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byhuenii · 22 hours ago

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Romcom 101 w/ Reluctant Super Soldiers

CHAPTER 0 – “For Optics” → The Setup

(Word Count: 4,600)

(Warnings) Bucky, fake marriage, mr tall broody, stupid idiots who like eachother, mentions of romcoms, semi-tower fic but theyre all watching this mission play out, lots and lots of teasing! lmk if i missed anything, ALSO NO MENTION OF NAME

Masterlist | Next Chapter

The mission was supposed to be simple. Pretend to be engaged. Blend in at a diplomatic summit. Make sure no one tried to poison the Latvian prime minister.

But Nick Fury, being Nick Fury, had a flair for chaos. So instead of sending seasoned SHIELD agents with an actual romantic history, he sent Bucky Barnes—the most emotionally constipated man alive—and you.

"You'll be fine," Fury had said with a dismissive wave. "Barnes is broody, you're charming, it's believable."

That was all it took. No planning. No detailed cover story. No psych evaluations or compatibility testing. Just forged marriage paperwork, a diamond ring with a price tag that could fund four years of college and a decent first apartment in Brooklyn, and a room key.

Just you and Bucky, thrown into a luxurious suite in Vienna courtesy of Stark.

When you both stepped into your shared suite for the first time, the tension was high—so high, it might've had its own gravitational pull.

It was awkward. Painfully so. The tension hit harder than a gut punch from a super soldier under Hydra’s control. Bucky dropped his bag wordlessly by the dresser, his eyes scanning the room like it might be booby-trapped.

Of course. One bed.

You glanced at the hyper-aware soldier. "Rock paper scissors for the floor?"

He blinked slowly, face unreadable. "I’ve slept on concrete for seventy years. I’ll be fine."

"You’re willingly taking the floor?"

He shrugged off his jacket and hung it up in the closet with the kind of precision that deserved a jazz soundtrack.

"Less complicated."

You sighed and opened your suitcase, filled with gowns tailored perfectly to your measurements. "We can share the bed. I call the left side."

All you got was a grunted acknowledgment.

Great.

Sharing a bed with a man who once assassinated JFK but couldn’t make eye contact while you changed into your pajamas.

Gentleman? Maybe.

You hoped so.

Back at the compound, chaos had already erupted.

Sam Wilson had laughed for a solid five minutes when he saw the fake engagement announcement on the mission board.

"This is gold," he choked out between wheezes. "Barnes? Romance? I give it two days before one of you throws a pillow at the other."

Peter Parker was thrilled. "Oh my God, is this like—Mr. & Mrs. Smith?" he'd asked with way too much excitement, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Do you get spy gadgets? Matching disguises? Oh! You should totally get matching tattoos."

Kate Bishop added with a snort, "If either of them blows up a mansion, I’m calling dibs on the security footage. And the explosion angles. I’ve got a whole highlight reel in my head already."

Steve had been confused. Disbelieving. "Bucky? Seriously? He hates holding hands. He physically recoils when people breathe too close to him."

Natasha had leaned in close to the screen and smirked. "Maybe the threat of poison will loosen him up. Or maybe this'll be the mission where he finally learns how to flirt without looking like he wants to escape through a wall."

Tony had already started taking bets.

"I give it three days before she snaps and murders him. Or vice versa. Either way, entertaining. Friday, start the office pool. Put me down for 'awkward sexual tension implosion' on Day 5."

Clint just whistled. "Guess I gotta move 'Mission Baby Shower' from December to next year."

Yelena cracked her knuckles with glee. "Can I be godmother? Even if it’s a fake baby. Just give me a fake baby. I want to test its espionage potential."

The earpiece teasing started almost immediately.

"Barnes, if you don’t compliment her dress, I swear to god, I will," Sam's voice buzzed in Bucky’s ear as you descended the hotel stairs, shimmering in a sleek navy gown. "Don’t make me call dibs."

Bucky grumbled, "You’re not even on this mission."

"Don’t need to be. I got the livestream."

You smiled faintly, aware of Bucky’s silence. "Is Sam threatening you again?"

"He’s threatening you, technically."

Yelena's voice chimed in, all fake innocence. "James, you look very... tense. Maybe she should give you a massage. For cover. For the mission."

"Not helping," Bucky muttered, ears tinting pink.

"Oh, but I’m excellent at helping," Yelena replied. "I helped Kate dye her eyebrows once. Only burned a little."

Peter added in a whisper-shout, "Guys! He just looked at her like she invented breathing. I’m writing this down."

Tony: "I better get at least a five-act romantic arc or I’m cutting funding."

Bucky was quiet.

Then he looked at you, slow and deliberate, and asked, "You okay with this?"

You nodded. Something in him settled. Maybe.

Day one already felt long, and the gala hadn’t even started.

It was a mess of security walkthroughs, earpiece tests, rehearsed interactions, and learning which fork went with which entree. Bucky didn't speak unless he had to, and when he did, it was clipped and functional. You filled in the silences with charm and diplomacy, making Peter laugh over text, and trying to ignore the way Bucky flinched every time your shoulder brushed his.

The ring was beautiful—sterling silver, classic cut, not too flashy. You slipped it on and felt the weight of it. Too real.

Bucky adjusted his tie and muttered, "You sure this looks okay?"

You stepped closer, smoothing the lapels of his jacket. His eyes dropped to your hands.

"You clean up alright, Barnes."

He looked up. Something unreadable passed between you.

The summit was held in a grand hotel ballroom, chandeliers glittering overhead. You and Bucky were introduced as "James Barnes and fiancée." That word sounded strange in your ears.

"Annnd fiancée," you drawled. "I’m going to start introducing myself as Fiancée Barnes."

Bucky chuckled—light, airy, almost out of character. That was strange too.

Even stranger when he placed a hand on the small of your back, warm and possessive. You thought it would be hard to make him act like he loved you. God, this already felt natural.

You didn’t have to fake the shiver.

You passed diplomats, smiling, nodding, sipping wine you hated. Bucky played his part with quiet grace, moving like a shadow at your side. When someone asked how you met, he surprised you by weaving an elaborate, entirely made-up story about a coffee shop and spilled books and rainy afternoons.

He smirked when he saw your face.

"What?" he murmured. "Figured I’d contribute to the fantasy."

Back in the surveillance van, Tony clutched his chest.

"He’s improvising! Our boy is growing up!"

Clint mimed wiping away a tear. "It’s so beautiful."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Idiots."

Sam: "Wait, did he just adjust her necklace for her? I swear Barnes is going to combust."

Yelena: "Let it happen. Combustion is very romantic."

Peter: "Do you think they’ll kiss by Day 6? I have a theory."

For the first day it was stiff, silent, and filled with the kind of micro-interactions that would make a body language analyst cry from secondhand embarrassment.

You fumbled with your earpiece while Bucky stood in the corner like a brooding gargoyle. When it came time to descend to the gala, you slipped into a sleek navy gown and caught him watching you—not staring, just... noticing.

"Barnes, if you don’t compliment her dress, I swear to God, I will," Sam’s voice buzzed in Bucky’s ear. "You’re not even on this mission," Bucky grumbled.

“Something wrong?”

“No,” he said too quickly. “Just... didn’t expect that.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t expect what?”

“That color. Looks good on you.”

You blinked. Was that a compliment? From Bucky Barnes? Sam’s voice crackled in your ear from comms. “He’s evolving. Give the man a sticker.”

"Don’t need to be. I got the livestream."

You smiled faintly. "Is Sam threatening you again?"

"He’s threatening you, technically."

The gala was a blur of forced smiles and champagne. You looped your arm through his. His was solid, warm, unmoving. People asked questions. Where did you meet? How long had you been together?

"Coffee shop," he said smoothly. "She dropped three books on my foot." You turned, wide-eyed. "It was raining," he continued. "I offered her my umbrella. She told me to get my own."

The man could lie. And worse—he could lie well. He even smirked at your shocked expression. "What?" he murmured. "Figured I’d contribute to the fantasy." Tony, listening from the surveillance van, clutched his chest. "He’s improvising! Our boy is growing up!"

Back in your suite that night, you lay side by side but a safe foot apart, both staring at the ceiling.

"Day one down," you said quietly. "Yeah," Bucky replied. "You snore."

Day Two was a little looser, a little less like you were two strangers playing house. The mission was still the priority, of course—but the details got blurrier.

By morning, something had shifted—imperceptibly, like the temperature rising just one degree. He handed you coffee before you could ask. Black, just the way you liked it.

You blinked. “You remembered?” “You said it yesterday.” You hadn’t realized he was listening.

During your daily romantic walk, meant for optics, Bucky offered you his arm. You blinked.

"It’s for the cover," he said stiffly. "People are watching."

Later, walking the manicured palace grounds for ‘optics,’ Bucky offered you his arm. No warning. Just extended it stiffly like it was procedure. You took it without hesitation, ignoring the way your heart thudded against your ribs.

“People are watching,” he murmured.

“You say that like you’re not enjoying it,” you replied.

He didn’t respond, but his thumb brushed the inside of your wrist once. Soft. Unintentional, maybe. But it lingered.

At brunch, you stole bacon from his plate.

“You’re going to start a war,” he muttered.

“You could’ve stabbed me. You didn’t.”

“I’m evolving,” he deadpanned.

Sam: “Ohhh, he’s learning. Next up: eye contact that lasts longer than three seconds.”

Yelena: “Wait until he accidentally brushes her hand. He’ll short-circuit like a toaster.”

Later, you helped him adjust his tie before a security debriefing. You were close—too close. The knot was slightly crooked. Your hands stilled on his chest.

“Hold still,” you said.

“I’m trying,” he said quietly.

Neither of you moved.

That night, in bed, he rolled onto his side, closer than the night before. Not touching, but nearer. Intentional.

“You don’t snore,” he said softly.

“You lied?”

“I wanted you to stop talking.”

You laughed into the dark. “It didn’t work.”

You both laughed—soft and tired. His shoulder brushed yours. Neither of you moved away.

Day three started with a near wardrobe disaster.

You had exactly 12 seconds before your zipper betrayed you, and your communicator crackled with static as you wrestled with it.

"Uh, problem," you muttered.

Bucky, dressed and brooding by the minibar, looked over his shoulder. “What?”

“This damn zipper. It’s stuck, and I’m not showing up to the ambassador’s brunch half-dressed.”

You turned your back to him, exposing the rogue zipper. He hesitated, like you’d just asked him to dismantle a bomb. Slowly, reluctantly, he stepped forward.

His metal hand brushed the small of your back.

And then—

Sam (over the earpiece): “Easy, Romeo. That’s a zipper, not a detonator.”

Nat: “Use the thumb, Barnes. Gently. She’s not a nuclear device.”

Yelena: “If he rips her dress, I get to pick the next one. Leather. Black. Combat-ready.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened as he zipped you up in stiff silence. You could feel the heat radiating off his skin like sun-warmed steel.

“There,” he mumbled.

“Thanks.” You turned to face him, trying very hard not to notice the proximity.

Clint: “Can we get a little less eye contact and a little more moving toward the door, lovebirds?”

Peter: “I bet they stared at each other for five whole seconds. Classic pre-kiss energy.”

Kate: “Let them build tension, damn. This is peak romcom pacing.”

Later, during a stroll through the ornate gardens for your daily “fake romantic walk,” Bucky offered you his arm.

You blinked.

He cleared his throat. “It’s for the cover. People are watching.”

Right. Sure. The hand he offered was warm and steady. You looped your arm through his, ignoring how your heart stuttered.

Sam: “Ohhh, he’s learning. Next up: eye contact that lasts longer than three seconds.”

Yelena: “Wait until he accidentally brushes her hand. He’ll short-circuit like a toaster.”

You squeezed his arm playfully. “You're getting good at pretending.”

He glanced sideways. “I’m not pretending as much as I probably should be.”

Your breath hitched. You weren’t sure what to say to that.

Luckily—or unluckily—you were interrupted.

Tony: “Heads up, kids. Possible security breach in the south hallway. Eyes sharp.”

Bucky stiffened. His whole demeanor shifted into soldier mode, the warmth fading into stone.

You touched his arm gently. “Hey. You’ve got this.”

He gave a short nod. "Stay close."

The breach turned out to be a glitchy security drone—nothing dangerous, but it had thrown everyone into high alert.

That night, exhausted and a little shaken, you found yourself brushing your teeth beside Bucky in awkward silence.

Your pajamas were mismatched—Stark’s branded t-shirt and plaid pants—and Bucky was in a henley and sweatpants, somehow looking like a sleepwear model anyway.

He spit into the sink and caught your eye in the mirror.

“You drool in your sleep.”

You squinted. “You’ve been watching me sleep?”

“You talk, too. Something about… pancakes and fighting a goose.”

“That sounds accurate.”

You both laughed—soft and tired—and your shoulders brushed as you leaned over the sink.

Nat (deadpan): “If you kiss right now, I swear to God I will make you both run sparring drills in full formalwear.”

Sam: “You think he’s that brave? Barnes would faint.”

Yelena: “I vote, we place bets. If they kiss within the week, Peter owes me churros.”

Peter: “What? I didn’t—fine, but only if it’s on the lips.”

By Day Four, the ease between you and Bucky had settled into something strange and wonderful.

You had inside jokes. Shared routines. A rhythm.

He always poured your coffee first. You always stole the blanket. He grumbled, but didn’t take it back.

At breakfast, you caught him staring—not in the creepy way. In the you-had-no-idea-you-were-doing-it way.

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He looked away, ears pink. “Nothing.”

Yelena: “That wasn’t nothing. That was ‘I wonder what she looks like in my hoodie’ eyes.”

Kate: “He’s definitely thought about that. Multiple times.”

Tony: “He’s doomed. She’s doomed. Everyone’s doomed. This mission is a romcom masquerading as a diplomatic op.”

That night, after the gala, you were tipsy from champagne and barefoot in the kitchenette, eating strawberries from the minibar.

Bucky leaned against the doorway, watching you.

"You’re not making this easy,” he said, voice low.

“Easy?”

“This is supposed to be fake.”

You blinked. “And?”

“I’m not doing a great job pretending.”

Your heart stopped.

He stepped forward. One slow, deliberate step at a time until he was close enough to touch. Close enough that you could smell his cologne—earthy, clean, too expensive for someone who still used flip phones.

You swallowed. “Then don’t.”

He leaned in—and just as your breath caught, he pulled back.

“We’re still on a mission.”

Nat (over the earpiece): “…You absolute coward.”

Yelena: “Throw a chair at him.”

Sam: “He’s gonna regret that for the rest of his unnatural life.”

You turned away, chest tight. “Right. Of course.”

But Bucky didn’t move for a long moment.

Neither did you.

Day 5 was like watching the whiplash movie, its like there was a switch flipped in bucky.

You woke to find Bucky already awake, perched near the window with a book in hand, sunlight cutting across his cheek. His hair was damp from a recent shower, curling just slightly at the ends. He looked peaceful in a way that made your heart ache

A lazy morning and too many strawberries. You padded barefoot through the suite in one of his T-shirts because yours was in the laundry.

He saw you and just... stared. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Say it.”

“It’s just... you look comfortable.”

You shrugged. “Should I not be?”

“No,” he said. “It’s good.”.

"What are you reading?"

He lifted the cover. "The Hobbit."

You blinked. "You're reading Tolkien?"

Bucky shrugged, almost sheepishly. "I like the world-building. And the maps."

"You're a secret nerd."

"Wasn’t much to do in cryo. I read a lot."

Peter’s voice crackled through your earpiece. "Wait, wait, Barnes reads The Hobbit? I knew he was cool. I knew it."

Sam added, "Bet he's got a Gandalf quote tattooed somewhere."

"One book does not a nerd make," Yelena chimed in. "But if he starts quoting Elvish, we riot."

You rolled your eyes and grinned. "You know what? You should watch Game of Thrones next."

He gave you a long, skeptical look. "That the one with the dragons and... everyone dies?"

"Basically."

He turned a page. "Alright. I’ll give it a shot."

Later that night, while reviewing the security layout, Bucky mumbled, "So what’s a Lannister again?"

You choked on your water. "You're actually watching it?"

He smirked. "I said I’d give it a shot."

That evening, he surprised you even more. You were rambling about a diplomat who couldn’t pronounce ‘Latvian’ when Bucky cut in dryly:

"Maybe he thinks it’s a kind of cheese."

You burst into laughter, nearly dropping your earpiece.

Sam’s voice cracked through. "DID HE JUST—DID BUCKY BARNES MAKE A JOKE?"

Natasha chimed in, amused. "Mark the day."

Bucky looked satisfied. "I like hearing you laugh."

You paused. He didn’t meet your eyes, but his words lingered.

Day six felt like a real fantasy.

It was the final day of the summit. The atmosphere was electric and draining all at once.

Just before the summit dinner, the entire team was monitoring the ballroom through comms. You and Bucky had split up to schmooze the various delegates—at least on paper. In reality, you were sneaking glances at each other across the room like teenagers with a crush.

That’s when Sam’s voice crackled in your ear again.

“Hey, Barnes. If you keep staring at her like that, the Latvian prime minister’s gonna think he’s your type.”

You nearly choked on your champagne.

Yelena hummed. “Honestly, I ship it.”

Bucky covered his mouth to hide the smirk.

Natasha chimed in smoothly, “I give it two more flirtatious remarks before one of you combusts.”

Clint: “My money’s on Barnes.”

Then Steve’s voice, smooth as ever, broke through the static:

“Welcome back, James Buchanan Barnes.”

Bucky visibly froze, one corner of his mouth twitching, like he wanted to grin and groan at the same time. A blush crept over his cheeks, and he instinctively rubbed the back of his neck like a kid caught passing notes in class.

You caught his reaction and grinned. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” he muttered quickly.

“Oh no, no. That blush is something. What’d Steve say to you?”

“Nothing important.”

You tilted your head. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

He blinked. “Did you just—?”

“Say you’re cute?” You shrugged. “Yeah. What, shocked I find you attractive now that you’re letting your 40s flirt game show?”

He gave a soft chuckle, voice low. “I’m not even at full power yet.”

“Oh no,” Sam said in your ears, “he’s back, and he’s flirting. World, prepare yourself.”

Peter whispered dramatically, “This is better than the ending of descendants 2.”

You wore a dark green gown that hugged your frame, matched with gold accessories. Bucky was already dressed when you stepped out. His eyes flicked up and down once, then stayed on your face.

"You keep dressing like that, and I’ll forget how to speak."

You blinked. "What?"

"You heard me."

Your breath caught, because this time he wasn’t flustered. He was smooth. Almost cocky.

"Barnes, are you flirting with me?"

He gave a sly half-smile. "Might be. You gonna report me to HR?"

You narrowed your eyes. "You’re the worst."

"And yet here you are, still holding my hand."

Your fingers were laced together. You hadn’t even noticed.

Throughout the night, Bucky dropped more of those subtle jabs:

"Careful, you keep looking at me like that, I might get ideas."

"I’d offer you a drink, but I already make your head spin."

"We’re married, technically. I’m allowed to be obsessed."

Each time, your face warmed. Each time, your heart thudded a little harder.

During a slow dance, he leaned in close.

"Still fake?"

You swallowed hard. "I don’t know anymore."

Over the earpiece, Yelena whispered, "God, finally."

Sam sighed dramatically. "My ship is sailing."

Nat: "They’re disgustingly cute."

Peter: "Can I be the flower boy? I have glitter cannons."

You both laughed.

Day seven came and went, that also meant it was the end of your play pretend marriage.

The mission wrapped. No explosions. No gunfights. No poisoned desserts. Just a hundred photo ops and a thousand half-smiles.

That morning, you found Bucky asleep beside you. Fully on the bed now, one arm sprawled across the pillow between you. His copy of The Hobbit lay open on his chest, pages crinkled.

You picked it up carefully and bookmarked the spot.

He blinked awake slowly, eyes meeting yours. "Morning."

"Morning. I think Bilbo’s about to meet the dragon."

He smiled. "Good part."

You watched him stretch, muscles flexing, hair a glorious mess.

"You’re not making this easy," you whispered.

He looked over. "Easy to do what?"

"Forget this was fake."

The night before you left Vienna, you and Bucky took one final walk around the quiet city. The summit had wrapped. The threats were neutralized. The diplomats had all gone home, and the cobblestone streets glistened under the glow of old-world lanterns.

Your arms brushed as you walked.

Neither of you spoke.

Eventually, you found yourselves on a small bridge overlooking the river. The air smelled like rain and blooming jasmine. He leaned on the railing beside you, his shoulder just grazing yours.

You turned to him, quietly.

“This whole week…” you started.

He didn’t look away. “Yeah.”

“Feels weird to take the ring off.”

He swallowed hard. “Feels weird to pretend none of it meant anything.”

You stepped closer.

His hand reached out, almost involuntarily, to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingertips lingered on your cheekbone, calloused and gentle. You looked up at him.

His eyes searched yours.

You swore he was leaning in.

You leaned in too.

Then he froze.

He stepped back, jaw tightening.

“We… we can’t. It’s not real,” he said, voice low but tense.

You blinked. “Right.”

The air snapped like a rubber band. The moment dissolved.

You straightened, quietly crushed, nodding even as your throat burned.

Comms exploded.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” Tony bellowed. “You didn’t kiss her?! You were right there! That was a million-dollar moment! Do you know how much money I’ve lost on this stupid betting pool?!”

Nat groaned: “They’re both hopeless.”

Yelena: “I am embarrassed for them.”

Sam: “One job, Barnes. You had one job. You just had to lean in.”

Clint’s voice cut in, sharp: “Break her heart and I break both your kneecaps.”

Peter, heartbreak in his tone: “This is just like 10 Things I Hate About You. Kat finds out Patrick was paid to date her... then she cries in English class... I’m not okay.”

And then Wanda’s voice joined, lilting with sarcasm and judgment.

“Oh please, Barnes. Do you want me to bend reality so you did kiss her? Because that’s the only way this is going to feel less tragically awkward.”

Bucky groaned audibly. “Wanda…”

She laughed. “You’re telling me, Mr. Flirty-1943 suddenly forgets how to close a three-inch gap? I have seen you take out Hydra bunkers with more confidence.”

You tried not to laugh but failed—shoulders shaking silently as Bucky rubbed his face in embarrassment.

Wanda: “This is coming from a literal witch, Barnes. There are hexes for this kind of thing. I’m tempted to use them.”

Tony again: “God, even Maximoff’s fed up. Do something, Barnes. Before Clint and Yelena form a vigilante group.”

Fury’s voice returned, a growl now: “I’m going to destroy this comm system myself. With a hammer.”

Click. Silence.

You let out a soft breath and glanced at Bucky. He was still red in the ears, jaw tight, clearly rattled by all of it.

You tried to smile. “Well. That was dramatic.”

Bucky stared at the ground, fists clenched at his sides.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said quietly.

You nodded. “I know.”

He muttered, “I liked it better when I was just the guy reading Tolkien.”

You smiled, and despite it all—despite the nearly kiss, the tension, the sudden cold feet—there was a glimmer of warmth in his eyes.

The walk back was quiet. Not tense—just full of things unsaid.

When you got to your suite, he held the door for you. His hand hovered at your back but never touched you.

That night, he slept facing the wall.

You stayed awake a while, staring at the ceiling, the ring cold on your finger.

When Fury checked in that afternoon, you and Bucky were side-by-side on the couch, feet tangled beneath a ridiculous fur throw Stark had insisted made the room “romantic enough for Europe.” You’d both been laughing—soft, quiet laughter over nothing important—when Fury’s face appeared on the screen.

He stared at you both for a long beat.

Fury sighed. “You two are too good at this. Almost makes me believe you idiots are in love.”

Sam immediately jumped in. “We told you.”

Yelena: “Kiss already.”

Natasha: “They’re too stubborn. Bet they’ll need another mission to figure it out.”

Clint: “I give it a week.”

Peter: “I HAVE A PLAYLIST. It starts with Can’t Help Falling in Love. I’m emotionally invested.”

There was a loud click as Fury cut the comms with what could only be described as fury.

You and Bucky stared at each other in the silence that followed.

The warmth in your chest dimmed slightly.

“We’re not really in love,” you said softly, barely louder than a breath. There was a hesitation in your voice you didn’t bother hiding.

His fingers brushed yours.

His face was unreadable. He just stared, eyes flicking to your lips and back to your eyes. There was something warring in his gaze—something fierce and afraid all at once.

Then he looked away.

The moment slipped again.

When you returned to New York, everything about the mission felt like it evaporated the second your feet hit Brooklyn pavement. You unpacked in silence. The diamond ring went into a drawer, buried under spare socks and tangled phone chargers. The dresses went back to their Stark Industries garment bags. You didn’t even look at the photos.

But the silence was too quiet. Your bed felt too cold.

And you missed him.

Three days later, there was a knock.

You opened the door to find him there.

Hoodie. Sweats. Hair tousled like he’d slept terribly. A Tolkien bookmark poked out from his pocket—crinkled from being carried around too long.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Then he held out the ring.

"You wore it better," he said.

You blinked, heart doing something very unhelpful.

You took it slowly. Your hand lingered on his.

He didn’t leave.

And neither did you.

It was supposed to be fake.

But the warmth of his hand, the way he looked at you—not as a soldier, not as a partner, but as a man who had chosen to be here—felt more real than anything in Vienna.

