#I just want things to be running smoothly again.

[orangez3st]

I Know Who I Married

Commander Wolffe × F!Reader 

✧ Summary: Wolffe, a commander of his men and your husband, finds himself trapped between two conflicts. And yet, the ending involves you being your forgiving self, followed by good news.

✧ Tags & Warnings: pregnant reader, songfic, forbidden marriage, a little angsty, domestic fluff, words of affirmation, one (1) mention of sex, maybe inaccurate pregnancy things, oops look at that word count my hand slipped, PLO'BUIR, Wolffe needs a hug

✧ Word Count: 6.8k

✧ A/N: Please accept this angsty-wholesome (and finally non-Delta!) fic bcs it'd be the last one for now! Delta Squad Week is drawing closer and I wanna focus on that, and then I'll get through the piling fic requests. Enjoy this one! (Also did I accidentally lorebuild the 104th and make a new clone OC out of this? Yes.)

Masterlist | Read on AO3

𝑳𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚 𝒘𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒘

— That Would Be Enough - Philippa Soo, Lin-Manuel Miranda [X]

Wolffe swallows heavily as his footsteps, heavy, carry him to the war room. The grey of the venator’s hallways are neverending and ever gloomy as the distance between him and his destination draws closer. The overbearing burden as a leader has never felt so great after the recent campaign. He's lost so many men over false intel that neither he or his captains bothered to reassess.

His fault. He called the shots, even reassured his general that the campaign would run smoothly as planned. As usual. Then he became reckless. He wants to scream until his throat is scratchy and punch the wall until he crushes his knuckles. The warmth of the blood and the pain that'd occur and scratch along his skin would be worth it. Or maybe not even close—to the lives lost.

So many of his men. Wolffe is still able to recall their screams and desperate call for help over the comms as they were ambushed from all sides—and every time, he blinked and breathed through it as he covered the others in his radius to retreat. To fight for another day.

Until then, he must face whatever awaits him, his boots steadily and almost rhythmically resound across durasteel flooring of the ship, as if nothing's different. As if it's just the usual. Oh how he wishes it's the usual.

Two of his men adorned in 104th grey who guard the entrance to the war room spares him a glance, and a nod of respect about a second too late. Hesitance. Hesitance over his authority. Over his competence to lead. Fighting not to tilt his helmet away, Wolffe manages to tilt his focus away instead. He's lost so many men, but never because of his recklessness.

“Commander,” one of them greets, either with the usual respect or to defuse the disregarded tension. Wolffe bets on the latter as he strides past them, taking off his helmet in the process, and into the center of the room.

The holotable glows with field schematics of their next campaign. Wolffe has expected the Admiral, but now the man is nowhere around. Plo Koon always carries a strong presence in the room with his wisdom and perseverance, standing on one side of the table. The High Jedi General is trading a quiet discussion with someone—Wolffe notices the unmistakable ARC get-up and extra belt pouches, said attributes in 104th grey, with a marshal commander rank plaque on his left chest.

Wolffe snaps into attention, his helmet tucked under his arm. “General Plo Koon. Marshal Commander Brontes.” He's managed to quench his shock about three seconds before he spoke. What Brontes is doing here doubles and triples his anxiousness. Steeling himself still even after the Generals waves at ease, he swallows again, tipping his chin a little higher. “You summoned me, General?”

“Yes, Commander,” addresses Plo Koon, turning away from the holotable to face Wolffe. Blue light reflects on his features and his mask. “I wish not to waste your time. We'll be discussing the aftermath of our latest campaign.”

Shit. Direct reprimand. His worst nightmare. In front of Brontes, technically and structurally highest in command, only second after Plo Koon in the 14th Storm Corps? Even worse—much worse. He'd rather have a broken arm. At least he can still put up a fight equally well with the other one. But this? This is a fight he's never going to win in any time, in any scenario.

The General is waiting for him to speak.

“I…” Wolffe can't quite find his own words. Chaos that ensued in the comms a little over one rotation ago still haunts his mind, leaving it blank.

“Sir.” Brontes steps in. “Permission for a private talk with Commander Wolffe for a minute.”

Plo Koon trades a long look with the clone marshal commander that grows softer over time. Wolffe swears he can spot a slightest slump of the Kel Dor’s shoulders, and maybe a sigh that's rattling quietly out of his mask. “Granted.”

And with that, the Jedi marches away to the furthest viewport in the room, hands behind his back, watching the blur of hyperspace in uncharacteristically stiff posture that just settles more self-hatred inside Wolffe.

“Vod.” Brontes' voice next to him pulls him out of his stupor. Wolffe turns to the marshal commander with a look of dread that he doesn't realize himself wearing, until Brontes’ countenance visibly softens. “Wolffe, talk to me. As brothers. I know you're upset.”

“Seems like word travels fast, doesn't it?”

“Wolffe.” A look of warning. “Don’t deflect. You know better than that.”

“Everything that happened is purely my fault, Brontes. M’not even gonna defend myself. I'm ready to take the beating out of this.”

“Are you, really?” Brontes' scarred eyebrow lifts skeptically as he crosses his arms. “Because you look like you're about to burst off at the seams, vod.”

“Oh I didn't know that,” Wolffe grits his teeth.

Brontes sighs. “Save your shebs from blurting emotional and uncontrollable nonsense to the General by talking to me first.” He steps closer, voice lowered and mismatched brown and blue eyes sharp. “What the hell happened? You've never done reckless shit like this. You're always careful. I know you, ner vod. We ran into each other Kamino so many times that I actually lost count.”

Wolffe has come prepared for the speech. “I wasn't careful,” he relents with a sigh, “The war. It never ends. I just…”

Your luminous smile slips to the forefront of his mind. Then your sweet giggle, at something he said. An image where you are truly happy. The sun behind your head makes you glow and grants you a divine halo—an image committed to his memory while you glide through a warm and colorful meadow of beautiful Nabooian flowers. And yet, next to this graceful dance you commence for him, is your steadfast presence in his life. Your beautiful friendship with him, your kindness, and last but never the least, your loyalty.

Once upon a time it led to a secret ceremony of the bonding of two living souls. Marriage. It was done by Mandalorian customs. After uttering the riduurok and trading a kiss as husband and wife, you took him on this quirky yet meaningful idea to get inked around the base of both of your left ring fingers to mimic a wedding ring. Wolffe has your name on his, and you have his. It was perfect. A newfound bliss with a newfound meaning—this world now belongs to you both, and you will do anything to find yourself back in each other's arms despite the circumstances.

After all, you're a civilian. Wolffe is a soldier. His true duty is someplace else and anywhere else at the same time—anywhere in the galaxy where conflict breaks and harms like glass.

“...I just wish this'll be over soon,” Wolffe says somberly, longing for you terribly all of a sudden following those thoughts, that he has to keep the dam from overflowing.

But Brontes stares at him, all deadpan and unamused. “So you thought maybe you'd just chuck a live det in the dark and charge head on even though you know you're probably blasting at an absolute unit of a mutated rancor, which puts all your trigger-happy efforts as useless.”

Wolffe slowly closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. “It was false intel.”

“That you failed to reassess!” Brontes hisses, “Our comms and intelligence are perfectly capable—they literally kill time by reassessing intel over and over again because that's what they do, but you didn't give the word! It was fatal, Wolffe!”

“We all know we shouldn't trust intel!”

“Doesn't mean to go completely ignored!” Brontes scrubs both hands down his face. “Prime help me. You sure we decanted in the same batch? And neighbors?”

“Wish we weren't, Three-Five.”

“The hell you meant by that, Three-Six?”

Wolffe looks down. “You're a lot more capable in various different fields including emotional control than I am, Marshal.”

The man snorts. “That your best attempt at I don't deserve it this week? Bantha shit. And you take that back.” Brontes points at him. Wolffe says nothing, his gaze secured on his boots still. Brontes sighs, firmly grabbing the other's shoulders. “Wolffe, vod, you're a good man. If you want this war to end as quickly as you prefer it to be, then do things the right way—the way you've always done it. Careful, methodical. Branch out your thoughts, make backups for backup, and most importantly; think about your men. They're your brothers. Cuun vode. They want this war to be over soon, like you do, too.”

He knows how to do it, goddamn it. He was only distracted by the thought of you. Actually no; the thought of sweeping the field as swiftly as possible in that fateful campaign—which was somewhat of a nuisance at the time than you are, occupying his mind—resulted in his apparent recklessness.

“And what are you doing here?” Wolffe asks.

Brontes shrugs. Wolffe quietly, defeatedly, observes the look of guilt in the other's eyes that slips through. “The General requested for me himself. So I took a fighter with me, left my battalion somewhere in Derilyn, and hit hyperspace the next hour.”

“Commander Wolffe,” Plo Koon’s voice booms in the midst of their sudden silence, “May I have a word with you, please.”

 Both clones trade a look. Wordlessly, Brontes pats Wolffe in the back, even offering a barely-there smile, before marching to the door. When Wolffe makes his way up to the platform to meet his General, Brontes is already gone, leaving his mind once again preoccupied with haunting errors, along with the cries of his men that had echoed in the comms.

Wolffe lets out a breath. “General Koon,” he begins, “I am fully aware of my tactical incompetence in our last campaign. I'll be very careful that there will be no repetition. The party to blame is no one else but me, and I’m ready to receive punishment.”

The Kel Dor turns to face him. Nearly every time, his expression is completely unreadable. Though over time since Abregado, Wolffe finds comfort in both that—helps with his brutal objectiveness—and the constant presence of his reassurance.

“I’ve been aware of the uneasiness that’s been inside you for so long, Wolffe. Even now.” The sudden sidestep off the topic baffles the commander. Not even a direct nudge about the campaign. This is personal. “You're thinking about the future. About what, or who, awaits back home—awaits you.”

Your smile flits past his mind again.

“Yes, General,” Wolffe confesses, “But my sole focus is on this war.”

Your smile again. This time it's bittersweet, a little somber, but with immeasurable patience full to the brim in your eyes, your lips uttering how much you believe in him that he'll come home. Bidding your goodbyes as early as 0200 before he left for deployment in two hours. Your husband can only imagine you solemnly trying to catch your sleep again without worrying too much about him. He's a commander after all—surely he knows how to avoid death and ensure the best strategy applied in his battles.

“I don't doubt you, son—I never do.” Plo Koon places a gentle hand on Wolffe's shoulder, the weight only reminds him of the unnecessary death of his men. “And yet you let your inner turmoil overtook your judgement, and your actions afterward.”

Following such words, a hushed whisper ghosts his ear in your voice, “And look at the cost.”

Nearly flinching, Wolffe shakes it away. “Yes, sir,” he says firmly, his eyes holding so much shame, “I won't deny it.”

The General quietly watches him. “How long has it been since you last saw your dear wife?”

“It was during our last shore leave, sir.” Wolffe steels himself, trying not to crumble in the face of reality that feels heavier than mere moments ago. “Three months.”

The other man hums. “Then three months is enough.”

Wolffe's mismatched eyes snap up. “Sir?”

“I’m certain she longs for you very much. You need to be there for your wife.” Plo Koon turns around, facing the viewport once more, as if unable to bear the weight of the incoming decision. The azure lights of hyperspace make his earthy complexion shine in contrast. “You are granted one month of shore leave and will board a shuttle back to Coruscant.”

“What?” Wolffe can feel his heart drop to his stomach. Panic. Fright. There's nothing more that scares him than being sidebenched officially under order. “One month—?!”

“Take your mind off the battlefield, son. Recuperate, and reevaluate. You will be reinstated back on duty in exactly one month.”

Wolffe lets the silence slowly kill him. When no other words come from the Jedi, he takes a deep breath and gambles his chances. “General, with all due respect, my duty as commanding officer of the 104th—”

“Will be temporarily taken over by Marshal Commander Brontes per my request. That is why he's here.”

“But sir, please, my duty—”

He closes his mouth when the General raises a hand.

“Your duty now,” Plo Koon says, with a gentleness of a parent, “is to be with your family. You have a home that's waiting for you. A wife who's waiting for you to return home. The decision is final, Commander Wolffe, and the approval is already given directly from me. I issued the order myself. As soon as we leave hyperspace, you will be boarding the shuttle.”

It feels numb afterwards.

It feels like being stripped of everything he's known. His ranks, his purpose, his life. The thought of desertion has never even once crossed his mind. Battlefield is his home.

But… you are his home, too.

“Cease fighting today. Your wife needs you alive, son. She needs your care. She needs your presence.”

Marching out of the room with a new direction that is his quarters, he refrains saying a thing to Brontes. His helmet hides his expression as he merely nods in respectful greeting, but seemingly isn't enough—Brontes gives him a look that he despises so much. Pity. He doesn't need it. He doesn't need anybody else reminding him of his faults. It's embarrassing enough.

What would he tell you?

That he'd had his own men killed? His own brothers? Because he was distracted… by you?

No. He can't say that. 

That he'd failed? Faulted, condemned, punished… blamed? His own men looked at him as if he's someone else. The respect remains—visible to the naked eye, stripped to merely ranks—and yet the reverence…

You'd see him as a failure too. The fear has a good, relentless grip on his heart. It aches. It aches to tell you. It aches to be confused. 

“I find no comfort if one day I have to be the one knocking on her door to deliver the news that her beloved husband had perished on the battlefield.”

The ride to Coruscant is as quiet as it can be, save for the hum of hyperdrive. A squad of his men escorts him. Wolffe deems the space beyond the confines of his helmet lethal, as if the recycled air of the transport shuttle would destroy his airway and leave his lungs rotten by the time they arrive planetside. His own breath is hot with shame, his fists clenched, failure failure failure repeatedly ringing in his own ears, loud.

Everything makes him feel like a prisoner. A criminal on parole. The feeling worsens when the shuttle breaches atmo.

One month away from the war. A small part of him rejoices to see your smile again, to feel the reunion that would leave his body buzzing from pure happiness to day's end.

The circumstances, however…

“It’ll destroy her,” he’d said, unable to bear the thought of you mourning him. The thought of him leaving you, all alone.

Then the cab ride is just as quiet. The droid driver doesn't bother him—good. The state of the city around him beyond the filmed glass windows is the exact opposite. It's loud. Wolffe sits back, his helmet still on, his fear and utter shame still have a hold on him that if he takes it off it would become real. Too real for him to accept.

He brings nothing with him but armor on his back. He didn't even get to change, but at least he'd spent hours himself mourning in his flagship quarters while mindlessly rubbing over the same spot on his shin plate over and over again.

Just like how they cried over and over again in the comms.

“Love is a powerful motivation to one's spirit—to move them in a certain direction. If one takes it away, that person will never be the same again.”

Before your marriage, Wolffe spares his downtime growing stress lines on his face. He knew he had to provide for you but alas; he is what he is. His weekly stipend barely covers your daily meal, and that's just the sad truth. And yet the other side of such truth is a bright world filled with hope and everlasting joy where you truly want him—to be with him.

So you put your foot down; “This is my own dwelling, I have a steady job where people are constantly dependent on my industry, I love you and I want to be with you, so let's get married.”

It wasn't impatience. It was the fruit of his labor and yours working the relationship through regardless of any differences, the big one is of him being a clone—oftentimes looked down upon, deemed as nothing but patriotic wet droids that die for the people of a republic of nations they never personally know. But not you. Never you.

“Let's get married,” you'd said again—a soft smile, almost pleading and demanding for him to say yes, on your face. “With your customs, if you don't mind. I think I'd love that.”

Wolffe was dumbstruck by your flash decisions. “Are you sure?”

Your smile brightened. “Yes I'm sure.”

Something comes over him as the door of your—and his—dwelling comes into view.

A little different from the typical housing in Coruscant topside, the apartment is tucked away behind a series of office buildings and skyscraper shopping centers. It's a suitable place—perfect, even—for a couple married in secret, and that's all Wolffe would say if someone asks him. Not that he'd rat his own marriage out.

But.

Home.

“And I'm sure you love her very much—and she, you. Dedicate your time for your family, son. Just as much as you do, for the war.”

This place is where you and him make your pleasant memories. Some of them are first-times, some involving hot screaming matches. But you and Wolffe always make it through. Your patience and his resilience. It leads you, him, to all this.

He knows the key code. But he hasn't been home for a very long time, and all your work is done from home.

And now it just strikes him how much pain you're in, living in the void around you. The other side of your bed empty, the other dining chair empty, and even the little space in the shower stall where you take morning showers—empty.

“Because you have one to go home to.”

He rings the bell.

He waits, hands behind his back in a parade rest to formally accept your lash-outs. Your piling frustrations in the form of solid angry hits to his chest, and your tears. Three months is a long time, after all.

No answer. You usually don't take a long time to answer the door. You always refuse to wear earplugs when you're working, so that's not the case. His hand instinctively flies to his pistol.

He rings again.

“One moment!” Your voice. Oh, your voice. You're safe. You're inside.

The door finally slides open.

“Hi, sorry to keep you waiting—” You look up to be met with his gaze—or at least, his visor. But he's certain you’re piercing right through, and gone are his anxieties as if someone is pulling up the blinds. You always do, even since you first met each other.

You stand there just behind the doorway. Wolffe has already expected a slap to the face or hot tears streaming down your cheeks.

But you're… you're radiant. Always are. Your lips widen and stretch into the most beautiful smile he's ever seen—one of the reasons he let himself fall in love with you, willing to sacrifice his all and split his focus on you and the war efforts. 

“Wolffe,” you breathe a laugh, stepping over the threshold to relieve him of the soldier's stance. “You’re home.”

It's when you grunt as you stretch your back before placing your hand over your belly briefly that he notices.

Your… inflated… huge belly.

Before he can get any word out, you embrace him, wrapping your arms around his neck and breathing his scent.

Your husband reeks of sweat, fuel, and exhaustion, but the smell is intoxicating and tickling some parts of your brain. It's giving happy sensations for you, but the pregnancy hormones make the sight of him finally home and in your arms irks you greatly.

“Get this blasted helmet off your head, Wolffe,” you seethe, slapping his chest in the process. The mood shifts so quickly it makes him flinch. He quickly obliges, his head nods almost frantic, his defensive walls crumble and sink to the bottom of his stomach.

And now the reality is out to get him. It's all becoming real.

His misery and grief don't even get the chance to surface again the moment you rip his bucket out of his grasp. He catches a glimpse of you biting your lip as you chuck the blasted plastoid piece somewhere behind you before suddenly a sharp, burning pain erupts on the side of his face. His cheek. You just slapped him.

“You were taking too long,” you grit out. Wolffe can feel his heart shattering even more as he listens to your broken voice lashing out at him. “Forgot you're married and have a wife at home?!”

“I'm sorry,” he immediately says, looking away in shame. The shame, the guilt, the pain—it’s all gaining on him again.

“Doesn't cut it,” you hiss, tears brimming in your eyes. “Three months. Every time I called you, you always had the perfect reason to end it early—”

“I’ve always been occupied aboard the fleet—”

“It was just a single holocall!”

“Intragalactic transmission during a period of war campaigns for private fulfillment is supposedly forbidden—”

“YOUR GENERAL ALLOWED IT!” you shout at him, letting a single sob come out but as a strong woman that you are in his eyes, you hold on, taking deep breaths and wiping your fallen tears away. “He covered for you and you know it.”

You're right. He does know.

More added to the blame, and he only gets to hang on this far. He wonders when the dam would break, but… you can't see it. You're in too much pain already because of him. In this state, with such many burdens, he'd prefer grief in quiet.

“Cyare.” He tries—he wants to try. He has to win you back, even though you're still angry at him. “I know it doesn't cut it, but I really am sorry.”

You sniffle, wiping away a stray tear again with the back of your hand before taking his hand in yours. His knees almost buckle at your soft touch, even so since he's still wearing his gloves. “Come inside. You can explain yourself then.”

The warmth of your home engulfs him like a snug blanket and makes him want to sink right there on the couch in the living area. He could ask you to join him there, or in the shower. Domesticity and love call for him as if this place, with you in it, is the only place he should've belonged, not the battlefield.

Alas.

“I… was too ambitious.” He doesn't wait until you've sat down. Wolffe ignores your invitation—a single, loud, demanding pat of the hand on the other side of the couch—and lets his fumes run dry as he desperately tries to still the anxious soldier inside him. This is worse than being confronted by his general.

“There’s always an end to a war and we’re only doing everything we can to erase the distance between us and that ending. I put my dedication and time in that war room with my superiors to ensure our future.”

“Apparently too much time.” You scoff. “Don't be a soldier, Wolffe,” you say almost boredly, glancing away from his rapid-fire reasoning. “You’re home. Be a husband.”

Wolffe shakes his head. “I stand by what I said. It's the truth. I know it's been three months and sometimes… sometimes I ignored that. I've been ignoring you.” His voice cracks. Your heart breaks a little more at that, your fists scrunching the fabric of your loose sweater. “But I'm here now, cyare,” Wolffe says again, “They sent me home because I made a fatal decision.”

You sigh shakily, pushing your forehead to the heel of your hand. “Good.”

Wolffe freezes. “Good?”

“When all means of good communication with you became outrageously impossible, I turned to your general instead,” you glower at him. Wolffe’s eyes shut, his chest heavy—blame blame blame. “I messaged him, begging him to send you home because I needed you here, Wolffe. Seems like he's found a way how to, and I'm thankful for that.”

Wolffe looks at you in disbelief, another fault added to his plate. Plo Koon might care greatly about  his commander's secret relationship, but the fact you directly contacted his general without telling him first… you've crossed a line. There's a chain of command one is supposed to go through first, and you’re in violation of that.

“You did what?!”

“I'M NOT SORRY, WOLFFE!”

He watches you, eyes widened. Your hand falls to your belly again, taking deep breaths to steady yourself. 

“I needed you, but you were so far away,” you mourn, tears brimming in your eyes again, “I needed you and you weren't responding to my needs, and so I had to do something. I'm your wife.” Wolffe flinches at the way you say the word as your voice cracks with emotion. You take a faltering breath—your gaze, sharp and deadly, and yet hopeful for him to understand under such scrutiny. “And you're a commander in the army. You're driven, you're ambitious—as you said—and that's good. Really,” you continue, cadence growing mournful and sarcastic and disappointed the longer you go. “But you'll always fight until the war is done.”

Wolffe sighs. “The war’s not done—”

“And yet, here you are,” you cut him off, swallowing your mood swing again.

He closes his eyes. His throat bobs as he swallows. “It's a punishment.”

There's silence at first before your surprised tone, almost guilty, cuts through the tension. “What?”

