#and this was heavy to me when i first saw it

[thescarletfang]

SPINNING OUT [part one]

Dr. Jack Abbot x ex!freader

Summary: You left Jack three months ago, convinced he'd given up on your marriage. When you're hit by a drunk driver, you're taken to PTMC, and what was supposed to be an ending gives way to a new beginning.

Word count: ~4.7k

Note: This was supposed to be a one-shot but it just works better in 3 parts! This is part one - the other two parts are outlined! First time really writing a multi-chapter fic, eeeep.

ALL OF MY WORK IS 18+, MDNI

Warnings: Angst, fluff, car accident, therapist reader, widower Jack, dead wife mentioned!, no smut in this part but eventual smut. Eventual happy ending. Slight age gap (reader is 38, Jack is 49). If I missed anything, let me know!

NOW

It starts again because of an accident. 

You’re driving home from work and you’re the kind of bone-deep tired that settles inside of you like lead. Your chest feels heavy and your shoulders ache. You grip the steering wheel, blinking bleary eyes to try and stay focused on the road. 

You dream of home. Stepping out of your heels. A glass of pinot noir in your favorite long-stemmed glass. You dream of putting the day behind you; of closing the tab on all the clients you saw today. All the words you offered them, and the space you held between your body and theirs; your mind is tired. It is fulfilled, yes - as it always is. You know being a therapist is your calling, and you’ve never been more grateful for work than you are at this particular time in your life. 

But you’re…exhausted. 

You can’t remember the last time you slept through the night. Likely in the before. Before your home was cold and lonely. Before everything felt so fucking hard. Before you slept alone in your bed and only brewed one cup of coffee and only made enough food for you.

You just want to rest. 

More than that? You’d like to hide. Your brain is all static and fuzz. It’s flipping its channels at a rapid pace and you’ve lost the remote. You think about the Xanax you have at home and think maybe tonight is the night you take one. 

You just crave peace. 

Everything changes in the span of a breath.

There is the screeching of metal-on-metal, your driver’s side door crunching in on itself. Your neck feels like it snaps. Your airbag deploys and then all you can feel is pain.

It hurts. Everything hurts. 

You feel like you can no longer breathe. You try breathing, you try opening your eyes but everything feels blurred, like you’ve taken your fingers and smeared the paint that makes up your vision. 

You cannot see. You cannot feel anything other than a burning pain that goes from the top of your head to the bottom of your toes. 

You think you might be dead. You think of him, for just a moment. 

You do not know how much time passes.

In the ambulance, through the fog and haze of it all, as you lie on the gurney with your head, neck and limbs secure, you beg them to take you to a different hospital, anywhere but the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center because if you go there you’ll see him and you just fucking can’t. 

They ignore your pleas and they tell you to hang on. They tell you a drunk driver slammed into you and t-boned your car. You can barely process anything they are telling you and you feel yourself drift in and out of consciousness. 

A nap. A nap would be so good right now.

They ask you to keep your eyes open but you screw them up tight. It’s too bright in the ambulance and you don’t recognize these voices. 

You can’t see him. Not like this. Not after everything. 

You’re fading, feeling yourself pulled under the current of a dark blankness and then the gurney is being taken out of the back of the ambulance. You keep thinking not like this, not like this, like it’s a broken record in your head and you’re desperate to get to the next track.

You understand that your gurney is moving quickly and you know, despite really being aware, that they’ve taken you to PTMC. The doors slide open and there’s so much noise but your ears are buzzing and ringing. 

Everything feels far away. 

You catch snippets of dialogue in the trauma bay. “Unidentified 38-year-old female. MVA. Somewhat responsive. Severe blood loss. Possible lung puncture, difficulty breathing.” 

Then Robby’s face is above you and his brown eyes grow wide, rounding at the ages as he sees it’s you. 

“Fuck,” he bites out, harshly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—” and then he barks an order at someone else and you manage to grab his sleeve. He turns back to you. 

“Hang on, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and raspy as he wheels you quickly into the trauma bay. “Just fucking hang on, okay?”

“Don’t tell him,” you rasp. “Robby, please, don’t—” you gasp, trying to catch your breath but it feels like you’re drowning. Blood splatters out of your lips. “Don’t tell Jack—”

A heartbroken look flickers across Robby’s face but then you gasp and you can’t finish your sentence because everything goes black. 

* * * 

Jack rolls his shoulders, shutting his locker and heading into the ED. Fuck, what he’d give for a quiet night and the ability to get through this shift without feeling like he’s white-knuckling life. It’s bad enough he had a fucking panic attack on the way in here. He’s been having those more and more often, despite being on his daily dose of an SSRI. His therapist tells him he needs to take a break, to finally cash in on all his accrued time off but he just grinds his jaw and says no. 

Work is good. When he works, he can focus on anything but the absolute trainwreck that is his life. 

When he works, he can stop thinking about you. 

It’s a lie, of course, but Jack’s always been good at lying to himself. 

He sees you in everything he does. Misses you with an ache that feels like a stone on his chest. On the really rough nights, where he feels like he’s barely treading water, he gets closer to the edge of the roof than he ever has. 

Jack shakes his head, wrapping his stethoscope around his neck, holding on to the ends of it like it’s a tether that can keep him sane.

One moment at a time, his therapist told him. One shift at a time. One second, every single day, at a time. 

Jack takes a deep, steadying breath. Losing himself in his work is enough, if only for tonight. 

Jack knows something is wrong the minute he steps into the ED.

Robby is rushing in through the trauma bay, rolling a gurney and barking orders at Shen and Ellis. He looks up and locks eyes with Jack. 

“Get him out of here,” Robby yells to Dana, who has just thrown on her jean jacket to head home. Dana’s eyes go wide and as the gurney rolls past her, she looks at whoever is on it and pales. She beelines for Jack. 

Jack’s heart thuds painfully against his sternum. He picks up his pace, gently brushing past Dana and making his way to Robby.

“It’s my shift, dunno why I’d need to get out of here,” he says calmly to Robby, trying to remain in control but he already knows who’s on that gurney. He already knows because the universe fucking hates him. 

It isn’t enough that you left him three months ago and the last three months have been a living hell every single day. It isn’t enough that it was his fault you left, that he’d pushed you to the end of your rope by pulling away, by shutting down, by letting those voices in the dark consume him. It isn’t enough that he continually put his work before you because work is the only thing to make him feel worthy of anything, and he regrets it, will regret letting you slip through his fingers every single day for the rest of his fucking life. 

It isn’t enough that you’re the love of his life and he’s such a stupid fucking old man, forever convinced he never deserved you in the first place. Self-sabotage has been his best friend a long time, lurking over his shoulder and shadowing every move he’s ever made.

It isn’t enough he’s been through this once before. He’s not even officially fucking fifty-years-old and he’s already lost a wife and he’s about to lose another. Jack Abbot doesn’t get second chances.

Jack Abbot reaps the fucking karma that he sows. 

“Dana, get him out of here!” Robby yells again, rolling you into T-1. 

“C’mon, honey,” Dana tries. “You don’t wanna see this.”

But it’s too late. Jack’s quick on his feet, even with the prosthetic, and he sees you lying there, unconscious, blood-matted hair and it’s dripping from your mouth and he can’t believe that this is happening, that this is real, that it is happening to him again.

Robby steps to him at the door of the room. “You can’t be in here.”

There’s a sharp ringing in Jacks’ ears, high-pitched and drowning everything out. His voice is gravely and broken. A desperate plea rather with no real bite. “Like fuck I can’t, man. Get out of the way—”

“Jack, I mean it, brother.” Robby blocks him again, his nostrils flaring. “Get out.”

“That’s my fucking wife!” The words silence the ED, cutting through the chaos sharply. Ellis and Shen look up, shock over their faces. They’ve never heard their attending lose his cool like this. Jack is the calm one. While Robby is the attending who is more inclined to raise his voice, Jack never falters. Residents and students and the nursing staff follow him blindly because they know he never loses his cool.

Well, he’s losing it now.

Dana puts a hand on her chest like it hurts. 

Robby’s cold facade slips for a second and for a moment he’s just Jack’s friend, his brother, and the pain is written in his face, a pain mirroring Jack’s own. 

Jack’s breathing heavily, his voice cracking on the last word because it’s true, you’re still his wife.

He can’t lose you. Not when everything is so wrong. 

* * * 

BEFORE

It’s Robby who sets the two of you up in the first place.

Robby went to high school with your older brother. While back then, you were the baby sister always trying to play with the big boys (literally, you were two and Robby and your brother were 17), the two of you reconnected when you became a licensed therapist and moved into the city. Despite being fifteen years your senior, Robby became a good friend. 

The two of you tried dating – briefly – but after a few dates, you realized you were much better off as friends. It always felt forced, too platonic, and you were honestly relieved when you both confessed that the romance wasn’t there. 

“I just can’t kiss someone who I knew when they were a toddler,” Robby told you bashfully, face beet red, after you’d both pulled away from a rather lackluster kiss. You hadn’t even been offended; you’d just laughed and called him an old pervert.

He’s been a best friend ever since.

You’re grabbing a coffee with Robby before his shift and your first client of the day when you finish complaining about your latest string of bad dates. 

“He venmo requested me when I got home.”

Robby chokes on his sip of coffee. “No.” 

You laugh, nodding and playing with the plastic lid of your cup. “Yes! You know what? It’s on me for agreeing to go out with a guy who still lives in his mom’s basement. I am grown enough to admit that that’s on me.” 

“Jesus,” Robby mutters. “What a dick.” 

“I think I’m done. I’m too old.” You know you’re being dramatic, but it’s so easy to bitch to Robby. “You’d think being a therapist I’d be able to spot emotionally intelligent men, but I can’t. Can’t even find someone who’s in therapy himself.” 

Robby snorts into his coffee and rubs his jaw. “Yeah, you’re a fuckin’ old maid.” He pauses, lifts an eyebrow. “I know a guy in therapy.”

You purse your lips, studying Robby as you sit at the little cafe table in the coffee shop. “Oh yeah? He an ER doctor too?”

Robby smirks. “Yeah, he is.”

You roll your eyes. “You know I can’t do that again.”

Robby laughs, holds a hand to his heart like you’ve wounded him. “Ouch. Was it that bad?” 

You grin, bumping his coffee cup with your own. “Yes, it was that bad. Even if we–yanno, had actually been into each other in a real way, your schedule is atrocious. ER doctors are walking zombies. I can’t date another one!”

Robby studies you in that quiet way of his that makes you feel like he’s seeing through whatever bullshit you’re spouting. 

“His name’s Jack Abbot. He’s an attending on the night shift. He’s in his 40s, was a medic in the army.” Robby pauses. “He’s a good man.”

You take a moment and absorb the information. “Is he even looking to date?”

Robby grins, draining the last of his coffee. “When he meets you, yeah, I think he will be.”

* * * 

Falling in love with Jack Abbot starts out slow and then happens all at once. 

You meet for the first time at a little bar around the corner from your apartment. You’re nervous. If you were being honest, you didn’t think Robby’s colleague would be interested in a blind date. But you’d gotten a text from an unknown number that read, “Hey, this is Jack Abbot, Robby’s better half. Would it be okay if I called you? Not a great texter.” 

He’d called a minute after you said that was fine and the deep gravel of his voice had warmed you down to your toes. Robby had shown you a picture of him, the two of them at some hospital fundraiser gala a year or two back, and yeah, he was fucking handsome. Thick, gray curls. Broad shoulders. Crooked smile. 

Apparently, he hadn’t been opposed to whatever picture Robby had shown him of you, because you found yourself talking on the phone with Dr. Jack Abbot for over two hours that first phone call. The conversation flowed easily, winding between work and family and it began to sketch the shape of you to each other. 

It’d been natural. Scarily so, if you were honest with yourself. 

You’re still nervous to meet him in person. That phone call was a few nights ago, and your hands tremble a little as you open the door to the bar. You run your hands down the fabric of your little dress – a casual, first date number that makes you feel sexy and like yourself all at once – as you walk into the bar. Your eyes scan for a moment. 

Your heart is thumping. 

This feels weighted in a way that other first dates haven’t. This person is in Robby’s orbit, which automatically makes you trust him. 

Your eyes meet across the room and it feels like a little lock sliding into place. You’re taken aback by the feeling.

He’s standing at the corner of the bar, casually leaning against it, hands in his pockets and Jesus Christ, he’s gorgeous. The salt-and-pepper curls look even better than in the picture you saw, and your fingers itch to run through them. He’s in nice jeans, a black sweater, expensive as fuck looking Nikes, and he’s…well, he’s staring at you in a way that nearly makes you stumble mid-step. 

“Hi,” you breathe when you’re in front of him. Jack’s smile is a little crooked and it’s so charming you feel flustered.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice sounds just like it did on the phone: warm and raspy. “It’s really nice to meet you—uh, in person.” Oh my god, he’s so cute. He seems nervous and oddly, it sets you at ease.

You smile at him and fiddle with the strap of your purse. “It’s also nice to meet you in person.” Jesus, you sound like a robot. 

But Jack grins again and it makes him look boyish. 

“I’ll be honest,” Jack tells you, and he steps a little closer. His scent wafts over to you - like clean, fresh soap - and it’s very nice. “I uh…I haven’t been set up in awhile. I’m a little rusty.” 

You laugh. “Rusty’s okay with me.” You pause. “You don’t live in your mom’s basement, do you?”

Jack narrows his eyes. “Tell me you’re joking. The bar’s that low?”

You purse your lips. “In the ground.”

Jack lets out a disbelieving breath and shakes his head. He rubs the back of his neck. “I promise I don’t live in my ma’s basement.” 

You grin and he grins back crookedly and it’s so nice. He asks you what you’re drinking and after you both have your choice in hand - a pinot noir for you, a whisky on the rocks for him - you find a little table. The bar is one of your favorites, a charming little place with low lighting and a relaxed crowd. 

You’re once again surprised by how natural it all feels. You pick up right where you left off on the phone, and you’re grateful that Jack seems to enjoy talking. You’ve been on plenty of dates with men who can’t carry a conversation or seem physically incapable of asking you a single question about yourself, so this? 

This is just…lovely. 

The candlelight dances across Jack’s face, highlighting his cheekbones and the gray stubble. You…simply cannot stop looking at him. And he cannot seem to stop looking at you; you may not know him well yet, but an hour in his presence and you realize this man loves eye contact. He’s unafraid to hold it, and it keeps you grounded and in your body in a way that is calming to your anxiety. 

You find out Jack grew up just outside of Pittsburgh, that he’s a born and raised Steelers fan. You learn more about his time as a combat medic (you’d touched on it on the phone). You learn that he prefers the night shift, that it calms and quiets his mind. You learn that he’s been seeing his current therapist for two years after his previous one retired. You learn that he’s the oldest of four kids and has three younger sisters. A bunch of nieces and nephews that he — adorably — shows you on his phone. 

He learns that you’re prone to anxiety attacks. That you’ve wanted to be a therapist since high school. You tell him about your friendship with Robby and he laughs when you tell him about your ill-fated attempt at dating. He learns that you want to travel more, dream of going back to Sorrento, Italy and sipping limoncello while the briny sea breeze of the marina plays across your face. He learns about your family, and how much you love them. 

A lull in the conversation as you sip your wine and he studies you. You blush, looking into your glass.

“What?” you ask out of the side of your mouth. When you look back up at him, you notice he has a dimple in his cheeks when he grins. 

“I just didn’t think it’d be like this,” is what he says. Your heart thrums once, twice, a thudding in your chest.

“Like what?”

He doesn’t blink when he stares at you. “Easy.”

You smile at him and he lets out a breath like that smile is what he’s been waiting for. 

“I uh, I should tell you,” he says, his voice low and steady. “I’ve been married before. My wife passed ten years ago.” His jaw clenches once, twice. “I never know how to uh, bring it up.” He clears his throat. 

Your heart clenches in your chest. “Thank you for telling me,” you say softly, genuinely. And you mean it. 

He looks at you then like he’s a little surprised. “You didn’t say, ‘sorry for your loss.’”

Your eyes go wide. “Oh. Do you want me to?”

His cheeks dimple when he gives you a small, gentle smile. “Fuck no. I’m just…everyone says ‘sorry for your loss.’” 

“It is an unthinkable thing to lose a partner, a thing that forever changes your entire chemistry as a human being,” you tell him. “And I hate that it happened to you. And I’m very thankful that you told me.” 

Jack taps his thumb against his whisky glass, and seems to study the melting ice within it. “She’s—she was the best person I ever met. She made me better. I think about her all the time.” He adds roughly, “I hope she’s proud’a me.” 

You resist the urge to take this man’s hand in your own. Your fingers itch for it, but you don’t want to assume he’s okay with that, especially during such a vulnerable moment. You sit in his words for a moment, letting them rest between you. 

“I’m so glad you had her. That you still have her, in a lot of ways, I’m sure.”

He nods and doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then he lets out a breath and when he looks up at you, his eyes glisten a bit. 

“This what it’s like dating a therapist? You always say the right thing?”

You bark out a laugh because you can’t help it. “God, if I always said the right thing, I’d be a shitty therapist. I tend to believe you learn by failing and fucking up.” Your cheeks warm as he continues to look at you. “And this isn’t dating. This is our first date.”

He raises a teasing eyebrow. “Oh? First and last?”

You bite your lip and his eyes track the motion. He swallows. “That what you want? First and last?”

“Hell no,” he says immediately, voice so sure that it warms your entire body. The glisten in his eyes has given way to a brightness and you think, I like this.

I like you.

“Good,” you tell him, draining the last of your wine. “Me either.”

* * * 

You get tacos from the taco truck around the corner, and in between bites of carne asada and tinga de pollo, Jack tells you about work at PTMC.

“I like the teaching aspect of it,” he tells you after taking a sip of his water. You sit at a little folding table in the parking lot where the truck is set up. “I didn’t think I’d like that part, but as cheesy as it sounds, I think it’s part of what I’m meant to do.”

You’re smiling as you say, “I see why you and Robby are friends.” 

Jack barks out a short laugh. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

You swallow the last bite of your taco, lick the salsa from your fingertips. Jack’s eyes linger on the movement and you feel a buzz in your blood. 

“You both can’t help but lead. It’s in your DNA.” You pause. “It’s how I know you’re a good doctor and I just met you.”

“Hey now,” Jack says, wiping his hands on a napkin. “You keep talkin’ like that and my ego’s gonna get too big to fit through the trauma bay.”

You grin and he grins back and you feel silly and light and…happy. 

“I wanna see you again,” Jack tells you. It’s so straightforward that it makes butterflies erupt in your stomach. 

“You’re seeing me right now,” you say to deflect from the nerves you’re feeling. 

Jack shrugs. 

“Not enough,” he says and you think you might actually swoon. “I like schedules. You wanna see me again?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then. I’m off in three days and I wanna make you dinner at my place. Would that be okay?”

You try to contain your excitement, to play it cool. You bite the inside of your cheek. 

“I thought you were rusty at the whole dating thing,” you tell him. His eyes flash with something you want to name as mischief. 

Jack rubs his scruffy jaw. He puts his elbows on the table and leans forward. “You make me wanna be good at it.”

You think your smile may be so bright that it outshines the streetlight above. 

“Dinner at your place in three days sounds perfect.” 

* * * 

There’s an energy between you that wasn’t there earlier in the night as Jack walks you home. You can feel it. It’s heavy and pulsing and it makes you feel untethered in a way that is intoxicating. 

Your hands brush as you walk down the quiet, dark street. Shoulders swaying into each other. You can feel the heat of Jack’s body, how close he’s walking. You clock that he’s walking on the outside of the sidewalk, that his eyes scan your surroundings, like he’s making sure he’s aware of everything going on.

The two of you don’t speak much as you walk, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s…anticipatory. It feels like you’re on the precipice of something and whatever happens in the next few minutes will determine something very important. 

You reach your duplex, a sweet little place with night-blooming jasmine bushes that have been there since you moved in several years ago. You stop at the gate and turn to him. He stops walking, hands in his pockets as his eyes hold yours. 

You both don’t say anything for a moment. You just look at each other and it’s comforting to know that you can exist with this man, just as you are. 

“This is me,” you say after a moment and it makes laughter bubble out of both of you. He grins boyishly, the apples of his cheeks pushing upward. A chorus of cute cute cute chants in your brain.

“Yeah, I figured,” he teases. “Unless you’re in the habit of just stopping in front of random people’s houses.”

“You don’t know me,” you tease back. 

Jack steps closer to you and you look up at him. He’s not really tall but he’s taller than you and his entire presence is so broad and commanding that you feel swept into it. 

“Hopin’ to change that, though.” His voice has a husk to it. “If you’ll let me.”

You take in a breath as he studies you like he’s trying to memorize your face. 

“Yeah, Abbot,” you say, your own voice soft. “I’ll let you.”

He huffs out a breath, hazel eyes clear. “Yeah?” 

His right hand comes up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek for a tender moment. You nod as he leans down. 

“Yeah,” you whisper, right before his lips meet yours. 

It’s the best first kiss you’ve ever had. 

Light at first, both of you learning one another’s mouths. Jack’s other hand comes to your face and he’s cradling your head like it’s something precious, like it’s something to be cherished. You step closer to him, your own hands fisting the front of his sweater and pulling him closer. 

When your tongue traces his bottom lip, Jack groans and it lights you up from your scalp to your toes. 

He opens his mouth immediately, his tongue licking into you and you’re on fire. 

You’re in your thirties and you’re making out with this man with a mop of silver curls and it’s so heady that you feel like you’re floating. You feel like you’re a teenager again, sneaking kisses before the porch light comes on and you’re found out. 

You don’t know how much time passes, just that when you both break apart you’re equally short of breath. You’re seconds from inviting him up to your place which is not your typical first date move but that’s simply because nobody’s been worth it before. He grins down at you, lips kiss-bitten, face flushed, and plays with a loose strand of hair framing your face. He rubs it between his fingers, then tucks it behind your ear. 

“Three days. My place. Dinner,” he says, voice husky and wrecked and you smile up at him, the moonlight reflecting in his eyes. 

“Can’t wait.”

Later that night, when you’re in bed about to drift off, you get a text from Robby, asking how the date had gone. You respond with a simple thumbs up, knowing it’ll piss him off. He returns your text with ????????? and you snort. You put him out of your misery with your response: It was wonderful. He is wonderful. Seeing him in a few days. Robby sends back a thumbs up in retaliation, which in return makes you annoyed and then you engage in a battle of emojis (middle finger, gun, skull, etc.) until your phone buzzes with an incoming text.

Jack Abbot: Had an amazing time tonight and can’t wait to see you again. Sweet dreams.

Your heart hammers in your chest and you think maybe—just maybe—this is the start of a real good thing.

There’s no way you can know that in four years you’ll be separated from Jack and fighting for your life in a cold, dark hospital room.

[hatethysinner]

I’ve been reading stories where Remmick meets the reader whose in a bad marriage with a cheating spouse. They’re good but I now want a different kind of AU, I want to see Remmick meets pregnant reader which the baby’s father dipped the moment he heard the news so basically Remmick steps in to take care of the reader and the baby. If it’s no trouble can you write it please? I don’t mind if you do or don’t add smut in the story

ɴᴏ ᴏʀᴅɪɴᴀʀʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ

ᴡᴄ: 5.1k

ᴀ/ɴ: title taken directly from this incredible song. I LOVE THIS IDEA ANON UR SO SMART! i was kind of hesitant to write this for some reason but the more i thought about it the more i was like oh my god this is gonna be so good! one thing led to another and well... is 5k words still a drabble? i'm not in love with my writing in this but i truly hope y'all enjoy it. as always, white girls you can have your fun with this too! i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: familial abandonment, grief, light religious mentions, birth though i don't think it's that graphic but mileage may vary, excessive divider usage, amateur knowledge of maternity(!!!), domestic lonely!remmick fluff

@prettyblntzz

You hadn’t planned to be alone.

Not like this.

Not with your belly round and aching, your fingers too swollen for the ring he slipped on with shaking hands that spring. Not in this creaking old house with lace curtains and porch swings and enough room for a family that hadn’t come.

The Mississippi heat hadn’t let up in weeks. It clung to your neck like grief, heavy and humid, the cicadas too loud to ignore and the crickets too quiet to trust. You moved slower now, out of necessity, not grace. The floorboards groaned beneath your bare feet as you made your way from the bed to the kitchen as if the house missed a second set of steps too.

You still caught yourself reaching for him at night.

Still caught yourself dreaming of the way he used to hold your waist like it anchored him. The way he kissed the back of your neck in the kitchen when you were stirring something sweet. How he'd whisper that you were going to be the best mother Mississippi ever saw.

He loved you.

He loved you.

Didn’t he?

But the day you sat him down, palms damp, breath caught somewhere between hope and dread, and told him you’re gonna be a father, everything shifted. Not all at once. Not with shouting or slamming doors.

Just silence.

First, he started staying late at the shop.

Then the notes stopped showing up with the groceries.

Then you woke up and he was gone.

No suitcase. No goodbye.

Just the weight of knowing his absence wasn’t an accident.

You’d told yourself it was a mistake. That maybe he was hurt. Maybe something happened. But the bank hadn’t seen him. The rail station hadn’t, either. He left. Left you.

Left this.

