#Turning a cold shoulder. | Verses

[lieblxng]

Update! Since I'm in a Hop mood and I wanted to finish the bio I was working on before I left, I went ahead and finished Hop's full bio! This means the introduction of two new verses for Hop down below:

New Verse | Champion

After cleaning his team up, refining his strategy, staying up day and night training, after years of hopeless crying and hurting–he finally did it. He finally defeated his rival in the semi-finals of the Gym League Challenge and then took on his own brother. It was a difficult, emotional fight, but Hop came on top. After everything he’s been through, finally, people can be proud of him. Leon can be proud of him. Mum can be proud of him. He can be proud of himself. Hop has never been so happy before…

New Verse | Professor

Working alongside Professor Sonia for years, with all the experience he got, had inspired him to pursue becoming a Pokémon Professor himself. With his family and friends’ support, he was able to go through schooling and later came out with a degree. After publishing a book on the topic of Pokémon battling when he graduated, he was able to have a lab built for him in Postwick, near his house. Now he spends his days there, happy that he found his true calling in life.

I'm also currently working on a verse similar to the Eternatus!Leon one, but we'll see, weee- Thank you for reading!

[leriexoxo]

Wait, Aren’t You Gay?

Bestfriend! Leeknow x Reader

“You crossed a line, He burned the rest”

Tags: Smut, groping, Mutual pining, phone sex, oral (f , m receiving), unprotected sex, dirty talk, fingering, begging, praise, soft dom Minho, tension snapping like a wire, domestic fluff, aftercare, post-sex vulnerability, tit play, friends to lovers

Word count: 8k

Summary: You always thought Minho was gay—so you never held back. Tiny tops, unfiltered stories, late-night cuddles… harmless, right?Until he sees you soaked through one day and finally snaps. And suddenly, your best friend isn’t looking at you like a friend anymore. Until one late-night phone call changed everything. Now you’re at his door—no bra, no excuse—buzzing from the sound of his voice and the filthy things he made you do. He opens the door. He sees you. And just like that, it’s over. The line is crossed.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You’d known Lee Minho since you were barely old enough to walk without holding onto his shirt.

Back then, he was just that loud kid who shared his snacks and shoved you into mud puddles. Now? He was your best friend. Constant. Loyal. Always down to pick you up when you were drunk or kill spiders or fake-boyfriend you out of awkward situations.

And also—totally not into girls.

At least, that’s what you’d always assumed.

He never talked about hookups. Never ogled girls. Never so much as blinked when you pranced around in your tiny shorts or ranted about your latest sex-related disaster. You figured he was either the most respectful man alive—or playing for a different team.

So you got reckless. Comfortable.

And today?

You were about to find out just how wrong you’d been.

It started with the kitchen sink.

You were washing dishes, half-dancing to your playlist, wearing nothing but those soft cotton shorts and an oversized white tank with no bra underneath. Your wet hair clung to your neck, and you were humming through a verse when the faucet burst—literally—spraying a jet of cold water straight at your chest.

“FUCK—shit, fuck—” You stumbled back, grabbing at the handle, slipping on the tile as water drenched you from neck to stomach.

And that’s when Minho walked in.

“Yo, I got the charger you—”

He froze.

You blinked at him, soaked and panting, hair plastered to your cheeks.

Water trickled down the front of your now see-through top. The fabric clung to every inch of your skin. And your nipples? Standing out like full spotlight, front row through the sheer cotton. You had no idea though, no time to even think about it before he had appeared.

“Oh.” You laughed, awkward. “Um—hi. Broken faucet. Don’t mind the wet t-shirt contest.”

He didn’t answer.

Just stood there.

Eyes glued to your chest, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring like he was trying to hold his breath.

Your smile faded.

“Min?”

His gaze finally snapped to your face.

Too late.

You saw it—the tension. The fire.

The unmistakable flicker of hunger.

And suddenly your stomach flipped.

“…Minho?”

He swallowed hard, voice low. Rough.

“Put something on. Now.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I said—” His eyes dropped again before yanking back up. “Go change. Now. Before I do something really fucking stupid.”

Your heart skipped.

Because that? That didn’t sound like your best friend.

You stood there in wet silence, your soaked top clinging to your skin like a second damn layer, Minho couldn’t meet your eyes.

He turned his back to you—turned his back—and gripped the edge of your countertop like he was grounding himself. His shoulders rose with each breath, tense as hell, like someone trying not to explode.

You’d never seen him like this. Not with you.

“I wasn’t—Min, I didn’t mean—” you stammered, brain short-circuiting. “I didn’t know you were coming over yet.”

His voice was clipped. “You knew the faucet was broken.”

“I didn’t know it was gonna blast me in the tits!”

Silence.

A beat.

Then, quietly—so quietly—you heard it:

“Jesus Christ…”

That’s when something finally clicked.

You looked down at yourself—at the sheer fabric sticking to your breasts, nipples hard, outline of your curves totally exposed. And for the first time in all the years of being this careless around him, you suddenly felt self-conscious.

You reached for a dish towel and held it over your chest.

“…Are you mad at me?” you asked, voice small.

“No,” he said quickly. Too quickly.

You stepped closer.

“Then what’s going on?”

He shook his head, still facing away. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Try me.”

He let out a breath that sounded more like a growl, and when he finally turned around, you caught it again—that look. Raw, unfiltered restraint. His gaze flicked down to the towel you’d pressed to your chest, then back to your face.

You watched him like he was someone else.

Like the Minho you grew up with had peeled off his skin and left something sharper underneath. His jaw was tight, arms folded, eyes still avoiding yours—but you felt it now. That edge. That static charge that had been humming under the surface for who knows how long.

“I’ll fix the faucet later,” he muttered, stepping past you—carefully. Like you were made of glass. Or fire.

You turned as he moved, towel still clutched to your chest.

“You didn’t answer me,” you said.

“About what?”

“Why you told me to change.”

He stopped at the door.

Didn’t turn around.

For a long second, you thought he wouldn’t say anything at all.

Then, quietly, he replied:

“Because if I’d kept looking at you, I don’t think I would’ve kept my mouth shut.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

And when he walked out of the kitchen, just like that, it was like the whole room shifted.

The air changed.

Everything felt warmer. Tighter. Thinner.

You didn’t move for a while. Not until the cold in your soaked top finally made your skin sting.

⸻

The rest of the day passed weirdly.

Minho didn’t leave, of course. He stayed like he always did, lounging on your couch, bickering over what to order for dinner, side-eyeing you every time you grabbed your phone.

But the energy between you?

Completely different.

He didn’t look at you the way he usually did. Didn’t tease you like normal. Didn’t even touch you when he passed you the remote—just tossed it like it might burn him otherwise.

And you couldn’t stop thinking about his voice in the kitchen.

“I don’t think I would’ve kept my mouth shut.”

Kept it shut about what, exactly?

What he was thinking?

What he wanted to do?

You were still thinking about it when you came out of your room later in a sleep shirt that barely skimmed your thighs. No bra. Nothing underneath. The usual you-in-your-element vibe.

Except… this time?

You caught him looking.

Not accidentally.

Not briefly.

He looked—and kept looking.

From your legs to your hips to the faint hint of nipple under the thin fabric, straight to your face.

Your breath caught.

He didn’t apologize.

He didn’t blink.

He just raised a brow—almost like a dare—and said, “Your sink’s still fucked.”

You nodded, slowly.

“So are you gonna fix it?”

He stood up.

And as he passed by, way too close, his hand brushed the curve of your lower back.

Just a touch.

Too casual to be called a grab. Too deliberate to be innocent.

And then he was gone again, heading into the kitchen.

Like it hadn’t just happened at all.

⸻

He always crashed in your bed. That wasn’t new.

Late movie nights, sleepy arguments, limbs tangled and breathing synced—just best friends, just comfort.

Except tonight?

You felt everything.

His warmth at your back. The heaviness of his arm draped around your waist. The intentional silence of him pretending to be asleep, even though you could feel how tense he was.

You’d turned off the lights twenty minutes ago, but your body was still buzzing. Hyperaware of every inch of skin not covered by your flimsy sleep shirt. Every inch of him pressed against you in the dark.

And you knew—you knew—he hadn’t stopped thinking about earlier.

About how you’d looked dripping wet, nipples hard, shirt transparent and clinging to your curves like a second skin.

You should’ve felt awkward.

But instead, your thighs were clenched.

And then—His hand moved.

Just a little.

At first, it was nothing. A small adjustment. His fingers splayed over your stomach like they were stretching in his sleep. But then his palm drifted higher.

Slow.

Barely grazing the underside of your breast through your shirt.

Your breath caught.

His did too.

Like he just realized what his body was doing.

He didn’t pull away.

Not immediately.

His fingers twitched, tips brushing right beneath the curve of your boob—soft, tentative. Still pretending it was nothing. That he was asleep. That this wasn’t completely out of bounds.

Your chest rose and fell faster now.

He still didn’t speak.

But his hand stayed there.

Hovering. Teasing. The edge of a full touch, like he was testing himself. Or punishing himself.

And you?

You didn’t stop him.

You didn’t even breathe.

You just pressed back into him slightly—so slightly—and felt the undeniable shape of him, hard and restrained against the swell of your ass.

He exhaled shakily behind you.

Shit.

You’d never heard him make a sound like that before. Not around you.

Not around anyone.

You didn’t move for a while.

Didn’t even blink. Not when his fingers hovered beneath your breast, not when you felt his cock pressed firm and restrained against the curve of your ass. You just stayed still—heart hammering, skin burning—like your body was listening for his next move.

But when none came…

You shifted.

Just a little. Barely a breath of movement. Just enough to arch your back, push your chest forward, and guide the soft swell of your breast right into his palm.

His fingers twitched again.

But he didn’t pull away.

He didn’t say your name. Didn’t jerk back in shock or guilt. He just stayed there—completely still behind you, breathing shallow and slow like he was holding onto sleep as a defense.

Your nipples were hard beneath the thin cotton, the heat of his palm sinking through the fabric like an electric brand. It was barely a touch—but it felt filthy. Loaded. More intimate than anything you’d done with someone you were actually sleeping with.

And still, you stayed quiet.

Still.

Sleeping.

His thumb brushed the soft curve below your nipple. Just once. Barely there. Like a reflex.

And this time, his hips shifted too.

The press of him against your ass sharpened—more deliberate now. Less restrained. Like his body had stopped asking for permission and started taking what you weren’t stopping.

His hand tightened—slightly.

He was pretending to be asleep, you realized.

Just like you were.

If either of you acknowledged it, the world would crack open.

So you didn’t.

You just let it happen.

Let his hand cup your breast like it was meant to be there. Let his hips roll forward in the slowest, tiniest grind. Let your legs shift apart just enough that your thighs stopped brushing—and instead, welcomed.

He let out another one of those breaths—low, shaky, wrecked.

You smiled into the pillow.

Still not breathing.

Still “asleep.”

And behind you, your best friend since diapers was losing his last scrap of composure.

—

The morning came too fast.

Sunlight crept through your curtains like it knew what happened. Like it saw every second of that not-a-dream moment where his hand cupped your breast and his hips rolled into yours like it wasn’t the first time he’d imagined it.

He was already in the kitchen when you woke up.

Hair messy, hoodie wrinkled, acting like everything was normal. Like he hadn’t spent the night wrapped around you with his cock pressed to your ass and his hand full of your tit.

You padded out barefoot, keeping your face unreadable.

He handed you a mug. “You were out cold.”

Liar.

You took it, fingers brushing his, watching him too closely.

“So were you.”

A flicker—barely there—but his eyes twitched toward you for a split second. Like he was trying to see if you meant something more.

You let him sit with the tension.

You drank your coffee slow.

“You ever think…” you began softly, “maybe I’ve just been really fucking stupid?”

He looked up from his cereal. “Since when?”

You tilted your head. “Since assuming you weren’t into girls.”

He blinked. Slowly. Carefully.

That… got his attention.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh it off. Just sat there—silent—and then brought the spoon to his mouth like nothing had happened.

But his voice, when he finally answered, was low. Controlled.

“What makes you ask that?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. You never dated any. Never flirted. You never reacted when I walked around like—” you gestured vaguely at yourself—“this. So I figured, you know. Must be the reason.”

Another pause.

His eyes dropped to your thighs.

You were wearing the same sleep shirt.

No bra still.

Of course he noticed.

But he didn’t give you that satisfaction. He set the spoon down and leaned back in the chair, stretching lazily like his body hadn’t betrayed him eight hours ago in your bed.

“Maybe I’m just good at not talking about certain things,” he said.

That hit harder than it should have.

You stared at him.

And for the first time in a long time—you didn’t see your best friend.

You saw a man who’d been holding himself back for years.

You’d never stared at his crotch before.

That was the first red flag.

You weren’t even trying to. Just sitting across from him on the couch while he scrolled through his phone, hoodie riding up slightly, grey sweatpants loose and slung criminally low on his hips. You weren’t supposed to notice the shape beneath. The outline. The fact that you recognized the pressure of it against your ass last night because it had left an imprint on your nervous system.

You blinked away quickly.

Jesus.

You sipped your water like it could douse whatever fire had started in your chest—and your thighs.

He didn’t notice.

Of course he didn’t.

Lee Minho was the king of unreadable faces. That man could watch you strip naked and probably wouldn’t flinch. It was part of the reason you’d always felt safe around him. And the same reason you were losing your mind now.

You needed to know.

If you were wrong. If he’d just been hiding in plain sight. If that touch last night had been a fluke. A dream. Or something darker.

So you tested it.

That evening, while he sat on the floor building a shelf you couldn’t be bothered to finish, you leaned in behind him.

Loose tank top. Braless as usual. Intentional bend.

He turned slightly. Saw your chest from the side—too close, too exposed, one nipple practically peeking through the armhole.

His jaw clenched.

But he said nothing.

Strike one.

You tried again.

Pulled your hair up messily, exposing your neck, your back. Made small, breathy sounds when you stretched. Loud enough to hear. Soft enough to pass as innocent.

Still nothing.

Strike two.

You were practically writhing at this point. Trying to piss him off or fluster him, something.

But Lee Minho stayed quiet.

You weren’t sure what exactly you were trying to prove anymore.

That he wasn’t gay? That he wanted you? That you could still control this friendship even when everything was shifting beneath your feet?

Maybe it was all of it.

But you were already halfway in his lap before you had time to second guess it.

“You’re not good at building shit,” you teased, voice sweet as sugar while you hovered close, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. “Lucky I’m cute enough to get away with watching instead of helping.”

He grunted—low, disinterested. But his eyes betrayed him. You saw the flicker—straight to your chest, to the deep dip of cleavage you’d made extra sure he’d notice.

Bingo.

You leaned closer. Pretending to inspect a screw on the shelf. Your tits brushed his upper arm.

He went still.

“You okay there, Min?” you asked softly. Coy.

He cleared his throat. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?”

“This,” he said. He didn’t look at you. “Whatever game you’re playing right now.”

“I’m not playing anything.”

“Yes, you are.”

You tilted your head. “What are you talking about?”

Silence.

Then, quieter: “I’m warning you.”

Oh, that did something to you.

He sounded like he meant it. Like he was afraid of himself more than you. And maybe he should’ve been—because you were reckless now. Hyped up on the taste of your own power, drunk on the image of him with your tit in his hand last night.

You pulled your tank top aside from the arm hole just a little. No bra. Just the soft swell of skin—more than enough to tempt. His eyes snapped to it instantly.

“Go ahead,” you whispered. “Touch me.”

He swallowed.

Didn’t move.

So you took his hand yourself—slowly, deliberately—and pressed it to your breast.

Flesh to palm.

He exhaled sharp. Visibly flinched. But he didn’t pull away.

You arched into his touch.

“You’ve never been curious?” you asked, voice lower now, almost daring. “Never once wondered what they felt like? You’ve known me your whole life, Minho…”

His thumb twitched. Brushed the underside like he didn’t even know he was doing it.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?”

“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

You smiled faintly.

But then he tightened his grip—just slightly—and your breath caught.

“You think I’ve been ignoring you all these years?” he asked, voice dark now. Steady. Dangerous. “You think I don’t notice when you walk around half naked? You think I don’t see the way your tits bounce when you laugh?”

You froze.

Oh.

Oh shit.

“You think I don’t feel them when you’re sleeping pressed against me?” His thumb brushed up now—barely grazing your nipple. It stiffened instantly. So did you.

“Minho…”

His hand dropped away suddenly, like he was snapping out of it.

“You need to stop,” he said, standing up too fast. “Before you push me too far.”

You stared up at him from the floor, dazed.

For the first time… you realized you might’ve already pushed too far.

—

It was hours later when you finally crawled into bed.

He was already in it—lying on his side, facing away, blanket riding low on his waist and exposing the tight line of muscle up his back.

Your heart was still pounding.

He hadn’t said a single thing after storming out earlier. Not during dinner. Not while you cleaned the mess from the half-finished shelf. Not while you avoided looking at him like he hadn’t cupped your tit like a stress ball.

And now you were lying beside him again, like nothing had changed.

You couldn’t tell if you were relieved or disappointed.

You turned your back to him, the usual position when you shared a bed, but the air felt different tonight. Dense. Stifling.

“Hey,” you whispered in the dark. “Are we… okay?”

His voice came low. Controlled. “You tell me.”

You swallowed. “You seemed… upset earlier.”

“I was,” he said. “I’m not anymore.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

Then, casually:

“You looked at my dick today.”

You choked. “What?! No I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

You rolled onto your back, flustered. “You can’t prove that.”

“I don’t need to. I know your face. I’ve known it since you had baby teeth.”

You blinked at the ceiling. Your face was burning.

He shifted then—closer. The bed dipped behind you. His chest met your back.

And something else pressed against your ass.

Hard. Solid. Undeniable.

You gasped.

His lips brushed your ear. Calm. Evil.

“That’s payback,” he said softly, “for putting your tits in my hand.”

You forgot how to breathe.

He didn’t move.

Neither did you.

The air between you was molten now, and his cock—fuck, that was his cock—was still heavy and pulsing against your ass like he was proud of it.

“Minho…”

“You wanted to know,” he said, voice silk and fire. “You’ve been trying to get a reaction out of me all day. So now you’ve got one.”

You felt him smirk.

“What’s wrong?” he murmured. “Too much?”

You couldn’t answer.

Not when your thighs were squeezing together like they had a mind of their own. Not when your heart was a drum and your skin burned where it touched his.

You didn’t say anything at first.

Just stayed frozen in place, his cock pressed thick and solid against the soft curve of your ass, your entire body vibrating with heat.

Your lips moved before your brain could stop them.

“…Can I touch it?”

Silence.

Not even a breath behind you.

Then— “What?”

You swallowed, your voice weirdly calm now. “I just… I wanna feel it. Like—actually feel it. With my hand.”

A sound escaped his throat. Sharp. Choked.

“You’re kidding.”

You turned around slowly, facing him in the dark. His eyes locked on yours—blown, stunned, like you’d slapped him with a brick made of sin.

You didn’t wait for another answer.

Your eyes dropped straight to his crotch.

And your hand followed.

The blanket shifted just enough as you slipped beneath it, and your palm found him right where he’d pressed up against you before—still just as thick, still painfully hard, straining beneath the soft fabric of his sweatpants.

You cupped him gently.

Minho jerked.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered, face twisting. “What the hell are you doing…”

“Just curious,” you murmured, gaze fixed on the shape of him under your hand. “You’re so… big.”

He groaned, head dropping back into the pillow.

Your fingers squeezed lightly. You were sure you felt him twitch.

“You’ve been like this all night?” you asked, eyes wide.

He hissed through his teeth. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Why not?” you teased, still stroking. “It’s not like I’m doing anything serious.”

“That’s the fucking problem,” he gritted out, hips twitching into your hand.

You explored him like you were learning something new, weighing the heft of him through his pants, tracing the long, thick outline up and down.

He was breathing heavier now. Jaw clenched. Eyes shut.

“You can tell me to stop,” you whispered.

He didn’t.

So you slipped your hand inside.

No warning.

Just fingers beneath the waistband, sliding inside until you were wrapping your hand around bare, hot skin.

Minho choked.

“Fuck—fuck—”

You stroked slowly, palm tight around the base, sliding up to the head and back again. He was massive. Velvet over steel. Already leaking a little at the tip.

He bucked into your hand before he could stop himself, hips twitching under the weight of your touch.

“Is this payback too?” you asked, lips barely moving.

His eyes flew open.

“Keep talking and I’ll fuck your throat instead.”

Your hand froze.

Your heart flipped.

Your thighs clenched so hard it hurt.

But then, you looked up at him. Still holding him. Still stroking him.

His cock twitched in your hand, thick and aching, as you slowly dragged your fingers up the shaft and back down, your touch featherlight—teasing.

Minho’s eyes were glassy now, dark and stormy and wild, like he was barely keeping himself together. His jaw clenched. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts.

You felt powerful. Dangerous.

So you looked up at him—bold, daring—and said, “So? Still want me to stop?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just blinked at you like he was seeing you for the first time. His voice came hoarse and wrecked.

“Are you crazy?”

You tilted your head. “Maybe.”

“This is—” He swallowed. “We’re—”

“Friends?” you offered, sliding your hand again, slower now. “Childhood besties? Practically siblings?”

He winced. “God, don’t say that.”

You smiled.

And then, without another word, you sat up on your knees and tugged your oversized sleep shirt over your head—bare underneath. Just skin and heat and those same soft breasts he’d felt in his hands earlier.

They bounced slightly as you moved, and the room went still.

His breath hitched. His eyes dropped—dragged—to your chest.

It was the second time he’d seen them that night.

“I’m sure,” you said simply.

Something broke in him.

He sat up so fast the mattress shook, one hand grabbing your wrist, the other threading hard into your hair. He yanked you forward, his mouth crashing into yours with so much heat it knocked the breath from your lungs.

You gasped into the kiss, and he devoured it—biting, claiming, groaning into your mouth like he’d been starving for years.

“This what you wanted?” he growled, lips trailing down your neck, teeth dragging over your collarbone. “You really wanted to see what I’d do?”

You whimpered, nodding, fingers already clawing at the waistband of his sweats.

“Too late to take it back now,” he muttered against your skin, before ducking down and wrapping his lips around your nipple—hard.

Your back arched. His tongue flicked, sucked, bit.

“Minho—”

“I’ve dreamed about these,” he groaned, switching to the other breast, kneading the first one in his palm like he was worshiping it. “You don’t know what the fuck you’ve done to me.”

Your whole body was trembling, his hands now everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding down your back, yanking you flush against his chest as he rutted up into you, his cock still trapped in his sweats, still throbbing.

“Need to feel you,” he rasped. “Need to have you.”

“Then take me,” you breathed. Without even thinking about it.

And for a second, Minho froze.

Not because he didn’t want to—his hands were already sliding lower, gripping your hips with bruising force—but because the way you’d said it… so open, so needy, so real… it shook him.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” he whispered, forehead pressing against yours, his voice raw, trembling. “Because if I start, I won’t stop this time.”

Your chest heaved against his, nipples dragging over his skin, and his self-control nearly snapped again right there. You could feel him under you, thick and hot through the fabric of his sweats, the tip pressed right against your soaked panties. One shift of your hips and—

“I’m not asking you to stop,” you whispered back.

He groaned, low and guttural, like the sound had been buried in his chest for years. You kissed him again—slow, deep, your tongues tangling like this wasn’t the first time. Like your bodies already knew the steps.

And maybe they did.

His hand slid between your thighs, pressing the heel of his palm right where you were aching most. Your hips jerked.

“Already soaked,” he rasped, biting down on your lip. “Fuck—have you always been like this around me?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. His fingers dipped beneath your waistband, brushing over your soaked folds through your underwear—just enough to make you moan.

“You’re playing with fire,” he warned, mouth now at your ear, voice shaking. “You keep tempting me like this, and I swear—”

“Then burn me,” you whispered, grinding down on his hand.

He snapped again—grabbing your ass and flipping you onto your back like he’d been holding back all his life. The sudden dominance in his movements made your breath hitch.

Minho hovered over you, both of you half-naked now, tangled in sweatpants and damp underwear and a thousand repressed thoughts.

His hand moved with purpose now, cupping your mound, rubbing slow circles over your clit, lips pressed to your neck.

You whimpered, bucked.

“Don’t tease,” you begged.

He chuckled darkly. “Says the one who’s been waving her tits in my face for years.”

You gasped—half embarrassed, half turned on—and he pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.

“Tell me to stop,” he said softly. “Or I’m going to ruin your sleep.”

You stared at him, panting. You wanted him. Needed him. But something inside you whispered—not yet. Not like this. Not while everything was still unraveling too fast.

“Not tonight,” you murmured, heart racing.

His expression shifted, softening in a way that made your chest ache.

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

But his fingers didn’t move right away. He gave you one last teasing brush, slow and aching.

“For the record,” he added, voice like gravel, “this is me trying to behave.”

You giggled, breathless.

“I can tell.”

And then he pulled you into his chest, kissed your forehead, and let the fire between you simmer.

You didn’t have sex that night.

But neither of you slept much, either.

⸻

It had only been three days.

Three days since Minho had slipped out with nothing but a cryptic, “I’ll see you later,” and a soft kiss to your temple. Two days since you’d almost let your best friend finger you into oblivion under the safety of your shared covers. And now he was gone.

Well, not gone-gone. Just back at his apartment. Just out of reach. Just far enough to not risk really doing what your bodies had been begging for.

He hadn’t ghosted. Not exactly. Just a little space, a few texts. “Sorry, been busy.” “Work’s a lot this week.” “I’ll come by soon.”

But soon wasn’t now. And now… was when you were sprawled out on your bed, fingers between your thighs, a familiar silicone toy buzzing softly inside you—desperate to chase that same friction you almost got from him.

It wasn’t the same. Nothing could be. But the thoughts in your head? Those were filthy enough to get the job done.

Your mind kept flashing back to the night before he left: his voice in your ear, his thick cock pressed to your core, the way he’d looked at you like he’d been starving. You whined as your hips rolled, tightening your grip on the toy buried inside you.

Then your phone lit up.

Minho calling.

You froze, heart skipping. Fuck.

You hesitated just long enough for it to ring again—and then answered, trying to level your breath.

“Hey,” you managed, voice just a bit too airy.

“Hey,” he said, voice casual, low. “Were you sleeping?”

“Nope.” You exhaled hard through your nose, the vibrator still inside you, pulsing away like it knew your secrets. “Just… relaxing.”

“Mmm.” His voice dropped, curious. “You sound out of breath.”

You swallowed. Hard. “Tired day. I was just—y’know. Lying down.”

The vibrator kicked up just a notch, and your thighs jerked. He kept talking.

“Sorry I’ve been MIA. Been thinking about you, though.” His voice was warm, familiar. God, his voice. “A lot, actually.”

A sharp breath escaped you. You hoped it sounded natural. It didn’t.

“…You okay?” he asked, his tone shifting just slightly. “You sound—off.”

You could barely think anymore. Your head was buzzing. Your thighs were trembling. And you didn’t dare stop.

“I’m fine,” you rasped.

But then you whimpered. Barely. Just a little hitch in your throat.

He paused. “Wait. Are you—are you doing something?”

Your whole body froze.

“No,” you lied, voice high.

He went quiet. Too quiet.

“…Are you touching yourself right now?” His voice came low, dangerous. “While on the phone with me?”

Silence.

Then, another breathy whimper.

He growled. “Fuck. You are.”

You felt heat shoot up your spine.

“Keep going,” he said, voice gravel now. “Don’t stop. You started this.”

Your hips rolled again—slower this time, more deliberate—as you listened to him breathe, listened to the weight behind his words.

“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” he demanded. “While you fuck yourself to my voice.”

You bit down on your lower lip, squeezing your eyes shut as his words settled under your skin like molten honey.

“Tell me,” he said again, voice a touch lower, rougher now. “What were you thinking about?”

You whimpered. “You.”

He chuckled. Dark. Breathless.

“Yeah? What about me?”

You hesitated, hips twitching as your toy nudged just right inside you. “The way you felt that night,” you gasped. “The way you pressed into me from behind… the way your cock felt against me, even through the sheets—”

“Fuck.”

His reaction was sharp and immediate, a barely controlled groan through clenched teeth. You knew his hand was probably fisting the sheets or his thigh right now, trying to stop himself from touching the one thing he couldn’t have—yet.

“Are you still touching yourself?” he asked, voice thick.

“…Yes.”

“Good. Faster.”

The single command shot straight to your gut. Your fingers moved in rhythm with the toy now, chasing the heat blooming deep in your belly. You didn’t even care if he heard your wetness or the whines building in your throat anymore.

“Wish I could see you,” he breathed. “Wish I could have my hand over your mouth. You’re too loud, babe. You’d wake the whole damn building if I fucked you right now.”

“Minho—”

“Not yet,” he cut in. “You’ll come when I say so. Not a second sooner.”

You squeezed around the toy, aching, desperate, toes curling.

“Keep going. Just like that.” His voice was pure sin now, molten and slow. “You’ll come with my voice in your ear and my name on your lips, just like you should’ve that night.”

You whimpered.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Say my name.”

“Minho—”

“Louder.”

“Minho.”

“Good girl,” he rasped. “Now come.”

You shattered.

Your back arched off the bed, thighs quaking, moan spilling raw and unfiltered from your lips as your body pulsed around the toy. You didn’t even try to hold it in anymore—he needed to hear it. He deserved to.

Silence stretched on the line after, only your wrecked breathing and the distant rasp of his own breath filling the space between you.

When he finally spoke again, it was with the voice of a man barely holding back his hunger.

“I’m going to ruin you,” he said softly, deadly. “Next time I get my hands on you… I’m not stopping until you forget anyone else ever made you come.”

The call ended.

You blinked at the screen, dazed, thighs still trembling.

But you didn’t sleep.

You changed into the first half-decent outfit you could find, tugged your hoodie over your head, and grabbed your keys with your heart hammering in your throat.

If he wasn’t going to come to you?

You’d damn well go to him.

—

You almost turned around three times. Once at the stoplight. Again when you parked in front of his building. And one last time while standing at his door, staring at the stupid number you’d memorized when you were ten.

You shouldn’t have been here.

But your body didn’t care. Not when it was still buzzing, still throbbing from the orgasm he commanded out of you through the phone not ten minutes ago. Your thighs were sticky, your bottom lip sore from how hard you’d been biting it in the car, nerves coiling in your belly like a wire about to snap.

Showing up like this—unannounced, in shorts that barely passed as clothing, no bra under your thin hoodie—wasn’t just reckless. It was deliberate. Dangerous.

You raised your hand and knocked before you could talk yourself out of it.

Footsteps came quickly. Heavy. The door flew open seconds later, and there he was.

Minho.

Still shirtless.

Sweatpants slung low on his hips. Hair a mess like he’d been pacing. His jaw was tense, chest rising like he hadn’t calmed down since the call ended. His eyes found yours and locked in like he could see through you.

He didn’t say a word.

Just looked at you.

Slow. Hungry. His gaze dragged from your flushed face to the zipper of your hoodie and lower—lingering on your bare thighs.

You shifted, suddenly feeling way too exposed.

“Say something,” you whispered.

His voice came out hoarse.

“You’re insane.”

“I know.”

Another pause. The air between you tightened.

He stepped forward. Just one step—and you backed up, your breath hitching.

“No bra?” he muttered like it hurt him. “You show up like this after what just happened—fuck—”

“I didn’t know what else to do.” You bit your lip, heat crawling up your neck. “I didn’t want to wait.”

That was it.

He snapped.

You didn’t even see him move—just felt the door slam shut behind you as he pushed you up against it, one arm shooting out to lock it without looking. His hands came to either side of your head, bracing himself like he was seconds away from self-destruction.

His breath hit your lips.

Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, like he was holding back something feral.

“Last chance,” he growled. “If you tell me right now you’re not sure, I’ll let you go. I’ll jerk off in the shower until my knees give out and pretend you never begged to come in my ear.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’m sure.”

That was all it took.

His mouth crashed into yours. Hungry. Deep. Unapologetic. It hit you like a wave—his tongue sliding in, his grip tightening, his body pressing flush against yours with an intensity that made your knees buckle.

