#i LOVE IT when he does this it's the BEST

[dilf-docs]

From This Time, Unchained

jackson!joel miller x younger fem!reader

summary: joel doesn't know why, of all the people in jackson, you've chosen him.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), BIG age gap (20s/60s) (does it look like igaf), smut, begging kink, praise kink, oral (f. receiving), breast play, dacryphilia, hurt/comfort, soft!joel, insecure!joel, fluff bc my dying man deserves it💔 #joelmillerapologistclub

word count: 8,554 words

side note: joel miller widow club where u at??? i wish i could write a fix-it fic but my heart is too heavy even after a week lol and my ass too people pleaser-ish to write allat. (i haven't seen last night's ep yet bc this weekend has been ass!!) so, instead, have this piece because peepaw deserves love and a good fuck with his glasses on! (shout out to my joel miller playlist, u saved me girl) (also girl why did i battle with this like for four days lmaoooo not me posting it 9 seconds before midnight)

Joel Miller is a busy man.

All of Jackson seems to need him. Be it his neighbours, with a broken faucet or be the council, for his skills in construction, or even Maria and Tommy, when they wanted some time alone and he got to be the fun uncle for a couple of hours. Even Ellie, who didn't need him, as she liked to remind him, yet he still found himself in her garage, where she moved despite his reluctance, dusting off shelves or the forgotten guitar in a corner, all to feel useful for the one who he cared for the most.

That spot was debatable, thought. There was his brother, his niece, maybe Maria, Ellie, recently Dina and well, you.

You. Sweet you. Town's favorite girl. A complete dream. The girl next door embodied. Looks that aim to kill. It killed him. So damn perfect he can't help but wonder why, of all Jackson, you'd choose brooding old Joel Miller.

The one you'd give your smiles to, because even if you shared it to the world, your reserved your best for him only. His patrol partner, the beauty of the snowed-in landscape barely rivaling your own. Who you'd give your hours, always appearing when he needed you most, eyes open wide with that shine of theirs it was impossible to resist, not to trust. He had been a faithless man for too long, wandering in the dark. Eyes closed. Then came Ellie, and it was gone, coming back the days when Sarah was his babygirl. But it returned when she pushed him away, but you had stepped in, not as a replacement but as an oath. Something to hold on.

To believe.

In anything. In you. In the us, silent but strong. Watchful, like the stars shinning above in the sky, twinkling as the sound of your laugh when you and him would watch them, sitting on his roof. He let this things happen, let his guard down and allowed himself to be childish and soft, even if his joints ached when he got up and he could fall. But you were there, and falling... It didn't sound bad.

(He knew you'd be there to catch him, anyway. Even if you weren't that strong and he wasn't exactly... well, featherweight)

Right now, he's working. Not for Jackson, but or you. Furrowed brow and shoulders slumped over his table at the workshop, concentrated, his glasses perched on his nose. He hates them, another reminder of the time passed by, yet there's no option. At least not if he wants to give you the very best.

Ah, yes. His latest project. A little wood carving. Doesn't have a shape yet, like your relationship. He chuckles to himself, feeling silly. What where labels anymore in this world, anyway? Still, he can't fanthom the nature of it. It sounded more like a perverted old man's fantasy, if he's being honest, the glances thrown his way from townsfolk a little cruel reminder. You're no good, you'd jokingly sing that one song and, despite the judgment, he'd smile. For you, anything.

Like the figurine. Joel finally sees it take shape. And then there's a knock in the door. Sharp. Same as yesterday, and as the year before ever since he's had you like this.

"Come in" he says, not looking up as you enter.

He's too focused, voice sounding gruff for the long hours of silence since he sat down with an idea in mind; pounding heart, trembling hands.

"Hey, Joel"

He takes his glasses off, placing them on the table, before standing up to greet you. He crosses the short distance and wraps his arms around you in a tender hug, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. He smells like wood and sweat. His musk lingers, so does his tight embrace. As if you'd dissappear if he didn't.

"Missed ya', sweet girl" he mumbles, voice muffled.

You giggle a bit. "I was gone for an hour. Are you getting clingy on me, Miller?"

You loved to tease him. Bad habit of yours. He lets out a low chuckle that rumbles on his chest and against your skin. He pulls back from the hug, yet his arms now drop to your waist, because he's addicted to keeping you close.

"Too damn long" he protests, carrying his southern accent within.

"I love when that Texan drawl slips in" you sigh, poking his cheek. He leans into your touch, like a touch-starved puppy. You then look at him, pouting your lips with a small frown. "Hey, and your glasses?"

"Huh?" he looks at the pair, sitting on the table. Forgotten. "Over'ere. For?"

You shrug. Joel shoots you a suspicious look. "Darlin', why you so interested in my glasses?"

You avert his gaze. The floor is more interesting now.

"Honey... Look at me. S'okay if you don't wanna-"

"I like how you look when you wear them" you finally blurt out, too fast and too quiet.

He's taken back by that. Eyes wide, probably written all over his face. Yet you refuse to look at him. He tips your chin up, so you can meet his gaze. It's soft, making your legs wobbly.

"Is that so?" he asks, teasingly. He still can't believe you actually like them. "You like when old men wear them glasses, baby?"

"Hhm, yeah" you hum. "More if it's you"

His heart skips a beat at your response. Fuck. He's gone soft, too soft. He feels his face heat up, chuckling in an attempt to cover it. Then, runs a hand through his hair, letting it rest on the base of his neck, a tell-tale sign he's feeling awkward. Flustered, even.

"You gon' give me a heart attack, honey. 'M too old for ya' to say things like that"

"Aw, old man can't take a compliment?" you tease, wrapping your arms around his neck. Then, you stand up on your tiptoes to whisper on his ear. "You're cute when you blush"

Joel's sure his face has gone redder, breath hitching as well. Still, he manages to put his arms around your waist, holding you close.

"You're real bad" he grumbles, though there's no bite on his tone. He hides his face again in the crook of your neck. "And I'm not blushing"

You giggle, patting his head lightly as your fingers trace his now long hair. If it didn't drive you wild...

"Then stop hiding"

Joel relaxes under your touch. "You're trouble. I'm serious 'bout the heart attack"

"No" you exaggerate, rocking him slightly. "Don't die"

He looks up at you, smirking as he groans with fake annoyance.

"If you keep that up, I might do"

"Then who will I bore with my failed recipes and gossip?"

"Thankfully, not me"

You groan. "Oh, shut up you old man"

You're always calling him that. Not that he minds, he knows you're not doing it with malice, but sometimes it annoys him. For example, today.

"Well, you chose 'tis old man so don't go complainin', honey"

You huff. "Unfortunately, I love this old man with his old-man ways. Like your woodcarving"

After saying so, you take a small peek over his figure, still drapped over your chest and neck, to the table behind. "Speaking of, can I see what you're doing?"

He looks back, where he's left the figurine unnattended after your arrival. Lets go of you, taking a step back so you get a better look.

"Sure, darlin'. Go'head"

Joel thinks he's good at hiding the nervousness in his voice as you approach the table. He crosses and uncrosses his arms, anxiously.

"Your glasses" almost in a reflex, passing them to him before seeing what's on the table. "Can you wear them, Joel? Pretty please"

He takes the glasses from your hands, fingers brushing. It may be that or your request that make his heart jump. You can see some hesitation on him before he puts them on. Looking down at you, smirking, Joel smiles.

"There ya' go, sweet girl. Happy now?" he asks, a hint of huskiness in his voice.

"So much better" you tap them lightly, "and so is your vision"

Joel let's out a small chuckle, grinning like a fool. Honestly, he loves the attention.

(He's never going to admit it out loud, though)

"You do know how'da flatter an old man, huh"

You smirk, moving to the table again. "Oh, I love flattering him. Now, show me what you're working on"

There's a block of wood on the center. Cut sharp. Perfectly. He's been obssesive with it, maybe. There's a sketch, and the figurine only has been carved at the bottom, where a tail begins to take shape.

"I know am not an artist, but I tried"

You remain silent, making him a little nervous.

"S'a deer" he explains, gruffly, looking into your eyes for a reaction.

"A deer? Like, Bambi?" you ask in awe, softly tracing the wood. Your words get stuck, like honey. Sweet but sticky. "Joel..."

His heart swells a bit at your tone, expression soft as he recognizes admiration in your tone.

"Yeah, like damn Bambi" he murmurs, hands itchy. First, he shoves them on his pockets, just to take them out and place them on his hips instead, his jacket now open, the silhoutte of his tummy under his shirt showing, the flannel stretched on the middle. He watches you closel as you face him again.

"Is it- Is it for me?" you ask in that voice that, goddamn it, makes Joel want to give you the whole world if he could.

He slowly nods, a sheepish expression on his face.

"Yeah" he admits, voice uncharacteristically hesitant. "S' for ya"

Then looks away, feeling vulnerable for some reason. But your lips quiver, and before he can register, you throw yourself at him, hands around his neck, body practically swinging. He stumbles a bit, yet manages to catch you alright.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" you gush, peppering his cheek with kisses. "I know it's not even done but, wow. Thank you, Joel!" an adorable squeal leaves your mouth, and as soon as that is out, your lips find his to leave a sweet kiss on his mouth. When you calm down, your voice goes soft. "It's... No one had ever done something like this for me"

He's clearly taken by surprise by your affection outburst, his heart swelling at your reaction and giddyness. He's also a bit overwhelmed, kissed cheeks now a pretty flushed pink. There's something so warm and fond on his eyes as he looks down on you, cupping your cheek after your final kiss.

"S'nothin', sweet girl. You're welcome"

"You're so special, Joel. Did you know that?" you whisper, leaning into his touch while closing your eyes.

Good. He's probably a mess right now, his heart clenching on his chest, a mix of emotions washing over him. God, he hates getting compliments, but yours always stirred things he long ago thought dead.

"Special, huh?" he grumbles while sporting a half-smile. "I reckon that's you"

You smirk. "We can both be special, then. There's always room for two"

He runs his thumb over your cheek, chuckling a bit. "Deal. But you're a bit more"

"Oh, you want to compete?" you tease.

He smirks at the challenge, pulling you closer with a tight arm around your waist.

"Damn right I do. Y'know I like winnin'. 'Sides, 'm more than willin' to play if it means ya' get competitive 's well. You're cute when you challenge me, baby"

You feign hurt. "I'm always cute, how dare you"

"Oh, forgive me" he chuckles. "At this age I tend to forget"

"Don't worry. I'll beat your ass so bad, you won't forget it"

He archs an eyebrow, amused. "Now you abuse the elder? Bad girl"

Your face flushes and core pulses.

"I can be a bit of a brat if I want to" you tease, fingers roaming over his warm chest. "Will you punish me for that?"

Joel's eyes darken on an instant. There's a shadow of desire coating his brown when a low rumble escapes his throat. The air feels charged with a new found tension suddenly.

"Careful, sweet girl. You ain't know what you playin'"

He closes the gap between you, his body pressing against yours. His hands move from your waist to grip your hips, holding you against him.

"You're quite mouthy tonight, aren't 'cha?" he growls, his voice carrying a rough edge.

"Just to get what I want. Besides, your little project tug at my hearstrings" you quip. "And something else"

"Oh, yeah? You gon' tell me what's that?"

You smirk. "What do you think it is?"

He hums. "I'd rather hear you say it"

"That's not fair" you pout your lips.

He chuckles, "Nothin' ever is fair, I reckon. But you're a troublesome little thing, ain't ya'?"

You send him a little flirtatious wink.

"I am looking for some trouble tonight"

He's not amused by your words. You're a greedy insatiable little thing sometimes. So far, Joel's been able to deflect all of your attempts. The farthest you'd ever made it was when you straddled his lap on the old couch of his workshop, and even then, he limited his reactions to grunts and seeing you come. God. It had been tortuous waiting for you to go so he could piston his aching cock to the memory of your little sounds.

"Ain't that interesting?"

"Oh, but it is" you're quick to counter, "and I take you and your little friend are into it"

His breath hitches, eyes and cheeks burning alike with intensity. The heat travels down his spine, straight to his throbbing dick, the reason he's been caught red-handed.

"You surely are looking for trouble" his voice reduced to a rough gasp.

Joel's struggling to maintain the control he so prided himself in, you not making it any easier with your teasing. "Y'a temptress, doll. Know that?"

"Is my magic working?" you ask, batting your eyelashes.

He's resolve is quickly crumbling, self-control tossed to the bin in the corner. Joel loves as much as he hates your big innocent yet teasing eyes. No wonder he was carving you out a deer.

"Damnit, sweet girl. Y'know it's. You gettin' me all worked up in'ere"

"Take me upstairs, then. I'm sure we can find a solution"

He can feel the heat radiating off of you, eyes darkening at the invitation.

"Doll, you're playing with fire here" he warns, despite the obvious effect your words are having on him.

"It's fine. I don't mind the burn"

He knows he's done, Joel's growl an indicator of his control snapping completely.

"Damn it" he mutters before his lips crash against yours. It's heated. Desperate. His hands grip your hips, holding you tighlty against him while he devours your mouth like a starved man, as if you didn't kiss just this morning, before going on your patrol.

You moan into the kiss, Joel swallowing your sounds as if they were his own. Fuck. His mind goes fuzzy when you grab his face with both of your hands, deepening the kiss. He thinks he's backed you against a wall, by the small Thud sound. He's lost: on the way your lips move, on the way they taste, in the sounds they make.

You pull out first. Joel thinks you belong in a museum: with your lips, swollen and parted. It's too your dilatated eyes and chest, rising and falling. He can't resist and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his calloused fingers tenderly brushing your soft skin.

"Aren't you the prettiest man in Jackson?" you blurt out, adoring.

He's not used to being praised like this. Not even by you, even after months of doing so. Always feels like the first time. And then, he feels stupid: for blushing too much, heart skipping too many beats, chest clenching too hard. Like a damn highschooler. Joel's as embarrassed as content that you make him feel all sort of ways.

"Easy, sugar" he mutters, voice gruff. "You gon' give 'tis old man an ego"

"No need to blame me when you can look at yourself in the mirror" you're quick to reply. "I believe that's enough reason to give you some ego"

He's smirking at your response. Yeah, he definitely loves when you stroke his ego. Especially as of late, where he feels... rather, old.

"Oh. Oh" you begin to tease through giggles, playfully hitting his chest. He huffs, catching where this is going. "Do you like it when I call you pretty?"

Joel's cheeks flush a little at your question, his stoic nature faltering a bit at your teasing.

"Maybe" he mumbles, eyes avoiding yours. "But don't let it get to your head, doll"

"Too late" you murmur, wrapping once more your hands on his neck. "You're pretty, Joel. Especially when you flush"

Pretty isn't exactly a word he'd used to describe himself. But when you call him pretty, out of that sweet mouth of yours, his name along as well? You can call him however the fuck you want.

He can feel his body reek out vulnerability, and he hates himself a bit for getting weaker. He tried, really did, but his walls had been down for a while. His defenses had crumbled. He was pathetic, lonely, and sad. Yet here you were, looking at him with your big adoring eyes like he was the only thing that mattered. Joel lets your words sink for a moment, letting out a small sigh, not being able to deny it feels good. Maybe it does matter.

"You're too damn sweet, sugar. Y'know that?" he mutters, finger tracing lightly your hip.

You smile, sickenly saccharine. "I'm aware. Trust me, I have a cute grumpy boyfriend to remind me so"

His expression softens even more at your easy loving. He's so fucking putty in your hands, Tommy would laugh in his face.

"Y'got me wrapped 'round your damn finger, sweet girl" Joel whispers in his usual gruff voice, but it's laced with affection.

You raise a finger, moving it in front of his face like one would with a bone and a dog.

"You mean this?"

Joel watches your finger with amused eyes, a small smirk tugging at his lips. It scares and excites him how easy it's to fall under your spell. With soft movements, he reaches and captures your hand, bringing it to his mouth. He then presses a gentle kiss to your finger, eyes never leaving yours.

"Yeah, doll. This one" his voice is husky, "All of 'em. Y' got me good"

You gulp under the intensity of his gaze. "Don't do that..."

He smirks at your reaction, finally feeling like he has some leverage. He raises an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes as he holds you even closer, your chest pressing against his. You even feel the soft curve of his stomach over your own.

"Don't do what?" he asks, playing coy. "We're not backin' down now, are we, sugar?"

At your lack of answer, cheeks bright, he huffs, hand moving to gently cup your chin. Joel's brown eyes lock with yours when he speaks again.

"So, what now? Or did y' just come by to check up on your ol' man?"

"No. That's not what I want"

His smirk grows as the dark shade on his eyes. He's not dumb, of course he knows what you want. Just wants to hear you say it.

"What'da ya' want, then?"

You pout your lips, whining.

"Joel... Just give me what I want"

He leans in a bit closer, voice gruff and filled with desire. His thumb strokes your chin softly.

"Depends" he grumbles. "You gon' ask nicely?"

"On my very best behavior" you raise your hand, "I swear it"

He smirks, letting go of your face. "Good girl"

You stand on your tiptoes, leaning against his ear. His heart skips a beat, a small shiver running down his spine at your lips ghosting his skin.

"I am" you kiss his earlobe. "For you. Just you" you leave a little bite on it. A low rumble escapes his throat. You lick the red little spot to soothe it. "Your best girl"

"My only girl" he's quick to reply. You're up in the air in a minute, his hands supporting you as he carries you, your legs dangling at his sides. It amazed you how strong he continued to be, despite his age. Strong men make good times, you suppose.

You giggle a bit. "Oh, Joel. I'm so lucky"

His heart races at your words. All this banter fills him with a warm fondness, making him feel young again.

"I reckon that's me, doll"

Your noses brush after his comment, in silence. You close your eyes, as so does he. You break the aphony first.

"Joel"

"Yes?"

"I want you to have me"

Joel's heart skips a beat at your words, his chest swelling with a mixture of emotion. No one has ever spoken to him with such tenderness, even with what your request implies. It's overwhelming.

"Ya' want me?" he asks gruffly, his voice hoarse with desire and emotion.

Fuck. It's happening. What he avoided so badly, but right now? His mind has gone blank, and when it starts working again, it's filled with lewd images of sweet you. Jesus. If he had doubts he was going to hell before, now he's certain. At least, he got heaven on Earth with you.

"Y' sure 'bout that, sugar?" he asks gruffly, his voice husky. "You're so damn young, deserve someone better"

You nod, slowly, caressing his cheek, your voice just barely above a whisper.

"I've never been more sure"

He takes a small moment to gather himself, his eyes never leaving yours. He's suddenly feeling incredibly vulnerable, and it scares him as much as it excites him.

"I mean, would've I done all this if I didn't?"

Joel lets out a small laugh. "You little devious minx. I'll give ya' that"

"Give me what?" you tease.

His lips crash into yours as your hands find his face, holding as you deepen the kiss. His fingers dig in your thighs, making you moan and a spark of electricity run through his spine. He lets out a low moan in response to yours, pulling away from your lips momentarily, his eyes darkening with want. Joel looks at you for a moment, taking in your flushed cheeks and parted lips.

He lets out a low rumble, his voice gruff and rough.

"Yeah" he mutters. "Keep talkin' like that, and you'll get more than a kiss"

"So, I'll keep talking then"

"Y' little brat" he grumbles, voice dripping with frustration. "If ya' don't stop, I'm gonna..."

Joel trails off, his eyes dark with promises left unspoken.

"Say it" you challenge. "Or are you backing down?"

He takes a deep breath, trying to regain some semblance of self control, despite loving your teasing and how it's driving him wild. He lets out a small laugh, his mind swirling with desire and frustration.

"Y' gon' pay for that later, darlin'" he threatens gruffly, his eyes locked on yours.

"How about now?"

Joel's heart skips a beat at your question, the idea sending a surge of desire through him. He can feel his self-control slipping away, your words pushing him closer to the edge.

He lets out a low, gruff chuckle, his hand tightening around your chin. His eyes lock onto yours, a mix of desire and anticipation in them.

"Sure you wanna know, doll?" he asks gruffly, his voice rough with barely restrained desire.

"All of it" too eager. He can't help but smile, resolve unraveling. "Don't spare any details"

"And you gon' be a good girl?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

"Didn't I promise so?"

Those simple words are all it takes for Joel's resolve to finally crumble. Fuck what other people think. Fuck his own fears. He can't resist you any longer, the desire within him reaching boiling point.

"Shit, doll" he rasps, voice rough. "With words like that I'm just gon' give y'anythin' you want"

"Please, Joel" you utter his name in a little whimper.

"Please what?"

Loves to see you beg. Has imagined you squirming, like you did when his fingers would drift too close to your aching cunt. Straddling feels so stupid now, when he could've have sweet you like this a long ago.

"Fuck me"

The sound of your whimper goes straight to Joel's throbbing dick. He's completely undone, powerless against your desires.

"That's right, good girl" he rasps, his voice gruff and rough. You let a little whimper at the praise. "I'll give y'anythin' you want, angel"

He carries you upstairs while you giggle at his huffs, teasing him when his knees creak like the old wooden stairs. Still, he insists on carrying you when you offer to walk, maybe trying to prove his strength to you or something. When his face turns a deep shade of red, you can't tell if it's out of shame or effort.

"Taking me to your bed? I've never seen your bedroom" you muse out loud, once he reaches the final stair.

Despite the intensity of the moment, a small smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

"There's always a first" he rasps.

Your nose brushes against his cheek. "Can't wait"

The door opens when Joel kicks it lightly. It's very him, you think, as soon as it comes on view. There's a guitar in the corner, you notice too.

"It's very you" you say out loud now. He drops you on the bed, making you giggle. "It's simple and cozy"

He's still trying to calm his racing heart, but it's difficult when he's hovering over you, so close to your body, he can feel the heat of it. Can even smell your arousal in the air.

"'M not sure simple's a nice thing t' say 'bout someone"

For a moment, the room goes quiet. He hesitates to continue.

"There's just... somethin' I need to discuss with ya' before we get carried 'way"

Your doe eyes look up to him. "Yes?"

Joel takes a deep breath.

"I've... It's been a while, y'know, since... I'm just used to bein' alone. In that sense. And I... I haven't been with someone in a long time"

His voice trails off, a vulnerability settling in his expression.

"Joel..." you whisper, sitting as he backs up a bit.

"'M not good with people" he admits gruffly. "I tend to scare 'em off"

You extend your hand to softly trace over his stubble. Joel leans into your touch, his expression softening, your presence providing a sense of comfort. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts.

"You're not scaring me. I'm here"

His mouth tastes like sand when he swallows.

"Yeah, but I-"

"Yes?"

He pauses for a moment, a hint of vulnerability in his expression.

"'M not exactly young anymore, sugar"

"And what's bad about not being young?" you look at him, voice soft. "Are you afraid your knees will crack when you go down on me or what?"

He lets out a clipped laugh. The tension in the room lightens a little, and he's grateful for your attempt to lighten the mood.

"Oh, very funny, sweetheart." he grumbles, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "And no, 's not that. I can eat ya' just fine" Joel spits, making you laugh at his cocky demeanor. But then he goes quiet again. "It's just... 'M not as young and good lookin' as I used to be" he finally blurts out.

Why is he even saying this things out loud. He didn't care before. He thought about himself better before. Yeah, before. What is it about the now that he cares, worse, admits out loud his insecurities?

Your expression morphs into one of sympathy. God, he hates it. Looks away from your warmth and pity. No, not pity. Compassion, like Joel was some sort of wounded old dog.

"Joel" you close the distance, tracing his face tenderly, drawing little heart shapes over his stubble. "That's not true. You're as handsome as back in the day, baby. I didn't meet you then, I know that, and this may be biased, but I'll choose the old you always, my pretty boy"

Joel's heart skips a beat at your words, his expression softening even more. He's not used to such tender affection, and it's overwhelming.

He takes a moment to process your words, his eyes never leaving yours. He can see the sincerity in your eyes, and it touches him more than he can express. Words were never his thing, anyway.

"Y/n" he mutters gruffly, his voice rough with emotion. He even used your name. "You're too good fo' me"

"I just... I think it's because I love you"

He's taken back, almost falling in top of you, yet quickly regaining his posture. Still, his heart jumps into his throat, dangerously close to falling out from his mouth at your sudden confession.

It's been almost a year of being his and him being yours, yet those three words hadn't even been close to being said. Joel never thought he'd get to hear them again from the lips of a lover. Yet here you were, so damn young and sweet, letting them roll off your tongue in a soft echo of your loving. Safe. Like a home. You were his home.

He looks at you, his expression a mixture of surprise and vulnerability.

"Y'... Y' love me?" his voice rasping a bit as he questions you.

"It's okay if you don't say it back" you laugh quietly, probably to make him feel better. Always thinking about the others, you pure thing.

He looks you in the eye, his hand still cupping your cheek. There's a warm tenderness in his expression, despite his gruff tone.

"No. Don't think that" he goes quiet for a moment, as if the weight of your declaration was sinking him. He lets out a shaky breath, as if unsure if the world around him was real, his eyes locked on yours. "I... love you too"

Your eyes widen, a smile appearing instantly on your face as it lights up. His heart swells immediately at the sight of your happiness, and all he wishes for is to see it everyday. When he wakes up, to be first, and when he goes to sleep, your face the last thing to see. To be there, even as he closes his eyes and dozes off to sleep. Your giddy giggles are so fucking contagious, a rebellious smile creeps up his lips.

"You do?"

His chest tightens, vulnerable. Filled with an affection never known before.

"Yeah, sweet girl" he mutters gruffly. "I do. I love you"

Your smile is probably the most beautiful thing in the world, pleased and vicious like a cat's.

"Now, if you love me so dearly as you say, please" your lips part in a shaky breath, "have me"

So damn impatient. He may have spoiled you too much.

"Ya' want me t' have ya', honey?" he asks gruffly, his voice rough with desire as his hands slide down your thighs, tainting untouched skin.

You squirm, nodding eagerly. "Please. I want you so bad it hurts"

His voice, so soft and low, may have passed as a grunt. But you saw. Heard. Noticed. Like the way his face frowned, eyebrows furrowed as if you just told him you were sick. As if he wanted to be the cure to the disease he gave you.

"Tell me where it hurts"

Demanding in a tender way. Almost benevolent. Not even hurting you, but wanted to take every pain of yours away. You didn't deserve not even a scratch of this angry dirty world ruining your soft heart.

You point to the middle of your legs, parting them slowly open. His eyes turn glassy as he tugs your jeans down, and the first sight he gets, is your underwear, damp with your sticky arousal. He gulps, eyes darkening with desire.

"Please. There" you whimper.

"I've got eyes" Joel lets out a small, gruff chuckle. "You're impatient, know that?"

He cups your chin, eyes locked on yours. His breath is shallow, voice raspy and low.

"Don't worry. Lemme help"

He places himself in between your legs, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties.

"Gon' show ya' what'a man with experience has to offer, al'ight? Now, spread y'r legs open for me" he commands softly. "Lemme see that beautiful, needy cunt"

He pulls your panties down, his throat dry when he peels the drenched fabric down your legs, revealing glistening folds. He can see how swollen and puffy they were. The sight makes his mouth water and his cock pulse with desire.

Joel lowers his head, knees and bed creaking, inhaling the sweet intoxicating smell of your arousal, his facial hear ghosting over your trembling skin until it tickles. Your nervous giggling get stuck in your throat when Joel buries his face between your thighs, tongue delving into your slick folds to lap up the sweet nectar that dripped from your cunt. He groans at the taste, as if savoring the best meal to exist on Earth.

"So sweet" he growls, voice vibrating against your sensitive flesh. His mouth latches onto your clit, suckling the throbbing needy bud as his tongue flicks over it. "Too damn sweet"

It still hurts. It's across your face.

"Gon' help with 'tis. Just wait" he thrusts two fingers knuckle-deep into your cunt, pumping them in and out, curling them to stroke a spot that reduces you to a quiet muffled mess. "S' right, sugar" he praises. "Wanna see you come f' y'r old man"

The feeling of having you here, so needy and responsive, is doing things to him. Joel's lost on the way you beg, his name out of your parted lips in a secretive manner, as if reinforcing the nature of your desires and needs. How this moment was only yours, a whole new world past his door, creeping up the sweaty sheets, making way to his lonley heart, poisoned by the infectious warmth of your own.

He could feel your thighs trembling around his head, cute cries and whimpers serving as a motivation to bring you to the edge. Joel devours you, sucking like a starved man, flicking and lashing at your gushing cunt mercilessly with his tongue. It's experience, he made damn sure you knew about that. He also pumps his fingers faster, plunging deeper into your clutching heat.

"Come on, doll" he urges, voice a low rumble against your sex, "wanna feel 'tis tight little pussy spasm 'round ma' fingers"

"Joel!" you moan out loud, hands clawing into his arms for support.

He can feel your body tensing, your tight walls fluttering around the digits plunging in and out of you. Joel knew you were close, so he sucks your clit with fervent intensity as he curled his fingers just right, stroking that special spot that made your toes curl.

"That's it, y/n" he growls, eyes flashing up to meet yours, dark and intense with lust. "Drench me, y' sweet thing"

With a keening cry, you feel your body burst. Your back archs as your body quakes and shudders, your orgasm washing over you. Joel feels your pussy clench and spasm around his fingers, hot liquid gushing out to coat his hand and drip down his wrist.

Joel's a gentleman, languidly licking and suckling as you ride out of your high. Once your breathing slows, he withdraws his fingers, bringing them up to his mouth to clean off your essence. He meets your gaze, eyes hooded with the same hunger as your own.

"Like I said" he praises softly, making your spent cunt throb. "You're too damn sweet, sugar"

You giggle. "You're insane"

He leans in, planting a soft fluttering kiss to your quivering lips.

"Just f' ya'"

There's only one thing left to do. You know. He knows. You both know. But the way he takes in your pause, as if you're going to discover the most powerful secret, makes you believe there is so much more. His expression turns curious at your deliberate choice of aphony.

"Tell me what ya' want now. I could give ya' the world if 's what ya' want"

You avoid his gaze, playing with the collar of his flannel.