The whispers in town followed you like gnats. Women with their husbands at church, nodding politely, eyes drifting down to your stomach before flicking back up with something like pity, or judgment, you couldn’t quite bear to name. No one said it outright, but you heard it anyway.

Poor girl.

What a shame.

You still sat in the same pew. Still sang the hymns, even when your throat ached. Still held your chin high. But it was getting harder. Harder to feel beautiful. Harder to feel strong.

Harder to believe there’d be anything left of you once this child came into the world.

You’d made peace with that, sort of. With being a mother, even if you couldn’t be a wife.

Until the night he showed up.

It was late. So late, the world felt folded in on itself. The moderate rain only exemplified the quiet. The porch light had burned out weeks ago, and the only glow came from the oil lamp you kept near the window. The town had gone quiet save for the occasional bullfrog croaking out near the creek, and you’d just settled into your rocking chair, fingers pressing gentle circles into the small of your back, trying to coax the ache away.

Then the knock.

Soft. Barely a sound at all.

You startled.

Knocks didn’t come this time of night. Not unless someone was dead or dying. You wrapped your robe tighter and eased yourself upright, hand on the edge of your belly, heart already ticking faster.

You stood slowly, one hand on your lower back, the other braced against the wall as you moved toward the door. You didn’t bother to make yourself look presentable. Just adjusted your chest, padded barefoot to the front of the house, and peered through the fogged glass of the window beside the frame.

There was a man on your steps.

Not your husband.

A stranger.

Tall. Lean. Barely cloaked in a threadbare coat. He stood crooked against the porch railing, eyes tilted toward the sky like the rain was speaking to him. His hair was damp and clung to his forehead. His hands were empty.

You should’ve locked the door.

Should’ve turned off the light and walked back to bed.

But something in the way he looked up when you touched the knob, like he’d sensed it, like he’d been waiting, froze you in place.

You opened the door.

He didn’t move.

“Sorry to trouble ya, miss,” he said, voice rough, worn down like old gravel.

You didn’t answer.

He cleared his throat. Rain had slicked down the collar of his coat and soaked through the fabric at his shoulders.

“I ain’t askin’ for much,” he added. “Just a night. I won’t touch nothin’. I just-” He hesitated. “It’s cold.”

You looked him over.

The way he stood didn’t scream threat. Didn’t scream drunk or high or desperate. But it didn’t scream safe either. He looked pale. Tired. Gaunt in the cheeks, but not unwell. Just… small, somehow, despite his size.

You shifted. Felt the baby stir gently beneath your ribs.

He noticed.

His eyes dropped to your belly. His whole face changed. Not pity. Not disgust. Just something sharp and unfamiliar, like recognition.

“I’ll sleep on the porch,” he said quickly. “Didn’t realize... I wouldn’t’ve knocked if I’d known. Honest.”

You didn’t know what possessed you then. Maybe it was the ache in your ribs. The absence of someone who should’ve been there to keep you company through all this. Maybe it was how needy he sounded. How soft his voice got when he said honest.

Or maybe it was the look he gave you when you gave him permission to step inside.

He didn’t smile.

Just nodded. Like you’d saved him from something you didn’t have a name for yet.

“Thank ya,” he said, voice almost hoarse now. “Thank ya kindly.”

You still didn’t ask his name.

You didn’t ask where he came from.

You just shut the door behind him, gestured toward the blanket chest by the hearth, and said, “There’s a quilt in there. Floor’s all I’ve got.”

He nodded again. Didn’t complain.

You watched from the corner of your eye as he lowered himself down, slow and careful, folding the blanket once before curling beneath it. No pillow, no cushion. Just wood and wool and whatever weight he’d carried in with him.

And when you eased yourself back into your rocker, listening to the soft tick of rain on the windowpanes, the baby shifted again, sharper this time. Like it knew something had changed.

You didn’t sleep well.

But when you woke the next morning, he was still there.

And that was the last night you ever spent alone.

It started with the dishes.

Not all at once. Just one plate, then another. A rhythm, like he'd done it a hundred times before. You’d woken from your afternoon nap to find the washtub full and your best rag already soaked, the scent of lye soap and something copper-tinged filling the air.

He hadn’t even looked up at first. Just kept scrubbing slow circles into a plate with that strange, methodical care of his. You’d stared at him for a full minute, waiting for him to stop, to say something, maybe even look guilty. But he didn’t. He just nodded toward the table, where he’d made a small spread of breakfast, only for you.

“Thought ya might be hungry,” he said.

That was all.

You didn’t ask him why he’d done it.

You didn’t need to.

He’d been quiet like that all week. Hovering without hovering, close but never quite imposing. You noticed the way he watched you when you moved around the house, hands tucked behind his back like he didn’t trust himself not to help too quickly. He'd fixed the door latch before you'd even thought to mention it, patched the hole in the roof where the rain got in, even dusted your kitchen shelves with one of your old slips of cloth tied around his wrist like a makeshift cuff.

You hadn’t asked for any of that either.

But maybe that was what made it bearable. Strange, yes, but not frightening. Not threatening. He wasn’t a loud man. Wasn’t messy, either. He stepped light, didn’t slam doors, always kept his boots by the back steps and his sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows.

He didn’t touch you.

But he looked.

You caught him at it often enough. When you were washing greens, when you were folding linens. His gaze always softened around the edges, like he was watching something breakable and didn’t trust the room to keep it safe.

At first, you’d looked away.

Now you didn’t.

You weren’t sure what changed. Only that something about the way he moved, how slow and deliberate it all was, made your chest ache in a way you didn’t expect. Like you’d forgotten what it meant to be seen without being expected to perform.

He watched you differently than your husband had. That man, gone now, though not without taking a piece of your heart with him, had looked at you with something close to love. Maybe it had been love. You still didn’t know. But there had always been a shadow in it. A hesitation. Like he was trying to hold on to who you were before. Before the baby. Before the curve of your belly started showing in every dress. Before you started humming lullabies under your breath.

He didn’t do that.

He just brought you warm water for your feet in the evening and kept the fire going when the wind picked up through the walls. He hung herbs on the porch rail to dry, even though you hadn’t taught him how. Got it wrong the first time. Rosemary bundled with sassafras, but corrected himself without complaint. He had sharp eyes. Paid attention. Knew your schedule by heart now. When you took your walks. When you liked your tea. When the baby liked to kick.

And Lord, the way he fussed over that baby.

He listened for the kicks like they were gospel. Dropped to one knee anytime you winced or shifted, one hand already hovering like he could ease the weight of your belly just by being near. He’d murmur soft nothings to it sometimes, voice low and warm as molasses. Called the baby sweetheart, sugarplum, his little dove, like it already belonged to him, like he'd been waiting for it longer than even you had.

When the baby turned in the night and made your whole spine ache, he was already there with warm cloths and gentler hands. He never made a show of it. Never asked for thanks. Just laid his hand where it hurt most and waited until your breath evened out again. Sometimes you’d wake to find him asleep beside your chair, his head resting lightly against your thigh, still half-dressed from whatever he’d been doing before he heard you stir.

He carried buckets of water in the mornings without you asking, swept the porch, patched the leaks. Cleaned the chicken coop even though he hated the smell. Anything to spare you the strain. Anything to make things easier.

And he never touched your belly without permission. Not once. Always waited for a nod, for some small sign that it was alright. Then he’d press the flat of his palm against your skin like it was sacred.

He didn’t ask for much in return.

Just to be close.

Just to stay.

It was strange, all of it.

You’d said that to yourself more than once, lying awake with your belly high and heavy under the quilt, the fire crackling low in the stove and his footsteps creaking through the kitchen. It wasn’t fear that kept you up. It wasn’t discomfort either, not exactly. It was something quieter. Thicker. A feeling like you’d wandered into someone else’s story, someone else’s life.

You’d never expected company. Not after what happened. Not after the man you married, the one you’d whispered vows with in a sun-warmed church, turned pale and silent when you told him about the child growing inside you. You weren’t stupid. You’d known it would be hard. But you hadn’t expected the look he gave you, like you’d broken something between you. And then he left. Just like that. Like the baby had made you unrecognizable.

But he didn’t seem to flinch.

He hadn’t run, hadn’t stared at your stomach like it was a problem that needed solving. Hadn’t looked past you like he was trying to remember who you used to be before the swell of your belly changed the silhouette of your body.

He just stayed.

And that was strange.

So was the way he moved through the house now, your house, though it hadn’t felt like yours in a while, with a sense of purpose that made no sense. You never asked him to scrub the floorboards or polish the handles or oil the hinges, but he did. Quietly. Methodically. Like he wanted to earn the space he took up.

Strangest of all, though, was how he spoke to your belly.

He didn’t talk to you about the baby. Not directly. But he murmured to your stomach like it was a person already. Asked questions. Told it things. Ran his hand, cool and callused, gently over the curve of you like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

“Evenin’, little one,” he’d say, crouching to place a soft kiss right above your navel after bringing you tea. “Ya givin’ your mama trouble again?”

And when the baby kicked, he lit up like a man who’d just heard the voice of God.

The first time it happened with him, just a nudge, a little flutter against your ribs, you’d gasped and pressed your palm to the spot. He'd rushed across the room with a towel in one hand and a pail in the other, dropping them both like they were meaningless and was at your side in an instant.

“Was that ‘em?” he whispered. “Did they move?”

You nodded. And he reached for your hand so gently it made your throat ache. Placed it over his own, right where your skin had jumped. You watched his eyes flicker red in the dim candlelight as he waited. Then brighter. Brighter still when the baby kicked again.

You didn’t mention the glow. Not then.

You’d noticed it before. Brief, flickering, like something hiding behind glass. His eyes weren’t blue the way other white men in town had them. They weren’t even just blue. They had depth. Layers. Like river water after a storm, with light trapped somewhere deep inside. The red only came when the light hit just right, and was brightened when he was emotional. Happy. Or upset.

Or something else.

His teeth, too, were strange. White, yes, but sharper at the corners. His canines lingered a little too long. He didn’t smile often, but when he did, they always showed just a little too much. He never seemed to eat, not really. Said he had odd hours. That his stomach didn’t take kindly to most food.

But he cooked for you. Always. Carefully. Like the act of preparing your plate meant more to him than eating his own.

All of it was strange.

But you didn’t stop him.

Because when he sat beside you and ran a hand over your belly, there was nothing selfish in it. Nothing claiming or hungry. Just awe. Just devotion.

That was the word that kept coming to mind lately. Devotion.

He followed your pace. Matched your rhythm. Learned your moods before you even knew them yourself. If you sighed, he brought a shawl. If you shifted, he offered his arm. If you cried, when the tears came without warning, in the middle of cooking or brushing your hair or just trying to read, he said nothing. Just held you. Let you soak his shoulder and said your name like it was a promise.

Sometimes you caught him watching you.

Not in a lurid way. Not even in the way your husband used to, back when things were good between you. He looked like he was trying to memorize you. The way your breath hitched when you laughed. The way your ankles swelled at night. The way your fingers danced over the pages of your herbal guides even when you were too tired to really read.

You didn’t ask why he stayed.

You told yourself it was pity. Gratitude. Maybe a sense of guilt.

But something about the way he looked at you, like you were the only tether he had left to something real, made you wonder.

And more than once, you found yourself leaning into him just a little longer than needed. Letting your hand rest on his when he passed you a cup. Letting the silence stretch between you when the fire burned low.

It was slow.

It was strange.

But it was real.

And maybe, just maybe, it was enough.

It had been almost a month.

Four weeks of him sleeping on the floor beside the hearth. Of you waking up to the scent of ash and chicory. Finding the kitchen swept, the kettle hot, your shoes waiting near the door like you had a man who knew where you liked to go. Four weeks of strange cohabitation, of watching each other without asking too many questions, of wordless routines built out of necessity and slow, quiet trust.

And yet, still no names.

You knew the cadence of his footsteps. The shape of his shadow in the yard. How he always tucked his hands behind his back when he thought too hard about something. You knew the way he’d squint at the firewood pile before choosing a piece. And he knew you. When your hips started to ache. When your breathing changed. When the weight of everything, not just the baby, but the world, got too heavy and you needed silence more than you needed talk.

Still, he had never asked for your name.

And you had never asked for his.

It should’ve been strange. Should’ve felt unfinished. But it didn’t. Not really. Because whatever he was, he had never felt like a stranger. Just something old. Something waiting.

That morning, the sky had opened up with thunder and mean gray light. A storm sat heavy over the treeline, wet wind slicing through the cracks in the wood. You stood barefoot at the back door, mug in hand, and watched the trees sway like dancers out of rhythm. He was already outside, boots deep in the mud, securing the herbs he’d hung on the rail.

You saw it before he did. The string snapping, the whole bundle of thyme and yarrow whipping into the wind. He reached for it too late. You nearly called out.

But then he moved.

Fast.

Not just quick, but wrong. Not human. A blur of striped clothing and sharp motion. His feet barely touched the porch before he was in the yard again, herbs in hand.

He caught them. All of them.

And when he turned back toward the door, he looked surprised to see you watching.

His smile faltered.

But he walked toward you anyway, hands full of dripping stems and his coat soaked through to the elbows.

You opened the door.

“Got ‘em,” he said, like that explained anything.

You stepped back to let him in.

He didn’t speak again until he’d shaken the rain off his shoulders and laid the herbs gently on a dry cloth near the stove. You were still watching him. Something you’d been doing more lately. Not because he made you nervous. Not exactly.

But because you didn’t understand how someone could be so careful with the smallest things and yet move like that. Unnatural. Unsettling. And beautiful, somehow. Like a storybook thing.

He noticed your eyes. Of course he did.

“What is it?” he asked, quiet.

You didn’t lie.

“Just thinkin’ how strange this is,” you said, wrapping your hands around the warm mug. “You. Me. This.”

He didn’t answer.

“You sleep in my home. You touch my things. You know how I take my tea. And I don’t even know your name.”

That made him blink.

He stood there in the center of the room, rain still clinging to his lashes, one hand trailing over the spine of a chair.

“I suppose ya don’t,” he said after a beat, almost sheepish.

You raised a brow. “What is it, then?”

He looked at you a moment longer, then stepped forward and said it in a voice like wet moss and river stones:

“Remmick.”

You let it sit between you for a second. The shape of it. Strange and clean. Like something unspoken finally made solid.

Then you nodded.

“Alright.”

He tipped his head, that small, half-hopeful smile curling at the edge of his mouth.

“Ya got one for me?”

You didn’t smile back.

But you said it, soft. Like you were reminding yourself it belonged to you still.

And maybe to him now, too.

You watched the way he turned it over in his mouth after you gave it to him. Like a word he’d chew through all winter, rolling it on his tongue like a secret, like a prayer.

He said it again.

Once.

Like a promise.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, the ache in your lower back sharper now. You pressed your hand gently to the curve of your belly. He noticed. He always noticed.

Without needing to be told, he crouched in front of you and helped guide you to the rocking chair near the stove. His hands were still cold from the rain, but his touch was steady. He adjusted the cushion. Draped a shawl over your knees. Then sat beside you on the floor, arms draped loosely over his knees like always.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

The rain softened. The fire popped.

He reached toward your ankle, thumb brushing where your skin met the top of your sock. Not asking for anything. Just anchoring.

“I’m glad ya let me stay,” he said.

You didn’t answer.

But you reached down and covered his hand with yours.

Because somehow, so were you.

The pain started low and slow, like a tug at the deepest part of you. You were in the kitchen, barefoot and brushing dust from the windowsill, when it hit hard enough to make your breath catch. You gripped the edge of the counter, then looked down.

Water.

A slow trickle at first, then more, pooling between your feet.

You didn’t panic. Not really. You’d read enough, listened to enough, prepared enough. Still, your heart kicked up in your chest like it was trying to warn you of something big coming down the road.

And it was.

“Remmick,” you called, steady but loud enough to shake the rafters.

He was there in an instant. Not from the garden or the porch like he usually was this time of day, but already in the hallway, already moving toward you with that eerie stillness he had when he was trying not to look like he was floating.

His eyes snapped to the floor, then to your face. "It’s time?"

You nodded once, slow.

Then the contraction hit, sharp enough to knock the air from your lungs.

He caught you before your knees buckled.

“It’s alright,” he murmured. His hand was at your back, the other already slipping under your knees. He lifted you like you weighed less than the apron still tied around your waist. “I've got you.”

You didn’t ask how he moved so quick. You didn’t ask how he got the basin already filled, or how the towels had been laid out on the bed before you even stepped inside the room. You barely remembered the lamp being lit.

But it was.

Everything was ready.

Remmick had prepared.

He moved with a purpose that didn’t belong to a man who had never done this before. There was no fumbling. No panic. He worked like someone who had learned the rhythms of birth from midwives long buried, had seen a thousand labors begin and end under candlelight and wood smoke.

He guided you through it all. Let you curse and sob and grip his arms so tight you left bruises.

"Good girl,” he whispered, again and again. “You’re doin’ so good. Keep breathin’, baby. Just like that.”

You didn’t have the energy to wonder how he knew what to do. You couldn’t ask. Not with the pain hitting like waves, not with the pressure bearing down. But somewhere in the middle of the storm, when your vision blurred and your body ached in ways you didn’t know it could, his voice was still there.

Low. Calm. Constant.

“Push now. There ya go. You’re safe. I got you.”

His hands were slick with water and blood, but steady as stone. He never looked away. Not once.

And when the final push came, sharp, terrible, blinding, he caught the baby in his hands like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it.

There was a moment after. A long one.

Where everything stopped.

And then, the cry.

Thin, high, beautiful.

You fell back against the pillows, sobbing harder than you thought you would. Not from pain. Not from fear. Just the release of it all.

Remmick didn’t speak at first. Just held the baby in both hands, his face unreadable.

And then he looked at you.

“It’s a girl,” he whispered, voice cracked and full of something you couldn’t name. “She’s perfect.”

You let out a breath that rattled your whole body.

He brought her to you, wrapped in a cloth so soft it must’ve been hidden in the dresser for weeks. And there she was.

Dark skin. Curling hair already damp against her forehead. Tiny hands twitching with life.

And Remmick, pale, bloodstained, glowing faintly in the dim lamplight, looked down at her like she was something holy.

She was.

To you both.

His fingers shook as he touched her cheek. Shook like he wasn’t sure he deserved to, like the smallest movement might shatter the moment into pieces he couldn’t gather again. His knuckles were bloodstained, and his hand was far too large, too scarred, too rough to be so gentle, but it was. He moved like a man touching glass.

“I’ll take care of her,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I’ll take care of ya.”

There was no promise in his voice, no boast, no plea.

Just fact.

You looked at him then. Really looked. Not through the fog of pain or the veil of exhaustion. Not with the wary glances you’d grown used to offering him in the first weeks. But truly. Fully.

His eyes were still wet. Still glowing. Not bright, not loud, but pulsing softly. Faint and sure, like something not ready to die.

His shirt clung to him in wrinkled, clumsy lines, soaked with sweat and streaked with all the effort he'd poured into your labor. The collar was limp and stained with blood, yours and hers. His sleeves had been rolled back at some point, but they'd slipped again, damp fabric bunched at the crook of his arms.

There was blood under his nails. Streaked across his jaw. A smear dried along the side of his throat like he'd wiped his face without thinking.

And his teeth, those strange, terrible things, peeked through when he spoke. Elongated. Cuspate. Pressed just barely over the curve of his lip like he hadn't remembered to pull them back yet. Like maybe, in this moment, he didn’t care to hide anything at all.

But they didn’t scare you.

They never really had.

This strange man. This mystery with calloused hands and a voice like river stones. This creature who could build fires from the dampest wood and wash clothes better than you ever had patience to.

This father to your child.

You nodded. Slow. Steady.

“I know.”

The way his shoulders dropped then, just slightly, made your chest ache. As if he'd been holding the weight of that doubt for weeks. Maybe longer.

He held the baby again, arms curling around her like she was the most delicate thing he’d ever seen. Like she might disappear if he looked away too long. She made a soft, squeaking sound in her sleep, and Remmick’s whole body tensed around her as though the world might threaten her simply for breathing.

“She’s yours,” he whispered, voice crumbling at the edges. “And now she’s mine.”

You didn’t correct him.

Didn’t want to.

There was no logic that could define this thing between you. No words that could make it neat. But you weren’t looking for neat anymore. You weren’t looking for anything.

Except this.

This house. This moment. These people.

There was no sense to be made of it. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. But the three of you, somehow, you fit.

Remmick settled beside you on the bed. Not with the hesitant edge he used to carry, not like he was afraid you might change your mind and ask him to leave. But with something close to reverence. He moved slowly, gently, as if even sitting beside you might unmake the calm if done wrong.

One arm stayed curled protectively around the baby. The other slipped behind your back and pulled you close, cradling you like he didn’t know where else to put his warmth. You let your head fall against his shoulder, heavy with everything you’d just endured. Your body still ached, hollowed out and raw, but it wasn’t empty.

It was full in every way that mattered.

The fire popped in the next room, slow and lazy now, just embers and ash. Wind rattled the windowpane above your heads. The familiar kind of wind that came in every winter, dry and loud and aching through the trees.

But everything else was still.

The hush of the house held you like a lullaby.

Remmick kissed the top of your head, his lips barely brushing your damp hair.

The kiss wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even expectant. It was steady. It was sacred. Like sealing something between you.

“My girls,” he said, voice breaking just a little at the end. “My girls.”

His hand cupped the back of your neck. His chin rested against the top of your head. The baby shifted against his chest, small and soft and unaware that her world had just been born with her.

You closed your eyes.

Let the weight of him, the heat of her, the ache in your body, all of it,anchor you.

And for the first time since that long, lonely night on the porch when the world had changed forever, you didn’t feel afraid. Or alone.

You were home.

And Remmick would never let you forget it.

[ninisdollie]

pinky promise - park sunghoon 𓈒ིུ ❤︎

‎ ₊ㅤ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Ⳋ᧙ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺

"In which Sunghoon is completely obsessed with his dumb, beautiful, sparkly girlfriend"

‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ❤︎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⊹　₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ͏͏✧ Content: +18MDNI

fem! reader x sunghoon, bimbo! reader, established relationship, i made reader extra bimbo so she has a boob job and a nose job, fluff, crack, not a full smut scene but dumbification, humiliation, unprotected sex, creampie.

hate comments will be deleted and blocked!! likes and reblogs are appreciated.

notes: this was on my drafts for so long omg, my bimbo reader x member saga continues, who should be next? let me know <3

The first time Sunghoon saw you, he didn’t really like you, he thought you were a walking headache.

You were in his economics lecture, twirling a glittery pen and chewing pink gum like it was a full-time job. You wore a tiny top which was definitely inappropriate for college, with the word “PRINCESS” bedazzled across the chest, your notebook filled with hearts and sparkly stickers instead of actual notes. You were staring at the ceiling probably thinking about which shade of pink was your favourite. He thought you were ridiculous.

He also couldn’t stop looking at you.

Your perfect blowout, impossibly shiny and curled at the ends like you'd just stepped out of a salon. The soft swoop of your lashes. The way your perfume, something sweet and expensive, lingered in the air whenever you walked past. The sound of your gum popping mid-lecture. It was maddening.

When you waved at him across the hall the next day, he looked behind him like you had to be talking to someone else.

You started sitting next to him in class. Talking to him between lectures. Asking him dumb questions like, “Do you think cats get embarrassed when they fall?” or “What if my lip gloss is too sparkly for school—like, legally?”

He tried to ignore you. He really did. But then you started bringing him little things, an extra coffee, snacks with cute sticky notes that said “Don’t forget to eat, cold boy” and before he knew it… you were just there all the time. 

Everyone knew who you were, daddy’s girl, had a nose job at sixteen  and a boob job at eighteen. Everything about you screamed money, privilege, and zero shame. You parked your bubblegum-pink convertible outside like you owned the damn place, engine still purring, music blasting some sugary pop anthem. Designer sunglasses perched on your nose, lips glossed and shiny like a reality show.

And Sunghoon hated girls like you. 

Until he didn’t anymore. 

You drove him fucking crazy.

And nothing pissed him off more than the fact that no matter how many times he rolled his eyes at you or snapped at you to “use your brain for once,” he always ended up with you curled up on his lap by the end of the night, pouting, giggling, and completely unaware of how obsessed he was.

The bowling alley lights glowed neon pink and blue, a dreamy haze over the slick floor and rows of plastic seats. You bounced up to the lane, pink ball cradled in both hands, wearing a pleated micro skirt that had absolutely zero business being worn in a bowling alley.

Sunghoon already had one hand to his temple.

“Okay, okay—watch me this time,” you chirped, sticking your tongue out with confidence that was completely unearned.

He watched. Unfortunately.

You swung horribly. The ball dropped with a loud thud that made a few kids in the next lane flinch, then rolled with tragic optimism straight into the gutter, again.

A long, painful silence.

You turned around with a hopeful smile, one acrylic nail to your bottom lip, your brows sticked together 

“Did I hit… like, any of them?”

Sunghoon stared at the untouched pins. 

“You hit my will to live. That’s what you hit.”

You burst out laughing, completely unfazed, trotting back to him with a giggle and zero shame. 

“It’s not my fault the ball’s heavy! And slippery! And the floor is so weird, like, what even is oiling the lane? Is that real?”