One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head, while the other found your waist and gripped—like he was claiming territory.

A moan escaped into his mouth as you clung to his shoulders, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to the storm that was him.

Minho’s mouth was still glistening with you when he picked you up—one arm under your thighs, the other around your back. He didn’t even blink. Just carried you down the hall like it was nothing, your head pressed to his neck, body boneless from how hard he’d made you come.

His bed was unmade.

Sheets tossed. Pillows scattered. And you were in them seconds later, back hitting the mattress with a bounce.

Minho stood at the edge of the bed and looked at you.

Like he’d waited years for this moment. Like you were a fantasy come to life and he was deciding whether to kneel at your feet or tear you apart.

“You still want this?” he asked, voice low—gravel and smoke.

You didn’t answer. You showed him—legs spreading wider, hips tilting, your hand sliding down to part your slick folds. His eyes darkened.

“Fuck, okay,” he breathed, like he was short-circuiting. “Okay, baby.”

He crawled over you like a shadow, slow and heavy, his mouth finding your jaw first—then your neck, then your collarbone, biting as he went.

“You’ve been mine since we were kids,” he murmured into your skin, tongue flicking over a mark he’d just left. “You just didn’t know it.”

You gasped when his hips rolled against yours, his cock rubbing through your soaked folds, huge and leaking and so hot against your cunt.

“You feel that?” he asked, dragging it up and down—your body arching, chasing it. “You’ve had me like this for years. All those skirts. All that attitude.”

He gripped your jaw, making you look at him.

“You think I didn’t notice the way you got careless around me?”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out—just a broken breath as he lined up, pressing just the tip in.

Your nails dug into his arms.

“Minho—”

“Shh,” he whispered. “I know, baby. I know.”

Then he pushed in.

Slow. Deep. Relentless.

And holy fuck.

Your eyes slammed shut, jaw dropping in a silent scream as he stretched you open. He didn’t stop until he was fully inside—until his hips were flush with yours and your cunt was full.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned into your neck. “So fucking tight.”

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

He pulled back just enough to drive back in—and again—again—building a rhythm that knocked the sanity right out of your head.

Minho fucked like he was carving his name into your body.

He was everywhere—teeth on your throat, hands on your tits, hips snapping hard and deep like he needed to ruin you.

And he was talking, too. Filthy. Possessive. All in that growly voice that made your toes curl.

“You gonna let me fill you up, baby?”

“Gonna fuck you so full you feel me for days.”

“You were made for this. For me. For my cock.”

You cried out when he grabbed your thigh and folded you in half, slamming deeper, finding that spot that made your entire body lock up.

“Right there?” he growled, eyes glued to your face. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s your spot.”

You were sobbing now—wet, broken sounds as your second orgasm raced up your spine.

“Minho, please—I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he snapped. “Right now. All over my cock. Let me feel it.”

And you did. Harder than before—louder, messier, more intense.

You clenched around him like a vice, and he lost it—groaning loud as he slammed in one final time and spilled inside you, hips jerking, body trembling above yours.

He stayed like that—deep and twitching inside you, sweat dripping down his temple, lips ghosting over yours as you both tried to come down.

You didn’t know how long you laid there—legs trembling, his cum leaking out of you, your fingers tangled in the sheets like you were afraid of floating away.

Minho hadn’t moved much either.

He was still inside you, chest to chest, your noses brushing each time he inhaled. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking softly along your jaw as he watched you with those warm, sleepy eyes—eyes that held none of the fury or possessiveness from before.

Just softness. Almost guilt.

“You okay?” he asked, voice husky but gentler now.

You nodded, but your throat was tight. And when you blinked up at him, he leaned down to kiss the corner of your mouth. Then your nose. Then your temple.

“Did I go too far?” he murmured.

“No,” you whispered, your voice small. “I liked it. I liked all of it.”

That made his lips twitch.

“Yeah?” he said, brushing his knuckles across your tits—lingering when your breath caught. “Even when I told you to shut up and take it?”

You swallowed hard. “Especially then.”

He chuckled under his breath and finally pulled out, making both of you hiss. You whined at the emptiness—at how sore and stretched you felt—and Minho’s gaze immediately dropped between your legs.

“Shit,” he muttered, almost reverent. “Look at that mess.”

You flushed, shifting your legs, but he pressed a hand to your thigh to stop you.

“Don’t hide,” he murmured. “You look so good like this. All ruined because of me.”

Then, to your surprise, he slid down the bed and kissed your inner thigh. Just once. Then again. Then right next to your sensitive center.

You flinched. “Minho—too much—”

He smiled and looked up at you from between your legs.

“Alright, baby,” he said. “I’ll be good.”

And he was.

For about two minutes.

Then he kissed his way up your body—lingering on your nipples, dragging his tongue across them until they stiffened again. You whimpered as he sucked softly, then bit gently—making your hips buck.

“I just wanna taste them,” he murmured. “You kept arching for me earlier like they needed attention.”

“They still do,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

He smirked. “Then don’t move.”

He licked and sucked until your chest was wet with his spit and your thighs pressed together again—need building back up in the pit of your stomach like a slow flame.

“Fuck,” you mumbled. “You’re gonna break me.”

He pulled back to look at you.

“Not yet,” he said, voice low. “But you did say you liked sucking cock, didn’t you?”

You blinked. “I—yeah—why—?”

He rolled off you and onto his back, cock already hard again—thick and flushed, still glistening from earlier.

“Then get over here.”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

You crawled down the bed and straddled his thighs, eyes locked on the way he stroked himself, slow and heavy.

He tapped the tip against your lips. “Open up, baby.”

You did.

And he groaned the moment you took him in—just the head at first, tongue swirling around it, your lips tight and wet. He filled your mouth so easily, and you loved the way he shuddered when you gagged on him.

“That’s it,” he breathed, hand sliding into your hair. “So fucking pretty when you’re drooling on my cock.”

You moaned around him, and he twitched.

“You gonna swallow it all?” he asked, voice breaking a little. “You want me to come in your mouth this time?”

You sucked harder, nodding with tears in your eyes, and that was it.

He cursed—hips jerking, cock thickening—and seconds later he was spilling down your throat, one hand on your head as his other clutched the sheets.

You swallowed everything.

Every drop.

When you finally pulled off, eyes glassy and lips swollen, Minho reached for you and pulled you into his chest, kissing your forehead like he hadn’t just fucked your mouth like a man possessed.

“Now,” he whispered, pulling the blanket over both of you, “lets get some sleep.”

⸻

The morning light slipped in through the blinds in soft gold stripes, painting lazy patterns across the room.

You blinked awake slowly, body aching in the most indulgent way, wrapped in the scent of skin and sweat and fabric softener. The hoodie you had worn here last night was still crumpled somewhere on the floor—probably next to your shorts, your underwear, your dignity.

Minho’s arm was heavy around your waist. His chest was warm against your back. His breath ghosted over your shoulder in quiet puffs, slow and steady.

It didn’t feel real. It felt like one of those fantasies you used to jerk yourself off to in the dark, flushed and breathless, thinking about what it would feel like to fall asleep tangled up in him like this—after.

You stayed still as long as you could, just… absorbing it.

And then, of course, he ruined it by murmuring against your neck, voice still thick with sleep.

“Your thighs are twitching.”

You groaned. “Maybe because you almost broke them last night.”

He chuckled, low and pleased, then slid his hand over your hip and gave your inner thigh a light squeeze. “You came here cause you wanted me to do exactly that.”

Your cheeks flushed instantly. “Don’t remind me.”

“Why not? It’s my favorite memory now.”

You rolled over to face him, hair a mess, eyes still sleep-fogged. He looked unfairly gorgeous in the morning. Hair tousled. Eyes soft. The roughness from last night completely gone, replaced by something almost too gentle to be him.

He looked at you like he was thinking way too hard.

“What?” you asked quietly.

He reached up, brushed some hair from your face, fingers lingering at your jaw.

“You know this isn’t just sex for me, right?”

Your breath caught.

“I mean…” he licked his lips, eyes searching yours. “It can be, if that’s what you want. But I don’t think I can go back to just being your best friend. Not after this.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at him, trying to collect your heart off the floor where it had just dropped.

Finally, you whispered, “I don’t want to go back either.”

Minho exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding that breath all night.

Then he leaned in and kissed you—soft and slow and sweet, like the question was already answered.

You melted into it. Into him. Into the shift.

Later, you’d get up. He’d make coffee. You’d steal one of his shirts. He’d tease you about the bite marks on your thighs. And you’d both pretend not to notice how domestic it already felt.

But for now, you stayed in bed—best friends turned something more—with his arms around you and your future somewhere in the spaces between his kisses.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: hi guys! Ok so the poll results from the Leeknow angry boy fic came out and it was a really close one. So instead of changing whats already written i decided to upload this to make it up to you guys! This is not an angst story or the angry boy replacement but this is a story for my romantics ❤️ Thanks alot for all your feedback really love you guys!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids s @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @universeyuto @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki

[em1i2a3]

Tongue

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Virgin!Fem!Reader

Summary: During a night out on the town with your friends, you are pushed into talking to a mysterious cowboy at a bar, who turns out to be one of the only blessings that Wabang has ever given you.

Warning: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut and Fluff, Mentions of Alcohol Consumption, Mentions of Grief and Death (Reader was a caregiver for her ailing father since she left high school), Reader kind of sidelined her life to take care of her father meaning she missed out on a lot of things and is looking to catch up (would I say angst? I don’t really know, but I will say possibly?)

Smut Warnings: Virginity Loss, Unprotected P in V Sex (protect yourselves friends. This is pure fantasy), There are discussions of purity/virginity (between friends, and between Rhett and Reader), Masturbation, Dirty Talk (that involves the mentioning of the readers virginity), Rhett is an attentive lover Jesus H Christ lol, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Fingering, Making Out and Dry Humping (a devilish combo), Praise and Worship Kink, Discussions about Birth Control, A bit of blood (not always an indicator of loss of virginity btw, just throwing that out there), Hickeys and Lovebites, Squirting, Nipple and Breastplay, Overstimulation, Very Gentle Hair Pulling, Being Held Down (in like a not forceful type of way!), Emotional/Physical Aftercare

Author’s Note: I got a request for this and I really liked the idea of it, but I also had to go all out because it’s Rhett frickin Abbott we’re talking about here. Yeehawwww. Anyways, enjoy another segment of RAF <3

Word Count: 17,045

The Branded Mare was quieter than usual for a Thursday night–not totally dead, but certainly not shoulder-to-shoulder either. A couple of pool games were underway near the back, the clack of billiard balls echoing gently under the low murmur of voices. Classic rock hummed from wall-mounted speakers above the booths–Fleetwood Mac, maybe, or Skynyrd–tinny and worn from years of play. Overhead, the lights were low and amber-hued, casting a warm haze over everything. The bulbs flickered every so often, the way they always did here, like the building itself was coughing dust out of its orifices.

It smelled like a half-hearted attempt at cleanliness–Pine-Sol, bleach, maybe a hint of lemon disinfectant in the corners–just strong enough to sting the nose if you breathed too deep. But underneath that was the true scent of the place: beer-soaked wood, old bar mats, fryer grease, and cigarettes drifting in from the cracked patio door every time someone stepped out for a smoke. It was the kind of bar that felt lived in–scarred barstools, a jukebox that always skipped the second verse, and carvings etched into the tabletops so deep you could run your thumb through someone’s initials and still feel the indent years later.

You and your friends had taken over one of the half-moon leather booths near the back–close enough to the bar to watch people come and go, but tucked just out of the way enough to talk shit without being overheard. The seat was sticky against your thighs where your denim shorts met skin, and the middle cushion sagged slightly, forcing everyone to sit a little too close. The table was cluttered: half-eaten fries going cold in a red plastic basket, a few longneck bottles sweating condensation onto paper napkins, a couple cocktails in mismatched glasses. Someone had spilled something early on, and now the wood beneath your forearm stuck just faintly when you moved.

Your friends were talking–laughing, teasing, making little jabs about town gossip or the girl from high school who just got engaged for the third time–but your attention had started to drift like it normally did when you weren’t in tune with the subject.

Your eyes scanned the place slowly, taking it in with a sort of lazy familiarity. A group of guys in baseball caps gathered near the jukebox, arguing about the next song. A couple older men sat at the bar, hunched over their drink like they had been planted there since 4PM. One woman danced alone by the dartboards, a beer in one hand, her flip-flop tapping against the sticky floor as she swayed out of rhythm to the music.

Then your gaze snagged on a figure, and you paused.

He was sitting at the bar, maybe two or three stools from the end, his back turned partway to you. He wasn’t someone you recognized–not from school, not from the feed store, not from church or town events either. But then again, you didn’t go out much–or you hadn’t been going out much until fairly recently. You certainly didn’t know everyone in town, not in the way your friends did. Maybe he was just passing through. Maybe he was local and liked to keep to himself. Either way, you knew you would’ve remembered seeing him before.

His hair was light brown, pushed back beneath a dark baseball cap that had seen some better days, the brain curved tight and low over his eyes. A few strands curled out from beneath it, damp near the nape of his neck like he had showered and hand’s bothered to blow dry–or maybe it was sweat…You had no idea. He was nursing a beer–bottle, not draft–slow and casual, like he wasn’t in any kind of rush. His posture was relaxed, one forearm propped on the bar top, the other cradling the bottle as he tipped it toward his mouth.

You couldn’t see his whole face–just the side of it, the angle teasing more than it revealed. A strong jaw, the faintest trace of stubble, lips that moved slowly as he spoke to the man beside him. His voice didn’t carry, but you could imagine it–low, maybe a little scratchy. Probably drawled and dripping with a southern twang only the men of Wabang had.

What you could see, though, was his build.

He was lean but solid. Broad shoulders under a navy flannel button-down, the fabric pulled slightly where it stretched over his upper back. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, exposing tan forearms dusted with a little hair, and his jeans–well, they sat just right. Faded, worn a bit at the seams, hugging his thighs like they had been through hell and still clung to him out of loyalty. He didn’t look like he spent hours in a gym. He looked like he worked outside. Someone who used his body for ranch work, or even rodeo–a man carved from manual labor.

You didn’t mean to stare, but you couldn’t help it.

You stippled your drink absently, the lime-slicked gin and tonic turning watery from melted ice, and your gaze lingered–long enough for one of your friends to notice.

”I see you starin’ at that cowboy,” Jennifer stated, tilting her glass toward the bar with a smirk, “You want us to scoot so you can get a better view?” You blinked quickly as if she broke a spell of some sort.

”I’m not going up to him,” You replied, a little too quickly for your own liking.

“Oh, c’mon, Y/N, don’t be shy,” Leah added, nudging your hip under the table, “You’ve been picking from the douchebag buffet lately. A cowboy like that?” She motioned to the man standing at the bar, “They usually know how to treat a woman right.” You rolled your eyes, taking another sip from your drink.

”I’m not looking for candidates to take my virginity tonight, if that’s what all of you are thinking.” They burst out laughing at that joke, leaning in over the table, their drinks sloshing slightly as they hooted and snorted and covered their faces. You shook your head at them, your cheeks warming slightly, but a reluctant smile tugged at your lips anyway.

”It doesn’t hurt to flirt,” Sam said through her laughter, “Maybe he’s not into hookups. Maybe he’s decent…And maybe…Just maybe, y’all will hit it off.”

“He doesn’t look standoffish,” Leah chimed in, “And he’s got a nice ass…I won’t lie.” You let out a breath, but your eyes wandered back to him anyway, even through your friends teasing you.

From across the bar, Rhett Abbott wasn’t exactly trying to eavesdrop–but the laughter carried and echoed through the enclosed space, and it was hard to ignore.

Bits and pieces of conversation reached him between guitar riff and clinking glassware, muffled by the music but just clear enough to snag his attention.

He’d caught the words: Cowboy, Virginity, and Nice Ass. The last one made his brow twitch upward, and his lips parted in the faintest grin before he caught himself. He let his eyes wander casually across the bar, lifting his beer for another sip as he scanned the room nonchalantly.

It took a second to find your booth. And when he did, he knew. There wasn’t another group it could’ve been. His eyes lingered for a moment.

You were sitting with three other girls, all of you leaning in close, laughing like you’d just said something scandalous and immediately regretted it. You had your head tilted slightly, one shoulder drawn in like you were trying to disappear into yourself–and he could tell you were warm with embarrassment. Even from here, he could clock it instantly that you were the black sheep of your friend group–which wasn’t a bad thing at all.

The others were smirking, biting down on their straws, whispering into each other’s ears between giggles. One of them flicked her eyes toward the bar–toward him and Rhett watched as you tried not to follow their gaze.

He bit the inside of his cheek, ducking his head slightly.

“What’re you smilin’ for?” Perry asked, leaning over, his voice just above the low hum of the room. He had one hand on a sweating bottle of Coors and the other lazily spinning a beer coaster between his fingers. Rhett scratched the back of his neck, shaking his head a little like he was embarrassed to even say it out loud.

”Think I’ve got a fan club in ‘ere.” He said, voice rough with amusement, “I hear some girls talkin’ about me.” He glanced over at Perry, seeing his eyebrow was raised.

”Yeah?” Rhett nodded toward your table with the tip of his bottle.

“Booth in the corner. Four girls. Laughin’ like they’re up to somethin’.” Perry followed his gaze. It didn’t take long to find your table–too many sideways glances, too many hands covering mouths like they were trying not to be obvious–even though they were doing an extremely poor job. Perry smirked.

”You’re right on that one. They’re definitely talkin’ about you.” Rhett laughed under his breath, rubbing the edge of his thumb against the label on his bottle.

”Can’t imagine why. I’m just sittin’ and drinkin’.”

“It’s that goddamn shirt n’ jean combination…It attracts all the ladies…I told you this.” Perry said with a pointed glance at Rhett’s outfit.

“Maybe I just wear clothes that fit me properly,” He deadpanned, tilting the bottle to his mouth to take another swig of beer.

“You gonna talk to ‘em?” Rhett’s brow lifted at the question, swallowing.

”You dare me?”

“Hell yeah, I dare you,” Perry replied instantly, “I’ll pay for your next beer if you go over and strike up a conversation with ‘em.” Rhett paused, turning the bottle slowly in his hand.

The truth was, Rhett had been thinking about going over from the second he heard your laugh–quiet, a little self-conscious, like it had snuck out before you could stop it. He’d noticed you before the teasing, before the sideways glances, before the odd set of words floated across the bar and almost made him choke on his drink.

You stood out, even tucked into the corner like you were trying not to. Not because you were louder or flashier than the rest–if anything, the opposite. While your friends leaned into each other, bold and easy in their comfort, you sat just slightly apart, shoulders drawn in, one hand loosely curled around your drink like you were grounding yourself.

He wasn’t downgrading the others. Hell, they were all pretty in their own right, the kind of girls who turned heads the second they walked in. But you–

You were the one that made his heart stutter.

Maybe it was the way you watched the room with those soft, perceptive eyes, like you didn’t just see people–you read them. Maybe it was the way you carried yourself–thoughtful, a little guarded, like you’d learned to measure twice and speak once.

Rhett didn’t know what it was, not exactly. But he was curious. And that curiosity was burning like a fuse.

So when Perry threw out the dare and dangled a free beer on the end of it, it was really just icing on the cake. He took the last swig from his bottle and thunked it down on the bar.

“All right then,” He said, rolling his shoulders back with the kind of quiet anticipation that looked more like he was about to hop on a bull than walk across a bar. “Wish me luck.”

“Go get your fan club president,” Perry smirked, already fishing out his wallet.

Rhett adjusted his hat just enough so the low brim wouldn’t shadow his face, then turned and made his way toward your table–easy strides, relaxed, but with that faint electricity crackling just beneath the surface.

The second he stepped within earshot, your group fell quiet. Not instantly–but that kind of rippling quiet, where each girl caught on a second after the last. One by one, your heads turned.

And when you looked up at him–

Your lips parted slightly.

You didn’t even mean to. It just happened, automatic, like your breath caught before your brain had a chance to play it cool.

Because God.

Up close, he was even more than you’d imagined.

His face was all sun-carved angles and soft contradictions–high cheekbones, a strong jawline dusted with stubble that looked like it would scrape in the most delicious way. His skin was golden from time spent outdoors, a faint pink clinging to the high points of his cheeks and nose like he’d just come off the trail. And his eyes–

You could see them now.

Clear, startling blue. Not icy. Bright. Like sky after rain. Like river water in the deepest pocket of the bend. His lashes were thick, almost annoyingly so, and framed his gaze with a softness that balanced the rugged set of his brow. He looked like someone who’d seen his fair share of shit and had come out the other side weathered–but still good.

“Evenin’, ladies,” He drawled, voice smooth as warm honey and twice as slow. He tipped his baseball hat slightly, more charming than cocky, just enough to tease. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Just thought I oughta come introduce myself, since I heard y’all had a few opinions about my ass…The name’s Rhett.”

Your friends broke into immediate laughter–delighted, unfiltered, hands over mouths like teenagers again.

You blinked hard and had to look away for a second. Goddamn it, he was funny too.

Jennifer leaned forward with a grin. “We were just admiring the view, cowboy. You can’t blame us.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” He said, grinning easily as his gaze flicked across the table–but it kept returning to you. Like clockwork. Like reflex.

You felt it–every time he looked, your chest got tighter. Your fingers pressed just a little harder around your drink. And when he caught you looking back at him?

Your lashes fluttered. Stupid. Obvious. And you hated how it made your stomach twist.

“I’m Jen,” She said brightly. “That’s Leah. And Sam.”

“Nice to meet y’all,” Rhett nodded, polite and warm. Then, after the briefest pause, he tilted his chin toward you. “But does the quiet one have a name?” You felt your throat tighten. The way he said it wasn’t pointed or pushy. It was gentle. Curious. Like he’d already picked you out and wanted to peel back the layers without spooking you. His voice dipped soft on quiet, like it was a trait he admired instead of teased.

You cleared your throat, sitting up slightly, the heat blooming up the back of your neck as you finally met his eyes head-on.

”…It’s Y/N.” His mouth twitched at the corner, and you saw it–how he bit gently on the inside of his lip like he was tucking something in. His voice dropped just a little when he repeated it.

“Y/N.”

There was weight to it. Drawl thick and reverent, like he was already tasting it on his tongue.

“Pretty name,” He said, soft and sure. “Fits you.”

And just like that, it hit you–hard.

The way your name sounded coming from his mouth. The way his eyes stayed on you even as your friends kept chattering beside him. The way your body was suddenly so aware of every inch of itself–knees pressed together, fingers twitching against the edge of the table, mouth dry.

Rhett’s eyes dropped to the melting ice in your glass, then lifted again, catching your gaze with a faint tilt of his head.

“Mind if I buy you a fresher drink?” He asked, voice low and a little playful, his fingers flicking subtly toward your half-dead gin and tonic.

You glanced down, lips curling slightly as you shifted the glass between your fingertips. The lime had sunk to the bottom, pale rind bobbing listlessly. The condensation had pooled beneath it in a ring, sticking faintly to your skin every time you moved your hand.

“Not at all,” You murmured, soft but clear enough that it cut through the static of your own nerves.

His mouth twitched–not quite a smile, but something just as warm–and then his tongue darted out, quick and unthinking, to wet the center of his bottom lip. Your eyes snagged on it before you could stop yourself. That faint sheen of moisture catching on pink skin, the way it lingered for just a second too long. It made something catch low in your throat.

“What’re you havin’?” He asked. You cleared your throat gently.

“Gin and tonic,” You replied, voice catching just enough to make you wince internally. You weren’t used to stammering. Not over a man. Certainly not over a stranger. Rhett gave a single, quiet nod.

”Gin and tonic it is…” He said with a slow drawl, and then–because of course he had to make things worse–he added “I’ll be right back…Y/N.” And he winked. A soft, subtle little thing. More a twitch of one eyelid than anything grand. But paired with the way he said your name? You nearly forgot how to breathe.

You watched him walk back to the bar–broad shoulders moving with an unhurried confidence, fingers tapping a rhythm on the neck of his empty bottle as he passed a couple other tables. When he reached the counter, he rapped his knuckles gently against the wood, motioning toward the bartender, then turned to say something to the guy beside him.

Jennifer let out a low whistle beside you, cutting through the haze.

“You sure you don’t wanna lose your virginity tonight?” You laughed–more like sputtered through a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“I’m sure,” you said with a shake of your head, watching the bartender hand Rhett a glass that immediately began sweating in the heat of the bar. “But I’m certainly going to be thinking about this man when I go home tonight…Preferably under my covers.” The girls all leaned in at once, delighted by your confession. Sam giggled into her straw. Leah’s jaw dropped.

“You gonna get his number?” She asked.

“Oh Jesus, definitely,” You said, voice a little too loud with conviction. “Did you see him? Holy fuck. If I wasn’t so nervous, I’d ask him to throw me down on this table right now an–”

“My God, and you call us the sex-crazed ones?” Jen cut in, eyebrows raised with mock scandal.

You ducked your head, laughing as your cheeks flamed hotter. “Well sue me for being behind on the whole dating sphere.”

Leah raised both hands in surrender, smirking. “Hey, we’re not judging. Least you have a bit of a reason for it.” You nodded, gripping your glass tighter to hide how warm your palms had gotten.

“Exactly. Let me live.” And just as you said it, Rhett turned from the bar.

He reached your table like he’d never left it, moving with that same easy confidence, one drink in each hand, the condensation trailing lazily down the side of the glass he’d brought for you.

Without a word, he set the gin and tonic down in front of you, sliding it gently across the table.

Your eyes caught on his hands.

They were exactly what you’d imagined–broad, rough around the edges, with strong knuckles and faint scars scattered across the backs like stories he’d never tell out loud. Calloused fingertips, short nails. Hands that had gripped reins, maybe tools. Hands that worked for a living.

But despite the wear and grit, his touch was careful. Thoughtful. Like he knew how to handle things that could break easy.

“Here you go,” He said softly. “A nice cold one.”

You murmured a quiet thank you, fingers brushing the cool glass where his hand had just been.

Then, with the kind of grin that made your heart knock around in your ribs, Rhett tilted his head and added, “Bartender said you gotta pay me back with your number.”

Your friends lost it. Laughter burst across the booth like fireworks, quick and high and delighted. Sam slapped the table. Leah whooped under her breath. Jen bit her straw like she couldn’t contain herself.

You, somehow, didn’t flinch.

You blinked once, then let a slow smile tug at your lips as you leaned in ever so slightly and said, “Got your phone?”

His brows lifted just a little, surprised–but in a good way. Like he’d been ready for a polite no and was suddenly on the receiving end of a yes that knocked the air out of him.

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Yeah, I do.”

He pulled it from his back pocket–an older iPhone, a little scuffed around the edges, the case cracked in one corner–and handed it over without a second thought.

You took it from him, careful not to brush his fingers even though the air between your hands felt charged enough to spark. The screen was already unlocked. No password. Just a plain home screen with a photo of a horse in the background and only a couple of apps.

You tapped into his contacts.

There weren’t many. Maybe a dozen names, tops. But you didn’t dwell on that.

Instead, you added your number under your name and typed in a little note beside it: Branded Mare. Gin & Tonic Girl.

Then you handed it back, your fingers grazing his this time–light, unintentional, but enough to make him glance up at you with something unreadable in his eyes. Something slow and focused.

“Appreciate that,” He drawled, voice low.

You both held that look for a beat too long. Then he stepped back, just slightly, enough to give you space but not enough to feel like he wanted to go.

“I’ll give you a call in the morning,” He said, tipping his head gently, “Make sure you got home safe.”

You nodded, smiling without meaning to.

“But for now…” He added, glancing around at your friends, who were all shamelessly eavesdropping behind grins and wide eyes, “I’ll leave you ladies to whatever it is you were doin’ before I came over and stirred things up.”

He gave a polite nod to the group. “Pleasure meetin’ all of you.”

Then, just before turning to go, he looked at you one last time–and gave you a wink.

And it wasn’t smug. Wasn’t cocky.

It was sweet. Like a secret. Like something he’d tucked into his back pocket for later.

You watched him walk away, your drink sweating in front of you, your heart pounding somewhere in your throat.

And all you could think was–

Holy shit.

Because Rhett Abbott had just walked straight out of your daydreams and into real life.

—————————

Rhett didn’t waste any time giving you a call the next morning. His voice was still thick with sleep, a soft rasp at the edges like he hadn’t been up long—and somehow, that made it even better. That low, gravelly drawl slipped through the phone and straight into your spine, turning your bones into something a little more jelly-like than you cared to admit.

You were curled up on your couch in an oversized tee, mug of lukewarm coffee in your hands, and the second you saw Rhett Abbott flash across your screen, your heart tripped like it didn’t know how to act.

He didn’t waste time with small talk, either. Just a warm “Hey,” Followed by, “Was thinkin’ I’d like to take you out tonight. There’s this little diner just outside town…good food, real quiet. Thought maybe we could talk, get to know each other…see where it goes.”

You had agreed way too fast.

Embarrassingly fast.

There had barely been a breath between his invitation and your answer, and the little laugh he let out in response had made your stomach flip. It wasn’t mocking–it was amused. A little pleased. Like he hadn’t expected you to say yes so quickly, but he liked that you had.

You gave him your address–your one-level, white-brick house with the green mailbox out front and the wind chimes that never stopped making noise even when there was no wind–and he said he’d swing by around seven.

Which led you to having an emergency FaceTime with Jen, who was on her bedroom floor, looking at the outfit options you had in mind. She shook her head at the third pair of denim shorts you held up.

”No. Absolutely not. We’re not doing shorts tonight,Y/N.” You groaned, throwing yourself down on your bed.

“It’s a diner, not a five-star restaurant.”

“I know it’s a diner. That’s exactly why this is the moment. You show up all soft and pretty in one of those summer dresses you never wear anymore and he won’t be able to keep his eyes off you. Especially if it’s the white one with the ties.” You raised your brow.

”The white one?” Jen nodded.

”Yes. The one that laces up in the front…It’ll be a little tease for him…And it’s pretty.” That dress lived tucked in the back of your closet like a secret–one you hadn’t pulled out since last July. It was soft cotton, thick enough to hold its shape but thin enough to breathe. The color was a creamy, near-milk white, with the faintest floral print etched across it in dusty blue. Not too busy. Just enough to catch the light when you turned.

The bodice hugged close, fitted with subtle seams that shaped along your waist without needing a bra. And right at the center of your chest, two long strings tied into a little bow, gathering the fabric just enough to create the softest dip of cleavage–barely there, but suggestive in the right light. The tie could be loosened or tightened depending on your mood, but tonight…You were already tugging it a touch tighter.

The sleeves were short, slightly puffed, ending right above the bend of your arm, and the skirt fell just past mid-thigh–flowy and gentle, not clingy. When you walked, it moved like it had a mind of its own. Soft. Slow. Like summer wind.

And best of all? It had pockets. Deep ones.

You stared at yourself in the mirror, smoothing your hands over the skirt and adjusting the tie at the front.

“You look hot,” Jen said through the screen, tilting her head and lifting her eyebrows, “Absolutely jaw dropping.” You snorted, turning slightly to see the dress from the side.

”It’s not too much?” You questioned.

”It’s exactly enough,” She said, “Now fix that hair of yours, put some lip gloss on, and some of that fancy perfume you have…Because you’re going to have to look good for the mugshot after you kill this man tonight.” You shook your head, smiling down at your phone.

”You’re absolutely ridiculous.” She smirked.

”I want all the details tomorrow about how it went.” You nodded.

”I’ll be a waterfall of details.” Then the call ended.

About an hour later–right on time–Rhett’s truck rumbled to a stop in front of your house.

He cut the engine and stepped out, boots crunching gently over the gravel as he made his way up the walkway. The porch steps creaked beneath his weight–worn but solid–and as he approached the door, he took it in properly for the first time.

The house was one level, white brick with faded sage-green shutters that matched the mailbox out front. The roof sloped low and wide, and the porch spanned the front like a lazy hug, with a couple of mismatched chairs tucked beside the screen door. A potted plant hung off one of the wooden beams, and a wind chime–old, maybe copper–clinked faintly in the breeze. The whole place had character. Lived-in. Like a home someone loved, not just a place they stayed.

He liked it.