“Plo Koon sent me away from the war.” He doesn't want to open his eyes. It'd be real—too real for him to relive it all over again. The burden is his and his alone, no one else's and especially not yours. Even though you had been the one constantly on his mind. “I was distracted in the last campaign and it was my reckless decisions and executions that… that killed so many of my men on the field.”

“Oh, love…”

“We lost. The cost was too great, it was entirely my fault. He sent me home and my marshal commander took my place. For a month.”

He looks at you. He's not even angry anymore. Resigned. “Did you have a say in that?”

“I did,” you murmur, “But I had no idea…”

The moment your frown fades out from between your brows and your expression softens, Wolffe releases a long breath, sounding almost like relief, as he carefully approaches you and kneels by your feet. “Don’t apologize. You have the right.”

Then, he looks into your eyes. Really looks. Your swollen lids for shedding tears at his unavailability, his failure as a husband. You're in so much pain—that, he is now aware of. The sight simply despairs him, breaking him over and over again, as if taking preparations to haunt him in his sleep.

Slowly, hesitantly and almost shakily as if he doesn't deserve it, he takes your hand and lifts it to his lips. Your knuckles are smooth along his chapped lips, the sensation of finally touching you—his beloved wife—is enlightening.

“Forgive me, ner cyare riduur,” Wolffe murmurs, softly pressing his lips onto your skin in-between phrases. “I've been horrible to you these past few months. You're always on my mind. I love you—always, you must know—and I hope… I hope you can forgive me.” His warm amber brown eyes that you love are glistening with unshed tears. Remorse. “I don't know what I'd do if you can't.”

His heart flutters as he witnesses a smile slowly pulling at your lips. “We’re married, Wolffe.” You squeeze his hand. “And even if we aren't, I can't, for the life of me, not forgive you.”

He kisses your knuckles again. “There's always a line.”

“Then let's hope we won't cross it.”

It brings a soft chuckle out of him—content, confident, safe. Your husband is famously known for his ultra rare smile, and seeing them so often in every moment you spend time together feels like an absolute honor.

You touch his hair at first, longing the feel of it in the tender palm of your hand. But he doesn't want to let you steal his opportunity—because he could enjoy your soft touches further and fall asleep right there and then—so he rises to meet you, still on his knees, leaning into you and props his forearm next to your head on the back of the couch.

Wolffe breathes in the sight of you. You, smiling up at him, your eyes still shining with remaining tears—happy tears. He caresses your cheek softly with his gloved knuckles before nearing your lips, testing the waters. Your smile broadens, accepting his kiss—a long-awaited one, one that both of you deserve all after those painful months of separation.

“Missed you,” Wolffe whispers against your lips, gently taking it again between his before leaning his forehead against yours. “So, so much. I'm so sorry.”

Your eyelashes flutter against his cheek. “I'm sorry, too. For your loss. Your brothers. But you're here now, Wolffe. That's what matters right now. I’m so happy you're here, really am,” you say to him. Wolffe leans against your touch, your thumb brushing along his cheekbone. “And I'm sorry I slapped you,” you pout, “My hormones are all messed up.”

He shakes his head in dismissal. “I deserved it.”

“Want me to kiss it better, love?”

“If I ever refuse, I want you to beat me to death.”

A small giggle erupts from your lips before you pepper his cheek with apologetic kisses, leaving no inch of skin untouched with your love. It's glaring red from when you slapped him, blame the estrogen and cortisol ganging up on your sanity.

Wolffe shifts his attention from you to your pregnant belly. It's been… lovely. All the pain and illness you've gone through seem worth it knowing that it's his children you're carrying. You hadn't found out until 8 weeks. You'd wished he was there at your first ultrasound when your doctor announced you're pregnant with twins.

“Are you feeling okay?” He places his hands gently on your belly. “This looks… painful.”

You stare at him in disbelief. Does he really not know? “This looks—” you parrot him but get cut off.

“Are you, cyare?” Wolffe asks again, firmer this time, and even more serious. “In pain?”

You stifle your smile. Gods, this man.

“Not really. For now.” And thus you roll out a new impish scenario, wondering how it'd go, and how long it'd go. “Well, okay; sometimes.”

“The diagnosis?”

“It’s fine, my love. Nothing's wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong?!”

You bite the inside of your lip, preventing a laugh coming out.

He goes on, eyes sweeping over your body. Your cheeks seem fuller, you gained weight. Other than that, you're healthy. You're glowing. But he can't seem to find out why. “Did you go to your usual doctor?”

“Yes,” you nod, “And um, another kind of doctor.”

Your husband frowns, hard, at your grin. “Another… kind?”

“Wolffe, for the love of gods.” He blinks cluelessly as you pry his gloves off him before dragging his now bare hands beneath your sweater and placing them firmly against your belly. “Here. Feel.”

He sighs at the warmth of your skin, his thumb having the mind of its own caressing them.

You scrutinize him. “Do you have any idea of what might be happening?”

“You don't look sick,” Wolffe analyzes, mismatched eyes meeting your gaze. “You look healthy, in fact.”

“Wolffe,” you giggle, clutching onto his hand, “I’m pregnant.”

In an instant, his eyes flash with clarity and total adoration. His lips part to gasp, the entire focus in his body now directed at your pregnant belly. In the joyful realization and perhaps feeling a little stupid for not clocking it earlier, Wolffe pours all his love into his touches, lifting your sweater to finally look at you. At first you hear what may be a sob, but his sniffle confirms it anyway. The joy of a father.

“So,” Wolffe sniffs again, “So this was when you complained about your late period before I got shipped off…”

“Yeah,” you chuckle, moving your hands into his hair and slowly scratching his scalp. “Y'know what, I think they might be afternoon delight kitchen counter babies. I couldn't forget that one.”

There's so much of that to digest, especially a comeback with that last one—which may be true because he couldn't either. He can't even let out a laugh, his ears already stopped listening at the plural word that you just said.

“Babies?” Wolffe marvels, “Twins?”

You smile, nodding. “Twins.”

And only then he finally laughs. It's not his usual boisterous one when you crack your lamest stupidest dad joke—it sounds wet, relieved, happy, and full of hope. You've talked about this—both of you have been wanting this for quite a long time. Wolffe’s thumb repeatedly brushes over your belly, as if caressing his babies’ heads through the flesh, and his face is leaning closer.

And now your wish is finally granted with not only one but two sweetlings. You've spent day and night thinking what traits they would take once you give birth to them, and once they grow up. Strong and resilient just like their father, you hope.

“Su'cuy, ad’ike. Ner kih’verde,” he murmurs against your skin, “I'm your buir. I’m sorry we're only meeting just now.” Wolffe presses a long kiss to your belly, and another. There are two of them, after all. You feel wetness—your husband's first tears upon knowing that he'll be a father to his own children growing in your womb.

You slip your fingers in between his face and your skin to wipe the trail of tears away from his cheek. “I think they'd understand that their father is fighting to secure their future.”

Wolffe nods weakly, contently. “That's right,” he says, resting his chin on you while meeting your gaze again, his expression curious and helpful. “So is it—are they… Boys? Girls? Both? Have you found out yet?”

You chuckle at his enthusiasm. “Maybe we can find out together this week or next, if you want?”

So you've been waiting for him. His heart aches again—imagine if he refused to come home, ever. “Of course. I'll be there with you,” Wolffe says, a breathy chuckle falling off his lips. “How far along are you?”

“16 weeks.”

“Sixteen. 4 months.”

“Mhm.”

“A month before my deployment,” he repeats, and you nod, humming your affirmation again.

A small part of him that hasn't found resolve cringes—horrified. His previous thoughts are coming back to haunt him—the what-ifs. 

“Hey,” calls your voice, cutting through the haze. Wolffe relishes the gentle smile that graces your lips, relishing how fortunate he is to have you. “I know what's going through your head right now.”

The weight in his chest has been crying out to be released. And you're his wife. His worries, his fears and anxieties, become yours, too.

“If only I threw a fit,” he slowly confesses, “I refused to come home, cyare. I would've fought the decision and convinced my general. But then, I wouldn't have known.” He could've flown too close to the sun. He could've died in future campaigns, leaving you alone with… with his babies. His children. They'd be fatherless, and you'd be exhausted to death caring for them alone without him. And they wouldn't know who their father was.

And he wouldn't know he'd be charging head on in the front lines for his children. He wouldn't know.

But then there's your presence again, so bright in his life. You lift his chin with a touch of your fingers so you can pull him out of the abyss of his past thoughts that are looming over him, and so there will only be you—his present and future—to gaze upon, to look at. Not the abyss.

“You're my husband,” you say softly, your thumb caressing his cheek again. “Val buir—their father, Wolffe. And I know that… every regulation out there isn't in our favor, especially now that we're having children—”

He looks guilty. “I’m sorry if this isn't what you imagined.”

Sighing, you pinch his cheek. “I'm not done yet, love. Stop apologizing about stuff that I already know, and I knew I'd go through this before I decided to be married to you. I love you for who you are.”

Wolffe blinks quickly—the corners of his eyes sting. You just… always know what to say. You're always confident, and he loves that.

“And that means I know who you are,” you continue, “I know where your heart and your spirit is. I'm not afraid, Wolffe.”

He sighs heavily. “I don't know—you don't know—if that's the right thing you should've said,” he says, “Don't want you to say empty promises, cyare. You know they do nothing to me.”

“These are all facts, Wolffe. They all came from here.” You grab his hand and place it over your heart. “You are a soldier, love, I can't take the battlefield away from you. But as long as you come home when I need you—for me, that would be enough.”

It's like fire. It's like love renewed, and it's burning bright, the light cleanses the dark in his heart—every strand that pulses insecurities and anxieties that shouldn't even be there.

“I promise,” your husband then vows, “I won't miss something like this ever again. You have my word.”

You grin teasingly. “Again? I haven't even given birth yet. Just how many do you want, Commander?”

Wolffe rolls his eyes. The gesture always makes you laugh, and he knows it. “Cyare, you know what I'm talking about.”

“I know,” you giggle, “Icebreaker.”

Wolffe’s smile is stretched so wide on his lips that he can feel it ache—his cheeks ache. He rarely smiles like this even in the presence of his brothers, but he doesn't hold back with you. He rises slightly to meet your lips, silently wishing to listen and relish your laugh. “I love you,” he mutters, pecking your lips in between phrases, “I love you. So much. So much, cyare, you have no idea.”

You laugh softly. “I know, my love.”

“I'll be here for you,” Wolffe says enthusiastically, and your smile grows even wider as you listen along. “Until you give birth. Maybe I can talk to my general to temporarily put Brontes on my post while I'm away—”

“Wolffe, udesii. It's okay,” you interrupt with a laugh, “I’ll need you more after I give birth. When I get into labor, too.”

He nods, your plea sounding like a superior’s command to him—heck, he almost said yes sir. “I’ll be there. No matter what. We'll do this together, I promise.”

Wolffe lets out a breath. His mind is already forming to-do lists that involve research and possible timestamps and predictions and scenarios to lie his way through military assignments just so he could be there for you, or in case anything happens to you. Maybe he could gamble his lucky attempts with his general.

He leans in to kiss your lips again. “In the meantime, you're gonna tell me everything you've been doing for the past three months?”

You smile. “The good and the bad.”

“Every bit of it?”

“Yes.”

Wolffe then kisses your knuckles, a hint of a smile gracing his lips. “Promise?”

Your giggle is a ripe melody in his ears. His source of joy. You lay your hand on top of his, still resting on your belly—both of your beloved children inside. “Yes I promise.”

Some backstory I didn't get to include: Sha Koon, Plo’s niece, regularly checks in on you so she could relay the information to her uncle because both Kel Dor care so much about your and Wolffe's wellbeing 🩷

Taglist: @yoursrosie @hellfiresky @filamentlights @heidnspeak @lucyysthings @emmaw18 @leiopython-rat

A/N: You can request for x reader in my askbox! If you're interested in my clone x reader oneshots you can sign up as well to be tagged of future works. (Link provided ⬆️)

[namfinessed]

drabble game (dialogue prompt. 3)

prompt - "only tonight, it's all we have." for jeon jungkook (2.5k)

requested by @moonjinniecafe (sorry for the long, long wait angel, i hope you enjoy <3)

drabble masterlist masterlist prompt list!

-

a night lasted for 12 hours.

12 hours was either a lot or nothing at all.

for jungkook, tonight was nothing at all.

he watched the bags crowded on your doorstep with indignation that wasn't valid, he watched your figure move silently in your closet, emptying the cabinets, emptying the cupboards, emptying parts of you and stuffing them into overloaded suitcases.

and he could just watch.

because he was a friend and friends watch when their friends move out of town for big, exciting things.

"i think that's everything," you hummed, rolling out the suitcases and placing them by your door but you forgot one thing to pack.

him.

he's never felt so desperate to be stuffed into a suitcase and flied across oceans.

he's never wanted to bolt a door shut so badly that you could never escape.

he's never been so pathetic about being left behind.

"how much time do you have?" his mouth was always faster than his brain and you grinned, "jungkook, you've asked me that 5 times already," maybe, his mouth could be slower at times.

"but i have 13 hours to my flight, why?" you asked the same question with different numbers as the evening peeked and left but he never answered.

"i planned something," he didn't plan anything, he was busy weeping in his room, "because you know, only tonight, it's all we have," jungkook liked to think he sounded cooler than how he felt.

"what did you plan?" you leaned forward excitedly, with a happy glint in your eyes and maybe, jungkook could become a liar for the rest of his life.

"can't tell you," he doesn't know himself, "let's go," he grabbed his car keys and jingled them in his hands, hoping that the sound would jerk his brain to start running, to start catching up with his mouth.

and your mouth opened and closed, jungkook was never spontaneous, he messaged about 5 times before the plan ever began on a day to make sure everything was going smoothly but nevertheless, you grinned at him and ran out the door, with him following right behind you.

how the night would go, you didn't know.

but fuck, jungkook didn't know either.

-

he looked at the clock.

12 hours.

"so, where are we going?" jungkook gripped the steering wheel tightly at your question, you looked at him with those big eyes and asked questions that he would pay to have answers to but for now, he was only driving down every road he saw.

"you'll see," he tried to smile but inside his mind, he cursed himself over and over again.

you were giving him your last night in your hometown and he couldn't even give you a good time.

just as you opened your mouth to complain, jungkook slammed on the brakes and pointed to his left.

"let's go!"

-

he looked at the clock.

11 hours.

"mine is good, how is yours?" you looked up from the ice cream in your hands and nodded, "mine is good too."

an ice cream.

that was the best he could do.

jungkook wanted to run his own car over him.

"this is just a pitstop," he hurried to explain and you tilted your head at him.

he never knew what you were feeling.

was this disgust?

were you thinking he was a waste of time?

should he just drop you back hom-

"jungkook, i like ice cream, i like this," and he swears angels are not in the sky, they are across the booth from him, singing in a tune he couldn't get out of his head and smiling in a way he couldn't say no to.

so, the next stop, wherever it was.

it had to be good.

jungkook would do anything to keep his angel happy.

-

he looked at the clock.

10 hours.

go-karting was probably not his brightest, but when you zoom past him in your little cart and your little helmet, and your giggles trail behind you, jungkook can only shake his head and follow you.

like he always does.

but this time, with a foot pressed tightly on the accelerator and the wind slapping his face, his hands turning red on the wheel and his eyes well, on you.

and he tries to catch up.

like he always does.

but you're always just a few metres ahead, you're always leaving a trail of laughter behind but you don't match his pace.

and you'll be going away.

jungkook was a rational guy but he slowed down at the realisation, he slowed down at the thought of the next ten hours being the only ones he has left.

but he still has to follow you.

so, he does.

-

he looked at the clock.

8.5 hours.

"that was so fun!" you gasped breathlessly, pulling the helmet off your face, "careful, careful," he whispers, hair can get so easily tangled in helmets, jungkook immediately pats your hair away and tcakes the helmet from your hands, you shouldn't ever carry heavy objects around him.

he returns all the equipment, listens to you gush about the speed, the track, the kart, your cheeks are red, your hair is messed up, your eyes are twinkling and jungkook smiles.

because tonight, he had no plan but you were smiling, you were here and so was he.

and when you grab his hand to pull him towards a tteokbokki stand, he follows.

-

he looked at the clock.

7.5 hours.

"jungkook, i didn't know you were so sentimental," he forces open the door to your high school, "or this reckless," you hum and jungkook bites back a laugh.

"just wanted us to relive it, i guess," he means him, he wants to relive the moment he first met you, you were young, you were bold, you were annoying to his nervous system which couldn't quite process how much it could feel for a person.

"isn't this breaking and entering?" you whisper with caution but you're staring at the building in awe, maybe you were reliving it too, maybe not so in love as him, but enough to appreciate a memory of meeting a friend.

"do you care?"

"nope," you smile and march into the building with passion and jungkook, he followed.

-

he looked at the clock.

less than 7.5 hours.

"my seat!" you squealed, running a hand over the top of the table and he smiled at your excitement, he was feeling pretty damn good about himself.

"and there is yours," you walk over to the corner of the class, from where jungkook admired you for the longest time until one day, you walked up to him, asked him to hang out with your friends and since then, didn't leave him behind.

"you used to be so quiet," a fond smile took over your face and jungkook's heart ached, "you still are," you nod and he laughs.

"you talk enough for the both of us," and you gasp in mock offence, "how dare you, i was there for you through everything."

and he knows you are joking.

he knows you are being dramatic.

but it was true, wasn't it?

no one else had stood by him the way you did and now, you were...leaving.

"you were, i'm grateful to you for that, i wouldn't have grown much without you," his face feels warm, his fingers feel tingly and he knows that one more word out of him would slip out the inevitable, would slip out the 'i love you' that he's hidden so well over the years.

"you were there for me too, jungkook, i only grew because i had you," your eyes are glassy, and your head drops, his heart sinks, he never meant to make you cry.

so, he's reaching forward, stepping forward, following you like he always does, to console you, hold you, say something, anything to stop you from crying.

but you're lifting your head, shaking the tears away and grinning at him.

"where to next?"

-

he looked at the clock.

7 hours.

you fell asleep in the car.

after pushing him out of the high school to go to his next 'plan', you got into the car, with excitement waving off you and then...you fell asleep.

out like a night.

or as jungkook would say, an angel resting on its cloud.

and jungkook shook his head with a smile that he didn't have to contain anymore, it's not like you were awake to see his smile that would give him away.

he stopped the car, he covered you with his hoodie and he twisted his body sideways to watch your body gently rise and fall.

what would he do without you?

how can he not worry about you if he can't see you with his own two eyes?

who will be his friend?

who else will never leave him behind?

but jungkook knew that your world wasn't just him, and his world would remain just you, but he wouldn't expect the same back.

he wasn't that greedy.

he just wanted to love.

and he wanted to keep loving.

even if seas came between you two, jungkook would send his love on a speedboat to reach you, he would swim the sea himself if you called out to him.

for now, jungkook will watch you with his own two eyes, and let his heart rest because you were safe, you were sound, and you were with him.

-

3 hours.

"jungkook! what the fuck? how could you let me sleep?" your wails startled a half-asleep jungkook, your hands are in your hair, you look stressed, you look...guilty.

"it's okay, you needed the rest," and he was out of places to show you.

he looked at the time.

he was also out of time.

"let's go pretty, let's get your smart ass to the airport," even if his heart felt like it could fall to the sole of his shoes and get stomped over and over again, jungkook headed on.

you had places to be.

people to see.

things to achieve.

and he was no one to stand in the way.

"jungkook," you sounded distraught and he stopped what he was doing to look at you.

tears in your eyes.

trembling jaw.

and he follows.

jungkook's hands move on their own accord, they wipe your tears away, they cradle your jaw and his mouth whispers reassurance, 'you just slept, you didn't run someone over'.

but the guilt stays in your eyes.

and he feels an invisible spear pressing into his chewst.

"it was our last night together," you softly whine, sadness, regret and so much more wrapped in your tone.

and oh, he's known, he's known for the past 12 hours.

-

he stopped looking at the clock.

airports were always so depressing to jungkook.

and especially depressing because you couldn't stop crying all the way from your home, where you bid your family goodbye, to the airport where you stood now.

jungkook's tried everything.

like how you would for a baby that won't stop fussing.

bright music.

reassuring whispers.

offering of food.

but you seemed truly set on crying until you got on the flight.

and well, jungkook's a loyal follower, he lets you do just that.

jungkook takes your suitcases from the car and puts them on the ground, almost thinks of running away with them so you can chase him but he shakes his head, you would just cry more.

he stares at your sniffling figure as you try to hold your tears but fail, and jungkook feels a pain so acutely spread through him because he knows he'll be crying once he leaves you here.

"so, that's everything," jungkook comes forward in small steps as if big movements would trigger more tears from you and you choke back a sob anyway.

jungkook had tried everything.

but one thing.

he stepped forward, arms out and wrapped them around you.

and almost broke down crying too.

because you push your face into his neck and start whispering about how you're scared, how you don't want to say goodbye to everyone, how you do-

"i don't want to leave you jungkook, i never want to leave you, i would pack you into a bag and take you with me right now," and you sound like you would do it.

"i don't think that's allowed, love," he doesn't care what he lets slip anymore.

"honestly, fuck them," you groan and jungkook pulls back to look into your tear-soaked eyes with his eyes that weren't going to hold off much longer, "yeah, fuck them," he whispers and you let your head fall back on his body.

jungkook gets busy cursing the world.

fuck them for taking you away,

fuck them for putting a sea between you.

fuck them for not letting jungkook follow you.

it's all he's ever known.

and you were going away, leaving no hand behind for him to hold onto.

"jungkook, are you crying?" your own gravelly voice comes through his fog and he sniffles, "yeah."

you bury his arms closer around you.

"you can cry, it's okay."

"fuck them, y/n, fuck them so hard," and this time, you're pulling away to give him a weak smile, "fuck them."

he looks at the clock, one last time.

it was daylight.

the night was gone.

and he was out.

he was out of all time.

and just when he wants to grab your hand and run, you turn back to look at the clock too.

now, you knew you were out of time too.

"jungkook, i have to-"

"go, don't worry about me," he tries to smile and your face falls as the time clicking by suddenly becomes the only sound you two could hear.

jungkook brings your suitcase to the entrance, he hands them over to you and you take each suitcase from him silently.

how will carry all this by yourself?

maybe he could buy a ticket, maybe just to help you with the bags-

"jungkook."

his eyes are back on you.

