#because its beforE my head and not foR my head?

[yogirl-willow]

The Crimson Pact | Part 5

Characterizations | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 6

SoulBond!AU

Pairings: Yandere!Saja Boys x F!Reader

Synopsis: You were never supposed to remember them.

Four hundred years ago, a pact was made—a blood-soaked bond tying five demons to one human soul: yours.

They’ve waited lifetimes for your reincarnation, cursed with obsession, tethered by fate.

And now that you’ve returned?

They’ll burn the world before they let you go again.

Warnings: Soul bond with the Saja Boys, Yandere themes!, obsessive behavior / possessiveness, romantic psychological tension, mentions of implied past death / reincarnation, intense emotional fixation, yearning, dark romance, hurt/comfort

A/N: Story is rolling along folks! I plan to flesh out each and every one of the boys + get the plot rolling a bit in this chapter and the next. Thank you for all your lovely comments! Unfortunately, Tumblr only allows a certain amount of tags so I sincerely apologize if I was not able to tag you on here (I tried adding everyone I could). 😭 But just know that I'm so grateful to everyone reading my story. 🥺 If you'd still like to be tagged and you weren't on here just comment and I can try adding you to the next update!

───────── ༺🜃༻ ─────────

The Saja boys are all demons.

They are wrath and ruin. Jealousy and death.

And yet, before her, they kneel.

Because she is the Heart. Because her soul is what keeps them from unraveling into true monsters. Because they were bound by her love and her curse.

They don’t just crave her—they depend on her. Without her presence, their minds deteriorate. Their bodies decay. Their hunger becomes unbearable.

Only Y/N’s touch tames the demon inside.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Part 5:

The Closer You Come

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. Galbi sizzles in the pan. Romance stirs the sauce for the bulgogi with a flick of his wrist, lips pursed, jaw tight. Baby’s lounging on the couch, flipping through channels absently—volume low. Mystery sits on the floor nearby, sketchpad in his lap, but the page hasn’t flipped in minutes.

And Jinu? Jinu is standing stock still, eyes unfocused, head tilted just slightly—like he’s hearing something the others can’t. 

Then it happens. A pulse.

A flare of heat through the bond—so sudden, so visceral it feels like it cracks through their spines and settles in their chests. Like lightning, but slow. Like breath hitching in someone else’s throat. Jinu exhales, long and low, the tension in his jaw deepening.

“She kissed him,” he mutters, voice dark with something ancient. Romance drops the spoon. The sound of it hitting the counter echoes too loud in the kitchen.

“She did what?” Baby straightens, head whipping toward the hallway. His eyes sharpen like a knife drawn slow from its sheath.

“They’re close,” Mystery whispers, eyes wide, hand still frozen over the paper. “Closer than before.” A breath. A heartbeat. Then—

Another pulse. Hotter. Slower. Deeper. This time it ripples. Like need. Like skin. Like hands where only air used to be. Romance presses both palms on the counter and hunches forward, exhaling like he’s in pain. “She’s letting him touch her.” he smiles wrily. “Lucky motherfucker-”

“Oh, fuck.” Baby hisses and scrubs a hand over his face, pacing now. “I swear, if he’s inside her right now I will burn this apartment down.”

“Shut up,” Jinu growls. “Don’t ruin it.”

“But—!”

“She’s choosing him,” Jinu says, quieter now. Not angry. Not jealous. Just… reverent. Like it hurts. Like it heals.

“Not that far, not yet.” Mystery whispers, his voice small. Hopeful.  “But she’s starting to want us,” “Really want us.”

Romance says nothing. His expression unreadable. He stares down into the bulgogi sauce like it’s the only thing holding him to earth.

“She’ll come to us too,” Baby mutters, sitting back down, hands twitching on his thighs. “Eventually.”

Another pulse hits—this one sweet. Soft. Settled. They all exhale like they’ve been holding their breath. Then—Romance smiles. A slow, dangerous thing. “Let her fall in love,” he says. “Let her remember what it feels like to be worshipped. To be ours.”

He finally looks up, eyes gleaming. “She’ll never escape us after this.”

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You wake to the steady rhythm of a heartbeat beneath your ear.

Warmth surrounds you—solid muscle, arms like a fortress around your waist, breath brushing your hair. You blink sleep from your lashes and lift your head slowly. The room is dim, painted in faint light from the setting sun bleeding through the curtains. Abby- no, Haneul’s arms tighten for just a moment, as if sensing your stirring.

His eyes crack open, slow and groggy, but the second he sees you awake, he smiles. Soft. Boyish. Unbelievably gentle for someone so sharp-edged and dangerous. "Hey," he murmurs, his voice still sleep-rough. "Sleep okay?"

You nod. "Yeah. Better than I have in a while." You don’t say why. But you both know.

Your body aches—not from pain, but from feeling. From finally letting something out, something ancient and caged and suffocating. Haneul’s story had shattered something in you, and you hadn’t realized how heavy it all was until he held it with you.

You rest your hand on his chest again, listening to the thud beneath your fingers. He exhales, like your touch soothes something deep in him.

Then a knock. Light and polite. “Dinner’s ready,” comes Mystery’s voice from the other side. “Abby, bring her down or I will.” You hear the smile in it. A threat. A promise.

You feel Haneul’s chest rumble with a low growl. “He’s getting too bold.” You laugh quietly and push off him, sitting up. “You promised not to kill your own bandmate.”

“Did I?”

You throw a pillow at him.

The dining table is already set—cozy and warm, lit with soft ambient lights and the faint smell of something savory and a little sweet. Galbi and Bulgogi, with tea and little folded napkins in the shape of hearts. You don’t ask who did that. You already know.

Mystery’s eyes light up the second he sees you. Not like they’re glowing (though they are faintly), but like you are. He takes your hand without asking, leads you to the table, and pulls out your chair with an elegant, shy little flourish. Then, before you can sit, he kisses your forehead.

You freeze. His lips linger longer than they should. Then he pulls back and simply stares at you. His fingers remain laced in yours as you sit.

You let him.

The others notice. They don’t speak on it, but you feel it—the way Jinu softens, the way Romance hums thoughtfully into his cup, the way Baby flicks his gaze from Mystery to you and back again, unreadable but watching.

Something’s shifted. Maybe it happened the moment Haneul touched your soul and showed you his scars. Maybe it happened long before that. You sip your tea in silence, letting Mystery’s hand remain curled gently over yours.

They keep glancing at you—each of them. Not out of suspicion, not even obsession this time. Something else. Affection. Maybe even awe. And for once… it doesn’t frighten you.

If Haneul’s story was that tragic, you think, tracing your fingertip over the lip of your mug, then how many other lifetimes have I lived inside their sorrow?

Your voice breaks the quiet. “I’m… sorry. For earlier. I know you guys mean well.”

Jinu shakes his head slowly. “You were scared. You had every right to be.”

“Still. I should… trust you.”

Romance leans his chin in his palm, watching you intently. “You’re here. That’s what matters.”

You swallow once. “I need to know something.” Every head lifts at the shift in your tone. “Why are demons following me?”

They exchange glances. It’s Jinu who speaks, his voice calm but iron underneath. “Because word got out.”

“About me?”

“About The Pact.” Romance’s voice is silk over steel. “Some of them doubted it for years. Thought Gwi Ma was bluffing. But now that they’ve seen you… they know you’re real.”

You feel the blood drain from your face. Jinu nods once. “You’re a symbol. A myth. The key to everything.”

“To us,” Haneul adds from across the table. His gaze is steady, anchored to yours.

“And now they want you,” Romance finishes. “To marvel. To worship. Maybe even to steal. Depends on the demon.”

You stare down at your food. The sudden weight of it all feels like it could crush you. But then—warm fingers squeeze yours. Mystery. Unwavering. Devoted. 

“You are ours to protect,” Jinu says. “Whatever comes. That bond between us? It’s not just magic. It’s real. It’s what keeps you safe.”

You look up. They’re all staring at you now. And not a single one of them blinks. You swallow past the lump in your throat. “Okay,” you whisper. “I trust you.”

And the relief in their eyes is so pure, it nearly breaks you open all over again. You begin to eat the delicious food prepared and go to grab more of the Bulgogi across the table. 

“Haneul, could you pass the Bulgogi please-” There’s a beat of stillness so sharp it cuts the air.

He freezes.

Your voice had been soft—barely above a breath—but it might as well have echoed off the walls. Four pairs of eyes flick to him instantly. Abby—no, Haneul—doesn’t move for a full second. Jinu’s lips twitch into the ghost of a smile. Romance hums, pleased. Mystery beams openly. Even Baby’s lip quirks in that subtle way of his.

But it’s Haneul who looks undone. His eyes meet yours—dark, glittering, soft in a way that should be terrifying coming from someone who could end nations. And yet, the only thing they carry is adoration. Worship. Wonder. 

He swallows. “Say it again.”

You blink. “Haneul—”

He closes his eyes. “Again,” he whispers.

“Haneul.” His knuckles turn white against the table’s edge.

“You’re going to make him short-circuit,” Mystery says fondly. Haneul smiles and every boy at the table watches that moment—not with envy, but with a shared fondness. Because the bond did flare then. You felt it. So did they. Threading tighter. Warmer. More unbreakable than before. And none of them would say it aloud… But they knew. That name in your mouth was holy. And it belonged to him.

Haneul coughs, handing you the bowl of Bulgogi with a slight tinge to his cheeks that made you gush internally. Cute.

The clink of chopsticks against porcelain fills the air as you eat dinner. Mystery leans closer as he gently places another spoon of Galbi onto your plate. Jinu silently refills your tea. Abby watches you from across the table, his grip tightening every time you look away. Romance twirls his spoon like he’s thinking too hard. Baby doesn’t eat—he just stares.

Dinner tastes warm, comforting. You toy with your rice for a moment. “Can I ask you something again?”

Jinu looks up instantly. “Anything.”

You hesitate, then glance at each of them. “Why are you in a boyband?”

Everyone goes still for a moment. Romance’s spoon halts midair. Jinu doesn’t blink. Abby’s jaw ticks, hard. Mystery goes stiff. Only Baby doesn’t react—but his eyes narrow slightly.

“That’s a fair question,” Jinu says at last. Too smooth. Too calm. Romance flashes a smile. Too polished. “We needed a way to be seen.”

“We came up with the idea and Gwi Ma told us to go ahead with it,” Abby grumbles, tone clipped.

You blink. “The demon king?”

“Yeah,” Romance says, more gently now. “We thought if we were famous—if the world worshipped us—you’d find your way to us again. Hear our voices. Remember something in your soul.”

“And it worked,” Mystery whispers, squeezing your hand. “You’re here.”

You look down, stomach fluttering. “So… everything was just for me?”

Jinu nods. “Always.”

Romance leans forward, voice soft like velvet and lined with knives. “You were the only one who was ever supposed to hear the songs. The rest of the world? Just echoes.”

Abby’s voice is low. “We became everything they loved so you’d never miss us.”

It’s overwhelming. A little terrifying. But something about the way they look at you makes it feel… real. True.

You don’t notice how they exchange glances once you lower your gaze to take another bite of your meal. Don’t see how Jinu’s knuckles whiten around his cup. Or how Baby finally looks away—like even he can’t hold your gaze when you’re this trusting.

They’re lying. Not about the bond. Not about the fame. But about the purpose.

Because the truth—about the souls their voices seduce and collect for Gwi Ma, about the weight of every fan who screamed their name and unknowingly gave up a piece of themselves—that truth would shatter something still fragile between you.

They’ll tell you. One day. But not tonight.

Tonight, you smile at them with trust blooming behind your eyes. And none of them have the heart to destroy it. Not yet.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The apartment is quiet except for the soft hum of the air purifier and the occasional flip of a page. You’re curled into the far corner of the couch, reading the book Romance gave you. The velvet cover is worn, the margins marked with his elegant handwriting—tiny, circling certain lines, underlining others. As if he already knew which ones you’d love.

Mystery sits beside you. Your legs are tucked over his lap, a throw blanket draped across both of you. He hasn’t moved in ten minutes. Not really. Just subtle things—his fingers occasionally grazing your ankle like he needs the contact. Like he’s memorizing the weight of you. He watches you read with an expression so soft it feels like it shouldn’t belong on a demon’s face.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur, not looking up.

“I like when you read,” he replies. His voice is low. Breathless. “It feels safe.”

You glance at him. He’s not blushing—he never really does—but his eyes are wide, unblinking. Locked on you like a starving thing. He continues, voice barely a whisper. “I hear feelings. Yours are quiet. Not sharp. Not angry.”

You hesitate, your thumb pausing mid-turn on the page.

“Most people… when they feel something, it hurts my head. Makes me itch. Makes me want to run.”

His hand brushes against your calf, soft. “But your fear doesn’t push me away. It makes me want to stay. Makes me want to hold you tighter.”

You look at him, your heart heavy. He’s so gentle when you let him be. So emotionally loud even in silence. You shift slightly and reach up to brush the strands of hair from his face. His lashes flutter as your fingers graze his temple. He leans into your touch like a cat who’s been cold for centuries and has finally found the sun.

You both stay like that for a moment—your fingers in his hair, his palm resting gently over your shin. Then the door opens. Jinu walks in first, flanked by Romance, Baby, and Haneul. Their jackets are damp from evening mist, the faint scent of cologne and cold air clinging to their clothes. They’re speaking lowly among themselves until they notice you and Mystery curled together on the couch.

Romance's mouth lifts at one corner. “Hope he wasn’t being too clingy.”

“He was perfect,” you say, brushing your fingers through Mystery’s hair. He leans into it with a soft hum. Baby drops into an armchair and sprawls like a cat. “Hope we didn’t interrupt.”

“Not at all,” you say. “How was everything?”

“Fine,” Jinu says. “Promotions. Interviews.”

“You didn’t watch the broadcast?” Romance asks, raising a brow.

“I caught some of it,” you reply. “Congrats on the win, by the way. I saw you beat Huntrix for the number one spot.”

There’s a silence that engulfs the room. Utter and immediate. You blink. “What? That’s a good thing, right?”

The shift in the room is subtle—but palpable. Romance’s jaw clenches. Haneul straightens. Baby stops playing with the sleeve of his hoodie. Mystery’s hand tightens slightly over your leg.

You frown. “Is there… something I’m missing?”

Jinu sighs. “The Huntrix girls…they’re not just idols,” His voice is quiet. Calculated. 

“They’re hunters,” Haneul adds, eyes unreadable.

Your brows furrowed in confusion and you tilt your head to the side in the same adorable way that made Baby want to squish you the other day. “Hunters? What do they hunt?”

“Us.” Mystery utters.

You pause. “Like… demon hunters?”

A beat.

“Yes,” Baby says softly. “Exactly like that.”

The words hit like cold water. “But…” You sit up straighter. “I talked to one of them once… Zoey. She seemed really nice.”

“What?” Romance snaps. His voice is sharp, already halfway to furious.

“She—she asked for my Instagram. And I gave it. I didn’t know she was—”

“You what?” Haneul’s voice is low. Dangerous. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

You flinch. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

“They’re not your friends,” Baby says, rising now, steps slow and deliberate. “They’re trained to destroy everything you’re starting to care about.”

“They don’t want your feed,” Mystery murmurs, brows furrowed. “They want leverage.”

You stare at them. At the fear disguised as anger on all their faces. The way they’re circling now. Closing in—not at you, but around you. Like a shield.

“I didn’t know,” you whisper.

Jinu moves closer. “Of course you didn’t.”

Romance exhales hard, running a hand through his hair. “That’s why we’re telling you now. So you don’t make that mistake again.”

“I didn’t think they were dangerous,” you say. “Zoey… she smiled. She even handed me some medicine.”

“Smiles don’t mean safety,” Haneul says.

“Some demons smile before they tear out your soul,” Mystery adds. “And some humans smile before they take a blade to your back.”

You look down at your hands, guilt pooling deep in your stomach.

“We’re not angry with you,” Jinu says after a pause, kneeling in front of you. His voice is low. Calming. “But you have to be careful.”

“They’re forming a barrier,” Romance says. “The Honmoon. A seal meant to lock demons out of the human world.”

“It’s been around since before we were demons,” Haneul adds, voice low. “They don’t just hunt. They exterminate.”

“But why?” you ask. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Silence stretches. One beat. Two.

“They don’t care about innocence,” Haneul says finally. “To them, a demon is a demon. No exceptions.”

“And the less we can touch this world,” Jinu murmurs, “the safer they feel.”

Baby’s jaw tenses. “And you… you’re close to us. Too close. That makes you a threat.”

You blink. “But they don’t even know what this is. They don’t know about the bond.”

“No,” Romance says, eyes unreadable. “But they see how we look at you. How we follow you. They know we’d burn everything to protect you.”

Mystery leans in, voice soft but sharp. “That makes you leverage.”

Your chest tightens.

“They’ll try to use you,” Haneul says. “To get to us. To break us. And they won’t care who you are.”

You press your fingers to your temples. The air feels heavier now. Like the weight of things you never asked to carry has settled on your shoulders. Still…

As you look at the boys—at their tension, their fear masked as fury, their tenderness wrapped in obsession—you don’t feel unsafe. You feel shielded. Even if their love is dangerous. Even if you’re only beginning to understand how far they’d go to keep you.

Baby steps forward and kneels beside you. He takes your hand gently and lifts it to his lips. “We’ll always be with you,” he says, breath barely brushing your skin. “Even if you don’t see us. Even if the whole world turns on you.” He presses a kiss to your knuckles. “Sleep safe tonight.”

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The next day Mystery insists on walking you to work. He doesn’t say it outright. Just appears beside you with his hoodie half-zipped, his fingers brushing yours like they belong there. And maybe, at this point, they do.

“You don’t have to come,” you murmur, adjusting your bag.

“I want to,” he says simply. His gaze doesn’t quite meet yours, but you feel the intensity behind it anyway. “You were upset yesterday. I didn’t like it.”

You smile, small. A little tired. “You’re all like this, you know.”

He shrugs. “Only with you.”

The walk is quiet. Easy. At least until you turn the corner onto the street where the café should be—and everything stills. Mystery’s hand tightens around yours. There’s yellow tape stretched across the door. A printed notice slapped onto the glass:

“CLOSED: PENDING INVESTIGATION.”

Your breath catches. You step forward like it might change something. “No,” you whisper. “What—?”

Mystery doesn’t move. You spot Mina, your coworker, nearby and jog over. “What happened?” 

Mina looks shaken. “They said someone reported us—health code stuff, really serious. Spoiled food, pest control, tampered beverages. They think someone’s been… messing with customer orders.”

“That’s insane,” you breathe. “No one’s ever gotten sick—”

“I know,” Mina says, voice hushed. “It doesn’t make sense.”

She frowns. “You should talk to the owner, though. He said you shouldn’t come back. For your own safety.”

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The second you walk back into the apartment, the atmosphere shifts. Mystery lingers at the door behind you, but the rest of the boys are already gathered—waiting. Like they knew. Like they planned this.

Romance raises a brow. “Back so soon?”

“Cut the act.” you jab. “You had the café shut down.”

Jinu doesn’t flinch. Neither does Baby. Only Haneul lowers his gaze, jaw tight. You look at Romance. He’s smiling faintly. Too sweet. Too calm.

“That place was a risk,” he says. “Too many unknowns. Too many people getting too close.”

“I worked there.”

“You don’t have to anymore,” he replies softly. “You have us.”

Your hands ball into fists. “You didn’t even ask me. You just—took it.”

“Well, we did ask you to quit… multiple times.” Romance steps forward, cupping your cheek. His thumb brushes under your eye. “We didn’t take anything,” he murmurs. “We removed what was hurting you. You just haven’t realized it yet.”

You pull back. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“But we will,” Baby cuts in, his voice like a warning purr. “If it means keeping you.”

You look at all of them—beautiful, terrifying, devoted—and feel the ground tilt beneath you. “I need air,” you mutter, pushing past them.

You shove open the sliding door and step out onto the balcony, the cool air cutting against your skin like glass. You grip the railing so tightly your knuckles pale, breath uneven from the fire still twisting in your chest.

They shut down your job. Your café. And maybe you weren’t in love with the place, but it was yours—your choice, your independence, your routine. And they just took it.

The door slides open behind you. You don’t turn. Of course it’s him. You’d know the steady footfalls of Baby anywhere. The calmest storm in the room.

“You knew,” you say, voice tight. “You all knew.”

He says nothing at first. Just steps up beside you, arms folded lazily over the balcony edge. “Romance was only trying to help.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “He has a funny way of showing it. That café was—”

“Beneath you,” Baby interrupts, turning to face you. “That café was full of men who stared too long. Of customers who asked for your name so they could whisper it later. Of noise. Of danger.”

You snap your gaze to him. “There were other people working there, too. People who needed that job. And now it’s shut down. Just so you could—what—feel better?”

He doesn’t blink. “I don’t care.”

The wind stills. “You—what?”

“I don’t care about them,” he repeats, voice soft but final. “You’re all I care about.” He steps closer, expression unreadable. “They’ll find something else. You? You’re not replaceable.”

You stare at him. Words jam in your throat, tangled with disbelief, frustration… something rawer, something too close to the chest. “I had a life,” you whisper. “A normal life.”

“You were haunted in it,” he says flatly. “And none of them knew.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off again—quietly this time. “You think you’re mad because you lost control,” he murmurs. “But it’s because we took what hurt you before you had to ask.”

He pauses, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with more tenderness than you expect from someone whose words feel like a cage. And then, gently, with a voice full of conviction: “Let us be your monsters. We already are. The only difference is we’d kill for you.”

You exhale, shaky. The rage in your chest ebbs—but doesn’t vanish. You don’t know if it’s fear or relief or both. Because he’s not wrong. After what happened in the café yesterday, after the demon— You had been scared. And he knows that. They all do. And they’re doing what demons do: protecting what they think is theirs.

Even if it means burning everything else down.

You step back inside after a few minutes, arms folded tightly across your chest. All five boys are in the living room now, waiting. Watching. Jinu straightens first, and the others fall into line without speaking—like soldiers sensing their commander’s cue. But there’s no war here. Only the tension you dragged in with you.

You glance between them and sigh. “I’m still mad.”

Romance opens his mouth.

“Don’t,” you snap, holding up a hand. “Just—don’t.”

He closes it. Smiles. But there’s something smug tucked beneath it. You flop onto the couch with an exaggerated huff. “Well. Congrats. You’ve successfully ruined my only source of income. What now? I need to pay rent, I need to make a living—I have to find another job.”

Abby blinks. “No, you don’t.”

You throw a pillow at him. “I do! Unless you want me starving and sleeping in a park—wait, actually, I live here. So technically that’s your fault now.”

Romance hums, lounging against the arm of the couch. “We’ll give you whatever you need. How much do you want?”

You stare at him like he’s sprouted a second head. “What?”

“Money. Name your number.”

“I—what?! That’s not how this works!” You fling your arms in disbelief. “If anything, I should be paying you for letting me stay here!”

Jinu shrugs calmly. “Think of it as… us paying you to stay.”

Your jaw drops. “You’re renting me?”

“No,” Baby deadpans from the side, arms crossed. “More like… pay-to-own. Although—technically—we already own. So maybe it’s just… property tax?”

You gape at him. “Are you hearing yourselves?”

Mystery, perched beside you like a content shadow, takes your hand and kisses the back of it without a word. You stare at him. He stares right back. Shameless.

“You’re insane,” you mutter.

“Only for you,” Abby adds with a grin, ruffling your hair. You groan and sink further into the couch. “I seriously need to rethink every decision that brought me here.”

“You don’t have to work,” Jinu says, voice softer now. “Not if you don’t want to.”

You shoot him a tired glare. “And do what, exactly?”

“Whatever you couldn’t do before,” he says gently. “Sketch. Paint. Read all the books you used to dog-ear. Let the world slow down. Let us take care of the rest.”

You pause. There’s sincerity there, under the obsession. Love tangled with possessiveness. A future they’re building for you whether you asked for it or not.

“I don’t know,” you murmur. “I still feel like I’ve lost something.”

“Maybe,” Romance says, kneeling in front of you with a hand on your knee. “But you’ve gained everything else.”

His smile is too sweet. Too sharp. And in the quiet that follows, you feel all of them closing in—not physically, but emotionally. Wrapping around your life. Like a cage made of velvet and affection. You sigh again.

And no one dares point out that you didn’t stand up to leave.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

An hour later, the door clicks softly behind them.

They’re gone. Just for the day—practice, recording, meetings. You’d seen the schedule laid out neatly on the counter that morning. It felt strange… watching them move from obsessions to idols in a blink. Haneul’s soft kiss on your temple. Mystery brushing your hair with his fingers before pulling away last. Romance not saying anything, just looking at you like he’d already won.

You walk through the apartment barefoot. Too quiet. Too big…

It’s not long before you find it. A studio room. Sunlight filters in through gauzy curtains. Canvases leaned in a perfect row, a new sketchbook waiting, and a full set of paints—brushes already soaking in fresh water.

Your breath catches. They’d set this up.

Romance, maybe. Or Haneul. Or all of them together, orchestrated like everything else. As if giving you a toy better than the one they had just taken away.

Still—your fingers twitch. You walk towards the table and run your hands along the grain, the weight of the sketchpad like something sacred. You sit. When was the last time I did something for myself?

You open the book, pencil hovering. The first line is shaky. But the second is steadier. Soon, shapes form. Flowers. A hand. An eye. Hours pass. Paint clings to your fingertips. Your world shrinks to canvas and color.

And yet… it doesn't feel free. You look around at the soft studio light, the way everything’s been made to please you.

They say it’s freedom. But it feels like a beautifully decorated cage.

A gilded sanctuary. One they carved for you with devotion sharp enough to bleed. You sigh and glance at the piece you made—a half-formed portrait of someone smiling. You don't even remember choosing the smile. It just… happened.

Your lips twitch. Haneul. The way he looked at you when you whispered his name. When you touched his skin and felt him tremble like you were salvation.