He raised a hand and knocked–three quick taps against the frame.

And when you opened the door…

It hit him.

Your perfume first. Soft and overwhelming in the best way. Like wildflowers and spun sugar, like some sunlit meadow had been poured into a bottle and sweetened with something sticky and decadent. It flooded his senses in an instant, made his stomach tighten and his throat go a little dry.

And then his eyes hit your dress.

And your boots.

God.

Those light brown cowgirl boots–scuffed just enough to look broken in, just enough to hint that you knew how to wear them–peeked out from beneath the flow of that pretty white dress. The fabric fluttered gently around your legs, and the delicate little bow that you had tied at the center of your chest made it impossible for him to look away for a good second too long.

You stood in the doorframe, golden in the early evening light, your hair done up soft and neat, a little shine on your lips and that scent clinging to your skin like a secret.

Rhett stared.

Then let out a soft breath like it punched right out of him.

“God, you look pretty,” He said, voice barely above a murmur.

You felt the heat bloom up your neck before you could help it, rushing straight to your cheeks.

Your eyes dipped to take him in as well–the forest green button-up he wore brought out the richness in his blue eyes, the sleeves rolled to the forearms again, his usual denim sitting low and loose on his hips, faded from wear. He wasn’t wearing a hat tonight.

Instead, you could finally see all of his hair–thick, tousled light brown with strands that caught the sunlight as it filtered through the trees overhead. It curled slightly at the ends, like he hadn’t fussed over it much. It made him look softer somehow. Younger. Warmer.

“You look good too,” You complimented, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the smile from spreading too wide.

He gave you a lopsided grin at that–boyish, slightly crooked, like he didn’t quite know what to do with the compliment but appreciated it all the same.

“C’mon,” He said gently, tipping his chin toward his truck. “Let’s get you fed.”

You followed him down the porch steps, the hem of your dress dancing over your thighs with every step, your boots thudding softly on the wood. When you reached his truck, Rhett didn’t hesitate–he stepped ahead and opened the door for you.

The inside was a little worn–the fabric on the bench seat stretched in places, a couple old stains on the floor mats–but it smelled clean, like pine and something faintly citrusy. The kind of scent that lingered from someone who actually tried to keep their truck respectable.

You climbed up and slid across the wide front seat–a bench, not two individual chairs. Nothing between the both of you but a cup holder and a whole lot of unspoken tension.

It was comfortable. Cushioned like an old couch. The kind of seat that begged for closeness.

You didn’t mind that. Not even a little.

Rhett closed the door behind you, circled to the driver’s side, and climbed in with one smooth motion. He glanced over once–just enough to check your seatbelt–before settling in and turning the ignition.

The truck rumbled to life.

“Alright,” he said, easing them down the drive. “Let’s get goin’, hmm?”

And just like that, with the windows cracked and the sky starting to gold, the night began.

—————————

The diner was a relic of another era—an ‘80s dream that hadn’t changed its tune in decades. The neon sign out front buzzed faintly in the twilight, casting a warm pink glow over the gravel lot, its cursive lettering spelling out Marlene’s Midnight Diner. Fluorescent lights bled through the wide glass windows, softening just slightly through layers of streaky Windex and time. A couple of vintage chrome motorcycles were parked near the entrance, and inside, the booths were upholstered in turquoise vinyl that squeaked every time someone shifted too much.

The walls were covered in framed black-and-white photos of rockstars, movie posters with curling corners, and a whole shelf of bobbleheads that lined the back wall like a chorus of silent, nodding critics. The floors were checkered black-and-white tile, clean but scuffed with age—evidence of late-night rushes and post-prom milkshakes long past. A jukebox flickered in the corner, playing faint snippets of something classic and upbeat, while the smell of fried onions, grilled meat, and hot coffee lingered heavy in the air.

It was cleaner than you expected for a 24-hour place. Not pristine, but tidy. The kind of clean that came from someone actually giving a damn, even if the linoleum was chipped in the corners and the sugar dispensers didn’t always unscrew right. A waitress in a powder-blue uniform with her name–Connie–stitched over her left breast had already come by, balancing a notepad in one hand and a pot of coffee in the other. She didn’t bat an eye at Rhett’s flannel or your dress, just took your order with a tired smile and a wink that said she’d seen every type of first date sit in this booth at least once.

You were settled into a corner booth, your dress skirt fanned just slightly along the seat beside you, and Rhett across from you, looking about ten shades more nervous than he had at your door. The overhead light buzzed gently, casting a faint golden sheen on the chrome napkin holder between you. Both of you had tall glasses of Coke sitting in front of you, tiny bubbles rising up through the caramel-colored fizz, the glasses sweating slowly in the humid summer air.

Rhett hadn’t touched his drink yet. His fingers rested near it, but he kept glancing up at you and then back down at the condensation ring on the tabletop like it held the answers to something he hadn’t asked yet. And maybe it was the heat, or maybe it was the way your dress dipped just enough at the neckline, but he cleared his throat softly before speaking.

“So…what do you do?” he asked, voice lower than usual, a little rough. Like he was forcing the words out before he chickened out altogether.

You took a sip from your Coke, the straw catching the ice as you pulled it toward your mouth. The chill hit your tongue, sweet and sharp, and you let it sit there for a moment before answering.

“I actually just recently became a home health aide.”

Rhett’s brows lifted, genuinely surprised. “Oh really? That sounds like it’s pretty interesting. You work every day?”

You shook your head, swirling your straw slowly through the glass. “It’s about four days a week, but I can pick up shifts or give them away if I’d like. It’s pretty flexible.”

He nodded slowly, then bit the inside of his cheek–a habit you were already beginning to recognize. “Do you enjoy it?”

You smiled, and the warmth behind it was real. “Definitely. I have a lot of experience in home health, so it was an easy transition.”

His head tilted just slightly. Not in judgment–just curious. “Where’d you get the experience from if you just became one?”

Your fingers tightened on the straw. You took another drink to stall, letting the bubbles fizzle against your tongue before swallowing.

“Well…Umm… My dad got sick when I was still in high school, so I had to take care of him. I gave him all his medications and helped with, you know…Everything. He usually needed help keeping track of everything.”

Rhett caught it right away–the way you were speaking in past tense. His eyes softened a bit, and you could see it, like he made the connection.

He hesitated, then asked gently, “When…When did he pass? If you don’t mind me asking.”

You rubbed at the inside of your palm beneath the table, a nervous little habit that had never really gone away. “About a year ago.”

His lips parted, but he gave you a moment. Then, quietly: “I’m sorry for your loss.”

You shook your head slowly, meeting his eyes across the table. “Thank you, Rhett.”

There was a pause–not heavy, not awkward, but full. Like the air had thickened just slightly with understanding. He nodded once, then looked down at his Coke and back up at you again.

“Enough about me,” You said softly, offering him a small smile. “What do you do?”

He let out a small exhale through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching like you’d caught him off guard. “I work on my dad’s ranch,” He said, then after a beat, added with a sheepish little grin, “And I ride bulls.”

You blinked. “A bull rider?” Your lips parted slightly, and you leaned forward a little. “You certainly have the look…”

Rhett flushed, just a bit, but it was clear the compliment hit him square in the chest. He scratched the side of his jaw, eyes flicking down to the table.

“Is it the nice ass that gave it away?” He asked, teasing. “Or the muscular thighs?”

You laughed and the sound made his whole body relax visibly.

“Oh, it was definitely both,” You replied, biting your straw between your teeth for just a second. “But it’s the confidence that really gave you away.”

He raised his brows. “Confidence?”

You nodded. “You walked up to a table of four girls like it was nothing.”

His eyes sparkled, leaning in a little closer. “Truth is, I was only focusing on one…So that made it pretty easy.”

The warmth that bloomed across your chest that nearly knocked the wind out of you.

Your plates arrived just after that last teasing exchange, still steaming as Connie slid them across the table with the kind of efficiency only found in places like this–diners where the waitresses knew how to keep coffee hot and couples talking. The food was simple but good–crispy fries, thick burgers, golden grilled cheese with perfectly melted slices of cheddar–and both of you picked at it between laughs and lingering looks.

The conversation never stumbled. It rolled easy. Quiet confessions about favorite bands, childhood memories, the weird shit you believed as a kid. Rhett talked about riding his first bull at sixteen, about getting bucked so hard he chipped a bit of his tooth and never got it fixed. You told him about sneaking out during summer storms to sit under the porch roof and count how long the thunder took to follow lightning.

And somehow, it all blurred.

By the time you glanced at your phone, your breath caught in your throat.

“Shit,” You whispered, eyes widening as you leaned back from the booth, “It’s one in the morning.”

Rhett blinked, then laughed low and warm in his chest. “Should I be gettin’ you home?”

You nodded, sheepish. “I got work in the morning, so…I think that would be the best idea. I didn’t even realize how much time went by.”

He smiled at that–soft and a little proud, eyes glittering in the golden diner light. “Well… you’re very easy to talk to. And I guess I’m a pretty good distraction if you didn’t even realize how many hours passed.”

You laughed, cheeks warming again, “You really are…”

When the bill came, you reached for your purse–but Rhett was faster.

“Don’t even try,” He said, slipping a couple of bills onto the check tray before you could blink.

“Rhett–come on,” You protested, reaching across the table.

He shook his head, that crooked grin spreading again. “Next one’s on you, if it makes you feel better.”

It did. A little.

By the time you stepped out into the night air, the temperature had dropped. The warmth from inside clung to your skin as the breeze wrapped around your legs and lifted the hem of your dress just slightly. Goosebumps prickled along your arms. Rhett noticed. He tilted his head toward the truck without a word, guiding you across the lot like he was keeping you within orbit.

The ride back was quieter, but not uncomfortable. The windows were rolled halfway down, letting in a cool wind that tangled through your hair. The smell of summer dirt and far-off fields filled the cab. A country station hummed low through the speakers, barely audible over the soft growl of the engine. Rhett kept glancing over at you–quick, quiet looks that made your stomach turn each time.

When he pulled up in front of your house, he killed the engine but didn’t move right away. Both of you unbuckled at the same time, slow, almost hesitant–like the weight of the night didn’t want to lift just yet.

“We should do this again…” Rhett said softly, eyes flicking toward yours in the shadows. “I had a lot of fun.”

You nodded, the words catching in your throat before they came out. “Me too…”

The headlights cast soft light over your porch, reflecting faintly off the windshield, leaving his eyes half-lit in gold and shadow. It made the space inside the cab feel smaller. Closer. Intimate.

And when his gaze dropped–just briefly–to your lips, your breath hitched.

You looked at his mouth too.

Neither of you leaned in right away. It happened slowly–like gravity was inching you closer, breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat.

When your lips met, it was soft at first. A question. His mouth brushed against yours with careful, aching restraint–as if he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to have you this close. But once he felt you melt into him, he tilted his head just enough to deepen the kiss.

And fuck.

It was hot. It was deep. It was everything you hadn’t even known you’d been craving. His mouth moved against yours like he wanted to memorize the shape of your lips. His hand came up, rough palm cupping the side of your face, thumb brushing the apple of your cheek with a touch so gentle it made you shiver.

You kissed him back harder–desperate, drawn. Your fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as he let out a soft, guttural sound in the back of his throat, low and breathless.

Then you felt it–his fingers, tentative and curious, ghosting over the ribbon at the center of your dress. He toyed with the edge of the bow, brushing it with the backs of his knuckles like he was wondering if he could tug on it and feel you come undone.

You gasped into his mouth, and that’s when you pulled back.

Your breath was shallow, lips swollen, lashes fluttering as you stared at him in the dim cab.

“We’re gonna have to put the brakes on…For now,” You whispered, voice trembling from the heat that still pulsed under your skin.

Rhett looked wrecked in the best way. Hair mussed from your hands, lips pink and wet from your kiss. His chest rose and fell in short bursts. He nodded slowly, gulping like he was trying to rein himself back in.

“O-Okay,” He murmured. “Yeah… okay.”

You leaned in again, pressing one last, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Text me when you get home.”

He nodded, voice rasped raw. “I will.”

You slid out of the truck on shaky legs, dress clinging to the heat of your thighs, heart still pounding.

That night, alone in bed, it wasn’t even a question.

Your hand slipped under the sheets as you exhaled through your nose, your eyes fluttering shut. All you could think about was the rough scrape of his stubble against your cheek…The weight of his palm cupping your jaw…The way his mouth devoured you like it had been starving for years.

And God–his hands.

You imagined them on your waist, your hips, the backs of your thighs. Rough, wide palms gripping you like he meant it. Like he wouldn’t let go even if you begged him to.

You bit your lip to stifle a sound, thighs clenching as your fingers slipped deeper. Every flick of your wrist was guided by memory–by the sweet pressure of his kiss, the faint smell of pine and leather on his skin, the warmth of his breath when he whispered your name.

You came hard, quiet but breathless, curling into yourself as your body trembled beneath the weight of everything he’d left you feeling.

And as your heart slowed back to something manageable, one final thought danced through your mind–

If his kiss felt like that…

You weren’t ready for what the rest of him could do.

————————

“I need advice.” You announced during brunch a few weeks later. Jen, Leah, and Sam all looked up from their plates like hounds catching scent–forks suspended mid-air, brunch suddenly forgotten.

Jen blinked once. “Proceed.”

You took a breath, speared a piece of melon on your fork, then set it down again. “I think I’m going to sleep with Rhett tonight.”

Silence.

Then Leah, deadpan and unimpressed, muttered, “Fucking finally.”

The table burst into laughter–Jen clapping her hands once with glee, Sam nearly choking on her mimosa as she smacked the table.

“Well?” Sam grinned, wiping her mouth. “What do you need advice on, miss ‘finally going to ride a cowboy’?”

You groaned, letting your forehead fall lightly into your hand. “Y’know… how do I make this experience not so–shit?”

The laughter came again, softer this time. Not mocking–just warm.

Jen sipped from her iced coffee, eyebrows raised like she was trying to figure out exactly how much to say. “Girl…A lot of prep. That’s key. Especially if he’s the patient type. And Rhett seems like the patient type.”

“He is,” you said quickly, cheeks warming. “Very patient. Like…Painfully patient. I can tell he wants to take things further, but he’s never pushed. Not even once.”

“That’s because he respects the hell outta you,” Leah said, pointing at you with her fork. “And he’s probably scared of messing it up. Especially if he knows it’s your first time.”

You nodded, absently swirling your fork through your eggs. “I told him over dinner on our fourth date. He didn’t flinch. Just said, ‘We were all virgins once. I really don’t mind.’”

“Awh,” Jen cooed, mock wiping a tear. “The cowboy has morals and charm. We love that.”

Sam leaned in with a smirk. “And hands. Let’s not forget the hands.”

You pressed your lips together and looked away with a barely concealed smile. “Trust me. I’ve not forgotten.”

Jen pointed her fork dramatically. “Okay. So. Prep.”

Sam nodded, serious now. “Have some lube on hand. You’re probably gonna be nervous, and…If Rhett’s packing, better to be safe than sorry.”

You choked slightly on your juice, eyes wide. “Oh my God.”

“Sorry,” Sam said with a little shrug. “But he is a bull rider. Have you seen his thighs?” Leah cut in, ever the practical one.

“You’re on birth control, right?”

You nodded. “Of course. Been on it since grade nine.”

“Good. But have condoms anyway,” Jen said, gesturing firmly. “Because you never know.” You let out a long breath and poked at your toast.

“I should be taking notes.” Leah smiled softly.

“It’ll come naturally once you’re in the moment. Mostly. You just have to make sure to communicate. Tell him what you like, what hurts, what doesn’t feel good.”

“Yeah,” Sam added, “You don’t have to be a sex goddess. Just be present. Feel what you’re feeling. And trust him.”

“I do trust him,” you murmured, almost to yourself.

Jen reached across the table and gave your wrist a light squeeze. “That’s why it’s gonna be good.”

There was a pause. And then–

Jen lifted her brow. “Have you at least, y’know, explored yourself a bit? So you know what feels good?”

Your eyes shot up. “I’m not Mother Teresa, Jen, I’ve maturbated before…Just haven’t had someone else do it for me, that’s all.” Jen smirked.

”Right…Because now you’ve grown feral for the cowboy.”

“Shut up,” You muttered, grinning despite yourself. Your mind was already drifting. Rhett’s mouth. His hands. The way he looked at you like he was memorizing every detail for later.

“Is there anything else I should know?” You asked, half joking, half serious. “Tips? Warnings? Ritual sacrifices?”

Sam hummed thoughtfully. “You may bleed a little. Totally normal. But if you relax and take it slow, it won’t be bad.”

Jen nodded. “Just breathe. Keep talking. Let yourself enjoy it. It’s supposed to feel good.”

Leah leaned in one last time. “And if it doesn’t go perfectly? That’s okay. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth it. Especially with someone who clearly gives a damn.”

You looked down at your plate, heart a little fuller than it had been minutes ago.

“All right,” You said, lifting your coffee. “I think I can do that.” Jen leaned back in her chair, spearing a strawberry off her fruit bowl and pointing it at you like it was a mic.

“One last thing,” She said, tone mock-serious, “Don’t be surprised if you cry afterward.”

You blinked. “Cry?”

All three girls nodded in unison, as if they’d just been waiting for this part.

“Yeah,” Leah said, popping a piece of bacon into her mouth. “It’s super common. Doesn’t mean anything bad. It’s just…A lot.”

“A lot,” Sam echoed, sipping her iced coffee like she was preparing for a TED Talk. “All the nerves and build-up and hormones and oxytocin? Sometimes it just leaks out of your eyeballs. No warning. It happened to me with Dave. I went to the bathroom to pee and started crying like I just watched the end of Titanic.”

You stared at her. “You cried on the toilet?”

“Yup. Naked. Legs shaking. Dave panicked and brought me a fruit snack.”

Jen snorted into her mimosa. “Honestly? That man earned a gold star for that one.”

You couldn’t help laughing, the tension breaking a little. “Jesus.”

“It’s not bad,” Leah added, a little gentler now, “Just intense. First times can be overwhelming even if everything goes right. Doesn’t mean you did anything wrong. Doesn’t mean he did anything wrong.”

You nodded, tucking that somewhere in your brain. “Okay. I appreciate the heads-up.”

Jen leaned in again, all faux-seriousness. “But if he does do anything wrong, text us ‘cowboy down’ and we’ll come beat him up for you.” You rolled your eyes, laughing. “He’s not going to do anything wrong.”

“We know,” Sam said, softer now. “That man looks at you like he’d lay down and die if you asked him to…It’s just in case though.” Your smile wavered just a little at that. Not because it was wrong–but because it was true. And hearing it out loud made it all that much more real.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself.

“Okay,” you said finally. “So lube, condoms, communication, expect the tears, maybe keep a fruit snack nearby…Any last words?”

“Don’t focus so hard on doing it right that you forget to feel it. You’ve waited this long–make sure you get something out of it too.”

You paused. Then nodded. “Yeah… Yeah, you’re right.”

And then Sam leaned over with a knowing little grin and murmured, “And hey… If his hands are anything like they looked when he brought you that drink, girl, you’re about to ascend.”

You buried your face in your hands as the table exploded into laughter again.

Because honestly?

You were counting on it.

—————————

When Rhett drove you home from the drive-in that night, he figured things would end the way they usually did–lips on lips, your thighs straddling his lap in the driver’s seat, the console digging into your side while your hands fumbled in each other’s hair. Maybe a little grinding, maybe a few low gasps muffled against his neck, your dress bunched around your hips while his hands found their familiar place on your waist.

But this time, when he eased the truck into park outside your house and leaned over to press a gentle kiss to your mouth, you surprised him.

You pulled back almost instantly–not to stop him, not to tease. Your hands came up instead, cradling his face between your palms, your thumbs brushing the soft skin just beneath his eyes.

His lips parted slightly, breath caught between questions he hadn’t dared to ask yet.

“Wanna come inside?” You murmured.

The shift was subtle, but immediate. His expression changed like the temperature had dropped twenty degrees. Eyebrows lifted just barely. His eyes flicked over your face, searching for a trace of a joke–anything–but all he found was sincerity. Soft, nervous, brave sincerity.

“You sure?” He asked, voice low, raspy, like it caught in the back of his throat. “Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

You shook your head once, deliberate. “I booked tomorrow off.”

That made him blink.

“You did?”

“Mhm.” You nodded, and the smile you gave him wasn’t teasing. It was warm. Quiet. Like you were holding a secret just for him. You leaned in, slow and steady, your breath brushing his ear as you whispered “Thought it would be best if I was going to sleep with you tonight…I want to spend the morning wrapped up in you.” His hands, resting on your thighs, tensed ever so slightly. He swallowed hard, the sound thick in his throat.

“You sure?” He asked again, softer this time. Almost reverent.

And you leaned back just enough to meet his eyes fully–no hesitation, no fear, just that same quiet bravery–and said, “I’ve never been more sure.”

Rhett unbuckled his seat belt with a click, his movements smooth but tense with anticipation. He cut the engine and stepped out, rounding the front of the truck in a few long strides, boots crunching softly against the gravel. By the time he opened your door, you were already sliding forward in your seat, heart fluttering against your ribs.

His hand found yours, warm and rough, curling around your fingers as he helped you down. You barely had time to settle your footing before he leaned in–just close enough for his breath to fan against your cheek–and whispered, “Lead the way, sweetheart.” You did.

Your fingers fumbled slightly as you dug through your purse for the keys, walking up the short wooden steps to your front door. The porch light cast a soft glow over the faded green paint, your wind chime clinking lazily in the warm summer air.

You found your keys just as Rhett stepped in behind you, his hands gently finding your hips, his thumbs pressing softly into the dip of your waist. He bent close, his lips brushing your bare shoulder in a slow, reverent kiss that made your breath catch.

Then you felt it–his fingers slipping through the back loops of your jean shorts. Not tugging. Just holding. Anchoring. Like he needed to touch you to make sure this was real.

You unlocked the door with a quiet snick and pushed it open, stepping inside.

“C’mon,” You murmured, pulling him in by the front of his white t-shirt he wore beneath his black long sleeve button up.

He followed without question.

The keys clattered onto the little table by the door–a narrow vintage piece with peeling white paint and a small dish full of quarters and hair ties. The entrance opened directly into your living space, and it looked exactly like you: warm, cluttered in a way that felt lived-in rather than messy, cozy without trying too hard.

A worn brown couch sat against the far wall, the cushions a little too soft from years of sinking into them after work. A crocheted throw blanket was slung lazily over the back, and the coffee table was full of mismatched coasters, a candle burned low, and a couple half-read books stacked unevenly beside a mug that still held the ghost of morning coffee. The TV was modest, angled toward the couch, and the rug beneath your feet was frayed at the edges, patterned with sun-faded florals.

Beyond the living room was the open-concept kitchen–small but bright, the kind of space that made use of every inch. White cabinets, a fridge covered in magnets and little post-it notes, a tea towel hanging off the oven door, and a row of spice jars on a repurposed shelf above the stove. A round wooden dining table sat between the rooms, one chair slightly pulled out like it had been left mid-thought.

Rhett looked around, eyes wide but soft, like he was stepping into a space he’d only seen in dreams.

“Really nice place,” He murmured, voice low and sincere.

You glanced over your shoulder and smirked, reaching down to toe off your boots. “Thank you.”

He kicked his off beside yours, then moved toward you with slow intent. His hands found your waist again, fingers curling over your sides as he pulled you in–chest to chest, breath to breath.

And then he kissed you.

It started deep. Immediate. No hesitation this time. His lips slanted over yours with heat and hunger, his mouth moving like he needed you to feel exactly how long he’d been craving this. Your hands threaded through his hair, tugging gently at the roots as your body molded to his, heart racing with every brush of tongue, every subtle press of teeth.

You moaned into his mouth when he bit softly at your bottom lip, and that was all it took for him to lift you.

His hands slid down, gripping beneath your thighs, and in one smooth motion, he hoisted you up. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, locking you in tight. He groaned softly against your lips as your bodies met, the pressure sending sparks through your core.

You barely broke the kiss to breathe, your nose brushing his as your mouth hovered against his.

“Tell me where…” He rasped, voice ragged, breath hot against your cheek. “Where the bedroom is.”

You nodded toward the hallway behind him, your voice coming out in a rush: “Down the hall…Just go straight.”

“Okay,” He murmured like a promise, shifting his grip as he started walking.

You didn’t make it easy for him.

Your lips trailed down his neck the second he turned, slow and teasing, pressing soft open-mouthed kisses to the curve of his throat. Your tongue flicked against the salt of his skin, and you felt it–his pace faltering for just a second, his breath catching, the thump of his heart beneath your lips pounding like it was trying to escape his chest.

He swore under his breath–something quiet and desperate–and kept going, the hallway dim around you, lit only by the soft glow of the porch light filtering in through the windows.

The door creaked open as Rhett stepped carefully into your bedroom. The moment the threshold was crossed, the world seemed to quiet even further, as if the very walls of your room were holding their breath, waiting for what came next.

His hands adjusted slightly under your thighs–warm, calloused, steady–and he dipped his head just a little, eyes darting past your shoulder to take in the space. Then, slowly, gently, he crouched, easing you down onto the bed with a care that made your chest ache.

The mattress dipped beneath your weight as you bottom met the comforter. The fabric was soft beneath you–well-worn cotton with faded floral print, not pristine or frilly, but cozy, the kind of bedding someone actually sleeps in, not just made for show. Pillows were stacked unevenly at the headboard, one still faintly creased from the way you’d curled around it the night before. Rhett stood for a second, straightening up as he looked around.

The bedroom was intimate without being staged–walls painted a soft eggshell, glowing warm in the dim light, one corner occupied by a small bookshelf full of worn spines and bent jackets. A framed print of a wildflower field hung crooked over the dresser. Your laundry hamper sat half-full beside it, one of his flannels folded neatly atop it from when you’d borrowed it last week and meant to return it. There was a window just above the headboard, cracked open to let the night breeze in–soft cricket sounds threading faintly through the screen.

To his left, the door to your ensuite bathroom was open, just enough for the warm tile light to spill out in a soft line across the wood floor. Inside, he could make out pale green towels hanging on the bar, a few bottles tucked along the edge of the tub. Your toothbrush sat in a small ceramic holder on the sink, beside a candle and a little jar of cotton rounds. Lived-in. Lovely. Yours.

And something about that hit him hard. The quiet intimacy of your space. The invitation of it. He was stepping into your world–and you were letting him in without armor, without distance, without fear.

Rhett exhaled slowly, his eyes dark with reverence. Then he turned to the small nightstand beside your bed, flicked the switch on the amber lamp, and let warm, golden light spill across the room.

It was the kind of light that softened edges. That wrapped everything in a dusky glow, like honey catching in the air. It made your skin gleam and your eyes catch fire.

Then–wordlessly–he shrugged off the black button-up, the fabric whispering as it slid down his arms. He let it fall to the floor beside him without ceremony.

Underneath, the white t-shirt clung to his chest and shoulders in ways that made your breath stutter. It wasn’t tight, but it didn’t need to be. The cotton hugged his biceps with ease, pulled slightly at the seams where his body curved broad and solid beneath it. The line of his torso cut clean down the middle, a faint shadow hinting at the muscle that lay beneath.

Your thighs clenched without meaning to. Reflexive. Hungry. Heat curled low in your stomach.

Rhett saw it. He could feel it. And his jaw tightened as he crossed the short distance back to the bed.

You opened your legs slowly, deliberately, inviting him in with nothing more than that movement–and he stepped between them, eyes never leaving yours.

Then his hands came up.

Rough palms cradled your face with startling gentleness, his thumbs brushing just beneath your cheekbones as he tilted your head up toward him. You looked at him and forgot how to breathe.

Because in this light…

His eyes were beautiful.

That striking blue had deepened to something richer now–like the sky right before night swallows the last of the day. They shimmered with something electric, something endless, framed by lashes that caught the glow like they were made for it. There were freckles scattered faintly across his cheeks now that you were close enough to see them, tiny sun-kissed pinpricks that spoke of days spent outdoors, of skin kissed by more than just light.

And the way he looked at you…

It was like he was starving and home all at once.

His gaze flicked down to your lips, then back up, and he wet his bottom lip slowly–deliberate, sensual, the tip of his tongue dragging over pink skin as if preparing for something sacred.

Then he kissed you.

This time, there was no hesitation. No breath of doubt.

It was heat and hunger, teeth and tongue, lips parting like they’d never tasted anything sweeter. His kiss devoured, coaxed, claimed. His body pressed forward as he kissed you deeper, urging you gently down onto your back until your spine met the mattress.

You didn’t even realize you were moving until your legs curled up, wrapping tight around his waist. The feel of him between your thighs, the weight of him pressing you down–it sent your mind reeling.

His hands braced beside your head. His hips settled low, just enough pressure to make you moan into his mouth, your fingers gripping at his shirt, nails dragging down the fabric like you needed more.

The mattress shifted with every movement. The room filled with the sound of breath and fabric and heartbeats and heat. Your hands slid beneath the hem of his white t-shirt as you kissed him harder, gripping the soft cotton and pulling him impossibly closer. The air between you was thick now, heady with heat and something darker—something slow and primal.

He moaned softly into your mouth, the sound like gravel dragged through honey, and your body answered with a full-body shiver.

Rhett’s hips rolled forward, slow and deliberate, and you felt him through the thick denim of his jeans–hard and heavy, grinding perfectly against the aching heat between your thighs. The friction made your breath catch, made your spine arch off the mattress. You clung to him, your thighs tightening around his waist as he rocked again.

Denim met denim in a blur of pressure and desperate friction–your shorts riding higher with every shift of his hips, the center seam of them pressed firmly against your core now, tugged taut by the weight of him. It was messy and maddening and god, it felt so good.

His body was big and solid above you, but never crushing. He was braced just enough–arms trembling slightly as he supported himself over you, careful not to let his full weight drop even as his pelvis ground into yours. Each motion was intentional. Controlled. He could’ve taken you apart if he wanted to.

But he didn’t.

He held back.

And that restraint–that quiet dominance, that held tension in his jaw, the way his hips ground instead of slammed–it made you dizzy.

His lips broke from yours only long enough to trail down your jaw, his breath scorching against your skin as he kissed a path to your neck. When he found the space just beneath your ear, he groaned low against it, grinding down again, and you gasped.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” He whispered, voice ragged. “You feel that?” You could only nod, head tilting back as he rolled his hips again, slower this time, making sure you felt the full press of his bulge against your center. Your fingernails dug into his shoulders, knees pulling tighter around his waist.

It wasn’t rushed. It was feral. Careful. Contained. Like he was holding a match to a fuse and daring it not to blow.

And just when you thought you’d combust from the friction alone–he stilled.

He pulled back, lips swollen, eyes dark and locked on yours as he brushed your hair back from your face.

“Can I take your shirt off?” He asked, voice low and reverent.

You didn’t hesitate. You nodded, breathless. “Yes. Please.”

His hands moved slowly, helping you sit up with a careful tug of your waist. His touch never left your skin. He peeled your shirt up and over your head in one slow motion, like he was unwrapping something sacred. He threw it off to the side and paused, his breath catching in his throat. Because beneath it–you were wearing a powdered blue bra. Soft lace, delicate straps. The kind of blue that looked barely-there in this light, washed in amber glow and moonlight.

Rhett’s eyes traced every inch like he’d never seen anything so beautiful. His hands came up, slow and open, calloused palms cupping your breasts through the fabric–gentle, almost awestruck, his thumbs brushing across the curved edges of the cups.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmured, eyes still locked on you. “You’re somethin’ else.”

You shivered as his fingers flexed ever so slightly, not squeezing, just holding. Like he needed to feel the weight of you in his hands, needed to remind himself this was real.

Then his mouth found yours again.

He kissed you like he was trying to memorize every breath–deep and open and hungry. And as he kissed you, he eased you further up the bed, one hand at your back, the other braced on the mattress beside your hip.

He followed you, slowly crawling forward on his knees until he was fully on the bed now–hovering above you, chest to chest again, his weight sinking into the mattress as it groaned beneath both your bodies.

The kiss never broke.

His thighs slid between yours again. The heat of him, the scent of pine and sweat and summer skin, the constant throb where your bodies met–it wrapped around you like fire.

