#she did not turn into the god of fear and hunger

[mothmanforreall]

Puppy

[ma7moudgaza2]

How did we cope with hunger in Gaza and not perish until now?

It’s a very strange topic to discuss in the twenty-first century.

Since the Israeli military war began, a more brutal war has been waged alongside it: the war for food.

I don’t know where to start, as I really don’t want to remember anything that happened to us, but it’s necessary to talk about it to benefit from our experience, may God spare you from similar situations.

As men, we are the first line of defense in our family army against the aggression of the hunger war.

The first situation I suffered from was five months into the war. It was a critical time when we had been without food or flour for nearly a month. We were living off what remained of our bodies' fat, some barley, and animal food.

It was a very cold night. Finally, we received a food ration from a charity, which was a bag of flour.

My family rejoiced and prayed, but I sat lamenting my fate. I saw how these rations were distributed; it was extremely chaotic. The queue, oh the queue! I swear the line stretched over 3 kilometers of people.

My turn was scheduled for nine o'clock the next morning. You can imagine that I had to leave at sunset that day to spend the night on the street to secure a place in the queue, otherwise, I wouldn’t receive anything.

I was overwhelmed by three pains:

The hell of children's hunger.

The hell of the queue and the cold.

And the hell of war.

By the way, the military war is nothing compared to what I mentioned above.

I indeed burdened myself with clothes, took my mattress to sleep on, and carried the water bottle for which I had stood in another queue to obtain.

I bid farewell to my family and left. I am Mahmoud, a computer engineer with soft skin. Imagine, my dear, imagine the fear that overwhelmed me.

I truly did not sleep and sat waiting for my turn until it finally came, and I received my ration. It was the most exhausting day of my life, but it became bearable when I returned to my family and found them eating.

My mother suggested a way to eat. Each of us would only get one loaf of bread throughout the day. She said: "Eat half of the meal you usually eat over a longer period. If you eat half a loaf for breakfast in 10 minutes, eat a quarter of a loaf in half an hour. The effect will be as if you ate half a loaf."

Indeed, the method was very, very effective.

The question for you:

What were you doing while people in Gaza were dying of hunger?

I have a donation campaign for my family if you are interested in helping your friend from Gaza. 👇

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@sawasawako @metanarrates @beserkerjewel @mar64ds @soon-palestine

[letjungk09k]

Fang and Flame

Main Masterlist

.ᐟ pairing. ⤑ Prince!Rafayel x Vampire/Bodyguard!Reader (no use of y/n).

.ᐟ synopsis. ⤑ Rafayel, a Prince soon to be King, corrupts his perfect bodyguard.

.ᐟ word count. ⤑ 30k (she's a long one) posted on my ao3. READER'S BACKSTORY IS NOT IN THE TUMBLR VERSION.

.ᐟ WARNINGS, mdni!!. ⤑ explicit sexual content, it's a lil filthy, rafayel is in his god of tides outfit!! LOTTT of sexual tension, male masturbation, blood drinking, praise kink (phew), includes a brothel, finger sucking, forced orgasm, p in v sex, vampire biting, possessive rafayel, drug use sorta, neck kissing, human/vampire relationship, semi-public sex, vaginal sex, rough sex, hand kink if you look hard enough, fantasy au, rafayel is a bit of a lil shit... its just filth idk what else to say

.ᐟ A/N. i'm so down bad for god of tides rafayel my GAWDD. this is a lil shot at me tryna make my own universe..it might be a bit confusing but hey. i TRIED. this is also my first LADS fic. so enjoy ^.^

On the ao3 version, there is a backstory to the reader and how she became a vampire!

Timeline aid: AF = Age of Fire

525 AF

   The grand courtyard of the palace was lined with mourners and the air thick with the weight of loss.

The king was dead.

It had been days since the news reached every corner of the Whalefall city but today, the reality of it settled into the palace. The funeral was an event unlike any other, with royal beings from different kingdoms and common folk alike arriving to pay their respects. The sheer size of the gathering was overwhelming, an endless sea of faces each one draped in black, all of them here for a man they either feared or respected.

You stood at the edge of the procession, just a few paces behind the prince. His presence alone demanded attention, even without the crown on his head. His black attire blended seamlessly with the mourners but there was something about him that set him apart. Perhaps it was the way he stood, his back straight and eyes forward yet there was a distance to him. An air of control, of calculation that seemed unnatural for someone attending his father’s funeral.

You had been by his side for nearly three years now, watching him as his bodyguard, his protector, his knight, his shield. But despite all that time you still couldn’t fully decipher him. You had never been able to understand the prince’s true desires. At times he acted carefree, as though the throne meant nothing to him. Yet there were moments when a darker hunger flared in his eyes, moments that made you wonder if he truly desired power, if he thought only of the throne.

You had learned long ago that in the midst of death and mourning, a vampire (let alone one like you) did not belong. Your presence here was more a quiet formality than an act of respect. For five centuries death had been something you lived with, yet never truly embraced. But it wasn't just the death that hung in the air, it was the tension. The kingdom was in transition and Rafayel was at the centre of it all. 

You stood beside him alert, watching the gathered nobles and sensing every shift in the air. But you couldn’t ignore the fact that something was different now. He was different.

The moment his father’s body had been laid to rest, the kingdom’s attention turned to him. You could feel the subtle change in the air, the tightening of the strings around his future. His face was unreadable, his eyes cold. Even his posture betrayed nothing of the grief or anger you might have expected from a son at his father’s funeral.

It was as though he were some distant observer, a prince watching from the outside as the kingdom mourned it's fallen ruler. Every word he spoke to the court was measured, careful. It was as though the weight of his father’s death had forced him to mask everything else beneath a cold exterior. Was he grieving? Did he even care?

You didn’t know. It made you uneasy.

As the ceremony continued you couldn’t help but observe the subtle shifts in the crowd.

Glances, whispers and the occasional noble eyeing you with suspicion. The queen’s gaze never strayed far from you. Her eyes flicked between him and you, sharp and resentful. Even after all these years, even with the kingdom on the brink of trouble she still loathed your very existence.

Her eyes filled with hatred found their mark every time, but there was nothing she could do about it. Soon enough, Rafayel would be crowned king and your position as his bodyguard would be solidified.

You'd no longer be the prince's bodyguard, but the king's.

As the funeral came to a close the crowd began to disperse, many retreating to the warmth of the palace halls. Rafayel did not move. He remained, as still as the stone at his feet. You watched him closely, stepping closer to his side, your presence near him not a protection this time but a force of habit. 

"You look uneasy" he said his voice low, just loud enough for you to hear.

His words weren’t exactly a question but more like an observation. He didn’t turn to face you but the weight of his presence beside you was undeniable. 

"I’m fine, my prince" you replied your voice even, though the words felt like a lie as they left your mouth. 

Rafayel hummed, as if unconvinced.

"You always say that"

His lips curled slightly in what might’ve been a smirk though you couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t often so observant, so quick to speak up about things. But today something about him was different. 

"I’m not as blind as you might think" he said, his voice steady but there was a hint of something sharper in his tone now "You’ve been on edge ever since we arrived. You’re always watching. The funeral’s over but I can feel your attention on me like a hawk circling prey"

"Forgive me" you murmured, your gaze lowering "I’m simply ensuring your safety, as always"

There was a slight pause before Rafayel spoke again, his voice lower now as if drawing you into the space between you.

"As always... You’re always watching, aren’t you?" he echoed, his smirk deepening. Then, in a quieter tone "Do you think this will ever end?"

Your brows furrowed slightly.

"End, my prince?"

His lips tightened.

"The watching, the waiting. The eyes on me. Every time I step outside... the kingdom is watching, waiting for me to become my father. They want another king. Another ruler to kneel before but I am not him. I will never be what they expect"

You hesitated.

Rafayel was more complex than any crown he would wear. Although you had only been under his wing for three years, he had been the only one in that hall to vouch for you that day his guards captured you. Vouch for what you could be. It didn't settle well with you, as he had only saw you as a weapon but he had trained you, given you a bed, given you food (that you never ate) and despite the Queen's coldness towards you, he himself was never cruel. 

"You can’t be your father" you said quietly, watching his profile "But you can be king"

Rafayel glanced at you then, his eyes narrowing slightly. His gaze lingered on you for a fraction too long, his expression unreadable. Then, in typical fashion, he let out a quiet scoff, shaking his head.

"That’s a rather dull answer" he mused, his tone light but there was something underneath it "You sound like one of my advisors. Or worse... my mother"

"If you find my answer dull my prince, you are free to disregard it" You were nothing like his mother. You were not cruel.

Rafayel had always been hard to read. A prince who carried himself with effortless ease but never let anyone see him bleed. He had always spoken of the throne with indifference, as though it were an inconvenience. But now standing at the edge of his father’s grave, something about him was different.

His fingers twitched at his side. 

"You said I can be king" he continued, quieter now "but what if I don’t want to be?"

You blinked. The question shouldn’t have surprised you but it did. He had never voiced such doubts before, not to you.

"You know as well as I do, my prince" you continued, your eyes flicking briefly to him "that whether you want it or not, the throne is your burden now. There’s no walking away from it"

There was a brief silence, the sound of wind brushing past the towering stone walls of the courtyard seeming to grow louder in the quiet space between you two. Rafayel shifted slightly, his fingers idly tracing the edge of his cloak, the fabric rippling beneath his touch. He leaned just a fraction closer, not enough to close the distance but enough for you to feel the change in the air.

"My burden..." His voice was low now, almost too quiet. Had you said the wrong thing? Even if you had, his lips still curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile, more like amusement "I'm glad you see it that way also"

Before you had the chance to ask him if he was ready to head inside, he spoke again.

"And what about you?" he asked, arching a brow "What do you expect of me?"

"I expect you to survive" you said, your tone steady but sharp "The kingdom needs a king, my prince. Whether you want to be one or not it’s your duty"

"You’re as cold as ever" he murmured "You’d think after all these years... I’d have earned something more than the stone wall you put up. Or maybe some sympathy after my fathers death?"

The hint of amusement was there but you weren’t sure whether it was sincere or meant to provoke.

His posture remained deceptively relaxed but there was a tension in his shoulders. He was waiting for your response, his eyes narrowing slightly as he waited for you to reply.

The weight of his words settled into your chest and for the first time in years, you found yourself unsure of how to respond. 

"Forgive me, my prince" you said, your voice steady though your words felt strangely empty. It was the only thing you could think to say, the only apology you could offer.

Rafayel didn’t respond immediately. He let the silence stretch between you, both of you alone in your thoughts surrounded only by the sound of the wind rustling through the trees. It felt like a moment suspended in time.

Finally his lips parted again, his tone lighter this time though there was still an edge to it as if he couldn’t quite let go of the rawness in his voice.

"Stone wall or not" he said softly "you’re the only one I can trust right now"

"I don’t know why you trust me, my prince" you said quietly, your voice steady "I’ve never really given you a reason to"

"Is protecting my life not enough to gain trust?" 

The question was pointed, carrying the same quiet edge as his earlier words. He tilted his head slightly, studying you with a gaze that lingered just a little too long, as if trying to reveal something buried beneath the surface. You didn’t break the stare, your expression unchanged but inside, his question hit a little harder than you expected. 

"Protecting you is my duty" you said, the words coming out like a practiced response as they always did "It’s not about trust. It’s about keeping you alive"

Rafayel didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. He knew. 

Then like a switch, he changed.

He let out an exaggerated sigh, rolling his shoulders as if the weight of the conversation itself bored him. As if he was bored of the funeral. His posture shifted, the tension melting away as he stretched, a lazy motion that somehow looked effortless. He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms with a casual air that only someone like him could pull off in such a moment.

"Really, is that all you have to say? No words of wisdom? No grave warnings about how I should rule?" He hummed, amused "How tragic. My own bodyguard refuses to entertain me"

You resisted the urge to sigh. He danced around the weight of his father’s death like it was a game.

"You claimed me to be a knight, not a jester" Was all you responded. 

"Well" he said, his voice returning to it's usual playful tone "I’m glad I’m not the only one trapped in duty then"

His words hung heavy in the air and you couldn’t help but feel the weight of them too. The statement hung in the air between you and you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of frustration. He refused to acknowledge what was really at stake. For once, you wished he would take things seriously even if just for a moment.

"We should head inside" you said, finally breaking the silence. It wasn’t a suggestion. The funeral had been long enough, the night growing darker. The air was heavy with more than just the weight of his father’s death now.

"Lead the way miss bodyguard"

────────

The heavy atmosphere of the past few days weighed on the kingdom but the preparations for Rafayel’s coronation continued without pause. 

You stood in your usual position, just a few steps behind Rafayel, watching as the prince surveyed the map of the kingdom’s territories that was spread out before him. Rafayel’s gaze flicked across the map but his attention seemed distant. The coronation was only a few weeks away but the weight of his father’s death still seemed to hang over him. Even now he didn’t look ready to step into the role that was thrust upon him but then again, you doubted he ever would be.

Finally, after a long stretch of silence, Rafayel sighed and the sound made you glance up. His fingers tapped restlessly on the map.

"Do you think they’ll listen to me?"

"They’ll have to" you replied simply, your voice even "Your bloodline demands it"

Rafayel’s eyes flicked to you but he didn’t respond right away. The flicker of doubt that had crossed his features was quickly masked.

"And what of the advisors?" He motioned toward the scrolls and letters on the table before him, all filled with counsel and directions for his reign "Do you think they’ll accept me?"

You stepped closer, positioning yourself in a way that placed you between him and the open window, blocking the breeze from ruffling the papers.

"They will fall in line. They may try to test you at first but your position is strong, my prince"

Rafayel hummed in response, though his face didn’t betray much. He didn’t appear comforted by your words but you knew it was what he needed to hear. There was nothing more to say, his power was already set in motion. The kingdom would follow, whether they liked it or not. Rafayel leaned back slightly, staring at the map again but now with a deeper tension in his posture. 

"I never wanted this..."

There was a long pause, his gaze not leaving the map in front of him. You could almost see the battle within him, the hesitation between embracing his new role or rejecting it entirely. But you weren’t there to play a part in that internal conflict, your job was to ensure that he didn't falter when it mattered most.

Rafayel exhaled as if steering himself before he turned to leave, with you hot on his heels.

The walk to the council chamber felt like it took hours. You’d spent the past few days watching him wrestle with the weight of his father’s death. The funeral was over, the kingdom was still and yet the true battle had only just begun. Rafayel’s first council meeting as the upcoming king was underway and despite his resolve there was an undeniable tension.

Rafayel no longer had his father to hide behind, he was to be the one to lead them now.

The council room was enormous, the marble walls rising high above, decorated with the Lemurian banners. Rafayel stepped in first, his gaze sweeping over the council with a quiet but unmistakable authority. You stayed a few paces behind him, vigilant as always, your eyes scanning the room for potential threats. You were always alert, even when no immediate danger was present.

You noticed the Queen and the way she was sat, poised at the far end of the table, her eyes never leaving her son. She was still dressed in mourning black, a reminder of the King's passing. But there was something colder behind her gaze now... a sharpness that seemed directed at both Rafayel and you.

Whispers rippled through the air, a mix of curiosity and unease. The room was thick with tension and power and it seemed to hold its breath at the sight of you. You were a woman yes but that wasn’t why they stared. It was because you were a mystery, a being who wasn’t quite human, a "monster" in their eyes and yet somehow, Rafayel had chosen you as his shield. 

After three years in the palace, the stares and whispers were a normality to you.

Rafayel sat at the head of the table, looking every bit the king he was meant to be, though there was a flicker of unease in his gaze. 

"Now that we are gathered" Rafayel’s voice broke through the room, clear but with an edge of authority that hadn’t been there before "We’ll begin with the state of the kingdom. First, the reports on the southern border"

The council members shifted in their seats, the sound of parchment shuffling filled the air as one of the advisors rose to speak.

"There has been unrest in the southern territories, my prince. There are rumours of rebellion brewing in some of the smaller cities... we recommend a larger military presence to ensure the peace"

"And what of the rest of the kingdom?" Rafayel asked, his voice colder now "Any threats closer to home?"

The advisor faltered for a moment before responding.

"My-My prince... we’ve received word from the capital city that tensions are rising. The nobles are eager to know your plans regarding your coronation and your intentions for the throne"

At the mention of the coronation, the room fell silent.

All eyes shifted to Rafayel, each pair seemingly waiting for his response, anticipating how the new king would handle his responsibilities. Rafayel didn’t immediately speak, his fingers tapped lightly on the armrest of his chair. The Queen, seated at the far end of the room studied him with an unreadable expression, her gaze flickering toward you before returning to her son.

"The coronation will proceed as planned but we will not let ceremonial titles be our sole focus. The Whalefall city and its wellbeing is far more urgent" Rafayel spoke. You heard his heart jump a beat. 

A murmur rippled through the room, some council members exchanging uneasy glances. It was clear that Rafayel’s priorities were not aligned with their expectations.

"And what of the nobles, my prince?" one advisor interjected, his tone full of concern "They expect more than just... your presence. The throne requires a union. A queen, heirs, surely you’ve considered your options"

"I have no interest in rushing into such decisions" Rafayel’s eyes flickered toward his mother and then back to the council. The Queen cleared her throat, a sharp sound that pierced the tension.

"You must consider this carefully, Rafayel" she said "The kingdom expects stability and that includes your future as king. We must discuss the issue of your marriage"

Rafayel’s jaw tightened slightly. 

"I’ve heard this already, Mother" Rafayel said quietly but firmly "The matter of my marriage is not one I intend to rush into simply because the throne is vacant"

The council members exchanged uneasy glances. Some looked at Rafayel with doubt, clearly uncomfortable with the obvious difference in his approach compared to his father’s. The late king had been decisive, quick in his decisions whereas Rafayel was… different. Though he had the same resolve his solutions were new and unfamiliar to those who had been used to the old ways.

"You may not wish to rush, Rafayel" the Queen pressed, her voice softer but still sharp "You know as well as I do that marriage to the right house will secure the kingdom’s future. A union with the right bloodline could mean the difference between peace and war"

There was a subtle shift in the room, as if the council members were holding their breath waiting for Rafayel to respond. Some of them looked to the Queen for guidance, as if unsure whether to side with the new king or his mother’s expectations.

Rafayel’s eyes flicked to you for a split second, a momentary glance that you knew was more for reassurance than anything else. You had hoped he didn't expect you to speak up. He turned back to the Queen, his voice unwavering. 

"I am aware, but I will not marry for the sake of political strategy alone. I won’t allow this kingdom to be just a chess piece"

The Queen’s lips curled into a thin, almost imperceptible smile.

"You are still a young man, Rafayel" she said, her voice softening in a way that felt almost patronizing "You may think you understand the weight of the throne but it’s not only power that matters. It’s legacy, family. Heirs"

There was a tense silence as everyone around the table waited for Rafayel to respond and for the first time, you saw something in his eyes... a flicker of uncertainty. 

"I’ll marry when I find the right person" Rafayel said, his voice a little colder than before "Not before"

As the room shifted with murmurs of approval and disapproval, your thoughts drifted momentarily.

In a new world like this, where women were expected to marry for the kingdom’s benefit and to secure alliances, to bear heirs... the idea of waiting for the right person was a privilege few women could afford. A woman’s desires would be ignored in favour of duty. She wouldn’t have the luxury of choice and yet, Rafayel could make that decision.

His freedom was palpable. You couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy, even if you knew that his path was hardly an easy one.

You let the thought slip away, focusing instead on duty. After all, your place was behind him. Your duty was to keep him safe and though your thoughts lingered on the differences between the two of you you knew one thing for certain, there was no room for your personal desires here.

Not for you. Not ever.

The room seemed to relax slightly but the Queen’s gaze remained fixed on her son.

"Very well but do not delay too long, Rafayel. You know the pressure the kingdom faces"

The meeting continued with various reports on trade, military and the status of neighboring kingdoms but you could see the weight of it all on Rafayel. He was standing at the edge of something terrifying. As the meeting drew to a close Rafayel stood and turned to the council.

"We’ll continue this tomorrow" he said, his tone firm but you could hear the weariness behind it.

The council members stood and began to leave. When the room finally cleared, Rafayel sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. You stepped forward but before you could speak he cut you off.

"Let’s go for a walk" he said quietly, his voice low but carrying an unspoken weight.

You knew better than to question him.

"Of course, my prince"

The marble floors beneath your boots echoed softly as you walked beside Rafayel. The air in the palace was still heavy, the silence only broken by the faint hum of distant voices and the occasional flicker of torches. The palace felt emptier now, as if the loss of the king had shook through every inch of the walls.

You both walked in silence for a while, the weight of the council meeting still lingering in the air. You didn’t need to speak to know what was on his mind. It was in the subtle way he clenched his jaw, the way his fingers tightened into a sharp grip and in the occasional glance he threw toward the shadows of the hall.

Finally he spoke, his voice low and thoughtful.

"I’m not sure I’m cut out for this"

You raised an eyebrow, matching his pace but not yet responding.

"Not cut out for being king?" you asked, the question harsher than you intended and your voice still as detached as ever "You’ve been training for this your whole life"

Rafayel let out a bitter laugh, the sound dry and devoid of humor.

"Training, yes. But I’m not my father am I? They expect me to step into his shoes, to rule with the same iron fist he did. But I can’t.. I won’t do it the way he did. Not just for the sake of tradition" The frustration in his voice was subtle but you heard it "And the Queen… She only wants me to follow in his footsteps. To marry for power and I just want to fucking live"

"You don’t have to be like your father" you said, your voice steady "You can rule in your own way. You’ll find your own path, you don’t have to follow the footsteps of those who came before you"

Rafayel stopped walking and you did the same, your eyes meeting his. His expression was conflicted, as though he wanted to argue, to protest but instead he just stood there. For a long momentyou both stood in silence, the weight of your words hanging in the air. Then he gave a small nod.

"that’s easy for you to say" he muttered but there was a trace of bitterness in his words "I’m supposed to be the king, aren’t I? The one who makes the decisions but they don’t trust me.."

"They don't have to. It isn't their choice"

"We’ll see" he murmured 

You both resumed walking, the sounds of your footsteps echoing through the long hallway. The further you went the more the palace seemed to fall away into silence and the world outside seemed closer, more alive.

When you reached a large balcony overlooking Whalefall city, Rafayel leaned against the railing, gazing out at the moonlit expanse. His profile was sharp against the pale light of the night and for a brief moment, you saw him as something other than a prince or a leader. Just a man, standing at the edge of everything.

"I used to come out here with my father" Rafayel said quietly, his gaze still distant "Before all of this. He’d always stand there and look out over the kingdom, like he could see everything from here. I used to ask him what he saw... he said he saw strength. He saw a kingdom that would never fall"

You didn’t answer, merely standing by his side watching the city below. Your gaze was fixed on the streets far below, the flickering torches of the night.

"And what do you see?" you asked finally, your voice low and steady. Rafayel was quiet for a moment then he shrugged, the smirk returning to his face.

"I see a kingdom that’s going to change. Starting with me"

────────

The next few days Rafayel changed completely.

A smirk that lingered too long and a laugh that held a sharper edge. The way Rafayel carried himself with an air of carelessness that felt just a little too deliberate. At the council meetings he was still decisive. Still sharp and unwilling to bend but outside of them something shifted. He moved with a careless confidence, his words laced with even more amusement and he toyed with conversation like it was a game and brushed off concerns with a wave of his hand.

If he was tense before, it had unravelled into something looser.

You notic-ed it in the way he moved. Graceful but almost lazy and the tension in his shoulders was gone, replaced by a practiced ease that felt unnatural after weeks of weight pressing down on him. 

At dinners he leaned back in his chair, swirling a goblet of wine between his fingers with idle amusement, letting the nobles talk over one another while he watched them like a bored god.

Even in the training yard where his movements were usually precise and calculated there was a new recklessness to him. A tendency to take unnecessary risks in spars, grinning through every near miss like he was chasing the thrill of being caught off guard.

His eyes glinted with a kind of mischief, a gleam that only deepened as the days went on. At times it almost seemed like he was deliberately trying to annoy you, throwing in sarcastic remarks when you least expected them, teasing you with an ease that didn’t quite belong in a prince.

Then, you heard the whispers.

At first they were just that. A murmur behind closed doors, the half glances exchanged between courtiers when he arrived at council meetings later than usual. You had always heard murmurs in the corridors and hidden corners of the palace but now they seemed to follow Rafayel everywhere he went.

Whispers that he had been slipping out at night, sneaking away from the watchful eyes of the royal guards and disappearing into the darkness.

At first you ignored them but as the rumours began to circulate more frequently your unease grew. His usual routine had shifted and though he remained as charming as ever, there was something unsettling about it all.

And then, it wasn’t just his demeanour that had changed.

You had seen him leave more than once after the usual evening meal, his form slipping through the doors and disappearing into the darkness and ordering you not to follow him. He was always gone by the time the moon rose high and when you saw him again at dawn, there were always subtle signs that he’d returned from somewhere.

His Lemurian clothes were hastily thrown on, wrinkled in all the wrong places as if he hadn’t bothered to care about his appearance in the rush to get back and his hands often grazed the edges of his clothes as though he were still trying to adjust to some part of the night that lingered on him. 

You noticed the faint scratch marks on his neck and forearms, even on his back. At first, they were easy to ignore... small, almost not noticeable. But they began to appear more frequently, scattered across his skin like evidence he didn’t try to hide. Due to the amount of exposed skin his clothes showed, you were surprised that no one else had picked up on them. Or maybe they did and they chose to ignore it, or minimised it down to him sparing too much.

They were not from sparing or training. No, these marks were more intimate.

He’s sneaking out at night. Slipping past the guards. Some say he disappears into the the Silk Streets.

That name carried weight. A place where nobility lost their dignity and gold in equal measure. A labyrinth of brothels, gambling dens and places that existed purely for indulgence. A place that thrived in the shadows, where reputations were ruined and secrets were bought with a handful of coins.

A place not fit for the new Lemurian king.

You didn't know why he was walking straight into it, if the rumours were true. 

Maybe it was grief, maybe it was defiance. Maybe he just wanted to feel something different. Something far from the suffocating expectations of the palace. He was the future king and the moment the wrong people took notice, the moment they realized his recklessness, his carelessness would become a weapon in someone else’s hands.

And then there was you.

People already started to doubt your ability to protect so if he was slipping past you unnoticed, what did that say about you? About your duty? If someone else caught him before you did, if word spread beyond the whispers in the palace, what would that mean for you? You had no doubt that The Queen would have something to say.

You would find out where he was going.

That night, long after the palace had settled into a quiet stillness you stood by the door to Rafayel’s chambers. You were supposed to be on duty, keeping watch but a strange sense of unrest kept you from your usual place. Something drew you to his door, something you couldn’t quite place.

It was then that you saw it.

The faintest movement through the slightly ajar window in his chamber. A flicker of shadow, a small look at his shadow slipping away from the palace walls. He was leaving and without thinking, you followed.

You crept down the hallway, keeping to the shadows as your footsteps were swallowed by the marble floor. There was no turning back now. You had to know, you had to see for yourself where he was going, what he was doing in the dead of night when no one was watching.

The cold night air met you as you stepped outside, if your heart could beat, it would be pounding in your chest. You moved swiftly, staying a few paces behind Rafayel as he walked through the gardens, his figure barely visible in the pale moonlight. He moved like he was used to this, like he had done it a hundred times before. He didn’t turn back, not once and as you followed, you began to wonder if he even knew you were there or if he simply didn’t care.

He passed through the side gates of the palace, his movements fluid and confident. You knew where he was headed before he even reached the main road. The Silk Streets.

The rumours were true.

He was dressed in a dark cloak, the fabric heavy and concealing, draping over him like a shadow. The hood of the cloak was drawn low, covering most of his face and the rest of his features were hidden beneath the folds of the fabric. From a distance, he could have been anyone. His usually regal posture was gone, replaced by the subtle movements of someone trying to go unnoticed.

Now, he was trying to hide. Trying to blend in with the crowds of the Silk Streets, with the people who lived in the shadows.

The moonlight barely touched the narrow alleys of the streets. It thrummed with an energy that felt alive, whispers of soft laughter, muffled music and the clink of coins and goblets.

He moved through the night with an ease that made you feel out of place, his body relaxed, his steps confident as if this dark part of the city were a second home to him. He barely glanced around, unfazed by the lewd whispers that followed him, the women in doorways flashing smiles that spoke of things better left unspoken. You kept your distance, keeping your gaze forward, trying to ignore the way the scent of incense and perfume clung to the air, thick and almost intoxicating.

You, on the other hand, felt the weight of every step. Every brush of a stranger’s arm, every faint whisper that danced through the air like smoke, reminded you that you didn’t belong here.

You wanted to remain unseen, unnoticed but the air here was thick with something else... The smell of the street mixed with the distant scent of sweat and alcohol, weaving into a heavy blanket of scent that nearly overwhelmed your senses. It was intoxicating and the longer you walked the harder it became to ignore the heady warmth that filled the air.

But then the sensation turned into something else entirely. The heat, the press of so many bodies brushing against yours, the constant hum of life in every corner... suddenly it felt too much. Too many people. Too much stimulation. You stumbled slightly, your senses overwhelmed by the presence of so many and for a fleeting moment the hunger crept up on you.

You were surrounded by so much warmth, so many living breathing bodies and the hunger within you was no longer something you could easily control. It was always there, lurking beneath the surface but tonight, it seemed louder. Stronger. You felt the sharp tug of desire and the familiar hunger that always came with being so close to so much life.

You lost sight of Rafayel and for a brief moment, it was almost a relief. He was safer without you. The thought flitted through your mind as you turned your gaze away from the large number of people, focusing instead on keeping your breath steady. It was easier this way, you told yourself. He was safer away from you, far from the monster you carried inside.

You fought the urge. You had to.

The hunger clawed at your insides, sharp and insistent, but you pushed it back, burying the need. The sensation of so much warmth, so many heartbeats pressing against your own cold skin, made the hunger feel alive, tangible. You could almost taste it. Feel it on the tip of your tongue. It was supposed to be manageable.. the witch had promised you that. You hadn't felt this burning need to feed in 500 years, so why now?

You took a step back, your breath shallow as you struggled to regain control. You didn’t belong in this place  and yu couldn’t let yourself lose control. Not here, not now.

But with each passing second the pull grew stronger and the longer you stayed in the middle of the crowd the harder it became to resist. Every brush of skin, every whisper in the night seemed to feed the fire inside you. The streets twisted before you, the scent of perfume and incense growing thicker as you walked deeper into the streets. Rafayel. You had to find him and get out of here. 

You could hear the laughter from behind closed doors, the shuffling of feet, the creaking of wooden steps but the most intoxicating sound of all? Rafayel’s voice. Faint but unmistakable.

The realization hit you like a brick to the chest.

You should leave. You should walk away.

But the hunger gnawed at you and you knew that if you didn’t move now, it would consume you. In a heartbeat your mind made the decision for you. You stormed through the crowded streets, ignoring the lewd stares, pushing past those who walked too slow in front of you. Rafayel’s scent, it was distinct, almost intoxicating but it pulled you further down the winding alleys, toward the brothel.

The building loomed ahead, its doors open wide promising warmth and sin. The voices and sounds grew louder as you approached, a mix of anger and the need to confront him.

As you stepped inside, the dim light was almost suffocating. The air was thick with the musk of bodies, the sweet smell of alcohol mingling with the pungent scent of jasmine and rose that seemed to pour out of every corner. You forced yourself to breathe slowly but each inhale was heavy.

And then you heard it. a moan. Soft, laced with pleasure and the sound cut through the noise of the brothel and you didn’t have to look far to know where it came from.

You found him quickly, in one of the private rooms at the far end of the building. He was sprawled across a small bed, his usual casual grace replaced with an ease that could only come from having done this many times before. His hands were tangled in the sheets, his bare chest rising and falling with each laboured breath. A woman, pale and completely naked straddled his waist, her face flushed with pleasure.

You didn’t flinch at the sight, not even a hint of hesitation. The hunger in your chest was stronger than any sense of discomfort you might have had. It was the hunger that you focused on now.

Without a word you walked deeper into the room, your gaze locked on the woman. The sound of her soft moans stopped when she noticed you standing there, the air suddenly turning thick with tension. Her eyes darted between you and Rafayel uncertain but you didn’t give her a chance to question.

"Leave" you said coldly, your voice cutting through the room like a blade.

The woman didn’t protest, her eyes flicking to Rafayel but he simply gave her a lazy wave of his hand, not at all concerned by your presence. She reluctantly climbed off him and gathered her clothes, throwing one last glance at the two of you before slipping out the door. Rafayel didn’t move, still stretched across the bed, his body still bare not even a hint of shame in his posture. He looked almost amused but there was a glint in his eyes, a spark of mischief that made your jaw tighten.

"Didn't think you’d follow me in here" he said casually, his lips curling into that irritating smirk "But then again, you always have a way of showing up at the wrong time"

He knew you were following him.

"This place isn't fit for a prince" Was all you found yourself replying. The hunger was growing and you needed to feed but getting Rafayel away from here was your main priority.

But of course, he was being difficult. He chuckled, a mocking sound that filled the room.

"Maybe not but it’s comfortable. No one expects anything from me here, you know? No royal duties, no heavy decisions weighing me down. Just... freedom" He stretched lazily, as if the whole scene were nothing more than a casual affair.

"You shouldn’t be here" you said bluntly, your voice still flat "You’re due to be the king and yet you're playing around in filth"

Rafayel rolled his eyes, clearly unbothered.

"Always so serious. Can’t you just relax a little? The world’s not always as black and white as you make it out to be. Here, I’m just Rafayel. No title, no expectations. Just... me"

You ignored the underlying challenge in his tone, your gaze cool and unwavering.

"You’re wasting your time" He raised an eyebrow at your response.

"Am I? Or am I just taking a break from being who everyone else wants me to be? Maybe I like being... something else for a while. Not some puppet prince everyone pulls at" You’d seen him be reckless before but this? This felt like he was trying to prove something. Or maybe it was just his way of avoiding the weight of the crown that loomed over him.

"You’re still a prince" you said, your voice like ice "No matter where you go. No matter who you bed"

Rafayel’s smirk widened, a flicker of something deeper in his eyes as he sat up and exposed more of his naked body, moving with a slow grace that made your stomach twist with frustration.

"You know" he said softly, his voice a little more teasing now "I always thought you'd be more... possessive. Aren’t you the least bit jealous?"

You didn’t flinch.

"Jealousy is a waste of time”

His expression flickered then that mischievous grin returned.

"My miss bodyguard, so cold as always. I wonder what would happen if I pushed you a little harder"

You held his gaze, unwavering, your breath steady despite the tension building between you.

"Leave. Now"

With another sigh he stood from where he was lying to pick up his clothes. He even left the palace and came here in his Lemurian outfit... he was truly being reckless. Did he really not care what others thought? His movements fluid as he slung the silk of his palace outfit over his shoulder with deliberate slowness.

"Alright, alright. No need to get all worked up. But next time, maybe join the fun, hmm?" He said to you as he picked up his cloak that once kept him hidden. You turned and walked toward the door but before you left, you glanced over your shoulder at him, your gaze as cold as the walls around you.

"Next time, I won’t be so forgiving"

Rafayel simply shrugged, as if he wasn’t concerned in the slightest.

"I’ll keep that in mind"

The door clicked shut behind you but the hunger still burned inside, stronger now with the close proximity of Rafayel’s scent lingering in the air. You had more to deal with than just him.

The cool air of the palace felt strangely suffocating as you returned with Rafayel, the hunger clawing at your insides, gnawing at you with each step. Your mind was distant, the pull of your thirst overpowering everything else. You barely noticed as you walked through the halls, your senses heightened, fixating on the sharp scent of blood that lingered in the corridors.

Once you had returned Rafayel safely to his chambers, you focused on your own needs.

It was a feeling you knew too well... but this time, it felt worse. It felt like you were losing control.

As you passed a group of servants your gaze flicked to one of them. No one in the palace cared about them.. She smiled hesitantly at you, completely unaware of the danger she was in. Your body moved of its own accord before you could even think and she never had a chance to react.

You slammed her back against the cold marble of the wall, your hand gripping her wrist tightly, your other hand curling around her chin. The world around you faded into a blur. The sound of your own breath, the pulse beneath her skin and the scent of her blood overwhelming every other sense. The hunger that had been gnawing at you all night surged up.

Your fangs appeared, sharp and deadly and before you could think better of it you sank them into her neck.

The moment your fangs pierced her skin, the taste of blood hit you... rich, warm, intoxicating. It consumed you. You couldn’t stop. It had been so long since you fed like this, without hesitation, without restraint. You drank, hard and fast, the pulsing rhythm of her heart slowing as the minutes passed.

But then something hit you. A sharp wave of panic rose within you, unexpected. This was not like the control you had always maintained, not like the careful, calculated feeds you’d taken before. You hadn’t done this in years.

The memories surged back.

The last time you had lost control, when you had slaughtered the last survivor of your village. You hadn’t cared then but now... 

You broke away, your breath coming in short, harsh gasps. The woman sagged against the wall, her body limp in your grasp. For a moment, you just stood there, staring at her and at what you'd done. She was still alive, barely but her pulse was faint. You could feel it.

And yet, all you wanted was to run, to escape the guilt that rose in your throat like bile. You didn’t want to look at her. You didn’t want to face the reality of what you'd just done.

With shaking hands, you gently laid her down on the floor, as if trying to pretend that this had been nothing, just another fleeting moment. But the guilt gnawed at you, sharp and relentless.

You couldn’t stay there, not with her, not with the memory of the last time you’d lost control. So, you left. 

But still even after feeding and even after wiping away the last bit of evidence away from your face, you still weren't fully satisfied. You needed more.

────────

The days since you’d first caught Rafayel sneaking out had passed in a blur. He still slipped away though not as often, as though his reckless streak had been tempered slightly by something. He came back to the palace each morning with a quiet defiance in his eyes, as if daring the world to ask him about his actions.

But it wasn’t until the council meeting that his habits were mentioned, spoken of in hushed tones by the others, then brought up publicly by the Queen who seemed increasingly angered with her son’s antics.

"You must explain yourself, Rafayel" the Queen had demanded, her voice tight with controlled irritation "Rumors are circulating. They say you’re sneaking off at night. If this continues, I will not tolerate it"

The room had grown silent, save for the soft shuffle of papers as the council members nervously awaited his response. You had kept your head down, knowing better than to intrude on council matters, especially when the Queen was involved.

The door to the council chamber closed softly behind you, the quiet thud of the wood sounding louder than it should in the empty hall. You could feel his frustration, even though he hadn’t said a word yet. His body language was full of tension and the subtle shake of his shoulders betrayed a layer of anger he wasn’t yet ready to show.

As you walked down the hallway the silence stretched between you both. The distant sounds of the palace servants bustling in the background seemed to fade, leaving only the sound of your own footsteps. Finally, Rafayel broke the silence.

"I’m not a child, you know" he muttered, his tone heavy with an edge. His gaze was dark, fixed straight ahead but the tension in his posture was hard to ignore "You don’t have to stand there and let her throw stones at me. You could’ve said something"

What were you to say? The Queen already disliked you, despised your presence, why should you get involved in family matters? You weren't an advisor or part of the council, just a monster there to ensure he is safe at all times. 

"it isn’t my place to speak on matters that don’t concern me"

The words left your mouth and you almost almost regretted them the moment they passed your lips. But it was true. You were the bodyguard, not the family member. 

But then there was a bitter chuckle. 

"Right. As always, the perfect little soldier" He shook his head, his movements sharp and jerky as if he were trying to shake off the frustration that was still gnawing at him. There was a note of sarcasm in his voice but it didn’t feel entirely mocking "I'm not a fucking puppet"

He turned to face you, his eyes searching yours as if trying to gauge your reaction.

It was the way he said it, as if he were daring you to call him out, daring you to challenge him. You didn’t respond right away. You stood there, watching him. His eyes were still locked on you, searching, waiting for something... maybe an answer, maybe just someone to acknowledge what he was going through.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself before you spoke.

"I never said you were a puppet" you replied quietly, your tone still sharp "I just know my place, my prince"

"And what exactly is your place, then?" His voice was low, almost a whisper but there was a challenge in it "To stand by and watch? Watch me make a fool of myself while everyone around me whispers and judges?"

There was something different in his voice now. It wasn’t just about the council meeting anymore. It wasn’t just about his mother’s words. You didn’t have an answer for him, at least not the kind he wanted.

"My place is where you need me to be, my prince" you replied, keeping your voice steady "That’s the only thing I know for sure"

Rafayel studied you for a moment longer, then finally exhaled a frustrated breath. He ran a hand through his hair, looking away from you for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

"Then I know where I need you to be tonight" He told you, and for once, the shock was evident in your face "I'm sneaking out again. It would be a shame if my sworn protector were to follow me"

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning. You should have responded, should have put an end to his recklessness but something in his tone, in the sharp glint of his gaze, told you it would be useless.

He had already made his decision. He stood beside you for a moment longer and then without another word he turned on his heel and walked away. His stride was effortless, it was as if he didn't believe that you'd deny his command. You should have ignored it. You should have reported it but you knew that no matter what you did Rafayel would still leave tonight and if he was going to put himself in danger, then you had no choice but to be there when it happened.

By the time the sun had set and the palace corridors had emptied you were already waiting. It wasn’t long before you caught the familiar flicker of movement. Rafayel, slipping past the guards with practiced ease, his cloak draped loosely around him and the hood pulled up just enough to obscure his features.

Reckless, careless, stupid.

You moved before you could think better of it, slipping into the night after him. The city stretched before you, pulsing with life even under the weight of darkness and he didn’t look back, but you knew he could feel you there. You hated this place, the way it pulsed with the things you had long since forgotten. 

But as Rafayel moved deeper into it's embrace you lost sight of him not long after, only this time there was no panic.

You felt the array of bodies surrounding you again, the hunger, the need. Everything was intimate, it was intense and you closed your eyes for a moment. The moment your eyes shut, the world sharpened in a different way. The warmth of bodies brushing past, the pulse of laughter and whispered secrets, the scent of skin heated from too much drink. It was intoxicating in a way that had nothing to do with blood.

It had been centuries since you had been surrounded like this. Engulfed in something so human, so alive. This wasn’t just hunger for blood. 

There was a brush of air and a warm gust of wind on the back of your neck before a small voice appeared at the side of you. 

"Don't get lost" He visibly smirked at the way you flinched, the first physical reaction he had ever gotten of you from the three years you were with him "Stay with me.. and relax"

He was behind you somehow, the front of his body only an inch away from the back of your own. His lips close to your ear as he spoke but he still kept to himself. You shuddered for a moment before nodding, like you didn't have a mind of your own, like the street and he himself had put a spell on you.

A spell to obey, which a monster like you should always do.

You could feel him, every inch of him so close but not touching it made your breath falter. A sharp contrast to the steady control you prided yourself on. His skin wasn't against yours but the warmth of him seeped into your skin, into your bones and into that part of you that had been frozen for centuries. His breath ghosted along your jaw, his voice low, deliberate.

"You’re always so tense"

A quiet chuckle rumbled from him and you felt it against your back more than you heard it. He leaned in closer, his lips barely grazing the shell of your ear, as if testing the waters.

"Is it this place?" he mused, voice silk and sin "Or is it me?"

You swallowed but the street had stolen your words, stolen your thoughts leaving you exposed. A pair of bodies stumbled past, tangled in each other, laughing breathlessly. Another pair further down, pressed against a wall and lost in the heat of their own indulgence. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, wine, desire. The world here moved differently as if the very street was alive and it had chosen you as its prey.

And Rafayel... Rafayel was watching.

"You feel it, don’t you?" he murmured, his voice dipping into something dangerously smooth "The way it pulls at you, the way it calls"

Your fists clenched at your sides, nails digging into your palms. You couldn’t let this place get to you. 

"So miss bodyguard... will you indulge with me?"

You should have said no. You should have turned away, should have pulled back, should have reminded him of the line that stood between you, the one that had kept you at a distance for three years. instead, your body betrayed you. A slow shaky exhale slipped from your lips before you could stop it. It was lost in the midst of the Silk Street but not to him. Never to him. Rafayel smirked, his head tilted slightly, his gaze flickering over your face drinking in every minute shift in your expression.

"Indulge?" Your voice was quieter than you meant it to be, your throat drier than it should have been "And what exactly do you mean by that, my prince?"

"Whatever you want it to mean" he murmured "But first... let me show you around"

Rafayel stepped past you, the faintest brush of his cloak against your arm as he did. His smirk deepened when your eyes never left his figure. And then without looking back, he walked into the depths of the street.

Will you indulge with me?

Your feet moved before you had the chance to think. The further you walked down, the more suffocating the atmosphere grew. The flickering lanterns cast shadows on the cobblestones and as you followed Rafayel, every step felt heavier. He moved through the night with an ease that made you feel out of place, his body relaxed and his steps confident as if this dark part of the city were a second home to him. It was.

He barely glanced around, unfazed by the whispers that followed him. You kept your distance, keeping your gaze forward trying to ignore the way the your senses were filled with different fragrances. But you couldn't ignore him. A part of you wanted to turn away, to remind yourself of your place. Of your duty to him but you couldn’t shake the sense of awe that crept in. These people weren’t bound by titles. They were free, in ways you hadn’t been in over five centuries. It almost felt like a distant memory.

It wasn’t that you were jealous of these people but there was something about their freedom, their ability to live without restraint that made you feel… small. Small and trapped in a way you hadn’t let yourself admit. You didn't know why it bothered you.

As Rafayel slowed, leading you into an alleyway between two crumbling buildings, you caught sight of the brothel ahead. It was the same brothel where you had found him the other night. A place drenched in everything that should have repulsed you.

But it didn’t.

Rafayel pushed open the heavy wooden door without hesitation, stepping inside as though he belonged here and maybe in some way, he did. The moment he crossed the door, he was no longer the prince, no longer the heir to a kingdom burdened by duty and expectations. He was just a man, another figure in the haze of warmth and pleasure.

You hesitated.

Standing there just outside, you felt the weight of the past pressing against you. Five hundred years of restraint, five hundred years of existing but never truly living and yet you followed him inside. The shift in atmosphere was immediate. People leaned into one another, hands lingering, lips brushing, eyes half lidded with the haze of drink and desire. There were no rules here, no boundaries. Rafayel turned his head slightly, just enough to see you lingering at the door, your hesitation laid bare.

"You don’t have to be afraid" he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear "No one will look at you as they do in the palace. No one will whisper"

It was a taunt, wrapped in something gentler.

You reached the counter where a number of drinks were laid out, free to take. He reached for a bottle, something dark and rich smelling, the scent of honey and spice clinging to the rim. Without breaking eye contact with you he lifted it to his lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip before extending it toward you.

"Drink"

You stared at him, silent.

"It won't-"

"Affect you I know.." he reminded, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips "Humour me miss bodyguard. Just this once"

His eyes gleamed, watching and waiting. It wasn’t the drink that made your fingers curl around the bottle, it was him. You lifted the bottle to your lips, letting the liquid slide over your tongue. It was warm, rich, deceptively smooth but beneath the honeyed spice, beneath the slow burning heat, there was something else. Something unmistakable and your throat tightened.

Blood.

Not much, not enough for a human to notice but you weren’t human. The taste, the feel of it. It bloomed across your tongue, curling into your senses, awakening something deep inside you. Your grip on the bottle faltered for just a moment, the glass clinking softly as you set it down. A pang of hunger tightened in your chest and your body reacted almost before your mind could catch up.

"You…" The question was barely a breath, barely a whisper but Rafayel heard it.

And he smirked.

"You were about to ask, weren’t you?" His voice was velvet and amusement. He leaned in, elbow propped lazily on the counter, his eyes flickering in the dim light "If it’s blood? Yes"

He finished the thought for you.

Did he... know?

Your body screamed at you to stay still, to keep your expression neutral but the way Rafayel was watching you, studying you made it impossible. He was enjoying this.

"Relax" he mused, his voice almost soothing and mocking "It's not human. If that's what you're worried about"

You felt like breathing a sigh of relief. He didn't know. Your throat constricted, the taste still lingering on your tongue.

"Why?" You asked, though the question didn’t quite escape with the urgency you expected it to. You couldn’t seem to tear your gaze away from the bottle, nor the way his lips curved into a faint smirk.

"Why not?" Rafayel responded, leaning back up "It’s part of the street's… charm. It’s an old indulgence. Mixed with herbs it’s meant to lift you, free you in a way. It stirs something inside, doesn’t it?"

"Does it?" you murmured, your voice lacked it's usual steel and Rafayel knew it.

His smirk deepened like a hunter playing with it's prey. He tilted his head studying you, before his fingers tapped idly against the counter’s surface. He pulled the hood from his cloak down and your gaze flickered over him, taking in the way the dim, flickering light cast shifting shadows over his face.

"It does" His voice was quiet "Even if you won’t admit it"

His gaze flickered downward just for a second, toward the subtle rise and fall of your chest. Rafayel always carried an air of carelessness, of reckless confidence that made it seem as though the world bent to his rules. But here, in the golden glow of the brothel’s lanterns, draped in his regal clothes hidden by a cloak too large for him he was something else entirely. 