Mystery—how he held your hand like it was glass and pressed a kiss to your forehead like he’d never known tenderness until then.

You smile. But it fades. Because then there’s Romance. Romance who always speaks last. Who always speaks right. Who makes you think it’s your idea to stay, to trust, to choose him—when you know, deep down, he’s been choosing for you since the moment you met.

Romance loves like a chess master—every word, every pause, calculated.

You remember his voice that morning—smooth, unapologetic. He made you feel unreasonable for being mad. He makes you feel like you’re choosing him… even when he’s already chosen for you.

You dip your brush in red. You drag the stroke across the page. Maybe it’s not even about what they do anymore. Maybe it’s about what you’re becoming.

Is this real love? Or just the kind that demons can offer?

You stare out the window for a long time. The sun’s dipped lower now, painting the sky in shades of peach. You used to have things—schedules, coworkers, rent. Now you have five boys, a luxury apartment, a sketchbook you didn’t buy… I want to stay, you think. But it’s hard to want something… when it’s already been decided for you. 

You lean your head against the wall, paint drying on your palms. Your chest aches. You want to believe their love is enough. But maybe it’s not about enough. Maybe it’s about control. And what’s left of you if you give it away.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The sound of the front door clicking shut echoes through the apartment. “We’re back,” Jinu calls. No response.

Baby’s brow furrows. “Where is she?”

“Maybe her room?” Abby—Haneul—starts to move, but Mystery shakes his head. “She’s in the studio,” he says quietly. “She needed quiet.”

The boys file down the hall and stop at the doorway. The studio light glows warm and low. And there you are—curled up on the little couch, a blanket half-draped over you, a half-finished painting of red and twilight left on the easel nearby. A brush rests loosely in your hand.

Romance exhales softly. “Of course she paints when she’s sad.”

Haneul steps forward but stops when Romance moves past him. “I’ve got her.”

Carefully, reverently, Romance scoops you into his arms. The others don’t argue. They only watch—some with envy, some with longing—as he carries you through the apartment like you’re made of glass. But they understood he probably wanted a moment with you alone today.

He lays you down on the bed and slips in beside you, one arm curled beneath your neck, the other splayed across your waist like a vow. You stir slightly at the shift in warmth.

He gazes down at you in adoration, dipping his nose into your hair to breathe in and savour your scent. “I just want what’s best for you,” he whispers into your hair. “Even if you don’t know what that is. Even if it means you’ll hate me.”

Your brow twitches. Your breath shifts. Minutes pass before you squirm in his hold. “Go back to sleep,” he murmurs, brushing your hair off your face.

Your eyes crack open, just enough to catch the shadows of his lashes. “I’m not tired,” you mumble.

A soft, amused noise vibrates in his chest. “Tsk. You shouldn’t lie.”

You nuzzle closer, eyes still fluttering shut, and whisper faintly, “You should take your own advice.”

Romance goes still. Then he smiles, crooked and heartbroken all at once. “You’re clever even when you’re half-asleep,” he mutters, lips against your temple.

You shift again, now more awake, but still safe in his hold. “Romance…”

He exhales like your voice is a drug. And then he says it—quiet and trembling. “I was scared you hated me.”

You meet his gaze. “I don’t.”

His smile is faint. “Even if you did… Hate me, love me… I’m not leaving. Not in this lifetime. Not in any other.”

There’s something dangerous in the softness of his voice. Something that grips your ribs from the inside and refuses to let go. And yet, you ask—quietly, carefully, “But…Why?”

His hand rises, fingers brushing your lower lip, thumb lingering like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. “Do you really want to know?” he murmurs.

You nod.

He leans his head back against the pillows, gaze dragging up to the ceiling—but you know he’s not seeing this room. He’s seeing a world long gone. A memory still bleeding.

“I was born the son of a courtesan. A secret whispered behind painted screens. A mistake never meant to speak above a whisper. I learned early that love doesn’t come freely. People love you for what you give them—what you show them. Not for what you are.”

You stay still, heart beginning to pound.

“They taught me to survive. To smile like I meant it. To lie like it was devotion. I could make anyone believe they were the only person in the world to me. I… I never had a name worth keeping. Just looks and lies and the ability to make people want me… for a night. Never longer. And I never believed in love… not really. Until you.”

His jaw tenses.

“I met you when you were everything I wasn’t. You were a noble. Engaged to a man who didn’t even look at you the way I did. And I—God—I wasn’t supposed to touch you. I wasn’t even supposed to breathe the same air.” 

He scoffs lightly, eyes pained. “You were a softness I couldn’t corrupt. But I tried. God, I tried. I lured you in like I was taught to. Sweet words. Secret meetings. Lies that sounded like dreams. But you saw me. Past the charm. Past the mask. You chose me.”

Your throat tightens.

“I fell in love with you. For real. For the first time. I asked you to run away. You refused. Not because you didn’t want me—but because you loved your family more than you loved yourself. You were protecting them.”

His voice lowers. Breaks. “They found out and they said I ruined you. That I spoiled something pure. They had you killed to keep your name clean.”

Silence. Dead, aching silence. You released a shaky breath and a tear trailed down your cheek at the pure ache in his voice. 

“I didn’t last long after that,” he says. “Not with a shattered soul and nothing left to lose. And I—” His voice breaks. “I died knowing it was my fault. That if I’d never touched you, you’d still be alive. I died. But not before whispering your name to the darkness and begging—begging—to see you again. I gave up everything for that one wish. And Gwi Ma listened.”

You press your forehead to his chest, the thud of his heart steady and real beneath your ear. His shirt takes your tear stains. “So that’s how it happened…” you whisper. Your heart ached at his pain. Not just how he lost you, but his life leading up to that. The longing he had for you- someone he thought he could never have. 

“I didn’t think I deserved to have you again,” he breathes into your hair. “But fate disagreed.” He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then lower, over your jaw.

“So this time…” he murmurs against your skin, “I won’t let go. You can run. You can yell. You can curse me.” His hand slides up your back, trembling with restraint. “But I’ll still follow. I’ll still want. I’ll still love you until it breaks me.”

You don’t answer. You just look at him—really look at him. At the boy who once had nothing. The man who once begged for your love and paid for it with your life. The demon who clawed through centuries just to see you again. And he’s here. Broken. Beautiful. Yours.

Your lips hover near his—close, trembling, not touching. He waits. He always does. Like he’s terrified you’ll vanish again if he moves too soon.

Then, at last, you lean in. Your mouth finds his like a sob. Like surrender. Like an apology across lifetimes. And he shatters.

His hands fly to your waist, yanking you into his lap like it’s instinct—like every part of him has waited for this moment with a hunger no mortal could endure. He kisses you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, like he can breathe through your mouth and nothing else. He’s rough, then gentle, then rough again. Kisses that taste like desperation. Like regret. Like devotion sharpened into something feral.

You gasp into him, and he swallows the sound greedily.

But then—you break.

A sob catches in your throat. Your eyes flood. You pull back, barely, lips brushing his, and whisper through the ache, “You must’ve been in so much pain…”

He stiffens. Then stills. You’re crying. For him. His gaze darkens with something ancient and raw. And then—he moves. He leans in, eyes locked on yours, and licks the tear as it slips down your cheek. Slow. Reverent. Like your sadness is sacred.

Then he kisses it. And the next one. And the next.

“I was in agony,” he murmurs between soft, trembling kisses. “When they took you. When you wouldn’t run. When I couldn’t save you. I burned every night with your name in my mouth. But this—” his voice breaks as he kisses your jaw, your cheek, your eyelids— “this is worse. Watching you cry for me. Knowing I did this to you again.”

You try to speak, but he cuts you off with a kiss. Tender. Then deeper. Deeper still. His hands slide beneath your shirt, not to take—just to feel. Just to touch the skin he lost so long ago. His fingers tremble as they trace the curve of your spine.

“You were too good for me then,” he says into your neck. “And you’re too good for me now.”

“Stop it,” you whisper, hands fisting into his shirt. “Don’t say that.” 

There’s a silence that washes over the room, a silent understanding, like he’s savoring your presence in his arms like this, in a way he never got to have you before. In a way that he thought only existed in dreams. 

You lean your forehead against his, and with a whisper you ask: “…What’s your real name?”

He stills. Then leans close—his lips brushing yours with infinite gentleness. “Seoha.”

You whisper it back, trembling: “Seoha…”

He exhales, like you’ve just undone him completely. “Say it again.”

You do. He lets out a sound between a sigh and a moan. He presses his forehead to yours like a prayer. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

You kiss him again. Longer this time. Deeper. And he kisses you back with every century in his bones. With every nightmare. With every echo of your name whispered in the dark, across lifetimes he thought he’d never escape.

“I’ll never lose you again,” he breathes. “Even if you hate me. Even if you run. I’ll burn the world before I let anyone take you.”

You curl against him, his skin hot against yours, his arms locking around you like chains spun from longing. Your tears finally stop. And just before you fall asleep in his arms, you whisper one last time into the quiet of his chest—

“Seoha…”

His grip tightens. And in the dark, he breathes against your temple:

“This time… I’ll keep you forever.”

TO BE CONTINUED

───────── ༺🜃༻ ─────────

A/N: Wahh I hope you guys enjoyed this one! I wanted to focus on Romance's actions and understanding his character and why he is the way he is. Given his backstory, it explains why he's more controlling and manipulative- because you didn't listen to him once before and it cost you your life. Which explains his need to control you and your decisions. I also chose the name Seoha to fit his character - it means “dawn river” — and it evokes something calm, seductive, poetic… but also inevitable. Like a current pulling you in, and feels like someone born of the night world who dreams of the sun: aka you!

Let me know if you liked this chapter! Every comment, reblog, like, I see it all and really appreciate it! <3 And as always, thank you for reading!

Willa x

───────── ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆ ─────────

Taglist: @faerie-soirxx @strayharmony943 @ibby-miyoshi-nerd @anonymousewrites @cottonheadedninnymugggins @apelepikozume @moonlight-rosevine @yepitsmesendhelp @lovely-maryj @nonetheartist @ateezswonderland @sarah22447 @zuhaeri @enerofairy @littlemissfix-itfic @meeeegaaan @luxylucylou @hornehlittleweeblet2 @natllo @levifiance @lavnderluv @the-sweet-psycho @shinebright2000 @weponxwrites @raineandcl0uds @loomindoors @bearb33 @iv-vee @realifezompire @jamaicanqueen007 @g-l-1-t-c-h-3-r @unsolicitedopal @candylandrules @sleepyamaya @miffysoo @scaranao @bloobewy @misdollface @chugjugg @arieslucy @yandereaficionado @vixyvlo @fanficriter @chirikoheina @limerenceisserenity @mel3484 @tommyinnit-kinnie @lovely-tulipp @airwolf92 @unadulteratedwizardrunaway @mjustag1rl @amercanfailure @casperleghosty @akira-yan @saltedcoffeescotch @storyteller-le @girlwiththegoats @sunoosmainchick @meridian-of-misery @qmabailor @yumekono @givecyrustheirflowers @irethepotato @imjusthereforthecake56 @justanerd1 @izzieg3987 @sin-for-jin @wpdarlingpan @procookie2007 @poptrim @gwinamlvr @dragongirl642 @mshope16

@udejoenrlddo @mitsuakashi @venommie @s3ungm1nxxl0ve @perfectlywingedflower @sollum @ffcfffr @atl4ntxc @crustypatatos @vi1326 @ezri261 @invinciblewaffles @soy-soi-si @cloudfxvrs @spiderset @anisimp @shadyplaidwagonmuffin @letsmakethingsclear-ididntask @neuvilletteswife4ever @himikoquack @hi-itsmee28 @h3110-dar1in9 @jamerlynn @insomniacfigure @permanently-tired-pigeon @pleasantlyspookycreation

[chwerio]

BELT LOOPS

PAIRING: bf!vernon x reader

CONTENT: drabble, fluff, established relationship, vernon is very loving here! (possibly a teensie bit ooc), reader has a little anxiety in crowded places, slightly suggestive (kissing, allusions to sex [barely])

WORD COUNT: 1.2k

SUMMARY: three ways in which vernon uses the belt loops of your jeans not for its intended purpose.

note: i love kiwi vernon guys...................................

WHEN YOU'RE DEFIANT, it's usually out of pettiness. Though you aren't directly opposed to it, there's lingering annoyance in your demenor. Vernon knows that when your chin turns away from him, it's a disapproval of your loss in rock-paper-scissors. Well, losers weepers.

"So, I guess it's pasta tonight," he says, following behind you. You can hear the cheekiness in his voice, that of a winner's tone.

You slow down your strides on the sidewalk, making room for him to walk beside you. "Guess so."

He's trying. He's really trying to resist the smile that creeps up on his face, but right now, you need coddling because you just lost a pizza night again.

At the crosswalk, Vernon notices the distance between you guys. He notices the stubbornness in your stance, the way your arms are crossed, and your pursed lips. For a second he actually thinks you're upset, but he knows you well enough that you'd speak up if you had concerns.

"Why do you propose a game of rock-paper-scissors when you never win?" He asks. "You know, we could just get pizza--"

"That'd be cheating!" You exclaim. "And since you won fair and square, we should make… pasta."

Vernon only smirks, nodding to your words. "Right. It would be unfair since I won--even if I was offering to have your choice tonight."

"Exactly." You murmur, watching the crosswalk's signal.

He rolls his eyes, adjusting his leather jacket. Your eyes remain set on the light, avoiding his gaze.

When the signal changes, you’re just about to step forward before Vernon gently tugs at your waist, fingers hooking into your belt loop, making you catch your breath. He casually pulls you closer, then unhooks his fingers and throws his arm over your shoulders.

“You’re a sore loser,” he mutters closely, just loud enough for you to hear.

Your pace falters and becomes one with his, and despite his playful insult, you let one arm wrap behind his back. You exhale through your nose--half laugh and sigh. “Is that offer for my choice still available?”

Vernon clicks his tongue in disbelief, shaking his head. “Oh, I’m not too sure about that. You already turned it down and made a very good point on how that would be cheating.”

You glance up to be met with his dorky grin. “Yeah, you’re right. Pasta it is then…”

He tugs you closer, quickly pressing a kiss on the side of your head. “We’ll save pizza for next time, definitely. No games, alright?”

"Fine, no games." You giggle.

WHEN IT'S CROWDED, it's a mutual agreement that losing each other is the last thing you need happening. Whether it's a concert, downtown, or heck, even a rave, you both agree that you must stick together.

In the sea of bodies, Vernon navigates you to the nearest wall at some house party Mingyu invited you both to. The bass is not favourable. The songs pounding through the speakers are so loud that you don't even hear what reassuring comment Vernon makes everytime he looks back at you.

You lip read, "I dislocated my shoulder," and you know that's not what he's really saying--it's the music's fault, you think to yourself. All you can do is nod awkwardly as he leads you in further.

It feels endless, the shoulder bumping and the occasional running into. Until it actually hits you, well, a body that is. You're inadvertently shoved back by a stranger who profusely apologizes once you caught your balance.

"No, no, it's okay, really!" You assure them. Except, it really wasn't okay. You've lost Vernon.

You don't remember feeling this nervous in a place like this. The bodies around you move like waves, not giving you a chance to look over them. And sure, you have been to parties like this before, but maybe you forgot what those are like without Vernon.

"Let's find the nearest wall," was what he said before you entered the house. It plays over and over in your head until you feel something pull at your waist.

When you look to your side, Vernon's fingers hook into your belt loop, pulling you flush to his side. He slips his fingers out and places a hand on your lower back, ushering you to a more secluded area.

He lowers his head right by your ear, quietly whispering, "Are you okay?"

"Y-yeah, I'm okay," you whisper back. "Thanks though. I was actually a bit freaked out when I couldn't see you anymore. It's crazy in there, I don't know where Mingyu would even enjoy himself."

"Beats me," he chuckles. "There's for sure way too many people in this house. No way that's allowed, right?"

You hum, the weight on you feeling a lot less now.

Vernon takes your hand into his, raising it up to his lips to lightly peck. "Let's just hold hands for the night so we don't lose each other again, okay?"

Gosh, if your heart could not feel even warmer than it already was, Vernon was there to prove you wrong.

WHEN HE NEEDS YOU, he'll never outwardly say it. It's not that he can't verbally express himself, it's just that this is a different feeling. Instead, he'll show you, or there will be signs that your boyfriend is craving your touch.

Whatever mundane chore you're doing right now, he's watching. Not watching how you handle the mugs--he's watching you.

As he shyly approaches the counter, he places his phone on the marble with a light thud to make his presence known, just so he doesn't startle you.

"Hey, Nonie," you chirp, placing the mug back down. Your attention averts to him, who is stalking closer until he stands on the opposite side of you.

"Hey," he quietly says, resting his lower back against the counter, "need help?"

You sigh, turning your back to continue sorting the cups. "No, I'm just about done now. Sleep well?"

"Mhm... yeah," Vernon mumbles, voice low. He shifts his body lazily against the counter, his hands acting as anchors on its edges. "Was kind of cold, though, y’know, since you woke up early ‘n left me." he adds, hoping you'd pick up on what he really means.

And here you are grinning to yourself because you know exactly what he wants--no, needs.

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that..." You say, giving him faux sympathy.

Vernon doesn't immediately respond, only letting out a scoff jokingly. He notices that you're not out of arm's reach, so with his hand raised, he sneaks his fingers into your belt loop, tugging you back lightly.

You're glad you aren't holding any glass cups because you barely manage to ground it on the counter before your back meets with his chest.

His head dips to your neck, lips brushing your skin, and he finally mutters, "You can make it up to me."

When he removes his fingers from your belt loop, you feel his hands grip each side of your waist, gently spinning you around so that you're facing him.

"That bad, huh?" You laugh, throwing your arms over his shoulders. "Since you're so cute, I might as well..."

Vernon flashes you his wide smile, hugging you closer. His head leans towards yours, capturing your lips with his. As his kiss deepens, it's a bit lazy but with intent, the kind that expresses himself without needing to say it out loud. Boy, is he glad to have you.

another note: thank u for reading my first fic posted on here

[heartyluv]

Note: Apologies for my abrupt and brief radio silence, luvlys. I missed you guys and worked on this for you at some point while I was gone. I hope you enjoy! 😚

Warning: Smut (protected sex!), please don’t do what reader does in this irl omg LOLLL

Word Count: 2.9K (why can’t i keep anything shortttt)

Summary: Caleb reallyyy likes the new delivery girl.

Horny!Caleb/DeliveryGirl!Reader

Somehow in the span of Caleb ordering himself dinner and waiting for it to arrive, his dick had gotten hard. The desperation to have some sort of relief was overriding any hunger he felt, making it impossible for him to sit still on his living room couch.

It was one of those moments where it just hit him—where nothing necessarily provoked it, but he felt that subtle ache in his sweatpants that became too bothersome to ignore the longer he tried. He wanted to hold out since he wasn’t too keen on the idea of being mid stroke, only to be forced to stop and deal with rushing to wash his hands whilst trying to contain what would inevitably be a very obvious hard-on in the event that his food got to him quicker than he anticipated.

It’s because it’s happened to him before that he’s so wary.

But with the twenty minutes that passed, he couldn’t help but surrender to the greed within him and assured his horny mind that he definitely had it in himself to make it quick—that he could come fast enough before the usual delivery man showed up.

Unfortunately for him, though, at the same moment that he picked up his phone to watch one of his favorited videos while he jerked himself off until he couldn’t take anymore, the bell rang.

If that wasn’t a way to make a man soften, he didn’t know what else could.

“Gotta be kidding me,” he chuckled to himself and shook his head. Throwing his phone down onto the soft cushions, he let out an exaggerated huff as he stood and mentally chastised his cock to behave. Once he approached the door, he fixed his demeanor and briefly checked below the belt to make sure he was presentable before he opened it with a polite smile.

But almost as quickly as he sported it, it dropped just as fast.

It wasn’t Mr. Russo, the older salt and pepper haired pizza delivery man he’s pretty cool with. Instead it was you, a sight so fucking captivating that all intentions he had to disregard the problem in his pants was fair to chalk up as relatively implausible.

You smiled at him so sweetly, the sound of separating velcro grating his nerves as it clashed with and overpowered your whimsical voice when you went to pull his pizza out of its heat-holding bag.

“Good evening!” you chirped. “One large cheese pie with pep and mush for…” Taking a brief look at the receipt on top of the box, you continued. “Caleb?”

He shouldn’t have been getting hard all over again when he saw you in the first place—that was a given. You weren’t some piece of meat, rather just a woman doing her job. But he couldn’t help but be near steel when his name rolled off your tongue, leaving him utterly bewitched as the innocence in your recitation somehow made it even more alluring.

He hated to be brief in his efforts to survey the beauty that is you. From light denim jeans that were damn near painted on to your grey collared uniform shirt with the pizzeria’s logo splayed across your chest doing nothing but outlining the curves of your breasts perfectly, there was no way he could be normal about you.

Oh, and your visor. Yeah, that was cute, too.

“T—That’s me,” he stuttered before clearing his throat, but he couldn’t be embarrassed about the subtle voice crack when your eyes mirrored patience and understanding. It made him wonder what they’d look like when replaced with lust and pleasure.

Would you let him find out?

Selfishly, he wanted to hear more of you. What better to do than spark conversation?

“Mr. Russo doing alright?” he inquired as you handed him his meal. “I don’t think he’s missed a day before.”

“Oh, he’s fine! He’s been busy training a few new hires, so he’s in-store for now. He told me some regulars might be confused to see someone other than him delivering their food,” you chuckled.

“Ah,” Caleb nods, incapable of ignoring the shudder down his spine when your soft fingertips grazed his skin after he took the boxed piping hot cheesy delicacy that was waiting for him. “I assume you’re one of them? I’ve…never seen you before when I went.”

“Yeah, actually. Started two weeks ago.”

“Cool, cool,” he nodded, the insistent throbbing of his cock only getting spurred on the more you held eye contact with him. He was torturing himself at this point, but he couldn’t bare to see you walk away. Not when you’d be a perfect solution.

Realistically though, you couldn’t go anywhere even if you wanted to. He still hadn’t paid you, and it was the fact that you were just standing there in silence with the bag on your side and a calm tolerance etched across your features that made him realize he never got the cash out his wallet after placing his order.

“Shit!” his eyes widened, ultimately failing at shaking away his salacious thoughts when his gaze briefly landed on your plush thighs that he couldn’t help but crave to be in between. “I’m so sorry. Give me a minute. $19.50, right?”

“No worries,” you assure. “Happens to the best of us. And yup, $19.50!”

Just as he turns around to rush and go fetch your payment, a quick thought comes to his mind. He gives you his full attention again, pressing his lips together as he wondered if it was wiser to just let you remain where you are. But Caleb wouldn’t be the man he is if he wasn’t a gentleman.

“You can…” he points a thumb backwards into his apartment. “wait inside if you want. I’m not entirely sure where my wallet is at the moment and I’d feel awful about you waiting in this warm hallway if it takes me a second to find it.”

Well…it is hot. Even though the sun had set, with this heat wave, it was a still a sweltering 85 degrees on this humid July night, and it somehow felt worse as you stood in the clean yet suffocating hall of his building.

But you knew better—you knew you had zero business going into a stranger’s house, let alone a man’s. You should’ve quickly declined already and made sure he knew you didn’t mind waiting as long as you needed to in the uncomfortable temperatures.

Instead, his alluring smile, strong muscles, and captivating voice that he so smoothly exudes, were like kryptonite along with the cool air that wisps against your sweat slicked skin, calling to you from behind him.

Mr. Russo knows him and knew this was my last delivery before I headed back. It’ll be fine. Besides, he seems harmless, and I don’t feel there’s anything to worry about.

You were trying to convince yourself, and it sure enough worked because with the survival skills of a baby deer, you swallowed down your hesitance and accepted his offer before he stepped aside to let you in.

Never did you think that when you woke up this morning, got ready for work, and went about your day until you got the address for your last delivery, that you’d be getting fucked by the customer.

How you got here was just as—if not more—surprising. You have never slept with a stranger before. Ever. But the man getting ready to pop that cherry seemed like a more than suitable candidate.

When you waited for Caleb to find his wallet and two minutes turned to five, a part of you grew concerned when the busying footsteps ceased.

You didn’t anticipate that when you embarked on your search to make sure he was okay, you’d find him in his bathroom with the hem of his white tank top in his mouth to suppress his groans as he desperately pumped his cock in his hand.

A normal and more plausible reaction would’ve been to run out, to apologize profusely for the interruption, to even offer the pizza for free—anything to get you out. But he never stopped touching himself and you couldn’t stop staring as his precum beaded at his flushed tip until he took it to work the sticky substance down his length before it went to waste on the rug.

He had let the fabric fall from between his lips and kept his eyes on you the slower his movements went, abs flexing with any subtle shift. Breathlessly, seemingly still cocky despite the pink tint on his cheeks, he purred with a smirk, “Why don’t you join me? I’ll tip you nicely for your help.”

And it was with great surprise to both of you that you nodded. Not a moment of hesitance was shared when you got closer and let him kiss down your neck as your body pressed into him, feeling the heaviness of his cock against your belly.

Not only was he handsome, but he made you feel a type of arousal that you don’t think you’ve experienced before. It was consuming, foreign—but it was something your mind and body knew only he would be capable of stoking the flames of and dousing them when the time came. Weirdly enough, you trusted him enough to take care of the temple that is your body.

There was no need to prep you, your cunt already slick with desire and clenching fervently in your white cotton panties from the need to have him as deep as you anticipated he’d go. So when you assured him of that and he was given your consent, he bent you over his countertop to make you watch the yearning in your pupils as he pulled a condom out from the drawer.

Only an inkling of gentleness was used when he tugged your jeans and the thin material against your pussy down, revealing only the necessities and leaving you just as exposed as he is.