And when his hips rolled forward again, this time braced against the bed, denim catching against denim, bare skin finally brushing cotton, you moaned into his mouth and pulled him closer, and Rhett swallowed the sound like it was the only thing that mattered. Rhett’s mouth broke from yours with a slow, shaky breath, his lips slick and parted, his gaze heavy-lidded as he pulled back just enough to take you in.

Then he dipped his head.

His lips found your throat first, brushing the skin there in a whisper-soft kiss, then trailing lower, open-mouthed and hot. His breath fanned out across your collarbone as he kissed it slowly, reverently, his voice tumbling out between the touches like he couldn’t stop himself.

“So damn pretty…” He murmured, nuzzling along the delicate slope of your neck. “So fuckin’ beautiful…”

His words were low and breathless, more praise than statement–like they were being dragged from his chest by the heat between your bodies. He kissed the hollow of your throat, then moved lower, his hair falling forward as he ducked down. The strands had begun to slip loose from the way he’d styled them, soft waves now tickling against your skin as he pressed his mouth to the top swell of your breast.

You gasped, spine arching faintly.

His lips dragged across the top curve of one breast, then the other, slow and teasing, the tip of his tongue just barely flicking against the edge of the lace as he groaned softly.

“Your skin is so fuckin’ soft,” He breathed, his hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing just beneath the band of your bra. “Can I take this off, sweetheart?”

You nodded, breath caught in your throat. “Yes.”

He didn’t rush. His hands were careful, respectful, as he found the clasp and eased it open, the soft snap of fabric releasing like a held breath. He let the straps fall away, the bra sliding off your arms, and he tossed it gently to the side.

Then he sat back on his knees for a moment.

Just looking.

The room was quiet but charged, amber light bathing everything in a molten glow. Rhett’s eyes were wide and reverent, drinking in the sight of your bare chest like it undid something deep inside him.

His hand came up, slow and open, and cupped one breast with tender pressure, thumb dragging softly over your nipple as it hardened beneath his touch. You gasped and arched slightly into him, your thighs flexing around his waist, your bottom lip caught between your teeth to stifle the moan threatening to break loose.

“Fuck,” He whispered, voice cracked. “You’re unreal…”

Then he leaned forward again, lips brushing the other breast as he murmured, “Can I kiss them?”

You nodded immediately, your voice trembling. “Please…”

That was all he needed.

He kissed the soft underside first, mouth hot and open, tongue flicking teasingly along the curve. Then he took your nipple between his lips and sucked.

Your whole body jolted.

The sensation ripped through you like lightning–sharp, electric, overwhelming. His mouth was hot, wet, focused as he laved over your nipple, then sucked harder, his tongue swirling as he groaned into your skin. His other hand massaged your other breast, palm wide and warm, kneading with slow, deliberate rhythm.

Your hips bucked into him, the friction of your shorts dragging against the denim of his jeans. His own hips rolled in response, grinding down against you in perfect, torturous time with his mouth.

The weight of him. The rhythm. The praise. The heat.

It was too much and not enough all at once.

“Rhett–” You gasped, one hand tangling in his hair as it brushed against your chest, thick and messy now, tickling with every breath. “God…”

He sucked harder, groaning at the sound of your voice, the vibration of it rumbling through your skin. He didn’t stop. He just kept grinding slow and heavy against your core, the hard line of his cock dragging exactly where you needed it, the pressure maddening.

“You like that?” he rasped, lips slick as he looked up, his hand still kneading at your breast. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You whimpered, nodding, your breath ragged. “Yes–yes, it feels so good–”

He kissed back across your chest to your other nipple and sucked there too, just as intensely, his hips never stopping their slow grind. You could feel how much he wanted you–how much he was holding back–and it only made the tension coil tighter between your thighs.

You were drowning in it–in the heat of his mouth, the drag of his hips, the praise whispered into your skin, the way his body crowded yours completely.

Rhett’s mouth lingered at your breast a moment longer, then released you with a soft, wet pop, placing a tender kiss over the nipple before moving lower. His lips trailed a slow, reverent path down the slope of your sternum, breath warm and ragged as he murmured soft things into your skin.

“So beautiful,” He whispered, brushing the tip of his nose along your stomach, kissing just beneath your ribcage. “So fuckin’ soft… Can’t believe I get to touch you like this…”

You felt his tongue dart out, licking slowly along the gentle dip above your navel. His groan was quiet but raw, like your taste knocked the wind from him. Then he did it again, slower this time, eyes fluttering shut as he tasted the salt and heat clinging to your skin.

He kissed you everywhere–your stomach, your waist, the faint stretchmarks at your hip. Sweet nothings fell from his lips like prayer: You’re unreal…Can’t get enough of you… never seen anything so perfect.

And then he reached the waistband of your shorts.

His mouth hovered just above the button, and he glanced up at you through his lashes–eyes glassy and dark, mouth flushed.

“Can I take these off?” He asked, voice husky, reverent.

You nodded instantly, already breathless. “Yes… please.”

His fingers moved with aching care, undoing the button, pulling the zipper down so slowly it might’ve been deliberate torture. Then he curled his hands around the waistband and shimmied the denim down your thighs, inch by inch. You lifted your hips to help him, legs parting slightly.

And when the shorts slipped off completely–when he saw what you were wearing underneath–Rhett stopped breathing altogether.

It was the matching set.

Powdered blue lace. Dainty straps. Barely-there coverage.

His jaw flexed, eyes flicking up to your face, then dropping again to the sheer fabric stretched over your soaked center.

“Jesus…” He muttered, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. One large hand skimmed down your thigh, then up again, fingers grazing over the lace. You arched ever so slightly into his touch, hips twitching in quiet desperation.

He groaned low, eyes locked on where you moved for him.

“I wanna see how you touch yourself,” He rasped, dragging his knuckles over the front of your panties. “Before I do anything to you… I wanna watch you, sweetheart.”

Your breath caught. You looked up at him with wide, unsure eyes–doe-eyed and flushed, heart pounding.

“O-Okay…”

His hands were gentle as he helped ease the delicate underwear down your legs, bunching them in his fist before setting them aside carefully, like they were something precious. Then he sat back, slow and deliberate, bracing himself between your knees. His hands slid up the outsides of your thighs and gently pressed–urging your legs open to him.

The air between your bodies tightened. You could feel yourself flushing from head to toe.

Your fingers ghosted down your stomach, trembling slightly, and Rhett didn’t say a word–just watched. Eyes wide. Lips parted. Kneeling before you like he was witnessing something holy.

You avoided his gaze as your fingers slipped lower, already slick with the arousal he’d built inside you with nothing more than his mouth, his words, and that grind. You gathered your wetness, circling your clit slowly, trying not to overdo it.

Rhett leaned in. His lips brushed the inside of your knee, tender and grounding.

“You’re very gentle with yourself…” He murmured. “Are you sensitive?”

You nodded a little, breath stuttering.

He exhaled hard through his nose, voice breaking as he whispered, “You look so pretty when you touch yourself like that…”

His hand came up to rub slow circles along your thigh while you worked your fingers in slow, rhythmic spirals. Your breath hitched. You circled again, and then again, each motion sending little shocks through your stomach.

And then you said, “Whenever I touch myself… all I’ve been thinking about is your fingers instead of mine.”

Rhett’s mouth curved into a smirk against your skin. His lips brushed up your thigh, closer now.

“Is that so, sweetheart?”

You whimpered. “I want your mouth on me so badly, Rhett.”

He kissed the inside of your knee again–gentle, sweet, steady.

“Alright,” He murmured, voice barely more than gravel and breath. “But if you want me to stop, you can tell me at any point, okay?”

You nodded instantly. “I won’t want you to stop…”

His eyes darkened as he pressed a kiss higher up your thigh. Then another. Then another.

And as he moved closer to where you ached most, your body shuddered with anticipation. His breath ghosted over your center, hot and unsteady. You could feel it–each exhale brushing across the slick folds of your core, stirring goosebumps up your thighs. And then his voice came, low and ragged, like gravel dipped in honey.

“You’re glistening, Y/N…” He murmured, his breath catching. “It’s so fuckin’ beautiful… Can’t believe I’m the first one who gets to touch you like this…To taste you like this.”

The reverence in his voice made your chest ache. Your thighs tensed beneath his palms, and he soothed them with a slow stroke of his thumbs–circling gently, grounding you. Then he leaned in.

His stubble scraped softly against the tender skin of your inner thighs, just enough to make you flinch–not in pain, but in pure, sharpened sensitivity. He kissed your right thigh first, then your left, mouthing at the soft flesh with quiet devotion before shifting closer, lips parting.

The first lick was slow.

Long.

Deliberate.

The flat of his tongue dragged up your slit in one smooth, reverent motion, tasting every bit of your arousal like it was something sacred. He let out a low hum–a quiet, aching sound of pleasure–as his hands tightened ever so slightly on your thighs.

Then he pulled back just enough to kiss your clit–soft and wet and lingering.

“You taste amazing…” He whispered, lips brushing your folds. His voice was thick, almost dazed.

You bit your bottom lip hard, eyes fluttering as you looked down at him. He stared up at you with that same reverent hunger, mouth slick, cheeks flushed. And then he dipped his head again, tongue finding your clit in a slow, lazy stroke that made your hips twitch.

You shifted, gasping softly, instinctively wiggling against his mouth in search of more. Rhett responded immediately–pressing his face in deeper, his stubble rubbing raw and hot against your skin. You reached down without thinking, hand fumbling until yours found his.

He squeezed your hand gently.

And then, muffled against your core, you heard him ask, “You okay, baby?”

You nodded, breathless. “Yes…” It came out like a whisper. “Feels so good…”

He kissed your clit again, murmuring, “Put your hand in my hair.”

Your fingers obeyed instantly, slipping into the thick strands and curling softly. He hummed in response, the sound vibrating straight through your core, and then he returned to you–tongue stroking slow, intentional patterns over your most sensitive point.

Everything about him was gentle, but relentless. He never rushed. He worshipped.

And then his hand slid off your thigh. You felt the shift–the weight of his palm dragging down, disappearing for a second.

He pulled back, panting lightly, lips shiny and pink. His voice was hoarse. “I’m gonna finger you…Is that okay?”

Your answer was immediate. “Yes. Please…”

You watched through half-lidded eyes as he dragged his fingers through your slick, coating them thoroughly. He leaned back in and kissed your clit again–soft and sweet, like a punctuation mark–before gently pressing a single finger into your entrance.

The stretch was perfect. Not painful. But new. Full.

Your lips parted in a soundless gasp, your thighs quivering as your body tried to adjust to the pressure. His eyes were locked on your face.

“Does it feel good?” He murmured, voice frayed at the edges.

You nodded. “It’s better than…Better than when I do it.” You were barely breathing.

He kissed the inside of your thigh again, his eyes glinting with something soft and primal all at once.

“You’re flutterin’ around me, sweetheart…” He whispered. “God, you feel so good.”

He slid his finger in slowly, curling it just right–and then, when you were ready, he added a second.

You moaned out loud.

Loud and aching and raw.

Your hips lifted off the mattress at the stretch, and Rhett caught you–his other arm bracing across your stomach, pinning you down with just enough pressure to steady you.

His fingers moved in slow, careful thrusts, curling deep until they found it–that spot you could only sometimes graze on your own. But he didn’t stop there. As his fingers moved, his mouth returned to your clit, tongue swirling, flattening, lapping.

It was too much and still somehow not enough.

The heat started to bloom in your belly–sharp and fast and unbearable. His fingers were soaked. The squelch of them moving inside you echoed through the room now, tangled with his quiet groans and the soft gasps falling from your lips like prayers.

He sucked your clit deep into his mouth and moaned around it, the sound vibrating through your whole body. His fingers curled again.

Right there.

“Rhett–” You gasped, voice trembling. “Rhett, it feels like I’m gonna–”

His eyes snapped up to yours, wild and focused and god, he was smiling. “Just let it out, sweetheart,” He rasped, never stopping. “Let me drink you in.”

That did it.

The heat snapped like a whip.

Your hips bucked hard–legs trembling, your back arching off the mattress. A strangled moan burst from your throat as your orgasm tore through you like wildfire.

You came hard–rushing wetness spilling out over his fingers, soaking the comforter beneath you. You gasped, nearly sobbing with the intensity, your hands tangled in his hair and fisting hard as your whole body convulsed against his mouth.

Rhett held you there.

Firm but tender, one arm anchoring you while his mouth slowed, his tongue gentling against your clit as he rode out your high. You twitched beneath him, thighs shaking, as the overstimulation began to bleed in.

“Okay…Okay…” You whimpered, barely coherent.

He eased off slowly, kissing your thighs, your stomach, your hipbone–anywhere he could reach as your body trembled down from the high. He held you until your breath evened, until the quaking softened, until your hand loosened in his hair.

Only then did he raise his head, lips flushed and glistening, eyes blown wide with awe and reverence.

“You’re incredible,” He murmured, voice shaking. “Never seen anything so goddamn beautiful.”

And then, without a word, he leaned in and kissed you–deep, slow, still tasting of you, and all you could do was pull him close and kiss him back, letting the weight of that moment settle over both of you like a blanket made of heat and something sweeter.

His tongue slipped past your lips with slow confidence, and you welcomed him, your moan melting into his mouth as your hands tangled in his hair again. It was wet and hungry, the kind of kiss that made your toes curl, the kind that made everything else disappear.

The weight of his body, the grind of denim against your bare core, the deep, soft drag of his tongue against yours–every piece of him was searing into you, and you didn’t want him anywhere else.

You could feel how hard he was through his jeans now. Thick, unrelenting. It pressed up against you, heavy and hot, even through the fabric–and you reached down between your bodies without thinking. Your fingers found the button of his jeans, popped it open, and tugged at the zipper slowly.

That was when he pulled back, just enough to breathe. His lips were swollen, chin wet, pupils blown wide. “Let me go grab a condom,” He rasped, already shifting to move.

But you caught his wrist, held him there, and your voice came soft and breathless.

“I’m on the pill… I want to feel all of you, Rhett. Please… Please, I want to feel you.”

His breath hitched–like the air was knocked out of him. His gaze darted over your face, trying to make sure he heard you right. The way you said it. The way you looked at him, wide-eyed and aching and brave.

“You sure?” he asked, his voice cracked with restraint.

You nodded, slow and deliberate. “I’ve never been more sure.”

That was all it took.

Rhett sat back slightly, and with one hand, he peeled off his shirt in a smooth, practiced motion. The fabric caught the light as it was tossed aside, revealing sun-warmed skin stretched over lean, corded muscle. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, every inch of him tanned and freckled and golden. Your eyes trailed down his stomach–over the faint trail of hair leading beneath the waistband of his jeans–your breath catching in your throat.

He pushed himself off the bed and stood to undo the rest. You watched as he slid his jeans and boxers down in one slow motion, revealing himself fully.

Your stomach flipped.

He was big.

Beautiful, too–thick and flushed, heavy against his thigh, his length curving upward slightly. You swallowed hard as your eyes followed the slope of his hips to the strength of his thighs–thick with muscle, dusted with dark hair, tense as he stood before you, letting you take him in.

He watched your face as you looked at him–searching for fear or hesitation–but all he saw was awe.

“I-I have lube,” you said quietly, pointing to the nightstand. “Top drawer.”

Without hesitation, he turned, grabbed it, and crawled back onto the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, and he settled between your thighs again, kissing you before you could even catch your breath.

This time, it was messier. Hotter. Slick with spit and need and the taste of you lingering between your mouths. His hands roamed–gripping your waist, cupping your jaw, brushing your hair back with aching tenderness.

The heat of his erection pressed against your core again, and the moment he rocked his hips forward, you gasped. He groaned into your mouth and pulled back just enough to look at you.

“You ready?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your mouth again. Then he leaned back just slightly and gently pushed your thighs open a little wider. The cool air hit your skin, but it didn’t last–his hand came next.

He popped the cap of the lube and coated himself first, his breath catching as his hand stroked his erection with slow, slick pressure. Then he reached between your thighs, and you gasped as his fingers spread the lube carefully over your entrance, gentle and reverent.

Then he moved closer again, one arm sliding beneath your neck, cradling you as he brought his forehead to yours.

“I’ll go slow,” He whispered, pressing soft kisses to your cheeks between each word.

“Okay,” you whispered back.

“Tell me if it hurts, okay?”

You nodded again, breath shallow.

Then he reached down, adjusted himself, and began to guide his tip to your entrance.

You could feel him there–warm, slick, thick–and your hands clenched around his biceps as he slowly began to press in. The stretch was immediate. Hot. Sharp. Full.

Your breath hitched. “Oh–”

He stopped instantly, holding himself steady, brushing your hair back again.

“You okay?” His voice was ragged, restrained. His whole body trembled with the effort of holding back.

You nodded, jaw tight. “Just…Give me a second…”

He kissed your temple and murmured, “Take all the time you need, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

He stayed still, every muscle in his body taut and waiting, his cock barely halfway inside you, while you adjusted. And he kept kissing you–your hairline, your cheekbone, the tip of your nose–whispering soft things.

When you finally exhaled fully, your hips relaxed, and you whispered, “Okay…You can keep going.”

He did–so slowly it almost hurt with how careful he was. Inch by inch, the stretch deepened, and your hands scrambled for something to hold–his shoulders, the sheets, anything.

But then he bottomed out, fully seated inside you, and everything in your body stilled.

You were full. So full. It was overwhelming and delicious and dizzying, and the feel of his cock pulsing inside you made your whole body tighten.

“Oh my god…” You whispered.

Rhett was breathing hard above you, lips parted, eyes clenched shut.

“You’re so tight, sweetheart… You feel…Fuck, you feel incredible…”

He didn’t move yet. He just stayed there, kissing your shoulder, letting your body adjust around him, trembling with restraint.

“You okay?” He asked again, voice nearly breaking.

You nodded slowly, lifting your hand to stroke his jaw, “You’re so big Rhett…Fuck you’re filling me so good.” Rhett sighed hard against your mouth, the sound frayed and heavy, like he’d been holding it in for years. You felt it in your chest. In your thighs. In the way his body trembled, barely restraining itself inside you.

Your walls fluttered around him, tightening and loosening in sync with your racing heartbeat. He groaned deep in his throat, his breath catching as your body clung to his, pulse and pressure locking him in place.

His free hand found yours, fingers interlacing, his palm warm and calloused where it cupped yours into the mattress. Then he leaned down, kissed your forehead. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth. Every kiss was soft, reverent–like a thank you in skin.

Then one small kiss to your lips, barely a brush, and you whispered:

“You can move…”

He nodded, eyes locked on yours. “Okay…”

And then he did.

The first roll of his hips was slow. Careful. Shallow. But even that made you gasp.

He paused, breathing against your mouth.

“Okay?” he asked again.

“Yeah,” you whispered, voice shaking. “It’s just…A lot. A really, really good lot…”

Rhett gave a breathless laugh, then kissed you again—and this time, when he rocked into you, he went just a little deeper. Then again. And again. Short strokes at first, easing you open, your body adjusting with each slow drag of him moving in and out.

Every inch was pure heat. Every motion coaxed more of you open, more pleasure, more need. Your hips started to lift with his rhythm, chasing the feeling, meeting him halfway in a messy, desperate grind.

He groaned–low and sharp, his head tipping forward so his forehead pressed to yours, sweat starting to bead at his temples.

“Holy fuck, Y/N…” He breathed, voice cracked with pleasure. “I’m already fuckin’ addicted to you. Jesus Christ.”

And then he pushed in harder–just slightly, just enough to steal your breath–and kissed you with all the weight of that confession.

You moaned into his mouth, legs tightening around his waist. Your hands slid up his back, clinging, fingernails scraping lightly as you arched beneath him.

One hand found his hair and tugged–gentle, desperate–and he let out a soft, broken sound against your lips.

Then your voice broke out, wild and shaking: “Rhett, oh my fucking god…Please. Please fuck me.”

He pulled back, just enough to look at you. His hair was damp and messy, his cheeks flushed, his eyes dark with a heat that burned straight through you.

“You want me to go a little faster?” He asked, voice barely holding on.

You nodded instantly. “Yes…Please…”

He kissed you again–deep and hungry–and then he did.

His hips began to move faster, deeper. The slick drag of his cock inside you was dizzying, perfect, each thrust brushing places that made your breath come in strangled gasps. The mattress creaked beneath your bodies, your moans filling the space between the slap of skin and the thick, humid sound of him fucking into you.

He buried his face in your neck, panting against your skin, and you clung to him, crying out as your thighs trembled around his waist.

The tension coiled in your belly again. The kind that burned slow, that built behind your ribs until it was a scream in waiting.

Sweat slid down his spine. Yours, too. The room smelled like sex and heat and skin. You could feel his muscles flexing as he fucked you, his body straining with effort, with restraint.

“Fuck…” He gasped, hips stuttering slightly. “I’m gonna cum…”

And without thinking, you whined:

“I want you to cum in me, Rhett… I want to feel you drip out of me… I want to remember you until the next time you fuck me…”

He let out a broken groan against your lips, his whole body jolting. “Jesus fuckin’–”

Then his mouth crashed into yours as his hips bucked.

His cock throbbed inside you, twitching hard as he spilled into you with a choked, whimpering moan. Hot ropes of cum pulsed into you, thick and deep, coating your walls as his whole body tensed, then sagged forward, trembling with release.

You could feel it. Every drop. The warmth, the weight of him filling you.

He kept kissing you, slow and breathless, as his body rocked through the last of it. Then he collapsed gently onto you–careful not to crush you, but unable to do anything but melt into your skin.

His breath came in hot, heavy bursts against your collarbone. Your fingers threaded through his messy hair, stroking softly, both of you pulsing together in the aftermath.

You tilted your head and kissed his shoulder. Then again. Then you opened your mouth and sucked gently, letting your teeth graze the skin just enough to sting.

He laughed. A breathless, wrecked sound that vibrated against your chest.

“You just gave me the best orgasm of my life and now you’re marking me up?” he murmured, smiling into your neck.

You kissed the spot again. “Mhm. Wanna make sure you remember me too.”

He groaned, low and content. “Like I ever could forget.”

And then he kissed you again–slower now.

The kiss lingered–soft and slow, no heat behind it now, just breath and closeness and the raw tenderness of being seen. When he finally pulled back, Rhett exhaled gently against your lips, eyes still half-lidded, lips brushing yours with each word.

“We should take a shower together,” He whispered. “Clean off…Then cuddle. Sound good to you?”

You nodded, voice caught in your throat from how gentle he was being with you. How careful. Like you might crack if he touched you too roughly now.

He kissed you again, barely a press. Then murmured, “I’m gonna pull out, okay?”

Your hands rose without thinking, cupping his face, your thumbs brushing the flushed heat of his cheekbones. “Go ahead,” You whispered.

He moved slow–achingly slow–as if trying not to jar anything loose inside you. His hips drew back, inch by inch, and the moment he slipped out, you gasped softly at the emptiness. It wasn’t pain. Just…The absence of him. Of fullness. Of connection.

He looked down instinctively, and his breath caught in his throat when he saw the smear of red on the tip of himself. Just a trace. Just enough.

His eyes flicked up immediately. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice low and urgent.

You nodded, resting a hand on his chest, the rise and fall of it still heavy from exertion. “I’m okay,” You whispered. “I promise. Just sore.”

He held your gaze for a moment longer, then leaned in to kiss your forehead. “Alright,” he murmured. “Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart.”

He stood first, reaching for your hand to help you up gently. You wobbled a little on your legs, but he caught you before you could sway too far. Wordlessly, he guided you to the washroom, one arm around your waist, the other bracing you.

You sat on the toilet while he turned on the shower, the sound of the water filling the small room. The bathroom lights were still dim, the warm tiles grounding beneath your bare feet. You leaned forward slightly, your elbows resting on your knees as you peed, feeling the soft, warm leak of him spilling from between your thighs–a small gush that made you shiver.

Rhett noticed. He turned, saw your face, and came to crouch in front of you. One hand cupped your knee, the other brushed your hair back as he pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“You’re okay?” he asked again, voice like velvet.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah. Just… feelin’ it, that’s all.”

When you finished, he helped you up again, kissed your shoulder, and led you to the shower. The steam had already begun to fog the mirror, the tiles warm beneath your feet as you stepped in together. The water cascaded over both of you–hot and comforting, like being wrapped in the weight of the moment all over again.

Rhett stood behind you, arms around your waist, kissing your shoulders, your neck, the back of your ear with a tenderness that nearly undid you.

And then it hit you.

The comedown.

It came quiet at first–just a tightness in your chest, a knot in your throat–but then the tears came. Hot and sudden and silent, slipping down your cheeks before you even had the words for them.

Rhett felt the shift immediately. He stepped back just enough to turn you in his arms, his hands rising to frame your face, thumbs brushing your wet cheeks–not from the water this time.

“Y/N…” he whispered, heart in his throat. “Are you okay? Are you in pain?”

You shook your head quickly, the motion jerky. “No–fuck, no. It’s just…The come down.” Your voice broke, cracking like a branch.

His thumbs kept stroking your cheeks, his lips soft and close. “Sweetheart, are you sure?”

You nodded again, more firmly this time. “Yes. I’m okay. You were so fucking good, Rhett. I just…” You exhaled, choking a little on the emotion. “My emotions are all over the place. I promise I’m okay.”

He kissed your tears. One cheek. Then the other. Then your lips–soft and slow and grounding.

“Okay,” He murmured, pulling you against him. “Let’s get you cleaned up… then I’m gonna hold you in bed. Alright?”

You nodded against his chest. “Yeah…Okay.”

And he did. He reached for your body wash–your scent, your favorite brand, that sweetness he always smelled on you–and poured it into his palms. His hands moved with reverent care, smoothing over your skin with slow, deliberate tenderness. He washed every inch of you like it mattered. Like it meant something. He took his time with your arms, your back, your stomach, between your legs–gentle, never rushing.

You let him.

Because it wasn’t just about being clean. It was about being cared for. About being held in the aftermath of something big and beautiful and raw.

When he was done, he rinsed you slowly, pressing kisses to your shoulders between handfuls of water. Then he shut the water off, wrapping a towel around you first before doing the same for himself. He dried you off, careful and quiet, and then scooped your clothes from the floor and carried them out, returning a moment later to help you back into bed.

He tucked the blankets around you, kissed your temple, then turned to clean up–putting the lube away, picking up the scattered clothes, folding them gently and setting them aside. Then, finally, he crawled into bed beside you.

His naked body pressed to yours, all warmth and strength and safety.

One arm slid beneath your neck. The other wrapped around your waist, drawing you in tight. Your head rested against his chest. His breath was steady now. So was yours.

“I love you, Y/N…” he whispered, voice nearly lost to the night.

You curled into him tighter, lips brushing his collarbone. “Fuck, Rhett… I love you too.”

He smiled. You felt it against your temple.

And then the room fell quiet. Just the soft hum of the night air through the cracked window, the cooling scent of soap on your skin, and the steady beat of his heart under your cheek.

It was everything.

[whambambatfam]

Webs of a Wing

Chapter 1

I am not well versed in DC knowledge. I've read a bunch of the older comics but, honestly, these timelines are too confusing to say I have a firm grasp on what the fuck is happening at any given point.

Anyways, this is my story, I made a tumbler for it. I'll definitely upload again..

When the fly on the wall starts to spin webs of their own, can the bats catch on? Or will they be left to dangle in the web they've tangled?

───── ⋆⋅ 🕸 ⋅⋆ ─────

You're hardly school aged when you wake in a strange place, vague memories of someone patting your head as you fall asleep. Then it was all blurry and you went from cold hard ground, suddenly, to a warm bed worth more than you've ever seen.

Laying still, staring up at the ceiling, you lay dazed until you hear the door starting to creak open. Quickly shutting your eyes you wait for the suspect to peak inside.

When his voice sounds, back on the other side of the door, you perk up, "Who's this? They're kinda cute." A boy, most likely a few years older than you.

When that deep, fear inducing voice reaches for you, you jump out of bed after it. "Apparently, my child." He couldn't possibly be talking about you, right?

You make your way silently to the creaked door. Peeping through to watch them. "Huh? What?? Like seriously???" Hands resting on his hips, a boy of black hair and lean physique gapes.

A tall man with a build as intimidating as his voice, "Yes, I've run a DNA test and everything." His large arms cross over his broad chest.

Mirroring the older man's stance, the boy questions, "So, who's the mom?"

"I'm still working on that.."

"Have you.. asked them?"

There's a heaviness lingering in the hall around them. "We don't know if they'll talk yet, not till they wake up." He doesn't like not having answers, clearly.

"Can they?"

Swinging the door open, you bark out at your own defense, "I knew how'd to talk!"

His shoulder shot up, face blossoming in embarrassment, "Oh, sorry." Sighing, he tries to appear nonchalant. "Well, heyyy.. kid.. My name's Dick.” Placing a hand on your shoulder, he smiles, “Guess I'll be like, your, uh, big brother?"

Eyes widening, you step away from his grasp. Being in a strange place with strange people claiming to be your family was concerning. Even in your young mind, alarm bells rang loud and clear.

Like a light shining through your darkest times, his voice cut through the tension. “This may be all too much for,” A man, much older than either, rests his hand on your back, “the newly young master Wayne.” He ushers you gently back into the room. All gentle pats and kind smiles as he insists on you resting.

You never spoke about who or where you came from. It hurts to try, to think of the cold, the dark, the pain, the fear. Push out all the bad. Make it just go away. You just wanted it to go away. Wanted to take every memory of before and lock it up, never to be found. So, that's what you did, burying every painful memory. After some time, your young mind turned repression into suppression. Now, left with only bits and pieces, you couldn't remember even if you wanted to.

So, you’ll need to fill in the emptiness with this fresh start.

Life in the Wayne house started off joyfully. You found serenity in the solitude of the manor, disconnected from the rest of Gotham. When Alfred wasn't pushing tedious homeschooling work, you explored the massive house you'd be calling home. The quietude of empty ballrooms, winding halls and stodgy gardens was your respite. While it wasn't a place made for children, you felt at peace for the first time. The perfect home for a ghost with plenty of walls for flies and flowers alike.

Coming from unknown origins with no paperwork to speak of left you in a peculiar predicament. As a child was low grasp on the passage of time, you couldn't exactly say how old you were. Let alone when your birth date was. No one has ever bothered to tell you and if they have you certainly weren't going to remember. Infact, at Alfreds insists on a celebration, he comes to find you've never truly experienced a birthday of any kind. He had to correct this at once, give you a proper one with cake, singing and presents. It makes him wonder what sort of childhood you've been plucked from.

“Well, young master.” Alfred takes your hands as you climb the step stool next to him, “It's been a year now since you've joined us at the manor.”

Your hands slap onto the counter when you finally reach it. “Yeah, I like it.” Smiling wide up at the old butler, you babble on, “everything is so big and warm and it smells nice and I like when you cook and I wanna cook too and-” Alfred hushes your ramblings with a hand on your head.

“Yes, that's lovely, my child.” The other hand opens a draw nearby. “And that's what we'll be doing today.”

You tilt your head as the hand on it brushes over it and falls away, “Cooking?” Craning your neck, you try to peek at the cards he flips through.

“Well, baking, but yes.” He confirms, offering you a smile that's warm and sweet like his cookies, “Today was the day you joined the family, it's as good a day as any for a party.”

Your eyes light up, “A party for what?”

“Your birthday, my dear.” He chuckles softly at your look of awe,“Today will be your birthday, and every year I shall make you a cake.”

“Woah, every year?” You gasp as he hafs you the small stack of cards, each a handwritten cake recipe. While you can't read them yet, there are pictures of each cake pasted alongside the words. “That's a lot of cakes.. Can I help?”

“Whichever you like most we'll bake.” You're quick to pick one, waving the card around frantically, “I would be honored to have your help as well, young master.”

Alfred got to work with measurements, letting you pour everything into the bowls. He shows you how to mix, guiding you hand over hand when you struggle. You can't help spilling half of you what you're given, covering the counters. Sliding the pan batter into the oven, Alfred has you assist by wiping away your mess.

As he begins readying ingredients for frosting you ask, “Are those guys gonna join us?”