The silk of his robes was dark, the colour of deep ocean tides beneath a moonlit sky. The embroidery shimmered as he moved, silver waves curling along the fabric shifting like they were alive, and then there was the jewellery. Silver rings, oceanic stones, the delicate chains that glinted against his wrists. An ornamental ear cuff, shaped like a cresting wave adorned one ear, catching the light whenever he tilted his head.

It was unfair how beautiful he was.

Rafayel was beautiful in a way that demanded attention, in a way that made it impossible to ignore him, no matter how hard you tried and right now, he was watching you. You forced your eyes away from him but not before you caught the slight tilt of his lips, like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

You thought he'd tease you, thought he'd mention how he caught you staring, truly looking at him like you've never done before but it never came and you were thankful. You took a moment to glance around the room and you noticed there were multiple pairs of eyes on you. You swallowed for a moment, you were used to the stares in the palace.. but in this place? It felt like you were a prize that people didn't want to stop admiring.

"Do they always stare?" you muttered, feeling your skin prickle. Rafayel's laugh was soft, a low sound that held a trace of amusement.

"They don't care about you" he said, his voice casual "It's me they want"

You turned sharply, meeting his gaze. His smile had faded into something more... knowing, like he enjoyed watching you squirm.

"You shouldn't come here" you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

"Why?" he asked, cocking his head to the side "Are you afraid of what you'll see? Or maybe afraid of the kind of person you might become if you stay?"

Your throat tightened and you could feel the flush creeping up your neck. The idea that you could be like the people in this place, slipping into a world of indulgence and desire... It sickened you. But there was no denying the way you felt slightly attracted to the dangerous allure of it all.

"I’m not like them" you whispered, your own voice betraying you.

"You are not like anyone and that is exactly why I brought you here" He told you and for the briefest second his expression shifted. Your head began to spin "My miss bodyguard is one of a kind"

"I-" 

Rafayel took a slow step toward you, his presence suddenly overwhelming. He tilted his head, studying you with those sharp eyes that seemed to see through everything, through you. His presence surrounded you, a warmth pressing into your skin without even touching you. 

"You're starting to feel it aren't you?" He questioned, his voice quiet. You looked down, eyes settling on the counter, the bottle, the blood.

Yes.

He was right. Whatever herbs were mixed in were beginning to affect you-he was winning. It was affecting you in ways you couldn’t control. Your breath felt heavier in your chest and you subtly gripped the counter again, fingers pressing into the wood as if grounding yourself. You wanted more. More of what, you weren’t sure. It was unlike anything you’d felt in centuries. Not hunger or thirst, it was almost worse. A yearning with no name.

Like you were floating almost and the feeling was exotic. Five centuries you had been nothing but a shell of a monster but now, you felt human. You felt alive, you felt like you could feel the blood that was once drained all those years ago flow into your empty veins.  You forced yourself to stand straighter, to regain some semblance of composure but the heat in your chest remained.

"We should.." Go. You should go. Back to the palace, back to being a monster that people feared. Back to doing your duty because any upstanding bodyguard and knight wouldn't be in a place like this possibly endangering the person they were supposed to protect.

Rafayel inhaled sharply, stumbling back a step, his fingers pressing briefly against his temple before dropping back to his side. He wasn’t entirely unaffected either. His breathing had deepened and his lips parted slightly. Then he tilted his head smirking again, eyes half lidded and unreadable. He beckoned you with just a look.

And you followed.

Further into the brothel, further into pleasure and forbidden whispers. The further you followed him the more you felt it and you wanted to smile. The feeling creeping into your body. The intoxication, the warmth, the dizziness-it was unlike anything you’d felt in centuries. It wasn’t hunger but it was almost worse. It was a kind of desire, a yearning but for what you couldn’t say. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t have followed him.

And yet, you did.

He led you to a cloak covered doorway and you followed him through it like he had you on a leash and was pulling you along. The air changed the moment you stepped through the veil of heavy fabric. The room was dimly lit and you had to really focus on the sight around you, your vision blurring slightly before you saw it.

Bodies moved in slow rhythms, tangled together in ways that left nothing to the imagination. The sounds.. soft gasps, breathless laughter, sinful moans and words whispered that you had never had whispered to you before. It all pressed in from every side, drowning out the world beyond these walls. There was no space untouched, no corner left unclaimed by the weight of indulgence. No one here was alone.

Except for you and him.

Rafayel stood just a step ahead, his cloak falling down his body and exposing bare back where his royal outfit lacked clothing for his top half. You were seeing him now, really seeing him. The details on his body, the faded scratch marks and the tattoos that made your fingers twitch slightly. He turned slightly, gaze flicking back to you. The chaos around him didn’t seem to touch him, like he was used to it.

You wanted to move. You needed to. The walls felt closer now, the press of bodies suffocating, the sheer intimacy of it all almost too much to bear. But your feet wouldn’t move.

You were rooted in place.

There were couples, there were beds filled with three people, there were men and women on their own bringing themselves to a climax... and you stood and watched. Lips parted, almost dried and screaming for something. The drink still burned in your throat, your skin hot, your thoughts slow and unfocused. It was intoxicating the way that the room felt alive, the way every breath you took carried the weight of something. 

Rafayel took a slow step toward you, his expression unreadable beneath the dim lantern light.

"Tell me" he murmured, voice low and teasing but edged with something more "Does it tempt you?"

You couldn’t answer immediately.  It was like the world had narrowed to just him and you.

He didn’t move any closer, he didn’t need to. His gaze held you in place, as if every moment you stood there was a game in itself. Your body felt like it belonged to someone else, your senses sharp and dulled at the same time and you couldn’t help but wonder how much of this was truly you. How much of it was the drink, the atmosphere or the quiet pull of his influence.

Rafayel’s eyes flickered down to your clenched hands then back up to your face. He saw it, the conflict in you.

"I..." The words faltered.

"You don’t have to stay" he said, his voice a low murmur, almost a promise as he reached out with his finger to gently tilt your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze "But do you really want to leave?"

You swallowed, trying to bring some clarity to your muddled thoughts. Your mind was a swirl of thoughts and confusion and though you knew you should distance yourself, you couldn’t seem to pull away from him.

"I should never have come" you murmured, almost to yourself but Rafayel heard. 

Rafayel watched you carefully and for once, the smirk didn’t return. His expression softened, just slightly and you saw it. He took another step toward you, closing the distance, his free hand resting lightly on your arm just enough to feel the weight of it.

"I know you feel it. You're not immune to this" He said it with quiet certainty like he already knew everything you were trying to deny. Your pulse quickened and the rest of the room seemed to blur.

The bodies around you didn’t matter. The sounds faded away and Rafayel was all you could see, all you could feel. Despite everything, despite the rules, despite the duty that tied you to him there was a part of you that didn’t want to leave. Not yet, not now.

"My prince..." The title in this scenario felt wrong, utterly and disgustingly wrong. So wrong it made your stomach twist in unease.

This wasn’t the palace. This wasn’t duty or responsibility. This wasn’t the prince who carried the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders. This wasn’t the future king poised to take his throne. Why were you here, in a brothel surrounded by pleasure with the prince... 

Your words seemed to have affected him slightly as a subtle shift passed through his face. His breath caught, a slight tremor running through him and you saw something deeper in his eyes that never left your own. His cheeks flushed, the red creeping up his neck and warming his skin in a way you hadn’t seen before. A stark contrast to the smooth controlled prince you were used to. The blush spread like fire, burning his skin red where it met the soft pink of his ears.

He was human after all. A man, with desires and fears and weaknesses, just like everyone else.

"I think you need to relax, just once" he said, his voice softer now, almost coaxing "You’re wound too tight. It’s like you’ve forgotten how to breathe... just let go. Let go for me, your prince, your king"

The way he said it so effortlessly made you want to listen, to surrender. And then, before you could think of a way to pull yourself together, he leaned in.

His lips brushed your temple, the gentleness sending a shiver down your spine. Then, they drifted to the edge of your cheek, soft and slow. The warmth of his touch lingered even as he moved, trailing over the curve of your jaw. Each kiss was light, teasing, as if he was savouring the sensation of your skin beneath his lips. He kissed you as though he had all the time in the world but you could feel the deliberate intensity in the way he moved, he was gentle yet demanding. You hadn’t realized how starved you were for touch until this moment.

Rafayel’s lips brushed the soft skin beneath your ear and the sensation sent a jolt of electricity through your veins. He paused there and for a moment you thought he might pull away but instead he pressed his lips ever so gently against the sensitive spot, just long enough to make your chest tighten. His lips moved down toward your throat and you couldn’t stop the involuntary shudder that coursed through you. You were half frozen, half on fire, the intensity of it leaving you breathless. His mouth was everywhere but where you wanted him most.

And then he hovered. His lips a centimetre away from yours, so close you could feel the heat of his breath against your mouth. You had wanted him to kiss you, so badly that the ache inside you had become unbearable. But when he moved closer, you felt a sense of unease you couldn’t explain, as if you were both too close and too far.

He pulled back at the last moment, just as you thought his lips were finally going to meet yours and there it was again... the smug, cocky smile that curled at the corners of his mouth. He looked at you with that knowing gaze, like he had seen right through you. His smile was infuriating but also undeniably captivating. There was something about the way he looked at you, that arrogant confident glint in his eyes as if he had won the battle before it even began. 

"You’re teasing me" you muttered, your voice strained. You hated how it sounded. How weak it made you feel.

Rafayel’s eyes darkened just a shade before his smirk widened. His hand around your arm tightened slightly and his thumb on your chin smoothed your skin. His gaze dropped to your lips for a moment before meeting your eyes again.

"Teasing?" His voice dropped to a low murmur "No, my dear bodyguard. I’m simply letting you see what it feels like to want... and I know you want this"

The air between you thickened, the tension nearly suffocating but still he didn’t touch you in the way you craved. He stood just at that edge, where you couldn’t quite reach him, couldn’t quite escape. Your body was alive, aching for him, but the rational part of you screamed for control, screamed for distance.

You swallowed thickly, fighting the rising panic in your chest. You wanted to push him away, to tell him to stop but the words died on your tongue. Instead you stood there frozen, caught between wanting to run and wanting to give in completely.

"You told me to let go" You found yourself unexpectedly saying, hoping and willing that he would pull you closer and give you what you wanted "How... how can I let go?"

He smiled, truly smiled, like you had said something he had always wanted to hear and he had. Three years you had been under his wing, in his palace and by his side but you were always so cold. So distant and blunt but now, for the first time since he claimed you, he was finally seeing what he needed to see from you.

"Let me show you"

He stepped away and you hadn't realised how his proximity drowned out everything around you. It felt like it was just you and him in this room but it wasn't. The air seemed heavier now, the room felt fuller, like everything around you rushed back into focus. The mass of bodies reminded you of where you were and what was happening around you, and the sensation of the noises that echoed around the room has your knees weak.

Or maybe it was just Rafayel.

You couldn’t tear your gaze away from him as he moved through the haze of bodies, stepping back toward the far corner of the room. You didn’t even know why you moved, but the pull of him was magnetic. Your feet carried you forward, each step slow and heavy as you approached the small and secluded bed in the corner, barely noticeable to the rest of the crowd.

What was he.. doing?

Rafayel sank onto the plush bedding, his form reclining with the ease of someone who had nothing to prove. He glanced over at you, his eyes dark. He leant back, propping himself up on his elbows as his eyes traced over you like he was memorizing every detail, every shiver that ran down your spine, every breath you took.

He moved like he was already in control, like everything was part of his plan.

You moved closer, your knees hitting the bedding. The soft fabric shifted beneath you as you hesitated for just a moment before lying down next to him. The proximity was almost too much to bear, your body feeling the warmth of his, the scent of his skin. He didn’t break his gaze. In fact, he watched you more closely now. He shifted his body as you rested your own on the bed and now you were both lay on your sides, gazing at each other.

His hand shifted just slightly, close enough to you that you could feel his warmth but he didn’t touch you. His fingers brushed the bedding, tracing the fabric lazily as if he had all the time in world. You watched his fingers carefully, the black ink that wrapped itself around his fingers put you in a trance and you watched and watched and watched...

Until his hand drifted lower down the bed and closer to his body, his thumb teasing the waistband of his royal trousers. Your breath hitched, the sight of his abs covered in goosebumps as he teased the skin on his waistband was enough to have your chest rising heavily, as if you still had a heart-as if there was blood pumping through your veins.

His hand slid further down and you met his eyes in a panic. He was watching you carefully, gauging your reaction. He watched you bite your lip, he watched your eyes flicker between his own iris' and his lips as if you didn't know where to look. He watched you shuffle forwards ever so slightly, a movement that he would have missed if he wasn't truly staring at you.

Then his hand disappeared into his trousers and he found himself gasping slightly as he gripped his cock in his hand. Your own hand twitched... were you supposed to touch him? Help him? Touch yourself? You didn't know... you didn't know anything right now, your mind was clouded with nothing but desire.

"I don’t... don't know what you want from me" you managed to say, the vulnerability creeping into your voice. Your voice was breathless and it made his cock twitch to see how affected you were.

"Just keep your eyes on me" He told you, his voice close to a moan as you watched him carefully "Just-fuck just don't stop watching"

And you listened.

You watched his trousers strain against his hand as he moved, his strokes going from fast to slow to fast to slow and you were hypnotised. You were enjoying it. Enjoying it to the point of your own thighs clenching together, a feeling you have ever felt before. You were warm, warm everywhere and your teeth refused to let go of your bottom lip.

His thumb rubbed against the head of his cock and he gave you a blissful smile as his eyes closed. He let out a moan and fuck it might have been the hottest thing you have ever heard. He couldn't control himself now, and he only stroked faster and faster until the front of his trousers lowered far enough for you to see what he was doing.

His stomach tightened as he lost himself in the pleasure and you could do nothing but watch. You might have asked him to try yourself, to use your own hand to bring him pleasure but you wouldn't know how. You had never been in a situation like this before... almost five centuries of living and you had never pleasured anyone or been pleasured before.

Rafayel could barely breathe and he found himself opening his eyes again to look at you. Truly look at you.

He moaned again when he saw the way you were staring at his hand, so tranced and fixed on the way he was stroking himself. Fuck should he ask you to touch him? Ask you... for something? He doesn't know, he didn't care, he was too overcome by pleasure and the way you were watching him with your bottom lip between your teeth and your legs shut tightly together.

"I-" You whispered, a single word but it put Rafayel on the edge as you moved closer. Any second now you'd be pressed up against him, body warm against his own and he swore if you touched him he might burst any second now.

"What is it pretty girl? Hm?" He whimpered. He actually whimpered, and you found yourself letting out a small sigh of your own.

"Don't stop"

Gods there was no way he'd ever deny you of that. He chuckled, low and deep and it faded into the room and blended with the moans from the others that surrounded you in the room. He did as you wished, gripping and tugging at his cock as you moved closer to him, or maybe he moved closer to you, neither of you could tell.

You were closer now to the point where his knuckles were brushing against your clothes. Your forehead touched his own and your fists clenched, twitching with the need to hold something, anything. So you gripped at your chest, palming your breast through your shirt and found yourself letting out a moan.

Rafayel lost it. The sound you made brushed his ruby coloured ears and he listened as you made another sound, a whine this time and he couldn't help but thrust his hips forward and further into his hand.

He watched you palm your chest through your clothes and in his mind he was begging you to rip every piece of fabric off your body so he could see, so he could touch. But the pleasure clouded his mind and he could only only let out his own moans as your eyes met his.

"Can you indulge in this with me, miss bodyguard?" He questioned, his voice breathless and your throat turned dry.

You opened your mouth to agree but the words didn’t come. Instead, you found yourself staring at him, at the way his lips parted slightly, at the soft curve of his jaw, the sweat that started to form on his forehead and the muscles on his bicep contracting as he moved his hand faster and faster...

The silence between you stretched, thick and heavy and for the first time, you realized that you were no longer thinking of the palace, of duty, of the cold distance that had always defined you. You were here. With him. And nothing had ever felt more real.

"Show me..." You whispered, your lips less than a few centimetres from his "Show me what pleasure is, my prince"

And with your words, Rafayel found himself finishing into his palm, a low desperate moan following shortly behind. His body twitched and bumped into your own, hips thrusting as if they were begging you to rub your stomach against his cock to milk him dry. The head of his cock slightly rubbed against the fabric that you were wearing and Rafayel groaned deeply.

Your eyes were glossy and there was a throbbing sensation between your legs but you felt nothing but satisfaction. There was no doubt that the remains of his pleasure covered your own clothes but you couldn't bring yourself to care. The sight of your very own prince whining in overstimulation as he continued to stroke his now softening cock was enough to make you forget about all your worries and about your duty.

Because now, more than ever, you felt human.

────────

It was as if nothing had happened.

No words had been exchanged on the way back to the palace. No stolen glances, no lingering touches. Just silence.

You had ensured Rafayel made it safely to his chamber before slipping away into the shadows, retreating to the quietness of your own space. You had washed the scent of the brothel from your skin, scrubbed away the lingering warmth of his touch and convinced yourself that you could forget. That it hadn’t mattered.

And now, you fell back into routine. You were his bodyguard. His soldier.

But Rafayel wasn’t blind.

You knew he had noticed the shift when you escorted him to breakfast that morning. You stood at attention, back straight and hands tight and still at your sides, eyes fixed ahead in unwavering focus. You didn’t acknowledge him unless necessary. You spoke only when spoken to. You were perfect again.

It was insulting how easily you fell into place.

And Rafayel, who had always been too observant for his own good, did not miss a thing. At first, he said nothing. His gaze was heavier than usual, lingering on you for moments longer than necessary, as if waiting for you to do or say something. He let the silence stretch, testing you, waiting to see if you would shift under his gaze. You didn’t. You remained standing at his side, as you always did. The same as before.

Almost.

His fingers drummed lazily against the wooden table, the rings on his hand catching the morning light. He leaned back in his chair, an elbow propped up as he studied you beneath heavy lashes. Still, you did not look at him and then, after what felt like an eternity, Rafayel spoke.

"You're quiet today" Weren't you always? It was a simple observation, nothing more. But the way he said it, the weight behind it, it was definitely not a compliment.

"My duty does not require me to make conversation, my prince" You replied, the way you addressed him held a heavy difference compared to last night.

"No, I suppose it doesn't" Rafayel let out a low hum, dragging the tip of his finger around the rim of his goblet.

There was something almost amused in his voice, but you didn’t bite. You kept your breathing steady, your face blank, refusing to let him drag you into whatever game he was playing. Because you knew him. You knew Rafayel. He wanted a reaction. He wanted to see if the woman from the night before was still inside you. But you wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. Moments stretched between you and then, just as he lifted his goblet to his lips, he spoke again.

"Shame.." Your fingers twitched.

"Excuse me?"

Rafayel took a slow sip, swallowing the dark liquid before setting the goblet down with an infuriating amount of ease. He turned his head slightly, not quite looking at you but you could feel his gaze, burning at the edges of your composure.

"Nothing" he murmured, tilting his head back as if he had already grown bored of the exchange "Just thinking aloud"

Liar.

You inhaled slowly, silently steadying yourself. He was testing you... pushing, prodding, trying to make you slip. You forced yourself to remain still, to remain calm. Because if you let your mind wander, if you let yourself remember the way his lips had felt against your skin, the way his voice had sounded in the dark, the way his hand had gripped his cock in front of you, then you would lose. And you refused to lose, so you said nothing. 

You remained at his side, cold and unyielding, the way you had always been and the way he always knew you to be. And Rafayel? He only smiled to himself, as if he knew. As if he had already won.

Later that evening, as the sun disappeared below the horizon and bathed the palace in a golden hue, you found yourself trailing behind Rafayel through the winding halls. His council meeting was soon, but he insisted on taking a walk to clear his mind before he was bombarded with the worries and demands of his advisors and the nobles.

You had escorted him through the palace grounds, through the vast corridors lined with tapestries and torches, your footsteps always a steady rhythm behind him. But yet, despite the physical distance you kept, you felt suffocated because you knew Rafayel was enjoying this. Every time your gaze so much as flickered toward him, he was already watching you. Every time you turned away, you could feel the weight of his amusement pressing into your skin.

Finally, he came to a stop near one of the palace balconies, where the air was crisp and cool carrying the scent of the sea. The distant sound of waves crashing against the cliffs filled the silence between you. Rafayel exhaled slowly, bracing his hands against the railing, his fingers curling around the edge. 

"Are you going to keep pretending forever?" he asked, his voice was quiet.

"I don't know what you mean, my prince" 

"You know exactly what I mean" he murmured, finally turning his head to look at you fully. The last streaks of sunlight painted his features, defining the sharp line of his jaw and the fullness of his lips.

The lips he denied you of kissing.

"Your safety is my only concern" He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head.

"And yet, last night safety was the last thing on your mind"

Your throat tightened but you didn’t react. Rafayel shifted, stepping closer.

"Tell me, soldier" he murmured, his voice almost teasing "How long do you think you can keep up this charade?"

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms.

"As long as I have to, my prince" Silence.

And then, he smiled. Did his perfect little bodyguard just... tease him?

And you did, because two could play that game. But Rafayel... Rafayel never played fair. He took a step forward, his sandals barely making a sound against the marble floor. 

"You must be exhausted" he mused "Keeping up the performance. Playing the role of my loyal bodyguard, my watchful shadow. Does it ever get tiring?"

You didn’t react, didn’t move but you knew he could feel it. The subtle shift in the air, the way your body tensed for just a fraction of a second too long.

"I wouldn’t know" you said flatly. He hummed, the sound low and amused.

"No, I suppose you wouldn’t" Another step closer. You could feel the warmth of him now "You don’t sleep, do you?"

A pause.

"You don’t eat"

Another step.

"And yet, you don’t wither. You don’t break. You don’t bleed the way you should"

His voice was velvet and steel, wrapping around you, tightening with every word. He was circling you now, slow and deliberate, like a predator toying with it's prey. The teasing tone in his voice had faded into something else. 

"You know that they call you a monster in the palace halls" he continued, his voice dipping lower "A ghost. Some say you're a failed experiment, a creature torn from a nightmare"

The words should have stung. They didn’t, yu had heard them all before. But then...

"But I" he exhaled a soft laugh "I think the truth is far simpler than that"

Your throat tightened. You willed yourself to stay still, to not let him see the way your shoulders locked, the way the cold settled deep into your stomach like a stone.

"And what truth is that?" you asked, your voice steady. Challenging. His smirk deepened. 

"I think you were about to ask, weren’t you?" he murmured, echoing your own words from that night at the brothel "If it was blood in the bottle?"

Your stomach twisted. The realization hit you all at once, but Rafayel was still watching, drinking in every flicker of emotion you failed to smother, the way your breathing had slowed.

"You already knew the answer before I said it" he continued, his voice deceptively soft. His gaze flickered down just briefly to your lips. Like he was remembering the way the bottle had lingered there, the way you had tasted before you knew "And that was all I needed"

"So say it..." You told him, your voice barely a whisper. Another smirk, the world seemed to still.

He knew.

"You're a vampire"

The words were simple, yet they hit you like a train, your breath catching in your throat.

You opened your mouth but no words came. Your thoughts scattered, trying to grasp at the edges of something you had always hidden so carefully. The cold dread in your chest made it hard to breathe but Rafayel didn’t move. He stood there, watching you with... curiosity? For a moment, you just stared at him, then instinct took over.

"Do you want me to be afraid?" you asked voice low, but somehow still steady.

Should you be afraid? Would he tell them, tell the Queen? That his bodyguard is a vampire, one of the last to ever exist, and she's here she is real, hiding in plain sight for three years.

"You don't deny it" he murmured, tilting his head. His hair, caught in the melting sunlight, making him look ethereal and yet here he was, staring at you like he had just unravelled a mystery that had haunted him for far too long.

"I don't owe you confirmation" you said voice almost fearful "It changes nothing"

He laughed. Soft, delighted.

"Oh, but I think it changes everything" Another step. You should have backed away again, should have put distance between you but you refused "You’re a creature of the night. Vampires, witches... They always intrigued me. The power, the mystery. Those monsters that existed centuries ago, and one of them is my very own bodyguard”

"How long have you known?"

"Too long" he admitted, his eyes darkening "But I wanted to be sure. You think I didn’t see it? The way you watched me, studied me the same way I studied you? You act like you don’t care but I know better"

"And yet you kept me by your side... why?"

"Because you intrigued me" he murmured, his gaze never leaving yours as he spoke. 

And then before you could react, he reached up. Swift and deliberate, and brushed his fingers against the side of your throat. Right over where a human pulse should have been. Nothing. Excluding last night this was the first time he was touching you since he claimed you three years ago. His eyes flickered, unreadable, unreadable, unreadable...

For a moment, you thought he might say something else. That he might press further, push you and push you. But he didn’t. He simply let his fingers rest there, against the hollow of your throat where there was no reassuring thump of life beneath his touch. His fingers didn’t tremble. There was no hesitation, no fear.

"How long have you been hungry?" his words settled between you and your breath faltered, caught between a scoff and panic.

"You think I’m starving?" you asked, forcing a sharpness into your voice "You think I’m going to sink my teeth into your throat?"

His smirk returned, slow and knowing.

"Would you? I imagine it would be intoxicating"

"You’re playing a dangerous game, my prince"

"You’d never hurt me" The certainty in his voice sent a jolt through your chest and you hated how easily he used it.

"And how are you so sure?" you whispered.

"Because if you wanted to" he murmured leaning in just slightly, the warmth of his breath brushing your jaw "you already would have"

Your stomach twisted. He was right. You had stood guard outside his chamber for three years, had been close enough to touch him, to kill him, to take from him every single day. You had never once indulged. And yet, his pulse was so close now, beneath golden skin steady and warm. His scent was clean, the heat of him was something you tried not to focus on.

"You’re not afraid of me.." you said, because you needed to hear it. His expression softened, just slightly.

"No" he said, like it was the easiest thing in the world "I never was"

The realization unsettled you more than it should have. You swallowed, shifting your weight ever so slightly but it didn’t help. His presence was everywhere. His scent, his warmth, the undeniable way he was looking at you. And then, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped past your lips, quieter than you intended.

"That makes one of us"

A breath of silence.

Rafayel didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. But his smirk faded, replaced by something softer and unreadable. His lashes lowered just slightly, his fingers on your throat twitching. You hated how exposed you felt. For three years you had perfected the art of silence. The art of indifference and yet here you stood, confessing more in five words than you had in centuries of your existence.

"I'm not going to tell anyone" His voice when it came was low and steady, before he shifted slightly "And in exchange, you can help me satisfy my curiosity"

"Curiosity?"

"I want to see them" was he asking what you think he was? "I'd be a fool not to take the opportunity would I not? Last of your kind and you're here in front of me. I've heard myths and legends about the sharpness but I can imagine it's different to see in person"

He wanted to see your fangs.

You wanted to push him away, to tell him to stop, to retreat into the silence you had so carefully constructed but something inside you trembled, something you hadn’t felt in years. Fear. You swallowed hard, your throat dry.

"It’s not a show, my prince" you said barely above a whisper, the words tasting foreign on your tongue "I don't... I don't trust you and I don’t know if I can trust you not to use it against me"

His lips twitched and for a moment there was something like sadness in his eyes but it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced once more by that steady gaze. For a while, there was silence. Every part of you screamed to keep the secret, to hide, to escape the moment. But the strange pull of him, of the trust you didn’t want to give was overwhelming.

You parted your lips, hesitating only for a heartbeat, before allowing him to see the fangs you’d hidden for so long. You could feel the sharpness of them as your canines lengthened. Dangerous, lethal, but in that moment they were exposed. There was no turning back.

Rafayel didn’t immediately speak. His gaze traced the sharp lines of your teeth, lingering as though admiring something rare, something exquisite. His eyes darkened and before you could even think to pull away, his fingers reached out, brushing against the sharp point of one of your fangs. 

His thumb then trailed lower, brushing across your lips with a teasing, deliberate motion. The sensation was too intimate, too personal and yet you found yourself frozen and unable to move. You stiffened, but his touch didn’t waver. It was soft yet it carried an intensity, a command that made your pulse quicken. The faintest flicker of heat spread through you but you couldn’t let him see it.

"You're beautiful" he murmured, his voice like a soft siren song, as if he were in awe of what he saw. His finger traced the sharpness of your fang "So much more than I imagined"

His gaze locked with yours and in that moment, everything seemed to slow. His presence was suffocating, consuming. His fingers didn’t pull away. They remained, pressing just a little harder against your fang... a possessive teasing pressure. You flinched at the added pressure, a shiver running down your spine. The touch was sharp now intentional. You didn’t know whether to step back or lean closer, your body betraying you in the face of such intimacy.

And then a sharp sting. 

His thumb pressed into your fang with just enough force to break the delicate skin at the tip. You didn’t have to look to know what had happened. The copper scent filled the air before you could fully process it, the bead of blood forming slowly on his skin.

The temptation was overwhelming. You felt it... a primal hunger rising in your chest, the need to sink your teeth into his flesh, to taste him, to take. Your eyes flickered downward to the drop of blood and the crimson bead that now stained his skin. The hunger surged. His voice, now soft and almost hypnotic broke through your haze.

"Open your mouth" he commanded, the order simple.

Your body obeyed before your mind could process it and without thought, your lips parted further. His thumb dipped lower, pressing against your bottom lip. A drop of his blood fell, warm and rich, onto your tongue. You tasted it before you could stop yourself. Just a brush of it and your senses exploded.

His blood was intoxicating. It slid down your throat like liquid fire, lighting every nerve in your body. It was like nothing you had ever tasted before, sweet and powerful and yet... you wanted more. Much more.

And he gave you exactly that. Before you knew it, he was placing his thumb in your mouth and on top of your tongue before pressing down, holding you there. His breath was on your face, uneven and heavy.

Without thinking, you sucked on his thumb, closing your mouth around it and pulling him closer, your body responding to the need gnawing at your insides. His blood was all you could focus on, it's heat mingling with the hunger that surged through your veins. You pulled him in, your hands gripping his wrist with a desperation you didn’t even recognize.

Rafayel didn’t pull away. Instead, his free hand cupped your cheek with a possessiveness you didn’t expect. His thumb remained in your mouth, guiding you, pulling you closer as the sensation of him, of his touch spiralled through you.

"Fuck.." he mumbled to himself.

His eyes darkened with something you couldn’t quite place, watching you with an intensity that set your skin on fire. You didn’t want to stop. You couldn’t stop. Every fibre of your being screamed for more as your lips bobbed around his thumb.

A singular moan, whether it was from him or you, you didn't know.

But it was enough to make you realise what was happening. 

You jerked back, panic flooding your senses. You hadn’t meant to go this far. You let go of his wrist and his thumb slipped from your mouth with a soft, almost regretful sound. You gasped for air, your lips still tingling with the taste of him, your body aching with something you couldn't quite name. Rafayel didn’t retreat though. His hand slid down to your waist, pulling you back toward him with a steady, unyielding grip. His touch was firm, possessive but gentle as if he were holding you together when you were falling apart. His eyes didn’t leave yours and in them, you saw something darker now.

"That..." Rafayel said softly, his voice almost too casual "is why I can never have a wife... that alone brought me more pleasure than any other woman could" 

His words hit you harder than you expected. You stiffened, shocked by the bluntness, by the rawness of what he’d just said. The casualness with which he spoke of such an intimate moment made you flustered, your cheeks warming. How could he say something like that so easily, so carelessly?

His hand tightened at your waist, fingers curling against the fabric of your clothes. A silent stay. His body loomed over yours, close enough that you could feel the rise and fall of his breath, the steady thrum of his heart. So human. You wanted to pull away, to regain control but your own body was betraying you, pulling you into the moment instead. His proximity felt suffocating. You should have pushed him away, you should have said something.

Instead, your silence gave him permission. His fingers slid up, tracing the line of your jaw before threading into your hair, pulling.

You gasped, the sharp tug sending a thrill down your spine and just like that, your neck was bared to him, your throat exposed in a way that made your instincts scream danger.. and yet, your body refused to move. His lips ghosted over your skin, a slow, deliberate tease. Not a kiss not yet, just a whisper of warmth.

Then, pressure.

His mouth brushed against your pulse point, lips parting just slightly. The warmth of his breath sent a shudder through you. Then, a graze of teeth. Blunt. Human. 

He was toying with you.

His mouth pressed deeper, lingering in a way that would have made your heart quicken. Then a bite. Not enough to break skin, not enough to hurt or leave a mark but enough. Enough to make your breath stutter. There was a dangerous draw to him, a magnetic pull that threatened to drown you in it. His lips moved against your skin again slower this time, deliberate and hungry. Not just kissing but nibbling. Small sharp bites, the kind only a vampire would know how to deliver. The kind meant to unravel, to seduce. His breathing was heavier now, his restraint slipping, his hunger mingling with yours in a way that made your stomach twist.

The second time he deprived you.

The first being in the brothel just 24 hours ago. He had kissed every inch of your face and jaw but avoided your lips at all cost and you wondered why, why? Was that too intimate for him? Did he consider that too vulnerable?

But you.. you had shown him your fangs. The way you kill. That was vulnerability for you but he couldn't share his own? Selfish. Too selfish, depriving you of what you wanted and needed. You shuddered as his eyes lifted to meet yours, dark and intense. The air between you was thick with tension, with need and then, as if some invisible line had been crossed, Rafayel's lips parted just enough to whisper.

"Show me more"

You found yourself leaning in. Unconsciously, desperately, your body reacting to the rush of emotions coursing through you, your mind clouded with desire and the taste of his blood. You were intoxicated by him, by what had just happened between you two. You moved closer hesitantly but you didn’t stop. You wanted to kiss him, needed to kiss him. Your lips hovered near his, breath mingling between you and for the first time, you were the one making the move.

But before you could close the gap, Rafayel pulled back slightly, just enough to deny you, just enough to taunt. His regular smirk curling at the corners of his mouth and his eyes gleamed with amusement. You studied him for a moment before you reached for him again, this time with more urgency. But once again, Rafayel evaded you. What the fuck.

He was enjoying this. You wanted to slap him, you wanted to ruin him... you wanted to taste him. You held his wrist again, your nails pressed into his skin but just as quickly as the moment had escalated, you heard the sound of footsteps approaching. The rhythm of boots against marble echoed through the hallway.

You jerked back, the speed with which you moved nothing short of lightning. The blur of motion left Rafayel blinking, slightly stunned before his gaze followed you, taking in the unnatural speed at which you’d retreated

Before he could speak, a palace guard rounded the corner and his gaze shifted between you both before focusing on Rafayel, eyes respectful but sharp.

"My prince" the guard said with a slight bow "The Queen sent me to find you. You’re late for the council meeting"

Rafayel, still too composed, didn’t spare a glance at you. Instead he straightened, regaining his regal posture in an instant.

"Thank you" he said, his voice calm and composed, betraying none of the intensity from just moments ago "I’ll be there shortly"

The guard nodded and quickly retreated, disappearing down the hallway. You stood still for a moment, the heat of the moment hadn’t disappeared and you could still feel the lingering burn of Rafayel’s touch on your skin. Rafayel however didn’t turn back to look at you as he began walking toward the council chamber. His back was to you now but you could feel the weight of his presence in the air.

The council chamber was far too cold for your liking, the air thick with formality and politics. The long table gleamed under the flickering torchlight, the creak of chairs and the soft rustle of papers filling the room as the advisors spoke in low, business like tones. Rafayel sat at the head of the table, his posture relaxed, almost as if he had not a care in the world. His voice cut through the air, smooth and confident, effortlessly commanding the attention of every person in the room.

But it wasn’t his words that held your focus. It was the memory of his touch, his blood still fresh on your tongue, the heat of the moment still searing beneath your skin. You could feel his presence, even though he was across the room. The way he moved, the subtle glint of amusement in his eyes whenever they flicked toward you, it was all too much.

Your mind kept replaying the way he’d smiled at you, the way his thumb had pressed against your lips, his breath just inches from yours. And now here he was, speaking with his advisors as though nothing had happened between you two. He was calm collected and in control. He looked every bit the prince, the future king and yet somehow the casual way he dismissed their concerns made your stomach twist. He had walked away from you without a second thought, without acknowledging the charge between you two.

But you couldn’t forget it. You couldn’t shake it.

"Rafayel" the Queen’s voice sliced through the silence, drawing your attention back to the matter at hand "Have you given any thought to finding a suitable wife? The kingdom will need a queen soon, especially with all that’s going on"

At the mention of a wife, something inside you clenched. A primal, unexpected feeling burned deep in your chest. Anger, frustration, possessiveness? something you had no name for but it was there, an edge twisting in your gut. The thought of another woman standing at his side, of him having someone else... it made your blood run cold. You didn’t want to think about it. 

But the thought of him with someone else stung in a way you hadn’t anticipated and you didn’t know how to deal with it. Why did it matter? Why did his future wife matter to you?

Rafayel didn’t seem to notice your internal struggle, his gaze never shifted toward you. He kept his eyes trained on the documents in front of him, his hand lazily drawing patterns on the edge of the table as he listened to his advisors. When he finally spoke, it was with the same casual ease as before as though he had no care in the world.

"I’ve thought about it, Mother" he replied smoothly "But a wife is the least of my concerns at the moment"

"Rafayel" the Queen warned, her voice rising just enough to command his full attention "You’re not a child anymore. The people need stability and you’ll need a queen to secure that. You cannot keep putting this off"

Rafayel didn’t flinch. His gaze flicked toward his advisors, then lazily scanned the room. As his voice rang out again, there was the famous subtle smirk on his lips that never quite reached his eyes.

"Perhaps Princess Tara of Linkon might be a good match" he said casually, mentioning the name of a royal from a neighbouring kingdom "But I’m not sure yet. It’s too soon to decide"

The moment he said her name, a violent knot of possessiveness twisted in your stomach, tightening with each word. Princess Tara. Her name alone made something claw at your chest and the rage you didn’t know you had bubbled up, raw and uncontrollable. She was everything you were not, everything you could never be and the idea of her by his side, holding his hand, being crowned as his queen... it shattered something inside you.

You tried to stay calm, tried to steady your breathing but the anger was there, simmering just beneath the surface and it was only getting harder to contain.

"You must take this seriously, son. The kingdom needs a queen and you need a wife" the Queen pressed, her voice cutting through the tension.

He merely nodded, his posture still relaxed, unaffected by his mother’s words. His gaze flicked briefly to you but it was fleeting, just a casual glance before he returned his attention to the documents before him, unaware of the turmoil churning inside you.

"I’ll make my decision when the time comes"

And with that, the conversation moved on, the Queen’s inquiries dismissed with a flick of his hand.

But as the meeting continued, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being consumed by the anger that was burning inside of you. 

You thought of the Silk Street. The brothels. Rafayel had moved through the alleyways with ease, as though he belonged there... because of course, he did. You had come to realise that he loved the danger, the chase. It's why he was there so often, it's why he pleaded to see your fangs and why he had not told everyone of your true nature. Why he had fed you his blood not knowing if you would stop or not. Why he toyed with you.

He liked the thrill of it all.

You couldn't deny that he was a regular in the brothels, that he had spent time in those places more than once. The women there, their laughter, their soft touches, their body language so familiar with him. He had kissed them, touched them, shared intimate moments with them, moments that he hadn't shared with you apart from the one time where he brought himself pleasure right in front of your very own eyes.

You couldn’t escape the image of him in their arms, their voices calling his name, claiming him in ways you hadn’t been able to and somewhere deep within, a dangerous, forbidden thought flickered to life. The sharp instinct of a predator.

What if I could kill them all?

The thought was foreign, unsettling. You immediately tried to push it down but it lingered. What if you wiped away every woman who had ever touched him?

It was an irrational thought, an outburst of jealousy you couldn’t control. But it was there and it burned through you with a fierce intensity. The jealousy clawed at your insides, wrapped around your non-existent heart and it tightened in a way that felt too consuming. 

A sickening knot twisted in your stomach. Those women. They had had him. He had kissed them, touched them, taken them in ways you hadn’t been. You could still hear the sounds of the brothels, the murmurs of voices calling his name. You hated them. You hated the way they had claimed him. You hadn’t even realized how far your thoughts had taken you until your fingers curled into fists by your side. Why did it matter so much?

Rafayel's voice pulled you back from your thoughts, but his words were like a needle to your wound. He was speaking again, just as casually as before mentioning Princess Tara. The jealousy returned and you clenched your jaw so tightly it almost hurt. Another woman. Another fucking woman.

He was due to be king, a man of power and it only made sense that he would have his share of women. But somehow, you couldn’t bear the thought of him with anyone else. 

You tried to focus on the Queen’s words, on the conversation, but it was impossible to ignore the storm building inside of you. You were angry. Angry at Rafayel for being so casual about something that meant so much to you, angry at the world for making him someone who belonged to others. But most of all, you were angry at yourself for caring so much.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? You did care. You didn’t know when it had happened, when the wall you had built had started to crack, but now there was no turning back. The more you thought about it the more you realised you didn't want to share him. You didn't want him to belong to anyone but you.

As the meeting dragged on so did your thoughts. You tried to convince yourself that it was because you had tasted his blood before the meeting, the heat still lingered in your mouth and the taste of him on your tongue. It was too much. Now you knew, you wanted him. Not just for fleeting moments, you wanted him for yourself. Every piece of him, every inch of his attention you wanted to be the one to stand by his side, to be the one who he chose, the one who could claim him.

You would never be the one he chose. You weren’t fit for that not in his eyes, you had always known that. You had been with him in his life but you were never his and now you were mad with it. Mad with wanting him, mad with the knowledge that no matter how much you longed for him, no matter how deeply you desired him to be yours, it would never happen.

────────

After the council meeting, the air between you and Rafayel had changed, at least from your side.

You tried to convince yourself that it was nothing. Just the aftereffects of tasting his blood, of feeling the heat of the moment lingering but no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself, the pull between you and him had shifted. The possessiveness had taken root and with it, something you couldn’t control.

You became distant and cold. The walls you had built once again crept back into place just like they did after the night you shared in the brothel. You stopped seeking him out. You no longer waited for him in the hallways after meetings or followed him when he sneaked out at night. Your eyes barely met his anymore.

You convinced yourself it was for the best. This was how it should be. After all, he would never see you the way you wanted him to. Plus, he would soon be king and with it he would need a wife. 

He could never be yours. 

Not when his future was filled with other women, with the politics of the kingdom. You would always be nothing more than his bodyguard, a shadow in the background and that was fine you could live with that. But it was getting harder. Every day the ache grew and Rafayel, perceptive as always began to notice.

It was a slight thing at first, his gaze lingering just a fraction longer than usual whenever your eyes met, his voice just a little softer but he said nothing. He just watched and waited but as the days passed, it became too much. It built up like a storm, the tension between you two thick and suffocating and then it exploded. The silence in the chambers was suffocating, broken only by the soft rustle of fabric as you moved. You checked every corner, every shadow, your senses heightened. Alert and vigilant as you always were. It was your duty to protect him after all and yet tonight, your mind refused to focus.

His coronation was tomorrow so his safety was at higher risk now more than ever.

As you moved across the room, you could feel his presence like a shadow, the weight of his gaze on you even though you refused to meet it. He was sitting on his bed, his posture relaxed but his expression unreadable. You had barely spoken to him since that night.

You tried to ignore him. You had to focus. He was a prince and you were his bodyguard, nothing more. But even the thought of it, nothing more, sickened you.

You had no right to feel this way. He had no reason to notice you. The other women, the brothels they were his to claim not you. You were just a monster, just a tool for his protection. You couldn't give him what those other women could, you couldn't give him what any other woman could. You hated yourself for feeling this way.

Your thoughts were impossible  to ignore.

But when Rafayel’s voice cut through the room, pulling you from your thoughts, you nearly jumped. His tone was sharp, frustrated. 

"You’re not saying anything" he said, his voice laced with irritation "You’re too quiet. Why are you so... distant? You've been acting like this for days now what is it?"

You swallowed hard, trying to maintain your composure. You couldn't look at him, couldn't bear to see the questioning look in his eyes. Your pulse quickened with each step he took toward you. He was just a few feet away now. 

"I’m doing my job" you said curtly, your voice cold. Perhaps colder than you intended.

"Your job?" He scoffed, clearly not buying it "You’ve been avoiding me. Avoiding me like I'm some stranger and not your prince. Not your fucking king"

You could hear the hunger in his voice now, the desperation. He was starving for something... answers, maybe? Or just you.

But you couldn't give him the answer he was looking for. You didn’t even know what it was, the words caught in your throat as you turned around to face him.

"I don’t know what you want from me" you whispered, your voice trembling "I’m just your bodyguard. I’m just here to protect you" 

At those words, Rafayel’s expression shifted, his face hardening with a mix of anger and disbelief. He took a step forward, his movements slow. His hand shot out, grabbing your waist in a grip that was almost painfully tight, pulling you flush against him. You gasped, your breath caught in your throat as his presence overwhelmed you.

"This act is pathetic" he told you, gripping you just a little tighter.

"You don’t get to act like this, my prince" you whispered, though your voice quivered under the weight of the emotion you were trying to hide "You don’t get to expect this from me. I’m not some... I’m not your lover. I’m just a tool. A thing. You don’t need to care about how I feel, how I-"

"Stop" he growled, his voice low and dangerous. His free hand gripped your cheeks, squishing your flesh and making your lips pucker "Stop pretending you don’t feel this. Stop pretending you don’t want me, you’ve been lying to yourself for far too long"

You shivered, trembling beneath the weight of his words. Your chest tightened with the realization that you couldn’t keep lying to yourself anymore. You did want him.

"I told you" you said weakly, but even to your own ears, it didn’t sound convincing "I’m just your bodyguard"

"You think I haven’t been thinking about it?"  he asked, his voice dripping with cocky amusement now "That night. You think I haven’t been thinking about the way you tried to kiss me? Twice? You think I didn’t notice? now you act like you’ve never thought about it, like it was nothing"

The words hit you like a physical blow. 

"Because it is nothing" you whispered, but the words felt empty.

"Stop lying to me" he snapped, his voice now filled with authority. The voice of a prince, of a king "It meant something to you. I can see it in your eyes"

"My prince-"

"I haven’t stopped thinking about it. I can’t stop thinking about it. And now, you’re acting like it never happened" He leaned in closer, his fingers unclenching slightly but still holding you close "It matters to me. And it matters to you... I can feel it. I can feel the way you want me. I can feel the way you’ve been pulling away, terrified of what you really feel"

"I... I can’t..." You trembled under his touch, but you still tried to pull away.

"You don’t get to walk away from this, from me" His voice was ragged now, thick with need. He was almost pleading, and it broke something inside you "Say it"

His words were a command and you hated how you felt it in your body, your core. You were hot with need, with desire and you wanted nothing else but the man in front of you. You needed him more than you needed blood to survive.  Your could feel the words stuck in your throat, the truth you were too scared to admit, to confront but he wasn’t letting you hide anymore.

"Say it, tell me" Rafayel commanded once again and you swear your knees buckled slightly under his gaze, his words, his touch "Tell your king how much you need him, how much you desire him..."

You froze, your breath hitching in your throat as a mixture of fear, desire and guilt churned inside you. Fuck you were so turned on you could barely function a thought never mind a sentence.

A man should never have this much power over you.

You could feel it now, the deep, uncontrollable need burning inside of you. You did want him, you had wanted him for so long, but you couldn’t admit it. Not like this.

He pulled you closer, his lips grazing against your ear.

"Say it, and I will make you forget every damn thought you ever had about being nothing but mine"

It broke. It broke inside you like a balloon being popped or a fire being ignited. Everything you denied yourself of melted away and all that mattered was the way he held you, body against his own, arm around your waist keeping you in place while his other hand held your face a centimetre away from his.

"I... I hate it" you whispered, barely audible "I hate it. I hate the thought of any other woman touching you. I hate it. I can’t... I can’t stand it. I want it to be me, it should be me. But I... I'm a monster not a lover. You deserve a heart, you deserve love, you deserve better than this"

He cupped your face in both hands then, gentle and his gaze was nothing you've ever seen before. It was genuine, it was hopeful and it was something you needed to see in this moment. It made you yearn for him more.

No one, in five centuries, had been gentle with you the way Rafayel was.

He had never cuffed you. Never mistreated you or struck you. Never spoke ill about you or laughed at you like the others. Never feared you and never doubted you. He had held you like you were piece of glass, gentle and kind, like you mattered. Like you weren't some blood sucking demon who would rip him apart the second she was given a chance.

He made you human. 

You didn't deserve him.

"Say it" He pleaded, and your lips quivered slightly "Give me permission. I need your permission to act. I need your permission to show you how good I want and can make you feel"

"I... I shouldn’t" The words were weak, empty. You knew it, so did he.

His hands slid lower, trailing down the column of your throat, over your shoulders, down your arms until his fingers ghosted over your waist once more.

"Then tell me to stop" His voice was barely above a whisper, his lips so close, they almost brushed against yours "Tell me to stop and I swear, I will never touch you again"

You squeezed your eyes shut, your entire body trembling beneath his touch. But you didn't tell him to stop, because you didn't want him to.

"Rafayel" you breathed, barely a whisper.

You had never whispered his name before. Never spoke it out loud, always referring to him as my prince. But in this moment, it felt right. It felt like he was just Rafayel, and you weren't a bodyguard nor a vampire, but you.

No rules, no titles. Just two lovers.

"That’s not what I asked for" his lips moving to your jaw, kissing a path down to your neck. His teeth scraped against your skin with pressure, not enough to hurt but enough to ache. 

Your hands tangled in his hair, gripping desperately, trying to ground yourself.