He rubbed down your puffy slit back and forth as he expertly ripped open the golden foil packaging with his teeth and rolled the lubricated condom down his veiny cock. Your walls clenched tightly in excitement at the sight alone.

When he finally breached your hole, there was no such thing as masturbation in his mind anymore after getting the opportunity to have you like this. He almost came inside the rubber like he was feeling the tight warmth of a pussy for the first time, but that’s exactly what your spongey walls were to him.

He’s never felt anything so snug and perfect in his life, and the whimper you two vocalized together as your bodies joined made him believe that the feeling was shared.

The way your eyebrows knitted with pleasure and pouty lips parted as he buried himself to the hilt in one swift motion was so euphoric to witness. It was almost like he could feel your bliss mingling with his own.

How could he possibly imagine giving up something so special?

“S—so full…mmph…” Your head dropped between your shoulders for a moment from the overwhelming feeling, and the erotic pitch in your tone made his cock twitch insistently inside of you.

“You suck me in so good,” he cooed with a exasperated grin, teeth tugging on his bottom lip as his eyes worshipped your beautiful stretch marks. Your back arched as far as you could go to let him reach the most personal parts of you. Shamelessly, you met him thrust for thrust to answer his question.

“Keep fucking yourself on me…just like that…”

His gaze met yours briefly in the large mirror before it went back to watch how your slick made the condom glisten when it caught in the light. Even with it on, it was like he could feel every glide against your insides as if he were bare.

“You’re so fuuucking soaked.” The deep grunts masked over his words made your stomach flip. Or maybe he was just that deep in your guts. Perhaps it was both.

His powerful hips rutted into your plush flesh to make the echos of smacking skin an entrancing sound he wished he had access to whenever he wanted.

Caleb couldn’t help but have his hands all over you—gripping your ass, smacking it to make it jiggle more than it already was, and gripping your hips to bring you close when you felt far. Addicted was too insufficient of a word to express how far gone he was.

“You’re my special delivery girl, aren’t you?” His hold grew firmer and you were thankful for it because without that pinch as a reminder, you would’ve already been in the clouds and completely taken.

“I am….I am…” you chant, the mouthwatering sting of his heavy balls against your clit making you nothing but a mess beneath him.

And you took on all of his onslaughts with delight, stars gleaming in your vision when you snaked your hand down to your sensitive bundle of nerves to make your orgasm come faster. If you didn’t, you were almost certain it would bring you to tears.

“C—Caleb, please don’t stop,” you mewled, your whines increasing as his pace did the same.

“Only you could get me to…” He fisted your shirt to make sure you remained pressed to him so that he could keep that intoxicating momentum.

You found yourself wondering if you hit the sex partner jackpot with the way he was slamming into your heat and begging you for more when he already had it all. Slender digits hastily circled your clit, the combination of that and the man buried within you making it hard to differentiate where you began and he ended.

“You’re gonna make me c—come…I’m about to…oh fffuckk,” you cried, your muscles choking him and making his own impending climax inevitable as your sharp breaths and jolting body became his motivation. You nearly became slack against the heated surface, your already drenched cunt turning into a waterfall from his unrelenting thrusts. Your mewls shuddered as they escaped your throat and were full of desire the more he used you to chase his own high.

Your unyielding hold around his dick only allowed Caleb a few more strokes before his actions stuttered behind you, his consistency faltering as a familiar pressure built inside of him. His heart pounded and ecstasy coursed through his system before heavy streams of cum pulsed from the head of his cock, flooding the thin latex that separated him from filling you to the brim until all you could do was thank him for it.

He was speechless, watching how your thick thighs shook and your fat pussy trembled around his throbbing length.

“I don’t usually do this,” he pushed out a winded titter. “Just fucking anyone that lets me, I mean. I have self control—I don’t want you to think that I don’t. But there must be something about you…”

You felt a surge of warmth in your chest as his thumb caressed your exposed skin while he tried his best to find the right words.

“Neither do I,” you admit. “But…I really enjoyed it. Maybe I need to be delivering to you more often.”

He snorted unexpectedly, nodding and licking his lips. “I can agree.”

You tensed and he hissed when he slipped out of your delicate body after giving you a warning. He tied the condom once he pulled it off before disposing of it, and you kept your eyes on him—part of it was simply out of curiosity about who you just slept with and the other in silent admiration.

Caleb was aloof to your staring while he cleaned off his cock and helped slide your pants back up from behind as you remained bent over until he brought them high enough that you needed to stand.

God, was he pretty. From his sharp jaw, angled nose, and soft hair—he was a perfect embodiment of anyone’s dream.

“What?” he asked shyly. You damn near fell out when you watched him blush like he wasn’t a different person just seconds ago.

“Nothing.” His arms come around to zip you up and button your jeans. “Just…I think I like looking at you.”

“You think?”

“I have to get to know you before I’m sure.”

“That’s fair.” His hands rested on you, pressing more kisses down the side of your throat. “You could stay. I’ll tell you everything you wanna know.”

“Of course you’d offer that,” you tease. “But I have to bring the money back to the store. I’m probably raising alarms already with how long I’ve been gone.”

“I can call Mr. Russo.” His hair tickles your cheeks the further he goes. “Tell him I’ll pay him double—no, triple—to let it slide. Would you stay then?”

“We’ve always been taught to be wary of strangers, Caleb.”

“I was just inside your pretty pussy, baby. I know what you feel like when you come, how you bite your lip when she…” his large hand goes between your thighs and cups you through your jeans. “feels good. Now I even know that penetration alone isn’t enough to get you off. And I’d like to learn more. Trust me, we’re a little bit past that stranger phase, don’t you think?”

Now you’re the one with a heated face. “Maybe.”

“I won’t try to convince you. It’s your call, but I…wouldn’t mind getting to know my helper on a deeper level.”

You audibly laugh, making him smile. He seems to like all the sounds you make.

“I’ll even let you take a picture of my ID so you can send it to anyone you want to for your safety and peace of mind. If you do wanna stay, you tell me whatever I need to do to make you comfortable.”

You turn around to face him. Placing your thumb over his lips, you press yours to the digit and smirk as he frowns over the barrier you’ve placed. “Soon.”

He reluctantly accepts defeat, the pit in his stomach already forming at the thought of you leaving.

“Soon,” he parrots, only his cadence makes it sound more like a promise.

Once he actually gives you the cash and the generous tip like he promised, Caleb sulks all the way to your comical car with a cartoon pizza mascot on top, shutting the door after you get behind the wheel and pressing a tender smooch to your forehead when you roll the window down to say goodbye one more time.

“No goodbyes,” he says firmly. “See you later.”

You grin so hard that it makes the apples of your cheeks pop. “I’ll see you later, Caleb.”

The needy man watches you pull out of your parking spot and fixates on your taillights until they disappear into the night and you’re completely out of sight.

Thankfully though, with your phone number saved and despite an undoubtedly cold pizza upstairs that he needs to reheat, Caleb now has a newfound specialty he plans to ensure becomes a permanent addition to his palate.

🍎 Tags: @innergardentoadpony @teacupwaifu @mcdepressed290 @calebapplepie @xcelfer @honeymoonfleur @obeythebutler @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @honeycrispangels @dummiebunny @sucre-princesse @brailsthesmolgurl @klossnite @grlyeetswrld @moonchildjae00 @caien @multisstuff @littledarlingsthings @purpleamethyst25 @lazygelpen @meadowinthesky @grackerzzz @nod4mnm3rcyy @loveinorion @ur-l0cal-crypt1d @inutrasha94 @cowaungabungabby @gravity-pilot @nyanahogini @rosiesluv @goochfiddler99 @torturedbabyapple @kiyadeleine @carcelswaifu @blushofeve @whattnanii @ashirelle @sylvieisoffline @saturnquartz @dewmarionette @horanghaeegr @iconoclastoc @beesin03 @dramaticalsachan @ajyoursgirl

♾️ Tags: @starryeyed-apple @asiatic-apple @sensual-study @sweetcalebb @asiaticapple @raemanova @awquaz @callads7 @floatinginaer @crimsonsylus @aquarianbeat

Creds to @/saradika for the pizza & star dividers!

[wildflowersandvibranium]

Little Lady

Pairing: Dad!Bucky Barnes x Mom!Reader

Summary: A quiet afternoon turns chaotic when Bucky tries to fix the kitchen sink with help from his daughter , only for a hilarious miscommunication through the window with his wife to turn into something unexpectedly tender.

Word count: 1.6K+

Content: nothing but fluff , slight but cute miscommunication , mentions of pregnancy , kissing / flirting (you and bucky)

a/n: ummmm so I just wrote chapter 11 for muscle memory and made myself cry , its the roughest and hardest chapter yet and now needs a trigger warning 😭 so heres this as i needed something to heal my sadness from writing ch. 11.

my masterlist is pinned to find more dad!bucky fics <3

“Okay , Bug , go ahead and hand me the wrench. The little silver one , please.”

Rebecca squinted her blue eyes , her little tongue poking out in concentration as she dug through the open red toolbox beside her tiny feet. 

She wore her purple tutu over jeans—because she liked to be both princess fancy and ready for any emergencies; hint the jeans —and a green t-shirt with a smiling cartoon flower on it. Her wild curls were tucked under a sparkly headband with a crooked plastic tiara hot glued right on top.

“This one , Daddy?” She held up a tool she thought was right.

“Nope , that’s the pliers. Try again.” He peeked from under the sink.

She gave an exaggerated huff , rummaging through the box dramatically. Bucky chuckled from where he lay half-under the kitchen sink , the lower half of his torso sticking out like a mechanic rolled under a car on his back. 

His t-shirt was slightly damp now , his hands and arms slick with water , and his face was already dotted with smudges from the gunk hiding under the pipes. This job had not gone the way he planned.

“You okay down there?” Ladybug , as they affectionately called their daughter asked , squatting beside him  , peering upside down into his face.

The nickname was thought of when her mom was nine months pregnant with her and as she was outside watering her roses a small ladybug landed on the skin where her round belly poked out from under one of Bucky's flannels. And after that the name just stuck.

“Living the dream , sweetheart ,” Bucky deadpanned sarcastically. “Covered in sink crud and existential dread.”

“What’s ‘ex-etn-sescial….” She carried on stumbling over the hard to say word.

Bucky laughed , shaking his head. “Something Daddy gets when he thinks he can fix stuff in one hour. Gimme the wrench and I’ll explain it later.”

She passed the right one this time , smiling proudly when he gave her an approving nod.

“You know,” she began , watching him tighten the bolt , “Mommy’s outside with the flowers. You’re missing it.”

“I know ,” he groaned , making a loud thunk sound come from where he was working. “She escaped before the chaos began.”

Lady Bug tilted her head at him , chewing on her bottom lip. “When you were gone today at the store , I asked Mommy if you were a superhero or  a plumber.”

Bucky turned his head , raising an eyebrow at her. “What’d she say?”

“She said you were the only man she trusted to fix her sink and her heart.”

Bucky blinked , momentarily stunned at such deep words coming from such a tiny girl. “She said that?”

Lady Bug nodded , too young to understand how much that had just melted her dad and cracked his heart wide open. “And then she made the blush face. Like this—” She pulled her cheeks in together and fluttered her lashes dramatically mocking her mom.

“Oh my God ,” Bucky groaned , grinning like a lovestruck idiot. “Okay , Lady Bug , go get Daddy a towel before I start flooding the kitchen.”

“Aye aye , Daddy!” She scurried off down the hall , pink socks skidding on the wooden hardwood floor.

Bucky exhaled and began to wiggle out from under the cabinet , but the second he sat upright—crack—he slammed the top of his head directly into the underside of the sink.

“Shit—!”

He winced and pressed a palm to his head , eyes watering looking around making sure his daughter wasn't nearby to hear the curse he let slip. Through the pain , he noticed the kitchen faucet was finally cooperating—no longer leaking like a waterfall. But now he needed a towel more than ever. His shirt was  sopping wet , his head stung , and water was beginning to drip down into the baseboards from the leftover condensation.

Lady Bug hadn’t come back yet.

He glanced toward the window above the sink and saw you out in the yard , kneeling in the garden bed , arms buried in soil as you coaxed life from the dirt and earth. You wore a loose fitting tank top and Bucky’s old sweatpants , your hair up in a messy twist , and the sun kissed your skin in a way that made his mouth go dry. Then he saw your daughter outside with you. Spinning around chasing a butterfly. 

“Traitor” he whispered to himself letting out a breathy laugh.

You glanced up from the flower bed wiping sweat from your forehead and smiled when you saw him through the kitchen window.

Bucky raised his hand and mimed : washing his hands , scrubbing at the air, then held up two fingers , mouthing, “Two towels.”

You tilted your head at his gestures.

Then… waved.

He blinked. “No, no—” He repeated the gestures: fake-scrubbing , then a two-finger peace sign. Two towels.

You giggled and waved again , this time holding up a peace sign of your own.

He shook his head , smirking despite himself , then mouthed slowly, “TWO TOWELS.”

You pressed a hand to your heart. Then pointed at him and mouthed back, “I love you too.”

He stared through the glass in disbelief. “No—baby—” he said aloud , laughing now. “What is your mom doing?”

“Who’s doing what?” Lady Bug had returned from outside , holding two hand towels in triumph she grabbed from her way back inside. “I got light pink and yellow. The best colors.”

Bucky took the towels with a grateful sigh and pointed toward the window. “Your mom thinks I’m doing some kind of weird love confession out here throwing up peace signs.”

Lady Bug climbed up on the little stool beside the counter with the help from her dad and and peered out. “Aw she’s doing the heart hands!”

Sure enough , you were making a heart shape with your fingers , your grin wide as a summer sky sending air kisses to your two loves inside.

Bucky laughed , wiping his arms and shirt down with the towels trying to get dry. “She thinks I was doing a peace sign and mouthing ‘I love you.’ I mean , she’s not wrong…” He dragged out his words.

Lady Bug turned and looked up at him with wide eyes. “Wait , were you not telling Mommy you love her?”

“I mean , I always am , in general,” Bucky said , wringing out the towel, “but this time I just really needed her to throw me some dry cloth.”

Lady Bug stared at him very seriously. “You know what this means?”

“What?”

“You gotta go kiss her after this. Otherwise she’ll think you’re ignoring her love heart hands”

Bucky smirked. “Her, what now?”

“She did a love heart with her hands.” She got serious hands on her little hips staring at her father.

Bucky gave a mock salute. “Yes , ma’am. Operation Love Mommy is acknowledged.”

°❀⋆🐞.ೃ࿔*:･

By the time he dried off fully , put the tools and box away , and triple-checked that the sink no longer sounded like it was coughing up a lung , Lady Bug had migrated outside to join you again—running barefoot through the grass and singing some made-up theme song.

Bucky stood in the doorway for a moment , arms crossed , just watching the two of you.

You looked up from your rows of lavender when you heard the screen door creak open with a squeal.

“Well hello there ,  handyman,” you teased, brushing your hands on your- his pants..

He wandered out , damp towel slung over his shoulder. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“That I am , very very lucky ,” you grinned , standing popping ut your hip with a tease. 

He walked up and wrapped an arm around your wais t, pulling you in to him. “You know I wasn’t peace-signing a love message earlier , right?” 

“I figured that , eventually,” you smirked, “but the way your face was all serious? I thought you were trying to tell me , like, ‘Peace , woman. I’m dying under the sink but I love you.’”

Bucky burst out laughing and nuzzled his face in your neck to high the toothy smile he had plastered on his face. Leaving a few kisses there before pulling back.

“Did you at least get the towels?”

“Yes I did , your tiny sidekick saved the day.”

Lady Bug came skipping up just then at her mention , holding a slightly bent flower in each hand. “Mommy! Daddy! I made a bouquet for you!”

You knelt down to her height , smiling. “It’s beautiful , bug.”

“Mommy! Did you see I fixed the sink? It's all happy and not leaky anymore!” She squeaked giving a cheeky grin to her dad.

Bucky reached over , picked her up effortlessly , and cradled her upside down as she squealed in delight.

“Alright , bug,” he said , spinning her gently, “tell the truth. Who fixed the sink?”

“I supervised! That’s more important!”

You clapped slowly , mock-serious. “She’s not wrong.”

Bucky set her down as she ran off again in the filed and he leaned in close , lips brushing your ear.

“You really said that? About me fixing the sink and your heart?”

You blushed immediately. “That little lady talks too much.”

“She talks just enough,” he murmured , brushing dirt from your jaw. 

You turned to him , voice soft now. “I mean it,  you know. You’ve fixed and healed things in me I didn’t know were broken or bruised.”

He held your gaze for a long moment , blue eyes tender. “Same here , honey.”

Lady Bug appeared between you both , holding up her new bouquet of manly grass this time.

“Kiss Mommy!” she squealed looking up at you two like you hung the stars. 

You laughed , and Bucky didn’t hesitate.

He leaned in and kissed you sweet and slow—dirt-smudged , towel-draped , and barefoot on the lawn with your daughter cheering like she won the biggest prize at the fair.

When he finally  , reluctantly pulled back , you smiled up at him holding up two fingers and whispered, “Two kisses” He laughed again immediately cupping your face , kissing you again.

-end

Comments , Reblogs , Likes and Requests are always loved!

(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)

They let me know that you are enjoying what I'm publishing and gives me motivation to write more and more! :33

[formulafanfics13]

Since I have seen a couple of fics bases on songs I was wondering if your could write one where the reader is a famous singer dating either Max or Kimi and she releases her new song Diet Pepsi by Addison Rae. Making the public and the grid realise how freaky the driver is. As well as the driver getting teased a lot even to the point of getting asked in interviews about the song and car sex. If possible then add a part where said driver gets caught getting a bj in the car by another driver who won’t stop teasing them. Please 🙏🥺.

Diet Pepsi  - MV1 🔥

Masterlist

Summary: You drop a surprise single at midnight — a filthy, unfiltered anthem clearly about Max Verstappen. The internet erupts. Lyrics match real paparazzi photos and private moments, leaving zero room for doubt. The F1 grid loses its mind, with Charles and Lando leading the chaos. Max wakes up to find his sex life trending and his girlfriend smugly drinking coffee in his hoodie. The paddock never recovers. From viral memes to press questions, backseat jokes, and a now-infamous G-Wagon incident, your relationship goes from secret to legendary. And Max? Max doesn’t just take it — he starts playing your song every time he drives.

Content Warning: Smut, public sex, oral sex (fem reader on male), dirty talk, degradation, humiliation kink, exhibitionism, group chat teasing, innuendo-heavy dialogue, power dynamics, and references to social media virality.

You don’t even warn him. Not the label, not his PR, not even his fucking manager. Not even Max himself. You just release the single at midnight, posted with a caption that read:

“For the freak in the Red Bull. You know who you are.”

By 1am, the F1 grid knows exactly who you’re talking about.

The world doesn’t react gently. It detonates.

Clips go viral instantly:

The line “losing all my innocence in the backseat” paired with paparazzi photos of you straddling Max in the parking lot of a Monaco restaurant last summer.

A zoomed-in shot of his actual gold cross chain reflecting off your glossy red lips as you leaned out of his car window during race week in Budapest.

An old TikTok from behind the scenes of a Calvin Klein shoot where Max’s hands disappear under the hem of your skirt when he thinks no one’s looking.

Fans aren’t stupid. Neither are the drivers. By sunrise, Lando’s tweeted “this song sounds like a Red Bull strategy” and Charles has reposted the song with a feral “💀💀💀” and the words “Max bro????”

Christian texts Max just one word: “Backseat???”

And Pierre drops a comment under your video teaser that just says: “Tell him to blink twice if he’s alive.”

Max wakes up late. Rolls over in bed, eyes crusty, hair a mess, boxers askew, unaware that his entire fucking sex life is trending. You’re standing in the kitchen in his hoodie and no pants, pouring coffee like you didn’t just end his career with three minutes of breathy vocals and confession-level filth.

“Did you sleep well, baby?” you ask sweetly.

Max narrows his eyes at you.

You just smile, tip your head, and hum: “When we drive in your car, I’m your baby...”

He drops his phone face down without even unlocking it. “Are you fucking serious?” he mutters.

You take a slow sip. “It’s a hit.”

By the next race weekend, the entire paddock is feral. The song is blasting through fan zones and garages. Mechanics are singing “break all the rules till we get caught” while calibrating cars. Engineers are humming “Diet Pepsi” over the radio checks. Max walks into the drivers' briefing and Lando immediately plays the chorus from his phone.

Even Lewis gives him a slow, knowing smile across the room like, damn boy. You really did that.

Max sits in his chair like it’s a throne of humiliation and pride. Because the thing is, he did. All of it.

You did ride him in the RB19 simulator garage in Singapore. You did fog up the G-Wagon windows behind the Red Bull hospitality tent in Miami. You did write your name in lipstick on his chest before a press day in Baku.

And now the whole world knows. Because you told them. With verses. And falsetto. And a bass line that sounds like your moans sampled on loop.

The interview questions start off subtle. Then they get worse.

Sky Sports was first, “So Max, your girlfriend’s latest single is number one globally! Have you had a chance to, uh, hear it yet?”

Max, replied with the most bored tone, “She played it while she was recording it.”

A Dutch outlet was next, “There’s a lot of speculation about which car the lyrics refer to. Is it the Aston Martin Valkyrie or the Porsche GT3?”

Max, with a straight face, “Whichever one has the deepest seats.”

Lando, walking past off-camera: “That would be the Red Bull garage, no?”

Then it happens. Three days later. Friday night. Quiet paddock. You’re back early from Milan. Max is restless. Horny. Wound tight from the teasing.

You’re both parked in the back lot behind the media centre. Inside the AMG G-Wagon. It’s hot. Windows up. Engine off.

He’s got his jeans halfway down his thighs. You’re between his legs in your little cherry-red mini dress and nothing else underneath. Lipstick already smudged, hair clinging to your cheeks. You’re slow and messy about it. Drool running down his cock, hands on his thighs, mouth full and humming the bridge of your own song against him.

Max is gripping the seat like he’s in the middle of a Grand Prix. And then.. Tap tap tap. He looks up. The horror is immediate. Standing outside the window, two fucking shadows. Peering in. Smirking. Wide-eyed. Shit-eating grins. Charles. And Lando.

Max nearly chokes. Tries to cover you but it’s too late. Lando throws up a peace sign. Charles mouths: “Untouched” with the most evil smirk you’ve ever seen.

You do not stop. If anything, you go slower. Max throws his head back, groaning out your name, coming so hard he forgets how to breathe.

The group chat explodes.

CHARLES: max bro ur girl’s throat deserves a grammy LANDO: did the back seat get jealous of the front one or what OSCAR: I’m not opening any car doors near Red Bull again GEORGE: Mercedes cars have privacy glass for a reason PIERRE: imagine finishing a blowjob to your own chorus CARLOS: she should do a live performance in parc fermé

Max leaves the chat. Twice. They keep adding him back.

It becomes a thing. FIA press officers start confiscating aux cables in the media pen. Your fans start tagging every photo of Max with “my boy’s a winner, he loves the game”. People ship you under the hashtag #MaxInTheBackseat. Christian bans anyone from saying “Diet Pepsi” within the garage unless they’re talking about actual beverages.

Your Spotify bio reads: “Untouched. XO. Young lust. Let’s go.”

And Max? Max starts requesting your song when he gets in the car.

Late one night after qualifying, he pulls you into his hotel room, presses you against the mirror with your back arched, your dress hitched up, and says: “Sing it for me.”

You moan instead.

He slaps your thigh. “Sing.”

So you do. While he fucks you. Hard. Slow. And when you get to the part about writing your name on his chest, he’s already pulling off his shirt.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “I want them to know it.”

You leave a mark in red. Lipstick and nail crescents. You’re his baby. Always have been. Even before the world knew. Now they just get to watch.

[serenity-loves-red]

Never had it once crossed your mind that you would one day find yourself at the receiving end of the affection from both Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos and The Nameless Hero of Amphoreus.

You, a mere lowly merchant from an unknown village who sells handcrafted jewelry, managed to catch the attention of the men in the higher society of Okhema– Amphoreus even.

A cruel joke, you thought. Mydeimos and Phainon are well-known rivals. Childish competitions are dished out anywhere and everywhere. Hell, even staying the longest in a hot bath becomes part of their competitive streak!

No one in their right mind would want you with a status of a commoner unless, of course, just a part of their competition that you find yourself to unfortunately be part of.

So you never had believed them and their so-called affections. You did everything to avoid them, wanting your life away from spotlight of never ending politics. Getting entangled much more as it already is will completely change your life for the worst.

You had already heard how chaotic Amphoreus politics are and with a status as lowly as yours? Maybe one day, someone will find your body in some ditch or something!

But no matter how much effort you give in order to avoid them, even taking the longer route to go home, you will always find yourself walking together staying right between them.

“Walking home? Why don’t you let us send you back? That’s more safer, isn’t it?”

“Why decline? We are already walking with the same route so just let us take you back.”

Avoiding someone was never been this hard before. At loss, you finally decided to confront them. Whatever the reason, everything must stop. You never wanted to get implicated in the first place.

Even if you like them, a joke is still a joke and even more so being cruelly dragged into this mess because of their petty rivalry.

Messing with your feeling intentionally or not, this better stop before it hurts more than it already is.

“Lord Phainon, Lord Mydei please… just stop.” You said shakily. “Stop this.”

“Huh?” Phainon replied confused. “Stop? Stop what?”

“This!” You can’t help but raise your voice. Status be damned. “Playing with my feelings because of some stupid competition? Well guess what–you both won since I’ve always love you both!”

Silence never been this loud before. Regret instantly flooded your senses and before you do something even more embarrassing, you decided to flee.

Funny you thought you could escape them. Within seconds, Mydei had you within grasp, his arms locked you securely in place, while Phainon blocked your view with his body.

“You love us?” Mydei said somewhat shakily. You can feel the heat of his body and the beat of his heart that was unexpectedly fast.