"I need you"

He lets out a clipped chuckle. "That I know, dirty one"

You roll your eyes, playfully.

"We're both aware. But it's not that, it's just..."

"Yes?"

"Can I see you, please?"

His eyes meet your expectant ones. His voice is gruff but soft, his desire for you mixing with a hint of vulnerability.

"Y' wanna see me?"

You nod as he gulps harshly, mouth tasting like sand.

"Can I take off your clothes?"

Joel's heart skips a beat again at your request, a mix of desire and vulnerability warring within him. It's too revealing and intimate, but God knows he just wants to give you all you want.

There's a hint of huskiness to his vulnerable voice. Unsure.

"Yeah" a beat. "You can"

You start unbuttoning slowly, licking your lips with eager trembling hands and pupils blown wide. Like a child on Christmas, knowing they're opening what they asked for. What they wanted. What they wrote at the top of their list. Your slow, deliberate unbuttoning has him practically holding his breath.

"Joel..." you bite your lip, removing his final button. Finally. "You're...."

Joel's heart stammers at the sight of your eyes on him, your obvious desire heightening his own. Yet, he avoids your stare as you reveal his bare chest, pose faltering a bit as if his strength succumbs to your hungry stare. He gulps under the intensity gaze, feeling so fucking vulnerable. It shakes him to his core, foreign to all this fuzzy things that make him sick.

He watches you through heavy-lidded eyes, his voice gruff and raw.

"Yeah…?"

"Perfect" you whisper out loud, his whole world crumbling down.

Joel's heart skips a beat at your words, his chest tightening with a mix of vulnerability and affection. Despite it, he feels self-conscious.

"Perfect…?" he teases, a hint of a dumb smile tugging at his lips.

"Yeah" you hum. "So pretty"

A word that doesn't fit in Joel's world. Feels off-putting. He has never been called such, but once it falls past your lips, coated in adoration, it feels as if it's the only truth ever. His heart skips another beat, body responding to your words.

You can tell he can't believe you're saying those words about him by the hint of disbelief in his eyes.

"Joel"

He lets out a gruff huff in response.

"Look at me"

"Pretty" Joel repeats, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Don't you believe me?"

Joel's heart skips another beat, the vulnerability growing stronger. He's still not used to hearing compliments about his body by you, by anyone at all. It's making his head spin a little.

He can't quite meet your eyes as he responds.

"Take it easy on me, sweet girl. I ain't exactly in m' prime"

"Joel. Look at me" your voice a little firmer this time.

Joel takes a moment, his heart racing. He can't resist your plea, even if he hates feeling vulnerable. Slowly, he meets your eyes.

His voice is almost quiet. "I'm lookin'"

"Good. Do you want me to know what I'm looking at?" you extend your hand to reach his face, brushing a strand of hair that's fallen to his forehead. "Your greys" then, you tug his bottom lip down, "your lips", you circle the wrinkles around his eyes, "your warm eyes" and afterwards, your fingers dwindle on his nose, "just... all of your face: scars, spots and wrinkles. It leaves me breathless"

Joel's heart races as you speak, your words sinking in. He feels seen, in a way he's rarely felt before. Its messing with his mind.

"You describin' what you seein'?" his voice hoarse with emotion. It sounds far away, as if it didn't belong to him.

His lips part as your hand moves down, grazing his neck and his chest before landing on his belly. The sincerity in your eyes is making him feel even more vulnerable, and Joel can feel himself crumbling under your intense stare and firm hands.

"No, I'm describing what I love"

He looks at you, eyes filled with vulnerability and uncertainty.

"Y/n"

It was like being peeled, layer by layer. He hated how he was built now. Rough. Too sharp around edges. Soft on ones he wished he wasn't.

"All of you"

He chuckles, but it's a defeated dying sound. Almost bitter.

"That's impossible, honey"

"What's impossible is not to love all of you"

He gulps, throat raw but unable to say anything.

"Please. Let me love you"

As if he hadn't already hand you his soul. Swallowed all of your words with a feverish desperation, placed them inside a space that had gone cold with time, now feeling like a warm home where he finally belonged.

"My sweet girl..."

You feel Joel pressing you up against the mattress, his bigger body pinning you in place with a hunger that takes your breath away. His hands are everywhere, roaming over your naked curves with a fevered intensity, a low growl of frustration escaping his lips when you break the kiss to take some air.

"You can do with me anything you want"

Joel's breath stops. With a trembling but sure hand, he reaches out, his calloused fingers skimming over the swell of your breasts, teasing the sensitive flesh until your nipples strain against the cloth of your bra. You arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips as you feel the hard length of him pressing insistently against your stomach.

Joel leans in, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he whispers. 

"Anythin'?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough with desire as you nod, desperate. 

But then, he's laughing, as if pleased with your eagerness. Amused.

"That much? Oh, baby, you that desperate for 'tis ol' man? That bad you want me?"

You whine, at loss for words, the throb too painful to think straight. Joel laughs again, but it's devoid of malice.

"No, don't just nod. I wanna hear you say it, y/n. Wanna hear ya' beg fo' me like the desperate sweet little thin' y'are"

You've never been one for begging, but something about the way he's looking at you, the raw, unbridled hunger in his eyes, makes you want to give him everything he wants and more.

"Please, Joel" you breathe, voice reduced to a needy tremor, "I need you so bad, Joel, please. I need you inside me. I want you filling me, claiming me, in every way possible"

"My sweet girl" he coos, followed by a flurry of heated kisses and desperate groping. You barely have a chance to catch your breath before he's pressing you up with more insistence, his body pinning you in place with a hunger that leaves you desperately aching for more. "S'pretty"

Joel's eyes darken with lust as he takes in the sight of you, drinking in every inch of your glistening skin. He smirks at the desperation written all over your face, something wicked and tender circling inside his brown eyes.

He leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear as he whispers huskily. "Ts' it, doll. Keep on beggin'. Lemme hear how much y' need ma' cock 'nside 'tis tight little cunt"

You gasp, your hips bucking involuntarily as you feel his fingers slide down to brush against your sensitive clit, a wave of arousal coursing through you.

"Please, please, please, Joel" you whimper, your voice high and needy as you grind yourself shamelessly against his hand. "I'm so wet for you. Please, I'm begging you, make me yours"

He growls. "S'eager, huh? Who would've thought ya' were such'a dirty girl for 'tis ol' dick? Just had ya' bein' all lovey dovey a second ago and now y'are beggin' fo' me to ruin 'tis pretty pussy, baby?"

He quickly sheds what's left of his clothes, revealing to your wide eyes the thick, hard length of his cock, springing free and bobbing heavily against his soft belly. Alright, you had some thoughts about dating a much older man, even if Joel seemed the type of guy to be doted, given his energy. You're glad to be proven wrong in the very best way.

"Fuck, Joel" you breathe, licking your lips as you imagine the taste of him on your tongue. "You're so big"

His cheeks color a pretty pink, sweat beads adorning his forehead. The heat of his body envelopes you like a furnace.

"Now I truly believe ya' like what ya' seein'" he chuckles, "such'a greedy little thing" a beat. "S' fucken hungry for ma' cock. Don't worry, baby. 'M gon' give it to you, nice and slow, until you're screamin' fo' me to let you come"

Joel settles between your thighs, the thick head of his cock nudging against your entrance as he leans down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, effectively swallowing your needy whimpers.

"M' gon' take real good care of what's mine" in that southern drawl that drives you crazy. Hungry. Poisoned with a ravenous desire to possess every inch he can reach of your body. For everyone to see. Know. For all the prying stares. Judgeful. To appreciate in secret under the watchful gaze of the weak sunrays that filter through the courtains of his bedroom.

He then leans to take one of your nipples on his mouth, suckling and teasing the rosy peak, lapping the sensitive bud with his tongue, his hand kneading and squeezing the soft flesh of your breast. You arch into his touch, a symphony of moans and whimpers falling from your lips as he works your body.

At the same time, Joel begins to slowly, teasingly push forward, the thick head of his cock parting your slick folds and sinking inch by tortuous inch into your tight heat.

"Joel!" you gasp, your nails sinking down on the soft expanse of his broad back as you take in his girth, walls clenching and fluttering around his size.

Joel's breaths come in harsh pants against your skin as he fights the urge to bury himself to the hilt in one thrust.

"Y'are so fucken tight" he grits out, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Don't wanna hurt you, my little fawn. But ya' feel s' good, sweet girl. S' perfect 'round ma' cock."

You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, using the leverage to rock your hips up against his, taking him a little deeper with each desperate roll. He's impressed by your hunger, your desire fueling further his consuming own.

"Joel" you mewl, voice breaking with need, "I can take it, please, I promise. I just need all of you, Joel. Please, fuck me hard and deep until I can't think of anything but the feeling of your cock inside of me"

With a feral growl, Joel surrenders to your plea, slamming his hips forward to bury himself to the hilt inside you. A scream that sounds like his name tears from your throat at the sudden, intense sensation of all of him devouring your from inside, your body convulsing with the force of his thrust.

He sets a brutal pace, pounding into you with deep, powerful strokes that shake the bed frame and echo through the room. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin mingles with the sounds coming out of your mouths.

"Please, please. I wanna come, please"

Tears well in your eyes at the insistence that rocks your body. Joel's eyes widen, perhaps in surprise, this new and strange, yet, his cock twitching makes this all the more intriguing. Arousing even.

"S' you cryin' over my cock?"

You deny it, but the salty trails have started to pool down your cheeks, your prettu fluttering eyelashes damp. Joel gulps, feeling blood rushing to his cock again.

"Don't worry, little fawn" doesn't know why but his tongue runs across your tear-smeared face, the taste of your damp skin, musk and sweat strong, make his mind go numb. "I think ya' look pretty when ya' cry"

Joel feels your velvet walls starting to flutter and clench around his pistoning cock, signaling your coming climax. He doubles his efforts, slamming into you with a wild, primal intensity that steals your breath away.

"That's it, sweet girl" Joel growls, voice ragged with lust as he feels your body tensing beneath him. "Come for me, y/n. I wanna feel you comin' undone on ma' cock, screamin' ma' name as I fill you up nice"

You're a sight to savor in, like basking the first rays of sunlight on the morning. Like his bitter coffee on his favorite mug. But you're sweet on the inside and the outside, he thinks as his thumb finds your clit, rubbing merciless circles over the sensitive nub. Joel is lost on you, he's aware, as he leans down to capture your lips in a consuming kiss. He just wants to have all of you, day and night, body and soul, in and out, because just a taste, and he's gone down the deep saccharine trails of your neck and quivering heart.

Your back arches as the pleasure becomes too intense to bear, your body convulsing uncontrollably as your climax crashes over you. You scream his name, you think, lost in a sea of desperate pleas and incoherent whimpers spilling from your lips.

Joel hilts himself deep inside you as your walls spasm and milk his cock, your release triggering his own, followed by a grunt akin to surrender, perhaps. To you, now fully his. This is the end, he thinks. Now, he's truly yours. God help her, the townsfolk say when you tell them Joel's your man, but when a hoarse shout of your name comes out of his mouth, pulses hot and hard as he grinds against you, you think this is all you need.

Fuck it.

This is what it feels like.

Joel collapses onto you, his bigger softer body blanketing you as he struggles to catch his breath.

"My sweet girl" he coos, peppering your face with soft kisses, his hands roaming over your curves with a gentle, reverent touch. You can feel his heart pounding against your own, when he whispers, voice low and sated. "Mine"

You can't help but laugh in awe. "Yes, Joel. Yours"

He props himself up on his elbows, his brown eyes searching yours with a tenderness that makes your heart skip a beat. A slow, lazy smile spreads across his face as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on the delicate line of your jaw.

"I know I said I was scared, before. That I've tried to push you 'way. God, y'are stubborn, know that? 'M just glad you ain't a quitter"

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, tender kiss that makes your heart leap. It tastes bitter like grains and whiskey, but sweet with love and devotion. It's not only a spark between your lips, another of many, but a promise, burning with the same intensity the old coffee pot heats his coffee in the morning.

"Y'are my everything, y/n" your name pronounced like never before. Now ever since.

A heart. A home.

"So are you, Joel" his name in a fervent whisper. Born to be said like a prayer.

And for the first time in so long, Joel Miller feels the same thing he felt when he held Ellie close. I've got you, babygirl.

Hope.

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @pedgito / dts: @joelscowgirl ⋆˚✿˖°

[jaysbaefie]

bullshit | sjy

synopsis: in which months of mocking jake online comes back to bite you, and he makes sure you regret every single word—on your knees.

genre: idol au

pairing: idol!jake x blogger!reader

warnings: dubcon? bratty!reader, petty!jake, mean!jake, big dick!jake, kidnapping (sort of kind of??), oral (m.rec), cum swallowing, reader grinds down on jake’s shoe, mention of daddy kink (but it’s not used), forced submission, manhandling, titty sucking, marking, begging, degrading. self degradation, rough and unprotected p in v, orgasm denial, overstimulation, light spanking slapping and chocking, creampie, spitting, recording for blackmail purposes. i think that’s it….

wc: 15.1k

a/n: this took a lot more time that i initially thought it would … but it’s here now! this draft has been sitting in my archives for years like literal years. back when i used to write on wattpad for bts i had this plot written for tae but scrapped it because i lacked creativity to make it happen. but here we r ! also side note this is not edited to the best of its abilities so if u c a mistake… im sorry :D hope you enjoy, notes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. enjoy :)

✎﹏﹏

the dorm door slammed open, the sound of sneakers dragging across the floor echoing behind it. the 7 exhausted boys spilled into the living room, all drained and sweaty from the insane dance practice that had run two hours longer than scheduled. jake collapsed face-first onto the couch, groaning into a throw pillow as he stretches his limbs before he feels a cramp in his leg.

"i think my spine is permanently bent," he mumbled, not moving an inch.

sunghoon flopped onto the floor, using his hoodie as a pillow. "i think i disassociated during 'bite me.'"

"you always disassociate during 'bite me,'" heeseung shot back, tossing a towel at him making sunghoon scowl.

jay, meanwhile, had his phone out, thumb lazily scrolling through twitter as he half-listened to the chaos around him. he was about to put his phone down when a thread caught his eye.

"kpop idols who probably have the smallest dick (a very unserious thread)"

"...oh?" jay blinked, intrigued for all the wrong reasons. a grin formed on his lips as he clicked, the list started off wild.

1. jaehyun nct - idc what y'all say. he screams below average. 2. jeno nct - this is a hater post. cry about it. 3. jake from enhypen - golden retriever energy but gives micro vibes. sorry not sorry.

jay let out a loud, sudden laugh at the description given for jake—catching everyone's attention.

"yo, jake," he wheezed, turning the screen toward him. "look what someone said about you."

jake rolled over lazily, half hazy, "what?"

jay shoved the phone in front of his face. jake read the tweet once, then again. then a third time. his brows furrowed deeper with each pass, almost as if he couldn't believe what he was reading.

"...are you serious right now?"

he sat up, yanking the phone from jay's hand to read it himself. his eyes scanned the username, the post and then the likes. 10k likes for a bullshit post, jake scoffed in disbelief. he scrolled down to read the replies which were full of people either agreeing or arguing like their lives depended on it.

"no because she's right and she should say it louder" one of the comments read, jake furrowed his eyebrows before scowling.

"i love him but... yeah."

"nah he gives big dick energy actually"

"this is so mean LMFAOOO"

jake's mouth opened in shock. "why am i even on this list? what did i do to deserve this? how does someone look at me and go, 'yeah, micro dick.' what the hell?"

jay couldn't stop laughing. "it's so random, too. like. where did they get the data? did they run a poll?"

"this isn't funny!" jake snapped, slapping jay's shoulder with the back of his hand. "i'm being slandered in front of thousands of people. tens of thousands!"

sunoo peeked over jay's shoulder. "ooh. and someone made a follow-up post. wait—found their tumblr. they said he looks like he apologizes after missionary.'" sunoo cackles, "i can totally see that."

jake nearly choked on air, "what?!"

he snatched sunoo's phone this time, heart pounding as he scrolls violently across your twitter page. he followed the breadcrumb trail from twitter to a tumblr blog: @s0ftbrat666.

the header was a blurry photo of a cunty hello kitty, and the bio just said: "unserious about everything but dick size."

"who the hell is this? why do they hate me so bad?"

niki, who had been quietly sipping water from the kitchen, muttered, "maybe they're a fan of yours. like, weirdly obsessed. reverse psychology or something."

"no. this is personal. this feels targeted," jake muttered, already downloading and opening the tumblr app on his phone. "i'm not letting this slide."

he made a new account. he picked the most ironic, absurd username he could think of: @goldenjake420.

because that screams, 'i'm the real jake sim!!'

he messaged you immediately, his hands shaking in rage as he smashes his fingers into the screen.

@goldenjake420: hey just saw your post about me having a micro dick on twitter. not sure why you said that but i can assure you that it's not true kinda rude ngl maybe take it down?

"this is so stupid," he muttered, tossing his phone beside him.

jay raised a brow. "you really just dm'd a twitter troll on tumblr?"

"yes. because the truth matters, jay. i do not have a micro dick!" he exclaims, clearly frustrated from his group mates lack of empathy. he looks around the room in hopes of his members reassurance, only to receive looks of disturbance.

"cmon guys, you know i don't have a micro dick.." he trails off when he sees sunoo grimace at his words.

heeseung smirked from the other side of the couch suddenly sitting up right, ignoring his aching body. "you should send a pic to prove it."

jay cackles before agreeing, "yeah, downwards angles always make that shit look like a tower."

"SHUT UP!" jake shouted, face red in a mixture of embarrassment and anger.

the room erupted in laughter as jake sat there fuming, arms crossed, waiting for a response. he had no idea the person he messaged was already rolling their eyes and preparing to block him.

and this was only the beginning.

you were no stranger to the occasional deranged and delusional fan losing their mind over a post. it was social media, not a diplomatic summit. if you said someone's fave had bad fashion sense or gave off weak dick energy, it was bound to stir drama—but you thrived in it.

what you didn't expect, though, was to get a dm from an account called @goldenjake420 claiming to be jake himself. not just a fan defending him. not someone crying in your inbox about how you were "too mean."

no. this person had committed to the bit.

@goldenjake420: hey just saw your post about me having a micro dick on twitter. not sure why you said that but i can assure you that it's not true kinda rude ngl maybe take it down?

you blinked at the message, snorted, and sat back in your chair.

"okay..." you muttered under your breath. "we've reached new levels of delusion."

you clicked the profile. no posts. followed no one. default layout. pfp of a blurry golden retriever. and the username?

goldenjake420.

"oh my god," you wheezed. this was peak fandom brainrot.

you stared at the message for a minute, thumbs hovering over your keyboard before you decided, you know what? fine. you wanna play jake sim? let's play.

you typed:

@s0ftbrat666: omg jake??? THE jake sim??? i am so sorry... i didn't know you had a tumblr account i feel so bad now omg i'll take it down right away thank you for being so mature and respectful about it... ugh i feel terrible lol

you hit send. then burst out laughing, eyes watering as you cackle alone in your room.

and five minutes later, you posted a new post on your blog.

—— post by @s0ftbrat666

just got a dm from someone PRETENDING to be jake sim because they were mad i said he has a micro dick LMAOOO. like babes be serious... jake sim is not on tumblr dot com messaging me with a blurry pic of a golden retriever and the username @/goldenjake420. but since he's here reading my posts, hey jake! if u're mad now wait til u see what i post next

anyway updated my list: "kpop idols who give off submissive missionary micro dick energy: extended version" jake is now first on the list. i've added footnotes and gifs as evidence. enjoy :] ——

you tagged it: #jake sim #enhypen #pls don't take this seriously #except jake if ur reading this then yeah take it seriously

you sat back and refreshed the notes every few seconds. it was already blowing up. likes, reblogs, someone screaming in the tags: "NOT THE FOOTNOTES."

you were thriving, satisfaction filling you as the comments seemed to hype you up.

unbeknownst to you, somewhere in a dorm across the city, jake was screaming into a pillow.

jake was laying on his stomach, face shoved into a couch cushion, aggressively refreshing your tumblr page like a man on a mission. the first message he sent you hadn't gone exactly how he expected. he thought maybe—maybe—you'd feel a little guilty, take the post down, maybe even apologize. instead, he was met with:

"omg jake??? THE jake sim??? i am so sorry..."

at first, he blinked. then smiled. you were going to apologize and take it down..great!

okay, he thought, that was easier than expected.

but then he saw the post you had published just a few minute later.

—— "kpop idols who give off submissive missionary micro dick energy: extended version." jake is now first on the list. i've added footnotes. and gifs. enjoy :] ——

"NO I AM NOT," he yelled into the pillow, voice muffled but full of sheer disbelief.

he rolled over and shot upright, shoving his phone in jay's face. "do you SEE this? i was already called micro dick jake, but now i'm a submissive pillow princess? where is she even getting this from?"

jay looked over the post with a calm expression and said, "well... you did say 'ngl' in a tumblr dm. that's kinda submissive."

"jay."

"i'm just saying."

jake's blood pressure was actively rising. he was pacing the living room now, phone clenched in his fist. "this isn't a joke anymore. she's making footnotes. gifs, bro. there's like a whole academic paper on my dick energy. and worst of all, PEOPLE ARE AGREEING."

sunoo peeked around the corner. "maybe just let it go? like... it's tumblr. no one's gonna remember next week."

"it's twitter too! no. no, she wanted to make it personal. it's personal now."

he went back to tumblr, typing furiously in your dm's.

@goldenjake420: okay first of all?? i was acc being really nice u said some really rude stuff and i still tried to talk to u calmly but now ur doubling down with footnotes?? idk y ur so convinced i'm a submissive pillow princess but ur wrong like so wrong scientifically inaccurate levels of wrong

he hit send. then stared at the screen.

nothing. no response. refresh. refresh.

"error: message could not be delivered."

"...what?" jake frowned, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he desperately tried sending his messages again.

he clicked your profile.

"you've been blocked by this user."

the silence that followed was deafening.

"she blocked me," he whispered, staring at his phone like it had personally betrayed him. "she actually blocked me."

jay cackled from across the room. "maybe now you'll stop fighting the tumblr girl who thinks you're a bottom."

"i'm not a bottom!" jake snapped, defensive. "and i'm definitely not a pillow princess!"

jay peers over jake's shoulder, his face pulls into a grimace as he reads jake's messages. "maybe it's a good thing that those didn't deliver... you're proving her point." jake rolls his eyes in response, not wanting to deal with his friend.

he opened twitter, then paused. was he really about to tweet about this?

he closed the app.

instead, he opened his notes app and started typing:

"debunking tumblr slander: why i, jake sim, am not submissive nor do i have a micro dick."

this wasn't over.

if he had to write a dissertation, he would. he was reclaiming his name. one footnote at a time.

you were in bed, face smushed into your pillow, scrolling aimlessly when the tag notification came in. you were about to ignore it—probably another reblog of your cursed "submissive missionary micro dick energy" thread—but the caption caught your eye:

@s0ftbrat666 you need to see this LMAOOO he made a THREAD. a whole thread.

confused but curious, you tapped the post.

and there it was.

a full thread. by a tumblr user named @truthaboutjake, which already gave deranged energy, but it got better.

"debunking tumblr slander: why i, jake sim, am not submissive nor do i have a micro dick (a thread)."

you nearly dropped your phone, a giggle leaving you as you excitedly click on the thread.

the first slide was formatted like a presentation. bolded title, bullet points, and an unnecessary amount of spacing like someone had spent way too long formatting it.

—— slide 1: addressing the accusations • the tumblr user @s0ftbrat666 has made multiple posts claiming i am submissive • she has also accused me of having a micro dick • both of these are false, offensive, and based on no real evidence ——

no real evidence, he said. like you were in court.

"what in the deranged.." you muttered to yourself, re-reading the text a second time to make sure you were hallucinating.

you snorted, swiping to the next.

—— slide 2: rebuttal • i've been told i give off dominant energy • no one who owns a denim jacket collection that big can be submissive • as for the size... let's just say i've never received complaints ——

you had to pause there, hand over your mouth, wheezing. "denim jackets radiate peg me," you cackle to yourself.

this wasn't a thread written by a deranged fan. no, this was someone personally offended on a soul level. and the way it was written? the tone? the wording?

it was giving him. it was jake.

no one else would be this pressed.

you laughed so hard you had to sit up.

this man had been so insulted by your dumb, unserious thirst post that he created a whole alternate account, wrote a google-doc-tier thread, and was now trying to clear his name in the notes app format. you were obsessed.

you hit reblog.

—— @s0ftbrat666: i have never in my life witnessed a man fight for his dom rights this hard the denim jacket argument almost had me convinced ngl

jake sim if this is actually you: 1. calm down 2. you're literally proving my point 3. post the evidence since you're so confident ——

the comments came flooding in:

"NOT HIM MAKING A PRESENTATION" "'never received complaints' is CRAZY" "he could've just logged off but now he's in too deep" "@truthaboutjake is shaking"

you weren't done though. oh no.

you clicked the original post again and dm'd @truthaboutjake directly.

@s0ftbrat666: wow a thread? you really sat down and made a powerpoint about your dick this is the best thing that's happened to me all week but you still haven't proven anything so until i see hard (and i mean HARD) evidence you're staying in your submissive micro dick era i'll wait <33

you hit send with a shit-eating grin.

this was your roman empire now. you were going to be thinking about this thread forever.

jake stared at your message like it physically slapped him.

"so until i see hard (and i mean HARD) evidence you're staying in your submissive micro dick era"

his jaw dropped.

"e-evidence?!" he sputtered aloud, standing up in the middle of the dorm living room like he'd just been accused of murder.

jay, sitting across the room with earbuds in, pulled one out and glanced up. "what now?"

"she wants evidence."

jay blinked. "like...?"

jake gestured wildly at his phone. "like evidence evidence!"

jay raised both brows before grinning "...so what i said about the downward angle, i'm telling you jake that shit makes it look h—"

"NO!" jake practically yelled. "i'm not sending a picture of my dick to some random troll on tumblr!"

he fumed. typed. deleted. typed again. then, finally, sent:

@truthaboutjake: okay. listen. i'm not sending you a dick pic. i don't care how much you want "evidence" that's weird. this whole thing is weird. i'm literally just trying to correct a false narrative about myself

you saw the message and immediately rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your brain. you were curled up on your couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, typing with vicious speed.

@s0ftbrat666: omg. are you serious right now?? NO ONE asked for actual dick pics. what the hell is wrong with you. you're literally so deep in this delusion you really think you're jake sim like?? be serious for once you are a grown man on tumblr dot com pretending to be an idol and defending your imaginary dick size this is next level behavior. you need to touch grass and maybe talk to a therapist jake sim would never you are EMBARRASSING yourself rn.

you hit send and sighed, rubbing your temples. it was funny at first but the more you interacted with this person the more brain cells you lost, it shocked you that people would go to such lengths to defend their favs.

this was beyond fandom drama now. this was a case study. and the worst part? you were kind of impressed with how committed he was to the bit. concerned of course, but impressed too.

like... he was spiraling. but passionately.

still. you weren't going to let up. because whoever this man was, he needed to be humbled.

you opened a new post draft and typed:

—— @s0ftbrat666: update: he dm'd me again and accused me of demanding dick pics because i said "evidence"

i rest my case. this is not jake sim. this is some 32-year-old man who unironically uses reddit and thinks being called "submissive" is a slur

log off, drink some water, and go outside before you get a nosebleed from rage

#jake sim #not the real one obviously #this is tumblr not onlyfans relax ——

✎﹏﹏

jake tried to move on.

he really did.

after the dick thread. after being labeled a submissive missionary pillow princess. after the fake fan accusations and being accused of roleplaying as himself—he made the conscious choice to stop checking your blog. he muted your username. closed tumblr for a solid 24 hours. he even turned off his notifs.

he was healing. growing. rebuilding his sanity.

until a member sent him a screenshot.

it was sunghoon.

of course it was sunghoon.

sunghoon: yo y tf she got sm time on her hands icl tho she funny asf

attached was a photo of your newest tumblr post.

jake opened it, eyes squinting. then he saw it.

—— @s0ftbrat666: watched enhypen's most recent stage and i just wanna know WHO chose those pants for jake like bffr. i can see his entire situation

the dick print? front and center. and it's not giving what he thinks it's giving

it's giving: he begged the stylist to let him wear those pants so he could prove me wrong and i'm here to tell you... babe... don't ever do that again.

i'm LAUGHING.

#enhypen #jake sim #pls don't wear tight pants if ur not ready for the scrutiny king #it's not looking good ——

jake froze.

his phone was literally vibrating with how hard he was gripping it.

"she's watching performances now?" he whispered to himself, horrified.

jay looked up from across the room, warily. "...oh god. again?"

"she's analyzing my crotch, jay. she made a post about my dick print."

jay blinked. "that's... new."

"and she said it's 'not giving'!" jake practically screamed, spinning his phone around to show him. "not giving what?! not giving big dick energy?!?!"

jay read it silently, lips twitching. "...it does kind of sound like she thinks you're trying to prove her wrong. which, to be fair, you kinda are." he pauses for a second, "but i thought she deemed you as a deranged fan, does she think that you're actually texting her?"

jake shrugs, "who knows what she's thinking, clearly way to much of this is the shit she posts. also i wasn't even thinking about her when i wore those pants!"

"you literally made a thread defending your dick size last week."

"NOT THE POINT."

jake felt like he was going to combust. it was like every time he clawed his way back to peace, you dropped another post from hell and dragged him back into the pit.

and this time?

this time you targeted his outfit. his styling choices. his crotch visibility. he couldn't even enjoy the stage anymore without wondering if you were out there in a hoodie, behind a screen, zooming in on freeze frames of his pants.