"i know."

and he stops moving, stops breathing, because maybe he's hidden it yes, but he never said he was good at hiding it.

he knew the glint in your eyes could always see right through him.

jungkook always feels sheepish, a bit shy, a bit awkward, a bit sad that he might not get to tell you himself.

but he had just enough seconds on the clock to say,

"i love you."

the smile on your face makes him wish he had told you this many moons ago but even with the handful of seconds you had left, you say,

"i love you too."

he watches you go.

and jungkook lets you go.

to a place where he cannot follow just yet.

he lets you go with your new love blooming in him and his old love growing a garden in you.

and he thinks to himself, he's done a damn good job after all.

-

[lovebillyhargrove]

***

"Heey. I uhmm .. I know it's ass o'clock but uh .. can you pick me up?"

It's Harrington, and he's drunk, and Billy knew it was him calling before he even touched the phone, cause whenever Steve calls Billy always gets this weird twist in his belly, or his chest, or somewhere in between — call it the sixth sense or whatever

It is indeed the middle of the night.

"Where are you?"

"At this club .."

Okay.

"Which one?"

"The one we went together to .. a couple of months ago? .. Can't remember the name."

Cause you're wasted, Harrington. It's your drunk slurring voice and the way you're breathing into the receiver

"Yeah, I know, give me ten."

..

When Steve's coming out of the club, he sees it right away — you always somehow notice this car, even in a bigger place than Hawkins — a place where muscle cars aren't a sight to gawk at. It just draws your attention. It's standing on the opposite side of the road, smoke coming out of its exhaust pipe, engine running smoothly

And ..

Steve knows he will open the door and there will be Billy.

Billy. In a plain t-shirt and jeans and maybe a leather jacket, and Steve will slip into the passenger's seat and inhale the smell of him

God he loves this smell, there's something about it that makes Harrington all fuzzy and .. wistful.

Wasted days, and sleepless nights

An' I can't wait to see you again

Is quietly playing on the radio

"Had a fun night?"

The voice, too, dammit, the voice

"Was okay."

"Home?"

Let's go to yours. Harrington catches it on the tip of his tongue.

Why the hell not? They can totally do it. He'll crash on Billy's couch and all is gonna be fine, and in the morning Steve, too lazy to open his barely slitted eye, will watch through his eyelashes how Hargrove moves around the place, doing his morning stuff. Billy will probably be in his underwear or shorts or sweats, and Steve's not yet fully focused gaze will slide over his tanned naked back, and his ass, and his tousled hair and Harrington would want to linger in this very moment

This must be love

Cause it's really got a hold on me

"Why do you keep picking me up?"

Billy doesn't look surprised at the question. He never looks surprised at anything anymore, after what went down a couple of years ago.

Steve hates remembering that night, the whole time around that night, including those months of Billy's staying in hospital hanging onto life by a thread thinner than a cobweb

"I dunno." The cigarette smoke rolls out between his lips

Steve's watching for it's a beautiful thing to look at — Hargrove smoking. He doesn't smoke much though, not anymore. A pack of Marlboros usually lasts him a week.

"Why did you risk your life for me?"

"Is it always a thank you then?"

"You'd prefer I wasn't grateful, Harrington? People should be .. grateful. Don't you think?"

The camaro takes off, and Steve's watching the night city fly by.

Hargrove's changed so much. He's still himself, but he's quieter .. less edgy, more confident, and it's not the loud bravado, it's deeper, calmer. He's like this .. boulder, molded by the flow of time and water. Like a substance that knows its core, is sure of it.

Billy has this whole life here. The job that he likes and evening school and friends and .. The ocean he's crazy about.

Steve, on the other hand, feels so uncertain. About everything. He's always wanted to move to California —

He did. And Hargrove helped him, to find a place, a job, people to hang out with, helped him to fit in.

Steve turns his head, looks at Billy's sure hands on the steering wheel.

How can I tell you, babe

My back's against the wall

When will Steve tell him?

Hargrove doesn't do relationships. Steve knew that, back in Hawkins when Vicky cried on Tina's shoulder, and then Amy cried on Carol's shoulder, and a couple of more girls joined the Broken Hearts Club,

It didn't bother him much, back in Hawkins. Steve couldn't care less.

Here, he gets new confirmations of Billy's non-relationship material status on the regular. A couple of weeks ago Steve heard it again — from a girl, sitting in Hargrove's kitchen early in the morning. Cheryl .. yeah her name was Cheryl and she was drunk and crying and telling Steve how unattainable that guy is

He'll be all over you like he's in love and you'll end up in his bed, and if you're lucky you'll date for a couple of weeks or a month but that's it

That's when Billy's gonna stop calling and that's when you'll understand

He doesn't care.

However, he'll stop everything before it gets too far. He thinks it's fair like that, and he's trying to be, fair.

Either way, it sucks.

An' I can't wait too see you again

So I can hold you in my arms

Cheryl is like Steve. She also wants to be in love and she wants a relationship, a family in the long run and .. and everything that comes with it.

Steve actually felt sorry for the girl that night.

He stopped feeling sorry for himself a long time ago, after Nancy.

Now he's just yearning. Constantly.

And Steve is so better off that Cheryl. She's gonna be gone, she is already gone, but Steve will stay here, in Billy's kitchen,

They are friends now. More than friends. Harrington saved Billy's life, risking his own, spilling his blood for the guy. They've been through hell.

Billy is grateful.

Steve doesn't want his gratitude. What he wants, is so different from gratitude.

Is this the love that I've been searching for

Is this love or am I dreaming

"Hey I don't wanna go home now. Let's go to yours."

***

Lyrics from a song by Whitesnake "Is this love" (released 1987)

[lunar-insanity]

I swear I fix one thing, another thing breaks.

I recently replaced my motherboard in my PC because it got borked at some point in the past few years and thus started running too hot in two places, burned out one of the ram ports, and thus would not render any video more than a minute long, if that.

So it's working again, I managed to render an hour long video I've had for months.

BUT NOW

The UPS (Uninterrupted Power Supply) finally gave out after one final sudden power interruption, and ever since I replaced the motherboard, my headphones Keep. Cutting. OUT.

Several times the sound just cuts out in them, the mic stops working, and I have to replug them back in to get them to work.

Tech hates me Istg

[gibbearish]

idk looks pretty clearly posted to me, kinda seems like you just. didnt read the rules and then broke them lmao

Today's sponsored post is to inform everyone that Reddit's r/Art community is run by pigs with no lives. At best, I was mildly annoying initially. They just slung mud. If this is what a community touts as its “best,” it's trash.

[puppy923]

.

[pipszhou]

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛'𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐭

✧ — synopsis: Top of the class? Not for long. All it took was one lecture, one remote-controlled vibrator, and Professor Caleb’s merciless control to turn you into a shaking, dripping mess. And when he calls you up to the chalkboard, you learn the real curriculum: obedience, humiliation, and being bred full by your favorite professor.

✧ — pairing: caleb x mc

✧ — wc: ~2.5k

✧ — tags: professor caleb, semi-public sex, vibrators, humiliation, degradation, subspace, sexual overstimulation, creampie, breeding, power imbalance, dom/sub, rough sex, size kink, dirty talk, cock warming, spanking, hair-pulling, biting, marking, possessive behavior, multiple orgasms, orgasm control, begging, soft aftercare, classroom sex, pet names

✧ — notes: hello hello again i'm really horny so i wrote this within a day. not beta read, i hope you enjoy my horny endeavors! i just need more power imbalance lmao

You’re in a predicament.

The top student of the entire university—the pride of the campus—yet here you are, sitting at the back of the lecture hall with your thighs pressed tightly together, your nails digging into the edges of your seat. Your brows furrow, delicate lines forming between your temples as you bite down hard on your bottom lip, desperately trying to smother the whimpers threatening to spill out.

Because nestled deep inside you, hidden from the world, is a merciless vibrator—thick, hot, and unforgiving—pounding into your dripping cunt with devastating precision. Each thrust stretches you open wide, the fat head grinding against every desperate, soaked spot inside you. The toy doesn't just vibrate; it fucks into you, grinding in deep, twisting and pulsing like a real cock seeking to wreck you completely. Your walls flutter helplessly around it, clenching and spasming in pathetic pleasure.

As if that wasn’t enough, a suction toy clamps tightly onto your swollen clit, tugging and slurping with obscene, wet noises, like it's trying to suck your soul straight out through your trembling folds. Every pull sends white-hot sparks through your body, every pulse making you jolt and tremble.

All because of him.

Professor Caleb. Your childhood friend. Your Gege. Now the most sought-after artificial intelligence lecturer on campus—the heartthrob every girl wanted. And the man who had no mercy for you.

This was his game. His twisted, cruel judgment: could you endure, maintain your perfect, untouchable image... while the toy he prepared tore you apart from the inside out?

Or would you crack, humiliate yourself by running to the bathroom to finger yourself raw like a desperate little thing?

You refused to lose.

Your pride was too fierce.

Your stubbornness, too stupid.

So you stayed in your seat, trembling, thighs sticky and slick, grinding ever so slightly against the chair in a desperate bid for relief. Hands clamped over your mouth, you prayed no one would hear the faint, wicked buzzing between your legs. You clenched, you gasped, you endured.

Until the voice you dreaded most called out, slicing through your fragile composure like a blade.

"Class number 13," Caleb said smoothly, his voice sending shivers down your spine. "Please come up and solve the problem. What is the predicted value output of this activation layer in the full network?"

Oh gods.

Oh fuck.

Your heart plummeted. Your body spasmed around the merciless toy, gushing helplessly. Your mind—blank, so utterly blank, filled only with the overwhelming feeling of being stuffed full and sucked dry.

You hadn’t heard a single word of the lecture.

But you had a reputation to keep. The golden girl. The untouchable ace.

You forced yourself to rise, your nails digging into the table so hard they threatened to break. You took slow, shaky breaths, fighting to control the feverish pulse hammering through you. Your legs trembled as you stepped out into the aisle, every eye in the room burning into your skin, every step feeling like a mile-long walk of shame.

You reached the front—and there he was. Professor Caleb. Eyes dark with amusement. Smirk hidden behind the respectable façade.

He handed you the chalk. His fingers brushed yours—and in that exact moment, you caught it: the glint of the remote tucked in his palm.

A flick of his thumb.

The vibrator inside you roared to life, surging to its highest setting, brutal and relentless. It slammed into you, the fat shaft pistoning deep, hammering your g-spot, dragging moans up your throat you barely swallowed down. The toy twisted with each brutal thrust, the head grinding against your sweetest spots, almost lovingly cruel in how it refused to let you breathe.

The suction on your clit tightened too, a filthy, slurping rhythm pulling at you in time with each thrust inside—as if the toy was fucking and drinking you at once, milking you dry.

Your knees buckled slightly. You caught yourself against the chalkboard.

You could feel it.

The thick, pulsing length of the toy stuffing you full, stretching your cunt to its limits, buzzing violently against your spasming walls. Your panties were drenched, your thighs glistening. Your dignity, seconds away from shattering.

And yet you had to solve the equation.

In front of the entire class.

Under his watchful, merciless gaze.

The chalk trembled in your hand. He leaned in close, voice a low purr only you could hear. "Go on, top student," Caleb murmured, dark and wicked against your ear.

"Show me how well you can think… while getting fucked dumb.”

Fuck—a moan slipped past your lips before you could catch it. You wanted to curse the existence out of him. You wanted to tear him apart with words, call him the cruelest bastard alive. But all you could do was look at him—eyes burning with dark, venomous vengeance, even as your body betrayed you with heavy, panting breaths and soft, pathetic whimpers.

You tried—you really fucking tried—to walk your mind through every algorithm, every neural network formula you’d memorized so well. You tried to scribble something on the chalkboard, your hand trembling. But it was useless. Your writing was a mess of illegible lines, nonsense formulas no one could make sense of, the chalk crumbling and snapping in your tight, desperate grip.

Then you heard it— the low, rich sound of his chuckle. Amused. Entertained. Savoring your unraveling.

With a lazy flick of his thumb against the remote, he cranked the suction to maximum.

The effect was immediate. Your entire body convulsed, a helpless jolt of pleasure rippling up your spine. The suction on your clit was savage, unrelenting—greedy little pulls that sent wave after wave crashing through your gut, making your vision blur with stars.

Fuck, you were so close. So fucking close.

You slapped a trembling palm against the chalkboard to steady yourself. The chalk clattered to the floor with a hollow thud as your fingers lost their grip. Your knees buckled, barely holding you up as your hips gave a desperate, involuntary twitch.

Inside you, the thick vibrator kept thrusting deep—the textured veins along its shaft dragging against your slick walls with every ruthless stroke, the fat, rounded head grinding mercilessly against your sensitive cervix. It was maddening—perfect—too good. Every thrust knocked the air from your lungs, every pulse made your cunt flutter helplessly, greedy for more.

The suction was obscene, slurping at your clit so loudly you were sure someone, anyone, could hear. Humiliation and raw, brain-melting pleasure tangled inside you, choking you.

Then—his hand.

You felt it. Large, warm, strong fingers gripping your shoulder tightly.

You barely registered him leaning down, his breath hot against the shell of your ear, his voice a low, sinful growl meant for you alone.

"Fuck, baby," Caleb rasped, the words sending a violent shudder through your entire body.

"Why don't you just give up—let go—and I'll fill you up with my babies later, hm? Breed you nice and full right here…"

That was it.

The last straw.

You came—hard. Your body seized violently, every muscle locking tight as the orgasm tore through you, raw and merciless. Slick gushed down your thighs, soaking through your panties, dripping onto the floor. You bit down on your own hand to muffle the loud, broken moan that ripped free from your throat.

You shattered under him, completely undone, just as he wanted.

You heard it—the low, scandalous murmurs rippling across the room. The students whispering, stealing glances at the obscene sight before them. You, gasping for air, your knees buckling under you, while Professor Caleb—the campus heartthrob—stood so close you could taste his cologne, feel the heat of him against your trembling skin.

Then he stood upright, rolling his shoulders lazily like nothing was wrong. Like you weren’t falling apart on the floor.

"Alright, folks. Class dismissed," he said, mock sympathy dripping from his voice. "I'll take care of our top student here. She must be feeling a little... overwhelmed."

He winked—a cruel, knowing thing that made your blood boil.

"Come back next week with the answers to the problem on the board."

Students scurried out, throwing lingering stares your way, none brave enough to question him.

None knowing just how soaked you were—how the vibrator still pounded inside you, thrusting, suctioning, working your overstimulated folds mercilessly. The cum from earlier leaking out, wetting your thighs shamefully.

Once the last student left, Caleb locked the door with a click. He turned, his steps slow and deliberate as he stalked toward you. He grabbed your arm and pulled you up, no patience left in him.

"Stand up, Pip-squeak," he said, his professor mask fully dropped, replaced by something darker, filthier. "I’ll make it fast for you."

You nodded, helpless. Your legs felt like jelly, your cunt still clenching pathetically around the toy buried deep inside. With his steadying hand, you stumbled upright.

He guided you to his seat—the throne at the front of the room—and sat back lazily, spreading his legs in a welcoming posture.

"Strip, baby," he ordered, voice thick with lust. "I wanna see every curve hiding under that tight little shirt and short skirt you wore, thinking you could tease me."

You glared at him, breathing heavy. God, you hated him. You hated how hot he made you. How wet you got just from the sound of his voice.

"Chop chop," he said, tapping his jaw with his fingers smugly. "Or do you want me to rip it off you instead? I won't be gentle, Pips."

You cursed under your breath but obeyed—gripping the hem of your tank top, peeling it over your head slowly, exposing trembling skin. Your skirt pooled down your legs with a soft whisper, leaving you utterly bare, nothing left to hide.

"What now, Caleb?" you asked, your voice small, shivering slightly.

"Good girl," he murmured, unzipping his fancy linen pants with one smooth motion. His thick, heavy cock sprung free—long, veined, angry red at the tip, leaking pre-cum like he couldn't wait to ruin you again.

The same cock that had broken you a hundred times before.

The same cock you dreamed about, drooled over, worshiped like it was your personal god.

"Sit on me," he said. "You know the drill."

You let out a shaky breath, heart pounding in your ears. No matter how much you wanted to slap him for being an asshole—you wanted him more.

You were his cocksleeve, after all. His needy little thing.

You climbed onto his lap, one trembling hand gripping his collarbone for balance. The other reached down between your legs, pulling the soaked, buzzing vibrator out of your stretched hole and tossing it somewhere carelessly.

Lining him up, you sank down. It was like the first time all over again.

His cock was thicker than anything, harder, hotter—stretching your walls until they clamped around him desperately. Every vein of him dragged along your sensitive insides perfectly, the fat head of his cock pushing into your cervix with sinful precision. He filled you up like he was made for you—like he owned every inch of your tight, ruined cunt.

He was your naughty professor.

Your filthy god.

Your damnation and your salvation wrapped in one devastating man.

You started moving—bouncing weakly, trying to ride him the way he liked, but your legs were too shaky, too spent from the relentless overstimulation. You whimpered, grinding pathetically against him, barely able to lift yourself.

"Oh, baby," he cooed mockingly, hands resting heavy on your ass. "Is that all you got? After coming so pretty in front of the whole class?"

He slapped your ass hard enough to make you squeal, then soothed it with a rough grope, making you rock harder against him.

You tried to look away, humiliated, but his dark gaze pinned you in place—all-consuming. Inescapable.

"Shut up, Caleb," you snarled weakly. "Shut the fuck up—I—"

He gripped your hair tight, yanking your head back roughly. A broken cry escaped you, your back arching, pressing your tits flush against his chest.

"You don't get to order me around, baby," he growled, voice pure sin against your ear. He bit down on your neck, hard enough to bruise, suckling dark purple marks into your skin like a man possessed.

"You're mine, Pip-squeak. My perfect little whore."

Your mind spun. Your body shook. You fell deeper into subspace—weightless, aching, desperate for him. He toyed with you, slapping your ass, groping your tits, biting your throat, until you were a trembling mess in his lap.

"Need help, my lovely top student?" he whispered against your ear, voice thick with cruel affection. You nodded frantically, tears clinging to your lashes, your body begging.

He chuckled low and deep—"could’ve said so sooner, Pips."

Then he took control. His hands grabbed your waist, slamming you down onto his cock with brutal, merciless thrusts. Each movement drove him impossibly deep, splitting you open, pounding against your g-spot so viciously that your cries turned into strangled, high-pitched sobs.

You dug your nails into his back, leaving angry red trails down his spine. You wanted to brand him. You wanted him to remember how you fell apart on his cock.

The lecture hall echoed with the wet, filthy slap of skin on skin—your cries, his low groans, the obscene, squelching sound of your cunt sucking him in greedily. "Keep it down, baby," he mocked, voice a rumble in your chest. "Others might hear you begging to be bred."

Fuck him.

Fuck him so much.

But you were too far gone. Your second orgasm built fast, violent, white-hot, ripping through you with every devastating thrust. You couldn’t hold back—your body convulsed, your cunt squeezing him desperately, trying to milk every drop from him.

And he was close too. You could hear it in his ragged breaths, feel it in the way his thrusts became rougher, erratic.

"Baby," he moaned brokenly, forehead pressed against yours, "I’m gonna come—open up, please—"

You did—your walls clamping down, your legs shaking, your mind blank as you came undone together. He spilled inside you with a low, desperate groan—thick, endless spurts of cum flooding your sore, twitching cunt. You could feel every hot, filthy drop filling you, leaking out, dripping down your thighs in thick, sticky trails.

You collapsed against him, shaking, gasping, his cock still buried deep inside your pulsing heat. His arms wrapped around you tight, possessive, like he was afraid you might slip away.

"Mine," he murmured against your hair, voice rough and spent. "Always mine, Pip-squeak."

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You stayed there—your body convulsing in little aftershocks, your pussy throbbing around him like it was the end of the world. He held you close, a suffocating, trembling embrace, like he needed to feel you breathing against him just to stay sane.

Even after the humiliation he put you through—after the teasing, the breaking, the claiming—you still loved him just the same. Your Gege. Your professor. Your ruin. Your home.

"Meet me after your classes end," he rasped, his temple resting against your bare shoulder, his cock still buried deep inside you. "Five p.m. sharp. As usual."

You nodded weakly, knowing full well—

You weren’t going to make it home in one piece.

[nochepsicodelica]

Toji who leaves hickeys all over you so often that you have to push him away when you start looking like you fought an octopus.

"Toji, you know these aren't always gonna be so small. They're gonna end up looking like bruises. Just look at the ones you already left."

"Mhm," he hums, already leaving another one on your shoulder blade, releasing your skin with a wet smack of his lips. He rubs his spit into the mark like it's some sort of salve that'll make it last longer.

"I'm fine with these," you say, looking at all the one's he left on your chest and below. "but my neck... i'm running out of makeup, baby. I won't be able to cover them if you keep this up."

"Then don't." He would just love that. Despite how nonchalant he sounds about it, it's a highly recommended suggestion. He would genuinely love it if you walked around with his marks all over your neck. People will automatically know that you already have someone you get freaky with.

"I have to go to work sometime. I wouldn't be able to take having my neck stared at by everyone I talk to. No more neck hickeys."

He nears your neck, again. The second you say he can't put another mark on it, he spots a clear area and leans in, lightly pressing his lips against it.

"Tojiii," you whine, leaning forward, away from him. "Leave it alone."

"But, it's clear. It's lonely without being marked like the rest of your neck." He scoots forward again, putting his enormous hands on your waist to pull you close. "I'll be quick. Just-"

"Mm-mm. No," you interrupt, brushing his hands off of you.

"I might just die if you don't let me do this, ma."

"Really?" You raise your brows in disbelief.

"Really," he responds, so confidently.

You scoff. "You're so dramatic. You won't die if you don't get to suck on my neck."

"Who knows? I might spontaneously collapse because of it. Weirder, more unexplainable things have happened."

He's so dumb sometimes. Your hunk is absolutely ridiculous, and yet you find yourself weighing towards his point in this.

"Would marking up that blank space actually cure you?" You feel as silly as him for asking the question.

"Who's to say?"

You tilt your head and deadpan. "Right. I guess i'll take my chances and just keep the random patch of unmarked skin on my neck."

"Hey, that doesn't mean we can't try. Come on, now."

You groan and roll your eyes before making your way back to him. He cups your cheeks, smirking as he looks into your eyes, before turning your head to expose the blank area on your neck.

"It's a reaaally good spot, doll. I think i'm gonna make it."

You huff, unable to look at him because of the way your head is turned. You feel his tongue slide over your neck, the gesture transitioning to his lips kissing the area and then it feels sharp. His lips leave a stinging sensation with every second that they stay on you.