Mydei may have hold you in his arms, but it was Phainon whose gaze pinned you under its weight. Intense, raw, full of conviction and subtle longing, emotions you never imagined to see.

“Don’t run, please.” He begged as he slowly moved his hand to cupped your cheek. “It may be a competition, but not that kind that you thinks of.”

“We wanted to court you, everything we did was.” Mydei began. “But we never imagined that you would take it the wrong way.”

“The only thing we were competing is the one who you would like. Not competing just because.” Phainon told you, his eyes are tender and smile slowly started to form. “But who would have thought that you will like us both hm? Not that I mind sharing.”

His last statement made you finally realize the situation you’re in. Mydei holding you close while Phainon held your face in place.

What? Heat slowly started to rush and blush had coating your cheeks.

Before you started denying or worst– if your head started to think only Kephale knows what, Phainon charmingly said, “So why don’t we all talk about it before your pretty little head create another conclusion.”

Mydei then loosened his hold but remain attach to your left arm while Phainon enthusiastically grabbed your right and practically dragged you towards the Holy City.

…Did you just got kidnapped?

Note: Thank you for the 5k likes and 200 followers🫶🏼 damn this cult is created a week ago, imagine my surprise seeing my notifs😚 love your support tho😜😜😜

[tagged-by-trauma]

Still angry?

Joel pushes you away, but you try to crack his shell. Well, you kind of succeeded if your plan was being fucked against a wall. Pairing: jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader Warnings: established relationship, explicit sexual content (+18), dom!joel, dirty talk, unprotected sex, p in v sex, angry sex, porn with no plot basically, no proofreading Word count: 694

“I’m trying to be understanding with you Joel, but it’s really hard when you’re just pushing me away every time I try to talk to you,” your voice was strained and slightly raised. You were fighting. Again. It has happened a lot in the past, but this one was more serious. All yelling and teary eyes.

Joel came home to you from patrol, all closed off, walls pulled up high. You knew better than to bother him, but you were worried, the expression on his face not really encouraging. He pushed you away, telling you he’s just tired, but this little innocent conversation soon turned into the biggest fight you’ve ever had.

“Can’t you fucking understand that I don’t need your help and your pity? I can manage my problems myself,” his words felt like knives to your chest, but you were too determined to get those things off of his shoulders.

“I’m sure you can manage them, but we’re in this together now, and I just want to make sure you’re alright.”

He was standing a few feet away from you, shoulders squared, chest falling heavily. His eyes were burning a hole into your skin, and in just a few strides he was towering over you, his presence falling on you like the heaviest fog in the morning. You couldn’t even blink before his lips were on yours. The kiss was far from tender; it was hungry and desperate as he backed you into the wall of the hallway.

Your hands were grasping the front of his flannel as he fumbled with your worn jeans. His mouth was now drawing a path over your throat, and you felt his teeth grazing the sensitive skin covering your pulse point. He tugged down your jeans, and your hands fell to unbuckle his belt. His cock jumped free when you pulled down the zipper and shoved his jeans with his briefs to his thighs.

He was already hard, his tip angry red and precum leaking from the slit on the top. Your hand reached out to stroke him a few times as he tugged your underwear to one side and pulled one of your legs over his hip. You pulled back and watched as he spit into his palm and covered his cock with it, the gesture so filthy and hot that you felt the ache between your legs increasing with every second.

He looked into your eyes, and with one firm thrust he buried himself inside you, the stretch making you moan his name into his shoulder. He didn’t stop and wait for you to adjust; he just started snapping his hips forward. His groans were reaching your ears, the filthy and obscene sound of your bodies filling the quiet hallway.

“Fucking hell, I love you so much, darlin’,” his voice was low and filled with lust. “I can’t fucking do anything with my attitude, but…” he paused mid-sentence as a growl escaped him, and he picked up his pace. “But I’ll try to change.”

As a response you just moaned his name into his ear, and without any warning you clenched around his cock, your orgasm washing over your body, making you hold onto him stronger. He didn’t stop. Not for one second.

He fucked you through it, and when you felt his hands tighten around you, when his voice was more strained, when his hips lost its rhythm, you knew he was close. So, you held him close when he spilled inside you, his head falling onto your shoulder. Hot ropes of cum was painting your walls, wave after wave.

You were there, standing in the hallway of your shared home, you against the wall and him buried deep inside you.

“Jesus, Joel,” you almost didn’t recognize your voice because of the hoarseness of it. “You know, I’m still angry at you.”

“The feeling’s kinda mutual, but as I said, I’ll try to change,” he sealed your lips in a soft kiss, a complete contrast to your previous passionate actions. “I love you. With my whole heart. And I’m sorry. For pushing you away.”

“I love you too, you grumpy, incredibly handsome man.”

[sillyswriting]

: ̗̀➛ something something...

“damn, your past lovers were a greedy men, aye!” johnny’s voice echoes through your flat.

he’s sitting at his desk in front of the fan, wearing nothing but his boxers. you’re sprawled out on the bed, lying on your stomach, scrolling mindlessly through your phone. just your panties and one of johnny’s old oversized military shirts hang off you. for the past few minutes, you’ve felt his eyes glued to your arse. it’s practically right in his line of sight, so you can’t exactly blame him.

you glance up at him, confused and already fed up with his nonsense. you’re used to his random comments, he says whatever pops into his head, no filter. and he knows you won’t really judge him for it, so he lets his thoughts run wild.

“what the fuck does that even mean?” you ask with a sigh, shaking your head.

you had been right, his eyes were locked on your arse, not even pretending to look away.

“well, you see, when i was waiting in line for coffee yesterday, there were these two women in front of me. really, i say women, but they were barely fourteen. i should’ve said girls,” he starts, already drifting from the main point. “so, these two girls, they were talking, right? waiting in line, of course they were talking. and i know you always tell me not to listen to other people’s conversations, but i couldn’t—”

most of the time, when his mind wandered like that, you just let him play in the background, white noise, until you heard a few keywords that meant he’d finally circled back to the point.

but right now, you’re stuck on what he said before. you’re confused, maybe a little humiliated. he hadn’t said it like an insult, it sounded casual, but still, why the hell was he talking about your past lovers?

“johnny,” you cut him off. “back to the main point. what was that about my past lover?” you snap, sharper than intended.

“yeah, sorry,” he says quickly, catching the edge in your voice. “they were talking about this theory, about beauty spots. how they’re the favorite places for your past lover to kiss you… you know, in another life and stuff? and well...”

his eyes drop again, landing on your arse, where six small, dark beauty marks scatter across the skin.

“oh,” you breathe out, feeling the heat rise to your face.

the shame bubbles up, not because you were wrong to feel thrown off, but because he hadn’t meant “past lover” in the way you thought. he wasn’t talking about before him, he meant before this life.

getting up from his chair, he kneels beside you on the bed, his eyes never leaving your arse. he doesn’t say anything, just starts grabbing at you like a kitten making bread. he kneads the skin so good, you let out a small, involuntary whine.

the way he looks at your body always amazes you. like he’s discovering it for the first time, every single time. you know johnny's a generous lover, always giving, rarely taking, and his filthy mouth never shuts up about how much he adores every inch of you.

“and you know, i was thinking…” he murmurs, slowly bending down to nip at the soft curve of your cheek. “with the way i leave teeth marks and hickeys on this pretty arse, maybe we were lovers in a past life.”

before you can respond, his mouth is back on your skin, his teeth nipping, his tongue soothing the sting. your phone slips from your hand, landing with a soft thud on the mattress as a moan escapes you.

it isn't even truly sexual, not yet. johnny just loves to worship you. he doesn’t need anything in return. he loves to kiss you, taste you, study your skin like it holds every answer he's ever wanted.

his mouth leaves your arse and begins its slow journey upward. his hands slide your shirt higher as his lips follow, until he reaches your neck. he pushes the shirt away from your shoulder and reconnects his lips with your skin a second later.

“isn’t it fucking romantic, bonnie?” he murmurs into your ear, already knowing you’re drifting into that soft, horny daze he loves. “you and me, we were always meant to be.”

he kisses a beauty spot on your neck. the one he always returns to. the one so often hidden beneath his teeth marks and hickeys, it barely has time to fade.

“you see, i fucking love this theory, baby,” he coos against your skin, laying his body over yours, grinding his now-hard cock against your arse.

“i was your lover in every fucking life you’ve ever lived. you’ve been mine since the dawn of time. always.”

©sillyswriting 2025

fun fact : i might have six beauty spots on my arse... i know no shame

[h0wdidig3there]

I’m part of the heterochromia crew, but specifically part of the weird heterochromia crew where it’s not obvious but it looks really weird up close. It’s not the central heterochromia that most people talk about, my eyes just decided to mismatch, like they both decided to wear a green shirt with brown overalls and then one of them decided to wear blue shoes and didn’t tell the other one until they were already at the function. I don’t make the rules. I just look at them and confuse myself. 

On top of that instead of walking in a straight line holding hands, my eyes decided they hated each other and one is trying to run away to the best of its ability

Now based on my eye color and one deviated eye, you’re probably wondering if I need glasses the answer is technically yes but only to drive, and I don’t have a license, I hate cars, and I lost my last pair of glasses years ago when my family decided to move things around in the room that they were put in.

Also, at one point I had eye surgery I don’t remember for what and it was when I was a baby so I just assume it doesn’t matter anymore also before you say oh it’s just Hazel if it’s brown and green mixed together I’m not talking about that I’m talking about Separate sections of my eye being deep, green and other sections being normal brown, and again, this isn’t noticeable from far away because both are dark colors and you’re more likely to notice the fact that one of my eyes is trying to escape my head

I would show a picture of my eyes, but I like my privacy and also I have anxiety which convinces me that if I show my eyes, someone will find and eat me, don’t ask I don’t know the answer.

the recent eye color post on yesornopolls is intriguing me a lot bc. well. statistically more people should be answering yes to the question here than they are. but obvs the point of yesornopolls is yes or no questions so we can’t exactly do a follow up there. so i’m going into more depth here because i can do what i want

obvs this poll isn’t gonna get as much traction as the poll blog’s will, but it’ll still be interesting to look at the results of it and compare them methinks

(bee tee dubs if your eyes change color based on lighting answer with the color they are most often. pick whatever color you’d put on a legal ID. also the heterochromia button is there with complete heterochromia in mind but if you have central/sectoral heterochromia and feel none of the other options fit you then. go for it i suppose)

[reminiscingthesea]

Thinking about.. comforting Khaslana (aka dead eyes Phainon from the 3.4 story) in one of the million cycles..

Warning- Spoilers for 3.4 story quest, angst

.

.

.

He lay across on your lap, his head nestled upon your soft thighs, as your fingers gently combed through his icy white hair, twirling a few strands around your nimble fingers. His gaze was fixed upwards, but not at you, but towards the sky, the sky that praised the two of you with beaming light and its warming radiance from the godlike sun. The same sky he knew was hiding the Destruction’s gaze from afar. A wretched, fake sky. The same sun he knew would bleed red soon. He has seen it all too many times.

But you? You were an exception- an anomaly- your occurrence in these millions of cycles were fleeting- rare. Almost by chance. He knew your presence made whatever above seethe with pure rage and anger, as you slowed down the Destruction’s synthesis.

There was something he didn’t quite understand, however. How was it that you knew who he truly was? How did you know that Amphoreus was of cyclical existence in nature? There were things you knew that you shouldn’t know. But, in every thousand of those millions of cycles where he had the chance to meet you- to ask these questions, he never found himself the courage to ask. Not once. Were you simply a cruel string of code curated by Lygus himself to keep him going? God, he hoped not. So why did he never find himself questioning you of your origins?

Was it his love for you? Yes. Was it because he didn’t want to find out something he shouldn’t know, for the sake of his and Cyrene’s mission? Also, yes.

“What’s on your mind, Khaslana?” Your voice was a soothing balm to his wound of a body, his body blazing with raw memoria, will, and passion. Even for a fleeting, sorrowful moment, he wished he could stay by your side like this, forever.

Turning his gaze to you, he saw how your kind eyes flickered with worry, and your expression contorting from one of peace and indulgence, to one of concern and love. It must’ve been his eyes. Cerulean blue, full of emotion and colour, with the faint shape of Kephale’s halo within, encasing small, bright yellow pupils. But they weren’t filled with light or shine, no matter how beautiful they may look. They were dead. Emotionless. Unmoving. Cold. Yet, you always kept eye contact with him, why?

“Things on my mind, that’s all.” He replied quietly, his tone unintentionally cold and distant as he spoke. He saw the way your eyes very briefly flickered with slight pain and sadness, before quickly being hidden by a mask of sympathy, a small, sad smile adorning your pretty face.

“I know that’s not true. But I won’t go into detail, since I know someone like you must have a lot on your mind. Though, tell me one thing. How many coreflames is it that you bear now, within you?”

“Two million, seven hundred-and-ninety-five thousand, eight hundred and sixty.” He answered without a beat, having known the feeling of the burning heat of over two million coreflames that burnt to brightly within him, the fire not weakening once, the light, not dimming a fragment.

Your face was was blank, expression, unreadable, but full of thought as you processed what he had said, temporarily seizing the comforting ministrations on his scalp, to which he gave you a slightly hurt look.

“Ah. So this must be the thirty-third million, five-hundred-and-fifty-thousandth, three hundredth and thirtieth cycle? Hmm.. that must mean something, right?” You pondered inquisitively, as you looked up, a finger on your chin as you thought.

When Phainon didn’t respond, you knew something in him must’ve switched. Normally, he had something to say or retort back with in an instant- having gone through identical moments in the past too many times before now.

But this? This was unexpected? Unrehearsed for. He didn’t know what to say.

“You don’t have to say anything. I realise I may be out of line for asking that, reminding you of.. your mission and the memories it may bring back.” After a few beats, you carefully coerced him to look into your eyes, hooking two fingers around his chin to secure his almost lifeless gaze.

“But, what I do know, Khaslana, is that you’re strong. Strong, determined, willful. I know the horrifying experiences you must face each cycle, the overbearing responsibilities you’ve had to bear as Khaslana during each cycle up until now, to avoid a complete Destruction. But for now, please. Just rest. I see it in your eyes, the pain and suffering behind them, the weight of so many wishes and memories.. The same eyes that yearn for respite.”

Your tone, so soft, so sweet, so loving, so reverent, so you. Rest wasn’t something he grew accustomed to over these long, torturous cycles, the memories he bore within screamed cries too loud for his mind to keep out, to keep quiet.

But, for some reason here, he found himself at peace. Devoid of thought, of memory, of the wishes of thousands. The scolding heat of the coreflames now engulfing him in a rather comforting warmth, rather than its usual fiery burns and flames. His lips separated slightly, trying to find the words to speak. But nothing. He knew he wanted this. He wanted respite- even for a few fleeting minutes or hours, even if it did cause jeopardy to his lifelong, eternal plan.

As if moving on his own accord, he lifted himself up, feeling weightless as he now sat next to you, back against the large trunk of a tree, looking at you with fuller eyes now. You swore you could see the smallest, the quickest of flickers of life pass through his empty, ocean eyes that resembled the sun, before immediately disappearing once more.

And then, without either your accords or his, your eyes closed, as the two of you leaned closer, lips capturing the other in a deep, intimate kiss. On your side, you were gentle, slow, and loving. But on his side, he was passionate, needy, and twice as loving, pulling you closer as his tongue made its way past your soft, full lips, and into the expanse of your mouth, the hot muscle loving it properly. You felt his teeth nip and bite at your lower lip, eliciting a soft moan out your throat as you held onto him tightly, wanting more and more, to which he responded to eagerly.

After some time, the two of you pulled back, your faces flushed, breath gone, panting hurriedly to make up for the lack of airflow due to the lovingly long kiss. Your lips, now wet with his and your saliva, placed big, sloppy kisses onto his cheeks, which drove out one of the sweetest, most beautiful sounds you hadn’t heard in so long. A laugh. Phainon’s laugh. Not the delirious or distant, shallow, fake laugh of Khaslana. But the bright, warm, contagious laugh of Phainon.

“You look better now, I can almost see the light returning back to your eyes.” There was a warm smile on your face as you spoke. You gently pinched his cheek with the pads of your fingertips, squishing it slightly as you did. Phainon, who now had a look of closeness and trust on his face, carefully brought down you hand from his cheek, and over his chest, where you could feel the enthusiastic, strong beat of his heart behind his bones.

“You feel that? That’s the beating of my heart. When you’re around in every odd cycle, it beats harder, faster, as if it knows you’ll be here in the next cycle. I.. don’t know when the next time we meet will be, but in every cycle, I’ll always love you. [Name].” Placing a delicate kiss on your knuckles, he looked up at you once more. His eyes, still dead with no shine, seemed to glow a brighter blue, yet the hue of his sun-yellow pupils glowed even harder, the dawn tattoo on his neck seemed to burn brighter now.

Cupping his cheek with your free hand, you gave him a peaceful, look of love, one full of adoration and affection.

“I’ll always love you too, Khaslana. Now then, you must rest now. Time won’t wait for you, you aren’t in Aedes Elysiae.” Slowly, he smiled and lowered himself back down, so his head was back resting onto the comfortable expanse of your soft, pillowy thighs. His eyelashes, long and pretty, fluttered daintily as his eyes shut once more, his pink lips parting slightly as he dozed off once more, to the heavenly embrace known as the land of dreams.

.

.

Once he was asleep fully, you shifted him off roughly, his head landing onto the grass next to you, a look of disgust writing itself onto your face as you watched him unconsciously nuzzling his nose against the dirt.

“Pathetic.. Lycurgus was right when he said he was truly nothing more than a child at heart, such a mangy dog. I hate having to get close to him..”

Pulling out your tablet, you began noting down some things onto the indigo blue screen.

>

>

>

>>[33,550,330 Computation]

>>Subject: “Neikos496”

>>Observation: In each cycle, Neikos496 —Khaslana— reacts differently around Admin- [Name]. Upon closer inspection, his physical body pumps golden blood—The Destruction— quicker around his body.

>>Admin notes: This is just as I predicted, as similar, affectionate behaviour from him was exhibited around me in each computation I was present in.

>>Conclusion: The Destruction synthesis of Lord Ravager, Irontomb, and Neikos496 progresses faster around Admin [Name]’s presence. Therefore, Irontomb’s presence grows stronger, leading to a greater likelihood of nearing ascension.

>>Strategy: Create more versions of Admin ‘[Name]’ in each cycle to speed up the development of Irontomb’s presence within Phainon Neikos496.

[hyuckiefluff]

casual pt 2 | mark lee

pairing: idol! mark lee x fem.reader genre: fluff, smut, angst wc: 9.6k summary: you fell for mark lee through blurry facetime calls and late-night voice notes, but when the distance starts causing a strain in the relationship, you board a plane to seoul with nothing but a suitcase and a heart that won’t stop beating for him. content warnings: 18+ explicit sexual content, phone-sex, oral (fem. receiving), protected sex, explicit language, long-distance relationship stress, idol pressures, light alcohol consumption, mentions of food & brief mention of disordered eating habits (skipping meals due to stress), tooth rotting domestic fluff. a/n: here it is finally!! i cannot believe i told myself this would take less time than my hogwarts fics and it ended up taking me LONGER 😭 and it’s not even that long so i was 100% just procrastinating. BUT GUYS. i freaking love mark in this because i literally wrote it the way i imagine a relationship with him would be and like… fawk. i want this life so bad. mark give me one chance juseyoooo. anyways, hope u enjoy <3 also! tiny author suggestion: listen to turning page by sleeping at last during the final scene if you wanna fully immerse yourself.

ps: divider by kodaswrld

Another practice room light flickered out down the hallway, and with it the building finally emptied out. Mark was the last one there again.

He peeled off his in-ears, let them dangle around his neck, and flopped backward onto the studio floor. Sweat slicked the vinyl under his shoulder blades. His hoodie had been abandoned somewhere near the mirrors, but he was still running hot, humming with the choreo that refused to leave his muscles even after twelve straight run-throughs.

His manager would murder him if he was late to call time tomorrow, but his brain was nowhere near sleep. It was too busy spinning in the familiar orbit it had fallen into every night for months: you.

Mark fished his phone out of his joggers and opened the last message he had sent hours ago.

on my way to rehearsal. i think you’re gonna love our new song :)

No reply.

He exhaled through his nose. You were probably not awake yet. The quiet between messages always managed to feel personal after a tiring day like this. He scrolled up anyway, re-reading pieces of your conversation. There was a blurry photo of your family’s cat sitting on a stack of Murakami paperbacks. His own late-night voice memo humming a chorus that didn’t have lyrics yet.

The memory of your laugh shoved its way in, uninvited and perfect. Mark shut his eyes. For a second it was easy to pretend the fluorescent hum overhead was your apartment’s old fridge, that the scuffed practice floor was the couch where you’d sit while you argued about pineapple on pizza during video calls.

Mark opened his eyes before the fantasy got too good, pushed up onto his elbows, and grabbed the half-empty water bottle beside him. As he drank, a few texts from his manager pinged through. Mostly schedule changes, wardrobe notes, and a reminder to ice his knee. He swiped them away and pulled up the blank chat bubble with your name again.

Type something, Mark. Anything.

The rehearsal room clock read 01:39 a.m. That was—what, mid-morning for you? You would probably be getting up, maybe grabbing coffee before heading out to work. He pictured you in that oversized cardigan you loved, eyes squinting at your phone because you’d forgotten to put on your contact lenses again.

The thought kicked his pulse into a sprint.

Before he could think, he started typing.

hey, i can’t sleep. just finished practice.random question: if you could teleport for exactly 10 minutes, where would you go?

Mark stared at the message. Too weird? He was about to unsend it when the typing indicator popped up on your side. His chest cinched.

jiwon says i should pick somewhere romantic so i don’t waste the free trip lol. maybe the han river at sunset? i’ve never been.why, where would you go?

He pictured you on the couch, eyes bright, seriously discussing such a silly question with Jiwon the way he probably would have done with Haechan.

His fingers moved before he could overthink.

wherever you are. ten minutes is enough to steal a hug right?

A second passed, and then the dots appeared again.

bold, lee. i like it.also i’d tackle-hug you so it might be nine minutes of us laughing on the floor, hope that’s okay

Mark’s face broke into an idiotic grin. Sleep was officially lost.

He pushed up, snagged his hoodie, and headed for the door, phone still glowing in his hand while your next bubble popped up.

anyway, go shower before you catch a cold. text me when you’re safe in bed

He stared at the screen, thumb hovering.

deal. goodnight for now ;) p.s. you just gave me lyric ideas. hope you don’t mind being a muse

Mark pocketed the phone, heart drumming a new beat that had nothing to do with choreography, and jogged toward the dorms, already humming the melody you had just sparked to life.

He stepped into the night, sweat chilling under his hoodie, headphones pulled over his ears as the city noise swallowed him up. Seoul at two in the morning felt almost peaceful, all the rush muted, and he could finally hear his own thoughts again which was dangerous territory, but better than silence.

There was a bounce in his step he couldn’t explain, even with his knee twinging and his bones begging for a hot shower. All he could think about was your messages, how you always managed to make him feel like a regular guy, not the name thousands of people screamed at concerts.

By the time he was back at the dorm, the lights were low, but Haechan’s voice filtered down the hall—arguing with Johnny about leftovers or LoL or something equally stupid. He slipped off his shoes, tiptoed past the noise, and ducked into the bathroom before anyone could spot him.

Steam billowed as Mark stood under the shower, letting it pound against tired muscles. He replayed your conversation again, grinning at nothing, mouthing the words he had typed, imagining them as lyrics already.

wherever you are. ten minutes is enough to steal a hug right?

He said it again, quieter, letting the steam swallow the edges. Would he actually do it—show up to your door, wrap you up, laugh until his sides hurt and the world faded out? God, he would.

He toweled off, tossed on some sweatpants, and flopped onto his bed. His phone buzzed just as his head hit the pillow.

i hope you’re actually resting and not writing a sad song about me being halfway across the planet

Mark smirked, typing back.

not sad i promise. i’ll probably finish it tonight #insomnia

Your reply hit after a few seconds.

:( insomnia is beating my ass too.i’m sure it’s gonna be cute tho. i wanna listen

He couldn’t help it when a laugh came out, soft and breathless, afraid to wake the others. He wished he could call you, but you were probably heading to work now.

Still, he opened his voice notes and hummed the chorus that had been haunting him. The words fit better now that you’d given him the missing piece. He knew it was corny, but he didn’t care. This was the part they didn’t see, the part that made him want to risk all the rules, just for a few more minutes like this.

He’d been working on a song for weeks now—sometimes he called it “loser,” sometimes he sang it like “lose her.” It started as a joke lyric, a throwaway, but it kept coming back. The words were different every night, but the chorus always landed on you.

i don’t wanna loseri don’t wanna lose her

He hit send without thinking.

for you. don’t laugh if it sucks.

Seconds passed while Mark stared at the phone. The little read indicator popped up almost immediately.

…i love it(and i’m definitely saving this in my secret folder)

He buried his face in his pillow, his pulse racing.

Johnny’s voice floated in from the hallway, half-annoyed. “Mark! You sleeping or composing another heartbreak song in there?”

He shouted back, “Go to bed, hyung!”

Johnny laughed, the door creaking as he walked away. “Don’t blame me when you’re a zombie tomorrow.”

Mark grinned, pulling the blanket over his head and letting his mind drift back to you. He pictured your smile, the shy way you looked away when you were flustered, that little laugh he wanted to hear in person, not just through a phone speaker.

For the first time in days, Mark actually felt sleepy—in a good way. He let the tiredness take him, already counting down the hours until he could text you again.

Soon enough, both of you fell back into your natural rhythm. With calls coming more often, you were back to sharing every little moment of your day.

Practice had ended hours ago, but the thrum of bass still vibrated in Mark’s bones as he padded into the dorm kitchen for a bottle of water. He thumbed his phone, opened your chat, and hovered over the call button. It was late, but the lingering jet lag plus rehearsals meant he didn’t have a normal sleep cycle anyway. He just wanted to hear your voice for thirty seconds, maybe a minute.

