Art shook his head, moving closer to you. “Mmm, can’t. Not around you.” God, he was cute when he was desperate. His little wriggly movements, his wide eyes and puffy lips. He’s probably hard already, you thought trying not to smile. Poor baby, it had been a week since you’d touched him and for Art a week of pure longing. He’d touched himself to the thought of your kisses so much he’d forgotten how to finish without you in his head. Without the flashing images of your lips round his cock or your grin at his moans he felt nothing.

Sensing a ‘no’ coming, Art did what he did best. He begged. “Please,” he moved your hair off your ear to kiss under it. “I miss you.” You asked him how that was even possible when he’d been practically living in your room but time meant nothing to this star player. A second without you was a second too long. “Need you now mommy…please.” Your stomach flipped at the honorific, how it dripped off his tongue so deliciously. It suited him. You wanted him to say it again.

Before you could say anything Art was planting eager kisses up and down your neck. You let him, told yourself you were giving him a much needed win but really you were loving it. With Art so preoccupied with your neck you could safely squeeze your thighs together. You both knew how desperate he was to fuck you again, everyone knew. Patrick knew. His trainer. Your trainer. Everyone in a 10 mile radius. What you didn’t both know was how likely it was to happen again if he’d only beg a little more.

To Art’s dismay you gently pushed him off you, looking into his pleading blue eyes trying not to break. “You realise I’m not your girlfriend right?” It was harsh but a fair question. The boy seemed unsure. When he didn’t answer you narrowed your eyes. “Because I’m not fucking you if you answer wrong.” Suddenly the tent in Art’s pants hardened and his pupils grew a few millimetres. He got all wriggly, like an animal caught in a trap. A horny, desperate one.

“You’re not my girlfriend.” Art sighed but it was clear he was still hoping for your approval. He knew it should disgust him, how much he craved and desired it, but it didn’t. Your hand on his thigh only spurred him on, reminding him that he’d follow you anywhere and that he’d be or do anything for you. Anything you asked.

“Art,” you could tell he’d retreated into his head. Nothing a hand down his shorts wouldn’t fix. “I need you to relax okay?” Art melted into your touch and at the gentleness of your voice, the care in it. You found his cock immediately, hard and desperate, and felt the weight of it in your hand for a moment. If you’d been feeling mean you’d have teased him but something told you if you didn’t touch him now he’d cry.

As your hand worked its magic Art closed his eyes, leaning his head ever so slightly back. He needed this and fuck did he look angelic taking it. His little breaths and fluttering lashes spurred you on. It didn’t take long for him to start bucking up into your touch desperate for you to go faster. You refused, ceasing your movements to pull him with both hands into a kiss. He practically gasped when your tongue entered his mouth but that was followed by a moan at the intrusion. He tasted like spearmint.

“You’re so,” you gasped in between kissing him. “Fucking cute.” Art felt charged up at your compliment. You usually avoided giving them out finding it easier to show your affection rather than state it. He treasured those moments where you let slip how much you really liked him.

“Mmmm!” He was close you could tell.

“You gonna cum for me?”

Art started nodding aggressively, eyes closed and hips bucking.

“You can’t wait till you’re inside?” You cooed in that patronising tone he found so sexy and hurtful. Art tried to think straight, though his body was betraying him as it chased the orgasm you were yet to give. You asked him again, playing nice, and it sunk in the second time. Art stopped bucking. He stopped moving at all. All he could do was watch in a mixture of sorrow and excitement as you let his cock go.

“Take your shirt off.”

Art knew an order meant sex was on the table - not even on the table it was guaranteed to happen. He didn’t let on how gleeful he felt at that fact, instead he obediently threw his t-shirt off. It landed in the pile of clothes on your floor but his eyes didn’t linger for long, they couldn’t not when you were taking your own shirt off. Art gulped at the sight of your bare chest, your tits that begged to be kissed and sucked and the line of your neck and shoulders. God he was obsessed with you, truly he felt almost in love.

Art’s mind raced with possibilities. Were you going to let him eat you out? Sit on his face? Were you simply going to straddle him without any foreplay and sink your warm, wet pussy down onto him? His cock twitched at the image. You hiked up your skirt and let him hurriedly pull down your soaked panties with wide eyes. He couldn’t believe that was for him - because of him. The most beautiful woman in the world is turned on…because of me.