"this is psychological warfare," jake muttered.

sunghoon looked up from his phone, his face annoyed. he was tired of hearing about this, "just block her again."

jake clenched his jaw. "she'll post about it. she'll brag."

he scrolled back up, reading the caption again. and again. his fingers hovered over your username.

he didn't message you. not this time.

instead, he posted on his burner account:

—— @truthaboutjake: some people spend their lives spreading negativity online because they have nothing else going for them. if you spend your free time zooming in on people's bodies just to make fun of them, seek help.

also, the pants looked fire. ——

he hit post. and then, two minutes later he opened the group chat.

jayke: whoever styled me last week. never again. we're going back to loose pants. i'm not doing this with tumblr anymore

✎﹏﹏

jake tried to stay composed. he tried.

but every time he opened tumblr, there you were—lurking in his psyche like a demon with wi-fi.

at first it had been a few jabs, sprinkled here and there between your usual posts about other idols. someone's hair, another's dance move, one guy you kept thirsting over for his "evil smirk" and "long fingers." whatever. jake didn't care.

until suddenly—your entire blog became about him.

not in a cute, stan-like way.

no.

it was relentless.

"jake sim update: still looks like a man who apologizes during sex."

"new era, same micro dick energy."

"his pants looked like they were holding in a lie."

"i know he fumbles the aux every time. just look at him."

your followers ate it up. reblog after reblog. tags like "#he's just so bashable" and "#jake sim slander is self-care" filled the notes.

there were polls. there were graphics.

you made a tier list of idols based on who looked like they cried after sex, and jake was placed right at the top with the caption: "he looks like he'd say 'was that okay?' while tucking his soft dick back in his briefs."

jake was spiraling.

the worst part? you didn't even seem like a hater. you didn't hate him.

you just... targeted him like it was your job. your content was crafted with care. effort. borderline affection.

jay leaned over one afternoon while jake doomscrolled through another one of your polls—this one titled "which idol do you think would last the shortest in bed (no offense)", where jake was winning by 68%.

"you know," jay mused, "i think she actually likes you."

jake looked up, eyes wide with horror as he looks at jay disgusted. "what?"

jay shrugged. "she's obsessed. it's giving weirdly specific attention. enemies-to-lovers coded."

"jay. she made a gifset of my crotch."

"exactly."

jake nearly threw his phone across the room.

it wasn't just slander anymore—it was becoming personal. and the most infuriating part?

you were so sure. so smugly sure.

every post was laced with casual cruelty and the sharp confidence of someone who truly believed they knew him. his vibes. his music taste. his dick size. like you'd studied him and filed a damn report.

and the urge to prove you wrong? it was eating at him.

he'd see one of your posts and get this itch. this slow, simmering burn in his gut. like he had something to prove now. like he wanted to walk up to you and say—

"say that shit again. to my face."

he'd fantasized about it more than once.

cornering you at a fansign, maybe. or catching you backstage if he ever figured out who you were. you with that smug little expression, your arms crossed like you knew everything. and him, leaning in, low and sharp, and making damn sure you knew you were wrong about everything—especially that.

he wasn't even mad anymore. not just mad. he was determined.

this wasn't just tumblr slander. this was a challenge.

and jake sim? he didn't lose.

✎﹏﹏

jake laid in bed, phone hovering above his face, lit only by the blue glow of tumblr's godforsaken app. it was well past 2 a.m., and he'd already scrolled through your entire blog—again.

he told himself it was just to see if you'd posted anything new. which, of course, you had,

but really, he was spiraling.

another post. this one read:

—— @softbrat666: something about jake sim just screams whines when it doesn't slide in all the way like he'd pause mid-thrust to ask if you're okay because he came too fast

he'd definitely say 'but you just feel so good...' as an excuse ——

and the worst part?

jake read every single reply. studied them, even. like they held some kind of twisted insight into how you saw him. how you imagined him. you were building this whole persona of him in your mind and then broadcasting it to thousands of followers like it was gospel. and the most messed up part?

you had just enough accuracy to make it sting.

and yet—you remained anonymous.

faceless. untouchable.

he'd tried to find out who you were. he dug through old posts, clicked your tags, searched your url on twitter and insta.

all he found was:     •    you lived in seoul     •    you were 21     •    you drank too much iced americano     •    and you had audacity in excess

that was it. no selfies. no personal posts. no full name. you were just a sassy username and a collection of jake sim hate posts.

meanwhile, he was a public figure with his whole government face on blast while you dragged him through the mud constantly.

he hated how much he thought about what you looked like.

were you soft and bratty, like your tone suggested? did you smirk when you wrote those captions? were you the type to twirl your hair and say, "what? it's not that deep," while ruining a man's reputation?

he imagined you walking around seoul, laughing with your friends, ordering overpriced coffee with that smug, evil-little-gremlin energy.

he imagined running into you.

he'd play it cool at first—polite, casual, maybe even a little flirty.

watch you ramble. watch you squirm. and when he caught you slipping—maybe when you made some offhand comment about k-pop or tumblr—he'd hit you with it:

"so how's that blog going? still think i'm a submissive pillow princess with a micro dick?"

he rolled onto his side, fuming into his pillow. you lived in his head rent-free and you didn't even know what he looked like at night when he was losing sleep over your bullshit posts.

it was unfair.

you got to stay invisible while he was out here analyzing his own stage outfits to figure out what clip you were gonna slander next.

he scrolled back to that gif set you made of his recent performance. paused on the close-up. the zoom-in.

the goddamn caption: "not jake sim trying to start a dickprint redemption arc. spoiler: it's not working."

his eye twitched.

"this girl is the devil," he muttered.

and yet... he couldn't stop checking. he needed to know what you'd say next.

✎﹏﹏

you wake up to absolute chaos.

your phone is buzzing. not one or two notifications—hundreds. group chats. twitter and tumblr dms. unknown numbers. missed calls. it's like your phone caught fire overnight.

you blink against the morning light, groggy and confused, heart picking up speed. something's wrong. you can feel it. you squint at the screen, drag down your notifications, and the first notification you see makes your stomach drop.

"girl you're trending rn... what did you DO???"

then another.

"is that actually your name???"

your pulse is pounding before you even open twitter. your fingers shake as you type your own @ into the search bar, and the second you hit enter, your breath catches.

it's you.

your name. your photo. your phone number. everything.

someone—no, a group of people—had clearly gone full fbi. they'd taken all your casual, dumb little posts over the years and pieced them together like a fucked-up puzzle.

and now your full name was in a viral thread titled: "this the girl behind the jake sim micro dick blog?"

with a photo of you at a party two months ago, smile beaming.

people were quote-tweeting it with comments like: "she built like someone who'd have beef with jake sim for no reason." "oh she definitely owns a stan twitter burner too." "her blog is my roman empire i need her in therapy immediately."

your blood turned to ice. you were exposed.

fully.

not just as a shitposter but as the jake sim hater. your inbox was flooded—death threats, confessions, apologies, people asking if it was really you. tumblr dms screaming:

"TAKE THE POSTS DOWN BEFORE HE SEES THEM."

too late.

you scrambled to log into tumblr. your hands fumbled across the keys. it took three tries to get your password right.

the second you were in, you did the only thing you could do.

you hit deactivate.

the blog was gone. years of posts. thousands of notes. all of your followers, your drafts, your hate-poll templates.

deleted.

and then the panic really set in.

your hands were trembling. your ears were ringing. and all you could think about was @truthaboutjake, your mind racing. it was him, you realized that it was him.

"he knows. jake sim fucking knows who i am."

and the worst part?

you had no idea what he'd do with it.

✎﹏﹏

jake found out the same way everyone else did—waking up to a string of texts from jay and sunghoon absolutely losing their shit.

jay: bro. check twitter. sunghoon: she got exposed. jay: HER NAME IS OUT LMAOOO jay: bet she's sweating rn sunghoon: she's kinda cute tho

he blinked hard, still groggy, and tapped open the thread that seemed to be trending.

your face stared back at him.

his heart flipped.

you looked... nothing like what he expected. he'd imagined someone smug. cold. maybe with villain bangs and a cigarette habit.

but no—there you were, face flushed in a group photo, laughing mid-sip of iced americano. you looked normal. it almost hurt to admit, but you were pretty.

you looked real.

and now, you were reachable.

he did what anyone would do: searched your name on instagram. he found your linked facebook.

scrolled. scrolled.

paused.

you had your workplace tagged in an old comment.

"juniper bean café - seoul branch."

he stared at it for a long moment. then, very calmly, he stood up, threw on a hoodie, cap, and mask, and left the dorm.

✎﹏﹏

the café was a little tucked away spot with plants hanging from the ceiling and a chalkboard sign outside that said "kiss me, i'm caffeinated."

jake walked in, glancing around. he spotted you immediately, behind the counter, head down as you punched in an order.

he could tell that you had a rough morning, good. your posture was tense. your hair was pulled back messily. your voice was strained. you looked tired, your eyes that seemed so full of life in your leaked photos had disappeared.

he stepped up to the counter. waited. his eyes trailed down your figure, your frame was draped with a loose fitted sweater and some baggy light wash jeans. you wore a black apron, cinching at your waist—allowing his hungry eyes to capture your curves.

you were trying to look invisible. trying not to stand out. but to him—you were glowing with guilt.

he watched you fumble with a stack of napkins, pretending you didn't feel his eyes burning into you. finally you cleared your throat, still not looking up.

"hi, what can i get you?"

he smiled behind his mask, slow and wicked. he pulled it down just enough to speak—voice dripping low, sharp with mocking sweetness.

"you gonna spit in my drink too?" he asked. "or just keep running your mouth somewhere i can't see?"

you froze.

head snapping up. eyes locking with his. and there it was—that flash of horror, recognition, disbelief. it was him.

you had to admit, he was just as if not more handsome in person. your mouth dried up when you watched his lips curl into a smirk and his eye twitch.

your mouth opened. closed. no sound.

"hi," he said, almost sweetly. "miss me?"

you fumbled a reply—something, anything—but he leaned in, resting his elbows on the counter like he had all the time in the world.

"you disappeared fast. what happened? got leaked and lost all your guts or did you burn through all your micro dick material?"

your coworker looked between you both, utterly confused and in awe that jake was standing in front her. you took a breath. straightened your spine. tried to salvage your dignity.

"this is harassment," you muttered.

"this is karma," jake shot back, his smile dark. he twitched in anger, how dare you call this harassment—what about what you had been doing for the last couple of weeks? "i wanted a latte, by the way. no sugar. unless you're finally ready to be sweet to me."

you nearly dropped the milk jug.

he didn't care. he was so amused. you were the girl who wrote entire essays dragging his dickprint and his imagined bedroom habits? you, flushed and stammering behind a café register?

he wanted to laugh. he wanted to lean in closer. he wanted to ruin you back.

and this? this was just the beginning.

your hands were shaking. milk frother sputtering. heart pounding in your chest like it wanted to escape. and he—jake fucking sim—just stood there.

smiling.

smug.

head tilted slightly like he was thrilled by your discomfort. "you gonna make that latte, or you gonna keep fumbling around and glaring at me?" he drawled, voice low and casual.

you gritted your teeth, turned back to the machine, and fumbled through the motions of making the drink. you could feel his eyes on you the entire time—watching, drinking you in like you were the fucking joke.

you finally slid the drink across the counter, trying not to slam it.

"here. now leave."

he didn't move. just sipped slowly, then licked a bit of foam from his lip like it was the most dramatic thing anyone had ever done in a coffee shop.

and then—he leaned forward. elbow on the counter. voice quiet, words slow and deliberate:

"what time do you get off?"

you blinked, "excuse me?"

"your shift. when does it end?"

"why the fuck would i tell you that?"

his smile widened, all teeth now, sharp and smug. "because there's going to be a black car waiting for you outside." he continues, "when you clock out, you're going to get in. and then you're going to follow instructions."

you stared at him, genuinely floored. "are you insane? what the hell are you talking about?"

he tilted his head, mockingly sympathetic. "i get it. you're scared. probably embarrassed." he grins, "but see, that's the thing about defamation—once it's public, i can take legal action. and you've been very public."

your stomach dropped, "you're bluffing."

he shrugged. "wanna bet your savings account on that?"

you opened your mouth. closed it again. because—fuck. he wasn't bluffing. he didn't have to. you'd posted too much. said too much. and now he had your face, your name, your location.

"you can't just—kidnap me," you said, weaker than intended.

he laughed.

"it's not kidnapping if you get in willingly, sweetheart."

then he slid the latte off the counter, turned, and started to walk toward the door. before he left, he glanced back, over his shoulder.

"9 p.m., right?" he called out. "don't be late. i hate being stood up." he grinned, fuck him.

the bell jingled as he left. the door shut behind him.

and you stood there, in your apron and sneakers and sweaty palms, absolutely rattled. what the fuck did you just get yourself into?

✎﹏﹏

9:03 p.m.

you were pacing behind the café. your shift ended three minutes ago, but you hadn't stepped outside yet. you couldn't. your feet felt like bricks. your stomach twisted with anxiety, hands clenched in the pockets of your jeans.

what the fuck am i doing?

you shouldn't go. you know you shouldn't go. this was literally stranger danger 101, except instead of a stranger it was a kpop idol whose dick size you flamed online for weeks.

your brain was screaming at you. your nerves were a warzone. your inner monologue sounded like one long anxiety spiral:

"you're insane." "this is how people get murdered." "he's rich. he could make you disappear and blame it on anxiety meds." "but also... maybe he just wants to talk?" "or maybe he's gonna sue you in person with his scary legal team and laugh while you cry." "or—worse—what if he takes a picture with you and posts it with some shady ass caption like 'finally found her :)' and now you're really cooked?"

your fists clenched tighter.

this was your own fault. you were the one who made that blog. you were the one who said he looked like a pillow princess. you were the one who photoshopped a pacifier into that one fansite photo and captioned it "baby boy can't handle coochie."

and now?

now he knew your name. your face. your shift schedule.

and there it was, waiting on the curb like a horror movie prop—a sleek black car, windows tinted, headlights glowing like eyes.

you stared at it.

and then, finally, took a deep breath and walked towards it.

the back door opened before you could even touch it. you slid inside, hesitating, clutching your bag to your chest like a shield. you looked around the dimly lit interior. leather seats. no jake.

just a stone-faced driver in a black cap.

"um," you said cautiously. "where are we going?"

no response.

you leaned forward slightly. "hello? i just—can you at least tell me if jake is—"

silence.

he kept driving.

great.

you sat back, heart still racing. the lights of the city blurred past the windows. you couldn't even track the direction—you were too jittery to focus. every turn felt like it took you farther from safety.

and god, the silence was suffocating.

you hated it. you hated him.

jake sim and his smug face and his legal threats and the fact that this whole thing was so humiliating.

how the hell did he turn it around on you? curse those people who leaked you.

you were supposed to have the power. the upper hand. you were the one who had thousands of people laughing at his expense. you were the one whose posts got quoted like bible verses on stan twitter.

and now?

now you were alone, in his car, being driven to god knows where because he told you to.

you should've never fucking posted about his dick. you should've stayed anonymous. kept your mouth shut. deleted the pacifier post when it hit 10k notes.

the car slowed. you peeked out the window. it wasn't some mansion, like you feared. wasn't a dungeon either—at least you think so.

it was a private-looking building—modern, sleek, tucked down a quiet alley with a gated entrance. definitely expensive. definitely secluded.

you were dropped off at the curb. the driver didn't say anything—just nodded toward the front door.

you stepped out slowly, phone gripped tight in your hand, ready to fake an emergency call or scream if necessary.

a man, different from the driver, opened the front door. another silent guy in all black gestured for you to follow.

you hesitated, then followed him down a short hallway, up a narrow flight of stairs, until you reached a door with a single number carved into it: 17.

he knocked once, then opened it.

you stepped in—and stopped.

jake was inside.

he was leaning casually against a wall, dressed in all black—hoodie, chain, jeans, hair tousled, like he hadn't even tried and still looked like a good.

he was scrolling on his phone when you entered, then looked up.

and grinned, "hey." he stops, letting his gaze travel down your trembling form, "glad you could make it, hate blogger."

you wanted to punch him. you wanted to turn around and leave. but most of all—you wanted to know what the hell came next.

and by the look on his face?

he was very ready to show you.

room 17 is quiet. too quiet.

you stand near the door, gripping the strap of your bag like it's your last line of defense. jake hasn't moved from his place against the wall, but his eyes haven't left you for a second. he looks too calm. like this is just some casual meetup and not the most batshit confrontation of your entire life.

"you still haven't told me why i'm here," you say finally, voice tight, trying to sound unbothered even though your throat is dry.

he doesn't answer right away. he just studies you, eyes flicking from your clenched fists to your shifting posture to the tiny, almost-invisible tremble in your knees.

then he lets out a soft little chuckle, the kind that feels mean. smug and quiet and condescending.

"you really don't know?" he asks, stepping away from the wall at last. his strides are slow, deliberate, like he knows you won't run—but that you should.

you take a step back automatically, bumping into the door behind you.

"if this is about suing me," you mutter, chin lifting defensively, "you could've just emailed your legal team. this whole drama king act—" "i'm not suing you." he cuts you off, voice calm but sharp. he walks past you and locks the door with a soft click. your stomach flips.

"then what the hell is this?" he turns back to you, expression unreadable, "this is about correction."

you blink, "what?"

"you posted things that were... inaccurate." he steps closer. you press yourself further into the door. "about me. my body. my performance. my preferences." another step. you swear you stop breathing, "so now i'm giving you a chance to see the truth."

you stare up at him, wide-eyed, "you're joking."

"does it look like i'm joking?" he murmurs.

you're momentarily speechless. your brain is whirring, trying to process what's happening. jake sim—international idol, global heartthrob, the man you've memed within an inch of his digital life—has dragged you to a private room to debunk his dick size?

you should laugh, but you can't.

because he's standing too close. because he's looking at you like prey. because his voice is dipped in amusement but his eyes are furious.

"you're out of your mind," you whisper, eyes wide and your jaw slacked.

he shrugs, "maybe."

his hand lifts, knuckles brushing your chin—just enough to make your breath catch.

"but you made this personal. you dragged it out. you turned it into a running gag." he leans down slightly, until your noses are nearly brushing. "and now you're gonna watch what happens when you say shit you can't back up."

your throat works around a swallow. your persona starts to crack.

still—you can't not be a brat.

"so what, you're gonna just pull your dick out like some frat boy in a scandal?" you snort. "you're so mad over a joke, you're—"

"baby," his voice cuts you off again, soft but dangerous.

"a joke is calling me clingy or annoying. a joke is editing me into a pink onesie." he steps even closer, "but accusing me of being a submissive pillow princess with a dick that couldn't break a hymen?" he tilts his head, mocking, "that's slander."

you flush. deeply, "you saw that post?"

"i've seen every post," he says coolly. "and the reblogs. and the tags. and the memes."

you suddenly feel so small. not because he's taller—though he is—but because you'd spent months building this image of jake sim as a joke. a punchline. a target.

and now he's right here. and he's pissed.

"you're really that bothered?" you ask, but your voice is quieter now, unsure. "bothered?" he repeats, almost scoffing. "sweetheart, i was obsessed." his hand lifts again, brushes your hair away from your face, fingers dragging a little too slow behind your ear.

"you don't understand what it's like to be degraded by someone who's too cowardly to even show their face." he pauses, his eyes dropping to your lips, "but i'll show you."

you swallow hard. "so what?" you ask, trying not to waver. "you want me to apologize? to... take it all back? post a formal retraction about your dick?"

he grins. slow and sharp, "nah."

"i want you to see it," he pauses, lets the words sink in. "and then i want to see the look on your face when you realize you were dead fucking wrong."

your mouth opens. no sound comes out. your heart is pounding so fast you think you might throw up. because there's teasing and there's joking and there's flirting with danger—but this? this is crossing the line, and you don't know if you want him to stop.

you laugh, it comes out breathy and nervous and completely unconvincing. "okay," you say, holding your hands up a little, trying to cut the tension with sarcasm, "haha, very funny. you got me. you've officially scared the shit out of me, and if that was your goal, congratulations."

jake just stands there. watching you. expression unreadable, unreadable and dark. you shift on your feet, trying to find a way out of this, trying to reclaim some sense of control.

"look," you continue, "i'll take everything down, okay? every post. every meme. every stupid out-of-pocket caption." you swallow. "i'll issue an apology. hell, i'll write a thread. a whole google doc. whatever you want."

you inch away from the door, toward the side of the room, trying to put some space between you.

"i crossed a line. i get that now." you laugh again, weaker this time. "like—clearly."

jake still doesn't speak, he starts walking.

slow. silent. like a cat with its prey cornered.

your back hits the wall.

"i'll stop posting about you," you rush out, your heart beating frantically when you feel jake's breath fan against your cheek. "seriously. no more degrading content. no more jokes. you win, okay?" his palm hits the wall beside your head with a sharp thud.

you freeze.

he leans in.

"i don't want a fucking apology," he murmurs, voice thick and low, the sound of it making your legs weaken. you try to hold his gaze, but it's hard when he's this close. when you can smell his cologne—clean and warm, like cedar and skin. when you can see the heat in his eyes, the tension in his jaw.

"i want you to look at me," he says, "and admit you were wrong."

"i just did—" "no." his other hand comes up, fingers ghosting your chin, tilting it up. "not because you're scared. not because you think i'm gonna sue your ass. i want you to say it because you know."

you suck in a breath as his fingers graze your throat. not squeezing. not threatening. but claiming, staking a presence.

"you think i'm some submissive little pushover," he whispers, "who just lays there and takes it. soft. boring. harmless."

your heart pounds in your chest so loud you swear it echoes. "you think you own the narrative. that you get to decide who i am, what i'm like in bed, how big my fucking dick is."

you flinch at the way he says it, so vulgar and harsh it shoots straight to your core.

"but the second i show up—" his thumb brushes your bottom lip. "you're quiet. nervous. twitchy. like you already know you were talking out of your ass."

you suck in a shaky breath and try to bite back the heat that's crawling up your neck. "you're insane," you whisper, but there's no bite behind it.

his body is so close now, you can feel the heat radiating off him. he hasn't even touched you properly and you already feel like your knees are going to give.

"what do you want from me?" you ask, voice barely holding together. he leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"i want to fuck the lies out of your mouth." his voice is so low, it vibrates down your spine. "i want you to choke on everything you said about me and realize i was never the one being dominated."

you let out a small, shaky sound—and that's when he finally kisses you.

not soft.

not slow.

possessive. like he's claiming what he's owed.

like he's trying to shove every insult back down your throat, one filthy kiss at a time.

your mind blanks the second his mouth claims yours. his tongue pushes past your lips without hesitation, his hand gripping your jaw to keep you right where he wants you, and you feel it deep—too deep. like he's trying to crawl inside your ribcage and brand himself there.

his kiss isn't gentle. it's punishment. all teeth and tongue, your back shoved harder into the wall as he presses against you. his body completely, deliberately dominating yours.

"still think i'm soft?" he growls against your lips when he pulls back, breath ragged, thumb digging into the underside of your chin to keep you looking at him.

you don't answer. you can't.

your mouth is open, panting, lips wet and swollen from how violently he just kissed you. your knees barely hold.

his gaze drops to your mouth. then lower, and lower.

he smirks.

"you look scared," he says, tilting his head slightly. "thought you liked writing filthy shit about me. what happened to all that confidence?"

you swallow hard, still in absolute disbelief, "you're—you're actually insane."

"and you're actually still turned on." his hand drops to your hip, gripping hard, pulling you flush against him—and fuck. he's hard. painfully hard. pressing right against your lower stomach. and he knows you feel it.

your eyes widen. you try to squirm away but there's nowhere to go, your back hits the wall again and his thigh wedges between your legs.

"not so micro now, is it?" he breathes against your neck. you let out a broken sound—half gasp, half groan—and that's when jake loses it.

he grabs your wrists and pins them above your head with one hand, other hand sliding beneath your shirt, grazing skin and pulling a shocked noise out of you. he doesn't give you room to breathe.

"say it," he growls. "say you were wrong."

you shake your head. still stubborn. still you.

"no?" he scoffs. "fine." his thigh presses harder between your legs, rocking up once. your clit throbbed pathetically at the feeling, it was just enough friction to make your eyes roll back. you try to keep your composure, but he watches your face change—watches your pride falter.

"don't lie to me, baby." his voice drops lower—hungrier. "you're dripping. over the same guy you dragged for months."

you gasp, trying to turn your face away from him, but he leans in again, his nose brushing your cheek.

"you gonna blog about this too?" he whispers. "tell your little followers how jake sim manhandled you and made you eat your words with his cock halfway down your throat?"

you whimper and it disgusts you how fast your body betrays you. how wet you already are. how much you want him to ruin you just to prove you were wrong.

and he can tell.

he sees the shift in your expression. how your resistance is slowly, deliciously, falling apart.

your wrists are still pinned, your breathing uneven, chest rising and falling fast as jake leans in like he owns the air around you.

"i'm done hearing you talk," he mutters, dragging his mouth along your jaw. "i think it's time you showed me just how sorry you really are."

he releases your hands and steps back. you don't move. your legs are trembling, your pride hanging on by a thread.

"on your knees," he says simply.

you scoff, arms folding defensively across your chest, "you can't be serious—"

he tilts his head, "i'm not asking again."

there's no loud threat. no yelling. just the terrifying calm of someone who already knows he's won. you hold your ground—barely. but something about the way he looks down at you, already palming the bulge in his jeans, makes your body respond before your mind does.

you sink, slowly. knees hitting the floor like it's a confession. he watches you with quiet satisfaction, like he's waited for this exact moment.

he had been dreaming about the moment he would get you to himself, on your knees—right where he wanted you.

"look at me," he says, and you do—eyes meeting his as he unzips, the sound ridiculously loud in the silence.

he's already thick in his hand when he pulls it out, and your mouth goes dry. you don't want to admit it, but fuck. it's big. way bigger than you ever gave him credit for. your throat tightens at the sheer weight of it, thick and flushed and veined.

his smirk deepens when he sees the way your eyes drop.

"what was that again?" he mocks, giving himself a slow stroke. "micro?"

you glare up at him, heat crawling up your neck. "i was clearly misinformed."

"say it properly."

you hesitate, his free hand tangles in your hair—firm, but not painful. just enough to tilt your face up toward him.

"say. it."

you grit your teeth, "i was wrong."

"about what?"

you groan. "about your dick. okay? you don't have a micro dick."

he raises an eyebrow, "that all?"

"it's big," you mutter, cheeks burning. "you made your point." he laughs—low and satisfied—and guides your face closer, "not yet."

you gasp when you feel his tip touch your cheek, he grins at your expression—feeling satisfied with your shock. he does a few experimental taps, dragging his length over your lips. you hold in a whine when he smears his pre cum over your bottom lip, almost as if he was applying lipgloss on you.

and then he pushes in.

there's no easing into it—he gives you the thick weight of his cock all at once, making you choke. your hands scrambling to grip his thighs as he holds you there, watching with dark, satisfied eyes.

"look at that," he murmurs. "mouth so full of me you can't even talk shit now." you gag again, but his grip stays steady, fingers flexing against the back of your head as he rocks his hips in slow, controlled thrusts. just enough to make you feel how deep he is and prove how wrong you were.

he could feel how warm your mouth was around him, basking in the feeling of not only pleasure but the satisfaction of shutting you up.

"this what you wanted?" he groans. "to see what i've been hiding in those pants you loved to degrade?"

you can't respond. not when he's using your mouth like a cock sleeve, fucking every insult out of you with a punishing rhythm. spit drips from out of your mouth and onto your chin. tears prick at your eyes and yet—somewhere deep in your gut—you like it.

jake's grip on your hair gets stronger, the pain causing your jaw to slack as you continue to take his brutal pace. you could feel the head of his cock  rub against the back of your throat, the force not strong enough to make you gag but enough to cause a stream of tears to run down your face.

your nose touched his pelvis with every thrust, indicating how deep he was going. "fuck. look at you, __. who knew cock being in your mouth is the only way to shut you up."

you whine at his words, looking up at him with pleading eyes—yet you didn't know what exacting you were begging for. you rub your thighs together in hopes for some temporary relief, the scene so lewd that you could feel yourself gush in your panties—holding in the urge to let your hands wander down to touch yourself.

jake looked down at you with hungry eyes, his lip twitching as his grip in your hair grew tighter with each thrust. he let low moans slip from his mouth every time his dick grazed the back of your throat.

"aren't you a dirty little whore.." jake drawls out, his chest heaving with pleasure when he notices how tightly you have your thighs clenched. "getting all worked up for someone you've publicly shat on for having the least sex appeal."

you moaned around him when suddenly he pushed your thighs apart with his foot, wedging his sneaker between your legs—giving you something to ease up the tension in your core.

you mewl when he pushed against your clit, almost urging you to grind down against him while he used your mouth to his hearts content. slowly, but surely—you allowed yourself to ground yourself against him. it sickened you how desperate you had become in just a span of a few minutes.

jake almost cums when he sees you move your hips, desperate for any kind of friction to relieve you from your throbbing clit.

the familiar feeling in his stomach begins to tighten, his grip on you becoming unforgiving as he loses self control and allows himself to push himself into your mouth as much as he could. his tip hits the back of your throat repeatedly now, a mixture of his cum and your spit dribbling out of your mouth.

"f-fuck," he groans. "m'gonna cum.. you're gonna take it? yeah? take it in that bratty mouth, hm?" jake murmurs to what seems himself just before he combusts in your mouth. you swallowed a chocked moan when you feel his warm cum coat your mouth, gagging around him as he twitches.

jake felt as if he was on cloud 9, his head lulling to the side as he keeps your head planted where it is—ensuring that you swallow what he gave you fully.

when he finally pulls back, cock glistening with your spit and his cum, your jaw aches as you swallow the salty yet sweet taste of his release.  your chest heaving like you've just survived something.

"mouth open and tongue out," he demands. you hesitantly open your mouth, your tongue out as you show him that you swallowed everything.

you whine out desperately when he slides his foot away, leaving you aching again. jake tsk's, "desperate slut."

he crouches down to your level, thumb wiping the corner of your mouth.

"still think i'm a pillow princess?" his voice is a little breathless now. dark and smug. "or you finally ready to admit you don't know shit about me?"

your throat still burns. your lips are swollen, coated in spit and shame, and jake's leaning over you like he's just getting started.