Sunghoon blinked, already regretting choosing bowling for your weekly date. 

“Yes. That’s real. It’s literally part of the sport.”

You leaned dramatically onto his shoulder, rolling your beautiful eyes decorated with pink shimmery eyeshadow. 

“Ugh, sports.”

He side-eyed you, lips twitching like he was trying very hard not to smile. 

“You are unreal. Actually brainless.”

“Brainless and beautiful,” you hummed proudly.

He handed you a bottle of water with the calmness of someone who had already accepted defeat on every level, of someone that loved his girlfriend so much even if she was getting on his nerves. 

“At this point I’m surprised you didn’t throw the ball backwards.”

“Oh my god, is that allowed?!”

He closed his eyes. 

“I’m going to need a refund on this date.”

You gasped, playfully smacking his chest. 

“You love this. Don’t lie.”

“I love winning. You’re making that impossible by association.”

You let out a dramatic whine and flopped down into the seat next to him, pink gloss shining under the lights. You looked up at him through your fake lashes, blinking innocently. 

“You could let me win…”

He turned to you, full deadpan. 

“Not even if I was dying.”

You pouted. 

“What if I kissed you?”

His expression faltered. Just slightly.

He hated how easily you got to him, how ridiculous you were, with your glitter and your fake tan and your complete inability to understand basic physics, and how despite all of that, his stomach still flipped like a middle schooler every time you leaned in close.

“…Still no,” he mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

But his ears turned just a little pink.

You grinned. 

“Okay. One more try. Watch this.”

Sunghoon leaned back with a long, suffering sigh, arms crossed as he watched you approach the lane like you were about to do a runway walk, not a sport.

You tossed the ball.

This time… it clipped the edge. Wobbled. And one lonely pin wobbled, wobbled…

Then fell.

You screamed. 

“I got one!”

You spun around, throwing your arms up like you’d just landed a triple axel in the Olympics.

“Babe did you see that?! I got one!”

Sunghoon clapped once, dryly. 

“Congratulations. You’ve reached the motor skills of a toddler.”

But when you threw yourself into his arms, giggling with pride, he caught you instantly, hands settling at your waist like second nature. Your breath was warm against his cheek, your lip gloss a little smeared from all your shouting, and god, you looked so proud of yourself.

So happy.

He couldn’t help it. His jaw softened, and his eyes flicked down to your lips. You noticed, grin stretching a little wider.

“Still not letting me win?” you whispered.

He groaned softly, then finally leaned in, brushing your lips with his, warm, slow, and just a little smug. His kisses were always the sweetest, but also the neediest, like he couldn’t resist tasting your cherry gloss on his tongue and how your plump lips - natural, because your father refused to let you get another thing done - moved against his. 

“You’ll never win,” he murmured against your mouth.

“But I got you to kiss me,” you whispered back.

He pulled away with a tiny smirk. 

“That doesn’t mean you’re not terrible at bowling.”

You beamed. 

“So you admit I’m good at something.”

Sunghoon sighed, defeated.

“Yeah. Being annoying.”

Later that night, your legs were draped lazily across Sunghoon’s lap as you half-watched a rerun of Gossip Girl on his TV, spooning pink-frosted ice cream into your mouth with the tiny gold spoon you refused to let go of. Sunghoon had tried to take it from you earlier, saying it was impractical.

You nearly bit his hand.

Now he sat there, half-annoyed, half-smitten, poking at the remote and occasionally shooting side-eyes at your terrible taste in TV, which he was definitely not going to admit he had started following.

“I still don’t understand how someone could bowl that badly,” he muttered out of nowhere, shaking his head like he was personally offended.

“I have delicate wrists,” you said simply, licking ice cream from your spoon. “I’m not built for violence.”

“You’re built for chaos.”

“You’re built for being rude.”

“I’m built for reality,” he muttered.

You grinned, wiggling your toes against his thigh, until you suddenly sat up with a little gasp.

“Wait—I forgot!”

“Oh no,” he said immediately.

You bounced off the couch, your fuzzy pink slippers flopping, and grabbed your oversized Juicy Couture tote.

“I got you a present!”

Sunghoon looked like he was preparing for war.

 “A what?”

“A little something,” you said brightly, pulling out a small, glossy pink box wrapped in a glitter ribbon. “A sexy thank-you gift. Because I’m sweet like that.”

So, he opened it.

And immediately froze.

Inside was a pair of black boxer briefs. At first glance, normal. But upon closer inspection, covered in little high-res photos of your face.

Pouting. Blowing kisses. Winking. Tongue out.

He held them up in horror.

“What the actual hell—”

You squealed.

“Aren’t they adorable?! Look, I picked the kissy face from my summer vacation selfie. That one’s your favorite, right?”

His jaw dropped slightly.

“You put your face on underwear.”

“Your underwear,” you corrected proudly. “It’s a custom print!”

He blinked again.

“You seriously expect me to wear these?”

“You’re gonna love them.”

“They’re deranged.”

“They’re personalized.” You pouted, staring at the boxers on his hands so proudly “You’re so ungrateful. I almost ordered the thong version.”

His nose scrunched.

“Why is that worse?”

“They had hearts that said ‘Daddy’s Favorite’ all over the front. You would’ve looked so cute.”

“I’m going to take your access to online stores.”

“You’re in love with me.”

He groaned, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

“I feel like I’m in a relationship with a walking pop-up ad.”

You rolled onto your side and propped your chin in your hand. “You say that, but I caught you smiling. Admit it.”

He looked down at the boxers again, defeated.

“I’m going to burn these.”

“You’re sooo going to wear them to bed.”

“I am not.”

“I’m going to take a picture when you do.”

He looked at you with genuine concern.

“You should donate your brain to the science, i genuinely have no idea how the fuck it works.”

You grinned wider, then crawled into his lap and tugged the boxers from his hand, holding them up between you like a trophy.

“You know,” you said playfully, brushing your lips against his jaw, “you’re kind of hot when you’re annoyed.”

His hands settled instinctively on your waist, and despite the chaos, despite the insanity of your gift, he didn’t push you away. His fingers tightened slightly, eyes narrowing.

“You’re insane,” he muttered again.

“And you like it.”

You kissed him softly, sugary-sweet and smiling against his mouth, and he let out a low breath like he was surrendering to a war he’d already lost.

“Thank God you’re cute and have fake boobs” he said under his breath.

“I’m gorgeous,” you whispered, kissing him again. “And you’re obsessed with me.”

He sighed, resting his forehead against yours.

“Unfortunately.”

You laughed, nuzzling into his chest as he wrapped his arms around you, and somewhere on the coffee table, your face-covered boxers sat like the world’s most deranged declaration of love.

And the next morning, when you woke up early and peeked under the blanket?

He was wearing them.

In the bedroom, Sunghoon worshipped you 

He spoiled you, yes. Bought you pretty things, let you crawl into his lap just to be kissed, whispered soft pet names against your throat like they meant something sacred. But when it came to sex, he didn’t just spoil, he ruined.Constantly. Proudly. He loved how soft you got under him. How pliant. How you went quiet and fuzzy the second he touched you, all that usual chatter melting into breathy gasps and broken whimpers like you’d been made to be used.

It wasn’t just sex. It was a ritual.

That was the part that made his blood run hot, the way you gave in so easily. Like your body had memorized what he needed before he even asked. Like you were wired to fall apart for him.

You were perfect for him. Sweet. Obedient. Dumb in all the ways he liked.

Sometimes you wore lace just to catch his attention. Sometimes you whined for his hands in that sugar-sweet voice you knew drove him crazy. And sometimes, like that night, you were already breathless before he even undid his belt, squirming under his gaze like you needed him more than air.

And Sunghoon? He lived for it.

He lived for the way your thighs twitched when he called you his dumb little doll. For the way your breath hitched when his voice dropped and he ordered you to spread your legs. For the way you sighed his name like a prayer every time he said, “Good girl.”

He teased, he degraded, he controlled every second,  and yet never once crossed your boundaries. Even when he was deep inside you, voice low and filthy in your ear, hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, the care never left his touch.

And when it was over, when you were limp and trembling in the sheets, too blissed out to speak, he always gathered you into his arms. Always pressed a kiss to your temple. Always whispered soft, quiet things while he cleaned you up and tucked you into his chest.

But tonight, you knew you were pushing it.

The second you made that little comment — pouty and venom-laced — about him forgetting his wallet at brunch, you felt the air shift. Saw that flicker in his eyes. Not anger, not quite. No, Sunghoon never wasted energy on petty things.

It was something darker.

And now, your wrists were pinned above your head with one of his hands,  fingers wrapped snug around your wrists, his rings cold against your skin. Your legs spread wide, your body flushed and trembling, caught in that hazy place between bratty resistance and desperate submission.

“Still got that attitude, baby?” he murmured, voice low and slow as his free hand traced a path down your torso, nails grazing just enough to make you twitch. “Or did I fuck it out of you already?”

You opened your mouth, maybe to whine, maybe to say his name, but all that came out was a gasp when his fingers slid between your thighs, two slow strokes over your soaked panties. He smiled like a man who knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“God, look at you. All that attitude earlier and now you’re fucking dripping.”

His hand cupped your sex through the fabric, warm and heavy. His palm pressed down, applying just enough pressure to make you buck into it, and he tisked, shaking his head like you were being difficult again.

“Didn’t I say you don’t get to be in charge tonight?”

His fingers gripped your jaw, turning your face to meet his. The heat in his eyes made your breath catch.

“You know the rules, baby,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip. “No thinking. That pretty little head of yours belongs to me tonight.”

You whimpered. Nodded. Your voice barely worked, hazy, pliant, floating somewhere between arousal and surrender.

“Mhm… yours.”

And fuck, did that make something snap in him.

He released your wrists only to grab your hips and flip you onto your stomach, not bothering to be gentle. His hands gripped your ass, kneading the soft flesh as he leaned over you, breath hot against your ear.

“That brat from earlier?” he growled, rutting his hips against your ass. “She gone now?”

You nodded frantically into the sheets, muffled moans escaping your lips.

“You sure?” He dragged his cock, hard and leaking, along your soaked slit, just enough to tease but not enough to satisfy. “Because if I hear another whine outta that mouth, I’m not gonna let you come. Understand me?”

“Y-yes—” you managed, though it came out as more of a sob. “I’m sorry…”

He chuckled darkly.

“That’s better.”

And then he was inside you — deep — all at once. No warning. No slow stretch.

Just a sharp, claiming thrust that knocked the air from your lungs and left you shaking. You gasped, nails digging into the sheets, tears prickling at your eyes from the overwhelming fullness. He stilled for a second, letting you adjust because even mean, he never hurt you, and then he began to move. Hard. Every thrust deliberate, punishing, meant to remind you of exactly who was in control.

“There she is,” he whispered, dark eyes eating you alive. “My sweet, stupid girl.”

He set a brutal rhythm, one hand gripping your thigh while the other held your jaw in place so he could watch your expression crumble.

“Stay dumb for me,” he growled, voice ragged now, hips slamming into yours. “Don’t think. Just take it.”

“This what you wanted?” he hissed between clenched teeth, skin slapping against yours with a filthy rhythm. “Act like a brat so I fuck you stupid?”

You couldn’t answer,  your mind was blank, body on fire, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of him. He leaned down, pressing his chest to your back, lips at your ear. 

“You’re such a fucking mess for me. So easy to break. Just a few minutes and I’ve already got you drooling on the sheets.”

His hand slid under you, between your thighs again, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles in sync with his thrusts. You choked on a moan, loud, needy, helpless.

“Look at that. Can’t even form words anymore,” he mocked, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “My dumb little doll. All that sass earlier and now you’re too fucked-out to talk.”

Your thighs were trembling violently now, breath coming in shallow pants as the pressure built, your orgasm looming, cruel and inevitable.

Sunghoon knew. Of course he knew. He groaned, low and rough, hips slamming into you deeper.

“You close, baby?”

You sobbed something incoherent.

“Use your words. Come on.”

“Y-yes—yes, I’m—please—!”

He didn’t let up. Not for a second.

“You gonna come all over my cock after being a fucking brat in public? You think you deserve that?”

You shook your head, didn’t trust yourself to speak, but your body betrayed you, tightening around him as the orgasm hit. It crashed into you hard, like lightning through your veins, and you screamed, stars bursting behind your eyes. You didn’t even register him groaning your name, hips jerking as he came inside you moments later.

The room spun. Your limbs felt heavy. Your brain buzzed with static. And yet, even as your body trembled in the aftermath, Sunghoon’s touch softened, his voice dropped.

“Good girl,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your spine. “Took me so well. You did so good, baby.”

His hands rubbed slow, grounding circles into your thighs and lower back.

“You okay?”

You managed a nod, dazed, boneless, but safe.

Because no matter how rough he was, no matter how mean he got when you pushed his buttons, Sunghoon always took care of you after.

“Hoonie?” You whispered, soft voice after a while.

He stroked your arm, kissing softly on your shoulder before looking at you.

“Yes, babygirl?”

“Do you love me?” You batted your fake eyelashes, still perfect on your eyes even after the intense sex session.

He looked at you with shiny eyes, as if he couldn’t believe you were asking him that.

“Of course, baby. I love you.”

“Pinky promise?” You put out your hand, sticking your pinky and he laughed softly before locking it with his.

“Pinky promise.”

[millers-angel]

wait, i need one where joel spanks the reader 🙏 yk for… Educational purposes

the belt ୨୧ joel miller x f!reader

summary: joel loves to teach you a lesson with his belt. warnings: spanks, explicit gif ahead (the one from the first pic lol), fingering, size difference, kind of rough joel ig, and fluff

you hear the truck pull in just as you’re placing the last warm bun on the plate. the air still smells like cinnamon and sugar, sweet and homey, and you’re wearing that little dress—thin straps, soft fabric, barely brushing your thighs. it’s his favorite. you know it.

you don’t run to the door. you wait.

when it opens, he steps in slow. boots heavy, shirt clinging to his shoulders from the sun. he looks tired. tense. but more than that—there’s something dark behind his eyes when he sees you.

“hey,” you say, soft, like honey. “i saved you the last ones. they were still warm when i left the bakery.”

you hold up the plate like a peace offering. like innocence. like you don’t know exactly what you’ve done.

he doesn’t say anything right away. just stares. his jaw tight. brow furrowed.

“you been waitin’ for me dressed like that?” he asks, voice low.

you smile. tilt your head. “don't you like it?”

his eyes drop to your legs. you shift your weight a little, just enough for the hem of the dress to rise. pretend like it’s nothing. like you don’t see the way his hands curl into fists at his sides.

“i missed you today,” you add, soft again. too soft. like a little apology hiding behind sugar and flour. “wanted to make you something sweet.”

he steps closer. doesn’t touch you. not yet. just looks at you like he’s trying to decide whether to kiss you or scold you.

you hold his gaze and bite your lip.

you know why he looks like that. you know you didn’t wear panties. you know he’s gonna find out when he gets close enough.

and still, you just smile. like you’re not doing exactly what you’re doing.

he glances at the plate in your hands, then back at you. "you went to work dressed like that?"

you blink, tilting your head like you didn’t hear him right. "like what?"

joel huffs, slow and deep, like he's trying real hard not to lose it. "don’t play dumb with me."

you just smile. give him that little look—the one that always softens him. "it’s my favorite dress," you say, like that explains everything.

you spin, slow, playful. let the fabric flutter just enough. when you face him again, he’s not smiling. his eyes are darker now. he sets his hands on his hips. voice low. steady.

"why aren’t you wearin’ any panties?"

you hesitate. just a second. then that smile creeps back in, slower this time. "i didn’t wanna get 'em messy... from the cinnamon rolls." you hold the plate up again like it’s a shield. or an excuse. "i was thinking of you all morning."

he sets the plate down on the table, a little too hard. doesn’t even look at the buns.

"you think this is funny?" he mutters, stepping closer. "walkin’ around town like that. dress ridin’ up. no panties. what the hell were you thinkin’, huh?"

you try to bite back the smile but it wins anyway. "what the fuck were you thinking, huh? thought you've learned your lesson this morning."

the way he’s looking at you—stern, jaw tight, eyes burning—you love it. so you laugh. soft. careless. like you’re not standing on the edge of a storm.

he freezes.

"you’re laughin’?" his voice drops even lower now. there’s a warning in it. "you want me to give you something to laugh about?"

you tilt your head, still smiling. "why are you so mad anyways?"

he takes a step closer. you don’t back away. "because you went out there showin’ everybody what’s mine. dress barely coverin’ a damn thing, no panties—" his jaw clenches. "you really think i’m just gonna be fine with that?"

you shrug, still acting innocent. "no one knew. i mean… it’s not like anyone saw anything."

his face hardens.

"and what if they did?" his voice is sharp now, laced with something darker. "what if some bastard looked a second too long? what if they noticed?"

he’s imagining it now. some guy standing behind you at the counter, letting his eyes stay on you, his blood runs hot even if they didn't really see anything more than just your legs. the thought hits him like a punch to the gut.

his fists clench at his sides.

you notice. and of course, you laugh again—soft, teasing, deadly.

"i thought you were proud of me bein’ yours." you make a spin, letting him see enough. your mound, your bare butt.

he doesn’t answer.

instead, he moves.

quick, rough, effortless—his hands grip your waist and suddenly you’re off the ground, tossed over his shoulder. your breath catches in your throat, a small yelp escaping as your hands press against his back.

"joel!"

"you think this is funny?" he mutters, voice low and dangerous near your thigh. "i’ll show you just how proud i am, darlin’. don’t worry."

he walks through the house like this is nothing new—like carrying you over his shoulder is routine. your fingers clutch at the back of his shirt, but he doesn’t say a word. only his grip tightens when you squirm, and you feel the heat of his palm pressing into your thigh and the breeze hitting your bare slit.

he kicks the bedroom door open, strides in without slowing down, and drops you gently onto the bed—just enough force to remind you who’s in charge, but still careful. you bounce a little, settling on the edge, knees together, looking up at him.

he stands in front of you, hands on his hips now, chest rising slow. his eyes roam over you like he’s deciding what to do even if you both know the answer. his fingers stay too long on his belt.

he unbuckles his belt—painfully slow. "i'm gonna give you five with the belt and five with my hand. understood?"

you squeeze your thighs together, because even if this is what you wanted… you didn’t think he’d actually use the belt again. "b-but—"

"no buts. no nothin’." he rasps. "five with the belt. five with my hand. and you're gonna count every single one."

he sits down at the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. then, without saying anything, he pulls you gently forward and settles you across his lap, belly down.

his arm wraps around your waist, steady and warm, and his other hand rests on the back of your thigh.

you’re laid out over him, your hair spilling across the sheets, and you can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath you.

once you're secured beneath him, you can only feel how his hand shifts to the side, grabbing the belt while the other hand finally pulled the hem of your dress up, til your waist, revealing your bare butt, all pumped and ready for him.

"this is what you wanted, didn't you?"

his voice is low, rough around the edges. you feel the belt shift in his grip, the leather folding over itself. your breath stutters before the first strike even lands.

you jolt forward slightly, the sting blooming across your skin.

"count."

"one," you whisper, voice already shaky.

his hand rests on your lower back, steadying you. not gentle. just firm enough to keep you in place.

second one.

sharper this time. it makes your toes curl and he's delighted to see.

"two."

"keep count," he mutters. like he doesn’t trust you to.

the third comes with no warning. you bite back a sound, clutching the blanket beneath your hands.

"three."

he pauses—only for a second. maybe to let you feel the heat he’s left behind.

then, another one.

"four," you gasp. your thighs squeeze together, instinctively. maybe to hide, maybe to feel something more.

the last one with the belt hits a little lower.

"five."

you’re trembling now. you don’t even realize he’s dropped the belt until you hear it land on the floor. then his palm replaces it—warm and broad.

"halfway there, sweetheart."

the way he says it makes your stomach twist. you hate how much you love hearing it.

before anything, he took a second to stroke your already sore butt. feeling how warm your skin was, how it practically radiated heat beneath his touch — flushed and tender, like it still remembered every strike. his palm dragged slowly, as if he was checking his own work. "look what you made me do," he muttered, more to himself than to you.

you were still trembling a little, your breath uneven, skin hot and hypersensitive under his palm. your thighs pressed together instinctively, but there was nowhere to hide — not with you draped across his lap like that. you were at his will.

your fingers twisted in the bedsheets, knuckles white, as if grounding yourself in something. you didn’t say anything. didn’t need to. the way your body reacted spoke loud enough.

"alright, love. five more, yeah?" he said now a little more soft. "you think you can do that for me?"

"mhm," you nodded, pumping your butt to him.

he could catch a glimpse of that perfect little thing that belonged to him. your pussy was all his... and you've been wearing this dress at work with no panties. his gaze darkened again, this time, he will have no mercy.

his hand lifts and hit against your ass.

"ouch!" you whimper.

"that's not a number," he said and the next thing you feel is his palm against your butt again.

"six!" you squeaked, trying squirming for how though he had been.

you tried to change your position, trying to make him go softer, but he catched you and locked you even tighter against his lap.

"where do you think you're goin'?" ♡

he smacked his hand one more time, with no warning. the sound was so loud it made the whole room feel even quieter.

you muffled a whimper. "seven," it was barely above a whisper.

"attagirl."

he stopped for a second to take a look.

he could see his own handshape on your butt. it was more flushed, he was sure it would leave a bruise. but then... he spread your cheeks and found out his girl was naughtier than he thought.

"aren't you a sweet thing, mh?" he murmured. "gettin' all wet from spanks,"

you bit your lip and thank god he's not facing you cause your cheeks are burning red. you feel one of his fingers teasing your folds. feeling how slick your flesh was.

"you like the belt, hm?"

"m-maybe,"

he huffed and spreaded your knees enough to have better access down there. you barely gasped before you felt his palm hitting hard against your pussy.

"ah, fuck," you moaned.

"that's. not. a. number." each word was punctuated by the sharp smack of his hand, perfectly timed — one strike for every syllable, like he was making sure you felt each one sink in.

your pussy was responding to it, and so was your whole body, you felt yourself getting more wet, pussy throbbing, and joel… joel was enjoying it as much as you were, seeing how swelled it got, seeing how it turned out flushed by his struck.

he couldn’t help himself and caressed your folds carefully, feeling, teasing, until his finger found your nub. you hissed once he started drawing lazy circles, he loved how sensitive your skin was, how your body responded to his touch.

he swirled his finger around it, pressing, giving you pleasure. you could only moan softly, breathing heavily, feeling how your legs trembled, maybe because of pleasure, maybe because of the spanks.

his other hand came to your entrance, fingers teasing, eyes locked on your tiny little thing. he danced his fingers around it, just watching how you wiggled your hips for him, to let you him know you were ready to take him.

he slowly sank two of his fingers in you. getting a tiny whimper from your mouth. "that it," he rasped.

the view was obsecene even. his fingers—his whole hand looked so big for you. the very first time he was afraid he'd hurt you... but you, looked at him so needy, you'd beg him to fuck you, and he couldn't resist, not when you started rubbing your face on his scruffy beard, not when your hand caressed his cheek and tell him that you wanted him.

his fingers stretched you out. worked on you until all you could do was squirm, beg for more and moan his name.

you felt the orgasm forming in your belly at the same time you could hear your own juices when you pulled his fingers in and out.

he knew.

he knew you were close, knew that his girl was in a bliss, specially when he felt your falls throbbing, when he felt how you were clutching your cunt.

but he wasn't done yet. there were three spanks missing for you to count.

he pulled out his fingers all of the sudden, making you whine. "joel, please—"

"i'm not done," he said parting your knees again, and hitting your now sensitive skin.

you cried out, not sure if pain or pleasure. "eight."

he licked his lips at the view. all pounded, all flushed, all his.

"this what you get for wearing this damn dress with no panties," he growled and hit his hand against your pussy once more. "this is goddamn mine."

"nine," you whimpered.

his finger worked on your clit. you clenched your cunt, squeezed your thighs together, trying to find release, trying to come. but he wouldn't let you, he wanted your orgasm to be caused by him, by his hand hitting on your cunt.

so he just saw you falling apart, begging until he knew you were too weak, too eager.

he smacked his hand one last time, sending you to a total bliss. "ten," you whispered as you came, as you felt your legs weak, trembling.

he knew you were done by the way your body was spasming. you were a mess.

his hand, the same one that had been so firm minutes ago, softened now as it glided over your sore skin. slow, careful strokes — not to tease, just to soothe. your skin was flushed, warm and a little swollen beneath his palm, and he took a second to just be still with you.

then, gently, he shifted your weight. one arm hooked under your legs, the other cradling your back, and he turned you over. he brought you to his chest, settling you against him, your cheek resting right above his heartbeat.

you were still trembling a little, but he just held you there, his thumb tracing light circles over the small of your back.

"you were brave, i'm proud of you," he said softly, pressing his lips on your forehead.

“joel?” your voice was small, muffled against his chest. soft as a breath. “are you still mad at me?”

he let out a quiet sigh, more exhale than sound, and his thumb kept stroking slow circles against your spine. “no, angel,” he said, his voice soft. “you learned your lesson… right?”

you smiled, just a little — that playful smile that always made him raise an eyebrow. “mmhm,” you hummed, lifting your face to kiss him softly. “i did.”

he rolled his eyes like he didn’t believe you for a second, but he was smiling too. the kind of smile only you ever got from him. his hand reached up to tuck your hair gently behind your ear, fingers lingering there like he didn’t want to stop touching you.