He sat beside you on the couch.

You sat in silence for a moment before you reached into your drawer and pulled out The Hobbit.

You nudged it toward him.

He smiled. "Read it to me?"

"Start of something real," you murmured.

He leaned his shoulder against yours. And maybe, next time… You’d finish The Hobbit together.

(You've got mail!) Honestly let me know if i made any mistakes but also heyyy i hope you guys liked the first chapter well..introduction chapter. I honestly had to rethink all this and be like uhhhhh i have no clue if this is good since this is my first bucky fanfic. CHAT IM SCAREDDDDDDDDD

(Tags) @bbsbrina @captainnnatheweirdo

#w.riting ‹𝟹 ‎scripts #bucky fanfic #i need him so bad #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky x reader #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #james buchanan bucky barnes #james barnes x reader #james barnes #james barnes x you #mcu x reader #bucky barns fanfiction #bucky barns imagine #bucky x female reader #bucky x y/n #bucky x f!reader #mcu x f!reader

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sizzy-ling · 2 days ago

Text

Knox doesn't know what's going on.

He's standing in the middle of a room full of people, music is bouncing against the walls around him, there's a glass of some kind of alcohol on his hands and his eyes are brimming with tears.

What the hell did just happen?

Knox sniffles, wipes at his eyes angrily with his free hand and looks around, searching. He knows he's not going to find Charlie. He just saw him storming off.

Still, he searches for him, as he tries to understand what happened.

It's been a couple of days since they arrived at Charlie’s family house at Cape Code for Easter break. Charlie's have already made their exit, leaving them alone almost the minute they arrived at the house - something about them being invited to a yacht by some friends, Knox wasn’t really paying attention when they explained. It's not important any way; he and Charlie knew they'd end up alone sooner or later, his parents always pulled shit like that.

Everything seemed to be going great. They'd wake up in the morning and Elsa, the chef - because the Daltons were pompous enough to have a chef - would have their breakfast ready. Then they'd other spend the day by the pool or head into town to walk around and do some light window shopping - which Charlie found endlessly entertaining.

"C’mon, Knoxious, this is so fun! Like, look at her, she looks like someone's Aunt, doesn't she? I bet she's here visiting family, drinking herself to sleep every night.."

After doing that for about two hours they'd return home for lunch. On the evening they'd other go to the local open cinema or stay in and listen to music - Knox has actually brought with his Patti Page vynil record, despite knowing Charlie had been messing with him.

And then yesterday someone invited them to a party. They were in town for milkshakes and their waitress had struck up a conversation with Knox. She was all batting eyelashes and big smiles, lingering on their table way longer than necessary. Charlie had stayed uncharacteristically quiet while she was there, but the mercilessly teased him after she'd left.

"Lover boy Knox Overstreet, strikes again! Ladies and gents, hide your daughters!"

But his teasing didn't last long, because the waitress returned with their drinks and a party invitation.

"Hope I'll see you there, Knox," she said, twisting a lock of hair between her fingers.

After than Charlie had become withdrawn. Knox asked me what was wrong so many times he'd lost count. He reassured him they didn't have to go to the party if Charlie didn't want to, but Charlie insisted they should. Knox had tried everything he could think of to cheer him up.

Nothing worked.

Which brings us to here, now. Knox is still standing in the middle of the party, his drink sweating in his hand. He still doesn't know what happened. One minute he was talking to Emma - the waitress. She was giggling at something leaning into him. And the next minute Charlie was tearing him a new one before storming off.

Knox sniffles again, wipes at his still very wet eyes. Charlie is not there. Emma has left. And Knox is standing in the middle of a strangers house, where he knows no one, all alone.

He doesn't let himself panic. He drops his glass on the table closest to him, and all but runs out.

He needs to find Charlie.

He needs -

"Charlie!"

Knox's heart is hammering in his chest. A couple of steps ahead of him, just around the corner of the house the party is happening at, Charlie stops walking.

"What do you want, Knox?" He asks, not even turning around.

Knox swallows. Tries to control his breathing but fails.

"What I want?" He repeats, his voice breathy. "What I w - Charlie, what the hell? What happened in there?"

"You hit it off with a cute girl," Charlie says whirling around to glare at him. "That's what happened."

Knox frowns. "I didn't hit it off -" he pauses, recalibrate. "What's wrong with that?" He asks instead.

Charlie's glare turns harsher. "Nothing's wrong with it. I just thought I should give you some space."

Knox scoffs. "Right, after you called me an asshole in front of her."

"Ah, did the pretty girl give you a raincheck because I called you a mean name?" Charlie taunts him, a smirk that looks more like a sneer pulling at his lips.

Knox blinks, surprise and hurt surging simultaneously through his body. "Charlie, what the hell? Why are you being like this?"

"I'm not being like anything."

"Bullshit, you're acting like a jackass!"

"I'm acting like I'm always -"

"No, you're not! You're being an asshole and I deserve to know why!"

"Fine, you idiot, fine!" Charlie is practically seething at this point. He stalks over at him, a murderous expression on his face.

Knox is still breathing too hard. Charlie gives a cursory look around, as if to make sure they're alone. They are. Not a single car has past in the last however minutes they've been fighting, and it's too late for anyone to be walking around aimlessly.

"I hate it when other people see you," Charlie says and he sounds pissed off about it. "I hate it when they flirt with you, and when you flirt back."

" ... what?"

Charlie gives him a look like he thinks he's slow.

"I like you."

The words make no sense in Knox’s mind.

"...what?"

Charlie makes an exasperated noise, grabs him by the front of his shirt and pulls him closer. And before Knox has the chance to even draw a final breath, Charlie's lips are on his. Warm. Bruising. Claiming. Charlie is fisting his shirt, keeping him in place, his tongue licking inside Knox’s mouth and he can't help but make a keening sound.

Because Charlie is kissing him.

Charlie is kissing him.

And Knox is not pushing him away.

#dead poets society #dps fandom #knarlie #knox x charlie #charlie x knox #i have an actual wip waiting for me to write it #but no #no i have to write this little stupid saga #at least i hope you like it #dead poets fanfic

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organised-disaster · 2 months ago

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What ONE toxic sapphic situationship does to a motherfucker

A snippet of a frame from a simple "animation" I'm working on lol

#shitpost #my art #digital art #snowbird #sera kaishurr #i want her to tremble and flicker a little but so far i havent worked out the incriments i need her to jitter BY to get the trembling effect #so shes kind of just bouncing off the walls #i also completely forgot about the flickering until i was eighty frames in with two layers: the background and the her #im absolutely terrified for the sera hairline reveal tbh i need to fix that #her head was originally angled forward but thats clearly gotten a bit losf #theres one specific frame where she stares directly into the camera and by extension my soul and looks at me like its my fault. which it is #this is exactly how i looked in class today btw #ouj the horrors. shes tormented by the horrors

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lillotte17 · 1 year ago

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One of my absolute favorite dialogues you can have with Astarion is after your Durge discovers that they're Bhaalspawn. (which is saying something bc he's got a lot of great dialogues tbh). He's been supportive of you up until now. Hells, he's even kind of into how much of a little freak you are if you're romancing him. But this? This is A Lot for him. His facial expressions are controlled. He chooses his words very carefully, not expressing a strong opinion of you resisting or submitting to your father's will.

You can tell he is already running the mental math in his head about how risky being with you is going to be going forward. He is very much just as freaked out about this as any of the "good aligned" companions. No harm in hedging his bets, though.

BUT if you choose the option to admit that you are scared, and you don't know how to fight back against someone as powerful as Bhaal, his whole demeanor shifts.

"You know, I didn't realize you and I were so alike. I- I felt paralyzed to do anything about Cazador for so many decades. I gave up on myself. I gave up on any hope of escape after a few lashes. Bhaal controls you in much the same way. I don't know how you can beat him, but I do know this; you must try. The half-life of a mind-addled slave is worse than death- don't become his. I wouldn't live another century as one for all the moonstones in Evereska."

Genuinely one of the most honest and introspective and vulnerable responses from him in the whole game. And the soft pleading desperate way he says, 'don't become his'??? I am feral. I am gnawing at the bars of my enclosure.

#Astarion #bg3 #honestly i just wanted to gush about that convo bc i love it #that 'don't become his' is just bouncing off the walls in my brain #marisol x astarion have gomez and morticia vibes #they are drama goths and their whole deal is constantly reaffirming that the other person has Rights and Autonomy #And also stabbing strangers who threaten their Rights and Autonomy #marisol has a shaky grasp of boundaries and morality bc her memory is shot #so she just kind of lets people Do Things to her sometimes #Much to Astarion's dismay #so this talk just really swung home with that idea #don't become his #don't let him do that to you #;__;#...oops I really rambled off in the tags too #my bad

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nezuscribe · 7 months ago

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it's that same summer when you're at the gojo summer estate, the one near the sea. you're still teens, long before gojo became arranged!gojo.

your last encounter with gojo was something you brushed off. but gojo couldn't stop thinking about you. you were this puzzle he didn't know how to figure out. this war map that no matter how long he looked at it, none of his past strategies were making sense.

but the two of you go about your usual routine. he's with his friends, and you stick to yourself.

or at least you tried to.

gojo's mother, the lady of the gojo family, was an earnest and strict woman. everybody knew that she wasn't one for games or jokes. she rarely smiled and rarely, rarely, laughed. you, along with all the other kids, knew to bow extra low whenever greeting her. she seemed to carry more power than her husband, but she didn't seem to find an issue with that.

but for a woman who was so keen on tradition, she seemed to care about you a lot more than the other children.

when she spoke to you, her eyes softened. her voice was gentler, more caring. your sisters especially grew annoyed at this, trying to butter up to her even more, but she seemed to harbor this sort of kindness only towards you.

you didn't question this either. it must be some form of pity, but you appreciated it nonetheless. sometimes you pretended like she was your actual mom, but then you quickly shook that thought away, chiding yourself for thinking something so childish.

this sort of gentleness she had with you turned into her trying to include you in things. some days it would be having tea with you when the other adults were having tea somewhere else, or sometimes she'd plan a little dinner with you where you could get dressed up and act like a lady.

tonight, however, she seemed to think that the best way she could include you was to include you in the group of the other kids, a gentle and guiding hand on your protesting back.

"really, i like the library," you insist, but it couldn't be farther from the truth. you had been inside the library for so many hours that you could blink and those high walls filled with books would be seared into your vision.

"nonsense," she tells you, her blue eyes and white hair looking down at your form as she waves it off, "the kids are outside near the fire. they'd be delighted to have you."

you cringe a little bit, wondering if she was just as daft as her son.

but she had found you near the fireplace, trying to stick its warmth as you hunched over yet another book. she decided that enough was enough, you should be out with the other kids.

so you couldn't say much to the woman who was hosting your family to argue, letting her lead you outside the grand patio and into the overbearing fields that led out to the sea, you soon saw the fire crackling away, the sound of laughter filling your ears.

some of the kids who were facing the two of you nudged the other ones to turn around, looks of confusion on their faces as the noblest lady of the land led a quivering you closer to them.

the usual look of caring she had whenever she was with you melted away, turning to something icy as the two of you neared the group. her hand on your back was still present, but you wished that it could somehow push you deep into the ground where you could hide forever.

her eyes looked over the group until they fell on her son, gojo, and narrowed.

everybody's eyes bounced from you over to her.

"there should be room for one more, yes?" she asks, and all the kids quickly nod, moving over on the logs that they had created into makeshift seats as they scrambled to make space for you.

you wondered what it was like to command such respect from people, what it must be like to have people actually listen to you.

she nudges you forward a little bit and you glance up at her one more time, a sort of useless plea as she encourages you to sit down.

you take a deep breath, offering them all an apologetic smile as you slowly sit on a log, your legs cramming together to make yourself seem as small as possible.

you watched as she walked back through the patio, talking to a maid as she motioned over to your group, saying something you couldn't make out, and you looked back to the other kids, the ones you had barely spoken a couple words to, and wince.

"sorry," you say slowly, your hands fidgeting non-stop in your lap as you laugh awkwardly, wishing you could just drop dead.

you can see your sisters seething in the corner, rolling their eyes as they sneer. the other kids nod at you just as tensely, and you wonder how disrespectful it would be if you just went back inside.

you feel a pair of eyes searing in the side of your face, and you look slightly to your right to see gojo staring at you, his eyes slightly squinting, just as his mother did.

you swallow thickly, picking at your nails as you send him a small smile before looking back down at your lap.

you could still feel him looking at you, but you chose to ignore it.

gojo doesn't really know why his mother liked you so much, but he never truly questioned her. she treated you with a tenderness he never saw her treat anybody (aside from him) with. he sometimes saw the two of you sharing tea with each other, other times hearing her laugh whenever you cracked a joke. something unusual for both of you.

his eyes look at your face, taking in the way you duck your head to seem smaller than you are. your eyes avert any contact, teeth gnawing on your already chewed-up lips. gojo looks at your hands, at the way you pick at your nails. he looks at your dress and sees the way the seams are fraying, the initial shape of the dress looking a little bit unfitting on you. almost as if it wasn't made for you specifically. his eyes narrow in more as he pieces it together. the dress is a hand-me-down from your older sister. not because your family couldn't afford a new dress, of course not, but to remind you of your place.

he feels a sting in his chest.

slowly the conversation with the group goes back to usual, the other kids pretending that you weren't there. gojo could feel the arms of one of the girls latched around his, her body pressing into his side as she tried to get closer to him. he wanted to shove her away, but didn't want to make a scene right now.

one of the girl shifted the talk to the topic of couples, talking about how she saw this husband and wife in town the other day who seemed to actually like each other.

one of your sisters, mei, snorts, shaking her head at the idea.

"us girls either marry an old man or a slightly older one," her eyes look over to you, "there's no in-between."

everybody grimaces at that, her other sister, yume, shoving her shoulder roughly at the crude statement.

"what?" mei scoffs, sitting back up as she nudges her chin to you, "she is."

yume gives her a warning look, one that's clearly saying she's saying too much, but mei doesn't seem to care much. everybody stirs, their heads craning with the thrill of gossip.

gojo looks at you and wants to see what you think about all this, but you're so far in your own world that you don't notice the commotion that seems to be directed at you.

mei calls your name, trying to grab your attention, and your head shoots up, brows furrowed to see who needs you.

"right?" she asks, knowing you don't know the answer.

you look around again, wondering if she was just trying to be funny.

"what?" you ask finally.

"you have to marry someone older, yeah?" mei presses, her eyes gleaming as your confusion melts away into one of embarrassment, looking at yume to see if mei was really serious.

of your two sisters, mei was always the mischievous one, if you could even call her cruelty that.

gojo sits up slightly, his brows scrunching up together a little bit at the mention of this. nobody had heard of any marriage offers, especially this early. you were still underage. who...?

you scratch at your neck, heat rising to your cheeks at the sudden attention on you.

"it was just an offer," you say through clenched teeth, shooting mei a look as she just smiles smugly. she knew she'd never have to deal with this.

"who?" one of the guys asks.

"nobody," you say quickly, waving it off as you rub a hand over your face, wondering if you threw yourself on the fire if that would help.

"naoya!" mei says instantly, your eyes widening as she reveals this very secret thing that even your father was trying to keep hushed away. you feel your stomach drop, eyes stinging in embarrassment as gasps echo around the group.

"isn't he...?" one of the girls tries to do the math, seeing how much older he already is.

"i heard he wants children," another girl adds, giving you a look of attempted sympathy but it just looks like a wince, "like, a lot of children."

you shut your eyes, rubbing at your aching forehead. you look briefly at gojo, only to see him looking incredulously at you. he's the only one who doesn't seem to be talking in a shocked or excited tone.

everybody gets excited about a terrible marriage offer when it's not them who have to offer themselves up.

he's studying you, seeming to be the only one who sees the way your chest is heaving, as if you're struggling to breathe. or the glossy look in your eyes, the way you dart them away so nobody can see. gojo looks over at mei, at the way she looks satisfied for delivering her piece of gossip for the night,

at your expense.

he doesn't know why he feels the way he does, or why he drags the girls arm away from him as he stands up, shrugging his coat over his frame as everybody suddenly looks at him.

but he's only looking at you.

"i forgot to give you your blanket from last week." he says simply, his voice heavy and coarse, as if he hadn't used it in a while, "come with me,"

well, he never said he was good at lying.

but he puts a steady arm on your shoulder, helping you stand up as you shoot him a confused look, letting him lead you away as the silence behind you becomes defeating.

you wipe at your nose, sniffling silently as he leads you through the grassy field.

he glances down at you. this is the second time the two of you have been alone, and the first time he's ever seen you on the verge of tears.

"thank you," you murmur thickly, rubbing at your eyes with your palms as you laugh wetly, "she wasn't supposed to say..." you trail off, looking away from him in embarrassment.

gojo guides you up the porch, behind a long marble pillar where the two of you are away from the other's curious stares.

he's never been good at comforting people, but he's never wanted to more than now.

"she's right, though," you say through a stutter, arms crossing at your chest as if that's what gojo was thinking about, "naoya, he-" you can't finish the sentence, the reality of it too heavy for you.

naoya proposed a month ago. a marriage offer for when you turn of age. he was desperate to find a wife, but not too many women were desperate to make him their husband. but your father needed the alliance, and your father's wife needed you away, so they swiftly agreed to it.

gojo's hand still hasn't left your shoulder, and he gives it a small squeeze.

"i'm sorry about this," you motion to yourself, laughing humorleslsy, "i didn't mean to...gods, i just...i don't want to be his w-wife," you admit quietly, shaking your head as you hide your face in your hands, "i-i don't want to have his children."

gojo feels bile rise to his throat at the thought of that.

he's only seen you twice. why does he care so much about what happens to you?

"somebody else will come along," he says in a whisper, and you look at him through your fingers, dropping them to your side as you blink slowly, rubbing at your cheeks.

"no good man wants to marry me," you tell him quietly, without any trace of pity for yourself, something that was simply the truth, "if not naoya, then another variant of him."

gojo leans down slightly to level with you, his lips pressed into a thin line.

you don't know why he's so close, or why he looks more worried for you than anybody else has. you shrug him off of you, trying to collect yourself as you peer through one of the large windows that look inside the estate.

"you can get rid of that blanket," you mutter, eyes darting from the window to his stunning blue ones, ones that make your knees slightly weak, "i was going to knit a new one anyways."

you bid your farewells, nodding lowly at him as you find your way inside.

gojo watches your back, looking back at the group as he runs a hand through his hair, gripping at his white locks in frustration.

he doesn't know what he's feeling. he doesn't know why he wants naoya suddenly dead. he doesn't know why he's not going to listen to what you just asked him to do, or why he wants to hold onto that blanket.

gojo doesn't know why you suddenly infiltrate his every waking moment, or why he needs to see naoya buried alive just so that you wouldn't have to marry him.

he doesn't know the answer to any of these things. but he doesn't know if he wants to.

#arranged!gojo #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x reader angst #satoru x reader #satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo angst #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk angst #jjk drabble #gojo drabble

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bueckets · 3 months ago

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Competitive Stamina

Pairing: teammate!Paige x reader

Genre: fuck buddies with unresolved issues, unbearable sexual tension, dom!Paige, strap, degradation, slapping, edging, post-game aggression sex, possessive paige, rough sex that solves nothing, idk just porn w minimal plot (I KNOOOOOW)

WC: 6.3kish?

Bus rides after a loss were a special kind of hell.

The stale air of the charter, the overhead lights too dim to be useful but too bright to let you sink into oblivion, the stiff-backed seats that creaked with every shift—everything grated on your nerves. The taste of failure sat heavy on your tongue, thick and bitter, and no amount of Gatorade could wash it away.

You sat near the back, arms crossed, jaw tight, replaying every goddamn second of the game like a goddamn. masochist. Every blown rotation, every missed shot, every second too slow on defense. It was a fucking disaster.

The low hum of the engine did nothing to drown out the tension hanging in the air. Some of the team sat slumped in their seats, headphones jammed in, pretending like they weren’t reliving the same nightmare. Others were scrolling through their phones, avoiding the inevitable post-game analysis that would come the second you all got back.

And then there was Paige.

Slouched in the seat across the aisle, one long leg stretched out, the other knee bouncing restlessly. Her arms were crossed tight over her chest, the muscles in her jaw flexing every time she gritted her teeth. The blue glow of her phone screen flickered across her face, but you could tell she wasn’t actually looking at it. Just brooding.

You tried not to look at her. Tried to keep your glare aimed out the window, at the blur of highway lights cutting through the night.

But the energy rolling off her was impossible to ignore.

Fucking furious. The kind of anger that vibrated beneath the skin, white-hot, impossible to smother. She was pissed in a way that she wouldn’t let go of anytime soon, the kind of loss that would eat at her, keep her up all night, have her in the gym first thing in the morning with her hoodie up and music blasting like she could outwork the ghosts of the game.

Your fingers curled into your palms.

Because yeah, you were mad too. Mad at yourself. Mad at the team. Mad at how fucking avoidable it all had been. But mostly, you were mad at how much you felt it—how the weight of it sat heavy on your chest, suffocating. You knew you wouldn’t sleep tonight. Not because you didn’t want to, but because your brain wouldn’t let you. Wouldn’t stop dissecting every mistake, every misstep.

Paige exhaled sharply, a sound more bite than breath.

You glanced over, barely turning your head.

Her fingers drummed against her bicep, rapid, restless, a nervous tick she only ever had when she was barely keeping her frustration in check. Her knee bounced faster.

Then, she turned her head, and her eyes found yours.

Sharp. Burning.

And just like that, you were both back on the court. Back in the moment she’d called the switch and you hesitated a fraction too long. Back in the second where everything unraveled.

The muscle in her jaw flexed. You could practically hear what she wanted to say. The words sat heavy between you, unspoken but loud.

What the fuck was that?

You swallowed hard, refusing to be the one to break first. You weren’t about to sit here and get chewed out on a moving bus, in front of everyone.

But the fire in her eyes told you that this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

The door barely slammed shut before Paige was on you, shoving you back so hard your shoulder blades smacked the wall. The cheap dorm drywall rattled behind you, a picture frame nearly toppling off its hook.

Her breath was sharp, jagged, her whole body coiled so tight with frustration it looked like it might snap. She was still in her jersey, the fabric clinging to her sweat-slicked skin, strands of blonde hair stuck to her forehead like she hadn’t even thought about peeling them away. But it wasn’t exhaustion in her eyes. It was fury. Blazing. Undiluted.

“What the fuck was that?” she spat, stepping into your space like she wanted to press you through the goddamn wall.

Your own irritation flared, heat crawling up your spine, but she wasn’t done.

“I called it. I fucking called it. You hesitated." Her voice cut like a whip, her breath hot against your face. “You don’t hesitate.”

Your jaw clenched. “I heard you, Paige. It wasn’t just me. We all fucked up.”

“Oh, fuck off with that.” Her laugh was sharp, humorless, nothing but teeth. “I don’t give a shit about them. You were supposed to have my back. You were supposed to listen to me.”

You bristled, hands curling into fists at your sides. “Don’t act like you’re the only one who fucking cares. You think I wanted to lose? You think I don’t feel like shit right now?”

Paige’s glare burned straight through you. Her jaw clenched, her nostrils flaring, like she wanted to say something even sharper, even worse, but she just looked at you. Like she was daring you to take the blame. To admit it. To fold under her fire.

But you weren’t folding. Not tonight.

“You wanna fight me over this?” you snapped, stepping forward, barely an inch between you now. “Fine. Take a fucking swing, Paige.”

Her breathing hitched. For a half-second, something flickered in her eyes—something reckless, something raw. You thought maybe she would hit you, thought maybe you wanted her to.

Instead, she shoved you—hard. Your back hit the wall again, and this time she followed, grabbed your jersey with both hands, yanking you into her.

And then her mouth crashed onto yours, all teeth and heat and fucking rage.

You gasped against her lips, but she didn’t care—didn’t even give you the space to breathe. Her fingers dug into your jersey, nearly lifting you off the ground as she pressed you into the wall, her body flush against yours, hot and furious and unrelenting.

You bit down on her lower lip, hard, just to make her feel how pissed off you were too.

Paige growled, a low, dangerous sound, and then she was yanking you off the wall, turning, dragging you with her, stumbling toward the nearest surface.

Your hands found her hips, fingers slipping beneath the hem of her jersey. She was still in her shorts, her body taut with adrenaline, with the remnants of competition. You could feel her heart pounding beneath your palm as you pressed against her, pushing back just enough to let her know you weren’t going to just take it.

But Paige didn’t give a damn about pushback. She just grabbed the front of your shirt, dragging you with her as she stumbled backward, lips never leaving yours. She was all fire, all pent-up rage, and you were more than willing to be the thing she burned through.

“Fucking—” she muttered against your lips, frustration bleeding into something else as her fingers tangled in your hair, nails scraping against your scalp. “You drive me insane.”

“You’re the one losing your shit,” you bit back, but the words barely made it out before she was kissing you again, harder this time, as if she could shut you up with the force of her mouth alone.

The room spun as she shoved you back, barely making it to the couch before you tumbled onto it together. Her body was already on top of yours, pressing you down, thighs tight around your waist. Every inch of her was tense, electric, and you could feel it—the way she trembled, the way her breath came too fast, the way her fingers flexed against your skin like she didn’t know if she wanted to fight you or fuck you.