“You’re so b-“

You promptly shut him up by sinking down onto him, his eyes grew even wider with shock. No warning, no words just pure lust. Art was inside you again, finally, and it felt so good he thought he could cum already. “Shit…” he moaned and you hadn’t even started to move. His size was an adjustment, especially seeing as you hadn’t let him pleasure you beforehand, but you felt deliciously full. Full and smug.

“I might just stay here,” you teased, rocking your hips painfully slowly. “Forever.” It was torture for Art, your painstakingly light movements and your gleeful smirk. You both knew what teasing him did to you - how powerful it made you feel. “Mommy…”

“I’m right here.” You cooed, gazing down at his eager face and lust filled eyes. He hadn’t bothered to take his shorts off, you’d just shoved them to the side, and somehow that turned you both on more. All that mattered to Art was you. Your bare skin so close to his own and your heavy breaths, those he could hear even over his own moans. Although you wanted nothing more than to torture Art and bring him to the very precipice of pleasure just to snatch it away you had to think about your needs. Your cunt was leaking already, your skin was hot and there was a fire inside you that needed him. So when he moaned:

“Fuckkkk…”

It seemed only right for you to say:

“Yes that’s it, fuck mommy.”

Art groaned, indulging his lust and carnal needs he’d usually feel embarrassed of. Before you Art had always hidden his desires from partners and even himself. He’d been raised conservatively, this you knew, so you found it gratifying to pull his real self out. It made you wet to see his cheeks redden when you said such things and you couldn’t help the smile that filled your face when you felt him harden even more inside you. He started to quicken his pace.

As Art closed his eyes to focus on how good you felt you stared at him, watching him. Studying him. The way he clamped his arms around your waist to easily thrust up into you, how his eyes were scrunched shut so he didn’t cum early and that one bouncy curl hiding his left eyebrow. He was beautiful, you had to admit. In your horny state it was easy to get lost studying Art and forget everything else. He felt the same about you.

Art didn’t wait too long before opening his eyes, not wanting to miss too much. Your tits were so close to his face as your chest heaved up and down up and down. It was driving him insane - you were driving the poor boy insane. How could he still need you when he was inside you?

The bed creaked under Art’s rabbiting movements, groaning under the strain of his excitement. He was groaning too, whimpering whenever you kissed or bit his neck and struggling not to cum. It was all too much, your warmth, your tits, your thighs wrapped round his own and your lips open to let out angelic moans. He wanted to give you everything, everything he had. All Art desired was to make you happy.

“Mommy!” there was a tinge of panic in his voice as he stared at you, awaiting permission but still fucking you hard and fast like you wanted. Feeling sorry for him you awed in his face, circling your hips to meet his movements and brushing the sweaty curls off his forehead. He wanted to cum. “Already?”

Art nodded frantically, feeling his release draw closer and closer. You were on the pill, he knew that, but he still needed permission. With every thrust he sheathed himself to the hilt and yet you still both needed more. “You gonna cum for me?” Art’s mouth started opening as he edged himself, not wanting this moment to end but needing release more than anything.

“Cum inside mommy, I want to feel it.”

That did it.

Before you could finish your sentence, Art was holding your waist impossibly close to him and releasing inside you. “Oh fuck…fuck mommy I’m cumming, I’m cumming!” His little whimpers and blushing skin sent you over, within seconds you were cumming too. The two of you were panting like animals, bucking into each other with all the energy you could muster. Art’s cum started to drip out of you, down his sensitive cock and onto the bedsheets but your focus was him. He was breathing heavier than last time, heavier than you’d seen him after matches.

“Are you okay?” You asked after a moment, with genuine concern. Not wanting to startle him you chose not to move, instead you held him in your arms and kissed his cheek. The softness of it made Art feel safe but more sorrowful that you wouldn’t date him. “I’m okay.” He looked out of it so you squeezed his hand. “You can sleep here.” The boy practically jumped for joy. He thought he’d won.

“No, no.” You laughed at his presumptuousness. “This doesn’t mean what you’re thinking.” But Art slept wonderfully well that night believing there was hope yet.

——————————————————————

Masterlist

Resources 🇵🇸🇸🇩🇨🇩

Permanent Art taglist:

@theynothem @amorisxx

[prettealolilol]

So, I love the headcanon of the batfam being menaces in the kitchen, and that half of them are banned from entering for the rest of their life.