"Ow, fuck, you vampire. It feels like you're actually trying to suck the blood out of me." You wince. "Are you done?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm done." He admires his masterpiece and smirks with pride. You have an entire collar of hickeys that he put on you, and the newest one looks mean.

"You look pretty. Could eat you up, mama." He swipes at the new mark with his thumb, looking at the color that will remain on your skin for the next few days.

"I can tell. You already devoured me. You're insane. Just look at all of this," you say, running your hand over your kiss stained neck.

"I was just nibbling on you," he speaks, into your jaw, before smoothly laying you down, onto the bed. "Just wanted a little taste," he says, taking your hands in his and pinning them above your head. "Am I really insane for that?"

"Um..." you laugh, making your flustered state obvious. "Yes?"

"Damn." He gives you a long, deep kiss, that makes you forget what you were talking about. "You think i'm crazy?" You hum, and he does it again.

"Haven't you played with me enough? I feel like i'm some chew toy for you." You giggle, feeling his lips on your cheek, trailing towards your jaw.

He hums, dismissively. "Found more blank space."

[sevsgiirl]

Omg okay I can't stop thinking about needy lovesick Sevika with a younger femme partner (you can totally do a continuation of the fic you wrote) so what if, she's a little needy&insecure for their age gap? That her girl gets bored/annoyed with her? (She doesn't have this type of thoughts all the time, but the seeds of doubts grows when she hears other people talk, not directly about her and reader, but in general but it does linger when others points out how different they are) or in her own way, she start craving more compliments, affections from her but dunno how to do it and at the same time she's trying to gauce if her girl still likes her (she does!!) yet just the thoughts/doubts hurts Sevika like so bad, because she would do anything for her darling, what she has to do to make her girl still love her and not leave her?

— sevika with a younger partner and feeling insecure

synopsis: sevika doesn’t have a type. whether they’re older or younger, just as long as they could keep up with her that’s all mattered. but ever since you two started dating, she starts to wonder if she’s the one who could keep up with you and how deep down, it scares her that you might find a problem with it eventually.

note: I just had to post this before going to sleep because the idea is too good. I love the way your brain works and again, thank you for sending in the req <3 love you and I hope you like this.

you were a beacon of light in the cesspool of chaos that is sevika’s life.

to this day, she still doesn’t understand how you and her got into a relationship but here you are now, going strong for almost a year and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

you two rarely get into arguments, when you did she never hesitates to reach out and fix the situation right away because she can’t stand being on bad terms with you for long.

you two are on the same mental wavelength, which sevika appreciates given how you’re a lot younger than her. she’s in her 40s and you were in 20s, but sometimes she forgets because conversations always run smoothly between you two.

but just because she forgets that doesn’t mean other people fail to bring it up.

when you started dating, it was a bit difficult given how it wasn’t received well by a lot of her peers. not that they judged her for it because they could never unless they wanted to have their face busted in. but it was the occasional remarks that had a hint of judgement in them that made sevika uncomfortable.

things such as “she’s a bit young, isn’t she? you better keep an eye on her especially because you’re always at work. it’s hard being in a relationship with someone who’s at a different stage in life as you.”

both of you had jobs but her work compared to yours was hectic. you work as a waitress at jericho’s meanwhile sevika is paid to get her hands dirty for silco. the job was tedious and draining and sometimes she comes home, tired to the bone that she could barely catch up with you. which she feels immensely guilty for.

you’ve reassured her that it isn’t a big deal and that you understand her status in zaun is far more important than yours. you’ve always acknowledged sevika’s role in the under city and why she was feared by many, that’s what attracted you to her in the first place. she was loyal, devoted and her endurance was insane.

but still, despite how sevika’s job is her number one priority, it still doesn’t slip her mind that she may accidentally neglect you and your needs without her knowing.

and she knows it takes a toll on you too, you just don’t want to bring it up because you respect her too much. and she was right because when she came home early one night you weren’t there, and it was almost midnight when you finally returned and you were shocked to see sevika sitting on your couch waiting for you. usually she’d be back around 2-3am.

“hey, you didn’t tell me silco would let you off the hook early,” you said but your words became background noise because she was too focused on your appearance. you were dressed up and from where she sat she could tell you’ve had a lot to drink.

it’s not that it upset sevika you went out, you could do whatever you want but it saddens her that you didn’t even go out of your way to tell her about it assuming she’d be coming home late. is this what you do when she’s not here? go out with your friends and have fun? it’s not that she expects you to wait for her in your apartment all day while she’s away for work.

still, the thought bothers her as she wonders what you must’ve been up to while she was gone. she tries to set the thought aside, not wanting to think bad of you because she knows you’d never go against her back. but certain thoughts crept up at the back of her mind. did you meet someone while you were out? were you offered drinks? did someone invite you out to dance?

“sev, baby, you there?” she didn’t even realize she zoned out until she felt you cupping her cheek “are you tired? you shouldn’t have stayed up for me.”

she shook her head “it’s alright. but yeah, silco let me off early and I wanted to surprise you.”

your shoulders sagged “I’m sorry. I assumed you’d come home late again so I decided to just go out with friends. had I known I would’ve waited so we can stay in and cuddle.”

despite your flattery words, the only thing that stuck to sevika was you implying she’d be late again. you didn’t mean it maliciously, there was no bitterness in your tone but instead there was just… acceptance. which frustrated her because people were right.

perhaps being at different stages in life does this. you needed a partner who you can home to and have fun with but instead you got her who’s always late, is already asleep when you probably want to stay up and have sex at night. she would force herself to push through just for you but she isn’t getting any younger and it shows.

maybe it’s because others have planted it in her head that you two are just far too different that’s why she’s overthinking like this, but it’s becoming more and more evident that they were right and if she doesn’t find a way to fix this, god knows before you start seeing the cracks and the dents as well.

and so in the following day she asked silco if she could cut off her usual hours at work to get back home early. at least for a few weeks and silco was shocked for a second because if there was anyone who’s extremely dedicated to their job, it’s her.

but it’s because of that he deliberates on the request “very well,” he answered “but if the matters are urgent I expect you to come in either way,”

well, it’s better than nothing, sevika thought. what matters is she’ll try to find some time to spend the following weeks with you and to hopefully regain the spark in your relationship.

not that she’s saying it’s lost but she’s scared it will. because if her days don’t consist of work, she’s either at the bar playing cards to blow off some steam, which isn’t exactly a productive way of spending one’s time.

unlike you, you have tons of friends who you go out with at clubs and sevika just doesn’t want to think about all the people you meet there, who are probably the same age as you, and have wanted to ask you out but you turned them down because of her.

meanwhile, she’s here and she can’t even keep you happy like how you deserve.

it eats her up alive that’s why as soon as she comes back from work a lot earlier than usual, she immediately engulfs you in a back hug when she sees you cooking in the kitchen.

you gasped, not expecting her “sev, you’re home.” you were surprised as you turned around “did something happen?”

she shook her head, smiling “no sweetheart, silco just let me off early again. plus I’ve been meaning to spend more time with my girl…”

you still weren’t used to the disruption of the routine, because she’s normally away at these hours, but you weren’t complaining.

and with that, you spent most of the evening cooking and catching up with each other. you didn’t miss the way sevika followed you around the house like a lost puppy when you started cleaning up to get ready for bed.

you raised an eyebrow when she wrapped her arms around your waist while you were washing the dishes, noticing how she’s awfully more needy than usual.

“baby, go rest. you just got back home from work.” you giggled and she just shook her head.

“I just want to spend more time with you. I feel like I haven’t been the best partner.”

that halted you in your tracks and you angled your head so you can face her “baby, what makes you think that?” your eyebrows were furrowed and she just held you tighter.

she lets out a breath, tired and awfully nervous about vocalizing her doubts. what if once she points it out you start seeing the red flags too? and then these affectionate gestures just won’t be enough? what then?

“I know with my job and the responsibilities I have, I haven’t been able to fulfill your needs. you have so much ahead of you and I’m always at work and I just don’t want to make it seem like I’m wasting your time.” she said and you just stood there, letting her words sink in.

“you’re young and you could be with someone whose head isn’t always stuck in a bunch of paperwork or is running around the lanes doing silco’s dirty work.” her jaw clenched and she starts to wonder if admitting to all of this was a good idea.

“I’m sorry, princess. I just don’t want to bore you by leaving you here at home all by yourself…”

you immediately swiveled around in her arms and took her face in your hands.

“sev, look at me.” you said, your voice stern “I could give less than two fucks about people my age. you think when I got into a relationship with you I didn’t know what I was signing myself up for? of course I did and I don’t regret any of it. I know you have responsibilities and I accepted all of your duties the moment you became mine.”

“I could never be bored of you, baby.” you told her, thumb caressing her cheek “you don’t treat me any differently because of my age so why should I? I love it that you’re so hard at work and that you provide for me. the fact my salary at jericho’s isn’t even enough to pay half of our rent but you don’t mind because you provide for us both, why would I find that boring? that’s fucking sexy.”

she couldn’t help but let out a snort “oh, so what you’re saying is that you’re staying with me because I’m basically your sugar mommy?”

you grinned “amongst other things,” you said before capturing her lips with your own.

the kiss was hot, heavy and slow as sevika gripped your hips and pulled you against her. pushing her knee up and sliding it across your thighs and she started rubbing against your clothed cunt, making you whimper.

“so you’re not bored of me? or mad?” she asked as she pulled away to look at you.

you rolled your eyes “you could be 23 or 75 for all I care and I still wouldn’t get bored of you.”

your finger drew circles around her chest as you fluttered your eyes up at her “plus you fuck me like you’re 23 anyway, so I don’t see why I would look for someone my age.”

she couldn’t help but laugh, swooping you up in her arms and you circled your legs around her waist as she walked you to your bedroom “god, you’re such a handful.” she said.

you smirked “but you love it.”

[heyimkana]

Pillow Talk (1/4)

AO3 Link

Sequel to Come Home to Me but can be read separately.

Pairing: Sung Jinwoo X Female Reader

Genre: Marriage AU, fluff, smut

Summary: Your husband, Sung Jinwoo, has been trying to restrain himself from touching you in the last few weeks, not wanting to make you feel uncomfortable as you're dealing with the first trimester of your pregnancy. But today, his patience is running thin. He needs to be with you, in one way or another.

Content Warnings: Teeth-rotting fluff, cute family moments, and sweet, slow, passionate sex with Husband/Papa!Jinwoo (in part 2)

Word Count: 7K

Sung Jinwoo has always loved taking on treacherous dungeon raids, especially by himself. He can gain all the experience he needs to level up, gather more magic stones to build a stronger guild, and, of course, extract more shadows to join his army. But these days, as he enters a gate with a silver wedding band wrapped around his finger, he wields his daggers with a smile solely because of one reason: so you can pamper him once he gets home.

It’s not easy, you see, pretending to get hurt and act weak and sluggish all day when you’re an S-Rank Hunter famously known to be invincible. He practically is, isn’t he? With thousands of undying soldiers beneath his feet, how could anyone imagine him getting hurt? Every raid should be light work for him, which is true. Your husband could quite literally just stand there on the sidelines with both hands buried inside his coat’s pockets, smirking to himself as he imagined all the ways you could make him feel better after a supposedly long, exhausting day inside the gate (and best believe, he’d be creative with it, maybe even a bit naughty about it).

And he did, most of the time, just occasionally yawning as he watched his generals—Beru and Igris—shred the dungeon monsters to pieces. The only thing that kept him entertained during his waiting was the thought of seeing you again, of coming home to you and being welcomed with a kiss, of holding his daughter in his arms while she babbled about her “super dangerous” trip to the nearby supermarket.

Being a married man changed him, but only for the best.

Today’s raid is no different, just as tedious and time-consuming as always.

“O most noble majesty,” Beru, the former Ant King who once massacred several S-rank Hunters in a matter of seconds, kneels before his master in a deep bow, his claws clutched against his heart, one that he dedicated solely to his king. “I bring tidings of great import. The fell beast, Guardian of the Dungeon Depths, hath been vanquished in glorious combat by mine hand, thy most true and loyal servant—”

“Speak normally, or I’ll take the TV away from you.”

“Y-yes, my liege, my apologies. I hereby inform you that I have defeated the dungeon boss as you commanded. The shadow knights are now collecting the magic stones. The ants are dealing with the remaining beasts. We shall finish this raid before the sun sets low, my king.”

“Good,” Jinwoo stretches his arms over his head, his muscles taut from all the waiting. He hasn’t done a single thing since he entered the gate—aside from daydreaming about you, that is. It’s partially your fault, really, for wearing that sultry nightgown to bed last night. You were well aware that he was still too afraid to touch you ever since you discovered that you were pregnant with his second child. He could see just how uncomfortable you were dealing with your hormonal changes and your constant morning sickness. The last thing he wanted to do was to wear your body down even further by attending to his needs. And yet, you still wore that satin lace gown to bed, driving him insane with how smoothly the fabric slid across your skin, hugging your curves in all the places he’d been itching to touch. You didn’t mean to lure him in, of course; the gown was just so comfortable to sleep in, but goddammit, he wanted you so badly he had to take a bathroom trip twice to give himself some relief. 

“Great work today, Beru,” Jinwoo says. “There’s only one more thing I need you to do for me.”

“Anything, my liege.”

He looks down at him, still with his hands stuck in the pockets of his black trench coat. A smirk graces his lips with a glimmer of impishness sketched over it. “I want you to hit me in the face.”

“M-m-my liege?!” Beru’s shadowy figure was drenched in all black, but even then, it was clear that he turned pale at the request. “H-how could I, Beru, your most humble servant, do such thing to your gorgeous, most absolutely divine face, my king?”

“Don’t ever say that again,” he almost shudders from the excessive compliment before a shrug follows. “You said you’d do anything for me, right? Or was that a lie?”

“I-it is not a lie, my liege, but—”

“Should I just ask Igris instead?” He huffs loudly to the air. `“I know he wouldn’t think twice if I asked him to do something for me, especially this one. It’s a dire need, after all.” 

If there was one thing that could easily agitate the ant king, it was being compared to another shadow soldier. It was endearing, really—and borderline creepy—the way Beru was so possessive over him, always wanting to be the one who could impress the Shadow Monarch the most, to be the only one worthy of standing by his side. “Even so, my liege, I am not sure if I should—”

“Hit me.” Jinwoo’s patience runs thinner than usual. Is it really because he’s so touch-starved, yearning for you, that he’s grown this irritated? “Do it as hard as you can. If you hold back, I’ll never summon you again.”

Beru cowers at the thought. “No, please, my liege, have mercy. Anything but that.”

“Then, do it.”

“B-but—”

“Igris, come here—”

“I SHALL DO IT, MY LIEGE!” ***

Being pregnant is a mix of wonderful and trying times. Your first pregnancy was the perfect evidence of that, but since you managed to go through it somehow, you thought the second time would be easier, assuming that your body had learned enough from the previous experience to withstand it this time. You hoped you could recover from your morning sickness much faster this time around, but no.  

It’s not any easier. It’s ten times worse. And it fucking sucks.

You’ve been throwing up more today than the amount of hours you spent sleeping through the night. No matter how often you rinse your mouth or brush your teeth, you still feel the aftertaste of your bile coating your tongue. Everyday is a long day to get through. From doing chores and caring for your daughter—who has now turned four—you haven’t gotten much chance to rest. Your mood is all over the place. Every time your toddler throws a tantrum, you’re so tempted to imitate and throw a bigger one. It’s a childish thought, you know that, but if lying around the floor with your limbs flailing around could make you feel better, you would’ve probably done it.

Your body is weary. Your daughter is still running all over the place, making a mess out of the potpourri you just placed on the coffee table to chase away the pet odor in your home. The scent only lingers faintly in the air—Mr. Whiskers never smells terrible, all thanks to the High Orcs who take turns to wash him regularly—but ever since you have a life growing inside you, your sense of smell is heightened, and nearly everything makes you nauseous. If you weren’t pregnant, you wouldn’t have been bothered by the odor at all. 

Right now, you’re staring blankly at the dirty plates sitting on the sink, waiting to be washed. You don’t feel like finishing your chores. You don’t feel like doing anything at all, honestly. Whenever you feel like this, there’s only one thing that can fix your mood and boost it quickly, or rather, a person, and that is—

“Jinwoo…” You sigh out his name longingly as if it were a mantra that could magically restore the life within you. You speak it like a prayer, and perhaps it is, just wishing for your husband to come home soon so he can console you like always, giving you the warmest of back hugs before he plants comforting kisses down your neck and says—

“Yes, my love?”

Your husband’s voice reverberates right beside your ear, and you jolt, shrieking in surprise as a pair of strong arms wrap themselves around your waist from behind. Jinwoo has just appeared out of thin air—no, out of your shadow—smiling at you with one corner of his lips rising higher than the other. You can hear a peal of laughter tumbling off his lips at your reaction, his mouth brushing against the side of your neck, light and tender, with a promise of something more if he’s not careful.

“Mmm, seems like someone has been missing me all day,” he comments, visibly delighted, his husky voice vibrating right onto your sensitive skin.

You whirl around to face him, your heart still caught in your throat as you throw a playful smack on his chest. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop. doing. that?” You punctuate each word with a slap.

He chortles softly, catching your wrist with ease. Your hand appears much smaller than his, but then again, your entire body is. You're not aware of this yet, but this is one of the reasons why he’s so attracted to you. Something about you being short and tiny (compared to him, that is), your body soft and warm in his arms—it drives him crazy, shrouded him with this need to protect you, to take care of you. “Doing what?” he asks despite knowing the answer. He kisses the dip of your palm, perhaps as a token of his apology, although it doesn’t seem fairly sincere with how he’s impishly grinning at you. 

“Popping out of nowhere!” You chastise with a glare. “I swear to God, Sung Jinwoo, one of these days, I’ll get a heart attack, and you’ll only have yourself to blame.”

He continues to chuckle fondly at your attitude. Placing both hands on the kitchen counter, he has your body trapped in between. Jinwoo towers over you, his body caging you in, and he still smells so wonderfully pleasant, like the perfume you bought him even after going through long hours of fighting beasts in the dungeon (your gullible self never realized that your husband was just lazing around all day during the raid, doing nothing but having questionable thoughts about you).  He’s dressed rather formally today, wearing the same white button-down shirt and the black trousers you’d prepared for him this morning. You wonder if his meeting with the higher-ups went well. It’s always the most tiresome part of the day for him, even way more than all the hours he spends inside the gates.

“I’m sorry for startling you,” Jinwoo apologizes with a playful kiss on your forehead. “I just can’t help it. You look so cute when you’re surprised.”

You continue to glower at him.

“And even cuter when you’re angry,” he adds, his grin boyish and irritatingly charming. “Where’s my welcome home kiss?”

Oh, the audacity. “You don’t get any until you learn your lesson,” you grumble as you spin back toward the sink, switching on the water and snatching a dirty plate. “Thank goodness, I was just doing the dishes. Remember the last time you did this? When I was…” You continue with your scolding, bleating one line after another, but each word is brushed aside as Jinwoo takes in the sight of you, enthralled. 

It warms his heart to see you like this, his love for you brimming in his chest simply from seeing you do something domestic in the heart of his home. Your delicate frame, your beauty showing so naturally without anything to cover your flaws—the sweet imperfections he adores. The sight of you dressed in one of his shirts, comforted by his scent, its fabric falling loose around your curves, your hair tied up in a messy bun with soft, baby hairs curled around your nape. If you had known he would come home so soon, you would’ve showered and made yourself more presentable for him, but Jinwoo loves you like this. This is the version of you that only he can see. You’re so unbelievably sexy in his eyes, and it just adds more gasoline to the scorching desire within him.

“Jinwoo, are you listening to me—ah!” An involuntary moan escapes you when he mouthes against your nape, his tongue pressing flat against your sensitive spot, your knees buckling at the sensation. He plants one kiss after another as he maps his way down to your shoulder, tugging on your collar just enough to reveal more of your skin. His kisses are no longer the featherlight ones he gave you before. They’re now laced heavily with lust, the thirst he’s been trying to constrain but failing every time. He tastes your skin, his teeth itching to sink in, disrupting your thoughts at once. 

Your plate slips off your fingers before you grip tightly onto the sink, his hand slithering past the hem of your shirt, skating over your stomach and leaving fire at its trail. “Jinwoo, w-wait…”

“If you’re not gonna give me a kiss, Sweetheart,” he whispers, his lips grazing against the shell of your ear. “Maybe I should just steal it away.”

 Before you can react, his fingers frame your jaw, forcing you to face him and claiming your lips at once. Your heart rate accelerates, his torso glued to your spine, and the second you moan into the kiss, he turns you over in his arms, his self-restraint thinning into a thread. Now fully facing him, you feel your body being pushed forward, the edge of the kitchen counter digging into your back as your husband recaptures your lips with his own, slanting them even deeper. He sighs into the kiss, pleased and relieved as if he had been on his best behavior all day and the taste of your mouth was the prize he’d been waiting for. 

Taste of my mouth…?

Oh, no. 

“W-wait, stop for a bit.” You place a hand on his chest, quickly ending the kiss and tossing your face to the side, embarrassed. “You shouldn’t kiss me. I taste like vomit—” 

Jinwoo tugs you forward before you can end your sentence, his fingers clasping firmly against your wrist, keeping you under his control. He kisses you harder, fiercer, as if your little act of pushing him away elevated the hunger inside him. His free arm winds around your waist, guiding you closer to him until he can drown himself again in your warmth. 

“Jinwoo—”

“Just one more.” He thumbs the edge of your mouth, parting your lips open for him despite you trying your best not to. A low grunt erupts from the back of his throat the second he has the chance to taste you a little bit more, his desire so insatiable that he grabs you by the back of your neck, holding your body possessively without leaving you the opportunity to escape. To him, your mouth tastes like ambrosia, and he can’t help but devour you the second he gets the chance.

“Sweet,” he moans softly against your mouth. “You taste so fucking sweet, baby.”

You almost whimper in response, your hands fisting against the front of his shirt. There’s something different about him today, this sense of urgency that takes hold of him like a vice. It makes your body ache with need, too, the need to have his mouth on you, on every place he can reach and more.

Screw it. You can get angry with him some other time. You wrap your arms around his neck, drawing him closer to you as if you wanted to fuse your bodies into one. The sweet sounds he makes grow louder, turn a pitch higher, and when he feels your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, he almost growls, his teeth grinding against the side of your neck.