Maybe both.

Your hands roamed, slipping beneath her jersey, tracing the heat of her back. She sucked in a sharp breath as your fingers ghosted over her spine, but she didn’t stop you. If anything, she leaned in harder, her hips pressing down, mouth dragging along your jaw, your neck, teeth scraping just enough to make you shudder.

“I hate you,” she muttered, but her hands were already working at your jersey, pushing it up, fingers skimming the bare skin underneath.

You laughed, breathless. “Yeah? Feels like something else.”

She growled, actually fucking growled, and suddenly she was yanking your jersey over your head, tossing it somewhere behind her. The air was thick, charged, your bodies too close, too desperate, too much.

“Shut up,” she ordered, and then her lips were on your collarbone, her teeth nipping at sensitive skin, her hands gripping your waist like she was trying to anchor herself—like she was afraid if she let go, she’d lose herself completely.

You weren’t sure if you wanted to stop her or let her.

Your laugh died in your throat the second Paige’s fingers dug into your waist, her grip rough, possessive. Her body was hot against yours, muscles tight with lingering adrenaline, her breath ragged as she straddled you. Every inch of her was taut with frustration, with need, with something far more dangerous than simple post-game aggression.

You swallowed hard, pulse hammering, and then your hands were on her hips, squeezing, dragging her closer, feeling the way her thighs flexed beneath your grip.

“Oh, you wanna be a smartass?” Paige growled, her fingers already sliding beneath the waistband of your shorts, snapping the elastic hard against your skin. Her eyes were wild, blown wide with something dark, something hungry.

You grinned, challenging. “What are you gonna do about it?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

A sharp crack rang out as her palm met your thigh, the sting immediate, heat blooming across your skin in its wake. You gasped, your body jerking at the impact, but Paige just smirked, her fingers soothing over the mark she’d left behind.

“That’s what I thought,” she murmured, and then her hands were pushing at your shorts, yanking them down with the same force as her frustration. “You know what your problem is?”

You arched a brow, breath hitching as she ran her fingers down the inside of your thigh, deliberately avoiding where you needed her most. “Enlighten me.”

Paige hummed, slow, teasing, dragging her nails lightly across your skin before she leaned in, her lips brushing your ear. “You don’t listen.”

And then her teeth were on your neck, biting, claiming, distracting you just long enough for her fingers to slip lower, tracing over your already-soaked underwear.

Your hips jerked up, chasing her touch, but she pulled back, clicking her tongue.

“No,” she said, voice sharp, commanding. “You don’t get to be greedy. Not after that bullshit on the court.”

You groaned, frustration curling tight in your stomach. “Paige—”

Another sharp smack against your thigh. You gasped, your body trembling as the sting settled into a dull, aching heat.

“You’ll take what I give you,” she murmured, pressing a kiss over the mark she’d just made. “And you’ll be grateful for it.”

You barely had time to respond before she was moving again, shifting off you just long enough to grab something from her bag. Your breath caught when you saw it—the familiar black strap, the sleek vibrator she loved to tease you with.

Your pulse spiked.

“Color?” she asked, voice low, dangerous.

You exhaled shakily, your body already aching, already desperate. “Green.”

Paige smirked. “Good.”

And then she was on you again, pressing you down, pinning you beneath her as she reached for the harness, her hands sure, practiced.

“Now,” she murmured, buckling it into place, her blue eyes gleaming with something wicked. “Let’s see if you can pay attention this time.”

You barely had a second to breathe before Paige moved—gripping you with both hands, flipping you over like you weighed nothing, shoving you down onto the couch with a force that stole the air from your lungs.

The cushions barely softened the impact.

Your cheek pressed into the rough fabric, your pulse hammering against it, every nerve in your body already on edge, already buzzing with anticipation.

Then—her hands were on you again.

“On your knees,” she ordered, her voice low, firm—no room for negotiation.

A shiver ran through you at the sheer authority in her tone, and you scrambled to obey, pushing yourself up, ass in the air, legs spread just enough to keep your balance. Paige didn’t hesitate. Her hand came down hard against your ass, the sharp crack echoing through the apartment.

You gasped, your whole body jolting at the impact, the sting radiating outward in a hot, delicious burn.

Paige hummed behind you, pleased. “Fuck, I missed this,” she murmured, her fingers smoothing over the mark she’d just left. “You’re so fucking pretty when you take it.”

Another slap. Harder.

Your hands clenched into fists, your breath stuttering as the pain twisted into something dangerously close to pleasure.

“You like that?” Paige taunted, her palm resting on your already burning skin, her fingers digging in. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” you gasped, voice unsteady. “Fuck—yes.”

“Good,” she muttered, reaching for something behind you, the couch shifting with her movement. A small click—then the unmistakable slick pop of a cap flipping open. The scent hit first. Sharp, clean, something cool against the heat simmering beneath your skin.

She shifted behind you, knees pressing firm into the cushions, the heat of her body radiating against your back, against the backs of your thighs. Her breath ghosted over your skin—too close, not close enough.

Then—her fingers.

She didn’t give you time to prepare.

A rough fistful of your hair, yanking hard, forcing your spine into an arch so deep your ribs strained, your lips parting in a sharp, unbidden gasp.

The pull was brutal, just shy of painful, the roots of your hair screaming—but the way her grip anchored you, controlled you, owned you—

You swallowed, legs trembling beneath you.

“Stay fucking still,” she warned, pressing the head of the strap between your thighs, teasing, dragging it through your wetness, spreading it around. “I’m gonna ruin this fucking pussy.”

She thrust, pushing in hard, deep, no warning beyond the stretch, the sheer fullness stealing the breath from your lungs.

You whimpered, your arms shaking as you fought to stay upright, your body clenching around the intrusion, the burn sharp, perfect.

Paige groaned behind you, her grip tightening in your hair. “Jesus fuck, you take it so well,” she muttered, rolling her hips, dragging the length in and out, slow at first, teasing, letting you feel every inch.

Then—another crack against your ass. Your moan was shameless, your body jerking forward, only to be pulled back by her grip on your hair.

“Fuck, you sound so good,” Paige rasped, voice thick, wrecked. Her grip on your hip tightened, her fingers digging into your skin like she wanted to brand herself into you. Her thrusts were deep, relentless, knocking the air straight out of your lungs with every snap of her hips. “You like it when I use you like this?”

Like it?

You could barely hold yourself up, fingers curling into the couch, your body betraying you in every possible way—hips arching back without thinking, legs shaking, thighs slick with everything she’d already wrung from you.

Your mind was a haze, a mess of static, the sharp sting of her fingers bruising into your hip mixing with the raw aching stretch between your legs. There was no room for thought, for pride, for anything except the unbearable, devastating need to keep her right fucking there.

She pulled back—almost all the way—leaving you empty, your walls clenching around nothing, a sharp, helpless noise slipping past your lips before you could stop it.

Then she slammed back in.

A cry tore from your throat, your body jerking forward with the force of it, pleasure spiking so sharp it hurt.

“Yeah?” she breathed, amusement curling at the edges of her voice, sharp and teasing, like she could feel how fucked out you were, like she loved it. “Fucking say it.”

Say it. Admit it. Let the words fall from your lips and cement exactly how pathetic you were for her.

You clenched your teeth, breath ragged, body trembling beneath her. The stubborn part of you—the part that fought—clawed at your ribs, held your tongue, refused to give her the satisfaction.

Her palm cracked across your ass—sharp, punishing, hot—and your whole body jerked. A strangled whimper escaped you, high and wrecked, and before you could so much as breathe, she yanked your head back by your hair, forcing your spine to arch, forcing your mouth open on a choked gasp.

“You wanna fucking test me?” she growled, voice low, dangerous, pressing in—so deep you felt it in your fucking stomach.

Your pulse slammed in your throat. You bit your lip hard enough to taste copper, every muscle locking tight, refusing to give her the satisfaction, refusing—

“I love it,” you gasped, your voice breaking as she spanked you again, making you clench around the strap, making your whole body shake. “Fuck—Paige, please—”

She growled, a low, feral sound, and suddenly her hand left your hip, reaching for the vibrator she’d left on the couch.

“You wanna beg?” she taunted, flicking it on, pressing the toy right against your swollen clit. “Then fucking beg for it.”

Paige yanked your head back by your hair, making your back arch, making your ass push up even higher, exposing everything to her. The stretch in your scalp sent shivers straight down your spine, the sharp pull mixing with the brutal way she was pounding into you. Deep. Hard. No mercy.

“Look at this greedy fucking pussy,” she growled, voice dripping with filth, eyes locked on where she was splitting you open. “You’re dripping all over my cock, fucking yourself on it like a desperate little slut.”

Your moan was ragged, broken, the force of each thrust knocking it right out of your lungs. Your arms trembled, struggling to keep you up, but Paige didn’t give a fuck. She loved seeing you like this—wrecked, used, hers.

She shifted behind you, digging her nails into your hip as she slammed into you harder, deeper, making the couch creak under both of you. Every thrust sent wet, obscene sounds echoing through the apartment, slick, filthy, undeniable.

“Listen to this messy fucking hole,” she hissed, smacking your ass again, fingers digging into the flesh right after. Your skin was burning, tingling, the heat radiating through your whole body. “You love it when I fuck you like this, don’t you? Like a dumb little slut, letting me wreck you.”

You gasped, nodding frantically, not trusting yourself to speak—not when every thrust hit something devastating inside you, making you whimper like you’d lost your mind.

“Use your fucking words,” Paige snapped, yanking your hair harder, forcing you to arch so much you thought you might break in half. “Tell me what you are.”

“Y-Your slut,” you choked out, the words barely making it past your lips before she spanked you again, harder than before, the sting rocketing through you, making your whole body twitch.

“Damn right you are,” she muttered, her breath hot against your ear as she leaned over you, still fucking into you, still ruining you. “So fucking wet. So fucking tight. You were made for me, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasped, your voice high, needy, desperate.

Paige groaned, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, making you scream. Your arms collapsed, your face pressing into the couch, your body unable to hold itself up anymore—but she didn’t stop.

“Oh, fuck no,” Paige laughed, dark and wicked, reaching for your wrists and yanking them behind your back, pinning them there. “You don’t get to tap out now. I’m not done with you yet.”

You sobbed against the cushions, pleasure and overstimulation crashing over you in waves. The way she had you—spine arched, arms pinned, completely fucking helpless—made your head spin. And then—fuck—she reached for the vibrator again, pressing it right against your clit.

You howled, your whole body jerking at the sudden intensity, at the way she wouldn’t fucking let up.

“Oh, you’re squirting for me, huh?” Paige teased, her voice full of pure fucking ego as she felt the mess dripping down her thighs. “Can’t even handle my cock without making a mess, can you?”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out—just a sharp, shuddering breath, a wrecked sound that barely made it past your lips. Your throat felt raw, your body trembling, pushed beyond its limits but still, still chasing more.

Paige’s smirk deepened, her amusement curling at the edges of your desperation. She leaned in close, her breath rolling hot against the sweat-damp skin of your neck. The tip of her nose ghosted over your jaw, her lips brushing the shell of your ear—not a kiss, just enough to taunt, to tease.

“Pathetic little thing,” she murmured, her voice all velvet and cruelty, her words sinking deep into the mess she’d made of you.

Her hips rolled, the strap dragging slow, deliberate, pressing deeper just as the vibrator ground into your swollen, aching clit. The sensation sent a violent tremor through you, your fingers clenching into useless fists, every nerve frayed and screaming.

Paige hummed, pleased.

“What if I just kept you like this?” Her tone was almost thoughtful, but there was something darker beneath it, something that made your stomach flip, made the heat between your legs flare so violently it nearly hurt.

She rocked her hips again, slower this time, grinding the strap deep, her other hand pressing the vibrator harder, no mercy, no relief.

Your back arched, legs twitching, your body caught between pain and unbearable pleasure. Your mouth opened again, but the sound that tore from your throat was nothing human—a choked, broken whimper, your breath catching on the sheer force of it.

Paige’s grip tightened at your hip, steadying you, owning you.

“Kept you bent over,” she murmured, almost absentminded, like she was imagining it, like she was picturing every second of it. “Stuffed full, dripping all over me, shaking so fucking hard you can’t even hold yourself up.”

Your muscles seized, heat crashing through you like a live wire. Your nails scratched at the couch, desperate, useless, but Paige just laughed, feeling the way your body convulsed, the way you clenched down tight around the strap, your walls fluttering, trembling, breaking.

“Go ahead, baby,” she groaned, biting down on your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark. “Cum on my cock. Fucking scream for me.”

Paige laughed as she felt your body convulse beneath her, as she felt your cunt squeeze down around the strap, milking it like it was real, like you couldn’t help yourself. The moment your orgasm tore through you, she didn’t stop—kept fucking into you through it, kept the vibrator locked tight against your clit, holding you down as you twitched and shook, your body betraying you.

You screamed, legs kicking, but Paige just grinned, watching you break.

“Fuck, this is so hot,” she muttered, dragging her lips over your spine, biting down hard enough to leave marks, hard enough to own you. “Look at this greedy little hole—still clenching, still soaking my cock.”

Your brain was fried, barely able to process the overstimulation, your whole body shaking, but Paige didn’t care.

She pulled out slowly, dragging the strap through your swollen, ruined folds, making you feel every inch as she left you empty, used, gaping. Your thighs were soaked, your pussy wrecked, your skin hot and buzzing from the spankings.

Then—another slap, this time right over your dripping folds, her palm catching the mess you’d made.

You jerked, gasping, pleasure and pain crackling through you at once.

Paige chuckled, sliding her fingers through your wetness, gathering it up before shoving them into your mouth, forcing you to taste yourself.

“Suck,” she ordered, and you obeyed, wrapping your lips around her fingers, your tongue swirling over them, licking up every drop.

She groaned, watching you, eyes burning.

Paige dragged her fingers from your mouth, slow, deliberate, her touch lingering just long enough to make you chase it—your lips parting instinctively, tongue flicking out as if to pull her back in.

Wet pop.

The slick, obscene sound echoed in the space between you, and Paige exhaled, something dark, something satisfied curling at the edges of her breath.

“That’s a good fucking girl,” she murmured, her voice thick, heavy, sinking straight into your bones. Her fingers brushed over your cheek, smearing the mess she’d just pulled from your mouth, her thumb pressing against your lip, teasing, taunting.

Then—she moved.

Fast. Unyielding.

Hands at your hips, gripping tight, flipping you like you weighed nothing, like you were just another thing for her to use. The cushions barely had time to register your weight before she was spreading you open, her fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your inner thighs, pushing until there was nothing hidden from her.

You barely processed the shift before cool air hit your soaked, swollen skin, the contrast so sharp it sent a full-body tremor through you.

Your thighs were quivering, slick shining under the dim lights of the apartment, your pussy swollen, throbbing. Paige ran her fingers over it, barely touching, watching the way you twitched, still overstimulated.

“God, you look fucking ruined,” she smirked, gripping the base of the strap, tapping the tip against your still-sensitive clit, making you jump. “Think you can take more?”

Your breath was ragged, your body wrecked, but fuck—fuck, you needed it.

“Yes,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Please.”

Paige’s eyes darkened.

“Then spread those fucking legs wider,” she commanded.

And you did.

Paige smirked as you obeyed, spreading your legs wider, exposing yourself completely—flushed, dripping, needy despite how wrecked you already were. But she didn’t give you anything. Not yet. Instead, she pressed the tip of the strap just against your entrance, teasing, not pushing in, just barely letting you feel the pressure.

Her fingers traced lazy circles over your trembling thighs, pressing down on the spots she’d spanked raw, making you flinch, making you feel every mark she’d left on you.

“You really think you deserve more?” she taunted, dragging the tip of the strap through your soaked folds, never giving you enough. “After that fucking disaster on the court?”

You whimpered, your body twitching, desperate for more friction, but Paige just smirked, gripping your chin, forcing you to look at her.

“You cost us that game,” she murmured, her voice low, dangerous. “Didn’t you?”

You swallowed, cheeks burning.

“I—”

Slap.

Paige’s palm met your inner thigh, hard, making you jolt, making you yelp.

“Try again,” she said, her grip on your chin tightening, nails digging in. “Say it.”

You shuddered, your body betraying you, thrumming under her control, your pussy clenching around nothing.

“I—I lost us the game,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Paige hummed, pleased, dragging the strap down again, teasing, but still not giving you what you wanted. “Louder.”

You whimpered, your face burning hotter.

“I lost us the game,” you gasped, the words tasting like shame, like submission.

Paige grinned. “Yeah, you fucking did.”

And then she thrust in, hard, no warning, splitting you open in one smooth, devastating motion.

You screamed, your back arching, your whole body shaking at the sudden stretch, the sudden fullness.

Paige groaned, rolling her hips, making you feel every inch of it. “That’s what a fucking loser like you deserves, huh?” she muttered, one hand gripping your throat, the other pressing the vibrator right against your clit. “Getting fucked like a brainless little toy.”

You sobbed, your body already teetering on the edge, too much, too fast, but Paige just grinned, watching you struggle, watching you break.

Then—she stopped.

Everything.

No movement. No friction. The vibrator still humming against you, but not pushing enough to get you there.

You whined, your hips bucking, trying to chase it, but Paige held you down, her grip on your throat tightening.

“Oh, no,” she mocked, tilting her head. “You think you’re getting off that easy? After you fucked up my game?”

You gasped, your body shaking, the pleasure so close, so unbearable—

But Paige just smirked, lips brushing against your ear as she whispered, “You’re not cumming until I say you can.”

Your breath hitched, your entire body screaming for release, your skin hot, your muscles tight, that unbearable edge turning into something sharp, almost painful. Paige was still inside you, thick and unyielding, the vibrator right there, your clit swollen, throbbing—but she wasn’t moving. Just watching. Waiting.

Fuck. Fuck.

You needed it, needed her to just move, just do something, but the moment your hips jerked forward, chasing friction, Paige’s hand tightened around your throat, pressing down just enough to steal the air from your lungs. Your back arched, your body helpless, caught between pain and pleasure, oxygen slipping from your grasp.

“You don’t listen,” Paige murmured, shaking her head, like she was disappointed in you. “I told you—you don’t get to cum yet.”

Her grip eased up just enough to let you breathe, let you speak.

Your jaw clenched. Your pride flared—some stubborn, defiant part of you that hated being told what to do, even if your body was betraying you, even if you were dripping around her, desperate for more.

Fuck that.

Your hands snapped up, grabbing at her wrist, trying to pry her fingers away from your throat.

Paige’s lips curled into a slow, wicked grin.

“Oh, you wanna fight now?” she taunted, laughing at you, mocking you, like you weren’t even a threat, like you were nothing more than her plaything.

Rage flared in your chest, heat curling in your gut, fueled by humiliation, by desperation. Your nails dug into her wrist, and you bucked your hips hard, trying to throw her off, trying to gain some kind of control.

Bad fucking idea.

Paige growled, low and dangerous, and before you could blink, she had your wrists pinned above your head, her weight pressing you down, her breath hot against your ear.

“That was fucking stupid,” she muttered, her voice dark with something dangerous, something predatory. “Now I’m gonna make you beg for it.”

You struggled, tried to fight back, but she was stronger, her grip iron, her body unshakable.

“You love this,” she whispered, grinding her hips down, making the strap press deeper, making you whimper. “You love being under me. Love getting used. Love being my little fucking toy.”

You clenched your teeth, shaking your head, your breath ragged.

“N-No—”

Slap.

Paige’s hand cracked across your face, your head snapping to the side, heat blooming across your cheek.

Your gasp was sharp, shocked, but the second she grabbed your jaw, forcing you to look at her, forcing your eyes to lock with hers, your stomach dropped.

Because she knew.

She saw it. Felt it.

The way your pussy clenched around the strap. The way your thighs trembled. The way your lips parted, breath hitching, body betraying you entirely.

Paige smirked.

“Oh, you liked that,” she mocked, pressing the vibrator harder against your clit, making you jolt, making you whimper. “Fucking filthy.”

You hated how right she was.

Hated that you were fucking soaked, your body burning, your pride cracking under the.

She leaned in, her lips brushing your ear, her voice slow, teasing, cruel.

“Say it,” she whispered, rolling her hips, dragging the strap out of you, just enough to make you ache, to make you chase it.

You clenched your teeth, fighting it, fighting her.

She laughed, mocking, pressing the strap just against your entrance, right there, but not inside, not giving you what you needed.

“Say it,” Paige murmured again, her voice slow, dragging over the syllables, rolling them over her tongue like she relished the sound. Like she knew she had you. Like she owned you. “Say you love it.”

Her tone was laced with something dark, something dangerous, but it was her eyes that truly wrecked you—those piercing blue irises locked onto yours, drinking in your desperation, your humiliation, your surrender.

You shook, your entire body trembling, every nerve burning with the unbearable edge she had you dangling over. Your pussy was clenching around nothing, aching, needing her to just move, to just fucking fuck you, but she wouldn’t. Wouldn’t give it to you until you admitted it. Until you broke completely.

Your fists clenched above your head where she still had them pinned, nails biting into your own skin as you tried to fight it, tried to hold on to the last shreds of your pride.

But it was slipping.

You could feel yourself unraveling, piece by piece, your body betraying you, betraying everything, and fuck—fuck, she knew. She could see it.

Her smirk deepened, her fingers tightening around your wrists, pressing them harder into the cushions, her body looming over you, suffocating in the best fucking way.

She waited.

She didn’t repeat herself. Didn’t need to.

Your breath hitched, caught in your throat, your thighs quivering where they were still spread wide open for her, still needy, still so fucking wrecked.

And then—

“… I love it.”

The words were barely a whisper, barely more than shame slipping from your lips, and the moment they left your mouth, Paige fucking grinned.

Her fingers released your wrists, only to slide down, wrapping around your throat again, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur, to make your breath stutter.

“Good fucking girl,” she purred, her voice thick with pride, with ownership, with pure fucking satisfaction.

And then she slammed back in.

Hard.

No warning. No buildup. Just a brutal, unrelenting thrust that forced a wrecked cry from your lips, your back arching, your body convulsing under her.

She didn’t ease you into it. Didn’t fucking care that you were still trembling, still shaking, still so fucking sensitive. She just used you, fucking into you with brutal, merciless strokes, making your breath punch out of you with every thrust.

Her hand tightened around your throat, her other hand grabbing your hip, holding you still, forcing you to take it, to accept it, to submit completely.

“Say it again,” she growled, her lips brushing against your ear, her voice dripping with sin, with dominance, with something feral.

You whimpered, your whole body wrecked, already tipping toward that unbearable edge again, already so fucking close.

Her hips snapped harder, her cock splitting you open, dragging against every sensitive spot inside you, ruining you.

“Say it again,” she snarled, her grip on your throat tightening, the vibrator pressing harder against your clit, sending a white-hot shock through you.

Your entire body twitched, fire spreading through your veins, through every nerve—

And then—

“I love it—fuck, I fucking love it.”

Paige moaned, deep and guttural, her hand sliding up, gripping your jaw, forcing you to look at her, forcing you to see how much she was enjoying this. How much she loved seeing you like this—ruined, helpless, hers.

“That’s fucking right,” she spat, pounding into you harder, her fingers digging into your cheeks, her nails biting into your skin. “You fucking love it. Love getting used. Love being my little fucking slut.”

You sobbed, pleasure crashing through you, your whole body convulsing as she fucked you through it, as she held you down and forced you to take every second of it.

And fuck—fuck—she wasn’t stopping.

She had you right where she wanted you—under her, wrecked, body trembling, clenching around the strap, soaking both of you. She was fucking you through another orgasm, grip tight on your jaw, vibrator still pressed to your swollen, abused clit, your body unable to do anything but take it.

Her breath hitched, a smirk curling at the corner of her lips as she watched you fall apart.

“God damn,” Paige grunted, her gaze locked on the way your thighs shook, the way your fingers clawed at her forearms, the couch cushions, fucking air—like there was anywhere to go, like she wasn’t going to hold you right there until you had nothing left.

“You’re so fucking pathetic like this.”

You sobbed, every nerve fried, pleasure tipping past unbearable, white-hot static frying your goddamn brain—

BANG BANG BANG.

Your whole body seized. Paige froze.

For a second, the only sound in the room was the both of you panting—loud, breathless, soaked—

Then—

“HEY!”

A voice from the other side of the door. KK. Your stomach dropped.

“Oh my fucking god,” you whispered, mortified, pure horror crawling up your spine.

Paige, though? She fucking laughed.

“Yeah, we’re serious,” she called out, still breathless, still inside you, still fucking smug. “What do you wan?”

A groan. Another thud of a fist against the door.

“It’s two in the fucking morning! Some of us don’t wanna listen to your freaky-ass sex life all fucking night!”

You covered your face with your hands. Paige grinned, completely unbothered, shifting her hips just enough to make your breath hitch, like this was funny, like this wasn’t the worst moment of your entire fucking life.

“Maybe you should get some fucking earplugs,” she shot back, smirking.

“Or maybe you should go fuck in a soundproof basement like a normal goddamn person!”

Paige snorted, her body shaking from how hard she was holding back laughter.

“Not my fault this bitch is loud as fuck.”

You kicked her.

Hard.