“i know it won’t be the last time,” he muttered. “i know what’s mine like the back of my damn hand.”

you let out a quiet laugh, your nose brushing against his jaw, and then you nuzzled into his beard, smiling like it was your favorite place in the world — because it was. you loved the scratch of it against your skin, the way it smelled like him, like sweat and his cologne.

he had no idea what it did to you, how warm it made you feel, how safe. and he was right — it wouldn’t be the last time. because you loved it when he got like that. when his voice was low, when his hands got firm, when he stopped being soft and reminded you who he was.

there was something about the way he held himself — calm, steady, but strong. like even when he didn’t raise his voice, you felt it. and when you pushed too far, when you acted up just to see how far he’d let you go… he always knew how to stop you. how to bring you back down. you loved that. loved the way he could quiet you without needing to say much — just his presence, just his hands, just him being him.

you loved feeling the strength in him, the way he could hold you still with just one look. his big hands on you, setting you in place like you were something breakable and his all at once. you loved how serious he got — that controlled power that lived in his chest, that wrapped around you when you got too bold.

“i know you love the belt,” he added, low in your ear.

𐙚⋆°🦢｡⋆♡

masterlist♡

[moondustbaby]

Bedtime, Baby

Blue Collar!Rafe x Wife!Reader

✨1k celebration post✨

cw: blurb inspired by p!link, smut, piv, unprotected sex

mdni 18+

p!link

⸻

You’re already lying back in bed when he walks in from brushing his teeth—hair damp from his shower, work-worn hands tugging his sweats lower as he eyes you beneath the covers.

Your robe is barely tied. You meet his gaze, then slowly pull the knot loose, the fabric falling open to reveal nothing underneath. Just warm skin, soft thighs, the quiet promise of yours.

“C’mere, baby,” you murmur.

Rafe doesn’t need telling twice.

He climbs onto the bed, slotting his body between your legs like it’s instinct. You wrap your arms around his neck as he leans in to kiss you—slow and sleepy, his cock already hard, brushing against your thigh.

“I missed you today,” he mumbles against your mouth.

“You saw me this morning baby.”

“Still missed you.”

He presses inside you slow, thick and warm, your body welcoming him in like it always does. You gasp softly, legs wrapping around his waist as he sinks all the way in. His hand cradles your jaw. His forehead rests against yours.

The first few thrusts are languid—measured. Almost reverent.

Then he groans low in his throat, hips stuttering as he bottoms out again. “Fuck—you feel too good, sweetheart.”

It only takes a minute before he picks up the pace. It’s not rough, but it’s urgent—the kind of rhythm that says he needed this all day. That he needed you.

You cry out softly, fingers digging into his shoulders as he pounds into you with quick, deep thrusts. His name falls from your lips just before he comes, spilling deep inside you with a long, broken moan.

He stays like that for a moment—buried inside you, catching his breath—before pulling out and collapsing on top of you, still flushed and panting.

His cock, slick with both your arousals, rests heavy against your pussy and lower belly. You twitch when it brushes your clit. He chuckles quietly.

“Sorry, baby. Sensitive?”

You hum, carding your fingers through his damp hair.

He doesn’t move. Just nuzzles into your chest, laying warm kisses across your skin. First your collarbone. Then lower. Then sweet, soft little kisses to each nipple.

“Love you so much,” he murmurs, voice sleepy.

You sigh, arms around him, robe still open, both of you messy and sticky and wrapped in each other like it’s the only way to sleep.

a/n: mind you when i came across this p!link on twitter i was like wow this is so blue collar rafe!! so i immediately had to write something inspired by it. this one’s soft missionary, sleepy kisses, and the kind of slow, sticky bedtime fuck that ends in nipple nuzzles and whispered I love you’s.

♥️ lani

✨1k celebration schedule✨

[lilliezzzzz-fics]

Voicemails [Unsent]

pairing: lando norris x reader author's note: uh. okay. hi! for starters, this is intended lowercase. unusual for me, all prim and proper with my writing or whatever, but yeah! idk! i was scrolling through a prompt list and saw voicemail and thought, huh! this! seems fun to write! so i did, and here we are. enjoy! (no use of y/n as always) tags: full smau. established relationship. text through voicemail and lando only. a little angsty!! warnings: none(?) word count: 1.1k

liked by f1, and 1.5M others lando some start ay

user444 let’s go!!! this is ur year!!! ↳ user414 this is his year fr!!!

mclarenauto what a start to the season 🧡 user33 killed it man! amazing quadrant honestly what a drive

You have 2 new voicemail(s)! 1 - [deleted] 2 - from: lando ❤

Transcript of voicemail from: lando ❤ | 1:31

> is- is this thing going? yeah— yeah, okay. hi baby! i know it’s late for you. i’m sorry— really, i just… yeah. no, i miss you. shit, this is really hard—isn’t it? awkward laugh, rustling. anyway. sorry. i won today in australia! it’s probably the first thing you’ll see when you wake up, anyway, with how much you try to keep up with my work. thank you for that, by the way. it means a lot, what—with how busy you are? work and studying and shit. thank you, really. i- i think i even looked for you in the crowd. rustling, heavy breathing. i’m- uh, i’m in bed, at the hotel? i don’t know.. uh, it’s really weird not sleeping next to you. feeling this happy—celebrating without you. i miss the soft smile you give me when you’re at the verge of sleep and you just listen to me ramble. i’m rambling now, aren’t i? laughs. god, i’m sorry, baby. anyway—i really, really fucking miss you. it’s- uh- it’s late for me now, too. not as late as it is for you, but like. i think my trainer’ll get mad if i don’t go to sleep soon. uh- but, call me back? or, send me a message, when you can. i love you to the moon and the stars and forevermore, baby. good night.

<voicemail ended.>

liked by oscarpiastri and 587K others lando nice double podium for us, proud of everyone. we’ll keep moving forward.

quadrant 🤜🤛 user444 so proud of u lando! mclarenauto amazing race team

You’ve got 1 new voicemail(s)! 1 - from: lando ❤

Transcript of voicemail from: lando ❤ | 1:39

> short pause. heavy, shuddering breathing. i miss you so much. fuck. fuck! i miss you, baby. like, so much. so, so much. i said that already, but… today was—oh, today wasn’t easy. wavering laugh. sniffling. shit—i’m, i’m fine. i just… it’s so hard. i didn’t— i didn’t think i’d miss you this much. it’s like… it’s like there’s this ghost of you just lingering, but you’re never really there. i’m gonna be honest— pause. shifting, rustling. —today was hard. like, really fucking hard. it was a double podium, at least, but… i, i don’t know. it was just so hard. big inhale. exhale. you know, i thought i could get a hold of you. i really wish i could get a hold of you. i really need you, baby. need to hear your voice. shit! i’m—i’m sorry. i just— you said we’d talk more. you- you said… that, that you’d try to get a hold of me. i know you’re busy—god, i’m being really selfish right now.. fuck, sorry, baby. just— call me back? please. i… i love you, to the moon and the stars, and forevermore. call me back.

<voicemail ended.>

Voicemails <Unsent Draft>

Transcript of <Unsent Draft> | 1:09

> short pause. light breathing. i… i don’t know what the hell i’m doing, man. it's like you're haunting me. i saw a fucking—i saw a seashell, and i thought of you. the stupid kind you'd always pick up, even when it was cracked, and you'd say it looked like a heart... it’s like— it’s like i keep seeing you everywhere, just running and running—and i just let you. is that— is that fair? is that what love is supposed to feel like? because baby, i’m tired. so fucking tired of running after you. pause. harsh breathing. i’m sorry. i didn’t mean that.  i- i don’t want to fight. i just want you. here, with me. long pause. rain starts to pour. light. …i’m not sending this.

You’ve got 1 missed call.

Call with lando ❤ ended after 27m

2 new notifications!

snapchat • lando <3 • 13:06 sent you a snap!

snapchat • lando <3 • 13:14 sent you a snap!

You’ve got 1 new voicemail! 1 - from: lando ❤

Transcript of voicemail from: lando ❤ | 1:50

> hi baby, it’s me again. i’ve been calling a lot. i’m sorry. soft rustling. light crackles. static. i’ve… i’ve been thinking about you. like, a lot. i’m sure you saw—with the snaps i sent. soft laugh. low yawn. i hope you didn’t mind. i— i know we talked a little. i’m glad. but— it’s still not the same. i don’t get to hear you rant about your day and your work and studies. i don’t hear your rambling about that one thing you keep thinking about— quick pause. —some series? i don’t quite remember. fuck. sorry. pause. gentle breathing. you know, i told oscar a joke. one that i’d tell you, right? and— and he laughed… but like he was being polite. like he didn’t get it. like you would. he laughed, but not in the way you do. soft breathing. a barely audible gulp. not in the way you do. you know, with your smile, and your eye crinkling. like i’m the funniest man in the world! low laugh. i sleep, uh… i sleep on the right side of the bed. your side is always cold. i hate the cold. low pause. uh, sorry. uhm… i miss you, baby. as always, i love you… to the moon, and the stars, and forevermore. pause. crackling. clicking, tapping on his phone. bye.

<voicemail ended.>

lando <3 posted on their private story!

You’ve got 1 new voicemail(s)!  1 - from: lando ❤

Transcript of voicemail from: lando ❤ | 0:53

> long pause. quiet hum in the background. okay, baby. i miiight’ve done something. after— after our talk yesterday, i decided that i will book a flight. home. pause. soft breathing. i— i know, that uhm… that i should’ve told you beforehand, but… i hope you don’t mind. but i’ll finally— finally, get to see you again. get to hear your voice again— and no, your voice through phone isn’t the same. too staticy. not warm enough. laugh. i’m landing in like an hour, but… i’ve got the keys to our house. in case you hear this before i get there, keep the light on for me? soft giggle. i love you baby, to the moon and the stars, and forevermore. see you soon.

<voicemail ended.>

©lilliezzzzz-fics: please don't copy or distribute my work on any platform

credits: @/cafekitsune for the dividers <3

author's note: this one was a little different! abrupt end too lol,,, hope u liked it though!! lando is so fun to write tbh

taglist: @toodeepintofandoms @milessunflowers

[thatnerduknow98]

My twin sister died six months ago, but I keep seeing her everywhere. First it was at the park reading a book on the bench, then at the theater in the back row cackling at the show, then again at the bus stop a block from our childhood home.

It was so frequent I started seeing a psychologist, who diagnosed me with ptsd. You see, my sister and I were in a fatal accident, but I was the survivor. The shrink told me I had a severe case of survivors guilt that seems to be coupled with psychosis.

The thing is, my sister never disappears when I blink. I look away and look back, and she’s still there, doing her thing. It taunts me and fills me with rage.

Today I had enough of this torture. My mother and I were grocery shopping, and I saw her at the supermarket evaluating some apples before placing them in her basket. I just lost it.

“How are you here?” I shouted, loudly approaching her.

She looked up, appalled to see some who shares her face. “Who the hell are you?”

“It’s me, Joan, it’s your twin sister, Esther. You died. You were in a casket. I closed it. I watched it get placed six feet under into a locked vault. How are you here?!” My anger came spiraling out of me and into her face like a bullhorn.

She took two steps back. “I’m sorry, you must have me confused for someone else. Though it is weird we have the same face. My name is Lilah.”

I placed both hands on my head, looked at the ceiling and let out a growl. The noise summoned my mother from a few aisles over.

“Esther?” Mom’s voice was frantic. She rushed to my side, placing both hands gently on my right arm in an attempt to call me down. “My darling what is the matter …?” She trailed off looking up at Lilah. “Oh shit.”

Lilah’s eyes were wide and she began slowly backing away. I dropped my arms in defeat.

“I guess I have some explaining to do,” mom said looking at me, then Lilah, then me, then Lilah. “My darling,” she said to Lilah. “Could you tell me more about your childhood?”

Lilah paused before saying, “It was about as normal as it could be, considering I was adopted.”

“So you do know,” Mom continued. “Esther. You and Joan weren’t twins. You were triplets.”

I looked at Lilah, who looked at me, and then we both looked at Mom in frustration and confusion.

“I’m sorry, what?” I said abruptly.

Lilah pitched in, “Well, I knew I was adopted. My parents told me that I was very small and weak at birth, and my birth parents didn’t have the means to pay for my treatment, so they surrendered me to the state for Medicare to cover my life-saving surgeries and medicines. I was adopted by a wealthier family after the initial treatments who continued to support my care. I was raised as an only child after that.”

“Yes, darling. It’s not uncommon during triplet pregnancies for one triplet to become the dominant one. In my case, it was Joan who was the biggest, followed by Esther. You got the short stick.” Mom’s eyes got heavy and sad. “Your father had just lost his job and the treatments to save you were more than we were going to be able to pay for. At the same time, there was a mother in the room next to us who had a stillborn. I didn’t think it was fair I had three babies and one I couldn’t care for and she had none. So, I surrendered you to the state with the hope the mother next door would be able to take you. I never found out what happened after that though.”

“My mother did have a stillborn before adopting me,” Lilah said. “She said she named me Lilah because that’s what you named me.”

Mom perked up at hearing her lost child’s name for the first time. Then she cried. They were reunited. I didn’t know what to think.

“But, you said our sister just died?” Lilah asked.

I looked away. “Yeah. Joan and I were best friends. She was irreplaceable.”

Lilah put a hand on my shoulder. “I won’t replace her, but I can be your friend.”

She's dead. YOU KNOW she's dead; you saw her body at the funeral. When you kept seeing her everywhere, you chalked it up to grief. But this time, you have photo evidence. That’s definitely her.

[littleprinces]

Sexcretary part 3

Itzy Lia x Male Reader

In the heart of a bustling metropolis, my office stood as a testament to my success. The sterile, modern decor was a stark contrast to the lush, vibrant cityscape outside. My desk, a sprawling expanse of polished mahogany, was my throne, and from it, I ruled my empire.

The day Lia walked into my life was like any other. The sun streamed through the glass walls, casting harsh shadows on the gleaming floors. My assistant, a stern-faced woman in her forties, ushered her in. "Here's your new secretary, Mr. Kim" she said, her voice devoid of emotion.

Lia was a vision. Her hair, a cascade of ebony curls, framed her face, and her eyes, large and doe-like, scanned the room nervously. She was dressed in a crisp, white blouse and a fitted, black skirt that accentuated her curves. Her age, I later found out, was a mere 24 years.

"Welcome, Lia," I said, standing to greet her. My voice was deep, commanding, and I saw her swallow hard as I extended my hand. "I'm Mr. Kim."

Our first encounter was brief, but it left an impression. I could see the mix of fear and fascination in her eyes, a heady combination that I found intoxicating. Over the next few weeks, I watched her as she settled into her role. Her efficiency was impressive, her demeanor professional, yet there was a certain vulnerability about her that I found intriguing.

One evening, as I was leaving the office, I found her at her desk, her head resting on her arms. She looked up as I approached, her eyes heavy with fatigue. "Long day?" I asked, my voice softening.

She nodded, pushing herself upright. "Just a bit overwhelmed, sir."

I paused, considering her words. "Would you like to grab a drink? On me, of course."

She hesitated, then nodded. "I'd like that, Mr. Kim."

The bar was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of expensive whiskey and the low hum of conversation. We found a secluded booth in the corner, and she ordered a glass of wine, her fingers trembling slightly as she did so.

"So, Lia," I began, my voice low. "Tell me about yourself."

She took a sip of her wine, her eyes meeting mine over the rim of the glass. "Not much to tell, really. I'm just your typical twenty-something, trying to make her way in the world."

I leaned back in my seat, my eyes never leaving hers. "And what do you think of your new job?"

She blushed, her cheeks turning a soft pink. "It's... challenging. But I like it."

I smiled, a slow, predatory smile that I knew would unsettle her. "Good. I like challenges."

Over the next few weeks, our encounters became more frequent. We'd meet for lunch, or I'd invite her to my office after hours, ostensibly to discuss work, but really, just to be in her presence. I could see the effect I had on her, the way her breath hitched when I leaned in too close, the way her eyes darkened when I spoke in my deep, husky voice.

One evening, I invited her to my home. I lived in a sprawling penthouse, the walls lined with books and the air filled with the scent of leather and old parchment. She looked around, her eyes wide with awe.

"It's beautiful," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

I poured us each a glass of wine and led her to the sofa. She sat down, her body rigid with tension. I sat beside her, close enough that I could feel the heat of her body, smell the faint scent of her perfume.

"Relax, Lia," I murmured, my hand reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She shivered at my touch, her eyes fluttering closed.

I leaned in, my lips brushing against hers. The kiss was soft, gentle, a question rather than a demand. She hesitated for a moment, then kissed me back, her lips parting to allow my tongue to slip inside.

I deepened the kiss, my hand cupping her cheek, my other arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her closer. She moaned softly, her body melting against mine. I could feel her heart racing, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps.

I broke away from the kiss, my lips trailing down her neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. She arched against me, a soft moan escaping her lips. I could feel her nipples hardening through the thin fabric of her blouse, and I reached up, my fingers pinching and rolling them between my thumb and forefinger.

She gasped, her hands reaching up to tangle in my hair. I smiled against her skin, my fingers moving to the buttons of her blouse, undoing them one by one. She shivered as I pushed the fabric aside, exposing her bra-clad breasts.

I leaned back, my eyes roving over her body. She was breathtaking, her skin pale and smooth, her breasts full and round. I reached behind her, undoing her bra with a deft flick of my fingers. The cups fell away, revealing her nipples, hard and erect.

"You're gorgeous, Lia," I murmured, my voice thick with desire.

She blushed, her eyes cast downward. I reached out, my finger lifting her chin, forcing her to meet my gaze. "Look at me," I commanded.

She did, her eyes filled with a mixture of fear and desire. I smiled, a slow, wicked smile. "Good girl."

I leaned in, my lips capturing one of her nipples, sucking and teasing it with my tongue. She moaned, her back arching, her fingers tangling in my hair. I could feel her body trembling, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps.

I moved to the other breast, giving it the same attention, my hand moving down to her skirt, slowly lifting it. She tensed for a moment, then relaxed, allowing me to push it up past her hips. I hooked my fingers into the waistband of her panties, pulling them down and off.

She was completely naked now, her body spread out before me like a feast. I could see the dampness between her legs, the evidence of her arousal. I smiled, my fingers moving to touch her, to slide through her folds.

"You're wet, Lia," I murmured, my voice thick with desire. "You want this, don't you?"

She nodded, her eyes locked with mine. "Yes, Mr. Kim. I want this."

I leaned in, my lips capturing hers in a hard, demanding kiss. I could feel her body melting against mine, her hands reaching up to tangle in my hair. I broke away from the kiss, my lips moving down her body, nipping and sucking at her skin.

I settled between her legs, my fingers parting her folds, exposing her clit. I leaned in, my tongue flicking out to taste her. She moaned, her hips bucking against my mouth. I smiled, my tongue circling her clit, my fingers sliding inside her, moving in and out in a slow, steady rhythm.

"Oh, God," she moaned, her hands fisting in the cushions. "That feels so good."

I chuckled, my tongue moving down to her entrance, my fingers replacing my tongue on her clit. I could feel her body tensing, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. I could sense her orgasm building, her body arching, her moans becoming louder, more insistent.

I pulled away just as she was about to climax, her body trembling with frustration. I smiled, my eyes locking with hers. "Not yet, Lia," I said, my voice firm. "Not until I say so."

I stood up, my hands moving to my belt, undoing it with quick, efficient movements. She watched, her eyes wide with anticipation, as I pushed my pants down, my cock springing free. I was hard, the head already glistening with pre-cum.

I climbed onto the sofa, my body covering hers, my cock poised at her entrance. I looked into her eyes, my voice low and commanding. "Tell me you want this, Lia. Tell me you want my cock inside you."

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, Mr. Kim. I want your cock inside me."

I smiled, my hips thrusting forward, my cock sliding into her in one smooth motion. She moaned, her body arching against mine, her nails digging into my back.

"Fuck, you're tight," I groaned, my hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm. "So fucking tight."

I could feel her body adjusting to my size, her muscles relaxing, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. I could sense her body tensing, her orgasm building, her moans becoming louder, more insistent.

I pulled out, my cock glistening with her juices. I smiled, my fingers moving to her clit, rubbing it in slow, steady circles. She moaned, her hips bucking against my hand.

"Please, sir" she begged. "Please, I need to come."

I smiled, my fingers moving away from her clit, my cock replacing them. I thrust into her, my hips moving in a fast, hard rhythm. She cried out, her body arching against mine, her nails digging into my back.

"Fuck, yes," she moaned. "Fuck, yes, Sir. Fuck me, please. Fuck me hard."

I could feel her body tensing, her orgasm building. I leaned down, my lips capturing hers in a hard, demanding kiss. I could feel her body trembling, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps.

I broke away from the kiss, my lips moving to her ear. "Come for me, Lia," I commanded. "Come now."

And she did. Her body convulsed, her muscles clamping down on my cock, her moans filling the room. I could feel her body milking me, her orgasm triggering my own. I groaned, my cock pulsing as I came, my semen filling her, coating her insides.

I pulled out, my cock glistening with our combined juices. I looked down at her, her body flushed, her eyes glazed with pleasure. I smiled, my voice soft. "Good girl, Lia. You were amazing."

She blushed, her eyes cast downward. I reached out, my finger lifting her chin, forcing her to meet my gaze. "Look at me, Lia," I said, my voice firm. "You did well. You pleased me."

She smiled, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "Thank you, Sir" she whispered. "I'm glad I pleased you."

Over the next few weeks, our relationship deepened. Our encounters became more frequent, more intense. I found myself looking forward to our time together, craving her body, her submission. She was mine, completely and utterly mine, and I reveled in the knowledge.

One evening, as we lay entwined on my bed, I looked into her eyes, my voice soft. "Lia," I said, "I want you to do something for me."

She looked at me, her eyes filled with anticipation. "Anything, Sir" she whispered. "Anything you want."

I smiled, my hand moving to her hair, fisting it tightly. I pulled her head back, exposing her throat. "I want you to suck my cock, Lia," I commanded. "I want you to take me deep into your throat."

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, Sir" she whispered. "I'll do it. I'll suck your cock."

I released her hair, my hand moving to her shoulder, pushing her down onto the bed. She moved into position, her body kneeling before me, her head level with my cock. I looked down at her, my voice firm. "Now, Lia. Suck my cock."

She leaned in, her lips parting, her tongue flicking out to lick the head of my cock. I groaned, my hips thrusting forward, my cock sliding into her mouth. She took me in, her lips tightening around my shaft, her tongue moving against me.

"Fuck, yes," I moaned, my hands moving to her head, my fingers tangling in her hair. "That's it, Lia. Take me deep. Take me all the way in."

She did, her lips moving down my shaft, her nose pressing against my pubic hair. I could feel her throat constricting around me, her tongue moving against the sensitive underside of my cock.

I groaned, my hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm, my cock sliding in and out of her mouth. I could feel her saliva coating me, her lips sliding against my shaft. I could sense my orgasm building, my body tensing, my breath coming in quick, shallow gasps.

I pulled out, my cock glistening with her saliva. I smiled, my fingers moving to her hair, pulling her head back. "Look at me, Lia," I commanded.

She did, her eyes filled with tears, her lips swollen and red. I smiled, my voice low and commanding. "Good girl, Lia. You did well. You pleased me."

She smiled, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "Thank you, Sir," she whispered. "I'm glad I pleased you."

A few weeks later, Lia found out she was pregnant. She gave me a pregnancy test with two lines on it, then hugged me.

Our relationship went on like that of a married couple, even though I was already married.

[lov3notts]

amora congratulations on 1k babes!! i’m so happy for you and your celebration is so pretty ♥️!

i was thinking cupids arrow w/ theo nott + "i think it's time we take a break." (feeling all the angst with theo lol)

1k Celebration!!! ;Navigation

i missed writing angst!!! thank you for this brooke😽

You sat on the edge of your bed, staring at your phone—at yet another unread message, another unanswered “Are we still on tonight?”

You stared for a while. Then stood.

Because you had grown tired of his games.

But by the time you found him, he was in the common room, backlit by firelight and hunched over a book he clearly wasn’t reading, something inside you snapped.

He didn’t even notice you at first.

That used to be impossible.

You stood there for a second too long, waiting for him to look up, to say “hey, love” to smile like he used to.

He didn’t.

You finally spoke. “So, are you going to keep pretending I don’t exist, or is that just how things are now?”

He sat back slowly, eyes narrowing. “Okay. What’s going on?”

“You tell me,” you snapped. “Because I’m tired of guessing.”

Theo blinked. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’ve been distant, Theo. You barely speak to me, you cancel plans without a word, you act like I’m bothering you just by being here.”

He closed the book sharply, standing. “You’re being dramatic.”

“No, I’m being honest,” you said. “Do you even care anymore? Or are you just too much of a coward to tell me you’re done?”

His jaw tightened. “I’ve got a lot going on, alright?”