He tapped FaceTime before he could talk himself out of it.

The tone rang twice, three times, then connected.

Steam clouded the camera lens first, followed by a startled gasp. You stood in your bathroom, hair dripping, wrapped in nothing but a white towel knotted above your chest. Water beaded across your collarbones, and you were half-laughing, half-mortified as you fumbled with the phone.

“Mark! Give me a sec—”

His throat closed. “I—I’m so sorry! I didn’t think—I’ll call later—”

“You’re fine, just—” You shifted, the towel slipping a centimeter lower.

Mark’s brain short-circuited. “S—sorry! Talk later!” He hit End so fast his thumb stung, then flopped onto his mattress with a hammering heart.

For a full minute, he stared at the ceiling, willing himself to breathe normally. It didn’t help. The image was branded behind his eyelids: your damp hair, flushed cheeks, a single droplet tracking down the slope of your chest.

Great. Now his pulse was pounding in the wrong place.

He rolled onto his side, pillow over his face, trying to think of choreography counts to distract his brain from sending all the blood to his groin. Instead, all he could hear was the soft gasp you made, all he could see was the towel sliding down—

A frustrated groan slipped out. Fine.

Hand sliding under the waistband of his sweatpants, he let the fantasy take over: you standing there for him, towel loosening under his fingertips, your breath catching the way it did when you laughed too hard. The tension coiled fast—months of late-night calls, that night you spent together, everything he hadn’t been able to touch.

When his hand wrapped around his cock, he imagined it was your lips instead. How warm and soft they’d feel. Your wide eyes looking at him so innocently even as your mouth sucked him off so perfectly. His orgasm came quick, feeling nothing like what he really wanted, but it still ripped a low moan from his throat. He bit the edge of the pillow to muffle it, hips stuttering once then stilling as relief flooded every aching limb.

Breathing hard, Mark wiped a hand across his jaw, suddenly self-conscious. He grabbed tissues, cleaned up, and collapsed on his back, guilt and heat mingling in his chest.

He finally glanced at his phone, about to text an apology, when he noticed the screen was still glowing.

The little green bar at the top still said Call In Progress.

His stomach dropped through the floor.

You were standing frozen in your bathroom, towel clutched under your arms, the phone face-up on your counter where you’d set it in a panic. Mark’s voice echoed from the tiny speaker, followed by a sudden shuffle and a muffled curse. You reached for the screen, intending to end the call, but then you heard it.

The breathy, almost desperate sound of his voice, low and strained, your name a broken whisper under his breath. You went still, barely breathing, cheeks burning as the realization dawned. Oh.

Oh.

You should have ended the call. But you didn’t.

Too enthralled by the idea of sweet, careful, too-polite Mark falling apart on the other end of the line.

You heard a ragged breath, then another.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he whispered.

His voice was low and rough, the kind of tone you’d never heard from him. Needy. Then your name again, this time broken in the middle of a moan.

Your hand flew to your mouth. Oh my god.

He kept going, panting harder now. The way his hips were probably stuttering into his fist, the bed creaking under him—it all played in high-def through your speaker.

“Wanna touch you so bad,” he groaned.

Your entire body was on fire.

When the line finally went quiet, you waited, heart racing. Then, Mark’s face appeared, looking absolutely horrified, eyes wide as he finally realized.

“Oh my god—wait—were you—”

You couldn’t help it as you burst out into nervous laughter, cheeks burning. “Yeah, I…heard all of it.”

His face went so red it was almost purple, both hands flying to cover his eyes. “I’m—I swear I thought I hung up—”

“Don’t worry,” you reassured him with a little smile. “I liked it.”

And with that, you hung up, letting a mortified Mark lose his mind on the other side of the world.

You didn’t directly address that night again, but there was a clear shift in your late night video calls.

They always started the same way: Mark sprawled on his bed, pretending to focus on the story you were telling about work or your idiot neighbor who kept parking in your spot. The truth was that he hadn’t caught a single detail in minutes.

Why? Because you were wearing a tank top that looked like it was designed for a doll, legs pulled up so your shorts barely counted as shorts at all, and every time you stretched, the hem inched just a little higher.

Mark tried. God, he tried to play it cool with a sweet smile, eyes glued to your face like a good boy, but it was a lost cause because your skin was glowing, your hair damp from a late shower. You shifted on the bed, moving closer to the camera. Did you have any idea he was fighting for his life?

“So, anyway, I told my boss that if he wanted to schedule me a third weekend in a row, he’d have to cover my therapy bill.”

Mark blinked, realizing you were waiting for a reply.

“Uh, yeah, absolutely. You should… definitely… do that.”

You grinned. “You didn’t hear a word I said.”

Busted.

Mark coughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry, I—uh, got distracted.”

You leaned in. “By what?”

His cheeks flushed, eyes darting lower, and you just laughed that soft laugh that always made his stomach flip. You knew exactly the effect you had on him and you loved it.

“Nothing. Just… thinking.”

“Tell me.”

“Just stuff.”

“Hmm. Must be important stuff.” You stretched again, and Mark’s ears turned red to the tips.

“Do you ever think about what you’d do if you were here?” you asked suddenly, your voice syrup sweet, teasing but vulnerable too.

Mark’s eyes darkened. He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, all the time.”

“Show me.”

His breath stuttered. “What?”

“Show me what you’d do.”

You bit your lip, letting the camera slip lower so he could see the line of your thigh, your fingers tracing soft circles at your hip.

“Uhm…” he started shakily, “I’d kiss you first,” he murmured quietly, voice strained, words tumbling free before he could reconsider. “Your neck, then your shoulders. Kiss down your chest.”

Your breath caught audibly. Mark could almost see your pulse jumping at your throat.

“And then?” you whispered.

He swallowed, his throat thick with desire. “Then I’d pull that shirt off. Nice and slow.”

You held his gaze, your fingers sliding up to the thin strap of your camisole. “Like this?” you whispered.

You slipped it off your shoulder, the silk gliding down your arm, teasing every inch of skin. Then the other strap. You pulled the shirt up, exposing more of your breasts, your belly, the delicate curve of your waist. Your bare skin glowed in the blue light of the room.

Mark’s breath hitched. He was transfixed, speechless.

“You said you’d kiss down my neck,” you murmured, your own hand tracing lightly from your throat down between your breasts, mimicking where his lips would be, eyes fluttering at your own touch. “Then lower. Every inch, right?”

Mark nodded, helpless. “Yeah. I’d take my time. Make you feel good.”

You shifted, propping the phone so the angle caught your entire body, head to toe, stretched out over the messy sheets. Your hand glided over your chest, circling your breasts, teasing your nipples until they hardened under your fingers. Mark’s breath came harder, every movement mirrored in his gaze.

That was when he realized he could just tell you his fantasies and you’d follow without question. So he did exactly that.

“Slowly,” he told you, his voice dropping. “Play with your nipples, just like that.”

Your fingers obeyed, pinching and rolling, your hips shifting in response, breathy moans slipping out that went straight to his cock. Mark palmed himself, focused only on you.

“That’s it, baby. Keep going. Tell me how it feels.”

“So good,” you gasped, arching into your own hand, your eyes fluttering as pleasure sparked across your skin slowly.

“Take off your panties. I want to watch you tease yourself.”

You did, trembling a little as your fingers pulled down the thin fabric, your legs parting for him, breath stuttering as you touched yourself just how he’d want.

“Tell me what you feel,” he urged, his voice ragged. “Let me hear you.”

“I’m… wet. So wet, Mark. All for you.” Your hips rocked gently against your hand, every touch performed for him.

He groaned, unable to help it, his own hand working himself inside his sweats. “Good girl. Circle your clit, slowly, just with the tips of your fingers.”

You moaned, your head falling back, thighs tensing under the new sensation. The camera shook, a little unsteady, but still angled perfectly so he could see you spread out, open, desperate for more.

“Go a little faster, baby,” he murmured. “Make yourself feel good for me. Let me see you fall apart.”

You obeyed, your movements turning needy, hips bucking as your pleasure built. “Mark, I—I need you so bad,” you whined, your voice barely holding together.

“You have me,” he promised, rough and loving. “I’m right here. Rub your clit harder. That’s it. Now slide a finger in. Can you do that for me, baby?”

You gasped, doing exactly as he said, your body shuddering. “Oh my god—Mark—”

“Yeah, baby, just like that. Another finger. Stretch yourself for me. God, you look so fucking pretty like this, you have no idea.”

You were a mess now, hips rising off the bed, your hand pumping in and out as your thumb circled your clit, the camera catching everything. Your flushed cheeks, the desperate look in your eyes, the sounds you were making for him.

Mark matched your rhythm, his hand squeezing his cock tighter, his breath coming short. “Don’t stop. I wanna see you cum. I want you to scream my name.”

You were almost there. He could see it in the way your toes curled, your thighs shook, your free hand clutched the sheets. Your eyes found his on the screen, wide and wild.

“Mark—I’m—I’m so close, please—!”

“Let go,” he commanded, his voice rough, eyes burning. “Cum for me. Right now.”

Your body bowed, your mouth falling open in a cry that sounded like his name. He watched you fall apart, every second seared into his memory. It was enough to push him over, his own orgasm crashing through him as he bit back a groan, never looking away from you.

When it was over, you both lay there, spent and shaky, smiling like fools at your screens, still hungry for more.

You broke the silence first, your voice low, sweet, and wrecked. “Same time tomorrow?”

He laughed, warm and breathless, feeling the ache already. “I’ll be there.”

Mark couldn’t stop staring at the coffee in his hands. It wasn’t even the right order—too much sugar, no oat milk—but he didn’t say anything. He just stood there, blank-faced in the middle of the rehearsal room, music still thudding from the speakers while everyone else reset for the next take.

“Hyung.” Haechan clapped him on the back. “You good?”

Mark blinked, coming back to himself. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry.”

“You forgot the second count again,” Doyoung muttered, not unkindly, but with that sharp edge he got when he was worried. “You’ve never messed that part up before.”

“I’m fine,” Mark said automatically. “Just tired.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.

He was exhausted, but not from practice. It was from the way every night ended with his phone overheating from video calls, his body tight and unsatisfied, his head spinning with flashes of your voice, your fingers, the way you looked when you whispered, “Do you want me to take this off too?”

He had seen everything. He had heard you moan his name, made you come with his voice alone. But he hadn’t felt you. And it was driving him insane.

He couldn’t smell your shampoo, couldn’t taste your skin, couldn’t bury his face in your neck and fall asleep with your heart beating under his hand. He could only imagine it. And imagining wasn’t enough anymore.

“Mark, focus!” Their manager snapped from across the room, already irritated. “We’ve got a full day ahead and you’re drifting.”

Mark nodded tightly. “Sorry, won’t happen again.”

But it would happen again. It kept happening. On stage, during shoots, during meetings—his attention kept slipping. He was caught texting you behind a prop during a promo shoot. He zoned out completely during wardrobe fitting, didn’t even notice when they tried to put him in Johnny’s too big clothes. Taeyong was the first to pull him aside for real.

“Are you okay?” He asked quietly in the hallway, concern furrowed between his brows.

Mark rubbed the back of his neck, eyes heavy. “Just… dealing with stuff.”

The leader didn’t press, but his next words were too knowing. “Maybe it’s time you saw her.”

Mark’s breath caught.

He hadn’t said anything about what was troubling him, but Taeyong knew. They all knew. His members had heard the late-night calls through thin hotel walls, seen the way he locked himself away after soundcheck, carrying tension in every muscle. It wasn’t subtle anymore.

Later that night, you received a message from a number you didn’t know.

Hello. I’m from Neo Center at SM Entertainment. I hope it’s okay to reach out. It’s about Mark. He’s not doing great.

You sank onto your bed, adrenaline flooding every limb, heart racing so hard it actually hurt. You were used to texting Mark at ungodly hours, but you had never been contacted by his manager before.

is he… okay?what happened?

The reply was almost instant.

He’s been distracted, keeps zoning out during schedules. He seems exhausted too, but it’s different from his regular self. According to the members, he’s been missing meals as well. Management is worried, the members are worried. Honestly, we were hoping you’d have some advice, or…Is there any chance you could see him soon?

You read that twice, your pulse thudding. The fact that Mark was going through a harsh time and you were too far away to do anything was pushing hard against your heart. But going across the world? It didn’t feel real. Just last month, flying across the ocean for a boy would have sounded insane. But right now, with your own chest feeling hollow from missing him, it felt like the only thing that made sense.

You texted Mark, your fingers flying.

are you okay?i just got a weird message from someone at your company. mark, talk to me.please.

There was no answer. He was probably at practice. You called Jiwon.

She picked up on the first ring. “What’s up?”

“I think I need to go to Korea.” Your voice cracked.

“What? Holy shit!” she breathed, “do you want me to help you look at flights?”

You nodded, even though she couldn’t see you. “Yes, please.”

For the next hour, you and Jiwon were hunched over laptops and phone screens, searching for anything—standby tickets, direct flights, last-minute deals. Every option was expensive, inconvenient, barely possible.

But still your hands shook as you clicked purchase on the first flight you could actually afford, your heart leaping and plummeting all at once. You were really doing this.

Jiwon grinned at you. “You’re insane but I’m proud of you.”

You almost laughed, except you were terrified. “I’m not sure if this is brave or just crazy.”

She shrugged. “Sometimes it’s the same thing.”

You checked your phone again, but there was still no answer from Mark.

But it didn’t matter. You were going anyway.

i can get on a plane tomorrow.can someone meet me at the airport?

You texted his manager. The reply was instant and full of gratitude.

Thank you, y/n. We’ll take care of everything.

The alarm blared long before sunrise, and for a panicked second, you couldn’t remember why you had set it so early until your eyes landed on the half-packed suitcase perched at the foot of your bed. Right. Korea. Mark. You bolted upright.

It was ridiculous how fast adrenaline kicked in. You showered on autopilot, tossed two extra outfits into the bag (who knew what you’d be dragged to?), then yanked them back out because the zipper wouldn’t close. You ended up sitting on the lid, knees to chest, wrestling the slider across stubborn teeth.

Jiwon texted a string of blow-kiss emojis and a final “give me updates pls!” before you even left the apartment. She had pledged to babysit and water the already half-dead pothos.

You climbed into the rideshare with a jittery stomach, watching the city streets smear into a watercolor of headlights and neon until the airport lights finally swallowed you whole. The last time you traveled internationally had been with your parents on a winter holiday. Your dad had a color-coded folder for every document and even timed your bathroom breaks. Without his relentless organization this time, the check-in process quickly became a nightmare.

The kiosk spat out your passport on the first scan, the second, the third. Each time making you feel a little more helpless. Without your parents, there was no one to save you but a bleary-eyed agent, who finally waved you over, fixed the problem in twenty seconds, and sent you sprinting for security.

You fumbled every step of TSA. First, you dropped your boarding pass, forgot to remove your laptop, and nearly walked off without your shoes. Somewhere between the metal detector and the end of the conveyor belt, you realized you were actually shaking. Not from fear of flying but from the weight of seeing Mark, touching him, after so long.

At the gate, you collapsed into a plastic chair, clutching your phone. Still no reply from Mark, so to keep from spiraling, you texted his manager.

through security. boarding in 20. i should arrive at around 8 am.

He responded with a thumbs-up and a polite “safe flight, i will meet you at arrivals.”

You got a window seat, a bit cramped, but at least sunrise painted the tarmac a pretty gold. You buckled in, stashed your bag, then stared out at the wing while passengers jostled past. The guy next to you nodded politely, pulled a hoodie over his face, and went comatose. Lucky him.

As the plane taxied, your nerves peaked. You pulled up Mark’s last voice note and let it loop in your earbuds. His voice steadied you better than any deep-breathing app.

The engines roared, the cabin tilted, the city slid away beneath cloud cover. You pressed a palm to the cold window and whispered, “Mark, I’m coming.”

The first hour slipped by in a haze as you made a half-hearted attempt to read a book, but after rereading the same paragraph twice with zero retention, you gave up. Resigned, you tilted your seat back and closed your eyes, somehow managing to drift into a surprisingly comfortable sleep. But somewhere high above the Pacific, turbulence snapped you awake with a sharp jolt. You instinctively clutched the armrest, heart pounding—and then your phone buzzed.

Mark:

just finished rehearsal. sorry i didn’t reply, my phone died. are you awake?miss you like crazy tonight.

A soft smile tugged at your lips as you typed back.

keep an eye out for a surprise. i’m closer than you think.

The three little dots flickered on and off, like he was typing, deleting, then typing again.

Mark: what do you mean???

When the captain finally announced descent, you were hit with a wave of relief so intense you almost laughed and cried at the same time.

Customs felt like purgatory as your rusty Korean tripped over the officer’s questions, your sweaty fingertips smudged the scanner, and jet lag scrambled any coherent thought. The queue crept forward by millimeters, long enough for you to imagine fossilizing right there behind a lady and her kid who kept sticking his tongue out at you.

By the time you retrieved your bags, your phone battery blinked red and a fresh wave of panic swelled as you pictured yourself marooned in this cavernous airport with nothing but anxiety for company.

Then a familiar-looking guy waved a sign bearing your name. Recognition clicked when you remembered him as one of the staffers from the last time you saw Mark. “Y/N? I’m Jiwon,” he said, bowing with effortless grace. You bowed back clumsily.

“This way, please. We’re so glad you made it.” Relief flooded through you as you trailed after him.

The car ride was quiet. You stared out the window, trying to rehearse what you’d say—what you’d do—when you finally saw Mark.

You arrived at the SM building, and it looked so much bigger and more imposing than in the pictures. Jiwon guided you through a warren of gray hallways where muffled music thrummed beyond a set of double doors.

“Wait here,” he whispered. “He’ll be out soon.”

Your pulse hammered everywhere at once. You smoothed your shirt, swiped under your eyes, though it didn’t help the puffiness.

Footsteps approached and then a door swung open. Mark burst through, sweat-damp hair plastered to his forehead, water bottle in hand. He was talking with a tech when his eyes met yours.

His mouth fell open and the bottle slipped, clattering to the floor and rolling away unnoticed. He looked at you with wide eyes and trembling breath—which was exactly how you felt, mirrored back at you.

“Y/N?” It was a croak, disbelief cracked right down the middle.

You tried to answer, but your throat folded in on itself. So you nodded, stepped forward, and watched relief crash over his features like sunlight breaking through a storm.

He crossed the space in three strides, hauling you against him. That familiar cologne and a tinge of sweat overwhelmed you; all of him suddenly real and solid after countless pixelated nights.

His voice was a hushed, broken mantra in your hair. “You’re here. You’re here. You’re really here.”

You melted into his arms and said the only thing that mattered.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“This way,” Mark murmured after a few seconds, his fingers wrapped around your wrist.

You followed him down a narrow hallway. Staff voices echoed somewhere behind you, but he didn’t slow. He pushed open a door marked STANDBY – DO NOT ENTER and pulled you in behind him, locking it with a shaky breath.

Once inside, he cupped your face with both hands like he needed to confirm you were real. His thumbs brushed beneath your eyes, fingertips pressing into your jaw softly. “You came,” he said again, hoarse. “You’re actually here.”

You nodded, hands slipping under his open jacket, feeling the heat of his skin through the soaked t-shirt. “I was told you needed an intervention.”

“You have no idea,” he admitted, laughing breathlessly. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

You reached up, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “So you decided to spiral instead of texting back?”

He groaned. “Don’t call me out when I’m this emotionally compromised.”

You smiled, but your chest ached. “You scared me, Mark.”

His eyes softened. “I know. I’m sorry. I just… I missed you so much, and the calls weren’t enough anymore. I need you. I need—”

You kissed him before he could finish.

Months of longing folded into one desperate press of lips and hands, his mouth opening under yours instinctively. He exhaled your name into the kiss softly. Your fingers tangled in the back of his shirt, tugging him closer, while his hands slid down to your waist.

He walked you backward until the backs of your knees hit the dressing table, then lifted you effortlessly onto the edge. Your legs parted, wrapping around his hips, and he stepped between them, lips never leaving yours.

“How long do we have?” you asked against his mouth.

“Not long enough,” he murmured, kissing along your jaw, down your neck. “But I don’t care. I just need you close.”

You tilted your head to give him access, fingers raking through the damp strands at his nape. His hands moved under your shirt, palms warm and steady against your ribs. “You kept me sane,” he said softly. “Every night.”

Your throat tightened. “I meant it when I said I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“I know.” He kissed you again, slower this time. “And I’m not letting you go now, either.”

His forehead rested against yours, both of you catching your breath, limbs still tangled. It was quiet here—just the sound of your heartbeats finally in the same time zone.

A knock jolted both of you.

“Mark, two minutes!”

He groaned, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “I have to go.”

You nodded, smoothing his hair, your shirt, anything to make this moment last one second longer. “Go be amazing.”

He lingered by the door. “I’ll see you after?”

“Of course. I’ll be waiting for you.”

He grinned like he was seventeen again, slipped out the door, and left you breathless in a room that still smelled like his skin.

The ride through the city was quieter than you imagined. You expected to have a million things to say, stories to spill, jokes to catch up on, but nerves kept you both a little quiet at first. Mark’s hand found yours in the backseat, his thumb drawing gentle circles over your knuckles. Every now and then, your eyes met and you laughed quietly, overwhelmed by the reality of just being together again.

He pointed out little things as the car moved through Seoul—the café where he liked to write lyrics, the corner store where he got snacks after late practice, the street where he once lost his keys and had to call Haechan at two in the morning. You listened, smiling, letting his voice fill in all the gaps you’d only ever imagined during your calls.

When the car finally pulled up to a nondescript building on a leafy side street, he squeezed your hand once before letting go, glancing around out of habit to check for fans or cameras. Then he waved you through the entrance.

His apartment was nothing like the dorm. It smelled faintly of clean laundry and something familiar you couldn’t name. There were stacks of books on every surface, a guitar leaning against the couch, and a chipped mug with faded writing beside the sink. The windows let in soft city light, making the space feel open and quiet, almost suspended.

“It’s kind of messy,” Mark said, scratching the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “I don’t get to stay here much. Sometimes I just come here to nap or write when things are too loud at the dorm.”

You stepped out of your shoes, smiled at him, and shook your head. “It’s perfect. It feels like you.”

He grinned and shrugged off his jacket, tossing it over a chair. “You want water? Tea? Ramen? I probably have… one of those weird vitamin drinks left, too.”

You laughed softly. “I just want to sit with you for a minute, if that’s okay.”

Mark nodded and followed you into the living room. You both sank onto the couch, sitting close but not quite tangled up yet, knees bumping together.

He glanced at you sideways. “I kept thinking about what I’d say first, you know? But now that you’re here, it’s like… none of it feels big enough.”

You leaned until your shoulders touched, warmth blooming where you met. “You could quote the back of a cereal box and I’d still be happy.”

Mark’s smile curved. “Do you remember that night we talked until sunrise? I don’t think I ever told you, but that was the night I realized I was falling for you. You were going on about constellations and whatnot, and I just kept thinking that there’s no one else I’d rather listen to at three in the morning.”

For a second, you were flooded by this dizzying joy. You had waited for this, wondered about it in the quiet hours, but nothing prepared you for hearing it out loud.

You took his hand, feeling the comfort of his fingers wrapping around yours. “Can I tell you when I fell for you?” you asked, heart pounding.

Mark blinked, a little startled. “I mean, I always thought it was before we even met. You know, with the whole fan thing.”

You shook your head, smiling. “Back then I was dazzled. I admired you, but it was different. I fell for you the day I realized you remembered everything I ever told you… all the little things no one else cared about. My coffee order, the name of my childhood dog, the fact that Tuesdays freak me out because my dad always traveled on Tuesdays when I was a kid. You’d ask about each one with so much interest. That’s when it hit me that I mattered to you. All the tiny details you could have forgotten but you held on to them. That’s when I knew.”

Mark’s eyes widened, soft with wonder. “I—wow. I thought those details were just… basic boyfriend homework.”

He grew quieter, gaze dropping to his hands. “I was anxious, you know,” he admitted, voice thick with honesty. “That this wouldn’t work… that I was losing you. I kept thinking you’d wake up and realize all this was too much.”

You touched his cheek, your thumb brushing the shadow there. “I was scared too. But I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever, if you don’t want me to.”

His expression softened, a smile breaking through as he leaned in and kissed your forehead. “Please stay as long as you want. Move in, for all I care.”

You both laughed. For a few minutes, you just sat there together, talking quietly about nothing and everything—the different times he messed up the choreo, tiny disasters in the kitchen, the way you both missed each other in the strangest, smallest ways.

Eventually, Mark shifted closer, one arm wrapping around your shoulders. He pulled you in until your head was tucked under his chin and his hand was smoothing gentle circles on your back. His lips pressed soft kisses to your hair, your temple, your cheek.

“I missed you,” you whispered, letting yourself sink into the feeling.

He hummed, words warm against your skin. “Missed you too. Every single day.”

You pressed your forehead to his, feeling his breath mingle with yours, utterly certain for the first time that you were standing on equal ground. You tilted your head and found his lips. The kiss started unrushed and tender, just the two of you relearning what it meant to be close again. You moved together easily, his hands slipping up to cradle your face, your fingers twisting in his hair.

The moment stretched, deepening into something needier as you shifted, pressing closer, wanting to memorize every bit of him, not just with words but with touch. When Mark finally pulled away, breath short and eyes shining, you saw everything you’d been missing in his expression.

“Come with me,” he whispered, leading you down the hallway to his bedroom.

Mark’s bedroom was quiet aside from your breathing and the muted hum of the city beyond his window. You sat perched on the edge of his mattress, watching as he approached you slowly, his gaze heavy but gentle. When he settled beside you, his knee brushed yours softly.