Paige cackled, her whole body shaking on top of you.

“Jesus Christ!” KK groaned, slamming the door one last time before stomping away, voice trailing off as she disappeared down the hall. “Fucking lesbians, man…”

Silence.

Then, Paige propped herself up on her elbows, grinning down at you, still breathless, still flushed, still inside you.

“Well,” she smirked.

She rocked her hips—slow, teasing, devastating.

“Where were we?”

A beat.

Then, from the depths of your absolute humiliation, you mustered the last bit of strength in your body—

“KK! YOU’RE GAY TOO, BITCH!”

Silence.

A door slammed down the hall.

Paige lost her shit, laughing so hard she actually collapsed on top of you, her whole body shaking, still breathless, still inside you.

You groaned, throwing an arm over your face. “I hate you.”

Paige propped herself up, still grinning like an absolute psycho, eyes gleaming.

“No, you don’t.”

2K notes · View notes

heeluvv · 2 months ago

Text

PRETTY WHEN YOU CRY.ᐟ

pairingᝰ.ᐟ yang jungwon x 8th member! reader

warningsᝰ.ᐟ sub! jungwon, overstimulation, inexperienced! jungwon but has an idea, experienced! reader, oral (m n f), unprotected sex, etc. (wc 7.444k)

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ mdni, hate comments will be deleted.

jungwon didn’t think that adding a girl to the group would make things difficult. not logistically, not professionally, not even socially. he thought maybe it’d take some adjusting—new dynamics, different energies—but nothing he couldn’t handle. and at first, he was right.

what he didn’t account for was the shift that started inside him.

he didn’t expect the strange, fluttery sensations that settled in his chest whenever you stood too close. didn’t expect the way his skin would tingle beneath your fingertips when you casually reached out to brush lint from his sleeve, or ruffle his hair like it was nothing, or—god—for some reason always let your hand linger just a second too long on his thigh when you sat beside him. it was innocent. it had to be. at least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

years passed. the group grew closer, tighter, more like a family than a band. but if anything, the feelings only got worse. harder to ignore. he used to brush them off as fleeting, just part of getting used to someone new. but now? now he couldn’t hide it. not from himself.

his heart would beat faster the moment you walked into the room, thumping against his ribs like it was trying to escape. your laugh sent warmth down his spine, curling low in his belly. and when you touched him—so casually, so sweetly, never once noticing the way he stiffened under your fingers—it was like his body betrayed him completely. every soft graze, every playful shove, every gentle lean against his side during long car rides made him ache with a craving he didn’t know how to satisfy.

he should feel guilty for thinking about you like this.

you were his friend. his member. someone he saw nearly every day—hair a mess after practice, yawning over cereal in the morning, soft and sleepy in oversized hoodies during late-night movie marathons. he knew you. really knew you. so it felt wrong, so wrong, to look at you and want more.

he shouldn't be staring at your lips every time you talked to him, eyes flicking down without meaning to, locked on the way they moved—glossy, soft, always tinted some shade that made his throat go dry. he shouldn't be wondering what it tasted like, if it was sweet, if it would stick to his mouth if he kissed you long enough. he shouldn't be imagining the feeling of your lips brushing against his, slow and tentative, or maybe firm and needy—he couldn't decide which fantasy ruined him more.

he shouldn't crave your touch either. not the casual kind you always gave him so freely. not the way your hand would rest on his thigh during group photos, or the way your fingers would toy with his bangs when he was lying on the couch. you probably didn’t even realize you did it. but he noticed. he felt every brush like a spark under his skin, and he hated how badly he wanted more.

so he decided to do something about it.

he waited until the dorm was quiet—just the hum of the fridge, the occasional creak of the walls settling—and sat at his desk, fingers moving quickly across the keyboard. he wasn’t even sure what to search. he hesitated. hovered over the keys, heart racing faster than it should’ve. but then he forced himself to type, vague, simple words. girl rides guy.

he clicked on one of the top results. something basic. nothing too aggressive. just… a start.

the screen lit up with movement—moaning, panting, skin slapping against skin. the woman was on top, knees spread on either side of the man’s hips, bouncing rhythmically. her hands roamed over his chest, his arms, tangling into his hair before dragging down his torso. the man’s hands clung to her ass, squeezing tight, fingers sinking into soft flesh as she rode him faster. her tits bounced with every movement, her expression one of pure pleasure.

jungwon blinked.

he felt the rush, sure. a faint ache stirring low in his stomach, a little throb in his pants that made him squirm in his chair. but it didn’t hit the way he thought it would. it wasn’t you.

his gaze drifted from their faces to their position—bodies tangled, rocking together. he tilted his head, brow furrowed slightly, lips parted in a quiet kind of confusion. it didn’t look natural. it didn’t feel real. something about the way they moved made him question if it was actually supposed to feel good.

he tried. he really tried.

even if it felt awkward, even if it wasn’t quite right, he thought maybe the video would help—maybe seeing it would be enough to guide him. to quiet the ache that had been building for weeks. months, even. anything to dull the heat pooling low in his stomach every time your skin brushed against his. anything to make his thoughts stop circling around you and your soft voice and your wandering hands and your smile that made his chest feel too tight.

his fingers moved clumsily to the waistband of his sweatpants, hesitating for just a second before pushing them down to his thighs. the cotton of his boxers followed next, peeled down slowly, the cool air hitting his half-hardened cock and making him suck in a shaky breath. it twitched a little against his abdomen, needy and unsure, like the rest of him. he wasn’t fully hard yet—just enough to feel the tension, the need for something more.

he clicked through a few more videos, heart racing, mouth dry. eventually, he settled on one. the woman on screen was confident, sensual, her hands wrapping around the man’s cock with practiced ease. she stroked him slowly at first, fingers curling tightly, her thumb pressing against the head, teasing his slit with wet circles. the man moaned. loudly. desperately.

jungwon swallowed hard and tried to mimic her.

his fingers wrapped around himself, cautious, testing. he gave a few slow pumps, thumb brushing over the tip like she had done. a groan slipped from his lips, soft and shaky—but the pleasure didn’t come. not really. it felt dull. disconnected. nothing like what the man in the video was experiencing. nothing like what he imagined you would feel like.

he paused, furrowing his brows. replayed the motion. watched her hand again, studied the grip, the speed, the way her wrist moved. he tried again.

still nothing.

frustration bloomed low in his chest. he shifted in the chair, readjusted his grip, sped up a little—but the tension only tightened in the worst way. like his body was bracing for something that wouldn’t come. like the spark had never caught. his jaw clenched as he scrolled to the comments out of desperation, hoping for something useful, anything that could explain why it wasn’t working. half the terminology made no sense, and the rest was filled with half-baked advice that only made him feel more lost.

he ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard through his nose. what the hell was wrong with him? was he broken? was he doing it wrong? why couldn’t he just—

the soft creak of his bedroom door stopped everything.

his whole body jolted, eyes snapping to the doorway as his hand scrambled to cover himself. panic shot through his veins, hot and sharp. and then he saw you.

standing there. eyes wide. lips parted. staring straight at him.

"fuck—i'm sorry, y/n—it's not wh—i didn't mean—" the words tumbled out of him in a breathless rush as he fumbled to tug his boxers back up, one hand diving for the laptop to slam it shut. the screen went dark. his cock, still half-hard and sticky at the tip, disappeared beneath fabric that did nothing to hide the fact that he’d been caught. fully.

you didn’t say anything.

not right away.

you just stared for a moment longer—so quiet, so unreadable—and then, to his utter horror, you let out a soft, amused little giggle.

"you should maybe wear headphones next time," you said, voice smooth as you stepped into the room, shutting the door behind you with a soft click. "also, always lock your door. rookie mistake."

you moved to sit at the edge of his bed like it was nothing. like you hadn't just walked in on him trying to jerk off to porn he didn’t even understand.

jungwon coughed, voice caught in his throat, still too flustered to think straight.

“i-it’s okay…” he muttered, eyes darting anywhere but at you. “it won’t be happening again…”

but you just smiled.

like you knew something he didn’t.

your gaze roamed slowly, deliberately, up and down his body.

he looked like a mess. his chest rose and fell in short, uneven breaths, puffed out in a mix of embarrassment and frustration. the low light of the room cast shadows over his skin, highlighting the soft sheen of sweat forming at his temples. his sweatpants were rumpled, the waistband haphazardly tugged back into place, doing little to hide the obvious outline of his half-hardened cock pressing against the thin fabric. his thighs shifted, restless, as if trying to hide the very thing giving him away.

but it wasn’t just his body—it was the way he looked at you.

like he was trying not to. like it took everything in him not to stare at your mouth, your hands, your eyes. the need in his expression was barely masked, lingering there behind his lashes every time he blinked. and you’d seen it before. you weren’t stupid.

you'd caught on months ago.

the way his breath would hitch when you got too close. the way he’d squeeze his thighs together subtly—so subtly it might’ve fooled anyone else—every time your hand casually settled on them during car rides or movie nights. how his face would flush when your fingers brushed his neck, or the shaky little gasps he'd let out when you leaned in too far, your lips near his ear. it was all so obvious. he just never thought you noticed.

he tried so hard to be composed, to be innocent, but his body gave him away every single time.

and tonight? tonight only confirmed it.

you’d walked past his room with no real intention of stopping—but the sound that spilled from the slightly ajar door made you freeze. a woman’s voice, high and breathy, fake and repetitive. porn. loud and clear. the moans were drawn out, forced, looping over themselves like a broken record. it was awful. but what really caught your attention was the soft, frustrated groan that followed. his voice.

so you peeked inside. just enough to see him fumbling beneath his desk, flushed and flustered and trying so hard to make something happen that clearly wasn’t working.

now, moments later, you sat at the edge of his bed, eyes locked on him as he tried to pull himself together in front of you. he wouldn’t meet your gaze. his lips were parted, breath unsteady, hands fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie like he didn’t know what to do with them.

you let the silence stretch for a second longer, before tilting your head and offering a soft, amused smile.

“you could’ve just asked, wonnie,” you said gently, your voice dipped in teasing warmth.

his entire body tensed. you didn’t miss the way a visible shiver ran down his spine at the nickname—wonnie—the one you only ever used when you wanted to see him squirm.

his eyes finally flicked up to meet yours, wide and unsure. “w-what are you talking about?” he asked, though his voice cracked halfway through the sentence, the words weak and unconvincing.

you didn’t answer right away.

instead, you stood slowly, walking toward him with deliberate steps. he backed up instinctively, and you guided him gently back into the chair behind him. he sat down with a gasp, shoulders tense, legs stiff.

your fingers trailed lightly along the edge of his jaw, tilting his face up to yours. “i could help you with your little problem,” you whispered, leaning in close enough for him to feel your breath against his lips.

his eyes fluttered shut for a second, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. he didn’t move. didn’t answer. just sat there, frozen under your touch, his cock twitching beneath the fabric of his sweats, aching for something—anything—you’d give him.

and you hadn’t even touched him yet.

you leaned in close, your lips brushing the shell of his ear—not kissing, not whispering, just letting your breath hit the sensitive skin there, warm and soft. he froze beneath you, every muscle in his body pulled taut like a bowstring, waiting. anticipating. but you didn’t say a word. instead, you let your hands speak for you.

your fingers began at his arms, slow and deliberate as they dragged from the bend of his elbow up to the curve of his biceps. you took your time, feeling the quiet strength beneath your palms—the way his muscles twitched under your touch, already so reactive. he wasn’t overly built, not bulky, but toned in a way that was subtle and honest. real. you squeezed gently, just to see what kind of noise you could pull from him, and sure enough, he gasped—quiet, but shaky, his lips parting as his chest began to rise faster.

your hands continued their path, now sliding over his shoulders, across his chest, under the loose hem of his hoodie. you tugged it upward, slow and teasing, revealing more of his skin inch by inch. he helped you without a word, arms lifting just enough for you to pull it off completely, the fabric falling somewhere behind you. he was shirtless now, vulnerable in a way that made his breath stutter again, his eyes locked on yours like he didn’t know what to expect next—but needed all of it.

you took a step forward, guiding his legs apart with the gentlest pressure of your knees against his. he opened up for you instinctively, thighs parting just enough for you to slip between them. his cock strained visibly against the fabric of his sweats, twitching helplessly with every shift of his hips, the fabric doing little to hide the swollen shape of him now. his arousal was pulsing through him like a current, alive in his veins, making his skin flush and tingle.

you pressed your hands to his bare chest, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your palms. he was so warm—too warm. and when your fingers flicked gently over his nipples, the reaction was immediate. his hips jerked up slightly from the chair, a startled little moan catching in his throat as his back arched just barely into your touch.

he’d never felt that before. not like this. not so raw, so exposed, so real.

his cock throbbed, painfully hard now, pressed up against the inside of his sweatpants in a way that made him bite his lip and squirm. the ache was unfamiliar. overwhelming. and somehow, it still wasn’t enough.

his hands gripped the armrests of the chair, knuckles white as he tried to hold himself still. to be good. to let you do whatever you wanted with him. and then—your lips.

your mouth met his skin without warning, and the moan that fell from his lips was soft and unguarded, full of shock and something like desperation. your kisses were light at first, just the ghost of your mouth trailing down his chest. his skin was hot beneath your lips, his breathing stuttering with every press.

you took your time, letting your lips move lower, kissing across his sternum, over the curve of his ribs. his stomach tightened beneath the attention, his body trembling as you slowly made your way back up—this time heading for his neck.

and that’s when your kisses changed.

open-mouthed. wetter. slower. your tongue flicked out, just slightly, tracing the edge of his pulse point before your lips closed over it. you sucked gently, and the sound he made was broken—something between a gasp and a whimper, his thighs tensing on either side of you.

“hmm—y/n…” he breathed out, the name barely forming as it slipped from his mouth. his eyes were squeezed shut, brows drawn together, and you could see the tremble in his chest, the way his whole body was fighting to hold itself together.

he was falling apart for you.

and you hadn’t even taken his pants off yet.

his breathing was ragged now, soft pants falling from his parted lips as you dragged your mouth up the column of his neck, your lips still warm and wet from the trail of kisses you left across his chest. he tilted his head instinctively to the side, giving you more room to work with, exposing the delicate skin along his throat like he wanted to offer himself up completely. his hands were still gripping the armrests of his chair like a lifeline, like if he let go, he’d melt into nothing right there beneath you.

you moved slowly, deliberately, letting yourself sink into his lap, the tension in his body instantly spiking as your thighs settled on either side of his hips. he froze beneath you, like he didn’t know where to look, what to do, how to breathe now that you were pressed so close. his hands hovered uselessly at his sides, like he didn’t trust himself to touch you. his eyes were wide, trained on your face like he was still trying to process the fact that this was real—you were real, and you were here, in his lap, looking at him like you already knew every single thought racing through his head.

you leaned in, arms sliding slowly around his neck as you brought his face closer to yours, your breath warm against his lips as you spoke.

“kiss me, wonnie…”

your voice was soft, coaxing, and the second it touched his ears, something in him gave out. his hands gripped the edge of the chair, and he surged forward—clumsy, eager, desperate—his lips pressing against yours with more need than experience. he didn’t know how to move, not really, but he kissed you like he meant it. like he’d dreamed about this a hundred times and never thought it’d actually happen.

he gasped when your hands threaded into his hair, your fingers curling gently as you tilted his head, guiding the kiss deeper. your mouth moved against his slowly at first, letting him feel it—your lips warm, soft, molding to his in a way that made him tremble. you could feel the tension in his shoulders, the way he was trying to hold back, to stay composed, even as his body betrayed him completely.

your tongue flicked across his bottom lip, teasing, tasting. he moaned quietly, lips parting just enough to let you in, and you didn’t waste the chance—you licked into his mouth, slow and confident, letting him feel every inch of it. your tongue brushed against his and he whimpered, the sound caught between surprise and pleasure, his thighs twitching beneath you as his hips shifted upward in a subtle, instinctive movement.

his cock strained against the fabric of his sweatpants, already hard and aching—so much more than he expected. he didn’t even know it could feel like this, didn’t know that a kiss could shoot heat straight to his core, that your mouth on his could make his stomach clench and his skin burn and his thoughts disappear all at once.

he let out another shaky moan, this one higher, softer, and you could feel his body tremble under yours. his hands finally lifted, unsure, then settled on your hips like he needed something to hold onto. he gripped you like you were his anchor, like he might float away if he didn’t keep his fingers pressed into your skin.

you shifted in his lap slightly—just a small grind of your hips, nothing intentional—but the pressure was too much for him. too new. too much heat. too much you.

he tore his mouth from yours with a gasp, his head falling back against the chair as a sharp, broken moan spilled out of him.

“ah—fuck, y/n—”

you froze, your breath catching as you pulled back just enough to look down at him.

his entire body was shaking.

his chest heaved with every breath, his brows pulled tight in shock as his cock throbbed beneath you—once, twice—before he came with a strangled sound, hips jerking weakly up into the air. there was no warning. no buildup. just raw, overwhelming pleasure that ripped through him like a wave, soaking straight through the front of his sweats.

his hands clutched at your waist like he didn’t know whether to hold on or push you away. his mouth was open, lips wet and red from kissing you, his cheeks flushed so dark it nearly reached his ears. he blinked up at you like he didn’t know what had just happened—like he’d just drowned and come back gasping for air.

you stayed quiet for a moment, watching the way his chest rose and fell, the way his eyes blinked slowly, still trying to recover. your gaze flicked down—his sweats were soaked at the front, the outline of his cock still twitching beneath the mess he’d made. all from kissing you.

you pulled back slowly, breath still warm against his flushed skin, before climbing off his lap with a smooth, fluid movement. jungwon let out a soft sound at the loss of contact—half whine, half exhale—as his trembling body sank deeper into the chair, still trying to recover from the kiss that shattered him.

but you weren’t finished with him. not even close.

your hands moved to the waistband of his sweatpants, and this time, he didn’t try to stop you. he watched, wide-eyed and dazed, as you tugged them down with practiced ease. his boxers followed in the same motion, peeled away in one fluid drag that left him completely bare in front of you for the first time.

his cock—still hard, coated in a messy mix of slick precum and the lingering aftermath of his first orgasm—twitched against the cool air, the head flushed a deep, aching red. he gasped softly, hips flinching at the sudden temperature shift, his thighs instinctively pressing together before relaxing again as you settled on your knees in front of him.

you should’ve taken your time. you could’ve teased him more—watched him squirm, dragged it out.

but the moment you got your first full look at him like this, flushed and breathless and so fucking beautiful, you knew you couldn’t wait.

you wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock, the warmth of your hand pulling a ragged moan from his throat. your touch was firmer this time, surer, and he reacted instantly—hips jerking slightly, lips parting in another gasp. you didn’t give him a chance to catch his breath before you leaned in, your lips parting as you took him into your mouth in one slow, purposeful movement.

he cried out.

the sound was loud, broken, echoing in the room like he didn’t even realize it was coming from him. his fingers flew to the edge of the chair again, gripping the armrests so tight his knuckles turned white.

his cock pulsed against your tongue, and fuck, he tasted so good—salty, a little sweet, the mix of his arousal and cum coating your mouth as you let him slide deeper between your lips. you moaned softly around him, letting the vibration hum through his length, and his entire body shuddered from the feeling.

your hand stayed at the base, keeping him steady, while your other hand moved lower—gently cupping his balls, rolling them in your palm as your mouth worked his cock with wet, eager strokes. the mess didn’t bother you. your saliva was already sliding down his shaft, mixing with the cum still clinging to his skin, dripping down onto your fingers and smearing across your lips.

you didn’t care.

you only cared about him—about the way his breath hitched with every glide of your tongue, about the way he whispered your name like a prayer, about the way his thighs trembled as he tried to hold back and couldn’t.

his voice was a mess—gasps and whimpers and soft little please, please sounds that made your core tighten. he was falling apart so quickly, too quickly, but you didn’t slow down. you wanted to ruin him. you wanted to hear what he sounded like when he broke for you.

his face twisted in the most beautiful way, brows furrowed, jaw slack, lips parted around cries he couldn’t hold in. his fingers twitched like he didn’t know where to put them, like he needed to grab something—you, your hair, your shoulders—but was too overwhelmed to move.

he looked so fucked out already, even though this was only the beginning.

“oh—god—y/n, i—I can’t—i think i’m gonna—” he gasped, voice cracking.

and you pulled back just slightly, enough to look up at him through your lashes, your lips still wrapped around the head of his cock as you gave him one more slow, teasing suck before letting him fall from your mouth with a pop.

“you’re gonna cum for me again, baby?” you whispered, your voice wrecked and low, breath brushing his sensitive skin. “already?”

his head dropped back with a shudder, and you didn’t wait—you took him back into your mouth, deeper this time, sucking harder, faster, as your hands worked his length and touched his balls in tandem.

he felt like he was in heaven.

no—beyond that.

like his body wasn’t his anymore. like he was floating, burning, unraveling all at once. every nerve lit up, every breath stolen from his lungs, his thoughts reduced to nothing but you—you and your mouth and your hands and your eyes, locked on his face like you never wanted to look away.

his vision blurred, a thin sheen of tears clinging to his lashes from how overwhelmed he felt, how good you made him feel. it was too much, and not enough. his entire body was trembling, overstimulated from his first orgasm, but still so desperate for more. because this? you? this was unlike anything he had ever known.

the videos had never helped. cold, flat, impersonal. watching strangers move with mechanical rhythm, forced moans and dead eyes. he never understood the hype. never understood the pleasure. his own hand barely brought him relief—awkward, uncertain touches that left him aching rather than satisfied.

but this?

having you take him into your mouth with that hunger, that confidence… it wrecked him. completely.

you were a mess—hair tousled, lips swollen, chin glistening with his release. the taste of him was still heavy on your tongue, the heat of his cum still coating your mouth from the first time. and even with your face marked by it, even with saliva and arousal smeared across your cheeks, your eyes never left his. not once. you looked at him like he was precious. like he was yours.

and it broke something in him.

his hips jerked suddenly, uncontrollably, as the pressure built too fast, too intense. you didn’t stop—you couldn’t. your hands tightened around him, mouth sucking hard around the flushed head of his cock, and that was all it took.

“y/n!” he cried out, louder this time, voice cracking on the syllable as his body convulsed under your touch.

his orgasm hit him like a tidal wave.

this one was so much more intense—stronger, messier, desperate. his entire body bucked into your mouth, his thighs shaking violently beneath your hands as thick, hot ropes of cum filled your mouth in fast, heavy pulses. you tried to swallow—god, you tried—but there was so much, and he wouldn’t stop cumming, and you couldn’t breathe fast enough.

it spilled out, leaking from the corners of your lips, dripping down your chin and onto your hand, warm and sticky and so incredibly filthy. he was still gasping, body twitching with aftershocks as tears slipped down the corners of his eyes—his expression one of pure disbelief, lips parted, brows drawn together in an overwhelmed mix of pleasure and shame and awe.

you pulled off him slowly, letting his softening cock fall from your lips with a soft, wet sound. his cum coated your mouth and your skin, warm and slick as you wiped it from your chin with the back of your hand, licking your lips without a second thought.

you looked up at him.

and he looked wrecked.

his chest was heaving, hair sticking to his forehead, mouth still trembling from the sounds he couldn’t quite stop making. his arms had gone limp at his sides. and the second your eyes met his again, he whimpered—small and broken and so, so in love with the way you ruined him.

you wanted more.

god, you needed more.

seeing him like this—so soft, so fragile, completely wrecked and trembling in the aftermath of his second orgasm—only made your hunger spike. his skin was flushed, sweat-damp and glowing under the low light, and his cheeks were streaked with tears he hadn’t even realized he’d shed. his chest rose and fell in ragged, shallow breaths, lips parted, eyes wide and glassy as he looked up at you like you were some kind of dream.

and you were going to ruin him.

“you look pretty when you cry, wonnie,” you murmured, voice warm and unshaken as your fingers trailed up his jaw to brush away the wetness on his cheek. he shuddered under your touch, blinking up at you with a sound caught in his throat—like he didn’t know how to respond. like no one had ever said anything like that to him before.

you stood, hands reaching for the hem of your shirt, and peeled it off slowly. his breath hitched the moment the fabric cleared your chest, exposing the soft swell of your breasts, full and flushed and so fucking real. his eyes dropped immediately, devouring every inch of skin now on display. his lashes fluttered, lips trembling again as his gaze trailed lower—past the slope of your stomach, to the curve of your hips, and finally, between your thighs.

when he saw your bare pussy, slick with need, glistening in the soft light—he whimpered.

actually whimpered.

a broken, high-pitched sound that spilled from his lips before he could stop it, like his brain short-circuited just from the sight of you.

you smirked softly, stepping closer, watching the way his eyes never left your body. you climbed back into his lap, slowly this time, knees bracketing his hips, your hand wrapping gently around the base of his still-hard cock. he gasped at the contact—so sensitive, so spent, and yet still so desperate for you. your other hand cupped his cheek, thumb brushing his lower lip as you guided him to look at you.

“you want me to take you, baby?” you asked, voice soft, low. “want to feel me for real?”

he nodded frantically, chest rising faster now, lips parting in a breathless plea. “please… i wanna feel you… need to feel all of you…”

you lined him up, dragging his tip through your folds slowly—once, twice—coating him in your arousal before you sank down onto him in one long, slow motion.

his head dropped back.

his mouth fell open.

a sob of a moan escaped him.