"I need you" you finally whispered, the words tumbling from your lips before you could stop them "I need you, I hate how much I fucking need you"

He lifted his head up, exhaling softly, his breath warm against your lips and it was maddening. But then his lips brushed yours, just the faintest touch, light as air and testing the waters. Your breath hitched, your hands fisting tighter into his hair.

And that was all it took.

Everything around you seemed to vanish. The room, the distant sound of the night outside, even the air itself  it all ceased to exist and there was only him.

His lips slammed into yours before you could even process the shift, the urgency in his kiss pulling you closer as though he wanted to drown in you. It was nothing like the soft, hesitant touches from before. No, this was desperate and hungry, as if he couldn’t wait any longer couldn’t hold back another second.

You gasped into the kiss but it only fuelled him more. His demanding tongue slipped past your lips forcing its way deeper into your mouth with an animalistic rhythm. His hands were everywhere gripping your waist so tightly it was almost painful, pulling you against him until there wasn’t a single inch of space left between you.

Your fingers clawed at his bare chest struggling to find something to hold onto as your world spun out of control. His kiss was messy as if he was trying to consume you, take you in all at once. His lips were bruising, hot and demanding against yours and the way his teeth grazed your lower lip made your heart race faster.

He growled, the sound vibrating through your body. His hands slid up to your neck, his fingers tightening around the delicate skin there as he tilted your head back, forcing your mouth open wider for him. There was no gentleness now. Only a raw and desperate need, hunger that clawed at both of you.

"You’re mine" he muttered between kisses, his voice thick with desire "Say it again. Say you want me"

You couldn’t think, couldn’t process his words through the haze of pleasure and frustration swirling in your mind. You could only feel. Feel the hot press of his chest against yours, feel the way his body moulded against yours, each movement pushing you closer to the edge. It felt like the human part of you had been awakened.

His hand slid down to your hips, gripping the curve of your waist as he pulled you even closer, if that was even possible. His erection pressed against your stomach, hot and demanding, and the sensation sent a bolt of heat straight to your core. You moaned against his mouth, a sound of frustration and want that you couldn’t stop.

He pulled away again, just enough to look into your eyes, his breath ragged and uneven.

His lips were swollen, slick with your kiss and the last thing that held you together in that moment was the string of saliva that was evidence of your greed.

You felt dizzy, drunk on the sensation of him, but the more he kissed you, the more you wanted it. Wanted him.

"You feel that?" His voice was a low rasp, a whispered command "That’s me, doing this to you. You feel your pulse, don’t you? That thumping in your chest. You feel it in your veins... your blood rushing, just like you’re human again"

You wanted to deny it. You wanted to tell him that you didn’t feel any of it, that you were a vampire, untouchable, above all these emotions. But the truth was, you couldn’t. You were trembling in his arms, your body betraying you with every second he touched you. You could feel your heart beating hard in your chest, could feel the heat surging through you like it was alive and yet, you were the monster, weren’t you?

"I'm-" You tried to pull back, to speak, but your words were swallowed by his lips. His kiss deepened once more, almost like he couldn’t get enough of you, couldn’t satisfy this hunger inside him that seemed to grow with every second.

The force of it made you stumble back, hitting the wall of his chambers but Rafayel didn't stop. No, he took it as a sign to push further, his hands grabbing you tighter, holding you so you were pressed against him fully.

"You’re mine" he repeated, voice thick with possession, as if this kiss, this moment, was the only thing that mattered in the world. His hands roamed again, sliding beneath your clothes, the roughness of his touch touching the bare skin of your back, your sides, as if he needed to feel every inch of you "You’ve been mine from the moment I laid eyes on you you just didn’t realize it"

"I want you" you managed to get out, your voice breaking with raw emotion, with a desperation you couldn’t hide anymore "I want you, my prince"

A low growl rumbled from deep in his chest and before you could even brace yourself his lips were back on yours for a fleeting moment, more desperate than ever.

His hands gripped your own hair, tugging your head back as his mouth trailed down the column of your neck, leaving bruises in it's wake. His teeth scraped over your skin, marking you, claiming you and you couldn’t stop the gasps that left your mouth, couldn’t stop the way your body arched into his touch, begging for more.

Your gasp filled the room as Rafayel’s lips trailed lower, leaving a burning path of possession in their wake. His mouth was hot against your skin, the scrape of his teeth against your throat sending another violent tremor down your spine. The wall was cold against your back, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body pressed against yours.

Your hands were desperate. Clawing at his back, his shoulders and gripping the fabric that rested on his waist, you thanked the gods for his regal robes only covering half of his body. You wanted it gone, you wanted nothing between you but before you could move, his hands were already on you, yanking at your clothes with a ferocity that sent heat flooding through your veins.

His fingers trailed down your spine slow and deliberate, igniting every nerve in your body. His touch was fire, and he cursed under his breath as he uncovered more and more of your flesh, the clothes you were once wearing finding themselves on the floor of his chambers. Your top half matched his own, bare and exposed for his eyes to see while your bottom half, the part of you that demanded more attention remained covered.

You shuddered beneath his touch, your hands tangled in his hair and your lips aching from his kisses.

"You have no idea how many nights I’ve thought about this" Rafayel whispered "How many nights I’ve dreamed about you, how many times I’ve woken up cursing myself for wanting something I shouldn’t have"

"You shouldn’t want me" you breathed, but the words were a lie even as they left your lips. You knew it, he knew it and yet the way his hands slid down your sides, the way he pressed his body flush against yours, made it clear that he didn’t care.

"But I do" he growled, his lips were continuous on your neck and you gasped at the sensation, at the way your body betrayed every ounce of logic you had left "And I’m done pretending otherwise"

He kissed you again, slow this time and more deliberate. He wanted you to feel him, to understand just how deep this went. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, coaxing them open and you let him in without hesitation. The taste of him was intoxicating. 

He made a low sound in the back of his throat before his hands slid lower, gripping the back of your thighs. In one swift movement he lifted you, pressing you harder against the wall, caging you in completely.

You gasped, your arms wrapping around his neck as your legs instinctively locked around his waist. You could feel everything now, every inch of him pressed against you, every sharp inhale, every tremor that ran through his muscles as he held you like you weighed nothing at all.

His breath was still ragged, his forehead resting against yours as he held you there.

"I want..." he began, and you watched him carefully "Drink from me"

Your fingers twitched, grip tightening around him as a wave of hunger clawed at your insides and the taste of him lingered in your memory. You had tasted him once before, just a drop, just enough to know that nothing compared to him and gods, you wanted it again.

But you shook your head, unwrapping your arms and pressing your hands flat against his chest.

"No" you said, even though your body screamed at you to say something else entirely "I don't want to"

His hands slid to your waist once again, fingers pressing into your skin, firm but not demanding. He could feel your hesitation, could see it in the way your lips parted slightly and in the way your breath came faster, in the way your pupils dilated as your instincts fought against your will.

"Liar..." he murmured. A small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You clenched your jaw as he pecked your lips with his own, the smirk not leaving his face. Your nipples grew hard from the cold air and he could feel it against his chest as he held you tighter. You needed to get out of this room, away from the scent of him and away from the temptation burning it's way through your veins.

But then he tilted his head, exposing the side of his throat to you. Inviting you.

Your fangs ached.

"My prince..."

"I remember" Rafayel interrupted, his voice low and teasing "I remember how you looked when you tasted me"

Your breath caught in your throat.

"You looked drunk on it" His hands slid up your arms "Like it was the best thing you’d ever had. Like you wanted more"

You did. You did want more. But you couldn’t.

"You don’t understand" you whispered trying to ignore how close he was, how warm his skin felt beneath your touch "It’s not just... it’s not just feeding, Rafayel. It’s—"

"I do understand" he cut you off, his voice dark and hypnotic "And I don’t care"

Before you could even catch your breath he was walking, his body pressing you tight against his chest, each step slow and purposeful. You knew where he was taking you and you didn’t stop him. Your arms wrapped around his neck when he moved you from the wall, fingers curling into his hair your lips so close to his, his breath hot against your mouth.

"Stop..." you whispered, but it sounded weak even to your own ears.

"You need me" he whispered in return, voice like velvet as he lowered you onto the bed, your back sinking into the softness beneath you. Your breath shuddered out of you as his fingers tipped your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze "Are you afraid?"

"I’m afraid of hurting you" you admitted. A low chuckle rumbled in his throat, his breath warm against your skin.

"But you still want it, don’t you?" His scent wrapped around you and you were now hyperaware of everything. How you could practically hear the way his blood was pumping through his veins.

You shouldn't.

You shouldn’t.

Your fingers curled against his shoulders, your breath shaking as you hovered over his throat, every inch of your body pulled taut with the ache of resisting him. Your fangs throbbed with need, your mouth parted, hovering just close enough for him to feel it.

And still, Rafayel didn’t move away.

You swallowed hard, your lips brushing the column of his throat as you forced yourself to stay still.

"I…"

"I remember how you looked that night" he whispered, kissing you gently on your neck while he bared his for you "You were starving for it..."

"Rafayel-"

"You moaned for me" He interrupted, his voice was seduction and you couldn't help but pull him further down with your legs "If only you knew how good it felt, to watch you take from me..."

You trembled and his grip tightened.

"You don’t understand" you rasped, your voice trembling "If I do this, I might not be able to stop"

You were surprised to feel the way he shuddered against you from your words. 

"Then don’t" he told you, chuckling against your neck before giving a small bite of his own "I want this, and I want you. All of you. Every dark and twisted monstrous part of you I want to feel what it’s like when you stop holding back"

No one had ever spoken those words to you before and for the first time in your whole monstrous life you felt seen. You felt like you mattered, like you being a vampire, a monster didn't matter at all and that this was the only place where you wouldn't be judged or feared.

Before you could deny him again he lifted his head up, staring into your eyes before giving you a kiss on the tip of your nose. Too endearing, too intimate..

Somehow the soft way that he was looking at you felt more intimate than the way your top half was completely bare underneath him.

"I meant it when I said I hadn't stopped thinking about it.. about you" he told you, eyes not leaving yours and deep down you so desperately wanted him to just shut up and kiss you until the night ended "You think I wasn’t dying to feel it again? That I haven’t imagined what you’d look like on top of me, taking what you need—"

His sentence trailed off as you flipped your body around, causing his back to hit the bed where you once lay. You were growing frustrated now, you needed him everywhere and he wasn't giving it to you. His words were affecting you too much and all this talk about feeding from him made your fangs ache.

He was beneath you now and he could see the way you hid the sharp canines away from him, desperate to hide your need so he wouldn't continue to offer himself to you this way. It's not that you didn't want it, because gods you most definitely did, but from the small taste of him you remember having he was exquisite... you've never tasted anything so rich before.

Your thighs clenched around him involuntarily, your hands pressing against his chest as you hovered over him. His heart was pounding in his chest for you. There wasn't any fear, it was just want and devotion.

He tilted his head just enough to bare his throat to you once more and his pulse jumped, you grew more tempted as the seconds flew past... his skin looked so inviting.

"You should be afraid" you whispered, almost desperate to hear the tremor of fear in his voice and to find a reason to stop.

But he just smiled.

"Afraid?" His voice was teasing as he traced his hands up your sides in a slow and worshipful pace "Of you?"

He shifted just right beneath you, pressing himself against your core which was enough to pull a strangled moan from your lips. You could feel him, he was rock hard against you but he wasn’t demanding. Instead he was giving, practically offering himself up like he was made for you to take.

Your breath hitched.

"If I’m afraid of anything…" he continued, his fingers trailing up your spine "It’s that you’ll deny me"

A growl ripped from your throat that was low and dangerous and Rafayel actually moaned... like he had been waiting for that exact sound. You grabbed his hands from your body before pinning them above his head, denying him of touching your bare skin. Your breasts grazed his chest and he bit his lip at the feeling, enjoying the way he was slowly pushing your limits. His fingers flexed in your hold, testing you almost but he thankfully wasn't fighting you.

"Stop talking" you warned, because if he kept speaking like that you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself.

But Rafayel only exhaled a breathy, shuddering laugh.

"Then give me what I want" he replied, eyes glancing from yours to your lips, your fangs now fully on display the more frustrated you got. Gods you were beautiful.

He shifted beneath you again, grinding his hips up into yours and your eyes closed for a moment as he rubbed you in the right place. Your grip had loosened thanks to his movements and he made the most of it, trailing his fingers softly up your arm before reaching your jaw and grazing his thumb against your bottom lip like he had done a few nights ago when you first tasted his blood.

When he spoke again, you felt whatever control you had left slip from your fingers, announcing him as the winner.

"Obey your King.."

The words were sharp and possessive, more possessive than he had been all night and it was truly the last string that snapped inside you. His tone wasn't an invitation, it was a command and you had no choice but to surrender. Your body was already his, you just needed to let the final part of yourself go.

The hunger inside you flared like a fire, and you didn't fight it. You released his hands and shifted your mouth above his throat again, feeling the heat of his body and the inviting sound of his pulse screaming at you and that was all it took before you finally sank your fangs into him.

You felt the familiar rush at first, the thick blood latching onto your canines before spreading in your mouth and you groaned at the taste. It was everything you remembered but better, sweeter than anything you have ever tasted and more intoxicating that ever. It was rich, definitely the blood of a prince and you felt utterly euphoric.

Rafayel tensed beneath you and it was the first time that he was quiet since this whole ordeal. His body however fought against his silence, hands flying to your waist and gripping the skin there as you drank. He let out a shuddering breath, his chest rising and falling faster with every pull of your mouth.

He was still, not moving an inch or making a sound and you were worried that maybe you had scared him, maybe that he finally realised what he was getting himself into as you lay on top of him tasting him.

But you couldn't stop.

Your grip tightened on his arms, pushing your face deeper into his neck and your fangs further into his skin. The blood on your tongue was consuming every part of your mind and you never wanted to stop, you wanted to suck him dry.

As quick as the thought entered your mind you pulled away with a gasp, meeting his gaze and he watched as a drop of his blood fell from your lip and onto his chest. You swallowed, wondering if you had took it a step too far when he didn't move but his eyes burned into yours, an animalistic look as his chest continued to heave.

He was enjoying it.

"Such a good girl..." he whispered and fuck you felt the praise run through your body "Take what you need.. I'm yours as much as you're mine"

Before you could pull away he shifted again, his hips pressing up into you firmly and his clothed cock rubbed perfectly against your clit and gripped him even tighter. 

"Fuck-"

"Mm you feel so fucking good" he groaned. His whole body was screaming at him to flip you back over, take control and take what was his but fuck he wanted to feel you this way for a little while.

He pulled his knees up and trapped your body in place, making sure you stayed just above where he was throbbing with need.

He didn't need to say much more. With the way he was looking at you combined with how his body was responding on top of the taste of his blood you couldn't form any thoughts that weren't filled with him. 

And with that, you sank your fangs back into his skin.

His back arched beneath you and when he grounded into you this time, it was reckless. The feeling of it was something you've never experience before and feeling his body tremble below you as he gave into his own pleasure drove you insane. 

A minute passed before you were pulling away from him again, mouth still tingling from the blood and his neck was stained red. The pleasure was too much, too overwhelming but you couldn't find it in you to stop. You felt alive and everything felt just right...

Your fingers curled into the sheets beside his head as your chest rose and fell quickly while he groaned and moaned beneath you. Every little movement you made was intense and you felt like someone was in control of your hips from the way they moved.

But just as the haze began you were suddenly shifted. Rafayel moving quickly before you found yourself below him again and you didn't have time to adjust before his lips were diving onto yours again, tongue swirling in your mouth mixing blood and saliva together.

You felt the weight of him on top of you, his body warm and the heat between your legs only rose and ached with pure need. With his chest pressed tightly against yours and his covered cock rubbing against your clit you realised just how much of him you craved. 

The kiss deepened, each press of his lips against yours sending a shockwave of heat through your body. His hands moved all over you as if he was memorizing and admiring everything about you, like you were painting and he was the artist.

His eyes found yours and for a brief second you could feel nothing but the weight of his gaze. He didn't move for a moment, just hovered over you while his lips parted with a quiet needy sound.

"You're perfect.." he murmured and you felt embarrassed under his eyes "Every part of you. Gods I want to feel you like this forever"

His hands slid down your sides and you could have sworn he did it in a way that was worshipping. His fingertips traced every curve of you, over the goosebumps on your breasts before pinching your nipples gently. You could feel him losing control second by second as he grinded his hips down into yours, his arousal pressing into you.

"How good does it feel, hm?" his voice dropped to a commanding whisper, his lips trailing along your neck and brushing over where your pulse once was "Tell me you feel it too"

His hips shifted again pressing against you just right. It sent a wave through your body and you couldn't help but whimper at the feeling before pulling him closer, needing more.

"Yes.." you gasped, surprised at yourself for answering. Your hips lifted, seeking more friction and more of him "I feel it.. so much.."

Rafayel groaned as he buried his face in your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as yours once did his. His hands had moved further down your body to grip your thighs tightly, pulling your legs further around his waist which only forced you deeper into his warmth.

"You're so fucking beautiful like this... so perfect for me" he whispered, his praise sounding more like a prayer "I want to ruin you"

The small and possessive growl that escaped him made you shiver. You couldn't help yourself anymore, you couldn't deal with the teasing and as much as you wanted to savour this moment you wanted him more. The need to have him inside you was too powerful and your body cried out.

"I want this" you sighed, looking up at him "I want you, I need you-Fuck 'm so empty"

Your body was on fire now. Every inch of you ached to be touched, to feel him pressed against you, to finally give in completely.

His mouth found yours again with a hungry kiss before he began peeling the reminder of your clothes off. It was his turn to feel impatient now, hearing you so desperate for his touch for him, complaining that you felt empty fuck he'd make sure you never felt like that again. He'd make sure to stuff you so full..

It was his turn and before you knew it he was bare above you and the feeling of his bare erection against your thigh had you gasping out loud. You remembered the way he had pleasured himself in front of you in that brothel, the way he moved and pleaded for his release you couldn't help but reach forward and grab the throbbing length.

He whimpered at the feeling of your hand gripping him, his own hand guiding your wrist up and down in a steady pace before his tip was rubbing between your folds as your breaths mixed together.

"You feel so good" He groaned, his voice was a strained whisper against your ear when his head dropped to your neck. He pressed against your skin as if he couldn't get enough of you "So soft.. I could drown in you"

"I've never.. Rafayel I don't-"

"It's okay.. just trust me" He knew what you were trying to say, and your lips parted when you felt him push inside where you needed him most "Just the-fuck just the tip baby"

He was trembling above you and you weren't acting much better. The tip of him rested inside you, your hand still gripping his cock tightly while your other arm snaked around his neck, holding him closer to you. He moved his hips gently, the tip of his length sliding in and out as you adjusted to him.

You could only close your eyes in bliss and tilt your head back into the pillow as the tip of his cock felt so delicious inside you. He stretched you out so perfectly and you could feel your canines growing once more due to the pleasure.

Every so often he'd pull out, rub his cock up and down your folds spreading your arousal and focussing extra on your clit and you've never felt a more euphoric feeling. Even blood couldn't bring you this much pleasure.

For a while he pushed in and out of you, just his tip only while telling you how good you were for him. There were a few extra claims in there, him reminding you that you belonged to him and you wanted nothing more than to tell him that he was yours too.

But then you were startled slightly when he slid further in you without warning.

"Ah-" both your arms were now wrapped around his neck and he groaned as he slid all the way inside you, the feeling of your walls clenching around him caused him to twitch and you whined in pain. 

"Fuck-Fuck I'm sorry you just feel so good... I can't help myself" his words were rushed as he rested his forehead against yours, staying still inside you for a moment "Fuck, you’re so tight"

The pain of him suddenly sliding in was very much there but his words soothed you and you knew you would have had to face it inevitably so you kissed him again with urgency, as if he'd float away from you if you let him go.

But he wasn't going anywhere, not with how snug he fit inside you and how well your walls accommodated him. He swore he had never fit so perfectly in anyone before, any woman and not even his palm felt this perfect. 

You were his, and there was no way he'd be letting you go after this.

When he finally moved you found yourself biting his lip at the stretch, resulting in a growl from him. He couldn't do anything other than pull out before pushing himself back inside you, slow and steady but you felt every pull and push shatter your body. 

He moved quicker as the seconds passed by, his hips surging against your own and you began to lose your breath. Every thrust was possessive, every time his hips met yours again it was a claim, it was a warning that you belonged to him and him only. Your lips broke apart and his eyes never left yours, watching carefully at how you responded to the way his thrusts gained speed and how you arched into him.

"No one else will ever hear the sounds you make... no one else will ever see you like this" he told you, and he felt his heart skip when he saw the brief smile on your face at his words "You’re mine. You hear me? Mine"

You could only kiss him again, your lips melding together as his hips were practically pushing you further and further up the bed. The pain had long melted away and all you could focus on was the way he was so perfectly sliding in and out of you, the lewd sounds filling his chambers and blending with his groans and your whimpers.

If anyone was to walk past his door, they'd know what was happening.

Your legs were around his waist, arms wrapped around his neck as he kissed you more eagerly. Your chests were together and it felt so intimate, your breasts squished against his firm chest and your stomachs grazing every now and then as his thrusts continued. You had a fleeting thought of pressing your hand to your stomach to see if you could feel him there..

He was yours. In this moment, in these chambers he was all yours for the taking and the thought made you claw at his skin.

There was an unfamiliar feeling setting in your stomach and you pulled away from his lips with a concerned face, his eyes watching you carefully as his thrusts slowed.

He figured it out immediately, and with a smile he picked up his pace again, his hips truly slamming into you and you could do nothing but take it. Take it, take it, take it...

"You feel it don't you? You're going cum.." clearly all his restraint was gone by now, because he was moving so quickly in and out of you it was difficult to understand how he kept up the pace when you were losing all control over your body "I feel you trembling. Don't-hm don't fight it"

"Oh..Rafayel-"

"So fucking perfect" he told you and you gripped the sheets tightly "I can feel you, squeezing me so tight like you don’t wanna let me go. You don’t, do you? You wanna keep me buried inside this perfect, greedy little cunt forever"

His voice broke into a whimper as he ground against you, forcing himself even deeper. He needed to be deeper, he needed to be so far inside you that not even the gods could pull him away.

His rhythm was ruined now, his thrusts were desperate and erratic and his hands were gripping you so tightly you wished you didn't heal quickly so everyone outside these walls could see the bruises he made... see the way he claimed you, you wished that you could wear proof of this moment and of him.

His fingers found your clit, rubbing it quickly and franticly as his cock twitched inside you.

"Cum for me" his voice was desperate now, he was practically whining "Please, baby-fuck look at me"

The moment your eyes fluttered open and locked onto his you felt your whole body shatter under his gaze and his words. The feeling of him inside you, the way he was looking at you and calling you his and his relentless finger on your clit you swore you felt like you were starting to float.

The pleasure was too overwhelming for you that when you came you made no sound, your last moan stretching out into silence as your mouth fell open, feeling your walls tighten around his cock as he pushed in you and pulled out at a speed that had your breasts bouncing but you kept your eyes on him.

He was like a siren, calling you to him and putting you under a spell that you could never escape.

"Fuck" his grip on you tightened as he felt you cum, your body flush against him and his hips stuttered for a moment as he gazed down at you "That's it.. that's it baby just like that"

He rode out your high, finishing you with the same pace but it was only when he felt his own release he did as he pleased. His hands gripped your thighs and pinned them to the bed, your legs spread wide as you whined at the overstimulation but it only fuelled him more. Your legs pinned on the bed gave him the perfect angle and you could feel every inch of him.

He leant back and stared down at where you were connected and only bit his lip at the sight of you pushing on his stomach, pleading that you were overstimulated but he needed this... he needed this release.

"Rafayel.." you whimpered and he looked at your face, slowing down his pace and panting thinking he hurt you. But he watched as you bit your lip, lazily looking down at his cock inside you before your own fingers circled your clit "Will.. will you fill me up, my prince?"

Rafayel broke. The second the words left your lips, the last of his resolve shattered.

His entire body jerked and a strangled wrecked moan tearing from his throat as his hands tightened around your thighs, keeping them pinned wide open beneath him. He needed to see you like this, needed to see how you stretched around him, how you took him and how you begged for him like he was the only thing you could think about.

"Oh, fuck—" His head tipped back for a moment, eyes squeezed shut as if the very thought of filling you was too much for him to handle. But then he looked down at you again and fuck he was gone "Say it again"

His voice was nothing but a wrecked whisper, his rhythm turning deep and deliberate. His cock dragged against your walls perfectly, making sure you felt every last inch of him. Your back arched.

"Rafayel—"

His hand shot out, gripping your jaw, forcing your gaze back on him. 

"No. Say it. Say exactly what you just said to me, or I swear I won’t let you cum again" His words were a threat but his body betrayed him. He was trembling, holding on by a thread.

You felt powerful.

A lazy, teasing smile spread across your lips as you let your fingers circle your clit again, the sensation making you whimper softly sweetly just to watch the way his jaw clenched, the way his hips jerked against yours. You dragged your eyes slowly down his heaving chest, his toned stomach, the muscles flexing with every desperate thrust he gave you.

And then you locked eyes with him again, completely wrecked and ruined beneath him.

"Fill me up, my king"

Rafayel let out a choked, broken groan, his hips snapping forward hard enough to make you jolt up the bed.

"Fuck...fuck, I’m going to—"

He folded over you, his arms caging you in as he buried himself to the hilt, grinding in deep, deeper, deeper as if he could spill every last drop of himself inside you and still, it wouldn’t be enough. His release tore through him and he let out another ruined moan, his forehead falling to yours. 

"That’s it.. that’s my good fucking girl fuck, take all of it" his voice broke as he ground himself deeper, spilling inside you. His hands fisted the sheets as he collapsed onto you, still shaking, still gasping and caging you in like he was terrified you'd slip away.

He hated how he was too caught up in his own pleasure to see you finishing again but at least you were still here. His cum stained your insides, your walls were so tight around him there was no way he'd be pulling out of you anytime soon. His cock was softening now but he stayed still inside you, twitching against your body as his sweat dripped down onto you.

It was then when you smelt the blood again, and once again your eyes opened lazily to see that his neck was still dripping from where your fangs had been and you only started to notice how pale he was.

He was more tired than you, given that he was human, so you rolled him over with a gasp as his softened cock rested inside you. You didn't think twice, gently running your tongue over his wound, cleaning him and ridding the evidence of what you had done.

You had taken so much from him.

He could do nothing but enjoy the feeling of your tongue against him. His breath caught and there was a low, almost inaudible sound of pleasure as you tended to him and you could feel the way his hands weakly gripped your thighs, his touch still desperate in the aftermath of everything. He didn't question what you were doing, in fact he didn't even care if you were draining what remained of him. He really didn't, not when your naked body rested so comfortably on top of his while your cunt warmed his cock. So he laid there, eyes closed and enjoying the feeling.

After a few moments you were done, pulling your mouth away from his skin to see the now closed holes. There was a mark that would clear up in a few days, but for now the bleeding had stopped, and he needed rest.

You sighed after admiring your work, the tension in your chest slowly melting away as you lifted your gaze to his face, only to find him already watching you. 

He spoke about you being beautiful, but gods had he seen himself?

His lids were heavy and his eyes soft, so tender that your breath hitched in your throat. You had never seen him so.. relaxed. Then, he smiled and you couldn't understand how he could look at you like that. How was it possible for someone to look at you like that?

To admire you so openly, to touch you so gently even after seeing the parts of yourself that made you a monster?

With a sigh you shifted, laying your head on his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing rocking you into a gentle comfort. His hands found your back, gently running up and down your spine as though he were offering comfort in his own way.

You weren't sure how long passed, but you stayed where you were and his cock had already slipped out from you and you once again felt empty. The feeling of his seed spilling out of you was uncomfortable and you wanted to clean yourself up but you were terrified that if you moved he'd realised what happened and kick you out.

As if he hadn't been the one to seduce you. 

"You're still here..." Rafayel’s voice broke the silence, low and raspy as if he had just woken up from a deep sleep. You tilted your head up to look at him, your face close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin. 

"I am" was all that you could mumble.

His fingers slid through your hair, gathering a few strands between his fingertips and he leaned forward just enough to kiss the top of your head, as if to reassure you that you were still wanted, still needed here.

"Don’t go anywhere" he whispered, his voice rough but filled with quiet intent.

His words lingered and you could do nothing but nod your head, admiring him. He kissed you on your lips again, gently and not desperate, as if he knew now that you weren't going anywhere.

His coronation was tomorrow, he would be king, you had no idea what would change between you but for now you enjoyed being held. For now, you enjoyed not feeling like a monster.

It wasn't until hours later in the crack of dawn when the first light of morning began to creep in through the windows that you were ripped from his arms.

[spencersmopbucket]

Tides of Venom | Finnick Odair

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Summary: During the Tribute Parade of the 3rd Quarter Quell, Finnick meets an infamous female tribute from District Seven. She's just as interesting as everyone says.

The people of Panem knew your name as well as, or maybe better than, they knew their own. You were Y/n L/n, or better yet, The Snake of Seven. The victor who had turned the 67th Hunger Games into a masterclass of strategy and survival. At sixteen, you were reaped from the sawdust-strewn streets of District Seven—a girl who looked too small, too quiet, too fragile and too beautiful to survive the bloodbath. But you had fooled them all.

You didn't survive by brute force, God no. You didn't have the size for it. You survived by being smarter, colder, and crueler when it mattered. You waited, watching from the shadows, letting the other tributes tear each other apart. When you struck, it was precise, calculated, and lethal. You weren’t just a fighter; you were a predator. You turned the arena into your hunting ground, weaving snares from vines and luring enemies into deadly traps. When you got them captured, like a rabbit in a trap on the snow covered ground, you quickly and efficiently did away with them.

By the time you’d reached the finish line of success, the area was soaked in blood — close to none of it yours. You had outlasted them all, and not just through skill, but by ensuring that every single thing you did was deliberate. Every alliance you made was temporary manipulation, every smile a well-placed mask. When the final cannon fired, it wasn’t just because you had survived. You had conquered.

The Capitol adored you, of course. They polished your image until you gleamed like the blade that had won you the crown. They said your name with awe and fear: The Snake of Seven. To them, you were the perfect mix of beauty and terror, a creature that captivated even as it threatened. Of course, your biggest fan was President Snow. But for all the Capitol’s praises, you knew the truth. The arena hadn’t just taken your innocence; it had carved out pieces of your soul and left them to rot in the jungle where you’d won. The nightmares came often, visions of the traps you’d set, the image of you slitting a throat, the screams that followed, and the sickening silence afterward.

Even still, you played the role you’d been given. It was that or die. It was that or lose your family (an ultimatum given by Snow.) The Capitol needed you to smile in your interviews, to look stunning in gowns designed to look like snake skin, to sip champagne with Snow’s favorites. You did it without flinching. You’d learned through the experiences of others before you that defiance came with a life ruining price. And so, with snake-like venom aimed inward at yourself, you were poisoned until only steel remained.

The 3rd Quarter Quell was nothing like any previous Hunger Games. It was a reminder of the Capitol's absolute power, and this year, they chose to mark it with a brutal twist: the victors, those who had already been crowned, would now be thrown back into the arena. Every single one of them—a brutal celebration of their own suffering. And you, The Snake of Seven, were no exception. When you'd been Reaped, you stepped forward, ever confident, your e/c eyes the sole vision of determination, focus, and bloodthirst. But you were always so good at keeping people at arm's length, never letting them see how you truly felt.

You were devastated. You felt doomed — but the worst part? You'd always known you were from the start. This was just the confirmation.

Today was the Victor Parade.

The streets of the Capitol buzzed with an unsettling energy. The crowd, with its eager eyes and gleaming teeth, watched as the tribute chariots rolled down the grand avenue, a parade of former winners paraded as if they were just another form of entertainment. The Capitol was reveling in their cruelty, and you knew, deep down, that it was more than just the games this time. The Capitol wanted to break the victors, to make sure they knew they were never free, never truly safe. You had survived the Games once, but this time, survival would come at a greater cost. You were by far the most thrilling tribute to watch, solely because they knew you'd do anything to win.

Your district partner, a tall, athletic and somewhat shy Victor named Reid, stood beside you. He was a few years younger than you, but his respect for you was evident in every glance. He had a crush on you. It was easy to see in the way his eyes lingered on you, the way his voice caught when he spoke your name. But, much like everyone else in the Capitol, you weren’t here for love or affection. You were here to survive—and if you had to, you’d use Reid’s infatuation to your advantage. But, you’d never admit it aloud.

Reid was a good fighter, but he wasn’t built for the Games like you. His focus was too soft, too sentimental, which made him vulnerable. He wanted you to recognize him as a friend rather than just a district partner. Rather than just an ally that you'd eventually have to turn on. But you? You knew. Reid would have to be the first to go. You'd put him out of his suffering before any other Victor could get their hands on him. In a cruel sense, it was you being kind. If anyone else got him, his death would hurt much more.

Your outfit, designed by Capitol stylists, was as extravagant as it was deadly. You weren’t just a symbol of beauty; you were a living weapon, and your outfit reflected that. The stylists had draped you in a shimmering black gown that hugged your form, slithering down your body like the skin of a serpent. Silver, delicate scales shimmered along the bodice, almost seeming to ripple as you moved. A thin, sharp line of emerald green ran across your eyes, reflecting the coldness that had taken root deep inside you. Your hair was twisted into a sleek, tight braid that framed your sharp features, the tendrils of the braid curling at the ends like snake’s fangs. The design was meant to evoke fear. To show that beneath your beauty was a creature that could and would strike. The Capitol admired you, but they feared you too.

As the chariot lurched forward, your eyes scanned the crowd—thousands of faces staring back at you, each person either adoring or shocked. The screams, cheers, and jeers mixed into a cacophony that only heightened the tension in the air. It was a celebration of blood, and your life was the prize. But you didn’t need their approval. You didn’t need their affection. You were here to survive—nothing more, nothing less. You forced your cold eyes forward, staring at the person that continued to ruin your life, over and over again.

Snow.

He gazed down at you with a lukewarm smile, one to say, 'welcome back, Snake.' You simply glared back, fighting the snarl that threatened to develop on your lip.

As the chariot rolled forward, you could feel Reid’s nervous energy beside you. His hands gripped the edge of the chariot so tightly that his knuckles turned white, his broad shoulders stiff as though he were bracing for an attack. His unease was palpable, and while you could sympathize with it, you didn’t have time to coddle him. This wasn’t his first Games; he should know better than to show fear in front of the Capitol. Weakness was blood in the water, and the Capitol’s sharks would circle the moment they saw it. It would draw attention to the two of you, something you didn't need more than you already had.

“Relax,” you muttered, your voice low enough that only he could hear. Your eyes remained fixed on the glittering horizon, refusing to meet his. “You look like you’re about to jump out of the chariot.”

Reid’s head snapped toward you, his expression a mix of surprise and embarrassment. “I’m fine,” he said, though the strain in his voice betrayed him.

“Sure you are,” you replied dryly. “Just remember, they’re not cheering for you. They’re cheering for the show. Don’t give them a reason to think you’re the opening act.”

Your words cut sharper than intended, but it was necessary. Reid needed to toughen up, and fast. This was no place for soft hearts or shaky hands.

The chariot came to a halt in front of President Snow’s viewing platform, and the crowd’s roar reached a deafening crescendo. Snow himself stood like a vulture on his perch, his thin smile radiating smug satisfaction. His presence was suffocating, a reminder that every move you made was under his watchful eye. You held your head high, refusing to let him see the disgust simmering beneath your carefully constructed mask. If he wanted a performance, you would give him one.

You stared at the other Victors. You knew who they were, of course, since you'd been paraded around with them before. The most notable ones were the ones from the Career districts -- and District 12. You saw Cashmere and Gloss looking disgustingly gleeful. They were District 1 Careers, always loving the attention they were getting and the idea of getting to put up a fight. Brutus and Enobaria, District 2, were the same way.

Your eyes lingered on the Careers for a moment longer, taking in their smugness, their overconfidence. Cashmere’s sharp laughter cut through the murmur of conversation, a high, shrill sound that grated on your nerves. She and Gloss stood close together, their matching golden armor glinting under the Capitol’s harsh lights. Their every move screamed superiority, a reminder that they had been bred for this, groomed for the arena like thoroughbred horses. You didn’t doubt their skill, but you also didn’t fear them. They were predictable, and predictability was a weakness.

Your gaze swept past them to Brutus and Enobaria, whose confidence bordered on feral excitement. Brutus’s bulk made him look more like a battering ram than a man, and Enobaria’s predatory grin, with her infamous sharpened teeth, was a haunting sight. They thrived in the chaos, their bloodlust an edge that couldn’t be underestimated.

But it wasn’t just the Careers you had to worry about. Your eyes flicked to Beetee and Wiress, District 3’s champions. The Capitol often overlooked them, mistaking their quiet demeanor for weakness, but you knew better. Their minds were their greatest weapons, and they could turn the arena itself into a deathtrap.

Then, blurring out the other Districts, there was District 12.

Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark stood together, the Capitol’s golden pair, their unity a sharp contrast to the division around them. Katniss’s stormy eyes locked with yours for a fleeting moment, and you could see the fire smoldering behind them. She didn’t trust you—good. Trust was a luxury none of you could afford. Peeta, on the other hand, exuded a calm that was almost disarming. Almost.

And then there was Finnick.

He sat casually in his chariot, his trident resting at his side, but there was nothing casual about the way his eyes roamed the area, sharp and calculating. His sea-green outfit, designed to evoke the beauty of District 4’s oceans, only served to heighten his allure. Beside him, Mags sat with quiet dignity, her frail form a stark contrast to his vibrant presence. Yet, there was strength in her weathered gaze—a reminder of the resilience that had carried her through her own Games decades ago. The Capitol adored Finnick, just as they adored you, but his charm was a weapon, honed and deadly, and Mags was his anchor, her mere presence a testament to the bond between them and the wisdom she carried into the arena.

His gaze caught yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to still. His lips curved into a faint smile—not the easy, flirtatious grin he reserved for the Capitol’s audience, but something quieter, more genuine. It was unsettling, that smile, because it felt like he saw through you, saw the armor you’d worked so hard to construct.

You broke the connection first, turning your attention back to Reid, who was fidgeting nervously at your side.

“Stop moving,” you muttered under your breath. “You’re drawing attention.”

“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice low and apologetic.

You sighed, the weight of his unexpected inexperience pressing down on you. If he didn’t toughen up soon, he would make you look foolish too. He didn't act like a Victor. And the rest did.

Snow’s voice crackled over the speakers, his tone smooth and syrupy as he addressed the gathered victors. “What a spectacular display,” he said, his words dripping with false sincerity. “You are all reminders of the strength and resilience of Panem. May the odds be ever in your favor.”

The room fell silent as the announcement ended, the weight of his words settling over you like a shroud.

Reid leaned closer, his voice barely audible. “What now?”

You glanced at him, your expression hardening. “Now?” you said, your voice cold. “Now we wait. And when the time comes, we fight.”

Finnick’s laughter rang out suddenly, drawing your attention. He was talking to another Victor, his posture relaxed, but his eyes flicked to you for the briefest moment. There was something in his gaze—challenge, curiosity, maybe even understanding.

You turned away, refusing to engage. Whatever Finnick Odair was playing at, you had no intention of getting caught in his game.

As the outro anthem of Panem played, you felt a shift in the atmosphere. Your gaze flickered to the chariot beside yours, where Finnick Odair stood, resplendent in a sea-green ensemble that glittered like sunlight on the ocean. His golden hair caught the Capitol lights, making him look every bit the god they believed him to be. But his expression wasn’t one of triumph—it was of quiet defiance, a subtle rebellion that only those who knew the arena could recognize.

When the anthem ended, the victors were led to the holding area behind the parade route. The Capitol’s cheers faded into a low hum as you stepped off the chariot, your gown shimmering with each calculated movement. Reid stayed close to you, his presence a reminder of the responsibility you didn’t ask for but couldn’t ignore. Capitol stylists swarmed you both, fussing over stray folds and imagined imperfections. You barely acknowledged them, your focus already narrowing on the other tributes gathering nearby.

"Reid," you muttered under your breath, your tone sharp but quiet enough to keep Capitol ears from catching it. "Stand tall, and stop looking like you're about to bolt."

He straightened, though his hands still twitched at his sides. You suppressed a sigh.

Before you could step further into the mingling chaos of tributes and Capitol elites, a voice laced with sugar-coated steel sliced through the noise.

“Well, if it isn’t the darling of District 7. You’re just as intimidating as they say.”

You turned to see Cashmere gliding toward you, her golden locks framing her face like a halo, though the icy gleam in her eyes was anything but angelic. Her gown shimmered like molten gold, every inch of her radiating Capitol-perfect elegance. But there was no mistaking the predator behind the polished façade.

“Cashmere,” you greeted, keeping your tone neutral, even bored. “You flatter me.”

“Oh, it’s not flattery,” she replied, her smile sharp enough to cut. “It’s admiration. You play your part so well. Cold, dangerous, untouchable—it’s a wonder the Capitol isn’t already throwing parades in your honor.”

Reid shifted uncomfortably beside you, his unease a palpable presence. Cashmere’s gaze flicked to him briefly, her smirk widening as if she found his nervousness amusing.

“Who’s your little shadow?” she asked, her voice dripping with condescension. “Does he speak, or is he just here to look pretty?”

Reid’s jaw clenched, but before he could stammer a response, you stepped in.

“He’s my district partner,” you said coolly. “Focus on yours.”

Cashmere arched an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the tension. “Protective, are we? How sweet. Though I can’t imagine there’s much point. If he’s anything like my dear Gloss’s partners, he won’t last long.”

You took a deliberate step closer, your gaze locking with hers, sharp and unyielding. “And yet, here you are, wasting your time on him—and me. Be careful.”

Her smile faltered for the briefest moment, the crack in her composure almost imperceptible. But then she laughed, a light, airy sound that somehow felt more menacing than genuine.

“Always the sharp tongue,” she said, tilting her head. “I suppose it’s what keeps you alive. Just remember, darling—words can only cut so deep. Out there, it’s the blade that matters.”

“Thanks for the advice,” you replied, your tone as biting as hers. “I’ll be sure to remember it when the time comes.”

Cashmere’s eyes narrowed slightly, the playful mask slipping just enough to reveal the steely determination beneath. “Do that,” she said, her voice a whisper of warning. “I’ll be watching.”

With that, she turned and strode away, her golden gown catching the light with every step.

Reid let out a breath he seemed to have been holding, his voice low. “What was that about?”

“Don't worry about it,” you muttered, watching her retreating form. “Everyone’s playing their own game. Hers just happens to be gilded in gold.”

The energy in the Capitol’s holding area was electric, each victor carefully eyeing the others, feeling the tension rise with every passing second. The air was thick with power and the weight of what was to come—the 3rd Quarter Quell was unlike any other, a twisted reminder of the Capitol’s dominance, and each victor knew they were not only fighting for their lives but for their dignity as well.

Reid stood close, his nerves still apparent, his eyes darting from one tribute to the next. You could feel his discomfort radiating from him, and though you didn’t have time to indulge him, you found yourself slightly irritated by it. This was supposed to be a place for cold calculation, not weakness.

“Take a breath,” you muttered again, your eyes scanning the crowd of tributes. “You’re making us stand out.”

“I—sorry, I can’t help it,” Reid replied, the sincerity in his voice mixed with frustration. “This place... It’s too much. I never imagined I’d be back here, much less be facing them again.”

You took a deep breath, letting the noise of the Capitol’s elites wash over you. It was a dull hum compared to the chaos of the arena, but the stakes here were just as high. You weren’t just a Victor anymore; you were the prey.

“I get it,” you said, your voice colder than before, but not unkind. “But you need to act like one of them. We’re not here for anything other than survival. And in case you haven’t realized, that means playing their game better than they do. Don't let them think you're weak, even if you think you are.”

Reid nodded, his jaw set in determination, though the unease still flickered in his eyes. You didn’t think he’d ever truly understand. His idealism would be his downfall, you could already see it. The Capitol’s games had broken you, stripped away your humanity, and in the end, it had made you stronger. You knew better than anyone that to survive in this world, you had to be willing to kill what remained of your soul.

As the seconds ticked by, the other tributes continued to mingle—some more comfortable than others. A few whispered amongst themselves, their eyes darting in calculated glances, while others stood proudly, basking in their newly cemented fame. You didn’t join them. You had no need to.

A moment later, a voice rang out in the distance, one that cut through the tension in the air like a blade—soft, melodic, but with an undeniable edge.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the infamous Snake of Seven.”

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. His voice was unmistakable, like the sea itself, deep and quiet but filled with a hidden strength. Finnick Odair.

You met his gaze, not surprised to see him standing at the edge of the crowd, his trident at his side, the shimmering blue of his outfit contrasting with his golden hair. His green eyes gleamed, mischievous yet sharp. His dimpled smirk only deepened when he noticed the way you studied him—cold, calculating, as always.

“Finnick,” you replied coolly, your voice betraying no emotion, even as your insides clenched. “I didn’t realize the Capitol was still fascinated by my name. I thought they’d moved on to the next little toy.”

His smirk only deepened, his eyes never leaving yours. “Oh, they’ll never tire of you,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, almost like a whispered secret meant only for you. “Not with your reputation. It’s not every day that the Snake of Seven steps into the arena, is it?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You sound almost impressed.”

“Well, who wouldn’t be?” Finnick’s tone was casual, but there was an edge to it that made the words feel like a challenge. “The odds of you making it this far... I’m curious how you’ve done it.”

You could feel the weight of his words, the curiosity in them. There was something in his gaze that felt like he wasn’t just talking about the Games anymore. His eyes raked over you, not in the way the Capitol admired his victors, but like he was trying to peel away the layers and understand the person standing in front of him.

“Survival,” you answered simply. “It’s not as hard as people make it out to be. If you’ve got the right instincts, the right drive, you can make it through anything.”

“And you’ve got both,” he said, his voice quiet but unmistakably admiring. “I can see it. But I think there’s more to you than that. More than just the survivor everyone sees.”

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response, just holding his gaze as the crowd around you continued to buzz with their typical Capitol energy. There was something about the way he looked at you, though. Like he wasn’t just sizing you up as a potential ally or foe, but like he was seeing through to something deeper. And it unsettled you.

“You’re not one to mince words, are you?” you asked, your voice sharp, trying to redirect the conversation, but you could feel the pull of it all the same.

“Why bother?” Finnick’s expression softened just the slightest bit, his eyes glinting in a way that made you wonder if there was something he wasn’t saying. “This game’s already full of lies. We don’t need to add to it.”

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. “And what would you suggest, Finnick? That we just lay it all bare? Is that what you think is needed to win this?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Maybe. Or maybe the truth is the only thing we’ve got left.”

The words hung between you, a quiet tension settling in. His gaze didn’t waver, but something in his stance softened, almost imperceptibly. For a moment, you saw past the Capitol’s golden boy, the victor who had charmed his way into the hearts of millions. You saw the man who had fought in the arena, who had survived the same twisted game that you were now part of. And for a fleeting second, there was a vulnerability in his eyes, something raw and unspoken.

“You know the game better than anyone,” you said quietly, your tone softer now, the challenge gone. “But we’re not all playing by the same rules, Finnick. I don’t think you understand that.”

His smile faded slightly, and he tilted his head. “Oh, I understand more than you think. But you’re right. Not everyone is playing by the same rules. And that’s why I’m curious about you.”

You didn’t respond immediately, the weight of his words sinking in. There was something in the way he said it that made you feel like a puzzle he was dying to solve. But you wouldn’t make it easy for him.

“Curious about me?” you repeated, stepping closer to him, your voice low but firm. “Why? Because I’m a challenge? Or because I’m something you can’t control?”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t back down. If anything, he took a small step forward, closing the gap between you. “I don’t want to control you,” he said, his voice steady. “I want to understand you.”

The words were simple, but they carried an undertone of something that felt more intimate than anything you’d heard in a long time. His eyes searched yours, the playful mischief replaced with something darker, something more serious.

You almost faltered. Almost.

"Then understand this," You lean in, boring your eyes into his. "When you lean into the face of a snake, it sinks it's teeth in."

Finnick’s eyes gleamed, a flicker of admiration dancing in the depths of his gaze. His smirk only deepened as you leaned in, the challenge clear in your words and your posture. He didn’t flinch, didn’t back down—if anything, the tension between you only seemed to grow.

He paused, taking a slow breath before responding, his voice low and even, carrying a hint of something darker beneath the surface.

“Well, I’ve always been a fan of a good bite,” Finnick said, his tone smooth, but there was an edge to it now, like the words themselves were an invitation, a dare. He stepped just a fraction closer, narrowing the distance between you with a kind of quiet, deliberate confidence. “But don’t mistake my curiosity for weakness. If you sink your teeth in, be sure you’re ready for what comes after.”

His eyes never left yours as he said it, the unspoken challenge hanging heavy in the air, and for a moment, you could almost feel the pulse of something dangerous, something thrilling, between the two of you. Finnick Odair wasn’t afraid of a fight. But neither were you.

Finnick’s gaze lingered on you a moment longer, his lips curving into a more playful smirk as he took another slow step back. But the mischievous glint in his eyes told you that he wasn’t done with you yet.