However, you can't tell me that Batman, the man who has contingency plans for his contingency plans, who carries shark spray repellent, the man who travelled for a year (i think ?) on his own with only a backpack (and a lot of money but still), doesn't know how to cook. There is no way, he can't fend for himself in any type of situation (apocalypse ? ready; zombies ? ready; stranded on an island on his own ? ready). He can definitely take care of himself without Alfred, because Bruce is paranoid and there's the eventuality of the butler dying. And anyway, he probably learnt some dishes when he was younger so he could help Alfred around the house (it made him feel closer to the only caring adult in his life). He also definitely learnt traditional dishes while travelling and every time he adopts (it's his way of showing he cares).

(Cooking was one of the ways he bonded with Jason. The boy was tense and wary, not used to having so much food for free. When Bruce realised Jason cooked, he offered to teach him a few dishes he learnt around the world. It was the first time Jason called Bruce 'dad'. Every year they would cook (and make a mess) for Alfred's birthday.)

There's this whole thing with Dick only eating cereal (I don't know much about him, sorry) and being close behind Bruce as a kitchen menace. I don't really know how life in a circus works, but I'll go with the fact that they didn't always have access to a kitchen while traveling, so the food was never sophisticated. Yet, with the circus, Dick travelled a lot and met wonderful people. Some locals would sometimes bring them traditional plates, and even teach him how to cook them. The reason he doesn't really cook is because he finds the kitchen too complicated. Who needs so many utensils ? It's disorienting and feels too clinical (Dick associates cooking with sweet lessons from his mom and having fun with the people from the circus.).

(The times he actually took the time to cook at the manor was when Jason joined and they would try to bake. Dick cooks with Damian sometimes. At first it was to make him comfortable by being domestic, giving the excuse of learning to work together, but now it's just to bond. Bruce joins them sometimes.)

As said previously Jason knows how to cook. I'm not sure if it's canon, but he cooked for his mom, and is never banned from the kitchen in what I read. Similarly to Dick, he grew up cooking easy things. He didn't have access to much food, most of the time stealing from markets and fighting for bread in back alleys. He would stand in the shadows, staring at the window of a restaurant kitchen until he knew the moves by heart and would redo them at home (he'd spend days saving money and stealing the adequate ingredients). It was always simple dishes though. So when Jason first stepped in the kitchen ? He was amazed, and felt like one of those chefs he would observe for ours. The first weeks, he'd wait until everyone was in bed and sneaked in to cook (Alfred always acted like he didn't know). When he came back to Gotham after the pit, he began stress-cooking a lot. He'd steal money from Bruce and cook enough to feed a whole building in Crime Alley (he ate some once and threw up immediately. It tasted too much like home. He never ate anything he cooked again).

(Cooking with Alfred became an excuse to come to the manor and stay for dinner and sometimes even the night. (The first few times, the butler was the only one Jason could be with without activating his fight or flight instinct.) Watching his family unknowingly eat something he cooked and praising the food makes him feel like he may be allowed to be part of the family. Slowly, he starts leaving food to them (on the batmobile because he knows Bruce didn't eat before patrol, in Tim's office because he overworked and didn't go home, in Dick's kitchen because he got hurt during his day job), and nobody ever mentions it.)

I already explained my point of view for Tim in a previous post. Whether his parents were loving or not (fanon vs canon), they still travelled a lot. So Tim grew up having to learn to cook because there wasn't always someone at Drake's manor, and Drakes don't call people in the middle of the night because they're hungry or a little sick. So Tim knew the basics to care for himself, he learnt to wrap and stitch his own wounds at ten after being too close to an explosion where Batman and Riddler fought (seeing later the pictures he got, Tim thought getting some glass in his arm was completely worth it). Of course, he doesn't know any complicated dishes, he does enjoy the chemical aspect of it, the reactions between the ingredients, the way the molecules change with time and temperature variations. Tim also enjoys the historic aspect of it, so he'd learn to make dishes just because he liked the story related to its invention (it has proven useful in many social gatherings to know so much about food and culture). When he started as Robin, those skills became useful when he had to cook for Bruce in the middle of the night because he wouldn't wake Alfred up. After moving in the manor, Tim kind of dropped this little hobby. Alfred is here to cook, and he has other things to worry about (Jason coming back, then Damian being introduced, the whole time stream issue...).