“f-fuck… y/n—oh my god—”

he was crying again. tears spilling fresh from his lashes as you took him in fully, the tight, wet heat of your pussy wrapping around him for the first time. he trembled under you, both hands flying to your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish if he didn’t hold on tight enough. his fingers dug into your skin, not harshly, but with a kind of quiet desperation—needing to feel you, all of you, chest to chest, skin to skin.

you moaned softly as you settled into his lap, your walls pulsing around him from the stretch, your hands resting on his shoulders to steady yourself. his cock filled you perfectly, thick and flushed and twitching deep inside of you as his hips jerked slightly, instinctively.

he looked up at you through wet lashes, eyes wide with awe, with disbelief, with a trembling kind of gratitude that made your heart ache. his lip trembled as he whispered your name, like it was the only word he could remember.

you leaned in, wrapping your arms around his neck, letting your chest press against his as you cradled his face gently between your hands. his arms came around you instantly, pulling you in tighter, like he wanted to feel every inch of your bare body against his own. like he wanted to memorize how it felt to be this close.

you didn’t move at first.

you just let him sit there—your pussy wrapped around his cock, his arms locked around your waist, both of you pressed chest to chest. you could feel his heartbeat pounding beneath your fingertips, could feel the way his cock twitched deep inside you, overstimulated and desperate but craving more. his breath came in soft, stuttering pants, lips parted, eyes fluttering like he was trying to keep them open but couldn’t stay focused on anything except the way your warmth squeezed around him.

you leaned in, your nose brushing his, your lips ghosting over his mouth.

“look at me, wonnie,” you whispered, your voice sweet and gentle as you cupped his face. “don’t look away.”

his eyes opened, glazed with tears and pleasure, and locked onto yours. you kissed him softly—slow, with purpose—pressing your mouth to his like you had all the time in the world. he gasped into the kiss, and you swallowed the sound, deepening it with a roll of your hips that made both of you moan.

it wasn’t fast. it wasn’t rough.

you rocked into him slowly, deliberately, letting him feel every single inch of you as you moved your hips in smooth, grinding circles. he felt everything—the way your walls hugged him tight, the slick drag of your heat around his cock, the soft press of your tits against his chest, your lips moving against his like you wanted to breathe him in.

his mouth was messy on yours now—wet, open, sloppy kisses that had no rhythm, only hunger. your tongues tangled, your teeth scraped, your breath mingled in shaky exhales as you kept grinding down on him in that perfect, slow rhythm that made him sob into your mouth.

you pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, your eyes still locked on his.

“you feel so good inside me, baby,” you murmured, dragging your fingers through the sweat at the back of his neck. “so full. so deep. you’re perfect.”

he let out a broken moan at that, his head falling forward onto your shoulder. his arms tightened around your waist, pulling you even closer, like he needed to be as close to you as humanly possible.

“you’re doing so well for me, wonnie,” you whispered into his ear, your lips brushing against his skin. “taking me so well. look at you… crying again, just from the way i’m riding you.”

he whimpered—literally whimpered—against your shoulder, his hands roaming your back now, touching every inch of skin he could reach. he was trembling, his body trying to stay still while you moved so slowly, so carefully on top of him. each roll of your hips dragged another soft moan from his throat, his cock pulsing inside of you, so close to the edge but too scared to fall over it again.

you pulled back again, grabbing his chin gently to force him to look at you.

“keep your eyes on me, baby,” you said. “you’re not cumming without watching me fall apart with you.”

his lips parted like he wanted to say something—maybe a please, maybe your name—but you kissed him again before he could speak. this time deeper, wetter. your tongue pushed into his mouth, claiming him, making him shiver beneath you.

and as you rode him slowly, your lips never left his.

the kiss turned filthy fast—his moans muffled by your mouth, your spit mixing with his as you sucked on his tongue, dragging your nails softly down his back. his hips bucked up helplessly, chasing your movements even as he cried from how overwhelmed he was.

“so good for me,” you whispered when you finally pulled away, both of you breathless, your lips swollen and wet. “you’re being so good, wonnie. i’ve never felt anything like this. you’re making me feel so fucking good.”

he whined—loudly—and you knew he was close.

you picked up the pace just a little, grinding down harder, bouncing softly in his lap, your pussy fluttering around him as his cock throbbed with every movement.

“cum for me again, baby,” you whispered. “give it to me. give me everything.”

and the second your walls clenched around him, the second you moaned his name into his mouth—he shattered.

his mouth dropped open, eyes rolling back as his entire body locked up beneath you, another orgasm ripping through him with a strangled cry. hot cum spilled into you, thick and endless, his hips jerking erratically as you milked every last drop from him with slow, delicious rolls of your hips. he held onto you like he was drowning, sobbing into your shoulder as his cock twitched inside of you, so full, so sensitive, so wrecked.

he was still trembling in your arms, both of you bathed in the afterglow of his release. his body was a little limp beneath you, his chest rising and falling with soft, uneven breaths, but his eyes? they were still wide, still locked on you—still holding that quiet, desperate need that hadn’t yet been satisfied.

he kissed you again, gently, his lips brushing against yours with that same tender urgency as before. but this time, when he pulled away, there was something different in his gaze.

something new.

you saw the shift in his expression, the hesitation mixed with desire, as he glanced down at your body, at the way you were still so open, so warm, so inviting. his eyes flickered to your hips, to your thighs, then back to your face, his hand coming up to cup your cheek.

“y/n…” he whispered, his voice thick with a mix of uncertainty and something else—something deeper. “can I… can I…?”

he didn’t finish the sentence, but you saw what he was asking. he wanted to return the favor. he wanted to make you feel the same way you’d made him feel—completely undone, but this time, with his mouth.

a soft smile curled at the corner of your lips. “of course, wonnie,” you murmured, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “but if you’re nervous, we can take it slow.”

he shook his head, determination flickering in his eyes. “no, i want to… i need to.”

you let him guide you gently, your body moving as he shifted you into his arms, his hands running over your sides as he helped you onto the bed. you settled against the sheets, propped up on your elbows, watching as he climbed between your legs.

his gaze was hungry, but there was still that same uncertainty behind it, as if he wasn’t sure how to start, but was too eager to stop. you saw the way his breath hitched as he hovered over you, his eyes moving from your face to your core, and you couldn’t help but smile softly.

“just take your time, wonnie,” you whispered, reaching down to run your fingers through his hair. “you don’t have to rush.”

he stood with you in his arms and carried you the short distance to his bed.

he laid you down softly, his hands lingering on your waist, eyes scanning your body like he still couldn’t believe this was real. his lips brushed your inner thigh as he knelt between your legs, and you gasped softly at the warmth of his breath, the look of pure focus on his face as he stared at your pussy—wet, swollen, messy with his cum and your slick.

“you’re so pretty,” he whispered, mostly to himself, and you saw his tongue flick across his lips before he looked up at you again. “just… tell me if i’m doing anything wrong, okay?”

you gave him a small nod, encouraging him without a word, and that was all it took.

he kissed the sensitive skin of your thigh first, just a soft brush of his lips against you, before he moved closer, more eager now. his hands gripped your hips gently, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he pressed his face between your legs. when he finally made contact with your pussy, his tongue was a tentative, unsure swipe, not quite sure how to navigate the new territory but too lost in the taste of you to stop.

he moaned against you, the sound vibrating through your body, and it made you shiver in his grasp. he was messy, unsure at first—his tongue moving awkwardly, pressing against you too hard, then too soft, but you could feel his desperation. his eagerness to please you, to make you feel as good as you’d made him feel.

“it’s okay, baby,” you whispered, your hand running through his hair again. “just… relax. i’ll guide you.”

he nodded against you, his lips trembling as he pulled back just enough to look up at you. his eyes were wide, full of innocence and something else—need, desire. he wanted to learn, wanted to make you feel everything, even if he wasn’t perfect at it yet.

so you guided him. you showed him how to move, how to swipe your folds with his tongue, how to apply pressure just right, how to circle his tongue around your clit with slow, patient strokes. you could feel him getting more comfortable with each passing second, his movements becoming more confident, more certain. the moment his tongue flicked over your clit, soft and gentle, you couldn’t help the moan that left your mouth, your head falling back against the pillow.

he heard it, and it made him hum in satisfaction, the sound of his pleasure in the way he ate you out sending waves of heat through your body. he was still messy, his tongue dragging over you in uneven strokes, but it felt so good—so good. the warmth of his mouth on you, the way he moaned and gasped as he tasted you, filled you with a new kind of desire, one that had you writhing beneath him.

“you’re doing so good, baby,” you gasped, hips bucking against his mouth. “fuck—just like that. you’re making me feel so good…”

he made a sound against you, a muffled whimper, and you looked down to see him watching you through hooded eyes, completely lost in the way you responded to his touch. you smiled down at him, your chest heaving as your hand tangled in his hair again, guiding him with soft tugs as you moaned his name.

“that’s it, baby… just like that. you’re doing so good, wonnie…”

the praise sent a rush of heat through his body, and you could feel him pushing deeper, his tongue flicking faster, more sure of himself now, his movements eager and desperate. you could tell he was loving every sound you made, every tremor of your body beneath him, and it only made him work harder.

you could feel the pressure building in your stomach, the heat intensifying as your orgasm crept closer, but you didn’t want to rush it. you wanted him to feel every moment, every inch of you, just like you had for him.

“keep going, baby,” you gasped, your back arching slightly as you rode his mouth. “don’t stop.”

he didn’t. he kept going, and the way he made you feel—messy, overwhelmed, taken—was enough to send you spiraling. your orgasm hit you suddenly, crashing over you like a wave, and you couldn’t help the loud moan that escaped your lips as you came on his tongue, your body trembling beneath him as he worked you through it, his hands still gripping your hips to hold you against his mouth.

you panted heavily, chest rising and falling as he looked up at you, his face flushed, eyes wide and full of pride. he’d done it. he’d made you feel like that.

and even though he was still learning, still new, you knew he was the one who had given you the most real, unfiltered pleasure you’d felt in a long time.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ hoped y'all liked it !!

#enhypen #enha smut #enha x reader #enha #enhypen x reader #enhypen smut #heeluvv #yang jungwon #sub jungwon #jungwon x reader #jungwon smut #jungwon

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cloudtransprncy · 3 months ago

Text

One Drink

Wonyoung X Male Reader | 1600 words.

Your girlfriend is a lightweight. Not the 4-5 drink kind—the 1 drink and she’s already pawing at you, whining for your cock, drunk off her ass and desperate to be fucked stupid in the backseat.

The restaurant buzzes with conversation and clinking glasses, the soft glow of wall sconces making everyone look better than they actually do.

Not Wonyoung, she always looks good.

Wonyoung sits across from you in a booth, her tight white top hugging her curves, dark hair swept up in a messy bun with strands framing her face. Her cheeks are flushed pink from the "just one drink after dinner" she promised – the one that's already empty. Now she's holding up her second drink – a margarita with salt-rimmed glass and lemon wedge – posing with this slightly exaggerated smile, sunglasses tucked into the neckline of her top. She winks as you take a quick photo, that mischievous look in her eyes that always means trouble.

"Babe," you sigh, eyeing the drink warily. "You're about to be fucked up."

She giggles, already tipsy, her free hand reaching across the table to brush against yours. "Noooooo," she protests, wagging a finger at you with an exaggerated pout, her voice light and teasing, though her eyelids are already a little heavy. "I'm totally fine."

She takes a slow sip, ice clinking as she swirls the drink, her tongue flicking out to catch a stray droplet at the corner of her lips. The way she shifts in her seat, stretching her long limbs, the delicate dip of her waist leading into toned curves, makes your throat go dry. She's effortless, glowing under the restaurant lights, the teasing way she leans forward making it impossible to look anywhere else.

You know better. You know her. One drink is enough to get her warm, giggly—two, and she's draping herself over you as you leave the restaurant, her long fingers toying with the hem of your shirt, her lips at your ear, whispering filth in a breathy voice. By the time you make it to the car, her grip on your arm is tight, and she's already stumbling into the backseat, tugging at your belt before you can even shut the door.

The air in the car is thick, humid with heat and the faint scent of her perfume mixing with something more raw. Her pants are gone, panties pushed aside, shirt shoved up, leaving her sprawled beneath you, her long, creamy legs spread wide, trembling as she struggles to keep up. Every inch of her feels impossibly soft under your hands—smooth skin, the taut curve of her waist arching under your touch, her thighs trembling as her pussy stretches around your cock, snug and dripping, molding to you perfectly. Her bare skin glistens under the dim car light, completely shaved, puffy, and glistening as you watch her take you inch by fucking inch. The obscene stretch has her eyes rolling back, her mouth falling open in a silent scream before a sob chokes out, overwhelmed by the way you're filling her up.

"Fuuuuck, s'too big," she babbles, clawing at your shoulders, nails digging in as her body trembles beneath you. "Oh my god, baby, love you—love your cock—feels sooo fucking good—" Her words slur together, her drunk mind barely able to form coherent thoughts as pleasure crashes through her.

Her hands are everywhere, sloppy and desperate as they paw at your body. She shoves your shirt up, nails raking across your abs, grabbing at your flesh like she's starving for it. You feel her grip on your biceps, her fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, feeling you flex with each brutal thrust.

"So... so fucking hot," she slurs, eyes unfocused and glassy as her palms slide across your chest, grabbing and squeezing at random. "Been thinkin' 'bout your cock all night."

Every savage thrust makes her tits bounce, forcing these fucked-out little whimpers from her throat. You grab one breast roughly, pinching her nipple between your fingers until she squeals. Your other hand finds her throbbing clit, rubbing it in tight, mean circles that have her whole body jerking like she's being electrocuted.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck," she gasps, hips bucking wildly, completely out of rhythm. Her hand fumbles between your bodies, groping clumsily for your balls, squeezing them as you slam into her. Her movements are uncoordinated, drunk and dick-stupid, but the sloppy eagerness just makes it hotter.

She's a complete wreck, head thrashing against the seat, eyes unfocused, mascara running down her flushed cheeks. Drool glistens at the corner of her mouth as she tries to speak, but all that comes out are these broken, animal sounds. "Can't—hnnng—s'deep—too much—" she whines, her words melting into incoherent babble.

The car reeks of sex, windows completely fogged, the wet, obscene sounds of your cock pounding her cunt echoing in the small space. Every thrust has her walls clenching around you, sucking you back in, her body desperate for more even as she sobs from the intensity. Her nails leave angry red trails down your back, breaking skin, marking you as hers.

You grab both her wrists, pinning them above her head against the foggy window. She's completely at your mercy, helpless and spread open. You lower your head to her exposed armpit, dragging your tongue along the sensitive skin, tasting salt and the raw scent of her.

"Wha—what the fuuuck," she gasps, body jolting from the unexpected sensation. Her cunt clenches violently around you, her surprise turning to something primal and needy.

You bite down on the tender flesh, feeling her squirm beneath you, trapped and loving it. Your tongue laps at her armpit, occasionally scraping your teeth against the delicate skin. She's fucking losing it, the new sensation short-circuiting her alcohol-soaked brain.

"Holyshitholyshit," she sobs, her free hand yanking at your hair, pulling you harder against her most vulnerable spots. "Don't stop—feels so—fuck—"

Your cock jackhammers into her relentlessly, your thumb rubbing her swollen clit raw, your mouth attacking this new sensitive spot—she's completely overstimulated, brain and body drowning in sensation. You can actually feel her getting wetter around you, her cunt practically gushing as you work her over.

You let go of her wrists to grab her thigh, hooking it over your shoulder, folding her nearly in half. The new angle lets your cock hit places that have her eyes crossing, mouth hanging open in a silent scream. Her freed hands paw at you desperately—one grabbing your ass, nails digging in hard enough to leave half-moon marks, the other running up your sweat-slick back.

"Mine," she slurs, barely conscious, just running on pure instinct. "Fucking mine."

You grab a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back to expose her throat. She whimpers, completely surrendered, eyes glazed and vacant. You bite down on her neck, marking her, and she moans like a bitch in heat.

You shove your fingers into her mouth, feeling her suck them eagerly, tongue swirling sloppily around them. Drool leaks from the corner of her lips as she gags slightly. "That's it," you growl, grabbing your phone to snap a picture of her completely fucked-out face. "Look at you, fucking brain-dead on my cock."

She nods frantically, too far gone to even speak, just making these pathetic little whimpering noises with each brutal thrust. You angle your phone to capture the way your cock stretches her cunt, the way her whole body shakes every time you bottom out inside her. She loves this shit—begs for it, gets off on watching herself get absolutely ruined later when she's sober.

Your hand moves from her clit to grab her tit, twisting her nipple just hard enough to make her yelp, her back arching into the pain. Her walls clamp down around you, her body betraying how much she loves that sharp edge.

"Look at this sloppy cunt," you growl, grabbing her chin, forcing her glazed eyes to meet yours. "Fucking dripping for me. Taking every inch like you were made for it."

You grind your hips in a cruel circle, digging your cock into her deepest spots. Her eyes roll back, mouth open in a silent scream. Her hands are everywhere at once—scratching your chest, groping your shoulders, sliding down to feel where your bodies connect, like she can't believe how full she is.

"Gonna watch this tomorrow," you grunt against her ear, your voice harsh and low. "Just like you always want. Gonna see yourself like this—drunk off your ass, drunk on my cock, completely fucking mindless." You bite her earlobe hard enough to make her gasp. "See how that greedy cunt swallows me up. See how fucking desperate you are to be stuffed full."

You spread her legs wider, holding her down as you pound into her without mercy. Your fingers find her clit again, rubbing it ruthlessly, the stimulation so intense it borders on painful. Her hands scrabble uselessly at the seat, at your arms, at anything she can reach, completely overwhelmed.

"Can't—can't—oh fuck—there—right fucking there—" she babbles, words slurring into nonsense. Her eyes aren't even focused anymore, just staring blankly at nothing as pleasure consumes her.

She lets out this broken, animal sound as her whole body seizes up, her cunt clamping down so tight it's almost painful. She's coming so hard she's practically convulsing, back arched impossibly, nails drawing blood as they rake down your back. Her pussy spasms wildly around your cock, milking you as she falls completely apart beneath you.

You don't let up, fucking her through it, prolonging her orgasm until she's sobbing incoherently, not even forming words anymore. Her hands push weakly at your chest before grabbing at you to pull you closer, her body not knowing what it wants except more.

"Too much—can't—fuck—don't stop—please—" The contradictions spill from her lips, her hips still grinding against yours even as tears stream down her face. She's ruined, absolutely wrecked, and still begging for more, her body addicted to the feeling of you inside her.

She's completely yours like this, drunk on booze and your cock, mindless with pleasure, nothing in her head but the need for more, harder, deeper. Her hands cling to you desperately, her legs locked around your waist, her whole body surrendered to the raw, animal sensation of being completely, thoroughly fucked stupid.

...

Morning light streams through the blinds of your apartment, coffee brewing in the kitchen. You glance over at Wonyoung curled up in the armchair, legs folded up beneath her, wearing nothing but your oversized t-shirt. Her hair is a mess, makeup from last night still smudged around her eyes despite her attempts to clean up. She's staring at her phone, teeth sinking into her lower lip, cheeks flushed pink.

The tinny sound of her own voice filters through the phone speakers: Oh my god, baby, love you—love your cock—feels sooo fucking good—

She gasps, free hand flying up to cover her face, peeking through her fingers as the video continues. You can hear your own voice now: Look at this sloppy cunt. Fucking dripping for me. Taking every inch like you were made for it.

"Oh my god," she whispers, legs pressing tighter together. "Did I really say all that?" But despite her embarrassed tone, you notice how she's squirming in the chair, how her breathing has quickened, how she keeps rewinding to certain parts.

You shake your head, leaning against the doorframe with a knowing smile. "You always act shocked."

She looks up at you, still covering half her face. "I was so drunk! So embarrassing!"

But you both know the truth. By tonight, she'll be asking if you want to make another video. She always does.

#male reader #kpop smut #cloudtrnsprncy #cloudtsmut #wonyoung #wonyoung x reader

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bettys-redwinesupernova · 5 months ago

Text

I’M NOT HIM

rafe cameron x fem!reader

( mood board does NOT depict readers appearance !! )

SUMMARY: in which rafe snaps at reader during a heated argument and she flinches, her past trauma resurfacing. rafe breaking the main promise he made to her: to not be anything like her father.

based on an ask i got that i lost </3 i hope the anon who requested it finds this, and this its what you asked for! i’m a little rusty with one-shots so just a short one to ease me into things again! :)

WARNINGS: angst to fluff, arguing, cursing, mentions of past childhood abuse (reader), mentions of a gun/brief mention of violence, trauma responses, crying. (lmk if i missed anything!!)

WORD COUNT: 900 words

THIRD PERSON +

Rafe Cameron wasn’t the kind of man anyone would describe as soft. Not with the sharp edge in his voice, the perpetual storm behind his ocean eyes, and the way his knuckles bore scars from fights he barely remembered. He had spent his life battling demons, most of them inherited from Ward Cameron, and those fights had shaped him into someone who took no prisoners.

But with Y/N, none of that mattered.

Y/N was everything Rafe wasn’t—gentle, warm, full of an optimism he couldn’t begin to understand but adored nonetheless. She radiated light, the kind that made him want to shield her from the darkness in himself. For two years, she’d been his anchor, the one person who saw past the volatile exterior to the man buried beneath. And for two years, Rafe had promised himself that he would never hurt her.

But promises don’t always hold in the heat of the moment.

The argument had started over something Y/N had brought up before: the gun in Rafe’s apartment. She hated it, hated what it represented, and hated the memories it dragged up for her.

“Rafe, I told you,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “I don’t feel safe with it here. Please.”

Rafe, already wound tight from dealing with his father’s latest scheme and the growing weight of “the business,” felt his patience snap like a rubber band stretched too far.

“It’s not a big deal, Y/N,” he muttered, pacing the living room. “It’s not like I’m walking around with it in my hand. It’s locked up, alright? Just drop it.”

Y/N didn’t drop it. She rarely did when something mattered to her. “It is a big deal, Rafe. I asked you to get rid of it. I thought you understood how—”

“I said fucking drop it!” Rafe’s voice thundered through the room, loud enough to make the walls seem smaller.

The words echoed in the sudden silence, bouncing off the tension between them. Rafe froze, immediately regretting the way he’d shouted, but it was too late.

Y/N stood there, trembling, her wide eyes glassy with unshed tears. Her lip wobbled as she tried to hold herself together, but Rafe saw the cracks forming.

“Baby…” he said softly, taking a step toward her, reaching out his hand.

She flinched. Actually flinched.

It was like a knife to his chest, sharp and unrelenting. He knew her past—knew about her father’s temper and the way it had scarred her. He knew that shouting brought her back to those dark, suffocating memories.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with panic. He reached out again, but she backed away, tears spilling down her cheeks.

“I—I can’t,” she choked out before rushing to the bedroom and shutting the door behind her.

Rafe rushed after her before collapsing onto the floor, pressing his back against the wall beside the bedroom door. He could hear her quiet sobs on the other side, each one driving the guilt deeper into his chest.

He buried his face in his hands. “I’m so sorry, baby” he murmured, voice breaking. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to scare you. Please, just… let me make it right.”

Her sobs continued, muffled but heartbreaking. Rafe rested his head against the door, tears streaming down his face. He could picture her inside, curled up in the corner, just like she used to do as a little girl to shield herself from her father’s rage. A place he promised her she wouldn't ever have to go back to.

“I’m not him,” he whispered, as much to himself as to her. “I’ll never be him. I swear. I’ll never hurt you.”

Minutes turned into half an hour, but Rafe didn’t move. He felt he didn’t deserve to move.

When the door finally opened, Rafe almost didn’t notice at first. He’d been staring at the floor, lost in the heaviness of his own shame. But then Y/N was there, stepping out quietly and kneeling beside him.

Without a word, she crawled into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder. Her touch was tentative, as if she wasn’t entirely sure she could trust it yet, but Rafe held her like she was the only thing keeping him alive.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered over and over, his voice cracking as he clung to her. “I didn’t mean it. I swear, Y/N/N. I’m so sorry.”

Y/N didn’t respond right away. She just held him, letting his warmth chase away the cold that had settled in her chest. Eventually, she pulled back just enough to look at him, her tear-streaked face breaking his heart all over again.

“Please don’t yell at me like that again,” she said softly, her voice trembling.

Rafe cupped her face gently, his thumb brushing away her tears. “I won’t,” he promised, his tone fierce with conviction. “Never again. I’ll get rid of the gun. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this right. Just… don’t be afraid of me.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Y/N said, her voice barely audible. “I’m afraid of the person you might become.”

Rafe nodded, the weight of her words sinking deep. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, holding her tightly again. “I’ll be better,” he whispered. “For you, I’ll be better.”

In that moment, Rafe vowed to prove it. Not with words, but with actions—starting with the gun.

(dividers by @kodaswrld <3)

betty’s notes ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

ahhhh my first one-shot in FOREVER :’) it’s a short one and really sad and angsty but it felt like the quickest ask to whip out, and angst is easier for me to write atm :)

i’m so excited to start with the other requests, and please don’t stop requesting! i plan on writing most stuff 1,500 words +, this was just a short little ask so please request with as MUCH detail as possible <3

master list will be updated soon! but for now, to keep track of my works check my personalised tags that are below such as: #bettys asks!! ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ and #bettys work!! ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ or my personalised tags for characters !!