“So say that!” you shouted. “Say something! You just shut me out like I don’t matter anymore—like we don’t matter. And I’m sick of making excuses for you.”

“I don’t know, alright?” His voice rose. “I don’t have some neat answer to make you feel better. Maybe I’m tired. Maybe I’m overwhelmed. Maybe I just need some space without being accused of falling out of love with you every five seconds.”

That hit you like a slap.

Then he moved closer to you, tension sharp in his shoulders. “You don’t get it.”

“Then talk to me, Theo! Let me in! That’s what people do when they’re in love!”

His mouth opened—then closed again.

And that silence burned more than anything he could’ve said.

You laughed bitterly, wiping at the tears starting to slip. “Right. That’s what I thought.”

He looked away, jaw tightening. “I didn’t say I don’t love you.”

“You didn’t have to.”

A beat passed, heavy and quiet.

Then Theo muttered, “Maybe I just need time.”

You stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Time? Theo I’ve been giving you nothing but time.”

“Well, apparently not enough,” he snapped.

You nodded slowly, chest burning, eyes stinging. “Fine.”

You turned, this time not waiting for him to stop you. Not hoping.

Because you had lost hope a long time ago.

At first, he thought it would help.

Space.

It sounded reasonable when he said it. He told himself he needed air, time to think—some distance to quiet the noise in his head. He hadn’t meant to hurt you. He just… didn’t know how to explain what was going on inside him. And you were always there, asking, worrying, caring—and he couldn’t live up to it. Not then.

But now?

Now it was too quiet.

You stopped walking with him to class. Stopped waiting for him outside the library. Stopped sliding into the seat next to him at lunch like you always used to, shoulder brushing his, warm and familiar. He didn't even realize how much he'd relied on those moments until they disappeared.

Now there was an empty seat beside him. Every. Single. Day.

And that seat was louder than any fight you’d ever had.

At first, he tried to pretend he was fine. He shrugged it off when Mattheo raised an eyebrow and said, “You look like a kicked dog.”

He ignored Blaise’s snort when he muttered, “Mate, you asked for this.”

But he saw the way they looked at him when you walked past without sparing him a glance. He felt it—the hollow ache when you smiled at someone else down the corridor, your eyes never even flickering in his direction.

He thought he’d feel lighter. But he just felt lonely.

So one afternoon, he found you alone by the edge of the Black Lake, where you used to sit together and talk for hours about everything and nothing.

You were sitting on the grass, picking absentmindedly at the hem of your sleeve. The sunlight caught the side of your face, and for a second, it hit him all at once—how much he missed you. Your voice. Your warmth. Your presence.

He cleared his throat softly.

You looked up.

Theo hesitated, hands shoved in his pockets. “Hey.”

“Hey.” It wasn’t cold. But it wasn’t warm, either. It was… careful. Like you were building a wall and choosing not to let him through.

“I, uh…” He shifted. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

He hated how polite you sounded. He hated that he didn’t know how to fix it.

“I know I said I needed space,” he started, eyes locked on the water, “but—”

“But now you’re ready for me to be here again?”

His head snapped to you.

You weren’t angry. That’s what made it worse. You were calm. Resigned.

“I gave you space, Theo,” you said softly. “And in that space, I had time to think too.”

He swallowed hard. “Think about what?”

You shrugged, still not meeting his eyes. “About how much of our relationship was me trying to hold it together while you pulled away.”

Theo’s chest tightened.

“You said you needed time, but you never said why. You didn’t trust me enough to let me in.” Your voice cracked, just a little. “And maybe that was my answer all along.”

“I do trust you—”

“Do you?” you asked, finally looking at him. “Because it didn’t feel like it.”

Silence settled between you. Cold and final.

He didn’t know what to say. He’d thought the distance would give him clarity—but all it did was show him how much he’d taken you for granted. And now… now he wasn’t sure if there was anything left to come back to.

“I’m not mad, Theo. I just… I don’t know if I can keep trying for someone who won’t meet me halfway.”

You took a shaky breath, fingers digging into the sleeves of your jumper.

“I think it’s time we take a break.” The words tasted like betrayal in your own mouth.

Theo’s breath caught. “No. Don’t say that. Please.”

“I’m tired,” you whispered. “I’m so tired, Theo. Of chasing after someone who keeps running.”

“I’m not running,” he said quickly. “Not anymore. I’m here—I’m here. I messed up, but we can fix this. Just—don’t give up on me.”

You looked at him, eyes glassy and throat tight. “I didn’t give up on you. You gave up on us. I just finally listened.”

He reached for your hand, and for a moment, you let him take it.

“I love you” he said, with every ounce of fear and hope in his chest.

You gave a sad smile, eyes dropping to the place where your hands touched.

“And I…..loved you.” You stood slowly, gently pulling your hand away.

He didn’t stop you when you walked away.

He wanted to. God, he wanted to.

But maybe this time, he didn’t deserve to.

ᥫ᭡reblog's & comment's are appreciatedᥫ᭡

©lov3notts ,do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own.

[inseobts]

Smoke and Fire

sabo x fem!reader (+ sanji x fem!reader)

sabo keeps avoiding his feelings, but what happens when he sees you with another man?

words count: 3.2k

tags: jealous sabo, during time-skip, angst with fluff, sanji flirting, hidden feelings, emotional tension

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The mission is simple.

Drop off a message to an allied contact. Rest. Leave.

You've never been there so you don’t expect the island to be... this.

“What the hell…” you mumble, blinking at the huge heart-shaped flowers and men in dresses sprinting around with makeup kits and high heels.

Sabo’s eyes narrow behind his goggles “This is Momoiro Island. Ivankov’s old base.”

“Oh,” you say “Explains the fashion.”

A pink-haired man runs up to you “Revolutionaries?” he asks cheerfully.

You and Sabo nod.

“You just missed the princess!”

“...Princess?” you repeat.

“Our guest! Handsome, blond, always cooking, always crying!”

Sabo raises an eyebrow “We weren’t told anyone else was here.”

The man laughs “Oh, he’s not with the army! He crash-landed here months ago. Poor thing’s heartbroken, but my, does he know how to use a frying pan~!”

You glance at Sabo “Should we meet him?”

“We’ll rest first” he says, almost too quickly.

The rooms they give you are small but cozy. Yours smells like lavender. You toss your bag onto the bed, then lean on the windowsill. Outside, Sabo talks with one of the locals.

You watch him.

Strong. Calm. Always a little distant.

You’ve been traveling with him for months, but he never lets you get too close. You wish he would.

He glances up and catches you looking.

You wave.

He waves back, but turns away fast.

The next morning, someone knocks on your door.

You open it, and there’s a man with blond hair, a thin cigarette, and the longest eyelashes you’ve ever seen.

“Pardon me, mademoiselle,” he says, voice like silk “I heard there was a beautiful stranger staying in this wing. I had to see for myself.”

You blink “Uh… Your nose is...”

“My name is Sanji,” he adds with a little bow “Can I interest you in breakfast?”

You smile, unsure “Do I know you?”

“Not yet,” he says, grinning “But I’m hoping that will change.”

Before you can answer, a firm voice cuts in “She already ate.”

You turn.

Sabo is standing in the hallway, arms crossed, gaze cold.

Sanji raises an eyebrow “Oh? And who might you be?”

Sabo walks up slowly “Her partner.”

Sanji grins wider “Lucky man.”

Sabo doesn’t smile.

You cough “Um. Sanji, right? You’re the guest here?”

“At your service, angel.”

Sabo steps slightly between you and Sanji “She’s busy.”

“I was just—”

“I said she’s busy.”

Sanji looks from you to Sabo, then smiles politely “Understood. Another time, perhaps.”

He bows again and walks away, hands in his pockets.

You stare at Sabo “That was… intense.”

He shrugs.

“You okay?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Sabo.”

“I don’t like the way he looked at you.”

Your heart skips “Why?”

His voice is quiet “Because he saw you before I was ready.”

You blink “…What do you mean, before you were ready?”

Sabo looks away.

The silence is awkward. Heavy. You're not used to this from him. Usually he’s composed. Sharp. In control. But right now, he looks... cornered.

“Sabo?”

He exhales slowly, then changes the subject, fast.

“The ship’s got a leak.”

You frown “What?”

“Engine room. Nothing major, but we’ll have to stay here a few more days while I fix it.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I already talked to the dock crew. They’ll give me parts.”

“Sabo.”

He ignores you “Until then, try not to wander too far, alright?”

You cross your arms “Why are you avoiding the question?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“No, I’m—” he cuts himself off, jaw clenched “It’s nothing.”

You step closer “Sabo.”

He looks down at you, face unreadable “Let it go.”

Your chest tightens “Why can’t you just talk to me? You're always like this.”

He hesitates.

Then, quietly, he says, “Because I don’t want to say something I can’t take back.”

And then he turns and walks away.

You spend the next hour pacing in your room.

What was that supposed to mean?

Since when does Sabo... who always knows the right words, the right move... get flustered like that? Why would he not be “ready” for someone to see you? What was he going to say?

And why does your heart keep racing when you replay the way he stood in front of you?

Like he was protecting something that already belonged to him.

You finally step out, needing fresh air, only to nearly bump right into someone.

“Oh! My goddess!” Sanji clasps his hands like he’s praying “Fate has brought us together again!”

You stare “Are you always like this?”

“Only when inspiration strikes” he says, and offers you a rose that definitely wasn’t in his hands two seconds ago “Would you allow me the honor of showing you the garden?”

You hesitate.

Then you glance down the hall... no Sabo.

“…Sure.”

Maybe some flowers will clear your head.

Meanwhile, from the top of the hill behind the garden, Sabo stands with arms crossed, staring down.

He watches Sanji lead you through the path of tulips, hand occasionally brushing yours, smile wide.

You’re laughing.

Not like you do with Sabo. No teasing. No guarded glances.

You’re actually relaxed. Glowing.

He should feel happy you're enjoying yourself. Instead, he feels like someone lit a fire in his chest... and it burns like hell.

The garden is beautiful, even more with the sunset light turning the sky soft orange. You’re laughing at something Sanji says... he’s dramatic, but kind, and you admit: he’s easy to talk to. He treats you like you’re the center of the world.

You’re not used to that.

He suddenly turns serious “Would you let me cook for you tonight?”

You blink “What?”

“Dinner. Just us. I’ll prepare something special. A private meal, from my heart to your plate.”

You hesitate “Sanji, I—I don’t want to lead you on…”

He smiles gently “You’re not. I know your heart isn’t mine. But I’d still like to make you feel… seen. You're not staying here much more, so let me help you.”

Your lips part slightly.

It’s not that you’re not thinking about Sabo. You are, constantly. But Sabo never says how he feels. He pulls away. He hides behind orders, missions, excuses. Maybe dinner will distract you. Maybe it’ll help clear your head.

“…Okay,” you say softly “Dinner sounds nice.”

Later, the main dining hall is loud with laughter and clinking glasses. Revolutionaries from every part of the island are eating together, the smell of food heavy in the air.

Sabo walks in, scanning the room.

You’re not here.

He sits next to Ivankov “Hey. Have you seen—”

Ivankov grins “Oh, sweet cheeks? She’s having a private dinner with that Sanji fellow.”

Sabo’s expression freezes “What?”

“You didn’t know?” Iva leans closer, voice teasing “He invited her earlier. Said it was just the two of them. Very romantic~”

Sabo’s grip tightens on his glass.

Someone across the table adds, “I passed her on the way, she looked amazing. Like, wow. Dressed up and everything.”

Another person laughs “Didn’t know she had clothes like that. She cleaned up good.”

Sabo doesn’t hear the rest.

His mind is stuck on just the two of them.

And she dressed up.

You never dress up for him.

Then again... he never gives you a reason to.

He stands up suddenly.

Ivankov blinks “Not staying?”

“I lost my appetite.”

He walks out, fast.

No plan. No words. Just a quiet storm building in his chest.

The table is set under the stars.

Lanterns float in the trees, casting warm yellow light. There’s a small bottle of wine, fresh flowers, and two plates that smell so good your stomach actually growls.

Sanji pulls out a chair for you like a perfect gentleman “For you, mademoiselle.”

You sit, smoothing your dress, a simple thing you found buried in your travel bag. You didn’t even remember packing it. But after looking in the mirror... you needed to feel like someone else tonight. Someone not tired. Not confused. Not constantly waiting for a certain blonde revolutionary to stop avoiding her.

Sanji pours you a glass “To good company.”

You raise your glass “To good food.”

You both sip, and for a while, you eat in silence. The pasta is soft and rich with cream. The vegetables are grilled perfectly. You try to focus on the flavors. On the warmth. On Sanji’s voice when he tells you stories about the wild people on this island.

But Sabo keeps creeping into your thoughts.

His silence.

His half-finished sentences.

His sharp looks at Sanji.

You chew slower.

You’re not sure when it happens, but your fork stops halfway to your mouth.

Sanji notices “Something wrong?”

You put the fork down “No. I mean... yes. I don’t know.”

He tilts his head, serious now.

You sigh “This was supposed to be a distraction.”

He doesn’t answer, just waits.

“I thought dressing up and eating with someone charming would help me stop thinking about him.”

Sanji’s voice is soft “Sabo?”

You nod slowly.

“I don’t get him,” you admit “One minute he looks at me like I’m the most important thing in the world. The next, he acts like I’m just another soldier.”

“Sounds like a man afraid of his own feelings” Sanji says gently.

“I’ve tried to be patient. I get that he’s busy. That we’re at war. But I’m always the one reaching out. Always waiting. Always guessing.”

Your voice gets quieter “And I’m tired of feeling like I care more than he does.”

Sanji leans forward “You want him to fight for you.”

You swallow “I just want to matter. Out loud. Not in silence. Not in hints. Not in things he doesn’t say.”

For a moment, there’s only the sound of wind in the trees.

Then Sanji says, “You do matter. Anyone with eyes can see that.”

Your throat tightens “Thanks.”

He smiles gently “You’re incredible. And if he doesn’t tell you that soon…”

He pauses “…he’s going to lose something he won’t be able to replace.”

You look at your wine glass, eyes stinging.

You don’t know what to say.

So Sanji just refills your glass, and starts talking about spices and the sea, until your heart feels a little lighter.

Later on - Sanji’s stories only get more ridiculous as the night goes on.

“—so then I’m running through the kitchen, completely on fire, and Zeff is just watching me like, ‘This idiot deserves it’.”

You burst out laughing, nearly choking on your wine “You’re kidding!”

“Swear on my spices. I smelled like smoked fish for days.”

You lean on the table, grinning hard “You were such a mess.”

He places a hand dramatically over his heart “A charming, well-dressed mess, thank you very much.”

You’re still laughing when a soft sound catches your ear, footsteps.

You glance over your shoulder.

Sabo stands a few feet away, just… staring.

His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are locked on you. Not Sanji. You.

You straighten in your chair “Sabo...”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move.

Sanji follows your gaze and stands up smoothly “Hey,” he says casually “Join us?”

“No” Sabo says flatly.

You blink “Sabo?”

He steps forward now, voice low, tight “You’re really having fun, huh?”

The tone makes your chest tighten “I—yeah. Sanji was—he made dinner. I just—”

“You dressed up.”

That hits harder than it should.

“Why does that matter?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at you like he’s trying to find the words he’s been choking on for weeks.

Sanji clears his throat “Maybe I should—”

“Stay,” Sabo cuts in “You’ve already seen enough.”

Sanji raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. He leans back against the wall, arms crossed, watching.

Sabo looks at you again “I thought I had time.”

Your heart beats faster “Time for what?”

“To tell you how I feel.”

Silence falls between you.

You stand slowly “Then why didn’t you?”

“Because I’m not like him,” he says, jerking his chin at Sanji “I don’t know how to be soft. Or charming. Or say the right things. But watching you out here, laughing with someone else like that—”

His voice breaks a little.

“I hated it.”

You don’t speak.

“I hated that I wasn’t the one making you smile like that.”

Now you do.

“Then why did you keep pushing me away?”

Sabo steps closer “Because if I let myself fall, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

He’s right in front of you now.

And you can feel the heat coming off him, more than fire.

“I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t feel anything,” he says, voice low, rough, vulnerable “Because I do. I always have.”

Your breath catches.

He reaches for your hand, finally “I’m sorry it took someone else for me to admit it.”

Behind you, Sanji sighs quiet, like a gentleman who knows when the spotlight isn’t his.

He turns to leave “She deserved to hear it. Finally.”

And he disappears into the night.

Tears hit your eyes before you can stop them.

“You’re an idiot” you whisper.

Sabo flinches, but doesn’t move.

You step forward and punch his arm. Not hard, but enough to make a sound.

“You idiot!”

Another punch. He doesn’t stop you.

“You absolute, emotionally-stunted dumbass! I thought I was crazy!”

Punch. Punch.

“I thought I was making it all up in my head! Every time you looked at me like I mattered, every time you said something sweet and then pulled away, I thought I was imagining it!”

Sabo looks like he’s been stabbed, but he lets you keep going.

You hit his chest with both hands now, frustrated tears running down your cheeks.

“I waited so long! I kept hoping, and hoping, and you never said anything! You just acted like nothing was happening while I... while I was falling in love with you, you idiot!”

Your voice cracks on that last word.

And then you just drop dramatically, right onto your knees, wiping your eyes with both hands, sniffling like a mess. “Ughhh I think I drank too much” you wail into your palms.

Sabo blinks, stunned.

Then he rushes over “Hey—hey, come here—”

You swat at him half-heartedly “Don’t touch me! No—wait—okay yes, touch me, help me up, I’m dizzy.”

He gently pulls you to your feet. You stumble into his chest and grab the front of his shirt like a lifeline.

“You made me crazy,” you sniff “I literally dressed up for another man just to forget you.”

“I noticed.”

“You’re so STUPID.”

“I know.”

“And handsome.”

He makes a choked laugh “That too.”

He steadies you with one arm around your waist, the other carefully holding your wrist “Can you walk?”

“No. I’m too emotional.” You throw your head back dramatically.

He actually laughs this time, soft and helpless “Okay, drama queen. Let’s get you back.”

He walks you slowly through the halls, his pace patient, arm never leaving you.

Your head leans against his shoulder. You speak again, softer now.

“I really do love you, you know.”

His steps falter, just a second.

“I tried not to. I tried to be cool. Like, maybe I could just move on or pretend I didn’t feel it. But... it was always you.”

Sabo swallows “I don’t deserve that.”

You stop walking and look up at him, red eyes shining “You don’t get to decide that.”

He looks at you like he’s seeing the sun for the first time.

Then he says quietly, “Okay.”

And keeps holding you, like he’s never letting go.

The walk to your room is slow and quiet.

Your steps are wobbly. Your thoughts are loud.

Sabo keeps holding you like you’re something fragile. Like you might shatter again.

He opens the door to your room and helps you sit on the bed, gently pulling off your shoes like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s done it a hundred times in his head.

You stare at him.

“I’m not drunk” you say suddenly, even though that’s a lie and both of you know it.

“You said you drank too much like ten minutes ago” he says with a small laugh.

You smile lazily “Liar.”

He leans down to pull the blanket over you.

And that’s when you move, reaching up with both arms, eyes heavy, lips parting...

“Wait!” he says quickly, hand flying up to block your face “Hold it.”

You freeze, lips a breath away from his fingers.

You blink at him.

“Are you serious right now?” you whisper.

Sabo grins, but there’s a flush in his cheeks.

He gently presses his hand to your forehead like he’s checking your temperature “Let’s keep that for when you’re not tipsy.”

You pout. Full lips, big eyes, dramatic sigh “That’s mean.”

“You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

“I doubt it.”

“You’re pouting like a child.”

You blink slowly. Then nod.

“…Okay,” you mumble, smiling anyway, eyes still wet but shining “But you better not forget.”

He stands there for a second, just watching you melt into the blanket.

“I won’t” he says quietly.

You hum, eyes fluttering closed “Promise?”

“I promise.”

He turns to leave.

“Wait.”

He pauses at the door.

“…Will you stay? Just for a minute?”

He nods without a word and sits in the chair beside your bed.

You fall asleep with his hand resting gently over yours, and for the first time in what feels like forever, everything feels okay.

You wake up slowly.

Your mouth’s dry. Your head’s a little heavy. But you remember everything.

The dinner.

The tears.

Sabo’s voice telling you the things you waited so long to hear.

You sit up. There’s a folded note on your nightstand in careful handwriting:

Went to get you water. Don’t move. –S

You snort and stay right where you are.

A few minutes later, the door opens and he steps in quietly, holding a glass in one hand and a small plate of toast in the other.

His eyes meet yours.

“…You remember everyting?” he asks softly.

You nod “All of it.”

He sets the things down on the nightstand “You look less like you’re going to punch me today.”

You smirk “I still might.”

A pause.

Then, you look at him seriously “Thank you. For last night. For not… taking advantage."

He looks almost offended “I would never.”

“I know,” you say gently “That’s why it meant so much.”

Another pause.

You take the water, sip it. Then look up at him.

“Still keeping that kiss for when I’m 100% sober?” you ask, tilting your head.

He stares for a second.

Then moves slowly toward the bed.

You shift, knees bent under the blanket as he stops right in front of you.

“I’m still kind of scared” he admits.

“Of what?”

“That if I do this… I won’t be able to stop. I won’t want to.”

You smile “Maybe I don’t want you to stop.”

He exhales, heart in his throat.

Then he leans in, slowly, like giving you a hundred chances to pull away.

You don’t.

When his lips finally touch yours, it’s soft. Careful. Not rushed.

It’s not perfect, he’s nervous, and so are you, but it’s real. It’s warm. His hand comes up to cup your cheek and you lean into it like it’s the only thing holding you together.

You kiss him again, this time slower, longer.

When you pull back, your foreheads rest together.

“Still scared?” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he says, breathless “But it’s better than pretending I don’t feel anything.”

You grin and pull him back in.

[bvidzsoo]

OH MY GOODNESS 3.5k THATS SO AWESOME YOU SHOULD BE PROUD 🫶🫶 can i ask for prompts 3 and 9 with pirate au wooyo 😁 but also possibly mix it with royal au …. maybe ….

Neverland's treasure

Pairing: pirate!Jung Wooyoung x princess!female reader

५ TW: mentions of: violence, murder, human trafficking, slavery, death, and weapons (not graphic) ५ Word count: 6k ५ Genre: fluffy, slightly angsty; pirate and royal au; rivals alluding to more; inspired by 'Pirated of the Caribbean' if you squint hehe; @cromernet ५ Rating: pg-13 ५ Prompt(s): 3: Aw, you're blushing like a rose. / 9: You're staring again.

A/N: Aaack, anonie!! I literally kicked my feet so hard when I saw your request! This was so much fun to write, I really loved your request lol. The premise with those prompts was just too good...I hope you'll like this, I certainly did write both worlds into this (royal x pirate? hell yeah, anonie!) I hope you'll like this ^^ You can find the prompts here, request are open until the 8th! This drabble also made me reminiscent of my pirate/prince!woo oneshot called Heavy is the head that wears the crown. Let me know what you think of this drabble, enjoy! ^^ divider

Some believed that if you wanted to be a pirate, you just had to be born as one. Your Captain, however, believed that if one was determined enough, one could become a pirate without issues. Sure, you’d have to let go of previous inhibitions and beliefs, but when you grew up in a corrupted kingdom, it wasn’t hard to turn a blind eye to crime. You knew that sounded awful, but when life gave you no choice, you had to adapt whether you liked it or not. And somehow you realised you liked it like this. Being a pirate was a lot more fun than being a princess, forced to rot away in your castle while your evil stepmother plotted to conquer your kingdom, forcing you to marry a man you had never met, who could be twice your age or barely born. The thought made you shudder even now, it made you grateful that you ran away when you had. It wasn’t easy to navigate the big world on your own for the first three months. You couldn’t stay in your kingdom where everyone recognised your face, and you also couldn’t sail to one that was affiliated with yours. And that left you with few options, too few ones.

But Aurora was a faraway land, the land of no man, the land of the wicked, the land of those who never sleep. And whoever has said that was right. Every sound made you jump at first when you had just freshly arrived, and the lock on the room you were renting at the Inn didn’t make you feel safe even in the least. It was terrible, you thought about giving up and going back to your kingdom, but then you remembered your harpy of a stepmother and your deceased father who’s been an angel his whole life, who has raised a warrior and not a princess. So, gulping down your fear, you braved through the streets of Aurora and tried to make yourself less visible when it wasn’t necessary, tried to act like you hadn’t been brought up between silk sheets and maidens that catered to your every wish. You were afraid that the outlaws could smell your royal blood, but when you ran into them at the seamstress you were working along with, they didn’t bat an eyelash in your direction, too busy barking out orders to the poor woman who seemed to quiver under their gazes.

And in that boutique is how you found yourself running into the nefarious Barbarossa, a rip off of the one and only fearsome pirate that has long since perished. You laughed when the man introduced himself, then snorted when he glared at you with his sharp eyes. It was hilarious. He looked too young to be the Captain of a ship, and he certainly did not look like he’d been born to be a pirate. He reminded you of yourself back then—when you hadn’t yet known his princess-like character—sharp gaze trying to mask his fear, his rigid back nothing but a façade of a boy trying to navigate the big scary world.