His eyes held yours, questioning. “You sure you’re okay?”

You smiled a little, nerves fluttering warmly in your stomach. “Yeah. Just nervous, I guess.”

“Me too,” he whispered with a small laugh, the sound soothing your nerves instantly.

He lifted one hand carefully to your cheek, brushing his thumb across your skin. You leaned into his touch instinctively. Your eyes slipped closed when he kissed you, slow and gentle at first. His lips parted yours gradually, and your breath escaped in a sigh that he swallowed eagerly.

You raised your hands to his hair, threading your fingers gently through the strands at the nape of his neck. Mark leaned into your touch, deepening the kiss just slightly, careful not to rush. He was savoring every second of finally having you here, close enough to touch, close enough to taste.

His hands traveled from your jawline to your shoulders, fingertips leaving a trail of warmth as they skimmed your skin. He guided you gently down onto the bed, following until his body hovered carefully above yours.

Mark pulled back for a moment to study your face. The tenderness in his gaze nearly broke your heart. He ducked his head slowly and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheekbone, then lower, just beneath your ear.

Your breath caught as his lips brushed softly against your throat. He paused to press a slow kiss to your pulse point, lingering as your heartbeat quickened beneath his mouth. His lips parted, and you felt the gentle scrape of his teeth followed by the warmth of his tongue soothing the spot. A soft moan slipped from your lips as you arched your neck further, silently begging for more.

He chuckled quietly against your skin, pleased. The sound vibrated down your spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Mark continued his slow path along your collarbone, kissing each inch of exposed skin he found. His hands slid up your sides beneath your shirt, fingertips grazing your ribs gently, reverently.

You lifted your arms to help him remove your shirt, feeling the cool air kiss your bare skin. He tossed the fabric aside carefully before leaning back to look at you. The hunger in his eyes made your pulse race and your skin heat under his gaze.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered softly, almost like a confession.

You tugged gently at his shirt in response. He sat back just enough to pull it over his head, letting it join yours on the floor. His skin was warm as you touched him, tracing your fingers down his chest and across his stomach, memorizing the lines and planes you’d only admired through screens before tonight.

Mark dipped down again, his mouth finding the sensitive hollow between your breasts. Your breath hitched softly, your fingers tightening on his shoulders. He placed gentle kisses along the curve of your breast, deliberately avoiding where you needed him most until you arched upward with a quiet plea.

He finally gave in, lips brushing your nipple softly before taking it gently into his mouth. You gasped softly, your back curving off the mattress. Your fingers gripped his hair tighter as he drew careful circles with his tongue, driving you slowly toward blissful frustration.

He repeated this on the other side, taking his time, his touch patient and unrushed. By the time his lips started to drift downward again, you were trembling softly beneath him, needing more.

His fingers slipped carefully beneath your waistband, tugging your remaining clothes down your hips until you kicked them off completely. Mark paused, sitting back to take in the sight of you, completely bare and vulnerable beneath him. The look on his face—adoration mixed with desire—made your cheeks warm and your heart race even faster.

He lowered himself again, placing soft kisses along your stomach, lingering at your hipbones and leaving careful marks with his mouth. Your fingers threaded through his hair as you tried not to squirm impatiently beneath his touch.

“Mark, please,” you whispered, your voice quiet but needy.

He smiled softly against your skin before finally giving you what you were asking for. His mouth was gentle but insistent, lips and tongue moving carefully, building your pleasure slowly. Your hips shifted beneath him as your breath came quicker, louder, his name escaping your lips in soft gasps and whispered pleas.

He took his time, watching every reaction, listening to every sound you made. You finally shuddered softly beneath him, your thighs trembling against his shoulders as pleasure washed through you.

Mark crawled up your body again, kissing you deeply as your breathing slowly calmed. You felt his warmth pressed against you, skin to skin now, and your heart stuttered gently in your chest.

“Still okay?” he asked softly, his lips brushing your forehead.

“More than okay,” you whispered, pulling him closer. “I want you, Mark.”

He reached for a condom quickly, his movements still gentle as he settled back between your legs. Your eyes met again as he lined himself up, slowly easing forward until your breath caught again and your fingers dug into his shoulders.

He moved slowly at first, letting you adjust. Then his hips rocked into yours steadily. Each thrust was deep and careful, pulling you closer to him, his breath warm against your neck as he held you tightly.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper still. Your movements became synchronized, bodies perfectly attuned to each other as you moved toward your shared orgasm.

"So fucking good" he groaned.

Your nails scraped softly down his back, drawing a quiet moan from his throat. He kissed you again as his pace grew faster, more urgent as you both neared the edge. His fingers intertwined with your fingers as he pressed your joined hands into the mattress beside your head.

“Look at me,” he breathed shakily. You did, and the intensity in his gaze finally pushed you over the edge. Your body tightened around him as you whispered his name again, soft and desperate.

He followed moments after, breathing ragged as he clung to you, face pressed into the curve of your neck. For a while afterward neither of you moved, content to remain tangled and breathless, your heartbeats gradually syncing into something slow and peaceful.

Eventually he lifted his head just enough to kiss your lips softly. You smiled into the kiss, fingers brushing his hair away from his face.

“I really love you,” he whispered, lips barely brushing yours.

“I love you, too,” you whispered back, and it felt like the simplest truth in the world.

You woke slowly, and you weren’t sure where you were for a moment, but then you felt the weight of Mark’s arm draped across your waist and his breath warm against the back of your neck. 

You shifted carefully, looking over your shoulder. Mark was still asleep, his hair a mess, lips parted in the faintest snore. His face was relaxed in a way you’d never seen before. He looked younger, softer, as if the weight of the world had finally eased for a few hours.

You let yourself watch him for a little while, memorizing the curve of his jaw, the moles on his cheek, the way his fingers flexed gently against your stomach even in sleep. You turned to face him, noses almost touching, and whispered, “Hey. Wake up.”

He mumbled something incoherent, brow creasing as he tightened his hold. “Five more minutes,” he pleaded, voice thick with sleep.

You laughed softly and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “C’mon, you promised me breakfast.”

That got a smile out of him. His eyes blinked open, unfocused at first, but when he saw you he grinned like a kid on Christmas morning. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

Mark leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to your lips. His hand slid up your back, thumb tracing lazy circles. “You’re still here.”

“Where else would I be, silly?” you murmured, letting your forehead rest against his.

You stayed like that for a while, tangled in sheets, trading gentle kisses and sleepy jokes. Eventually, the rumble of Mark’s stomach broke the spell, and you both started laughing.

“Okay, okay,” he said, untangling himself and rolling out of bed. He padded over to his closet, grabbed a t-shirt, and tossed it to you to wear. You slipped it on and it swallowed you whole.

You watched him move around the kitchen, hair still sticking up, humming quietly as he started coffee and pulled out bread and eggs. You leaned against the counter, grinning at how domestic it all felt. Mark caught your eye and winked.

“What?” he said, brandishing a spatula. “Never seen a master chef at work before?”

“Pretty sure you’re known as the worst enemy of eggs.”

“Hey, that was one time.”

You hopped up onto the counter and stole a piece of toast from his plate. He playfully tried to swat your hand away, but you were faster.

You ate on the kitchen floor, backs against the cabinets, plates balanced on your knees. He kept reaching over to tuck your hair behind your ear or to press quick, silly kisses to your shoulder.

When the dishes were rinsed and stacked to dry, Mark stretched, muscles flexing under the thin fabric of his T-shirt.

“Wanna shower?” he asked, his voice still a little husky.

You nodded, happy to follow him down the hall. The bathroom was surprisingly wide, clean white tile, soft towels folded neatly, the scent of his shampoo lingering in the air.

Mark twisted the tap, checking the temperature. He peeled off his shirt first, glancing over his shoulder with a shy grin when he caught you staring. You tugged yours off in response, then stepped under the spray together.

Warm water drummed across your shoulders. Mark’s hands settled at your hips, guiding you under the stream until your hair slicked flat against your neck. He reached for a bottle, squeezed shampoo into his palm, and started working it gently through your hair. His fingers massaged your scalp in slow circles. You closed your eyes, the simple touch turning your knees to jelly.

“Lean back,” he murmured. You did, letting the suds rinse away. When you opened your eyes he was smiling, foam clinging to his own hair like a crooked crown. You laughed and swiped bubbles from his forehead. He tried to retaliate, streaking soap across your nose, so you flicked water at him in defense. The playfulness echoed off tile and glass, louder than it probably should, but neither of you cared.

Mark grabbed body wash next, lathering it between his palms before running his hands over your shoulders, down your arms, across your back. The touch was slow and steady, more patient than the night before. You mirrored him, sliding your soapy palms over his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, head tipping back into the spray.

“Turn around,” you whispered. He did, and you trailed suds across his spine, mapping each vertebra with your fingers. You pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder blade and felt him exhale.

The water started to cool, so Mark reached around you to shut it off. Droplets clung to his lashes while he grabbed a towel for you, another for himself. He patted your hair dry, then wrapped the towel around your shoulders like a cloak before tending to his own. There was no rush. The morning belonged to both of you.

Back in the bedroom, the mid-afternoon sunlight sat warm on the sheets. You dropped onto the edge of the mattress, towel still wrapped snug around you. Mark pulled a clean sweatshirt over his head, then rummaged for one of his spare shirts and a pair of soft shorts for you. He tossed them over with a gentle, “Here, these should fit.”

Once dressed, you crawled to the middle of the bed where he was already propped against the headboard, legs stretched out. You curled into his side, damp hair spreading across his shoulder. He threaded his fingers through the strands, combing lazily while the city hummed beyond the window.

“You know,” he said after a while, “I never thought a quiet morning could feel this big.”

You shifted to look at him. “Big how?”

“Big as in… everything I wanted, but simple too.” His thumb brushed your cheek.

You smiled, letting your eyes drift shut. “Simple sounds perfect.”

Mark pressed a slow kiss to your temple. You breathed him in, warmth and clean laundry and his addictive natural scent.

His fingers were combing lazily through your damp hair when he asked, “Do you have a Seoul bucket list?”

You tilted your head up from where it rested against his chest. “Bucket list?”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning a little. “Stuff you’ve always wanted to do if you ever came here.”

You thought for a moment. “I mean, I always wanted to walk around the Han river.”

“That’s it?” he said, faking offense. “What kind of tourist are you?”

You laughed. “Fine, I also wanted to visit a traditional palace. And maybe try street food from a cart like in the dramas. Oh, and take one of those cheesy photo booth strips. Happy?”

“That’s better,” he said warmly. “Get dressed. I’ll be your tour guide for the day.”

He took you everywhere.

The first stop was the Han river, just before the sun dipped too low. He rented two bikes, insisting on racing you down the path even though his legs were still sore from rehearsal. At one point, he lost control, swerved into the grass, and tumbled off earning a chorus of startled gasps from a family nearby. After making sure he was okay, you laughed until your sides hurt and promised to never let him live it down.

Next, you stopped at a food cart and got odeng, tteokbokki, and a hotteok that was almost too sweet. Mark bought way too much and insisted you both finish it, grinning through powdered sugar and spice.

He took you to Changdeokgung Palace, where you borrowed hanboks and wandered the quiet paths, giggling when Mark kept bowing to strangers like a royal guard. The afternoon was warm but breezy, the light gentle and soft on your faces. Everything felt impossibly light.

Later, he dragged you into a photo booth in Hongdae. You took one serious shot—both of you trying to look hot—and then the rest were silly. Tongues out, bunny ears, noses squished together, a kiss that took you both by surprise because it felt so natural in that moment.

“I’m keeping all of these,” he said afterward, shoving the prints into his wallet.

You nudged his side. “I better be in there for life.”

He looked at you, something soft passing through his eyes. “Deal.”

As the sun dipped lower, Mark brought you back to the Han river because he insisted the view was better at sunset. He was right. Everything was tinted gold, the water shimmering and cool. He bought two convenience store beers, and you sat on the grass sipping and watching the light change.

“I used to come here when things got too loud at the dorm,” he admitted, watching the horizon. “When we debuted, I didn’t know what I was doing.”

You rested your head on his shoulder. “Does it still feel like that sometimes?”

He nodded. “But less, now that you’re here.”

You stayed there long after the sun had set, city lights flickering on around you, breeze tugging at your clothes, his fingers laced tightly with yours.

This wasn’t the Seoul you had imagined. It was better, because he was showing it to you, because you were seeing it together.

Later that night, Mark led you up a narrow stairwell, fingers still laced with yours. You could see how the city stretched out in all directions from there. Seoul glittering below and the Han river in the distance tracing a silver ribbon through the darkness. 

He looked at you, a little shy even now, and tugged a tiny Bluetooth speaker from his jacket pocket. “Wait here.”

You watched as he set the speaker on the concrete, fiddled with his phone, and then a familiar melody floated up, soft at first, then swelling. His song. Not the demo you’d heard the other night, but the finished version. His voice was clearer, more confident, full of everything he’d been holding back.

Mark stepped closer, pulled a slightly crumpled Polaroid from his wallet and pressed it into your palm. It was your favorite from the photo booth, both of you making ridiculous faces, happiness written all over your features. Scrawled on the back in his messy handwriting We’ll keep adding frames.

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, gaze serious and gentle all at once. “I wanted you to hear it first. And I want you here for every song, every stupid photo, all of it. Okay?”

You nodded, tears threatening even though you were smiling. “Okay.”

He took your hand and slow-danced you in a tight circle under moonlight, the music washing over you both. You could barely hear the city anymore, just his voice in your ear, singing a promise he’d already made you a hundred different ways.

When the song faded, Mark leaned his forehead to yours. “I don’t want to lose you. And now, I never will.”

[kissandtellus]

I personally headcanon Sylus as such a soft and gentle dom that every attempt from MC to act all bratty to rile him up always ends in failure. Every time MC acts like a brat, Sylus simply gives her the most gentle and heart-melting smile ever before saying something like "Now now, I know you didn't mean to do that. I know you can do better because you're my good girl", and MC just shortcircuits and immediately apologizes all flustered. Would you please write something like that as a request? I just love how patient he is in game (feel free to make it smutty if you want to)

Error of your Ways

Synopsis: After getting injured during a mission, your bratty behavior rears its head. But Sylus is quick to put you in your place:

Warning: Light choking, spit, choking, slapping, soft!Dom behavior.

Sylus sighed as he finished bandaging you up, his expression a mixture of concern and irritation. "You seriously need to be more careful," he said, his voice firm yet tinged with affection. "You're going to get yourself killed if you keep charging into situations without a second thought."

He gently touched your cheek, his touch soft but his gaze intense. "I worry about you, you know. You're important to me, so stop being such a stubborn little bird and listen to me once in a while."

You scoff and jerk your head away. “I can take care of myself you know.”

Sylus let out another exasperated sigh, running his fingers through his silver grey hair. "I never said you couldn't," he replied, his tone edged with irritation. "But just because you can handle yourself doesn't mean you have to go off half-cocked all the time. We work together, remember? We're a team."

He reached for your chin, gently turning your face towards him, his gaze locking onto yours. "Sometimes, letting someone else take care of you every now and then isn't a sign of weakness, you know. It's called being human."

You pull your arm away just as Sylus finished patching you up. “Just…stop trying to parent me.”

Oh. Now you’ve done it. Sylus quirks an eyebrow at your bratty attitude.

Sylus's gaze darkened, his irritation quickly rising at your words. He took a step closer to you, his voice low and dangerous. "Parent you? Is that what you think I'm doing? I'm trying to keep you safe, little bird. There's a difference."

He reached out and firmly grabbed your chin, his grip tight, making sure you couldn't look away from his intense gaze. "You're as stubborn as a mule, aren't you? You think you know everything, that you can handle everything on your own.”

You swallow the lump in your throat as he pushes a strand of hair behind your ear before he speak. “That’s not how my good girl speak to me. Apologize.” He orders in that cool, even voice.

The tone of Sylus's voice sends a shiver down your spine, and you suddenly remember who you're dealing with. Your defiance quickly melts into submission, and you swallow hard before mumbling a soft apology.

"I'm sorry..." you say, your voice barely above a whisper, your gaze averted from his intense one.

Sylus smirked, a satisfied gleam in his eyes as he noticed the change in your demeanor. "That's more like it," he murmured, his tone softer now. "A little obedience won't kill you, little bird."

Sylus's grip on your chin loosened, his touch becoming more gentle as he traced your jawline with his thumb. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" he said, his tone still carrying the hint of authority.

He took a step closer, his body now only inches away from yours. "You know I just want to keep you safe, right? I care about you, even if you're a pain in the ass sometimes."

His hand moved from your chin to your hair, gently carding through the strands as he looked at you with a mixture of irritation and affection. "But you just have to keep pushing boundaries, don't you? You're like a wild animal, always itching for trouble."

He let out a low sigh, his gaze hardening again as he continued. "Sometimes I wish I could just put a leash on you and keep you locked up at this base, where I can keep you safe and in check."

You avoid his eyes, hands clenching in the fabric of your pants. “You’d like that wouldn’t you…to keep me in your trophy room like a-a pet.”

Sylus's gaze darkened once more at your words, his irritation returning full force. He moved even closer to you, his body practically flush against yours. "Watch your mouth, little bird," he warned, his voice a low growl. "You're playing with fire."

He grabbed your chin again, forcing your gaze back to meet his. "Is that what you think I'd do? Keep you locked away like some sort of prize? You really think I view you as nothing more than a possession, a toy to be played with and displayed?"

Sylus chuckles and stands from his seat, rounding the kitchen bar. He pulls his finest bourbon from the shelf along with two glasses. He never needed to raise his voice to get you to behave

You watch as he pours the amber liquid into the glasses, his movements smooth and precise. Despite your defiance earlier, there was something undeniably attractive about the way he carried himself.

Sylus set the bottle down and picked up one of the glasses, swirling the contents before taking a sip. "Come here," he said, gesturing with two fingers for you to approach.

You hesitated for a moment, still bristling with defiance, but finally, reluctantly, you made your way over to him. He held out the glass, an unspoken command for you to take it.

You take the glass from his hand, your fingers brushing against his for a brief moment, sending a shiver down your spine.

Sylus leans back against the counter, eyes flickering over your form, taking in every detail. He smirks as he notices the slight tremble in your hand, the defiance in your eyes not quite as fierce as before.

"Drink," he orders, his gaze never leaving yours. "It will help numb the pain, little bird."

You stare into the glass, the liquor's rich amber color almost mesmerizing. With a sigh of resignation, you bring the glass to your lips and take a sip. The smooth, fiery liquid burns its way down your throat, leaving a warm trail in its wake.

Sylus watches you closely, eyes still studying every move you make. "Feeling a little more cooperative now?" he quips, his tone still carrying that hint of authority.

Despite your earlier defiance, you couldn't deny the soothing effect the alcohol was having on your frayed nerves. With a small huff, you take another sip, the burn less intense this time.

Sylus's smirk widens as he takes another swig from his own glass, clearly amused by your reluctant obedience. "That's my good girl," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends another shiver down your spine

You aren’t above playing dirty tricks to get what you want. When Sylus reaches to tuck in the string of the bad age, you give an over dramatic gasp. “O-ow!”

Sylus's eyes narrow, his concern quickly turning to curiosity at your exaggerated reaction. "Ow? Really, little bird?" he asks, his tone dripping with skepticism.

He moves closer, hand reaching out to check the area you just fake wince at, his touch surprisingly gentle despite his rough demeanor. "Let me see."

You jerk your head to the side. “No, it’s fine. I’ll just take care of it myself.”

You try to hold your ground, but the closeness of his body, the heat radiating off him, it's making it increasingly difficult to maintain your defiant facade. His gaze is intense, and you can feel the tension crackling between you.

With a huff, you finally give in, tilting your head so he can assess the area you just faked pain in. "Fine," you grumble, "you win. Take a look."

But Sylus is soft spoke . He doesn’t need to force your arm. You willingly let him look over his patch work. “How do you do that?” You question.

Sylus chuckles softly, his touch surprisingly gentle as he continues to inspect the bandages he applied. "Do what, little bird?" he queries, his eyes still trained on the wound as his fingers brush over the gauze.

"Make you obey? Make you submit?" He looks up then, his gaze locking with yours, and there's a knowing glint in his eyes. "I just know how to handle you, sweetheart."

And handle you, he does.

He kisses away any bratty complain your lips. Guiding you with a gentle hand to the couch. When your thighs meet the leather, he gives you a soft shove. Sylus has always been skilled with his hands, from firing weapons to the way his fingers wrap around your throat.

“Sy…-“

“Hush,” his thumb brushes your bottom lip. “Open your mouth. Aren’t you still thirsty?”

He chuckles at your slight hesitance. But when your lips part and your tongue lolls out, he’s gather the saliva in his mouth. He tilts your head up and lets a long string of spit drip down onto your awaiting tastebuds. He pushes the spit that dribbled down your chin back into your mouth.

“Oh?” He hums when your lips wrap around his digits. You are giving him the most insane puppy eyes he’s ever seen. His deep and rich chuckle sends a shiver up your spine. “Does it taste good, Kitten?”

Your response is a soft hum. You pout when he pushes his long fingers deeper into your mouth to the point he’s pressing them to the back of your throat. “Easy, easy, just swallow around them. Just like I taught you.”

It’s easier said than done when his calloused fingers are touching your uvula. Your eyes water but Sylus is still wearing a mask of unenthusiastic calmness. When he can feel your throat relax, he waste no time in pushing them down your throat.

A punishment.

Nothing severe, Sylus never gave you any true pain.

When your eyes water and the tone of your eyes change color, he pulls his fingers free. He doesn’t give you a moment to recover, before his fingertips come down across your flushed cheek.

“Don’t you see now? I have the power to protect you and make you see the error of your ways.” You sniffle and wipe the tears from your eyes. Sylus pulls the silk red handkerchief from his back pocket, dapping away the drool and spilled tears from your face. “My poor little bird, come. let’s get you in your pajamas.”

[krahanele]

"You don't get it? You really don't get it?"

You sit at the kitchen table, lit only by the dim light from the streetlamp outside, watching the horror as it paces the linoleum floor frantically. The weird static that surrounds its head and doesn't seem to possess any substance but which makes you feel more unmoored from reality the longer you look at it gives the appearance of standing on end in a messy sort of way. You wish that you could fix it, make it look a little neater.

"Well, I mean, there's just a lot going on, you know?" You offer, after an awkward pause. "I mean, okay, you've got this yawning pit of nothingness where your abdomen should be, which is fine, but then there's also writhing intestines like right next to it, which is like 'okay, where am I looking?', you know? It's just a bit busy. And…and the bird feet, what's with the bird feet?"

It looks down at the offending feet. "They're supposed to look like whatever your greatest fear is."

"Oh. Well, okay, I don't like birds, sure. But I feel like the feet aren't the part that-"

"Look, I know it's dumb having it be on the feet, but I didn't have room anywhere else!" It snarls, before deflating. It leans against a counter in apparent defeat.

"I put so much work into this, you know. I dropped out of college to do this. I had a full-ride scholarship at a nice state school and everything, and my parents were really excited for me. But I gave it up. I told them it was all gonna be okay, I could pay off my student loans with all the souls I would reap and then I could even help them with their mortgage. But you're like the fifth person tonight whose mind I've tried to eviscerate beyond recognition and just look at you! You've got a glass of water! The last guy just went back to bed, he didn't even acknowledge I was there! He just assumed he was sleep-walking!"

You wince in sympathy. "Aw, that sucks."

"Don't 'aw' at me!" The horror lifts itself from the counter to tower over you menacingly. You watch out of the corner of your eye as the shadows in the dark kitchen begin to shift and jerk. The voice that emanates from the horror has multiple layers of different pitches, as though a tortured chorus spoke from somewhere within its sick form.

"I am beyond your pathetic mortal comprehension! I am a being which possesses more power than you could even begin to understand, you whelp! Give up, give in, let your mind be dismantled from the- what is that face you're making, what are you doing."

"What face?" You relax your features and look at the horror innocently.

"That face, you looked like…you looked like you were about to yawn," it accused.

"No I wasn't!"

"Yes you were, I saw it, you were going to bring your hand up to your face to yawn!"

"Well it's just…" You look down at the glass of water between your hands. You feel bad.

"Just what?"

"Like, when you're saying the words it doesn't feel like you mean them, you know?"

"What?"

"Like, it doesn't feel authentic. It feels like you're saying them because you think you're supposed to be saying them because it's what horrors beyond human comprehension say, but it doesn't feel like you."

The horror just stands there. If it had eyes, you imagine they would be staring off into space.

"What do I do?" It says, just above a whisper. "What in Cthulhu's name do I do? I don't know what to do. I've given up everything to do this and it's just become this huge, stupid mess."

"Hey." You get up and take a step toward it. As you do, a cacophony of wild, incomprehensible screams begins to fill your ears, so you quickly take a step back until the sound fades. You stand at an awkward distance from the horror.

"It's part of the journey, messing up," you say. "You can't be expected to get it right the first time, or even the second or third time. Making mistakes is how you learn. You think Cthulhu just popped into existence and knew how to completely upend the cosmos as we know it on day one? Or do you think it took a few thousand years for it to get a good routine going?"

The horror looks at you. You think. Again, no eyes.

"Look," you continue, "I'm in my late twenties, and I have no idea what I'm doing. I keep trying out these different careers and nothing seems to fit. I'm getting my masters online, and I don't even know what I'm going to do with it. I think I thought it would solve all my problems, but I don't think it will. I'm just stumbling around trying to figure it out, but I'll get there one day. I just have to trust the process, and trust myself. And when I mess up, instead of freaking out or calling it quits like I want to, I just make a note of how I can do better in the future, and I move on. I don't know where I'm headed, but I'm just trusting myself to do my best, one day at a time."

"…you think so?" The horror's voice is quiet, hesitating.

"Yeah I think so! That's life! And I'm just a human with a human life span. You've got, what, millennia to go or something?"

The horror nods its head.