You're too busy scrubbing batter from your stool to see the way he deflates. “Unfortunately, your father and brother are tied up in something.” He sighs, taking the rag and finishing your job. With a sullen smile he hands you a measuring cup of sugar, “Perhaps next year.”

The night is spent merrily celebrating. When it cools Alfred frosts and decorates your cake. He places a number of candles, It's the first of many birthdays spent with just you and Alfred.

The next years were your first time in true schooling, a prestigious boarding school to boot. You couldn't remember seeing so many other children before. The eyes you received from strangers when given your new last name made your skin crawl. Deciding to forgo it in most encounters. Yet, for some reason to a great number of your fellow classmates, that fact seemed to matter greatly. If you met someone who insisted or withheld their friendship without, then you'd simply roll your eyes, never speaking to them.

You decided friends weren't important, instead making it your goal to not just succeed but to exceed. If this was your shot of a real family, you wanted to show them you were something capable. Worthy. You were hopeful, determined in getting close.

Only to be pushed aside at every opportunity.

“I got’ perfect score!” The words burst from you with such excitement you're bouncing on the balls of your feet.

Bruce doesn't even bother to look at the paper you're frantically waving at him. Simply mumbling as he places his mug in the sink, “Very nice.” Before turning to Dick, “Come on, son. It's time to go.” You thought maybe this was how a father was supposed to be. Cold, distant and hardly ever around for someone so small.

Alfred steps up from behind your slumped form. Plucking the paper from your dejected gaze. He hums softly before you hear a rap on the fridge beside you. “Wonderful job young master.” You smile for him as he pats your head. Happy to have at least someone’s acknowledgement.

From what your classmates say, a big brother will either pick on you or support you. Soon you came to find that living with Dick Grayson didn't guarantee you any of his time. Good or bad.

So, despite the terror that being center stage fills you with, you entered your school's spelling bee. The thought that maybe you could possibly impress them gave you just enough nerve.

“Hey, um, Dickie...” When you catch his sleeve, your teeth skin into your cheeks. He peeks over his shoulder at you, “Here, it's a competition.”

His nose wrinkles slightly before he smiles. “Spelling bee?” Not a real smile, you don't get those. It's a empty, meaningless thing that hardly lifts his lips.

“If you're not busy.” You clasp your fingers together, steeling your nerves.

“Uh, yeah. Maybe.” It’s thinly masked disgust if anything.

Time came to discuss bringing you into the public eye, an official declaration of your relationship with the Wayne's. Just the thought of it was unsettling, like placing a target on your back. The last place you want to be is the spot light.

“I don't wanna go. I won't go.” It was then in that moment, when the words left your lips, you could see it in his eyes.

A wave of relief Dick couldn't quite stifle, lip touching at the corner before turning to Bruce, “Maybe they're just scared of all those new people. With everyone looking at them, seeing them as your..” That uptick in his features falters slightly, “first child, technically.” Back then, you thought he cared. That this was actually for your protection. “It's a lot of pressure, maybe it would be better. For them, to stay safe.”

Bruce crosses his arms, examining his older child before looking back to the younger. “You have a point there, Dick.” You've twisted your fingers into Alfreds pant leg, half hidden behind him. “Fine. I won't force you to do anything you don't want to. It might even be for the better.” Neither of them wanted you there, thinly veiled behind words of care, never quit saying it.

Not once then did you realize. There was nothing you could do, nothing you could say, nothing you could show for. Nothing to make them see you, the real you. You couldn't provide them with anything, that made you useless.

“Very well, Master Bruce.” With a sigh, Alfred guides you away as the two leave. He was always the one in your corner. Before you even know this life would be a battle.

This give on the topic began your gradual slope into obscurity. In the hectic years of adolescence, you'd come to the conclusion that private schools are for snobs. You manage to convince the old butler, with baked goods, to allow a change of schools. Not wanting to slow your studies yet overwhelmed by your known family reputation. Public school seemed viable, no one had to know who you really were. There seemed to be no object, or real acknowledgment of this decision.

You used to believe, despite how they act, this was it, this would be your family and you could be happy. Surely, you thought, it's because you're new to them. It must be hard to connect, you found it quite difficult yourself.

So, you decided, you'll just need to put in more effort. Show them that there is something that you and they can do together. You took up everything you Alfred offered to teach you when he was around. You learned to cook, sew and clean the whole manor faster than the master butler himself.

Of course, he had other priorities, not just as your caretaker. Try as he might to keep you at the top of that list, he still has duties to attend. So, you would take your days, even weeks, alone with stride. A good time to build your skills on your own, finding new ways to utilize them. Hoping for something, anything, to bridge the gap with your new family.

“I'll be home late today, Al.” While you had gotten away from uptight private schooling, Alfred still set into a well funded school.

He gives a light chuckle of disbelief over the phone, “You have plans, young master?” Pinching the device between your shoulder and ear, you fumble through your first ever locker.

“It's just a club, I'll still need you to pick me up after.” With all your free time, you thought you'd use more of your growing skills.

“At your service my dear.”

You took time to catch on, years of peeling away from the background. Picking and pulling apart from the inside out, finding something that could peak their interest. Hoping to think twice, even once to turn their heads back to the lone manner.

That's how you found them, their secrets; and the life that pulled them as taunt in one direction as the other did. Digging for a way that you could connect from beyond the twice eye catching lives they live day and night. You were piled with reasoning when you found that special place in the library they all seemed to love. The idea of passing the security felt out of reach at the time.

Walking along the dark water line, looking out to the misty sky. You don't wish for misfortune, but you wait. When that light flickers on and that familiar symbol reflects on the dark Gotham clouds, your breath catches. Ducking alonge the rocky cliff wall by the large alcove, you listen to the rumble. You brace yourself as something in the shallow cave opens, the rumble growing.

Then you have your answer. The Batmobile comes billowing out of the cave, in its wake you hide. Long after its departure from the property, you emerge from your hiding spot. Slipping through the closing doors and wandering down into the bat cave.

Despite how they see through you most times, you're sure Alfred knows when you sneak in. So, appreciating this to be Alfred throwing his hand up and hiding his eyes for your sake.

It's awe inspiring to say the least, especially knowing you live above it every day. It felt like peeking through the lives of strangers and you couldn't look away. You don't know why he kept it from you but you didn't want to be shut out for knowing. Yet, you couldn't satiate your curiosity with just this visit.

You had told Alfred you had a meeting after a club and that you would be home late. For some strange reason he promised Dick would pick you up.

Water splashes up from a speeding tire as you walk along the misty Gotham streets, “Aw man, come on!” Of course Dick didn't show! Why would he? When has he ever?

Now, in this situation, Alfred would wish for you to call him for assistance.

“Over there! Look, look!” Across the intersection a pair gasps and squeals, fingers pointed up at the Boy Wonder. The last thing on his mind as he leapt through the night sky, was an unwanted sister.

If only Alfead could get everything he's ever wished for, but you're not a fairy.

Following gunshot and bangs you skirt around chaos, nearly avoiding an obvious outbreak of costumed thugs. You watch in ired fascination as they beat down each threat thoroughly. As the moon starts to sit lower again and the bad guys are carted away, you realize how long you've been gone.

You arrive at the gates in tune to be blown past by the Batmobile. Inside, Alfred gives you a look as if he knows every secret you've even kept. Thankfully he doesn't say a word, You're out of your damp clothes by the time the dynamic duo ascend to the manor.

For people of the shadows, they never could seem to see you creeping through them.

It's through this that you managed to learn about Barbra Gordon. The commissioner's daughter was someone you could only catch glimpses of from time to time. It was rare for you to catch her attention. Much too preoccupied with her work for the Bat, your father.

The batgirl's skill inspired your own delve into tech. Hacking, coding and even trying your hand at tinkering with new devices. Creations that you've jerry-rigged and hoped against hope that she would even glance at.

She's coming over today, you overheard dick say so. You've poked your head over the banister as you wait to spot the red head. Yet, once she's there, you freeze. Dick and Barbara push through the front doors together. Light rain chasing them inside from the sturing storm. Their foot falls followed by light laughter and easy chitchat. If only it was so easy for you.

You watch as your brother scurries off, promising to grab a towel. This is your shot. “Oh, um!” Words are coming from you before you even know what to say. Stumbling over yourself, you bumble over, haltung in front of her. “B-Barbra?”

“Huh, who?” At the ruckus you've made, she whips around. Head on a swivel 'till green eyes locking on you. “Oh! It's you.. uh..” looking you up and down she stumbles as well.

You have to give her your name, again.

“Right, right. Sorry.” Barbra looks off sheepishly, carting a hand through her hair. Hand flicking droplets from the ginger ringlets.

“It's okay..” that's alright, that's normal Even. You don't see each other all that often.. even though you remembered her name just fine. “I just want to ask you about some-” Unfortunately, yet unsurprisingly, she cuts you off before you can pull out what you want to share with her.

“I've actually got to-” Her mouth snaps shut before she thinks better of words, “Well, um, talk with Bruce.” She finishes with an awkward chuckle and mumbled “Y'know how it is. Always something with the Wayne's.”

No, “Yeah..” You didn't know.

You've never shared more than a last name with the Wayne's.

Patting your head she smiles, “Sorry again, hun. Maybe later?” turning away down the hall Dick had disappeared to. Even to the all seeing eye you were nothing but a mere fly on the wall.

Gothams streets were dark, dangerous, and the only place you could see them for more than a minute. You loved nights like this, when you could slip from the manor. Undetected by the inattentive gazes that should have kept a preteen like you home.

With this habit of bird watching, you found yourself looking more into your subpar self defense. Living in Gotham has given you a natural caution but all too often you've wound up in tight situations. All because you couldn't keep your eyes off them. Maybe if you show them you could do that, fight back, they might see you.

You put yourself out there over and over, “Uh, d-dad?” Alfred insisted you call him that, but it never felt right, “I've been doing, um, I have this..” taking a breath you force it out, “It's martial arts, could you come see me?”

Another paper half glance at before the typical, “I'll see what I can do.”

Apparently, there are some things even Batman can't do.

“H-hey.. I, uh, am doing..” You pull out the flier for your competition. inspecting it over before looking to see him. Half-heartedly glancing up from his comic, Dick gives you a once over before continuing to read, “Gymnastics.”

Finally his eyes hold yours when the word shoots from your mouth. For a second you think this is it. This is when you’ll finally have his attention. Finally make that long awaited connection with your big brother. “I'll see, why don't you ask Bruce?” Dick lays the paper on the living room table in front of him.

“I did... he said the same thing.”

The paper is still there when you come back later.

[juliettejwnewinesa]

CAN U PLSSS DO A JEALOUS SIEUN FIC AND THE BOYS TEASING HIM ABOUT IT

Length: ~800 words POV: Third person Pairing: Park Si-eun x fem!Reader (uses "Y/N") Tone: Slow-burn tension, fluff, humor, jealousy, and a little smut at the end 💋 Setting: Canon-verse, post-season, the boys are all vibing

Title: Cold Shoulder, Warm Hands

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

It started with a laugh.

A stupid, high-pitched giggle that escaped Y/N's lips when Suho nudged her side with the end of a chopstick and made some dumb pun about fishcakes. Si-eun heard it from the kitchen, where he was refilling his water bottle. He wasn’t even part of the conversation. Wasn’t even looking at her.

But he heard the laugh. And he heard Suho's response: “Aw, that laugh is cute. You should do it more.”

Si-eun’s jaw twitched.

“Oi, lover boy,” Bumseok teased as he flopped onto the couch beside him later, elbow knocking his. “You’re glowering so hard I thought your soul left your body.”

Si-eun didn’t respond.

Suho was still talking to Y/N, way too close if you asked him. His hand lingered on the back of the chair she was sitting in, and she was smiling—no, laughing again—at whatever dumb story he was telling.

“Seriously,” Bumseok snorted. “You look like you're plotting Suho's murder.”

"I'm not jealous," Si-eun muttered.

"Never said that," Bumseok said innocently, and then leaned closer. “But if I did, you’d still be proving me right.”

It only got worse when Eunjang’s golden retriever, Ryu Seokdung, joined in.

“Y/N, wanna come with me to the convenience store? I need help picking chips.”

“She’s not your mom,” Si-eun muttered under his breath.

Ryu blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” Si-eun said stiffly, arms crossed.

Y/N blinked up from where she was squatting by the low table, rearranging snacks. “I don’t mind! Gimme a sec.”

Si-eun’s eyes narrowed.

Ryu grinned at him as he backed toward the door. “You coming too, Si-eun?”

Si-eun should’ve said no. He should’ve said he didn’t care. Instead, he stood without a word and followed them out like a silent bodyguard.

The teasing didn’t stop.

When they returned and Y/N offered Seokdung a bite of her snack first, Si-eun turned to stare blankly at the wall. When Suho sat beside her during the horror movie and she didn’t move, Si-eun stood up halfway through and pretended to go check his phone. When Bumseok caught him stealing a glance at her while she was curled up under a blanket, hair messy, face flushed from laughing too hard—

“Oh my god,” Bumseok whispered. “You’re so gone.”

“Shut. Up,” Si-eun hissed.

“You want her to sit on your lap, don’t you.”

“I will kill you.”

Si-eun wasn’t stupid. He knew she wasn’t flirting with them. Not really. Y/N was just nice. Too nice. She smiled easily, listened too well, and let her arm brush against Suho’s for too long without noticing.

But he noticed. Every single time.

The problem wasn’t her. The problem was him.

He had no claim. No right to feel possessive. Not unless she gave it to him. And she hadn’t. Not yet.

So he sat there and simmered. Silent. Cold. Jealous out of his goddamn mind.

It boiled over the night they all stayed late at the rooftop.

Everyone was tipsy on cheap beer and convenience store snacks. Y/N had her head on Suho’s shoulder, drowsy from laughing too hard. Ryu was sprawled beside them, already half asleep. Si-eun stood on the far end of the rooftop, hands in his pockets, staring at the skyline like it had offended him personally.

Bumseok sidled up beside him. “Bro. Come on.”

Si-eun ignored him.

“You know she only laughs like that with you,” Bumseok said. “The rest of us? We get the polite version.”

Si-eun’s jaw clenched. “She’s clearly not saving anything for me.”

“She doesn’t know she needs to.” Bumseok nudged him. “Make a move, man. Or else Suho’s gonna do it for you.”

That got his attention.

Si-eun turned sharply. “He wouldn’t.”

Bumseok just gave him a look. “He could.”

And that was enough.

Later, when everyone had left and Y/N lingered behind to help clean up, she found him still on the rooftop, alone.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

He didn’t turn around. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You barely said a word all night.”

He finally glanced over, eyes unreadable. “Maybe I didn’t have anything worth saying.”

Y/N frowned. “Did I do something?”

Silence.

And then—

“You were hanging on Suho the whole night.”

She blinked. “...I was?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Are you mad about that?”

His mouth twitched. “I don’t get mad.”

“You get moody.”

She stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “You’re jealous.”

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, Si-eun finally turned fully to face her, eyes dark. “I don’t like seeing other people touch what I want.”

Her breath caught. “What you want?”

He stepped closer, gaze intense. “You.”

The kiss was rough.

Not because he was angry—but because he’d been holding it back for weeks. His hands gripped her waist like he was afraid she’d vanish. Her fingers tangled in his shirt. When she gasped, he bit her bottom lip. When she whimpered, he deepened it.

When they broke apart, he didn’t move.

“Don’t let them touch you like that again,” he murmured against her mouth.

Y/N shivered. “Or what?”

“I’ll make sure they know who you belong to.”

They didn’t sleep that night.

She ended up pressed against his chest, her thighs trembling around his hips, his mouth buried against her throat as he groaned her name into the dark. And when she came, shaking under him, she whispered: “I’m yours.”

And that was all it took to undo him.

The next morning, Si-eun walked into the living room, looking half-wrecked but smug.

Y/N followed ten minutes later, limping slightly.

The boys didn’t miss a thing.

Suho: raises a brow “Sleep well?” Bumseok: snorts into his cereal Ryu: blinking “Why is Y/N walking funny?”

Y/N flushed bright red.

Si-eun didn’t say a word. Just leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and stared down Suho with the most smug, satisfied glare in the world.

Let them guess.

He didn’t need to say a thing. He had what he wanted.

And now they all knew.

[liketolaugh-writes]

Sick Day Once A Year

I might be too much in love with the Death Echoes trope. So, have a whole bunch of Bruce taking care of Danny. It's basically a sickfic with extra hurt/comfort.

It takes place in the same verse as More Like Home but probably won't happen until after the plot of that fic is done. At this point, Danny has been living with Bruce for a little under a year.

-----

At noon, Alfred called Bruce to ask him to come home early. Bruce turned around and walked out of the board meeting without even looking at anyone, but did throw a distracted 'family emergency!' over his shoulder. He might have carefully cultivated his airheaded Brucie persona, but even then people knew that he took his kids seriously.

He ignored the board member that grumbled 'enough fucking family to have an emergency every day if he wants.'

"What is it, Alfred?" Bruce asked, once he was clear of the board room and in the elevator. Calm. Calm. No running. Brucie doesn't run.

"Master Danny declined to specify the nature of his sick day this morning," Alfred said, in a dry tone that didn't do a bit to hide the worry underneath it. "Apparently the anniversary of one's death is rather... physically harrowing for a ghost. He's admitted that he'd like to have you here."

But of course he hadn't asked for it, because that would require bringing up what he was. Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I'll be there as soon as I can. Ten minutes at most."

"I'll let him know. Come prepared to spend several hours in his room, if not the rest of the day. He indicated that he may be well enough to eat by eight or nine o'clock, but even then..."

Meaning he expected to be debilitated until then. "Understood. Should I bring anything?"

"He's not aware of anything that will help, but some topical analgesic might be of use. I will see if I can find anything else to try."

"He's in pain?" Bruce's brow furrowed. Alfred hesitated before answering, which made Bruce's heart sink.

"He is... physically reliving his death, he says, and will be for most of the day. He is in quite a bit of pain."

"These kids will be the death of me," Bruce muttered. Danny hadn't even hinted at anything like this when he asked for the day off. Bruce made a mental note to keep him off patrol the next night as well. The elevator stopped, and he took off at as quick a walk as he dared. "I'll be there in ten."

"Yes, Master Bruce." Alfred hung up, hopefully to return to Danny.

On the way, he collected a few items that seemed promising: IcyHot cream in the strongest available formula, both heat and cold packs, a variety of compression bandages, and some muscle relaxers from the Batcave infirmary.

Bruce knocked on Danny's door. Cool air drifting out of it indicated either Danny or Alfred had turned the thermostat down lower than usual. Fortunately, Bruce had grabbed a jacket just in case.

"'M in," Danny mumbled, barely loud enough for Bruce to make out.

He pushed the door open and was unsurprised to see Alfred seated beside a miserable-looking Danny. He was surprised to see Danny in ghost form, as it wasn't a form he typically spent recreational time in, particularly when he was unwell. Perhaps it made the ordeal easier. Danny was curled up in his bed, on top of the covers, with his jumpsuit removed and a set of soft pajamas in its place. Alfred was running one hand through Danny's soft white hair, slow and comforting, while his other held one of Danny's.

"Hey, chum," Bruce called out quietly, drawing Danny's attention to him. "Heard you're hurting today." Danny hummed unhappily instead of denying it, which was concerning. "Think you'll be able to eat anything for lunch? Applesauce, bone broth, yogurt? Maybe with ectoplasm?" Danny didn't seem to have any intention of leaving ghost form.

Danny started to shake his head, but stopped to consider when Bruce brought up the last point. "Applesauce and ectoplasm," he mumbled. "Maybe. Nothing after like, two, though."

Alfred gave Bruce a warm smile and gently extracted himself from Danny. "I will see to it," he promised. "Do you need anything else, Master Danny? Master Bruce?"

Danny shook his head mutely, and Bruce said, "I'll text you an update once we've tried these." He hefted the bag he was holding. "If you could bring me lunch when you can, I'd appreciate it."

"Of course," Alfred promised. "I hope you feel better, Master Danny."

"Thanks, Alfie."

Alfred left, shutting the door gently behind him, and Bruce took his place, setting the bag at his feet for now. Danny didn't stir from his leaden sprawl, not even to lift his head.

"You didn't have to leave work, y'know," Danny mumbled, half into the pillow. "I'll be okay."

He didn't apologize, Bruce noted. That was progress. "I know I didn't have to. But someone should be here with you."

"I don't-" Danny choked, his hands squeezing into fists as his whole body shuddered and jerked as if tased. Danny panted through the spasm, his whole body rigid, and when it was over he slumped down and let out a weak moan of pain, making no attempt to continue arguing. It took Bruce a moment to remember to breathe, reminding himself forcefully that this was no attack.

"I brought you some stuff," Bruce said, softer. Danny grunted in discontent. Bruce leaned down and opened the bag anyway. "IcyHot lidocaine cream and muscle relaxers." Danny shook his head without looking. Bruce wasn't surprised. He hadn't realized Danny was in ghost form. "Both heat and cold packs." Danny hummed in mild interest but didn't open his eyes. "And compression bandages."

Danny blinked his eyes open to consider them. His usually neon eyes looked dull. "Worth a try," he muttered after a moment.

Good. Something was better than nothing. "Do you need help sitting up?"

Danny's mouth quirked in a dry smile. "Not yet."

He pushed himself up with a grunt, and shrugged off his pajama shirt with intangibility rather than lift his arms. Bruce had to suppress an immediate and visceral reaction to the glowing lines that coiled up his left arm, which he had only gotten glimpses of before; a telltale Lichtenberg permanently etched onto Danny's ghost form. In contrast to the rest of him, which had dimmed to about the light of a glowstick, the Lichtenburg mark was painfully bright.

"Where do you want these?" Bruce asked, lifting one of the rolls of elastic bandaging. Danny cocked his head and considered it. Then he gestured silently, indicating his left arm from his wrist to his shoulder, and twisted to give Bruce access. With the ease of long practice, Bruce started to wrap it. "Anything I should expect?"

Danny watched him unroll the bandages for a minute, around and around, getting halfway up Danny's forearm before he answered. "The pain comes in waves. They'll keep getting longer, more severe, and closer together until around four, and then they'll die down completely about two hours after that." He paused, watching Bruce loosen the bandages around his elbow before moving on. "It won't ever get as bad as actually dying, but it's still pretty bad. And I'll be really emotional for a lot of it, especially when it hits peak."

"When are you not." The words were out before Bruce could think twice about them. Fortunately, Danny laughed, tired but genuine.

"You've got me there. How many rolls of bandages do you have?"

"I brought three. Alfred can obtain more if necessary." Pretty bad, Danny said. Bruce had no desire to experience pain that Danny described as 'pretty bad.' His tolerance was high even for their family.

Danny shook his head. "That should be okay. Can you do my back too?"

"Yes, but I'll need to be closer." Danny scooted to make room, and Bruce shifted to sit next to him, then tapped a spot low on Danny's spine. "Starting here?" Danny nodded. "Alright. Is there anything else I should know?"

Thankfully, Danny seemed to genuinely think about it, but eventually he shook his head. "I've only had two of these," he reminded Bruce. "There's more stuff I don't know, probably."

Ah yes, a frustrating constant. The elusive nature of comprehensive information about ghosts. Even Constantine had large gaps in his knowledge, which Bruce would grudgingly admit was rare for the man. This? This was definitely not in the introductory handbook. Was Bruce now obligated to share information in return? Hn.

Danny squinted at him. "What did Constantine do now?" he asked.

"Constantine."

"You have a very distinct 'thinking about Constantine' face."

"Hn."

Danny smiled briefly, then yelped, curling up like a bug and accidentally dislodging Bruce's grip on the bandaging. Instinctively, Bruce tucked Danny against his side, and Danny shook and twitched against him, a desperate whine tearing itself free as Danny rode out the wave of pain. Bruce all but held his breath until Danny finally slumped again, breathing heavily. His chill crept through the jacket Bruce had slipped on before coming in.

"Ready to keep going?" Bruce prodded, once Danny's breath evened out. Danny laid there for another few seconds, then nodded and pushed himself upright with a wince. Bruce picked up the dropped end of the bandage, tightened what had come loose, and kept going. "You're sore?"

"Ha." Danny lifted his arms slightly, enough to make room for Bruce to work. Bruce shifted and encouraged Danny to rest his arms on Bruce's shoulders, and Danny did, leaning against him. "Yeah, I wake up pretty achy already, even though I don't start getting spasms until ten. Just to make sure I have a really miserable day."

Uncharacteristically bitter, Bruce noted, but unsurprising under the circumstances. He didn't comment. "Remarkably, we don't currently possess any upper back bandages. I'll ask Alfred to retrieve one if you're happy with the results. We do have shoulder and wrist bandages." Bruce finished wrapping Danny's torso but didn't pull away.

Danny turned his head to squint at the bandages peeking out of the bag. "Why'd you bring so many?"

"I know how you died," Bruce reminded Danny evenly. Electrocution implied muscle pain, and Bruce had suspected his left arm would take the brunt of it. Danny shuddered, a natural one this time, and pressed himself against Bruce for comfort. Bruce dropped an arm around his back, holding him. A minute or two passed, and then Danny pulled away with a sigh.

"Okay."

Right, yes. More compression bandages. These went by much faster, simply needing to be strapped on, and soon Danny's hand and shoulder had joined his left arm and mid-back in compression. He seemed satisfied with that and laid back down on the bed, somewhat more relaxed than when Bruce had first come back in. Bruce hesitated, then shifted closer again and set his hand on Danny's upper back, carefully trying to smooth out the painful knots that had developed there. Danny 'mm'ed softly but didn't otherwise react.

Alfred knocked on the door, and Bruce called him inside when Danny made no move to. Alfred pushed open the door and brought in two plates, one for Danny and one for Bruce. Bruce accepted his with a nod.

"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce said quietly. "Danny, are you up to eating?"

Danny didn't answer at first, but then shifted around to glower half-heartedly at the bowl Alfred had brought. Then he buried his face in Bruce's arm, grumbling, and Bruce's mouth twitched in amusement. It disappeared when another tremor wracked Danny's body, and the young teen bleated in pain, his grip tightening painfully.

Bruce forced himself to breathe evenly this time, and massaged Danny's hand with his own, pressing through the thick bandage. Danny slumped, panting, and with care, Bruce shifted his hand to massage all the way up Danny's arm, coaxing the tension out of the muscles there until he reached Danny's shoulder, skipped past the compression bandage, and pressed his fingers into Danny's back. Danny didn't say anything, but he pressed into Bruce gratefully and stayed relaxed. Somehow, still, Bruce was startled when Alfred joined him, cupping Danny's temple in one hand.

"Master Danny?" Alfred coaxed, more firmly than Bruce had. "Can you stomach some applesauce?" Danny whined, a softer-toned protest than the low keens of pain he'd let slip. "I know, but you will feel worse if you don't eat anything. I don't think you want that."

Danny grumbled something that sounded like 'no' and acquiesced, allowing himself to be propped up just enough to poke the glowing applesauce with a spoon. He brightened a little at the reminder that Alfred had added ectoplasm, and started to eat. Bruce followed his example and worked quickly through his sandwich.

"I see you're making good use of our extensive collection of medical garments," Alfred said to Bruce, making Bruce snort quietly. "Will you be needing anything else?"

"If he's satisfied with the improvement from these, we'll need one for his upper back as well," Bruce said. "I'll let you know."

"Perhaps after this, the collection will be complete."

Danny got through about half the applesauce before he pushed it away, and Bruce set it on a clear spot on his nightstand before Alfred could pick it up. He glanced up at the butler. "I'll see if I can coax more of this into him later."

Alfred gave him a small smile. "Very well. I'll check in later to see how the two of you are doing."

Bruce nodded, and Alfred left to attend to the manor. Bruce turned his attention back to Danny and considered him. He had a few more questions - why Danny was staying in ghost form, if there were any physical effects from this - but nothing that couldn't wait until Danny was less ill. He picked up his tablet instead. "Would you like me to read to you?"

Danny tilted his head up to look at him, then nodded. It was barely twelve thirty and he already looked exhausted, pale even for his ghost form and cradling his left arm protectively. Bruce hoped he'd be able to sleep at some point, but that seemed unlikely until the pain had passed, which apparently would not be for hours.

Bruce picked up his tablet and quickly downloaded a book. Danny had mentioned wanting to read 'The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy' a few times, but hadn't gotten around to it yet. "The story so far: in the beginning the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move."

Danny snickered softly.

As always, reading to his kids made time pass a little faster. It also gave him easy access to the digital clock, and with the note function innate to the Kindle app, he could keep track of the time and Danny's progressing condition, most importantly the interval between spasms and the relative severity of the pain.

After half an hour, he noted that the current interval period was about twelve minutes and asked Danny, "Are the compression bandages helping as much as desired?"

Danny nodded. He'd pulled a thin blanket over himself after a while, mainly for comfort, and his hold on his left arm was still loose enough that Bruce believed it was more psychological than physical for the moment. "Hurts less when I can't jerk around so much. One for my upper back would be good. The shoulder one isn't quite cutting it." He made a face.

Bruce shot off a text to let Alfred know. "Anything else you want?"

Danny wrinkled his nose. "Heat pack?" he asked, softer and more tentative, as if there was anything Bruce would say no to right now.

And that was simple enough. Bruce activated one of the handheld heating packs and handed it to Danny, who shuffled around a little before putting it on his neck, by the junction of his shoulder. Bruce picked his tablet back up and continued reading.

Alfred returned about twenty minutes later with the requested bandage, and Danny didn't protest when Bruce went to help him sit up. He wasn't weakened, Bruce judged after a minute, but there was a minute tremble in his muscles that indicated the pain was ramping up even outside of the periodic spasms.

Bruce helped him get the new compression bandage on, and then paused to smooth out some of the building tension there. Danny leaned in gratefully - he was much more physically affectionate than most of Bruce's children, he'd come to realize, except perhaps Cass and Dick. Bruce kept an eye on the clock, and made sure to get Danny down before the next spasm hit. Danny groaned, the sound drawn-out and wavering unhappily, and clung to Bruce through it before falling into a shivering, panting slump.

Alfred ran his fingers through Danny's hair, nodded to Bruce, and left quietly, as harried as ever when one of the kids was suffering.

"You happy like this, chum, or do you want to lay back how you were?" Bruce asked Danny quietly. Danny grunted, then squirmed further into Bruce's lap. It was a little eerie, Danny being so light and cold in this form that Bruce could have mistaken him for a lap full of snow, but it made Bruce smile for a moment. "Alright."

He settled down and picked up his tablet to resume reading, noting the time and event before he continued.

A part of Bruce, a not-so-small part, was furious that Danny had meant to handle this alone, without anything to even try to ease the pain; it reminded him of when nine-year-old Tim had caught a bad strain of flu, and how confused he had been when Alfred insisted on him staying at Wayne Manor to be cared for. This might not have been particularly dangerous, it was true, but Danny was miserable now and only promised to get more so through the day.

He wondered briefly how Danny had spent the previous two such events. Certainly not with his parents, there being no human explanation for this. Could he even be home for it, in the comfort of his own room, or did he have to go elsewhere? Had he been alone for either of them? It unfortunately seemed likely, especially if he hadn't known about it in advance the first time.

Even with the bandages stabilizing half his upper body, Danny's groans and whines slowly progressed into low keens of pain, and he started to clutch at himself through each one, gasping for breath like it was the only thing that would bring him comfort. Bruce shifted so one of his hands rested on Danny's shoulder, where a gap between the shoulder and upper back bandages seemed to be creating a sharp spot of pain that Danny kept trying to get at. He massaged it carefully without looking away from the tablet, and Danny relaxed a little, panting.

At two thirty, Danny started to cry, exhausted tears shining on his cheeks and faint, breathy sobs following each spasm. At three, Bruce noted that the interval had decreased to six minutes, then set the tablet aside and transferred his attention to comforting Danny.

"How are you feeling, chum?" he asked quietly.

"Hurts, God, it hurts," Danny choked out, trembling like a leaf and his better hand clamping down on his shoulder again. "'S so cold, Bruce. It's in my bones. Shouldn' be in me."

Cold. Ectoplasm? Bruce wasn't sure. Danny had never described his accident at length. "Heat pack?"