#rafe cameron #drew starkey #fluff #outer banks #obx #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron fluff #drew starkey obx #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron outer banks #bettys asks !! ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚#rafe cameron ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚#bettys work !! ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

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ctrlhope · 1 year ago

Text

Bound By Blood (m)

synopsis: A servant to the state since birth, forced to work for the royal family until you die. These are the conditions that have granted you life, yet are they are the same ones that can take everything away. He can take everything away. But he would never, for you are his future, his eternity.

k.taehyung x f.reader

❦︎ ݁ ˖┊: wc: 16.0k

❦︎ ݁ ˖┊: genre: royalty au, soft yandere, fluff, smut, smidge of angst

❦︎ ݁ ˖┊: content: soft yandere!prince!taehyung, maid!reader, power imbalance, talks about death/violence, blood, slight predator/prey dynamics, manipulation, misunderstandings, dom!tae, tae calls reader lamb, oral (f.receiving), marriage related dirty talk, virginity kink/loss of virginity, size kink, praise, reader is fucked dumb, implied kissing reader while she sleeps, implied offscreen somno, implied stalking, ownership, tae is rlly sweet and adorable

❦︎ ݁ ˖┊: notes: hello!!! this was meant to be a drabble but as you can see it spiralled out of control lmao. i got a little hyper fixated (and grew a really bad crush on this taehyung) so it ended up being way longer than i initially thought! regardless, i hope you all enjoy it as much as i did writing it!!

18+ -> minors / blank blogs dni

The Kim Empire.

Your home, your family, your livelihood all wrapped up in those three little words.

They practically brandish your mind, have been since you were no more than a babe. Stuck in the clutches of everything Kim since you were born. Your mother a maid, your father gone from the face of the earth. At least as far as you are concerned he is, anyway.

He is better off dead. The alternative of him living scott free in some far off land, meanwhile you have to serve the hand and foot of the king sets no more than the bitter taste of coffee beans against your gums.

Bedding your mother, no more than a fresh-faced maid at the time. Outcasting her the second after when he had to have known the rules of the palace. The demise it would cost both her and her future daughter. Perhaps every generation that followed as well– if there were to be any, that is.

Housestaff are not meant to have relationships. They are meant to serve the king and his bountiful family. How are you meant to do anything else with a child bouncing at your hip, a husband grabbing at your ass.

You’ve heard the speech plenty of times. The words ingrained in your skull just as the brand you received when you were far too young to remember the pain of it. Evidence that you are bound to the palace by blood until the very moment you take your last breath.

The punishment for becoming pregnant within the walls of the palace are simple: your child belongs to them. For anything within the Kim Estate is their rightful property, given to them by the grace of god.

You, a gift from god to serve the empire. You would snort at the notion if training from a young age prohibited it. You are just a result of your mothers kindness, her naivety.

You could never find it within your heart to blame her. She was just a girl who thought she was in love. Fired for her love. Had her daughter taken from her to serve for her love.

Love is something you will never be granted the property of.

You will be granted an allowance to send home to your mother to keep her afloat. You will be granted a room to sleep in, clothes to wear, food to eat. A secure job in which you can never be fired– well. That is a lie. Though, your termination would come at the end of an axe, rather than a piece of paper.

You used to muse at the thought– when you were a young girl, no more than 11 or 12. Going through your melancholy years, hating the rest of the world for simply existing. For putting you in a position where you could not change your fate, instead had to endure your present. Feeling like a girl trapped in a tower just like the bedtime stories had always prescribed.

One time you had caused such a ruckus in front of the oldest Kim son you really did think you were going to get the axe. Hell, you were even prepared for it. Locked away in a cell for two nights, brought before the executor.

Right before the swing was meant to be brought down against your neck the head maid ran into the room, gave some sort of letter to the man. She apologised profusely, gripping your ear and dragging you away from the scene.

You hadn’t acted ary since then. It taught you your place. Made you realise the need to survive buried deep within your bones. In the innate way some sort of wildcat would lash out until it was bloodied and on its last breath.

You would not die at the end of a knife. You’d live your life, acting a maid until you could die peacefully of old age. Even if it meant surrendering yourself to servitude for the most annoying brat you’ve ever laid eyes on.

A quiet sigh slips past your lips at the mere thought of him. The sound would get you punished if anyone were to hear, especially in respect to the coveted crown prince of the kingdom. Few share the same opinion as you of him– but then again most that work here aren’t forced.

It is only when the stars are strung high in the sky that you allow yourself to feel such things. When you stay awake past the beginning of rest hours, most of the staff (save for the night shift) falling to sleep hours prior. Only then when you’re out in the gardens do you allow indignation to satiate your brain.

For the few hours of freedom you may hold dear until the next morning begins and you are forced to live the same day once more. Over and over again until the end of time.

Your fingertips reach out as you walk, bruised from the scrubbing of floors, to find purchase against the walls of flowers rimming the maze. Rough fingertips dance against the gentle petals of roses, lulling in the feeling. Picking themselves against the thorns without much of a thought, not withdrawing. Only pausing feet to observe.

How can something so delicate and beautiful wish to cause harm? It does not. It simply desires a way to survive. You could never fault it for that.

“Pretty, are they not?” A dark, husky voice sends cold down your spine. Hairs become on edge, back straightens taught, ears perk just as if you are an obedient dog. Fear flashing through your entire being.

You do not wish to turn around. Do not have any want to face the man that has caught the air in your lungs. The one catching you in the garden without any proper attire in place. Though you must. You must bow, grovel at his feet for forgiveness for allowing him to see you in your nightgown. For not being in bed as you should.

Prince Kim has never been known for being kind.

Your body acts for you while your mind sets on pause– taking several steps forward, bending your body at the hips to give a proper 90 degree bow. Your hands clasp before you, hair coming down in front of your face.

“Prince Kim–” You rush, suddenly out of breath, “Please forgive my insolence. I-I am not of right attire or mind to be standing in front of his excellency right now. Nor should I be excused for touching the property of the palace. I have no proper excuse and any punishment you decide will be deserving. Please forgive me.” The words recite from your lips like a bible– instruction of them being heard time and time again.

Cold night air whips at your ankles, fluttering the gown around your ankles. The chill only adding to the cold sweat you’ve discovered has perspired. Making your hair dance around your shoulders.

You expect something, anything really. A slap, a single word. Though there is only silence in response. Silence that extends far too long and feels far too pungent for your taste. If he was going to do something, you rather he just get it over with.

After what feels like an eternity, you finally hear the baritone of his voice once more.

“Pretty, are they not?” He asks again, repeating the same sentiments as before. Confusion bristles through as a kite in the summer air. Why is he asking you this? Is he not annoyed he caught a maid in such a level of disrobement? What is he trying to gain? What does he want?

All the questions you do not have any hope to answer rush through you causing you to feel confused and incomposed. Every boring lesson you were forced to sit through never taught you how to deal with this exact situation. You aren’t sure what he wants, nor your place in the garden. The thought scares you.

Against your better judgement, you allow your chin to tilt up only slightly. Only enough to look at the man– to try and read the expression on his face so you can better analyse your next action.

The shock you feel when you find his face is only inches from your own, frame bent down to make his eyes level with yours is something you cannot explain in words alone.

You would prefer to scream and run, however that is not an option at this moment, or so it appears. Instead, your eyes only widen in shock, in trepidation. Your mouth opens into a small ‘o’ as you stare.

Never before have you made eye contact with a member of the family. Never before have you had the luxury to view one so close. In any other circumstance, you suppose, you would surely be punished for such a thing. Someone lower should never view a future king in such a way.

You wish you could say he was a heinous, ugly beast for hatred of the palace alone. Yet you can’t, for he isn’t. He is beautiful.

Sure, you knew that already. Paintings of him are plastered across the walls– his face is everywhere eyes are able to reach. Yet this close, at this angle, you can’t stop the way your heart skips a beat. Can’t help but admire every facet of his complexion before being thrown in front of the lion again.

A gorgeous, blinding smile wipes across his face the moment you face him. Lips forming into an adorable box after he finally has your attention fully drawn on him. You’re startled back once again, sending your brain into a further whirlwind than before.

He desires an answer.

“I um… Yes. I suppose they are.” You nod slowly in response, following in his footsteps as he returns to full height.

You must follow his lead– it is how you will survive.

You usher a stray lock of hair over your shoulder, trying to stop it from hitting your face. The air starts to become stale again, feeling empty in the lack of his reply. It is awkward, and the way he stares at you, eyes darting around your face– your figure, has you feeling in some sort of girlish, embarrassed way.

You think you dislike the feeling.

“Are you a fan of roses?” His arms are pulled behind him, wrapped together as he bounces on his toes in something that looks like… boyish delight? The muddle of your brain can't help to understand a single thing. He is making no sense, trying to make conversation with you. Trying to find a morsel of companionship in someone who is meant to bow to him like he is the true god of your mortal plain.

You will have to oblige until he allows you to depart.

“I suppose so.”

He frowns. Try again.

“I adore them, the palace always has the most gorgeous petals all year round.” You smile at him, hoping it masks any discomfort you feel.

The smile returns to his own lips as he begins to walk. Tilting his head to you as a cue to join him. You try to keep your paces a few behind his own, a maid should never walk beside a member of the family. Though he only slows in response, matching your gate even though it is obvious he hates having to slow down.

Why is he behaving in this manner? It makes no sense to you.

“The flower of devotion.” He nods, breaking the silence once more and keeping his eyes straight ahead.

You almost want to admire his profile– the gentle curve of his nose, yet you refrain. Training your eyes ahead, keeping your fingers laced in front of you. Trying to look as put together as possible at this moment.

“Is it?” You quiz, unable to take the awkward silence anymore. He doesn’t seem to mind it. Unbothered, tucking his hands into the pockets of his loose, flowing sleep pants.

“Of many other things, as well.” He nods, sending a slight smile at you.

“I don’t know much about the language of flowers.” Though it feels wrong to be talking with Prince Kim so casually, you try your best. The more you give in, mayhaps the sooner he’ll bore and the faster you will be able to run from the cage.

“Tell me your favourite, maybe I can tell you its meaning.” He pauses and you find yourself at the foot of the gazebo. He reaches out his hand, offering to help you up the small stairs of it.

All over again you find yourself taken aback. The prince is requesting that you touch him, not for his service, but your own. He desires to help you. Is for some reason treating you like a lady.

You don’t understand it, yet with great hesitation you oblige. You place your hand on his much larger one, allowing it to encase it. Help you up the stairs.

“I don’t know many…” You hope he cannot hear the hesitation in your tone, “Though I’ve always been fond of lilies.” You tell him, attempting to pull your hand away from his own as you reach the top.

He doesn’t allow it, keeping your small palm tight in his own. Fear trickles in once more, circling around your heart, constricting it.

You knew you shouldn’t have trusted him in the slightest. It is here where you shall face punishment for all the previous misdemeanours committed. White stone shall be painted with red and you will be left to your own devices to clean up the mess.

Your lungs start to take in more air, though of course you try to disguise it. Turning around to face him, to discover why he has kept you held firm, air is leaving your lungs for another reason entirely.

He holds your hand close, examining your fingers. Tilting it back and forth, smoothing his thumb over the back of your skin. If he takes note of the little dots of red, he doesn’t make comment of it. He only curls his fingers upwards, hooking against your own. Bringing your hand up to his lips as if it was the most delicate thing on earth. Staring at them with a passion you doubt you’ve ever seen before.

“Rebirth.” His breath fans across your knuckles, slowly lowering to place a gentle kiss against the skin. His lips are soft, so gentle against your weary flesh. So full of safety, so full of song.

When he retracts, he pulls away no more than a millimeter, though his grip tightens.

“Purity.”

Your first meeting with the prince had left you with a flurry of emotions, none of which you could hope to syphon through. For hours he kept you in the gazebo, sitting with you. Talking until it appeared the sun was cresting over the horizon.

He refused to release your hand the entire time. His fingers playing with your own, perhaps obsessed with the feeling of your tiny hand laced with his own pristine skin. Did not pay any attention the several times you tried to excuse yourself, only changing the subject of conversation to try and keep you in place.

It was strange. Confusing. You did not understand the reasoning or cause behind any of his actions.

Well, at least until the next morning while you were scrubbing the floors. Your friend Annabell cleaning right by your side. Catching up, gossiping about the new recruits found in the manner. It is only times like these when you actually get the chance to talk, to giggle with someone meant to be your equal in both age and house status.

The only chance you’re truly able to forget about the fact she is able to leave once her contract expires. But it does not matter– any small amount of spite you hold is slashed away by her kind smile. The understanding in her eyes as she treats you like just another maid set to work for the king instead of a captive.

It is only after the 7th yawn of the morning she asks about the poorly covered bags under your eyes. You had gone to bed with the rest of the girls, there is no reason you should be so tired. You never appear to be, at least it is not shown around others.

You struggle with yourself for a moment, trying to decide whether the night before was meant to be kept as a closely guarded secret to your chest. Yet one look at your closest confidant had you spilling everything.

The entire night– the stars, the flowers, the way he prattled on. How tight he gripped your dirty, calloused hand against his pristine soft ones.

You feel strange speaking of it, remembering it in any way. It causes your cheeks to heat and a fury to settle below your ribs.

It is a strange feeling, yet not an entirely unwanted one.

Your eyes train to the floor as you spill your soul, unable to keep it in once it starts pouring out. You try to keep your tone as neutral as possible– to tell her about the night as if it was a simple news story you heard from a guard. Though, you’re unsure of your success in the matter.

A poised laugh leaves the lips of your counter, her eyes cresting into half-moons.

“You cannot be serious right? You tell stories.” She giggles, shaking her head before continuing her assault on the floor.

You simply shake your own.

“It happened, I was as shocked in the moment as you seem to be now.” She lets out a small bellow of giggles once again.

“No, no. I believe it happened entirely. I’m only talking about the fluster of your face.” She giggles, lifting her rag and shaking it for dramatic effect. You roll your eyes, cracking a small smile.

“There is no such thing.” You laugh knowing that there is.

“Oh my heavens. Y/n, you cannot tell me you’ve grown fond of the Prince, have you?” Her words are hushed now, much more so than before. As if someone may be listening to the conversation.

You tense in reply, unsure of the answer yourself. The closest you’ve ever felt to fondness of another man was a stable boy a few years back. Only 17 at the time, head wrapped in romance novels that you didn’t entirely understand. He was handsome and he was kind. However just as you were starting to become closer to him, he was sent away to work at another palace.

You had not been optimistic since then.

She takes your silence as an answer in itself. Moving towards you, gripping your shoulders and hauling you to sit on your haunches. Forcing you to look at her face as she speaks.

“You cannot be serious.” She repeats again, hoping for any sign of doubt. All she receives is bewilderment in reply, “Y/n. You can never trust Prince Kim.”

You sigh, “I know, Anne, I–” You’re cut off with her own voice again.

“No, not in the way you’re imagining.” She sighs, letting her hands drop from your shoulders to continue scrubbing at the floor. Making work of herself as she speaks, “The other maids don’t tell you of much, do they?”

You can’t deny it. Your seclusion within the castle walls is only partly of your own design.

Other maids do not feel as though they can trust you, seeing as you are full property of the crown. In their eyes, you hold not a crumb of loyalty to your own kind. Few maids speak to you like Annabell does for fear the second they say anything wrong you are going to tell the world.

You would never, though your word is worth its weight in feathers to them.

“They don’t care for me as you do… no…” You admit, continuing to clean as well. She already knew the answer, letting out an exhale before she speaks.

“Prince Kim has a pension for… debauchery… I shall say,” She flinches at her own words, yet doesn’t know a better way to put it, “The variety in which he uses pretty words to seduce young ladies to bed with him. Royalty from other lands, general’s daughters, maids. It matters not. He likes them for the night then pretends they shall never exist again.”

Each word she speaks sends another stab into your gut. A dull pain blooming from the same places which a swirling was forming before.

Ah. It all makes sense now.

“Oh.”

“He has a particular fondness for the other maids, you know. Bedding them without a second thought.” A grimace forms on your friend's lips, scrubbing harder into the already shining floors, “There is no reason to form any sort of affection for that man. It will only end with his seed inside your core and a knife in your heart.”

Yes, everything she is saying makes perfect sense. You feel almost stupid to not see it before. Maybe you just didn’t want to see it– want to think about it in any sort of fashion. But this makes much more sense than the crown prince wanting to speak to you for any other purpose. Explains why he was acting as a true gentleman to someone so much lower than him.

However, you find that it does not take away the cavernous pit that has formed in your gut.

“I see, I have no desire for either.” You nod your head in understanding, not sure of what else to say. “I don’t understand why he’s taken an interest in me, though.”

She gawks, “I don’t understand why it has taken him so long to in the first place.” She shakes her head.

“Nevertheless, it doesn’t matter. Y/n, you must promise me. You will not fall for him, nor give any part of yourself to him. He is not someone that will care for you like you deserve.” She states, blue eyes piercing icicles into your own. She is determined and will not relent until you agree.

“I do not wish to. Not after hearing all of…” You make some sort of motion with your hand, “that. Anyone would be a fool to like him.”

You nod your head while Annabell smiles in agreement.

“Good.”

Those are the last words you exchange with anyone for hours. The rest of the day passed by with lightning, an endless turnstile of things to take care of. A ball was to be held soon meaning the castle would be a wreck for the next few days. Too much planning, cleaning, sewing, coordination had to take place before anyone could rest.

Honestly, you were grateful for it. A break from thinking was much needed. As is a good night’s rest.

You sigh, already imagining how lovely it would feel to pull off your shoes for the day. Peel the cotton off your body and replace your dress with something more comfortable.

Oo! Hopefully enough warm water will be left for a quick bath. That would be just wonderful, your muscles would be able to unfurl. The perfect thing to lull you into a glorious sleep.

Your arms stretch over your head as you finish descending the staircase into the maid hallways. Bones in your back pop from the pressure, causing a sigh to make its way from your lungs. Your nimble fingers make their way to the ribbon holding your hair in place, untying it and allowing the tresses to fall.

Soon you would be in the maid resting quarters– your appearance would matter not there anyway.

You send small smiles to other staff members passing you, those that have either just woken for the night or those who still have work to do. Yet in return, each one of them just stares at you with an incredulous look. Turning and whispering to their friends as if you were not still in front of them.

You can’t help to understand why. Those around you may not have considered you a friend, but they were never rude. Always polite when need be. It has you feeling strange, some type of nervousness as you get closer and closer to the hallway extending to the maids personal rooms.

Rounding the corner, you discover exactly why.

His frame looks entirely out of place standing there. A perfect, pristine picture in a hallway of drab, illuminated only by the lanterns hanging on the wall. Royal blue tunic draped on his shoulders only emphasising his status.

He looks as though he was never meant to be here. Like a mistake was made along the cobblestone walls. No, he looks as though he is meant to be among the living. Not in your dreary, windowless life. Nothing could change that.

You stand there frozen, a deer caught in the lanturn of a hunting party. A pounding of your heart, as well as the dark swell of your gut coming back to life. Why is he here? Why the hell does he have a bouquet of flowers?!

You wish to scream, but you don’t. You have already been caught.

His eyes look up from where he created a small pile of dirt on the floor. His face coming alight in an instant, pushing himself to full stature from where he once leaned against the wall. Long legs making their way towards you while he suddenly has the decency to hide the bouquet behind his back.

Annabell certainly did not mention this method of Prince Kim’s seduction. You had never seen him down here before.

“Hi.” Is all he says once he is finally face to face with you. His face bright and youthful. Excited.

It seems all formalities have been dropped in his mind, though you refuse the notion.

“Prince Kim.” You simply reply, lowering yourself in a curtsy.

He pays no mind, almost pretending you never did it in the first place. Instead, he simply rocks back and forth on his heels, bouncing slightly in delight. Wanting something, unable to voice it.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” You ask, hoping to end the encounter swiftly to stop all of the prying eyes leering into your being.

“I brought you something.” His eyes do not break contact with yours once and you can see his hand twitch by his side as if it wants to reach out for something. You're glad he has the decency to hold back, so you shall do the same by pretending you never saw the flowers in the first place.

You choose not to ask yourself why he brought you a present. It must just be a trick of seduction.

“I am honoured to accept such a thing.” You send a small smile his way, something between real and fake. It seems to make him beam.

His arm comes out from behind, holding the flowers between both of your bodies. You look down at them, shock written across your features.

Sure, you had noted them as flowers before. But you think these may be the prettiest ones you’ve seen in your whole life. Petals of orange, white, and purple cloud in your eyes. Stomatas filled with the sweet pollen.

Lilies. All different kinds– ones you’ve never seen before.

They’re out of season, at least you think they are. How did he get these? Why is he giving them to you? Why is he trying to get the butterflies to return? Why is he trying to make your heart explode?

“Prince Kim…” You’re not sure what to say– instead gently reaching out to feel the velvet of a petal. Staring intently at their colours, unable to pull your eyes away.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” His voice is a husk of a whisper, as if you’re the only two in the hallway. As if other maids are not passing, as if they are not staring at the two of you.

“Yes… I… I’m not sure what to say.” It is all so hypnotic.

“Thank you would be a good beginning, no?” His smile is soft, a light chuckle present in the tone.

You pause, tilting your head to look up at him fully– a large, real smile donning your lips.

“Yes. Thank you.”

You feel as if you are floating, just as you would when reading those romance books in your late teen years. Like the world has stopped moving save for the prince in front of you slowly passing the flowers into your arms.

Your hands brush against each other and you feel his fingers twitch, tightening ever so slight. Wishing to grab onto your hand just as he had done the night before. Wishing to insect every line that traces over your fresh once more.

However, he refrains. Allowing his ringed fingers to sink themselves into his pockets.

“I was just going to have them delivered. I’m not really meant to be down here, you know,” His smile is shy, “But I didn’t know your room. That, and I wanted to see you again.”

You look down, unable to keep the eye contact he presses you for. Prince Kim is too much for you. You don’t understand how he couldn’t be too much for anyone.

“Oh…” You’re a flush, “Thank you for saying that.”

“It is nothing to thank me for.” He chuckles, bangs dimming the hues of his eyes, “I’m sure I bored you with all of my ramblings.”

He did, partly, but that was more discombobulation for the situation and a sense of tiredness creeping into your bones. You shake your head quickly.

“Of course not. I had.. Fun.” Mayhaps fun isn’t the right term, yet there is no word that exactly describes your emotions of last night, nor the ones of today.

“As did I.” His lips are tight in a smile again, feet bouncing on their heels once more. He’s nervous, wants to say something again but isn’t sure how.

You’re not sure how to feel about learning what that habit means. Not sure how to feel about what any of this means. You have not had a moment alone to truly dissect what all of it is.

“I would love to spend the night talking to you again, if you would allow me.” You don’t think you would love anything more, yet you know you would not be able to function. Would probably make a fool of yourself, too.

“I-I think it would be best if I were to get some rest… I had not even an hour before I had to start working last night.”

He frowns, “That’s not good for your health…” He pauses, searching your face for any signs of distress, “Then let's talk in your room. I will only stay until you sleep.”

You pause, air drifting back into your lungs.

Ah. Right.

The words of your friend sink in once again, breaking you out of whatever trance he had put you under. Whatever spell he laced through both of your ears to have you singing songs of praises for him and the crown.

He wants you as a notch in a bedpost. Nothing more. It is clear as day and you are a fool to think anything other than that. This is all just a cleverly rehearsed show. You will not fall victim like your mother.

All royalty is the same. Use use use. Beat a dead horse until it stops coughing up any sort of reprise.

Your posture is suddenly tense, fist gripping the flowers so tight your knuckles appear white.

How dare he think so low of you. How dare he think he might be able to fuck you for nothing.

“Men are not allowed in the women's private quarters.” Your voice is staunch, though it is not as if he can tell nor cares.

If he does, he doesn’t show it.

“Ah,” The lilt is still evident in his tone, the cat playing with the mouse, “But I am not any man, am I?” His body leans a bit closer, pulling his face parallel to your own. Smirk playing on his lips.

Beauty is a deceptive thing, isn’t it? “When I am king I’ll make it so I can see you whenever we both desire.” Something heats in your gut at those words, yet anger quells it just as fast.

“It is a shame that you are not King yet, then.” You nod politely in his direction, trying to excuse yourself. Yet your words only seem to excite something in his eyes, lighting a fire behind them.

“My, I didn’t know you felt that way.” He smiles coy. A flustered sensation overcomes you as you realise the double meaning behind your words. You had made it sound like you wanted him in that way when that could not be farther from the truth.

“I do not.” You state, your voice ice. Though once again, it seems that it does not pierce him.

“There is no reason to be so cold, Y/n.” He sing songs, tapping one of his long fingers against the side of his head.

“I am not being cold! You are just not listening.” You sigh in exasperation. Exhaustion and annoyance make you forget yourself, causing your volume to rise just as his own does. This only seems to excite him more.

“I have heard enough.” He giggles, boyish and what others would describe as cute. Right before you’re able to argue back once again, he cuts in with his own voice once more.