“I have to admit,” he said, his tone lighter now, but no less charged. “You’ve got grit that I wasn’t expecting. Most people would’ve backed down by now, but not you. No, you’re… interesting.”

He took another step, the air around you thick with an undeniable pull. “You know, I like a good challenge. But you,” Finnick continued, his voice dropping an octave, “you’re something different. Something… unpredictable.”

He leaned in just slightly, his breath a faint whisper against your ear. “I’ll admit, I’m curious to see what else you’re capable of.”

You glare at him as he leans away.

"Curiosity killed the cat, now didn't it?"

Finnick’s grin only widened at your sharp retort, the gleam in his eyes turning into something almost predatory. He didn’t seem offended—if anything, your challenge made him more interested.

"Maybe," he mused, his voice soft, playful, but still with that underlying edge. "But I’ve never been one to shy away from danger. And I’m not the type to get caught in a trap either." He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the game between you two.

He tilted his head, studying you for a moment, his green eyes flickering with amusement. “You’re quick with your words, but I have a feeling you’re not just all talk.”

His gaze traveled from your eyes to your lips, lingering just long enough for it to be obvious, before returning to your gaze, the tension between you thick enough to slice. “Tell me, what else do you have up your sleeve, hmm? Because I’m starting to think you’re not just some venomous snake. There’s something else there… something more.”

He stepped closer again, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body, but not quite enough to touch. The space between you seemed to shrink with each word, with each look, and it was becoming increasingly clear that Finnick wasn’t just teasing anymore. He was genuinely intrigued.

"You’re right," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "Curiosity might’ve killed the cat, but satisfaction, well, that’s what makes it all worth it, don’t you think?" He let the words hang in the air between you, daring you to respond, to challenge him once more.

Finnick was getting closer to you now, but there was no rush in his movement—he was taking his time, savoring the moment. The air between you felt charged, a magnetism that was impossible to ignore.

“Just remember,” he added softly, his lips yet again dangerously close to your ear, “you started this game. And I’m not the type to lose."

With that, Finnick Odair strode away, looking over his shoulder to give you one last dimpled smile.

[drgnflyteabox]

red ochre [2]

series masterlist previous || part two -> woad and weld || part three -> orpiment

> summary: you recover from the boat, and wonder why you were taken > tags/warnings: pain, caretaking, food, stomach issues, threats, mean simon, fears of rape (doesn't happen), viking-typical slavery, unwanted cuddling / massage / touching, alcohol, scars, violence, hunting, laswell hello!, reader has some puritanical attitudes / assumptions but she was a nun so, power imbalance, dubcon comfort, crying, religious themes (dldr)

You're a stone sunk to the bottom of the ocean, pulled under by exhaustion and turmoil. It's the sleep of the dead, dreamless and unreachable.

Vaguely, in moments of semi-consciousness, you hear voices and feel softness against your skin, warmth all around you. The brush of fingers against your cheeks.

When you do wake, it's like crossing between different worlds, with a head full of cotton and fog. Your sense of smell comes alive before anything else, the smell of food permeating the air around you.

Fish. Cream. Something herbaceous, something earthy. A fire crackles closeby, warming the air, warming you. You can feel fur touching your arms and legs, draped over you and flat underneath you.

It only serves to soften to blow of pain, overwhelming pain. True awareness comes then, waking you with a gasp that alerts-

"Did she just-"

"Sh!" Simon's voice, coming closer. "You awake?" his face comes into view above - you only recognize him by voice.

He's scarred, big and small, but the most eye-catching one bisects his face, splitting it into two from his cheekbone to his jaw on the other side. It's deep, raised, angry even if you can tell it's healed.

You scream.

It's a weak sound, the cry of somebody that knows it's pointless and yet can't help but shout into the void and hope that something will answer.

Before, that would have been god. You'd have prayed, lived as a hermit, sequestered yourself to a cave and live as one of the great ascetic saints. A life even further dedicated than nunhood.

Since he had refused to answer you on the boat, you turn away, and whimper like an injured dog when that scarred face turns to a mask of stone.

"Ha!" Johnny doesn't pick up on the tension that's rising, slowly, as you tremble under Simons gaze. Or maybe he does, and he doesn't care. "Havnae seen his ugly mug yet, have ye? Dinnae worry, lamb."

Guilt curls in your belly, dampening your fear. Simon doesn't look shamed, but you weren't afraid of his scars - truly, you were disoriented, barely clothed and towered over by the same man that took you.

"He won't bite," Johnny continues. He walks over and lays a hand on Simons waist, fingers curling in the off-white fabric. "Well, not ye."

A wink.

"Hush!" Simon barks. "Get her up, she needs to eat."

There's no hesitation. Johnny leans down to you, pulling you until you sit up with a wince. You bite your lips to keep from crying out again, pain lancing through your muscles. You're seized by muscle spasms, by the fiery hot pain of your chafed wrists and a gnawing, deep hunger in your stomach.

"How-" you choke, throat dry and voice unused. Johnny pauses helping you up to listen. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Few days, lass. It's the evening," he grins. "Ye should thank us. Kept ye warm, washed, slipped ye broth into that lovely mouth-"

Simon puts a wooden bowl down onto the table, louder than necessary. There's a grumble from Johnny, but he gets you up and waits while your legs get used to weight on them again.

You're half-dragged, mostly carried to the table. All you're wearing is that shirt, nipples pebbled against the front from the cold. Hard to care too much when your muscles scream even holding yourself sitting up.

You lean on Johnny as Simon ladles soup into bowls, hunched over the kitchen hearth, silent as the grave.

"Eat slowly," is all he says.

It smells good, herby and warm. Your stomach groans and gurgles and begs you to eat, but you're weary. Afraid. Only when the men eat that you pick up a carved wooden spoon and hesitantly slurp.

Heat. Satisfaction. Eating is incredible, and you discover the wonderous ingredients loaded into the soap; salmon, potatoes, a green herb that tastes like sharp, citrussy grass.

Then your stomach cramps, and you tilt with nausea.

"Too fast?" Johnny coos, rubbing a big palm up and down your back. "Awe."

"That's enough, then," Simon goes to take your bowl, but you're too fast. You pull it close to your chest, spilling a little onto the table and drops soak into your shirt. "You can have some later. I said that's enough."

You hold fast. Your stomach hurts, but you're desperate for some form of control. All the terror and all the uncertainty rises, rushing through your finally conscious brain into a battle of strength. You took me but I have agency! it says. You took me but I can take this!

He's too strong.

The wood bowl clatters against the ground with a crack, hot soup spilling on the floor. You heave with the force of your breathing, afraid and too-aware of your predicament.

Taken, snatched, at the mercy of men whose intentions are unclear.

You're too slow to cower when Simon's arm shoots forward and grabs your jaw, hard and mean, giving you a squeeze.

"Now we've been nice to you," he starts. His voice is as solid as his arm. You start to shake. "But I can just as easily put you over my knee. That what you want?"

You shake your head.

"That's what I thought."

Johnny leaves after the soup is cleaned and you're tucked back into the bed again, muscles trembling still with the exertion of your first meal. Small, electric spasms make you wince every one in a while. Your wrists are bruised and scabbed, but healing. They feel hot and itchy, but Simon tells you as he rubs an ointment into the wound that they're healing well.

You try to shy away, hide yourself, when he notices your grimace and reaches for a calf. The look he gives you stops you, takes your breath, until he shakes his head and starts rubbing deep circles into the tenderest spot of your muscle.

"God!" you should. A wonder how badly you can hurt from just laying in bed. He snorts. "Ow!"

"Don't be dramatic," his thumb presses deeply, moving down, then back up. Squeezing. The bed dips with his weight as he scoots closer to you.

You take a moment to look around you. The cabin is made of wood, warmed by the fire, and is full to the brim. Clay pots, furs, tools, a couple barrels- they're everywhere, unorganized. Makes you wonder about the sacred items they'd stolen from your convent.

"Why did you take me?" someone bolder has possessed you. Your mouth twists when Simon's eyes find yours.

His hands don't stop moving. They switch legs, pulling the finished one onto his big thigh. It does feel better, relaxed and tender in a good sort of way, pain not so unbearable anymore.

"You're our spoils," he moves down, digging into your arch. You almost yelp. "D'you know what we gave up for you?"

Something in your chest squeezes, something scared and unpleasant. You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

"That's alright," Simon murmurs. Your anxiety fights against the comfort he's giving you. "You'll be alright."

He flits his gaze downwards, eyeing you. Your breath catches when you realize that the position has left your legs open, shirt ridden up, and he's looking right at your bare cunt.

"Ah!" you pull your knees shut, hands finding where you're exposed and folding over, cupping yourself, face ablaze. Tears prick at your eyes again, fear winning over comfort.

Simon doesn't let you panic for long.

"I won't force myself on you, pet," he grunts. "We won't."

There isn't much choice but to hang on to his words for dear life, to believe that he won't force you. The hope is fragile, but it's there. You take the chance to pull a soft, worn blanket over your body.

"Am I to be your slave?" your voice wavers.

"No," he says simply.

For a long time, you watch him. He putters about, moving things, unloading boxes no doubt full of supplies used for raids. You wonder if that means he doesn't intend to go on another one, then wonder what they'll do with you if they do leave.

Johnny comes back flushed, smiling. You smell sweetness under his sweat, something you can't recognize. His eyes crinkle when he sees you.

"Two nights," he breathes, looking at you but talking to Simon. "They'll celebrate in two nights."

Your stomach tenses, roiling, eyes fluttering with the effort to stay awake. Even a short time is much for you after your journey.

"Price's back?" Simon asks. He's pulling a sealskin from a burlap bag, smoothing it out with his hands onto the table. The silvery, spotted skin reflects the fireplace.

"Tomorrow," Johnny pulls leather boots off his feet, then thick socks. He wipes himself down with a rag from a tub, shuffling to the bed when he finishes. "Then we feast."

Your eyes are heavy slits, mouth open. You hardly move even when Johnny sits next to you and brushes a thumb over your cheek, smiling toothily down at you.

"Awe, she's precious," he says, lowering his voice. "Go to sleep now, little lamb."

You wake the same way as before. A tilt of one world into the next, sliding down into consciousness as slow as thick porridge.

Only this time, you're surrounded by a warmth not brought by thick furs. It's skin, all around you, boxing you in. On your face you feel hair, prickly and soft, comforting and frightening all at once.

Behind you, a chest breaths against your back. Your eyes open, alarm cutting through grogginess.

Johnnys big hand is clutching your breast, squeezing every few moments, snuffling into your neck like a sleepy animal.

You try to extricate yourself, lifting yourself to find Simon looking down at you, eyes half lidded but aware. There's warning there, but there's also contentment. Scars big and small litter his skin, pocked and torn and scraped, all shapes and sizes. Some are silvery while others are such a deep red you'd think they were still fresh.

He looks past you at Johnny, and turns to his side.

"Weren't planning on running, where you?" his voice is low, so as to not wake the other man.

"No," you whisper. Johnny shuffles behind you, sliding a thigh between your legs. "Please help me." you wiggle, trying to move.

Simon sighs, sitting up. He shuffles to the edge of the bed, then reaches to peel Johnnys hands off you. His hand slides against the soft spring of your breast, hands sliding under Johnnys to pull, brushing your nipple on the way up.

"Thank you," you're still whispering, not wanting to wake Johnny up lest it irritate Simon. You roll until you're out of his grasp, body feeling less pained than it did the day before.

"Hungry?" Simon moves towards the kitchen. "Got one more day to relax."

The feast, you think. The divide, the celebration. Frissons climb your skin until your scalp prickles.

"Yes, please," you sit up, weary of Johnny finding your heat in the bed.

The smell of animal fat and the sound of sizzling fills the cottage then. You look around, noting an improvement for the clutter. The sealskin is gone, replaced by two standing up boots.

"They're yours," Johnny says. You startle, almost leap, but he catches you by the hips and puts his face into your hair. "Simon stayed up all night."

"Gets cold," he dismisses. Eggs jump in the pan in front of him, popping in the hot tallow.

You have to be helped again to the table, but it's not so bad this time. You arm goes around Johnnys waist, his under yours, fingers barely brushing the underside of your breast.

Breakfast is good. Fried eggs, seasoned by the fat, over gruel. It fills you with an internal sense of strength, and you can actually finish it all today.

"Good girl!" Johnny claps your back. "Gonnae be choppin all our wood for winter, eh?"

After, Simon has you change into a simple brown wool dress. You try to ignore them looking at your nakedness as you drop the other shirt, but the wool is nice and warm and there's even a soft pale shift to go underneath it.

Then he slips pants on your legs, tied at the waist under the dress, and wraps wool around your calves.

"You're gonna run errands with me," Simon says. He wraps your feet again in wool, securing them with leather twine. "Get your strength up."

His eyes find yours where he's kneeling, squinting at you, expression turning stormy.

"I don't want to re-injure your wrists," he motions to them, and you look at the healing scabs. "But if you try to run, I'll drag you back by your hair n' tie 'em back up. You pick."

Outside, you wince against the light. Simon holds you by the elbow, walking at your weak pace. It's a tight village, houses clumped together, shops close. It's a wonder you haven't heard anyone from inside Johnny and Simons home, until you see how thickly the walls are built when the door opens.

The street is wet with mud, and you're grateful for the footwraps. They're warm against the chill, sliding through the mud beneath you when you lose your footing, legs feeling as new as a fawn.

"Here," Simon leads you to a market-like stall. Dried meats hang from the ceiling in bunches. The smell is pungent.

"Nik!" He shouts. A huge, burly man steps out.

They talk like they've known each other a long time, though not quite friends. An image of two great bears crosses your imagination, both big and still respecting the other. A rare alliance.

Simon hangs a bag off of you, a salty-smelling bag full of cured and fermented meats. The man looks down at you and grins as you leave, laughing lowly.

You bristle, but follow - what else is there to do?

The next stop is a real shop, only you can see a homestead behind a wooden counter.

It's a girl this time, lovely and soft. She smiles at Simon, wordlessly fetching another man from the homestead behind the store.

"Big man!" it's one of the raiders - the young one. Gaz. "And the nun." his brown eyes find yours, friendlier than the last time you saw him.

They talk, too, more amicably than the other man. Gaz folds his forearms over the counter and laughs, peeking at you every once in a while with intense eyes.

"Right," he claps his hands together. "I won't keep you."

You're starting to feel tired, overexerted.

Gaz comes back out with a wrapped package, the soft girl from before on his arm. The apples of her cheeks are high with a smile.

"See you!" she sits back down on her stool, wide hips wiggling until she's comfortable.

"See ya around," Gaz says. He winks at you.

Simon carries this package himself, not looking at you as he leads you further into the village.

People make way for him, not in fear, but because of his size. He's bigger than most, even some of the other men.

The third and final place has you panting, hunched with the effort of keeping yourself up.

It's a house not unlike Simon and Johnny's, just bigger. A wide, squat wooden house with a wide open door and goats bleating from a pen closeby.

Simon glances at you out of the corner of his eye, putting his hand on your lower back as somebody steps out of the doorway.

"Hello again, Simon," it's Price. The leader, or perhaps the chief. It would make sense - his authority, his size, the number of scars on his skin. Nearly as many as Simon. "You bring your end of the bargain?"

Straight to the point then. Price doesn't look at you once, which doesn't do much to assuage the fear that you're the end of the bargain.

"If you've got yours," Simon leaves you behind to follow him inside, where you can hear them talking. Jovial, like old friends.

By the time you get back home, you're wiped. Exhaustion pulls at you like invisible strings dragging you to the bed. Even Johnny with his smarmy expression and his patting the mattress doesn't stop you from crashing.

The men have brought you to a celebration. After letting you sleep a majority of the day after your errands, Simon dressed you in the same wool dress and wrapped a thick cape around your shoulders to ward off the chill.

It's a welcome home. Simon had been the first to see Price at his home - he and a band of fledgling warriors had sailed right past the village and gone hunting.

Price is not the chief, as you had assumed. He is a leader, an explorer, the ambitious spearhead of overseas raids. Nodding heads and a sense of respect, of deference, follows him wherever he goes. Even as an outsider you can see it.

The chief is a woman. It's not something you expected, not with the sheer size of the men around you, not with the brutality in which they regale their exploits. Many of them have wives that trail them, welcome them, carry their children on their hips, or are welcomed as fellow warriors.

These are the fledglings?

You're in a wild, barbaric place.

When you reach the longhouse, a building as short as all the others but stretched much farther and lit orange with light and the smell of honey, you're bathed in warmth.

No, not honey. Alcohol, sweet and cloying on the breath of each viking. Their depravity seems to know no bounds. It's the same sweet smell you'd smelled on Johnny that night he'd left - presumably to speak to the chief.

Laswell, they call her. The chief. She stands on a raised dais with Price, murmuring between themselves, nodding toward Simon and Johnny when they take their seats.

"Right here," Simon spreads his thighs. There are no other spaces on the bench.

"I don't mind standing," you try. He pinches the back of your knee until you buckle into him, tucked into the cradle of his arms. Your heart pounds in your chest.

"Not lettin' ye sit apart from us," Johnny brushes your cheek, and you look past him to the rest of the people gathered.

Decorated, scarred, hardened warriors. Price joins the group, taking a heavy seat by the man from before - Nik - and exchanging claps on the back. Gaz, a woman with dark hair, but Gaz's soft girl is nowhere to be found.

"Welcome!" Laswell shouts. The hall goes silent. "Drink, eat - celebrate a job well done by our boys."

Eruption; noise all around. She's a carefully controlled, steady woman, yet she's inspired this group of a few hundred into the loudest cacophony you've ever heard.

Simon cups his hands over your ears. You try not to be grateful.

Debauchery. You witness debauchery- drinking beyond your most twisted imagination, dancing surely enough to summon a demon, maybe the devil himself. It's enough to make you pray under your breath, turning away from public displays of affection.

Above you, in front of you, conversation. It doesn't slip your mind how high up on the table Simon and Johnny are, right across from Price and Gaz and next to Laswell at the head of the table.

Even she laughs, imbibes, discusses the distribution of goods with a content sort of smile.

"And the nun?" eyes turn to you. Laswell has focused her gaze on you, sharper than before. "You're satisfied with just her?"

Johnny takes a long pull of his mead, before pressing his shoulder to Simons.

"Thas'right!" he only slurs a little. "Found ourselves a proper little wife, we did."

A chill moves through you. A slow freezing. You tense in Simons lap, spine rigid, heart flipping in your chest. Carefully, you try not to show a reaction.

Wife?

"Och! Sorry, lamb," he turns to you and takes your hands. "Didnae mean to ruin the surprise."

"Quite the surprise," Gaz chirps. His girl has found him, and he's made a place for her beside him. You're jealous of her autonomy, especially now. Taken as prisoner, as spoils, and now?

"You promised," you mumble. "You said you wouldn't."

"What's that, love?" Gaz again, but you aren't listening. Blood rushes through your ears.

"You said you wouldn't force me," you look up now, at Simon and his deeply scarred face. He betrays nothing. "Why lie?"

"Didn't lie," he grunts. "Now be quiet."

"When's that, then?" Price asks.

"Before next summer."

The walk back is silent except for the wet slaps of your feet against the mud. The chill is worse at night, biting at your nose and your fingers. At least your future husband - husbands - don't want you to freeze.

The thought hits you like a boulder, heavy and immovable. You stop walking, drawing the attention of the observant men.

"Too tired?" Johnny asks.

You run.

Or try to, as fast as you can.

It's hard in this terrain, slippery and with the cold burning your cheeks. You have no direction in mind, only obeying the mindless terror coursing through your blood, unleashed by this night of truths.

Simon is the one to catch up to you not ten feet from where you started, grabbing the back of your cape and pulling hard until you fall on your butt.

It hurts, the ground has slowly been freezing with the onset of fall and Simon is not nice as he captures you back.

"Ow," you sniffle, fingers wet and muddy.

"Yeah I bet that hurt," his voice has gone hard. "Where did you think you were going?" a laugh, harsh and grating.

"Didnae mean to scare ye," Johnny says. He helps Simon in dragging you back to to cottage.

"In!" Simon barks when you reach the door. You plant your feet, frustrated tears prickling hot and then falling down your cheeks in heavy droplets. "Stupid girl- get inside."

The insult adds salt to the wound as you stumble onto your hands and knees. Pain lances up your wrists.

"Did'ya think you'd be able to what, survive by yourself?" he scoffs. Johnny helps, but mostly just acts as if you're a doll, in removing your cape and sodden woolen dress.

The shift is wet, too. Less muddy than the dress, but still wet. Johnny slips it over your head and you cross your arms to hide your nakedness, still crying.

"Hey," Simon crouches. He puts his face close to yours, noses touching, eyes deadly. "I didn't lie. We won't force you, you'll come to us."

"You'll go to hell," you're upset now, but it only serves to make them shake their heads and laugh breathily, silently. "You stole me."

"Aye, we did," you're wiped dry by big hands. "And you'll be our wife."

Another slip goes over your head, thin and rough on your skin, well-worn.

"Get in bed."

Johnny listens and brings you with him, wiping the tears from your face as he lays you down. You're as helpless as a lamb.

"If I have any choice," you start. "I won't be your wife, and I won't-"

"Wheesht!" Johnny pulls you to him, hand over your mouth, making room for Simon. His other hand goes over your stomach, squeezing. Warmth surrounds you. "You're overexcited, ye need some rest."

God help you, you're so tired you do.

[charliedawn]

What If You Get Jealous?

Sinners Vampires X Unhinged!Reader

Remmick

Remmick didn’t think much about it. He just talked to that human so they could get directions. He was gonna get rid of them anyway.

But then…he found you—smashing the human’s head to a pulp.

At first, he’s stunned. Eyes glowing faintly crimson in the low light as he watches you slam the blunt end of a chair leg into the poor person’s skull—again, and again, until the sound is more wet squelching than impact. His eyes follow the streaks of blood on your legs and arms as they slowly gather into the red pool beneath your feet. When you stop though, panting, covered in flecks of red, his head tilts slightly. A faint smile curls at his lips.

Then…he laughs.

A deep, rich sound that rolls out of his chest and fills the space between you.

“Ah…mo chuisle…ye were jealous, weren’t ye?”

His boots crunch on bone fragments as he reaches you. One large, cool hand cups your blood-smeared face, thumb brushing tenderly across your cheek. It brushes a splatter of crimson off.

“Look at ye. All covered in red. Panting like an animal. Me beautiful savage.”

His crimson eyes flare as his fangs extend. He’s so damn proud he’s practically glowing. He dips his head, whispering against your ear:

“Next time? Call me over. We’ll kill ‘em together.”

You shiver…But your smile matches his. He then proceeds to lick every single drop of blood off you. Remmick is a dangerous twisted creature—opposites attract is not always true.

Stack

Stack’s hat falls off. Literally. He’d been leaning against a doorway watching, a cigarette dangling from his lips. It drops when you bring the pipe down with a sickening crack.

“Holy shit, baby…”

For a second, he’s frozen—half horrified, half turned on. But when you smirk at him, blood-streaked and triumphant, he grins like a wolf.

“Well, damn…That was hotter than a Georgia summer.”

He saunters over, his tall frame shadowing you as he reaches out. Two long fingers catch your chin, tilting your bloodied face up to meet his gaze.

“C’mere, sugar. Lemme clean that pretty face up.”

He presses a kiss to your lips without hesitation, tasting copper and grinning against your mouth. His hands find your hips as he leans in close.

“Ain’t never been anyone else for me. You really think I’d trade you for them? Hell to the no!”

But later? He brags about it. To EVERYONE.

“Yeah, my baby went full Carrie on some poor bitch. Damn near the sexiest thing I ever seen.”

He winks at you and you smirk. You might be human—but only in name. As far as the pack is concerned? You are as much a member of the family as they are.

Mary

By the time she rounds the corner, there’s already a growing pool of blood beneath your feet. The poor bastard who’d been hanging off Mary earlier—laughing too loud, leaning in too close—now lay motionless, head caved in like a rotten melon. You’re standing over him, chest heaving, your weapon slick with gore. A slow, dangerous smirk spreads across your face as your eyes meet hers.

For a beat, Mary doesn’t say a word. She just stares. Her fangs press into her bottom lip as she watches you—shoulders tight, hands shaking, looking so damn proud of yourself for what you just did.

Then she exhales a long, shaky breath and lets out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Well…ain’t ya just the prettiest sight I ever did see?”

She steps closer—slow, deliberate, heels clicking on the sticky floor. There’s no fear in her eyes, only hunger and heat and something feral she’s never let you see before.

You tilt your head, smirk widening as you let the bloodied weapon clatter to the floor. “He touched ya—with his dirty hands.”

Mary’s grin flashes sharp and wide. “Damn right he did. And you—God, sugar—you didn’t just tell him. You made sure he’ll never forget.”

She’s in front of you now, cupping your face in her blood-slick hands like you’re the most fragile, precious thing in the world. Her thumbs smear streaks of red across your cheeks as her voice drops to a low, trembling whisper. “You love me that much? So much you’d break someone apart over it?”

Your smirk softens just enough to show her—yes. Mary lets out a shaky laugh that catches on a sob, then leans in, pressing her forehead against yours.

“Sweetheart…Ya don’t ever gotta fight for me. But God help me—I’ve never felt so loved.” She kisses you hard, tasting the copper on your lips and groaning into your mouth. When she pulls back, her fangs are down, her pupils blown wide with hunger and something else. “You know jealousy looks real fine on ya, sugar. Like a wild lil’ thing protectin’ their woman.”

She presses her nose into your neck, inhaling deep. “Next time? Don’t ya dare lift a finger. You let me do the dirty work. But tonight…oh, tonight I’m gonna show you just how much I adore my wild lil’ thing.”

Mary doesn’t care about the blood, the mess, or the still-warm body at your feet. She kisses you again, slower this time—hands in your hair, her body pressed flush against yours like she’s trying to merge your souls.

“Mine. To the moon and back, baby. Mine.”

Bo

Bo didn’t flinch once during the whole thing. He watched, dark eyes glittering with something unreadable, arms crossed as your work turned the floor into a crimson canvas.

When you’re done, and you lift your chin with that little victorious smirk?

Oh. He’s smirking too.

“Well, I’ll be damned…I knew there was a wild thing in there somewhere.”

He strolls over, his boots clicking softly. You feel his hand on your chin, tilting your head as if inspecting his prize.

“Jealousy looks good on ya, darlin’. Real good.” Bo leans in close, brushing his lips over yours without fully kissing you. “You wanna remind me I’m yours? Baby, you didn’t have to go through all this trouble. I already know.”

But he grins wider, voice dropping lower.

“Still…I can’t lie. I loved every second of that lil’ show.”

He then helps you get rid of the body. He has had plenty of experience with that. But after that night, he knows better than to make you jealous.

Annie

Annie gasps when she first sees you hit them. She presses her hands to her mouth, her big dark eyes full of shock. But there’s no scream. No rush to stop you. By the time you’re finished, she’s flushed and trembling—not with fear, but with an emotion she doesn’t know how to name. She steps toward you carefully.

“Oh, sugar…what did you do?”

Her voice wavers with concern and awe. She cups your face in both hands despite the blood, her thumbs brushing streaks from your cheeks.

“Were you scared I’d leave ya? Sweetheart, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.” Annie pulls you into her arms, hugging you tightly. “You’ve got me. All of me. Always.”

She helps wipe your hands clean, kisses your forehead softly, and hugs you tight despite the gore.

“Promise me next time you’ll talk to me first, okay? I don’t wanna lose you…”

But deep down? Annie loves how far you’d go for her. She won’t admit how hot it was—at least not right away. But she loves knowing that you’d go to such extent to protect her.

Cornbread

Cornbread bellows a laugh loud enough to shake the walls when he sees you covered in blood.

“WELL, SHIIII—BABY! I DIDN’T KNOW YOU HAD THAT IN YA!” He claps his hands once like it’s the funniest, sexiest thing he’s ever seen. Then he stomps over, grabbing you by the waist and swinging you around in his big arms. “God DAMN, you’re somethin’ else, beautiful. Bashin’ heads in over lil’ ol’ me? I’m lovin’ it, darlin’.”

He peppers kisses across your cheek, your forehead, your nose, chuckling the whole time.

“Ain’t no one takin’ me from ya, sugar. Hell, am not leavin’ this fine piece of ass for nothin’ and no one! Ya know what? I’d get jealous too if anyone even tries lookin’ at what���s mine too hard.”

Bert

The sound of wet crunching was the first thing Bert noticed when he came stumbling out of the bar. He’d left you alone for five minutes—five damn minutes…Bert stops dead in his tracks as he watches you bash the poor soul’s brains out. His jaw hangs slightly open, his eyes bulging out in pure shock. But the second you smirk at him, dripping in red and looking all pleased with yourself, something changes in his gaze.

“Oh…baby.”

He’s on you in a flash—pinning you against the wall and kissing you hard enough to bruise.

“You’re out here defendin’ my honor like a goddamn angel of vengeance. “Baby…Goddamn…I’m so fuckin’ turned on right now it ain’t even funny. I don’t deserve you.” He rests his forehead on yours, fingers digging into your hips. “But I’m so damn greatful you’re mine.”

He presses a sloppy kiss to your cheek, then nips at your ear with his fangs.

“C’mon. Let’s go home. I wanna clean ya up proper…or maybe get ya dirtier first. Either way, I’m gonna show ya just how much I appreciate my scary lil’ sweetheart.”

Joan

Joan had been watching from across the room, her expression unreadable as you tore into the poor fool who thought they could touch what’s yours. When it’s done, she doesn’t move immediately—just blinks slowly like she’s processing it.

Then she grins. Wide. Dangerous. Her fangs gleam in the low light.

“Darlin’…Ya jealous? That’s adorable.”

She walks over, her boots clicking on the tile, and brushes her fingers across your blood-stained cheek.

“Y’know, I don’t much like sharin’. So it’s good to see you don’t either.” Joan leans in, whispering against your ear with a low, teasing laugh. “Next time? Save a lil’ for me. I like playin’ with my food.”

She kisses you sweetly, then licks a drop of blood from your lip.

“God, I love ya. You’re even more dangerous than I am.”

[vaginalvr]

Static, nsfw

unsub!spencer reid x reader

cw: Psychological horror, obsession, dub-con, captivity, edging, smut, dark romance

wc: 4k

a/n Request are open!! (god please someone pay attention to me) I thought to myself why don't I write something disgustingly erotic and here's the result. Enjoy!

The floor creaked behind her.

Not in the ordinary way that floors protest age, but with intent—measured, almost deliberate. That single sound splintered the silence like glass underfoot.

She didn’t turn around. She’d learned that turning around was what he liked.

The room she was kept in wasn’t a dungeon, not technically. There were no chains, no cages, no screaming. It was worse than that. There was soft lighting, stacks of books, a kettle for tea, clean sheets that smelled like cedar and rain. Every comfort carefully curated. Every freedom an illusion.

And Spencer—Spencer was never loud. His madness was quiet, erudite. He spoke like a man reciting poetry in a library. That made everything more terrifying.

“I’ve been watching you,” he said calmly. “The way your thighs clench when you think I’m not looking. The little tremble in your fingers when you hold the mug. You’ve been fantasizing again.”

Her heart beat a frantic rhythm in her chest, but she said nothing.

Spencer’s footsteps approached slowly. Measured. He wore bare feet like a ghost. The cold of his presence pressed into her back before his hands ever did.

“You’re trying so hard to be good,” he murmured near her ear, his breath warm and steady. “I admire that. But I think it’s time we stopped pretending you don’t want what’s coming.”

A delicate hand brushed her hair aside. Fingers like spider legs slid over the pulse at her neck. He hummed as he felt the panic under her skin.

“You know I can read you better than anyone ever could. Every twitch. Every breath. Every betrayal of your body.” His lips barely grazed her jaw. “And I know what your body wants. Even if your mouth says no.”

His words made her stomach twist. She tried to pull away, but he laughed softly.

“Oh, no. No more running.”

She had once tried to fight. It hadn’t gone well.

Spencer wasn’t physically imposing, but he didn’t need to be. He had tranquilizers, locks that only opened by biometric scan, a mind that outpaced hers in every way. She was the puzzle he delighted in solving again and again.

“Lie down,” he said now, voice as casual as asking someone to pass the salt.

When she didn’t move, he sighed, and something in the air shifted. “Do I need to restrain you?”

The silence was thick.

“I want you to make the choice,” he whispered. “Because that’s what makes this beautiful. The moment you give in.”

With shaking hands, she stepped backward and eased onto the bed. It was warm—always warm—and the sheets smelled like him.

He stood at the foot of the bed and looked down at her with a mix of reverence and hunger, like she was both a sacred object and something he wanted to ruin.

His fingers moved to his shirt buttons, slow and methodical. The anticipation in the room crackled like static. She hated how her body responded—how her thighs pressed together instinctively, how heat pooled low in her stomach even as her brain screamed wrong.

“You want to be punished,” he said, tilting his head. “Don’t you? For all the lies you tell yourself. That you don’t like this. That I’m a monster. That you’re just a victim.”

He leaned down, eyes locked with hers.

“Let me show you the truth.”

Spencer's hands were unnaturally gentle. He never rushed. That was part of the torture.

He kissed her neck like he was tasting something rare, fingertips ghosting over her collarbone, down her ribs. His touch was maddening—delicate, teasing, never giving enough. He slid her top off slowly, savoring every inch of revealed skin like it was a page in one of his ancient books.

“You’re already shaking,” he whispered, lips brushing her breastbone. “But not from fear.”

He kissed lower. Took his time. Tongue hot and slow against her navel. One hand pressed her thigh open, the other smoothed up the inside until his thumb grazed the soaked fabric between her legs.

She turned her head away in shame, but he chuckled darkly.

“There it is,” he murmured. “Proof.”

He pulled her underwear aside and dipped his fingers through her folds, deliberately avoiding the spot she needed him most. She arched involuntarily, but he withdrew.

“No,” he said. “Not yet. You’re not ready.”

She whimpered before she could stop herself.

“Oh, you think you want it,” he said, crawling back up her body, dragging his fingertips over her skin. “But you don’t get to come until I say so. You’ll beg. And I’ll deny you. Again. And again. Until your mind is as pliable as your thighs.”

And he did.

His mouth returned with precision. He teased her with lips and tongue, circling but never pressing. She cried out, hips bucking, but he held her down with maddening calm.

Every time she got close—so close—he stopped. Pulled away. Made her wait.

“You’re dripping,” he said softly. “Do you understand how beautiful that is? How much control I have over you, even when you hate me?”

Time bent in that room.

She didn’t know how long he spent between her thighs, pulling her toward the edge again and again, only to drag her back with maddening cruelty. Her skin was slick with sweat, her body trembling, mind fragmented from the overstimulation and denial.

Spencer’s voice was always the same—low, reverent, composed.

“You’re fighting so hard,” he murmured against her inner thigh. “But your body gave up hours ago. It knows what it needs. What I give it.”

He licked a long, slow line between her folds, savoring her. Then he stopped again—completely.

She let out a strangled cry of frustration.

His mouth curled in something between a smirk and worship. “Good girl.”

Those two words shattered something inside her.

Her back arched involuntarily. A sob broke from her throat. She didn’t even know what she was pleading for anymore—release, escape, maybe both.

“I can see it now,” he whispered, crawling up over her. “The surrender. You’re cracking open for me.”

His hand gripped her jaw, tilting her face toward his.

“I don’t want the mask,” he hissed. “I want what’s underneath. The part that aches. The part that wants me.”

His mouth crashed into hers.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was savage—like he was devouring her.

His hips pressed into hers and she felt the hard weight of him, thick and flushed against her thigh. He rubbed against her slit without entering, letting the heat and pressure send shockwaves through her.

“Beg.”

She didn’t.

He slid forward just enough for her to feel the blunt tip push at her entrance—then stopped.

“Beg,” he repeated, slower.

Silence.

He slid just the tip inside her, stretching her agonizingly slow.

Her breath hitched.

“Just say it. Say you want me to fuck you. That you need it.”

Her body burned. She hated him. She hated herself more for how close she was, for how her hips rolled on instinct, trying to pull him deeper.

“Please,” she whispered finally, voice hoarse and cracked.

His whole body stilled. A shudder passed through him, like he’d been waiting years to hear that word in her voice.

Then he pushed in—all of him.

She cried out, half in pain, half in something else. He was thick and deep, filling her to the point of breaking. His hips didn’t move yet—he just stayed there, buried inside her, panting against her throat.

“You feel that?” he murmured, almost tender. “How perfectly you fit me?”

He began to move. Slow at first. Deep, precise thrusts that forced her to feel every inch of him.

Her nails dug into his back, legs tightening around his hips. Every drag of his cock hit something devastating. She wasn’t thinking anymore. She wasn’t anything except sensation.

“You’re close again,” he said, reading her like a map. “But you don’t come until I do.”

He pulled nearly all the way out, then slammed back in. She cried out again.

“Do you understand?” he said, rhythm brutal now. “You. Come. When. I. Say.”

She was gone. Mind wiped clean. Body writhing, every nerve on fire.

Then—finally—he pressed his mouth to her ear and growled, “Now.”

She shattered.

Her orgasm tore through her like an earthquake, body convulsing under his as a scream ripped from her lungs. It went on and on, wave after wave of unbearable release.

He came with a groan, hips grinding into hers as he spilled deep, teeth buried in her shoulder.

They collapsed together, breath tangled, skin slick.

Silence returned slowly. The kind that made ears ring.

Spencer didn’t move. He stayed inside her, like he was afraid she’d disappear if he let go.

His hand brushed through her hair with terrifying tenderness.

“I knew you’d be perfect,” he whispered. “I knew the moment I saw you.”

Her eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. There was no room left for tears.

“I’m never letting you go,” he added, as if he were saying something simple. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

She didn’t answer.

His lips pressed to her temple, warm and claiming.

“Good girl.”

[fireside-fanfics]

In the Heat of Us

warnings: SMUTTIEST thing I’ve ever written (mdi); fingering; handjob; oral (f!receiving); multiple orgasms (f!receiving); pnv (wrap it before you tap it); there’s so much love and adoration it’ll give you a toothache from being so sweet

The morning light spilled softly over the edges of the sheets, warm and golden, the kind that made everything feel slower and sweeter. Sunny sat cross-legged on the bed, Joaquin’s hoodie swallowed up around her like a cocoon, her damp hair twisted into a towel. Joaquin had gone to grab her a bagel from the mess downstairs, but she'd wandered into the bathroom while he was gone to steal a better look at herself—because she felt different. 

And there, in the mirror, was why. Half-moon bruises dotted the curves of her thighs. Faint red crescents on her hips. Her neck—God, her neck. She turned slightly, dragging the hoodie off one shoulder, and flushed at the sight of it. The marks were unmistakable. Big hands had held her down, careful but commanding. His lips had found every inch of her. He’d been sweet and soft and reverent—until she begged him not to be.

Now, all those love bites were evidence. They ached in a delicious way, and the more she looked, the warmer her cheeks grew. She bit her lip, legs squeezing at the sight. A sound behind her made her spin. Joaquin froze in the doorway, a paper bag in one hand, two coffees in the other—his jaw slack. His eyes dropped to her shoulder, then dipped lower, following the exposed skin. He saw the bruises and his throat visibly bobbed with a swallow.

“Fuck,” Joaquin hissed, just that one word, low and reverent.

Sunny tugged the hoodie up over her shoulder again, but too late. His eyes were fixated intently on her, setting the bag and coffee down on the desk without looking away.

“You seein’ ‘em too?” she asked, a little too breathless—a little too bold.

Joaquin’s gaze lingered on her exposed skin, slow and deliberate. First her neck where a cluster of deep, purple-tinged crescent marks trailed along the curve below her jawline, each one a silent signature of last night’s hunger. Then down to her collarbone, where a scattering of faint, overlapping impressions from his lips and teeth created a delicate, mottled pattern like a whispered claim. Finally, his eyes roamed over the bruises blooming in varying shades across both of her thighs—dozens of spots, from soft purples to fiery reds, bold and undeniable evidence of every heated moment they’d shared.

His jaw clenched, muscles tightening as if holding back something fierce and tender all at once.

“You look like mine,” he growled, voice low, rough around the edges—possessive but not in a way that made her feel trapped. Rather, like a quiet promise.

Sunny’s breath hitched, heart beating fast. The words slipped from her mouth before she could stop them: “I am yours.”

The confession came too easily, too naturally. Her cheeks flamed with heat, her eyes darting away for a fraction of a second before finding him again, vulnerable but sure. Joaquin didn’t move at first, just stood there, the space between them charged with everything neither had dared to say out loud before. Then, with those same long strides that had chased away every fear since they were kids, he closed the distance until he was right in front of her.

Sunny flushed a brilliant red, heart thudding as he closed the space between them. He was so close now—close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, smell the faint trace of his cologne mixed with something distinctly him. Her breath caught as Joaquin reached up, hands steady and sure. His hands moved to the towel around her hair, fingers brushing her skin, and it was like every nerve in her body jumped to attention.

God, why did this feel so intimate? Sunny wondered. It was just a towel, just her hair—but the way he unwrapped it, slow and focused, like it mattered, like she mattered—her knees nearly buckled. The towel slipped away and dropped to the floor, forgotten. Then his fingers slid into her damp hair, combing gently through the strands like he had all the time in the world. She didn’t dare speak, didn’t dare move. If she blinked too fast, she was afraid she’d wake up.

She has no idea what she does to me, Joaquin thought, letting his thumb brush just behind her ear. She looks at me like she trusts me with everything—and God, I hope she’s right. He forced himself to slow down, to stay grounded, but everything about her—her scent, her nearness, the quiet way she leaned into his touch—made it nearly impossible. He didn’t just want her. He felt her and it scared the hell out of him.

“Say somethin’ sassy, baby,” he murmured. “I need the full Sunny experience.”

“I thought I already rocked your world last night, Torres,” she smirked, lips twitching with a tease. “You wanna go again so soon?”

Joaquin groaned. God, that mouth. That wit. That fire.

“Every time you talk, I fall in love with you a little harder,” he muttered, not really thinking, just feeling.

But Sunny froze; her body stilled, eyes locked on Joaquin like she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right. Realization hit Joaquin like a punch to the chest. His eyes widened, and the words started tumbling out in a panic.

“Shit. That’s not—I didn’t mean to say that out loud. I was just—damn, I meant it—I really fuckin’ meant it, but I just didn’t mean to say it. Not like this—not when I’m eye fuckin’ you. I wanted it to be romantic, perfect...”

His voice trailed off, and there was a pregnant pause as Sunny watched him. She was overwhelmed with how cute he was acting right now. It might not have been the way he meant to tell her. It might not have been the most opportune moment, but it was real—and it was so him. And she wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

Sunny reached up, cupped his cheek softly, and leaned in just enough for their foreheads to touch. Her other hand lingered on his chest and her voice was quiet but warm as she broke the silence: “You don’t have to say it perfectly. Just say it. I’m listening... you love me, Quino?”

Joaquin hesitated, but only for a heartbeat. There was no escaping this moment, no running from her—not now—not ever.

“Yeah,” he confessed, voice firm now. “Yeah, I do. I think I’ve loved you since you stole my Cheetos in the third grade and told me I was your favorite idiot.”

She laughed, all breathy and bright. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. “That was the best snack trade I ever made.”

Then her lips met his—soft and tentative at first, shy like a secret just between them. Quickly, that sweetness deepened into something hotter, wetter, more urgent. The air around them seemed to thicken, charged with a tension that made his pulse spike. Joaquin groaned low in his throat as her hands slipped beneath his shirt, nails tracing slow, teasing paths across the planes of his abs. Sunny’s touch was feather-light but insistent, sparking fire wherever her fingers roamed.

His hands found her waist, pulling her closer, the heat of her body pressing into his like a magnet he never wanted to resist. Every brush of her lips, every glide of her hands, sent waves of need crashing through him. Breath mingling, hearts pounding, they lost themselves in the moment—raw, desperate, and completely undone.

“You sure, baby?” he rasped, even though he was already pulling her closer.

“You put this on me,” she teased, lifting the hem of the hoodie to show another set of purple-tinged imprints on her hip. “You think I’m not gonna ask for more?”

That’s all it took. He lifted her up, kissing her with the hunger of a man who had been starving for years without realizing it. She wrapped her legs around his waist like second nature—because it was second nature. They were muscle memory, all tangled up in history and tension and love.

He laid her out on the bed, peeled the hoodie off her, and paused—just to look, just to appreciate. His fingers ghosted over the bruises again, then dipped lower, teasing, worshipful.

“Gonna make you feel it all over again,” Joaquin said, voice hoarse, low and reverent.

And he did. Clothes became nothing but obstacles, slipping away until skin met skin, warm and slick with the heat of their desire. Joaquin’s hands roamed with reverence and need, tracing the curve of her thighs, the small of her back, holding her as if she were the most precious thing in the world. 

His hands traced slow, deliberate paths along her skin, each touch igniting a trail of fire that made her shiver. He moved with a patient hunger, exploring every inch of her body like he was memorizing her all over again. His lips followed the path of his hands—soft kisses at first, gentle nips along her jaw, the curve of her neck, and down to the hollow of her collarbone. She melted against him, breath hitching as his fingers slipped beneath the hem of her shirt, grazing the sensitive skin of her ribs. 

The slow pace made every moment stretch, every touch linger—each second building a tension that pulsed between them like electricity. Then the rhythm shifted—still slow but heavier now, more urgent. Joaquin’s hands gripped her waist firmly, pulling her closer as their bodies aligned perfectly. His lips found hers again, and this time the kiss was deeper, fiercer—tongues teasing and tasting, hungry and demanding.

Sunny tangled her fingers in his hair, clutching him as if holding on was the only thing keeping her grounded. His breath was hot against her skin as he pressed harder, hips rolling with deliberate strength, setting a rhythm that was slow but powerful. Every movement was charged with passion, raw and tender all at once. The way he touched her—both with fire and care—made her feel like she was unraveling, piece by piece. Moans escaped her lips, soft at first, then growing louder, mingling with his deep groans.

His fingers moved with slow, deliberate precision, tracing every curve and hollow like he was memorizing her by touch alone. He took his time, teasing and exploring her most sensitive places, and when he finally slipped his fingers inside her, his eyes locked on hers—dark, intent—like he needed to see every flutter of her lashes, every shiver in her breath, every reaction unfold in real time. Sunny gasped when he found the perfect rhythm, his fingers moving with a patient, confident touch that revealed just how well he knew her body and how deeply he craved to know it even more.

Every stroke built on the last, steady and unrelenting, drawing soft cries from her lips as tension coiled tighter in her core. Her back arched, her fingers fisting the sheets, breath stuttering as wave after wave of pleasure rolled through her until her body trembled with release, his name the only thing she could manage to say. His mouth found her next, warm and hungry, lips and tongue worshiping every inch with reverence and need. 

Joaquin spread her thighs wider with firm hands, settling between them like it was where he belonged. His tongue dragged a slow, deliberate stripe through her folds before circling her clit with maddening focus, teasing until her hips bucked toward him on instinct. He groaned into her, the sound vibrating through her core as he tasted her, messy and unashamed, like she was his favorite thing in the world.

“God, you taste so fuckin’ sweet, baby,” he rasped between strokes, his voice thick and wrecked with want. “Years with you, and I still can’t get enough—been addicted to you for years, baby.”

Sunny gasped, locking her legs around his head, voice thick with heat as she managed to gasp, “Yeah? Then don’t ever stop.”

Then he dove back in without hesitation, mouth fierce and unrelenting, tongue tracing every sensitive spot as he slid two fingers deep inside her, curling them just right. Her thighs started to shake around his head, hands tangling in his hair to steady herself while the pressure inside her spun wildly out of control.

“Joa—fuck—don’t stop!” Sunny whimpered loudly, breathless and wrecked, her voice breaking on every word.

Encouraged by her reaction, Joaquin moaned against her dripping cunt and doubled down—sucking gently, licking in tight circles until she shattered beneath him. Her whole body arched, thighs clenching tightly around his head as her orgasm tore through her like lightning, her cry of his name echoing off the walls. Joaquin didn’t stop right away. He lapped up every last bit of her release, slow and tender, letting her ride out every last wave.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were slick, jaw tense, and eyes dark with awe and pure fucking adoration.

“You should see yourself,” he whispered, voice low and reverent. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful when you come for me.”

Sunny blinked down at him, flushed and breathless, her chest still heaving. A shaky, blissed-out smile broke across her face as her fingers threaded through his hair.

But Joaquin wasn’t done yet—not even close. Beneath him, her body shuddered gently; her hips and thighs pulsing with slow, languid twitches from the aftershock of two incredibly strong orgasms back to back. Joaquin pressed his cheek softly against her knee, breathing in the warmth of her skin as his eyes drank in every curve, every sigh. He lingered there a heartbeat longer, savoring the quiet between their racing pulses, before his lips began a slow, reverent trail.

Without hesitation, he plunged back in—his mouth fierce and demanding. His tongue flicked rapidly over her swollen clit, tracing fiery, teasing circles that sent sparks straight to her core. He sucked gently, then with increasing pressure, drawing soft, desperate moans from her lips. His mouth explored every sensitive ridge and fold, flicking and teasing with skillful precision, alternating between slow, languid licks and sharp, eager nips that made her shiver. He pressed his lips firmly against her, creating a wet, heated seal that left her breathless.