Danny nodded jerkily, so Bruce leaned forward, careful not to jostle him, and grabbed a few. He lifted the blanket enough to place one on Danny's upper back and one on his lower, then noted the time and the request. If this was indeed a yearly event, a thought that made his blood boil, they'd need to be better prepared for it next year.

A stray thought crossed Bruce's mind. Did this happen to Jason as well? Jason had never referenced anything of the sort, but he also knew that Jason never went out on the anniversary of his death. Bruce would know; he'd specifically looked out for him the first few years, before the habit became apparent, and still kept half an eye out since.

Danny cried out, no longer making any effort to muffle the noise, and seized and jerked through another long episode. Bruce counted silently. Up to thirty-three seconds. When it was over, he sobbed and curled closer to Bruce.

"Why'd they have to build that stupid portal?" Danny choked out. Bruce ruthlessly clamped down on another wave of rage at the eldest Fentons. "God. A-ah. This sucks. I wanna go to bed. I want it to be over." His voice cracked.

Sleeping pills, or a sedative? They wouldn't work on Danny's ghost form either, but depending on why he wasn't reverting to human, they could try to get him to sleep through as much of the day as possible. Something to discuss later on. "It's 3:16." Danny whined in protest. "I've got you. What hurts the most?" He checked on the heat pack by Danny's neck, making sure it was still in place.

"My chest hurts," Danny sobbed quietly, his face wet with tears. "My heart is stopping."

Unfortunately, Bruce couldn't help with that. He set his hand on Danny's chest anyway, and Danny reached up and clutched at it, apparently finding comfort in the futile gesture all the same. Even his hand trembled.

"'M scared, B," Danny confessed after another minute, almost too quiet to hear. Bruce's chest tightened, and he breathed through another wave of frustration and hatred before he could soften his voice enough to reply.

"You're going to be fine, Danny. You'll be in pain for a few more hours, but that's all it is."

"'M already dead," Danny murmured. From inflection, Bruce deduced that it was meant to be self-soothing.

Bruce's throat ached. "...Yes."

At four o'clock, the interval dropped to two minutes, counting from the end of one spasm to the start of the next. It barely gave Danny time to breathe, and he tossed and turned until Bruce moved both of them so Danny could sit up and hold onto him, crying into his shoulder. Danny held on with bruising force - and no more, as careful as Clark even now - and jerked, hands tightening and loosening in Bruce's jacket with the ebb and flow of relived pain.

You did this to him, Bruce thought at the elder Fentons, more than once.

At exactly 4:36 - Bruce was keeping as close an eye on the clock as he could manage - Danny screamed. Bruce immediately recognized the sound from an echo audible in his Ghostly Wail. Bruce's jacket tore under Danny's hands, and a horrible, quaking tremor seized Danny in an unmistakably fatal grip. Bruce counted the seconds and held Danny too tightly for him to accidentally shake himself loose.

Forty-six seconds. That was how long the worst spasm held him. Bruce assumed that was also how long it had taken Danny to die.

In contrast to the other times, when it finally released him, Danny pressed in closer instead of loosening his grip, and sobbed hysterically.

"No, no," Danny choked out, and "Please, I don't wanna-" and "Dad, Dad."

What did you say after something like that?

"I've got you," Bruce settled on. "You're safe. You're with me."

Danny calmed down slowly, sobs dying down into heaving breaths and then into a deep but labored rhythm that closely matched Bruce's but seemed to take much more effort. The next spasm that hit was much lighter, lasting only eighteen seconds, but it still sent Danny into renewed shudders and tears, holding on tightly.

When Danny seemed calm enough, Bruce shifted him enough so that Bruce could hold him in one arm, then pulled his tablet back over and logged the time of death, length of the accompanying fit, and what had followed. Interval immediately increased back to more than ten minutes (Bruce had unfortunately missed the precise time) and period decreased to eighteen seconds.

Danny set his head on Bruce's shoulder.

After that, things got much easier. At 5:15, Danny removed himself from Bruce's lap to lay down. He removed all of the heat packs and passed them to Bruce, but kept the compression bandages on. He didn't reach for the blanket but hummed gratefully when Bruce pulled it over him anyway, and Bruce sat on the floor beside him and debated returning to reading aloud.

"Whoa. You two look wiped."

Bruce looked up. Duke had opened the door to talk to them, probably too worried by what he'd seen through the door to remember to knock first, and his expression was pinched with worry. "Duke. Anything on patrol?"

"Uh, some movement I'll tattle to Jason about, but nothing big." He studied them with concern. "How's Danny doing? I didn't realize he was this sick."

Hm. Had Alfred declined to explain what had happened? Bruce glanced at Danny as the teenager hummed unhappily, but Danny didn't say anything else, so Bruce provided, "He's had a long day. I expect he'll go to sleep soon. We'll debrief tomorrow."

"Debrief?" Duke frowned at him, understanding immediately that there was more than what he'd been told, but then he glanced at Danny and just nodded. "Alright. Feel better soon, Danny. Get some rest, okay? I'll let Alfred know how you're doing."

Danny's hum this time was more positive.

At 5:30, Danny fell asleep. At 5:45, Dick came in to check on them and left once he'd come to look at Danny's sleeping (calm) face, and at 6:15, Cass came in with a plate of food for Bruce and a few granola bars for Danny. For when he wakes up, she signed.

A little while after 6:30, Bruce fell asleep without meaning to.

[valeisaslut]

what is rockstar!ellie and popstar!readers favorite albums or songs to have sex to and is it different the type of sex it is???

(MDNI)

OKAY NONNIE. I SEE YOU BABE.

when you were together, music wasn’t a detail. it wasn’t background noise.

it was ritual.

sex was just another kind of performance—intimate, electric, and scored like a fucking movie scene. you didn’t even have to think about it. one of you would press play without a word, and it would begin. always. every time.

the moan that escaped your lips when Ellie slid her hand between your thighs? framed by a drum kick. the snap of her hips against yours? timed to a bassline. the gasp when you dragged your nails down her back? right on cue with the bridge.

that performer nerve in both of you always acted up. and you both loved it.

ELLIE’S VIBE? hot, cocky, heavy.

she had ZERO shame about putting The Fireflies songs in rotation. if it was about you, even better. she lived for the drama. that smug little smirk would curl across her lips while her voice rasped through the speakers.

"this one’s about that night in Paris," she’d mutter in your ear, teeth grazing the shell as the intro to “Buzz” kicked in. “you remember that balcony?”

yeah. you did. you remembered the cold iron railing digging into your back, the skyline behind your head, ellie’s hand between your thighs, whispering “don’t look down” like it was a fucking dare.

“Rocket Queen” played during the kind of sex that left marks. your own moans melding with the ones in the song. bruises blooming like ink across your skin. her voice low and filthy as she mouthed every lyric into your shoulder. hips snapping right along with the guitar solo. fingers digging into your thighs like she was holding herself in place.

when Deftones came on, she’d slow it down. plant a hand over your throat, lean in close, and keep eye contact like she was testing you. like she wanted to see what broke first—your breath or your pride.

picture "beauty school", "cherry waves" "hearts/wires" and "be quiet and drive".

and when “I Wanna Be Your Dog” (Joan Jett version) hit the speakers? Forget it. you were both done. she fucked you like she meant it. like you were hers. like the lyrics were instructions.

and of course "closer" by nine inch nails and "angel" by massive attack were in the rotation. self explanatory.

but the Joel song incident? PURE DEVASTATION.

you were mid-fuck—her buried deep inside, breath ragged against your chest—when an old acoustic Joel Miller track shuffled on. your moans melded with the first verse.

and you both froze.

"fuck, fuck—turn that off!" she muttered, scrambling across the room half-naked, tripping over her jeans to skip the track.

you were wheezing with laughter. she was not amused.

sex to Ellie’s music meant dominance. bruises. nails in your hips. teeth on your neck. whispering “mine” and "take it" like a threat. pulling your hair just to hear you whimper. keeping rhythm like her body was an instrument and you were the encore.

YOUR VIBE? softer. but no less powerful.

yours was intention. you liked control too—but yours was silk, not chains.

you liked music that made the room feel thick. velvet songs. desperate ones. you liked knowing exactly what a song would do to her before you even pressed play.

"can you put something less loud? maybe not scream in my ear while I’m coming?" you’d huff, straddling her lap, fake annoyed. ellie would grin—“fine. but I’m picking the next one.”

“Do I Wanna Know” and “I Wanna Be Yours” had her unraveling underneath you. "basic as hell", she said, but they always hit. hands tight on your hips, breath caught in her throat as your fingers slipped under her tank top.

“Needed Me” by rihanna was power. your pace slow and unrelenting while riding, holding her jaw in your palm while she begged—really begged—for you to stop teasing.

but “Take Me to Church”?

you’d arch your back like a goddamn divine offering, hips rolling in time with the chorus, sweat glistening down your chest, your hair sticking to your temples. ellie would stop breathing. every single time.

and when your unreleased demos came on? the ones you wrote only for her? soft vocals. bare lyrics. rough mixes that never made it to your team’s ears?

she’d drop to her knees. put her mouth on you like she was starving. and when she came, it was your voice in her ears—only yours.

sex to your music meant never breaking eye contact. tangled hands and tangled limbs. gasps turned into sobs if the moment got too intense. her voice whiny with need, whispering “again, baby, please—just one more”

and then there were the SHUFFLE NIGHTS.

when you both gave up and let the playlist choose chaos.

when The Weeknd transitioned into Metallica and neither of you blinked. when “Wicked Games” came on and you were breathless on the carpet, half-dressed, laughing into her mouth. when she bit your thigh during a Led Zeppelin riff and you accidentally moaned through a Lana verse.

when you came with her guitar solo ringing in your ears and her grin looking downright feral.

those were the best ones. no performance. no power plays. just raw, chaotic, messy, real love.

and now?

It haunts both of you.

you can’t listen to “Do Not Disturb” without flashing back to the way her mouth moved over your stomach like she was worshipping every inch.

she can’t hear “Take Me to Church” without seeing you on top of her, haloed in moonlight, riding her slow like penance.

your unreleased songs?

still on her phone. still in her bones. still hers.

[strayingawayy]

it's okay, i'll tell you again...

...the one where you keep forgetting but jisung is patient and a man in love.

this fic is for me, mostly. lol.

"-and then changbin was like ‘jisung-ah! no one can rap those words together, are you insane?’ and i swear i was about to prove him wrong, but then seungmin stole one of my two americanos and i got distracted-"

jisung is talking fast, words tumbling over each other, hands moving animatedly as he paces the room. he’s vibrating with excitement, barefoot in sweatpants, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, hair still a little damp from his shower and the slightest of stubble prominent on his face.

you watch him from the couch, heart swelling. he’s happy, your baby is happy. that much is obvious. his voice is light, effortless, full of something big.

but there’s a problem.

you have no fucking idea what he’s talking about.

your hands clench slightly against your lap. the words all make sense individually, but strung together, they slip through your fingers like water. your brain is still foggy, edges blurred, time folding in on itself. you remember what happened days before, the dizziness, the cold tile floor. you remember jisung’s hands, warm and steady, his voice pulling you back as your body seized, but now.

now, you’re sitting here, watching the person you love talk about something clearly very important to him and you don’t remember what it is.

jisung spins on his heel, still grinning. "and the best part jagi, lix thinks this is the best track i’ve ever done. like for a sub-unit like, no joke, he-"

he stops.

his expression shifts, just slightly. the kind of change only someone who really knows him would catch. the flicker of hesitation. the way his fingers twitch, mid-gesture, and he has to hold in his excitement for a minute.

"you okay?" his voice is softer now, eyes too. still warm, still jisung, but quieter.

you swallow. "i- uh- yeah. i just.." your throat closes. "ji, i don’t…"

his eyes scan your face, his lips unknowingly puckering out in a slight pout. he waits.

your fingers twist in the hem of your, no-his, hoodie actually. "i don’t remember what you’re talking about."

a pause.

jisung doesn’t move, doesn’t react the way you expect. no frustration, no disappointment. just silent understanding.

"you don’t?"

you shake your head, ashamed. fuckfuckfuck. "i'm so sorry, i should, right? i mean, it’s about your album-"

"mixtape: dominate," he supplies, voice gentle.

"yeah." your breathe wobbles. "i knew about this, didn’t i?"

his gaze softens. he walks over, sits beside you, knee knocking against yours. "yeah," he says, tone making it sound like it's that simple, that acceptable for you to forget about it. "but it’s okay."

your hands tighten around your sleeves. "it’s not okay," you whisper. "it’s your album, jisung. something you're so excited about. i should remember."

jisung is silent for a moment.

"hey." he nudges you lightly. "look at me."

you do, because that's all you can do now.

and he smiles. not out of pity, not forced. just soft, unwavering. jisung. yours.

"you wanna know about it again?"

you blink. "you don’t mind?"

his expression turns almost amused. "sweetheart, i could talk about this forever. you’re honestly giving me an excuse to yap."

your chest aches.

jisung leans back against the couch, tilting his head toward you. "alright. let’s start from the beginning."

and then he tells you, with his hands intertwined with yours and head resting on your shoulder.

about the late nights in the studio, the way he kept reworking the same verse until chan threatened to unplug his mic, something that hadn't happened since his pre-debut days. about the lyric that nearly got scrapped because they felt it didn't have the same energy without the swear words. about the way the whole group hyped each other up, him, changbin and chan staying late just to perfect the production, minho recording harmonies at 3 a.m. with a voice half gone from exhaustion.

he tells you about his part, how his verse came together, how he spent hours layering the ad-libs, how he poured everything into this.

and you listen.

you listen, even though you should remember. even though it stings, even though the guilt still lingers at the edges.

but jisung just keeps talking, filling the empty spaces, filling you with the pieces you lost.

and somehow, it doesn’t feel so bad.

because it just feels like it's enough. like it always has, with jisung by your side, hand in yours.

[kiss-me-muchoo]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐲𝐬𝐬 || 𝐢𝐧-𝐡𝐨 / 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝟎𝟎𝟏 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary_ short scenes of how in-ho thought he didn’t care about you, but he realized he actually did after seeing you almost overdose for doing drugs with Thanos and Namgyu.

warnings_ AGE GAP! (not specified), lots of restroom scenes lol, protective! in-ho, mild brat!reader, brat tamer!in-ho, reader ingests Thanos’ pills, blood, angst, fluff, slight canon divergence, NOT PROOFREAD

Notes_ I wish I had added more details to this one but I have been busy and I’m slightly drunk rn, sorry

♫ ♪ the worst playlist 4 lee byung-hun

✰ Index (+ fics here)

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Ride or die, you heard once.

Even when you think you have it all, there’s still more to get.

Five days ago you were partying hard at some elite club, three days ago some asshole tried to poison you and now you were playing Korean children's games to death.

Player 153, you got. The green tracksuit unintentionally made your eyes highlight, as you had noticed the first time you visited the restrooms.

You knew what and where you were getting into. After all, your father was more than a big sponsor of the games. He wanted you to marry an asshole, and you flew away. He tried to kill you, the only option left was death or death. It was dramatic, but sadly the truth. Nobody was waiting for you outside of the deadly games.

Your gelish nails were surviving the whole thing. The bright burnt orange color matched the dress of the big doll of the first game. The cheeky asshole of Thanos befriended you because of that. Then you met Nam-gyu and there was some odd connection.

It never occurred to you that you would be recognized. Even when you were the only foreigner in the games of that year.

It was on your way back to bed when you met him.

Hwang In-ho melted into the crowds of players, ready to assume the role of player 001. He was alert to every single movement and was trying to hear everything that was said when he heard some annoying voices.

“And did you see how that asshole started screaming? Dude that was crazy!” When In-ho turned, he saw the mediocre rapper with purple hair shouting and moving like a little kid through the maze of pink stairs at his other assholes friends.

“STOP!” Namgyu mocked player 456, making Thanos initiate a horrendous rap verse about the first game.

And then a female laugh joined them.

“Say he’s telling the truth, Wouldn’t that be crazy?” In-ho gently dodged some people to get closer, and he ended up walking literally behind you.

All he could see was the back of a short woman, with nice legs and an attractive silhouette; In-ho almost rolled his eyes at the thought, already feeling stressed because he had lost sight of Gi-hun.

“You’re already on a trip, y/n-su” Thanos took you and Namgyu by the shoulders and the three of you started cackling like idiots.

Player 153, y/n….

In-ho couldn’t remember who exactly was said player. But there was something about your name that resulted oddly familiar to him. You were definitely a foreigner.

In-ho was almost convinced there was no report of a foreign player being recruited.

A bad omen settled in him.

…

The cold lights of the room make your head feel disoriented, but it’s an appealing feeling since you feel like you are lying in a big puffy cloud. Instead, you are actually laying your head in Nam-gyu’s lap while Thanos is seated on the other side of the bed, whispering and gossiping about the players.

“That fucking asshole over there is not going to last,” he said pointing at an old man who looked like he was in shock after the first game. And it’s not like you were insensible but everyone with a number embroidered on their tracksuit was supposed to read the agreement policies before playing. “Just look at him”

“More money for us!” Nam-gyu adds.

You didn’t need the money, you just wanted to make your father angry, to escape, to feel the rush of something that wasn’t running away while living in neglect.

“Nam-nam, don’t be like that!” You say, chuckling and nudging him in the stomach. He joins you and then Thanos and is just the three of you high as fuck. “I need a cig…”

“Me fucking too” Thanos agrees then looks back at the crowds. When he sees Lee Myung-gi, you know it’s over, Thanos will likely go to argue and Nam-gyu would follow and subsequently you.

And indeed, that’s exactly what happened.

You roll your eyes, following the pair to the other side of the room.

“Guys! Leave him alone. He’ll likely die in the next game…” you argue, trying to get their attention. But the males are so invested in their stupid fight and you are so disoriented thanks to the drugs that you don’t see a man coming to separate them.

You only see the number 001 in the green jacket and soon the man ends up punching your friends.

“Hey, stop!” You try to interfere but it’s useless.

That’s when you identify the man, it was the man who outcasted the votes in favor of keeping playing.

“ENOUGH!” You yell, loud enough to stop the fight.

The man turns to look a you and he finally sees your face.

In-ho’s face turned pale. It couldn’t be you, it made no sense.

But he remembered very well the family portrait of your family resting in your father’s office in London.

You miss the way he sees you because you hurry to tend to your friends.

‘Fucking asshole…” In-house hears you whispering as you help Thanos and Nam-gyu to stand up.

In-ho felt himself getting extremely curious and irritated. Now his plans would get more complicated.

…

It’s almost time for lights out when every player is allowed to use the restrooms before bed. In-ho finally made contact with Gi-hun and he felt slightly under control of the situation. But you were still on his to-do list. So he rushed to wait the moment you separated from your assholes companions.

And when you started moving away with a bunch of female players, he made his move.

He grabbed from the forearm and ushered you to walk a few steps away, both of you passed to pink guards and let him yank you inside an empty hallway, near the stairs maze.

He heard you mumbling curses and trying to go back until In-ho lost his patience and pushed you against the wall.

“How did you get here?” He harshly asks, making you gasp at the sudden pressure in your forearm.

“Who the fuck are you?” You ask, trying to get out of the man’s grasp. “Let me go!”

You are pushed inside the restroom and you are about to yell but you finally face your captor.

Player 001, is a handsome old man. Still, you didn’t know who the fuck he was and what he had to do with you.

“How did you get here?” He repeats his initial question, looking extremely serious.

“Who the fuck are you?” His grip softened but the pressure remained, keeping you between him and the wall.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” His English is very good, but it isn’t his pronunciation that makes you almost gasp in surprise.

You can his tired eyes, fine nose, his hair. The vague memory of your father meeting with a man in your home, talking about expenses and finances, gives you enough answers.

“Congratulations, frontman. You just exposed yourself to me…” he seemed surprised, but hid it very quickly.

“You are no threat to me. Now speak…” He wasn’t expecting you to take very long to discover who he was given his approach to you.

“I met your salesman. He was very cute…”

“He must have recognized you. He wouldn’t give you a card…”

Your father was more than a generous sponsor. The island was also to his name. Everyone knew your name and who you were despite never being seen. For your father, it had been a disappointment your arrival. He always wished for an heir. And you resented him for that. You were useless to his eyes, an heir with no regard.

“He wasn’t as smart as you thought he was, dear. One glimpse of my cunt and I had him twirled around my finger…” his eyes lock with yours in a deep gaze, he wasn’t happy. “I miss him. I wish he wasn’t dead…”

“You think this is a game?” You chuckle, looking around the empty restroom.

“I think it is…” your finger points around the room. “I won’t tell a soul anything about you. Promise, Mr. Young-il”

“Listen because I won’t repeat myself. You’ll have no special treatment. If you mess this up, you die like everyone else” he says, leaning closer, intimidating you. But you don’t flinch. “It really is true that money can’t buy happiness, right?”

“Dying in the middle of this horror is better than dying at the hands of my own father” In-ho almost pitted you. He wasn’t a good person but there was still humanity inside him. You were not innocent, but you were so full of life, you were gorgeous. And he couldn’t believe your father despised you so much.

“I don’t care. Just don’t interfere with my task…” he says, looking you up and down before letting you go and urging you to get out of the restroom.

He said you wouldn’t get any special treatment. But he already felt feeling doubtful.

…

You can’t sleep. It’s completely dark and you can hear soft snores. The memory of you playing ddakji and seeing player 001 cheering for you repeated over and over in your head.

He was the leader. He knew your father and yet, it seemed like he was trying to protect you. So many questions popped into your mind, almost making it impossible for you to conceal sleep.

And suddenly, a hand touched your hip bone.

You scream but the hand covers your mouth.

“Come with me…” you know his voice. The frontman disguised as 001 was right there next to you.

Maybe your questions were about to be answered.

Carefully, you take the hand he offered you and follow him outside.

There are only two pink guards, everything else is empty.

It was unclear if it was day or night. The bright hallways changed from purple to bubblegum pink and then, green.

“Where are we going?” You ask, feeling your hand starting to sweat, but he doesn’t leave the embrace.

“To take a breath…” he simply says.

At the end of the green hallway, he opens a door and it’s dark, barely illuminated by warm bulbs. Is a stair and when you reach the end, it leads to the outside.

“I always forget this is under the island,” you say, out of breath, looking at the beautiful fawn and the sun peaking.

You don’t see the way the man beside you is looking in awe at you.

He doesn’t even know how invested he was in you.

“Why are you such a burden for your father?” He went straight to the point.

“He wanted a boy, I was born a girl” you admit, looking at the barely visible sea in the distance. “The only thing I could’ve been useful for him was to marry another wealthy man. But I refused…”

“That’s why you entered the games?” You nod, walking through the dirt and grass.

The sunrise was just starting, with orange, pink, and yellow, it was a beautiful sight that almost made you forget where you were.

“Don’t do anything stupid, other than what you already did. If you do, I won’t be able to protect you…”

“I appreciate your concern for my safety” you admit, locking your eyes with his. “But my life is not a priority for me anymore, Mr. Young-il,” you say and he almost smiled at you mocking him.

“In-ho…” he says.

“What?”

“My real name is In-ho” You couldn’t deny his revelation surprised you. “Young-il is just a facade”

You weren’t expecting him to trust you enough to share that. But once again, you were surprised.

“You really think you can keep 456 in place?” You ask him incredulously. “Prevent the voting to withdraw the games and convince my father to leave me alone?”

“I can negotiate with your father so he can leave you alone” Your eyes snap open at his words.

“No. You must know what he’s capable of” he smirks, eyeing you briefly before returning to look at the sunset.

“Don’t tell me you are growing fond of me” You turn to look at him and it’s your turn to smirk.

He meets your eyes and for some reason, you don’t erase the smile on your face.

“Never, Mr. Young-il” Your mocking is obvious, making him smile as he admires your profile. “I’d love to stay here, but we must go back before the music starts playing…”

When you turn to look at him, you see he had been eyeing you previously, making you unconsciously blush. Thankfully it was still dark enough to cover your embarrassment.

He nods and walks past you.

And there’s an odd feeling lingering in the air. Both of you conclude it’s odd but pleasing.

…

A carrousel, How bad it could go?

You are locking arms with Se-mi, your only female friend. Thanos, Nam-gyu, and Min-su are a little far away from you.

“Are you nervous?” She asks.

“Not really. And you?” She shrugs, looking around.

When you turn back, you see In-ho and other players talking around. He spots you and tells you to move away, probably to talk.

“Let me see if I can see some clue around, to give us an advantage” Se-mi nods, walking away.

You move close to the door where many players are still entering the room and soon In-ho joins you.

“Run as fast as you can, it doesn’t if you end up alone in a room,” he says whispering in your ear.

“That would be cheating” you whisper back, checking around if Thanos and Namgyu were looking, but they weren’t.

“Then stick around me, especially if pairs are announced…” you know what he means. Thanos and Namgyu had been loyal to you. But they would likely team up and leave you alone at any time. “Okay”

He nods at you and watches you go back with Se-mi and Thanos.

“Pick your pill,” Thanos says smiling at you, handing his pendant and taking a pill for himself.

That’s the last thing you remember. Vague flashes of you running with your friends. And then you saw In-ho grabbing your hand and urging you to get inside a room. You believe he killed a man.

You don’t know what is happening. Each step you take makes you feel more and more dizzy. Your head feels heavy and the memory of you laughing in the male restrooms only to fade into the image of Thanos lying dead while Nam-gyu looks as shocked and under the effects of the drugs as you. A man accidentally pushing you and blood covering your hand after touching your arm.

You could still hear the mess inside the room. You cursed being the only woman inside there. And you somehow feel pity for Thanos. Making you realize nobody deserved to die inside the damn island.

One of the pink guards opened the door for you but could not recall it. A lot of people started looking at you.

“Young woman, What the hell happened inside the male restroom?” Player 100 asks you impatiently, but you don’t even look at him, you can’t hear him. “I’m talking to you, little brat!”

Gi-hun points at you and the group turns to see the scene. It’s In-ho the first one to step up, slowly walking towards you.

He hears Player 100 yelling at you and he cringes.

“It’s enough!” In-ho yells back in the distance.

Your hair is a mess, there’s blood all over your tracksuit. Your jacket is in your hand, barely grasping it, making an irritating sound with the zipper against the floor.

And your arm is bleeding.

Before In-ho can reach you, you faint.

A lot of people gasp and he runs towards you.

“BRING A DOCTOR!” he ordered to the pair of pink guards standing in a door.

They hesitated a couple of seconds, then quietly left. Nobody would know it was because player 001 was their leader. Everyone thought it was because someone was hurt outside of a game.

“What happened?” Gi-hun asked, kneeling beside In-ho. Both tried tapping in your cheeks but you seemed to be extremely disoriented.

People started gathering around and In-ho was tremendously trying not to look panicked.

“Hypotension and low blood pressure,” Jun-hee says, standing right next to Gi-hun and holding her belly. Gi-hun and In-ho turn to look at her.

“I took two semesters of nursing training,” the young woman says, trying to see the wound in your arm. “She needs stitches and something sugary or an IV”

In-ho takes your jacket and makes an improvised tourniquet in your arm, he breathes carefully, moving your head slowly, hoping to see you regaining consciousness.

The pink guards arrive and take you away, indicating no one else can follow.

Soon a crowd enters the room making a bloody mess.

…

You open your eyes, and every single thing you look at is green. Green like the room leading outside that In-house took you. The bed, the blanket covering your lower body, the little couch. Everything is green.

“Where did you get the drugs?” You almost jump, startled. A hand of yours ends on top of your chest and the heart rate monitor indicates an increase in your beatings.

“You’re safe here” In-ho is there, seated next to you. “But you kept doing stupid things outside…”

You stand your arm and see the stitches and dry blood. Your head throbs but it isn’t as bad as you thought it would be.

“The drugs were from… Thanos” You can’t believe he’s dead. Half of you expected him to leave and get out alive.

“You were so close to overdosing” he failed to not sound worried.

“Don’t tell me you are growing fond of me” You say the same thing he told you two nights ago, but he doesn’t smile. “I’m not playing, y/n”

“I’m sorry” you admit, looking at your hands. Finally feeling the weight of your actions.

“I’m convinced Seong Gi-hun will try to lead a rebellion” the man beside you adds, trying to soothe the tension. “He will try to stop the games”

“And would it be so bad? To end the games?” You ask surprising him. “There’s enough money to disappear from the country”

In-ho had thought about it but never did anything to make it true. However, now that had been growing fond of you, he could see himself running away. Almost…

“I would�� but I can’t” You only nod, ignoring the tiny ache in your heart. You start trying to seat and he helps you.

You point at your dirty tracksuit and In-ho hands it, helping you to stand up at the same time.

“Seong Gi-hun will try to disarm the guards. If they are lucky they’ll succeed. Probably will recruit players to advance. You will volunteer and grab a gun” he sounds very serious, saying each word delicately as if he was scared you wouldn’t pay attention. “I know you can shoot and have good aiming. Your family used to take you to hunt deer in Scotland…”

“Damn well, you really know everything about me…” he rolled his eyes, making you realize he was indeed being serious. But his soft touch makes you feel weak. “Help me take off this thing, please”

“I’m not playing, y/n. That’s the only way I will be able to get you out of this if things turn against us. That’s the only way to save you…”

Your heart beats faster, and your hands feel numb. Even worse when you turn around and he untangles the laces in your patient gown. Your naked body flashes him and it takes all his strength to not touch you.

You take his vulnerability to ask what you had been trying to hide from yourself.

“Tell me why…” you say with your eyes lost, knowing he was staring at your soul. “Say those three words I’m desperately thinking and I’ll do anything you ask me to”

In-ho sighs, throwing his head back, he looks at his own feet, wondering what he should say.

You grow disappointed at his silence. And when you’re ready to leave, he stops you.

“I lov-“

You kiss him. You kiss him so deeply that it takes him by surprise.

His hands don’t know where to go but even with your eyes closed, you grab them and place them in your hips.

Soon, he takes control, just like you expected. Of course, he had to have experience. His lips expertly move against yours, and then his tongue perfectly melts with yours, leaving you made a mess.

“You didn’t let me say the three words…” he says, whispering in your lips as you pant for air.

“I thought you weren’t saying anything. It took me by surprise…” you admit, offering him a shy smile that he tries to mimic.

He wasn’t completely evil. He still had some humanity inside of him. He was conscious of his feelings and knew he wanted to protect you, to know you better, and see you alive, outside of the island.

“In-ho…”

“Hmm?” He asks as you lay your head on his chest. “Don’t hurt them…”

“That’s not on me, darling” Your wounded hand caresses his cheek and it makes him close his eyes. “Please, In-ho”

“You are going to go back with me. If Gi-hun succeeds, I won’t be able to protect you from this side of the island” he explains. “You’ll take a gun and stick with me. You don’t move away from me. You heard me?”

You nod, accepting his strong gaze on you.

“Promise me, y/n”

“I swear I’ll stick to you, In-ho,” you say, kissing him again. “I promise”

______________________

Salesman Valentine’s Day fic coming next Friday <3

[dreamertf]

Role Reverse

/muscle drain, muscle growth, straight to gay, dom to sub, sub to dom, masculinization

/Was on metabods and was inspired by this story

Jack and his roommate Cas weren't on great terms. Jack had moved in a few months ago, finding Cas through a listing on craigslist-- only the listing didnt mention that Cas was a complete bigot. Since the first day of moving in, Jack had been tormented by the tall jock. Cas egging him on for being trans and gay. The daily berating was getting annoying, and Jack wanted to move out but the lease wouldnt be over for a few more months.

As he was doomscrolling tiktok he got an ad for some sort of new social media app called Facets that seemed targeted at gay people.

Facets; each lens creating a new reality

He stared at the app as it downloaded, going through the preview pictures. The way the screenshots were presented made it look like there was some built-in ai photomanipulation that changes your pictures based on your tags. It made sense. Everyone was insanely attractive on the preview photos, inhumanely so.

Creating his account he had to input his information, it felt like a dating app.

Jack Engoff

Height: 5'6"

Weight: 210

Body type: Chub

Position: Verse

Gender: Trans Masc

Scrolling through the app, it was just like scrolling through the previews. Everyone was insanely hot.

Jack decided to get back at Cas a little, have a little fun. He knew that the jock fell asleep in the living room last night after getting home drunk, so he had complete access to him.