(When he has some time, Tim scrolls on his social media, saving videos about recipes and learning about dishes and their history. He promises himself he'll find some time to try them. When Jason starts leaving each of them food, Tim buys a recipe book. As often as he can, he cooks something, prints a copy of the recipe and drops it off at Jason's current place. One time, when Damian is sick and no one else but Tim is at the manor, he ends up cooking an Arabic dish (a grandma recipe for sick children). Damian stops saying he's useless after this.)

Again, I don't know much about Cass, so it's really how I feel about it. Cass grew with simple dishes. When she joined the batfam, she didn't understand the importance of sharing a meal, people eating together, Alfred spending so much time in the kitchen, or why there were so many ways to cook one ingredient. Just like Dick, the kitchen feels too unnecessarily full, too many things that are just not imperative. To her, food was here to feed and strengthen the body. Cooking should be fast and easy because food was not supposed to be pleasant, just necessary. She doesn't really know how to cook. She can prepare food so it's edible, hunt or light up a fire. But growing up with her father taught her that food is only here to feed. She actually discovers its importance after walking in on Jason and Alfred cooking together. It was one of the rare times Jason would go farther than the cave and into the manor. They were not talking, and yet the atmosphere was soft, acknowledging. Reading Jason's body, she saw happiness and contemptment, the usual tension and anger nowhere in sight. She asks Tim about him (because he's the one who offered to teach her sign language, the one who she goes to when she needs a definition.) and he tells her how cooking can be many things, it can be an offer, it can be death, it can be love, it can be survival...

(Alfred once explained how it was his way of caring. He'd make different dishes depending on people's mood or state. When Cass understood that cooking was a form of language, she took it upon herself to learn. She watches Alfred cook for days, asking questions. She goes to Jason's place to ask him his opinion, teasing him when he gets flustered under her staring. She learns to cook and enjoys it.)

At the league, Damian was a prince. He didn't cook, it was beneath his status, there were servants for that. Like Cass, although he had access to higher quality food, it was only there to feed you. When he arrived at the manor ? The shock to see only one servant, and that his Father sometimes cooked for himself. His Father, who her mother had represented as a king, someone powerful enough to have his grandfather's respect, the man he was supposed to become. It took time for Damian to step into the kitchen for different reasons. First of all, the kitchen was not his place to be, it's Pennyworth's territory. He was not welcome there and knew that to make an enemy out of the man that raised his Father. Secondly, Damian was taught restraint, he would not give in to his basic urge. He could wait until morning even if he felt like his stomach was clenching on itself. The reason for walking in the kitchen was Grayson dragging him inside, promising some bonding time necessary for working together (it was fun, although Damian would not admit it).

(After realising the importance of cooking in the household, Damian decided he could not not know how to cook. Everyone seemed to have the knowledge it wouldn't do for him not to know. Maybe, he also felt like cooking would teach him to be a better part of the family and be accepted as the method he was taught all his life did not work. He learnt to cook on his own, sneaking in the kitchen and training. When he finally mastered a dish, he announced to Alfred he'll be cooking for the evening. Even if he'd never admit it, the praises he received that evening made him feel lighter, like he belonged. And no Grayson, he was not blushing.)

When Duke moves in the manor, it's kinda weird to have a butler. Duke was raised in a normal, middle class family, so cooking is a normal thing he helped his parents with. He would come home from school and help his parents cook dinner, sometimes doing it himself if they were still at work. He didn't know anything fancy or foreign dishes, but he could cook well. So having Alfred do it alone all day ? Not how Duke was raised. The first weeks, he would go into the kitchen and offer his help to Alfred, who would constantly refuse, joking about letting him do his job or he might become useless in his old age. Although it was a joke, Duke (who had just moved in and didn't really know how to act) stopped asking, not wanting to make the butler think he was taking his place.

(He still cooks sometimes, when he feels nostalgic. Cooking reminds him of his parents, his mothers' laughter and his father(s warm hand on his shoulder. When Duke discovers that Cass is learning to cook, he decides to do it with her, learning new recipes from around the world. It helped him a lot to feel at home at the Wayne manor.)

My point is, love the massacre this family can be when left unattended in a kitchen, but they definitely know how to cook.