At the same time, his middle and ring fingers slid deep inside her, slick and sure. They curled upward, angling precisely to brush against the thick bundle of nerves nestled within, stretching her just enough to tease every inch of pleasure from her body. His fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles, then quickened into a relentless rhythm—rolling and stroking, pressing and pulsing—always finding the exact spots that made her hips jerk and her breath catch. Every curl, every thrust of his fingers was mirrored by his tongue’s fiery dance above, the combination sending waves of overwhelming sensation crashing through her until she was gasping and crying out, utterly undone.

Sunny was a moaning, babbling mess beneath him—her words falling out in incoherent gasps and whispers, her body thrashing wildly as she fought to stay grounded. Her hands were wound tight in his hair, pulling him closer, desperate to feel more of him. Sometimes her cries rose to half-screams, raw and trembling, mixing with the wet sounds of his mouth and fingers working her over—soft, sloppy slurps followed by a slick, rhythmic squelching that echoed with every slick glide and press. The sound of her soaking folds parting and pressing wetly against his lips and fingers filled the room, a constant, delicious reminder of just how drenched she was for him.

Joaquin’s eyes darkened with hunger and arousal at the sight and sound of her unraveling. Each desperate moan and trembling shudder turned him on more, the raw need pouring from her igniting a fierce fire inside him. He shifted slightly, hips grinding down hard against the sheets, the fabric of his boxers doing nothing to dull the ache building between his legs. The slick heat of her dripping folds, the intoxicating scent of her arousal, and the helpless, desperate way she clung to him pushed him over the edge.

He started to hump the bed, slow and heavy at first, then faster, harder—his boxers tightening as he drove himself against the mattress. The wet, squelching sound of her soaking wetness sliding and pressing against his mouth and fingers mixed with the loud smack of his hips against the sheets, creating a symphony of raw need and pleasure that filled the room. His fingers and mouth didn’t falter, continuing their relentless assault, the combination driving her closer and closer to the edge again and again.

Sunny’s breath hitched, chest rising and falling in ragged gasps as her muscles tensed impossibly tight. A deep, guttural cry tore from her throat—the sound raw, desperate, and utterly vulnerable. Her hips jerked up sharply, thighs shaking and trembling around his head. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as her body shuddered with the force of her third orgasm. It rolled through her like a storm, waves of release crashing relentlessly, her pussy gripping his fingers and soaking his mouth with need.

Even as the tremors coursed through her, Joaquin held nothing back—his tongue traced slow, teasing circles as his fingers continued their insistent, curling dance, coaxing every last drop of pleasure from her quivering body. She was utterly undone, lost to the sensation, riding the relentless waves until she finally collapsed, breathless and spent, a glowing haze of satisfaction settling over her, every nerve ending alight as waves of release rolled through her again and again. 

When he finally drew back, his lips glistened, jaw tight with tension, and his eyes burned with awe and fierce, unfiltered adoration. Sunny trembled beneath him, finally still, and Joaquin traced a trail of slow, tender kisses up her body—lingering on her thighs, hips, and stomach before reaching the delicate curve of her neck. His gaze locked with hers, a slow, knowing smile curling his lips as he drank in the soft haze of satisfaction that shrouded her face.

“You should see yourself,” Joaquin whispered, voice low and reverent. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful when you come for me.”

Sunny’s eyes fluttered open slowly, lashes brushing against flushed cheeks as her breath caught deep in her throat. Her chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven gasps, each inhale and exhale trembling with the remnants of their shared heat. A shaky, blissful smile curved her lips, soft and tender, as her fingers found their way into the thick strands of his hair, curling and tangling possessively.

She pulled him closer, claiming him with a fierce, hungry kiss that tasted of longing and need, their mouths moving together with desperate urgency. Her hands gripped his hair and the back of his neck, holding him tight as if anchoring them both to this moment. His hands pressed firmly on either side of her head, steadying his balance as he hovered above her, muscles taut and trembling, barely able to keep himself upright.

His hips jerked in sudden, unsteady movements, faltering for a heartbeat as raw desire waged war inside him. Then, with a shuddering groan deep in his throat—a sound thick with need and release—his lower body sank fully onto hers. The impact was electric, a surge of fire and want that coursed between them. A curse slipped from his lips, low and ragged, carrying a heat that sent shivers rippling across their skin.

A soft, vulnerable whimper escaped Sunny’s parted lips as she arched instinctively into him, every nerve alive and humming with pleasure. Her hand slid down, finding him without hesitation, wrapping around his length in slow, deliberate strokes that stoked the fire blazing inside him. Joaquin’s hips twitched involuntarily to her touch with a need that was both desperate and reverent. As Sunny’s hand moved over him with steady, deliberate strokes, all the walls he’d tried to build around his control crumbled. 

Joaquin’s breath hitched sharply, then spilled out in ragged gasps that echoed softly in the quiet room. His mouth opened, releasing a string of low, guttural moans that grew louder and more desperate with every stroke. He wasn’t holding back—no, not anymore. His body betrayed him completely, hips twitching and jerking instinctively in time with her touch, as if his muscles had a mind of their own. Each flick of her fingers drew out another breathless gasp, a rough grunt, or a soft whimper that slipped from his throat, raw and unfiltered. 

Joaquin didn’t hold back—no longer fighting the flood of sound that poured from deep inside him. His head fell forward against her breasts, eyes fluttering shut, lips parting to let out a deep, throaty groan that vibrated through his chest. His hips jerked and twitched involuntarily, trying to match the rhythm she set, muscles taut with pleasure. Sunny’s hand moved with slow, confident strokes, and all restraint shattered in him like glass breaking. His breath hitched sharply, then spilled out in ragged, desperate gasps that filled the quiet room.

“Fuck, Sunny!” Joaquin groaned loudly, voice rough and ragged, thick with raw need. 

His head tipped back, eyes fluttering closed as his lips parted to release a deep, throaty moan that vibrated through his chest. Joaquin bit down on his lip, but the pleasure overwhelmed him; he couldn’t stop the cries, couldn’t silence the shivers racing through his body.

“God, you feel so good, Sunny,” he gasped between moans, fingers twitching in her hair as if to anchor himself to her. “Don’t stop—please, baby, don’t stop.”

Joaquin’s body trembled, each stroke sending jolts of fire through him that made his hips stutter and falter. His breaths came in ragged pants, punctuated by sharp grunts and low whimpers, the sound of him unraveling under her touch.

“You’re killing me,” he whispered, voice thick with need and wonder, “I can’t—God, I’m gonna lose it.”

Joaquin’s moans spilled freely now—loud, urgent, desperate—each one a raw confession of the pleasure coursing through him. His hands gripped her tighter, one resting at the nape of her neck, the other tangled in her hair, as if holding her close could keep him from falling apart entirely.Then, with a shaky breath, he gently but firmly placed a hand over hers, stopping her motion. His eyes met hers, dark and heavy with longing and reverence.

“Not yet,” he murmured, voice husky. “I need to be inside you—right here, right now.”

He shifted slowly, his hips sinking fully onto hers, the deep connection between them sending a fresh rush of heat spiraling through his veins. The room filled with the soft symphony of their mingled breaths and quiet groans, a new rhythm beginning as he finally found the place where he belonged. Sunny smiled up at him—soft and radiant, eyes shimmering with trust and desire. 

Her free hand trailed up his side, traveling across his back and sweeping over his shoulders before tangling gently in his hair. Meanwhile, her other hand—still wrapped firmly around him—guided him inside her with slow, deliberate precision. The slick heat of her cunt pressed invitingly against him, and she helped ease him deeper with small, encouraging movements. Joaquin sank into her with a slow, reverent groan, like coming home after a lifetime away. Their eyes met and held, everything else fading to silence except the soft gasps, the shared breath, the sound of skin against skin.

The subtle friction, the mingling of their warmth, and the slow, deliberate connection sent a shiver of pleasure rippling through both of them. Every inch that slid inside was met with a welcoming squeeze, a silent promise of shared surrender and intimacy. Her breath hitched softly against his skin, her body opening to him as they moved together, finally complete in their closeness. Every subtle shift sent waves of fire coursing through them, the slick glide of skin against skin igniting nerves that burned with exquisite intensity. Joaquin’s movements were slow and deliberate, each one coaxing a deeper response, the gentle pressure inside her a promise that echoed with every pulse. 

Sunny trembled beneath him, muscles tightening instinctively around him, drawing him closer, holding him like a secret she never wanted to let go. Her breath came in soft, uneven pants, the warmth of it brushing against his collarbone, sending ripples of heat spiraling through his body. His hands roamed carefully, tracing the curves of her breasts, memorizing the way her skin quivered under his touch. The way her fingers clung to his hair, her nails lightly grazing his scalp, made his breath catch—each sensation a spark setting his senses ablaze. 

The slow rise and fall of their bodies blended together, a rhythmic dance of need and tenderness. Every movement echoed a silent conversation: a gasp here, a shudder there, a tightening grip, a soft tremble. The pulse of their connection thrummed through them, raw and unfiltered. Time stretched and folded around them, the outside world fading until only the hum of their shared pleasure remained. Their bodies moved in harmony, a perfect balance of giving and receiving, the depth of their closeness, a physical and emotional surrender that left them both breathless and utterly alive.

Sunny came with a soft cry, her whole body arching into his as he slowed to ride her through it, kissing her temple, her jaw, whispering how beautiful she was, how good she felt, how much he loved her. But Joaquin didn’t stop. Her body was still fluttering around him when he picked up the pace, deeper now, harder—his hands gripping her thighs, anchoring them together as he chased that edge again.

“Quino!” she gasped, voice breaking, nails digging into his back. “Too sensitive—Joaquin, I can’t—”

“Let go for me again,” he whispered, forehead resting against hers, eyes wild and tender all at once. “One more time, baby. I’ve got you.”

Sunny didn’t think she could, but she did—shaking, breathless, moaning his name as she broke beneath him. Joaquin followed just after, groaning into her neck, hands trembling where they clutched the pillow and the curve of her hip, coming hard with a whispered curse and a kiss to her shoulder, like she was the only thing anchoring him to earth. They stayed tangled like that for a long moment: their foreheads pressed together, hearts pounding in perfect sync, neither one speaking because there was nothing else to say.

It was all there between them: in the fierce heat and the tender softness, the unspoken promises woven through every touch. In the way he gently brushed the stray hair from her cheek, his fingers lingering as he smiled down at her with quiet adoration. In the way her eyes, wide and shimmering, searched his face as if he had just handed her the stars themselves. Amid the mess of tangled limbs, ragged breaths, and whispered names, the world shrank to just the two of them. And then, fragile and trembling, her voice broke through the haze—soft, accidental, yet carrying a truth too undeniable to ignore.

“I love you.”

For a heartbeat, Joaquin froze, suspended in the weight of those words, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that left them both breathless.

“Say it again,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion.

“I love you, Joaquin Torres,” Sunny repeated, her voice steady, her smile soft and radiant—like saying it had set something free inside her.

“Took you long enough,” Joaquin teased,  then leaned in, his tone turning quiet and reverent. “I love you too, Sunny. So damn much.”

He said it like a prayer, like it had weight. Then, he captured her mouth in a kiss that was more than desire—it was a vow, a sealing of promises whispered long before but only now spoken aloud. This time, the love marks they left on each other weren’t just traces of passion or lust. They were the marks of a deeper bond—an unbreakable promise that they would carry with them forever.

[kifkay]

I love when magic has an effect on the body & soul of its caster. like!! you don’t get to be a reality-bending demi-god and walk away with no strings attached. there’s always a price.

Bloom’s dragon fire consumes her from the inside, leaving lightning-like tissues of scars along her limbs - be careful, rumbles the Great Dragon from within, don’t let your emotions consume you. Bloom wails from the pain and clutches whoever is in the vicinity - but cannot fully stop it. just prevent it or treat the aftermath.

Musa gets migraines. Stella becomes ill when she doesn’t get her daily dose of sunshine. Aisha’s senses get muddy sometimes, almost as if she’s submerged underwater. Nabu experiences uncontrollable tremors in his arms, when he creates too many of his phantoms. all of those are - yes, horrible to experience but manageable enough for the school (and the Magic community at large) to tell them to just suck it up and weather through.

once you get your enchantix though, you start developing… unique abilities. almost like, in achieving the final fairy form, you became one with your brand of magic.

Bloom starts producing smoke. Like - she snorts at something funny Riven or Sky say, and literal puffs of smoke emerge from her nose. It’s jarring at first (“Bloom Peters, when did you start smoking? do you know that it kills??”) but quickly becomes endearing once they realise it’s not life-threatening in any way (after speed-running through like fifteen Magix apothecaries). Among her other ‘oddities’: too hot to cuddle with (only Stella can stand the high temperature, since she has a resistance to heat), becomes strangely overprotective and a little possessive, her eyes sometimes become a startling orange hue as if she’s embodied by the great dragon himself (it’s just a party trick).

Stella becomes more ethereal. In certain lights, her skin looks translucent - like a mirage weaved with moonlight. Her hair glints in the sun, almost too bright to like at; her touch feels phantom-like. She becomes even more beautiful, but less - human, earth-bound, Stella-esque. A curse and a blessing, that one.

Musa’s hearing gets really fucking good. She has a steadily growing dossier of blackmail on every student in Alfea - simply because shut doors or longer distances are no longer obstacles for her. It’s annoying too, because she can’t exactly turn it off - and now she gets to hear all the things people say about her, behind her. but here’s a consolation - she can influence other creature’s emotions through the melodies she hums! like how in canon, she pacified the bird Roc and brought mirth to the arguing fairies.

Flora gets much sturdier. Her skin harder than bark; her body able to withstand thirst and hunger for much longer than the rest. It’s honestly so intimidating. Here’s this sweet young woman — known to cry for trampled flowers and cut weeds!! — absolutely bodying a sharp ass ice shard that Icy attacked her with. It just — crumbles upon colliding with Flora’s body. insane and frankly so so hot for others to see.

As per the negatives… I like the idea of Flora being able to connect to the memories of nature around her and literally absorb the pain/fear/anguish of whatever she witnessed.

Aisha and Bloom are similar, in a sense that both of them are vessels to primordial divinities of their universe — Bloom is the holder of the Dragon Flame, and Aisha is the child of the Infinite Ocean. therefore, both experience a more extreme transformation than their girl friends. like, Aisha’s dreams are infiltrated by visions of past and future; memories of those who were lost to the Ocean. she dreams of Politea, of Tritanus, of her mer cousins and ancestors, and even those who were not yet born. if Aisha was not so mentally wilful, she might’ve folded under the weight of those prophesies.

Aisha can also breathe under water and her body gets the musculature it needs to be on par with her mer cousins while swimming, because why the fuck not?

Tecna - I frankly have no ideas for and would love to hear suggestions!

[jr-acrux101]

Soldat's Kin PT.2

Summary: He's alive but different. PT.1 Warnings: dark fic, kidnapping, no direct smut Word count: 4.6k Глупый - stupid Вверх - up Полоска - strip Симпатичный - pretty h/l - hair length береги её - keep her safe E/C-eye color H/C- hair color Сидеть - sit Кошка - cat Иди сюда - come here Зайчик - bunny

2024 -New York City

Sam scanned the battle field, looking for any survivors. The buildings were destroyed, half crumbled while others completely gone. He pulled up the screen attached to his wrist, he scanned, slowly, making sure to assess every pile of rubble. Before he decided to shut it off, he saw warmth emitting from the grabble. It was small; child-like. He rushed over, throwing the rocks off the small boy. He grabbed the child, not paying attention to his face, just trying to do his best to not hurt the body. 

“Jamie!” A woman appeared, eyes red, face full of sorrow. 

You cleared more of the rocks, as Sam was able to pull the boy fully out. He laid him carefully, the scanner gave full body heat; he checked the pulse, it was strong. He turned to the boy's face, and saw… Bucky Junior. 

He watched you hover over the kid, desperation evident in your tone, “Jamie? Jamie!”

The young boy emitted a groan, showing he could hear you. “Oh thank god,” you bawled, one hand clutching your chest, relief in your veins. You drew a shaky breath as you turned to Sam, grabbing his hands in yours, “Thank you so much. Thank you.” Your voice was shaky, your heart still lost in fear.

“You don’t have to thank me ma’am.” 

You nodded furiously, ready to talk, when a soft voice was heard, “Mom?”

Eyes wide, you turned your attention to your son, “I’m here. I’m here Jamie.” Hugging the boy, as he gained further consciousness. Sam gave a soft pat on the shoulder, along with a nod, before walking away.

‘That kid looks like it could be Buck’s twin.’ His mind went to Zemos, and Bucky’s devoid of emotion, at that moment. He turned to see you with your son, still there helping him slowly get up, ‘She looks too normal… too nice.’ He watched as you dusted the debris of your son, long h/c hair in a braid, eyes full of love - something Hydra agents lacked. 

It ate at the back of his mind for weeks, before he finally asked something, “Hey Buck?” The park was full, as the two grabbed lunch.

Bucky paused, mid-bite, eyebrows furrowed, “What?”

“When,” he hesitated, what if he was wrong.

The man with the metal arm seemed to know what the question would be about, “What about Hydra Sam?”

“Did they- like, make you do other things besides killing?” The words were heavy as the atmosphere turned tense.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his right arm fixing his hair, “Why the sudden interest?”

Sam looked away in the distance, taking in the park square, “I saw a boy who looked like you.”

The ex-Winter Soldier paused, “That can mean anything, people have like 10 doppelgangers in their life.”

“I don't know Buck, that kid is like the spitting image of you. The only thing that was different was his eyes, they were e/c.” 

Bucky's mind flashed his with an image of e/c eyes, red from crying. “So what, you think one of the orders I had when I was the winter soldier resulted in a hydra spawn.”

“I don't know about hydra spawn, the women looked sweet. But you know what they say, looks can be deceiving.”

“None of them would want- they were all power hungry women with no compassion for kids. Plus I was a lowly soldat, they probably wouldn't have kept the kid.” Bucky avoided eye contact, only moving his food around, hunger disappeared.

Sam nodded, the solemn mood growing too heavy for each other's comfort. Sometimes, often, the universe liked to prove that it was full of humor. “Jamie! Come back here!” There you were, holding an ice cream cone.

A young boy came cycling towards his mother, lo and behold to Bucky, there was the boy who was the spitting image of him. Sam’s eyes widened, he quietly whispered, “That’s her! That's the kid!” Bucky just stared, the boy was his twin; except, just like Sam had said, his eyes were e/c.

He started to gain a migraine. He stared and stared until they were passing them by. He heard a laugh drop from your lips, “Jamie come one, quit being silly and eat your ice cream. This is the only place that sells pancakes and syrup.” The two men turned to one another, upon hearing the child's name and favorite flavor. Bucky was a sucker for pancakes.

The child nodded to you, putting the training bike next to the bench. He sat finally, politely asking for his ice cream. You smiled at the boy, sitting next to him. Breathing in a deep breath of air, you felt eyes on your figure. Looking up, there were ocean blue eyes of the man with the metal arm. The two of you made eye contact, and suddenly you were back in hydra’s base; being dragged to your daily session with soldat.

Bucky internally flinched, the look of terror was evident on your face, he was no stranger to that look. Whilst it never crossed Sam’s name before, it dawned on him the roles could also be reversed. Before he could stop his friend, Bucky was out of the chair heading towards the mother and son. Sam narrowly missed Bucky. Your breath was caught in your throat, here was the father of your child; The Winter Soldier. “Soldat.” It was a whisper that Bucky caught, it heartbreakingly confirmed his suspicions.

The little boy took his attention away from his ice cream, seeing the man all clad in black and another in simple outing attire; plaid button up and jeans. The boy stared at the dark skin man before recognition set, “You’re the Falcon! That means you’re the Winter Soldier!” The boy jumped up off the bench, forgetting he had ice cream. Splat. It laid on the floor, as the child stared at flatten ice cream, tears welling up. He gasped through his sobs, “Mommy..m-my… ice… cream…”

Before you could react, Bucky lowered his height to match the 4 year old, “Hey it’s okay, I’ll get you a new one. It’s our fault for distracting you.” 

The boy calmed down, his sobbing turned into sniffles, his face turning less blotchy red, “Promise?”

He held out a pinky, which Bucky held out his own, “Promise.” The little pouty lip turned into a toothy white smile. You watched the scene, this man didn’t seem like the Winter Soldier. Sam watched your reaction, you were more calm.

Sam made his way towards you, “If you want I can take your son to the ice cream shop, while you talk to Bucky.”

E/c eyes snapped to brown, “Bucky? I thought his name was James.”

“He likes to use his nickname.” 

Hesitantly nodding, she stared at the man a bit more, “You’re the hero that rescued him?”

He held out his hand, “Sam Wilson, or as your son called me, The Falcon.”

She shakily took his hand, “Y/n L/n. Okay, well um-his flavor was blueberry pancake.”

Sam nodded, giving a little smile: in the back of his mind, that name rang a bell. “Okay so the little man likes that pancake flavor.” Jamie’s eyes snapped to Sam, excitingly nodding his head. Sam gave a laugh, “Alright, come on, I’ll buy you a new one.” The boy jumped for joy, taking Sam's hand and giving his mom a gummy smile.

Bucky sat down in the empty seat next to you. Muscles flinched as he did, your eyes trained on the shoes of people walking by. The man clenched his jaw before he spoke, “I’m sorry.” You didn't speak, so he continued, “I… I don’t remember even that happened in the base, with the torture, cryogenesis and… brain wash. I remembered everyone I killed but being in that basement is… fuzzy to me. I’m sorry for what I did and I am sorry for not remembering all of it. Most of the memories I have are only your eyes crying.”

You slowly faced him, as he was already seeking you, “I forgive you,” his mouth dropped as his eyes widened, “You spoke as someone who was under control, always about the ‘mission to procreate,’ I… I got help, therapy; 2 times a week. Even though my therapist said I didn’t have to forgive you, I wanted to. You were trapped there, just like me. Plus, I’ve always been a crier, so most remember me that way.” You gave an awkward laugh, uncomfortable with the past being brought to light. ‘I liked it,’ Bucky clenched his jaw again as the thought from his deep subconscious awoke. He opened and closed his mouth, like a goldfish, searching for the words to continue. You beat him to the punch though, “He’s yours, Jamie. He’s going to turn six soon.”

“Six?” ‘The boy should be older.’

“Yeah, when the blip happened…he uh… he was gone. He should be 10… but I’m just glad he’s back,” there was a sting behind your eyes, you rapidly blinked it away.

“I’m sorry.” It was the only thing Bucky could say at this point.

“He’s named after you.”

“How… did you find out my name? And how did you get out?”

You sniffled, “Vlad, the soldier assigned to me, let me go. His daughter… he said I reminded him of her. He also kept the other men away from me; Soldat’s Property. When he let me go, we passed a grave, it was filled with another person. I thought I was going to be killed. No more Soldat, no more Sodalt’s kin needed,” you inhaled thinking back to the time Vlad dragged you through the forest, “But he let me go, said you were an assassin and you were nowhere to be found. They panicked, not sending another person with Vlad to make sure the job was done, or maybe… the person in the grave was the second person. He told me your name was James, hence Jamie.”

Even though Bucky didn’t care for his name, he was touched. “Thank you,” it was small and almost unheard. 

“You know, you weren’t a monstrous assassin in the room. I’m not sure if maybe you were given an order to be… hmm gentle, but you were. You call me cимпатичный every time...”

He nodded, he here was being comforted by his own victim, “Still, what I did to you, it's unforgivable.” His foot started to bounce, anger at himself was flooding his veins. 

You shrugged, “It’s my choice, and I chose to forgive you.” You were hesitant to ask, but did so anyway, “What does it mean, cимпатичный?” 

‘How could she forgive me! I’m a monster! She shouldn’t even be letting me near her or the kid!’ His thoughts were in a whirlwind, and the target was himself. You could see the internal struggle, this man was easier to read than his counterpart, “Sol-,” you cleared your throat, "Bucky?” 

He looked at you, fully taking you. You were there, sitting with big eyes staring at him. Your h/l sat naturally, you s/t was glowing, as the sun hit your face he could see why he the Winter Soldier said that word. “He called you pretty.”

You sat a little straighter, mind reeling from knowing now that was his nickname and what it meant, “Oh, okay. Thank you.” You didn’t realize what you said, just reminiscing of every time the Soldat would call you that when he would finish inside you.

Bucky stared at her, brows furrowed and oblivious to where your mind was wandering, “Don’t express gratitude, what I- how cou- why? Why forgive me?” His tone was hard, a different remembrance was stirring inside you.

You were snapped back to the moment, head shaking, “I told you already. You were brai-.”

“No! You can’t just forgive so easily,” shock and anger were held in his soul.

“Please.” It was a hushed whisper as you clench the metal bench, stopping yourself from crying. The Soldat would never yell at you, but the tone of anger was similar.

Bucky turned upon hearing you, his anger evaporated as quickly as it came, “I-I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he cut himself off, hands tugging down on his face.

You never wanted to admit it, “I fell in love with you, with the soldat.” You avoided the man's face, embarrassed to have revealed the secret you kept hidden for so long, “Like I said, you weren’t horrible in the cell. We were fucking almost every night,” a hollow chuckle left your lips, “You would hold me, like you needed my contact to breathe. And… you started to smile, you would take off the mask and do this little smirk or smile when we were done. You become less rigid, a little more human when we were together,” a sigh left your lips before you continued, “I don’t know, it was probably some form of Stockholm syndrome, but that doesn’t make what I felt any less real.” 

His jaw hurt from clenching, “Do you miss him?”

Your eyes were the familiar red, holding back tears, “Insanely…yeah I do.”

He softened his demeanor, “I’m sorry.”

“You don't have to keep apologizing, I’ve already forgiven you.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop,” he hung his head, so many emotions clouded his person; shame, guilt, self-loathing. ‘Симпатичный.’ It was a whisper in his head, but Bucky was too late.

You glanced at the man, his stare turning blank. You leaned further back, the similarities he was presenting was the Soldat. As his eyes became glossy, he became emotionless. Your eyes widened: whilst you were true in your word about love, the fear of what he was always took up the back of your mind. You glance around the park, no sight of Jamie or Sam, ‘He must be watching him as he eats the ice cream.’ You hoped this was true. The gaze of the hollow man finally turned to you, “Симпатичный.”

You sucked in a breath, “Soldat?”

“Да.” He was here, staring at you.

A pit grew in your stomach, “Can… can I please talk to Bucky again?”

His gaze hardened, with his jaw clenched he spoke, “No,” it was anger filled.

‘It’s okay, just relax.’ You had to make it okay. Drawing in a breath to slowly release it, “Okay soldat. Did you want to keep talking here or did you want to go to yours?” You prayed it was the latter, not wanting to cause whatever the Winter Soldier could release.

The Soldat paused, relishing in being able to make a choice, “Mine.” He looked at you, emotionless eyes have a hint of humanity now.

The direct eye contact made your body flush, “Okay let me drop Jamie off at his play date and then we’ll go to yours.”

He shook his head, “No, kin stays with us.” He wanted the little boy to be with both his parents now.

You drew in another breath, calming your nerves. You leaned in, and he let you, gently touching his lower jaw. Your tone turned softer for him, always softer for the Soldat, “After okay, we can watch movies together or go for a walk, whatever you want but he has to go so we can talk Soldat.”

He glowered, teeth clenching his mouth shut. His nod was curt, barely visible to the untrained eye; but to you, it was evident. You slowly pulled back, when a long forgotten cold touch grabbed your hand, “Jamie?”

You nodded, a small smile forming on your lips, “Yeah Jamie.” He gave a nod of approval before letting you go, “Okay, I will be back in 10 minutes okay. Can you wait here?” Another stoic nod was given before you hesitantly turned away from the assassin. 

You saw Sam and Jamie on the bench right outside the shop, the man gave you a smile unaware of the current situation unfolding. He stood up, lowering his voice so the child wouldn’t hear him, “I thought it would be best to let him eat it here, in case y’all weren’t done talking.”

You licked your lips, mind still really in from what was happening. “Sam?”

His smile slowly started to falter, fear was visible on you, “Yeah?”

You turned to Jamie, happily oblivious to the turn of events unfolding, you grabbed your cell phone - 1 inbox notification. 

‘Hey almost there, walking to the ice cream shop :P’ It was sent 3 minutes ago, ‘Okay she should be here right now then.

“What’s going on?” Sam wasn’t liking how the atmosphere was feeling, his shoulders hunched and the smile was replaced by a frown.

Before you could speak, your sister was there, “Y/n!” 

You whipped around the voice, giving a small tight smile, “Jamie come on, your aunt is here.” With the last bite of the cone shoved in his mouth, Jamie hopped off the bench running full speed with his little legs.

Your sister crouched down, meeting the child for a hug, “Jamie, aw I’ve missed you buddy. Are you ready to hang out with your favorite auntie?”

You walked forward, giving your family hugs, and waving them off. You watched them walk away, as you turned back to Sam, the Winter Soldier stood behind him. With your eyes wide and breath hitch, Sam turned around, not noticing the different demeanor yet. “Buck, my man. How did it-,” as Same went forward to talk to his friend, the brainwashed soldier flashed forward gripping his throat.

Sam coughed out, “Shit.” The realization that this man was no longer his friend. People started to stare, and you started to shake; anxiety was clawing at your throat.

“Soldat, please. Let your friend go.” You approached the man, gently holding his right arm. He gripped your hand, it was firm.

“This man is not my friend.” His grip loosened regardless.

“He’s Bucky’s friend, by an extension of yours. Please, let’s go to yours to talk, remember? That’s what you picked?” You prayed he would listen.

He let Sam go, you knew better than to rush and help Sam; it might upset the Soldier. The man was on the floor gasping for breath, the Soldier looked at you nodding his head to the direction, “Come.”

You gave Sam a small sad smile, mouthing ‘Safe,’ to him. With that the Winter Soldat gripped your hand with his metal one, taking you through the sea of people.

Sam hit the floor, “Fuck!” He stood up, running to his car, Joaquin's number already on dial.

The Soldat’s grip was firm but soft, he led you through the city, weaving in and out of alleyways. You were pretty sure that he added extra courses to throw you off. He pushed through a double door, you weren't able to read the name of the complex. You were indeed winded after 4 flights of stairs, the Winter Soldier seemed fine of course. He looked at your hand as he grabbed the keys, “I’m not going anywhere.” It was reassurance he needed, another slight nod before he let you go. The keys turned and a low click, and the door opened. There was another sound, bells jingling. A soft white tuft of fur was seen behind the arch, Soldat waited for you to enter first, which you complied. 

The cat peaked its head out, a little meow hitting your ears. The cat lazily stretched forward, before going to inspect you. You knelt for Alpine so he could sniff, sniff, and sniff again; he patiently sat, waiting for a pet. You giggled at the small animal, the fur was soft and vibrations started to emit from it. A gruff voice was broke through your concentration of pets, “Кошка. Alpine.”

“You’re a very cute kitty,” you gave a last pet before the cat made its way to the Soldat. It purred as it rubbed itself against him. You saw the hesitation in the man’s eyes, “Give him a soft pet if you want.” He tentatively reached out, favoring his right arm this time, and he would agree the lush fur was soft and silky. Satisfied, the cat walked away into the hallway before lying down on the rug, ready to take a nap.

He stood next to you, a metal arm extended for you to take. You did so, dusting yourself off. The Soldat stared at you, you didn’t seem to age; not that he knew anything about you, only physical. He led you again down the hall, to his room; wooden floor, one seat, and a bed on the floor. The layout had you thinking of the base, just nice furniture and place. He stopped in front of the bed, “Сидеть.”

He followed his own instructions, he tugged at you gently, “I still can’t understand Russian Soldat.”

“Сидеть; it means sit, Зайчик.” 

You nodded, now confused at the other word said. You shifted, and the bed creaked: memories creeped their way into your mind, your body burning as a result. You avoided the Soldiers gaze, knowing the flush of your skin was very much prominent. Soldat smirked, knowing what was being conjured in your head. “Y/n.” Your eyes widened, he never said your name before. You gave a nod as he looked to see if you heard him, “I… I have… missed you,” the words felt foreign on his tongue.

“I’ve missed you too, Soldat… But, why did you return Soldat?”

“Are you not happy to have me?”

Your eyes soften at the man, “Of course I am happy, but from my understanding Bucky has you…” you bit your lip trying to find the right word, “... has you… restrained.”

The Soldat smirked, “He is only in control because I let him.” Your face betrayed your thoughts, and he seemed to notice, raising an eyebrow he spoke again, “I saw you. I will be honest, I do not care what Bucky does most of the time but he was upsetting you.”

“So you came out to - in a way- stop yourself ?”

“I want to be with you, Y/n. Bucky was ruining my chance to see you more.”

You looked away, as the butterflies fluttered in your stomach, “You have grown a lot Soldat. But, this is also Bucky’s life. While we have a child together, I do not think he wants to be with me. And I have to respect that, it’s his choice.”

“What about my choice?” He gave a low growl, teeth clenched at what was said.

“You were in charge… no… what I mean is; while you had to take orders because you were brainwashed and had to survive, during that time - it was you in control. Bucky was trapped in his own mind for years Soldat, it’s only right he has his… time to be in control.”

“I don’t care.” You pressed your mouth into a thin line, of course Soldat would be hard-headed. “Call me James.”

Your brows knitted together at the name change, “Okay… James.” You leaned forward, and he followed your actions, “I need you to let me talk to Bucky please.”

“No.”

“So-,” you cleared your throat, “James please. I need to speak to Bucky.”

“No.”

“Please, I am begging you.”

He smirked, “How about you beg a different way?”

The man in front of you was very different as well, compared to the man you knew. You felt the heat slowly burn through you, “You speak a lot more now.”

The smug look was still on his face, “So do you. As I remember you moaned a lot more.”

With his guard let down, Buck was able to take back control. With a smug turning into wide eye fear, he jolted back. His breath was heavy, eyes frantically taking in his surroundings, “How did you awaken him?”

“I didn’t awaken him, I…not-I, I wouldn't know how to.”

Fear turn to anger quickly, now a familiar feeling cold metal touch ripped your throat, “How the fuck did you awaken him!”

You gasped for a breath, but to no avail. Black dots slowly clouded your vision, gasping one last sentence, “Soldat… or.. Buc-Bucky.”

The metal touch was quickly rescinded as fast as it came, he stood there horrified at what he had done. “Fuck! I-I cou-didn’t mean too.” You hunched over, breathing as much air as you could.

Bucky shot up, and moved himself to the other side, “I’m sorry. I-I… I just don't understand how he came out.”

You gasped again, the oxygen supplying your brain, “He said you were fucking up talking to me.” A couple of coughs slipped past your lips, as your throat tickled still.

He paused, “What?”

“He said he wanted to see me more, and you scared me away. He had to stop it.”

A stupid look made its way to his face, “So, the assassin who is my brainwash counterpart, high-jacked my body to do damage control? Is that what you're saying?”

You rubbed your throat, rolling your eyes at the man, “Yes, basically. Could you not ask James this yourself?”

“James?” His eyebrows continued to knit together.

“That's what he wanted me to call you.”

He was at a loss for words, the Winter Soldier was… gaining humanity. This wasn't supposed to be the future, the Soldier was supposed to be buried and gone. It dawned on him, “He loves you. In his own twisted way, the Winter Soldier actually cares about you.” Fear coursed through him, “You activate him.” It was whispered to himself but you heard it.

Your voice turned soft, “I think he just wants me around.”

Bucky started to breathe heavily, as if the oxygen was being withheld. He gripped the counter top, fighting to breathe. You made your way to him, touch and voice still soft, “Hey. Hey, it's okay. Focus on my voice, or focus on my hand. Can you feel it?”

He gasped again, but nodded. “That's it, you can breathe. One deep breath in: one, two, three. Hold; one, two, three. Exhale; one, two, three.” He started to follow along, till he vision wasn't blurry, till his breath was deep and strong. You rubbed small circles on his back, “It's okay, you're here.”

Bucky gave one loud inhale, he eyed you, “Did you do this a lot for him? Comfort him?” There was no malice, just curiosity.

You gave a shrug, “Not really, he comforted me more than I did him. Not with words, more with actions.”

“What did he do?”

“He held me a lot. After um… what was needed. He would hold me til I fell asleep. Sometimes I would feel the metal arm slowly graze my back or massage my head. When I would cry, which was a lot, he would wipe my tears and kiss me to distract me.”

Bucky nodded, he continued to melt into her touch, his body no stranger to it. They stayed like this, in each other's space, relishing in one another's presence. The comfort the two of you gave each other, it put Bucky’s mind at ease. Slowly, memories of the past were in a way granted access to Bucky.

There's gonna be a part 3

Taglist: @thenameswinter99 @sebastians-love @otherotherplace

[idkyetxoxo]

Daemon Targaryen - Red Means I Love You

Summary - Daemon Targaryen is a storm of fire and fury, and she is caught in his dangerous orbit. Bound by love that consumes and destroys, they dance on the edge of madness, unable to escape the burning pull of each other.

Pairing - Daemon Targaryen x reader

Warnings - Violence

Word count - 2077

Masterlist for Daemon • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

'Cause my insides are red and yours are too and the red on my face is matching you and goodness you're bleeding what a wonderful feeling you're down and you're pleading my head is just reeling.

The clash of steel against steel rang out, echoing through the stone walls of the training grounds at the Red Keep, but it was not the metallic song of sparring blades that captured my attention. 

It was him—the Rogue Prince, Daemon Targaryen.

He moved like a tempest in human form, each motion a sinuous blend of poise and savagery as if the Gods themselves had moulded him from fire and shadow. 

His hair, silver as molten starlight, caught the light with every strike and twist, a shimmering halo that belied the darkness within. He was more than a man; he was a force of nature. 

And I, fool that I was, could not look away.

But neither, it seemed, could he. Mid-parry, his eyes found mine—piercing, knowing, as if he had already unravelled every secret I kept locked away. 

A smirk danced at the edge of his mouth as he deflected his opponent's blade with a lazy confidence that bordered on arrogance. 

In that instant, I knew: he was dangerous, and I was already too close to the flame.

My heart drummed a frantic rhythm in my chest, each beat a warning I refused to heed. 

Daemon Targaryen was more than a warrior he was danger incarnate. His legend was inked in blood and ambition, whispered of in fear and awe throughout the Seven Kingdoms. He was the man mothers warned their daughters about—the storm that could raze empires. 

And yet, here I stood, transfixed, a moth drawn to his inferno.

"You're watching," he said, his voice low and intimate as he cornered me in one of the shadow-drenched corridors of the Keep later that evening. The firelight danced across the stone walls, casting flickering patterns that mirrored the turmoil inside me. "Did you like what you saw?"

I tilted my chin, desperate to reclaim some semblance of composure. "I saw a prince fulfil his duty. Nothing more."

He stepped closer, the air between us charged and suffocating. 

"Liar." The single word dripped with challenge, a gauntlet thrown at my feet. It ignited something raw and wild within me—a warning I should have heeded, but instead, I met his gaze, unflinching.

His thumb traced a slow, deliberate line along my cheek, leaving a trail of heat that burned long after he pulled away. 

"Careful," he whispered, his voice a caress and a threat. "A dragon's fire does not discriminate."

I swallowed hard, willing my voice to remain steady. "I know what I play with," I said, the words hollow even to my own ears.

He smiled then—a predator's smile, equal parts amusement and hunger. "Do you?"

That night, I found no peace. I lay awake, haunted by the memory of his touch, the weight of his gaze, the way his words curled around me like smoke. 

In the days that followed, I tried to escape him, to push away the visions of his hands on me, the brush of his lips against mine, the electric promises whispered when no one else could hear. 

But it was a futile endeavour. Daemon Targaryen was a storm, and I was caught in its eye.

"Come," he beckoned one evening, his voice thick with shadow. He waited for me in the Godswood, the crimson leaves of the weirwood trees falling around us like droplets of blood. 

I should have turned away. Instead, I walked toward him, each step betraying the war within me.

"You deny me every glance and yet you come when I call," he murmured, his eyes never leaving mine.

I folded my arms over my chest, a thin barrier against the force of him. "Why do you call?"

His steps were measured, predatory, as he closed the distance between us. "Because you are mine." 

The words cut through the chill of the night air, as cold and unyielding as Valyrian steel. I wanted to scoff at his arrogance, to turn his claim to ashes.

But then his hands found my waist, pulling me against him, and every retort died on my lips. 

I was no longer standing in the Godswood but somewhere far darker, far deeper, drowning in the pull of him.

"I am not yours, Daemon Targaryen," I whispered, but the tremor in my voice betrayed me. He tilted my face toward him, his eyes blazing with a heat that burned through every defence I had left.

"No?" he asked, his breath warm against my skin. "Then why does the idea of my ruin thrill you?"

Before I could respond, his mouth claimed mine. There was no gentleness, no pretence—only the raw, consuming clash of desire and defiance. 

It was a kiss that spoke of broken vows and unspoken promises, a collision of storms that left no space for reason or fear. In his arms, I felt both lost and found. 

He was fire and fury, and I—weak and wanting—let him burn me whole.

I wanted him. Desperately. Recklessly. The truth I had denied became a brand upon my soul.

Weeks passed in a feverish blur, each moment a stolen spark in the dangerous game we played. It was a dance on the razor's edge, and every step carried the risk of ruin. 

Daemon thrived on it, his eyes glinting with a dark thrill each time we slipped past discovery as if daring fate to find us. 

And though I loathed to admit it, I thrived too, the heat of our forbidden bond burning through every rational thought. 

Our encounters were fire and fury—secret, searing, and desperate, as though every touch could be our last.

Desire gave way to something darker, something feral that roared to life when we crossed a line that could not be uncrossed. 

It happened at a tourney—a grand spectacle of jousts and combat meant to display valour and honour. Daemon's gaze rarely left me that day, smouldering and possessive even as knights circled and clashed. 

But then a voice rose above the din—a sneer from a rival knight, laced with insults that stained my name and honour. The words were poison, and Daemon reacted like the dragon he was.

He entered the fray with a smile that chilled me to the bone. Cold. Predatory. 

His opponent barely had time to draw breath before Daemon descended on him, his blade a silver blur. It was not a fight; it was a reckoning. 

Steel met steel with a fury that stole the breath from the crowd. 

Blood sprayed across Daemon's armour, vivid and wet, painting him in crimson. The fallen knight lay broken at his feet, his life seeping into the dirt.

In the stunned silence, Daemon looked at me. There was no triumph in his eyes—only a cold, unrelenting need that terrified and exhilarated me in equal measure. 

Later, in the quiet of his chambers, he washed the blood from his hands with a strange, reverent care. 

"The red means I love you," he said, his voice soft, as if he were confessing a sacred truth. "Do you see it now?"

I saw it, and it frightened me. I tried to pull away from him, tried to end what had become a labyrinth of madness and passion. 

"This has gone too far," I told him. "Love born from such violence cannot last." 

He listened, unmoving, his face a mask of stone. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, but the words dripped with menace. "If you wish to walk away, do so. Just know that there is no place I cannot reach you."

And so I walked away. For three days, I vanished into the shadows of the Keep, avoiding Daemon's piercing gaze and the constant reminders of our bond. 

I retreated to the library, buried myself in old tomes, hoping their dust and parchment would smother the fire inside me. 

I whispered to myself that this was freedom. I dined alone, spoke only when required, but every shadow, every flicker of candlelight, seemed to carry the weight of his absence. 

In truth, I was not free. I was haunted.

The fourth night, I found myself wandering the Godswood beneath a crescent moon. Red leaves rustled in the wind, their sound a soft lament. 

My thoughts were a tangle of memories and unspoken words. 

I nearly missed the figure who stepped from the darkness—Daemon, his presence as inevitable as it was inescapable. 

He said nothing at first, only watched me with eyes that burned brighter than any flame. I should have turned away, but I stayed. I hated him then, for making me feel this way. 

"Why do you haunt me?" I demanded, my voice brittle. "Why can't you let me go?"

He stepped closer, the shadows coiling around him like smoke. 

"Because letting go is not in my nature," he said, each word heavy with truth. "You know that." 

Anger flared within me, a desperate attempt to smother the helplessness. "You would bind me to you, even if it destroys us both." 

His gaze softened a rare crack in his unyielding exterior. "If I must be destroyed, I would rather it be with you." There was pain there, buried beneath layers of arrogance and violence. 

And, to my shame, I felt it too.

I knew it then: loving Daemon was madness. Yet I was bound to him by threads I could not cut. 

"Do you regret this?" I asked him one night as we lay tangled together beneath the heavy velvet of his chambers. His fingers traced lazy circles along my spine, each touch a reminder of how deeply I was ensnared.

"Never," he said, his tone absolute. "I have worn crowns and cast them aside. But you?" He paused, his eyes alight with an unholy fire. "I would set fire to the realm for you." 

The words should have terrified me, but they didn't. Instead, I pressed closer, craving the very destruction he promised. 

"I do not want the realm's destruction," I whispered, desperate and aching.

"You should have thought of that before you let me in," he murmured, his breath hot against my ear. 

I shivered, caught between fear and desire. "You are cruel, Daemon."

"I love like a dragon," he replied. "Completely."

As the days darkened, the court buzzed with whispers—of Daemon's ambitions, of the storm that followed wherever he walked, and of the foolish soul entangled with him. 

I tried to escape their words, to find solace in silence. But there was no escaping Daemon. 

He was always there—watching, waiting, a storm ready to break. The intensity of his love suffocated and thrilled me in equal measure. I begged him for reason, for some shred of sanity amid the chaos. 

"You will destroy us both," I pleaded.

"Then we will burn together," he said, his eyes never leaving mine.

It was a promise and a curse. I thought of leaving him, of vanishing into the shadows where even he could not find me. But every time I steeled myself to flee, he found me. 

He would cradle my face, his touch gentle even as his gaze burned wild and desperate. "I would tear apart the world to keep you."

And I believed him.

The end came, as it always would, in blood and fire. An assassination attempt—one meant for me. I would have died if not for Daemon, who met the assassins with a fury that defied even the legends of House Targaryen. 

Blades clashed, screams echoed, and when the battle was done, the chamber was awash in blood, bodies broken like discarded dolls.

Daemon stood at the centre of it all, blood dripping from his sword, his chest heaving with exertion. His eyes found mine, wild and burning. 

"No one will take you from me," he vowed, his voice raw.

I stepped over the dead to reach him. My hands cupped his blood-slick face, trembling with the weight of what we had become. 

"This is what we are," I whispered, my voice cracking. "This is what love has made us."

His lips found mine, tasting of iron and promises that would never be kept. "The red means I love you," he murmured against my mouth.

And I knew then that there was no escape. Daemon's love was a cage of fire, and I was its willing prisoner.

The red means I love you, tasting your blood means I love you, the red means I love you, the red means I love you.

A/n - This song is very Daemon coded!

[vampiriito]

Pillow talk and the fifth amendment (4)

Part 3 in case you forgot the current timeline (JJ Maybank x pogue! reader x Rafe Cameron ) ..in which you found yourself torn between two worlds when your best friend, JJ Maybank, who you've been in love with since forever starts dating Kiara. In a jealousy haze you start hooking up with Rafe Cameron, the infamous kook prince. Do you manage to keep everything casual and under control? No, is it fun? Also kind of no, given you hate yourself each time you managed to orgasm. And especially since Rafe's favorite activity is to pick on you and your friends outside the bedroom.. (likes, reblogs, comments and follows would help greatly, thanks for reading in advance! <3)

"tension" noun /ten·sion/ \ˈten(t)-shən\

1. A charged, magnetic pull between two people where desire and denial war silently—felt in lingering touches, too-long stares, and the sharp inhale before a kiss that doesn't happen. Tension lives in every unspoken word, in every almost, in every held breath that aches for release. 2. Emotional strain wound tight between want and restraint. When he kisses someone else but aches for you. When enemies pretend to hate each other but touch like lovers. When sarcasm masks obsession and hands tremble from how badly they need. 3. A slow, unbearable build-up—flushed cheeks, bitten lips, gasps disguised as sighs. It’s when she climbs on top of him and moves slow just to watch him fall apart. It’s when he watches from a distance, jaw clenched, knowing she’s not his—yet. Synonyms: longing, friction, restraint, hunger, obsession Usage: JJ pulled from Kie like his heart was somewhere else. That was tension. Rafe said nothing, just watched her like she was the last thing he’d ever get to ruin. That was tension.

JJ was in love with you. After four months of dating Kie—holding her hand, kissing her, picking flowers from strangers' yards and leaving them on her windowsill—he was in love with you. It wasn’t fair. Not to her. Not to himself, either. JJ was the kind of guy who always wanted more than he should have, and for the first time, he realized what he wanted had been standing beside him this whole time. You.

It was a cruel joke. Kie was fire and drive and ambition wrapped in a body that demanded the universe bend to her will. And he loved that about her. He did. But you—God, you were something else. You were the one he smoked his first blunt with, who held the lighter steady with your chipped black nail polish and told him not to cough like a bitch. You were the one who skated beside him until his shins bruised and his ego did too, the first person he ever told about Luke. Really told. You saw him the way nobody else did.

Of course he didn’t realize it back then. He was too young, too angry, too dumb. But now he was seventeen and too in his head, and it was killing him. He was supposed to be in love with Kie. The girl he worked hard to get. But late at night when he laid on the deck of the HMS Pogue, he didn’t think about Kie’s lips. He thought about your laugh echoing across the marsh, about how you’d fight a grown man with a broken bottle if it meant defending someone you loved. He thought about how you looked when you were trying not to cry, chin up, smile sharp, eyes too proud to ask for help.