"on your feet."

you hesitate, still panting, still dazed from the way he fucked your mouth like it was owed to him. but something in his voice—firm, expectant—makes you move. your knees tremble as you rise.

jake doesn't give you time to adjust. the second you're upright, he steps in close, hands on your waist, guiding you backward until your thighs hit the edge of the bed.

you're pressed back against the mattress, thighs parted under his hands, still catching your breath from how rough he'd just been with your mouth. but instead of backing down, you do what you do best—deflect.

"look—how about this," you say, voice shaking but holding onto some scrap of cocky defiance. "i'll just say the blog was satire. irony. you know, performance art or something. no one has to know i meant any of it."

jake's expression doesn't change.

"or better yet—i'll make a new post trashing someone else. redirect the attention. easy." you flash a grin that's all teeth. "maybe i'll even throw in a little praise for you. balance it out."

he just blinks at you. slowly.

"you think you're negotiating right now?" his voice is calm, but the grip on your thighs tightens.

you blink. "i mean, i'm trying to be reasonable—"

"reasonable?" he laughs, but there's no humor in it. "you publicly dragged me for weeks. humiliated me. and now that you're caught, you want to rewrite the narrative?"

"i'm offering solutions—" "you're offering bullshit," he snaps, and in a second he's climbing over you, his body slotting between your legs like it was made to be there. "and you think you still have leverage? cute."

your breath hitches. your hands push at his chest, but he grabs your wrists and pins them down again, harder this time—your body arching into him involuntarily.

"here's what's really gonna happen," he says, leaning in, nose brushing yours. "you're gonna try to flip this. act like you're still in control. try to turn the tables on me."

your throat tightens.

"but you won't. because the second you try, i'll remind you who made you beg. who had you gagging on the dick you said didn't exist." his voice drops lower, dangerous. "and then i'll ruin you all over again."

you glare up at him, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and defiance."you know what? fine." your voice is sharp, shaky. "you wanna play games? i'll play. let's see how fast you fold when i turn this around."

he raises an eyebrow. "is that right?" you reach down between your bodies—slow, deliberate—wrapping your hand around him. he's still hard. unfairly so. hot and heavy in your palm.

"maybe i was wrong about the size," you murmur, stroking him slow, his breath hitching. "but maybe you really are just a pillow princess. maybe you like being praised more than you like fucking."

his jaw ticks.

you press a kiss to his neck, voice a taunt against his skin. "what happens if i ride you instead? if i make you cum all over yourself."

he freezes.

"what if i write about that next?" you sit up dragging your tongue along the edge of his jaw. "'jake sim—big dick, zero stamina.' think the internet'll love that?"

you think you've got him.

until suddenly—he flips you.

you yelp, back hitting the mattress again as he rips your hand away from his cock and shoves your thighs up around his waist. the shift is fast, dominant, practiced.

"you really thought that'd work?" he's laughing now—mean, breathless, hungry. "thought you'd rile me up and get the upper hand? you forget who tracked you down and got you here in this room." his voice is pure venom now, thick with want. "who had you gagging and drooling on your knees while you fucked yourself on my shoes not even 5 minutes ago?"

his hands expertly yank off your jeans, his thumb hooked around the waistband of your baby pink cotton panties—teasing you. you writhe beneath him, but he doesn't budge—he presses into you, cock sliding between your clothed folds just to tease, just to show you what you don't get to control.

"you wanna test stamina?" he growls. "i'll fuck you 'til that smug little attitude disappears. 'til you're begging me to stop. 'til you're crying and calling me daddy."

you gasp—rage, arousal, panic blending in your gut—but you can't deny the throb between your legs. the way your body betrays your pride.

he feels it too.

his free hand runs up your sweater, your breath shaking as you feel him run his fingers up your stomach and make themselves comfortable on your tits. letting your hands go momentarily, he's yanking your sweater off and throwing it across the room.

"didn't know bratty girls like you wore baby pink. ruffles, lace trim—bows?" he grins, his hands playing with the frills of your bra as you twitch beneath him.

"fuck you," you spat out, voice coming out weaker than you wanted it to. jake only smirks, his hand reaching up to pull the straps of your bra down—letting your tits fall out. "oh i will," and with that he's taking one of your nipples hostage in his mouth. his grip on your wrists stays planted, not allowing you to move or struggle against him when he nips at the sensitive skin of your breasts.

he switches from left to right for a few minutes, basking in your whimpers and mewls before he kisses down your stomach. pulling away he's back to being face to face with you, a smug look on his face before he plants a kiss to your jaw. the kiss turns into bites, nipping at your neck and chest as he leaves behind purple splotches.

"maybe you can post the marks i left and then bash me," jake grins against your skin. you roll your eyes in response only for jake to shoot you a look that says: behave.

he moves your underwear to the side, exposing your cunt to his hungry eyes. he runs his thumb through your slit, gathering your slick.

"so wet," he mutters, dragging the head of his cock against your slit. "guess your body knows who's in charge, even if your mouth doesn't." he slams into you—deep, all at once—and you scream.

no teasing now. no easing in. no prepping.

just punishment. just proof. just him, ruining you from the inside out like it's the only way to shut you up.

"gonna make you forget every insult," he grits, hips snapping into yours over and over. "gonna fuck the hate right outta you."

he could feel your velvet walls convulse, sucking him in like a vacuum as he thrusts into you. you cry out, fingers digging into his shoulders, back arching, mind blurring. you hate how good it feels. how right.

"gonna ruin you," he whispers, lips at your neck. "and you're gonna thank me for it." his mouth traveling down to your tit to engulf one of your nipples once again.

your body jolts with every thrust, the sound of skin slapping and moans filling the room as you struggle to adjust to his girth.

you're still trembling when jake lifts your chin. his touch is deceptively gentle, but there's nothing soft in his expression. smug. commanding. dangerously patient.

"you still think you were right?" he asks lowly, voice scraping down your spine like velvet over steel. you blink up at him, lips parted, but your throat is dry. no sass now. not with the way your body's still recovering, knees weak, throat raw from every choked sound he pulled from you.

when you don't respond jake stops his movement, his hips go still as he simply stares down at you with a dark look in his eyes.

you were falling apart.

his cock was deep inside you, filling you so completely you couldn't even think straight— but jake wasn't moving. he just held you there, pinned beneath him, wrists trapped against the mattress, his hips grinding slow and mean against yours.

you whimpered, hips twitching up against him helplessly, desperate for more. he smirked down at you, cruel and smug, loving the way your body shook, the way your face twisted in frustration.

"what's wrong?" he murmured mockingly, leaning in so close his lips brushed your ear. "thought you'd be tougher than this."

you rationed with yourself for a moment, were you really going to beg? yes.

you tried to twist your wrists free but his grip only tightened. "please," you gasped out, tears welling in your eyes from how badly you needed to cum. "please, jake, i need it—"

he laughed, low and sharp, and snapped his hips forward once—deep and brutal—making you cry out. but then he stilled again, ignoring your desperate whines.

"you need it?" he repeated, pretending to think. "need my cock? need me to make you cum like the stupid little whore you are?"

your cheeks burned, shame rolling through you, but you nodded frantically.

"say it," he ordered, voice dropping, rough. you squeezed your eyes shut, humiliated, but the words still poured out.

"i need your cock," you sobbed. "please jake, please—i'll do anything, i'll be good, just let me cum—"

he laughed again, so fucking satisfied with himself.

"should've thought about being good before you started running your mouth online," he muttered, dragging his cock slow and deep inside you, making you arch and cry out.

you were shaking now—your whole body burning, every nerve stretched tight and ready to snap.

"you want it that bad?" he asked casually, grinding his hips just enough to make you sob.

"yes," you choked out. "please, jake—please, i need to cum, i can't—"

he grinned wickedly and finally, finally started fucking into you hard—deep, punishing thrusts that made you see stars. your walls clung onto how dick like a suction in attempt to milk him dry.

your moans spilled out loud and wrecked, your whole body bowing off the bed.

"good girl," he murmured darkly, "you're gonna cum when i say. not a second before." you nodded frantically, not trusting yourself to speak without crying. and when he finally, finally leaned down and growled, "cum for me, slut,"

you shattered.

you came so hard you were sobbing, spasming around him, your body giving out completely under his.

jake fucked you through it, laughing under his breath, dragging every last bit of pleasure and humiliation out of you until you were left shaking and gasping for air.

and even then, he wasn't done with you yet. he hadn't cum yet, and at the end of the day that's what you were here for—to be his little cum slut.  you barely had time to breathe—your body still spasming from the orgasm he tore out of you before jake grabbed your hips and pulled you back down onto him, grinding even deeper.

you yelped, broken noises spilling out of your mouth, trying to squirm away from the overwhelming sensation.

"no," he snapped, voice sharp and final, one hand locking tight around your waist to keep you from moving. "you don't get to run."

your head lolled back, tears slipping down your cheeks, your body a twitching mess.

"too much," you sobbed, trembling violently.

he laughed—laughed—at your misery.

"too bad," he muttered against your ear. "you're not done." he set a brutal rhythm, fucking into you hard, fast, merciless. your thighs shook, your nails dug into the sheets, your mouth fell open in helpless, gasping cries. you could feel yourself spiraling again—pain and pleasure tangled together until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

"you think you're in control?" he grunted, slamming into you harder, making you scream. "you think you can say whatever you want about me and not pay for it?"

your whole body jolted with every thrust, the humiliation making your head spin.

"say it," he growled. "say you were wrong."

you whimpered, stubborn even now, biting down hard on your lip. he slowed down, grinding his cock against your sensitive walls in deep, deliberate circles that made you keen helplessly.

"say it," he repeated, cruel and low, "or i'll edge you until you're fucking crying."

your pride crumbled fast.

"i was wrong," you gasped out, voice cracking. he smirked, hips snapping forward again. "about what?"

you squeezed your eyes shut, shame flooding you. "about—about your dick," you choked out. "i lied, you're big—you're fucking huge—"

he chuckled darkly, like he already knew. "good girl," he breathed, voice dripping with mockery. "what else?"

you shook your head frantically, body jerking with overstimulation. he pulled almost all the way out—your cunt squeezing around nothing— before slamming back in so brutally you cried out.

"what else?" he hissed against your throat.

"i—i'm just a stupid bitch who doesn't know what she's talking about," you sobbed, face burning hot.

he laughed again, so fucking satisfied, so cruel.

"that's right," he murmured. "a stupid little whore who can't stop begging for the cock she said was too small."

you whimpered, broken, humiliated beyond repair. and still—your body clung to him, desperate for more. you realized with a sick twist in your gut that you would do anything—say anything—just to have him fuck you harder.

and jake knew it too.

he leaned down close, mouth brushing yours cruelly.

"beg," he whispered. "beg me to ruin you."

you could barely think. your body was burning, trembling, stretched tight around him— your mind a broken mess of shame and need. and still jake kept fucking you deep, rough, relentless.

his hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, your throat, your jaw—manhandling you like you were nothing more than a toy for him to use.

you whimpered when he grabbed your face, forcing you to look at him.

"beg," he ordered again, voice dark, breathless with lust. "beg me to ruin you, slut."

you shook your head at first, a broken little sob tearing from your throat. he growled low, slammed into you even harder—your back arching, a scream ripping from your lips.

"you don't get to say no," he hissed. "you wanted this." tears streamed down your cheeks, your body trembling violently.

"please," you gasped out, the word slipping before you could even think. "please jake..ruin me, use me. fuck me however you want—"

he laughed, so fucking smug, dragging his cock out slow just to make you whine. "good fucking girl," he murmured. "finally learning your place."

you babbled desperate nonsense, sobbing into the sheets, your pride shattered into dust.and jake fucked you through it all—using you like a fleshlight, pounding into you until your legs gave out, until your voice was wrecked and broken.

"this what you wanted, huh?" he sneered, slapping your ass hard enough to leave a sting. "to get fucked dumb? to get put in your place like the stupid little whore you are?"

you nodded frantically, gasping, sobbing, brain completely mush. "can't even speak anymore," he muttered, mocking. "just a cockdrunk mess." your nails clawed helplessly at the sheets, your cunt squeezing him so tight he groaned.

you felt another orgasm building—sharp, unbearable—but you were too gone to even ask permission. you just sobbed and gasped and let him take everything from you.

"yeah, that's right," he growled, voice thick with pleasure. "cum all over my cock, slut. make a fucking mess."

you shattered, your whole body convulsing around him, screaming his name like a prayer, a curse, a broken confession. and jake fucked you through it, dragging every last bit of your pride and resistance out of you, until there was nothing left but a crying, ruined mess on his cock.

you were shaking. your body was limp, wrecked, trembling under the weight of everything he made you feel.

and jake still wasn't satisfied.

he kept moving, grinding his cock deep inside your overstimulated cunt—mocking every broken sob that fell from your lips.

"what's wrong?" he said, voice dripping with fake sweetness. "too much?"

you could only whimper, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth. he grabbed your face again, rough, forcing your glassy eyes to meet his.

"you wanted to run your mouth so bad," he sneered. "now you can fucking thank me." your brain barely processed the words, too fogged with shame and pleasure. he slapped your cheek lightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to snap your attention back.

"say it," he barked. "say thank you."

you whimpered, tears spilling down your cheeks.

"th-thank you," you stammered, voice barely a whisper.

he smirked, cruel and satisfied.

"louder," he ordered, snapping his hips forward viciously, making you cry out. "thank you!" you sobbed, your voice hoarse and broken.

he chuckled darkly, his hand sliding down your throat, pressing lightly just enough to make your head spin.

"thank me for ruining you," he muttered, rolling his hips slow and deep, dragging another helpless moan from your lips.

your pride was turned into ash, your mind gone.

"thank you for ruining me," you gasped out, shaking uncontrollably, completely destroyed. he groaned, clearly getting off on how ruined you were—your body slack, twitching, drooling, your cunt spasming weakly around him.

"pathetic," he muttered against your ear. "look at you." you could feel how wet and messy everything was—your thighs sticky, the sheets underneath you soaked.

and still—still—he wasn't finished.

"gonna fill you up," he rasped, voice rough with the effort of holding back. "gonna fuck you so full you'll be leaking for days."

you sobbed, the humiliation sinking deeper into your bones.

"please," you whispered, because you didn't know what else to say anymore. he grunted low in his chest, thrusting faster, chasing his release. he could feel that familiar tinge in his stomach, he was close.

"such a good little cumdump," he growled. "just a hole for me to use." you broke again, another weak orgasm rolling through your abused body.

and jake finally spilled inside you—deep, hot, filling you up exactly like he promised.

he didn't pull out immediately. he stayed pressed deep, making sure you felt every drop. when he finally did pull out, you collapsed completely, a ruined, twitching, crying mess.

and jake just chuckled, so fucking smug. running his fingers down your slit before plugging your fluttering hole, making sure that his cum stays in you for as long as it could.

"maybe next time you'll think twice before running your mouth about me," he said, releasing your wrists before he gets off the bed. he left you there, spread open, dripping, humiliated beyond repair.

and you realized with a sick twist of your gut— you liked it.

you fucking loved every humiliating second of it.

✎﹏﹏

your body aches.

not in the romantic, soft-lit, post-orgasm kind of way.

no. it's raw. it's degrading. it's embarrassing.

your legs are trembling so badly you have to lean on the sink just to stay upright. your thighs sticky, sore. your throat dry and stretched thin from the pathetic, wrecked sounds he pulled out of you.

you yank your clothes back on as fast as your shaking hands allow, muttering curses under your breath. you can't even look at yourself in the mirror. because you know what you'll see: the ruined, wrecked version of yourself jake created.

and you hate him.

you hate how smug he looks when you finally stumble back into the room—hair mussed, shirt untucked, standing like he didn't just break you open with nothing but his cock and his fucking mouth. you hate how he leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you with a look that says he's already won.

you hate that he was right.

and you really, really hate that you liked it.

you roll your shoulders back, force yourself to stand straight even if your body is begging you to drop.

"that what you wanted?" you rasp out, voice wrecked and scratchy. "you win. congrats. want a trophy or something?"

jake doesn't say a word. he just watches. calm. amused. smug.

and it pisses you off. burns you alive from the inside.

"you got what you wanted. you ruined my pride," you snarl, stepping closer even though your knees are ready to give. "so what now? supposed to kneel and thank you? beg you to keep ruining me?"

he cocks his head slightly, lips twitching.

you hate how unbothered he looks. you hate it so much it makes you reckless.

"you don't actually believe i meant all that, right?" you spit. "you really think i meant it when i said you're big? when i cried about how good you fucked me?"

you scoff, shaking your head with a cold, sharp laugh.

"you're pathetic. you got played because i moaned a little."

and that's when everything shifts.

because jake steps forward—smooth, controlled—grabbing your jaw so hard you gasp, slamming your back against the wall without even looking like he's trying. his face is inches from yours, breath warm, eyes dark and furious.

"still lying?" he murmurs.

your heart pounds wildly. you try to twist away but his grip on your jaw tightens, bruising.

"you begged for my cock," he hisses, thumb dragging across your trembling bottom lip. "you fucking cried for it. and you're gonna stand there and lie to my face?"

you choke on your words, humiliation pouring down your spine in cold waves.

he laughs bitterly, the sound vibrating low in his chest. "guess you really are as dumb as you look."

you flinch.

and jake leans in closer, voice dropping lower, meaner. "you wanna pretend you're still in control?" he taunts, dragging his fingers down your throat slow, almost tender. "you wanna act like you didn't cum so fucking hard you couldn't even say my name?"

you tremble.

but you don't back down—not yet. pride and fear tangled up, keeping you frozen.

he chuckles darkly.

"fine," he says, voice a low threat. "i'll remind you."

his hand snakes between your thighs, shoving your jeans down again, your underwear dragging with it, baring you completely in seconds. you gasp, struggling—but he's too strong, too fast. he grabs you by the hips, throws you onto the bed like you're weightless.

and then he's on you.

he presses your wrists to the mattress with one hand again, his weight pinning you down, his other hand roughly forcing your legs apart.

you barely have time to gasp before he's inside you again—deep, brutal, fucking the defiance out of you one savage thrust at a time.

you cry out, throat raw. he fucks you like he's furious, every slam of his hips meant to punish. "not so fucking smug now, huh?" he pants against your ear.

you whimper, broken sounds spilling out without permission.

"what happened to all that fake confidence, princess?" he mocks, rolling his hips harder, forcing your body to take every inch. "thought you said you could handle it."

you sob, writhing under him, but he doesn't let up. he leans down, dragging his teeth across your jaw, making you shudder helplessly.

"gonna make you beg again," he growls. "gonna make you say it like you fucking mean it."

you try to shake your head—but you're drowning. he's everywhere. he's everything. and no matter how much you try to cling to your pride, it crumbles between your shaking hands.

you're crying now—humiliated tears streaking down your flushed face—as he pounds into you mercilessly.

"please," you choke out, voice cracking.

he chuckles, cruel and satisfied.

"please what, baby?" he taunts, slowing his thrusts to a deep, punishing grind that makes your whole body twitch and seize.

"please," you sob again, shame burning you alive. "please let me cum."

he leans back slightly to look at you—hair a mess, eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction.

"you don't deserve to cum," he says, voice mocking. "whores who lie don't get rewards."

you whimper, hips stuttering against his, desperate, broken.

"but," he adds slowly, almost lazily, "if you beg real nice... maybe i'll consider it."

you sob harder, pride shattered into dust. and then—you beg.

you beg like a good little whore.

"please, jake," you cry, voice wrecked and hoarse. "i need it—i need to cum—please, please—"

he grins, dark and cruel, and finally—finally—lets you fall apart again, your body convulsing, cunt clenching around him helplessly as he fucks you through the brutal, soul-crushing orgasm. and you barely have a second to breathe before he's moving again—pulling out, grabbing your face in both hands, forcing your mouth open.

"open wide," he orders.

you're so wrecked you don't even think to disobey. you just open—lips trembling, eyes wide and glassy.

and jake leans over—spits straight into your mouth, thick and wet and humiliating.

you gag slightly, tears burning your eyes.

"swallow," he commands sharply.

you do.

you obey without even thinking.

and he smirks—grabbing his phone, flipping open the recording he just made of your pathetic begging, letting you hear it on loop while you lie there ruined, body trembling, throat raw.

he tucks his phone into his pocket, grabs your chin again, forcing you to look up at him. "remember this next time you wanna talk shit," he says, voice low and smug.

he kisses you—mocking and possessive—and leaves you there: used, wrecked, humiliated, and so thoroughly owned that you can't even pretend anymore.

jake sim ruined you and there's no taking it back.

— enjoy this fic? check out my other ones right here!

[jungwnies]

f1 grid | who wears the pants... and who doesn't

୨ৎ : featuring : all drivers on the grid (ft. seb & kimi as requested) ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by @sonichkkaaascreams) : who on the grid wears the pants in the relationship, and who doesn't >.>

୨ৎ : genre : mature & romance ୨ৎ : tws : def suggestive for some ୨ৎ : word count : 2145

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : another rare monday grid post AND a double post >.<

ʚ・red bull

max verstappen

pretends to be in charge until you say something like “on your knees” and he obeys like it’s instinct.

constantly teases you in public, but it’s all bark behind closed doors, he folds under your tone.

you tell him when, where, how. he lives for being told exactly what to do.

rarely talks back, but when he does, it’s 100% to rile you up so you’ll put him in his place.

after? he’s extra clingy. won’t stop stroking your thigh and calling you “babe” like you didn’t just ruin him 10 minutes ago.

subby max. bratty when bored. melts when you’re in control.

yuki tsunoda

fights it for about 0.2 seconds before giving in with a flushed face and a quiet “okay…”

melts the second you use a firm tone. especially if you call him out — “yuki. focus.” he’s instantly obedient.

loves being praised more than anything. you say “good boy” and he makes the softest noise you’ve ever heard.

whiny, needy, and eager to please. he’ll ask “am i doing okay?” with wide eyes and desperation in his voice.

clings to you after, burying his face in your chest while you play with his hair and let him come down slow.

subby yuki. zero resistance. just wants to be told what to do and loved after.

ʚ・mercedes

george russell

you try to boss him around once and he just raises an eyebrow like, “you done?”

he doesn’t tell you what to do — he instructs you, and somehow you always end up listening.

real composed until it matters, and then it’s all “hands where i want them. now.”

praise kink? yes. but for you. he’ll have you whimpering “yes, sir” and he’ll smile like it’s his life’s mission.

absolutely ruins you with that quiet authority voice and the way he looks at you like he owns every inch of you.

dommy george. calculated, commanding, never raises his voice — he doesn’t need to.

kimi antonelli

tries to act cool and composed, but the second you touch his jaw and say “sit. be good,” he’s gone.

wants to be the one in control, but gets flustered when you take over — and honestly? he kind of likes it.

gets so soft when you’re gentle but firm with him. your praise sticks in his head for days.

will try to return the favor and be dommy sometimes, but ends up red in the face and overly polite about it.

“can i… uhm… maybe touch you now?” yes baby. yes you can.

soft dom in theory. submissive in practice. let him be your sweet, eager-to-please rookie.

ʚ・ferrari

charles leclerc

always looks like he’s in control — clean-cut, charming, arm around your waist in public like he owns the place.

but in private? he’s a soft dom who lives to please you. will let you lead anytime if he sees that glint in your eye.

“you want to be in charge tonight?” he asks, smiling against your neck. “good. i like watching you work.”

still guides you gently when he’s domming — whispers in your ear, hands on your hips, praise always dripping from his lips.

you switch off control easily. for him, it’s never a power trip — it’s about intimacy. trust. making sure you both fall apart in the best way.

switchy charles. publicly confident, privately obsessed with your pleasure. gives and takes control like it’s an art.

lewis hamilton

you try to tell him what to do and he just chuckles low in your ear like, “you’re cute, baby.”

always puts you first — mentally, emotionally, physically — but he’s the one setting the pace.

hands around your throat with the softest voice in your ear: “you take what i give you. nothing more.”

doesn’t need to raise his voice — his presence alone is enough to have you falling apart.

aftercare king. whispering affirmations, kissing your skin, running you a bath while you’re still breathless.

dommy lewis. slow, smooth, and absolutely devastating — in the best way.

ʚ・mclaren

lando norris

tries to be all dominant and cocky until you pin him down and say

“is this what you wanted?” — instant blushing, stuttering.

loves the playful power struggle — but secretly lives for you winning it.

in public, it’s balanced — you both tease each other, both have control… until he accidentally calls you “ma’am” under his breath.

absolutely loses it when you give him commands — especially if you use that soft, deadly tone.

post-mess: clings to you, giggles into your chest, and says, “you’re actually evil. i’m obsessed.”

switchy but flustered sub when you take charge. tries to fight it. fails. loves every second.

oscar piastri

lets you run the show right up until he doesn’t — and when he flips it? you feel it.

quiet dom. doesn’t say much, but his hands know exactly where to be, and his eyes never leave yours.

doesn’t need to ask what you want — he already figured it out five steps ago.

you try to take charge and he’ll raise a brow, lean in close, and whisper, “you really think i’m going to let you?”

after? total softie. pulls you in, murmurs, “did i give you what you needed?” like it wasn’t the best night of your life.

quiet dom oscar. subtle, intense, and always one step ahead — no games, just precision.

ʚ・aston martin

fernando alonso

always in control. always. you try to take over and he just smirks, leans in, and says, “you can try, cariño.”

knows exactly how to tease you — slow touches, low voice, making you beg without ever raising his own tone.

smug as hell but gentle with it. “you’re doing so well for me. look at you.”

physically overwhelming when he wants to be — hand around your throat, body pressed to yours, but still murmuring “beautiful” like a prayer.

after? genuinely cuddly. loves holding you close, tracing circles on your back, pressing sleepy kisses to your shoulder.

lance stroll

calm, cool, and confident in public — hand on your waist, guiding you through a room like he owns it.

but in private? one firm order and he’s already pulling his shirt off, flushed and eager.

gets so quiet when you take over. just wide eyes and breathy little “okay…”

melts when you praise him, but he’ll never admit how much he craves it.

still tries to act cool after, all like “that was good, huh?” while clinging to you like a needy puppy.

ʚ・williams

alex albon

teases you constantly — “oh, you’re in charge tonight? should i be scared?” (he’s not. he’s excited.)

loves when you take control, but every now and then he flips it just to see you squirm — and he loves that power struggle.

whispers filthy things with the softest voice and the most angelic smile.

in sub-mode? whiny, clingy, desperate for your praise. in dom-mode? smug, cheeky, and way too good with his hands.

always laughs after — pulls you close and says, “we’re so good at this. we should win medals or something.”

true switch. playful, sweet, and dangerous when he’s in control — but melts beautifully when you are.

carlos sainz

commands the room in public — hand on your back, eye contact like a promise, speaks for the both of you sometimes.

dominant in bed, yes, but not controlling — passionate, intentional, all heart.

still lets you take over when you want, especially if you whisper in spanish. immediate obedience.

mutters soft, sweet things while you’re in charge — “tan guapa… mi amor, look at you…”

always cuddles after. always. loves tracing your spine and mumbling how good you made him feel.

passionate dom in public. sweet, lowkey switch in private — soft for you, always.

ʚ・haas

ollie bearman

always talks big — “i’ve got this. i’m in charge tonight.” …sure, babe.

immediately flustered when you call his bluff. “wait, you’re serious? you’re—oh. okay. yes ma’am.”

lowkey loves being bossed around, but he’ll never admit it unless you’re teasing it out of him.

will try to brat his way into more attention. it works. every time.

whiny, dramatic, and totally obsessed with you taking over — grumbles about it after, but melts into your touch like a puppy.

bratty sub ollie. loud, chaotic, and completely soft when you take control.

esteban ocon

always tries to be polite and in control — you take over and he immediately forgets how to function.

quietly submissive. doesn’t say much, but the second you tell him what to do? he listens. every time.

loves structure and order, which makes him thrive under your rules — “yes,” “no,” “stay still.” it calms his brain.

eye contact turns him to mush. especially when you praise him in a low voice.

gets so soft after — arms wrapped around you, forehead to your chest, whispering “thank you” like you gave him peace.

subby esteban. quiet, obedient, and so soft when he’s in your hands.

ʚ・racing bulls

liam lawson

lets you play bossy for fun, but always with that knowing smirk — “you done pretending yet?”

dominant without being intense — guides you with a firm hand and a wicked sense of humor.

teases you relentlessly mid-moment, just to make you blush. “a little bossy today, huh? you’re cute when you try.”

loves taking care of you in a subtle way — holding your jaw, whispering in your ear, making you fall apart calmly.

afterward? pulls you into his lap like it’s second nature and says “told you i’d handle it.” (he did. you’re still shaking.)

confident dom liam. playful, relaxed, and always in control — without ever needing to raise his voice.

isack hadjar

walks around like he’s got it together but absolutely folds the second you give him a direct order.

chaotic energy, yes — but he lives for the structure you give him when things get heated.

will absolutely talk himself in circles trying to flirt until you shut him up with a hand around his throat.

gets so flustered when you praise him — covers his face, mutters “stopppp” while blushing like hell.

comes completely undone for you. every. single. time.

subby isack. chaos in the streets, soft and obedient in the sheets. you say jump — he asks how high.

ʚ・alpine

pierre gasly

all charm and teasing in public — “she’s the boss. i just look pretty.” (he’s not wrong.)

tries to act in control but gives in the second you tell him to sit down and shut up.

total flirt when you take over — “you’re so hot when you’re mean to me.”

lowkey loves being overwhelmed by you. handsy, needy, and completely obsessed with how you handle him.

posts after with a smug grin like he did something — while still recovering from the way you wrecked him.

subby pierre. flirty, dramatic, and totally yours to control. he lives for it.

jack doohan

calm and obedient in daily life — does what you ask without question, super sweet, totally reliable.

but in the bedroom? switches fast. grabs your waist, leans in close, and says “let me take care of you tonight.”

doesn’t raise his voice — just gives one sharp look and you’re listening.

will let you lead sometimes, but only when he lets you — and even then, he takes back control when you least expect it.

soft hands, firm grip, and the kind of focus that ruins you slow.

quiet dom jack. sweet and obedient in life, deadly in bed. respectful menace.