"There, you see? You'll get there. Don't give up just because five people's minds didn't melt immediately. Just get back out there and keep adjusting your strategy until you find something that works."

The horror brings a twisting dark appendage to its face(?), as though it were wiping away a tear.

"Thank you. I really needed to hear that," it says. It takes what seems like a deep breath and draws itself up to full height. Its form begins to go liquid at the edges.

"Okay, I'm gonna go back to the drawing board now. But I will return for you and your insignificant soul. Your face will melt from your skull when you next behold me, so great will be your terror!"

"I sure hope so," you say with a smile, as the horror bubbles and stretches and morphs until it becomes a great, twisting orb of black, dripping limbs and screaming mouths, which swiftly flies out of the open window through which it had initially entered.

You stand there for a moment before downing the rest of your glass of water.

"Okay, cool," you say aloud to the empty room, and then you head back to bed.

You bear witness to a horror beyond your comprehension. However, because you don't comprehend it, you....just don't get it. The horror in question is terrified by this.

[angrythingstarlight]

Has Bee called Steve to wish him a happy birthday?

She was going to call him but before she could, Steve showed up.

"Of course I had to see my favorite goddaughter on my birthday," he explains when he steps into her office.

Bee is ecstatic.

"Happy birfday!" She runs across the room, he crouches down, arms open. She slams into his chest with a small oof.

Steve's birthday celebrations usually revolve around partying at one of his clubs with his boys, getting drunk and hooking up with some woman he's not going to call in the morning.

If you had told Steve that in a few years, the best part of his birthday would be spent sitting in a tiny pink chair across from a toddler and her stuffed dino while she tells him all about her day, he never would've believed you.

But now, he can admit he's envious of the life his best friend has created.

Makes him yearn for something he's never had.

"I mades you a 'pecial gift," she says, pointing at the box on her desk.

As Steve opens the present, he thinks about all the luxury gifts he has waiting for him at his club. Somewhere along the line his birthday turned into a networking event with people trying to buy a few minutes of his time when they think his guard is down.

There's not a lot of genuine people in his world so he cherishes the ones he trusts.

And at the end of the days he's still that kid from Brooklyn who appreciates the little things in life.

"What did you make me?" Steve asks, holding up the box, testing its weight in his hands. Light. Quiet.

Bee shakes her head. "I can tells you Uncle Steve. You gotta opens it."

"Is it broccoli?" Steve teases.

Bee gasps, her eyes widening. She would never. "Is not bucki. It's a picture I mades for you."

A smile pulls at his lips. It's not a birthday unless you get Bee to spill a secret or two.

Steve opens the box, his smile growing when he sees the picture she made him. "I love it, Bee. Thank you."

"You welcomes." She beams, bouncing on her heels. "We gots you more 'prises too Uncle Steve. Papa says I not 'posed to tells you." She shrugs, staring up at him.

There's a beat of silence.

"You want to tell me don't you?"

She nods. She really does. Bee can only keep so many secrets at one time.

Steve lifts her up, hoisting her on his shoulder. "You can tell me. You know why? Because your papa doesn't tell us what to do Bumblebee."

"Excuse me?" Bucky says, arms folded across his chest, leaning against the open door. "Since when?"

Steve grabs his picture and strolls out of the room with Bee. "Since she was born. You and I both know it's Bee world and we're just living in it."

"And Mr. Tato's."

"He owes me a watch."

"I sorry but he says no."

Steve doesn't leave until late. He won't say he was reluctant to go. But it was apparent in the way he lingered at the door.

Bucky follows behind his best friend and baby, shaking his head as he listens to them argue over whether or not Steve is getting his watch back. He's not. Not unless he wants to fight a dino enforcer.

He tricked Bee into telling him what every gift was before he opened it. It was hard to say who had more fun.

And as he headed to his club to finish his birthday celebrations, he wondered would his life would be like if he had his own wife and child to celebrate with.

[pichichuu]

baby and mystery saja x reader smut pls… something about them being jealous 🙏🙏

YASSSS i love smut with jealous men, hope it's ok if this is a little rough

thank you do much for your patience i'm sorry this is so late🥹 it's been sitting in my drafts for like a week because i wasn't happy with how i characterized mystery :/ ... i'm still not terribly happy with it but i hope its ok!! :)

MDNI! mystery x fem!reader x baby saja

tags: toys, oral (both receiving), fingering, overstimulation, baby is angry, possessive men, spit, (light) tit spanking

m.list

baby was angry, his frustration seeping into his movements as he pumped his fingers inside you, idle hand switching your vibrator on.

who the fuck do they think they are? he growled, lining the head of the toy up with your clit, drawing slow, pressurized circles on the bundle of nerves. you shivered.

mystery undid his belt, your head turning towards the clink of his belt on instinct. rough hands groped your breasts, thick fingers massaging the skin, hardened nipples rolled between the pads of his fingers.

you flinched under the stimulation of the vibrations, eliciting a swift slap to your tit from mystery.

stay still. you had no problem doing that with that other group.

you didn't think it would matter; you were getting to know one of the other boy groups under the same label as the saja boys at a private event when mystery and baby decided they were getting too close to you, leaning in and trying too hard to make you laugh.

and you did.

you thought you were just being polite.

look at me. baby's voice grabbed your attention. who do you belong to?

you swallowed, breath shaky. you, you replied, voice softly cracking.

and who are the only people who can make you feel good?

only you, you whined, lip quivering as your legs began to tremble.

good girl.

open up f'me... fuck that's it...

mystery tilted your head towards him, gently rubbing the tip of his cock against your spit-glossed lips, coaxing your mouth open. you took his throbbing head into your warmth, quickly losing your breath as he slammed his hips into your face, making you choke on his cock.

your body shuddered, hips bucking up into the toy baby held on you, the overstimulation making you squirm. between the steady rumbling of the vibrator and the way mystery's body stayed in your face, flooding your senses, you didn't even notice baby moving until his warm, leaky tip slipped along your folds.

he teased you entrance with playful strokes before pushing himself into you in one swift motion, groaning as he bottomed out.

that's a good girl. now relax. gotta make sure you remember that.

m.list

[joeloverture]

live forever | j.m. x f!🦽!reader

masterlist | notifs blog pairing: jackson!joel x f!wheelchair user!reader summary: the years since you met joel miller, from when you crawled into jackson wyoming unable to stand to him making your legs weak. warnings: (18+ mdni) fix it fic: smut, fluff & angst this is a chili's triple dipper (HEA), reader is an ambulatory wheelchair user and deals with a severe chronic pain condition, fic spans several years, big ass age gap: reader is anywhere from 19-early 20s (anxieties about losing mobility at her age are a theme) & joel's age is reader's choice, self indulgent the secret history (1992) references, bring dei back to fiction (everyone in this bitch is disabled), mutual pining, joel calls reader kid, falling in love, did i mention smut? yeah, smut. f!masturbation, getting caught, f!oral, fingering, joel miller's filthy mouth, joel COMES IN HIS PANTS!!! word count: 9.1k a/n: this was supposed to be half of a fix it fic, but for the purposes of disability pride month i've chopped it in half. turns out the fix it part of this fic was too much for me to handle mentally at the time i was writing this. reader's experiences closely mirror my own. reader is young and sexually inexperienced because those were the themes i felt most concerned with as someone disabled at the time. maybe someday i'll pick up the 'fix it' part, but for now, this is reader and she means a lot to me so be nice to her, kay? happy disability pride-- you're wanted, needed, and loved. it's hard to be proud of the parts of yourself that might feel unsavory, but if you're disabled, it's part of what makes you, you. try to embrace it this month. i love you all. p.s. to my able-bodied friends: feel free to read this! you r so very welcome here and to put yourself in our shoes is a great way to get to know our experiences.

SPRING, 2024

The first time Joel saw you, he thought he was hallucinating.

He was heading back into Jackson with Tommy fresh off of a patrol, exhaustion having properly sunk its claws into his eye sockets. Hell, it makes more sense for you to be a hallucination.

It’s not until Tommy asks, “Got an eye for Hot Wheels?” that he realizes he hadn’t just been making shit up.

He didn’t think there were any of… your type… left around after the end of the world. It’s hard enough for men like him to survive when there’s always a clicker snapping just shy of his neck or raiders whaling bullets on his tailbone.

“What now?” Joel gives Tommy a narrow look.

“She’s real sweet, y’know. Works at the library, always tryna get the teenyboppers to read.” Joel makes a noncommittal noise.

“Oughta get to know her. She’s a new arrival like you.” New arrival? How the fuck were you living out there before this? “It’d do you some good. Maria worries, the townsfolk talk–”

“I’m doing my part,” Joel says as if it’ll change a thing.

Tommy’s always spinning his tires with him. Just last week he was on about Refacing the General Store as if they hadn’t just finished refurbishing Tommy’s patio. Joel’d rather acquaint himself with a hammer, God forbid Tommy suggest setting him up again.

“Right,” Tommy says. They watch you brace your hands on the wheels of your wheelchair, rolling along the porch of the bookstore. You straighten displays and get chatty with a customer. You talk with your hands, Joel notices. “Matter ‘a fact, I do have a project for you.”

Joel asks, “Yeah?”

“We put her up in Winnie’s old house, God rest her soul. Problem is, it ain’t… shit, what’s the word…” Tommy snaps his fingers.

“Wheelchair friendly?” Joel asks.

“Wheelchair friendly. She’s been sleepin’ on that raggedy ass old couch ‘a hers ‘cause the bedroom door’s too small. Not exactly comfortable for her… condition. I’m thinkin’ you put in some grab bars in the bathroom, maybe a walk-in tub. A better ramp than what we’ve propped up outside. Widen that doorway for her.”

Joel chews at the inside of his cheek. “That’s a big job. You sure we got the equipment for that? Couldn’t we throw her in with Janet?”

“Janet’s only got one bedroom, and she’s stubborn as a mule. Doesn’t like havin’ her cheese moved. Supplies, though, we’ve got those in abundance.”

He looks at you again. You’ve woven little dandelions into the spokes of your wheels and there’s a knit bag hung from the back. You flash a winning smile at the customer you’re talking to and flip through a book, pointing out a specific line. You’re young — too young to be in a wheelchair. He has to wonder what horrors you’ve seen. Did someone do this to you, or were you always like this? You must be miserable. He knows what it’s like to be off of your own reins.

“Fine,” Joel says. “I’ll handle it.”

You wake up with your switchblade in your hand.

It’s dark, clouds having spread like butter over the gunmetal sky. Rain pitter-patters against the roof of this house you’ve inherited from a dead woman. You blink the sleep from your eyes as your front door death-rattles on its hinges. Someone’s knocking. You crane your neck to the analog clock on your coffee table — 7:03. Who the fuck comes over at 7:03.

“I’m coming,” you shout when the door clatters again. Finally, the knocking stops.

Agitated, you ruffle your clothes into something semi-presentable and rub the sleep from your eyes. You get up, legs protesting with each step. Pain spurts like a live wire up your muscles; 7:04 AM and you already know it’ll be one of those days.

You slump into your wheelchair (the best thing about Jackson by far, surpassing running water of a shower you have to sit on the cold floor of, or food from the canteen that Maria has to hand deliver to you) and wheel your way to the front door. It’s slow going. You never had the privilege of one of these things before finding the cozy town. It’d been just you and your switchblade and your pistol, gritting your teeth and fighting back tears between each runner you’d stabbed in the eye.

You keep the same switchblade in your hand, just in case, but the most likely scenario is that Tommy Miller’s come to bug you again. Maria puts him up to it, you’re sure.

You have to move up to the left side of your door since it opens inwards, fumbling with the creaky gold handle. The door squeaks as the wind pushes it inward. You lean forward, eyes traveling up to the man in your doorway.

He’s a Miller alright — just not Tommy Miller.

“Oh. Joel, right?” you ask, a small pucker between your brows.

He invites himself in.

“Hey now, what the hell do you think you’re doin–” You look down to the dented red toolbox in his grip. Metal clangs around inside with each step he takes. “You know, most people ask for permission before they barge in.” Where Tommy is open and gentle, Joel is standoffish and scowling.

“I’m renovatin’ your house,” Joel says, voice firm and nonnegotiable.

“And Tommy didn’t tell me this why?”

“Spur ‘a the moment thing. Wanted to come and grab some measurements, figure out what supplies I need, how much supplies–”

“You don’t need to fix the backsplash,” you say. “Really, it’s fine. There’s just some mild chipping, no big deal.”

Joel slows and looks over his shoulder at you. His lips pinch together. “You think I walked out here at seven in the morning in pissin’ rain to fix your fucking backsplash?”

“I dunno. You kinda walked in without saying anything, so.”

“Tommy said you’ve been sleeping on the couch.” You nod stiffly. “I’m gonna fix that.”

“What?” you blurt out.

At his side, he starts unraveling a measuring tape. “You ain’t stupid, Tommy said you’re some kinda librarian. I’m fixin’ your house up. Makin’ it more suitable for your…” he waves a hand in your general direction.

“You don’t need to take pity on me,” you say. “You clearly don’t wanna be here. You can just go home. No skin off my back.”

“Well, Tommy won’t quit bitchin’ in my ear until it’s done. So it’d be skin off my back, kid.” Joel walks further into your house, boots thunking against the hardwood. He squats and measures out your door. His notepad has a sticker on it that says NASA, whatever that means. He wets his thumb with his tongue and thumbs through the notepad to mark down the measurements. You sit silently next to him, glaring.

“Lookin’ at me like I shot your dog. I’m doin’ you a solid here.”

“You could be a really shitty renovator,” you say. “And then bam. My whole house falls down and my arms get fucked up too.”

“Ain’t gonna happen.” Joel rolls the tape measure back up. “Where’s your bathroom?”

You point down the hall and follow him there, parking yourself outside while you watch him take the measurements of your toilet and bath. You cross your arms, trying not to mock his scowl.

“Are you gonna be waking me up at the asscrack of dawn every time you get inspired to play demolition?”

“Not demolishing anything. You got a rudimentary idea of this, don’t you?”

“It’s almost like I’ve never seen carpenters before.”

He gives you a look that tells you he thinks you’re full of shit. You return that look in confidence. “Well, your doorways have a more cosmetic frame. Just gotta shave some inches off and pretty it up a bit. Might take a while to find a door, but you could hang a curtain if you’re worried or anything. Your chair ain’t that much bigger, though. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Right,” you say. “Well, if that’s all you need.”

“I’ll be back to ‘demolish’ stuff tomorrow. Two o’clock instead. Got patrol, and clearly Sleepin’ Beauty needs her shut-eye.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you grumble, already wheeling back towards your couch. Your eyelids are sinking as if draped with dumbbells.

He watches you as you strain to push your weight into your forearms, dragging yourself onto the couch. You fluff up the flat pillow you’ve been sleeping on and flick your quilt over your lap. He’s thinking about it — obviously he is. Everyone in the entire town thinks about it. They look at you, too, as if they can understand where the invisible shards of glass in your legs come from and where exactly they pierce. Sometimes, if you’re especially unlucky, they’ll fondle the handles of your wheelchair as if they’re some bastardized nurse.

Joel doesn’t do any of that.

Just gives you a jerk of his head and walks out of the door.

You think you like it better that way.

The next time he comes over, you’re ready. You unlock the door beforehand and tidy up what’s become your belongings. A basket of yarn and knitting needles from the previous resident of this house, a stack of books you’d found during your travels to get here, and… not much else. You’d found some postcards of Jackson in what used to be the visitor’s center and hung them up on the corkboard. Anything to make it feel more like home.

You settle in on your couch under your quilt — also the handiwork of the previous owner — and crack open one of the novels you’d found. You’re halfway through your reread of it. The cover and pages are coarse like sandpaper, but soothe the rattling in your head.

“Come in!” you call when Joel comes knocking at your door.

He grunts a greeting to you as he heads towards your bedroom door. You don’t pay much mind to him as he begins to etch into your wall with tools you don’t recognize.

You flip the page.

“You’re the quiet type, ain’t ya?” Joel asks.

“So are you.”

A beat, punctuated by a pry bar meeting your wall. “Got me there.”

You skim through a couple more pages, scribbling an annotation down onto a sticky note. You wouldn’t dare take ink to the pages of this already beaten and busted book. You’re pulled out of the atmosphere by Joel’s panting, and the wiping of sweat from his brow.

“I’d offer to bring you a glass of water,” you say. “But it’d probably be quicker if you get it yourself.”

“Uh huh,” he says. “I’d put my book down if I were you.”

“Wh–”

A shrill whirring noise fills the air as he begins to saw into your doorframe. With a groan, you flop onto the couch on your stomach and cover your ears. Your cheek is smushed into the spine of your book.

After what feels like forever but is more like five minutes, the sawing cuts, and he tosses ripped up slabs of wood on your floor. He nods between you and them as if to tell you ‘That’s why’.

This is going to be a long few weeks.

/

Most days, Joel Miller is easy to ignore. You’re quiet – he’s quiet. You stay busy – he stays busy. It’s an easy ebb and flow that you two fall into. Three days into the process, he opens up your bedroom door for you entirely. It’s nice being able to lift yourself into a real bed, a luxury you haven’t had in over a decade. You spend most of your time in your bed, across the hallway from the bathroom.

The bathroom fixes, he says, will take longer. Complications with the plumbing and the like.

About a week into renovations, he knocks his tool box shut and lugs it out. He leans against your newly widened doorway and nods at you. “You’ve read that book three times since I first talked to you.”

“You’re observant,” you say, eyeing him over the creases in the pages.

“‘S your favorite or somethin’?”

You nod and hold up the cover. “The Secret History.” A small grin hitches on your lips.

“I was never a big reader,” Joel says, scratching at the back of his neck with his free hand.

“This doesn’t seem like your speed. You seem like you’d prefer… I dunno. Hatchet, probably.”

Joel nods, and your gut tells you it’s more of a courtesy. He doesn’t know a damn thing about what you’re talking about. “Why do you like that one so much?”

“It feels like what my life would’ve been,” you say. You stare at the ribbing of the pages, the blur and bend of ink. There’s a water stain in the southeastern corner of the bottom hundred page, bleeding into the page numbers. “They’re Greek students, but they read the literature. I would’ve liked to be a classics student, I think. Maybe teach at some schmoozy top university, give lectures, whatever. Except in the book… all of it goes wrong. They wanted too much, and for a moment, they had it. But it could never last. I guess it's as sobering as it is what I yearn for.”

Joel’s face softens. “Yeah. You never got to live in the real world, didja?”

“This is the real world, Joel. There was just a before, and then the after. Us poor bastards are in the after.”

“Yeah,” he says, backing away from your room. “I guess we are.”

You seal another faded sticky note onto a page with another observation you had when you hear the knock on your door. Maria must be over with your food. You inch across the bed and plop down into your chair before rolling yourself to your doorstep.

You open the door and blink in surprise when you see Joel standing above you with two plates in-hand. “Hey, uh,” he says, face red from the sweeping cold. “Maria was busy, so… thought I’d take over. Mind if I–”

“Yeah, sure.” You scoot out of the way and he kicks your door shut. Your dinner table only has one chair at it, since there’s no need for you to swap between two seats. You slot yourself in across from Joel and pick up the spoon he’d brought over, inhaling mouthfuls of stew.

“Slow down,” he says with a half-glimmer in his eyes. “Gonna get a bellyache.”

Through a mouthful of carrots and potatoes, you say, “‘M hungry.” When you finally slow yourself down, you look at him. He blows gently on his stew and scratches at his scruff. “Thanks. This is… nice. Usually nobody eats with me.”

“What?” He puts down his spoon. “Seriously?”

“Well, I really only know Maria and Tommy, so they alternate days to wheel me over to the library. It’s hard with all the snow and ice to get myself over there. They also take turns bringing me food.”

“That’s… a damn shame,” he says.

“I don’t hate it.” You don’t. It’s worse anywhere else — hell, you might’ve found the last safe haven left in the world. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to look out of your window and see people your age hanging out or heading off on patrols.

Joel looks at you as if he doesn’t believe you.

“Really. It’s… it’s not that bad – and, I have all these books to keep me company, so really, what’s the problem?”

“There isn’t one,” he says as he goes in for another bite of soup.

There’s a problem, not that Joel would ever admit it aloud or to himself.

The problem is you — of course it’s you. He should’ve known you’d be a goddamn thorn in his side the moment Tommy proffered the job to him instead of just doing it himself. There was a problem when you sassed him on day one, a problem when you appeared completely indifferent to his presence in your home, and a problem when he realized just how alone you were. He finds himself looking at you while he’s chiseling out parts of your bath. Watching the curve of your shoulder or the sprawl of your legs while you lay face down reading your books. Not because he’s ogling you, either — that’s a long-dead version of himself that respects you too much and disrespects himself too much to even consider eyeing you up. He’s more enamored with how you got here. Did you claw and tear your way through hordes of infected? Were you the final member standing of a group? How much blood had you drawn? Did you fire pistols, rifles, shotguns? Outrun raiders on your bad legs?

You’re a survivor. Too much like him. And now you have a chance to fix all of this — just like him.

Tommy was right. He should get to know you.

So for the second night in a row, he shows up at your doorstep with hot food and a performatively detached expression.

And when the third night in a row comes around, when he still smells like sawdust from working in your house until six in the evening, he walks inside to find the table’s already been set.

“Thinkin’ I’ll widen this doorframe, too,” Joel says, slapping at the curvature of it from where he’s sat on the bathroom tiles. You’re curled up in your wheelchair, chin cupped in palm. “Don’t need ya crawling’ everywhere.” He nods definitively.

“I’d appreciate that,” you say.

“You should read to me.” He rummages around in his toolbox. “While I work.” He’s about three fourths done with your bath, from what he’d told you this morning. Today, he’s installing a compact shower bench. He shifts over to it, working with metal bits and bobs you can’t quite identify.

“Joel Miller,” you jest. “literature aficionado.”

“Could be,” he shrugs. “You can be the next person in line to try teachin’ and old dog some new tricks.”

You do. You thumb and read through the pages until your voice goes scratchy and he runs you some tap water to soften it up. You occasionally ask Joel to tell you the parts you’d never been able to understand. (‘Joel, what’s an SAT?’ ‘Joel, tell me about Disneyland.’)

“Joel, did you go to college?”

“Nah. Not my blood. Went to trade school. Was blue collar.” He senses the question before you can ask it. “I worked with my hands. Contracting stuff, like what I’m doin’ now.”

“Lucrative?” you ask.

He snorts. “Fuck no.” He drills at the wall some. “I planned to start up a business. Me ‘n Tommy, just workin’ jobs. Got pretty close to havin’ the savings to do it, too. Then…”

“This,” you fill in for him.

“This,” he nods. He slumps against your bath and dabs at his brow.

“Like I said,” you say. “You want too much, and for a moment, you will have it.”

Sun slices in through the rectangular window at the top of your bathroom. You can see dust buoyant in the air as Joel tidies up the window sill, dust mites floating on nothing. His sleeves are rolled up, arms tensing as he shifts to tug at the bench now secured to your wall. Your mouth feels a little dry as you begin to read from the sunlight, eyes skidding across words.

Your voice is breathy, undercut by a little shiver of raspiness on your tongue as you wade through the first fifty or so pages of your copy. He’d relented to you reading it to him, interspersed with small commentary on lines he doesn’t quite get, references you would never understand without him to underline them. 

“‘Cubitum eamus,’” you read, a tiny grin needling at your lips. “‘What?’ ‘Nothing.’”

“Hell’s that mean?” Joel asks, drawing out a little measurement on your bath.

“Will you go to bed with me,” you say, voice airy. Joel looks over his shoulder at you, a pucker between his brows.

“Doesn’t sound that sexy,” he says. You only shrug.

The next few pages are uneventful, apart from the sandpaper noise of Joel’s work. You fall into the melodic nature of reading. It’s nice to read something aloud that isn’t some picture book that Maria approved for the littles.

You read, “‘And if beauty is terror,’ said Julian, ‘then what is desire? We think we have many desires, but in fact we only have one. What is it?’ ‘To live,’ said Camilla. ‘To live forever,’ said Bu–”

“That’s bullshit,” Joel says. “Who wants to live forever?”

“Some people, I guess.” You weigh the book in your hand. “Don’t read too far into it. Camilla is heavily alluded to fucking Charles. They’re not really part of the exterior world, they’re all too trapped in their own morbidities to realize how strange they are.”

“She– what? Ain’t he her fuckin’ brother?”

“Brother she’s fucking, unfortunately. Hey, I never said it was a book about good people! Just that it was a good book.”

“Jesus.”

“The Greeks were obsessed with immortality. In a way, all of us are. We don’t know when we will die. In another way, our lives are indefinite until they aren’t.”

“You would’ve made a good classics student, that’s for damn sure.”

You cock your head. “How come?”

“You think too much.” You pull a face. “Not in a bad way. It’s… endearing, kinda.”

“Oh yeah? Well, I’m endeared by how little you think.”

He rolls his eyes. “Cute.”

You pick up where you left off at the same time Joel does. A drill spinning in time with each word spooled out of your lips. You carry on with that until sunset, when the light in the bathroom is fraying and he works by flashlight. Not wanting to strain your eyes, you resign yourself to watching him work. 

You watch his thick fingers traipse around the bath, his broad muscles tensing beneath his taut white tee. How his hands hitch across plaster. It’s impossible not to let your mind wander, to envision the drag of his hands under the hem of your shirt, up to your tits. He’d be so doting, how he always is, a caretaker at heart. Maybe he’d muster the vulnerability to nuzzle into your neck, or you into his. You don’t notice your drifting thoughts or your sifting thighs until he taps against the rim of the bath. 

Joel turns around. You go shock still. “Think that’ll be enough for tonight.” He takes a second, absorbs the sight of your panting breaths. “You alright?”

“Uh huh,” you say. “Perfect.”

You try to explain it to yourself. It doesn’t work.