“Well, will you sow the costume for me?” The pirate with his raspy voice asked, sighing like he was already tired of you. You grinned before you looked around, making sure the madam wasn’t there as you leaned over the counter, motioning for the Captain to come closer. He quirked an eyebrow and smirked, handsome, but you weren’t here to flirt.

“Let’s make a deal, Barbarossa.” You said low, your expression turning serious, “I saw the costume for you, and in exchange, you make me part of your crew.”

The pirate frowned, tilting his head, “Now why would I do that? A woman is of no use on my ship to me—unless you want to be my whore?”

Your jaw clenched as you glared at the Captain, but you weren’t giving up just yet. You wanted out of Aurora, and most importantly, you wanted revenge on your stepmother. The kingdom was rightfully yours, and if this pirate helped you conquer it, you’d pay him back heftily.

“A woman is of much use, but it seems like men haven’t realised that yet,” You chuckled, reaching out to grab his necklace, twirling the black pearl between your fingers, “Let me tell you a secret, Captain Barbarossa. If you help me out, half of Wonderland’s treasure will be yours. We can shake on it right now; I hate people who don’t keep their promises.”

The man’s eyebrows furrowed, his expression shifting from disinterest and amusement to curiosity, “And how could you give me Wonderland’s treasure, you pure maiden who works in a seamstress boutique?”

“Did you hear that Wonderland’s one and only princess disappeared?” Your lips slowly pulled into a smirk as you stared the pirate down, his expression now morphing into that of confusion.

“I have, but what does it have to—” The Captain gasped as his eyes rounded, watching you more attentively now. You chuckled as you placed your chin in your palms, humming.

“Say, handsome, want to help me take down my evil stepmother?” You bated your eyelashes at the bewildered Captain, whose eyes now sparked with excitement as if he had gotten his hands on a forbidden and long-lost treasure. You chuckled when he leaned in so close that your noses almost touched, his wicked smirk matching yours.

“Oh my, Princess Song, did you know we are last-name relatives?” You tilted your head as the man giggled to himself, his demeanour had completely shifted from the wannabe intimidating pirate into someone…younger and boyish, “Wonderland hasn’t wronged just you, princess, it has ruined my life, too. I say we have a deal.”

“Good.” You grinned, extending your hand to shake on it with the Captain, but he stepped back and spit in his palm, extending it towards you. You grimaced, but realising it was a pirate way to seal a promise, with a sigh, you spit in your hand too.

“Ah!” The man pulled his hand slightly back as your fingers touched, “I get half of Wonderland’s treasure and a handsome young lad…or maiden, I suppose.”

You chuckled, giving the man an amused look, “You can take whomever you’d like as long as you respect them.”

“A pirate respects only one person,” Your spit-laden palms finally touched as you shook on your deal, “The Captain.”

You snorted, walking around the counter and wiping your hand in your dress, “A bit self-centred, aren’t you?”

You didn’t flinch when the much taller pirate slung his arm around your shoulders, leaning his heavy body into your side, “A self-accomplished man always loves himself first and foremost, you should try loving me, too. Perhaps I won’t have to find someone in Wonderland—”

“Not happening,” You scoffed, walking towards the exit with the pirate you knew nothing about. This could’ve been your biggest mistake or your biggest accomplishment. And you’d find out very soon.

“Fine,” The pirate scoffed and glared at you for a second, then he opened the door for you as he called out loudly, “Sorry Madam Füller, I’ll be stealing your lovely princess for now.”

“Shut up!” You hissed, elbowing the Captain in the ribs, “Nobody here knows I’m a princess.”

“No?” The man frowned, his plush lips pouty, “But everyone knows I am a prince, though.”

You froze mid-step, your eyebrows furrowing as the pirate was halted to a stop, his expression questioning. You stared up at him as the clogs started turning in your head, and your mouth dropped open when you realised who this man was, “You’re Song Mingi?!”

The pirate just giggled without giving you an answer, pulling you along, down the dirty cobbled paths of Aurora as his arm tightened around your shoulders whenever a man looked at you too long. You couldn’t believe you landed yourself on a fake pirate’s ship, a self-proclaimed Captain, done on a whim out of boredom by the richest prince in the Seven Seas and Kingdoms. Oh, you had either signed up for doom or the biggest journey of your life.

Dear reader, don’t be misled by prejudice, as the princess was. Song Mingi, despite his posh accent and naïve attitude, was anything but that. He was cunning and strategic, he knew how to charm the pants off anyone, and he wasn’t afraid to dirty his hands with blood. He was a fearsome pirate out on the seas, respected by other crews. It hadn’t taken you long to realise that he was not only respected but feared by his own crew, too. They didn’t cross the captain and they did everything they were told without questioning him much. It was only you who wasn’t afraid of the prince, and his Quartermaster, who looked bored as Mingi paced up and down in his quarters. You had docked down two days ago, preparing for a hit never heard or seen before. It was risky, but Mingi was ballsy, and greedier for gold than his own Quartermaster who grew up having nothing.

“We have to set someone up for a lookout.” Mingi repeated as his eyebrows furrowed, his lips downturned, “We are compromising ourselves if all three of us are going in tonight.”

“Nothing will happen,” You groaned, adding some pearls to your dress as a finishing touch-up. Your eyebrows were furrowed in concentration as you were hunched over Mingi’s desk, your dress’ fabric had been an expensive import from Madam Füller, “You are being a bloody pussy again. Our last hit was a success, wasn’t it?”

Mingi halted at your words, whirling around with a slightly hysterical expression on his face, “A hit?!”

The Quartermaster sighed as he came to sit down across from you, giving you an annoyed expression now that you’ve set Mingi off again. The Captain stormed up to you and slammed his hand down on the table, but nobody even so much as flinched. He was throwing a tantrum, three years on this ship had desensitised you to his tantrums.

“Our ship was on fire for almost two hours, princess!” Mingi snapped, making you roll your eyes at him. He always called you a princess when he tried to remind you that you were inferior to him on this ship, acting as if he wasn’t of the same blue blood as you, “The carpenters needed a month to rebuild what we lost! We couldn’t sail for two months, princess! That bloody rat-infested pirate crew stole our treasure—”

“No, Mingi, they just got to it before us.” You huffed, looking up at him with a bored expression, “It’s not stolen if it wasn’t owned by anyone.”

“And Hongjoong’s ship isn’t rat-infested.” The Quartermaster added with a mutter, setting Mingi off again as he gripped his long hair, screeching like a girl. You bit your bottom lip to stop yourself from laughing, but when you made eye contact with the Quartermaster, he was already looking at you and grinning in amusement.

“Of course, you’d say that!” Mingi snapped, “You’re only here because you argued with the man! You don’t even like me!”

“I never said that,” The Quartermaster sighed, his expression slightly falling, “I left Hongjoong because what he was doing did not align with my morals anymore.”

“But pampering Mingi all day does, huh, Seonghwa?” The man was glaring at you when you looked at him again, and you giggled as you got back to sewing the last three pearls on the collar of your dress.

“Enough!” Mingi screamed, rounding his table to shake Seonghwa out of his chair, “I cannot think if you two keep on making fun of me! We must be smart tonight. There will be too many important people at the ball—including royal blood who know me and probably the princess too, and—Hongjoong’s bloody crew will be there, too. If they get to the treasure before us—”

“How are we sure that the Neverland’s treasure will be there, though?” You pipped up as the cabin went silent. Seonghwa gulped as he looked at Mingi, who closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. The crew were shouting something above deck, their loud thumps echoing through the wooden structure as you glanced up. They were probably drunk already and it wasn’t even the afternoon yet.

“I spoke to…someone,” Mingi mumbled, not meeting your eyes. Seonghwa narrowed his at Mingi and placed his hands on the table as he leaned forward.

“Was it that seer again?” Mingi avoided Seonghwa’s eyes, so you both knew Seonghwa was right, “Kang Yeosang?”

“I trust him, alright!” Mingi exclaimed, looking at you with round eyes, “He’s always helped me…”

“And you still trust him after he joined Hongjoong’s crew?” Seonghwa was asking the important and logical questions here, you, however, were here just for the fun of it.

“Exactly, I’m surprised you like him still.” You chuckled, shrugging when Seonghwa gave you a look. Mingi didn’t say anything as his jaw clenched.

“Listen, I don’t care what you two think about me, but Yeosang has led me closer to finding…him.” Right, him, the man whose name no crew member dared speak—yourself included, “As for tonight, I think the princess should stay on the ship—”

“No!” You exclaimed, your eyes widening. Your grip on the dress tightened as both men looked at you, “The chances of my stepmother being there are high, I cannot miss it. Please.”

“And what will you do if you see her?” Seonghwa asked, eyebrows rising.

“You’ll know once I’m done with her.” You muttered lowly, making Mingi shudder before he sighed loudly, going lax in his chair. Seonghwa glanced at him before he walked to the closet and opened it, their fancy costumes stored away for safety issues.

“Alright, we better start getting ready if we want to get to our carriage in time.”

“How did you even get us a carriage, Seonghwa?”

“A jester never tells his tricks.”

“You’re not a jester, you’re just an idiot.”

“Prince Song, mighty of you to call your right-hand man an idiot.”

“Don’t call me Prince Song.”

“Then stop calling me a princess, you idiot.”

“Silence, both of you!”

You had forgotten how these royal balls could get. Your skin crawled as you watched another old nobleman trying to flirt with maidens, and if it wasn’t for Seonghwa dragging you away, they would’ve certainly noticed you. You got here a little past the time when the ball started, on purpose, as you hoped to be less noticeable. This was hard to achieve as Mingi was as handsome as any other prince in the room—which was to be expected, honestly—and Seonghwa could’ve been mistaken anytime for a young master in his expensive clothing, designed and sewn by you. The three of you were candy to the sore eyes, and despite never having enjoyed the attention, you revelled in it now as you realised some people did recognise you. You had even spotted the royal guard from your court, steering clear from their paths as it would compromise your mission way too early into the night.

For starters, you were supposed to scoop out the place, to socialise and consume whatever fancy champagne they handed you with gilded flakes in the bottom. Expensive and fancy drinks for the wealthiest people from all kingdoms. Seonghwa stared at it like it was poisonous before he drank it, eyeing Mingi for a reaction which never came. For someone who had run away at eighteen only, Mingi sure still carried himself like a prince, oftentimes still acting like one too. You, on the other hand, struggled to hold your spine straight and tense, thankful for Seonghwa who had tightened your corset so much you wondered how much time you had before you’d pass out. Hopefully, it only happened by the time you got back on the ship. And as for the plan…you weren’t doing too well, your attentive eyes searched the crowd, scowling at anything you didn’t like. The two men had left you on your own, meddling with the crowd and laughing as Mingi accepted a dance from a princess you hadn’t met before. You saw the shadow first before someone managed to sneak up on you, and you whirled around ready for a fight, only for you to drop the empty bottle of champagne you’d been nursing. It never hit the floor as the man caught it, smiling at you almost hesitantly.

“Yunho?” You whispered in shock, the wind knocked from your lungs, “Yunho!”

If there was one person you missed and regretted not taking with you from your kingdom, it was Jeong Yunho. You felt the tears in your eyes as you threw yourself into the arms of the much taller man, uncaring what the onlookers thought. You had to fight the sobs that tried to rip through your body as Yunho held you back just as tightly, burying his nose in the top of your head.

“I cannot believe I found you, my princess.” Your chuckle felt hollow as you squeezed your eyes shut, forcing the tears out which had been brimming your eyes. Yunho and you had known each other for most of your lives. Nobody dared say it, but he had been kidnapped by smugglers from a different kingdom and enslaved in yours. His one chance at having a relatively better life than all the other slaves lay in his beauty, in his gentle and soft-spoken nature. That’s how he eventually ended up in your court as a palace keeper, keeping your chamber dust-free and always aired. He was barely a few years older than you, and because your father felt bad for him, he had allowed the two of you to bond, to play, to spend time together once Yunho had taken care of his duties. But once your father died, the evil queen wanted to separate you from everyone in order to make you disappear from the court, Yunho included. You had no idea where he was or what he was up to until this moment, and you gripped his dress shirt tighter when he tried to pull away.

“I’m so sorry,” You whispered into your closest friend’s chest, heartbroken all over again, “I never meant to leave you behind, but I had no—”

“It’s alright, my princess.” Of course, Yunho was smiling when you pulled apart. He didn’t have one mean bone in his giant body; he couldn’t even hurt a fly. You sniffed and allowed Yunho to wheel you around so your body was shielded by the crowd by his larger build, “I knew you had to go, if you hadn’t…you might not be alive anymore. That queen is so wicked, she started killing our people. Everyone is terrified in Wonderland of her.”

You gulped, frowning when you heard that. You had to step up, you couldn’t let your people suffer anymore, they needed their true ruler, the one who cherished and loved them. Yunho recognised the anger in your eyes, the determination on your features, and he smiled as he petted your head, leaning down to be at eye level with you, “I always knew you’d be an amazing queen, my princess. Your people are waiting for you.”

“When I get rid of her,” You gulped, grabbing Yunho’s hand as your jaw clenched, “I will set you free, you’ll be allowed to go home, Yunho.”

An ashen look crossed Yunho’s features, something sad falling upon it, “My home now is wherever you are, my princess. You must be here with a purpose; how may I help?”

And that’s how you found out that Neverland’s treasure was a gilded necklace filled with the most expensive jewellery from all kingdoms, crafted with care by the best jewellers from Aurora—because despite its reputation, Aurora housed the best craftsmen from the Seven Seas and Kingdoms. And the treasure that Mingi and Hongjoong wanted was in no other’s possession but in your stepmother, glinting blindly around her neck. You jaw tensed as you watched her from the shadows play the coy and grieving queen, laughing with men who were way too young for her. But it was working, because as you watched her shoot Yunho an annoyed look, everyone around her was blinded by her charming and manipulative personality, completely missing the wicked glint in her eyes. Mingi tsked next to you, leaning closer.

“You’re one hundred percent sure it’s Neverland’s treasure, right?” He muttered, watching the queen’s every move as she accepted a glass of wine from her consultant. You nodded as you glared at her, noticing a man slowly approach her. His gait was familiar, and so was his blonde hair.

“Yes, Mingi, I know for sure it’s the necklace.” You muttered, your eyes widening when you realised who the man creeping up to the queen was, “Bloody hell, Jung Wooyoung!”

Mingi groaned, closing his eyes, “Hongjoong sent the most annoying person ever, great. Princess, whatever you do, don’t—”

But you were already walking closer, your glare set on the back of Wooyoung’s head. The two of you had a history. Even before you had left your kingdom to become a pirate and avenge your father and his legacy, you and Wooyoung had met, understandably under inconvenient circumstances. He was young and dumb—even though he got older, he was still the dumbest pirate you had met—so he tried to kidnap you straight from your chambers. He would’ve succeeded if Yunho and you wouldn’t have planned to have a secret sleepover that night, so the boy was able to fight Wooyoung off. That didn’t mean that you ever forgot the pirate’s face, forever engraved in your mind. Meeting him once would’ve been enough for a lifetime, but the seas’ gods had other plans for the two of you. Being part of Mingi’s crew meant coming across enemies, and since Wooyoung was part of Hongjoong’s crew, he posed a big threat.

When he whisked the queen away for a dance, you knew the treasure would be in his possession in no time, and you couldn’t allow that. So, you stepped into the crowd and grabbed a random man, leading the two of you closer to where Wooyoung and the queen danced. You made sure to keep your back to your stepmother as well as ignore the grinning man in front of you, sharp eyes set on Wooyoung’s every move. He was giggling as he spoke to the queen, but not for long.

The violins screeched as you were twirled around, and knowing that this was your only chance to catch Wooyoung, you tumbled forward into him. The man gasped as he grabbed you frantically, making sure you didn’t fall. You grinned to yourself and grabbed his arms, head hanging low, and then you pushed him away from the queen and the dense part of the crowd before he could realise it was you.

“My, my,” He chuckled, helping you stand up straight, “What a klutzy girl.”

“I know, right,” You chuckled, circling your arms around Wooyoung’s neck as he stiffened, “How convenient I stumbled into a gentleman like yourself.”

Wooyoung’s eyes widened as you started swaying your bodies to the melody, making sure you kept away from people who could recognise the two of you.

“What are you doing here?” Wooyoung snapped, his eyebrows furrowing.

“The same thing as you,” You chuckled, eyes running down his body, appreciating his tight suit, “Searching for a companion to lay tonight with.”

Wooyoung spluttered, clearly taken off guard and you laughed, entertained when his cheeks flushed red. It wasn’t often you managed to take the man off guard, but it was always satisfying when you did, “Aw, you're blushing like a rose.”

Wooyoung scoffed and averted his eyes, scowling at you before he recovered from the embarrassment, “And have you found anyone suitable?”

You chuckled, shrugging as you looked around the room. You weren’t leaving without Yunho tonight, even if you had to frame it as a savage kidnapping. Seonghwa already knew about it and he was working on it. You didn’t want to update Mingi on the slight change of plans, you knew he’d have a mental breakdown neither one of you could afford right now. Mingi hated collecting strays and people who were of no use to him on his ship, but Yunho was worth more to you than Mingi’s rules.

“He’s holding me right now,” This time Wooyoung didn’t blush, he just smirked, pulling you closer until your bodies were flushed together.

“I always knew you liked me,” Wooyoung giggled, smoothing back your hair from your face, “All that fighting was just to create tension, huh?”

You let the knife slip into your palm from the sleeve of your dress, “If that’s what you’d like to believe, then certainly. Now, tell me, Wooyoung. How much longer until the queen notices that her necklace is missing?”

Wooyoung didn’t answer you as you smirked, pressing the sharp edge of your knife into his stomach, “We’ll walk outside without causing a scene, alright?”

The defiance on Wooyoung’s face was clear as day, but he didn’t say anything as he slowly nodded, twisting around in your hold as you leaned in and pressed a teasing kiss to his cheek. His skin was soft for a pirate, and he smelled of pine and salt, “I love it when you are a good boy, Wooyoung.”

The man hissed as his cheeks flamed again, and you chuckled as the two of you slowly slipped out of the room, looking around for Seonghwa. He was just behind Yunho, his eyes narrowed as you spotted the handgun in his hand. You knew Yunho was in safe hands as long as he didn’t try to be the bigger man, so you left the room without worrying about the Quartermaster or your closest friend any further. Mingi was still cruising the room, seemingly lost, and you almost laughed. For a Captain, he sure was lost more often than not when treasure hunting. You couldn’t wait to brag to him about capturing both Wooyoung and the necklace.

The hallways were empty despite the many people in the building, and you were glad they were desperate enough to socialise as this left you and Wooyoung alone. It didn’t take long for him to try and fight back, though, and you tsked when he tried elbowing you in the ribs, “Honey, you’ll have to be more creative than that.”

“Why am I being dragged away from the ball in the first place, honey?!” Wooyoung exclaimed like the prince he wasn’t, whiney and confused, and you chuckled in amusement.

“Don’t act coy with me now, pirate boy,” You leaned closer, your lips brushing against Wooyoung’s ear as he shuddered, “The queen’s necklace was gone after she danced with you.”

Wooyoung didn’t say anything for a second before he groaned, “Maybe it slipped off! Maybe someone found it on the floor! I don’t know why you’d think I have it!”

You laughed and pushed Wooyoung against the wall, his cheek mushed against the cold tile, “Now, Wooyoung…don’t tell me you haven’t heard of Neverland’s treasure. I know your Captain wants it, so he sent you, a little rat—”

“I prefer calling myself a fox, but whatever,” Wooyoung grumbled as he pushed you off, turning around so he was face to face with you. You raised an eyebrow, pressing the knife into his neck unthreateningly. For now.

“Empty your pockets for me, pirate boy.”

“If you stop calling me a boy.” Wooyoung shrugged, looking at you with mischief in his eyes, “But you won’t find anything on me—not the treasure or whatever. Why don’t we go to a room, and you’ll find out what I’m hiding—”

A crash came from a room close to the two of you, and you both stiffened as you looked to the side. You waited for a few moments with bated breaths, but nothing happened, so you looked back at Wooyoung with a glare. Your patience was running thin rather quickly, “Fine, little pirate, I won’t call you a boy anymore. Where is the treasure?”

You heard footsteps running down the hallway and you hissed, convinced that the queen realised by now that her necklace was stolen. The royal guard was coming after Wooyoung—and you, now that you were roped up with him. Whatever happened, though, you would not let them get their hands on Wooyoung…but he didn’t have to know that.

“Why don’t you feel me up, Princess Song?” You froze as you opened your mouth, taken off guard by his words, “Did you think we didn’t know? It’s only right someone like you associates themselves with Captain Barbarossa—what a joke.”

You huffed. You’d been nice so far, but you didn’t accept any disrespect to Mingi’s name, “You should watch your tongue, rat, one more comment about my Captain and I’ll cut your tongue off.”

“That would be a loss,” Wooyoung smirked as your jaw clenched, “I know quite the tricks with my tongue—”

“Hey! Those two there!” A deep voice shouted from the end of the hallway. Great, you had allowed yourself to be distracted by Wooyoung’s blabbering mouth again. Mingi will have your head if you let yourself be captured, “Catch those pirates!”

“At least they got that right,” Wooyoung remarked with a chuckle as you grabbed his arm and took off running instead of fighting the guards. You were outnumbered; it was of no use. What you had to do next was leave the palace in one piece and get Wooyoung on your ship. He was your prisoner; no royal guard could take him from you. But to get to the exit, you’d have to descend many flights of stairs, avoid the influx of other guards that were running towards you, and also come up with an escape plan which looked harder to come up with by the moment. You weren’t the best under pressure, and you yelped when Wooyoung suddenly pulled you inside a dark room, pressing you against the wall and muffling your mouth. Your breathing was ragged from running around, your chest heaving as Wooyoung’s sturdy body pressed into yours, keeping you from moving. The both of you stayed put as the guards ran past the room, their footsteps thundering. You grabbed Wooyoung’s wrist and pulled his hand off your mouth, searching his face.

“What?” He shrugged, his face so close to yours that you could feel his warm breath. He might’ve had one too many glasses of champagne, “A pirate looks out for a pirate, even if it’s the enemy.”

“Right.” You chuckled, then grabbed his arm and switched positions with him, “Now, where were we? Ah, right. Where did you put the necklace?”

“I’m starting to think you love pinning me against a wall. Does a submissive man turn you on?” Your eyes widened as Wooyoung cackled, the sound too loud in the dark room, “I’m sorry to disappoint, but I’m not that guy.”

“Stop changing the subject, you rat.” You hissed, no malice in your tone whatsoever. Before Wooyoung could retort back, light flooded the room, making you jump. The room you had stumbled inside was someone’s room, an elderly lady’s who looked quite confused. Before you could say anything, Wooyoung pushed you off and walked towards her, smiling charmingly.

“My lady, we had no idea this was your chamber,” Wooyoung bowed, and you watched with narrowed eyes as he grabbed the woman’s hand, leading her back to bed, “How rude of us not to check first. Will you forgive us?”

The lady chuckled as she let herself be tucked back into bed by Wooyoung, her eyes droopy, “The room next to mine is unoccupied. I won’t say anything if you slip out quickly, pirates.”

You gulped as Wooyoung chuckled, pressing a kiss to the woman’s forehead, “Thank you, my lady. We’ll be letting you sleep now.”

When Wooyoung faced you again, you couldn’t help but stare at him. He wasn’t a violent man, but you’d never seen this gentle side of his. It made your heart race as Wooyoung grinned, walking up to you to open the door, “You're staring again.”

“I’m not.” You scoffed and left the room once you made sure the hallway was empty, “There’s nothing to stare at.”

But there was. Wooyoung was a stupidly handsome man, his nose curving prettily, his uneven eyes sharp, and his moles endearing. You gulped as he carefully pulled the door shut behind himself, then braced yourself for what you were about to do.

“Sorry, but you gave me no choice.” And before he could turn around, you whacked him hard in the back of his head, catching his limp body before it could fall to the floor. He was heavy and you groaned as you laid him down, wondering how you’d drag a man down the stairs whose weight you couldn’t even uphold yourself. By a miracle, none other than Mingi seemed to show up, and you quickly waved at him, “Mingi! Get over here right now!”

You made sure you were whisper shouting as Mingi hurried over to you, his eyebrows furrowed, “What the hell are you doing with Wooyoung?!”

“I have the necklace,” You grinned, then looked at Mingi, “And Wooyoung.”

“I don’t want that monkey,” Mingi scoffed as he crouched down, “But I do want the necklace.”

You both grinned at each other as you crouched down next to him, “If we take him hostage now, not only will we piss off Hongjoong and Wooyoung, but you’ll be able to bargain gold and gems in exchange for his life.”

Mingi’s eyes instantly lit up at your words, and he pressed a wet kiss against your cheek as you groaned, flinching away, “You’re brilliant, princess!”

“And you said a woman was of no asset to you,” You scoffed as you both stood, growing stiff when footsteps echoed down the hallway. You looked past Mingi to prepare to fight whoever was coming, but you relaxed when you saw it was just Seonghwa with Yunho.

“Let me—my princess?” Yunho asked confused as he looked between you and Mingi, his eyes growing wide. Mingi froze, his jaw going lax as his body started trembling. He looked like he had seen a ghost. He muttered something as Yunho’s expression mirrored Mingi’s, and Seonghwa and you shared a confused look.