ʚ・kick sauber

nico hulkenberg

dry humor and sarcasm in public and makes fun of everything, especially the idea of being bossed around.

but behind closed doors? instantly obedient when you drop your tone. “yes ma’am,” with no hesitation.

loves when you call the shots, especially if you get bossy mid-moment, it gets him feral.

whispers things like “you’re really gonna do me like that, huh?” while letting you pin him without resistance.

afterwards? smug. kisses your shoulder and says “didn’t know you had that in you.” he did. he wanted it.

subby nico. playful, snarky, and totally down bad. lets you take control and begs for more.

gabriel bortoleto

all sweet smiles and soft hands until you push just a little too far and he flips you like it’s second nature.

tries to be respectful and let you lead, but his need to impress you always wins out.

can be so quiet and gentle one second, then breathless and possessive the next, “mine. you hear me?”

you call him “good boy” once and he blushes so hard he forgets how to function.

but then he gets confident. cocky, even. will absolutely ruin you with a shaky voice and a death grip on your waist.

subby with dom bursts gabriel. soft outside, secretly intense, and fully addicted to you.

ʚ・special feature

sebastian vettel

kind, warm, and always listening — until he shuts the door and says “take your clothes off. now.”

patient dom. watches you try to boss him around, smiles, then flips it on you with one sentence and a hand on your throat.

he doesn't need to overpower you — he just knows what you want before you ask.

utterly obsessed with making you feel good. whispering praise in your ear while taking you apart piece by piece.

aftercare is religion to him. warm towel, water, kisses to every part of you he touched. “you were perfect. every second.”

soft but commanding dom seb. gentle hands, sharp control, and worship-level devotion.

kimi raikkonen

lets you make all the plans, pick the restaurant, organize the flights — he’s chilling.

says “okay” to everything you want, barely looks up from his phone… until you're in bed. then it’s “lie down.”

silent dom. barely says a word — just grabs your hips, flips you over, and ruins your entire attitude.

loves when you’re mouthy, though. just watches you with that cold stare and mutters “you done?” before making sure you are.

after? goes right back to letting you do everything while he steals your blanket.

silent dom kimi. doesn't run the relationship, but absolutely runs the bedroom — no discussion.

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[norrisradio]

TRUE LOVE OF MINE

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "You with the dark curls, you with the watercolor eyes / You who bares all your teeth in every smile" - Lady Lamb, Dear Arkansas Daughter

ᝰ PAIRING: lando norris x reader | ᝰ WC: 5.5K ᝰ GENRE: best friends to lovers (we cheered!), reader = ex karting driver + med student, you have loved lando since the day you met etc etc etc ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: fun fact - the colors used in the title/headings on this post are actually the colors of lando's eyes from this post // this was a behemoth of a fic to write and i'm still nto entirely pleased, but the people yearn for lando norris ꨄ requested by anon!

send me an ask for my line by line event.ᐟ

The first time you see Lando Norris, he’s face-down in the mud, crying because someone called him a posh baby in the paddock, and you think he’s the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen.

There’s mud crusted on his cheek like it belongs there, curls pressed damp to his forehead, and his whole face is crumpled like paper in a storm. He’s got one sock half off and a fresh scab on his shin, and still, somehow, he looks like he belongs in a painting. The messy kind. Watercolor, probably. Something soft and bleeding at the edges, impossible to frame.

He’s eight and you’re eight and a half, which means you get to say things like “it’s okay, babies cry,” even though you don’t really mean it. He wipes his face on his sleeve and looks up at you with blotchy cheeks and kaleidoscope eyes, like someone spilled a little too much green into blue, and says, “I’m not a baby.” You believe him.

You sit next to him on the curb, knees knocking together, watching his kart like it’s some sacred thing. The sky is gray, threatening rain, and he’s all flushed skin and scraped palms and frustration. 

“They’re just jealous,” you mutter. He doesn’t look at you. “Of what? That I cry like a baby?” “No,” you say. “That your eyelashes are stupid long and you drive like the kart owes you money.”

That gets a huff out of him. Half-sob, half-laugh.

You offer him your juice box. He doesn’t smile, but he bares his teeth when he takes it, all crooked and endearing and real. That’s the thing about Lando. He’s always been real.

He holds out a sticky, dirt-streaked hand.

“I’m Lando.” “I know,” you say. “Everyone knows.”

You shake his hand anyway.

A month later, you beg your parents to sign you up for the junior karting class — not because you like cars (you don’t, really), but because you like him. Or maybe just the way he lights up when he talks about apexes and engine sounds like they’re things that breathe.

You come home smelling like oil. Your knuckles blister from gripping the wheel too hard. You cry once when you spin out and hit the barriers; but he’s there, pulling your helmet off like you’re made of glass, telling you, “You looked cool, though. Like, action movie cool.”

He makes you want to win. So you start trying.

When you’re eleven, he wins a race with his hair slicked back by sweat and wind, curls flattened into chaos. He leaps from the kart like he’s weightless, helmet swinging from one hand like a trophy of its own, and the grin he throws at you — all teeth, no restraint — nearly knocks you over.

“Did you see that?” he shouts, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Did you see?”

You did. Every lap. Every line. You saw the way his hands tightened before the last corner, the way his shoulders settled like he’d already decided to win.

You hand him his water bottle.

“You were okay.”

He gasps. “Just okay?”

“You’ll be cooler when you stop smiling like you’re showing your teeth to the dentist.”

He grins wider. Shoves you lightly with the back of his hand.

“Admit it. I looked sick.”

He did. He always does. Even like this, eyes stormy and pale all at once, flushed with the kind of joy that doesn’t need to be explained. He’s not handsome yet, not in the way the magazines will call him later. But there’s something about the way he holds a moment. The way you can’t look away when he’s in it.

Later that summer, you win.

It’s not a big race. Junior category, barely a crowd —but he’s there. Leans so far over the barrier during your final lap the marshal tells him to get down before he falls in.

You don’t hear the cheering. You don’t even feel the medal when they hang it around your neck. All you feel is Lando barreling toward you at the speed of light, helmet in one hand, arms wide, like you’re the one who gave him wings.

“You were flying,” he breathes, practically vibrating. “You were magic.”

You pretend to scoff. “Guess I’m not just here to hand you water bottles.”

He pulls you into a hug anyway. No hesitation. Just heat and sweat and the faint scent of petrol and whatever soap he uses. His heart’s pounding against your shoulder like he’s the one who just won.

Later, when you look at the photos, you don’t care about the trophy in your hands. You care about the boy behind you — curls wild, smiling so hard it looks like it hurts.

At fifteen, you start noticing the way other girls notice him.

It starts in Italy, or maybe Spain. Somewhere with sunburnt afternoons and the scent of burnt rubber curling off the asphalt like smoke. The girls linger after his heats now. They lean too close and laugh too loudly. Twisting their hair, asking if he’s going to the after-party, the lake, the whatever.

You stand beside him in the hoodie he gave you two summers ago: faded navy, sleeves chewed at the cuffs. It smells like sunscreen and old fabric and something unnameable that has always just been him. You pick at the hem while they talk, eyes on his profile.

The same boy you’ve known since he was sobbing on a curb with gravel in his socks has started to shimmer, like something just out of reach. Something made of light and speed.

His hair’s longer now, curling wild at the edges of his helmet. His smile’s the same, though. All teeth, all instinct. It still takes up half his face like he hasn’t learned how to hide anything yet.

But he doesn’t smile at them. He never does.

He looks at you. “You’re quiet,” he says, tugging at the drawstring of your hoodie. You shrug. “I’m always quiet.” “Not with me.”

He says it like a secret. Like he likes that about you — that there’s a version of yourself reserved just for him. You don’t say anything back, because you're not sure your voice would work even if you tried.

That night, you find yourselves walking the hotel parking lot, drinking vending machine soda that tastes faintly like metal and sugar. The sky's a navy bruise, and everything hums: the street lamps, the asphalt, your pulse.

“You’re kind of becoming a big deal,” you say, finally.

He laughs, low and a little shy, like you’ve caught him off-guard. “Don’t say that,” he says. “I’ll get cocky.”

“You already are.” You bump his arm with yours. It’s too dark to see his face clearly, but you know he’s smiling wide, teeth and all, like he’s baring it just for you.

And maybe he is.

Because even now, even with sponsors circling and flights booked across Europe, even with interviews and mechanics and the way his name sounds over loudspeakers, he still comes to your races.

He’ll show up between practice sessions with a baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses that don’t do much to hide him. You’ll spot him first, sitting on the pit wall like he’s always belonged there, one leg swinging like a kid with too much energy.

“Why do you still come?” you ask him once, after you’d placed second and felt like it wasn’t enough.

He shrugged. “Because I like watching you win.”

You think about that now, under the flicker of a buzzing lamp, watching the way his lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks when he looks at you. His eyes are still that strange in-between — not quite blue, not quite grey, always shifting like skies about to storm.

Like watercolor left out in the rain.

You look away first.

You always do.

At sixteen, you run until your lungs burn. You don’t stop until your fists hit his front door, nails bitten down to nothing and eyes already stinging. He opens it in a hoodie three sizes too big, and the second he sees your face, he doesn’t ask.

He just pulls you in.

You’re crying too hard to speak at first, shoulders shaking, throat raw. He closes the door behind you and guides you to the stairs like it’s muscle memory, like this has happened before, and maybe it has, in smaller ways. Skinned knees. Lost heats. Bad days.

But this is different.

“They’re making me quit,” you finally get out. “They said— they said I have to focus on school. On real life.”

You say it like a curse. Like “real life” is something you never asked for.

Lando’s quiet for a moment. His hand curls around your wrist, thumb brushing a soothing rhythm over your pulse. His eyes — moss green in the dark — watch you without blinking. Always watching. Always knowing.

“Come on,” he says.

You frown. “Where?”

“Just— trust me.”

He doesn’t wait for you to agree. He just grabs his keys and your hand and pulls you out into the night. The wind has teeth. The sky hangs low, indigo and velvet. When you realize where you’re going, your heart breaks all over again.

The track sits behind the hill, silent and sleeping.

Lando hops the gate first, then turns and offers you his hand. You take it, fingers cold in his. He pulls you over like it’s nothing.

The lights are off, but the moon’s enough. It glints off the asphalt, pale and silver, the same way the sun used to gleam on your helmet when you’d throw it off at the end of a race, breathless and laughing. Back when your name had a number next to it and your dreams had engines.

Lando walks the edge of the track, then steps aside, gestures toward the start line like he’s offering you a crown.

“One more,” he says. “For old time’s sake.”

You laugh, watery and shaking. “There’s no kart, idiot.”

He shrugs. “Run it.”

So you do.

You take off, sneakers slapping the track, heart thudding like it’s trying to break through your ribs. Your hair whips behind you, tangled and wild, and you run like you used to race: reckless, full tilt, like the only thing that’s ever made sense is forward.

The wind hits your face and the tears dry on your cheeks and the world blurs around the edges. You run with everything you are; for every lap you’ll never finish, every podium you won’t stand on, every flame they’re trying to snuff out of you.

When you make it back to him, gasping and breathless, Lando is watching like he always does, with something quiet and fierce behind his eyes. Like he sees not just you, but the version of you the world won’t let exist anymore.

You collapse next to him, panting. He says nothing for a long time. Just sits beside you on the track, knees pulled to his chest, hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands.

“You’ll come back to it,” he says eventually, soft like the curve of a turn. “I know you will.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He glances over, and for a moment, he looks like a boy again: the same boy with curls damp from rain, whose smile could split the sky. A boy who’s watched you win, lose, burn, rebuild. A boy who’s carried your dreams in the quiet way he carries everything.

“Besides,” he says, nudging your knee, “I’m still gonna win stuff. Someone’s gotta keep me humble.”

You laugh, finally — a real one. It cracks through the ache like sunlight through smoke.

“Always with the fast mouth,” you murmur. “And an ego the size of an engine.”

He grins. All teeth. Unashamed. Something ancient flutters in your chest, something that’s always been there but has never had the nerve to speak.

You don’t say you are the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen, but you think it. You don’t say I’ve loved you since I was eight and a half, but maybe he knows.

Maybe he always has.

By eighteen, Lando’s face is in magazines. He’s a headline now, a profile shot under stadium lights, a name that doesn’t need explaining anymore. He smiles with his whole face — wide and unguarded — and sometimes you see a photo that feels so much like him you have to close the tab and sit with your hands in your lap, breathing slowly.

You still see the boy who once spilled chocolate milk all down his overalls at Silverstone and sobbed so hard he hiccupped for twenty minutes. The one who used to braid daisy chains into the laces of your boots between heats. But now there are articles that say things like rising star and British darling, and he fits in their glossy pages better than he should.

He FaceTimes you after qualifying P1 for the first time. It’s late, past midnight, and you’re still in the library, alone but for the hum of the vending machine and the ache behind your eyes. You almost don’t pick up.

But then you see his name flash on the screen — 🚦LAN-DON’T CRASH🚦 — and your stomach flips like it used to before lights out.

He’s still in his race suit, curls a mess of damp ringlets, cheeks flushed like he’s been running. There’s something in his eyes, too: watercolor green, vivid and blurred around the edges, like adrenaline and disbelief have soaked into his skin.

His smile breaks the second you answer. Wide and wild and so familiar it stings.

“Did you watch?” he says, already breathless.

“Obviously,” you say, tipping your phone back so he can see the chemistry notes scattered across the desk. “Had it up on mute during organic synthesis. You’re lucky I didn’t scream when you took the final sector.”

“You think I was okay?”

“You were sick.”

He pumps a fist and flops back onto some impossibly white hotel bed, still grinning like a kid who’s snuck past curfew. The camera wobbles, then steadies on his face again: flushed and freckled, sweat still clinging to his jaw. He looks happy.

You used to know that feeling. That kind of high. The kind that only came with rubber and gasoline and the blur of corners taken clean.

Your helmet lives in the back of your closet now, tucked behind winter coats and forgotten notebooks. You’ve traded it for lab goggles and timed exams, for ink-stained hands and the quiet sort of excellence no one applauds. Your medals sit in a shoebox beneath your bed, and you haven’t opened it in over a year. You tell people you’re pre-med now. That it’s what you’ve always wanted.

Two years have dulled the ache. Sandpapered it down from a blade to something you can live with. Sometimes you still dream of the track, of the smell of rubber and the scream of engines, but you wake up and make coffee and keep studying until the want quiets again.

Lando watches you for a second. He sees things other people don’t — always has.

“You good?” he asks, voice soft now, like it used to be when he’d sneak out to meet you by the tire stacks after dark.

You nod, a little too fast. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He raises an eyebrow, not buying it. “What are you working on?”

You sigh and flip your notebook toward the screen. “Chemical compounds. I’ve got a practical on Monday. Enantiomers, ketones, the whole gang.”

He makes a face. “Nerd.”

“National treasure,” you correct, dryly. “And future doctor, maybe.”

He lights up at that. “Sick. You can be my medic when I crash.”

You roll your eyes. “So I’ll see you, what, every weekend?”

“Exactly,” he says, smug. “We’re soulmates, remember?”

You want to say, you with the stupid grin, you with the disaster curls, you with the heartbeat I could always find in the noise.But instead, you shake your head and say, “God help your insurance.”

He laughs, throws his head back, bares every tooth like he always does. There’s a soft curve in the center of his front two that never straightened out, even after braces. You used to tell him he looked like a Labrador when he smiled like that. You still think it now, but it feels like something tender and sacred, like a memory you keep pressed between pages.

“I miss you,” he says, quieter now.

You don’t say I miss the version of me that only exists around you.You just whisper, “Yeah. I know.”

The call ends eventually. It always does. But you sit there for a while after, your notebook untouched, watching the ghost of his smile in your screen’s reflection.

You’re twenty-one and a half when Lando sneaks into your college graduation. You don’t see him at first. You’re too busy sweating in your robe, clutching your diploma like it might disappear, wondering if your cap looks stupid in photos. Your parents wave from the stands, your friends cheer, and you try to hold still long enough to soak it in — but it never lands quite right. Everything feels too big, too loud, too fast.

Until he finds you.

Until he hugs you from behind and says, low in your ear, “Told you you’d look cool in a cape.”

You twist around, and there he is, in a hoodie pulled low over those unmistakable curls, sunglasses at night like the world’s worst disguise. His smile is crooked, tired. Familiar.

“What the fuck,” you whisper. “Aren’t you supposed to be—”

He grins wider. “I skipped media day.”

Your jaw drops.

“Shhh,” he adds, holding a finger to your lips. “I’ll get yelled at later. Worth it.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or hit him. So you do both —thump his arm, then drag him into a hug, still warm from the sun and whatever it means to grow up.

He stays through the party, tucked into the background, stealing finger food and smiling like he’s always belonged. He doesn’t pull attention the way he does on track. Here, he just… exists beside you. Quietly. Constantly. Every time you turn around, he’s already looking.

Later, long after the music dies and your parents have gone to bed, the two of you end up on the grass in your front yard, barefoot, robes ditched, diplomas crumpled somewhere behind you. The stars are blurry, a little from distance, a little from everything else.

He lies flat on his back, arms spread like a kid making snow angels, and says, “I’ve got a flight in two hours.”

You hum. “FP1?”

He nods.

You both fall quiet. The silence between you has never been uncomfortable. It stretches like elastic, worn in with years of knowing — from tire stacks and afterschool karting, from night tracks and vending machines, from every version of growing up that had the other curled into its corner.

“I’m scared,” you admit, finally. “For med school.”

Lando turns his head to look at you. You’re lying close, your hair fanned out against the grass, fingers plucking gently at the blades. You don’t meet his eyes, but you feel them on you. The color of seafoam, soft in the dark. The kind that still knocks the breath out of you when you're not bracing for it.

“You’ll be great.”

You scoff. “You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Why?”

There’s a rustle of denim and hoodie fabric, and then he’s sitting up, pulling something from his pocket. A worn-out square of photo paper, crumpled and soft at the edges. He presses it into your hand.

You blink. It’s a picture of the two of you, age nine, arms thrown around each other in the pit lane. His curls are messy and stuck to his forehead, flushed cheeks stretched in a grin so big you can count every tooth. You’re buried in his side, beaming up at him like he hung the sky. Lando’s holding a trophy, but even then, he’s not looking at it. He’s looking at you.

“You gave me your gummy worms right after that,” he says. “Said I earned it.”

You run your thumb over the crease down the middle. The image is faded now, but you remember the moment like it’s stitched into you.

He says it like it’s obvious. Like gravity. “Because we’re soulmates. And I feel it in my bones.”

You don’t answer right away. You can’t.

The stars above you scatter like sugar across navy velvet. Your eyes sting.

“You know,” you say after a while, voice low, “If you crash, I’ll be the one stitching you back together.”

He grins. Not his media-trained one — not the sharp, rehearsed smile he wears under paddock lights — but the real one. The one that splits across his face without warning. That bares all his teeth like he’s never learned to hold anything back. That’s lived on every page of your memory since you were old enough to chase him across a track.

“That’s hot,” he teases.

You roll your eyes. “You’re a nightmare.”

“But I’m your nightmare.”

And that’s the thing, isn’t it?

It’s always been him. Him with eyes that shift with the light, that catch everything, that still find you first.

You with your goggles and your notebooks. Him with his fireproof gloves and nowhere to land.

You, who traded circuits for classrooms.

Him, who never stopped circling back to you.

He looks at you like he always has, like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense. You think maybe you believe him.

That you’ll be okay.

Because he said so. Because he always shows up. Because he’s flying across the world in an hour, but somehow, you’ve never felt more grounded.

At twenty-three, he invites you to Monaco.

You’re dead on your feet when he calls. It’s nearly midnight and you’re cramming for your pathology exam, cross-eyed from the fluorescent lighting in your apartment. You don’t even remember what you said exactly; something like “med school is killing me and I swear to God I haven’t seen the sun in four days.” Laughed it off with the tired grin he knows too well.

You forgot it by morning.

He didn’t.

Now, a week later, you’re barefoot on his balcony, letting the gold-tinged air sink into your skin as the sun sets over the Riviera. The track lies sprawled beneath you like a secret. The sea beyond it glints like something ancient, something wild.

Your breath hitches without meaning to.

“I used to dream about racing this track,” you say, barely above a whisper. “When I was fifteen, I’d watch the onboard cams on my laptop and try to memorize every corner. I knew the lines like poetry.”

Beside you, Lando is quiet. But when you glance over, there’s a glint in his eye, the one that always spelled trouble. Or magic. Or both. His curls are pushed back haphazardly, like he ran a hand through them too many times on the flight, but there’s still that boyishness, untamed and familiar.

“What?” you ask warily.

He doesn’t answer. Just grabs your wrist. “C’mon.” “Lando—” “No time. Let’s go.”

You barely have time to yank on your sneakers before he’s dragging you out the door, past the sleepy concierge and down the quiet streets like he’s done it a thousand times. He takes sharp turns with muscle memory, his fingers tight around yours.

Only when the city’s noise has thinned and the streetlights spill onto the famous asphalt do you realize where you are.

“Lando,” you whisper. “We can’t—” “We’re not driving,” he grins. “Just running it. Like when we were kids, remember?" “FIA—” “Would fine me until my hair turns gray.” He pauses. “Still worth it.”

Your heart kicks against your ribs, but your legs are already moving.

You run.

Past Sainte Devote, hair flying behind you. Past the casino, your laughter ricocheting off elegant facades. You’re breathless by the tunnel, aching by the chicane, but he’s still pulling you like he did when you were kids and he insisted you could make it to the top of that hill if you just didn’t stop.

The air smells like salt and speed.

By the time you reach the harbor, your lungs are burning and your face is flushed and he’s glowing, cheeks pink, smile wide, teeth bared like he’s daring the night to find a brighter joy than this. He looks every bit like the boy you fell in love with fifteen years ago.

The one with grass stains on his overalls. The one whose curls never obeyed a comb. The one who grinned like mischief itself. The one whose eyes — not blue, not quite green — shimmered like someone had taken watercolors and washed them into something soft and stupidly beautiful.

You stop, breathless. He does too.

And for a second, it feels like everything’s still. Like the world just pressed pause.

Later, you sit at the edge of the marina, legs swinging over the water. Your shoes are abandoned on the dock. The air is heavy with the scent of engine oil and sea spray. The waves slap gently against the boats, like applause winding down after a show.

Beside you, Lando says nothing. But you feel him watching. And when you turn, he’s looking at you like he’s never seen you before.

But of course he has. He’s seen you in worse light: that post-rain haze in your old garage, your hair frizzed to hell and braces catching on your lower lip, oil on your jeans and mud on your ankles. He’s seen you bleary-eyed on FaceTime at 3AM. He’s seen you panicking over exams, crying in the paddock, snorting over bad pizza and better jokes.

Still, he looks at you now like he forgot the color of your laugh until this exact moment brought it back. His hair hangs loose over his forehead, still damp from the run, and the way his mouth twitches — almost a grin, almost not — makes your stomach turn over.

He bumps your knee with his.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Better than okay.” “You looked happy back there.” “I was happy back there.” “Good.” He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “I miss that.”

You glance at him, surprised.

“Miss what?”

“You. Like that.” He exhales, eyes trained on the moon's reflection on the water. “Laughing. Running. Being ridiculous with me.”

You don’t say anything.

He does.

“I miss you all the time,” he says, voice low. “Even when I’m with you.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re always somewhere else now. In your books. In your head. In hospitals I can’t pronounce.”

Your heart tugs at the edges. He doesn’t sound bitter. Just tired. Honest.

“I get it,” he adds. “It’s important. It matters. But sometimes I think about that summer when we were fifteen, and you stole my hoodie, and we made fake pit passes just to sneak into the garage.”

You laugh, quiet. “We were so stupid.”

“We were so happy.”

The silence after that isn’t awkward. It’s full. Like the city’s holding its breath.

You look over at him. Really look.

His lashes are darker now. His jaw’s sharper. A lock of hair curls against his temple, untamed. But he’s still him. Still the boy in the mud, the boy who taught you how to drift on your cousin’s farm, who shared his Capri-Sun at the track because you forgot yours, again. Still the one who taped your wrist when you wiped out in the rain and told you you’d make it to Monaco someday.

And here you are.

“Lando,” you murmur. “Yeah?” “I missed you too.”

He doesn’t wait this time.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting years to remember how.

And maybe he has. Maybe you both have.

The world blurs for a moment: the moon climbing higher, the boats bobbing gently below, the buzz of the city dissolving behind you, and all that’s left is him.

All sun-warmed skin and trembling fingers and eyes the color of every good memory — soft-washed, warm, like light bleeding through a window at golden hour.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath mingling with yours.

“I didn’t think you’d let me do that,” he whispers.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

You both laugh. Just a little. Just enough.

You’re twenty-five when you catch him watching you from across a hotel room in Japan. There’s a storm outside, low thunder rolling through the glass, and Lando’s shirt is damp from the run to the lobby. His curls are still wet, clinging to his forehead in loose, chaotic swirls. He should be tired — hell, you’re tired — but he’s watching you like you’re something new.

It’s not the first time he’s looked at you like this. Not by a long shot.

He’s never been subtle about it, not when he warms your hands in his pockets on cold walks back from the paddock, not when he lights up the second your name shows up on his phone. He’s the kind of boy who leaves his heart in plain sight, who grins with his whole body, who never learned how to want quietly.

You feel his gaze before you meet it. The kind that makes your chest go a little soft, like the edges of a photograph curling with time.

“You’re staring,” you say, without looking up from your textbook.

“I’m allowed to,” he replies. “I’m in love with you.”

You blink. Not because you didn’t know — he’s never been subtle — but because of how easily he says it. No drama. No orchestra. Just him. Lando, who once stuck gum in your hair during a twelve-hour drive to Wales. Lando, who whispered you’ve got me into your hair the night your grandmother died. Lando, who still trips over his own shoes in hotel corridors and grins like a child when room service arrives.

You toss a pillow at him. “Say it prettier.”

He catches it one-handed, kaleidoscope eyes glinting in the dim light. Smirks. “You make me want to write poetry, but all I know how to do is drive.”

That shuts you up.

His eyes crinkle at the corners, a blue-green haze in the lightning glow, and he grins wider, like he knows he’s just won something. Like he’d lose a thousand races and still call this the prize.

“Told you,” he murmurs.

There are races, years, chapters.

Seasons where you barely see each other, where you wake up to hotel ceilings and unfamiliar time zones and forget what city you’re in until he kisses your shoulder and mumbles something in a sleep-heavy voice like, It’s Thursday. We’re in Austin. His curls are flattened from sleep, his voice rough at the edges, and his arms still warm from whatever dream he was having.

Sometimes he wins. Sometimes he doesn’t. You never love him any more or less.

He still gets grumpy when he’s hungry, still laughs at memes from 2014, still buys you the weird flavored gum at petrol stations because you used to love this stuff, remember? Still leans into your space like gravity’s something personal. Still has a grin that cracks through your worst moods like sunlight.

There are cameras. Headlines. Speculations. But you’ve always known who he was.

You know the versions of him that never make it to the press: the quiet frustration of a red flag, the way he presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek when he’s nervous, the silence he sinks into after a loss. The way his curls flop over his forehead when he finally takes off his helmet. The way he says your name when he’s scared. The way he finds you in every crowd like it’s instinct. How his eyes — storm-colored, sometimes soft, sometimes sharp — flick to you the second anything starts to feel too loud.

And you’ve always let him. You always will.

He’s thirty-one when you find an old photo in a drawer: the two of you, muddy and grinning, barely ten years old. His curls are a mess, more fluff than form. You’re wearing his jacket, sleeves bunched up to your elbows. Neither of you have front teeth. You’re both sun-drenched and ridiculous.

“God,” you mutter, holding it up to the light. “We were a disaster.”

From the kitchen, he says, “Still are.”

You hear the clink of a spoon against ceramic. The rustle of his socks on the tile.

“You still love me?” you call, teasing, but not really.

He appears in the doorway, hoodie half-on, spoon in his mouth. He’s older now — jaw more carved, eyes a little softer around the edges — but the grin he gives you is the same one from every memory that matters. That lopsided, toothy thing like he’s always one second from bursting into laughter. A single curl falls against his temple, and for a moment, it’s hard to tell what year it is.

He swallows and says, “I’ll love you even when we’re bones.”

You believe him.

You always have.

[erwinsvow]

thinking about night shift reader getting jealous when a pretty temp nurse or patient won’t stop flirting with jack

YESYESYES!!🤭 i need that imagine him trying to convince her/ console her and she’s actually so jealous and mad w him

the squeal heard around the world. i loved writing this. i am soo sorry i am terrible at writing about the girl we are supposed to be jealous of, even though this was my own damn idea. i hope you like ♡ this is about 3.6k. oops

jack abbot is great at being your boyfriend, and he's even better at being a doctor.

he's the kind of boyfriend you spent all of your youth dreaming about, as though he had read the scribbles in your journals growing up, like he'd been right next to your friends when you'd tell them about what you want in a relationship.

sweet, devoted, caring. he takes care of you in ways that you didn't realize you needed to be cared for—does it so effortlessly that you're left wondering how it comes so easily to him. you know he's been in more relationships than you—he was married, and that is something you don't take lightly. he had already found the person he was going to spend forever with, and because of some cruel twist of fate, he ended up alone again.

you can't imagine that. you've been on the night-shift maybe six months, which means you've been official with jack for coming on four months now, and you can't even imagine what a single day without him would be like.