You were turning eighteen soon. The first of the group to officially be an adult. And JJ felt like a fucking child next to you. It used to piss him off. Now it scared him, because the closer your birthday came, the more he felt like he was running out of time to tell you something he couldn’t even say out loud. Not to Pope. Not to John B. Not even to himself.

And maybe it wasn’t just the looming end of summer or the panic about college applications or the fear of being left behind. Maybe it was the truth gnawing at him night after night. The kind of truth that tasted like salt and sunscreen and the way your hair smelled when you sat next to him in the sun.

He’d never say it—he couldn’t. Not while he was still with Kie, not while he had to pretend like he didn’t notice the way your lips curved when you were reading, or the way his name sounded different coming from your mouth. Not while his dreams still dragged him under like waves, stealing his breath in the middle of the night and leaving him sweating, angry, and guilty.

The worst part was how vivid they were. They didn’t feel like dreams. They felt like memories from a parallel life—the one he was supposed to be living. He’d close his eyes and suddenly you were there, pressed up against the passenger door of the Twinkie, laughing into his mouth like the world belonged to the two of you. Your hands were in his hair, tugging like you knew it drove him crazy, and he was whispering things he’d never say aloud. Sweet things. Dirty things. Desperate things.

In another dream, he was dragging you underwater in the Camerons' pool, your legs tangled around his waist, the weightlessness of it all making you both clumsy and breathless. You were gasping into his neck, and he was holding you like he’d drown if he let go. He’d wake up hard and aching, his heart slamming against his ribs like it was trying to break out of his chest. And still, even in the haze of morning, it was your name he whispered into the curve of his pillow. Not Kie’s. Yours.

There was one dream that fucked him up more than the others. It wasn’t even sexual. You were sitting beside him on the HMS Pogue, knees pulled to your chest, and the way the sunlight hit your face made his chest tighten so hard he thought he’d cry. You looked over at him and just said, “You know you don’t have to pretend, right?” And he didn't answer. He just pulled you into his arms and kissed you like it was the only truth he knew. It was soft, slow, the kind of kiss that tasted like everything he wanted and everything he’d already lost.

He’d wake up feeling like shit after those. Like he’d cheated. Like he was a coward.

But he didn’t stop having them. Couldn’t stop. No matter how close he held Kie, how often he kissed her, he was never really in it. Not completely. Because the second he closed his eyes, it was always you. You were the one showing up in his head, whispering his name, touching him like you knew every scar and every wound. And maybe you did.

Maybe that’s why it hurt so bad.

Because if anyone could love him in all his broken, reckless mess—it was you. And maybe he already knew you did, in some quiet, unspoken way that neither of you had dared to explore. Not yet.

But God, he wanted to. And the guilt of it was swallowing him whole.

He was choking on it now. On the want. On the guilt. On the ache of knowing he’d already made his choice, and it wasn’t you. But damn if it didn’t feel like he chose wrong.

Because you never asked him to be anything other than himself. You didn’t care if he flaked or said the wrong thing or made dumb decisions. You called him out when he needed it, but you never tried to fix him. You just sat with the mess and matched it. And somehow, that felt safer than any promises Kie ever made him.

And lately, it was getting harder. Harder to act normal around you. Harder to play the role of doting boyfriend when all he wanted was to glance over his shoulder and see if you were already looking. Most of the time, you were. Sometimes annoyed, sometimes unreadable. And God, sometimes with this tiny flicker in your eyes like maybe, just maybe, you knew.

That killed him.

Because if you knew, then how could he explain why he hadn’t done anything about it? Why he let Kie kiss him in front of you? Why he smiled like nothing was wrong, like he wasn’t lying to both girls in the room?

He told himself he was protecting you. That he didn’t want to be like his dad—tearing through lives with no thought for the damage. But really, it was fear. The kind that sat heavy in his chest. Fear that you didn’t want him the same way. That if he reached out, you’d recoil. Or worse—look at him with pity.

And maybe that was why he snapped at you more than he meant to. Why he sometimes pulled away in group hugs or avoided your gaze when you got too close. Because the longer he held it in, the more it twisted into something ugly. The kind of jealousy that burned hot and silent when you laughed too loud at someone else’s joke. Or when Rafe fucking Cameron got too close and he had to clench his fists in his pockets to stop from doing something stupid.

He was running out of time. Out of excuses. Every day felt like a countdown and he didn’t even know what it was ticking toward. You were turning eighteen, and he couldn’t decide if that meant everything was about to fall apart or finally fall into place.

But he knew one thing with certainty now.

He’d never stop loving you. Not really. Not in the way that he should, anyway.

And that? That was the worst part.

And then there was the Charleston hookup.

The story you fed everyone was half-glamour, half-lie—something about an older guy from the mainland, a rich college boy who took a sudden, inexplicable interest in you. Supposedly, he spent his summer tangled up in sheets and drinks and bad decisions with a girl from some tourist-trash island. Just another pretty distraction before classes started again.

JJ never bought it. Not really.

You’d let the truth slip once—barely, just a flicker—but it was enough to burrow in his chest like a splinter. You’d said, “The truth’s worse.” Quiet. Flat. Angry. Not dramatic like you normally were when lying. Not flirty or teasing. Just honest. Which was how he knew it was worse. And that scared the shit out of him.

If he really wanted to, JJ could probably find out. Ask around, piece together enough to figure out who you were sneaking off with. Hell, if he thought about it long enough, the pieces were already starting to make a shape he didn’t like. Rafe Cameron. The name made his blood pressure spike and his jaw clench so hard it ached. There were only so many guys around who were older, rich, and reckless enough to chase after someone like you.

But what if knowing for sure destroyed him?

Because if it was Rafe—fucking Rafe—then JJ didn’t know what that meant. What it said about you. About him. About all the moments you two had shared over the years, and how easily you’d walked into the arms of someone who’d burn the world just to watch it crumble. What if it meant you’d given up on JJ ever choosing you?

What if that was the moment he really lost you?

Everything was already hanging by a thread. He could feel it. Every time you two were alone now, it was like walking across broken glass. Every conversation laced with sarcasm, sharp edges, or cold silence. You avoided each other like the plague, like you couldn’t stand to look at him—when JJ knew that wasn’t true. Not deep down. Not when your eyes still flicked to his mouth when you were mad. Not when you still looked at him like you hated how much you didn’t hate him.

But he was losing you. Maybe already had.

And God, he couldn’t take that. Not after everything. Not when the only thing worse than never getting you… was knowing he’d driven you into Rafe Cameron’s bed and would never be able to get you back.

But there was always hope. A flicker of it, fragile and stupid, but it was something. And JJ could choose to believe you. Choose the version of the story where the guy in your bed was just some rich college kid from off the island. Some throwaway name. Some meaningless body. Not someone who knew you. Not someone who made JJ’s blood boil every time he saw his face.

So, for now, he chose the lie. Chose to be delusional.

Not because he wanted to be. God, no. But because it was all he had left. The truth felt like it would split him open.

He hummed absently in response to something Kie said—he hadn’t heard a word, eyes fixed on her finger lazily drawing circles across his bare chest. Her touch felt distant, almost foreign, like he was watching it happen to someone else.

“You’re so quiet,” Kie said with a soft laugh, lifting her head and propping herself up on one elbow, smirking down at him. “You usually can’t shut up after sex… or during it.”

JJ forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, hand dragging through his messy, sweat-damp hair. “I’m just… thinking.”

“Luke again?” she asked, voice dropping, softening. And JJ could see it—clear as day—the tension creeping in behind her concern. That little flash of discomfort that always showed up when his dad came up. Like she was bracing for it. Like she cared, but only within the limits of what didn’t make her uncomfortable.

And suddenly he felt sick.

Because he knew that look. That hesitancy. That subtle shift where empathy bled into unease. As if she was hoping he'd nod, get it over with, and then let the topic die before it made the room too heavy.

JJ shook his head, looking away. “Nah. Not Luke.”

Kie studied him for a second, trying to read between the lines. But there was nothing there to find—JJ had gotten good at hiding things, especially the kind that might blow up his life. He didn’t want to talk about Luke. Or Rafe. Or you, and the way your voice still echoed in his head, louder than Kie’s ever did.

He let the silence stretch.

Because what the hell was he supposed to say? That he was lying in bed with one girl while thinking about another? That he was falling apart pretending he wasn’t jealous of the guy you were probably still with right now, tangled up in secrets that would ruin everything?

That he loved you—and being here with Kie was starting to feel like cheating, even though she was the one he was actually dating?

He swallowed hard, eyes drifting back to the ceiling.

Delusion was easier. Safer. And tonight, it was all he had.

Kie adjusted the sheets around her chest, like modesty suddenly mattered now that the heat had passed. As if wrapping herself up made her look coy, flustered—adorable. Maybe it did. And maybe JJ was just being an asshole for not caring.

He used to care. He thinks.

“Do you think they heard us?” she asked, a nervous little laugh escaping as she glanced toward the door, lips twitching in an attempt at innocence.

JJ shrugged, eyes distant. “Don’t think it matters.” Then, after a beat, he forced a smirk. “Pretty sure they’ve heard us enough these past weeks—or months—to stop caring.”

He tried to laugh, to match her tone, but the sound came out hollow. Like something dying in his throat. All performance, no conviction.

Kie didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she did and just chose not to push. She was used to him being this way by now—half-there, always a little too far gone to reach.

She let out a soft laugh of her own. “Y/N says it sounds like a bad porno,” she said casually, a grin tugging at her lips. Like it was funny. Like it wasn’t a loaded grenade she just dropped on his chest.

JJ froze.

Your name hit him like a gunshot—sharp, loud, echoing in the hollow parts of his mind. His head snapped toward her so fast it made his neck ache, jaw tightening, the humor draining completely from his face.

You listened to this?

You listened to him?

His grimace was instant, instinctive. The image struck like lightning—you in the next room, laying there with your pillow pulled over your head or your fists clenched under the blanket, pretending you didn’t care, pretending it didn’t ruin you a little more each time. Pretending you didn’t love him.

His stomach twisted.

Kie didn’t notice his reaction. Or maybe she did, and she was too wrapped up in the idea of the joke to realize what she’d actually said. JJ turned his head, eyes locking on the ceiling again, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood.

The walls in that house were paper thin.

And now all he could think about was how many times you'd heard him whisper things he didn’t mean. How many times you'd heard his laugh, his voice, his stupid breathy I missed yous that were meant for someone else entirely. The smile Kie wore didn’t fade, didn’t falter. It didn’t even register how violently something had just shifted inside him.

JJ’s face twisted, jaw locking tight, the image of you playing like a cruel film reel behind his eyes. You, in the next room. Alone. Awake. Hearing everything. Every touch. Every sound. Every lie he whispered to someone that wasn’t you.

His stomach churned.

You’d been hearing them. This whole time. JJ could picture it in high definition—your face twisted into that blank expression you wore when things hurt too much to show. He could see you curled up on the couch in the living room, pretending to sleep. Pretending it didn’t matter. Pretending you hadn’t been his first, even if he never got to claim you.

And he wanted to be sick.

He swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry, trying to blink the heat from his eyes before it spiraled into something worse. Because the thing was—he knew you. Knew how you moved, how you breathed, how you silenced yourself when the world felt like too much. You wouldn’t have cried. You would’ve just laid there, still and quiet, jaw clenched, maybe fists gripping the blanket. And then the next morning, you would’ve acted like everything was fine.

You always did.

And that wrecked him more than any screaming fight or jealous tears ever could.

The guilt was no longer subtle. It wasn’t creeping—it was drowning. A sick, full-body ache that crawled up his spine and into his lungs, constricting his chest. And Kie was still talking, probably still laughing, completely unaware that all he could hear now was your voice telling him the lie. The one about the guy from Charleston. That fake little story you fed him like a dare. And he let it slide, because he didn’t want to know the truth.

Because if the truth was what he feared—if it was Rafe, if it was him in your bed—then JJ might actually fucking fall apart.

But this... this was worse somehow. Knowing you’d been close enough to hear every time he made someone else feel like she mattered. Knowing you’d been close enough to know he didn’t mean any of it.

That you still stayed. Still showed up. Still loved him.

He hated himself.

God, he hated himself.

Kie shifted beside him, settling back into the pillows like she was coming down from the high of something JJ couldn’t even feel anymore. He barely noticed. His mind was with you—across the hall, behind a paper-thin wall, where he imagined you curled up in the dark and silent, holding your breath so you wouldn’t break down loud enough for anyone to hear.

You let him do it. Let him tear you up and still smiled at him the next day like you weren’t breaking a little more every time. And he was too much of a coward to stop. To choose.

To stop being in the wrong bed.

“Y/N said that?” he found himself asking, the words leaving his mouth before he could stop them. Even though Kiara had already moved on from the joke, his question hung in the air like shattered glass—sharp, sudden, impossible to ignore.

But somehow, she still didn’t notice.

“Yeah,” she answered easily, head settling against his shoulder like she hadn’t just knocked the wind out of him. “She joked that we’re the reason she stopped sleeping over here so often.”

JJ’s jaw flexed, his eyes fixed on the wall across the room as he fought to keep himself still. The room felt too warm suddenly. Like the air had thickened around him and every second under the sheets was a second too long.

He cleared his throat, trying to summon a grin. Something casual. “Maybe that was code for her sleeping over at some summer house with that Charleston dude,” he said, forcing a weak chuckle that scraped his throat on the way out. “College boys and their yachts, right?”

The words tasted bitter. Like ash.

Kiara let out a sleepy laugh, not picking up on the strain in his voice, the way his fingers twitched against the mattress like he was holding himself in place. Because he was. JJ could feel his body on the verge of betrayal—could feel himself itching to move, to throw the covers off, pull on his clothes, and find you. Just to see you. Just to know you were still in the same world as him.

He stared at the ceiling, vision blurring slightly, pulse pounding in his ears. You’d said something. About him. About them. That meant you were still listening. Still hurting. Still there. And that meant there was still something left. A thread. A tether.

He gripped it like a lifeline.

Because if you still cared enough to make a joke, then maybe—maybe—he hadn’t completely fucked this up beyond repair. Maybe it wasn’t too late.

But staying here, beside someone who wasn’t you, trying to warm himself with a fire he didn’t even feel anymore—it was starting to rot him from the inside out.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes flicking to the door, the backyard beyond it, where he knew the others were. Where you were. Laughing, probably. Or pretending to. Maybe sitting just a little too far from the group, nursing a drink, trying not to look at the house because you knew what was happening inside of it.

God, what if you did sleep over less because you couldn’t handle it? Because you could hear him?

He nearly gagged.

“Babe?” Kiara’s voice brought him back, soft and drowsy, her fingers ghosting across his chest.

“Yeah?” he answered, quick, reflexive, as he shifted away just slightly under the pretense of stretching.

She didn’t press. She never did when he pulled away. Maybe she was used to it by now.

But JJ couldn’t sit still anymore. He couldn't lie here in the bed where he’d just been touched by someone who wasn’t you, hearing your name in the same breath as sex jokes and lies, knowing full well what he’d trade to rewind time back to when he hadn’t made this mess.

And it wasn’t just guilt.

It was grief.

It was missing you when you were still in the same house, maybe even just down the hall.

He sat up, rubbing a hand down his face, muttering something about needing water or a beer. But really, all he needed was you.

“I thought we were gonna ditch and just go to mine…” Kie said from the other side of the bed, her voice soft, expectant. He felt her eyes on him like heat, heavy and searching, but he kept his back to her, hunched slightly as he bent to grab his shirt off the floor.

“Don’t wanna deal with your dad, baby,” he muttered, the pet name slipping out by muscle memory rather than intention. It tasted hollow now. Empty. A filler in a sentence meant to keep her from asking more questions.

He pulled the fabric over his head, dragging it down with mechanical efficiency. No lingering. No glance back at her half-naked body under the sheets like he used to, when just the sight of her used to spark something real. Something warm. Now, all he could feel was the cold detachment settling into his chest like a second skin.

Kie let out a short laugh behind him, shuffling around as she stood and began lazily gathering her clothes. “My dad’s growing to like you, you know.” She said it like it meant something, like it was proof that they were solid. Meant to last.

JJ didn’t respond. His fingers shook slightly as he found his socks and shoved them on, then tugged at the laces of his combat boots like they’d been welded shut. Her dad might’ve been growing to like him—but JJ was growing to resent her. And God, wasn’t that the most fucked up thought he’d ever let himself have?

It sat in his chest like a bruise. Dark and deep and spreading.

Because Kie hadn’t done anything wrong. She was kind, and smart, and beautiful, and once upon a time, he’d wanted her with every reckless part of him. But want had been a shallow thing. It hadn’t grown roots. Not like what he had with you. That had been years in the making—quiet glances, shared wounds, laughter when he couldn’t even breathe, loyalty that ran deeper than blood.

What he had with Kie was borrowed. What he had with you had been real.

And now he’d ruined it.

He pulled his boots tight and stood too fast, eyes scanning the room like he couldn’t get out of it fast enough. Every corner felt like it was caving in. The walls too close, the air too thick. He thought about how you used to come over all the time—back when none of this mess existed—how you'd sprawl out on the edge of his bed or tease him about his music taste while flipping through his old CDs. He used to like having people in his room. Now he couldn’t even stand to be in someone else’s.

“JJ?” Kie’s voice pulled him back again, questioning now. Hesitant. Like maybe she could feel it too. The shift. The distance.

“Yeah,” he said quickly, not turning around. “I just… I need to be around people. Clear my head.”

“Are you okay?” she asked, genuine this time. Her tone cracked just slightly, like she didn’t want to ask but had to.

And for a second, he almost turned. Almost gave her the truth.

But what was the truth?

That he was in love with someone else? That he thought about you every time he kissed her? That every time he touched her skin, he was trying to erase the memory of yours under his fingertips?

No. He couldn’t say that.

So instead, he forced his lips into a weak smile as he turned halfway and gave her a shrug. “Just tired.”

Liar.

And with that, he headed toward the door, not even waiting for her to finish getting dressed. Not looking back. His only thought now was the backyard. The night air. The group. You.

Because if he didn’t see you soon, he was going to combust. Right there. In that room.

And the worst part? He probably deserved to.

He made a point to beeline for the kitchen before heading out to the backyard. A beer felt like a buffer—something to busy his hands, to dull the static in his head, to buy him time. It would give him an excuse not to walk out with Kie and allow him a second to brace himself before seeing you.

But the universe had a sick sense of humor.

Because there you were.

Leaning casually against the counter by the sink, a half-drunk can of Arizona peach iced tea in one hand, thumb scrolling lazily over your phone in the other. You hadn’t noticed him yet. The only light in the room came from the glow of your screen, casting your features in a soft, blue haze. It should've annoyed him—that you didn’t immediately sense him there, that your attention was wrapped up in whoever was on the other side of that conversation—but instead, it gave him a moment to look. To really look.

The subtle curl in your damp hair from the saltwater, the soft flush still clinging to your cheeks from the heat outside, the way your lips twisted up into a knowing, private smirk at something on your screen—it all hit him like a punch to the gut. You bit down gently on your bottom lip, and his heart stuttered like he was ten again and seeing you for the first time. The reflective glare on your glasses caught the light just enough to remind him of how many details about you he’d memorized over the years. He used to be the reason you smiled like that. He used to be the one you texted back that quickly.

Now he was just some guy trying to grab a beer and pretend his heart wasn’t falling out of his chest every time you looked away.

He blinked himself back to reality, forcing his legs to move as he walked toward the fridge, tugging the door open like it was the only thing anchoring him in place.

“There isn’t any beer left,” you said suddenly, your voice cutting clean through the quiet like it always did. Distracted, casual, but still sharp enough to make his spine straighten.

You still hadn’t looked up from your phone.

You took a final sip from your can and set it down with a quiet clink on the counter, then casually tapped the lid of the beer beside it with your fingernail—a silent flex, a signal, a reminder. “Got the last one. Sorry,” you added, glancing up at him now, your gaze cool and unreadable as you tucked your phone into your back pocket in one seamless move.

And there it was—the eye contact.

The invisible current between you snapping tight and taut like a live wire. His fingers curled tighter around the edge of the fridge door, unsure if he wanted to shut it or use it as a shield.

“It’s fine,” JJ muttered, shutting the fridge a little too hard, the glass inside clinking in quiet protest. “Didn’t want one anyway.”

A lie. Like most things between you two these days.

You didn’t respond right away, but you didn’t look away either. Just let the silence stretch between you, heavier than it needed to be. A stand-off in a dimly lit kitchen where everything unsaid filled the space louder than anything spoken.

He rubbed the back of his neck, already itching to leave but somehow stuck in place. “You, uh… texting Charleston?” he asked, voice lower now, trying for indifference but missing the mark by a mile.

Your eyebrow ticked up slightly. “What does it matter?”

JJ shrugged, kicking at a loose tile near his boot. “Doesn’t. Just looked like you were smiling.”

“So?” You crossed your arms loosely over your chest, hip cocked against the counter. “I’m allowed to smile.”

He nodded, jaw tightening. “Yeah. Of course you are.”

But the truth—God, the truth—was that it killed him. Watching you in that glow, smiling at a message he didn’t send, sipping your tea like you hadn’t once crawled through his bedroom window and cried into his chest about your mom. Like he wasn’t the one who taught you how to tie knots on the dock, or helped you cheat on that dumb physics test sophomore year. Like you weren’t his first heartbreak before he even knew what heartbreak was.

And now, here you were. Glowing from someone else’s attention. A boy from Charleston, maybe. Or someone worse.

And JJ was left with a warm room, an empty fridge, and a heart full of wrong decisions.

“Busy night?” you asked, voice light but laced with something sharper underneath. Your eyes narrowed, playful on the surface, but JJ knew you better than that. He could hear the edge in your tone, even if you dressed it up like a joke.

He blinked, a second too slow, caught off guard by the fact that you were still talking to him at all — let alone teasing him.

“Huh?” he asked, the word slipping out with more confusion than he meant to show. His brows pulled together, and for a second, the air between you went still again.

You didn’t clarify. Just waited, one eyebrow arched, your expression unreadable and way too composed for someone who’d just called him out.

“Oh. You mean me and Kiara…” he trailed off, finally catching on, though the words felt clumsy coming out of his mouth. His fingers tapped nervously against the edge of the counter, trying to ground himself, to distract from the twisting in his gut.

The way you looked at him right then — half-smirk, half-smoke screen — made him feel like he was being dissected. Like you already knew the answer and just wanted to see how he’d squirm his way toward it.

You nodded, slowly, picking your tea back up and taking a sip without breaking eye contact. “Mhm. I mean, it’s not like this house is soundproof.”

JJ’s ears burned. He knew exactly what you were talking about — the way Kie had been moaning his name like it was some kind of performance, the bed creaking loud enough to be a damn drumline. And now you were standing there, casually sipping your drink like it didn’t bother you… like you hadn’t been affected.

He hated that he couldn’t tell if you meant it to hurt him. Or if it hurt you.

“I didn’t think you were still staying here,” he muttered, eyes dropping to the counter for a second before flicking back up to you. “Thought you’d traded us in for someone with a yacht and a guest house.”

The jab was pathetic, even for him. It didn’t sound jealous — it sounded bitter.

You just shrugged, feigning indifference. “Sometimes the guest house has shitty reception.”

JJ let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Right. Of course.”

He wanted to stop. He should’ve stopped. But there was this part of him — loud, reckless, impulsive — that couldn’t leave it alone.

“So,” he said, voice low and careful, “you still seeing him? Charleston?”

You tilted your head. “You still seeing her?”

That shut him up fast.

Silence settled again, this time heavier, thicker, pressing down on both of you like wet air before a storm. You stared at each other, toeing the edge of a conversation you both knew you couldn’t have. Not without unraveling everything.

JJ exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Never thought we’d get like this.”

“Like what?” you asked softly, almost whispering now.

He didn’t answer. Because he didn’t have the guts to say it out loud — that being in love with you while pretending to be in love with someone else was turning him into someone he didn’t recognize. That he missed you in ways he couldn’t even admit to himself at night. That he could still smell your perfume sometimes on the sweatshirt you left at his place a year ago. The sweatshirt being the only reason he swung by his house anymore.

That maybe you hooking up with Rafe Cameron or some other asshole wasn’t what destroyed him — it was that he knew he pushed you there.

You continued to watch him, a storm of something unreadable simmering behind your eyes—cutting through the half-light, freezing him in place. JJ felt it like a weight pressing down on his chest, keeping him rooted to the sticky linoleum floor, gaze locked on yours like a dare. Or maybe a plea. He didn’t know anymore. All he knew was that he couldn’t look away. Not from you. Not now.

"You can have the last beer," you said, the words barely more than a murmur as you tapped the neck of the bottle with the tip of your finger—once, then twice. A quiet gesture, but it echoed loud inside his chest. You didn’t say it like you were being generous. You said it like you were giving him something that came with a price.

And JJ should’ve waited. Should’ve stood there like a normal person until you left the kitchen and the air cleared. Until your scent wasn’t all over the room and your voice wasn’t curling around his brain like smoke. But his body moved before he could stop it. One long stride and he was already across the room, standing too close—closer than he should’ve been—reaching for the bottle without even looking at it.

His fingers brushed yours when he grabbed it.

He wasn’t sure if you did it on purpose, keeping your hand there a second too long. Or maybe it was him who didn’t pull away fast enough. Either way, the contact sent a jolt through him—small but impossible to ignore, like sticking a finger in a socket and pretending it didn’t hurt.

The silence stretched between you again, and for a second, JJ thought about saying something. Something stupid. Something reckless. Something true. But he didn’t. He just stared down at you, lips parted like he forgot how to breathe, beer bottle clenched in his hand like it might keep him grounded.

You didn’t flinch.

Of course you didn’t.

You just tilted your head the slightest bit, eyes flickering from the bottle to his face, your expression unreadable. “I didn’t think you’d actually take it,” you said, voice quieter now, nearly lost under the buzz of the fridge.

JJ swallowed hard, the warmth of your fingers still burning faintly against his own. “Guess I’m not that polite,” he muttered, trying for a smirk but only managing something crooked and bitter.

You nodded once, slow, your lips curving—not quite a smile, not quite not one. “Yeah,” you said, “I figured that out a long time ago.”

And still, you didn’t step back.

Neither did he.

The room felt smaller than it had a minute ago. Warmer too. The beer was sweating in his hand and he hadn’t even opened it yet, hadn’t taken a breath that didn’t feel like it might choke him. You were standing close enough that he could see the salt still dried at your hairline from earlier at the beach, smell the familiar mix of sunscreen and whatever body wash you always used that clung to your skin like a memory.

He hated how much it comforted him.

He hated how badly he wanted to close the space between you and press his forehead to yours and say something reckless. Something final.

He could feel the warmth of your arm, the faint heat of your skin close to his. There was a heartbeat between you, and he didn’t know if it was yours or his. Probably both. The kind of silence that had weight to it. The kind of silence that had years underneath it, all the unspoken things stacked like cards ready to collapse.

You shifted slightly, just enough for your shoulder to brush against his. Not accidental—he knew you too well for that. But not aggressive either. Just a reminder. That you were here. That you weren’t running.

“You gonna open that or just stare at it?” you asked, nodding toward the bottle in his hand, the corners of your mouth twitching—something close to a smirk, but too tired, too sad to be sharp.

JJ exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He twisted the cap off slowly, the sound of metal scraping against glass louder than it needed to be. “Figured I’d wait and see if it explodes,” he muttered. “Would be fitting.”

You let out a small huff, barely a laugh, folding your arms loosely over your chest. “Yeah. That’d be poetic, huh?”

He took a sip. The beer was warm. Flat. Barely drinkable. And still better than the knot tightening in his throat.

“You don’t sleep over anymore,” he said, before he could stop himself. “Not since Charleston.”

Your expression didn’t change—but your posture did. A quiet shift. Barely there. “Yeah, well,” you said slowly, “house got loud.”

JJ looked at you, properly now, and the ache in his chest flared again. “Was it that bad?”

You blinked at him once, like you didn’t expect the question. Then shrugged. “Depends. You asking for you, or for her?”

He didn’t answer.

You nodded, like that was an answer in itself.

Neither of you moved. The only thing filling the space now was the buzz of the fridge, the far-off hum of voices from the backyard. Music drifting in low and muffled through the walls. But in here, it was just the two of you and everything you didn’t say.

JJ took another sip, slower this time. “You still seeing him?” he asked, not quite able to look at you when he said it.

You didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” he lied.

And you saw right through it.

"Yeah," you answered after a pause, your voice quieter now. Not unsure—just tired. “I’m still seeing him. I’m sleeping over tonight, actually.”

JJ set the beer bottle on the counter beside him, the sound of the glass against the surface sharper than he meant it to be. He nodded vaguely, eyes dragging slowly across the small kitchen—studying the cabinets, the chipped tile near the sink, the magnet-covered fridge. Anything but you.

“Guess his bed’s better than the ratty couch, huh?” he said, trying for humor again. It landed dull and awkward between you, heavy with everything unsaid.

You hummed in response, a noncommittal sound, then shifted slightly—just enough for your arm to brush against his. It was so subtle. So damn innocent. And yet it hit him like a wave. The skin-on-skin contact, the warmth of your body so close to his, the way your hand lingered for a beat too long before retreating. JJ’s heart lurched, painful and eager. A reminder of everything he used to have and everything he’d ruined. His body ached with the want to close the gap between you, to fall into whatever scraps of affection might still live in your chest for him.

He turned more fully toward you, something cracking in his expression. His brows pulled together like he was holding something back—his voice, his tears, the truth. Maybe all of it. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough, sincere. “For the other day, I mean. I didn’t mean to pry when you were clearly having a hard time.”

His voice had that familiar edge, like he’d scraped it raw just to get the words out. And he wasn’t just apologizing for that day—you both knew it. He was apologizing for every glance that lingered too long, every joke that turned mean, every time he let Kie pull him away from you when he should’ve stayed.

Your eyes stayed on him for a moment longer, and your expression softened just slightly—barely there, but he caught it. A flicker of something in your gaze that only he knew how to see. That only he ever saw.

“It’s okay,” you said finally, voice steadier than his. “It’s already water under the bridge.”

But JJ didn’t look convinced. He nodded again, slower this time, but his eyes finally met yours. There was so much behind them. Regret. Guilt. Want. His jaw tensed, his fingers twitched at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. “Doesn’t feel like it,” he muttered, almost to himself.

You tilted your head slightly, lips pressing together, but you didn’t reply. You just looked at him like you were trying to figure him out all over again. Like you weren’t sure whether you still knew him—or if you even wanted to.

The silence returned, dense and fragile. And it wasn’t just silence—it was everything else. Every laugh you used to share. Every look across crowded rooms. Every time your pinky brushed his and he didn’t pull away. Every missed chance.

And JJ, for the first time in a long time, didn’t want to fill it. Didn’t want to deflect. He just stood there beside you, heart aching, head loud, and hands clenched.

Because it should’ve been him.

And maybe it still could’ve been, if he hadn’t been so late.

The only thing that kept JJ from losing it completely was that you were still here. Still in the kitchen. Still in his orbit. Still occupying every room, every memory, every goddamn corner of his life. You didn’t even have to say anything. It was just your presence—your familiar shape carved into his world like a wound he couldn't stop picking at. You were leaning against the counter like you had a right to it, like you belonged there. Like maybe, once, you did. And even now, with everything wrong and messy and sideways between you, there was still something in the way you looked at him. Not quite softness, not anymore, but not indifference either. Something that made the whole room tilt in your direction despite the girl glued to his side these days—laughing somewhere outside without a care in the world, like nothing was unraveling.

Kie was probably with the others right now, drink in hand, smile stretching too wide, calling his name like she owned it. But JJ couldn’t make himself care. Not when you were here like this. Not when you looked at him and didn’t look through him.

And that dream—the one that hadn’t left him alone since it clawed its way into his head two nights ago—was starting to feel more like a memory than something made up.

You were both here, right in this kitchen. But in the dream, the light was warmer. Softer. Like it had bent just for you. You were sitting on the counter, legs wrapped around his waist, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like you’d been waiting for him to come to you. And he had. Eagerly. Desperately. His hands on your hips, your thighs, your back—greedy and reverent all at once. Kissing you wherever he could reach: your flushed cheeks, the delicate line of your jaw, the sweet spot just beneath your ear that made you sigh and lean in closer.

And your lips—God, your lips—he barely got them. Just flickers. Fleeting brushes. Like the dream was punishing him for wanting too much. Like it knew he didn’t deserve more than that.

He was inside you, slow and steady, his hips moving with the kind of patience he never had in real life. Like the JJ in the dream had something the real JJ didn’t. Like that version of him had earned it—earned you. You were both gasping and giggling between kisses, laughter slipping into moans and back again. Like the sex was more than just sex. Like it was yours. Private. Safe. Familiar.

And what made it all worse—what gutted him to his core—was that the dream had been happy. Stupidly, heartbreakingly happy. It wasn’t lust-heavy or feverish. It was slow, warm, deliberate. Like the version of you in the dream already forgave him for every shitty thing he’d done. Like you had chosen him. Again and again. Like you’d never stopped.

And that laugh—that goddamn laugh—echoed in his mind even now. Yours and his tangled together, filling the dream like a song, while that version of JJ kept holding you like he had all the time in the world. As if nothing was hanging over your heads. No Kie. No Charleston lie. No broken stares exchanged across crowded rooms. Just you. Just him. Right here.

It was sick, really, how much he clung to it. How much he hated the version of himself in the dream. Because that JJ had everything he wanted. And he didn’t even have to ask.

This JJ—the one standing inches from you now, afraid to even breathe too loud—he had nothing but aching hands and a hollow chest. He had the ghost of your fingertips brushing his arm by accident. He had his beer still sweating on the counter and a too-loud heartbeat reminding him that dreaming wasn’t the same as having.

Still, he stayed. Just long enough to soak up the closeness. Just long enough to pretend, maybe, that version of you wasn’t so far out of reach. Just long enough to lie to himself—one more time.

"I forgot about it," you said quietly, your voice slicing clean through the thick, humming silence that had wrapped around the kitchen like fog. JJ blinked, breath catching in his throat like he'd just been yanked back to earth from somewhere far less safe—somewhere soft and cruel and made entirely of you. His fingers curled reflexively against the edge of the counter, your words dragging him out of the pathetic spiral he'd sunken into, one full of half-formed dreams and unreal touches.

You weren’t even looking at him at first. You were staring at the tile floor, then the counter, then the spot where your fingers still idly tapped the lip of the beer bottle. But there was something tugging at the corner of your mouth—something close to a smile, but not quite. JJ hated how much he noticed that kind of thing. Hated how attuned he still was to every tiny shift in your face. How it was muscle memory now, to study you like he was starving and you were the only thing that ever fed him.

"I mean…" you said, glancing up at him finally, your eyes catching his like it didn’t cost you anything. Like it didn’t gut him wide open. "I accept your apology."

And then—God help him—you reached out.

It wasn’t much. Just your hand wrapping lightly around his forearm, your thumb brushing softly over the skin just beneath the sleeve of his t-shirt. The warmth of your touch was immediate, seeping under his skin like it had a right to be there. Like no time had passed at all. Your fingers didn’t linger, not exactly. They held. Just enough for him to feel it later. To remember it when he was alone. And somehow, that hurt worse than if you’d pulled away right after.

JJ swallowed hard. His mouth was dry, and his whole body felt too loud—like it might give him away. Like you’d somehow be able to hear how fast his heart was beating under your hand. He tried to speak, to say something back, but the words stuck somewhere in his throat, thick and useless.

Your touch wasn’t flirtatious. It wasn’t even entirely gentle. It was… familiar. And that, more than anything, made JJ feel like the floor had cracked beneath his boots. Because it meant you didn’t hate him. Not really. Not yet. And maybe that was worse. Because there was still room for hope. Still space to fuck everything up even more.

Your hand dropped after a few seconds, but the warmth stayed.

JJ finally looked at you—really looked. Your eyes weren’t sharp tonight. They didn’t hold that edge they sometimes had when you were trying to keep him at a distance. Instead, there was something cautious in them. Tired maybe. Or maybe just honest.

"Thanks," he muttered, voice raspier than he intended. "For… not holding it against me."

You raised an eyebrow, the soft smile twisting into something drier, more like your usual self. "I said I forgot about it. Doesn’t mean I didn’t hold it against you for a bit."

JJ huffed a short breath through his nose, half-laughing despite himself. That was fair. That was you.

And still, he didn’t move. Not away. Not toward you. He just stayed there, trying to memorize the shape of this moment—the angle of your body leaning against the counter, the way your knuckles brushed the condensation on the beer bottle, the sound of your voice after letting him back in, even just a little.

If you noticed how still he was, you didn’t say anything. You just reached for your tea again, taking another sip, eyes flickering toward the window above the sink.

And JJ stayed standing too close. With a beer he didn’t want, in a kitchen he couldn’t leave, staring at a girl he couldn’t stop loving.

Even when he probably should’ve let you go.

But JJ wasn't someone who let things go. Not easily. Not when it meant clinging to scraps—the fleeting brushes of your hand, the curve of a tired smile thrown his way, the ghost of laughter in a room you’d already left. He’d always been stubborn, holding tight to things he didn’t know how to keep, and loving you had never been an exception.

You shifted, the silence drawing out between you like it was daring one of you to shatter it. Then, quietly, with a voice more like a confession than a statement, you spoke again.

"You're still the best thing in my life, JJ..."

The words landed between you like a live wire, and for a second he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined them. But then you looked at him, and your expression was a kaleidoscope—sadness tugging at the corners of your mouth, regret hanging heavy in your eyes, and something softer underneath it all. Something that looked too much like love.

JJ’s breath caught in his throat. He felt it press against his ribs, sharp and panicked and greedy. He could’ve said something. Could’ve told you the same thing right back, word for word. That no matter how deep he went with Kie, no matter how many smiles she gave him or how warm her skin felt, it was you. Always you. Even when it wasn’t supposed to be.

But before he could find the courage to speak, you looked down, your gaze falling to the space between your feet like maybe you weren't supposed to say what you just did. Like maybe your heart had gotten ahead of your head and now you had to reel it back in.

"Sometimes you just..." you started again, your voice softer this time, like you were picking your way through the sentence carefully, "say things without thinking twice."

He winced—not visibly, but enough to feel the shame crawl up his spine. Yeah. That sounded like him. That was him. Blurting shit out, throwing words like knives when he didn’t know how else to cope. And he hated how well you knew him. How easily you could slice him open with nothing more than the truth.

But then your hand reached up—slow, almost hesitant—and you rested it on his shoulder. Just there. Just a palm against cotton and skin and muscle that had been tense since the second he stepped into the kitchen. It wasn’t a grand gesture. You weren’t pulling him in or pushing him away. You were just… grounding him.

And fuck, if he didn’t feel like breaking down right then.

Your fingers curled slightly, thumb brushing over the fabric of his shirt like maybe you were comforting yourself just as much as you were him. JJ turned toward you more, shoulders sagging like he’d just been knocked loose from the place he’d been holding himself up. His jaw clenched and he tried to breathe through it, the weight of your hand anchoring him to the present while his mind raced somewhere far behind, to all the places you used to fit together without effort. Before Kie. Before Charleston. Before whatever this was.

"I'm sorry, peach" he said again, but it came out hoarse, quieter than before. Like he wasn’t apologizing just for that day anymore. Like he was apologizing for everything. For letting things get this bad. For being too late. For not fighting harder when he should’ve.

You didn’t respond right away. Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and something in your gaze wavered—like you were close to crumbling but still holding on for the both of you. And maybe that was what killed him the most. That even now, even standing there with a fuck-buddy you wouldn’t name and a past you never talked about, you still looked at him like he was yours.

And God, JJ wanted to be.

You pressed your lips together, pausing like you were weighing the consequences of whatever you were about to do. Like maybe a part of you already knew that crossing this line again—touching him like that, looking at him like that—meant everything would only get messier. But still, your hand moved.

Slow. Gentle. Hesitant.

You reached up and cupped his cheek, your palm warm against his skin, thumb brushing softly beneath the bone. His stubble was rough against the pad of your finger, but you didn’t seem to mind. And JJ—JJ didn’t even breathe. He froze, entirely undone by the touch. Like your hand alone had the power to undo months of tension, of confusion, of silence that screamed louder than words ever could.

His eyes fluttered shut for a second, just one, but it was enough. Enough for his body to react like muscle memory, leaning into the comfort he hadn’t let himself crave so openly in a long time. Your fingers were so familiar, it was cruel. You always touched him like he wasn’t hard to love. Like you knew where every crack was and still chose to hold him carefully, anyway.

You leaned in slightly, not enough to cross the line but just close enough that your breath ghosted over his lips. And when you spoke, your voice was a whisper, more hope than certainty.

"It's gonna be fine, J... we always bounce back, right?"

JJ’s heart clenched at the nickname. No one called him that the way you did. Soft. Intimate. Like it belonged to a version of him that only existed in your presence.

He opened his eyes slowly, and you were still there. Still looking at him like the past wasn’t weighing heavy on your shoulders. Like there was a chance—just one—that things could be okay again.

But the space between “maybe” and “never” felt razor-thin.

He wanted to believe you. God, he needed to. But all he could do was look at you, and nod, just barely.

Because if he spoke, he might beg.

And if he begged, you might stay.

JJ’s throat tightened around a breath he wasn’t sure he could swallow. Your thumb pressed into the curve of his cheek, warm and steady, and for a moment the rest of the world fell away—the laugh of other people behind the door, the ache in his chest, the lies he’d told himself to get this far. All that remained was you, right here, believing in him enough to promise it’d be fine.

He closed the final inch between you, tilting his head so your hand cradled his face perfectly, and brushed his forehead against yours. The contact was light, feather-soft, but electric—you could feel the charge in the tiny quake of your fingertips. “Yeah,” he whispered, voice rough. “We always do.” Even as he said it, he felt the lie taste bitter on his tongue, because this time, he wasn’t so sure.

Your eyes searched his, and JJ felt himself unravel. Every unsaid apology, every regret, every restless night replayed in his mind like a silent film. But when you pressed your forehead harder, bridging the gap completely, the world righted itself just a little. For once, he didn’t have to pretend—or think twice. He wrapped one arm around your waist, steadying himself against the weight of all he’d let slip away, and you leaned into him, breathing him in like you still knew the rhythm of his heart.

There in the half-lit kitchen, time slowed. No more jokes, no more sarcasm to hide behind. He closed his eyes, tightening his hold, memorizing the curve of your shoulder, the press of your lips—to hold onto the promise you both whispered in that hush: that somehow, against all the odds and all the mistakes, you’d find your way back.

And as he rested his cheek against your hair, JJ let himself believe it. For just this moment, at least, it would be fine.

Your left eye squeezed shut as you focused down the barrel, heartbeat slowing to match the rise and fall of your chest. One last steady breath, a flick of your finger, and the shot rang out, the crack swallowed by the wind rolling in off the ocean. The beer bottle exploded in a satisfying burst of glass and foam. You lowered the gun, expression unreadable, your jaw tight as the weight of it settled back in your hands.

From his spot leaning against the hood of his truck, Rafe was already grinning like he’d won something. Arms crossed, Ray-Bans low on his nose, he looked like a coach watching his prodigy land the perfect play. “That was great,” he said, pushing off the truck with lazy confidence. “Three out of four? That’s basically perfect.”

He stepped toward you, slow and deliberate, and reached for the gun with a practiced ease. His fingers brushed yours—whether intentional or not, you couldn’t say—and he flipped the safety on in one smooth movement before cradling the weapon with unsettling comfort.

“You’re a natural,” he added, his voice softer now, more intimate. He leaned in a little, just enough to let his grin curl wider at the edges. “Makes me think you shoot a gun more often than you let on.”

You tilted your head, lips twitching up in a sarcastic smile that didn’t touch your eyes. “Yeah… I spend my free time shooting at teddy bears and soda cans. Hours of it. Real productive habit.”

Rafe chuckled, but there was something unreadable in his eyes. Amusement, sure, but underneath it? Intrigue. Admiration. Something you didn’t have the patience to name.

You stared at him for a moment, the breeze tugging at strands of your hair, brushing against your neck. The gun was gone now, but the weight of the moment hadn’t lifted. So you asked, casually but not without edge, “Why do you even have a gun in your car anyway?”

Rafe’s smile didn’t falter, but it did freeze slightly—like a pause between breaths. He looked at you for a long second, head cocked just so, like he was deciding how much truth he wanted to hand over.

“Protection,” he said finally, the word slow and deliberate. “You never know who you’ll run into. People don’t exactly love me, you know?”

You blinked, still watching him. “That’s kind of a self-inflicted problem, don’t you think?”

He shrugged, looking out at the ocean, his jaw tightening the way it always did when something cut a little too close to the truth. “Maybe. But it doesn’t stop them from coming for me anyway.”

You studied him—his profile, the sharp set of his brow, the way his fingers flexed slightly even without the gun in his hand. “So you’re just walking around locked and loaded all the time?”

He glanced back at you then, smirk curling back into place like armor. “Only when I’ve got something worth protecting.”

The words landed heavy between you, heavier than you wanted them to. You didn’t look away. Neither did he. And suddenly the space between you felt far too charged, the wind too quiet, the world too still.

“Three out of four,” he repeated, gesturing toward the spot where the bottles once stood. “Bet you could hit all four next time.”

You scoffed lightly, still unsure whether he meant the shooting or something else entirely. “Keep dreaming, Cameron.” But you didn’t move away. Neither did he.

You watched him in silence, eyes trailing the sharp lines of his profile as he toyed absentmindedly with the gun, fingers dancing over the metal like it was a lighter or a cigarette—something casual, something familiar. There was a restless energy to him, the kind that buzzed just under his skin. Even now, post-adrenaline, post-target practice, Rafe Cameron couldn’t sit still. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, thumb grazing the trigger guard with a familiarity that should’ve unnerved you more than it did.

Your gaze dropped to the sunglasses perched low on his nose, barely hanging on as the moonlight caught the tinted lenses. You reached out and plucked them off his face in one smooth motion, cocking a brow.

“It’s literally night,” you pointed out dryly, holding the Ray-Bans between two fingers like they were evidence of a crime. “Why are you even wearing these? What are you hiding from? The moon?”

Without missing a beat, he smirked and leaned back on the hood of his truck, the gun now tucked safely under one arm. “To look cool,” he answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Then, with a lazy squint and a slight grin, he raised a hand and pretended to aim the invisible gun at you, index finger cocked like a trigger.

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you with a tug of a smirk. “Right. Of course. You’re the epitome of cool, country-club.” You slipped the glasses onto your own face, adjusting them with a theatrical flick of your finger, the lenses far too big and the gesture just ridiculous enough to make your sarcasm land with extra weight.

Rafe watched you from where he sat, his grin deepening as he tilted his head to the side, taking in the way the sunglasses dwarfed your features and how little you seemed to care. “You’re making them look better than I ever did,” he drawled, voice low and a little rough around the edges.

You turned your face toward him slightly, giving him a profile view of your faux-serious pout. “Obviously. I have something you don’t—actual taste.”

That pulled a laugh out of him—real and warm and unguarded—and he shook his head, blond strands falling into his face. “If taste includes shooting like a damn sniper and trash-talking the guy who taught you, then yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He didn’t respond right away, just stared at you in the moonlight—his Ray-Bans still perched on your face like you were claiming some kind of territory. The night was quiet around you, ocean waves crashing distantly, stars hanging heavy and low. For a split second, the teasing burned off, leaving behind something quieter. More open. More dangerous.

“You ever think about it?” he asked suddenly, voice quieter. “If we’d met somewhere else—without the name, the mess, the past?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not with the way his eyes were looking at you now, like he wasn’t talking about the sunglasses or the beach or the gun anymore. Like the space between you wasn’t just air, but something flammable.

So you said the only thing you could without falling into him completely.

“I think you talk too much for someone trying to look cool.”

And just like that, the tension cracked—his laugh cutting through it like glass under a boot, but his eyes still held that glint. The one that said he was still thinking about it. Still thinking about you.

And behind the sunglasses, you were thinking about him too.

He stepped closer, the gravel crunching softly beneath his boots, closing the already narrow space between you like it was nothing. His left arm came up to rest on the hood of the truck right beside your hip, casual and practiced, while the other held the gun loose by his side—no longer threatening, just an accessory to the chaos he carried like a second skin. The way he leaned in was careful, almost slow, like he didn’t want to spook you or maybe like he was savoring the tension stringing tight between you both.

“You’d definitely have dated me if it weren’t for the circumstances,” he said, voice low and almost amused, like it was a fact he’d known all his life and was just now letting you in on it. The grin playing on his lips was sharp, smug even, but it didn't quite reach his eyes—those stormy blue irises watching you like they were trying to read your pulse through your skin.

You tilted your chin, watching him right back, the silence stretching between you thick and laced with heat. Then, just as you were about to answer, he pushed the knife in deeper.

“I mean… we’re basically dating at this point.” His tone was mock-casual, but there was something heavier buried underneath it—something real. Something desperate.

You lowered the sunglasses just enough to look at him over the rim, the oversized Ray-Bans slipping down your nose. Your expression was unreadable for a second, unreadable in that way that always made Rafe feel both completely seen and entirely shut out. You let your gaze roam over his face slowly—cheekbones cut like a secret, lips parted slightly, eyes hungry for something he hadn’t even begun to name.