Amidst the heavy breaths, you can hear the sound of gushing water coming from behind. Right, the tap! I haven’t turned it off. “Wait, Jin—the water—mmph—” Your husband doesn’t let you speak, doesn’t want to let another second lay to waste, not after he spent the whole day—no, the whole month—waiting to touch you like this.

It’s not until your daughter (who you both seem to have forgotten, shame on you) tugs on the edge of his coat that you break away from each other, leaving the two of you standing with your faces flushed, your hairs disheveled, and your minds reeling. 

“Daddy,” she gives it another pull, her lower lip jutted out in protest. The current babysitter in charge, a High Orc with a messy braid (courtesy of your daughter) and two huge, ivory fangs protruding from the bottom of his mouth, stands gawkily behind her, feeling awkward for interrupting… whatever the hell it was that was happening between you and his master. He then notices the running water, silently turning off the tap while sending you a look.

“T-thanks,” you say to the beast, ashamed. “I was… gonna get that.”

He simply nods, and thank goodness these High Orcs can’t speak because the line, “Mm-hmm, sure,” seems to be written all over his face.

Meanwhile, your husband, the one responsible for all of this, bends forward almost immediately, scooping your daughter up in his arms. “Oh, no, Daddy forgot to say hello to his little princess, didn’t he?” She nodded in response, her cheeks all puffed out. “I’m sorry, baby girl. I got distracted for a bit, but don’t worry. You have all my attention now.”

“All of it?”

“All of it,” he promises with a smile, sweet and soft, a stark contrast to the man he was just a few seconds before. “Do you want to give Daddy a kiss?” 

With a happy chirp, his daughter leaned in almost immediately, brushing her plump lips once on each of his cheeks. “Again, again,” she says, planting another kiss between his eyebrows and a peck on his nose. Both of them grin happily at each other, rubbing the tips of their noses together as her giggles fill the spaces between you. “Welcome home, Daddy.”

No matter how often he’s heard it, his heart melts just the same every time she echoes those words with her angelic voice. “Thanks, Sweetie. Hey, listen.” Still carrying his daughter in his arms, Jinwoo whirls around to have her place her attention on you. “You wanna know why I forgot to greet you today?”

“Why?”

“Because Mommy was about to cry.”

Her doe eyes widen adorably as she gasps out, “She was?”

You restrain the urge to roll your eyes as your husband continues sprouting his bullshit. “Yes, she was. You see, she missed Daddy so much todaythat she felt like crying while doing the dishes.” Now that he says it like that, you can’t help but feel abashed. That was a bit pathetic, wasn’t it? “Daddy had no choice but to go and cheer her up. Isn’t that right, Mommy?”

Your hand itches to toss him another punch. “Oh, yes, God, I was so lonely,” you mutter in your best robotic voice, sarcasm lying thickly in your voice.

“See?” Jinwoo tosses you a shameless grin, amused by your reaction. No, not just that. Happy. “Mommy could barely live without me.”

“Mm. Barely.” You land a kick to the back of his shin. Of course, that does absolutely nothing to an S-Rank Hunter like him. If anything, it only makes him want to chaff at you even harder. 

Fortunately for you, your daughter doesn’t seem like she’s seen the kisses you shared with your husband—or maybe she did, but she chose not to care. “Daddy, did you get cupcakes for me?”

“No, Sweetie, I’m sorry.” Your husband gently strokes her hair, tucking a few loose strands behind her ear. “I was in a rush on my way home.”

She blinks her eyes innocently. “Why?”

“Because Daddy misses you, of course,” Jinwoo smiles warmly, affectionately, the kind of fatherly smile that you didn’t think he could display so naturally on his lips when you first started dating him. “I missed you so much, Princess. I was thinking about you all the time during the raid that I could hardly concentrate.” Well, that and how you looked in your sexy nightgown, to be exact. “I was only gone for a few hours, but I just couldn’t wait to see you again. So, the second the gate was closed, I ran straight home.” 

Teleported, you grumble inwardly with a snort, even when I’ve already told him not to.

“Is that why you got a cut on your cheek? Because you were distracted?” Your daughter questions him, staggering you. 

What?

You quickly turn to your husband, examining his face with your eyebrows sewn in concern. Although it’s barely visible, it’s true. There’s a cut on his cheek, a thin line of crimson on his smooth, pasty skin, like an accidental brush of a pen on paper. This kind of injury is nothing and will naturally heal within a day or two, but still, it frightens you somehow that there’s a being out there who could lay a finger on him—on someone who’s supposed to be untouchable. You were certain that he was only clearing an A-rank dungeon today. Surely, it couldn’t have been so dangerous? 

“Are you okay?” You ask him softly, almost motherly, carefully holding his face as if that little cut made his body a million times more fragile. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Jinwoo bites down on his lip as your anxiety grows. Is it so bad that it’s hard for him to say? You wonder worriedly. Of course, you don't realize in the slightest that he’s only catching it between his teeth because he’s afraid that his mischievous smile will break on his lips and give his plan away. Jinwoo has been craving to be loved, touched, and spoiled endlessly by you today. With you looking this concerned, he’s already walking the path of success. He’s not going to let his little grin betray him at the last minute. 

“No, nowhere else, Sweetheart,” he says with a tender smile. “Just this one on my cheek. I’m okay, though. It doesn’t hurt. It’s just a cut.” Because that was all Beru could manage to do, he continues inwardly, almost releasing a disappointed sigh. Three chances. He gave that stupid ant three chances to wound his face as best as he could without putting any defense whatsoever, and this little cut on his face was all Beru could do. To be fair, knowing his immense durability and his tremendous physical strength, landing just a scratch itselfis considered a feat, but still… Had he had a bigger bruise blooming on his face, you’d take better care of him, wouldn’t you?

You breathe out in relief at his reply but continue to press further. It’s not a matter of pain; it’s the fact that there’s somebody out there who can lay a hand on him. What happens if it gets worse? What if he comes home with a wound next time instead of a cut? No, what if he doesn’t come home at all? 

“Jinwoo…” You twine your fingers around his lean ones. “Did something happen in the ga—”

“IT WAS BECAUSE OF ME, MY QUEEN!” A voice suddenly bursts into your hearing, coming from a small, shadowy figure that seeps out from beneath your husband’s collar. It’s Beru, you realize, but shaped in a different form. Instead of taking his usual humanoid figure, he’s much smaller in size, a floating head with a pair of antennae, so tiny he could fit in your daughter’s palm. 

“B-Beru?”

“Yes, my queen, it is I, Beru, your faithful servant,” the shadow soldier speaks. “With the deepest regret, I must confess that I have brought harm to our king’s heavenly face. To atone for my sins, I shall accept any punishment you bestow upon me, milady.” 

Your frown only deepens.“Wait, I don’t understand. What happened exactly?”

The shadow seems to fidget. “H-Half an hour ago, inside the gate, my liege requested me to—”

“Beru got distracted during the fight,” Jinwoo explains casually, cutting him off so smoothly with his smile intact. “I got this cut when I tried to save him. Isn’t that right,” he turns his head slightly to the side to face the shadow, his eyes gleaming eerily like a purple moon in a pitch-black sky, his voice turning an octave lower, “Beru?”

You can hear the shadow whimper in horror before it flies back to his collar, hiding behind the fabric. Your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Why is Beru acting weird?”

“When is he not acting weird?” Your husband responds nonchalantly. You can’t trust him when he’s smirking like this. No matter how good he looks with it, you can’t. You shouldn’t.

“I’ll put a bandaid on it, Daddy!” Your daughter chirps before jumping away from his arms, rushing to get the first aid kit. When she returns with the box, running toward her father with her little feet, Jinwoo kneels before her. His smile, his posture, the soft look on his face—everything reminds you of the prince in your daughter’s storybook, the one she’s fallen hopelessly in love with.

No wonder she loves her daddy so much, you think fondly to yourself, your heart thawing at the sight of your daughter applying a bandaid to his cheek. She looks so serious as she does it, mustering all her brain power to ensure she covers the cut perfectly. Once she’s done, she plants a kiss over it, sweet and adorable. “There, there.” She pats his cheek. “You’re all better now.”

Jinwoo’s face radiates with joy, but the bow of his lips remains sweet and tender as always. “Thank you, Princess.”

“You’re welcome, Daddy.” She pecks his nose once before she tugs on his hand. “Now, come on! Let’s have a tea party! You can be the queen, and I’ll be the princess, and Mr. Whiskers can be the king!”

“Right now?” Jinwoo chuckles, a hint of exhaustion in his voice. He has the energy to play with you all night, but having tea parties with an overexcited toddler can be quite draining indeed, especially when he has to play the role of a noblewoman—who’s married to a cat, for some reason—to keep her entertained. “Can Daddy take a shower first?”

“No! The tea will get cold if you do that!” 

“All right, all right. Can I, at least, play a more masculine role this time? A prince, maybe?”

“No, we need to have a queen in the story!”

“Why can't Mommy be the queen, then?”

“Because Mommy is busy doing her chores,” you answer with a mischievous twinkle in your eyes, completely ignoring the pleading look your husband is sending you. "Remember to use your girly voice, Husband.”

Jinwoo squints his eyes at you. "Is this your payback from earlier?”

You flaunt your coquettish grin. “Maybe.”

He sighs despite his little smile threatening to crawl back to his lips. "You're lucky I love you, Sweetheart.”

“Daddy, come on!” She hops on her feet, tugging him even further toward the living room. “And you too, Orky, hurry up! You’re the maid. You need to serve us some cake!”

The High Orc releases a sigh. Tossing his messy braid over his shoulder, he retrieves his apron from the counter—one that you’d sewn yourself for him as a gift for being an exceptionally patient babysitter—and follows after their steps. 

To anyone else’s eyes, the sight of South Korea’s 10th S-Rank Hunter, a fluffy yet somewhat demonic cat, a brawny High Orc, and a toddler with messy pigtails having a tea party on a tiny plastic table in your living room might be too absurd to take in, but this is just an everyday scenery in your lovely home. Even so, you’ll never take this for granted. The sense of relief of being safe and sound, the happiness of being together, the warmth that spreads right to your center…. These are the things that you pray every night to last forever.

And it is something that Sung Jinwoo protects more than the universe itself. ***

A sigh slips out of you as you slide underneath the blanket, the bed’s soft and almost heaven-like the moment you lie down. It has been an exhausting day, and you still haven’t gotten to bring much food into your system. Tomorrow will be better, you convince yourself. Hopefully, all the healthy juice and vitamins you’ve consumed throughout the day could replenish the nutrients your baby needs.

The bathroom door clicks open, shining light into an otherwise dimmed room. Steams of hot water cloud the room as your husband steps out with a towel hanging over his head. He’s dressed in nothing but his black sweatpants, his body lean and toned, still glistening with water. He’s mesmerizing as always and effortlessly so. You avert your gaze away, however, as you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being ogled at and have him tease you about it all night—because he definitely will if he catches you drooling at the sight. He’s done that before, and he’s only eager to do it again.

Jinwoo exhales as he sits on the edge of the bed, sounding just as tired as you are. Little did you know that this was just an act to have you indulge him in more ways than one until his thirst for your affection was quenched. 

You roll around to face him, lying on your side and making a pillow out of your arm. “Long day at work?”

“Just a little,” he answers. You notice how water droplets are still dripping from his hair, drenching his shoulders and… rolling down his… broad, muscular back…

You swallow, forcing yourself not to stare—not too much, at least—at how the muscles in his shoulder blades contort when he lifts his hand to rub the towel against his hair but damn it, it is getting very distracting. You can’t help it, really. It’s just been so long since you two have been intimate with each other, and that… session you had with him in the kitchen only made your longing for him a million times worse. “You do look more weary than usual. Did the bath help? I used the expensive bath salts for you.”

He chuckles, “Yeah, it was relaxing. We should’ve taken a bath together.”

“We wouldn��t have been relaxing if we bathed together.”

“Really?” He arches an eyebrow suggestively. “And why is that?”

Your voice reduces to a mumble when you reply, “You know why.”

His little smirk tells you that yes, he does know, but he just wants to see you grimacing from shame when you say it out loud. “Were you worried that I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands to myself?” 

The truth was, you were worried that you wouldn’t be able to, but your husband doesn’t need to know about that. “Isn’t that exactly what happened last time?”

“Only because you didn’t ask me to behave,” he cocks his head to the side, his lips curving devilishly. “You should’ve asked me to be a good boy for you, Sweetheart. I wouldn’t have touched you if that was the case. And I always keep my promise, you know that.”

Oh, he does, all right. The same way he did during your honeymoon phase when he promised you that he wouldn't stop fucking you until the sun came out. Underestimating his stamina was the biggest mistake of your life. He had your legs trembling so badly the following day, you had to call off work. 

But that’s it, isn’t it? That's exactly what you want to happen right here, right now. Jinwoo has been so considerate of your pregnancy that he decided to put a leash on himself. It’s a sweet thing for him to do, but sometimes, you just wish he’d tear it apart and set himself free. It would be nice if he could just be a little rough with you right now, not caring too much about how you feel and just focusing on what he wanted to do. But he’s not that kind of man, and that’s why you married him.

Despite his aloof, stoic demeanor and how vicious he can be during battles, he’s the most gentle lover you’ve ever been with, especially when he knows you’re not ready to deal with anything like that yet, both physically and emotionally (or so he thought). He’s truly all a woman could look for in a husband. Protective and strong. Loving. Caring. Treating you with the same amount of tenderness as he treats his own mother. But, still, a slight change wouldn’t be too bad, would it? If he could just be a little selfish in bed today, succumbing to his desire to touch you and make love to you without restraint… That would be nice, right?

“Baby, you okay?”

His deep voice startles you, dragging you out of your stupor. “Yeah, I was just, umm…” You clear your throat, heat filling your cheeks. “Your hair’s dripping. Want me to help you dry it off?”

His lips part in what seems to be surprise before he wrings them together into a smile. First mission, clear, he claims triumphantly in his head. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Of course not.” You make your way toward him, your legs sliding against the sheets before you kneel behind him, giving his shoulders a little squeeze. “You’re my husband. It makes me happy when I get to take care of you, especially when you’ve worked so hard all day.”

“Mm. Yeah. I’ve worked so hard today.”

Oblivious to the demonic cackle he’s trying to bite down, you step down from the bed, searching for the hair dryer you stored inside the drawer. Jinwoo waits in silence, leaning back with two hands propping his weight on the sheets behind him, his legs spread wide open. His eyes roam over your body, following every curve and dip, his fingers itching to just tear your nightgown away and replace every inch of satin with the softness of his kiss and the heat of his desire. 

You notice the way his hooded eyes cascade to the valley between your breasts as you walk toward him, your stomach swirling at this thrilling thought of being so physically wanted. With how he chews on his bottom lip as he gazes at you, his thoughts wandering to places they shouldn’t be, he makes you feel like you’re the prettiest woman in the world, a goddess he’s so close to touch and taste, yet the heaven forbids him for it.

“My eyes are up here, Husband.”

He lets his gaze linger for one more second before they flick back to you. “I know,” he smirks, shameless. After watching you plug your hairdryer in the nearest socket, he gestures you to come close and settle yourself between his legs, his smile welcoming—no, inviting. “Come here,” he suggests with a couple of pats on his thigh. 

You know what he’s asking, and God, you want to just give in and obey whatever he commands you to, but you decide to ignore him at the last second. Sitting on his lap right now when you’re nearly consumed by this aching need to be touched is just too risky. You have to be careful if you don’t want to appear so… needy. 

“Sometimes I think you’re not older than five. Look at how wet your hair is.” You reprimand him playfully as you try to shake away the excess water from his hair with his towel. You let yourself move closer to him, standing between his legs, your face hovering close enough to entice him but not enough for him to feel the sweetness of your breath caressing his skin. “Did you even use your towel? You’re still soaked and—” 

Your line ends shortly in a yelp when Jinwoo easily lifts your body with one arm coiled around your waist, placing you down on one of his thighs. He lets his arm linger protectively around you, making sure to keep you safe and secure on his lap. “Comfortable, Sweetheart?” He asks with a puckish grin. 

No, it’s not comfortable. It’s torturous. 

See, the thing is, it’s easy for you to touch him first, to reach out and kiss him and explore his mouth until he groans and has no choice but to take you. But the last time you approached him first, the last time you were so clingy, and needy, and just desperate for his touch, it boosted his ego so much that he ended up smirking every time he saw you. For the whole fucking week, that is. He didn’t even say anything when you asked him with a suspicious glare, “Why do you keep smirking at me like that?” He’d just shrug and continue to smirk even more, and it annoyed you—flustered you—terribly because the words, “Nothing, I just keep remembering how cute you looked when you were begging me the other day,” were painted vividly all over his face. You’re not going to give him that satisfaction again. Never. 

If he wants to make love to you tonight, if he wants to even touch you for a bit, he’s going to have to ask for it.

But when he looks this fucking handsome with his mysterious, sapphire-like eyes, his hair wet and pushed back by your hand, his lips slightly parted as if he was waiting for yours to close the space between them… It takes you everything not to fall in his arms.

Despite all these thoughts gyrating in your head, screaming to be turned into actions, you keep yourself composed on the outside; your stare remains flat. “Do I really have to dry your hair like this? While sitting on your thigh?”

“What, I just don’t want my pregnant wife to get tired from standing too long,” he argues, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “It makes me happy when I get to take care of my wife, too, you know.” His eyes droop a little as he says the line, and fuck, fuck, he definitely just stole a glance at your lips there.

This little devil. “I know you didn’t use your towel. You’ve been plotting this whole thing right from the start.”

“Plotting is such a dramatic word,” Jinwoo replies, followed by a small laughter. “I just want my wife to spoil me for a bit.” He places a hand on your leg, his thumb rubbing against your inner thigh. It brushes against the hem of your gown as he purrs, “Is that so wrong, Sweetheart?” You watch his digit slip underneath the fabric, never going further up, aiming just to tease. “For your husband to ask his wife for some love?” 

Even just that already causes you to swallow your breath. “I think I’ve loved you enough today.”

“Hmm, I don't know.” He leans close to your ear, his warm, minty breath swaying your soft strands with each word spoken. “I’m a bit greedy, after all. I might need you to pamper me all night long.”

Your head swirls under temptation but you keep yourself strong. You return the safe distance between you, placing a hand on his… bare chest. God, he needs to put on some shirt. “You could’ve just asked me to dry your hair instead of drenching the sheets.” 

His little smile, the way he’s tilting his head slightly to the side, staring at you with his eyes turning all soft, lost in your own… Curse you, Sung Jinwoo. “You’re right, sorry.” He’s not sorry. He’s already planning to drench the sheets in one way or another, you can tell, and you’re excited about it. Though it won’t take long for that excitement to turn into frustration with the way he keeps touching you but not actually touching you. 

Why won’t he just do it? Why won’t he just say that he misses me as much as I miss him, wants me—no, needs me as much as I need him? It would’ve saved us a lot of time if he could just kiss me right now.

What you don’t know is that, from his side, your husband isn’t really seeking a chance to make love to you tonight. He wants to—God, only heaven knows just how much he wants to devour you right now—but he won’t force you to do something so physically straining when you already look so weary. Still, he needs to touch you today, to explore you, to taste you, or otherwise, he’ll just lose his mind. He doesn’t even care if he gets no relief himself. He just needs to be with you in that way, but being the little shit that he is, he wants to tease you about it. After all, what makes your sex life so fun and adventurous is this little game you always play, seeing who’s going to yield to their desire first, and start begging the other for mercy.

So far, Jinwoo is winning, but that doesn’t mean you can’t turn the tides. “Come on. Let’s dry your hair.”

“Mm.” Jinwoo lowers his head (yes, even when you’re sitting on his thigh; he’s still taller than you), cutely nuzzling his face against the juncture between your neck and shoulder. “I’ll be in your care, Noona.”

N-Noona?! Your face catches on fire. Turning the tides has never been so difficult. It’s been years since he last called you that way that you’ve forgotten just how easily he could make your heartbeat soar with merely a single word. You’re only a year older than him, which is not a big deal, but he surely takes it to his advantage—an effective way to cause your stomach to flip with every call.

“Hmm? What’s wrong, Noona?”

Stay calm, stay calm. “Nothing.” Exhaling a bit too harshly, you switch on your hairdryer and draw it closer to his hair, your fingers carding through the locks, sometimes ruffling them. He smiles to himself, looking all pleased and giddy—well, as giddy as someone as cool as Sung Jinwoo could be. Seeing how he leans further into your touch, silently pleading for another touch the same way a little boy would ask for praise, you can’t help but feel your heart flutter at the sight. How can a 190cm tall, muscular S-Rank Hunter—the Lord of the Undead himself—be so adorable? 

“You’re like a dog,” you comment with a hint of mirth in your voice, “wanting to be petted.”

Jinwoo responds by playfully trying to bite your hand, clamping his teeth together, his pointy fangs bared. And you wish he had. You wish he’d sink his teeth into your skin, leaving marks on you again after so long. He always does that in bed, doesn’t he? Leaving love bites all over your neck, his teeth grinding against your shoulder as he drove himself in and out of you. It was as if he wanted to remind you again and again that you were his, only his, to give himself the satisfaction of knowing that he was the only man who you’d allow to do whatever he wanted with your body. 

 And when he gets rough… When he turns feral in bed because you just rile him up so much… When he flips you over to your stomach, one hand binding both of your wrists together before he presses his weight onto you—

“You’re stopping again,” Jinwoo says with a coy smile. “What are you thinking about, Sweetheart?”

You, fucking me from behind. “N-nothing.” You work your hand; your movement’s no longer as poised. 

“Doesn’t sound like nothing,” he simpers.

“Oh, shut up. I’m just thinking about…” Think quickly, think quickly, think quickly. “Your hair.”

"What about it?”

“It’s just… really soft. Surprisingly soft.” It amazes you how you manage to keep yourself composed with those filthy thoughts raging like a storm in your head. You continue to ruffle his hair, shaking the water away. “Fluffy, even.”

“You say that as if you’d never touched my hair before,” he titters softly. His eyes then flick back to yours, the blue in them sketched thickly with the desire he’s been trying to rein in. “When you’ve done so much more than that.”

You don’t know what drives you to do it—perhaps it’s some kind of reflex as the sultry nights you’d spent with his head trapped between your legs comes to your recollection—but you yank on his strands, and he lets out this low, deep groan from the back of his throat, his gaze turning dark and heavy when he warns, “Careful, Sweetheart.”