(you've experienced it in the broadest sense of the word—he once got called in at three in the afternoon on a day you both had gotten off. the two of you had only woken up an hour or two ago, and had spent the following time indulging in an afternoon delight, and when his phone went off, you were about to drift off to sleep again against his chest, to the sound of his heart. you still hold a grudge against shen for that day, and you know what it's like to be without him when you're so spoiled by what it's like to be with him—you were miserable until he came back home at ten that night.)

jack abbot is a great boyfriend. he surprises you with your favorite flowers, makes you breakfast because he worries about you not eating enough, and even though he's an old man, he replies to your texts as soon as he gets them, as soon as he can. (but he doesn't really need to, since you're always together anyways.)

but sometimes, your boyfriend is really fucking oblivious.

there's a travel nurse taking over for one of your favorite night-shift nurses' maternity leave. you were sad about it already, being without her, though it's hard to stay upset when she sends you photos of her cute baby napping and videos of him realizing he has fingers.

and you are nothing if not sweet, if not welcoming. you had been the newbie not that long ago, and even though you've settled into a great routine (that only partially includes jack, because despite the fact that the scheduler loves you, you don't get every shift with your boyfriend. that would just be wrong. and distracting, you think), you still remember how hard it was in the beginning.

so you beam at her with your smile, ask her about her hobbies and give her recommendations for the best coffee nearby. you do all the things you'd do if it was anyone else, trying to make sure she feels welcome. (jack told you once that you have a complex about making sure people like you. you told him to shut up.)

the first few shifts with her were fine. you've been on with shen and ellis for a week—that's just the way the schedule was. you and jack both have a golden weekend coming up soon, and there was another couple of days he took off to go visit his sister upstate, so you knew it would be a mildly sad few weeks without him there every night with you. it would be worth it for the forty-eight hours you had been daydreaming about, all of them in jack's apartment, not a single one outside of his bed.

but she'd been on with you every night you'd been there, and nurses only work three times a week—that's what's running through your head when jack comes in for his first shift this week with you. he'd come from his apartment, calling you to tell you that he'd made it back home safely and that he was going to sleep before heading in. you had ended the call securing a promise to get breakfast at the diner after tonight's shift, your usual routine.

but you feel sick to your stomach at eight-thirty, staring at the new nurse and your boyfriend, standing in front of a patient's bed.

jack looks good—he always looks good. his hair isn't as messy yet, his scrubs are still clean. he shifts his weight a little because he's had a long drive back from his sister's, and he didn't get to sleep that much, another reason why you are so excited for this empty weekend. were so excited.

you didn't even think you were the jealous type. how could you have known—with no one ever being so close to you that you had any reason to be jealous? you try to rack your head through a couple of first-dates and your sweet but boring short-term college boyfriend. no, you conclude, you've never been the jealous type.

except now, you suppose, watching the pretty nurse lean in a little too close to jack, showing him something on the tablet in her hands. she stares up at your boyfriend, and he stares at the tablet, and then the patient, and you stare at them. and then you see it—he looks at her and stays something, and she laughs. loudly, flirtatiously. you know that laugh, you see it all around you in a hospital full of flirts. and before either of them can catch you staring, you turn around and find a patient to take care of.

you tell yourself for the next thirty minutes that being jealous and getting angry is awfully immature of you, while stitching up a man with terrible knife skills who had secured his visit tonight during a failed attempt at making hibachi for dinner. you don't even hear him when he asks you when he should return to get the stitches out, and the nurse helping you looks at you in confusion. you never zone out while talking to patients, never leave them hanging. she fills in for you, telling him two weeks while you meander back to central.

and you feel a white hot ball of anger burning in your chest again. she's talking to him again. god—don't they both have jobs to do? she's doing the thing again, leaning in towards your boyfriend, looking at him with an expression that is entirely too familiar to you. it's the one that's constantly on your face—the one that the other night shift crew are probably sick of seeing by now. it's something like adoration and reverence and paying attention to every word he says so you don't miss anything. but hers isn't like yours, there's something else there too.

jack is talking to the patient now, taking a step closer to the bed and away from the nurse, and your thudding heart calms down for half a second before the nurse follows right behind him. and she touches his arm. not a tap, not a poke to get his attention. she wraps her fingers around his bicep, holds on for a little too long, and your boyfriend turns to look at her, and that's when you realize you need a moment.

you shut your eyes. it's times like this that you realize how green you really are when it comes to the whole 'dating a really handsome, really smart guy' thing. but jack has never given you a reason to be worried, has never said or done anything that even made you think he would entertain something like this. you know he wouldn't, he's too good for that, too nice of a boyfriend for that.

but it still stings. and so you turn away immediately, heading back to the desk and leaning against it. you report the two cases you dealt with to ellis, who asks you questions that take you too long to answer. you try to avoid staring at either your boyfriend or the nurse for too long, a storm cloud brewing inside of you when you see her trailing right behind him again.

you haven't even talked to him tonight yet, you think bitterly. miserably. and that nurse has been with him for two hours.

and unfortunately, you're also pretty green at hiding the fact that you're upset too. not to your patients—though you do let shen and ellis run the incoming and settle for debriding and wrapping up a burn instead, sitting behind a shut curtain so jack couldn't find you, if he was looking.

(of course he was looking. you're just caught up in your own head.)

and after that, it's almost ten. jack has a cup of coffee waiting for you, if he can find you. he tells the nurse who's been following him around all night if she can track you down for him, and then the patient with the chest pain he's been monitoring wants to speak with him, so he walks away to do that, stretching his neck to see if you're at one of the beds nearby. you have a pair of pink sneakers you wear, though every single person in your life had told you to buy black ones, him included. you don't listen, and times like this he's thankful, searching for the bright shoes under a few beds before giving up. maybe you had just walked away, maybe he had just missed you.

you're back at central, sending in an order for antibiotic gel and finishing a note. you're not a mean person, it doesn't come very naturally to you, but you do have to try really hard to resist the urge to roll your eyes when you see the nurse walking towards you.

you've been nice to her every day so far. it would be obvious if you started being mean—whatever your version of mean is—now. but it doesn't seem like she would notice, with that same love-sick expression as she sits in the empty chair next to you.

you're grumpy and tired and frankly too busy to deal with this, but when she starts talking, you listen anyways. (screw jack and screw your goddamn complex. you need to learn how to be mean.)

"how is this the first time i'm meeting him?" she asks, and you bite your cheek so hard you think it might be bleeding. you keep typing your note, looking in her direction and forcing a smile—stupid. complex. "he's so handsome."

"what's that now?" you grit, the screen in front of you not making much sense anymore. you backspace and delete the last two sentences that are filled with gibberish and abbreviations that don't exist.

"dr. abbot," she says to you and you think even your fingers are trembling. you are so, so incredibly bad at this. and you don't even realize why—so much anger and sadness pooling inside of you. normally you'd be caffeinated enough for a clear mind on this side of ten o'clock, but you've been avoiding your boyfriend, and therefore avoiding the cup he makes for you every shift.

the nurse rambles on, your heart beating faster with each word she says. dr. abbot is cute and nice and charming and, like, so funny.

i know, you want to yell. i know he's funny! you just met him three hours ago.

but you stay silent, stay nice, no matter how much it's eating at you. you are being extremely immature but everytime you think of how close they were standing and the fact that some other girl touched your boyfriend's arm, you want to black out.

she keeps rambling and you stay silent, trying for the most part to ignore her, until you hear it at the end of one of her sentences.

"he wears a wedding ring, though, i noticed it earlier when we were with that other patient. but i mean, he's a doctor right? they never care about-"

the thoughts you're thinking would get you put into the psych ward, you think.

"-oh, he was looking for you. you need to report to him, right? we were over by bed ten, i think, the guy with chest pain. we were-"

we, we, we. it's all she says.

"he was looking for me?" you repeat, tired of listening and frankly, a bit tired of the weight of your own emotions.

yes, you might be stupid for getting jealous about something like this, but if that's the case, then you accept your own stupidity. you would never touch some nurse's arm like that, not unless you were trying to give someone a hug after a bad loss. and you would never lean in close like that to anyone, no one besides jack. well, jack and that older radiologist who speaks very softly, so you always need to get real close so she doesn't have to keep repeating herself.

you guess you thought jack would feel the same about not doing those things for you. maybe he doesn't care, maybe it's nothing to him. but it's not to you, not right now, not while listening to a temp nurse gush about him all night.

"oh, there he is now. do i look okay? that other incoming was coughing up blood and we-"

you look up, meeting your boyfriend's pretty hazel eyes while he leans on the other side of the counter from you.

"do you need anything, dr. abbot?" she pipes up from next to you, and this time you do roll your eyes. fuck—you're really bad at this. jack sees it happen, shaking his head at her and turning his attention to you.

a few hours ago, this would have made you perfectly happy. but it keeps replaying in your head—the arm grab. maybe it's because you have your own complex about jack's arms, but it's not okay. and you won't pretend like it is either.

jack sets down your yellow mug by your hand. it's filled with a light colored coffee.

"here's your cream and sugar with a side of coffee." you stare up at him blankly, forcing a small smile.

"thank you," and then you turn your attention back to the screen. jack looks at you, confused with furrowed eyebrows. you can feel the nurse's eyes going between your yellow mug and jack. "i discharged hibachi guy with fifteen stitches. and the forearm burn wants to pick up the gel from his local pharmacy, i guess he knows the tech there or something-"

"you okay, kid?"

you release a breath you've been holding all night. when you turn to your side, you see the nurse is still staring, but not at you, just at jack. you turn your attention back to him.

"yeah."

you watch it happen in front of you. he turns to the nurse, and she beams, just like how you always do.

"would you mind giving us a minute?" he asks her, and you can see her deflate a little. you get a smug feeling, which you immediately curse yourself for. that's mean of you, and you don't like being mean—though you are very pleased he said that. she nods and gets up slowly, making sure to ask him again if he needs anything before she goes. and she walks somewhere away, though you're sure she can still see him.

"hey," he starts, and you do have to look up now. you can't ignore jack if you tried. "what's wrong?"

"nothing," you lie through your teeth, ignoring how weepy you feel inside.

you don't know how to handle being jealous, and you want to say something mean and biting but you can't really think of it. so you settle for the next best thing, staying silent.

"c'mon, kid. don't lie to me. i haven't seen you all night."

"i was on chairs," you say, eyes flicking between jack's arm resting against the counter and the cup of coffee he brought you. and then you look at the recently emptied seat next to you. "and you were clearly busy."

jack hasn't been dating you for that long, but he still knows you better than you know yourself sometimes. knows that you're too nice, knows about the new nurse that replaced your pregnant friend—distinctly remembers you telling him about it on the phone last week. he knows that he's never seen you like this, that you haven't given him that smile that makes his knees weak and his heart thud all night. that he was waiting for it after a few days without you.

you chew your cheek again, taking a sip of the coffee. it's perfect, just like every other night.

(you had once confessed to jack at three am during the first month you two were officially dating that your coffee always tastes better when he makes it. it's what he thinks about when he makes it for you—here, at your place, at his place, at the diner.)

"thank you for the coffee," you say quietly, briefly flickering your sad eyes to him. jack leans in, holding your hand that just set down your mug.

"hey," he starts quietly, and you try to wrestle your hand away, though he doesn't budge. "hey. what's going on? did i-did i do something?"

you stay silent, though he notices your eyes getting watery. it's so stupid, crying over this like you've just lost a patient or something. but you can't help it. jack abbot makes you feel every emotion like it's your first time feeling it all over again. your eyes look at the chair next to you again.

"i saw her touching you," you admit quietly. saying the words out loud lights a fury inside of you, getting angry all over again at the very idea that he didn't realize what was happening.

"oh, kid, i-"

"d-don't. you asked, i'm just telling you." it's hard for him to listen when he notices your chin trembling a little, thinking about how this might be the first time he's messed up in your short relationship.

he comes over to the other side of the desk, taking the seat next to you and holding onto your hand again.

"please tell me this is not about that-that nurse," jack starts, and you want to walk away from him so badly. "sweetheart. i have absolutely no interest in her, even if she does. i told her to find you for me, so i could get your coffee-"

"but she touched your arm," you say, not realizing just how sad that had made you. but jack realizes, knows that you must have seen it from somewhere where he couldn't see you. knows you didn't see him brushing her off, standing by the patient, figuring out how to get rid of his new shadow.

"hey, i'm sorry, okay? i would have made sure she understood that i'm very happily taken if i had known-"

"but you should have known," you say, though the words are covered with a tiny sob. "i-i'm not crying because i'm sad, i'm angry, i just don't know how to stop crying when i-"

"hey, it's okay. c'mon, let's go on a walk."

"no, i need to finish my notes-"

"sweetheart, come on." jack takes both your hands in his, turning you towards him. he stares right into your eyes and you feel slightly better—slightly. "i need to apologize to you and then i'm going to kiss you. and i know how you feel about me doing that sort of thing in front of everyone, so-"

"i don't know what you're talking about," you snip back. "i don't have any feelings about doing any sort of thing in front of any sort of people-"

and jack wants to laugh, not sure if you entirely understand how cute you are like this. he'll tell you all about it tomorrow morning, when he's got you in his bed, after he apologizes every single way he knows how, after he proves to you how little temp nurses mean to him when he's finally got you.

he leans in close, knowing he's got eyes on the two of you.

"is that so?" you have a habit of shutting your eyes when you know a kiss is coming, and your body does it automatically, despite what your brain is thinking. "so you're not gonna mind if i-"

and he bridges the gap, kissing you at central until he has to pull away to let you breathe. your eyes blink open, staring at hazel until you hear it from behind you—the charge nurse, clearing her throat, suppressing a laugh.

"doctors? if you're about done, we have an incoming mvc-"

"coming, bridget. thanks." jack speaks for both of you, and a little dazed, you stand up with him, still staring.

"i'm still upset."

"i know."

"she still touched you-"

"and i think she's gotten the message by now, but if she hasn't, i will make sure she understands."

"i haven't worked with you since last week." the last part you say sadly, realizing how long it's been since you've seen your boyfriend.

"i'll make up for it in the morning. promise." you take one last sip of coffee, knowing it'll be cold by the time you come back to it, following jack to the trauma bay. you walk right by the temp nurse, who you catch watching as you tie jack's gown and he ties yours, and though you really shouldn't, you beam your friendliest smile at her as she waits with you and the other nurse outside.

"you look great, by the way. and he is cute, isn't he?"

[kxsagi]

hihi can i request how the media would react if they found out the bllk boys were married (itoshi brothers, kaiser, and whoever else you want)

ty, have a good day/night

“#𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐲𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐛𝐨𝐬𝐬”

a/n: this is a whole new idea and i love it! also thank you, have a good day/night as well!!!

a/n #2: who let them get married (and how do i get that lucky) 

ft. itoshi rin, itoshi sae, kaiser michael, isagi yoichi, bachira meguru, mikage reo, nagi seishiro, karasu tabito

itoshi rin

the world stops spinning when it leaks that rin married you. nobody can compute it. no one. 

he’s trending #1 globally with hashtags like #rinwifereveal #iceprincetaken. 

confused fans everywhere are asking the real questions: “how did he propose if he only speaks in death threats?” 

old clips of rin ignoring interviewers go viral again: “this man?? THIS MAN found a WIFE???” 

his agency posts a really dry statement like: “itoshi rin is married. he will continue his professional activities as usual.” 

the comments are gold – you getting praised like some mythological heroine: “if you married rin itoshi and lived to tell the tale, you deserve a national holiday.” 

when asked about you at a press conference, rin’s response is peak rin: “it’s none of your business.” 

but people notice he wears his wedding ring 24/7 and once smiled (barely) when someone said “your wife,” and fans LOST it. 

you are now officially worshiped as the woman who melted the glacier. 

itoshi sae

the media genuinely thinks it’s a typo when they find out sae married you. like itoshi sae??? able to love someone other than a soccer ball??? there’s no way he had the social skills for marriage. 

headlines are so petty: “itoshi sae ties the knot: sources unsure if he even likes people.” 

the sports tabloids zoom into old clips of him smirking mid-match like: “he must’ve been thinking about his wife 🫢” 

memes explode overnight: “you: babe, can you smile for the wedding pics? sae: raises one eyebrow slightly” 

your first public sighting together is chaotic. he’s pushing a grocery cart with a dead-eyed look while you’re happily picking snacks. 

paparazzi snap a blurry photo, and boom: “breaking: itoshi sae domesticated.” 

he literally never posts you (for privacy reasons), but when you post a picture of him cuddling you while half-asleep, fans combust: “WAIT he’s a softie for her ONLY???? iconic behavior.” 

kaiser michael

he announces your marriage like a mic drop. the german media especially loses their minds. 

posts a wedding photo with you on instagram, captioned: “still undefeated. married the hottest woman alive.” 

media outlets around the world are scrambling to write articles fast enough. 

magazines call you "the only trophy kaiser cares about.” 

he does interviews where he says stuff like: “yeah, she’s my best win yet.” 

every fan either: 1) cries about losing their delusions, or 2) makes memes of you carrying kaiser bridal-style after his matches. 

during games, opponents will yell at him: “your wife’s watching, pretty boy!” 

and kaiser just smirks, scores, and points to you in the stands like he’s in a movie. 

you literally make him even cockier. he’s insufferable. but also hot about it. 

isagi yoichi

the media basically short-circuits when they find out you’re married to him. like, nice boy next door isagi? married already??? 

they treat it like a scandal: “in today’s shocking development, yoichi isagi – japan’s golden boy – is officially off the market. hearts across the world have shattered.” 

twitter is in absolute shambles: “NO WAY isagi’s MARRIED. i thought he was married to FOOTBALL 😭” 

and you? you’re just living your best life, chilling while isagi is out here holding your hand proudly at press events like you’re his MVP. 

he’s answering interviews all starry-eyed: “yeah! i love my wife! she’s the real reason i win games.” 

you even get your own nickname in the press: "japan’s first lady of football.” 

whenever you post a picture together, comments are like: “she’s the real endgame. we lost, but we lost to a queen 😭👑”

bachira meguru

everyone immediately falls in love with you, too. like, duh. you’re the perfect match for chaotic sunshine incarnate. 

bachira’s announcement? just a pic of you both wearing matching crocs, captioned: “leveled up 💍🎮💖” 

every comment is crying about how cute it is. 

fans imagine the proposal like: “if i score 3 goals today, will you marry me? 😜” 

he makes finger hearts at you from the field. sometimes he even dabs after scoring because you dared him to. 

sports anchors have to explain “dab celebrations” on national TV now because of you two. 

people call you “his player 2” and it’s so iconic that a brand tries to sponsor you both for matching gamer jerseys. 

mikage reo

the media is CONVINCED it was some sort of billionaire merger. tabloids lose their minds speculating about your “secret heiress” identity. 

but really? you’re just you. you married reo because he’s a clingy, golden retriever boy that genuinely loves you and treats you well. 

he’s so defensive about it in interviews: “it’s not about money!! she’s literally perfect, end of discussion.” 

still, fans are clowning: “reo mikage gave up his entire inheritance for his wife. love wins 😭” 

reo keeps trying to pretend your life together is “normal” but then slips up like: “yeah, we took the jet to brunch lol.” 

you constantly remind him not to flex, but it’s a losing battle. he just loves spoiling you too much. 

he wears his wedding ring loudly like it’s a flex on single people. 

nagi seishiro

no one is surprised. like, yeah. obviously nagi would get married to his first love. 

he reposts a wedding pic you posted because he can’t be bothered making his own announcement. 

interviewers ask, “what made you want to settle down?” and he goes: “she’s comfy. i love her.” 

fans sob at the simplicity: “nagi just EXISTED and found true love while i’m out here struggling 😭” 

you are considered the ultimate cozy queen by the fanbase. 

nagi refers to you as “home” and it’s so casually romantic that everyone melts. 

he basically just plays games, cuddles you, and naps, living the dream. 

karasu tabito

he trolls the entire internet with your marriage reveal. 

he posts: “sorry ladies, taken for life 💍🤪” with the hashtag #wifedup. 

every comment is roasting him: “you????? married?????? how???”

no one believes him. not until you both post matching wedding rings with the caption: “teamwork makes the dream work 🫶” 

sports reporters really don't know if it’s real or just karasu being karasu. 

but it doesn’t change the fact that you and karasu become an iconic couple overnight. 

karasu’s new favorite hobby is pretending to be a “wife guy” on twitter for clout. like he’ll fake cry on twitter about missing “the single life” while literally posting pictures of you two cuddling under captions like: “can’t go out tonight, gotta watch kdramas with my wife 💔” 

fans call you "the MVP who finally fouled karasu’s heart.” 

somehow you two are both chaotic and goals at the same time. 

though media outlets are still confused whether to take him seriously because karasu’s like a walking clickbait article: “is he joking? is he not? find out on the next episode of karasu being karasu.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[enderminecraft8]

character ask but it’s C!Technoblade/Vox

Why do you like or dislike this character? Like: Techno-His brute strength, the idea you could defeat anyone is a powerful thought. Vox-His Technology, transportation to media monitoring. Dislike: Techno-Probably the peer pressure, I hate the fact he can be influenced so easily as someone so powerful Vox-Probably his emotional state, he seems like when he isn’t in control he’s a hot mess

2. Favorite canon thing about this character? Techno-The voices, chat is sweet Vox-His relationships to the other Vees, it’s just really cool honestly

3. Least favorite canon thing about this character? Techno-Again gotta go with that peer pressure, same reason as before Vox-Probably how little is canonically known about him so far, we need to know more about his character

4. If you could put this character in any other media, be it a book, a movie, anything, what would you put them in? Techno-Animated Series Vox-Hazbin Hotel Movie

5. What's the first song that comes to mind when you think about them? Techno-Voices by Deviant Vox-Stayed Gone

6. What's something you have in common with this character? Techno-A lot, but I’ll go with our humor Vox-Again a lot, but this time I’ll go with our mannerisms

7. What's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you like? Techno-The shapeshifting of forms, I love that he has so many forms to pick from. Vox-Stasticmoth, the fanbase knows how to ship

8. What's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you despise? Techno-Ships, I hate when they get too intimate in fanfics Vox-When they make him look helpless, he is an Overlord and isn’t defenseless

9. Could you be roommates with this character? Techno-Yes Vox-Yes

10. Could you be best friends with this character? Techno-Yes Vox-Yes

11. Would you date this character? Techno-No Vox-No

12. What's a headcanon you have for this character? Techno-Agender/Aroace Vox-Trans Male/Gay Man/ADHD/Hypermobility or disabled

13. What's an emoji, an emoticon and/or any symbol that reminds you of this character or you think the character would use a lot? Techno-👑 Vox-📺

14. Assign a fashion aesthetic to this character. Techno-Royalty meets Punk Vox-50s/CEO

15. What's your favorite ship for this character? (Doesn't matter if it's canon or not.) Techno-None Vox-Stasticmoth

16. What's your least favorite ship for this character? Techno-Him and Tommy(Please no-) Vox-Him and anyone that isn’t Val or Alastor

17. What's a ship for this character you don't hate but it's not your favorite that you're fine with? Techno-None(Platonic him and Philza ig) Vox: Appletv

18. How about a relationship they have in canon with another character that you admire? Techno-Him and Philza or him and Ranboo Vox-Him with any of the Vees

19. How about a relationship they have in canon that you don't like? Techno-Him and Tubbo Vox-None

20. Which other character is the ideal best friend for this character, the amount of screentime they share doesn't matter? Techno-Philza Vox-Lucifer or Val

21. If you're a fic writer and have written for this character, what's your favorite thing to do when you're writing for this character? What's something you don't like? (Doesn’t write fanfics for these guys)

22. If you're a fic reader, what's something you like in fics when it comes to ths character? Something you don't like? Like: Techno-Love fluff and how wholesome the relationship is Vox-Hurt/Comfort or like when he’s soft Dislike: Techno-When it gets too angst Vox-When he’s being too emotional and not understanding stuff

23. Favorite picture of this character? Didn’t draw them myself but Techno-Him dancing with Philza Vox-Him sleeping in a car with the other Vees

24. What other character from another fandom of yours that reminds you of them? Technoblade-Alastor Vox-Quackity?

25. What was your first impression of this character? How about now? First: Techno-Gonna be my favorite character, he’s so funny Vox-Hate him Now: Techno: Still my favorite character Vox-Somehow also my favorite character

(this took wayyy to long. Also no art on the picture part bc I can’t find the original artists)

CHARACTER ASK GAME!!! 💫

Send a character + one or more of these question!

1. Why do you like or dislike this character?

2. Favorite canon thing about this character?

3. Least favorite canon thing about this character?

4. If you could put this character in any other media, be it a book, a movie, anything, what would you put them in?

5. What's the first song that comes to mind when you think about them?

6. What's something you have in common with this character?

7. What's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you like?

8. What's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you despise?

9. Could you be roommates with this character?

10. Could you be best friends with this character?

11. Would you date this character?

12. What's a headcanon you have for this character?

13. What's an emoji, an emoticon and/or any symbol that reminds you of this character or you think the character would use a lot?

14. Assign a fashion aesthetic to this character.

15. What's your favorite ship for this character? (Doesn't matter if it's canon or not.)

16. What's your least favorite ship for this character?

17. What's a ship for this character you don't hate but it's not your favorite that you're fine with?

18. How about a relationship they have in canon with another character that you admire?

19. How about a relationship they have in canon that you don't like?

20. Which other character is the ideal best friend for this character, the amount of screentime they share doesn't matter?

21. If you're a fic writer and have written for this character, what's your favorite thing to do when you're writing for this character? What's something you don't like?

22. If you're a fic reader, what's something you like in fics when it comes to ths character? Something you don't like?

23. Favorite picture of this character?

24. What other character from another fandom of yours that reminds you of them?

25. What was your first impression of this character? How about now?

26. FREEBIE QUESTION!!

[rafesangelita]

♡ CELEBRATION SCHEDULE : MAY 1ST - MAY 7TH

thursday : asking frat!rafe for permission to cum (drabble inspired by p!link), dilf!rafe x bitchy!kook!reader au, frat!rafe loves to turn you into a mess by pushing down on your tummy while he’s fingering you (drabble inspired by p!link), dilf!rafe x housebunny!reader moodboard

friday : sheriff!rafe and farmer’s!daughter!reader get into an argument after an old friend spots them together.. (sent in with the prompt: “i know we’re fighting, but come here..” + angst), when frat!rafe is the one being restrained instead.. (frat!rafe + bondage kink), who needs a boyfriend when you have a best friend like rafe who lets you use him to get yourself off? (drabble inspired by p!link)

saturday : draft catch up day <3

sunday : what’s bitchy!kook!reader wearing today? (outfit post), pope + belly bulge (drabble inspired by p!link), sucking off bsf!rafe while no one’s home.. (drabble inspired by p!link), grinding in rafe’s lap at the club (sent in with the prompt: “you’re killing me.” + rafe x latina!kook!reader + smut)

monday : when frat!rafe is embarrassed to ask bitchy!kook!reader to choke him, but she does it for him anyways.. (frat!rafe + choking kink), pope + pogue!sweetheart!reader moodboard, jj eating sheep!reader through her panties (drabble inspired by p!link)

tuesday : draft catch up day <3

wednesday : bluecollar!johnb has a massive size kink.. (bluecollar!johnb + size kink), stepbro!rafe fingers you when he see’s that your bedroom door is open.. (drabble inspired by p!link), telling rafe you didn’t use his credit card (sent in with the prompt: “why would you do that?” + dilf!rafe x housebunny!reader)

[lov3lycosmos]

Brothers Bsf!Minho who...knows it’s wrong, but that’s what makes it hotter.

every time he sees you in your pajamas or hears you laugh from down the hall, it gets harder to resist. You’re off-limits—but he's never been great at following rules.

Brothers Bsf!Minho who...eases you constantly when your brother’s around, but in subtle ways.

a hand on your lower back when passing by, whispered jokes in your ear, calling you “brat” under his breath—always daring you to react.

Brothers Bsf!Minho who...the first time it happens, it’s fast and intense.

he corners you in your bedroom after your brother leaves the house. It’s rushed, needy, and leaves you both breathless. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me, do you?”

Brothers Bsf!Minho who...loves controlling the pace.

minho will pin your wrists above your head, hover his mouth over yours, and whisper, “Beg for it.” He wants to hear you fall apart just from his words.

Brothers Bsf!Minho who...is into overstimulation.

once he gets a taste of you, he can’t stop. One orgasm isn’t enough—he’ll edge you again and again until you're shaking, moaning his name like it’s the only word you know.

Brothers Bsf!Minho who...is a huge whisper-in-your-ear guy.

he leans in when you’re trying to stay quiet, murmuring things like “Such a needy little thing for your brother’s best friend, huh?”

Brothers Bsf!Minho who...is possessive in bed.

after he fucks you, he always leaves marks—hickeys on your thighs, scratches down your back, bruises on your hips—proof that you’re his secret.

Brothers Bsf!Minho who...loves fucking you while you’re on the phone with your brother.

he'll slide his fingers between your legs and smirk while you try to keep your voice steady. “Act normal. Go on. Say hi for me.”

Brothers Bsf!Minho who...is very good with his hands—and knows it.

minho uses them to grab your throat lightly, spank you, or finger you until you’re clenching around nothing. “You’re dripping, and I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

Brothers Bsf!Minho who's...favorite position is from behind, head turned, making you look at him in the mirror.

he holds your hips and mutters, “Look at how good you take me. So desperate to be filled, huh?”

Brothers Bsf!Minho who...has a thing for lingerie and innocence.

you wear his shirt and nothing underneath? Game over. Minho will have you on your back in seconds, face buried between your legs, making you cum from his mouth alone.

Brothers Bsf!Minho who's...dirty talk is constant.

he’s not shy—he’ll say everything he’s going to do to you before he does it. “I’m going to fuck you so deep, you’ll be dripping me all day.”

Brothers Bsf!Minho who...records your moans sometimes (with your permission).

when he’s away, he plays them back with a smirk, replaying his favorite parts like a personal playlist. “Gonna make you scream like that again when I get back.”

Brothers Bsf!Minho who...makes you say his name over and over during sex. (maybe hoping your brother hears~)

if you slip up and moan something like “Oppa” or “Please,” he chuckles darkly and says, “No. Say my name. Say Minho.”