He’s practically in your house from sunup to sundown, and you only ever see others if you’re working a shift down at the library. Of course you’re antsy. Besides, when you’re out in the woods with only a gun and your own, traitorous body for survival, there’s no time to slip your fingertips into your panties. No time to chase any pleasure besides that of seeing another sunrise.

You blame it on the fatigue because that’s easier. Except can you really blame something that’s always there? A hardened, concrete exhaustion that suctions around your bones. Your body doesn’t seem too tired to react to Joel. It’d been too tired to react to the people you used to travel with, even though they were all you had. And now, with so much more in arm’s reach, your body still ravages you spitefully dormant despite what you want. 

When you’re on the verge of sleep, you feel Joel at the base of your spine, hand slipping between your legs while he grinds himself against your ass. You crook your legs, fingers wiggling down to your clit, but —

Nothing. Your legs spasm with shooting, weblike pain, and you collapse in frustration and agony. Every. Single. Time. Whenever you try to do something even as banal as self pleasure, it rusts within your grasp.

You want something or somebody or maybe you just want him. Maybe you want your own touch, too. Maybe you want to feel like a person because right now you feel like nothing. A nobody who came out of nowhere with no real use to the community because anyone could take your place. Anyone could know more about books than you and be able to work harder than you and then what use do you have apart from filling up this big, big house that wasn’t made for you? Mooching off of Joel Miller himself. You wonder if he calls you a lazy ass behind your back because that’s what you are, a lazy fucking bitch who probably feels the same as anyone else in this goddamn town. But they don’t mope around in wheelchairs. Don’t mope around in bed. Don’t have to crawl to get places. Hell, it’s the apocalypse, everyone has their thing, you’re just being a fucking drama queen. You are fine. You survived outside the fence for long enough, you should be just as capable as everyone else here.

But you aren’t.

Your arousal turns to tears and your face tilts to bury itself in your pillow. You taste saline. You wish you were normal wish you could walk wish you could just fucking move for once. You’ll never be what you want to be. That version of you, if it existed at all, is buried somewhere outside of Jackson.

You have a chance here. At life, at being something. And you are wasting it. 

Leaking at the slit, chomping at the bit for someone who is never going to want you. That much is certain. He’s got several decades on you and is still more active and spry than you. You’d tried to pass him his hammer once on the job and had dropped it, leaving a warped dent into one of your floorboards. He’d soothed the ache with an understanding gaze, hand rounded out over your wrist, soft little, “It’s alright, ain’t hurtin’ anyone.” But you saw it, then, that glaze of pity that you get from everyone. 

You don’t want him to pity you, you want him to want you.

But the illusion will be broken soon, you’re sure. When he’s done fixing up your house, has had enough of you and all of your fucking baggage, you’ll only see him in passing. You’ll go back to eating alone. Those waterworks in your eyes and between your legs will re enter a drought. You’ll reread every book in the library again. Read The Secret History to the walls. Wait for them to respond, and sit in the silence.

He doesn’t come over the next day.

Of course. He saw you fidgeting and now he knows you’re a pervert. Just your luck. Squander what little you have here. Would Tommy and Maria kick you out for this? No. Not for the crime of being hot under the collar for Joel. …Right?

You set the table anyway, and it sits frighteningly bare as the shadows of noon stretch through the windows then stretch into darkness after dusk. You lay on the couch, waiting for him, eyeing where you’d stuffed the bookmark into the preloved pages.

You can’t bring yourself to hop back into your wheelchair and wiggle through the doorway he’d widened for you, so you curl into your couch and quilt like a snail wrapped up in its shell. Then, a ratchety cough bursts through the still, quiet air, followed by the jiggling of a doorknob. Your hand lurches behind you onto the side table. You knock over a ceramic coaster, hear it shatter as your hand locks around your gun.

You heft it, aiming it at the door, and —

“Woah, woah, Jesus, kid, put that damn thing down now–”

You exhale, slowly lowering it onto the coffee table. “Joel? Jesus, it’s…” You crane your neck. “Two in the fucking morning.”

“Sorry, patrol… ran into some marauders. Dealt with some marauders. Why you ain’t in bed? And you know you oughta be locking your door. I know it’s safer here, but I don’t like that boy down the street. Never been fond ‘a him.”

“Was… waiting for you,” you mumble. Jesus, you even sound pathetic.

“Shit. Did you eat? Sorry, kid, I can run back and find somethin’ canned, heat it up for you…” Kid. Another blasé reminder of exactly how he perceives you. Young, but lacking any light in your eyes that might indicate it.

“No, I’m alright,” you say, jaw clenching as you scoot up against the couch. “Thought you weren’t coming.”

“Always gonna come,” he says. “Don’t want you goin’ hungry.”

You swallow, saliva swishing between your teeth. “Right.” You pat the spot next to you. “C’mon. We have another chapter, if you aren’t too tired.”

“So long as you don’t mind me smellin’ like the woods.”

“There are worse things to smell like,” you tease, and then the couch is slugging down with his weight as you tug the chain of your lamp. It takes forty-five minutes to get through this chapter, and you’re halfway to bed by the time you close the book. You yawn, stretching out with a grimace.

“Want some help?” Joel asks.

“Huh?” you ask groggily.

“Gettin’ tucked in,” he says.

“Oh, no,” you say. “I quite like it here. Just… turn out the lamp before you head out.”

“‘Cubitum eamus,’” you read, a tiny grin needling at your lips. “‘What?’ ‘Nothing.’”

“Hell’s that mean?” Joel asks, drawing out a little measurement on your bath.

“Will you go to bed with me,” you say, voice airy. Joel looks over his shoulder at you, a pucker between his brows.

“Doesn’t sound that sexy,” he says. This time, you don’t shrug.

This version of you is airbrushed. There are no bruises from trips and falls she has taken. She is confident and sure within herself, that vain swing of her hips. The push of her breasts together by shoulders hunched forward, but not too far forward. She hefts a leg over the lip of the bath, straddles Joel upon the shower bench. A shaky breath guttered out of his nose, chest rising.

She presses the warm mound of her cunt against his cock, already half-hard through his stained work jeans. “Do you want it to be, Joel?” she breathes. Rocks her hips, enough to make his head fall back against the hard wall with a sharp thud. “Cubitum eamus,” she whispers as she thumbs the zipper of his pants down. “Cubitum eamus,” she exhales into his ear as she works him with a twisting, wanting fist. “Cubitum eamus,” as she spreads her legs wider and sinks upon his lap, rocks her hi—

You wake up drenched in sweat. “Fuck. Fuck.” You’re still curled up like a roly poly on the couch, except this time, you can feel the slick beading the insides of your thighs. You can feel the phantom tickle of Joel’s warmth at your side. Just trying to adjust mashes your thighs closer together jerks your swollen clit between your legs. “Mmph,” you muffle your noise into your pillow.

The pain is further away now, like a fan the next room over. The longer you’re awake, the closer it’ll get until it rises to the sharpness of a siren in your ear. If you’re quick, you might be able to get off. Even if you’re clumsy, even if you haven’t done this in forever, you want it bad enough to try.

You prop one bent leg up against the back cushion of the couch. Your other leg drapes off the edge. There’s no exquisite buildup to this. Your body is far too topsy turvy for that. If you were to work from your neck to your cunt, pain may strangle you by the time you hit your midriff.

Your hand slithers beneath the seal of your shorts’ waistband. Hips cant up into the radiating heat of your fingertips.

This is pathetic. You’re pathetic. Waxing poetic to Joel about the life you wish you had when he’s probably seen the same amount of shit as you. Nobody wears a broken watch without a reason, just how nobody knows how to find a gun in their sleep without a reason. Getting off to the man who’s shown you nothing but kindness when you’ve done nothing to earn it. Rubbing your clit as you are now to the man who has done you boundless favors. It’s too saccharine to resist, though. That treacle drip between your thighs, the mash of your fingertips against your nub. 

You reach down to your hole — which has never felt so empty before — and gather enough slick to smear along your mound. A feathery whimper splays out of your lips as you toss your hips into your hand. Ecstasy sutures whatever pain rises in your joints, muscles, organs. It’s been years since you’ve felt this good, been able to let your walls down enough to do so. Sweat leaks from your pores; you feel your body slick and slippery within your blankets. You can’t make yourself care.

You surrender fully to pleasure with a little whine. Your fingers rub quickly, harshly, needily against your bundle of nerves. Your hips meet each upward stroke. It doesn’t take much, not when you’ve been deprived for so long. Face burning hot, you feel blood rush within your ears. Your cunt clenches around nothing. Your limbs shake, wanting, wanting, wanting. You’re right there, finally, on that razor-thin precipice–

“Oh good lord!”

You squeal, yanking your soaked hand out of your panties. Your fingers have pruned from the moisture, and your wetness stretches in drapes from your nail beds.

You blink away the pleasure-blurred film over your eyes, vision going from spotty to clear. You hurriedly wipe your fingers on your shorts and crane your neck.

Joel stands, facing the now-shut door. His hands cover his eyes even though he’s noticeably looking away from you. His shoulders are hunched, posture slumped. “I t-told you you needa start lockin’ your damn door!” he says.

“You need to start knocking!” you say. With a grimace, you cross your arms over your chest. You wish the couch cushions could expand and swallow you whole. Tears glisten at the corners of your eyes. This is the worst case scenario. He’s never, ever going to speak to you again and you’ll eventually die alone in Jackson the same way you were going to die alone out there, except this will be a far more merciful and prolonged way to die out, like the final burn of a wick in a nearly empty candle instead of an explosion. The rumors, God, you can hear them now, slithering through the cracks in your windows. “I’m sorry, Joel,” you choke out, throat grating from the words. “Fuck, I’m really sorry, you didn’t deserve to see that—”

“‘S fine. We all got needs, but Jesus fucking Christ, girl. In broad goddamn daylight? With the blinds open? I don’t know what you were gettin’ up to out there, but here, we got people. Coulda been anyone else walkin’ by and getting an eyeful.”

“I don’t usually–” you start before shutting yourself up.

“Don’t usually get off with the blinds open and your front door unlocked? I’d sure fuckin’ hope not.”

You cringe. “Don’t usually get off at all.” It’s a hoarse, muttered thing under your breath.

He stills and then shakes his head. “Don’t needa be hearin’ this.”

“Sorry. My body, it just… it… it’s not… it doesn’t work right, okay? When it comes to anything. Was just trying to take advantage.” You can already feel it surging up from your ankles up, concrete hardening in your calves. 

“Poor thing,” he says, and his low timbre shouldn’t make your clit jerk, at attention all over again. “Jus’ wanted to feel good. Now I feel like a dick for walkin’ in on ya. I’ll leave you be.” He turns back towards the door, reaching for the knob. The angle exposes the curve of his body to you, how his abdomen slopes into his bulge down the thickness of his thig– wait.

His bulge.

He’s hard. Why the fuck is he hard?

That flush of warmth in your groin returns, burning all the hotter. 

“Joel,” you rasp. From the way he tenses up, you know he can tell that you’ve noticed. He dips his head. He scrubs a hand along his textured, grizzled face. “I’m sorry, kid, I just – like I said, I’ll get outta your hair–”

He wants you. Or maybe he’s just as pent up as you are. You aren’t the type to look a gift horse in the mouth, though. “Joel–”

“Don’t,” he says. His voice leaves no room for argument.

You being you, you argue anyway. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“Bullshit,” he grouses. “You’re too young for me, I’m too old for you, and that’s that. You hear me?”

If the evidence of his need weren’t pressed against his thigh, now strategically angled away from you, maybe you’d have given up by now. “It’s biological, Joel. Come on, when was the last time you got laid?” His silence punctuated by the tick of his jaw is an answer enough.

“When was the last time you got laid?” he shoots back.

Your silence is far more deafening than his. You roll over with a groan, burying your face into the same pillow you’d been drooling into. Footsteps crunch along the creaking floorboards of your living room. Joel taps at your shoulder with the backs of his knuckles.

“Kid.” There it is again. “C’mon. Talk t’ me.”

Your eyes flick up. You watch him through your brow bone and lash line. “It’s hell, you know? Except you don’t. Before the outbreak you were probably some sort of sex magnet heartthrob or something. I mean, look at you,” you say with a vague gesture at him. The face he pulls tells you that might not be entirely true, but that’s not a wound you’re interested in poking right now. Not when you’re flayed open beneath him.

“I’ve never had that. That… the old group I was with before they all died and before I got here, there were a couple of eligible bachelors, I guess you could say. All my energy went into surviving. But I was limping back into the compound. Not many of them were interested in a girl who couldn’t put out. One of them even told me they weren’t interested because I ‘walked like I’d already been run through’.” You wince at reciting the memory. “And… eventually, I gave up on ever being wanted. I felt too goddamn shitty to even think about putting my hand in my panties. Couldn’t even spread my legs at the time. So, yeah, Joel. I’m a goddamn virgin and you don’t need to rub it in. You don’t need to be a dick about it because I’m enough of a dick to myself about i-”

“Hey,” he says. “It’s okay. I knew plenty ‘a people at your age who weren’t havin’ sex.”

“For this reason?” you ask. “It fucking sucks, Joel. Not having any control at all whatsoever over my body, being demeaned whenever I try to. I… I just want–”

“Wanna feel good?” he asks, voice low and scrappy.

You swallow. Nod at him.

He takes you in. Your curled up, wretched form that has betrayed you ten times over. Those legs of yours that never work, the arms you struggle to weave through your shirts. His pupils consume his irises, and his jaw is clenched tight. Eventually, he says, “On your back, sweetheart.”

Your heart stutters. You freeze, looking up at him. You’d asked for it, would’ve even begged for it, but Joel, as stoic and straightforward as he always is, says, “Don’t make me repeat it. Already crossin’ too many lines with you than what’s good for either ‘a us. So turn your ass over and let’s get this over with.”

You swallow, throat tight and constricting. “Jeez. Guess romance isn’t dead.” Joel rolls his eyes. “That ain’t what this is.”

“Right, I know.”

You roll over for him, body stiffer than a board and not for the usual reasons. You have no idea what he intends to do with you. No idea how to position your limbs. This couch is already cramped enough for you alone. You can’t imagine how he’s planning to fit himself up here with you. You stare at the popcorn ceiling, trying to stop your vision from swimming. It’s hard when you could take a dip in your panties.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asks, hand landing upon your thigh. “Don’t have to go through with it.”

“I want it,” you say in a rush. You’ve wanted Joel for longer than you’ve been consciously aware of, you think. And now he’s offering to touch you, to make you come, to make you come at someone else’s hands for the first time. “I just… I dunno. What if I’m… bad?” you cringe.

Joel snorts.

“It’s a real concern!”

He rolls his eyes. “I don’t know what smut you’ve been readin’ at the library, but let me tell you this. Sex ain’t perfect. It’s gonna be gross ‘n messy ‘n kinda awkward. It’s about mutual trust and respect. You don’t need to be arching like a Playboy bunny, you just needa relax. Let me take care ‘a you.”

“That’s the hard part, dude,” you say, digging the heels of your palms into your eye sockets.

“We’ll take it easy,” he says, hand slipping tenderly up to your waist. “Can I hop up there with ya?”

You nod. With a groan, he hefts himself over the lip of the couch to get between your legs. The sight of him between your thighs is nothing short of erotic. You squirm. “Needy,” he chides, sending electricity skimming up your spine.

“So… you don’t touch yourself often. Ever give yourself an orgasm, honey?” You bite on your lower lip and nod hesitantly. “Good, ‘s good.” He nuzzles into your thigh, lips tracing over the gooseflesh there. “What do you usually think about?”

“I… stuff, I guess,” you mumble, tucking your chin to your chest. It’s not exactly polite to say oh, yeah, I was jerking off to you before you interrupted my solo session! Sorry! At least… you think it’s impolite. You aren’t quite familiar with the etiquette. “How do you usually make women come?”

“Kissin’,” he murmurs. “Rubbin’. Lickin’. Talkin’.”

“Really painting me a picture there, Miller.”

In response, he pastes an open-mouthed kiss above your knee. Your free leg kicks out, nearly nailing him in the jaw. Joel chuckles. “Okay, maybe you are bad at this.”

“Oh, fuck you, too.”

“Just playin’, kid. But c’mon, you gotta cooperate with me on this if you want it to work. Alright?”

You nod, releasing a shaky breath. “Okay. It’s mechanical, mostly. Just… trying to release some tension, I guess?”

“Mmm, you poor thing. Gonna let me make it all better?” He croons, cupping the back of one of your knees. You nod, scarcely even knowing what you’re asking for anymore. “Gonna kiss that sloppy ‘lil slit ‘a yours. Fuck, can smell ya through your shorts.”

You shiver, hips jerking instinctively towards him. He hums as he starts peppering kisses up the insides of both of your legs. “J-Joel,” you whine. He glances up at you. “What if it tastes–”

“What if it sounds a whole lot like I don’t give a shit. What I wanna do is kiss that pretty fuckin’ clit. Bet it’s twitching, all swollen… poor thing.” Your back bows at that, which draws a pained grunt through the grids of your teeth.

His eyes flick up to yours. “Shh. Don’t gotta wiggle. Let me take care ‘a ya, yeah? That’s what this is about, sweetheart. Can I take these pretty things off?” His thumbs tweak the hem of your shorts.

They definitely aren’t pretty. They’re boxy and hang loose on your hips, held up only by a double-knotted drawstring that’s fraying at the edges. Still, he regards you as if all of you, even your worn clothes, are pretty. It makes your heart flutter against your ribcage, a frantic thing. He tugs them down your legs and shimmies them away from your calves, discarding them somewhere over the couch’s armrest. 

He continues leaving lazy, open-mouthed kisses up the expanse of your inner thighs. It takes everything in you not to flail out and kick him again. It’s such a foreign sensation, such a foreign situation, that you don’t know what to do with your hands. When he looks up at you, he seems to pick up on this much, puzzled facial expression falling into something laced with understanding.

He kisses the fold of your thigh into your pelvis. “What’s got you worried, sugar?”

“I…” I’m scared that I’ll end up in pain. Bedridden for days just because I let myself feel something good. Because I don’t have a body worth feeling anything except for pain. This busted, messed-up vessel I’m trapped in.

He seems to read your mind, eyes silently searching yours until the furrow in his brow becomes less pronounced. “Alright,” he says. “What’s comfiest for you?”

You shuffle until your legs bracket his neck, ankles splayed out somewhere along his spine. “Is that – I don’t want to choke you–”

“You can,” he says, and he sounds serious. You sputter out a laugh that doesn’t seem to land. “Try…. But you ain’t gonna. No offense, but–”

“Yeah, yeah, no core strength, worse leg strength, I know.”

He smiles wryly at you. “Now gimme your hands.” You hold them out, palms up. He cradles them both in one hand and guides them to his fluffy, full head of hair. You sigh as you sink your hands into the curls that naturally sprawl out at his ears. Your thumb strokes his temple, and he hums at the touch, a whirring noise in his throat. “There ya go. Pull as hard as you need to. Gotta know what feels good for ya.”

Your knees almost lock at the sight of him, the beautiful, debauched vision that he is between your legs, the arch of his nose nearly cradled between your clothed folds. He goes the rest of the way, nuzzling his nose against your clit. Your hips jerk, accompanied by a faint whine. “Fuck,” he groans. “Sensitive ‘lil thing.”

You expect him to tug the gusset of your panties out of the way and bury his face between your thighs — but he doesn’t. He licks a long, slippery stripe up the center of your clothed slide. You whimper, head sliding back against the pillow. Your toes curl a tad, fingers tightening in his hair already. He lets out a breathless laugh into your core. He spits on your center and smears it with spiralling twists and turns of his tongue. You feel yourself gush in your panties.

You know what your clit is. You’ve heard the former members of your group talk about how the guys around you were useless at finding it, you’ve slid your own hand in your panties not too often, but enough times to be able to clumsily mash your finger pads against what you think is it. That swollen, twitchy nub between your folds. Joel finds it as if it’s a mere extension of his tongue. His lips latch around it and suck through the soaked cloth of your panties. You buck against his mouth.

Hands nestling into his hair, you drag his face against your cunt, whining. Joel groans, shaking his head side to side. It tugs your clit, sucked raw between his lips, side to side. You shudder, tugging even harder at his hair. “Jesus- fuck, Joel, God–”

He pulls up and gives you a loopy grin. “Jus’ me, honey.”

“If I had tomatoes,” you say. “I’d be throwing them at you.” He gives a halfhearted nip at your clit, hardly enough to even feel it. 

“No you wouldn’t.” He kisses the inside of your thighs again, drags his tongue along the crease between your thigh and your groin. “Be outta a goddamn good orgasm if you did.” He tugs at the seam of your panties, snapping them against your leg. “Gonna let me take these off? Make ya really see God?”

“Yes,” you say, winded. “Yes, Joel– anything you want.”

“Anything you want,” he reminds you, palm open above your knee. His thumb rubs circles against you. 

You nod vigorously. “Well, I want. So get to it.” He pins you with a cocky look. “Please?”

“Can’t deny ya,” he murmurs into your skin. He shuffles your panties down. Takes a deep, trembling breath of your musky-sweet scent. Nudges the tip of his nose into your clit. It’s enough to make you keen. Then, his tongue plunges inside of you without wavering. He curls it upwards, nudging it against that spot you never have been able to reach on your own (only if you bend your legs like rolled dough under a pin, only if you reach around yourself hard enough to make your bones crack). The pressure skims across your body, making you quiver. You jerk at his curls even more, driving him against your cunt. His jaw is opened wide as he eats you, almost as if he intends to swallow your cunt whole and then some. The salacious slurp and suck of his lips catching on your folds is enough to make your fingertips tremble in his curls.

“Ah- fuck. Joel — Joel,” you whine, hips twitching against his mouth. He explores your cunt with a fervor you’ve never been able to exact upon yourself. You’re careening towards an orgasm faster than you’d like to, calves tightening, arms shaking. Blood roars in your ears. Your vision goes spotty. Joel moans into your pussy and you’re done for.

You come harder than you ever have in your life. Thrashing as much as your muscles will let you. Grinding yourself against Joel’s face, his stubble scraping against your bare skin. His lips rise to suction against your clit, giving you a wave to ride along the course of your orgasm. You whine and moan and make sounds you hadn’t thought yourself capable of making. The comedown is just as hard, smacking into wet concrete and trying not to sink. You clutch at Joel’s curls, yanking him out of your cunt when it crosses the line from pleasurably overwhelming to miserably overwhelming. He looks just as wrecked as yours, taking heaving pants. His hair is swept out of his eyes by your grip, pupils dilated, skin slick with sweat, beard webbed by your cum.

“Fuck,” you exhale.

“You’re telling me,” he says. He gently pries your hands out of his locks and presses tiny little kisses along your thigh, up your clothed stomach, along your shoulder blades. He may be straddling you, but he holds himself so tenderly that it’s as if he isn’t there at all. For a moment that leaves your stomach riddled with yearning, you feel nothing but pleasure ribboning through your limbs. There’s no glass-shattering of pain between your bones. It’s just you and him, wrapped up in each other.

His eyes meet yours, pupils slowly shrinking. Your eyes widen as you survey him again. “Wait—” He squints at you. “Gotta be equitable.” With a clumsy hand, you start snaking your way down to his waistband. Before you get there, he snatches your wrist.

“Nope,” he says. “Don’t ‘gotta’ do anything. Didn’t do that so I could ‘get mine’. Did that so I could taste your sweet cunt when it comes.”

“But–” You know how excruciating it is when you’re needy and can’t get yourself off. “I want to.”

“‘Fraid my refractory period ain’t what it used to be.” He scratches the back of his neck, face pulled into a taut grimace. “‘S been a long time for me, too, y’know. Busted in my fuckin’ pants like a goddamn teenager.” His cheeks are apple red, rounded out below his eye bags.

“Oh,” you say.

“Prolly for the best,” he says, hand falling to cup your cheek. “Like I said – can’t say no to ya. And if you started beggin’ me to give that pretty, needy ‘lil pussy my cock? I’d fold in a heartbeat, sugar. And that ain’t good for either ‘a us.”

You toy with the curl around his ear, now moist with sweat. “What if I said I wanted it to be you, Joel?” Joel’s face tightens with a self-loathing that is all too familiar to you. You see it every morning in the mirror.

But Joel, who you feel safe with, Joel. Joel, always at your house at the ass crack of dawn all the way to when the dinner bell rings. Whether he be cracking at your door frames or sliding a poorly-arranged plate across the table to you. Joel, dozing off on your shoulder while you read him Tartt. Joel, who likely against his better judgment, had just given you your first orgasm at the hands of someone else, all because you’d asked. “I trust you,” you say.

“You shouldn’t,” he says. He nuzzles his head into your neck. Your hand goes up to cradle the back of his head, scratching at it. “Ain’t done anything to earn it.”

“In your eyes, maybe. I…” You hesitate.  “enjoy your company.”

Joel takes a deep breath. You feel his exhale fan out on the arch of your neck. He smells like you. Like your cunt. It makes your stomach twirl. “You ain't so bad yourself,” he says.

It’s a while that you both lay there. The sun has gone from a sliver in the window to a beam across your living room, warming both of you as much as you warm each other. His hands play with the hem of your shirt, all the loose, spindly seams that have unraveled over the years. It’s this basking in the afterglow as much as it is basking in the budding heat of something new. 

“What do you want with me?” he asks.

You falter at that, tongue sealed to the roof of your mouth.

Everything, you want to say. But that’d be foolhardy and wrong and stupid. You’ve known him for a few weeks, but it feels like it’s been a few years. He sees you — not as the youngest cripple in town, not as a sexless posable doll, not as the librarian who almost fell out of her chair trying to do a wheelie in the snow. He just sees you.

You want to see him, too.

You settle on, “Anything you feel like giving me.”

He looks up at you through his lashes, pupils gone back to normal. Eyes still soft. Face still rough and smooth at the same time. “Anything, huh?” You nod. “Think I can do that.”