He’s not reminding you to be gentle, not at all. He’s warning you not to push his buttons more than you already do. He’s already suffering as it is, trying to hold himself back from having his way with you, and you tugging on his roots like this, reminding him of all those times when you were pleading for him to thrust his tongue deep inside your core, is not helping.

“Then, don’t make it weird,” you reciprocate with a little pinch on his nose. After combing your fingers through his hair one last time, you switch off the hairdryer. “Done. You’re all dry now.” You return to your feet, itching to get away from him before you’re swallowed by the urge to yank his hair back again and latch your mouth against his throat. “Let me tidy this up first and—”

Your sentence ends in a short gasp when his arms tangle around your waist once more, and the next time you blink, you find yourself pinned down to the bed, his knee placed just between your thighs, dangerously close to your core. His face hovers just above yours, his lips twitching into a smirk as he gazes down at you with a hint of naughtiness in his eyes. 

“Thank you,” he says, leaning in until the tips of your noses are mere millimeters away from brushing against each other. “Making my favorite food for dinner. Preparing my bath and drying my hair. You’ve been so good to me today.” With your chin trapped between lean fingers, he angles your head to the side, his breath fanning the skin below your ear. “I think my sweet girl deserves a little reward.” His voice is beyond seductive, awakening all the butterflies inside you. “Tell me what you want, baby. Let me take care of you this time.”

You grip the sheets underneath you, your heart thumping in anticipation. “I can ask for... anything?”

He chuckles, the sound low and tantalizing, his nose probing against the pulsating vein on your neck. “Anything.”

You swallow thickly, a thousand different wishes bursting into your head at once. 

“T-then… I want you to…” ***

Continue to Part 2

[avaredava]

MDNI

Toji Fushiguro, just a simple plumber is such a perv.

He's the local plumber, loved by many. He's in and out and gets your pipes clear doing it smoothly and quickly.

Unfortunately you had a sad issue...

Your toilet broke! You flushed too much toilet paper down. So it got stuck in the pipes. Then it hit you. Call Toji, he'll clear it quickly for a low price.

Perfect.

You called him and such and started talking. "Hey do you have any opening's today? My toilets clogged." You say as he lets a chuckle. "Mh yeah I do." he says in a gruff lazy voice.

You give him your information and shit, and he'll come over. Of course as a plumber he needs the source of the problem. So he asked.

"I was drunk and flushed too much toilet paper down the toilet." You said blandly. He was surprised how you bluntly said that. Like you don't give a shit. That just made him pop up.

"Yeah! Totally uhm, just give me your house address." He said in an overly cheery voice. You were honestly super surprised. He went from not giving a shit to giving one. That's the easiest way you could understand what was happening.

He cancels all his appointments, and gets angry calls and text, but he wants to make sure you get the earliest time slot. And also cancels more so he can stay longer.

He drives quickly to your house getting 100's of honks but he didn't care. He had to see this mystery girl. He's practically head over heels. But you sounded young. He had to make sure you were over 18.

So he was fucking happy when you opened the door and showed him your id when he weirdly asked but you thought it was part of the process. You were 22.

He was a bit older but the way you looked at him, he could tell you didn't really mind.

God you were cute.

But he was more focused on your ass when you weren't looking, tight shorts, that wrap around your ass so beautifully. You're significantly shorter than him. He felt like throwing you over his shoulder and slamming into on your cute little pink bed sheets.

"Toji?"

He blinked back to reality. With a small smirk, his plan is already in action.

"So uhm, where's the broken toilet?" He asks. Too over confident? Why? it's a weird question to be confident... but you push the weird thing away.

"Bedroom."

Perfect.

He runs in before you and snatches some panties and goes into the bathroom. He fixes your pipes, fast. You were surprised on how fast he fixed your pipes, but then again that's what everyone said. And it was really cheap.

Then later that night you realized why he made it cheap. He took expensive panties. That ass! But you were surprised when he came that night, with panties in hand, your panties. With messy sticky stuff in the middle.

Your suspicions were right. You were about to yell at him but his lips were pressed against yours. He did what he wanted, throwing you onto your cute bed and stripping you so god damn fast.

Later his cock was in you and it was to much to handle.

Him shoving his fat cock into your tight pussy. His harsh slaps to your ass, that sting feels like a pleasure that is a pleasure only he can make.

You woke up thighs sticky and a note on your bedside. His number and...

"I liked cleaning your pipes, but I hope you liked my pipe. Oh and I took more panties. See u soon."

Cocky asshole.

But that cringy note is true though. You did like his pipe.

Master list's

[neeeooon]

Hello girlie🩷i hope u are alright. Could u please write the blue lock guys (isagi, bachira,sae, rin,nagi,kaiser) and anyone u want reacting to their children snapping at their mom being rude.

oooooo okay i’ll try!! thank you for the request 💖

when your kid snaps at you in front of them

husband + dad bllk x fem!reader. cursing. reader is called “mom”. kids being stupid! no abuse.

isagi yoichi

-> your household is less traditional, so you nor isagi care much when your children curse or ask you questions that would be “taboo” in other households

-> however, less traditional does not excuse your youngest son when he calls you a bitch after you tell him he can’t go to his friends house at midnight

-> you blink at him. then glance over your shoulder at your husband, who is staring at your son with the same bewildered expression. “what did you just say?” he asks with a surprised scoff

-> your son is pale. “i-i said ‘i understand. we can hang out another time with your permission.’” “that’s what i thought. go to bed.” “yep!”

bachira meguru

-> bachira isn’t one to get upset easily. he’s the fun dad, and you’re the stricter parent making sure things are taken care of and running smoothly behind the scenes

-> until your seven-year-old daughter throws a tantrum when you accidentally gave her your sandwich instead of hers. your sandwich with crust on it. “i hate you! you’re the worst mommy ever! i wish i had another—“

-> bachira scoops her up and props her on his hip, eyes more stern than you’ve seen them in a long time. “apologize. right now.” sniffling, your daughter wipes her eyes with her arms and mumbles out a weak apology. your husband nods once. “promise you won’t say anything like that to her ever again.” “i promise..”

itoshi sae

-> he doesn’t show it, but he’s laughing in disbelief when your son tells you he won’t go to school. you’d been trying to get him ready, and all morning he’s been dragging his feet and throwing himself to the floor. when sae catches your eye and sees that you’re not in the mood, he steps in

-> “come on, get up.” he tells your kid as he hoists him off the floor and kneels in front of him. “you’re going to school.” “but—“ “and you’re going to apologize to mommy first.” “but—“ “and if you say ‘but’ again, i’m taking your toys to work with me and leaving them there.”

-> that’s enough to get your son to stop and reach for his backpack with a deep pout. “i’m sorry mommy. i’ll go to school today.” you let out a long sigh of relief and silently tuck his lunchbox into his bag. “dad can take you. i need some me time.” sae doesn’t argue and gives you a quick kiss goodbye before grabbing his car keys

itoshi rin

-> he doesn’t know how to react, honestly. your daughter has never spoken back to either of you before. she can get dramatic at times and throw a tantrum every now and again, but she’s never been downright hostile

-> “i wish you weren’t my mom! juri’s mom buys her whatever she wants and let’s her stay up late!” “well, i’m not juri’s mom. i’m your mom.” “well, i wish you weren’t!” rin materialized after that, arms crossed over his chest as he caught your daughter’s narrowed eyes

-> his face is perfectly blank as he says, “i must have misheard you.” your daughter mimics his crossed arms in defiance, and rin cocks a brow. “apologize. or i’m calling juri’s mom and telling her to keep her daughter far away from you.” “what?! you can’t..! fine. i’m sorry.” “now give me your phone and go to your room.”

nagi seishiro

-> he’s quiet, but he’s observant when it comes to your children. he’ll sneak sweet treats into the cart when he sees them staring, he’ll let them teach him the slang they use in school, and he’ll carry them all to bed when they fall asleep during movie night. he’ll let them get away with a lot because he loves them, but when your youngest daughter snaps at you for asking her to turn her game off…

-> he easily swipes the controller from your daughter’s hands and places it on the highest shelf before turning the screen off. she opens her mouth to scream at him, but one seemingly disinterested glance back is enough for her to close her mouth in shame

-> “what do you say?” he drawls while gesturing in your direction. your daughter’s bottom lip juts out as she blinks up at you. “i’m sorry…” “now go hug her.” she does as told and let’s you scoop her up. “i won’t yell at you again.” “well, i appreciate that, sweetheart.”

michael kaiser

-> absolutely not. there’s no tolerance for that at all, and he makes it very known

-> your son got one word out in a shouting voice before kaiser squeezes his shoulder. it’s not enough to hurt, but it definitely shuts your son up

-> “not in my house. not to her. you are not going to stand here and belittle someone who’s spent your entire life giving and giving so you are safe and comfortable.” he scoffs and gently pushes your son forward so he’s in front of you. “you don’t know how lucky you have it, kid. now, apologize.”

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 40: Where Do We Go From Here?

Summary: Things aren't going as smoothly as anyone would like. Maybe they can fix it. Maybe they can't.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 6,723 words

Warnings: Angst, discussion of nightmares, PTSD, discussion of death and killing people, emotions, so many emotions, angst, a little sliver of comfort

A/N: And it is back!! not super proud of this one but I'm starting out on a filler so...yeah. Really just setting up for the next part where some action starts again. You'll see. Anyway, glad to be back at it and I hope you enjoy!

11/30/24: **This chapter has been edited and rewritten from its original version**

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

John stands at the door, gazing out at the yard. It’s pouring rain, dumping buckets on the roof. The water has pooled on the planks of the deck, splattering with every big drop that pours from the sky. The weather once again mirrors your mood, your sobs audible from your room over the pounding on the roof. 

John holds his mug in his hands, staring at the reflection in the window. Kyle and Johnny are sitting on the couch, both looking like kicked puppies. They’re itching to enter your room and go comfort you, but they’ve been kicked out for now. You’re not in the state of mind to be around any of them right now, no matter how badly your sobs tear at their heartstrings. 

You haven’t been in that state of mind for a few hours now. 

Whatever nightmare had plagued your mind last night, it was particularly awful. You’ve been up since the early hours, waking from a nightmare with a terrified scream that had continued until Kyle finally got you to stop and breathe. His ears are still ringing with it, his mind still pulsing with that fear. Something happened. Someone got in. Someone hurt you. 

Nothing happened. No one got in.  

The only threat was still just in your mind. 

Graves. 

He knows that’s at least part of your nightmares. Christine had disclosed that to him quietly on the side. Even she doesn’t know everything that plagues your dreams, but Graves seems to be a common specter in the darkness of your mind. 

It makes his blood boil, and not just out of anger for what Graves did to you. 

It boils with anger at himself too. 

It’s his fault you’re in this state in the first place. He should have known, he should have seen, he should have suspected. He should have never left you there. You should have been his priority over anything else. 

How badly he’s failed you. 

He lets out a sigh, turning away from the window to move over to the couches. He sinks down with a sigh, resting his elbows on his knees. The little progress you’ve made has regressed with this new string of nightmares, the fear pushing you further and further back into your mind. He’s resolved himself to only get worried when Christine is worried, and right now she’s beginning to look worried. If you regress back again, the chances of bringing you out of that are slim. Sure, there are plenty of options to help, but you have to want them to help. 

He knows exactly what will help, you just don’t want it. 

He runs a hand through his hair as your sobs begin to quiet. It’s longer than he’s let it get for a long time. They’re all a bit scraggly and ragged looking, worn down and lazy now that there’s no strict rules guiding their lives. None of them quite know what to do outside of the regulations they’ve spent the better parts of their lives living under. He’s been in the military longer now than he hasn’t, and he’s been finding himself itching for that structure again. He can never bring himself to relax and put the job aside even on leave. He only takes it when he has to and usually spends it training and keeping his skills sharp. 

Now...now things have changed. 

They have no return now. There’s no clear, set time that they have to return to base. They can’t return to base. It would leave them too open to a possible retaliation from Shepherd. They were betrayed by one of their own already, who's to say someone else wouldn’t be just as eager to become a traitor for a chunk of cash? They’re not even truly safe here. 

How are they going to go back to base after this? Can he bring himself to take you back there, a place you never felt comfortable in the first place? 

Where do they go from here? 

He’s been trying not to think too much about it. That’s a dilemma for a different day. That’s thinking too far ahead. Day by day is as far as he dares to take it now. 

The door closes quietly, John’s head lifting to watch Christine as she approaches the couch. There’s a slump to her shoulders, something that’s been getting lower and lower as the days have progressed. She’s struggling with this just as much as they all are. 

She sinks down on the couch, letting out a long breath. Your sobs have quieted, no sound coming from the room now. The silence is almost eerie after days of constant sounds, good and bad, from your room. You were doing better. You were looking more alive and well. 

Then this happened. 

“She’s asleep.” Christine says, her voice strained. “Finally calmed down enough to nap.” She covers her eyes with a hand, sitting there still for a moment. 

“The nightmares?” John asks, glancing at Christine out of the corner of his eye. 

“Worse.” She says, her gaze far away. “She's remembering what happened.” 

John stares at Kyle and Johnny for a moment, the betas returning his worried gaze.

“Those shadows she killed...” Johnny says.

Christine nods. “She's, uh, not taking it well.” 

John runs a hand over his face. He knew it was possible you'd start to remember what happened during the time your omega took control. It wouldn't remain a dark spot forever, though he hoped it would. The things you were forced to do are coming to light now, the things you did to survive because they failed you. Taking the life of someone who deserves it is nothing to them. Taking the life of someone who would take yours just as quickly isn't so much as a second thought. 

You're not like them. 

You've never had to face that reality before, and you shouldn't have had to. 

“One of us should talk to her.” Kyle says.

“I don't think that's the best idea right now.” Christine shakes her head. “She's...regressed a bit. Pushing that on her, while well intentioned, might do more harm than good...” she trails off, her gaze still far away. 

The three of them sit there, waiting for what she’s going to say next. He’s not even sure Johnny or Kyle are breathing as they wait patiently for whatever solution Christine might be able to come up with, whatever move she thinks is the best one to take next. 

“I want to take her out.” Christine says. 

“What?” John asks in surprise. 

“She needs to get out of the house. It’s not doing any of us any good sitting in here all day.” She rubs her eyes. “She expressed interest in going for a walk a couple days ago. She needs to get up and moving, start regaining some of her strength.” 

John lets out a breath leaning back against the couch. He’s tempted to say no. His knee jerk reaction is to refuse. The world outside isn’t safe. If anyone is watching, if anyone sees them...

There’s always going to be that risk though, and Christine is right. Sitting in the house all day isn’t doing any of them any good. They’re at the mercy of the rain, but even then, he doubts it will keep any of them trapped inside for long. 

“When the rain clears up.” He finally says. “We'll discuss it more. But, I think that might be a good idea.” 

“What can we do?” Kyle asks, staring at Christine. 

She lets out a sigh, covering her eyes with her hand. “I don’t know. I’ve helped hundreds of omegas in crisis and yet I don’t know why this case is so hard.” 

“This has become more personal than those cases.” John says. 

Christine’s shoulders slump even more. “I know. I try so hard but she’s just so...different from other omegas.” 

“This entire situation is different from what you’ve done before.” Kyle says. 

“You’re right.” Christine sighs. “The best we can do is let her lead. Do what she needs, give her what she wants. The worst thing that can happen right now is regression. If she regresses too far, we might never get her back.” 

“What is it? Tell me what ye need.” 

“Can you make me forget?” 

“I wish I could.” 

“Hit me hard enough on the head I might forget everything. Then we can all just start over.” 

“That’s not funny.” 

“It wasn’t supposed to be.” 

“Kitten,” Johnny sighs, leaning his elbows on his knees. “I wish I could make those thoughts go away. I wish I could make them mine.” 

“I killed people.” 

“I know.” He reaches out, touching your hand. “I wish ye didnae have to. Ye were just defending yerself. Those Shadows would have done worse to ye if ye hadn’t.” 

You curl up in your chair, turning away from him. “That’s not helpful.” 

“Sorry.” He says, letting out another sigh. “We just want to help ye.” 

You’re silent for a moment, sitting there listening to the waves. It’s cold this morning, not even the thick blanket draped over you offering much respite. It’s the first morning it hasn’t poured rain in days and you were determined to take full advantage of it despite the objections of your pack. 

“I know.” You finally say, staring out at the grey clouds looming on the horizon. The rain will return, just like the dark thoughts constantly swirling in your mind. They make you sick, nausea constantly churning in your stomach and threatening to rise. 

Johnny wraps his hand around yours, his palm warm against your cold skin. “Should head inside. Gonnae catch a cold.” 

“You know that’s a myth right?” You say, tilting your head to stare at him. 

“No it’s not.” He says, pulling your hand between his. “It’s not good for ye being out in the cold.” 

“I’ll live.” You say, trying to pull your hand from his, but he holds you firm. He’s stubborn, but so are you. 

“Kitten...” He says, almost whining at you. “Go inside please.” 

You let out a sigh, staring out at the horizon again. The clouds promise more rain soon, another downpour on its way. You hate it, how much it’s been raining. You just want to be outside, down at the beach, going on walks. Your pack won’t let you though, not while it’s raining, even though they often leave no matter the weather. 

It’s not fair. 

You’re not a fragile flower and you’re tired of being treated that way. Even though your brain feels like it’s in a blender constantly. Even though the pain of what happened still drives into you like a knife, you just want to be treated like a normal human being again. 

“Fine.” You sigh, pushing yourself up to stand. “I’ll go inside.” 

Johnny grabs your arm before you can head back in the door. “Ye know we just want the best for you.” 

You stare at him for a long moment, emotions swirling in your mind. They are trying. You’ll give them that credit. They’re trying, but not hard enough. “What you think is best and what’s actually best isn’t always the same.” 

He looks like a kicked puppy as he lets you go. You turn away before you can feel guilty, heading back inside the cottage. 

You pull the blanket tighter around you as you stare at the flickering flames in the hearth. The heat is intense so close, but it’s warming the chill under your skin. It’s getting colder at night, foretelling the upcoming winter. All the blankets in the world couldn’t fight off the chill that’s settled in you at night. You know what might help, but you’re not brave enough to approach that solution. 

The footsteps on the stairs don’t startle you in the otherwise silent house, the creak of them audible over the crackle of the logs in the fire. 

“I’d add another one.” A voice says from behind you. 

“I’m going to.” You say, reaching for the stack next to the fireplace. 

“Careful. Put it on the side.” 

“I know how to make a fire, thank you.” You snap, shoving the log in before moving it into place with the poker. “I’m not useless.” 

“Didn’t mean to imply you were.” It’s silent for a moment as you settle back into place. “What are you doing out here?” 

“I’m cold.” You answer simply, not feeling up to giving an entire expose on your current state of mind to the person you want to speak to the least right now. 

“We can turn the heat up more.” John says. “Whatever you want to be more comfortable.” 

I want you to leave. You bite your lip, suddenly not brave enough to say it out loud. 

They are trying. 

“Why are you down here?” You ask instead. 

“Couldn’t sleep so I came to get a snack.” He says. “You want anything?” 

“No.” You say quickly, wrapping the blanket tighter around you. “I’m alright.” 

“You sure?” He presses, standing off to your right. 

You hesitate for a moment, curling your toes under the blanket as one of the logs snaps. It’s not food you need from him. Your appetite has decreased again with this new wave of horrible things plaguing your mind. You want answers. 

“I want to know why you decided to leave, why you went on that mission and left me when you knew things were not right.” 

John shifts on his feet behind you, the wood floor creaking just slightly. He’s silent for a long moment, so long you almost think he’s walked away. 

“I was too trusting. I got caught up in the mindset of a soldier and chose to trust my superiors when I knew I shouldn’t have. I wanted to send you somewhere else, to stay with Kate, but things didn’t work fast enough to make that possible. I shouldn’t have just left you there, even with Johnny and Simon. It’s the worst mistake I’ve ever made.” 

Tears burn your eyes as you stare into the fire. At least he knows he made a mistake. At least he thought up other plans, but that doesn’t excuse the fact he did nothing and just left you there so easily. 

Another question burns at the forefront of your mind. You think back to that conversation with Dr. Keller just a few days ago. You want to trust her, you know you can trust her. She’s given you no reason not to. She wouldn’t lie, even if the rest of your pack did. 

“You really didn’t leave me with Graves?” The words slip out before you can stop them, spilling forth from your lips, revealing part of those inner thoughts that have plagued you for the last few hours. 

“I would never have left you with him.” John says, the floorboards creaking as he takes a couple steps forward. “As soon as we found out we turned around and went to Kate’s safehouse. She was already looking for you. We did everything in our power to find you as quickly as we possibly could.” 

The tears start sliding down your cheeks as you sit there, taking in his words. They’re spoken with such conviction and match what Dr. Keller had told you. Some deep, dark part of your brain wants to think it’s all a lie that they’ve conjured to try and make you feel better about everything, to try and jumpstart the healing process. Yet, at the same time you want to believe they are telling the truth. 

Your other option is to trust Phil and what he said to you. For all you know, everything he said was a lie. Some sick justification to torture you as some kind of revenge towards your pack. Maybe it was all about revenge. 

Who can you trust more? Phil, or your alpha. 

Maybe if you had just held on a little bit longer. Maybe if you hadn’t believed Phil’s lie, you could have saved yourself the terror of letting your omega take over. Maybe you wouldn’t have had to take that risk and corrupt yourself with blood-stained hands. From what you can remember and have managed to weasel out of Dr. Keller, they were right behind you. A few more minutes and maybe none of it would have had to happen. 

Maybe you did do the right thing in the end. Phil might have ordered his men to kill you as soon as they arrived. Maybe they would have done it as soon as Simon and Johnny entered the room. Saving yourself might have been your only option. 

Those men would have killed you or worse. You did what you had to do. 

You’re shaking. The tears are cascading down your cheeks, warmed by the heat of the fire. You’re crying, your breaths nearly hyperventilating as you sob quietly. 

“Talk to me.” John says as he kneels down beside you. 

“I can’t do this.” You whisper, your knuckles white where they’re gripping the edges of the blanket. The words are coming out and you can’t stop them. Maybe it’s because deep down you remember the better times, when he was a comfort. Someone you could trust to catch you when you fall. “I keep seeing them, seeing what I did, what happened. I killed people.” 

“People that would have killed you without a second thought.” He says. “You were defending yourself in a situation where that was unavoidable. It’s not your fault. None of it is.” 

“She scares me, my omega.” Your inhale stutters. “She’s angry. She won’t settle. I’m scared I’m going to lose control and she’ll come out again.” 