“Delusional,” you muttered finally, but there was no venom in it. Just a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth, your voice warmer than it should’ve been. You sounded like you were letting him win—just a little. Just enough to keep him hanging.

He shrugged like he didn’t care, but his eyes didn’t leave your face. “Maybe. But if I’m gonna be delusional, I’d rather do it with you looking at me like that.”

You scoffed, but the air between you didn’t shift—if anything, it thickened. You didn’t step away. You didn’t tell him to move back. And he didn’t close the space either. He just stood there, so close you could smell the faint mixture of gunpowder, salt air, and expensive cologne clinging to him.

“The circumstances,” you started, spine straightening slightly as if preparing to declare a truth you’d been sitting on for a while, “are what make this even remotely interesting.”

His brow ticked up, intrigued, so you kept going, voice dipping into something a little more smug, a little more dangerous. “Without them, I wouldn’t hate you to your core. And you… wouldn’t let me.”

The corners of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t speak. Not yet.

You chuckled, low and effortless, adjusting the sunglasses back onto your face properly like you were sealing the conversation with them. Like putting on his armor gave you a layer of distance again. “It’s the hate that keeps it fun, country-club. Don’t get it twisted.”

Rafe leaned back just slightly, still watching you, a flicker of something almost fond cutting through the usual chaos in his gaze. “Yeah?” he said, voice like gravel and sin. “You sure it’s hate you’re feeling right now?”

You didn’t answer.

Because in that moment, you weren’t sure either.

But Rafe didn’t need to know that. You just scoffed, eyeing him coolly from behind the tinted lenses of his own Ray-Bans, your mouth twitching around a grin you refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing. He didn’t look the least bit deterred by your mock annoyance—in fact, he seemed to thrive off it. Typical. Always pushing, always testing.

Then, in one fluid, over-dramatic motion, he pointed the gun at you again, closing one eye and pretending to line up the shot like a cowboy in a shitty old western. “Hands up, pants down,” he announced, voice low and teasing, the words dancing between threat and joke.

You blinked slowly, unimpressed, your tone deadpan. “The safety’s still on, dumbass.”

Your eyes flicked toward the weapon, calm and unbothered, despite the fact that it was aimed directly at you. And Rafe—Rafe just grinned wider, like that was the reaction he wanted all along. “I know,” he said simply, almost fondly, and then he turned, his smirk deepening as he tilted the barrel toward the last standing beer bottle perched on a driftwood log.

Before you could react, he clicked off the safety with a practiced thumb. And just as his body leaned forward—one smooth movement—he pressed his mouth against yours, gun still raised in one hand, the other coming to brace against your waist like he was claiming two things at once. The kiss was messy and eager, his lips hot and impatient against yours, like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to taste you or conquer you. So he did both.

And then—bang!

The shot cracked through the night air, sharp and immediate, the sound echoing down the empty beach like a firework. You gasped into his mouth, lips breaking from his in surprise. When you opened your eyes, the beer bottle was gone—shattered glass glinting in the sand like tiny stars. You stared at it for a beat, your heart in your throat, brain still catching up to the fact that he’d fired the gun mid-kiss, without looking. Without even hesitating.

“You’re fucking insane,” you muttered, breathless and half-laughing now, your palm pressed against his chest, either to shove him away or feel the heartbeat thudding there. You weren’t sure which.

He chuckled, mouth still inches from yours, the sound smug and self-satisfied as he lowered the gun. “Dead center,” he murmured, licking his bottom lip as if he could still taste the surprise on yours. “Told you I was cool.”

“Cool?” you echoed, voice incredulous as your hand slid up to flick the collar of his shirt. “That was either the most reckless thing I’ve ever seen or the hottest.”

You stared at him, glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of your nose, lips parted in disbelief and something warmer beneath it—adrenaline maybe, or the aftershock of kissing someone who smelled like salt and gasoline and gunpowder and yet still somehow made your heart beat harder than the gunshot had. The sound of the shattered bottle still echoed faintly in your ears, but it was drowned out by the quiet thrum between you and Rafe—something louder in its silence than the shot itself.

“Why not both?” he’d said, and you almost hated how easily he could deliver a line like that. Like he didn’t even need to try. Like he didn’t just kiss you while pulling off a goddamn beachside drive-by.

“You seriously could’ve shot me,” you muttered, though you didn’t pull away. Your hand was still on his chest, and you could feel the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your palm—calm, maddeningly calm, like this was just another Wednesday night for him.

“But I didn’t,” he said, tone flippant but eyes locked on yours now, sharper. “Besides… I wouldn’t miss you. Not even blindfolded.”

You made a face at that—half amused, half annoyed. “Wow. That was awful. That was actually terrible.”

“And yet, you’re still standing here,” he murmured, eyes darting from your lips to your eyes again, daring you to deny it.

You pushed him lightly, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt as you shoved, more playful than serious. “Only because you’d probably shoot me if I ran.”

He caught your wrist then, not tight, just firm enough to hold you there—his thumb dragging across the inside of it, slow and thoughtless. “Don’t say shit like that,” he said quietly. “I’d never shoot you.”

There was a shift in his voice, in his posture. That glint in his eye settled into something deeper, something quieter. Not flirtation. Not bravado. Just truth.

You stared at him again, all traces of your smirk falling away. The wind curled around you both now, making your hair dance and the broken bottle glimmer like a constellation of stars behind him. The gun hung at his side now, forgotten, but his hand hadn’t left your wrist.

“You think this is normal?” you asked finally, voice softer now, not mocking—just tired. “Us? Whatever the hell this is?”

He breathed in through his nose, slow and steady, like he wanted to say something flippant, something that would pull you both back into the game. But he didn’t.

“I think normal would ruin it,” he said instead.

You didn’t answer right away. You didn’t know how to. Because the worst part was that you understood what he meant. Underneath the bravado and gunfire and messy kisses in the dark, there was something real here. Messy. Complicated. But real.

Rafe stepped in closer again, the hand that had held your wrist now brushing your hair back from your cheek with surprising gentleness. “You’re not running,” he said again, quieter this time, almost to himself. “You never run from me.”

You swallowed hard, heart aching and roaring in your chest all at once. “I don’t know what that says about me,” you whispered.

He leaned in, forehead brushing yours, the broken glass behind you both glinting like a warning. “It says you’re just as fucked as I am.”

You slipped the Ray-Bans from your face completely, the weight of them suddenly feeling ridiculous—like they belonged to some other version of you, one who hadn’t just kissed Rafe Cameron like the world wasn’t tilting sideways. Like the moment didn’t ache with something deeper. You let the glasses hang from your fingers, watching him closely now, bare-faced and open, expression softer than you meant to let it be.

Rafe didn’t say anything at first, just held your gaze a beat too long before breaking it to glance toward the ocean. The moonlight stretched across the water like a silver scar, calm and quiet in a way that made your chest hurt. His shoulders rose and fell once, subtle but tense, and he pulled back only slightly, just enough to breathe out, “What happened?”

His voice was low, but it carried—something rough buried in it. Concern maybe. Or something more possessive, more dangerous. You couldn’t tell. Not yet.

Your eyes traced the side of his face as his jaw tensed, his profile cut sharp against the night. You sighed, the sound leaving you as a whisper through your nose. And then came the memory—JJ’s voice echoing in your head, his apology clumsy but sincere, his blue eyes wide and bruised with something he hadn’t said out loud.

“He apologized,” you said finally, your voice flat—not because it didn’t matter, but because it mattered too much. You looked back toward the water, the way Rafe was, like it might settle the mess spinning in your chest. “For the other day. For prying when I didn’t want to talk.”

Rafe didn’t react right away. But something shifted in the air around him. You could feel it.

“And I don’t know,” you went on, your fingers tightening slightly around the sunglasses in your hand. “It just… fucked me up, I guess. The way he looked at me, like he still knows me. Like I didn’t make it perfectly clear that he doesn’t anymore.”

Rafe’s eyes flicked to yours then, sharp and unreadable. “Do you want him to?”

The question landed between you like a dropped knife, clean and cold.

You blinked, caught off guard not by the jealousy in his voice—because that you expected—but by the hurt he didn’t bother to hide behind it. You looked at him again, properly, and saw the way his fingers flexed against the side of the truck, how his jaw was still tight, like he was grinding his teeth.

“I don’t know what I want,” you said quietly. “I thought I did. I thought staying away was the answer.”

“But it doesn’t feel that way anymore?” he asked, eyes searching yours now, softer somehow, like he was bracing himself for your honesty.

You hesitated, lips parting as you tried to find words that wouldn’t make things worse. But none came.

“I just feel like I’m unraveling,” you admitted finally, your voice breaking at the edges. “Like I’m holding everything too tightly and still somehow losing grip. And the worst part? I think he still sees through me anyway. Like no matter how far I push him, he’s still standing there, holding the same version of me that I’m trying to kill.”

Rafe’s features softened at that, his posture relaxing slightly, though something dangerous still lingered in the way he looked at you—like the thought of you unraveling was unacceptable to him. Like he'd rather burn everything else down than let that happen.

His voice dropped lower as he stepped in again, one hand reaching up to brush lightly against your cheek, thumb tracing the edge of your jaw. “If you’re unraveling, I’ll be the one to hold it together,” he said, steady and slow, like a vow he didn’t need you to return.

You closed your eyes for half a second, leaning into the warmth of his touch despite every voice in your head telling you not to. “That’s not your job, Rafe.”

“No,” he said, almost to himself. “But maybe it’s the only one I’m good at.”

"It's not fair," you mumbled, voice low but firm, eyes locked on him with a kind of quiet fury—at the situation, at yourself, maybe at him too. Your arms folded across your chest, fingers pressing into your skin as if you could physically hold the frustration in place. The wind off the ocean pushed your hair back, but you didn’t move, didn’t blink, just stared at him like the weight of the world was balancing on your next breath.

Rafe didn’t flinch. He never really did. But the flicker in his expression betrayed something softer—an acknowledgment, maybe. He tilted his head slightly, like he was watching a version of you only he could see, and when he finally spoke, the words were quieter than you expected.

“No one’s ever been worried if things were fair for me or not,” he said, his lips curling into something that looked like a smile but wasn’t really one. It was bitter at the edges, hollow in the middle. The kind of smile you wear when you've already learned how to lose and pretend it doesn't hurt.

The look on his face cracked something in you. It wasn’t the Rafe people warned you about—the volatile one, the cruel one, the sharp-edged heir to everything broken. No, this was something more intimate, more tragic. The curve of his mouth—off-kilter and wrong—sparked something almost maternal inside of you, fierce and protective. The urge to fix something you knew you never really could. To soothe a boy who grew into a man thinking softness made him weak.

You studied him in that moment, the mess of contradictions behind his blue eyes, the way his fingers twitched at his side like he was fighting the urge to reach for you again. And suddenly, everything felt too heavy. Like you were standing on a fault line, and one more word would tip you both into something you couldn’t climb out of.

"You know that’s not how it should be, right?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper now. “You talk like that’s just how it is. Like you're not supposed to expect anything better.”

Rafe’s gaze dropped to the sand for a second, and his smile faded completely. “It’s not about what I expect,” he muttered, eyes lifting again, colder now, like he was putting walls back up brick by brick. “It’s about what I’ve learned not to.”

You stepped forward before you could stop yourself, sunglasses still dangling from your fingers, forgotten now. “That’s not living, Rafe. That’s just surviving.”

He swallowed hard, throat bobbing, and the flicker of vulnerability returned. “Maybe that’s all I’m good at,” he said, and for a moment, he looked younger than you’d ever seen him. Tired. Worn down to the bone.

You reached out without thinking, hand pressing gently to his chest like you were trying to quiet the ache in both of you. “You don’t have to keep choosing the version of life that hurts the most just because it’s the one you’re used to.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you like you’d said something foreign, like kindness was a language he hadn’t heard in a long time. Then, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it, he whispered, “But what if it’s the only one that still feels real?”

And all you could do was stand there, your hand still against his heart, wondering how someone so closed off could make you feel this much.

"You got any more beer bottles?" you asked, voice low and a little hoarse, reaching for the gun in his hand like it was second nature. The weight of it settled into your palm easily, grounding you in something solid and sharp—something that made more sense than the softness that had started threading itself between you and Rafe like a dangerous, delicate wire.

He blinked at you, the corners of his mouth twitching like he couldn’t tell if he was amused or alarmed. Maybe both. “You trying to distract me, or make me fall deeper in love?” he muttered, only half-joking.

You didn’t look at him, just focused on checking the safety the way he taught you, the barrel pointed carefully down and away. “You’re not built for love, Rafe,” you replied casually, cocking your head toward the truck bed where the crate of bottles sat half-empty. “But you're built for obsession. Maybe that’s close enough.”

The comment made his grin flicker for real this time, but it didn’t reach his eyes—not entirely. He grabbed two more bottles from the crate, walking back and placing them on a driftwood log a little farther down the sand. You watched him the whole time, the way his shoulders tensed and flexed beneath the thin fabric of his long sleeve, how his jaw was tight like he was chewing on words he wasn’t ready to spit out yet.

“You don’t gotta keep trying to be the tough one,” he said as he returned, voice softer now, like the dark had given him permission to be honest. “Not with me.”

You raised the gun again, aligning your stance, sighting one of the new targets. “Then don’t make me feel like I have to,” you replied simply.

Rafe stepped behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, his hand ghosting above your waist like he wanted to help adjust your aim but thought better of it. Instead, he murmured low in your ear, “You’re shaking.”

“I’m not,” you lied.

He didn't call you out for it. Just let the silence stretch, the air between you charged with everything unsaid, everything impossible to unfeel.

You took the shot. The first bottle shattered on impact, the crack of glass echoing over the sound of the waves.

“Goddamn,” he said behind you, proud and almost reverent. “You scare me sometimes.”

You turned just enough to look at him over your shoulder, the moonlight catching in your eyes. “Good.”

And just like that, the balance tipped again—caught somewhere between danger and desire, between what was real and what could never be.

You let out a slow, controlled breath, left eye squeezing shut as you tried to steady your aim on the next beer bottle, the cool steel of the gun grounding you as Rafe’s hands settled on your waist. His touch was firm but not guiding—he wasn’t correcting your stance, just holding you there like he needed the contact as much as you did. Like if he let go, the space between you would become unbearable.

The soft crunch of sand beneath his boots had barely stopped before you’d felt the heat of him behind you, the press of his chest not quite touching your back but close enough to make your pulse stutter. The proximity was intoxicating, heavy with the weight of all the things you weren’t saying, couldn’t say—not without unraveling whatever fragile balance you’d both been pretending to keep.

At first, this thing with Rafe had been a way to burn off the ache. A reckless solution to a deeper hunger. A lust-fueled arrangement that usually ended with you bolting out of his room in the early morning hours, sick with guilt and a bitter taste in your mouth that lingered longer than his cologne. You’d told yourself it was just sex. Just a bad habit. Just a stupid, fucked-up game you were both playing to feel something.

But lately… lately the guilt had dulled. Softened into something that felt dangerously close to acceptance. The exits after those nights got slower, your silence less defensive. You stayed longer, sometimes long enough to feel the weight of his eyes on you while you slept, or to catch the way he’d frown when he thought you weren’t looking—like he didn’t know how to deal with your presence lingering like perfume on his sheets.

Maybe it had stopped being about the sex altogether.

Rafe still acted like an asshole in public, still played the smug, detached sociopath, still pretended you barely registered in a room. But now you weren’t sure if that was who he really was or if it was some mask he’d welded to his face to keep people from asking questions. To keep them from seeing that underneath it all, he kept circling back to you like a moth to flame. You didn’t know if it was pride, fear, or something else entirely—but whatever it was, it made him cruel when others were watching. And yet, the same hands that shoved people away were the ones holding you like you were something precious he’d stolen.

The air between you thickened, tension coiling again as your finger hovered over the trigger. Rafe leaned in closer, his breath brushing your hairline, the tip of his nose just grazing your temple.

“You're thinking too much,” he muttered, voice low and rough, half amusement, half something else entirely.

“You’re talking too much,” you shot back, but your voice came out breathier than intended.

You pulled the trigger.

The bottle exploded with a clean pop, shards scattering like confetti across the sand.

Rafe whistled softly behind you, his grip on your waist tightening just a fraction. “Told you you’re a natural,” he murmured, the words brushing the shell of your ear.

You lowered the gun slowly, your chest rising and falling a little faster now, not just from the adrenaline. Your head tilted toward him, just enough to catch the look in his eyes—focused, amused, and dark with want.

“You’re hesitating,” he said lowly, voice brushing your neck. “Starting to think that first streak was luck.”

“You're lucky i don't turn it on you,” you muttered, ignoring how your pulse was kicking up against your throat.

You pulled the trigger.

The bottle shattered in an instant, the sharp crack echoing against the shoreline. Glass scattered into the sand, and Rafe let out a satisfied hum, hands tightening on your hips.

“Not bad,” he murmured, leaning in close enough for the words to skim your skin. “Almost makes me think you’re not a complete waste of my time.”

You scoffed, tilting your head back slightly so you could look at him from the corner of your eye. “Please. You’ve been wasting your time since the moment I let you touch me.”

His smirk twitched—crooked, amused, challenged. “You let me?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you handed the gun back to him, cool and casual, like your heart wasn’t thudding against your ribs. His fingers brushed yours as he took it, lingering just a second too long.

You turned, brushing past him to walk back toward the truck. “Hope you brought more bottles,” you called over your shoulder, not looking back.

“Hope you brought more attitude,” he shot back, watching you with that same maddening glint in his eyes. “I like when you talk shit.”

And you did. You liked when he kept it mean. It was easier that way. Safer.

Just enough to keep from drowning.

You rummaged through the backseat of his truck, the dim dome light flickering overhead as your hand brushed over a few stray receipts, a hoodie that definitely wasn’t his, and then—bingo. “Look what I found,” you called out, straightening and slamming the door shut with your hip. You sauntered back toward the front of the truck, holding the half-full bottle of expensive scotch in one hand and a sleek silver tin in the other.

Rafe didn’t move from where he was leaned against the hood, the red cherry of his cigarette flaring as he took a long drag, his eyes locked on you through a cloud of smoke. You raised both items like you were presenting trophies. “You planning on getting me high and drunk tonight, Cameron?” you asked, your brows lifting in exaggerated mockery, voice all syrup and bite. “What are you, a Bond villain?”

He didn’t answer right away, just smirked around the cigarette as he lifted the gun, casually leveling it at the last two remaining beer bottles lined up in the sand. He fired twice—two quick, clean pops. Both bottles exploded in tandem, glass scattering like sea foam under the moonlight.

You blinked, unimpressed. “Was that supposed to impress me?” you asked dryly, tipping your head to the side as you hoisted yourself up onto the hood of his SUV, legs swinging carelessly. The scotch bottle clinked lightly against the tin in your lap as you settled in, back propped on your palms.

Rafe finally glanced your way, the cigarette now hanging lazily from his lips, eyes glinting with smug amusement. “You’re hard to impress,” he said, voice rough with smoke and something else—something slower, heavier. “But I’m not done trying.”

You made a show of rolling your eyes but didn’t look away. “If that’s your idea of flirting, I can’t tell if I should be flattered or call the cops.”

He laughed—actually laughed—and flicked the cigarette away, embers trailing through the air before fading out in the sand. “Relax,” he said, pushing off the hood with one hand and walking toward you with a cocky kind of swagger that was way too practiced. “If I wanted to seduce you, you wouldn’t be holding that bottle. You’d be asking me to open it.”

You snorted, shaking your head but passing him the bottle anyway. “Then prove it, Gatsby. Let’s see what that private school charm gets you.”

He twisted the cap off with one hand, taking a small swig straight from the bottle before handing it back, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “You talk a lot of shit for someone still sitting on my truck.”

You clinked the bottle against the tin in your lap, the faint smile on your lips playing traitor to your words. “You talk a lot of shit for someone who keeps trying to impress me.”

There was a beat—a quiet second too long where neither of you spoke. The space between tension and something else that felt dangerously close to intimacy. Rafe’s gaze dropped to your mouth, and he stepped forward again, standing between your knees now. Close. Close enough that you could smell the sharp smoke on his clothes and the warmth of the scotch on his breath.

“You want to get high?” he asked, voice low now. Not teasing.

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “Do you want me high?”

“I want you real,” he murmured. “Whichever way I get it.”

And there it was again—that crack in the act. The thing Rafe couldn’t quite fake away when it was just the two of you, no crowd, no noise, no masks. Just you and him and the bad decisions you kept circling back to like moths to flame.

You looked down at the tin box, popped it open with a click, and offered it to him.

“Then let’s get real.”

He took the tin box from your hand without a word, flipping it open with a flick of his thumb like it was muscle memory. His fingers plucked one of the pre-rolls from the velvet lining inside, then the lighter followed—a polished silver one, of course, because Rafe couldn’t just use a Bic like a normal person. The flame danced in the space between you, casting a fleeting orange glow on his sharp features as he lit the joint, taking a long, practiced drag.

He didn’t break eye contact as he inhaled, watching you from under his lashes, lazy and deliberate. You, meanwhile, tilted your head back and took a bold swig from the scotch bottle, the burn immediate and brutal as it hit your throat. You winced, teeth gritted, sucking in a breath as if that might chase the fire down. "Jesus Christ,” you muttered, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand before setting the bottle beside you on the hood. “That stuff could strip paint.”

But Rafe still didn’t hand you the joint. Instead, he stepped forward until his knees bumped the edge of the SUV and you had to tip your chin up to meet his gaze. The joint hovered between his fingers, a ribbon of smoke curling lazily into the air. Then—without a word—he leaned in, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the warmth of his breath. He exhaled slowly, deliberately, directing the plume of smoke toward your mouth.

You hesitated only for a beat before parting your lips, letting the warmth of his exhale seep into you like something stolen. The intimacy of it was disarming. His eyes locked onto yours the entire time, like he was daring you to flinch. But you didn’t. You just took it—smoke and moment and everything in between—letting it slide down your lungs like it was your idea in the first place.

“Fuck,” you muttered when you finally exhaled, voice lower, throat rough. “You’re such a fucking menace.”

He smirked, his free hand brushing along the outside of your thigh as he took another hit. “And yet,” he said, blowing smoke toward the sky this time, “you’re still here.”

You reached out lazily, fingers tugging the joint from his hand, your other hand bracing against his chest to keep him exactly where he was. “Maybe I’m the real menace.”

His grin widened, something darker behind it now. “No maybe about it.”

You brought the joint to your lips, eyes still locked on his as you took a slow drag, letting the heat coil in your lungs before exhaling through your nose, smoke curling between you. He didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned in further, hands bracing on either side of your hips now, boxing you in against the hood of the SUV like he had every right to stand that close—like he knew you weren’t going to stop him.

The warmth from the scotch and weed mixed in your bloodstream, making everything feel a little hazy, a little softer. But not Rafe. Rafe was sharp edges and slow, calculated movements. He dipped his head closer, eyes dropping to your mouth, not bothering to hide it. His fingers brushed the inside of your knee and slid up just slightly, like he was testing a theory—one he already knew the answer to.

“Menace, huh?” he echoed, voice low, that gravelly undertone dragging across your spine. “Say it again.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you with a lazy smirk. “You’re a menace, Rafe.”

He hummed in satisfaction, lips twitching like he was proud of that. “And you like it.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just handed him the joint again, your fingers lingering against his longer than they needed to, slow and deliberate, feeling the way his pulse jumped under your touch. Your knee brushed his thigh, and he didn’t step back. He never stepped back.

Instead, he leaned in, close enough that his nose brushed yours, his breath warm and spiked with scotch and smoke. “You’re dangerous when you’re quiet,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper, your own chest brushing his now with every breath. “Makes me wonder what the fuck you’re thinking.”

His smile curved slow and wicked. “You’d run if I told you.”

You tilted your head, mouth just inches from his now, your voice all heat and challenge. “Try me.”

And there it was again—that charged silence that pulsed louder than anything else around you. The kind that dared a move. The kind that burned hotter than any match.

His gaze dropped to your lips again, slower this time, like he was weighing the danger of giving in versus the torture of restraint. The air between you felt thick—charged with heat and something far more complicated than lust. Something that had been building over weeks of pretending you didn’t care, of biting back smiles and venom-laced compliments, of slipping into each other’s spaces just long enough to pretend it didn’t mean anything.

But it did.

And now, with the smoke still curling in the air and the taste of scotch lingering on your tongue, it was harder to lie to yourselves.

"You sure you want to know what I’m thinking?" he murmured, voice darker now, laced with something heavy. His fingers ghosted up your bare thigh again, knuckles grazing the hem of your shorts, but not going further. Not yet.

You didn’t flinch. You leaned back slightly on your hands, arching just enough to make the space between your bodies tighter, forcing him to feel it—feel you. “If it’s more half-baked threats and gun tricks, then maybe not,” you said, tone dry, but your eyes gave you away, flicking down to his mouth like you were daring him to cross a line you already knew you'd let him breach.

His hand found your hip, firm and possessive, like he was grounding himself more than holding you. “I’m thinking,” he said slowly, voice low and deliberate, “about how good you looked pointing that gun earlier.” He leaned closer, lips grazing the corner of your mouth, just barely. “How steady your hands were. Like you were made for it.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just let your eyes flutter shut for a second, letting the heat ripple through you, letting it bloom in your chest and belly. When you opened them again, he was still watching you, like you were something dangerous and beautiful—something he couldn’t touch without getting burned but was already too close to walk away.

“I’m thinking,” he continued, voice rougher now, “about how much you want me to kiss you right now. Even though you’d rather choke than admit it.”

A laugh, soft and disbelieving, slipped past your lips. “You’re such a narcissist,” you whispered, but your hand was curling into the fabric of his shirt again, just above his heart.

“Maybe,” he whispered back. “But I’m not wrong.”

Your lips brushed his this time, subtle and fleeting, like a warning shot. And it worked—his breath hitched, his grip on your hip tightened, and then the hand at your thigh moved, slipping higher now, bolder, until you felt the calloused edge of his fingers trace the inside of your leg.

“You’re playing with fire,” you murmured against his mouth, heartbeat hammering against your ribs.

“I know,” he breathed. “I’m counting on it.”

And then his lips were on yours, fierce and unapologetic, his hand sliding up to cradle your jaw as he kissed you like he meant to take something from you—and maybe give something back. Something wordless and burning and honest in the way only silence and collision could be.

You didn’t hesitate—your lips met his with a natural urgency, a magnetic pull neither of you could resist. Your hand slid up, fingers tangling effortlessly in the thick strands of his hair, as if they’d always belonged there, as if this was exactly where you were supposed to be. His arm wrapped firmly around your waist, steady and sure, lifting you just enough so you could settle fully into him, pressing your body closer, the heat between you unmistakable. Your other arm wound around his neck, fingertips tracing along the nape with a featherlight touch, deepening the kiss until it became a slow, deliberate conversation between your lips, a shared confession without words.

This wasn’t a frantic rush or desperate grasp—it was a measured, consuming burn, like you both wanted to etch this moment into memory, savor every stolen second. The haze of weed and the burn of scotch blurred the sharp edges of your usual tension, smoothing the rough corners of whatever had been simmering beneath your interactions. What remained was something softer, something more vulnerable, rising quietly beneath the surface like a fragile promise. Quiet sighs and soft murmurs slipped from your lips, carried on the smoky air and tangled with the taste of him—salt, smoke, and something darkly addictive that wrapped around your senses.

His hands moved reverently across your back beneath your shirt, fingertips sketching slow, purposeful patterns that sent electric shivers skimming your skin. The rest of the world—this beach, the gun, the broken bottles—faded away into nothing but a distant echo. All that existed was the weight of his body pressed to yours, the steady beat of his heart against your chest, and the way your breaths tangled in the space between you.

Time stretched and slowed until it felt like you were suspended in a bubble, locked in this fragile, intimate space where nothing could reach you but the softness in his eyes and the warmth of his hands. The kiss deepened, becoming heavier, thicker—not hurried but dense with the unspoken, with everything that neither of you dared say aloud but was screaming beneath the surface. It was a quiet surrender, a confession that didn’t need words—an unspoken truth wrapped in heat and tension and the raw ache of wanting more.

When you finally broke apart, just enough to breathe, your foreheads rested against each other, breaths mingling in the cool night air. His eyes, dark and intense, searched yours like he was trying to memorize every secret you’d been hiding, every fragment you’d been too afraid to share. There was something unguarded there, a rare vulnerability flickering beneath the surface of that fierce, almost reckless exterior.

He eased back just enough to catch his breath, fingers brushing the corner of his mouth before he reached for the joint resting on the hood. He pressed it between his still-swollen lips, the lingering heat of your kiss making the paper stick ever so slightly. You handed him the lighter without breaking eye contact, the flame flickering against his jawline, illuminating the sharp lines of his cheek and the slow curl of his smirk as he inhaled. The flame winked out as you snapped the lighter shut, leaving you both in the dim glow of moonlight and starlight.

His chest rose and fell beneath your gaze, smoke drifting upward in soft spirals. You couldn’t look away from his lips, the way the joint rested there like it belonged—like you were both right where you needed to be. Finally, he exhaled, the smoke drifting between you like a silken veil, and you let your fingers stray to the bottle of scotch by your side. Raising it to your lips, you took another swig, the burn widening your eyes before you swallowed hard and dared to speak.

“What do your friends think you’re doing with all this… distraction?” you asked, voice low and teasing as you settled back, letting the scotch warm you through. The question hung in the air, playful on the surface but probing deeper—challenging him to admit just how far he’d drifted from the world everyone else knew.

He leaned in then, closing the space between you in a heartbeat, his head tilting so he could look down his nose at you. “They’d say I finally found something worth breaking the rules for,” he murmured, voice gravelly with smoke and something thicker—something that tasted like promise and danger.

You arched an eyebrow, amusement dancing in your eyes. “Breaking rules doesn’t usually suit you,” you countered, tracing the rim of the scotch bottle with your thumb. “You’re the king of keeping up appearances.”

He chuckled, reaching out to hook a finger under your chin, lifting your face until your lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “Appearances are bullshit,” he said, breath warm on your skin. “Everybody knows i'm insane.”

His hand lingered on your jaw longer than it needed to, heat radiating from his palm through your skin. The world around you felt as if it had shrunk to just the two of you—the gun forgotten, the broken bottles long since vanished into the sand, and the roar of the ocean reduced to a distant heartbeat.

You let out a soft laugh, heart fluttering in your chest. “You’re going to get me drunk and high, and then brag to your friends that you taught me how to shoot a gun,” you teased, tipping your head so he could finish off the joint.

“Only if they’re lucky enough to hear the story,” he replied, flicking the ash off with a single, precise motion. He brushed a stray lock of hair from your face before dipping down to kiss you again—slow this time, a deliberate promise rather than a spark. When he pulled away, eyes dark and intense, the night felt charged with electricity.

He lifted the joint again, offering it to you with a crooked grin. “Your turn,” he said softly.

You took the joint from his fingers without breaking eye contact, the smirk on your lips slow and deliberate as you brought it to your mouth and took a long, steady drag. The burn settled thick in your chest, but you didn’t flinch—if anything, you leaned into the haze, letting it swirl behind your eyes before exhaling slowly through your nose. Then, without a word, you reached for his jaw, fingers curling around the sharp angle with just enough pressure to command his attention.

“Part your lips,” you murmured, voice low and silken, a breath more than a demand. There was a glint of satisfaction in your gaze as his mouth parted immediately, obedient without hesitation. Smoke still lingered on your tongue as you leaned in, breath mingling with his until your lips nearly brushed.

You exhaled the hit directly into his mouth, slow and controlled, watching the way his lashes fluttered and the way his throat bobbed as he inhaled it deep. Your eyes didn’t leave his even as the last curl of smoke slipped between your mouths. You leaned back only slightly, the ghost of your breath still warm on his skin.

“Atta boy,” you purred, the praise dragging from your throat like honey—half mockery, half challenge. The corners of your mouth lifted knowingly, waiting for the flicker of heat you knew would flash in his eyes, and when it did, you grinned wider. “Didn’t think you took orders so well, country-club.”

Rafe’s jaw tensed beneath your palm, his smirk tilting darker now, almost predatory. “Only from you,” he said, voice rough around the edges, the smoke still thick in his lungs. His hand slipped to the back of your thigh, pulling you closer, the pad of his thumb drawing slow, deliberate circles.

The atmosphere between you sparked again, charged and simmering—less like a kiss and more like a standoff, a game of push and pull neither of you really wanted to win. He leaned in, nose brushing the side of yours, breath hot against your lips. “You like giving orders, don’t you?” he asked, low and teasing.

You let your smile deepen, fingers still gripping his jaw. “Only when I know they’ll be followed.”

Your fingers didn’t leave his jaw, thumb brushing just beneath the stubble of his cheek as if testing the tension that now thrummed under his skin like a live wire. Rafe’s breath hitched faintly, and it was subtle—so subtle it would’ve gone unnoticed if you weren’t this close, if you didn’t already know how he tried to keep the upper hand even when it was clear he’d handed it to you.

You tilted your head slightly, gaze dropping to his mouth again. “Mouth like that should come with a warning label,” you muttered, almost to yourself, voice velvety and dry, like smoke laced with heat. “Too good at obeying. Makes a girl wonder what else you’d say yes to.”

That earned the twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips, cocky and unrepentant. “Try me.”

You hummed low in your throat, eyes narrowing with amusement, the teasing barely concealing the current of heat rolling off you in waves. Your hand slipped from his jaw down to his collar, fisting the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer—just enough to feel the shape of him between your legs, your thighs instinctively tightening around his hips as you settled back against the hood.

“I’d make a terrible tyrant,” you whispered, voice barely audible over the soft crash of waves behind him, “but you? You’d make a perfect little soldier.” You drew the last of the joint to your lips with one hand, taking a lazy drag, and passed it to him again like it was part of the game, your eyes daring him to keep up.

He didn’t hesitate. His fingers brushed yours as he took it, eyes never leaving your face, his stare heavy with want and challenge. The way he inhaled—slow, possessive—mirrored your earlier movements. And when he exhaled this time, the smoke curled from the corner of his mouth like it was part of him, like it belonged there.

“You always talk this much when you want to get fucked?” he asked, voice rough with desire but steady, like he was still clinging to his last thread of control. His hand had slid to your bare thigh now, trailing up slowly, maddeningly, beneath the edge of your shorts.

You leaned in again, lips brushing his with maddening lightness but not quite kissing him. “Only when I want it to be good.”

Your nails scratched lightly at the nape of his neck as you finally closed the distance, catching his mouth in another kiss—hotter now, less about show and more about claiming. His hand gripped tighter, pulling you flush against him as your bodies aligned effortlessly, a practiced rhythm born of nights exactly like this one—nights blurred by smoke and liquor and the kind of tension that demanded release.

The kiss deepened quickly, messier now, your teeth grazing his bottom lip before he groaned into your mouth. His hand dragged up your back, anchoring you as his hips pressed forward, grinding just enough to make your breath stutter against his lips.

When you pulled back, just barely, your eyes were glazed but sharp. “Keep up, country-club,” you murmured against his mouth, thumb swiping the corner of his lips. “We’re just getting started.”

And the look he gave you in return—hungry, dark, half-wild—told you he was right there with you, teetering on the edge, ready to dive headfirst into the fire you both kept pretending wasn’t already consuming you.

He flicked the roach with a practiced ease, the charred end sailing off into the sand before he crushed it beneath the toe of his pristine sneaker, never once glancing down. His full focus was on you now—hands finding your thighs with greedy familiarity, fingers pressing into the soft skin just above your knees, rings cool and heavy against your heat. He spread your legs wider without asking, like he didn’t have to, like your body already knew the rhythm he expected it to fall into. The hunger in his touch wasn’t rushed, but it was unmistakably possessive.

He leaned in for another kiss, mouth parted and breath hot, but you turned your head just enough to dodge him—playful, defiant. It didn’t faze him. Not even a little. His lips found the corner of your mouth instead, planting a kiss there that lingered longer than it should’ve. Then he moved along your cheekbone, slow and almost tender, his breath warm against your skin as he followed the curve of your jaw, dragging his teeth just lightly enough to send a sharp spark down your spine. The contrast of softness and bite had you holding still, but your pulse betrayed you, fluttering fast under your skin.

There was a low chuckle against your neck—half laugh, half groan, muffled by the scrape of his teeth and the heat of his mouth. “I saw you today,” he murmured, voice rough and deep, like the memory alone had his blood running hot. His lips dragged lower, brushing your neck, tongue barely flicking over a spot just beneath your ear before he bit down softly, just enough to make you flinch.

“Out on the beach,” he continued, kissing over the fresh mark he left. “Sunbathing… or surfing… or whatever it is you pogues do when you’re pretending you’re not being watched.”

The way he said “pogues” was coated in mockery, but it didn’t have the usual venom—just something close to reluctant amusement. Like it was a habit he couldn’t drop, even if the line between you and him had blurred beyond recognition.

You rolled your eyes, but your head tilted just slightly to give him better access, betraying yourself without meaning to. He noticed. Of course he did.

“Oh yeah,” he drawled against your collarbone, mouth brushing over your skin with maddening slowness, “lying there all smug in that little bikini like you didn’t know half the beach was staring at you.”

He bit down again, harder this time, and your fingers curled in his shirt instinctively. “But I was the only one who really saw you,” he whispered, pulling back just enough to look at you, his gaze lazy but dark with intent. “The way your eyes kept drifting toward the dunes like you could feel me watching. You knew I was there, didn’t you?”

You didn’t answer, but the way your thighs tensed under his grip gave you away. That made him grin—wide and cocky and annoyingly pleased with himself.

“You like it,” he said, tilting his head as if inspecting you. “Being watched. Especially when it’s me.”

Your expression stayed even, but there was a flicker in your eyes—dangerous and daring. You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear as you spoke, your voice a whisper of velvet. “Maybe I just wanted to give the country-club pervert a show.”

He groaned low in his throat, hands tightening on your thighs like he was about to drag you into his lap, consequences be damned. “Fuck,” he muttered, half to himself. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You smirked, smug and satisfied, letting your fingers trail along the collar of his shirt. “You make it too easy.”

He didn’t respond—not with words, anyway. Instead, he leaned in deeper, dragging the bridge of his nose beneath your jaw, over the hollow of your throat, and then under your ear, burying his face in your hair like he couldn’t help himself. His breath came in hot, staggered pulls, heavy with the scent of weed and whatever restraint he’d just let snap. The smug bravado he wore like a second skin was gone, peeled away by the high and the burn of scotch and the taste of your mouth still on his tongue.

He inhaled like it was a compulsion, like the scent of you was grounding him while everything else spun too fast. His fingers flexed on your thighs, digging in just enough to make you shift, and that movement earned you a quiet sound from him—something between a sigh and a groan. It vibrated against your skin.

“I was ready to call you,” he murmured, voice muffled against your neck, low and rough like it scraped its way out of his chest. “Drag you off the beach, straight into one of the damn public showers.”

You felt his lips part against your throat, brushing heat into your skin with every word. “Didn’t even care who saw. I had my phone out. Thumb over your name. Just standing there behind the dunes like some fucking creep—watching you stretch out all wet and smug under the sun, laughing with your little friends like you didn’t know I was two seconds from losing it.”

He tilted his head, pressing an open-mouthed kiss just beneath your ear, letting his teeth scrape your skin lazily, like he could barely keep himself from marking you again. “Would’ve taken you right there. Still salty from the ocean. Bikini bottoms pushed to the side. You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

You didn’t answer, but the sharp inhale you tried to suppress gave you away. His smirk curved against your neck.

“I knew it,” he whispered, more to himself than to you, voice soaked in something dark and pleased. “That little look in your eye when you spotted me—you liked it. You wanted me to see.”

He dragged his nose down your neck again, slower this time, deliberately, like he wanted to memorize every inch with nothing but his mouth and breath. “You like knowing I’m watching, don’t you?” His hand slipped up your thigh, warm and heavy, stopping just beneath the hem of your shorts.

The weight of his body, the heat of his breath, the low grind of his voice—it all settled over you like a fever, thick and cloying and impossible to ignore. You stayed quiet, let it build, because the silence made him push harder, unravel slower. It made his need start to slip out in the edges of his control, and you liked it best when he forgot to keep pretending he was the one in charge.

"You're just a regular little stalker, aren't you?" you murmured, tone syrupy and mocking, a razor hidden in velvet. Your hand slid through the hair at the nape of his neck, fingers curling there like you were petting something dangerous. You felt the shiver run down his spine the second your nails scraped lightly across his scalp, and his body responded without hesitation—hips pressing forward instinctively, mouth dragging lower down your throat in slow, open-mouthed kisses like he didn’t even hear the words, or maybe like they just turned him on more.

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t pull back or look ashamed. If anything, your teasing made him lean in harder, his hands gripping your thighs tighter like the idea of being caught, of being known for exactly what he was, only fueled him further.

"Mmhmm," you hummed in mock approval, letting your head tilt back slightly to give him more room, the corners of your mouth twitching up as he mouthed at the slope of your shoulder. "Lurking in the dunes, stalking my tan lines, fantasizing about me soaking wet in public—real gentleman behavior."

Rafe let out a breathless, crooked laugh against your collarbone, biting down lightly as if to punish you for calling him out. “You like it,” he said, voice low and rasping, drunk on you. “Don’t act like you don’t love how far gone I am.”

He wasn’t wrong. The possessiveness in his voice, the way he kissed like he owned your skin, the way his body folded into yours as if being close was the only thing keeping him steady—it was twisted, it was indulgent, but it was addicting. You’d spent so long trying to hate him, trying to reduce what was happening between you to lust and impulse and bad decisions made on hazy nights. But now, under the buzz of heat and weed and his mouth marking a trail across your skin, it was harder to pretend.

Still, you kept your mask on, fingers still toying in his hair, voice dripping with mock sweetness. “You’ve got a real problem, Cameron. Someone should put you on a list.”

He finally lifted his head to look at you, blue eyes heavy-lidded and hungry, lips kiss-bruised and glinting with amusement. “Too late,” he murmured. “You’re already on it.”

Then he surged forward again, claiming your mouth like it was inevitable, like he’d been holding back too long and was finally letting himself snap. His hands slid up your back, your legs, pulling you tighter, chasing the contact like it wasn’t just about want anymore—like it was need. And when you kissed him back, matching his heat with your own, you weren’t sure who was stalking who anymore.

“Stalker’s a harsh word,” he murmured when he finally pulled from the kiss, voice low and amused, though it cracked a little with the strain of want. ���I prefer... deeply invested.”

You scoffed, one brow arching as you tilted your head just enough to glance down at him. “Deeply invested?” you repeated, letting it hang between you like a dare. “You watched me for what—twenty minutes on the beach today before I ‘coincidentally’ got a text from you asking to meet up?”

“I was already in the area,” he said, completely unapologetic, his hands flexing on your thighs like he was daring you to challenge him more.

“Sure,” you drawled, leaning in just enough for your lips to brush the shell of his ear. “Bet you had a real urgent errand near the pier. Lemme guess—you needed sunscreen and a reason to stare at my ass in a bikini.”

Rafe chuckled, deep and low, and you felt it vibrate against your chest. “I didn’t need a reason,” he said. “You gave it to me anyway.”

You exhaled a dry laugh, not letting the heat rising up your neck show. “You ever gonna admit how pathetic this is?” you asked, but your voice lacked venom. You were teasing him—testing him, really, like you always did.

“Only if you admit you love it,” he countered, and the smugness in his tone made you want to both slap him and pull him closer.

“Love’s a strong word,” you shot back, your smile cool and sharp as glass. “I’d call it... tolerated obsession.”

“Is that what this is?” he asked, head cocking, eyes dragging over your face slowly, knowingly. “Because I don’t see you trying to stop me.”

You tilted your head, letting your nails scrape lightly against his scalp again. “That’s because I like watching you spiral.”

He let out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Jesus, you’re such a fucking tease.”

“And you’re predictable,” you replied sweetly. “I say jump, you ask how high. Don’t act like you’re not loving every second of it.”

His gaze darkened, lips twitching into something feral. “I’d jump off a fucking cliff if it meant you’d follow.”

That made your stomach twist—sharp and electric—but you masked it with another sly smirk, tugging lightly at his hair. “Lucky for you, I like cliffs.”

He chuckled again, low and drawn out, the kind of sound that vibrated in his chest before spilling from his lips—lazy, amused, and coated in a haze of scotch and weed. It wasn’t the sharp-edged Rafe people bristled under in daylight hours. No, this version of him was looser, more unfiltered, indulgent in a way that felt dangerous simply because he wasn’t holding back.

His hands, heavy and possessive, slid further up your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh with a pressure that sent a pulse racing between your legs. His rings were cool against your heated skin, grounding and electric all at once. He spread your legs slightly wider with a slow, deliberate motion, like he was testing how far you’d let him go—how much control he could take before you pushed back. His mouth was on the other side of your neck now, alternating between teasing kisses and warm breaths, his weight settling more firmly into yours until your free hand had to press against the hood behind you for balance.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your voice coming out rougher than intended, laced with a mix of amusement and heat. The edge of a smirk played on your lips, but it faltered under the growing tension—under the way your body reacted to every unhurried shift of his.

Rafe didn’t answer at first. His mouth moved up, grazing your jaw with his teeth, lazy and exploratory, like he had all the time in the world. Then he murmured against your skin, lips brushing just beneath your ear, “Whatever the fuck I want.”

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t even cocky—not in the usual way. It was a truth, spoken plainly, as if your body had already given him that permission.

His hand slid higher still, thumb stroking slow circles just inside your inner thigh, maddeningly close. “You’re letting me,” he added, voice almost curious now, like the whole thing surprised him. “I thought you hated me.”

You let out a quiet, breathless laugh, though it sounded more like a sigh. “I do,” you muttered, though it lacked venom, no bite behind it. You tilted your head slightly, exposing your throat a little more, even as your nails grazed the nape of his neck again.

“Then stop me,” he dared, voice dropping low and thick.

But you didn’t. You just watched him from beneath hooded lids, pulse thudding in your throat, fingers tightening in his hair like you were daring him right back.

His hands glided upward with the same maddening deliberation he used for everything when he wanted control—slow enough to make you feel every inch of the climb, every breath that caught in your lungs. His fingers ghosted over the button of your shorts, grazing it lightly like a silent question he already knew the answer to. But instead of undoing them, he paused, looking up at you through his lashes with that infuriating smirk, the kind that made your skin buzz with irritation and desire in equal measure.

He didn’t say anything—he didn’t need to. His silence was louder than words, charged with tension. Like he was giving you the illusion of choice, daring you to stop him, challenge him, or tell him to keep going. And when you didn’t move, didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, the corner of his mouth lifted more in satisfaction, almost smug.

But instead of pressing forward, he dipped his head again, returning his mouth to your neck, lips trailing lazy, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your throat. His hands shifted course, sliding up the soft plane of your stomach, fingertips featherlight but sure, drawing heat in their wake. You inhaled sharply when his thumbs grazed the bottom of your ribs, each movement intentional—like he wanted you to feel how close he was getting without actually crossing the line.

When he reached just beneath your chest, he paused again, his hands spreading wide across your ribs like he was memorizing the shape of you, the size of you, the way your breath hitched under his touch. His thumbs pressed lightly into the sensitive skin just shy of your bra, and he chuckled against your throat, the sound vibrating against your pulse.

“You’re holding your breath,” he murmured, his lips brushing your skin as he spoke. “Why?”

You exhaled slowly, voice dry as your gaze dropped to where his hands still lingered. “Trying to decide if I should slap you or let you keep going.”

He grinned at that, all teeth and challenge, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, his hands never leaving your body. “You’re not doing either,” he said, tone low and sure, eyes dark. “Which means you like this way more than you’re pretending to.”

You didn’t reply—just held his stare, daring him to be right. And that silence between you only deepened the tension, a pull so magnetic it made the air feel heavy.

His fingers twitched against your ribs, his head lowering again until his lips brushed the space just beneath your jaw. “Say it,” he whispered, not quite teasing this time. “Say you want me to keep going.”

Your pulse kicked harder beneath his mouth, but your voice came out smooth, collected—barely. “If I wanted that, I’d have to ask nicely, right?”

That made him grin—slower now, like a wolf with its prey. “Exactly.”

“How about you ask nicely this time?” you murmured, the words silk-wrapped in defiance, your voice low but fraying at the edges, breathless despite your best efforts. Your eyes fluttered shut just as his palms flattened against your ribs again, dragging slow and intentional up the sides of your body. He wasn’t rough, wasn’t rushed—he was methodical, like he had all night to make you unravel piece by piece.

Your breath hitched when his thumbs pressed just beneath the swell of your chest, the heat of his touch pulsing through the fabric. You tried to keep your spine straight, chin high, but your resolve was already slipping—your head tipping back as a quiet sigh slipped from your lips, want curling in your belly like smoke.

That sound pulled a low groan from him, and you felt the shape of it against your skin as his mouth followed the slope of your neck, tongue and teeth grazing the spot just beneath your ear. “You want me to ask nicely?” he drawled, voice thick with amusement and heat, hands never pausing in their slow exploration. “Sweetheart, you’re the one practically purring.”

You opened your eyes then, just barely, lashes heavy as you met his gaze—dark, hungry, glittering with challenge. “Still waiting,” you managed, though your voice lacked the bite you were aiming for, all velvet and tension instead.