Brothers Bsf!Minho who's...aftercare is surprisingly soft.

he’ll clean you up, kiss your cheeks, and hold you close like he didn’t just ruin you minutes before. “Still breathing, sweetheart?” he teases, cuddling you until you fall asleep.

taglist: @vampzity @sooniedoongiedori25 @mhluvie @yaorzu-blog @lze325 @felixleftchickennugget @m-325 @lezleeferguson-120 @psychicyouthfox @pixie-felix @angel-writes-here @heechwe @galaxy4489 @minniesverse @gncbnahc

[wordsofwhimsy]

❀ꗥ～𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ～ꗥ❀

❀ꗥ～ Sinister!Mark Edition!～ꗥ❀

Pairing: Sinister!Mark Grayson x Southern Belle!Reader

Warnings: I mean sinister is his own warning but honestly it’s very tame – I love reader too much to do her dirty

Tags: Reader is oblivious—Mark is not, domesticity but make it dangerous, food = feelings = possession, reader feeds the wrong man

Word Count: 2,684

Synopsis: You were just being polite—feeding a hungry stranger who looked like he hadn’t had a decent meal in days. It’s what any good southern girl would’ve done. He didn’t talk much, didn’t smile much either, but bless his heart, he cleaned his plate like a man on death row and looked at you like you’d done southern sorcery. Only problem? Now he won’t leave.

a/n: to set the scene: Mark was passing over Georgia otw to a big city during the Invincible Wars but we all know �� this man can eat 👀 so when he smells that southern cookin’ he’s just GOTTA make a pit stop (this might lowkey be my favorite?? VERY tempted to do another part for this)

you can start reading the main series ❀ꗥ～ Here! ～ꗥ❀

The backyard is alive with the sound of friends laughing, the sizzle of meats on the grill, and the light clink of glasses—just a typical Saturday night cookout in Georgia. The heat doesn’t mind, clinging to your skin, but it’s all good, ‘cause you’ve got the best BBQ in town and enough sweet tea to keep anyone happy.

You’re just about to check the ribs again when something cracks the air.

Not a flash of lightning. Not a plane. No, this is bigger—or at least, seems bigger. The kind of sound that makes the trees shudder and the dogs howl in panic.

You look up from the grill, squinting into the sky. Your friends barely notice, still wrapped up in their own conversations. Everyone's too deep into the party to hear it—except for you. And that sound? It’s bad. Too bad. But you brush it off as a fluke, not like you’ve ever been one to get skittish.

Then you hear it again—closer this time.

Boom.

The ground shakes underfoot.

A few heads turn. Someone laughs.

“You sure we’re not near a runway or somethin’?” a friend jokes.

You shake your head. The air smells wrong, though. Something metallic. Something deep in the earth. But the food’s almost done, and there’s a few folks eyeing that last batch of coleslaw, so you shrug it off.

That is, until the trees part like they’re being ripped down by some invisible hand.

A figure steps out of the smoke and into the clearing. You freeze for a second—tall, broad-shouldered, and covered in dirt and blood? Definitely not your usual neighbor popping by. But hey, this is Georgia, and folks sure have a habit of popping by when you least expect it.

He’s wearing a black and yellow suit, torn at the edges, face grimy and set like he’s walked through hell itself. His eyes are glowing, but you don’t notice that right away. Your brain does the mental gymnastics of “he looks like he’s been hunting” and “okay, maybe he’s lost” before you really stop and look.

The guy’s not normal. Not by a long shot.

But you? You? You just tilt your head, raise an eyebrow, and call out.

“You lost, sugar? You look like you been runnin’ from somethin’.”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even flinch when you address him, standing there in the middle of the yard like he’s deciding whether to blow everything up or just... stand there.

You walk over toward him, not too fast, but not slow either. You’ve got ribs to finish, and the night’s getting late. You’re not about to let some weird stranger ruin your good time.

“You hungry or what? You don’t look like you’re from around here, but the food’s hot. And I ain’t got time to be askin’ a million questions. So, either you’re gonna stand there starin’ or you’re gonna sit and eat.”

He watches you. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe for a long second, but when he shifts, you notice the hunger in his posture. It’s not a casual look. It’s the kind of stare that makes your pulse pick up, but you’re too wrapped up in hospitality to worry about it.

“I’ve got cornbread, sweet tea, and a whole lotta ribs. If you’re just gonna keep standin’ there, I’m gonna think you don’t know what you’re missin’.”

And without saying another word, you turn, walk back into the house, and leave the screen door open behind you.

The next thing you hear is his boots hitting the porch. Heavy, determined. He’s following you inside.

You don’t even turn around.

“C’mon, sugar. Don’t be shy.”

He sits at your kitchen table, too stiff, too tense to be comfortable. But you’ve got ribs on the counter, mashed potatoes on the stove, and a whole pot of collard greens simmering in the corner, so you just keep doing what you’re doing. Setting the table. Stirring the pot. Making sure everything’s just right.

“I don’t bite,” you offer casually as you set down a plate, the food still steaming. “Unless you ask nice.”

He’s not looking at you. He’s looking at the food. His eyes flicker between the plate and you like he can’t believe it’s real. But once that plate hits the table? It’s like something in him snaps.

He grabs the ribs. Bare hands. No knife, no fork. Just raw hunger.

And you? You just stand there, watching.

“You’ve been hunting for a while, haven’t you?” you ask, half-teasing. “You eat like you ain’t had a meal in months.”

He looks up then, eyes catching yours. There’s something darker in his gaze, something sharp.

“I’ve gone longer.”

“Yeah? Well, ain’t no need for you to be so grim. You’re eatin’ good now.”

You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching as he devours the food. It’s almost impressive, the way he’s tearing through everything. It’s like he’s starved. Like he needed this meal more than anything.

You can’t quite explain why, but... you feel like maybe you’re the one in control here. Maybe it’s the southern charm, or maybe it’s just your damn good cooking. Either way, you’re gonna enjoy this strange little moment with the stranger at your table.

“You want more?” you ask casually, tipping your head to the stove.

He just looks at you again. This time, it’s less cold, more... curious.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I want more.”

You're putting the finishing touches on his second plate—extra mashed potatoes, a little more brisket, because Lord knows he tore through the first like he hadn’t seen a fork in years—when the screen door creaks open again behind you.

Maggie’s voice cuts through the low hum of cicadas and music drifting in from the backyard.

“Hey, [y/n]? We ran outta napkins—” She stops mid-step.

You turn, smiling, just as Tate bumps into Mag’s shoulder with a beer in hand.

“You got more inside? I spilled a little—”

He stops too.

Both of them are staring toward your kitchen table where your unexpected guest sits like a warning carved in stone. He’s hunched forward slightly, eyes too red, posture too still, like a bear that hasn't decided if you're a threat or a snack.

You just step over to his side with a hand gently landing on his shoulder. His body is tense—coiled tight like a spring—but you don’t think much of it.

“Now don’t y’all go starin’,” you say cheerfully, running your hand down the back of his suit, brushing off some soot. “This poor thing just came in outta the woods lookin’ half-dead. I reckon he’s been huntin’ all week and didn’t catch a thing. Probably embarrassed, bless his heart.”

Maggie’s mouth opens, but no words come out. She glances at Tate like are we not gonna talk about the blood on his sleeves?

“You feedin’ him... uh... now?” Tate asks slowly.

“Course I am,” you chirp, already sliding the second plate in front of Mark. “Look at him—he ain’t eaten in days. I can tell by the way he’s sittin’. All tight like a rabbit in a foxhole. You know how men get when they ain’t fed proper.”

Mark’s jaw flexes. His eyes flick up toward Maggie—then to Tate—slow, calculating. You’re standing right beside him, warm hand still on him like a tether.

You misread the look entirely.

“Don’t mind him,” you say, waving it off. “He’s just nervous. You drop a man into a house full of strangers and feed him a full plate, and o’course he’s gonna be a little guarded. That’s manners.”

Maggie swallows.

“...Right. Manners.”

Mark hasn’t said a word since they came in, but his hands have stopped flexing under the table. His gaze shifts back to you. Still sharp. Still unreadable.

You smile down at him, proud of yourself for making him feel welcome.

“You got a name, sugar?”

He watches you a beat too long before answering, voice low and rough. “Mark.”

You clap your hands softly, delighted.

“Well, Mark,” you say, grinning. “Hope you brought an appetite, ‘cause I don’t let folks leave my house hungry.”

His expression barely shifts, but something in his eyes flickers.

“I won’t.”

—

You’re leaning against the counter again, glass in hand, still chatting with Maggie about the peach cobbler cooling on the windowsill when someone new wanders into the kitchen. Robbie. That friend of Tate’s who always thinks he’s funnier than he is. Got a little too much sun, a little too much beer, and not nearly enough sense.

He sees you, lights up like a porch bulb.

“Well damn, [y/n], you been hidin’ in here the whole time?”

You laugh, casual.

“Had to make sure my guest didn’t keel over from starvation. Boy looked like a scarecrow when he came outta them woods.”

Robbie gives Mark a once-over. Slows down at the red eyes. The blood-streaked arms. The unnatural stillness.

“He, uh… doin’ okay?”

“He’s fine,” you said, brushing past it. “Just needed a hot meal and a warm porch, that’s all.”

Mark doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t move. Just watches.

Robbie sidles up next to you, close enough that you feel his elbow graze yours.

“Well if you get tired of playin’ nurse, I wouldn’t mind stealin’ you away for a dance. We still got music out back. You always were the best two-stepper on this side of town.”

You smile, polite and a little bashful.

“Ain’t danced in ages.”

Behind you, the chair legs scrape.

You glance over—Mark’s shifted. Just barely. His hands are resting on the table now, fingers spread like he’s grounding himself. Or like he’s seconds away from launching across the room.

Robbie doesn’t notice. But Maggie does. She suddenly finds a reason to check her phone.

You, bless your soul, remain utterly unaware.

“Robbie, don’t be silly,” you say with a playful swat to his arm. “You just want someone to show off to.”

Robbie grins.

Mark twitches.

Your guest’s gaze is locked on the spot where Robbie touched you. His lip curls—not quite a snarl, but close. His knuckles go white.

“So what if I do?” Robbie says, leaning a little closer. “You know I’ve had a soft spot for you since high school.”

Your laugh is soft. Good-natured.

“You and every other boy south of Atlanta, Robbie. Y’all get all misty-eyed soon as I break out the cornbread.”

You don’t notice the shift in air pressure, the subtle hum of tension winding tighter and tighter around the kitchen.

But Maggie does. Tate does. Even the damn flies do.

Robbie just keeps grinning.

“Well, maybe I need a reminder of what I’ve been missin’, huh?”

Then he reaches—lightly, playfully—to touch your waist.

That’s when Mark stands.

Fast. Quiet. Absolute.

Everyone freezes.

He’s not yelling. He’s not doing anything dramatic. He’s just standing there, still as death, eyes glowing brighter now, like coals stoked hot. He’s staring at Robbie with the kind of look you’d give a bug you’re deciding whether to step on or dissect.

Robbie’s hand drops instantly.

“Uh…” Suddenly Robbie’s as sober as a preacher.

You blink, glancing between the two of them, completely missing the tension about to snap the room in half.

“My,” you say lightly, stepping between them without a care in the world, hand brushing Mark’s arm. “Y’all seem wound up tighter than a racoon’s tail in a trap.”

Mark doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t breathe.

But he doesn’t move either.

“He’s just bein’ friendly,” you tell him sweetly, like you’re calming a jumpy horse. “Ain’t no harm in a little flirtin’. That’s just how folks around here are.”

You pat his chest—firm, warm.

“You don’t gotta puff up like a bear just ‘cause someone gets talkative.”

Mark finally blinks.

Barely.

But he sits.

Not because he’s calm.

Because you asked.

And Robbie? Robbie suddenly remembers a reason to be anywhere else.

It’s quiet in the kitchen now.

—

The last of the guests have trickled out, carrying pie in foil and beers in koozies, waving lazily and promising to see you at church next Sunday or at Maggie’s baby shower. The cicadas are humming louder now that the sun’s down, and the overhead light casts the room in that warm yellow glow that makes everything feel soft.

You're at the sink, sleeves rolled up, wrist-deep in soap suds. The smell of hickory smoke still lingers in the air, wrapped around vanilla and leftover grease. Your back’s to him, humming low under your breath as you rinse off a casserole dish.

Mark hasn’t said a word since Robbie left.

He’s sitting at the kitchen table again, but not eating. Just watching. Still. Quiet.

Too quiet.

You glance over your shoulder with a little smile.

“You doin’ okay over there, sugar? You look like you’re waitin’ for the other shoe to drop.”

He doesn’t respond at first. His eyes flick down to the plate in front of him—the third one you filled without thinking. Then back to you.

“You cook like this all the time?”

You laugh, tossing a dish towel over your shoulder as you scrub at a stubborn bit of baked-on cheese.

“’Course I do. You think folks show up here for my charm alone?”

You don’t see it—but he grins.

Sharp. Quiet. Possessive.

Then his chair scrapes back.

You glance up just in time to see him cross the room in three slow steps, stopping behind you. He doesn’t touch you yet, just stands there, close enough that you feel the warmth of him against your back.

The tension’s different now.

It’s not hunger.

It’s not restraint.

It’s decision.

“That’s good to hear,” he murmurs, voice rough at the edges, curling around the shell of your ear.

You blink, hands stilling in the water.

“Huh?”

You turn—only for him to step in, one hand bracing on the counter beside your hip, the other lifting to cup the side of your neck. Gentle. Too gentle for how wild he looks.

Eyes glowing.

Mouth parted.

Grin sharp.

“I didn’t want to have to go far for it.”

Your breath catches.

“For what?”

“All of it,” he says, thumb dragging slow along your jaw. “The food. The soft voice. The hands that don’t flinch. You.”

You blink up at him, laugh a little shaky now.

“You talkin’ like—”

“I’m telling you,” he cuts in, soft but final. “You belong to me now.”

The world tilts.

Your lips part, but he’s already there—close, not kissing yet, just brushing his forehead to yours, like he’s anchoring himself to something precious.

“You fed me,” he breathes. “You smiled at me. That’s it. That’s all it takes.”

Your heart is thudding now, ears ringing, hands still damp from the sinkwater.

“You sure that’s how it works?” you whisper, breathless, not pulling away.

He grins wider.

“It is now.”

And then he kisses you.

Like he’s starving all over again.

[wordsinhaled]

feeling Things about the intensity / enormity / all-encompassingness of love that makes edwin have his “i cannot believe you would risk your entire existence coming down to this operatic horror show for me - that is so fucking stupid, it’s unbelievable!” outburst on the steps of hell…

because god, he’s been fussing over charles the whole season whenever charles does something that could be risky, and the running theme is that it’s edwin worrying. and all of that, about charles’ impetuous behavior etc, is still so measured compared to the way that edwin gets when charles is at real risk or in real danger (like in the devlin house - frantic! - “i could lose - we could lose charles”)… it’s on such a different level

and now charles has done it again but in the worst possible place (hell) and edwin just can’t have it because! he loves him!!! in every way there is!!! he’s realized he’s in love! and it’s like. the fear that something could have happened to charles. charles who is essential to edwin. his best friend. his love. his person. and it comes out of edwin so sharp and brittle. and then immediately it’s “i’m not mad,” because it isn’t that he’s mad it’s -

how could you do this, don’t you know how precious you are???? it’s so fucking stupid, it’s unbelievable, how can it even be REAL that you put yourself at this level of risk, for me? better that i would have suffered here, and you would be safe up there, because knowing you weren’t down here in danger was the thing that made it sort of bearable and now there’s the thought that something could have happened to you down here, and the universe wouldn’t have charles rowland in it anymore.

would edwin have known? if something had happened to charles down in hell on his way to find edwin? would he have felt it somehow? or would he not know, and go on continuing to think charles was safe on the earthly plane - taking refuge in thinking charles was spared the horror show, when that wasn’t true any more, charles had gone after him, and got hurt—

unbelievable. untenable. edwin can’t even stand the thought. but he also can’t have charles believing he’s really angry with him for even a moment - it fizzles out immediately. because in the end. charles is the beloved. in every way. much as edwin wanted to keep charles safe from even the thought of or knowledge of the doll house, he’s still the one edwin deep down most wanted to see in this terrible place — and charles doesn’t even know he’s loved yet in all the ways edwin loves him. how can he continue not to know? unfathomable that edwin could keep it from him for a moment longer

also, i know it’s gotta be like, the fifteenth time i’ve talked about edwin reframing for charles that his love doesn’t come mixed with anger like charles is used to experiencing love, by unequivocally removing any anger from the moment of the confession… but like. will i ever be normal about it? no. gotta be unhinged about it one more time

the way charles is held safe in edwin’s regard as the narrative of what their relationship can potentially be evolves…

i’m just SO fine and regular about how edwin feels towards charles. how he loves him!!!!!!!

i’m fine. be fine with me!!!

[tommyssupercoolblog]

OKAY!!! So um how the story goes is two women are arguing over who's the mom of this baby, so king Solomon tells them that they should fucking CUT THE BABY IN HALF so both women get a piece of the corpse baby?????? And one of the women, for some FUCKING REASON, is like "yeah sounds good to me" which is. What the fuck I don't think that's. At all how this would really go down but okay. And the other one is like "don't hurt him she can have him as long as he isn't cut in half" and king Solomon is like "ah yes that must mean YOU are the real mother who birthed this baby because all mothers love their children. What the fuck are abusive parents, never heard of em!!!!" And gives the baby.

Like you can read it as "children should be raised by those who have their best interests at heart" or whatever but he very much does stress that this woman must also be the birth mom. Like. How do you know that and why does it matter when the other lady wanted him fucking dead just to own him.

The Bible is full of fucked up stories like this and it sucks ass that little kids have to sit down and hear about the guy who was trampled to death by his own horses and his corpse was eaten by dogs or that time everyone's firstborn son was MURDERED by God to punish the KING even though the citizens couldn't control his actions

Shout out to the next generation of yuri warriors

[airybcby]

જ⁀♡⊹｡° he is in love

( bllk boys x gn! reader )

♡ a/n — part 2 to this little thing :)

♡ word count — 630

♡ content — multiple characters x reader, characters probably repeated , fluff, cutieness, gn! reader, NEL era, influencer! reader (one part), i think that's it, way longer than part 1- more fit with my new style

♡ synopsis — soft launches with the bllk boys!!

── .✦ you can hear it in the silence, you can feel it on the way home

never on social media. some would say that he simply is an enigma- one that has a social media presence with 3.4 million followers, but no posts. hardly posts on his story.

the most in depth look fans have ever gotten into his life was when he accidentally posted a story of them watching the little mermaid...does he scream the type of person to watch disney movies? maybe.

but fans are nosey, and as they zoomed in on the tv- in the smallest black part- they swore they could see another body- one that was wrapped around their soccer superstars!

it'd been months and the rumors of them having a secret relationship were still going strong, so imagine the fans reactions when they actually get a notification

' ... made a new post ! '

a new post? HIM? you bet your bottom dollar people immediately clicked, seeing the pictures with the caption

' where it's better :) '

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ REO MIKAGE, isagi yoichi, HIORI YO, shidou ryusei

he's known for traveling...a lot. yes, as a pro-soccer player, it's important for him to actually be at practice, but in the off season? he's on a plane 3 out of the 4 months he has off.

as long as he's not in an overseas scandal, his agency is okay with it- and his fans love the constant posting.

especially when he's in a tropical place and they get to see his stories of him with no shirt- but one day he posts a story and there's something strange...

his fans see it. he obviously doesn't.

the shadow taking the photo- it's hand has a strange shape- almost like it's making a heart towards him to get him to smile for the photo.

over night, his fans come up with many different speculations- some talking about how he must be in love with whoever is behind the camera because of 'the look in his eyes'

as if they'd noticed it before.

so when he makes a new post and his fans see those photos with the caption

'the eyes, chico. they never lie.'

yeah, they're goners.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ KARASU TABITO, oliver aiku, NANASE NIJIRO, jingo raichi

you're known for chronic brain-rot posting.

he's known for not posting at all.

for years he's popped up in your vlogs, being dubbed as your 'best friend' while your fans jumped on every single chance they could to prove you two were secretly together.

a hand on your waist so he could move past you? edits were made in the hour.

you two staring at each other and trying not to laugh? people swore they could feel the tension radiating off the two of you.

and...what are you two if not entertainers?

you were actually the one who posted it, tagging him as a collaborator so his fans and followers would see it too- with the caption

' god forbid the girlies want a secret relationship '

the comments didn't dissapoint

user59020: 'secret' yeah right, we saw you basically rip each others clothes off with your eyes

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ SAE ITOSHI, otoya eita, CHIGIRI HYOMA, michael kaiser

all he posts about is his cat. is he a pro soccer player? yes.

does he have a million fans that watch his every move, story, and post? also yes.

but what does that matter if he can't post about his beloved cat?

out of almost all of the soccer players in the world, he keeps a pretty low profile- mostly posting once a month to wish his cat a 'monthday'

the day he adopted the cat- by the month. i'm sure you understand.

so when his fans see that he posted...and it's not his cat? (kind of) they're shocked.

' kitty approved '

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ NAGI SEISHIRO, alexis ness, BAROU SHOEI, kiyora jin

{ + YOUR FAVES!! }

the way i wrote the first part and THAT'S what rlly blew my account up...gosh :,)

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

❀ tags: ❀ @kenyuukissme ❀ @irethepotato ❀ @kiyy0mei ❀ @x3nafix ❀ @sugacor3 ❀ @ohagiyo ❀ @reigensuperstar ❀ @nevvynevnev ❀ join the taglist here !

⋆.˚✮ 2025 ©airybcby ✮˚.⋆

[fxstpace]

the accidental kiss

summary: one night, when kwon soonyoung is piss-drunk and needs to be rescued by his friends, he accidentally kisses you. now that he’s sober, he can’t stop thinking about doing it again. the problem? he has no idea who you are—but kwon soonyoung is a persistent man, and he is determined to find you.

⇢ pairing: kwon soonyoung x fem!reader ⇢ contains: fluff, comedy, strangers to lovers au, college au, idiots to idiots in love, profanity, alcohol consumption—please let me know if i’ve missed anything! ⇢ word count: 3.7k ⇢ note: happy birthday @etherealyoungk! i love you so much & i hope you like this little fic i wrote for you. i love talking to you and making plans to meet up with you (we will do it. someday) & i hope you have the most wonderful year ahead 💌 thank you to @melonppang for beta reading. set in the same universe as the accidental one-night stand.

The music is way too loud.

It’s the kind that makes your ribs thump and your ears buzz. Someone’s playing DJ in the living room, and judging by the way the bass shakes the floor, they’ve never once heard of volume control. You’re clutching a plastic cup of something vaguely lemon-flavoured—probably spiked, probably a mistake—and trying to figure out how long you need to stay here before leaving wouldn’t be considered rude.

You don’t even know whose house this is.

The only reason you’re here is because Sejeong begged you to come. “Just for a little while,” she’d said, grabbing your arm and giving you those puppy-dog eyes. “I swear it won’t be boring.”

She lied. The moment the two of you walked in, she vanished into the crowd with some guy who complimented her earrings. That was forty minutes ago. You haven’t seen her since.

Now you’re standing at the corner of a too-warm kitchen, next to a sticky counter and a bowl of tortilla chips that someone accidentally spilled beer into. You check your phone, pretending like you have someplace better to be. You don’t. But it’s a nice fantasy.

That’s when, you’ll tell your friends later, someone kissed you.

Out of nowhere, someone barrels into you from the side. Not aggressively—more like a very determined, very wobbly puppy. A slosh of your drink nearly spills onto your shoes. You suck in a sharp breath and look up, ready to mutter a half-hearted It’s fine, but—

“Oh,” he says, blinking down at you.

He’s taller than you. Kind of soft-looking. Flushed cheeks, dark eyes, disheveled hair curling a little at the ends. His lips are parted like he wasn’t expecting you to be there, which is funny, because you’re not exactly trying to hide.

“Hi,” he breathes. “You’re really pretty.”

You stare at him. He smells like peach soju and mint. “Thanks?” you say, cautious.

“I’m Soonyoung,” he tells you, and then leans in like he’s letting you in on a secret. “I was just telling my friend that I saw a UFO earlier. But it could’ve been a drone. I wasn’t wearing my glasses.”

Your brain stalls. “That’s… cool?”

“Are you an alien?” Soonyoung asks seriously.

“What?”

“Because I think you abducted my heart.”

You make a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Oh, my God.”

“I just said that,” he says proudly, lips stretching into a smile so wide, it makes his eyes crinkle. “And I meant it. I think I love you.”

“You’re definitely drunk.” You blink.

He nods solemnly. “So drunk.”

You don’t know why you’re still talking to him. Maybe because he looks at you like you’re something soft. Like even in his alcohol-hazed brain, he’s trying his best to be gentle. Maybe because he’s clearly harmless and just the right amount of charmingly pathetic. Or maybe because, despite yourself, you’re a little curious to see what he does next.

He sways slightly. You instinctively reach out to steady him, your hand brushing his arm.

Then—without thinking, without warning—he kisses you.

It’s not the best kiss of your life. Not even close. He smells like soju and sweat, and he’s a little off-center. But it’s surprisingly soft. Warm. Hesitant, like he’s afraid you might disappear.

It lasts maybe two seconds.

Soonyoung pulls back, blinking, like he’s not entirely sure what just happened. “Whoa,” he says, kind of dazed. “You taste like… gummy bears. Or maybe that’s me.”

 Your heart thuds. You open your mouth to speak, but—

“Soonyoung!” 

Someone else’s voice cuts in, and a tall guy—broad-shouldered and exasperated—grabs him by the shoulder. 

“Dude,” the newcomer says, dragging Soonyoung backward. “We talked about this. Stop kissing strangers.” He turns to look at you, an apologetic smile on his face. “I’m really sorry about that. When Soonyoung is drunk, he’s—”

“I wasn’t!” Soonyoung protests, eyes still on you. “We had a moment. Right?” He squints at you. “Tell him.”

You don’t say anything. You’re not sure what to say.

“Alright, loverboy. Time to go,” his friend says, hauling him toward the door. You hear him mutter under his breath, “Where the fuck is Wonwoo? Minghao said he’d sent him over an hour ago.”

Soonyoung doesn’t resist his friend’s grip, but as he’s pulled away, he twists to look at you one last time. 

“I’m gonna find you again!” he calls out, grinning like a total idiot. “Don’t fall in love with anyone else!”

He’s gone after that. You stand there, staring at the space he left behind, slightly dazed, slightly amused, and still not entirely sure what just happened.

Someone nudges you with an elbow. “Was that Kwon Soonyoung?”

You turn. It’s a girl you vaguely recognise from a class you had last semester. She’s holding a cup and watching the door like it might burst open again.

“Uh,” you say. “I think so.”

She snorts. “Typical. I’m not even surprised.”

You glance down at your drink. It’s lukewarm now, all the ice cubes that were floating at the top having finally melted. You should probably leave, you think. But you can’t stop replaying it in your head—the way he looked at you, a little glassy-eyed, like you were the only person in the room.

You shake it off and make your way towards the door. It was just a kiss. That’s all it was.

Right?

After Kwon Soonyoung finishes chewing out his best friends—Jeon Wonwoo and his new girlfriend, since they’d conveniently decided to forget to pick him up after they realised their suppressed feelings for each other—all he can think of is you.

But after that, when Wonwoo’s girlfriend leaves, and Soonyoung is sprawled sideways on his couch, legs dangling over the armrest, he brings up The Girl.

“I kissed someone,” he says.

Wonwoo pulls out his laptop and starts working on some assignment. “That’s not exactly new for you.”

“No, but like—I kissed someone. And I think…” Soonyoung trails off, frowning. “I think it meant something.”

“You were drunk.”

“At least I didn’t end up naked in bed with my best friend,” Soonyoung points out and notes, with vicious satisfaction, that Wonwoo’s cheeks turn pink. “But so what if I was drunk?” he continues. “I still remember her. Like, really clearly. She was standing in the kitchen, and there was this lemony drink, and—God, she looked so annoyed at being there, it was kind of hilarious. But then she looked at me, and…”

And what?

You looked at him like you weren’t expecting anything from him. Not even that stupid pick-up line. Not even the kiss. You just let it happen. Let him happen. And then held onto his arm when he almost tripped like he was someone worth steadying.

“I said the alien line,” Soonyoung mumbles.

Wonwoo makes a pained sound. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

“I did. And I told her I loved her.”

“Oh, my God.”

“But it wasn’t that bad,” Soonyoung insists, even though he’s visibly shrinking into his hoodie like a mortified turtle. “She didn’t slap me or anything. She was just… there. And then I kissed her. And she didn’t pull away.”

“Do you even know her name?” his friend asks.

“No,” Soonyoung says, “but she was drinking from a yellow cup. The lemon one. I think it was hers.”

“That’s not a name.”

“I know.” He sighs. “But I’m gonna find her again. I told her not to fall in love with anyone else.”

Wonwoo snorts. “Romantic. And delusional.”

“Maybe,” Soonyoung agrees, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. A smile tugs at his lips. “But if I see her again, I’m gonna ask her out properly. With flowers or something. Maybe apologise for the alien joke. Maybe not. She kinda laughed.”

He sits up straight, a Plan forming in his mind. It’s haphazard, and sort of all over the place, but Kwon Soonyoung is a determined man. Persistence is both a curse and a blessing—and right now, for Soonyoung, it is the latter.

Somewhere between a hum and a sigh, he murmurs, “She tasted like gummy bears,” and walks out of Wonwoo’s apartment.

You hear it first in passing. Something about a guy. A party. A yellow cup.

You’re not even listening at first. You’re sitting under the overhang by the arts building, sipping your drink and pretending to study. The two girls beside you whisper loud enough for you to overhear, because gossip is gossip, after all, and college is the best time for it.

“—like, actually going around asking people. Told Jisoo she had the wrong yellow cup. Can you imagine?”

The other one snorts. “Imagine being that crazy over someone you met one time.”

Your pen stills. It could be anyone. That’s what you tell yourself. Campus is big; parties are crowded. Yellow cups are practically default. This is nothing.

But then, later that same day, you hear it again—this time in the student union, right outside the coffee shop where you’re waiting for your order. 