Sneaking quietly he stood in front of the behomoth on the couch, his breathing deep and heavy as his pecs rose and fell rhythmically. His thick muscular legs spread, revealing his huge member.

Jack hated how hot he was, he looked like all the other guys on the app.

He took a picture as he thought about what tags to put.

#bottom #skinny #powerbottom #twink #short #sub #femboy #wanttobedominated #thirstybussy

As he pressed post, the loading screen glitched out. Suddenly, a picture of a cute twink appeared. Short 5'5" lean frame with a bubble butt. His waist is small, and his face brimming with feminine masculinity. His previously spread legs were closed as his small dainty hands covered his crotch, his huge ass pointing up- his face down in the couch. He was practically swimming in his clothes, even though they had shrunk to accommodate his new body.

Jack loved seeing his tormenter brought down a few pegs, and he would be lying if he said he wasn't turned on.

---

He looked up in shock as the small twink in the photo manifested in front of him. His breathing wasn't heavy anymore, slight movement to his narrow shoulders as he slept peacefully.

Suddenly he heard slight muttering and moans come from cas.

"Oh Jackie.... im so tight.. please you're ripping me apart!" He moaned, his voice high pitched and sensual.

Jack was immediately turned on, he didnt know what to do.

If this app was able to do this, what could he do to himself?

He took a selfie as he formulated the perfect tags.

#powertop #dom #cisman #himbo #jock #bodybuilder #hugefeet #giant #hugeverywhere #model #abs #jawline #irresistible

He hit post as he ran to the bathroom to see his changes.

His patters became thuds as his feet grew out to size 15s.

He felt his bottom growth lengthen as it turned into a fully functioning penis, becoming thicker as his balls dropped-- becoming huge and juicy. His top surgery scars disappeared as he lost all his fat, his muscles defining themselves, becoming that of a god.

His broad shoulders pushed themselves out as his shirt completely disappeared, leaving his huge juicy tits in the cold air. His torso elongating as his abs popped into existence. He smiled as his adams apple dropped and became more prominent.

He flexed in the mirror, smiling as his face became extremely symmetrical and handsome. His curly hair grew out a tiny bit on top, giving him a lusty edge.

"Jackkkkkk is that you? Whats happening i feel so weak..."

He heard a voice come from behind him, standing in the doorway was Cas, dazed and confused.

Inside Cas was screaming, was he that hungover? Why was jack so much bigger than him.

"Hey baby" Jack said in his deep voice, as he spoke Cas immediately got hard-- his small two inch dick parely tenting his shorts.

Jack picked Cas up easily, kissing him as he brought the shorter man into the bedroom.

"I heard you muttering in your sleep, if you wanted me that bad why didnt you say?"

Cas blushed. It was undeniable how hot Jack was, but he wasn't gay! Cas leaned back in bed as the giant 6 foot 8 giant stood before him.

Seeing him in such a compromising position made jack's huge member immediately come to attention.

As he pulled down his sweats it flopped out, leaking warm goey thick pre as his giant foot long soda can wide dick ached for Cas.

Cas gasped, leaning forward as he felt an irresitable urge to worship Jack's body. Licking up the pre with his tongue as jack grabbed him by the hair.

"Good boy, keep licking and maybe ill fuck you."

[valentine-cafe]

🍒 𓂃 𝑶𝑹𝑫𝑬𝑹 𝑼𝑷 : egg tarts !! . . . naga ⊹ gn reader .

. ᘛ 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑛​​​​​​​𝑔﹕verse 1311 ꮽ  jingyi agresta

 𐔌𖹭 ˖ ࣪  who's that ?⠀﹕a cold naga mechanic. villainous and cunning.

ּ  ֗ recepit ℘ ... your naga boyfriend is able to turn himself into his full snake form. . . with the one fact he becomes so extremely dumb when he does ⊹ cw ٬٬ none .

Cold scales kiss at your skin, as your naga boyfriend, in his full snake form, moves across your shoulders. Big snake body heavy on you, but he tries his best to not give you any shoulder aches.

He becomes the dumbest snake on earth the second he's in this form and you've never really understood how or why. For some reason you are his spouse in his current state of mind, instead of just partner. And while you'd love to marry him one day, you get confused each time he rolls around on your waist and lets out a little: "Sssspouse."

"I'm not your spouse Jìngyí, we're not married yet remember?" You hum and look down at the black snake. A pair of milky white eyes staring back at you in greet. There are no stars in the sky for his eyes to see. . . But he has you. He has you, You're all of the stars that his eyes limit him to see.

"You are," he speaks, bumping his snoot against your chin, before his tongue flickers at your skin. "We married. With Rishen, and live in big house."

"No, we live in an apartment in the inhuman sector. Rishen is not married with us, Rishen doens't like us."

"BAOBEI LOVE USSSSS." The snake protests and throws himself back dramatically, wiggling his body around in animated fashion, before slumping back down on your chest, burrowing himself in your shirt.

"That is my shirt."

"It cave."

"It is my shirt, Jìngyí"

"Cave for eggs,"

"NO!"

꒰ ۪ ˖ ࣪ 𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑢 ... info ꮽ mlist ꮽ verse ꮽ wiki .

[ramp-it-up]

Muse: One

Muse Preview | Muse Masterlist|| Muse: Two

Summary: You and Ari meet on Raya. Chaos ensues.

Pairing: Art Curator! Ari Levinson x Plus sized model! Reader

Word count: 4.5 K

A/N: Muse will be a series of one shots featuring Muse and Ari, and this one will probably be the longest one. We’re gonna hear from them at least every week. 😏 Big thanks to @princessphilly who basically inspired the premise and then endured me being feral in her inbox. And yes, this is the same Ari that's in Show Off, so this AU is tangential to the Peach and Knock You Down verses. I was honestly working on another fic and this one possessed me. Here I go again. 🤷🏽‍♀️

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. SMUT! Read at your own risk; curate your own experience. Ari Levinson: art collector/curator/ fuckboi, Reader: model/ player, dating app life, drinking, casual sex, Dominant Ari, assertive reader, sex almost straight out the gate, size kink (c &b), breeding kink, but protected sex, pussy/clit slapping, praise and degradation, one night stand with zero feelings caught (lies!)

I don’t have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post!

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

--------

You weren’t even supposed to be on Raya that night.

You’d just finished a long shoot in a downtown loft where the air was thick with hairspray, and the photographer kept yelling absurdities like: “Give me strong, but soft! Like a powerful whisper!” 

Your feet ached. Your back screamed. The only thing keeping you sane was the cold cabernet sauvignon sweating in your hand.

You weren’t looking for anything. You just wanted to see some pretty faces and feel like a hot girl with options.

Swipe.

Swipe.

No.

No.

Hell no.

Well damn. Ari Levinson.

You’d heard about him. Your model friends had stories about how smooth he was, the size of his dick, and how he ghosted right after getting what he wanted. Classic.

But you got it. On a cellular level. Because you weren’t looking for entanglements either.

You just wanted the D.

His first photo was black and white, him standing in a sunlit Parisian gallery, framed by massive abstract canvases. His hair was tousled like he either just woken up from a nap on a vintage couch or spent the morning negotiating a private sale.

He wasn’t looking at the camera, of course not.

He was looking at the art. 

Ari also looked like art, smart blue eyes and soft lips partially hidden by a beard that you thought would feel good between your thighs. You could tell that he was tall, broad shouldered, and built to last. He was dressed casually, and that’s how you knew he was rich rich.

He didn’t have to show it off.

His bio was enigmatic:

“Chasing beauty, collecting moments. Sometimes it’s oil on canvas. Sometimes it’s the silence between two songs.”

What the fuck does that even mean?

You read it twice.

You meant to swipe left.

But fate, or the wine, intervened.

It’s a Match.

You stared at it for a minute, then typed before you could change your mind.

“Picasso said 'art is a lie that makes us realize truth.” You buying lies or selling them?” Drinks?

He responded within seconds.

He suggested a bar in SoHo with intimate booths, dim lighting, and top tier mixology. 

You almost said no. You didn’t do dates. 

You did vibes, connections, and the occasional night of excellent chaos. 

But something about his response made you curious.

—--

Raya was never really Ari’s scene.

Too curated. Profiles with perfectly lit selfies, vague aspirations, and bios that tried too hard to sound both deep and detached. 

He didn’t swipe often.

But the truth was, Ari Levinson was lonely.

Not in the sad, broken kind of way, more like he was perpetually surrounded by beautiful people who only admired his collection, complimented his taste, but never asked why he kept certain pieces or why he stared too long at sculptures that looked like loss.

His encounter the other night with the newlywed Rogers made him yearn for that kind of fire, that kind of connection. But he didn’t know if that could be duplicated.

Ari was just about to close the app when your profile popped up. 

He recognized you right away. 

Not because you were just beautiful, you definitely were, but because you commanded the image. There was a magnetism in the way you moved, a joy and defiance that didn’t care for permission.

On your profile was a picture of you in oversized sunglasses and a silk robe, holding a book. And another one of you at some red-carpet event, plus-sized and absolutely radiant, laughing like you were amused at the world. 

You were absolutely stunning.

Your bio:

Model. Curvy chaos. Not here for a long time, just a good time.

Ari smiled. Finally, someone not performing a softcore version of forever.

You weren’t like the others, not looking to be wifed up with someone rich and powerful like him. That made you dangerous.

He swiped right instinctively, just to see. Just to admire. 

He didn’t expect a match.

But when the screen lit up, It’s a Match!, his chest actually tightened. 

And then came your message.

You look like you curate galleries by day and cry to phoebe bridgers by night. Drinks?

He choked on his espresso.

It was hilarious.

And too perfect.

He should’ve ignored it. Should’ve played it cool.

Instead, he typed back faster than he ever had in his life.

“I’m intrigued. 8PM. Little Branch in SoHo. Can’t wait to see you.”

Short, sharp, and confident, not overplaying his hand. 

And it was the word intrigued, not “interested,” not “curious.” And he’d said, “Can’t wait to see you.” 

That got you. Because that meant he was already a little undone.

—---

Ari was already there when you walked in. Black button-up, gold chain, leaning on the bar casually, but you could tell he saw you the second you stepped through the door. He stood, smiled, and you rocked back on your heels as if hit by a bolt of lightning. 

The man was massive. Pictures didn’t do him justice and you didn’t know of the button up was tailored, all you knew is you felt the power beneath it. You also had to stop yourself from turning your head sideways to check out the package in his jeans.

You paused, steadying yourself, and continued your approach..

“Wow,” he said when you approached and introduced yourself. 

You laughed, because no matter how many people ogled you for a living, the involuntary kind of compliments always made you flustered. You swallowed, then turned to the barback.

“Negroni. Empress Gin.”

Ari raised an eyebrow, impressed.

“Oh. A big girl drink.”

You laughed. He kind of loved it already.

“Well, as you can see, I’m a big girl.”

Ari’s eyes slid down your body and you weren’t mad as he did a double take at your jeans. 

“I see. And I like.”

The way he licked his lips made you warm. You raised your eyebrow, imagining him munching away.

“My booth is back here.”

You looked at his large hand pointing the way to the back of the small bar to an even more intimate area. Yeah. You could ride that. 

You walked ahead of him and you knew that he was watching your ass. You didn't mind. That was the point.

His booth was tucked into a corner, shadowed and intimate; it was the kind of space designed for secrets and seduction. You slid in first, and he followed, sitting close.

He signaled for another round, fingers grazing yours on the drink menu as if by accident, and when the server left, he turned back to you with that beautiful smile.

“So. Model, huh?” 

You smiled back at him.

“That’s the rumor. Print and editorial mostly. A few campaigns. But I prefer runways in Europe over the states. I travel a lot.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

You shrugged. 

“Sometimes. But I like bringing the fantasy to life.” 

You took a sip of your drink and his eyes were on your mouth.

“And you? Art dealer, right? Collector?”

“Curator,” he corrected gently. “Sometimes broker. Sometimes buyer. Mostly, I help people spend obscene amounts of money on things they don’t understand.”

You raised an eyebrow. 

“So a charming con artist with a gallery?”

He grinned. 

“Exactly. But I only sell what I believe in.”

“Nice. I sell unattainability and the occasional skincare product. We both deal in illusions.”

“Yours just have better lighting.”

You laughed and tilted your head. Something happened in Ari’s chest. He should have run.

“So, what, you sit around all day judging brushstrokes and seducing heiresses?”

“Mostly. And trying not to text back women I shouldn’t.”

“Am I one of them?”

“Too soon to tell. But you’re a strong contender.”

You let that linger in the air for a second.

“So,” you said slowly, setting your drink down with a clink, “is this where you try and charm the pants off me?”

“I was trying to decide,” he murmured, as he took a drink, eyes locked on yours, “if I wanted to fuck you at your place or mine.”

You blinked, just once, but your smile widened.

“Oh, we’re skipping pretense, then?” you questioned. “Good. I hate when men waste my time. When was the last time you were tested?"

Ari raised his brow. You cut right to the chase.

"I get tested once a quarter, last time was two weeks ago. Clean."

"Hmmmm. I tested a month ago. And I'm clean too. But I'm gonna still need you to wear protection."

Ari smiled and lowered his eyes. His hand moved slightly under the table to rest near your thigh, but not quite touching you. A tease.

"Of course. Something tells me you don’t let anything, or anyone through,” he replied.

You studied him, wondering if you were reading worship and destruction into his look or if it was actually there.

“You’re starting to sound like someone who catches feelings.”

“Feelings?” he echoed with a grin. “No, I just like being around wild, beautiful creatures. And I enjoy the ones that bite back even more.”

You leaned in closer to him. 

“You think I’m wild. And you think I bite?” 

“I hope you are. And I hope you do.”

Your leg brushed his under the table. His eyes flicked down, then back up to your face, darker now.

“I have the same hopes for you, Mr. Levinson.”

Ari’s jaw flexed, nostrils flaring. 

“I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

His fingers moved to your thigh and traced a slow line up your crotch beneath the table. 

You leaned in closer.

“You still sure about just one night?” he asked, eyes on your lips again.

You put your hand on his thigh at that moment, moving it up to feel his thickening cock. You were excited at the potential there.

“One night. That’s the deal. I don’t do second acts. So you better make it count.”

Ari grinned and your stomach flipped.

“Well, then. I need to make it unforgettable.”

—----

You were straddling him on your couch when Ari realized he was in trouble.

He should’ve known the second you walked into the bar, hips swaying and those curves...damn. But here, now, with your thighs around him and your body pressed so close he couldn’t tell where he ended and you began, he was so gone.

Ari wasn’t the type to rush. 

He was all about artful restraint and being aloof. But you shattered that. 

You kissed like you knew just how to destroy him with your lips, teeth, and tongue. Ari hadn’t experienced the feeling since he was a teenager, but damn, he was throbbing underneath you.

And when you unbuttoned his shirt, fingers dragging over his chest, rubbing his nipples under your palms, he swore under his breath.

“Fuck. You’re unreal,” he murmured.

And you just smirked, leaned in, whispering, “I know.”

God, the way you moved. Every roll of your hips was a tease, every drag of your nails down his skin was a stripe he wanted to earn. He gripped your jean-clad thighs thighs hard enough to ground himself, because he was floating somewhere between desperation and awe.

You rode him slowly at first. You wanted him to feel all of it, every breath, every tremor. And he did. 

Your pussy was buzzing with anticipation and you were impatient, but you wanted to savor this one.

You arched as his hips rolled up between your legs, anchoring your hands on his broad shoulders as he branded the shape of himself between your legs. And when he did it again, you moaned and tried to create your own rhythm, but he held you in place.

Ari had to stop you because he only had one shot tonight and he wasn’t going to throw it away and let you cum in your pants. When your orgasm hit, it would be with the slick walls of your pussy clamped around his cock.

So you did the only thing you could, which was to grind down harder on him, causing him to let out a shaky breath, finally moving you against him to get some friction.

"Fuck... let me feel you, darlin'."

Ari made a new rhythm, one he managed with his eyes locked on yours, hands roaming from your waist to your back, then tangled in your hair as you leaned in and bit his bottom lip, making him groan.

“You gonna fall in love with me, Ari?” you teased against his mouth.

“I think I already am,” he said, before he could stop himself.

You didn’t answer, thinking it was part of the game. You just smiled, leaned back, hands on his chest, and started moving faster, driving him out of his mind. 

Every sound you made wrapped around his ribs and squeezed. He didn’t know what felt better, the pressure building low in his stomach, or the way you moaned his name like it tasted sweet in your mouth. The feel of your wet, hot pussy through your jeans was just a bonus.

He'd slept with beautiful women. Charming women. Women who made love like it were their last day on earth. 

But you? You were different.

And the way you looked, curls akimbo, lips parted, eyes locked on his like you were seeing to the bottom of him, that image seared into him. 

He stood, picking you up effortlessly, grabbing you under your ass.

“I’m assuming that your bed is up here?”

You just nodded, breathless at his power as he carried you up the stairs to the loft where your king sized bed was.

He reached the top and dropped you on the bed. You bounced a little as he reached for you and unbuttoned your jeans, dragging them down your legs along with your panties.

Shit, he wasn’t wasting any time.

He stopped and proceeded to strip off his own clothes.

“Take off the rest of your clothes,” he commanded and you scrambled to comply, removing your top and your bra and watching him undress at the same time. You almost groaned at the sight of his cock.

You hadn’t always been a cock hungry slut, but you were a little obsessed. Ari was big and long, not the longest you’d had, but definitely the thickest. It was beautiful: veiny and flushed, with a large swollen head that leaked precum down his shaft. You knew it was going to be amazing when he stretched you out.

Then you noticed his balls. They looked full and heavy. You couldn’t help but lick your lips as you imagined how much cum he’d have for you. Ari smirked down at your wide eyes on him as he pushed your shoulders until you were lying on your back.

He hooked your thighs with his hands and dragged you until your ass was at the edge of the bed and you squealed with surprise as he lifted your feet up to his shoulders. This was quite the change from your usual three positions with your one night stands: missionary, cowgirl, or doggy style.

When he rubbed the his thick tip along your soaked slit, you closed your eyes and moaned. He tapped the entrance to your pussy with his cock, holding your hip to ensure that you didn't make him slip inside you.

Yeah. Ari wasn’t like other guys.

You felt the weight of him as he dragged his cock through your slippery, swollen pussy, smearing your slick all over him and you looked down, mesmerized by the sight. This was going to be good.

Ari looked down angrily.

"Fucking soaked for me," those blue eyes snapped up to yours, freezing you in place. "You always this wet?"

He licked those red lips and if you had a heart you would have been in trouble. You’d never been this wet with anyone before. You just shook your head no, not trusting yourself to answer, lest you have him thinking, correctly, that he was the shit.

But he read you anyway. That smile was both beautiful and annoying.

"For me? You shouldn't have... might get me addicted."

You scowled at him, but then you bit your lip as he started to draw circles on your clit with his penis. You were dickmatized again, eyes riveted to the spot as you moaned.

He tapped his cock against your clit to get your attention.

“Look at me.”

You looked at him through your lashes.

“Do you have any condoms?”

Oh no. Did you? You couldn’t think because of the pre-orgasmic haze you were in. Ari licked his finger and then brought it down to caress your clit while he waited for your answer.

That didn’t help the clarity of your thinking.

“Ch-check the top drawer.”

You gestured toward your nightstand, hoping it was the right direction. 

He left you, opened legged and bereft as he went on his mission, and you breathed a sigh of relief when he said, “Found them.”

Thank god. You were about to beg him to ride you bareback if he hadn’t found any. He sheathed himself and then moved back into his previous position.

He rubbed himself over your slit again, and you moaned.

“Right about here, between these beautiful thick thighs, wouldn’t you agree?”

He was driving you crazy. Your cunt was humming on a five at the bar, but he had ramped her up to an 11. You’d never been this desperate for a cock before.

“Just fuck me, please!”

He chuckled and lined the head of his cock against your entrance, but didn’t push home. He teased you for a second, before dragging it up and down one last time, just to see the look your face.

Beautiful.

“You sure about this?”

His voice was pure sin. You opened your eyes fully and glared at him.

Gorgeous.

“Yes, Ari. I need you.”

That must have been enough because he immediately plunged in, inch by glorious fat inch, straight to your core. 

“Oh fuck!”

Ari’s meaty cock stretched you out, and your head fell back in ecstasy as your hips instinctively arched to take him in deeper. You were panting from pure pleasure as you tried to adjust to his thickness.

“You like that? Like my thick cock in this little pussy?”

“Yes, God, yes!”

You couldn’t stop yourself from bucking against him to try to get him to move. He was still as a statue and his jaw was clenched from restraint.

“Tell you what, if you beg me to fill your pussy with cum, I’ll fuck you so hard your head spins. Deal?”

“Um…” you couldn’t form your thoughts to beg, or to realize that there would be no cum filling because of the condom.

“Why don’t you think about it and let me know,” Ari said casually as if he were talking to a customer browsing his gallery.

But he started thrusting slowly into your cunt as the electric current in his dick made you crave the roughness he’d suggested.  You tried to pull yourself together, but it didn’t work.

Ari was transfixed by your breasts. They looked delicious.

“Play with your nipples,” Ari growled.

You cupped your breasts with your hands and pulled at the stiff peaks. He continued his leisurely pace, except now everything was worse. Or better.

Every time you pulled your nipples, you felt a corresponding pull between your legs. And then there was the way he was looking at what you were doing, eyes half lidded and mouth open as you touched yourself. Fuck that was so erotic.

The pressure was building, but you knew you wouldn’t cum until he fucked you harder.

Ari stopped and pulled out.

“Nooooooo!” you cried, and he chuckled at you, as if he was amused.

“I really wanna make you cum, but I think I’m distracting you too much.”

You couldn’t think, but you didn’t want him to stop. A sharp smack against your swollen pussy lips made you yelp and a blast of delight surged through you. 

Holy fuck what was this guy doing to you?

When he slapped your pussy harder, you realized how completely fucked you were.

You would do whatever he wanted.

“Okay okay. Let me think…. Shit, Uh…” you were completely in a daze.

“Are you ready to beg me to fill you with my cum?” Ari reminded you of the question at hand.

He brought a finger back to your clit and rubbed devastating circles around it.

Jesus fuck, it was like he didn’t really want you to be able to talk. Catching a moment of clarity, you rushed it out.

“Please, Ari, fuck me hard and fill me with your cum. Pretty please. I just need your cum. Promise I’ll be the best fucktoy you’ve ever had, please?”

He gave you an evil grin and caressed your clit harder. You whimpered.

“Please, Ari. Need your cum.”

He stopped rubbing and you felt his tip nudging into you, and you were almost purring from the pleasure. He pressed in until he bottomed out, waves of bliss washing over you. You started trembling preemptively.

“Good girl,” he announced as he pulled out gently, only to slam back in hard.

“Oooooo, fuck, oh my god!” you gasped out as he fucked you ruthlessly. 

The sound of your moans mixed with the squeaking of your bed, and you continued to play with your tits which only increased your pleasure.

You went from one peak to another as you quickly spiraled toward your orgasm, Ari’s grunts each time he sank into you helping to speed you along.

“Such a….good… little… breedable…. Fucktoy…..”  

He slammed into you, groaning with every word. All it took was one brush of his finger to push you over the edge.

You screamed, “Oh, god, yes!” as you came all over his cock and writhed against him as he roared that he was cuming. New waves of rapture surged between your legs, traveling throughout your entire body.

He drilled into you for a moment longer, and the intense aftershocks were almost too much to bear. When he finally pulled out, the room swirled around you and you let out a tiny giggle. 

Ari did promise to fuck you hard enough to make it spin.

He went to the bathroom and disposed of the condom and then returned and pulled you up the bed to make you his little spoon.

You reveled in the smell of sweat and sex, almost getting high on the scent. You laughed softly like you couldn’t believe what just happened. But he knew. He knew exactly what happened.

He was ruined.

But you were a one-night promise, a walking fantasy with no intentions of calling back. And still, as you lay in bed with him, catching your breath, his hands on your body, Ari knew he didn’t want this to end. 

Not anytime soon.

“You don’t have to stay if you have something in the morning…”

You meant that to sound more definitive, like you were inviting him to leave, but Ari had wrecked you so much that you didn’t have the energy to be cold. That was the reason you turned, burrowed into his chest and let your eyelids get heavy.

Ari chuckled. 

“Don’t worry, Muse. I’ll get out of your hair soon. Just catching my breath.”

“... the fuck is Muse?...” you questioned on your way to sleep, the rhythm of his fingers on your thighs the nails in your coffin of sleep.

“You are. You’re my Muse.”

You didn’t quite feel the kiss on your forehead. But you smiled.

—----

In the morning, the light in your apartment was rude.

It filtered through the curtains like it had a personal vendetta, hitting your face just as you tried to pretend the night didn’t happen the way it did. Your limbs were sore in that satisfied way, like you’d run a marathon, but only with your hips. 

You stretched. Yawned. Felt the warmth behind you.

Shit.

Ari was still there.

He was on his side, one arm slung over your waist like it belonged there. His broad chest was on your back, and his nose buried in your neck, breathing you in.

You shifted. He didn’t move. Just tightened his hold with that annoying, possessive kind of tenderness.

“Morning,” he mumbled into your skin, his gravelly morning voice threatening to do you in.

“Mhmm,” you answered, noncommittally. You carefully peeled his arm off. 

“You can go, you know.”

That got his attention. He lifted his head, messy hair falling over his eyes, beard pressed with pillow lines. 

He looked like sex personified.

“Damn. No coffee? No kiss on the cheek? Not even a fake number on a Post-it?”

“Don’t make this weird, Ari.”

You’re out of bed now, grabbing your robe from the chair, ignoring the way his eyes tracked your every move. You knew the drill. One-night stands didn’t turn into brunch plans.

He propped himself up and leaned against your headboard like it was custom-built for him.

“Wasn’t trying to. Just… didn’t think you’d be in such a rush to forget me.”

“I’m not,” you lied, tying your hair up with a scarf, trying to be as unattractive as possible. 

You had no idea that to him you looked like the most beautiful painting he'd ever seen.

“I just like to keep things clean. No open tabs.”

“Hmm.” 

He studied you for a long moment, then stretched like a cat, unapologetically naked and smug. 

“You always kick people out like this? Or am I just special?”

You sighed. He wasn't making it easy. He was too comfortable in your space. Too charming. Too in your face.

“I didn’t peg you for the lingering type.”

“I’m not. But something about your bed makes me reconsider my brand.” 

He grinned. 

“And you snore a little. It’s cute.”

You whirled around. 

���I do not snore.”

He laughed. Like it was a private joke between you. It softened you for a second. Just a second. You cleared your throat and motioned down toward the door.

“Seriously. You should go.”

He nodded slowly, slid out of your bed and grabbed his clothes, treating you to the sight of him getting leisurely getting dressed. When he caught you watching, he grinned, and you scoffed, going down the stairs so you wouldn’t be tempted stare any more.

Ari walked past you, stopped at the doorway and turned.

“If this is your way of making sure I don’t catch feelings... it might be too late.”

That caught you off guard. He shrugged.

“It’s fine. I’m not asking for a toothbrush or a drawer. But if you ever want to fuck again… or talk about art… or do both at the same time…You know where to find me, Muse.”

He winked. The mutherfucker actually winked, then walked out like he didn’t just ruin your perfectly controlled system. 

You stood there, silent, heart hammering a little harder than you would have liked. And only when the door clicked shut did you whisper: 

“...Goddamn it.”

——-

Muse: Two

So… whaddya think? 🤔

[mydearestbeloved]

Chapter 1 [Draft]

Saja Boys x Isekaid!Demon?Reader x Huntrix

Content Warnings: This chapter contains elements of gore—this is a work of fiction, I do not condone or glorify violence in real life; Historical Inaccuracies—I'm not well-versed in Korea's history, culture, and language, so please go easy on me 🙏

[Masterlist🦋✨️]

You open your eyes to a sky soaked in midnight.

For a split second, it feels like surfacing from deep underwater—like you’d been holding your breath for hours, maybe longer, and finally, finally clawed your way back to air. A gasp tears through your throat. It's dry. Scraped. Your lungs burn.

You don’t remember why.

The thought barely formed before it unraveled, slipping from your grasp like mist. You couldn't hold onto it. You couldn't hold onto anything—not the shape of your thoughts, not the tremor rocking through your limbs, not the heat that was now beginning to simmer low in your belly.

The air is thick, heavy. It clings to your skin like oil.

Your chest heaves and every inhale fans, rough and dry through a sore throat. The pain was dull—muted by something louder inside.

A churning.

A clawing.

Hunger.

A primal impulse, ancient and raw, rising from the depths of your core like a beast pressing its face against the inside of your skin.

You stumbled forward.

The road beneath you was weathered stone, every step digging into your bare feet. But it didn’t register—not really. The fog coiling between unfamiliar stone buildings. The eerie silence. The cold of the air brushing your exposed skin. Even your own body felt strange.

Your limbs feel too long. Your balance, off. The soft fabric hanging from your shoulders. Something whispers, “You’re not quite right.” To someone too far gone to care.

But your legs moved anyway, like it’s done this before, dragging you forward, nose tilted to the air without realizing, following a scent you couldn’t name even if you were conscious enough to try.

All you knew was that it needed to be fed.

——oOo——

Her name was Hae-Bok. "Great fortune." A name her mother gave her during a time when hope still bloomed on dirt roads and prayers still worked.

But there was no fortune in this alley tonight.

“Shhh. Don’t make it harder than it has to be.”

The hand clamped over her mouth stinks of tobacco and something fouler. His nails dig into her cheek as he jerks her head back, and she kicks blindly at air.

They tied her up. Back to the damp bricks, the ropes around her wrists are tight, ankles scraped raw, mouth gagged, the cut across her cheek stinging where a ringed hand had slapped her earlier. Six men towered before her. She could see their silhouettes under the moonlight, could hear their laughter—dry, hollow, like wolves joking about which part of the deer to chew first.

“Pretty face,” one of them sneered. “Shame we have to sell it piece by piece.”

The words turn her insides to ice. Her mouth tastes like bile behind the gag.

Hae-Bok—daughter of no one, mother to one—her thoughts circled like trapped birds.

Yul-ri… my baby…

The words were muffled behind the cloth in her mouth. Her scream died there. Her tears did not.

She imagined her daughter's tiny hands, her feverish little forehead, the way she always smiled with her two front teeth when Hae-Bok brought back rice and sweet porridge. That smile, that little face, was the only thing she lived for. But now—

What’ll happen when she doesn’t come home? Does she still have enough rice in the sack? Will she know who to go to—will anyone care?

A sob cracks through her nose.

And then—

Then, everything changes.

In the span of one blink, the men were gone.

The alley was… not the alley. Or rather, it was, but wrong. Warped. As though the space itself had tilted—shifted—her somewhere sideways, just far enough from the danger that it felt more like a nightmare than an escape.

And in front of her…

A woman.

Draped in white, flowing and stained faintly at the edges, as though dipped in smoke and ash,  barefoot and still as bone. The mist curled around her, yet no breath steamed from her lips.

Ice prickled along Hae-Bok’s skin.

She shuffled backward instinctively until her spine met the wall. Her heartbeat pounded against her ribs, fast, terrified.

The woman in white took a step forward.

The air around her bit like winter when she knelt.

Hae-Bok flinched, her eyes squeezed shut in dread.

This was it. This was the end. If the men didn’t kill her, this ghost would.

But—

Shk.

The cords around her wrists fell slack. Her ankles, freed. The cloth gag slipped from her mouth, its middle cut through by something sharp.

She opens her eyes.

The cold intensifies.

The ghost was close. Too close.

The ghost’s finger—long, unnaturally pointed—pressed gently to Hae-Bok’s lips.

Her hair hangs in tangled mess, but even through the veil of it, there are eyes.

But there was no hostility. Just… cold. And something inhuman in the glint.

You look as lost as she is.

“Don’t scream.”

And then—

Gone.

The mist parted.

The sounds of men's screams echo from far off—twisted, distant, coming through a thick fog.

But Hae-Bok was already moving. Running. Her legs screamed in protest, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t. She doesn’t wait to question it. Doesn’t want to look. She didn’t care.