He chuckled, deep and amused, but there was a different edge now—something rougher, a little unhinged. His hands slid up your back under your shirt, fingers splaying across your bare skin as he leaned closer, mouth brushing yours but not kissing you yet.

“Please,” he whispered, the word curling around your ear like smoke, mockingly sweet but laced with heat. “Let me touch you exactly how you want it.”

His hands gripped your hips again, dragging you flush against him as his mouth hovered just shy of yours, teasing. “That nice enough for you?” he added, tone dipped in arrogance and desire, daring you to call his bluff.

You didn’t answer—not with words. Your fingers slipped into his hair again, pulling him into you, lips crashing against his with the kind of urgency that answered every question, erased every line. And just like that, the game shifted again—less about control now, more about how far you were both willing to fall.

This kiss wasn’t slow or indulgent like the others—it was fast, hungry, edged with impatience and the kind of tension that had been simmering between you for far too long. Rafe’s mouth moved against yours with a desperation that bordered on reckless, lips bruising as he chased you, teeth scraping in the kind of kiss that felt like it was trying to make up for lost time. There was nothing soft about it—just need, hot and unfiltered.

His hand slid between your bodies with zero finesse, fumbling at the button of your shorts. You felt the metal pop open, his fingers shaky with eagerness, the frustration bleeding into the kiss as he struggled to work the zipper down. He wasn’t coordinated—too high, too turned on—but it didn’t stop him. If anything, it made him more eager, more determined, like the act of getting your clothes off had become a personal vendetta.

He groaned into your mouth, the sound ragged, like he hated how badly he wanted this—how badly he wanted you. His free hand clutched at your hip to keep you still, nails biting just enough to sting, grounding himself in the feel of you under his touch. Every second the zipper resisted him, he kissed you harder, deeper, like he was compensating for what his hands couldn’t yet do.

You could feel the frustration rolling off him in waves, but underneath that—just below the surface—was something messier. Something almost vulnerable in the way his breath stuttered, how his fingers trembled slightly as they finally tugged the zipper down. He didn’t say anything, didn’t gloat, just exhaled shakily into your mouth as if the sound alone could convey the relief of finally getting past that stupid barrier.

You smirked against his lips, one hand trailing down his chest to help shove your shorts lower, the other still tangled in his hair, keeping him anchored to you. “Struggling, country club?” you murmured between kisses, your voice teasing, breathless.

He pulled back just enough to smirk, eyes half-lidded and blown wide with lust. “Not for long,” he muttered, voice dark and heavy, fingers already curling against your hips like he was trying to memorize every curve. And then his mouth was back on yours—fierce, consuming—as if now that he’d gotten past that one obstacle, nothing was going to stop him.

His mouth claimed yours again, fiercer this time, like the act of finally getting your shorts undone had snapped the last of his restraint. His hands slipped beneath the loosened waistband, rough palms dragging down the curve of your hips, thumbs dipping just beneath the elastic of your underwear. It wasn’t graceful—it was frantic, greedy, his breath hitching in your mouth every time his fingertips brushed bare skin.

You let him strip the shorts halfway down your thighs, just enough to expose what he wanted without letting you go completely. His mouth never left yours for more than a breath, and even when it did, it was to drag over your jaw, your cheek, your throat—pressing his lips everywhere he could like he couldn’t decide where he needed to feel you most.

Your head tilted back against the hood of his SUV, the cold metal beneath your shoulders a sharp contrast to the heat blooming between your bodies. His hair was tangled in your fingers again, tugging just enough to draw a low groan from him, something guttural and needy that vibrated against your neck.

“You think I haven’t imagined this?” he muttered, his voice low and strained as his hands moved with more purpose now, traveling up the inside of your thighs slowly—painfully slowly. “You think I don’t replay every fucking time you walk past me in those tiny little shorts, acting like I don’t exist?”

You sucked in a breath, your chest rising sharply beneath his touch. His words were breathless, not accusatory but obsessive, like the thoughts had been boiling inside him for too long.

“You really need to work on asking nicely,” you teased, but your voice cracked slightly at the end, the sensation of his fingers finally skimming up your inner thigh pulling the smugness right out of you. He smiled at that—sharp, dark, cocky as hell—but his movements didn’t stop.

“You think I can be nice with you sitting here like this?” he rasped, one hand steadying your hip while the other ghosted higher, knuckles grazing between your legs with just enough contact to make your spine jolt. “You’re fucking with my head.”

He watched your face closely, drinking in every shift in your expression as his fingers finally found their target—slow at first, almost reverent, like he needed to prove he could make you fall apart with precision. His mouth hovered just above yours, breath mingling, eyes locked on yours as he whispered, “Say you want it.”

You didn’t respond at first—couldn’t, really. Your lips were parted, breath coming fast as you tried to hold his gaze, to keep some semblance of control. But the way he touched you—drugged and focused—was unraveling you thread by thread.

So you leaned in, brushing your lips against his with a smirk and a slow inhale. “You already know I do.”

His lips parted into a breathless curse before he kissed you again—hard, deep, the kind of kiss that dragged you under and didn’t let go, one hand still holding you firm while the other moved with growing confidence, learning what made you twitch, what made your knees weaken.

The night, the scotch, the smoke—they were all fading now. All that remained was heat, mouths, breathless murmurs, and the sound of your back arching against the hood as Rafe Cameron devoured every reaction you gave him like he’d earned it. Like you were already his.

His hand didn’t falter as he kept working you over, slow at first—purposeful, like he wanted to memorize every reaction, every shiver. He watched your mouth fall open again, lips parted in something between a gasp and a curse, and his own breath hitched like the sound alone was enough to unravel him.

“You’re so fucking easy to ruin,” he whispered, the words brushing hot against your cheek. His voice had that low, smug edge again, but it was fraying at the corners, thick with want. “One touch and you melt for me, huh?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your hands fisted the fabric of his shirt, the strain in your knuckles betraying just how much you were holding yourself back from unraveling completely. You rolled your hips into his hand, a silent answer that made his lips curl into something darker—something possessive.

The heel of his palm pressed against you now with more insistence, his fingers moving in a pattern that made your breath catch in your throat. He dragged his mouth back to yours, kissing you messily, hungrily, like the taste of you was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Look at you,” he murmured against your lips, voice rough and low. “All attitude gone. Just for me.”

You bit his bottom lip gently, enough to make him hiss, and pulled back to meet his gaze with a half-lidded glare. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you breathed, but your voice trembled on the edge of a moan.

He laughed, dark and satisfied. “Too late.”

His free hand moved to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he held you there, made you look at him while his fingers didn’t stop, dragging another desperate breath from your throat. The vulnerability was gone, buried under the sheer tension burning between you, the desperate give-and-take of control you never quite wanted to surrender—but somehow always did when it was him.

“Say my name,” he demanded lowly, like he needed it.

You shook your head at first, smirking through the haze. “You want too much.”

But the next slow drag of his fingers shattered your resistance, and your head fell back against the hood, a breathless gasp spilling out before you could stop it—“Rafe.”

And fuck, he lit up at the sound of it. His whole body tensed, like the sound alone snapped something deep inside him. His mouth crashed into yours again, this time almost punishing in its heat. His hand never slowed, relentless and precise, determined to draw every sound you swore you wouldn’t give him.

Outside, the waves crashed against the shore, distant and irrelevant. Out here, it was just you and Rafe—drunk, high, lost in each other and the reckless, spiraling tension you could never seem to escape.

He pulled back from your mouth with a quiet, nearly pained curse, his chest rising and falling like he was the one unraveling beneath your touch. His jaw clenched and unclenched as he looked down between your bodies, gaze flicking to your shorts, to his hand, to the way your thighs shifted around him—and then back to your face, like he was trying to memorize the whole image before he even moved.

When he finally slipped one finger inside you, his expression didn’t twist in cocky satisfaction like it usually did. No—this was something else entirely. His brows drew together sharply, a sound caught low in his throat as his lips parted around a breath he couldn’t quite catch. His whole face shifted into something raw. Wrecked. Like the sensation wasn’t happening to you, but to him. Like he felt it.

“Fuck,” he whispered, and it wasn’t performative. It was reverent, real—like he didn’t expect you to feel like this, like maybe he’d imagined it, obsessed over it, and the reality was somehow worse for him. “You have no idea what this does to me.”

His voice cracked under the weight of it, not quite steady, like just being inside you like this knocked something loose in him. His hand stilled, holding you there, thumb pressing gently into your hip like he needed the anchor just to stay grounded. His eyes were locked on your face, watching the way your lips parted around a quiet gasp, the way your lashes fluttered and your brows tugged together like you didn’t know how to process the feeling.

He looked almost mad with it—like your reactions were confirming everything he’d obsessed over, everything he’d convinced himself he didn’t care about.

“You think I don’t notice the way you look at me?” he asked, low and rough, mouth brushing the edge of your jaw. “Like you hate me. Like you’re too good for this, like being seen near me in public is some kind of punishment.”

He finally moved his hand—slow, torturously controlled—watching the way your breath caught, the way your back arched just slightly in response. He groaned softly, almost inaudibly, forehead dipping to press against yours.

“But you always come back,” he murmured, voice fraying at the edges, half amazement, half accusation. “You always end up in my space. My bed. My fucking hands.”

The heat of his breath on your lips had your pulse stuttering, and you barely registered your own hand rising to clutch at his arm, fingers tightening instinctively around the muscle as he continued.

“I watch you more than I should,” he confessed, and something in his voice turned darker—obsessive. “Every fucking day. Every room you walk into, I know. I can feel it. Even when I pretend not to look. Even when I make it seem like I don’t care if you’re around. I always care.”

He shifted his fingers inside you, gently curling them just enough to pull another gasp from your throat, watching the way your eyes fluttered shut again. He breathed through his nose like he was trying not to lose it entirely, and the hand not between your legs moved to cup your jaw, thumb tracing over your cheek.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he whispered, almost bitterly. “You say the word and I’d wreck anyone who even looks at you too long. I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t want you like this.”

He moved his hand again—deeper, more demanding, but still slow. Controlled. Possessive. He wanted to drag it out. Punish you with the tension. The quiet desperation building between your bodies was deafening now.

“You belong to me when you’re like this,” he said again, this time more certain, more resolute, like the truth of it grounded him. “Even if you don’t want to admit it. Even if you lie to yourself about it later.”

Your breath hitched, and he watched your expression crack—barely, but enough. Enough that his hand gripped your jaw tighter, just enough to hold your attention.

“Say something,” he murmured, not quite pleading. More like daring. Voice thick with disbelief and desire and something dangerously close to devotion. “Lie to me. Tell me you don’t want this. Tell me you don’t want me.”

His mouth hovered just above yours, lips brushing but not quite kissing, and the tension between you was so taut it felt like it would snap with the slightest movement. Every word, every breath was laced with need he couldn’t bury anymore, and he didn’t even try to.

Your voice barely made it past your lips—breathless, wrecked, shaped more by sensation than sound. “I do…”

It came out like a confession, like surrender, not just to him but to the weight of the moment pressing down on you. Your hand clutched at his arm instinctively, nails digging into the firm muscle beneath his skin, anchoring yourself before the spiraling pull of him could swallow you whole.

Rafe stilled. For a second, it was like you’d stunned him. The haze of obsession behind his eyes darkened, sharpened, like he didn’t expect you to say it—like he’d spent so long dancing around the possibility of you wanting him that the confirmation knocked something loose in him.

His gaze flicked to your hand gripping his arm, then back to your face. His jaw flexed hard, and the breath he released came out shuddered, near ragged. “Say it again,” he rasped, voice low and strained like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. Like he needed to.

Your lips parted, but he didn’t wait—his hand between your thighs moved with a little more intent now, his fingers dragging slow, devastating patterns that made your head fall back, breath hitching against the night air. His other hand slid up your spine, pulling you closer until your chest was flush against his, until he could feel every soft sound that left you vibrate against his collarbone.

“Say it like you fucking mean it,” he growled, mouth brushing your temple, your cheek, your jaw. “Say it like you haven’t been running from this since the second we met.”

“I do,” you gasped again, breath faltering, words breaking apart under the rhythm of his hand and the heat of his voice. “I do want this—I want you.”

The second the words hit the air, everything about him changed. Rafe let out a sound—low, guttural, like the last thread of restraint had snapped clean inside him. He surged forward, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss that had nothing soft or exploratory left in it—just want. Pure, desperate want. The kind he’d held onto for too long.

His hand moved faster now, still purposeful but no longer measured. He was responding to you—to every shiver, every noise, every way your body leaned into his. And the way you clung to him? It was doing something to him. You could feel it in the way he trembled just slightly, in the way his teeth scraped your bottom lip like he couldn’t help it, like your taste had turned him to ash and he was trying to put himself back together with his mouth on yours.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered between kisses, broken and breathless. “You don’t fucking get it. I’ve been losing sleep over this. Over you. You think this is just some phase? You think I ever looked at anyone else and felt like this?”

Your only answer was a strangled moan into his mouth, and the way your hips instinctively rolled into his hand. He groaned like it physically pained him, like the need to be inside you, to claim you, was about to override every ounce of patience he had left.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he hissed, forehead pressing against yours, his lips ghosting over your skin. “And I still want more. I always want more.”

The words weren’t a warning—they were a promise. One you weren’t sure either of you would survive.

“You think you can handle another one?” he murmured against your ear, the question dripping with filth, but somehow softened by the dark affection curling in his voice. Like the tease wasn’t just meant to provoke you—it was meant to worship you. His lips brushed your cheek when he spoke, and you could feel the smirk forming against your skin.

Your body was already trembling, sensitive and strung tight from how he’d been working you over, every nerve alight. You barely managed a breath, let alone an answer, but he didn’t seem to need one. He never really did when it came to you.

Before you could gasp a word, he was already pushing a second finger inside, slow and deliberate. The stretch stole your breath, your spine arching into his chest with a whimper that escaped before you could bite it back. Your hand flew to his wrist on instinct, not to stop him—but to feel it. To ground yourself in the pressure, in the warmth of his skin as he moved inside you.

“Fuck—that sound,” he muttered under his breath, like he’d just found his new favorite addiction. His voice was hoarse, reverent in the filthiest way, as if your body had just given him permission to lose his mind completely. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me right now.”

His lips dragged over the shell of your ear and down your jaw, tongue flicking over the spot just beneath it as his fingers moved in a slow, unrelenting rhythm. He was deep—too deep—and you felt stretched in the most devastating, delicious way. His free hand curled around your waist, keeping you steady against him as your legs trembled where they wrapped around his hips.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he rasped, more statement than question. “You’re fucking soaked… been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

You couldn’t answer. Not with how he was moving inside you, how every drag of his fingers found that spot that made stars dance behind your eyelids. But your body told the truth for you—the way your hips rocked into his hand, the way your breath caught every time he curled his fingers just right.

“Don’t hide it,” he said, voice rough, breath hot against your jaw. “Don’t get all shy now. You’re already falling apart on my hand like you were made for me.”

His thumb slid lower, brushing maddeningly slow over your clit, and your whole body jerked—eyes snapping open, breath shattering into a soft, desperate sob. He groaned low in his throat, hips grinding slightly against your thigh like he couldn’t help himself, like your pleasure was unraveling him, too.

“You think I haven’t thought about this?” he growled, nipping at your neck. “Every fucking night? What it would feel like to have you like this—squirming, gasping, soaked and stupid on my fingers?”

His pace quickened, not rough but greedy, like he wanted to memorize what you felt like—every flutter, every shiver, every twitch beneath his touch. And from the way your hands dug into his shoulders, the way your moans were getting louder, sharper, more broken—he was getting exactly what he wanted.

His fingers thrust deeper, curling just right with a precision that felt almost cruel in how perfectly he knew what you needed—even if you’d never said it out loud. You couldn’t. You could barely think, let alone speak. Your body had taken over, hips rocking into his hand shamelessly, chasing the pressure, the stretch, the friction.

He watched you through half-lidded eyes, pupils blown and lips parted like he was mesmerized, like you were something holy and obscene at once. His free hand slid up the curve of your back, fingertips ghosting along your spine beneath your shirt, coaxing out another gasp from your lips when he found that one sensitive spot and pressed just enough to make you twitch.

“Look at you,” he breathed, almost laughing in disbelief, like the sight of you unraveling against his hand was too much and still not enough. “Fucking ruined already—and I’ve barely touched you.”

You tried to shoot him a glare, tried to muster some kind of sarcastic quip in return, but all that came out was a soft whimper when his thumb circled your clit again, slow and maddening. It wasn’t just the physical touch—it was him, the way he knew exactly when to pull back, when to press harder, when to whisper something in your ear that made your whole body react before your brain could catch up.

“I can feel you clenching,” he murmured, voice dropping lower, darker. “You’re right fucking there, aren’t you?”

Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, knuckles whitening as you clung to him, legs trembling where they bracketed his hips. He was breathing hard too now, not from effort, but from restraint—holding himself back from doing more, from giving in to the want simmering just under the surface. You could feel it in the way his hips subtly pressed forward, his hard length straining against his jeans, like he was desperate to grind into you but refused to take more than this until you shattered.

And you were so close.

“Say it,” he whispered against your temple, kissing just below it. “Say you want to come on my fingers. Say you’re mine when I touch you like this.”

You turned your head, mouth brushing his jaw as your breath caught, lips trembling. “I’m yours,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut. “Rafe… I’m—”

The moan that left you when he pressed just a little harder, circled a little faster, was nothing short of obscene. Your whole body tightened, stuttering against his chest as your climax hit you sharp and hot and all-consuming, your legs clamping around his hips as if your body was trying to keep him there—inside, close, yours.

He groaned low and deep in response, kissing you hard, swallowing your sounds like he needed them to breathe. His fingers didn’t stop—not right away. He dragged out every aftershock, every soft twitch, every whimper that slipped from your lips, until your body sagged against his, pliant and wrecked.

When he finally pulled back, his fingers slipped from you slow, gentle, as if he hated letting go. He brought them up between you both, gaze flicking to your face as he slipped one finger into his mouth, tasting you with a low, satisfied hum that made your thighs twitch all over again.

“Better than I imagined,” he said simply, voice hoarse and reverent. “And I’ve imagined it more times than I’ll ever admit.”

His free hand slid around your waist again, pulling you tighter into him, like he wasn’t done—like he’d never be done.

You watched in disbelief, somewhere between shock and fascination, as he slipped his fingers into his mouth and sucked them clean—slow and deliberate, like he was trying to savor the taste of you. His lashes fluttered once, and a low groan hummed in his throat, like it was instinctual, like he couldn’t help himself.

Your breath was still ragged, your limbs slack with aftershocks, and all you could manage was a scoff, shaky and uneven as you propped yourself up on your elbow, heart still hammering in your chest. The night air felt too cool against your skin, your body hypersensitive and still desperate for more.

“You want me to fuck you right here,” he asked, licking the last trace of you off his thumb, eyes glittering as they tracked down your body, “or you wanna do it in the car?”

He grinned like he was only teasing—like the question hadn’t just made him twitch hard in his jeans. But the look in his eyes betrayed him. He was barely holding on, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling like he was the one who’d just unraveled. You could see it in the taut lines of his body, in the way his hands flexed like he wanted you again already.

You didn’t respond right away. Instead, you slid off the hood with unhurried grace, pulling your shorts back up just enough to drag the moment out, to make him watch you fix yourself while he sat there wrecked and wanting. His eyes followed every motion, jaw ticking, hands curled into fists like he didn’t trust himself not to grab you again.

You stepped between his legs and leaned down, one hand braced on the hood beside him, the other trailing up his thigh, brushing right over where he was painfully hard.

“Car,” you whispered against his lips, voice soft but sure, your fingers giving the barest squeeze before pulling away completely. “I want to ride you with the doors locked and the windows fogged up.”

The groan that left him was almost violent, like it had been punched out of him. “Fuck,” he hissed, already standing, already gathering you in his arms like he couldn’t get you to the car fast enough.

It was messy, feverish—him practically stumbling toward the backseat with you tugging at his belt the entire way. He opened the door, and you slipped inside first, crawling across the seat with a wicked little smirk, tossing your hair over your shoulder as you straddled the center. By the time he got in behind you, you were already undoing the button on your shorts again, your eyes daring him to look away.

He didn’t. Not for a second.

You climbed onto his lap slowly, knees sinking into the leather on either side of him, your hands framing his face like he was something worth worshipping—or breaking. “You good back there, country club?” you murmured, teasing, brushing your mouth over his cheek instead of kissing him.

He was already panting, eyes blown wide, his hands running under your shirt and up your spine. “You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me,” he rasped.

“That’s the plan.”

You shifted just enough to free him, guiding him with slow, confident strokes, watching his mouth fall open as his head tipped back against the seat. Then, without breaking eye contact, you sank down onto him in one smooth, excruciating motion.

His whole body went rigid beneath you, breath punched out of him. “Jesus—”

You leaned in and kissed him hard, swallowing whatever else he was going to say as your hips rolled slow and deep, setting the pace with that same practiced, dangerous control. He held your waist like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality, fingers digging into your skin, reverent and desperate all at once.

“Look at you,” you breathed against his mouth, “all quiet now.”

His nails bit into your hips as you ground down harder, his throat working around a thick groan. “I’m trying not to come in two fuckin’ seconds.”

You smirked. “Don’t bother.”

And then you moved again, full and relentless, the windows beginning to fog exactly the way you promised they would, the car rocking under the weight of your need. The only thing louder than the rhythm of your bodies was the sound of his voice, cursing your name like a prayer and a warning all at once.

The position gave you full command, and you took your time savoring it—every inch of him, every flicker of expression he couldn’t hide. Your hips moved in a slow, deliberate rhythm, rolling forward and sinking down again with practiced cruelty, just enough to keep him teetering on the edge but never quite letting him fall. And now, with nothing between you but a few thin layers of sweat and reverence, you finally had the upper hand. You used it.

Your eyes roamed over him, taking in every detail like he was art, like you were trying to memorize the sight of him coming undone beneath you. His hair was a mess—completely disheveled from your greedy fingers, soft blond strands falling across his forehead and sticking to the damp heat of his skin, sticking in some places flattened in others. His mouth hung open around soft moans and ragged breaths, voice too far gone to hold anything back. His eyes were heavy, glassy from the weed and glassier still from the intensity of it all, rimmed red and fluttering each time your hips met his in that maddening grind.

Under the dim glow bleeding in from the moon outside, you saw it—his cheeks flushed a deep, pretty pink, the color spilling down his neck and chest. He looked almost pained from it, the mix of restraint and ruin etched in every line of his face, his brows drawn tight like he was holding onto the last threads of control.

His shirt—baby blue, and so typically Rafe—was wrinkled and undone at the collar, the first two buttons popped open from when you’d dragged your hands down his chest, and now the fabric clung to him with sweat, the edge damp at the collarbone, the edge of his chain glinting faintly in the dim light. The shirt, once crisp and fitted, was now rumpled and pulled taut in places from your hands tugging at it earlier. You glanced down at his hands again—those expensive rings and bruising fingers wrapped around your thighs like he paid for the privilege. His jaw was slack, head tipped back against the headrest like he was on the verge of something holy.

And then there were his hands. Those perfect, ring-clad hands gripped your thighs like they belonged there, like they’d never held anything else. His thumbs pressed bruises into your skin with every bounce of your hips, and yet he didn’t push you harder—he let you control the pace, let you use him. That alone made heat curl in your gut again.

The contrast struck you then—how far he was from the polished, self-assured image he always carried. The entitled smirks, the cocky drawl, the smugness that seemed stitched into his DNA. It had all unraveled. Here, now, under you, he was wrecked and aching, flushed and raw. Nothing like the country-club prince everyone else saw. Just yours.

And God, did that make you wetter.

“You look so fucking pretty like this,” you murmured, voice velvet and venom, your hands sliding up his chest to push his shirt open wider, nails raking lightly over his collarbones. “Bet you don’t even know, do you?”

His fingers dug into your thighs in response, a groan tearing from him like he was breaking apart. “Fuck, I—baby…”

His voice cracked around the word and your smirk deepened, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth, to taste the desperation clinging there. “You like being used, Rafe?” you whispered against his jaw, hips never stopping, rhythm deep and slow, the drag of him inside you enough to make your eyes flutter. “Like giving up all that control just to fall apart under me?”

His answer was a strained, bitten-off moan. His eyes rolled, and he bucked up beneath you, but you steadied yourself with hands braced on his chest, holding him down, forcing him to take it slow. Forcing him to feel it.

“Yeah,” he choked out, the word more breath than sound. “I fucking love it. I’d let you ruin me.”

That admission hit like a punch to the gut. Honest. Obsessive. Worshipful.

You cupped his face, fingers threading into his hair, tugging gently so his eyes met yours again. “Good,” you breathed, your pace increasing just enough to drive the tension deeper. “Because I’m not stopping until you do.”

And the way he moaned your name—wrecked and reverent—was almost enough to tip you over again.

Rafe’s hands slipped from your thighs to your hips, fingertips digging in like he couldn’t stand the slow pace but wouldn’t dare force it faster either—not unless you let him. The restraint alone was driving him crazy, muscles tight beneath you, jaw clenched like he was holding himself back from begging. You could feel him twitch inside you every time you rocked forward, feel the way his breath stuttered and hitched, how his fingers twitched against your skin like he didn’t know whether to grip you tighter or let go entirely.

Your palms slid up his chest again, slower this time, dragging along sweat-damp cotton, fingertips grazing his throat just enough to make his breath catch. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, eyes dragging open to look at you. The moment they did, you swore he stopped breathing. Like the sight of you above him had physically stolen the air from his lungs.

You were straddling him like you were born to—skin glowing in the low light, lips parted and breathless, your body rolling against his with slow, practiced cruelty. The way you moved wasn’t frantic or desperate; it was calculated. A game. You were savoring every twitch of his jaw, every shaky groan, every ragged breath he let out like he was trying to hold onto it—trying not to give it all away at once.

“You’re gonna come before me if you keep looking at me like that,” you whispered, biting your lip as you adjusted the angle and sank deeper. The sharp inhale he dragged through his teeth made your stomach flutter.

He shook his head weakly, eyes still fixed to your mouth. “Don’t care,” he rasped. “You—fuck, you don’t get it. I’d let you take everything.”

Your breath hitched at that—at the way he said it, like a confession, like an offering. There was no bravado left in his voice. No cocky edge. Just need. Raw, unfiltered, unashamed.

Your hands moved to his shoulders, nails dragging gently through the back of his neck, into the sweat-soaked curls at his nape. “You’re serious,” you said, not a question. More like a realization.

Rafe’s hips jerked up involuntarily, the motion forcing a soft gasp from your throat, and his hands immediately moved to still you—like he hadn’t meant to, like he didn’t want to ruin what you were building. His forehead pressed to your chest, voice muffled as he spoke again, low and shaky.

“I think about this all the time,” he admitted, the words whispered into your skin like a secret. “I think about you on top of me, moving like this, using me like this. Even when I’m not supposed to. Even when you’re with your friends, ignoring me, pretending I don’t exist. Doesn’t matter. I still think about it. About you.”

You stayed quiet, your hand sliding into his hair again, grounding him, encouraging him without a word.

His lips brushed against your sternum, eyes squeezed shut like it hurt to say it out loud. “You don’t get it, do you?” he continued. “How much I fucking want you? How insane it makes me?”

You rocked your hips harder then—just once—and he gasped, loud and desperate, his fingers tightening around your waist like a lifeline.

“I get it,” you murmured, voice velvet-soft, leaning down to press your mouth to his temple. “Trust me, I get it.”

And you did. You felt it in the way he trembled beneath you, in the way his body strained not to come apart too soon, in the way he stared up at you like you were the only thing that had ever made him feel real. All the tension, all the pretend hate, all the biting remarks and cold looks—they were just shields. This was the truth. This was the Rafe no one else got to see.

And right now, he was all yours.

“Tell me how bad you want it,” you whispered against his ear, your breath sending a shiver through him. “Tell me what you’d let me do.”

“Anything,” he said without hesitation, his voice completely shattered. “I’d let you ruin me. Use me. Break me. I don’t care. Just—don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

That was the final crack in your resolve. You shifted your hips again, deeper, harder, sending both of you careening toward the edge. And when he cried out your name—needy and broken, clinging to you like a man possessed—you knew he meant it. Every word.

author's note: hi peaches! someone requested i'd continue the present storyline to see how JJ, Rafe and the reader are doing so, here it is! JJ's in love and Rafe is teaching her how to shoot a gun. respectfully i need both of them. sorry if the chapter is bad i'm just so busy these past days :( whipped Rafe is actually my fav, and it's obvious bc he's like this in cherry bomb too. talk to me don't be shy! join the tag-list, i'll see you all in the next chapter!💖💖

↳ ❝ [masterlist] ¡! ❞

Tag-list*:･ﾟ✧ @cali-888, @bee-43, @jjscoquette, @melsbels-zip @stanseventeen @wh0reforbucknasty,@wtfisastiles,@annaconscience,@pqndxra,@carrerascameron,@nini2mem,@iynsane,@gublerstylesobrien1238,@wrldfilms ,@shayofandom @wren5650 @alimarie1105 @chuuuchuuutrain @ordinary-barbie, @p45510n4f4shi0n @literallylexie, @polli05927 @holyfootie @artbymin

[itzy-bitsy-spidey]

Cannibal

Sanji x fem!reader

Notes: This is inspired by the song Cannibal from Kesha, but there are only like three lines from the song actually written in. If you like this one shot please leave a comment!

The crew had stopped on an entretainment island while Nami decided which was the best way to get to Loguetown. Which of course meant that, while they stayed on the island, the captain was going to try to absorbe as much meat as he possibly could.

And so there was Sanji, along with the rest of the crew, on a tabern. Luffy was stuffing his mouth full of meat and food in general, Zoro was stuffing his mouth full of sake and Nami and Usopp were chatting between them as they ate.

Sanji, on the other hand, was awfully distracted with the performers that were singing and dancing on the tabern´s stage. With beautifully colored clothing that had an inmense amount of glitter which shined under the candle lights making their movements all the more attractive and alluring.

One in specific had called his attention, a woman (as usual) which danced like no one was watching her. She wasn´t the most graceful of the bunch, and neither was she the most attractive by social standards. But Sanji could not, for the life of his, peel his eyes away from her.

In the middle of his staring contest Zoro elbowed him in the ribs so that he would answer a question his captain was asking, and as he turned away from the performers, he missed the way your gaze had found him, and the way you had scurried off stage to talk with the music players.

And so when most of the previous performes left the stage and the music completely changed the blonde cook was still very mmuch focused on explaining Luffy why the meat could hace used more spices and way less oregano (not that it mattered, Luffy would eat it nonetheless).

And Sanji´s attention did not return to the stage until he heard sweet Nami saying "period" to something the new singer had said. But when he did turn around again, oh boy did his heart felt like it dropped from his chest with the beauty on the stage.

And she was looking right at him.

Of course you were looking at him, from all the men in the tabern that night he seemed like one of the most (if not the most) attractive (and respectful). Unlike all the guys staring at you and your work partners like pieces of meat he looked at you with a look of adoration, as if your dancing had hung up the stars. Hell, you could almost see those stars in the glitter of your costume reflecting in your eyes.

He was grateful for many things, truly, Sanji had learnt from a young age to treasure everything little in fear that it would run out. He treasured the time with his crew, he treasured every meal, every day he was alive, and he just knew that he would treasure this moment, being only a few feet away from the stage, starting to sing, disociating while staring into your eyes, feeling a dark blush cover his cheeks with warmth.

And then you blinked in a flirty way at him and the whip of it all managed to snap him back to reality, right in time to hear the chorus of the song.

"Whenever you tell me im pretty, that´s when the hunger really hits me" while shaking your hips and dancing, "your little heart goes pitter patter" and then your expression shifted from flirty to mockery as you sang "I want your liver on a platter".

And Sanji was losing it, absolutely losing it, it could have been something in the lyrics, or in the way you danced or how you hadn´t stopped looking at him for not even a second, but something was wreaking him inside and making his breath hitch.

But you on the stage didn´t care, why would you? God, he was sure he was starting to fall in love.

"Use your finger to stir my tea, and for dessert I´ll suck your teeth, be to sweet and you´ll be a goner..." He didn´t even hear the last part of the chorus from how loud the blood was thumping in his ears.

He wanted it, all of it, whathever you would give him, even if it was juct the scraps of your prescence he would take and adore them. He wanted you to consume him whole, to disect every little part of him and eat him piece by piece.

Unfortunately he had to get up and away from the stage or he was sure he would explode. He almost missed his captain mentioning how they still had to find a musician for the crew.

[strangersteddierthings]

Platonic Stobin bodyswap AU idea I'll never write. This has been in my drafts for over a year (since July 2023 per the timestamp)

Post season 3; During the season 3 bathroom confession scene Robin came out to Steve, and Steve came out to her. She knows he's bi, and she's the only one who knows. Swap starts off slowly for Steve and Robin. Little moments of vertigo where the world doesn't look right for a few seconds, that progresses to black out periods of time spanning 5-15 minutes. It's them switching bodies but it's so traumatizing (they are FREAKING out) that they don't remember it. So, it's like they're just losing moments in time, which still freaks them out.

Then one day they wake up and they're... each other. And they just don't go back.

And Steve can't really pass as Robin to her parents but thankfully they just blame it on 'moody teenage angst' and "you can talk to us about anything babygirl we love you so much and we're here when you need us." Which. Yeah, Steve cries about. But it also comes with the side of GOD FUCKING DAMMIT I HAVE TO FINISH HIGH SCHOOL AGAIN??? I CAN'T PLAY THE TRUMPET ROBIN YOU HAVE TO DROP OUT OF BAND

And Robin also cannot pass as Steve at first, but she gets to see how that matters exactly 0% because the Harrington's don't even notice. They also aren't around near as much as Steve makes them out to be. But she does get to enjoy the freedom of a legal drivers license and no job currently. HOWEVER she has walked Steve's pretty face into several doors/poles/walls because cute girls keep looking at her with hunger in their eyes and she doesn't know how to handle this.

(It makes more girls interested in a suddenly shy, stumbling, nervous Steve because those girls think they're the reason Confident Sex God Steve turns into a mess but really it's just Robin not knowing how to exist in a world where woman want her and fish fear her (sorry bad joke))

Anyway, queue shenanigannary for a bit. Steve encourages Robin to go on dates because why not get some practice in while they wait to swap back again? (he's holding out hope)

Do they have the awkward discussion of 'what are the limits to what I'm allowed to do in your body????? I dunno yet.

Anyway, Robin goes on dates. ((Does she end up going on a date with Vickie? Canonically Vickie's got no problem dating older boys? How to solve this plot line for when(if?) they switch back bodies? IDK dudes, that's Future Jess's issue.))

At some point, the gang finds out. Probably Dustin realizing Steve isn't as Steve-like as usual. He'd sniff out something was wrong with his brother for sure.

But then season 4 starts. Robin taught Steve how to play the trumpet back in August/Sept and it's then they realize that they kind of share their knowledge? Like... Steve picks up how to play the trumpet EASY. At first they think it's just Robin's body using muscle memory but then Robin realizes she knows things only Steve should.

Anyway, Steve is in band with Vickie the night of the Championshipgame, chatting easily while also trying to hint that 'Hey, I think Steve Harrington is checking you out???" while trying to tell Robin with telepathy (that they don't have... yet? Decide if they end up with telepathy later) to try and subtly check out Vickie. But neither girl is subtle so they both just whip around to stare at each other and Steve is facepalming.

NO WAIT. DO I MAKE CHANGES TO THE NARRATIVE BECAUSE IF STEVE IS IN HIGH SCHOOL AGAIN, THERE IS NO WAY HE'D LET DUSTIN AND MIKE SKIP OUT ON THE CHAMPIONSHIP GAME. Maybe??? Will decide on this point later. Until then, above points stay.

Anyway, Chrissy still dies (sorry) and Eddie's still on the run, but like this time in the boathouse, Robin invites Eddie to stay at 'his' big empty house 'cause the parents are gone and Robin has no hangups about Eddie like Steve did in canon (he is the first person we hear call Eddie The Freak).

The end point here is that Robin, Steve, and Eddie spend A LOT of time together at Steve's house and then the angst falls in because Steve starts to fall in love with Eddie.

So, he has a breakdown in a bathroom with Robin about it, all sad and crying like "I really fuckin' like him Robs, but I can't- there- we can't-"

"I need you to take a breath and tell me what the issue is," Robin says.

"I like him Robs, but this is your body. I can't take things from you. Like your first kiss. And I certainly can't- I won't put your body through... you know. I can't do that to you."

And it takes Robin a moment to process what he means. Romantic entanglements that Steve might want to have would have to happen with her body. And maybe Robin isn't sure what to say/do because the thought of a guy and his dick anywhere near her body immediately freaks her out but... she's not in her body. She's in Steves, and has been doing things with girls in it. It never occurred to her that Steve might want to get hot and heavy with a guy in her body and maybe she's got something to unpack there???

Anyway, no time to worry about that. Vecna's gonna kill Max so they gotta go. Also, Eddie does NOT know about the body swap.

She does tell Steve to kiss Eddie, though, in the end. When they're not sure they'll live. So, Eddie calls out to Steve. "Make him pay." So, to Eddie, it looks like Steve gives him a nod and it's Robin who marches up, grabs his face, and plants one on him. Robin(Steve) doesn't stick around long enough for Eddie to kiss back (Steve wants him to because he wants a proper kiss from Eddie, but he also doesn't want him to because Eddie thinks he's kissing Robin and if he kisses back it means he likes Robin, not Steve, so Steve doesn't lock lips long enough find out).

Something something they all survive and then Eddie, hopped up on pain meds in the hospital, demands to speak to Robin. So, Steve slinks in, afraid of what's going to happen, and Eddie's like 'Robin. I appreciate that you like me but you are unfortunately a girl and I am not into that.' And Steve is like!!! my time!! It's come!!! I HAVE to get back to my body.

And then at some point they switch back. Maybe El doing some mind fuckery? Idk.

And for fun, here's the beginning of the fic that idea written out:

"Whoa," Steve blinks rapidly as the world tilts and shifts. It's very sudden, and over just as quickly as it started, but it still leaves Steve unanchored for a moment. It was probably brought on by the concussion he's been nursing these last two days, since the whole Starcourt shit. He leans sideways to try and use the wall as an anchor until everything feel right again.

He should, probably, be more concerned about this because this has been like, the fourth time this has happened and when he told Robin about it, she confessed it was happening to her, too. That Owens guy had told them there could be unknown side effects to whatever the fuck they'd been injected with and this might just be part of that. It'll fade, Steve's sure, as the days go on. Never mind that it has been happening more lately. It's going to fade. It has to.

Except, it doesn't. The sensation of be unanchored gets worse, and now it comes accompanied with loss of time. Steve will feel the tilt and shift while standing in the doorway to his room and the next thing he knows he's got a hand on his front door, keys in his hand, and doesn't know where he was trying to go.

Ring Ring

Steve shakes his head, shakes away the feeling of wrongness and goes to answer the phone. "Harrington residence, Steve speaking."

"Steve! Steve, it's getting worse!" Robin's voice sobs at him from the other end of the phone. "I-I was in the kitchen and then I was, like, huddled in the bathroom and I don't remember going there."

"Fuck, me too. I just came to standing at my front door, about to leave but I don't remember getting there, or where I was planning to go," Steve confesses back. It's strange, how easily Robin has become a part of his life. He was expecting her to not want to be withing five miles of him ever again, after what he got her dragged into, but it seems Robin isn't scared away. Perhaps it's just that he's the only other person she knows who went through Russian torture. Even if that is the case, Steve'll take it. He likes Robin a lot.

"Should we... call Dr. Owens?" Robin sounds so small when she asks.

"I don't want to," Steve confesses but doesn't elaborate. Calling Dr. Owens means admitting that something is wrong wrong. Steve doesn't want anything to be that wrong. He wants to get back to his life. He's got to get back to job searching, too, and Dr. Owens might deny him that.

[kaisers-house-of-desires]

I just wanna say I have notifications on for this blog, AND DID NOT GET THEM. Ahem, anyway, may I ask for a part two of the Muzan x reader fluff where he turns the reader into a demon? 👀 — H

Of course~ Some fluff coming right up~

Title: Meant to Be (Continuation of In Sickness and in Health)

Characters: Muzan x m!Reader

Contains: fluff, pet names (love, dear), blood, death (Demons are...well, demons. While there is fluff, there will be blood and death of extrememly minor characters. Be warned when reading.)

Fandom: Demon Slayer

Full request below the cut

All characters are 18+

MINORS, FEM ALIGNED, AGELESS/BLANK BLOGS DNI (This may not be smut, but I still want the above to be followed)

Reblogs > likes

A nearby village was no match for your carnivorous rage.

Homes were destroyed, and bodies were scattered about the roads. Faint words rang in your mind as your carnage continued.

Eat to your heart's content.

And eat you did, leaving the village with nearly nothing left. It was a small village, one with not too many people. Anyone who ran by you or attempted to kill you would be your primary target, costing them their lives. Though the ones in hiding wouldn't be spared either, as you would hunt them down like prey, blood dripping from your mouth as you would scout out your next meal.

Within the hour, the village was no more. Families were wiped and structures demolished. You stood at the center of the land, panting heavily as your claws and mouth were soaked with the blood of various villagers. You couldn't tell if you were satisfied, but the nagging feeling in your gut tempted you to hunt for more.

The presence behind you felt appetizing.

Though upon turning around you were met with a tall man with dark wavy hair, his white hat surprisingly clean despite being in a land of viscera and death. You immediately changed your tune, your predatory nature giving way to something softer.

"Muzan, darling!"

He was the only thing you could remember when you woke up. Your memories were nearly erased with the transformation, only leaving the relationship you two shared.

Upon seeing his beloved, Muzan gave you a smile. You didn't realize it before, but now that you had a moment to process, you notice he held a terrified villager in one arm. She was held firmly, Muzan's hand pressing against it so she wouldn't scream. She was afraid, eyes wide as they darted between the two of you.

"I caught this one attempting to run from the village," Muzan explained, gazing down at the woman. "What do you think we should do with her?"

Hunger shot to your mind again, and you stepped toward the trembling woman. Her still wide eyes were now fixated on you rather than flicking back and forth. Her life was quite literally in someone else's hands.

You thought about her fate for a moment, a teasing response following. "Love, have I ever told you I wanted a pet~?"

That answer didn't sit well with the woman, and she began to squirm. Her screams were muffled by Muzan's hand with no way of calling out. Her feet futilely kicked in the air, as if she was already trying to run.

Muzan wasn't happy about her response, and with this position, he forced her head back, exposing her neck. "Are you sure about this one? She's quite loud."

You were so glad he played along.

"Hmm...you're right. I have another idea instead." Staring at the woman, who was frozen in fear from her new position, you simply uttered, "Let her go."

Without question, Muzan dropped the woman to the ground. She was unable to meet either of your gazes.

"Well?" You knelt down to her, your voice teasing. "Run~"

As if thinking she was blessed by the gods, she took you at your order, bolting the moment she heard the word. She screamed into the air, calling for anyone to help her, to help her village.

"Are you really about to let her get away?" Muzan asked, a brow quirked.

Your answer was a simple one.

With your newfound speed, the woman would never reach the end of the village. Your teeth would sink deep into her neck, silencing her for good as you indulged in your final meal of the night.

---

Having returned home, you were covered in the dry blood of your feast. Muzan offered to help clean you, to which you didn't refuse. He simply asked you to wait in the bathroom as he set everything up, from gathering your lounging clothes to setting up the tub with heated water. Once the tub was set and you were free of your dirtied clothes, you settled yourself in the tub, some of the water splashing out in the process.

Undeterred by this, Muzan went to work. Despite his title of King of Demons, he treated you as if you were the very thing he was, along with extra care. The way he'd hold your arm was that of a porcelain doll. The sponge carefully swiped along your skin, soap suds cleansing away the dirt and blood that speckled it. As you soaked, and as Muzan carried his actions, the water would tinge color, becoming a translucent red.

As Muzan finished his self assigned duties, he would take note of this sight, and a rush of admiration would wash over him. Thoughts of you bathing in the blood of your adversaries set his body a flame.

For once in his millennia of life, he was the one that did not feel worthy to be in someone's presence.

This feeling would remain as he would assist you out of the tub, a spot with a towel all prepared for you to sit upon as he dried off your freshly cleaned skin. You were the only creature that would ever see him like this, kneeling before a lesser demon, assiting them in such a menial task.

You'd tease him, but in reality you adored how gentle he was with you, and why would you tease that? Sure he was a king, but even a king can be gentle.

With your body dry, he clothed you with a luxurious silk robe that complimented your new reddened eye color. You weren't sure when he had gotten this, but you weren't complaining. It felt lovely on your skin, and you were grateful for his assitance.

Muzan would stand, carefully taking your hand to urge you to stand as well. In doing so, he would carefully kiss the ridge of your knuckles, gazing at you with such soft eyes. You wanted to return the gesture, so you then in turn pulled his hand holding yours close, turning your hand to expose his and return the kiss.

You would never remember who you were, but one thing was for certain: this is where you were meant to be and who you were meant to be with.

[neumond-alte-sonne]

knight!vi x masc/butch-king!reader

«Golden brown» Pt. 1

Pt. 2

The throne room was crowded with noise—noblemen murmuring, advisors gesturing with ink-stained fingers, guards standing like statues at every column. You sat on the throne, newly crowned, the weight of gold unfamiliar and heavy on your head.

You were young. Beautiful, yes—but that wasn’t what made the room pause when you looked up. It was the stillness in your gaze, eyes far older than your face. Sharp and unflinching. The kind of person who had already learned that ruling meant being both blade and sheath.

Vi stood at the edge of the crowd, armor still bearing the dust of travel. She hadn't intended to end up there and stay longer than necessary. She was only meant to deliver a letter—a sealed message from a minor northern lord who owed fealty to the crown. But she had lingered when she shouldn’t have. Something about the tension in the room had kept her rooted. Something about the young monarch had drawn her like a moth to a flame.

A servant noticed her strange, cautious presence and leaned forward to whisper to the king. You looked up and rested your gaze on Vi with a slight frown.

"You," you said, and the whole room quieted. "Step forward," voice like ice cracking.

Vi did not move.

"You’re not deaf, are you?" You asked, arching an eyebrow.

Vi sighed and stepped out of the shadows, holding her helm in her hand. "No, Majesty. Just not used to being called out in rooms like this."

You tilted your head, your gaze fixed on Vi with a serious expression but with a growing, odd curiosity. "You’re not court guard."

"No, Majesty."

"You’re not a noble."

"Gods, no."

A flicker of amusement passed over your face. "Then what are you?"

"I'm just a simple wandering knight," Vi said plainly, but there was a hidden meaning in her words. "I was ordered to deliver a message. I didn’t mean to linger."

"And yet you did." You replied in a calm voice, tracing your lower lip with your thumb in a thoughtful gesture.

Vi looked into your eyes, holding a eerie spark in them. "I don’t like the way they look at you."

The room chilled. Several advisors bristled. A few guards shifted, giving a more threatening air.

But you didn’t move.

"And how do you look at me?"

Vi paused, almost hesitantly, and then said: "Like someone who’s about to be surrounded by hungry wolves."

For a long moment, there was silence. No one seemed to want to rebuke Vi's words. Some eyes held a dangerous haze as they settled on you, waiting for your reaction.

Then you stood.

"Come here."

Vi stepped forward, her boots echoing off marble. When she stopped at the foot of the dais, you descended the stairs, each step deliberate. You stopped only a breath away with your hands behind your back.

"Most people look at me with awe. Or hunger. Or fear," you said quietly, tilting your head slightly. "You don’t."

"No," Vi replied, firmly.

"Why?"

"Because you don’t need awe. You need someone who’ll bleed for you without asking why." A pause. "And someone who’ll tell you the truth when everyone else lies to keep their heads on their shoulders."

You studied her like one might study a blade—measuring its edge, its weight.

"Can I trust you?"

Vi didn’t blink. "No. But I won’t betray you."

That—strangely—seemed to please you.

"Good," you said. "Because I don’t need trust. I need loyalty."

Your eyes scanned Vi in detail, an attention that Vi found intimidating.

"What’s your name?"

"Violet. No title. No land."

"Just a sword?"

Vi shrugged. "And a spine. Which seems to be in short supply around here."

Your smile was slow, dangerous. Not amusement—approval.

You turned to the room, voice rising with regal command.

"Dame Violet is hereby named to my personal guard. Effective immediately. Anyone who questions it can speak to me alone."

Gasps followed and murmurs. Fury hidden in silk and lace.

But Vi? She just bowed her head with a hidden smile, the kind that flickered more in the eyes than on the lips.

"Yes, Majesty," she said, her voice steady, respectful.

Inside, though—inside, her chest burned with something fierce and complicated. Pride, yes. But also disbelief. A memory stirred: the first time she held a sword with trembling hands, the nights spent training in silence, bleeding on the stone floors no one ever bothered to clean. She had dreamed of honor once, before the world taught her to stop dreaming.

And now—this. Chosen by the king.

She did not look up. She couldn’t. Not yet. The smile might break into something else.

And from that day forward, they were never apart—not in war, not in peace, and not in the quiet spaces where duty twisted into something far more dangerous.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