“You’re not going to lose control.” John says. Despite the heat of the fire you’re not much warmer, a cold chill shooting through your veins. “If it were to happen, we’re right here. We’ll get you through it.” 

You stare into the flickering flames, your breaths slowly coming back down to normal. John sits there, as still as a tree. You don’t want him so close to you, yet you can’t deny how comforting his presence is. For the first time in a while you don’t feel quite so out of control.

“Can we ever move past this?” You ask, your voice quiet and broken.  

“I like to think we can.” John says. “It won’t be easy, but if that’s what you want, we sure as hell will work to make it happen. Things won’t go back to the way they were, and they shouldn’t. You deserve better than what we gave you.” 

You don’t respond because you can’t. His words float around in your mind, replaying over and over. You want to believe him. You desperately want to believe him, but a deep part of you can’t. He’s made promises before and then broke them. How can you trust this time will be different? 

The creak of the stairs wakes you. It’s jarring, pulling you out of a sleep you didn’t know you were in. You’re on the couch in the living room, bundled under a blanket with a decorative pillow under your head. You don’t remember moving to the couch. The fire is nothing more than embers now, but it feels warmer in the house. It’s dawn, the grey light streaming in through the window, chasing away the shadows of night. 

“What are you doing out here?” A gruff voice asks you. 

You groan, rubbing your eyes. “Fell asleep.” 

“On the couch?” 

“Think I was on the floor first.” You yawn, pressing your face back into the pillow. “Don’t remember getting to the couch.” 

“Why?” 

“Got cold.” Your voice is slightly muffled as you pull the blanket up higher. 

Simon lets out a sigh before moving around the couch to the fireplace. He adds a couple logs in before lighting it again, the fire crackling back to life. You’re half asleep already as another blanket is draped over you, tucked up around your neck. There’s a feeling of a hand brushing over your head, but that may have just been your imagination as you drift off back to sleep. 

You don’t get to sleep long, more footsteps coming down the stairs waking you. A hand does brush over your head this time, the scent of the beach filling your nose. You let out a groan, trying to snuggle deeper into the blankets. 

“Sleeping out here this morning?” Kyle’s soft voice reaches your ears. 

You grunt, chasing the quickly fading edges of sleep in your brain. 

“Breakfast is ready, if you want to get up.” 

You are hungry. There’s a quiet rumble of your stomach as you begin to register the smells coming from the kitchen: bacon and eggs and coffee. Johnny is making the coffee most likely. Maybe you’ll have some this morning. You might need it with how groggy you feel. 

You stretch out on the couch, trying to breathe some life into your limbs. It’s not the most comfortable couch, definitely not for sleeping, but it’s better than the floor. It was likely John that moved you. You’re not quite sure how that makes you feel. 

You don’t remember falling asleep after your little talk last night. You’re not sure how that moment of vulnerability makes you feel either. There was a time when you wouldn’t have thought twice about going to your alpha with such concerns and tumultuous feelings. There was a time when you would have sought him out for the comfort and stability you need right now. 

Things are different, though. Things have changed. 

You run a hand over your face, thinking back to the groggy conversation with Simon this morning. You’re not quite sure it even happened, or if you dreamed it. There’s two blankets on you, however, and you distinctly remember feeling the second one being draped over you. 

It’s a touching gesture from the specter in your life. Once again he’s been reduced to a shadow, a figure lingering only because he has to. The distance that had once been so close to closing has widened into an impossibly wide canyon. You’re not sure it’ll ever fully close again. Too much has transpired in such a short amount of time between the two of you. He’ll never forgive himself, and you’ll never be brave enough to force it again. 

You push yourself up to sit, joints cracking from being stuck in one position for so long. You blink slowly as you sit there for a moment. It’s warm in the house, almost too warm now with your body warmed from sleep. Dr. Keller is sitting at the table, a steaming mug in front of her. Tea, most likely. Maybe coffee. You’re not quite sure. She gives you a soft smile as you rub a hand across your face again. 

You feel groggy as you push yourself up to stand, letting your stomach and feet guide you towards the smells coming from the kitchen. Kyle guides you to the table with a promise of making you a plate and you take your usual seat at the end of the table facing the kitchen. Dr. Keller is to your left this time, coffee in her mug judging by the smell. 

“How did you sleep?” She asks, her hands wrapped around the mug. 

“Fine. Got cold.” You say, resting your head in your hand.

“John turned the heat up a bit. We can get you more blankets if you need them.” Dr. Keller says. 

You hum, letting your eyes close for a moment. You won’t complain about more blankets, more soft things to lay with. There is one thing you wish you had, though. You’re not quite sure how to ask for it, or that it would even be possible to get. 

You jump when a hand touches your back, not realizing you had even dozed off sitting there. 

“Sorry.” Kyle says, setting a plate on the table in front of you. “Food’s hot. You want coffee or tea.” 

“Coffee.” You say instantly, earning a wide grin from Johnny as he takes his own seat at the table. 

“Even split this morning.” He says cheekily, setting his own mug down. “Three against three.” 

“Tea is still the superior choice.” Kyle says from the kitchen. “Better for you anyway.” 

“Coffee has a lot of health benefits as well.” Dr. Keller says. “So long as you don’t add too much sugar into it.” 

“See.” Johnny says, giving them a victorious grin. 

“She said so long as you don’t put too much sugar in it.” Kyle says, carrying over your mug of coffee. “You’ll get diabetes from how much you add in.” 

“Two spoonfuls isnae too much.” He turns to look at Dr. Keller. “Is it?” 

Dr. Keller gives him a worried look. “You might be pushing it there.” 

Johnny’s grin turns into a pout. “What do ye mean?” 

A ghost of a smile tugs at your lips as you quickly shovel a forkful of eggs into your mouth. As much as the deep pain of trauma and their decisions ache in your chest, you have to admit you missed this. It’s the least tense you’ve seen all of them in the last few weeks. Even Dr. Keller’s shoulders don’t seem quite so squared as they have been. 

A part of you feels guilty about it. It is your fault deep down. You’re the one keeping them all on edge, driving that wedge between them over and over again. Deep down you’re the one causing the heavy weight that’s settled over the house. You wish you could just go back to normal, you wish you could just wave a wand and make yourself okay again. You wish you could ease their pain just a little bit. 

The eggs suddenly don’t taste quite so good anymore. 

You force them down regardless in favor of causing another scene, in favor of dragging the mood down. They deserve a little lighthearted moment after everything. They don’t need to know the inner turmoil plaguing your mind. 

Simon shifts next to you, his eyes darting to glance at your face. You can feel them, the intensity of his gaze just as sharp as it had been back in the beginning, back before he looked at you with fondness. He’s stiff as he sits there, almost as if he can sense the storm raging inside of you as you force yourself to pretend that you’re fine in favor of keeping the bright mood that’s settled over the table. 

Maybe he can sense it. He is an alpha after all. It’s his job to know, to understand. You glance across the table at John, his eyes on his phone as he sips his tea. 

Your gaze drops down to your plate as you pick up a piece of bacon, your heart shattering just a little bit more. 

“‘S too early.” You whine as hands pull the blanket off of you. Cold air nips at your skin, making you curl up in a ball. 

“It’s noon. Come on.” A hand closes around your arm, gently shaking you. “You want to get up.” 

You let out a whine, pinching your face up. “No.” 

“Trust me. It’ll be worth it.” Kyle says, brushing the hair back from your face. 

“Why.” You say, letting out a huff. 

“We’re going on a little trip.” Kyle pulls you up, forcing you into a seated position. “Dress warm.” 

You’re alone in the room again, the door left open. Light streams in, making you squint against the harsh intrusion. A quick glance at the clock reveals it is, in fact, a little past noon. You took a nap to make up for a night of tumultuous sleep, one of the few things you have to do here in this prison. Nap and read. It’s a lot like your life before the cottage, before everything that happened, except now you’re stuck with your pack around you at all times. 

You almost miss the times they were away. 

You’re half tempted to go back to sleep, but you’re too awake now, and the light streaming in the doorway is making it hard. It was done on purpose, left that way to prevent you from falling asleep again. 

You let out a huff as you maneuver yourself so your legs dangle over the edge of the bed. You try to blink the drowsiness away, no matter how much your brain is trying to chase the last lingering threads of sleep quickly receding. The nap hadn’t been nearly long enough, but judging by Kyle’s eagerness, they let you sleep a bit longer than they wanted. 

You let out a sigh before pushing yourself off the bed, moving to the dresser. You pull out warm clothes, quickly changing. You have no idea what they have planned, what’s going on. There was no frantic rush, Kyle’s energy more excited than anything. It makes you a bit worried as you step out of the room into the living area. 

They’re all waiting by the door, watching you as you approach them, rubbing your eyes. 

“Come on,” John says, setting a pair of shoes on the floor. “Boots on.” 

“What are we doing?” You ask, moving forward automatically. 

“We’re taking a little trip.” Kyle answers, repeating what he told you in the room. 

You look at him cautiously as you step into the boots, pulling them on. You haven’t been away from the cottage since you arrived two weeks ago. You’ve barely been let outside, weather permitting. It’s an overcast day today, the world grey outside, but grey is better than rain. 

“Ready?” John asks as you stare at him. 

“I guess.” You say, still a bit hesitant. 

They make no effort to ease your discomfort and nerves. 

You’re led out the door and towards the cars by Dr. Keller. Her face is brighter than it has been lately which doesn’t help your nervous energy. She’s excited too, just like the rest of them. You’re not sure why you’re so nervous. Maybe it’s the anxiety of leaving after being trapped inside for so long. You just want to know where you’re going, what it is you’re going to be doing. 

Dr. Keller ushers you into the back seat of one of the cars, getting in the other side. Kyle and John climb into the front while Johnny and Simon get into the other car. 

You watch the green pass by as they drive, taking in the new landscape. You don’t remember arriving at the cottage. You don’t remember most of the trip at all. It’s all a blur in your memory, much like the events that transpired after your omega took over had been. You wish you could remember the trip over those events. You’d take green rolling hills over your own hands taking lives. 

It had been jarring waking in the cottage for the first time. A new place, the lack of memories getting there. You’re beginning to get tired of the pattern. You half expect to fall asleep and wake up somewhere new again most nights. You wouldn’t know any better. A slip of a pill into some food and you’d wake up somewhere halfway across the world. 

You like to think they’d at least warn you beforehand. 

John pulls the car into a parking lot, parking near a line of trees. Johnny pulls into the parking lot behind John, parking near the entrance. It’s on purpose, you know that much. Everything is about safety and making things look as inconspicuous as possible. Anyone could be a rat. Anyone could be watching. 

It’s windier here as you step out of the car, even though you haven't gone far from the cottage. Walking distance, if you were up for a hike. You’re not. 

“Come on, kitten.” Johnny says, guiding you through the parking lot and towards a path. 

You still don’t know what’s happening as you follow them, Johnny holding your hand as you step onto the rocky path. He leads the way, the others following. John is behind you, hovering in case you slip in the gravel. You do your best not to, despite how quickly Johnny is leading you. He’s more eager than Kyle had been, and you’re sure he’d be running if you could keep up. 

You begin to figure out what’s happening as the sound of waves crashing on the shore gets louder and louder. Your chest starts to constrict with emotion as the trees start to get sparser and sparser, a cliff edge visible over Johnny’s shoulder. You want to run now, you want to break ahead and race your way to the edge of the cliff. Johnny, even in his excited state, would catch you before you could take off and potentially hurt yourself. 

You might hurt yourself just trying to run. 

You hate it. 

The land opens before you as you reach the edge of the cliff. The expanse of the sea seems daunting so close, grey and choppy from the wind. Salty air blasts you in the face, rustling your jacket as you stand there above a small beach. It’s empty, but that’s expected for late fall. All the tourists have gone home, those with vacation homes back in better weather for the winter. 

You’re glad you’re alone. You wouldn’t want anyone else ruining this moment. 

Kyle’s fingers wrap around yours as you stand there, staring down at the beach below. “Come on.” 

The gravel turns to dirt as it winds down the side of the cliff, getting steeper as you near the beach. You do nearly slip as you follow Johnny and Kyle down to the sand, your boots quickly getting muddy. You’re glad for them, understanding why John chose boots over more comfortable shoes. 

You pause as your feet sink into sand. You stare out at the water, at the white crests of waves crashing onto the shore. It’s real. It’s not just some mirage, some painting in the background of your life. It’s really here. You’re really here. 

No one says anything as you take a few steps forward before squatting down. You scoop up a handful of sand, letting it slip through your fingers. It’s coarse against your cold skin, thicker and rockier than the sand you’re used to, but it’s still sand. It’s still a beach. 

You’re at the beach. 

You scoop up another handful of sand, letting it run through your fingers again. You want to put some of it in a jar and set it on the nightstand at the cottage. You want to stare at it and remind yourself you’re really at the coast, you’re really just a short drive away from the sea. You want the sand to sink into your skin and flow through your veins and fill every crack that’s formed in your mind.  

You’re really here. 

You stand up straight, staring out at the water again. Your pack is still behind you, silently watching you. You shuffle forward a couple steps, waiting for one of them to stop you, to grab you and keep you from getting closer, but none of them move. You widen your steps, treading through the soft sand until you reach the edge of the wetter sand where the water was earlier. It’s easier to walk on as you continue to approach the water, the sound of your pack treading through the soft sand disappearing behind you as you get closer and closer to the water. The waves flow up the beach, your feet getting closer and closer to where that water stops. 

You half expect them to stop you as you step forward, letting the waves hit your feet. The salty water washes away the mud and sand clinging to your rubber boots, rushing up over the tops of your feet. You stare down at the water, watching it surge upward and around your ankles. You’d keep walking if you were brave enough, let it get higher and higher until it soaked your clothes, but you know they’d stop you. It’s far too cold to risk getting wet. You can feel the chill of the water through your boots as it flows over your feet. 

You’re not sure how long you stand there, watching the water rush back and forth, feeling the pressure of it against your boots as you stand in the waves. You’re really here. You’re really standing in the sea. 

You finally turn after what seems like an eternity, making your way back up to the softer sand. All of them are standing in a line, watching you. You wonder what’s going through their heads, what they feel standing here. Relief? Happiness? Guilt? Shame? The wind whips at your back, coming right off the water, blowing their scents away from you. What you wouldn’t give to be able to smell them right now. 

Tears burn your eyes as you make your way up towards John, trudging through the sand. His cheeks and nose are pink from the cold wind, his beard longer than you’ve ever seen it. You don’t remember the last time you’ve really looked at him up close. His gaze is uncertain as he stares down at you, trying to gauge your next move. He can’t. You know he can’t and it makes you feel powerful. 

It shouldn’t, but it does. 

“Thank you.” You say finally, a tear sliding down your cheek. “Thank you.” 

You can hear them. They don’t know it, but you can. They think they’re speaking quietly, but in the silence of the morning, you can hear almost every word. Dr. Keller’s protests, John's quiet insistence. 

Leaving. 

That’s the word that caught your attention. Leaving. Someone is leaving. Someone is separating themselves from the pack again, and not just for a trip to town to go to the store. This meaning is different, it hangs differently in the air. 

“I don’t think this is a good idea right now.” Dr. Keller says, her voice just barely audible through the open sliding glass door. It’s open just a crack, just enough to hear what’s transpiring inside. 

“We won’t have another chance.” John says, his voice insistent. “We have to do this. She deserves it.” 

She. You. Whatever it is, it involves you. It always does. You can’t remember a time over the last few weeks when it hasn’t been about you. It’s always about you and you hate it. You almost wish things would go back to the way they were before, when you were a second thought, the one left behind.

You’re going to be left behind again. 

“John-” 

“I know.” John’s voice is louder again. “We have to do what’s best for our pack, and right now this is it.” 

The sliding door opens, the conversation over. Your stomach is churning, nausea eating its way up your esophagus as John crosses the deck towards where you’re seated. His steps are slow and quiet, almost like he’s approaching a wild animal. He might be, depending on how this conversation is going to go. 

How are you going to react? You expected it eventually. They’ll always leave, they’ll always put you last and think about themselves first. Are you upset? Are you angry? Is it a relief? 

You wish you could feel something right now. Instead you feel numb. Another promise broken, another lie told. 

“You’re leaving again.” You say, staring out at the horizon as John takes a seat next to you. You need to get it out first, say what you know before he can say it and break your heart again. 

He lets out a quiet sigh, leaning back in the chair. “We are, but you’re coming with us.” 

You turn to glance at him, taken aback by his words. You’re leaving too? You hadn’t considered this. The cottage is your prison. You are Rapunzel trapped by the Mother Gothel that is your pack, stuck in the tower for the rest of time. 

Leaving? 

“There’s something we need to take care of back in the states.” John explains. “You’re coming with us.” 

Back in the states? What could possibly be there that is left for you, for your pack? 

You don’t like the sound of that. You don’t like the sound of that one bit. 

NEXT ->

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[dravidious]

Sometimes I wonder how people back in the 2000s and stuff could look at video game graphics and be like "oh wow this looks so good! how could a game ever look better than this?" when the graphics are pretty low-quality. So anyway my computer is trash and can barely handle modern games, so for anything 3D I always turn the graphics settings way down. But one time, a game somehow glitched my graphics settings back up mid-session and suddenly I was looking at such high-quality visuals that weren't even destroying my framerate and I was just like "is THIS what games are supposed to look like?!?" and it was so eye-opening like. I never really considered this level of quality to be possible until suddenly I'm staring at it. You really don't know what's possible until it's right in front of you.

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: yandere, captive reader, minor wounds, shackles, mental deterioration

♡ GN reader

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking up at you sheepishly from where he kneels before you, your feet in his lap as he carefully unclasps the second metal cuff from your ankle—leaving roughed skin in its wake, cut raw and swollen as badly as the other. “But, you know, I would have taken them off sooner if you’d been good.”

You don't answer him—not feeling like nodding and agreeing, though not exactly feeling up to doing the opposite anymore either. Tired of it, you remain quiet, and you look away instead—flinching and hissing as he carefully handles the wounds with disinfectant, balm, and bandages.

When he’s done, he rests his cheek on your knee—stroking his hands up and down your claves tenderly. “I really am sorry,” he repeats—voice soft and silken, nuzzling into you with big puppy eyes looking up at you. “You’ll forgive me, won’t you?”

There’s a disturbance in your head—an indecision—toiling and swirling like a storm, making you sweat, almost shiver. Should you behave for once? Do what he wants and avoid another punishment—or do you still feel like fighting? Is your dignity worth it? Do you still wish to take the risk and run now that you’re unfettered and free to try again? Or would you like to finally give it up?

This is a test. You know it. No doubt.

He’ll surely catch you if you try. You know that, too. It’s been proven, and you’re not foolish enough to keep holding onto any such false thing as hope.

So then, why try?

Well, it’s a stupid question, and yet you find yourself contemplating it—whether you should try anyway, even when failure is guaranteed. You think, now that you're really thinking about it, the only thing keeping you going is sheer and hollow principle.

Yes, principle—one based on the understanding that if you try, even if you fail, you can at least say you tried—one where the simple thought of giving is detestable. Back then, even weighing the options was unthinkable. Do or die—no in-between, nothing more or less.

But that fire within feels faint now—a low flame just barely weathering the storm, all alone in the cold, in the dark, just waiting for a final gust to blow it out once and for all.

It's an ugly thought, but you think what you really want isn't to find the strength to keep fighting but for someone to say it's okay to stop. You just want a sanction—a blessing—someone to blow the candle out for you.

And acknowledging that, you might as well blow it out yourself.

If the point holds no value, then fighting for it must be even more empty—right?

You sigh.

“It’s not that bad." Lifting a hand, you run it smoothly through his tousled locks with a smile. “Actually, it already feels better.”

The worst or best part about it is how strangely freeing it is—now that you’ve let go. The trouble of remaining vigilant and hostile is an exhausting feat, and now that you’ve put it to rest, you’re left feeling unfettered—like you can finally breathe again.

He kisses your knee, then rests his chin atop it—giving you a similar smile. “I’m glad.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Dabi, Hawks, Shinso ♡ JJK – Geto, Gojo, Naoya ♡ HQ – Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Reo, Nagi ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Suo, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[onlyforwoosan]

Wicked, Wild, and Yours— ℧

Pairing: Choi San (Outlaw Hunter!AU) × Female Outlaw Reader (Enemies to Obsession)

Wordcount: 4.8k

Synopsis: You’re a wanted outlaw. He’s the bounty hunter sent to catch you — but San doesn’t want the reward. He wants you. One chase, one fight, and one night where he makes sure you never run again.

Genre: Smut, Dark Western Romance, Enemies to Lust to Something Else, Outlaw Hunter!AU

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Rough sex, Dominant behavior, Gun violence, Knife use, Blood, Hair pulling, Dirty talk (degrading & possessive), Overstimulation, Handcuffs, Emotionally charged tension, Light gore (during fight scenes), Power play (consensual)

The night was quiet—too quiet for your liking.

The bar was mostly dead, except for the usual drunks and card players who were too broke to leave. Oil lamps flickered across creaky floorboards, casting a soft golden light over the worn mahogany bar. You wiped down the same glass for the fifth time, listening to the low hum of murmured conversation and the occasional thump of boots on wood.

Then you heard him.

The sharp clack of spurs hitting the porch. The heavy sound of a man who walked like he owned the dirt beneath his feet. You turned your head just in time to see him tie up his horse, one hand adjusting the brim of his dark hat, the other resting near the holster on his hip like it belonged there.

And then he walked in.

Choi San.

You froze.

Your breath caught, fingers locking around the glass as he strolled through the doorway. The man was sin carved in leather and bone, his coat swaying behind him like the wings of death itself. He waved to a few folks who recognized him—either too stupid or too scared to avoid his gaze. A hunter. The kind of man people whispered about in other outlaw camps. The kind who didn't take prisoners.

You'd seen posters of him before. "Bounty hunter. Ruthless. Gets the job done."  You thought he looked dangerous in the sketches.

But nothing prepared you for the real thing.

Your heart pounded harder than it should’ve. You couldn’t tell if it was panic or... something worse.

He didn’t glance at anyone else. Just walked right up to the bar and sat down directly in front of you. When he finally looked up, straight into your eyes—it was like he was already aiming.

"Evenin'," he said smoothly.

You nodded, trying to play it cool. “Evenin’.”  He tipped his head slightly, giving you a once-over that was anything but subtle. “You new in town?”

You kept your tone neutral, your face still. “Been around.”

“Hm.” His eyes flickered with interest. “You don’t sound local.”