“I will leave you for now. Find a pretty place for the flowers.”

He smiles generously at you, beginning to walk away, “Have a good night. I’ll see you soon.”

In your shamble of a disposition, you’re left stuck there. Staring at his back as he retreats down the hallway.

The shock of everything that had just transpired coming over you all at once. How poorly you had behaved. How you spoke to him. He could have you killed for any one of those things however instead he left you with a bouquet of flowers and a promise for another night.

You scramble to find yourself, to move yourself from out of the eyeline of every other maid. To make your way to your room, your one sanctuary as quickly as possible.

It is only when you’re in those walls, hard oak door shut firmly beside you that you have to remind yourself of your promise to your best friend. Remember that the prince fights his battles with words and emotions.

Your second meeting with the man had left you even more confused than the first. Thousands of questions and emotions real through your bones at a pace your brain can’t manage to understand. Leaves you fuming, trying to form a single coherent thought as you analyse the last two nights with a ferocity unimagined.

In your state, however, you neglect to think of the one question that should be dancing before you, held on a string just out of reach.

Why did he know your name?

It is apparent that since that night, Prince Kim has located which room you find habitance in.

This morning, another letter has found itself slipped under the base of your door. They have become commonplace now– letters detailing apologies for why he was unable to visit, what he had gone about on his day, his regrets that he has not heard back from you in what feels like ages.

He’s tried to speak to you a few times in the palace when you work. His eyes always trained on you with something you’re unable to describe when you clean nearby.

You wish you could say it was perverse in manner, but it was nothing of the sort.

Every once and awhile you would catch a lily pinned to his breast pocket. He would send you a secret smile whenever it caught your attention. As if it was a tale meant for only the two of you to know. As if he wanted to carry a portion of you with him.

You may be naive in saying so, nor do you have much experience in the matter, but these do not feel like the actions of a man who simply wishes to find home under your dress. These feel more personal. More extravagant than anything else.

Nevertheless, you ignore every single advance. Annabell made you promise, and it was a promise you were intent on keeping until your dying breath.

Put the letters away in a box, never to be responded to. Avoided looking at him whenever he was near. Rushed out of rooms when it appeared he was intent on making his war for you.

Icing out the prince is what is best. Whatever lilies he will wilt and die and you will be able to continue on with your hatred of the Kim family as well as your blood pact with the throne.

You only wish it was that easy.

“Y/n!! Miss Y/n!!” There is a scramble outside of the door, voices hailing for your presence. You don’t know why– you’re on wash duty. Anyone, unless they’re extraordinarily new, would know that.

The voice grows more erratic, more panicked. As if their life depends on finding you in that very moment. The other maids in the quarters send their glaces to you, urging you to go yet not one opens their mouths.

At least one bonus of endenturing your entire life to the palace is that you have grown in rank. More than 10 years has granted you a decent position.

A hushed sigh slips past your lips and your hands find themselves forcing the pile of sheets into the washing tub. Your hands quickly wipe away at your apron, ridding them of any moisture before pushing open the door.

Stepping into the hallway lined with stone you notice only a single girl. Her entire form shaking as she paces the hall– panicked. Blonde curls bouncing with every step, cheeks a fluster.

A new recruit, indeed. Celley is the name she wears.

She had just entered with the last batch of new maids, starting at the palace no more than 2 months ago. She was a recruit you were unsure of– not having a lick of grace or balance, nor any experience with serving. But you suppose there are many reasons maids are chosen.

You do not like to think of them.

Her feet are suddenly clamouring over to you, noticing your presence for the first time since you’ve stepped in the hallway. Her small, shaking hands grip your shoulders, holding you with all the will she seems to possess.

“Excuse me have you seen–” She stops herself, tiny pants pausing as her eyes go wide, “Oh my days! Miss Y/n! You must hurry!” She rushes, hand gripping your wrist as she tries to pull you away.

Though your face twists in confusion, your feet remain firm.

“What’s the matter?” You ask, both sympathy and concern entering your frame. You can admonish her later for her lack of manners, however now, the girl seems truly frightened. Her large steel eyes looking back at you, pleading.

“The crown prince! He’s!” She’s out of breath once again, continuing to try and urge you on.

This time, the second the word prince is muttered, you begin to follow her pace, “He’s lost his mind! He’s going on a firing spree! Locking up anyone who tries to calm him!”

“What? Why is that? Did something happen?” You ask hushed, urging the girl to keep her voice down. Though you both are similar in age, it is apparent who has experienced this type of thing before.

“He got into some kind of spat with his father. His instructor was fired when he tried to continue on with their lesson.” It seems she understood your message, continuing to hurry you down the halls.

“And what am I meant to do?”

“I-I don’t know!” She lets out a quiet yelp, pulling you closer as you exit the maid hallways and enter the palace ones, “His personal maid is away visiting family. She said to leave everything to you if something were to happen! I-I didn’t know what else to do!”

Damn Eleanor and everything she stands for. Why the hell did she have to bring your name into this?! Shouldn’t the head maid be called in times like this?! Not you, someone who wants nothing to do with any member of the royal family. Especially the crown prince himself. Sure, there must be rumours spreading around but you had managed nearly three weeks without speaking to him!

You let out a sigh, squaring your shoulders in an attempt to appear more confident, more put together. You will do this, and you will come out victorious. Every battle before has left you victor. What is one more?

“I understand. It will be dealt with.”

The least you can gain is the idyllic picture of the prince to be shattered forever. That would be the most ideal outcome, something to truly force him out of your heart for good. You will not fall prey to him and his earthly desires. He will not win your heart.

At least that is what you hope.

The throne room's doors stand before you, delicate lacings of gold worth more than your entire being etched into its surface. A glittering picture for what is sure to be a bloodbath behind its contents.

A deep inhale of warm air fills your lungs, hand pressing against the door as you force it open. Face someone you have not wanted to see nor extinguish the flames of in nearly a month.

He stands before you, 20 paces ahead. A broken bottle in his hand as he heaves, shoulders rising and falling with the passion of ten thousand suns. The look of murder in his eyes as he stares down at a maid, her form on the ground. Bowing with as much might as she can possess, looking for any exit possible. Few other maids stand around the room, keeping their heads low, avoiding any eye contact possible.

Though he looks like a mad man– mayhaps a god of war himself, not a single hair is out of place on his head. He is still the picture of sovereignty. And though your breath spikes, you find that you are not afraid.

What a strange feeling it is.

The creak of the door sends single to him, has him whipping his head to face you. Anger etched into his features, a new target befalling his sight.

You stand tall, moving towards him. You will rise to the position given to you, even if it shall mean your inevitable downfall. As long as the new staff are safe.

Only, when he looks to you, no wrath is found. No anger or deceit. The second his eyes meet your own, his expression drops along with the bottle in his hands. More glass littering the floor in its wake.

His eyes soften, his lips turning from a sneer into a gentle frown. His shoulders automatically lower, and suddenly it appears that there is no one else in the room. His legs move automatically, carrying themselves to you with such a hurried pace you would have thought he had seen a long lost friend.

Oddly, this scares you more than when he was angered.

You start into a bow, “Prince Kim, I’ve come in place of–”

His arms wrap themselves around you before you can speak another word. Pulling you in, wrapping you into his scent as you're pressed against his sturdy chest. Strong arms keep you in place as he tries to make his body become one with your own.

His face buries itself into the crook of your neck, one hand raising to tie itself in your hair. It forces you to stay in place, stay attached to him just the way he wants you to be. Allows him to inhale, breathing in all of you. Finally delving into the scent that he has been craving.

Your eyes only widen, hands staying firm at your side in shock. Heart beginning to race, head becoming lost in the soaps that only a member of a family could possibly own.

You’re not sure what to do. How to behave. As far as you are concerned or aware, this is something that no other has had happen before. At least not so openly. Not so brazenly in front of a myriad of other people.

But, it seems to calm him. To placate him in a way you’re not sure anyone could explain.

You try to make a small twisting motion with your hand, try to urge everyone else to leave while they have the chance.

They seem to take it, exiting the room as fast as possible.

You’re sure word of this will spread throughout the castle quickly. You hope the consequences will not be dire.

“Prince Kim–” You begin to speak after everyone has cleared out, after he holds you for what feels like a lifetime. You can’t find it in you to want him to pull away, no matter how embarrassing this seems.

“Shh,” He quickly silences you with a gentle press of his lips to your pulse, “Let me stay like this for a moment.”

You are unable to move. Unable to breathe after he kisses you. War could begin in that very moment and you’re not sure you would have noticed in the slightest. You are stunned into obeying his whim as he simply inhales and exhales.

The umber in his voice only comes after a millennia, after his shoulders have completely sagged. After all the tension is removed from his body.

“You didn’t respond to my letters.” He still doesn’t pull away, his grip on your hair tightening a fraction.

You pause.

“I…I didn’t know where to send them.” You lie and his hand loosens. The correct answer.

“My study. Put them under the door to my study.” He instructs like a king would.

You’re not sure why the tone of his voice sends shocks to your gut. Pooling into something you only find in your dreams.

“But if someone were to see them–”

“Let them.” Mumbles in your ear to you and you alone, a growl practically spiking through his voice, “I want them to know.”

Oh. This is new. This is definitely new. This is not the same way you felt with the stable boy years ago. This has become something entirely alienating. A completely different beast. You know that now as his baritone voice sends waves straight through your gut.

You simply nod in reply, your mouth unwilling to say anything back. The arm around your lower back grows more firm.

“Tell me where you will put your replies.” He commands into your ear.

“Under the door to your study.” Your reply is automatic, years of answering to the kingdom evident in your tone.

He sighs, unfurling his fingers from your locks to gently pet the top of your head, “Good girl.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, soft as he touches you.

“Good lamb.”

You sigh, fingers deftly searching through your wardrobe for just a single pair of underwear. But once again, you turn up empty. It seems like every day that passes, another pair disappears without your knowledge.

Perhaps one of the new girls is causing a fuss, messing up the laundry for everyone else.

That is the only logical solution, at least.

But logic doesn’t seem to make much sense at all anymore. You couldn’t hope to understand why few of your other belongings have come up indignant as well.

Your favourite perfume, one of your stuffed animals, even your toothbrush! All have magically vanished from thin air over the course of the last week.

It is too bad that you haven’t had the time to think about it, either. Preparations for the ball have been raging throughout the palace. Everyone has been on their toes, unwilling to face the wrath of the planners as they try to make everything perfect.

You have had not one moment alone to think, either swept up in cleaning, decorating, or well… recently you and the prince have been going on walks through the garden at night. Though that doesn’t matter much. It doesn’t mean anything– just another thing he made you promise to. Claiming he wishes to spend as much time with you as he can.

His recent fixation is trying to get you to call him by his true name.

You would never dare, nothing is more inappropriate than such a title. It is something only his most beloved is meant to call him, and that person is certainly not you.

You try to force any thoughts of him out of your head, though it is clearly a fruitless endeavour. Especially with the dream you had the night prior.

His hands finding themselves between your legs, touching you in a way no other has.

You flush, quickly shaking all thoughts of the night away.

The tea! Your tea, yes. A prescription from the doctor for this very thing.

More often than not, you wake to find a mess between your thighs. Sticky arousal between them in a perverse fashion. The region sensitive and overstimulated combined with a mess of dreams. More sexual in nature than ever before.

Embarrassed, you had turned to the only person you could trust. The palace staff’s doctor.

She had told you it was normal– that you were simply having what she described as ‘wet-dreams’. The title alone made you feel embarrassed.

Nevertheless, she prescribed you a tea to help calm your nerves. It was meant to be passifying in nature, calming any lush desires you may have beginning to form.

You were not sure how it functioned, however you trusted her. Found that it quelled whatever fire burned inside of your heart for the time being.

Perhaps just a new oddity to add to your reality, you suppose.

Finally, you find a proper set of undergarments to pull over your legs. Letting out a breath in relief now that you finally have them.

Today is going to be busier than the last month combined– the ball is tonight. You know for a fact you will be rushed around the palace all day, fixing everything into an acute sense of perfection that only the Kim family is known for.

You reach to spray your second favourite perfume across your skin, only to find that the bottle has gone missing as well.

Your hairs stand on edge, a dark pit forming in your stomach.

It is all too strange for you to want to understand.

Okay, now you’re sure Annabell must be wrong. She has to be, right? There is no other conclusion possible.

The thoughts run through your head as you pace the small confines of your room. Thumb between your lips, biting the skin feverishly. Contemplating what it is exactly that you should do. A heavy box sitting on your bed, a letter laying next to it along with a single lily.

A month ago, you met Prince Kim in the gardens. A month ago you spoke to him all night long. A month ago he brought you flowers. He has been leaving you letters ever since. Three weeks ago he held you in his arms, made you promise to write him back. Made you promise to meet him in the gardens as many nights as you can.

But this, you could not accept. You could not possibly think this is real. Why has he gifted you something like this?

A dress lays on your bed. The most gorgeous dress you have ever seen, in fact. Lined with crystals and gems, many layers of tulle poof from the underskirt. It must’ve cost a fortune, but it was not meant for you. It is a dress meant for a princess, not a simple maid of the palace. Not… Not someone the prince simply wanted to bed.

So why did it lie here, along with a lace mask and a pair of shoes. Why did it come with a note from the Prince, telling you to put it on for tonight's events? Is this why the head maid dismissed you so early?

No. You could not. You will not make a fool of yourself. You do not belong up there, dressed as a princess when you are far from the thing. That is your decision. It will be the one you stick to.

Even as hours tick past on the clock, even as you can hear the night in full swing, you stay locked in your room. Feeling the same as you did when you were a girl locked in the dungeon all those years ago. Helpless, indignant, stubborn.

Lost in your thoughts as you try to piece together a puzzle that has several spaces missing. Feelings for the stable boy– life with him, it would have been easier than this. You’re sure of it.

You allow yourself to imagine what life could have been like if he stayed. It would have been a cosy, peaceful. A straightforward one that didn’t leave so many questions in your head. Jungkook was always like that, spoke his mind without leaving anything to be guessed. You adored it, wished you could revel in it now. Wish you could kiss him under the cherry tree once more.

A pounding wakes you from the dream you were just beginning to weave. Loud, angry knuckles against the firm oak of your door startling you to your feet in an instant. Chills running down your spine as if your body already knew who was behind it.

You wait too long to reply, another series of rapts following in quick succession. You’re in trouble. You’ve angered the prince in a way you’re not sure you’ll be able to find your way out of, but you have no choice. He knows your inside. You know you must face him. You must be brave.

Right before another series of knocks can echo against the walls, you finally pull the door open.

There stands the man you knew would be there all along, sculpted like the lord had made him himself. You wish you could behold him properly, to stare at his beauty in the suit specially prepared for this night. One he asked your opinion of several times during its construction.

But you are unable to, not when his shoulders heave like a bull planning its charge. Not when his eyes are narrowed into a glare that enters your soul without consequence. Never before had you felt his anger directed at you.

The future king would be a fearsome thing.

“It appears you are not dead.” He states, cold and detached in a way you have never heard before. It makes you feel small, feel weak. Though by now, you know he wants an answer. He will not accept the lack of one from you anymore.

You shift uncomfortably on your feet, “I suppose not…”

“Then what do you suppose.” You flinch. You’re not sure.

“I– Prince Kim…”

“Taehyung.” He interjects, though you ignore him. Only his future wife is meant to call him by that name.

“Prince Kim, I could not possibly accept this gift. You have to understand.” The way he looks at you makes you want to shrink. To appear as small as possible to placate the lion you’ve wondered into the den of.

“I do not. You are to accept any gift I am to give you.” He is stern as if lecturing the ground beneath him. He looks massive in your tiny room, taking up much more space than you wish to grant him.

You begin to grow frustrated, annoyed. Does he have no sanity? Does he really think it is okay to play with the hearts of women so carelessly? It is disgusting. Repulsive even! You do not deserve anything like this. You begin to grow tense, grow firm like a wolf cornered. Ready to lash out with no remorse.

That is what you are, anyway. A cornered animal with no hope to escape.

“I won’t.” You raise your shoulders, stand taller and stare him straight in the eyes. If this will have you sent to the axe then so be it.

He grows just as tense in reply, his lips forming a sneer as he takes a step closer towards you.

Never before has Prince Kim been opposed like this before, you’re sure of it. The way his irises become darker is proof.

“And why is that, lamb?” He mocks, and the fire inside of you only begins to glow brighter Of course, you’re just the lamb that's wandered into the lion's den. The lamb being prepared for meal.

Steam clouds around your head, jaw becoming tense as you try to hold back your rage. Rage for your mother, rage for the life she was taunted into the same way the prince is trying to do to you now.

“I will not become another woman you bed and then lay waste to!” You practically shout, unable to hold back your emotions anymore.

His nostrils flare, “Excuse me?”

“You heard my words.” You state back, indignant, “I will not be an idiot. I will not become another woman who you use for your own pleasures!”

You hear him scoff, head turning away from you for the first time as he looks around your room.

“You think that little of me?” His eyes make their way back to you, his face having the expression of somewhat… hurt?

Suddenly, you’re unsure. You feel stupid all over again though you’re not entirely conscious as to why. You hurt him? How could you possibly hurt the most powerful person in the country?

You falter in your stance, and it is obvious that he takes notice. Uses it to his advantage as he takes another step closer, makes his hand find your own. His thumb brushing soothingly over the knuckle. His hands are always so soft.

“What else am I meant to think? I’ve heard the stories, Prince Kim.” Where once was fire lays blistering coals. Hot to the touch yet unyielding in their passion. The air in the room has changed in much the same way.

“Tell me of them.” He asks you, his voice now gentle, soft.

It is strange, the complete change he’s had since first entering your room. Has your brain going a little haywire. Especially with the way he stares at your hands. Like they could be locked forever.

“I…” You feel flush, embarrassed to mutter the words in front of the prince, “I’ve heard you seduce women… princesses, noblemen’s daughters, maids… the lot. Then you abandon them the next morning with your seed in their core and a knife in their heart.”

You keep your eyes to your feet, face feeling hot by repeating the words of your friend. You refuse to look at him, you cannot take the embarrassment.

A light chuckle leaves his lips, a hand coming up to attempt to muffle them, “Sorry, sorry.” He shakes his head, a playful glint in his eyes. You’re baring your soul to him! How dare he laugh!

He coughs to muffle the rest of the sound, returning to the moment, “I apologise. I just had the realisation. You’re jealous of them, aren’t you lamb?”

A mess of flutters takes up your stomach, your shoulders raising in alarm. Your lips open to try and form words, to try and deny the allegations made your way, yet you are entirely unable.

Especially with the way he moves closer, crowds your space with such ease. Leads close to you, whispers words in your ear, voice lower than before.

“You wish it to just be you I lay with, is that so?” You can practically hear the smile in his voice as another, more erotic chill finds its way down your spine.

“Th-That isn’t–” You try to speak, but your voice sounds as light as air. He moves closer, arm carrying itself around your back, pulling you flush against him as he speaks sinful words. Words only for you.

“Ah…” He sighs in relief, lips practically touching your ear once you’re finally connected to him, “You don’t like it when I go fuck your friends then come to spend my nights talking to you… writing to you… touching myself to the thought of you.”

You cannot take it. You cannot take this, take him. Your head is spinning, clouding with the drug known as Prince Kim. Your knees feel weak, your limbs feel all too heavy. How can someone so pretty say such sinful words without a second thought. It’s too much. Far more than your poor little heart can take.

Your arms come up, press as firm as they can against his chest despite how weak they feel.

“Mmm…?” He asks in response, pulling back to look down on your face. Mock confusion spread across his features. He takes a step back, pretending to look you up and down. Like he is just playing a game of poker while all of your tells are as clear as day.

“Or is that not what you wish?” He asks, head tilted to the side like a confused puppy, “You would like things to remain the same?” He smiles, drawing conclusions all on his own.

He pauses, waits for you to say something, anything before continuing. But you do not, so he will keep playing this game by himself.

“Then I shall go find someone to keep me company for the night. Mmm..” He taps his chin in contemplation, turning on his heels, meanwhile panic and dread fills every facet of your being, “What were those ones you’re friends with again? Celley? That pretty blonde? Oh, or maybe Annabell. I’m sure she would be prepared to go for a second round.”

What? What? No, No! What is he talking about? Why is he starting to walk away?! Wait, Annabell, second time?! She has before?!

Oh heavens, oh gods.

“Anyway, I'll be sure to write to you after. Have a good night, dream of me.” You begin to hyperventilate as he takes one step out the door. No, he can’t leave. You don’t want him to. You don’t want him to be with anybody else. You can’t let it happen. You can’t afford such a thing! Ever! That is not where he is meant to be!

Your body carries you before your mind does. Hand slipping out, gripping onto the back of his coat with all of the strength you can muster. Feet planted firm in your room, doing everything in your power to not let him leave.

It is really too bad you do not see the sick smile that forms on his lips. Maybe then the pieces of the puzzle would have finally clicked in place.

Instead he only tilts his head backwards, painting a complexion of boredom.

“N-No! I don’t want that!” You finally manage to stutter out, knuckles turning white with the strength you hold onto him. Afraid if you let go in the slightest he will pull away and disappear forever. “I don’t want you to be with other women!”

The silence that follows your confession feels a mile long.

“Then go put on the dress.” Out of any response there could be, that certainly was not the one you were anticipating.

“What…?”

His chin tilts in the direction of it, urging you on, “If that is the truth, then go put on the dress.”

“I…” You hesitate for only a moment, but scramble to motion once the prince turns to leave once again.

You make quick paces to your bed, keeping your back to him. You feel his eyes on your back, intent on giving you no privacy to ensure you follow through on his order.

In fact, all he does is close the door behind you. Making sure no one will be able to see in. No one will be able to watch you save for him.

You slowly peel off the cotton of your nightgown, trying to appear brave even though his eyes are trained on your form. Even if your slip still remains on, you have never been this uncovered in front of a man before. You feel entirely bare.

You do not look at him as you finally find your way through the tool, slipping the garment over your head with struggle, yet his face is practically predatory.

You don’t know his plans, or what he wishes to gain. You never do.

As the fabric settles over your hips, half of you wants to question how the size is perfect, but you refrain. Too embarrassed by everything else to even consider it an option. Your hands reach behind you to attempt to lace up the back on your own, yet another pair are already present in their place.

When did he get so close? How did he get so close without you hearing a thing? Your heartbeat must be the only sound in your ears, that must be it.

His fingers work down your spine, tightening the dress so it fits you perfectly. Tying it off with skill you did not know he had. You feel his breath on the back of your neck. A fire begins to grow in your core.

“I was going to present you to my father tonight.” He admits, placing a gentle kiss to the base of your neck, “The ball was meant to find my bride.”

“Oh.” Those are the only words you can say when he is so close, arms enclosing around your waist. Pulling your back flush with his chest.

Only words you can manage at the revelation.

“Imagine his disappointment, more so my own when the girl I had been speaking to him about did not show.” He grunts, almost as if it hurt him. Guiding your body to stand in front of the full mirror in your room. Asking– telling you to look at yourself.

The sight is strange, yet incredible. The crown prince of the entire nation standing in your bedroom, in the maids quarters. Surrounded by squalor and chaos. Arms wrapped around a maid dressed as if she could be a queen.

You look up at him to the best of your ability, regret plastered across your features, “Prince Kim–”

“Taehyung.”

“--I’m so sorry.” He does not look you in the eyes. They stay trained ahead, not straying once from the mirror. One hand rubbing small circles into the fabric covering your stomach, the other sliding to your waist.

He touches you without care, without reason. Feeling you against him for all that it is worth.

“Actions have consequences, that is all. They can come later.” He states plainly, “For now I just wish to indulge in you.”

He brings his face down, placing it right next to yours. His hand rises, making your chin face the mirror as well.

He forces you to make eye contact with him through it, forces you to understand each of his words clearly.

“You’ll let me do that, won’t you?”

You take a deep breath, gulping down all the air you can manage. You don’t think you’ve wanted anything more.

With no more than a nod, his lips are on yours.

Spinning you around, pressing your back against the mirror. His hands cupping your cheeks with such intensity you fear they may become etched into your skin forever. Keeping your lips closed against his own.

His body cages you in, pressing entirely against you. Forming against you in perfect harmony, feeling two souls become one. Feeling each other fully for the first time– no pretence or public eye in the way to stop it.

His teeth nip at your lower lip, biting in a way that has you opening them in pain. He takes the opportunity to lick his way inside, somehow pushing even closer to your body.

Something hard presses against you and the discovery has your knees wishing to collapse.

The prince can’t possibly be this big. He simply can’t.

The kiss has you reeling, unsure of anything. Unsure of what to do at all. It is nothing like your first kiss under the cherry tree with Jungkook. That was soft and sweet, docile as two people discover something new.

This, this is nothing of the sort. It is hungry. It is a beast that has been starved, finally getting its first meal. It is intoxicating. It is needy and desperate in a way that has your fingers trying to press themselves even deeper into the glass. It has your breath being robbed. Your lifeforce wilts away to satisfy only the prince.

The groan he lets out as you finally give into him, finally allow him to take control of the kiss as arousal pools in your gut. It is one of the most deadly siren’s calls you think you’ve ever heard. One that would have any woman throwing themselves overboard for just a taste.