[mocchiixxx]

Words in Ruin Series # | 04 : Moon Junhui (Jun) 🐱

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Misunderstanding, Slow Burn, Fluff, Slice of Life

Warnings: Miscommunication, burnout, emotional snapping, soft crying, guilt, homesickness

Summary: Jun is thoughtful, warm, and often quietly expressive but when stress builds up from choreography pressure, lines to memorize, and homesickness that never fully fades, he lets the weight of his world spill over. Unfortunately, it spills onto you, the one person who only ever offers him a safe place. One wrong sentence. One raised voice. One look on your face that breaks him. He didn’t mean to push you away… but now he has to earn his way back to you, word by word.

The clock read 2:17 a.m.

The hall outside the practice room was quiet, save for the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead and the tap-tap of your thumbs on your phone screen.

“Are you okay? Do you want me to wait outside?”

You stared at the message, chewing your lower lip before finally hitting send.

The reply came quickly.

“Go home. I’m fine.” -Jun🐱

But you didn’t leave.

You knew him well enough to hear what he didn’t say.

Jun only said he was “fine” when he wasn’t.

So you waited. Wrapped in your oversized hoodie, a bottle of cold water in one hand, your bag nestled against your side. You scrolled aimlessly, glancing at the practice room door every minute or so, hoping to hear footsteps.

Finally, after what felt like hours, it creaked open.

Jun stepped out, hair damp with sweat, his shirt clinging to him, brows furrowed. He didn’t see you at first— not until you stood up.

“Jun,” you said softly, holding out the water. “You looked tired earlier, so I thought you’d—”

“I told you to go home!” he snapped.

You flinched.

His voice cut through the quiet like glass breaking.

“I didn’t ask you to wait. I’m not a kid who needs to be looked after. Why can’t you just listen to me for once?”

Your lips parted, words stuck in your throat. The bottle in your hand trembled.

“I…” you swallowed hard. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. His irritation was thick, palpable. And you couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at you like this.

When he finally met your gaze, everything changed.

You weren’t mad. You weren’t scolding him or arguing back. You just looked hurt.

And that hurt him more than he could explain.

“Y/N…” his voice dropped to a whisper, broken and unsure. “Wait— I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

You blinked quickly, trying to will away the sting in your eyes. “You always tell me I understand you best. But tonight, I guess I read you wrong.”

“No,” he said instantly, stepping closer. “You didn’t. I’m the one who— I messed up.”

Jun’s shoulders slumped. He looked exhausted, not just physically, but emotionally, like he was carrying too much for too long.

“I… today sucked. I blanked out during practice. Then during the interview, they cut most of my Mandarin responses. I smiled through it but…” he hesitated, voice growing softer, “I just wanted to speak without feeling like a stranger. And then the team wanted to redo the choreo again, and I just… I felt like I was drowning.”

You listened quietly, heart cracking at the way his voice trembled near the end.

“And then I came out and saw you, being your usual self— caring, patient, waiting for me when I told you not to. And I felt even worse because I didn’t deserve it.”

“Jun…” you whispered, stepping closer.

“I snapped because… I felt like I was going to fall apart,” he admitted. “And I didn’t want you to see that. You’re the one person who makes me feel safe, and somehow, I ended up hurting you.”

You looked at him, really looked. His red-rimmed eyes, clenched jaw, the slight shake in his hands as he avoided your gaze.

“I waited because I knew you weren’t okay,” you said quietly. “Not because I thought you were weak. Because I care.”

Jun finally looked at you, expression softening into guilt and something far more fragile, regret.

“Then let me keep being that person,” you added. “Let me wait with you. Not outside a door you feel like you have to hide behind.”

He exhaled shakily, and in the next second, he wrapped his arms around you, tight, desperate, forehead resting against your shoulder as if he’d been holding himself up for days.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “You didn’t deserve that. You never do.”

You rubbed his back gently, fingers threading through his hair. “I know you’re tired. I know it’s been a lot. But you don’t have to break alone.”

Silence passed between you— comforting, healing.

“I miss home,” Jun said after a while. “I miss my parents, my language… But you— you're the closest thing I have to comfort here.”

You smiled faintly, pulling back just enough to see his face.

“Then let me be that comfort. And next time… don’t hide. Talk to me.”

He nodded slowly, wiping his eyes. “Next time, I will.”

You handed him the bottle again.

“It’s probably warm now,” you teased gently.

He took it with a sheepish laugh, still teary-eyed. “Doesn’t matter. It came from you.”

That night, the walk home was quiet— but it wasn’t heavy anymore. Not with Jun’s pinky linked around yours. Not with the promise of softer days ahead.

Taglist: @babycaratdeul @viacb97 @christinewithluv