“He said she had this look like she was ready to bolt the second someone tried to talk to her,” a guy tells his friend. “Apparently she was drinking some lemon vodka thing.”

You freeze. Fully freeze—because you remember that drink. That sickly sweet vodka thing someone had poured into your cup without asking, and you’d taken one sip, grimaced, and then kept drinking it out of spite. You’d been annoyed about coming to the party, annoyed about your shoes, annoyed about the whole social experiment of pretending to have fun.

That’s when Alien Boy showed up, with the hoodie and the sleepy smile and the godawful pick-up line. The boy you kissed by accident.

You shake the thought out of your head. It’s probably a coincidence. You’re not that girl. You don’t kiss strangers at parties and leave them wandering about campus with nothing but adjectives and a citrus beverage to go by… Do you?

The final straw is the flyer taped to the bulletin board outside the student recreation centre, flapping in the breeze beside a lost water bottle notice and a poster for an improv show.

It reads, in sloppy black marker:

LOOKING FOR A GIRL yellow cup. lemon drink. looks unimpressed by everything. may or may not believe in aliens. if it’s you, please call/text: **********

You stare at it for a full minute. 

It’s handwritten, slanted slightly to the right. There’s no name, just the description. Just the memory of a moment you barely allowed yourself to think about because it felt too much like a glitch in the matrix. A night out of time.

You don’t realise you’ve been holding your breath until someone walks by and bumps into your shoulder.

“Sorry,” they mumble, and keep walking.

You step back from the board like it might burn you. You could take it down, ball it up and pretend you never saw it. Delete the memory of his lips and the way he said, Don’t fall in love with anyone else! like he meant it. But you don’t.

You just stand there for a while, staring at the letters, heart tapping out a strange, staccato rhythm in your chest.

Kwon Soonyoung. You never expected to see him again. You especially didn’t expect him to come looking.

Three days. 

It’s been three whole days since Soonyoung put up the flyer.

He hadn’t expected it to go viral. Or for the music department group chat to roast him in real time for his Sharpie scrawl and poor sense of anonymity. He also didn’t expect his Creative Writing TA to stick a Post-It on his latest assignment that read: Nice character work. This wouldn’t happen to be autobiographical, would it?

But the worst part—the worst part—is the university’s student-run Instagram account posting a story this morning with a picture of his flyer, a crying emoji, and a poll underneath that said:

Would you text him back? 🍋 Yes, lemon soulmate ❌ No, he seems unwell

The “unwell” option is currently winning by 63%.

Soonyoung’s sitting at the quad with a bucket hat pulled down halfway over his face, sunglasses he doesn’t need, and the last bite of a cold bagel in his mouth, when Minghao drops down beside him on the grass.

“You’re trending on all the campus meme pages,” Minghao says, taking a slurp from his iced coffee. “They’ve started calling you The Yellow Cup Guy.”

Soonyoung groans, smacking his forehead against his knees. “I didn’t ask for this attention.”

Minghao raises an eyebrow. “You printed out twenty-six flyers.”

“Yeah, but I used recycled paper!”

“You also went into the psych building and asked if anyone there believed in aliens.”

“I was being thorough!”

Minghao slurps on his coffee again, then pulls out his phone. “Do you want to see the Reddit thread where someone theorised you’re part of a sociology experiment?”

Soonyoung makes a wounded sound, somewhere between a yelp and a squeak. “I’m trying to find her,” he says miserably. “I thought the flyers would be sweet.”

“They are,” Minghao admits. “If you squint and ignore the serial killer vibes.”

Soonyoung flops backward onto the grass, sunglasses falling off his face. “She tasted like gummy bears,” he says to the sky.

“And now you’re known across campus as the alien guy with a gummy bear fetish.”

“Okay, that’s not—” Soonyoung sits up straight. “Wait, is that what they’re saying now?”

Minghao nods solemnly. “Also something about lemon girl being a metaphor for delusion. It’s very literary.”

Soonyoung groans again, tugging his bucket hat lower. But underneath all the embarrassment, all the very justified mockery, he can’t help it—he’s still smiling. A little. Just enough to make Minghao roll his eyes and stand up. “You’re not going to stop, are you?” he asks, dusting grass off his jeans.

“Not a chance,” Soonyoung says, flopping back again. “I told her not to fall in love with anyone else.”

“Very healthy,” Minghao deadpans. “Text me when she inevitably sues you for defamation.”

As Minghao walks away, Soonyoung stares up at the clouds and wonders, not for the first time, if maybe he is just a little bit unwell. But then he thinks of you—of the way you stood there in the corner next to the beer-soaked tortilla chips, looking like you would rather swallow a whole lemon than be there—and closes his eyes and smiles. He places his bucket hat on top of his face to block the sun, and, a little bit tired, decides to take a nap.

You weren’t supposed to take the flyer. 

You meant to just look at it again. Maybe make fun of it in your head a little. Maybe wonder—again—if it was really about you. You were definitely not supposed to peel it off the bulletin board next to the library printers and fold it into your tote bag like it’s a love letter that you’re too embarrassed to keep in plain sight.

Yet. There it is. In your hands. Crumpled and slightly coffee-stained because your lid was loose and life is cruel.

You cross the quad, dodging longboarders and lazy sunbathers, reading the flyer for the twentieth time like the words might rearrange themselves and tell you what to do. Your friends think it’s a campus prank. Sejeong said it’s giving “Wattpad energy.” But your gut—annoyingly, inconveniently—feels otherwise.

“Don’t fall in love with anyone else,” he’d said.

Stupid. Supid and corny and weirdly sincere.

You shake your head, about to shove the flyer deeper into your bag, when a sharp gust of wind launches it straight out of your hands.

“Wait—shit—no—!”

The paper flips and flutters in the air like it’s taunting you. It skates over the grass, dodging a pair of bare feet and a discarded frisbee. You sprint after it, arms flailing, nearly trip over someone’s backpack, and shout a panicked “Sorry!” as you hurtle across the quad.

The flyer lands on someone.

You don’t notice right away—your hair’s in your face, and you’re winded, and someone just yelled “Go long!” too close to your ear—but when you finally spot it, it’s fluttering gently against a stranger’s chest. He’s lying on the grass, bucket hat over his face, like the very image of college student apathy. He’s fast asleep. Or pretending to be. You can’t tell.

You slow down, sheepish now, and hover awkwardly over him.

The flyer is right there, on his chest. One of its corners is tangled in the strap of his messenger bag. Do you… wake him up? Ask him to move? Slink away and pretend none of this ever happened?

You lean down slowly, trying to snag it without disturbing him, but the paper crinkles. He shifts slightly. Breathes out. Doesn’t wake. You stare at him—at the bucket hat, at the sunglasses tucked into his shirt, at the soft curve of his mouth. He looks vaguely familiar, but it’s college; everyone looks vaguely familiar.

Your fingers brush against the edge of the flyer and you ease it free from where it rests on his chest, fold it carefully into your hand, and step back. You don’t look at him again. But the tips of your ears are warm, and your heart won’t stop thudding, and you swear—just as you walk away—he murmurs something in his sleep.

You can’t make out what it is.

TELLING KWON SOONYOUNG THAT YOU’RE THE GIRL HE’S LOOKING FOR

Pros:

Closure

A great story for your grandkids

Directness

He might be just as weirded out

Cons:

Awkwardness overload

Instant regret

He might not remember (please let him remember)

He finds you… and then what?

You stare at your phone, thumb hovering uncertainly over the keyboard. The tiny, blinking cursor mocks you, like it’s daring you to just type something, anything, already.

Your heart is racing, hammering against your ribs in a way that feels almost theatrical. You try to picture it: telling him. The words are clumsy in your head, and even worse when you imagine saying them out loud. You could just leave it, pretend none of this ever happened. You could bury the memory deep, like a time capsule labeled Do Not Open — Ever.

But the thought of it nags at you. Itches under your skin.

You think about the flyer, still tucked into the back pocket of your journal, creased from all the times you’ve taken it out to look at it. You think about the way he smiled—a little lopsided, a little sleepy—right before he kissed you. You think about how ridiculous this all is, how the normal thing would’ve been to move on with your life and let it fade into some fuzzy, alcohol-tinted memory.

Instead, here you are, conducting a pros and cons list like you're weighing a major life decision instead of deciding whether to text a boy you kissed once.

Screw it.

You take a breath, shallow and shaky, and let your fingers fly across the screen before you can talk yourself out of it.

hey, this is going to sound completely insane, but i’m the girl from the flyer. the one you kissed while you were probably drunk off of peach soju. so. hi, i guess?

You stare at the message. Your thumb hovers over the send button. You can practically feel the moment tightening around you, like pulling a slingshot back to its breaking point.

Before you can lose your nerve, you hit send.

The message whooshes away, disappearing into the void of cyberspace where you can no longer yank it back. Your stomach flips violently, your palms suddenly clammy.

You sit there, blinking at the screen, watching the tiny status under your text change from “Sending…” to “Delivered.”

You’re digging through your bag, muttering under your breath about your missing dorm key, when you round the corner of your building at full speed — and slam right into something solid.

Or rather, someone solid.

“Oof—!” The impact sends you sprawling backward, but a pair of hands catches you before you hit the ground. Unfortunately, momentum isn’t on your side, and the next thing you know, you’re both tumbling down in a very ungraceful heap.

There’s a split second where everything feels suspended—the breath knocked clean out of you, your palms splayed against someone’s chest, your face ridiculously close to—

Soonyoung blinks up at you, wide-eyed and startled, and in your panic, you lurch forward—

—and accidentally kiss him.

It's not even a real kiss, more like a clumsy brush of your mouth against his, but it’s enough to freeze time. You jerk back immediately, horror clawing its way up your spine.

“Hi,” Soonyoung says, dazed, still lying on the pavement like you’ve just knocked the soul out of him.

“Hi. What the fuck?” you blurt, scrambling upright.

He sits up slowly, grinning like a lunatic, utterly unbothered. “You’re the girl I’ve been searching for,” he says, almost reverent.

“Um,” you stammer, cheeks flaming. Of course he knows. You were the one who texted him—after forty-seven minutes of pacing your room, after three deleted drafts, after practically giving yourself a heart attack.

“Can I kiss you? Properly, this time?” Soonyoung asks, his voice soft but eager. “I’m not drunk, and we’re not at a party.”

Your brain short-circuits. “How did you even find me?” you manage to say.

He beams, like he’s been dying for you to ask. “Well, I asked my friend Seokmin, because he knows a lot of people, and he asked his girlfriend Jihyo, who asked her roommate Miyeon, who asked her best friend Sana, who asked her boyfriend Jihoon, who told my best friend Wonwoo, and then Wonwoo’s girlfriend told me you might be my best bet.” He shrugs, like this is a perfectly normal chain of events. “She follows you on Instagram.”

You stare at him, completely overwhelmed. It's either adorable or terrifying. Possibly both.

“I—” you begin, but he’s already leaning in closer, his smile turning softer, more tentative.

“So can I?” he asks again, quieter now, a nervous energy buzzing just beneath his words.

You nod helplessly.

This time, when he cups your face in his hands and kisses you, it’s deliberate—not accidental, not hurried—just slow and sure. His mouth moves against yours like he’s been waiting, like he wants to savor it, and the warmth of it floods through you, all the way down to your fingertips.

You kiss him back without thinking, your hands fisting in the front of his hoodie, and he laughs a little into your mouth, giddy and weightless.

When you finally break apart, forehead resting against his, he whispers, “Hi,” again, grinning like an idiot.

You can’t help but laugh. “Hi.”

[pretty-little-mind33]

Friedrich Harding x wife!reader

Summary: Your marriage with Friedrich has been wonderful except for the fact that you haven't conceived a child yet, which worries you more than it worries him.

Genre: Angst and Fluff

Warnings: age gap (22/30), allusions to sex (kinda explicit), Friedrich was previously married to Anna but they didn't have children either, mentions of pregnancy, infertility, sexisms (regarding medical practices :( and marriages) misunderstanding trope, naive!reader

FRIEDRICH HARDING MASTERLIST

Your husband was much older than you when you married him. He was a widower, previously in love and happy, and your union had only been a marriage of convenience. Your father worked with his father in his shipyard, and they had arranged the entire ceremony. You'd even heard them talk in the parlor about how if you were of age when it was Fridrich's first time to find a suitable wife, they would have married you both sooner.

Friedrich didn't talk to you much after your initial meeting and you sensed his apprehension in marrying someone so soon after his Anna. 

The wedding ceremony still happened despite your pleas to your mother that you were ill and that they would have to postpone the marriage until your ailment disappeared. She had simply tightened your corset and shushed you, leaving no more room for anymore protesting. 

As you approached the altar, you felt sicker and sicker. Friedrich didn't look at you until you reached him, but when he did that harsh look in his eyes became softer, more understanding. You felt like you had cotton in your ears as the priest conducted the ceremony and the only thing that grounded you was the gentle caress of Friedrich's thumb against your palm.

His touch was calming but once the ceremony was over and you could finally retire to your chamber, all your nerves suddenly returned.

Friedrich sat on the bed, unbuttoning his chemise. He looked at you. "Well?" He smiled lightly and shrugged off his shirt. "Will you stand there like a frightened doe, or join me in our bed?"

You swallowed the lump in your throat and walked over slowly. Friedrich's large hands wrapped around your waist, pulling you in closer as he untied your undergarment, the fabric smooth beneath his fingers. You didn't dare breathe as his fingers danced and glided across your bare skin and the dress eventually pooled at your ankles. 

Friedrich's nose nuzzled against your neck as you found yourself on your back, his body hovering over yours. "Relax, I will talk you through what I am doing," he promised. You felt his hips press against yours, "I will not hurt you."

It was true. He didn't hurt you. He was gentle and kind. And once a cry of ecstasy tumbled from your lips, you fell madly in love. You craved your new husband's touch every waking moment. 

Friedrich was not used to you—how young and curious you were—Anna had fallen ill so soon into his marriage with her that she was never interested in being intimate, and he did not force her. With you, it was different, and he did his best to keep up and make you happy. He took you to your shared bed whenever you would ask him. 

But alas, nothing good could last forever, because the more he would bed you, the more suspicions around you grew louder. 

Why hadn't you become with child?

One evening, you lay beside your husband, his arm slung around your stomach as he sleeps against the crook of your neck. He's sleeping so calmly and you can't sleep a wink. You can feel his seed dripping from inside you, another attempt at starting a family, and you can feel tears in your ears. 

"Friedrich?" you whisper, taking his arm and turning onto your side. He groans, eyes fluttering open as he takes you in. The moon is the only source of light as it illuminates your worried expression. Your husband sleepily pushes some hair from your forehead with his knuckle.

"What is it?" he asks you, his voice thick with sleep. "It is late. Are you still unsatisfied?" Friedrich chuckles slowly but it dies in his throat as he feels you tense. He sits up, reaching over to turn on the oil lamp. Once he does, you sit up as well and look at him. Friedrich smiles and pushes some loose hair behind your ear. "What is the matter?"

"I am not with child," you whisper, your voice strained. 

"Not yet."

"Friedrich, it has been months," you try to explain your worry but he shakes his head, his palm resting against your cheek. 

"I am not worried," he reassures you but pauses when he sees your anxious expression, "but if you want, I shall call Dr. Müller in the morning, but we shouldn't—"

You cut him off and nod. "Please, will you call him?" you ask. 

Friedrich's jaw clenches but he nods.

The next morning, you're sitting in the parlor. Dr. Müller was in the hallway, discussing your condition with Friedrich. You sit uncomfortably, feeling sore from the exam, and the maids look at you sympathetically as they prepare your morning tea.

You're anxious for your husband to return with good news and so when Friedrich walks in, you stand and press a hand over your stomach. Your corset is digging into your ribs.

Friedrich looks up, his expression unreadable, and he walks over. "Mein Liebling (my darling)," he begins, his knuckle skimming your cheek. 

"What did Dr. Müller say was wrong with me? Can he help?"

"Nothing is wrong with you, dove. There is nothing abnormal that he can see," he whispers, he soothes you as his fingers play with a ringlet near your cheekbone. Your hopeful gaze disappears and Friedrich's chest tightens. "He has prescribed some herbal medicines that help with fertility, but he says we should keep trying. He did not seem worried," he explains slowly. 

You frown and shake your head. "But, my cycles. I told him they're agonizing—surely that must—"

"Shh," Friedrich kisses your forehead. "He does not think it is related."

"But—"

"Can we speak of something more joyful? Nothing is wrong with you. That is a good thing. Come, we can go for a walk in town and I shall buy you those roses you love," Friedrich says against your skin and smoothes a hand down your sides. Your lips thin into a line and you know better than to argue. Instead, you strain a smile and pretend that the gnawing worry in your stomach isn't there.

* * * 

Months pass and still no child. 

"We have been, sir," Friedrich interrupts his father's rambles one cold winter evening as he drops his silver fork onto his plate. You startle at the sound, having gone quiet as soon as the conversation of grandchildren came up. Friedrich's mother looks at you pitifully. 

You feel like you could burst into tears. This dinner was bound to be a disaster and you had warned Friedrich but he did not listen. 

"My love, why don't you and Mama talk in the parlor," Friedrich interrupts as his father opens his mouth to answer. Your husband stands, his chair scraping against the expensive wooden floor, and he helps you stand as well. You nod, unable to meet your father-in-law's gaze as you walk into the parlor room. 

Friedrich's mother does not speak to you, her gaze locked onto the door as she waits for her husband and son. 

"I–" you turn to her, picking at the skin of your nails. 

"No need, child. Our husbands will work it out," she says sternly and that pit in your stomach returns. Feeling restless, you stand, unable to bear knowing Friedrich and his father are discussing you in another room. Friedrich's mother only stares at you. 

You walk into the dimly lit hallway, your hand sliding over the mahogany door. You press against the door, listening in. You can only make out fragments of their conversation, and both of the men seem angry. 

"I will not die without a grandchild. You need an heir, Friedrich."

"I know this, and we have been trying—"

"You know trying is not enough. She is a lovely girl, my son, I should know I chose her for you, but you know what needs to be done—" 

Air leaves your lungs as tears prickle in the corner of your eyes. Herr Harding wants Friedrich to divorce you. You feel faint as you hold onto the wall, your stomach turning. Still, you continue to listen in; 

"I know," Friedrich says and then he pauses, "Just let me do this my way. I shall speak with her—"

You can't beat to listen to anything more as you move from the door, returning into the parlor. Frau Harding looks up, her expression blank, but she sees your fright.

Standing, she walks over and presses her palm to your forehead as your breathing becomes heavy. The doors to the parlor swing open and Friedrich walks in, his father close behind him.

When your husband sees you, concern immediately sparks in his eyes and he walks over. "Mein Liebling (my darling), what is the matter? Are you feeling ill?" He pulls you into him, holding you to his chest as his fingers soothingly massage into your scalp. "Shall I call Dr. Müller?"

Friedrich's mother returns to her husband, touching his arm and shaking her head. Tears blur your vision. You remember their conversation. Friedrich plans to ruin you. A sharp pain strikes your heart. 

Still, you shake your head, whispering, "No, it is nothing." 

That night, while your maids help you undress and brush your hair, Friedrich walks into your bedroom—the spare one you have without him. The maids startle, quickly finishing up, and leaving. You stand, looking confused. He never comes in unannounced. This is your space, the room you'd chosen as your sanctuary when you needed one. It wasn't often you used it, but tonight you didn't feel like joining Friedrich in your shared chamber.

"Friedrich," you whisper, bare feet padding across the carpet to him. 

He meets you in the middle and holds your arm. "I think we should travel. Go to the seaside. The fresh air will do you some good. Clear your head. It could help," he smiles and his hand splays across your stomach. You tense and grab his fingers, pushing his hand down. He frowns but doesn't comment on the gesture. "I can arrange one of the ships in the morning for us. The winds have been good and it shall only take us a week to England. My family owns a cottage near the sea and I think—"

"I do not want to travel," you say. 

"Y/n—"

"I want to stay home," you argue, looking up at him. 

Friedrich looks disappointed and his jaw tightens. His hand raises and he strokes your cheek. "I don't think I can give you a choice, little wife, you've been looking so sad. This is sure to cheer you up." You know that there is no changing Friedrich's mind and that pit in your stomach returns. 

Will he do it there? Soften the blow with the smell of the ocean? You would rather stay home, somewhere where the memories you both shared could remind him of his love for you.

You barely sleep that evening, tossing and turning in a lonesome bed. You miss Friedrich's warmth and you almost wish he hadn't accepted sleeping in different rooms.

Eventually, you sit up, eyes bleary from sleep and you throw your legs over the end of the bed, grab the oil lamp, and rush across the hall, creeping into your shared bedroom.

You wish you didn't need Friedrich as much as you do, because you're still angry with him, but you need him all the same. He feels you climb into the bed, humming sleepily as he hooks his arm around your waist. You gasp, setting the lamp on the bedside table, but you let him pull you into him. 

"Missed me?" Friedrich mutters into the shell of your ear. His hand slides his hand over your stomach, dipping lower until your fingers wrap around his wrist. 

He stops and looks into your eyes. You shake your head, not wanting that tonight. 

Behind a small smile, your husband simply kisses your forehead and says, "Sleep, my love." 

You relax against him, letting the steady movement of his chest lull you to sleep. The memory of his words slowly turns into a distant nightmare. 

* * *

"Are you ready, Mein Liebling?" Friedrich asks, helping to wrap the satin ribbon of your bonnet under your chin. You're standing outside the entrance as the servants ready Friedrich's Coach.

His hand flicks up to attract your attention and you nod, adjusting your cloak around you. The sun is slowly setting and turning the sky a bright orange. It had taken Friedrich longer than he'd wanted, but he had finally finished up his affairs and was prepared to leave.

You aren't too keen on sailing at night, but you'll be on the water for around a week anyway, and Friedrich knows what he's doing. You trust him. 

"Yes," you nod and Friedrich snaps his fingers to one of your maids. She hurries to take your trunk and help pull it towards the footman. You look up at him, smiling a little, and touch his cheek. "How long will we be in England?" 

Friedrich thinks for a moment, looking away, and then he looks back at you. "A few months."

Your stomach twists again. A few months? Why so long? You don't ask the question as Friedrich words to his father enter your mind again; "Just let me do this my way. I shall speak with her." You feel like crying but you hold in your tears. 

Friedrich touches your cheek. "Are you okay? You look sickly," he says and he strokes his thumb over the apple of your cheek. You look into his eyes, forcing a smile. If you pretend nothing is wrong, maybe he won't discard you as quickly as he planned. 

"I'm okay," you say sweetly, earning a kiss to your lips and you relax. 

The trip to England is dreadful, but eventually, you arrive at a small cottage near the sea. Your dress catches sand as you walk up the board stairs. It's not nearly as fancy as your home in Wisborg but it smells like salt water and you can't deny the fresh air feels nice on your skin. Your personal maid prepares your chamber as you and Friedrich sit on the porch, watching the waves crash against the shore as the sun begins to set over the horizon. 

"How are you feeling, my love?" Friedrich asks, holding your hand. 

"Well. I don't feel sick anymore," you quip.

Your husband smiles. 

That night, you make love and the night after that as well. Still, there is no sign of a baby. Weeks and weeks pass and the sound of the ocean only becomes taunting as you wait for Freidrich to tell you he's divorcing you. The more days pass, the quieter you become and the more Friedrich begins to notice the change in your behavior. 

One evening, you stand near the bed as he undresses his vest and chemise. 

"When are you going to tell me?" you blurt out, unable to keep your feelings inside. It's cruel to make you wait any longer. You deserve to know. 

He's dismissive. "Whatever do you mean?"

You chew on the inside of your lip. "I heard you and your father talking." Still, you want answers. "If you're planning on divorcing me, just tell me now, and let's stop this horrible game. I clearly cannot give you an heir!" You cover your mouth, your other hand resting helplessly on your stomach as you break into tears. "Just tell me," you add, your voice small and you shrink back a little when your husband stands. His eyebrows are scrunched together and he doesn't speak as he walks up to you and takes you into his arms, kissing your hairline as you sob.

You don't end up talking much that night as you cry yourself to sleep in his arms.

That morning, you wake up alone. The little cottage feels so empty without Friedrich and you think the worst has happened until you hear a small, little, cry from the front door as you read anxiously in the living room. You think you're mistaken as you stand and investigate the sound. It sounds like a baby.

"Mein Liebling (My Darling)?" Friedrich calls and your eyes widen when you see him standing in the doorway. In his arms is a small, not even one-year-old, baby. You rush over and touch his arm, looking at the child. The baby is crying, its small little mouth is shaped in an O and his bright blue eyes blink up at you and Friedrich.

"Meet little Friedrich," your husband whispers pulls the cotton blanket down, and caresses the baby's cheek. The child's scream turns into hiccups.

You look up at Friedrich, confused by his statement. 

"I have every faith you will conceive a biological baby, my dove. But I will not divorce you over something as silly as an heir. I love you. I knew of an orphanage around here, a good one, and I should have talked to you about it but I did want to wait some more before introducing you to him," he says and looks down fondly at the baby. You follow his gaze and you can't deny the undeniable similarity between him, and you, and Friedrich. He truly could pass as yours. "But then you spoke of divorce? I had no clue that awful concept was on your mind." 

You look back up at Friedrich. "I thought you would want one because I can't—"

"I don't and you can. Because in every way that matters, he is ours. No one has to know you didn't conceive him naturally. It's been enough time since we left for you to have a baby if we say you were some months pregnant before our journey."

You listen to Friedrich's plan and realize he's been planning this for a while. You look at your maid who stands in the corner, watching the scene in pure amazement, and Friedrich leans down and whispers, "She won't tell anyone. She's really only here to strength our story."

He hands you the baby and you easily take the child into your arms. Little Friedrich's big blue eyes, the ones that do look so much like his father's, glimmer up at you, and a warmth spreads in your chest as well as relief. 

There was no divorce. And now you have a baby. A beautiful baby boy. An heir. 

The baby giggles and looks around at your features as if memorizing you. You look down at the child with nothing but love and you decide then and there that you would die for this boy. 

"Is this why you would leave for town randomly?" You ask Friedrich. 

He nods sheepishly and moves closer to you and the baby. "Are you angry?"

You think for a moment and then shake your head. Deep down you know you can't conceive, but now that doesn't seem so daunting anymore because of the little boy in your arms. You run a gentle finger over little Friedrich's forehead and smile when he hiccups. You glance up at your husband again. 

"No. I'm not. This is perfect. He is perfect." 

And your Friedrich couldn't agree more. 

[draculasstrawhat]

Also, in a play that is about the instability of shallow declarations of love or friendship… it’s a really important tonal shift in that scene.

They’ve had the tender weepy scene, he has committed himself to Hero’s cause (although he does not necessarily believe her innocence), they have awkwardly and wittily declared their love for each other and have grabbed a moment’s gentleness in an absolute bastard of a day. So it is that for one moment, exuberant with emotion, Benedick plays the hyperbolic lover.

Remember, this is the guy who pulled, “aye, and a box to put it in,” at Claudio’s “can the world buy such a jewel” nonsense in the first act. The guy to whom big, overstated demonstrative behaviour is the most ridiculous thing, declared, “Come, bid me do anything for you!”

It is pure, lovers’ nonsense. It brings the scene up fro the depths of despair back in to the realm of comedy. It is rushing, impulsive, and - on a deep level - insincere.

And Beatrice - “a star danced” Beatrice, the funniest character in the play, who has turned down a Prince with a sweet joke, who has laughed off all other ills, responds with absolute, deadly seriousness:

Kill Claudio.

She is demanding something not encompasses by the conventions of “players love.” Not grand feats of glory of adoration, not even Knight Errant stuff - she is asking a man to kill his best friend, on the word of a woman.

The wording is so stark. She is rejecting, directly, all pretty words and promises and vows of love. She is not asking Benedick to defend Hero’s honour, to fight a duel, to be a champion. She wants bloody vengeance. She wants murder done.

And in that moment, Muchado hangs in the balance of comedy and tragedy.

Crucially, Benedick does not immediately acquiesce. They argue, and it is not the playful sparring of their witty battles - she barely lets him say her name. He falls back on all the empty, lovers’ tropes (“by this hand I love thee”) and she holds him to them (“Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it.”)

This is a play that hinges on the difference between seeming and reality, between words and actions, between promises and truths, and we have been shown over and over how easily people can be deceived.

And Beatrice knows this. Sitting there, weeping, she knows that words mean nothing without action to back them up. That love, constancy, devotion have meaning only in action.

Which, is the glimmer of hope that takes us off this knife-edge to a happy ending. If people are willing to back up their protestations with meaningful action, change can happen. Friends can be true, lovers can be faithful, repentance can be sincere, and marriages can be happy.

Which, if you missed it here, comes up again in the last scene, when B&B both deny their feelings for each other out of embarrassment, but are betrayed by material proofs of their love - to which those who care about them can attest.

Words are nothing. They can cause all sorts of problems, but to solve things, sometimes you need to act.

so many things try to emulate the Beatrice/Benedick relationship and so few of them get it right bc they’re like ‘oh it’s about the banter’ and YES, obviously, but if you make it JUST about the banter you’re going to fail! it’s about the RESPECT!!! it’s about the scene after Hero’s shaming where Benedick drops the banter entirely and sits there with Beatrice as she rages and weeps and then chooses to side with HER instead of the boy’s club that he’s been hanging out with for the entire play, both because he loves her and because she’s RIGHT!

like, it’s not some impulsive thing to make her like him, and it’s not just talk; he asks her if she’s sure and then he agrees and then he remains cold and determined when he meets Claudio and Don Pedro and they try to get him to joke around with them like old times.  i think that’s one of the things that gets me the most; that there’s a scene that you half-expect to fall into that same sort of joking, where Claudio and Don Pedro are specifically like, “Huh, we inexplicably feel kind of sad after ruining this woman’s life and reputation, I bet Benedick will cheer us up!” and he just. utterly refuses to engage. and it’s so powerful and it’s such a tonal shift and such a strong indication of just how much he loves and values Beatrice and!! anything that gets the banter but doesn’t get that completely fails to understand their relationship! THB!!