“Yun—Jeong Yunho?” Mingi whispered, his voice shaky.

“Song Mingi, it’s you,” Yunho whispered as his eyes grew teary, and he fought against Seonghwa’s grip, which released him easily. You watched shocked as Yunho ran until he reached Mingi, throwing himself into the Captain’s embrace. They held onto each other tightly as Seonghwa slowly walked closer, looking at you as if you had the answer to what this was.

“I found you, my love,” Mingi whispered, gripping Yunho tightly.

“It took you too long.” Yunho tried to smile, but he looked sad, “I missed you so much.”

“I’m sorry,” Mingi gulped, looking down, “You disappeared without a trace.”

“I know, I don’t resent you.” Yunho then smiled, closing his eyes, “I love you, still.”

Someone groaned on the floor, making you hiss.

“Uh, guys…I’m sorry to ruin this emotional moment, but Wooyoung is kind of waking up,” More shouts down the hallway, heavy boots hitting the floor, “We have to go, now.”

“Mingi, grab his arm!” Seonghwa barked out as the two men went to hold Wooyoung up, his head lolling to the side as his eyebrows furrowed. You grabbed Yunho’s hand and looked at him, offering him a small smile.

“Let’s go, Yunho, things will be alright. You’ll see.” So, Yunho followed you as you escaped from the castle, not only with Neverland’s treasure in your possession but Wooyoung as well.

Oh, you were going to have so much fun with him before you’d hand him back to Hongjoong.

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[babydoll372]

hihi!!!!!! i genuinely love ur fics sm i look forward to them everyday :D

okayyyy here's what i imagine, taking sub milf wanda to a sex shop for the first time and she get reallyyyy shy on what to play with and wear. she ends up picking a pretty butt plug and a leash to try out and they perform bdsm or just heavy rough sex or smth like that!! i also imagine sub milf wanda having a huge praise kink and perhaps lactation kink?? 👀👀

Trying It Out

Pairings: Wanda Maximoff x reader

Word count: 2367

Warnings: smut, butt plugs, leashes, whips, praise kink, Mommy (W), relatively service top!R, some insecurities, age gap relationship,

“See anything you like?” Wanda jumped at the sound of your voice, her cheeks that were already pink from her makeup only worsening with your hands on her waist. You rested your head on her shoulder as you admired the rack she kept wandering back to.

“You think you’re ready for a plug, Wands?” She quickly glanced around to ensure no one heard you before shrugging.

“Maybe. I don’t really know…what do you think?” She turned in your hold, resting her hands on your chest with a small, anxious frown. As excited as she was, this was the last place she wanted to be. She wanted to do this online so no worker would have to see her selections and have their secluded judgments, but you insisted she break her shell and try it. And now here she was.

“I think you should pick out whatever it is that you want, and if you want me to use a plug on that cute little ass then I will have zero complaints.” You grinned teasingly, and she rolled her eyes at your attitude. Yet a smile still somehow conjured onto her face.

“I, uh…I think I want the plug. The one with the little heart.” She pointed her finger upward to a casing holding her desired item. You were quick to grab it and inspect it, not even sparing a glance at the price before agreeing she’d look beautiful with it as you kissed her cheek. 

The two of you walked around the rest of the store together, you occasionally stopping at different items and asking if she wanted to take a look at them, but she’d either decline with multiple apologies following or shrug in fear of saying yes to anything. In the back of the shop near a door where you guessed more supplies were locked away, there were an array of whips and ropes that caused your eyes to light up. Wanda looked at them with an ounce of fear, but once she saw your reaction she wanted to try and improve her image.

“We should try that one.” She again pointed to the item, yet this time it was a hanging leather whip freshly cut to match her shape. Your eyes instantly shifted to hers as she looked at you with hopefulness and determination.

“You sure you can handle that?” She nodded, standing on her tippy toes to reach for the item and lower it into her hands. She felt the colder material and bit her lip, handing it to you.

“Where would you use it on me?” Her voice was quiet, soft, only just above a sweet whisper. You took a quick look around your surroundings and when spotting no one, you turned her around, letting her press into the wall as your hand glided across her ass.

“Well, first I’d most definitely use it here,” You squeezed the fat beneath her jeans, feeling her body move into yours. “Then I’d probably want to use it right along this sweet cunt,” You chuckled quietly at her whimper as your fingers grazed over her clit, your thigh nudging hers apart. “And then, to spoil myself, I might want to use it on these soft, swollen breasts.” You moaned quietly to yourself as you cupped the tissue, making her cover her mouth with her hand due to the sensitivity the area held. You then left a lingering kiss on her neck before pulling away and turning her around.

“Do you still want to get it?” 

“I do…a-and I think I want the- the leash too, if that’s okay.” Your smile grew larger than before and she basked in it, overjoyed at the idea of pleasing you. But it wasn’t only for you, it was also for her. She could feel herself growing wetter at the idea of being treated as a pet, being whipped under your soft protection, and being stuffed in her tightest hole as you’d degrade her for even fostering the idea. All were such things she couldn’t even have the privilege of imagining when she had been married to her children’s father, yet now you were opening this environment so welcoming to her growing imagination. 

“We’ll get whatever it is you want, sweetheart.”

 When the two of you were checking out she could feel a shamefulness returning as she lowered her head so the worker wouldn’t see the darkness covering her face, and not to mention the wrinkles. She always felt insecure about her appearance and her age, which was one of the reasons why she wasn’t the most eager to go to this shop. She worried the younger dynamic would judge a woman her age exploring different ideas for the first time, and some did, and some couldn’t have cared any less. But you always were the one who made her confidence rise as you kissed over every line and stretch her body contracted over the years, promising you loved each and every one of them. You promised she wasn’t unnatural or sinful, and with you, she could finally believe it. 

So as you began leaving, she politely asked you to wait in the car for her while she entered the shop a few stores down, and you hesitantly agreed with a longing kiss. The mall was crowded and she was struggling to feel comfortable in the mobs of young teens, but she wanted to do this for you. And for herself, to be able to admire her beauty in the lingerie she searched through. So when she settled on a dark red pair instead of the one-piece she normally settled for with her previous husband to hide her postpartum pudgy stomach, she knew she had reached such an important level of trust that she wasn’t afraid for the rest that was to come, and instead, she walked to the car with her teeth visible past her upward lips. 

—

“Okay, I’m coming out now so make sure your eyes are closed!” The older woman yelled through the bathroom door, waiting for a response before she twisted the knob and found herself on the other side. She let out a nervous sigh as she settled herself in front of you, reaching outward with shaking hands to remove yours from your face. Your vision suddenly shifted from darkness to the ethereal redhead standing in front of you. Her fingers found themselves picking one another in front of her stomach as a way to not only hide herself but also distract her mind from your silence. 

“Can you say something, please?” You blinked quickly, shutting your mouth after it had been left ajar. You swallowed, your hands delicately placing themselves on her waist.

“Sorry, sorry, you just- fuck, baby, you look so good.” You suddenly arose from the edge of the bed, lowering your head to her neck where your lips attached to. She whimpered quietly as you sucked a large hickey into her, and she couldn’t fight you off even though she knew her sons would be returning from their fathers in only two days. The reason was because she didn’t want to. 

“Your skin is so soft too.” You muttered against her, your touch roaming around her body desperately. Your hips jutted against the air, searching for an ounce of friction yet still finding pleasure from none. 

“I put on some lotion so I’d be ready for you.” She mustered out, and you pulled back for a moment to rest your forehead on her collarbone. 

“My God, Wanda, you’re so perfect.” Your lips began to trace along her chest as her bra unclasped. “You know that? I feel like I don’t get to tell you enough how much I adore you.” You guided her to sit on the edge of the bed where you were only minutes prior, and she let out a loud, gutterful moan at the feeling of your tongue rounding her nipples. You looked up at her, meeting her eyes as she held a heavy breath.

“My pretty girl, you look so cute like this.” One of your hands roamed along her thigh, reaching up and down slowly. Your fingers grazed gently along her clothed clit, rubbing small, tight circles.

“You make me feel so young, Y/N - so beautiful…” She quietly comments, running her fingers through your hair as she felt your humming vibrate along her hardened nipple. Suddenly, droplets began to leak into your mouth, your tongue eagerly lapping up the source as it only caused her to elicit a loud whine. Your digits slipped past her panties, slowly easing into her entrance with grace. She glanced down, watching her hole greedily accept you before her head was thrown back. She tried biting her lip to create a form of silence, but it failed.

“Don’t you dare hide those pretty moans on me, Wanda, let me hear you.” As her body fell back against the mattress, yours followed. Your legs wrapped on either side of her thighs, your mouth finding solace on her neglected nipple as her body spasmed with pure electricity. 

“Fuck! Please, please, please- I’ve been such a good girl, tell me I’ve been good!” You nodded against her, pulling back for a split moment with her milk drooling down your chin.

“You’ve been such a good girl for me! I’m so proud of you.” Tears brimmed her eyes as her hips mindlessly rocked into your thrusts, your digits increasing to a third and causing her to nearly scream in pleasure at the stretch. 

“I’m a good Mommy, I’m a good Mommy, I’ve been a really good Mommy-“ She cut herself off with a silent moan, her eyes squeezing shut as you pulled back from her chest once receiving no more liquid and instead allowed her to ride out her high. 

“That’s it, let me take care of you. Such a pretty girl.” Your fingers slowly eased out of her sopping cunt once ready, and she whined quietly at the feeling of emptiness approaching her again. Suddenly, she jolted as a sharp slap came to her swollen breasts. It was softer than you intended to treat any other area, yet she still reacted as though you had somehow betrayed her. 

“C’mon, Mommy, I thought you were a good girl…well, good girls would take what they’re given, right?” She slowly came to a nod as she sniffled in silence, feeling the cold whip trail down her stomach slowly as you inched her thighs apart. You stood between her legs now as you delivered another slap to her soft skin, this time it was to her sensitive cunt. Then came another. You replaced the toy with a soothing touch, yet it only made her jerk in overstimulation. 

“Turn around for me, baby, let me see that sweet little ass.” She quickly followed the instructions, gripping the fabric beneath her and glancing behind her eagerly to try and spot what it was you were going to do. She had a feeling, but she still wasn’t entirely ready for when it’d come. Then she felt drops of a cold lubricant ringing her tight hole as you smeared it around gently with a fingertip. 

“Don’t be scared, I’ll go easy on you, okay?” She nodded in faith, yet she had to bite down on the sheets shortly after as the toy began protruding her ass. She whimpered and whined under your touch until she felt kisses along her back.

“There we go, it’s all the way in. You did it, Wanda.” She formed a small smile of gratitude and relief, yet that was replaced by her eyes widening in shock as you forced her head back and traced the skin of her neck with the leash you had to the side. She felt it clasp and a low tug was given, making a moan deliver from her mouth.

“You sound so fucking beautiful, Mommy. Just relax for me, I’ve got you.” She was too pleasure-ridden to have a full concept of what was going on around her, and all she knew was that she didn’t want it to end. You dropped the leash for only a moment as your hands spread her lower cheeks apart.

“Clench for me, Mommy.” You spoke with a groan, watching as her tight hole listened to your commands. “Fuck, do it again- please, baby.” And once again, another deep, desperate moan came from your end as she complied. You could feel your ignored wetness growing, your pulsing clit clenching around nothing as it was soaked in your mess. You then turned the woman over, holding tightly onto her leash as your legs began to straddle her face. 

“You see how wet you’ve made me? That's it, clean up your mess, you dirty slut.” Wanda wasted no time, the moment your cunt was in eye-view she began lapping generously, and when it wasn’t enough, your tugging would force her face closer to you. Her nose nuzzling against your clit as your hole was what received the most attention. Her chin dripped in your juices, and yet it was as though she was sucking you completely dry of anything you released. Her fingers fell to her own entrance as two fingers slid in with ease, and she pumped them in and out quickly as her jaw twitched and ached at what she was offering. But the pain wasn’t able to register in her mind, all she could think about was your deafening voice as your hips grinded with a quickening speed.

“Shit! Oh, Mommy, I’m so close…” A tear ringed your eyeball while your mouth dropped open. You tugged her impossibly closer as your free hand held the back of her head and suddenly, as your legs shook and your body spasmed, a creamy liquid began to entertain her tongue, making her moan against you. 

When you eventually removed yourself from her soft, angelic face, you kneeled in front of her, hovering over her hips as her digits escaped her hole, calling for yours instead. You stroked her cheek with your thumb, your lips coming to kiss hers softly. 

“My precious girl…” Your fingers trailed down to her entrance as you grinned. “You’re just so needy.”

[bebethsas]

writing prompt:

a bunch of 'tumblr' (runeterra adjacent to tumblr) friends form a group chatting back and forth about their theories about Jayce Talis' "secret partner."

Then one night one of them gets an anon ask saying something like "I see that you are interesed in the history of Hextech and its founders. I can answer some of your questions. What would you like to know?"

and at first this person ignores it, but then more and more asks come in (and then more members of the group start to also receive the same asks):

"the discoloration of page 58 of Jayce's earliest journal was when he knocked over a mug of sweetmilk."

"he had a fear of bats."

"the schematic on page 204 of Jayce's second journal was a joke--I was halfway through soldering the frame when he doubled over laughing."

and then even weirder asks come in, written as if they're answering the older asks, even though those anon asks were never answered/ published on the blogs:

" tumblr.com/runetalis/74553408893347519/the-discoloration-of-page-58-of-Jayces-second?source=share Hey, at least it didn't get on the crystals, right? And I made you a new one, remember??"

"tumblr.com/runetalis/74553418993537520/he-had-a-fear-of-bats?source=share I did NOT!"

"tumblr.com/runetalis/74553408893347519/the-schematic-on-page-204-of-Jayces-second?source=share ohhh yeahhh--that's right! you were so mad--you shut off your torch, whipped off your protective goggles and started throwing chalk at me! ...worth it. I can't believe I forgot that."

"tumblr.com/runetalis/74562118503246/httpswwwtumblrcomrunetalis74553408893347519d?source=share I can't believe you forgot that too--by the time Sky arrived that morning, you were hiding under our desk and trying to negotiate peace talks."

"tumblr.com/runetalis/74562204212021/httpswwwtumblrcomrunetalis74562118503246d?source=share peace talks which you immediately broke, by the way."

"tumblr.com/runetalis/74562402417122/httpswwwtumblrcomrunetalis74562204212021d?source=share Eh, I saw an opportunity and took it."

Viktor drops a hint that he carved their initials into the wall of their lab, behind their desk:

"vandalism, Viktor? really??"

"What? I was 29 and desperately in love with my best friend--my straight best friend."

"your straight hadn't-had-his-bi-awakening-yet best friend. there, fixed it for you."

"Isn't that just the phrase 'in the closet?'"

"being 'in the closet' implies that you know that you're in a closet. I didn't even know that I had one."

(one of the friends is attending the university, and is able to sneak into Jayce and Viktor's old lab--it's still there, just preserved as an important part of Piltover history--and nudge that heavy desk aside. The desk hasn't been moved in *decades* and it shows. They move the desk as far as they can, and sure enough, smoothly carved into the wall, just above the baseboard, is: 'JT +V-' (they can't make out the last initial, and they couldn't move the desk any farther). Heart pounding, they carefully slide the desk back into place and sneak back out.)

bonus:

what is this 'hexussy' people keep talking about?

Viktor, wait, no, NO--!

are you okay?

...knowledge is a paradox, my love; the more you know, the more you wish not to know. There are some very talented artists on here, that is all I will say.

ANYWAY

at first the group thinks that it's a bot, or a troll--but how could these messages 'respond' to previous asks if the asks were never published? Even if someone managed to steal a password and login to one of their blogs, that person would have to publish the ask in order to respond to that post's message. And all of the asks are still sitting in their inboxes. Unpublished/ unanswered.

anyway, something something Jayce and Viktor are haunting technology, something something they saw people start to speculate about Viktor and start to get exited about him (his existence, as well as his potentially secret love affair with Jayce...), so they decided to pop down and educate some people.

Sometimes, I like to think about post canon modern piltover and zaun and how they would look back on Viktor and Jayce.

Like immagine:

The war was decades years ago. Piltover and zaun are completely modernized, and some nerdy kids are on their runterra version of tumblr nerding out about gay history (as we do). And one of them is like:

"Did you guys know that Jayce Talis actually wasn't the sole creator of hextech and he had a secret coworker he called his "partner" who was erased from all the research files for some unknown reason."

And they would go insane making theories about this secret partner. Digging through old files to find his name. Puzzling together the hidden truth

[wosospacegirl]

I'm picturing Y/N and Kika have sex and it goes one of two ways

I can imagine they both are constantly after reassurance the other is having a good time, that it feels good, constantly apologising if they even so much as fumble a bit, bit noisy to cover up there insecurities and trying to convince the other they are actually enjoying themselves

Then on the other hand, I picture it just being this hot and intense thing where after all the awkwardness they both have a point to prove? Like its hot and heavy and just super intense after holding back all that time, like they've pulled the elastic band so far and now it's just snapped

And u are gonna make me cry at 7am omg that's literally them...

..

I see yn PRETENDING to be cool about it, trying to take the lead because she sees that Kika is nervous, but in the middle of it Kika just stops everything, cups her cheeks and kiss her lips very sweetly and innocently.

"Hey...it's okay, you don't need to pretend, I know you are nervous too," kika says.

She can barely see yn because they are in the dark, they turned off the light and yn's curtains were pulled together in a way that the moon can't even take a peak about what's happening inside the room.

Yn breathed once, then twice. "I am okay, not...nervous," she mumbled.

She had mastered that face, that voice tone, one that made her seem more sure of herself than she really was. She had learned it from Alexia years ago by watching her captain make speeches in the locker room about things she wasn't even sure of.

But Kika saw her through. She saw beneath the facade she so much tried to keep on.

Kika saw her and she still stayed.

"Okay..." yn said after a few seconds in silence.

Kika never rushed to make the silences between them go away, she knew that it made yn spill whatever she was feeling.

"Maybe I am a bit nervous," yn admitted.

"You are very nervous," kika said, a bit teasingly.

Yn took place of her fingertips on the top of Kika's lips. She was smirking, as Yn thought she was.

"You look very cocky for someone who had her hands trembling when I invented you to come to my room."

Yn felt the way Kika put more of her body weight into her, pressing their hips together.

She liked that very much. She realised she would die happily, crushed in between the mattress and Kika.

"I've never been invited into a pretty girl's room before," kika said, moving her lips against yn's fingers. "That's why."

Yn blushed, but she felt something ignite inside of her, something that made her legs part just so Kika's body could fit better.

The same probably happened with kika as well, because she– in what yn considered a very bold move– opened her mouth and took yn's fingers in, letting them rest on her tongue before sucking them.

Yn breath hitched.

Her fingers were wet with Kika’s saliva.

Yn watched, barely, because of the lack of light, how Kika sucked her fingers, so slowly it made her want to cry.

Next time, they were going to do it with the light on, curtais open.

They were going to welcome every single photon that could make it possible for them to see the other better.

That was why they needed for so long. They needed someone to see them for who they were. Someone to not look away when they saw the ugly. Someone who stayed.

..

Well, now I'm late for my internship now, and Im pretty sure there are lots of typos... but i don't have to fix them right now, haha

That's how i picture their first time!!

[idkwhylou]

The other woman pt.1

Summary : Torn from your coastal homeland to seal an imperial alliance, in a wedding crafted for power, not love, you vow to fulfill your duty and perhaps find something more. But on your wedding night, you discover a colder truth: Marcus’s body is yours, but his heart is somewhere else. Still, you are determined to prove your worth, to decode his silence, and to uncover the man behind the armor.

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Warnings : arranged marriage, mentions of politics, smut, cold behavior, age gap ? (not really mentioned or important), infidelity (towards reader), secret relationship, no y/n

Words : 5,8K

A/N : alright first part of the request ! Thanks again @negrita2345 for your excellent idea, hope you'll like it. Kind of anxious bcs I hope it’s good, I mean in the way you imagined it. Anyway if you have a better title, I'll take it lol. Anyway not much of angst but we need to start slow and setting the context

Marcus' masterlist | next part

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The olive groves whispered like priests in prayers, swaying beneath the salt-heavy breeze that rose from the sea. From your terrace, the horizon gleamed, a stretch of molten silver where sky met water, endless and unreachable. White sails drifted across it like wandering souls: merchants, imperial messengers, galleys bearing soldiers with polished helmets and unseen orders. 

But today, the wind carried no peace. It was too quiet. Something had shifted, you could feel it long before anyone spoke it aloud. 

The household moved with unnatural quiet, servants murmured behind closed doors and hurried theirs steps as though silence might shield them from whatever was coming. Your father had not touched his breakfast. And you mother—your serene and inscrutable mother—sat rigid at the head of the table, her fingers endlessly smoothing the same fold in her silk robe, over and over, as of the repetition might erase the tremble in her hands. 

When a servant found you in the gardens and bowed deeply, announcing with careful reverence that your presence was requested in the atrium, your feet already knew where to carry you. The click of your sandals echoed off sun-warmed stone as you passed under the colonnade. It smelled faintly of crushed herbs and old parchment, your father’s scent, the scent of duty and legacy. 

Then you saw them, your father stood as though carved from granite: arms behind his back, posture impeccable, chin lifted with imperial resolve. His face was unreadable, but not empty, no. There was something behind his eyes, calculation, or maybe regret. Your mother was seated beside him, her back stiff but her gaze soft, resting not on you, but the floor. 

Two imperial envoys flanked the far pillars. Strangers in gleaming bronze, with helms tucked beneath their arms and scroll slung at their side. Their armor shone like mirrors, catching shards of sunlight that danced across the walls. One of the scrolls had a seal on, a red wax pressed with the mark of an eagle glinted like fresh blood. 

Your heart stuttered once in your chest. Not fear, not quite. Just the cold certainty that your life was about to be unmade. You stepped forward, voice calm and practiced. The same voice you would use at your father’s side while translating foreign decrees and entertaining Roman governors at the harvest feasts. 

“You summoned me, Father ?”

He did not look at you right away, instead, he dismissed the nearby servants with a flick of his fingers. Only when the last one bowed out the room, did he extend one hand toward the envoy. The scroll was handed over in a heavy silence, consuming a part of your soul.

You watched the wax break under your father’s thumb, a clean sound, like a lock opening. He read aloud, his voice loud and clear, “By order of the Roman Emperor, and with the blessing of the Senate, a marriage is hereby decreed…” He continued, but the words grew distant. Your ears filled with the sound of your own blood. 

A marriage ? 

You felt the floor tilt slightly under your feet, your stomach tightening as though braced for an all and your head spinning. Your breath snagged in your chest as you looked around for something—your mother’s eyes, the sea, anything steady—but the stone walls began to feel too close.

Still, you did not speak. You took a breath, deep like diving into cold water, and moved to your mother’s side. Her hand reached instinctively for yours, but you remained still. 

Your father’s voice dropped in tone, “You have been chosen.”

You had always known this day would eventually come. But you never imagined it would happen like this…. Not so early.

Your knees bent beneath you, and you let yourself fall beside your mother. You looked straight ahead, heart beating heavily, like a drum echoing down a long and empty corridor. You let the silence stretch until you had the strength to speak.

“To whom ?” you dared to ask because not asking would have felt like a surrender. 

Your father eyes finally met yours, “General Marcus Acacius,” he read, “a man held in highest favor by the Emperor himself.”

Each word struck with brutal precision. Marcus Acacius. A name carved into the bones of the Empire. You had heard it before, whispered with reverence by soldiers passing through your father’s court. Stories of battlefield valor, of loyalty, of a man more iron than flesh. You had never seen his face, but now his name felt heavier than gold. 

Your throat tightened. Rome. You were being sent to Rome. Your lips parted, but no sound emerged. You pressed them together again, holding in the cry that threatened to escape, just a crack in something old and unspoken. 

Your mother stood then, as if stirred by some silent storm. “Aretas,” she said, her voice urgent. “The General-”

“-is a man of honor”, your father interrupted sharply, giving her a warning look. “And this is not a request.”

“Aretas,” your mother hissed, stepping toward him, voice sharp with fear and something dangerously close to rage “You would send your own daughter like a sacrifice ? Offering her like some- some tribute to the Gods of war ?!” 

Your father turned his head slowly, his jaw clenched tight. “Mind your words.”

“She is too young !” your mother snapped, the tremble in her voice now pushed aside by fury. “She still walks barefoot in the garden. Still sleeps with the shutters open to hear the sea. You promised she would have a say, that there would be time-”

“-I promised,” your father cut in, louder now, “that she would be protected. That she would have a future.”

“She is not livestock to be bargained for land and influence !”

“She is the daughter of this house !” Aretas barked, the echo of his voice crashing against the walls, as one of the envoys shifted uncomfortably, “She bears my name and my blood. And that blood will mean something in Rome. Do you think I have not considered what this will cost her ?” he turned away as if the sight of you was too much. “what it will cost me ?!”

Your mother pressed her fingers to her temple, massaging them as she tries to steady herself. Then she looked at him again, her voice aching. “She was meant to be more than this…” she whispered as a cried escape her throat, “meant to choose who she loved.”