She follows her memory, her instincts. Her daughter's face in her mind.

She remembered the way.

Home. Home. Home.

The fog thins as she sprints through the empty road. Her fingers find the old wooden door. She fumbles with it. Opens.

“Eomma!”

The little voice broke her.

Yul-ri leapt into her arms, toothy smile bright like a lamp in the dark.

Tears spill as Hae-Bok crumples to the floor, clutching her daughter as if to fuse their bodies back together, sobbing, whispering thank yous over and over into her child’s hair through cracked lips, breathless and trembling.

To the ghost in the mist.

——oOo——

“Aishhh—michin geoya, where the hell did that woman go?!”

Gwak Seol-jun’s voice echoed sharply down the alley walls, rough and ragged with disbelief. His boots stomped through the puddles as he kicked over an empty basket and snarled at the shadows. “She was right here! Tied up like a pig, mouth stuffed. You—you saw her, didn’t you?!”

His underlings—five in total—glanced at each other. One scratched the back of his head with a grimace.

“I swear on my late mother, Boss, she was right where you’re standing…”

Gwak Seol-jun whipped around and smacked the nearest man across the face with the back of his hand. The crack of it echoed like a whip. The man staggered.

“Don’t swear on dead people when your eyes can’t even catch a walking corpse,” he spat. “That widow owed me five nyang of silver, and not a single coin paid back.”

He paced, fuming. “I knew she was useless the moment she came crawling to borrow coin for that sick brat of hers. All tears and shaking hands. Thought I was being generous—offering mercy to some abandoned sow who’d fetch a decent price if we kept her face intact.”

Another man chuckled. “She was pretty. Could’ve warmed us all up before sending her south. Eunhae Market likes them soft and quiet.”

The others laughed.

Seol-jun smirked, but the edge in his voice sharpened. “And now she’s gone. Vanished like a ghost, with no rope, no blood, no sign. What—do you all think she flew away on her dead husband’s back?”

He turned to bark another insult, but something stopped him.

A hum.

Not sound exactly. Not music either. But resonance. A low, slow vibration that sank into the bones and made the teeth ache.

The temperature sank low, far too quickly for a summer night. The air, damp and sticky moments ago, had turned thin and brittle, like frost pressing against the skin. And the fog—thicker than before—rolled in silent waves down the alley, a pale sheen gathered along the edge. The lantern on the post flickered.

One of the men dropped his half-chewed tobacco stick.

The others fell quiet.

The youngest—Mu-sik—gulped, stepping back. “Boss…”

“What now?!”

And there—at the mouth of the alley where the mist bled from the darkness—stood a figure.

A woman.

Draped in white, bare-footed, still as death. Her hair hung wild around her face, strands glinting like wet silk. Her robe was unlike anything Seol-jun had seen—old, not peasant’s wear, nor noble’s silk, but something older, far older. Goryeo? No—Silla, maybe. But it shimmered faintly like starlight trapped in rice cloth.

Her face obscured, only lips and chin, she hadn’t looked up.

Yet she was walking. Slowly. Toward them.

“…What the fuck…” Seol-jun muttered, squinting. “You one of the temple freaks or something?”

No answer.

He stepped forward, scoffing, posturing with a sneer. “What, did the widow hire you to play bulgasal and scare us in the fog? Tsk.”

“…”

“You don’t even talk? Stupid bitch.”

Still nothing, the mist coiled at her feet like a living thing.

“Oi. I’m talking to you, whore.” His voice grew more venomous. “You think you’re scary with your funeral gown and silence? Hah. Scared some street rats already? Try me.”

He waved a hand sharply. “Grab her. Break her legs if you have to, I want answers—now.”

They men moved. All but one.

Mu-sik again—spoke up. “Boss… I-I don’t like this. Something’s not right…”

“Did I ask for your feelings, beoseon?!” Seol-jun snapped, turning to smack him again.

Thump.

He paused.

Mu-sik’s face had gone pale.

Eyes locked behind Seol-jun.

Thump.

Another sound behind him.

Then another.

He turned.

The alley was quiet.

Too quiet.

Four bodies lay crumpled like discarded sacks on the cobbled stone.

Not a drop of blood. Not a wound on their bodies.

Just… gone.

Their chests no longer rose.

Their eyes were open, but stared into nothing.

And the woman in white was still walking forward.

Each barefoot step eerily soundless, her presence devouring the space around her like a tide made of mist and death.

Seol-jun’s bravado withered. His sneer slipped into a grimace, then panic.

“N-no…” he stammered. “What are you…?”

Then, on instinct, he grabbed Mu-sik by the shoulders and shoved him forward like a human shield.

“Go! Stop her! Do something!”

Mu-sik stumbled, protesting—“Boss—!”

But he didn’t make it halfway.

A few seconds passed.

Then his shoulders sagged. His head slumped forward.

No sound.

Just stillness.

Seol-jun, breathing hard, let go.

Mu-sik’s body dropped like a severed puppet.

His eyes stared upward. Vacant. Hollow.

Soulless.

“AAAARGH!”

The scream that tore from Seol-jun’s throat was thin, unmanly—pure terror given voice.

He staggered backward, hands scrabbling behind him until his back slammed into the stone wall of the alley. The impact rattled him, but he didn’t care. He looked left. Right. No escape. The fog was so thick now he could no longer see the sides of the alley—no windows, no corners, only endless, pale mist.

“Help—someone—ANYONE—”

He tried to scream again—

But he never got the chance.

A hand clamped down over his mouth.

Hard.

Ice-cold fingers dug into his face—so cold it burned, the way frozen metal did in deep winter. The claws—because they were claws—sank into the meat of his cheeks, holding him in place as if he weighed nothing.

CRACK.

His head slammed into the stone behind him. White exploded behind his eyes.

Pain flared up the back of his skull like lightning.

The fog swirled.

The cold grew worse.

His eyes rolled upward in panic, following the arm that held him—smooth, inhumanly flawless, glowing with intricate floral markings like plum blossoms inked in moonlight. The patterns curled over skin too perfect to be real, too delicate to belong to something so deadly.

They followed up—past the wrist, the throat.

And then—

Your face.

Half-shadowed by your disheveled hair, lips parting just enough to reveal sharp, inhuman fangs.

Your eyes—

Turning blazing red.

Hungry.

Unforgiving.

The last sound Gwak Seol-jun ever made was a strangled whimper lost behind your hand.

Then the light in his eyes vanished—

Sucked away into the void where your hunger waited.

——oOo——

Blue.

So appetizing—so warm.

They float just out of reach, like fireflies in fog. They pulse, thrum, shimmer against your dimming vision like stars underwater. You want them. You need them.

And they’re yours.

Warm sloshes in your belly.

A little relief. A dull throb of satisfaction.

But not enough.

Still hungry.

You blink.

Everything’s blurry.

Colors don’t make sense—shapes even less. The only things that register are glowing blue—faint, flickering. Floating and slipping away like stars sinking into water.

You wanted them.

You had them.

You remember that.

But they're gone now.

Nothing left.

Nothing glowing.

Only red.

Your eyes shift.

Red.

It doesn’t glow like the blue. But somehow, in the foggy maze of your thoughts, it still looks… appetizing.

Your head tilts. Your legs carry you forward without command.

Something soft brushes against your face.

You open your mouth.

Bite.

Your teeth sink into something plush, still warm. A mouthful, liquid floods over your tongue—coppery, thick, soothing. You suck, the way a starving animal drinks from a spring.

Something heavy slumps under you.

Your hands move again.

You’re pressing—pushing into something soft and wet. Your fingers find something solid and pulsing once. Still warm. You pull.

A sound squelches as it tears free.

You shove it into your mouth and bite. Chew.

The soreness in your throat eases with every swallow. The heat in your stomach cools—just a little.

Not enough.

Again.

Your body repeats the motion. Crawl. Grab. Bite. Suck. Rip. Chew. Swallow.

Another drained. Another devoured.

Sometimes, there were the hard parts, but they crumbled in your mouth soon after.

You lose track of how many.

Only that you kept going.

And going.

You don’t know where one ends and another begins.

You don’t want to know.

You only want the hunger to end.

So, you keep eating. Keep drinking. Keep tearing.

Again. Again. Again.

Until the screaming in your stomach starts to quiet.

You blink.

Your vision clears.

Like waking up from a sleep you didn’t know you were in.

Your body… hurts.

Your head pounds—a sharp ache flaring behind your eyes. You squint against it, groaning softly. Slowly, you become aware of your position.

You’re… sitting.

Sitting… in an alley?

Under a full moon.

The mist drapes the air like silk, the entrance to the street still hazy, still glowing faint.

And on the stone ground…

Ripped fabrics.

Red-stained.

Your eyes scan slowly, heart thudding.

Then they land in your lap.

Glinting. Metal. A ring—

Pale. Bent. Jointed.

—on a severed finger.

“—!!”

Your scream tears free from your raw throat.

The finger tumbles to the ground with a soft thup, rolling away like a loose coin.

You clutch your mouth, trembling, but something wet trails down your chin.

Drip.

You touch it.

Your thumb comes away red.

You stare.

Your body trembles harder.

Your other hand follows—both palms now raised, shaking in front of you.

Slick.

Sticky.

You can smell it.

The metal scent in the air.

Blood.

It’s all blood.

Your breathing stutters. Sharp. Loud. Too loud. Your lungs won’t fill properly. The world tilts. The panic is crashing in—now.

Your stomach twist—you want to threw up but something prevented you to.

“No—no no no—” you rasp, voice thin and hoarse.

You remember.

You remember everything—blue, red, hunger, and now—

You needed to get out.

Get out.

You scrambled, hands against something solid—an old crate, or maybe a wall. You force yourself upright. Your legs wobbled violently.

But you move.

One step.

Then another.

Then another.

Then you’re running.

Or stumbling—anything to get away.

Blindly.

The fog parts ahead of you like a curtain.

You don’t notice.

You don’t notice how it curls back, yielding to your steps.

You don’t see the way the buildings blur around you—roofs giving way to branches, lanterns replaced with moonlit leaves, stone beneath your feet slowly shifting to dirt, to roots, to uneven patches of grass.

Your body keeps going.

You heave.

You pant.

You trip—

And you collapse.

Your knees hit the earth. Then your side.

You lay there, curled, sobbing.

The sound of water rushing nearby—soft, steady—cradles you like a lullaby.

And finally,

Everything fades to black.

End Note:

Unedited Draft of [20/06/2025]

[missaengg]

Massaging Lord Sukuna

Day 23 of Kinktober: Visions of Temptation hosted by @xxsycamore found here Featuring: Jujutsu Kaisen | Sukuna x f!reader Tags: mdni, smut, massage, hand job, Lord Sukuna, servant reader, Sukuna is massive Prompts: Massages | “That's it, you're doing such a good job.” ao3 link here.

“Enter.”

The deep, foreboding voice commands you through the sliding doors. You enter, hastening to your Lord’s feet and falling to the ground in a deep bow.

“You called for me, my Lord?”

“Uraume tells me you’re well-versed in the art of massage.” “Y–yes, my Lord.” 

You keep your eyes trained on the polished wooden floor. You’ve heard the stories whispered among the other servants, how Lord Sukuna can change his mood on a whim, how if you happen to be present when his mood shifts… You shiver. You’ve seen the empty beds of those who entered his chambers and never returned.

“Stand before me.”

You scramble to your feet keeping your head bowed. You don’t dare look him in the eyes.

“Look at me.”

Trembling, you raise your chin, tentatively gazing into his cold, demon eyes. They appraise you slowly, taking his time to drag over every inch of your tiny form. You hold your breath, terrified of making the wrong move and catching his ire. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he looks away, releasing you from his hold.

“Do not disappoint me, wench.”

You inaudibly release the tense breath you’re holding in your lungs. “Yes, my Lord.”

Lord Sukuna disrobes, casually slipping the luxurious silk material fluidly off his shoulders and discarding it carelessly to the side. You gasp and avert your eyes quickly, a blush blooming on your cheeks at your Lord’s unabashed naked form. It’s your first time seeing a man – if Lord Sukuna can be considered a man – bare, and you’re surprised by how much you relish it, at the rush of heat overwhelming you. While it’s no secret Lord Sukuna has an informidable build, seeing him disrobed… you can’t help, but admire just how chiseled he is, how clearly each contour of his body is outlined under his flesh.

“Where…” You clear your throat, reaching for the massage oil. “Where would you like for me to focus, my Lord?”

“My shoulders and my back. Do not skimp on the pressure.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

You get to work briskly, slathering a generous amount of oil on your hands, rubbing them together to warm up the oil so your hands aren’t too cold. You don’t know if he’ll mind, but you prefer not to find out at the cost of your life.

Desperately attempting to quell your shaking, you place your hands on his shoulders, feeling his taut muscles ripple under your palms. You can tell that he’s tight, and you knead along the fibers, pressing as hard as you can with your thumbs. You run your thumb along a particularly dense knot, and Lord Sukuna grunts. Lightening your touch, you wonder if perhaps you’ve pressed too hard, and you wait with bated breath, waiting to see if he’ll turn on you in rage.

“Harder, brat. Do not make me say it again.”

You bite your lip to keep from squeaking in fear. “Y–yes, my Lord.”

You dig your thumb in the knot again, harder this time, rocking it back and forth to loosen what you can. Lord Sukuna grumbles in displeasure, your thumb too weak against the thick fibers of his dense muscle. Coating your elbow in oil, you press your bony joint into the stubborn point. You relax when Lord Sukuna sighs, now using your forearm and elbow to soothe the strain in his back.

“Uraume was right. You are satisfactory.”

A rare utterance of praise.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

The tense clench of your body begins to subside as you focus on the task at hand, finding a rhythm to the way your arms slide along his broad torso. You frown when your thumbs travel down towards his waist. His lower back is an impenetrable column, even tighter than the knots in his shoulders. Re-coating your hands with more oil, you rake your knuckles against the firm ropes of muscle, following the path to his glutes. 

You almost topple over once you realize where your hands are placed.

“F–forgive me, my Lord. I did not mean to touch you indecently.”

Lord Sukuna simply chuckles. “You wish to seduce your Lord?”

“No, my Lord!” You throw yourself into a deep bow even though you know Lord Sukuna can’t see you. “For–forgive me, my Lord!”

Lord Sukuna sighs. “You may continue.”

Shaking, you place your palms back down on his glutes, but the heels of your palms are too feeble against his powerful muscle. You wince. You have no choice, you’ll have to use your knees. Hiking the hem of your yukata up to your hips, you coat your knees in massage oil.

“Please excuse me, my Lord.”

“Hm?” Lord Sukuna’s bored hum hangs in the stifling tension, but he doesn’t move, uninterested in your next move.

You carefully climb on top of your Lord, your knees moving in opposing circles on his cheeks, leaning with your hands on his shoulder blades. You’re practically laying on top of him attacking both his glutes and his upper back simultaneously, painfully aware of your close proximity. You can feel his body heat radiating off of him in heavy crashing waves. For such a cold, imposing demon Lord, his body heat is impossibly, scorchingly hot, and you’re burning in its presence.

Lord Sukuna tenses, and you freeze. Are you not using enough strength? Remembering his earlier threat, you prepare to sink more of your meager weight into his flesh when he suddenly rises, and you tumble unceremoniously off his back to the hard floor below. 

Your breath catches in your throat, fear dancing in your now teary eyes. Is this where your life will end?

Lord Sukuna simply flips over in one swift movement, his back now on his futon. You catch a glimpse of his impressive twitching cock, and you almost choke at the sheer, monstrous size of his appendage. It’s standing at attention, fully engorged, a bead of something glistening on his tip. It’s your first time seeing a cock in real life, but they can’t possibly be this big… Can they?

“I’ve changed my mind…”

You forcefully tear your wide eyes away from his lap.

“I want you to work on my front.”

You’re still too dazed to fully comprehend Lord Sukuna’s request or wonder why he suddenly changed his mind when you’ve hardly worked on his back, which is still a mess of crunchy, tangled fibers. All you can do is stutter, “Yes, my Lord,” before moving to kneel by his head.

You jump when Lord Sukuna grabs you by the wrist, snapping you out of your dazed trance.

“By my side.”

You blink. You don’t understand why he wants to keep you by his side to massage his chest. The best placement for the neck and chest is with his head cradled between your knees, but you comply. You aren’t reckless enough to argue with him. What Lord Sukuna wants, Lord Sukuna gets.

“Yes, my Lord.”

You kneel by his chest. Despite the awkward angle, you do your best to knead his pecs. 

“Lower.”

You move your hands down until they’re directly cupping his chest.

“Lower.”

Abs aren’t quite an area that’s normally massaged, but you accede. While humans don’t generally prefer having their stomachs pressed, perhaps demons are different in that regard.

“Lower.”

This time you pause. Lower would mean… you blush furiously at what his command is implying.

“My Lord?”

“You heard me, brat. Lower.”

You hesitantly slide your hands lower following the trail of hair leading down to his… your blush deepens. There’s only one thing in that region that’ll require a massage, and it’s currently twitching quite violently in your view.

“Do I need to spell out what I want?”

The irritation threading through his words is clear. 

“N–no, my Lord.”

You know what he’s asking you to do. Taking in a deep breath, you grasp his thick shaft, your tiny hand barely able to close around its full girth. It’s throbbing, the protruding veins pulsing in a steady yet demanding rhythmic beat. You exhale. The feeling of a man’s dick is foreign to you, and you’ve heard other ladies giggling over their midnight trysts with the other men, but this is your first time even holding one in your palm, much less one this massive. 

Struggling to remember what exactly was shared in the cover of night, you timidly move your oil-slicken hand up and down his shaft. Are you supposed to squeeze? How fast are you supposed to go? Do you include the tip?

You squeeze your eyes shut, tears prickling your eyelids. You so desperately want to please your Lord, but you have no idea what you’re doing, and you’re too scared to ask. Too scared of the consequences that may follow.

“You���ve never done this before, have you?”

“No, my Lord.”

“Hm. Interesting.”

Lord Sukuna is staring at you, contemplating something in his head. There’s a look in his eyes you can’t quite read. You don’t know whether you should be struck with fear or something else entirely or a combination of both. Your hand stills. The moment is tense with unspoken words.

“Apply more pressure and increase your pace gradually.”

Relief floods your anxious, fearful heart. For whatever reason, he is being patient with you, and you’re grateful for his mercy. You strengthen your grip around him, and pump, twirling around his shaft to cover every exposed inch.

“That's it, you're doing such a good job,” Lord Sukuna purrs, his eyes still trained on you, still gleaming with the something you can’t identify.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

“Do not forget to include the head of my cock.”

Your hand aches. After the strenuous exertion of massaging Lord Sukuna’s dense body and the width of his member, your fingers are cramping, at their limit, but you refuse to give in to the strain. Lord Sukuna has spared you several times already, and you’re determined to keep him pleased.

Lord Sukuna growls quietly under his breath, and you take a peek, taken aback at the rosy flush that has appeared on his cheeks and at the way his eyes are rolling under his eyelids and his mouth hangs open. His breaths are rapidly shallow.

He’s enjoying this.

Emboldened by your Lord’s response, you pump furiously. This time remembering to include the bulbous head. Your hand glides easily, the massage oil acting as a slick lubricant allowing you to increase your pace smoothly.

Your aim is to please your Lord, but you feel unsettled by the way your thighs are rubbing together, the way his growl has awoken a fluttering in your belly, the way you ache and throb between your legs.

Sukuna’s growls grow louder, interspersed with guttural grunts, all laced with a feral edge. Every so often his hips jerk against your fist until his cock pulls taut, and with a fearsome groan he erupts, shooting wave after wave of his white cum, his explosion so powerful and copious, his cum is spilling over your fist and spurting onto your clothes.

The ladies spoke of what happens when a man is pleasured, but this… This is something else entirely. Lord Sukuna’s release is a relentless torrent of white far beyond anything you’d previously heard. 

Lord Sukuna finally stills, his breathing labored. Despite spilling an impressive amount, his cock is still undeniably firm. He cracks his eyes open, and he languidly smirks, taking in the way you’re practically bathed in his cum.

“You have pleased me, little one.”

“Thank you, my Lord.” You bow, ignoring just how drenched you are from his release. “If you are satisfied, I shall take my leave.”

You’re so shaken from how much pleasure you also felt from pleasing your Lord, you forget you must first be dismissed before leaving his presence.

Lord Sukuna narrows his eyes, and he grabs you by the arm, pulling you closer towards him. “I’m not done with you, brat,” he hisses.

You flinch, recognizing your impudence. “I’m sorry, my Lord,” you whisper, flushing from how close his face is to yours.

Lord Sukuna trails his finger down your cheek, a wicked grin gracing his lips. You look into his eyes, finally understanding the gleam you couldn’t identify earlier.

Ravenous hunger.

He brings his lips so close to your ear, they brush your helix causing you to shiver, and says…

“I won’t be done with you until morning.”

[hopelesromanticy]

This moment is repeating in my mind 24/7 so I had to write smth

"Back to Friends" — Shane Boose x Reader

genre: angst, emotional comfort, fluffy ending, established relationship (breakup → reconciliation)

length: long one-shot, immersive

---

You had said the words so calmly.

“We should stay friends.”

He’d nodded. Just as calmly. And that was the beginning of the quietest heartbreak either of you had ever known.

It wasn’t explosive, it wasn’t messy. That was what made it worse. It was a quiet kind of devastation — the kind that settles in the bones. You’d walked away with a half-smile and blurry eyes, telling yourself this was the right thing. That maybe it just wasn’t the right time.

You saw each other sometimes — a wave here, a soft smile at a shared party, awkward small talk at events you couldn’t avoid. Neither of you said it, but everyone could see it: you weren’t just exes. You were unresolved.

And then… came Back to Friends.

You hadn’t expected it. You weren’t ready. When he dropped the teaser — just a clip of a lyric and that voice, broken and aching — your stomach sank.

“How can we go back to being friends, when we just shared a bed?”

It wasn’t subtle.

He was still thinking about it.

About you.

You listened to the song in your bedroom with the lights off, face buried in a pillow as he sang about pretending. About how you looked at him like he was a stranger now. But most painfully, about how he couldn’t stop seeing you everywhere.

You wanted to call. You didn’t. He didn’t either.

And then one night, the ticket arrived in your inbox. No message. Just a ticket.

Shane Boose: Live. One Night Only.

You stared at the screen for a long time before whispering, “Okay.”

---

The venue pulsed with anticipation, the crowd buzzing and wild — but your heart was a still ocean in your chest. The lights dimmed, and then he stepped out, guitar slung over his shoulder, that soft smile on his lips that never quite reached his eyes anymore.

You were near the front, hidden among the crowd, hands cold.

He played his usuals. His voice was perfect. The crowd screamed.

And then, as the band cleared out and he sat on a stool center stage, everything changed.

“Wrote this one for someone I used to know,” he said into the mic, voice low. The crowd quieted instantly.

Back to Friends started.

The first verse was soft. Honest. Painful. He didn’t scan the crowd. He didn’t move. He just sang.

But then—

Then he got to that line.

> “I still think about what I’d say to you if we were standing face to face…”

And his eyes locked with yours.

The world stopped.

You didn’t blink. Neither did he.

He exhaled into the mic.

> “But I still don’t know…”

His voice cracked. Raw. Real.

> “How can we go back to being friends, when we just shared a bed…”

His gaze never left yours.

> “Girl, how can you look at me and pretend I’m someone you never met?”

The room blurred around you.

You didn’t remember the rest of the song. You only remembered the silence in your chest, the scream in your heart, the way he looked at you like he’d been dying for months.

When the show ended, you turned to leave, eyes glossy, throat tight.

“Hey—HEY! WAIT!”

You froze.

Crowds parted behind you as hurried footsteps approached. “Don’t go. Don’t you dare walk away.”

You turned around.

Shane was breathless, hair damp from the stage, hands reaching for yours like muscle memory.

“Stop. Please. Just stop.”

You blinked, unable to speak.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything. I told myself I wouldn’t. But then you were there. In the crowd. And I—God, I couldn’t breathe.”

Your voice was barely a whisper. “You meant the song.”

He nodded, stepping closer. “Every word. Every f***ing word. I can’t pretend anymore. I tried. I smiled at parties. I said I was okay. But I’m not. I’m not okay. Because I miss you every second. I still look for you in rooms. I think about your voice when I write.”

Your heart cracked open, and before you could stop it, the tears were slipping down your cheeks.

“I told myself I’d respect your space,” he whispered. “But I can’t do it anymore, baby. I love you. I’ve always loved you. And I can’t stand the idea of you calling someone else at 2AM. I don’t want another man to get to know the way you laugh. I don’t want another man to ever—” he choked off, shaking his head. “I just want you.”

You moved first.

Into his arms.

He held you like he’d never let go again. And maybe he wouldn’t.

Your voice was soft against his chest. “I never stopped loving you.”

He pulled back, just enough to look you in the eyes.

“No more pretending?” he asked, a faint smile ghosting his lips.

You shook your head, fingers curling into his shirt. “No more pretending.”

He kissed you, slow and deep and full of every word neither of you could say over the last few months.

And the world, for once, felt right again.

---

Later that night, in a quiet hotel room, you lay beside him, fingers laced, the soft sound of the city outside.

“You know,” he mumbled against your hair, “I’m never writing a heartbreak song again.”

You smiled. “You better not.”

He chuckled, pulling you tighter. “Got too much to be happy about now.”

“You’re dramatic,” you teased.

He kissed your temple. “Yeah. But I’m yours.”

And that was all either of you needed to hear.

---

[0omillo0]

angst to comfort

The fluorescent lights of the practice room buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the polished floor. Han Jisung sat hunched over his laptop, headphones clamped tightly over his ears, his fingers furiously tapping against the keyboard as he tried to squeeze out the perfect verse. But the words weren’t coming.

They hadn’t been coming for hours.

Frustration built in his chest like a balloon about to burst. His mind replayed the same beat on a torturous loop, but no matter how many times he rewrote the lyrics, they sounded wrong. Offbeat. Flat. The pressure of deadlines, expectations from fans, and his own perfectionism felt like a vice around his heart.

The door creaked open softly behind him, but he barely registered it through the fog of his irritation.

You stepped into the room quietly, hoping not to disturb him. You’d noticed the signs—missed calls, one-word texts, and the dark circles deepening under his eyes. So you decided to surprise him with his favorite meal from the little street vendor he loved near your apartment. Maybe it wasn’t much, but you thought a little comfort could go a long way.

“Jisung?” you called out softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

That one word snapped the last thread of his patience.

“Wtf are you doing here?” he snapped, whipping around in his chair. His voice echoed sharply off the walls, harsher than he intended, but he was too wound up to pull it back.

You blinked, startled by his sudden outburst. “I—I brought you something to eat. I thought you might be hungry,” you said quietly, lifting the bag as if the sight of his favorite food would soften him.

But it didn’t.

“I don’t need food right now! And I don’t need you up my ass everytime!” he shouted, standing up abruptly. His chair scraped loudly against the floor. “I need to focus! Why can’t you just leave me alone for once?”

Your heart dropped. The warmth and excitement you’d felt on the way here evaporated, replaced by a cold ache in your chest. You stood frozen for a moment, then nodded silently, setting the bag down on the nearest table.

“Okay,” you whispered, your voice barely holding steady. Without another word, you turned and walked out, your eyes stinging as you fought back tears. You didn’t want him to see you cry. Not after that.

The door clicked shut behind you, leaving Jisung alone in the suffocating silence.

For a moment, he felt justified. He needed to concentrate, and you had interrupted him. But as the echo of his own words settled in the room, guilt began to gnaw at his chest. His eyes drifted to the bag of food sitting untouched on the table. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks—you had just been trying to help. To care for him.

A quiet cough from the doorway snapped him out of his thoughts. He turned to see Chan standing there, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

“What the hell was that, Jisung?” Chan’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it that made Jisung’s stomach twist.

“I just—she interrupted—I was trying to focus,” Jisung muttered defensively, but even to his own ears, the excuse sounded weak.

Chan raised an eyebrow. “She brought you food, man. Food. Because she cares about you. And you blew up on her like she was the problem?” He shook his head, disappointment clear in his eyes. “You need to fix this. Now.”

Jisung’s chest tightened painfully. The weight of what he’d done finally settled fully on his shoulders, and before he knew it, his knees buckled beneath him. He sank to the floor, burying his face in his hands as hot tears spilled over his cheeks.

“I messed up,” he choked out, his voice breaking. “I messed up so bad.”

Chan crouched down beside him, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. “Then go fix it before it’s too late.”

-

The sky had darkened by the time Jisung reached your apartment. The cool night air bit at his skin, but he barely noticed. His mind was a whirlwind of regret and anxiety. What if you didn’t forgive him? What if this was the final straw?

His heart pounded painfully in his chest as he raised his hand to knock. For a moment, he hesitated, his knuckles hovering just inches from the door. But then he took a deep breath and knocked softly, the sound echoing in the quiet hallway.

It took a few moments, but eventually, the door creaked open.

You stood there, wrapped in one of his old hoodies, your eyes red and puffy from crying. The sight of you like that—hurt because of him—shattered whatever was left of Jisung’s fragile composure. His breath hitched, and tears welled up in his eyes again.

“Y/N…” he whispered, his voice hoarse and trembling. “I’m so sorry.”

You stared at him, unsure of what to say. Part of you wanted to slam the door in his face, to make him feel even a fraction of the pain he’d caused you. But seeing him standing there, eyes swollen and full of regret, your heart softened against your better judgment.

Before you could say anything, he stepped forward, his voice breaking as he continued.

“I didn’t mean it. Any of it. I was just… I was so stressed, and I took it out on you, and that wasn’t fair. You were just trying to help, and I—I was an idiot. I don’t deserve you, but I’m begging you, please don’t hate me.”

His words tumbled out in a desperate rush, and when he finally stopped, the hallway fell into silence. You looked at him for a long moment, searching his face for sincerity. And it was there, plain as day—raw, aching regret.

Without a word, you stepped aside, opening the door wider. He let out a shaky breath of relief and stepped inside, kicking off his shoes as you closed the door behind him.

The moment the door clicked shut, he turned and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a desperate, trembling hug. His face buried in your shoulder, and you felt his tears soaking into the fabric of his hoodie.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered again, over and over, his voice muffled against your skin.

You stood still for a moment, letting his words sink in, before slowly wrapping your arms around him. The warmth of his body, the way he clung to you like you were his anchor—it melted the last remnants of your anger.

“I know,” you whispered softly, running your fingers through his hair. “But you can’t shut me out like that, Jisung. I’m here for you. Let me be here for you.”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own filled with tears. “I will. I promise. I just… I can’t lose you.”

“You’re not going to lose me,” you whispered, brushing your thumb gently across his cheek. “But we need to talk when things get hard, okay?”

He nodded, sniffling as he leaned his forehead against yours. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice raw but full of sincerity.

“I love you too,” you replied, your heart swelling with warmth.

You led him to the couch, pulling him down beside you. He curled into your side like a lost puppy, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, his face still buried in your shoulder. You ran your fingers through his hair, feeling the tension slowly melt away from his body as his breathing evened out.

After a while, he shifted slightly, resting his head in your lap. His eyes were still red and puffy, but there was a softness in them now, a quiet vulnerability that made your heart ache. You traced gentle patterns along his temple, watching as his eyelids fluttered closed.

“You’re my safe place, you know that?” he murmured sleepily, his voice barely audible.

“And you’re mine,” you whispered back, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his forehead.

As the night stretched on, you stayed there, wrapped up in each other’s warmth, the weight of the earlier argument fading into the background. His arms tightened around you in his sleep, and you smiled softly, knowing that no matter how hard things got, you’d always find your way back to each other.

Because love wasn’t perfect—it was messy and complicated and sometimes full of mistakes. But in the end, it was also forgiveness, understanding, and holding on even when things felt like they were falling apart.

And as you drifted off to sleep with Jisung’s steady breathing in your ear, you knew that you’d both be okay. Together.

@intartaruginha @hannamoon143 @omgsecretsecret @inlovewithstraykids @whoa-jo @madirye062 @vixensss @sseawavee @emilyywhyy @halfwinterhalfuniverse @velvetmoonlght @flourishmoon @hyunjiiza