You shrugged. “A lotta folks ain’t.” 

He smiled then—slow, deliberate, and just shy of cocky. “Fair enough. Whiskey. Neat.”

You turned your back to pour the drink, your hands moving automatically. But your mind was racing. What the fuck is he doing here?

Choi San didn’t just wander into towns like this. He hunted—tracked people down, flushed them out. The kind of man who didn’t ask questions unless he already knew the answers.

And you... were most definitely on someone's list.

You tried to steady your breathing, but it felt like your lungs were trying to crawl up your throat. He couldn’t possibly know who you were, right? You’d changed your hair. Wore different clothes. You were careful, goddammit.

But not careful enough.

You’d been caught once. Only once. That was all it took to get your face on a poster. And San? He didn’t miss.

You brought the drink over and set it down in front of him. “Here.” He took a sip, eyes never leaving yours.

“Y’know,” he said slowly, “I’ve seen a lotta faces. Yours… looks mighty familiar.”

Your throat dried up. “Do it?” you managed. He nodded, eyes sharp now. “Mm. Got one of those looks. Dangerous. Pretty.”

You flushed—goddammit, get a grip—and quickly glanced away, pretending to busy yourself with the bar rag.

“Where’d you say you were from again?” he added, voice light but laced with meaning.

“I didn’t.”

That got a chuckle out of him. “Feisty.”

You forced a polite smile, muttered something about checking stock, and excused yourself to the back.

The saloon’s back room was hazy with smoke and dust. You slipped in, shutting the door behind you, your chest rising and falling fast. “Haechan!” you hissed.

Your partner in crime—both literally and figuratively—was leaned against the back wall, cigarette hanging from his lips and a bottle of bourbon in his hand.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyeing you. “What crawled up your—”

“San’s here.”

That made him freeze… He took the cigarette out of his mouth slowly. “The bounty hunter?”

You nodded. “He’s at the bar. He looked right at me. I think he knows.”

Haechan cursed under his breath. “You said he was on the other side of the territory. How the hell did he find us this fast?”

“I don’t know! Maybe someone ratted, maybe I slipped up.” You grabbed your head. “God, Haechan—he’s gonna kill me. You’ve heard what he does.”

He studied you for a second, serious now. “Then don’t give him the chance. Get out. Go out the back, take the alley, and run.”

You hesitated. “We said no splitting up.”

“We also said don’t get caught,” he shot back. “You’re the one they have posters of. You got made. I didn’t. I’ll cover for you if I can, but you’ve gotta move.”

You peeked through the crack in the door. San was still at the bar. Still watching. Like he knew. He lifted his glass and took a slow sip—then winked at you.

Your stomach dropped. Haechan stepped closer. “Go. Now.” You turned, breath shaky, every instinct screaming to bolt. But something held you there. Fear? Curiosity? Or the heat that still lingered in your skin from the way his eyes had trailed over you?

No. You had to focus. You straightened your spine, took one last look at Haechan, and pushed back through the door.

Back at the bar, San looked completely at ease, fingers tapping against the rim of his glass. You swallowed hard and approached. “Sorry about that. Had to check something.”

“All good,” he replied smoothly. “We were just getting to the fun part anyway.”

You arched a brow. “Fun part?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar. “The part where you tell me your name. The real one.”

Your blood turned cold.

You stared at him, trying to find something casual to say, some smart remark, but your mouth wouldn’t move.. He smirked and reached into his coat. That was all it took… You bolted.

You didn’t wait to see what he was reaching for—gun, badge, poster—you weren’t about to find out. You shoved through the back door, hit the alley running, heart pounding, boots skidding across the dirt. You vaulted over a crate, ducked under a fence, and disappeared into the night.

Behind you, you heard the door slam open and a voice shout, “Shit—!”

You didn’t look back.

By the time San got to the alley, the only thing left was the echo of your boots and the swirling dust in the wind.

He stood there for a moment, glaring into the dark.

Then he smiled.

“She’s fast,” he muttered, already mounting his horse. “But not fast enough.”

Three days had passed since you vanished into the night, slipping through San’s fingers like smoke.

Three fucking days.

He wasn’t used to people getting away—especially not pretty little things who blushed under his stare and ran before he could even finish his sentence.

Now, the hunter was the one being haunted.

San rode through the outskirts of the dusty town under the silver sheen of moonlight. His horse’s hooves beat a steady rhythm against the dirt trail, a low wind stirring the brush. He had one hand on the reins, the other holding a small, battered communicator—cheap tech smuggled in from an old mining town. Outlaws didn’t trust satellites, but he and Woo had their ways.

“You still on her trail?” Wooyoung’s voice crackled through the speaker.

San sighed. “Yeah. She’s hiding good.”

“No shit. You let her run, remember?” San scowled at his best friend's comment. “She was fast.”

“She was hot,” Woo corrected, laughing.

San didn’t say anything. “Oh my god,” Wooyoung continued, smug as hell. “You do think she’s hot.”

“I said she was fast.”

“You said she was cute first. Then fast.”

There was a pause. San sighed again. “She was cute,” he admitted under his breath, just loud enough for Wooyoung to hear.

“Bro.” Wooyoung practically screamed. “Are you catching feelings for a felon?”

“She’s not just a felon,” San said. “She’s... wanted. Like—seriously wanted.”

“You’re not helping your case.”

San rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue. “I’m just saying... she’s interesting. I usually don’t remember faces. I can’t stop remembering hers.”

Woo whistled. “You gonna kill her?”

“...I don’t know yet.”

San hung up before Woo could answer. And then he heard it.

Voices—angry. Shouts. The sharp echo of a gunshot.

He clicked his tongue and pulled the reins, guiding his horse toward the source. A moment later, he spotted movement ahead.

A fight. No—a brawl.

Three figures. You, some guy beside you—firing back-to-back—and a third, dressed in outlaw hunter gear. The third was large, bleeding from the shoulder, but still charging.

You.

San’s stomach flipped. His hand went to the revolver at his side.

You had a knife in one hand and a pistol in the other. Your lip was bleeding, dirt on your skin, your shirt torn at the shoulder. You looked fucking feral—cornered, animal-like, panting as you turned and stabbed the hunter in the side. He grunted and backhanded you hard enough to knock you against the rocks.

San didn’t think.

He jumped off the horse mid-gallop, landing hard and rolling once before rising with his gun already drawn.

Haechan noticed him first.

San caught the flicker of recognition in his eyes before the kid bolted, disappearing behind a cluster of crumbling mining shacks.

You—bloodied, dazed—shoved yourself up from the ground and screamed after him, “You fucking coward!”

And then you turned—and froze.

San stood there, silhouetted in moonlight, revolver drawn and pointed—not at you, but at the hunter who had just recovered and was turning back around.

The man squinted at San. “This ain’t your business, bounty—”

Bang.

San shot him in the thigh. Then again, in the shoulder. The man dropped, screaming.

You stood in stunned silence, barely able to breathe. Your ears were ringing, your head pounding. Blood dripped from your chin. You watched San approach you slowly, holstering his gun like nothing had happened.

You stumbled backward. “What the hell—”

He grabbed you by the wrist before you could bolt.

“Nope. Learned that trick last time.”

With a swift motion, he yanked a pair of worn steel cuffs from his belt and clink—latched one around your wrist. The other he clipped to a leather strap on his horse’s saddle nearby.

“What the fuck, San?!” you spat, struggling.

“You ran once. Not again.” His voice was low, sharp, like a blade gliding against skin.

You tried to pull away, but the chain only rattled. “You just killed him!”

“He was gonna kill you.”

“I had it under control—!” You screamed at the top of your lungs. pissed.

“Your face says otherwise,” San growled, grabbing your chin roughly, forcing you to look at him.

His thumb brushed your split lip, slow, deliberate.

You winced—but didn’t pull away.

The tension between you thickened instantly, charged and volatile. His grip wasn’t cruel, but it was firm. Commanding. The way he looked at you wasn’t like a hunter and prey—it was something darker. Needier.

“You alright?” he asked, quieter now. He was a little guilty from snarling at you.

You stared at him, stunned. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.” His eyes flicked down to your mouth. “Just don’t want damaged goods.”

“Wow. Charming.”

He smirked and released your chin. He turned toward the hunter, who was now crawling away, blood trailing behind him. San didn’t hesitate. He pulled out his second pistol and walked right up behind the man.

“Please—” the hunter gasped.

Bang.

You flinched. The sound echoed through the hills, and then silence.

San returned to you calmly, like he’d just taken out the trash. You sat in stunned silence, chained to his fucking horse, blood on your lip, your stomach twisted.

He kneeled in front of you again, this time slower, his movements careful.

“Next time,” he murmured, “don’t get caught in the dark.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were outnumbered.”

“I had Haechan—”

“Your boyfriend, who ran?” San snorted. “Yeah. Real dependable.” 

You look disgusted. Haechan was most definitely not your boyfriend. He would never be. “Ew! He's my best friend!” You snapped back at him. He looked a little surprised but was kind of happy. Maybe he had a chance..

“My bad, Y/N…”

You glared at him, cheeks flushed with rage. How dare he even use your name? “You think you’re so much better than everyone else because you’ve got guns and a goddamn horse?”

He leaned in close. “No. I think I’m better because I don’t leave people behind.”

You stopped talking. The words hit something raw in you. Something unspoken. Maybe something you’d tried not to feel for years.

San rose, tugging gently on the chain that led to your wrist. “Let’s go.”

You scowled. “What, now?”

“Unless you’d rather sleep next to a corpse.”

You rolled your eyes but stood, dragging your feet. He helped you onto his horse roughly, but not painfully. One hand on your hip, another guiding your thigh up. You yelped when the saddle caught your bruised leg, and he smirked.

“Sensitive, huh?”

“Go to hell.”

“You first, sweetheart.”

He climbed up behind you, his chest pressed to your back, one hand firmly holding the reins, the other lightly resting on your waist.

“You don’t need to hold me like that,” you muttered.

“Don’t flatter yourself. Just don’t want you falling.”

And with that, he clicked the horse into motion.

The ride was brutal at first—every gallop jostled your aching body. You bit your lip to avoid making a sound, even as you bounced against him, your back slamming into his chest.

When he sped up suddenly, you let out a sharp gasp.

“Easy,” he chuckled. “Didn’t take you for the jumpy type.”

“I’m bleeding, you dick.”

“You’re alive,” he replied smoothly.

The wind picked up, cold and sharp, stinging the open cut on your lip. You winced, and he must’ve felt it.

“You sure you okay?” he asked.

“Why are you being nice?”

“I’m not.”

“Right. Just a bounty to you, huh?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, softer than before: “Not just.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glimpse him over your shoulder. His face was unreadable in the moonlight, but there was something in his eyes—something unsettling. Like, even he wasn’t sure what he meant.

You faced forward again, heartbeat thumping loudly in your ears The rest of the ride was silent. But you could feel him—every breath, every muscle shift, every time his gloved fingers brushed your waist or gripped the reins just a little tighter when you leaned back too far.

And worst of all?

You didn’t hate it.

The ride to San’s hideout was long, but the tension made it feel shorter.

You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t talk. And San didn’t offer explanations.

The horse slowed just before dawn, stopping at a secluded ranch tucked behind a dead patch of forest. Weather-worn fencing framed the property, and the barn looked half-collapsed. But the house—it was quiet, sturdy, and unsettlingly normal. Too normal for a man who just shot someone in the skull two hours ago.

San dismounted first, then helped you down—not with kindness, but with control.

His fingers didn’t linger, but his eyes did.

He pulled the chain on your cuff taut and led you up the porch. The door creaked as it opened, revealing a dim interior filled with dust, warm light, and weapons. Guns lined the walls in neat rows. A single table sat under a bare bulb, with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

No Wooyoung.

You noticed.

San locked the door behind you. “He’s gone,” he muttered. “Bar hopping. Or fucking someone. Or both.”

You didn’t say anything, but you did blush a little.. Fuck– you blushed a lot.

You just kept scanning the space, taking note of the exits. Of the heavy boots by the door. Of the butcher knife, half-cleaned in the sink.

San watched your eyes track everything. “Smart girl,” he said. “But don’t bother. You run, I’ll just find you again.”

You glared. “You cuffed me to a horse.”

He smirked. “You looked cute like that.”

You scowled, but before you could respond, he grabbed your arm and dragged you further inside, pushing you down into a wooden chair near the table. He crouched in front of you, eyes locked on yours, fingers gripping your chin again.

“Let’s try this again.”

You didn’t resist—but you didn’t look at him, either.

“I wanna know who you were working with. Names. Routes. Safehouses.”

You scoffed. “Like I’d give you shit.”

He tilted his head. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

He grinned slowly. “You’re not leaving here unless I say so.”

You bristled. But something in your stomach flipped again—something sharp and dangerous and unwanted. He’s insane, you thought. But then he said—

“You thirsty?”

You blinked.

“What?”

San stood and reached for a nearby jug of water. He poured some into a clean glass and set it down in front of you.

You stared at it, confused.

“What the fuck? You were just being an ass.”

He chuckled. “I was always being an ass. Doesn’t mean I won’t give you water.”

You didn’t trust it, but you were parched. You grabbed it and drank. The metal of your cuffs clicked as you shifted. San sat down across from you, one ankle propped over his knee. He watched you sip, then spoke casually.

“You know, I’ve been thinking. I should kill you. Would make my job easier.”

You tensed.

“But…” He leaned forward, eyes dragging over your body. “There’s another option.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What. A deal?” 

He smiled darkly. “No. A punishment.”

Your heart jumped. “The fuck is that supposed to mean—”

His voice dropped low, sultry and razor-sharp. “Punishment like fucking that sweet pussy of yours until you forget your name.”

Heat exploded in your face. “You’re insane.”

“You’re wet.”

“Fuck you—”

“Exactly.”

He stood and crossed the room. You didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Your body was frozen—but not from fear. From want.

He returned with a small key and crouched beside you again. “I’ll unlock the cuffs. But if you run, I’ll catch you. And next time, I won’t be gentle.”

He unlocked the chain.

You didn’t run.

You didn’t want to.

He stood again and offered his hand. “Your choice,” he said, voice low and rough. “Out that door… or to my bed.”

You stared at him, then glanced at the door. You didn’t move. “Thought so.”

He took your wrist, pulled you up, and led you down a hallway. His room was worse than you expected. Dark wood walls. An unmade bed. Guns everywhere. Antlers mounted above the headboard. Shelves lined with bullets, whiskey bottles, and half-ripped wanted posters.

You paused—because three of those posters were yours. One was pinned near the bed. And it was stained.You didn’t ask what the white smear was.

San noticed you looking.

He smirked, leaned in behind you, and whispered, “Got real familiar with you before I met you.”

You swallowed hard.

His hand slid around your waist. The other gripped your shoulder.

He bent you over the edge of the bed, body flush to yours, breath hot on your ear.

“No more talking.”

Then the rip.

He grabbed the back of your shirt and tore it straight down the spine, fabric splitting like paper. Your bra snapped loose seconds later. You gasped, but his palm was already on your back, keeping you bent.

He dropped to his knees behind you, fingers roughly yanking your pants down to your thighs. He didn’t prep. Didn’t pause. You felt him move behind you, heard the telltale crack of a condom being torn open.

Then—

One hard thrust.

You screamed—half in shock, half in need.

“Shhh.. i’ve got you..” he growled, voice hot at your shoulder. “You can take it.”

“F- fuck!” You moaned as he slammed into you again, then again, his hips snapping rough against yours, one hand buried in your hair, the other gripping your hip like he owned you. You couldnt lie, you loved it. Him treating you like this.

“Fuckin’ tight little outlaw cunt,” he grunted. “You needed this, didn’t you?”

You moaned through gritted teeth, body on fire, legs trembling. “S–sannie..”

“You like being bent over like a prize?” he snarled. “Like a bounty?”

You didn’t answer—so he spanked you. Hard. You cried out, biting the sheets.

“Answer me, baby..”

“Yes,” you hissed. “Yes—fuck—yes.”

He fucked you harder.

No mercy. No pause.

He filled you like he was trying to ruin you from the inside out, rough and fast and filthy. He whispered the nastiest shit in your ear—how good your pussy felt, how pretty you sounded begging, how much he was going to fuck you until you couldn’t walk.

Your voice cracked as you tried to breathe his name, hips trembling under the weight of his body.

“S–Sannie…”

It came out broken, high and desperate. You weren’t even sure if you were begging him to stop or begging for more. The sound of it made him still for just a second — just long enough for him to lower his chest against your back, wrapping one strong arm around your waist to hold you close.

His breath was warm at your ear, the edge in his voice softening.

“There she is…” he murmured, lips grazing your temple. “My sweet girl.”

You whimpered again, tears clinging to your lashes. “I–I can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” he said, quieter now, but no less intense. “You’re takin’ me so well. So perfect… you were made for this. Made for me.”

His thrusts slowed — deep and steady now — more like he was savoring you, not just claiming you. His fingers tangled with yours over the sheets, his other hand rubbing soothing circles over your ribs as you tried to catch your breath.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “All messed up for me. Cryin’ for me.”

You nodded shakily, voice trembling, “S–Sannie… it’s too much.. G–gonna cum.”

He kissed your shoulder, moving gently now — hips rolling slow and thick inside you, coaxing every gasp and moan from your throat.

“I know, baby,” he said. “But I’ve got you. You don’t gotta run anymore. You’re safe now… right here with me.”

And with the way his arms wrapped around you, the way his voice dipped into something raw and real, you almost believed him.

Your legs almost gave out—but he held you up, cock driving into you over and over until you were trembling, moaning his name in broken gasps.

When your body clenched and you came hard around him, he cursed, pulled out, and flipped you over.

“On my lap.”

You barely had time to breathe before he pulled you into his lap, straddling him as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

He was already hard again. Already rolling another condom on.

You whimpered.

He grabbed your hips and slammed you down onto him.

You gasped—eyes wide, back arching.

He leaned forward, grabbed his cowboy hat, and placed it on your head.

“There,” he smirked. “Now you look real pretty.”

You couldn’t speak.

You just rode him—driven by some fever you couldn’t explain, some need that had been burning for days. He held your waist and fucked up into you, your bodies slamming together, the hat slipping down your forehead.

He groaned every time you clenched, every time you whispered his name, every time you lost rhythm and whimpered into his neck.

“Naughty fuckin’ little outlaw,” he breathed. “Could’ve been mine this whole time.”

“You’re insane,” you whispered.

“And you’re soaked.”

You shuddered.

He let you ride him until your thighs burned and your legs collapsed. Your forehead stayed pressed to his as your hips moved faster, his hands gripping you tighter like he was trying to anchor both of you. San's breath was ragged, warm puffs against your mouth as he looked at you — not just your body, but you.

“I’m close,” you whispered, voice barely holding together, “Sannie, I—”

His hands slid up your back, one curling into your hair, tugging gently to tilt your face to his. “I know, baby. Just let go. I’ve got you.”

Your fingers dug into his chest as you ground down on him harder, chasing that high that sat right on the edge of every nerve in your body. His mouth brushed yours — not quite a kiss, just breath and warmth and the tremble of restraint in him.

“That’s it,” he whispered again, voice thick. “Ride it out for me. Take everything I give you.”

You cried out his name — sharp and breathless — as your body finally broke, pleasure rolling through you like a wave that knocked the air from your lungs. You clung to him, gasping, the world spinning around you as your muscles tensed and fluttered with each pulse of release.

San groaned deep in his throat, his hands tightening on your hips as he bucked up into you once, twice, chasing his own edge. “You’re perfect,” he choked out. “So fucking perfect.”

Then he pulled you fully against his chest, burying his face in your neck as he followed you over the edge — body shuddering, breath caught between a curse and your name.

Then he laid you down.

The bed creaked as he hovered over you, finally slow, finally controlled.

He kissed your neck once—just once.

Then he slid into you again, slow and deep.

You gasped, already sensitive.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “Let me feel you.”

This time, he didn’t pound you.

He rolled his hips with care, like he was learning your body. His hand found yours and pinned it over your head, his other hand gripping your jaw as he looked into your eyes.

“You were always gonna be mine,” he murmured.

Your lips parted.

You believed him.

And when you came again—shaking and breathless—he followed you, burying his face in your neck as his body tensed and trembled against yours.

“I’ve got you, sweetie..” He murmured in your ear.. You held onto his biceps.. Your eyes starting to close…

The bed was cold.

San’s hand dragged across the sheets as his eyes blinked open, muscles sore and head fuzzy from a sleep that felt far too short. The room was quiet—too quiet. No footsteps. No smartass remarks. No soft, sleepy breaths beside him.

He sat up quickly, heart already racing.

You were gone.

The cuffs were off. The door hadn’t slammed. You’d slipped out quietly, like smoke through a crack in the wall.

He cursed under his breath and scanned the room. That’s when he saw it:

A folded note, sitting crooked on the nightstand, weighted down by one of your spent bullets—small, but unmistakably yours.

He stared at it for a moment, jaw tight.

Then picked it up.

The paper smelled faintly like you—leather, dirt, and something sweeter underneath. He unfolded it carefully, like if he opened it too fast you might vanish for good.

Your handwriting spilled across the page, messy but confident.

“Morning, cowboy. Didn’t mean to disappear without a kiss. You were snoring too loud.”

“Don’t get your ego all twisted. Last night wasn’t a surrender—it was a draw. A damn good one, though.”

“I liked the way you touched me like you owned me. Even if I don’t belong to anyone… not really.”

“You’re dangerous. All coiled muscle and rough hands and a mouth that makes it impossible to think straight. Guess that’s why I didn’t shoot you when I had the chance.”

“But I’m not good at staying. Never was. Never tried to be. There’s always a bounty, always someone chasing me, always another dusty town to disappear into.”

“Still… you felt different. Even if I won’t say it out loud.”

“And maybe I’m stupid for leaving. Maybe I’m scared. Maybe both.”

“But if you find me again—really find me—”

“I’ll stay.”

“Because for all my running, I think I’ve been yours since the second you walked into that bar.”

—Yours. Always.”  

“p.s .. I love you.”

San didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

The note trembled slightly in his hand as he sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless, marked up with scratches and bites you’d left behind. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, eyes locked on the paper like it might say more if he just stared long enough.

She’s gone, he thought.

But she’s not lost.

He folded the note gently and tucked it inside his coat—right next to his heart. Then he grabbed his belt, holstered his revolver, and headed for the door.

There was only one thought in his mind now.

He wasn’t mad. Not even close.

Because now?

He had a reason to hunt you again...