“She was born into a world where we do not get to choose,” your father replied calmer now, but his voice sounded like a man bearing the weight of a boulder no one else could see. “Not you. Not I. And not her.”

Your mother’s voice cracked, “You would give her to a man she has never met.”

“I would give her to a man who commands the loyalty of Rome. A man the Emperor trusts himself.” He glanced at you finally, “A man who will keep her alive and safe.”

“And what of her heart ?! What of her joy ?”

“Mother-” you tried to calm her down.

Your father looked away. “She will learn without it.”

She turned back to you and grasped your hand tightly, and this time, you let her. Her fingers trembled. “You do not have to accept this,” she whispered. “You are not a piece on the board.”

But you were. You had always been. And you knew it.

You rose slowly, gently letting go of her hand, and walked to the terrace again. The sea stretched before you, wide and glittering and full of vanished sails, the scent of salt stung your nose. A warm wind lifted the hem of your gown. You remembered running through those olive trees, chasing shadows between the rows. You remembered laughing, barefoot and free, before anyone asked anything of you.

You closed your eyes and then you nodded. “I will go,” you simply said.

Your mother gasped loudly, like something inside her had crumpled. She turned away, pressing her fingers to her lips.

You stood still, facing the horizon. “I will do my duty,” you whispered.

That was the beginning. The moment the Empire reached across the water and placed its claim upon your life.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The marriage was held beneath a sky as blue as tempered steel, Rome’s finest stage set for politics disguised as ceremony. Marble gods stared down from their pedestals, unmoved by the day’s union. Senators stood in rings of gold-threaded togas, murmuring among themselves like old crows. Red petals were scattered over the flagstones, crushed underfoot like drops of blood. Every detail had been carved and calculated with purpose. 

Not for love, but for the Empire.

The Forum itself had been cleared, roped off by imperial guard. Lictors lined the periphery, their fasces polished, gleaming in the sun. A choir of flutes and lyres played from the steps of the temple, slow and solemn, not joyful but dignified, like the funeral of your freedom.

And yet, when you looked down the aisle, past the priests and the marble gods, you saw only him. He stood like he had been carved into place by fate, a figure of stoic poise and discipline. He wore the ceremonial breastplate of a General; gold and leather laced over his chest like armor made for myth. A dark crimson cloak draped over one shoulder, clasped with the mark of the Emperor’s seal.

He was taller than you had imagined, broader too. There was a steadiness to him that unnerved you. Not exactly stillness but what seems to be contained power. His face was carved from shadow and sunlight, jaw squared, and eyes the cold color of rain-smoothed stone. A thin scar curved along the left side of his jaw, not disfiguring, but sharp, like a signature. And those eyes, when they finally found yours, held no flicker of joy, no welcome. They were grounded, unreadable—everything but empty.

You had expected indifference, arrogance, perhaps. But what you found was something far more dangerous. Intrigue. He inclined his head in a silent greeting, a soldier’s nod; respectful and impossibly formal. Not a smile, not a spark. But not disdain either. Your breath caught when he looked at you, like a man preparing for a siege. And yet, something in you shifted. Not in fear, not even in disappointment, maybe… fascination ?

Your gown swept the marble behind you; white silk, embroidered with silver and copper threads in the style of your homeland, a small rebellion your mother had insisted on preserving. The veil shimmered behind you like mist, long and soft. At your side, your father walked stiffly, his expressions carved into diplomacy. He held your arm like he held his blade, firmly, not quite gently. Then, he had to leave you, let go of your arm and give you to the stranger you were about to marry. The man that would now take care of you.

The altar was lined with fresh-cut laurel and pomegranate. The priest chanted the sacred rites. Your name, and his, spoken aloud and you did not even know the sound of his voice. Yet, your fingers touched when the rings were passed, and that single brush of skin sent a whisper of something electric up your spine. 

His palm was cold. Yours trembled once. He did not look at you, not directly. But you saw his jaw tighten, like he had felt it too, and did not know what to do with all that knowledge. You wondered, absurdly, if he was nervous. The rings were slipped on, and the oaths exchanged, a scribe to the side of the altar wrote everything down on a parchment. 

And then, it was done. The General slowly bowed his head to you, like a man offering deference. As if you were a queen or at least something close enough to one. You barely breathed and then, without ceremony he stepped closer and pressed a kiss to the corner of your lips. It was not a kiss of a lover, nor even a husband. It was warm, brief, controlled, a brush of lips against your mouth—soft as breath and gone before your body could register it fully. It felt more like a vow than anything spoken aloud, enough to give the impression of a real kiss to anyone in the room. A promise, you told yourself, or at least, the possibility of one.

When he pulled back, his face remained unreadable, but his eyes lingered just a second longer than necessary. Your pulse caught and something in your chest uncoiled, just slightly.

He offered you his arm and you took it, not because you had to, but because in that moment you wanted to. The applause rose behind you, Rome roaring her approval. The marriage had ended not in intimacy but in spectacle. Trumpets blared, laurel wreaths were raised, a sea of dignitaries, senators, Generals and foreign envoys surged toward the newlyweds like waves crashing. Rome really knew how to honor herself with grandeur. 

You followed the General—now your husband—through the ceremony’s afterbirth, your arm still looped lightly around his. His pace faltered, but he did not speak, not a word since the vow. He only nodded to those who saluted him, eyes scanning the crowd like a commander in unfamiliar terrain; polite, present but unreachable. 

He escorted you up the steps of the banquet hall, a domed, opulent chamber overflowing with gold-threaded cushions and garlands of flame-colored flowers. Long tables were set with silver bowls of figs and honey-glazed. Musicians played a slow, elegant melody that failed to cover the growing thrum of conversation and political hunger. You were sat beside him on the raised dais. He poured your wine without being asked, a gesture so rehearsed it barely felt real. 

“Is everything alright ?” he asked at last. His voice was low and measured, like someone asking after a guest, not their wife.

You looked at him, studying the face everyone in Rome revered; hard lines, eyes like winter stone, no warmth and no cruelty. He had done nothing wrong, but he also had done nothing at all. 

“I am fine.”

He gave you a short nod, then returned to scanning the room. You sat in silence for another few minutes, listening to the rustle of silk, the laughter of people who knew how to perform joy. Rome was a chorus of masks, and you had not yet found your own. Suddenly you could not breathe under the weight of it all, the crowd, the wine, the stifling future curling around your throat like incense. 

“I need a moment.” You murmured.

The General turned slightly, “Do you want me to come with you ?”

You hesitated when you thought you saw a hint of concern in his eyes, until you realized it was more impatience. As if he was waiting for you to leave in a hurry and that you will not ask him to follow you. His question, actually, was not a question, just an illusion of goodwill. “No. I will manage alone.”

You slipped away down one of the side corridors, grateful no one stopped you. The quiet found you quickly, pressed between the walls and the cool hush of shadow. You exhaled as your footsteps slowed. And then, you saw her. She stood beside a bronze basin, one hand lightly skimming the water’s surface, she had the posture of someone who belonged to every palace she ever entered. The low torchlight painted her in gold and shadow. The gown she wore was violet—not just beautiful, but deliberate. Imperial.

You had never seen her face before, even not during the ceremony, or at least you thought so. There were so many people today, that, you had not even been able to talk to your own mother since the ring around your finger sealed your future. The woman was older than you and impossibly poised, the kind of woman whose presence made others instinctively stand straighter. A circlet of hammered gold rested in her hair. 

“Oh,” she said, her lips curling into the beginnings of a smile, a kind expression on her face as she turned to see you. “You needed a moment too ?”

You paused, just outside the doorway, unsure if you were intruding. “Yes,” you said. “The hall is... a storm.”

She gave a quiet laugh. “That is a generous word for it.”

Her voice was soft but assured—a voice trained in courtrooms, or perhaps something even older. She stepped slightly away from the basin and folded her hands loosely before her. “I watched you, during the ceremony,” she continued gently. “You carried yourself well. I remember my own wedding…my knees would not stop shaking.” She adds with a chuckle. There was no bitterness in her tone. Only memory.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice more honest than you had expected. “I had no training in how to marry a stranger.”

She tilted her head. “No one has. Not really.”

There was a quiet, companionable moment. And in it, something settled. Her gaze on you, curious, thoughtful, without a hint of superiority. Just as you began to ask something—anything, out of instinct more than strategy—footsteps clicked at the far end of the corridor. A servant appeared in a rush, breath shallow, eyes darting between you both.

“Domina—” the girl began, before catching herself. “Mar— the banquet awaits your return.”

You turned your head, but not before seeing her expression falter, just for a flicker. Not shame, just the lightning-fast reflex of someone used to secrecy. 

Her smile then returned effortlessly. “Of course,” she said, with a nod. “Thank you.”

The servant bowed and backed away quickly. The still unknown woman looked at you again, her voice calm. “It is never truly your night, is it ? Not in Rome. Every moment belongs to someone else.”

You did not know what to say. Her eyes searched yours, not intrusively, but with a strange gentleness. “I hope,” she said softly, “that he will be kind to you.”

And then she turned, leaving you in silence, the scent of myrrh and rose trailing after her like a veil. You stood alone for a long minute, your breath lodged somewhere between your ribs. 

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The villa was quiet now, the revelers long since departed. Torchlight flickered along the walls of your new chambers. Servants had come and gone, laying out fruit, wine, flowers. Silk robed folded neatly, oils on the table and perfumed water in basins in which you had bathed and dried your hair with trembling fingers.

The door closed behind him without a sound. You had been sitting by the window—watching the night spill over the city like ink. The moon hung heavy and indifferent as its rays reflected off your skin, a strange shade of blue—the silk robe clinging to your skin still damp from the bath, the scent of rose oil ghosting over your collarbones. You did not look up at first, you had imagined this moment so many ways that the real thing felt too fragile to meet head-on.

But when you turned, you saw him.

He stood there in the glow of the fire, freshly changed into a dark linen tunic. His formal armor was gone, replaced by something quieter, more intimate, though the presence he carried made the room feel no less like a battlefield. He was… handsome, yes—striking, even. The sculpted kind of man you only ever saw carved into stone. His brows furrowed as if in thought, or perhaps weariness, and his eyes watched you like a soldier scanning a map before a march. 

Still, you could not help the way your heart stuttered when he finally stepped closer. “My lord,” you said, quieter than you meant to.

At that, he tilted his head slightly. A single dark brow lifted, not unkindly, more like curiosity. “You may call me Marcus,” he said, his voice low and even. “We are husband and wife now. No need for titles in private.”

There was a careful courtesy in the way he said it. Not warm. Not cold. Like a gate held half open, daring you to enter but offering no welcome.

You nodded once, unsure it that was kindness or obligation. “Marcus,” you repeated, tasting the name. 

He crossed the room with military precision as you rose to your feet slowly, smoothing the folds of your robe with shaking hands. And for a long moment, silence stretched between you like a blade unsheathed but not yet used. He wasted no time in catching your eye and slipped into the sheets of the—your sharing bed.

“You are not what I expected,” you murmured before you could stop yourself, moving unconsciously in his direction.

That made him pause. “No ?”

You shook your head. “You are… quieter.”

A breath of something like amusement crossed his face, not quite a smile, but the ghost of it. “Most Generals are quieter after the wedding than before it,” he said dryly.

That startled a soft laugh from you; small, nervous. He turned his face then, as if your reaction had caught him off guard. He looked at the wall, then the floor, anywhere but at you.

You studied him.

There was something about the way he carried himself. The way his fingers flexed once at his sides and then stilled again, that felt like he could control fire. And it drew you. Even now, even as you knew this was not a love story, maybe not yet, or maybe never—but you were drawn to him.

After this evening at his side, you had expected nothing from a man like him. Still, as you sat across from him at the imperial banquet—smiling politely, answering questions from governors and senators who barely remembered your name—you could not help glancing at him in those small, unguarded moments. 

Marcus Acacius was every inch the legend you had heard of: carved from silence, shaped by discipline. His posture never faltered, even when seated, and his replies were devoid of warmth. But what struck you most was the restraint in his gaze, like there was something caged behind those irises. And yet, when his eyes landed on you, even briefly, something changed. 

A flicker, gone before it could fully become a thought. A hesitation, as if there was a war behind those eyes that had nothing to do with you. You did not flatter yourself into thinking he was pleased by the match. No one truly was. This was not a marriage woven of love or even desire. It was strategy, diplomacy, obedience. A bargain between Empires, in which you were the treaty dressed in white. 

But you were determined to be more than that. You had promised yourself—there, on the terrace of your homeland, when the sails of your old life disappeared behind you—that you would not enter this marriage meekly. You would do your duty, yes. But more than that: you would try to love. You would give this cold stone the warmth of yours hands, even if it never warmed in return. 

He had barely spoken to you since the ceremony. A bow. A glance. He had offered his arm but not his voice. You watched him, not as an infatuated girl—you were not that foolish—but as a woman determined to understand the man she had been given to. 

There was something in him, you were sure of it. A kind of tension, as if every movement was measured to avoid some fault. And it made you wonder what lay buried under all that discipline ? Even the greatest Generals were made of flesh, even marble could cracked under pressure. 

You wanted—needed—to know who he was when the armor came off. And tonight, in the hush that followed the ceremony… you would begin to try.

“I will not force you,” he said suddenly, voice tight. “If you would prefer to wait, I-”

“I do not want to wait,” you said, before you could give yourself time to retreat. “This is our wedding night. I would rather… not be alone.”

He looked at you then. “Very well,” he said simply.

You sat on the edge of the bed, near his feet, leaving just enough space between you to preserve modesty, and just enough closeness to feel the tension like a thread drawn taut between your bodies. The room was dim, lit only by candles flickering near the carved columns. Somewhere beyond the walls, musicians still played for the last drunk guests, but their music had thinned, like it was too hesitating.

For a moment he grimaces, a faint tightening around his eyes, as if settling into something that did not quite fit. You turned your face fully toward him now, unsure whether to speak, unsure whether silence would offend or comfort. When he adjusted his posture and leaned back a little, his gaze slid toward you again, and then, down. 

Your robe clung faintly to your skin in places that left much to the imagination, thin and delicate, the firelight made suggestions of the shape beneath it. You had not meant it to be seductive, but you had not stopped it either. His eyes lingered, no longer guarded. After all he was a General, not a monk. 

A muscle in his jaw tightened, his hand curled, crumpling the sheet at his side. You bit your lower lip, almost without realizing it, heart thudding. You had imagined wanting from him, but it was just a thought. Maybe something you could use to reach him. 

Just for a breath, he looked at you not as duty, but as a woman. 

And something flickered across is expression, as if torn between distance and desire—no, worse; as if he had fought the feeling and already lost.

You took a breath that trembled in your chest and let the courage carry you forward. Slowly—almost reverently—you crawled across the sheets, each movement delicate. The soft rustle of fabric beneath your knees was the only sound as you were now on all fours, looking at him directly in the eye. You kept your hungry eyes fixed on him, searching his face for any kind of reaction. He was statuesque in the low light, his expression unreadable once again, though his body seemed to betray him as you could feel his already hard cock beneath the sheets, which made you smirk.

A flush of warmth spread through your chest as you did not know how to begin. You straddled him gently, your thighs sliding over his, your breath hitching as your bodies aligned. His eyes flickered open, and for a moment, just a moment, there was something there—not desire, not affection, but… permission. And, you could work with that.

You stood over him with your arms embedded in the mattress, you leaned down and placed a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth—a quiet echo of the one he had given you at the altar, but his lips did not move, they did not even flinched. 

Undeterred, you continued. A kiss on his cheek, then another along the edge of his jaw, yet another just below his ear, a trail down the column of his throat. You felt him shift beneath you, a ripple of muscle and restraint. A sound escaped him, almost a sigh, but muted. His hands came hesitantly to your hips, trying to push you away carefully. But, you rocked your hips once, lightly—testing, and his grip tightened—more by instinct, like a simple reflex but—pressed your body a little closer to his. 

You smiled faintly and rose, looking only at him with a burning desire, slowly peeling back the sheet between you. His eyes snapped open with surprise, maybe a quiet resistance ? His hands slid over your thighs and he closed once again his eyes, taking a deep breath. You did not pause anyway. Your hands moved with a confidence you did not quite feel, lifting the hem of your robe and slipping it over your head. Revealing your warm and naked body to him, as the air kissed your bare nipples. You saw his gaze moving over you, and for a breathless heartbeat, you felt seen. 

But then, suddenly, it was gone. His eyes drifted to the side, unfocused and his jaw clenched. You tried not to falter. 

He leaned back against the headboard as you settled atop him again, you took advantage of this moment to lift yourself gently and removed the covers that had separated your bodies until then. He looked at you with intrigue, certainly not expecting such gesture and ardor from you. Then, lifting the edge of his tunic to free him, you licked your lips impatiently. His cock was rock hard—thick and ready—but he barely reacted to your touch. No smirk, no words, no heat in his eyes. 

Still, you guided his fat cock to your entrance, offering a last glance—a silent plea to meet you there, even if it is just for a moment. You sank down, gasping at the stretch, your body trembling as he filled you completely. Slowly you took him inch by inch, your breath breaking into gasps as your body stretched to accommodate him. Just too much at once, a new world splitting open inside you and your moan broke the silence like a confession.

He grunted softly beneath you, but you moved anyway, riding slowly. As he spread your walls, you let out a loud moan, scrunching up your face from the slight pain. Your hands braced on his broad shoulders and your breath mingled with the scent of his skin. You bit your lip, letting soft sounds escape, trying to give yourself fully. He was so deep inside you, you could feel his cock in your stomach, and the sensation was just delicious, you could not stop yourself anymore.

He let out a few careless whimpers, as your hands found support on his broad shoulders, allowing you to keep your balance and find a rhythm that suited your desires. You bit your lower lip and moaned once more, his hands shyly roaming your body as you surrendered yourself completely to him, leaving no room for hesitation. Suddenly he frowned and sighed through his nostrils, then look at you—properly—just once, a long and unreadable gaze. 

Your hands clenched at his shoulders, as he made no move to guide you through it. So you set another rhythm, slower—rolling your hips to feel every inch of him inside you. Your hands found his chest to steady yourself, and your thighs trembled with the effort. His hands left your body and found the sheets beside him. You let go and tried to make him want you again, but it was as if he had barricaded himself in, letting you use his body as you pleased. You leaned in, trying to draw him back, but he moved his head slightly, preventing you from kissing him or even making contact with his skin.

The warmth between your legs grew and you began to ride him with growing confidence, chasing something unspoken between you. You tried to catch his eyes, but he was not looking at you anymore. His head tilted back; eyes closed, lips parted slightly in some imagined reverie. Your fingers traced along his collarbone, but he did not stir. It was as if he was unable to face the sight of your body on his. 

Still straddling him, your movements reduced to a fragile rhythm. Not for pleasure anymore, but for your dignity. To convince yourself there was still something happening between your bodies. But he was limp beneath your touch, his body remains inside yours, but something in him was… gone. You looked down at him, pleading, and saw the furrow between his brows, the ways his lips seemed to mouth something you could not decipher. 

You slow to a stop and stay still atop him, your breathing uneven and shallow from the thrum of something colder uncoiling inside you. The rise and fall of his chest beneath you were distant, absent. His hands no longer held you, his eyes had closed again, retreating into some private place far from where your skin met his. 

And then, the question tumbled from your lips before you could bury it. “Am I…” you paused, voice tight, “not doing it right ?”

The words hung in the air between you like a mist that refused to lift. He opened his eyes and looked directly at you. Not at your body, your mouth or your hands, even less the place where you were joined. But at your eyes, like a man stepping into a memory he had not meant to find. 

There was no irritation in his expression, no hunger. Just softness, and what seems like pity. And that, somehow, was worse. His voice was almost careful when he responded, “No. You are alright.”

But he did not say what it was. Your fingers, unsure, rested on his chest where his heartbeat barely stirred beneath your palm. You leaned forward slightly, a whisper of movement, your voice fragile now. “I can try something else, if you want.” A thread of hope knotted tight in your chest. “If you tell me what pleases you, I-I can try…”

For a moment, silence. Then a quiet breath and a small shake of his head. “I am just tired,” he murmured. “That is all.”

Just tired. 

That simple. 

That final. 

You stayed there, frozen in that moment, as if stillness might hold something together—whatever this was supposed to be. But the thread between you had already slackened. A tender, desperate intimacy folded into something formal. As though your body had become just another offering to be endured. 

He shifted, gently—not urgently—adjusting the blanket, reaching for the edge of the sheet. You took the silent cue, sliding off him with grace you barely possessed in that moment, pulling the cover over yourself in one practiced motion. You turned away so he would not see your face, because you were not sure what expression you wore.

Marcus settled back into the mattress with the weary composure of a soldier finished with duty. His arm fell across his chest and his eyes shut again, for good this time. You lay beside him a long while, watching the gold-leafed ceiling flicker with candlelight. Somewhere beyond the walls, music still played. 

You slipped from the bed, eventually, quiet as the dying flame of the candle next to you, and walked barefoot to the far end of the room. You wrapped yourself in the nearest robe, not for modesty, but for armor. You settled back into bed beside him, leaving as much distance as possible before closing your eyes. And just as you felt yourself drift off into a deep sleep, a solitary tear escaped your eye.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

Marcus’ masterlist | next part

[mylovesstuffs]

OT13 reaction to having a cute, strong s/o who also loves to eat

Requested by @moonygrim : Hi Celeste 😊, I hope you’re doing well 💕.

I saw that your requests were open and decided to send one in.

So I was just wondering if you could write a reaction to Seventeen having a strong cute SO who maybe likes to eat a lot. I know it’s a little of a weird one but I thought I would send it anyways since seeing something like that would mean a lot to me.

Thank you 💕.

A/N: tysm for trusting me with something so personal. representation matters, and i’m honored to help you feel seen through this one 🫶🏼 you deserve to be adored just as you are, muscle and all 💜 /// the requester included some personal experiences, which i chose not to share publicly out of respect for their privacy. the prompt above is the main request

Head-over-heels in awe of your strength [and your appetite] — Seungcheol, Dokyeom, Mingyu, Dino

These boys are starstruck. No other word for it. Seungcheol practically glows watching you lift something heavy without breaking a sweat. He calls you his ‘supergirl’ and brags about how ”his girl carried the groceries like they were feathers.” Mingyu is so whipped it’s ridiculous. You flex once and he’s making heart eyes, mumbling, “You’re so cool, what the heck.” If you’re both at a buffet? You’re tag-teaming! Dokyeom LOVES that you eat with joy. He’s always encouraging you to get seconds, and if you ever say “I think I ate too much,” he’s shaking his head like: “No such thing. Let’s go for dessert” 🍮 And Dino's a baby in love. He looks at you like you hung the moon, especially when you slightly lift him up jokingly or beat him in arm wrestling. That’s his dream girl.

Totally smitten, totally supportive — Jeonghan, Hoshi, Woozi, Seungkwan

Jeonghan low-key teases you at first, “should I be the little spoon tonight?” but it’s all affection. He genuinely finds your strength super attractive and hot and secretly loves it when you protect him from fans or push open a jammed door like it’s nothing. Woozi’s too chill to say much, but he’s proud and kind of turned on. His eyes linger when you’re focused, the small smiles when you eat with gusto — it’s all there. Seungkwan is OBSESSED. You’re his superhero. He’ll film you carrying heavy bags just to show people how cool you are. And when you’re eating happily, he's literally matching your pace and feeding you bites of his plate. Hoshi’s your #1 cheerleader, “LOOK AT HER BICEPS!!!” he’ll yell in the group chat after you open a kimchi jar he couldn’t. He’ll act all dramatic but only because, he’s so, so into you.

Extremely respectful of your body and your confidence — Joshua, Jun, Wonwoo, Minghao

Joshua’s the type to look at your arms while you’re lifting something and ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ say, “You’re really strong,” with the kindest, most genuine admiration. He loves that you’re strong and soft; his safe space. Wonwoo finds strength incredibly sexy. You might be stronger than him, and he loves that. He’s quiet, but if you ever express insecurity, he’ll look you straight in the eye and say, “you’re beautiful. Exactly as you are.” and shut all that nonsensical stuff in your head. Jun will 100% ask you to teach him workouts. You two will have gym dates, and he’ll compliment your form every time. He loves your body and the way you love food, it’s all part of what makes you you. Hao sees your strength as elegance. He’s inspired by your control, your discipline, and how at peace you are with yourself [because he doesn't let you you live with insecurities]. If someone makes a comment about your build, he’ll politely but firmly shut it down, “she’s stronger than your fragile ego. Let’s go babe.” [UFF, I LOVE HIM 😌]

Obsessed in the most Vernon way — Vernon

Vernon’s reaction is understated, but make no mistake: he’s in awe of you. You casually carry something heavy or pop open a stuck bottle cap, and he just blinks like, “wait. That was kinda hot.” He admires your strength silently, but with so much pride. He doesn’t gush, but he just shows it in lowkey ways: asking you to spot him at the gym, letting you finish his fries because you love them, or wordlessly handing you his hoodie when he notices you’re cold after a workout. And if anyone ever says anything rude about your build or appetite, he’s not shouting and screaming and challenging to fight him, but he’s sharp. He’ll cut in calmly, firmly, “she’s literally perfect. You good?”