“Finally,” He grunts, pulling no more than a millilitre away from your lips, wetness still connecting them, “My whole life I’ve been waiting for you.” He mumbles, hungrily connecting his mouth back to your own.

Before you know it, you’re lost in the man once again. Allowing him to move you, to guide you to your bed without withdrawing from you once. Tangling your fingers into his hair, trying to make sure he doesn’t pull away. Making you drunk off of his taste, off of him.

When he kisses you like this, you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to live without him.

Your knees hit the frame of your bed and all of a sudden you're falling backwards onto its plush lining. Panting, trying to regain some of the air he stole from you.

For the first time you’re able to look up at him, to discover the mess that he has become. Cheeks red, lips swollen. Eyes dark and twisted with lust. Hair ruffled messily from where your fingers laid. Shoulders rising and falling with effort as he catches his breath as well.

He looks gorgeous and you can’t help yourself hoping this will be only a sight for you forever.

He leans down, pecking your lips once more, “I couldn’t stop myself from imagining this. Since the moment I placed an order for your dress.”

He huffs, dropping to his knees in front of you. You sit up on your elbows, face twisted into confusion as you look down at him.

God. It is too dangerous to look at him right now. You know that as another wave of heat runs straight to your core.

“Pushing up the future queen's skirt.” He groans, hands gaining purchase on your hips, pulling you down so your waist sits at the edge of the bed, “Letting myself have a taste of her while everyone else at the party danced.”

O-Oh. Oh. He sees you as, oh god.

His fingers bunch in the material of your skirt, drawing in a shaky inhale as he holds onto any drop of sanity left.

When he sees no hesitation from you, he slowly begins to push the material up your legs. Eyes trained on your own, looking to you for any sign of discomfort.

“Have her come undone on my tongue while no else was the wiser.” He groans as he finally comes face to face with your panty covered core.

Your brain moves at a snail's pace, trying to keep up with every tiny movement the prince makes. Trying to process his words while your head becomes fuzzy with your own arousal.

You feel like mush, so pliable in his grip.

His large hands slowly begin to part your thighs, to look at what he has been craving for so long when your brain catches up with you, embarrassment overcoming your being.

“Y-You can’t! I-it is dirty to do such a thing.” At least, that is what you had been taught. Though, the look in his eyes and the growl from his throat tells you the opposite.

“You could never be dirty. No part of you could ever be.” The sound he lets out is more akin to an animal than anything else, and suddenly you feel like a schoolgirl. Flustered and embarrassed beyond anything else.

The muscles of your thighs untense, the look on your face blushed and biting.

“You will let me?” He asks again, and despite your embarrassment, you nod. He is going to be king… his word is rule afterall. He wishes it, so it will happen. You could not be more pleased to oblige.

His grip on your thighs is more firm than before, blunt nails digging into soft flesh as he pries your legs apart. He lets a groan resonate from the back of his throat at the sight. Panties sticking to your center, wetness pooling just behind causing the material to almost become transparent before him.

You did not know it was possible for a man to have such an effect on you.

Without a second thought, he pushes the material down your thighs. His tongue licking a long stripe up your cunt, savouring the flavour for every cent it is worth.

He moans at the taste, not wasting a second before he dives back in. Lapping against you like it is his last meal.

A mewl leaves your lips, too many feelings crossing you at once for any of them to be worth anything.

Embarrassment, shame, fear all vanish the moment his lips wrap around your clit, sucking against the small bundle of nerves in a manner that has your back arching against the bed. Fingertips digging into the sheets to find a second lease on life.

You try to look down at him, to find him between all of your small pants of pleasure, however he is gone. Disappearing until the layers of fabric while he brings you sensations you never thought were possible.

His tongue moves like it is made to pleasure only you. Taking turns flicking your clit to lowering into your center. Licking up any bit of arousal he can make out. Trailing up once again to press flat against the bundle of nerves.

All of it has your legs kicking, your breath melting.

He is not quiet either, letting you know exactly how much he adores this. Adores the feeling of your thighs wrapped tight around his head. Adores every little sound and reaction you have to give him. Adores the taste of you on his tongue. It was only meant for him.

It feels like he has been wishing to do this far longer than you would ever know. Consuming you whole from the inside out. Causing you to become addicted, to desire him just as much as he carnally craves you.

His nails dig into the flesh of your thighs as your hips begin to rock against his face, seeking out every ounce of pleasure that he is willing to give you. Your adorable mewls and whines grow louder, peaking every time he sucks on your clit.

A coil has begun to form in your gut, feeling as though it could snap at any second. You wish you could see him, to look at his face and see the crazed gleam in his eyes. Observe the exact look on his face as he licks your cunt.

You try to picture it. Try to imagine the way he would look up at you from between your legs. The dark umber his eyes would become, the gentle circles he would rub into your thigh as you finally make eye contact.

Your walls clench around his tongue, sending a new waves of whines out of your mouth. He somehow moves faster, more precisely with every movement. Like he is able to hone in on the exact things that have your thighs quivering.

His tongue moves up, takes your small, worn clit into his mouth. Alternating between sucking against it, flicking at it, and pressing against it firm with the flat of his tongue.

Without warning, nor any reprise, one of his thick fingers is thrust into your wet heat. Filling you in a way you have never been able to do to yourself. Stretching you. And all of a sudden, you’re flying off the edge of a precipice.

“Prince Kim!” Your back arches off of the bed, head thrown back against the mattress as you let out a moan. Your hips jolt, cunt squeezing around his fingers, heels digging into the floor as you come undone before him.

He works you through it with ease and grace, finger slowly thrusting in and out. Tongue firmly planted against your clit to ride you through your high.

It would not be your last of the night. He must be gentle.

Slowly, you relax against the bed, chest heaving from exertion. He pulls away from you, standing to full height before leaning over your shaking form.

Your arousal coats his face, a sheen from his lips and chin evident against the soft yellow glow of the room. He looks down at you, concern and adoration written across his features. Though in his eyes, it appears that the beast has yet to be quelled.

He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. You taste yourself against them.

“You are delicious. I wish to eat you every night until I die.” He mumbles against your lips, his knee sliding between your legs. Muscle pressing against your swollen cunt.

You try to flinch away, yet the hand on your hip keeps you in place.

He will not have you running away.

Not now.

Your cheeks flush at his words, wide eyes looking up at him like he is all that matters.

He is.

He presses his knee further against your pussy while his lips trail down the column of your neck. Urging you towards the headboard with no words spoken until your head is against the pillows.

Your arms wind their way around his neck, keeping him in place, “I-if we were married, I would let you.” You manage to speak, your voice shaky.

He only smiles in reply. Fingers digging deeper into your waist as if he is holding himself back.

“Then we shall call this practice for our wedding night.” He smiles, sitting back on his heels.

Marriage, wedding night. You allow the thought to ghost through your mind, willing it to be reality.

He smiles down at you, taking note in the way you seem to gleam at the idea. A small chuckle leaves his lips, you really are too cute for your own good.

His voice is no more than a whisper, forcing you to stay enrapt, “You will let me, right?” He asks, eyes glancing down to where his pants strain against his hips, “I wish to make love to my future wife.”

Your mouth practically waters at the sight, his hard cock pressed taught against the expensive material. You swear there may even be a wet spot where his cum has leaked through.

Your pussy clenches, wanting nothing more for him to find his way inside. For him to claim you for himself. Destroy you so no other man can have you in the same way.

You struggle against yourself for no more than a moment, but the way his hand reaches down, grips at his cock. Brushes his thumb over the surface has you moaning in want.

“Please.”

He smiles, the motion following swift. All at once his hands unbutton his pants, pushing the material down his thighs just enough for his cock to spring free. He groans at the feeling, thick length hitting his stomach. Pretty pre-cum dripping down the side.

Your eyes go wide. If you imagined him to be large before, seeing it now looked impossible. He is thick, long. Far too big to ever hope to fit inside of you.

But the desperate groan in his voice, the hungry look in his eyes only has you spreading your legs. Wishing nothing more than for him to destroy you.

One hand wraps around the base as he moves closer, the other forcing the skirt of your dress as high as it will allow. He makes space for himself in between your thighs, slotting himself in. Ready to do what he has been waiting years for.

Not yet.

He sees the hesitation in your eyes, the worry. So he leans down, planting a gentle, soothing kiss to your lips. One filled with years of time behind it.

He knows he must be careful with you. Knows all of his patience will have been worth it when he is finally able to take your virginity.

“Will it hurt?” You as quietly, wrapping your arms around his shoulders to keep him close. You find comfort in him. Find a sense of safety within his eyes.

He nods in response, “Only for a little while, I promise.” He mumbles against your lips, placing a soft kiss against them once more.

He slowly rubs the fat head between your folds, coating himself in your arousal. Your hips buck slightly in response, and he can’t help but smirk.

So sensitive. So ready for him.

As much as he wants to be rough, he can’t. He can’t scare you away just yet.

He looks into your eyes once more, “Ready?” He asks, giving you one final chance to back out. You only nod your head, pulling him close, hiding your face in his neck.

His head catches on your opening with the final drag of his length through your lips. His hands practically shake in excitement, as he guides himself inside. Letting go only once the tip is buried within your walls.

He feels your teeth sink into his coat, your body burning with the stretch of him. He only has the first inch inside, yet you think it is more than you could possibly take.

A choked cry leaves your lips as he continues to slowly thrust inside. Your arms cling to him as tight as possible. Tears prick in the corner of your eyes as he fills you, forming your entire body just around him. Just around his cock.

He pauses only once half of his cock is buried in your needy cunt. You feel his hand come up to caress your cheek, to bring you back down to reality from the pain you feel digging at your core. Trying to bring you some sense of comfort.

You pull back from his shoulder to look him in the eyes, expecting to see them soft. Filled with concern. Though there is nothing of the sort there.

Behind his bangs is only the look of pure insanity.

Though he tries to be compassionate, he really does.

“Are you doing okay?” His voice is strangled, coming out in only desperate cracks. He shakes, wanting nothing more than to fuck himself inside. Fuck himself deeper and deeper, until your cunt is shaped for his cock alone.

But he holds restraint. Just enough.

The way he looks at you, the way he speaks has a wave of pleasure rushing through your skin. Your walls clamp around him, tightening even more.

He is falling apart before you, because of you.

He has gone mad because of you.

The feeling only makes you want to urge him on. See just how far the prince can fall.

You nod your head, looking at him with all the affections in the world, “Don’t stop.”

He groans at your words, mind losing itself as he snaps his hips forward, forcing his cock inside until his hips are firm against your own. Teeth digging into the fragile skin of your neck.

You cry out in pain, your walls squeezing around him in shock. Pain coursing through your entire system as you are filled to the brim. Walls stretched as wide as humanly possible. The head of cock so deep inside you swear you can feel it in your lungs.

“Shit.” He groans, mouth falling open, “This pretty thing is wrapped around me so tight, lamb. So fucking tight I can’t think.”

He slowly tries to move his hips, though you only shout in response. Your legs wrap around his back, doing their utmost to keep him in place.

“Hurts!” You whine, shaking your head quickly.

Fucking hell. What is the point of a pussy as sweet as your own if he can’t use it properly?

His hand moves between your legs, growl of impatience slipping past his lips as his fingers find your clit. They work with urgency, with need. Rubbing tight circles into it, trying to get you to feel the same pleasure he does.

You whine, overstimulated. Shots fired in all directions leaving you messy and confused.

With every circle, a mewl sounds from your throat. Slowly your legs behind him loosen, the pain from before mixing with pleasure to become something wonderful. Something that has you whimpering for him to not stop.

“See?” He grunts, slowly slipping out of your heat until only the tip remains, “We were made for each other.”

He forces his cock back inside, fucking you open just for him. Only ever for him.

Your nails dig into his back, heels digging into the mattress as you moan for him. As your cunt becomes addicted to the feeling of him filling you so perfectly. Addicted to everything he has to offer.

He moves too fast, too hard for you to even hope to keep up with. Hips pistoning into you, forcing you to take everything he has to give and more. Forcing you to be the perfect little doll for him, give him all the pleasure he can want and more. White mixing with red around the base of his cock.

Your back arches off the mattress to try and get closer to him, to try and keep up with him in any hope of the sentiment. Hips trying their best to keep him as close and as deep as possible, knowing they crave one thing and one thing alone.

“Prince Kim!” You moan, yet he growls in response. A sharp slap to your thigh sounds throughout the room as his hips pause, fingers removing themselves from your clit.

“That isn’t my name to you anymore.” His voice is low, menacing in your ear. One more poke of the bear and you will be punished. “Tae–Hyung.”

He emphasises the words with a sharp thrust of his hips, one that brushes against the bundle inside of you. One that leaves you crying out for him. Clinging on to him.

“Say it.” He grunts, animalistic and desperate. Yet you’re too lost in yourself to realise how debauched he’s become. Looking less and less like a man, more like a demon come to lay waste to your soul.

That is close enough to the truth, anyway.

“Say it until it becomes the only word you know. Every question I ask, every time I fuck myself into this sweet little cunt. Your only reply should be my name.” He grabs your chin, forcing you to stare at him.

Your fucked out little features as you bob your head in compliance.

“I-I” You swallow, trying to understand his words as he pounds away at your core, “I understand!”

He smiles, almost proud of the work he has done today.

His hips only move impossibly faster, impossibly harder in a way that has that knot in your gut tightening once more.

“We’ll start simple then. What is my name?” He asks, angling his hips to press against your sweet spot with ever slight movement. Breathe panting, his mind falling deeper and deeper into the thralls of your body.

“P-Prin–” You stop yourself, a pinch coming down on your skin, “Taehyung!”

He groans, almost coming undone as he hears your name fall from your lips for the very first time. The pretty sound your voice makes with every letter.

It could be the only thing he hears for the rest of his life.

“Who are you going to marry?”

You whine, your head thrashing around slightly. He smiles. You must really enjoy the idea of that, huh?

“T-Taehyung!” You manage to stutter out again, feeling your release coming closer and closer as the seconds pass by.

“Who is the man you have fallen for?” The answer to the question is easy, especially when he is fucking into you like you’re the only woman that matters. Nothing matters except for him.

“Taehyung!” Your brain is too fuzzy to process anything else. Anything other than the way his cock fills you. Anything other than the one word he told you is your gospel.

“Who is the boy that kissed you under the cherry tree?” You don’t even know anymore.

Does any man exist beside Taehyung anyway? You doubt it.

“Taehyung!” He smiles into your neck.

“Who was the boy that was going to have you killed? That saved your life?” His words don’t process through your ears, yet you know what you are meant to say anyway.

“Taehyung!” He groans, his hips stuttering, losing their pace ever so slightly.

“Who do you belong to?”

“Taehyung!” You whine, your thighs shaking. The coil so tight you think you may just die if it doesn’t come undone in this very moment.

His breath is quiet, only a rough whisper in your ear, “Cum.”

Just as your king commands, you fall apart around him. White dots in the corner of your eyes as you clamp down around him, your legs pulling him close. A cry of his name leaving your lungs as if it is the very air you breathe.

You feel him paint the inside of your walls white, his hips stuttering– fucking himself as deep into you as he could possibly manage. If you had any sense left in your little head you would have told him to pull out, yet your brain is so high. Filled with pleasure that only Taehyung can provide.

Waves of arousal crash around you as he slows his hips, ensuring that you ride out your orgasm to its fullest before pulling away. You wish he could stay buried inside of you, just like that. Yet you doubt that would be very wise.

“Was that good for you, little lamb?” He asks, slowly helping you into a sit. You’re not sure how to properly answer– mouth feeling dry. Your head has not yet come crashing back down, though that is probably a good thing.

Facing reality is too scary right now. Especially when Taehyung is so warm. So caring as he removes your dress. Slips your nightgown back over your soiled body.

“Very…” You nod, unable to take your eyes off of him as he moves around the bed. Tucking himself back into his pants, removing his shirt and dress-coat. Placing them over the back of a chair. Neatly hanging the dress on a hook, taking care that it is not damaged in any way.

Your arms find themselves reaching out to him, trying to pull him closer to you. He smiles once he takes notice.

“Would you like me to stay the night?” It is clear he was already planning on it, but hearing the words make you smile oh-so bright.

“Yes, please.” You nod quickly, eyes already feeling tired. You did not know how he had so much energy, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. Right now he is meant to be in your bed, arms around you. In fact, you become annoyed that he isn’t already.

“Alright.” He smiles, slipping next to your form. Wrapping his arms around you, pulling you as close as possible.

You feel so safe. So warm with him. So protected that you can’t stop yourself from falling asleep.

“Goodnight my lamb.”

The Kim Empire.

His home, his family, his livelihood all wrapped up in those three little words.

Yet, the only thoughts that seem to brandish his mind since the young age of 15 are about you.

When you first stumbled in front of him, carrying a tray of tea. Spilling it all over his shoes. That quick curse that left your lips before looking up at him. The wide, doelike vision you had once recognition had set in. One the realisation of error set into your bones.

He will never forget the way his heart began to race in that very moment. The way he felt a cloth of sickness overcome his whole body at the mere sight of you. Looking so serendipitous below him.

At first he thought it was hate, how silly he had been back then. Ah, the way he sent you to be killed was just funny to him now. He is grateful he talked to his mother before your execution date. Spilling his soul to her, detailing how he could not seem to remove you from his brain.

Ah, he was lucky he managed to get the letter to the executioner in time. What a pity that would be if he couldn’t. Then he wouldn’t have been able to lay next to you now. Wouldn’t be able to play with your hair, caress you like he pleases.

It is truly too bad that was not his only trial on the road towards you. It was really a pity he had to send Jungkook away. Taehyung quite liked the kid. He was fun to play with and wouldn’t shy away from his games.

But he just had to try and seduce you. Poor thing. You really were too innocent at the time. More than eager to kiss him for no reason. To give him even a peace of your heart that was meant for Taehyung alone.

He remembers as clear as day, the rage he felt as he watched your soft lips press against another mans. How terribly he wanted to go out and strike Jungkook with a sword. Of course he didn’t though, that would have scared you away. He would have hated that.

He thanks god every day he was really your first kiss, even if you didn’t know it.

Patiences was the hardest battle of all, and he will admit, he has faltered a few times over the years. Kisses stolen while you sleep, a few of your belongings robbed to keep him satiated. Mayhaps a few trips to your room in the night.

But who could blame him? He was a man in love. There was nothing that could stop him when he was so hungry for you.

Ah, and then of course his father. He wanted to separate your love as well. A maid could never possibly be suited to be queen, blah blah. He doesn’t care. And at least that fight allowed him to hug you for the first time.

God. You felt so perfect in his arms, then and now. You have always been meant for this. Meant for him.

If his father plans to keep standing in the way, he will simply have to remove him from the equation. His bonds to the man are as thick as water. He cares more for you than he possibly could anyone else.

You’ve belonged to him since you were born, anyway. If a maid becomes pregnant while working for the castle, her child becomes property of the state. Of the crown. Of him.

It only makes sense that you are meant to be with him until death. It is the path lined for you. Your fate since birth.

He knows it as his delicate fingers trace over the small patches of blood dirtying the sheets. Evidence of the hours before, of your virginity robbed. Of your promises to him.

You are bound to him by blood after all.

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chuuniversal · 3 months ago

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cw: face sitting, use of caleb’s evol, pussy eating, fem! chubby reader!, pussy drunk caleb <3, mdni! somewhat proofread!

“b-but… what if i suffocate you?”

to your surprise that’s the last thing on caleb’s mind, the need in his amethyst gaze evident. it’s been a rough day, all he’s had thoughts about were his head in between your pillowy thighs and the sweet taste of your juicy cunt on his tongue. his calloused hands massage and squish into the plush of your doughy hips before pulling you down closer to his face, pressing a chaste kiss to your inner thigh.

“that’s kind of the point, angel.” caleb coos, his hearty chuckle sending tiny tingles up your calves. you can feel his warm breath fanning against you down there, his lips mere centimeters from your aching cunt. his thumb traces over the soft lips before spreading them, revealing your hooded clit. saliva pools in his mouth at the sight. “she’s sooo pretty, just let me get a tiny taste. ok?”

with hesitation you lower yourself onto his face until you’re fully seated, caleb in turn wasting no time. his tongue swipes in between your folds hungrily, lapping up your honey and savoring its delicious taste. slurping and muffled groans are all you can hear as you squirm and writhe from the pleasure. he sounds so lewd, sticky tongue swirling and licking away at your core as he moans into your pussy.

“m-mmph! c-caleb!” you whine, your legs trembling as it becomes too much. your hips lift off of caleb for a split second only for him to pull you down. “mm, don’t run.” he groans, his swollen lips latch on and the grip he has on your thighs tightens, locking you in place so he can devour you properly. a heavy pressure sits at your waist, his evol making it impossible to move a muscle.

was caleb being a bit greedy? yes, absolutely. could you blamer him? he needed all of you on his fat tongue, needed your soft inner thighs squeezing his head every time he sucked on the right spot, the lack of oxygen made his eyes roll back and his cock swell. to him he was in heaven, and you were an angel, his angel. “sho good, baby, sho good.” he murmured, moaning at the feeling of his hair being tugged.

you helplessly grind your needy pussy against his mouth, the timidness you sported before melting away as need pangs in your tummy. you were so close, he could feel your hole clenching and puckering around his wriggling tongue. “fuck! caleb, aah!” your thighs snap together when his thumb finds your clit, trumming it and giving it a small pinch. your squeals bounce off the walls but he can only hear you faintly.

your high comes all at once, the tight coils in your tummy come undone as caleb swallows down everything you have to give, the intoxicating sweet taste lingering on his tongue. he releases you from his hold finally, cuddling you as you whine into his chest. “i kinda got carried away there… using my evol like that, sorry sweetheart.” the sincerity in caleb’s eyes and the over saturated blush blotched across his cheeks made you giggle.

“don’t apologize… i kinda liked it. we should definitely try that again~”

#͟͟͞͞➳❥ chuu writes #lads caleb smut #chubby reader smut #love and deepspace smut #caleb x reader smut #lads smut

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itneverendshere · 4 months ago

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LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - ELEVEN

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mentions of severe anemia; pregnancy; abortion

💌MASTERLIST

Rafe sat in his truck outside the unassuming brick building for longer than he’d care to admit, over two hours. The sign out front read “Coastal Therapy Center” in simple, soothing letters, but nothing about this felt soothing.

Therapy.

If someone had told him just three months ago he’d be here, he would have laughed in their face. Therapy was for weak people, that was what Ward Cameron had drilled into him since he was a kid. It was the kind of shit he’d spent his whole life avoiding because, what was the point? Nothing ever changed. Not for him, not for his so-called family.

After his mom died, Ward’s solution was to bury it—all of it. Grief, pain, confusion. “Camerons don’t cry,” he’d said. “We keep moving forward.” But what if forward felt like walking through hell?

The door felt impossibly far away, but he knew he had to get out.

“Get your shit together man,” he muttered under his breath.

He could hear his dad’s voice in his head, unforgiving. Weak. Pathetic. That same voice had driven him for years, pushed him to be stronger, tougher, to bury every fucking thing he felt. But it wasn’t Ward’s voice that mattered now, it was yours, the Picture of your eyes shining with tears the last time you’d spoken to him.

He glanced at the building again, still not knowing if he believed in it, if it could fix whatever was broken inside him. But he did know one thing: if he didn’t at least try, he’d lose you for good.

Rafe exhaled sharply, shoving open the truck door, but before he walked it, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. His fingers fumbled with the lighter, the flame sputtering before finally catching. He took a drag, the smoke burning his lungs in a way that almost felt good.

He exhaled slowly, watching the gray wisps disappear into the air. He flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his boot. He should just leave. Get back in the truck, drive somewhere, anywhere but here.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, pushing himself off the wall and shoving his hands in his pockets as he walked back to the door. One foot in front of the other, he told himself, although it felt like walking to his own execution.The waiting room was quiet, with soft music playing in the background.

He hated it already. He didn’t belong here, but he chose to stay, his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt like a bitch. He couldn’t stop his legs from bouncing as he waited for the receptionist to notice him.

When she eventually looked up and smiled, he nodded stiffly, avoiding her. He didn’t want her kindness. Didn’t deserve it. Rafe wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say when he walked into that first session.

He didn’t know how to explain the mess, the voices in his head, the anger that raged over and the guilt that followed like a shadow. But he knew why he was here.

When the therapist finally called his name, Rafe hesitated for half a second before standing. She looked normal enough��glasses, sweater, clipboard—but it still made his skin crawl. He felt like she could see through him, as if she already knew all the shit he’d done and thought and didn’t want to admit to anyone, especially himself.

“Rafe?” she called again, her voice patient. He didn’t deserve that either, but he nodded and followed her to the room.

It was small, the kind of place that made him feel like a caged animal, he sat on the couch because what the hell else was he supposed to do, and stared at the floor, picking at a thread on his jeans.

“So,” she started, sitting across from him, crossing her legs like this was just a normal conversation. “What brings you here today?”

“Huh, what doesn’t?” he said before he could stop himself. He glanced up at her, half expecting her to kick him out right there.

But she didn’t, instead she simply nodded, like she got it, she’d heard worse.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s start with whatever feels the hardest.”

He leaned back, running a hand over his face.

Where the fuck was he even supposed to start? His mom dying? His dad? The drugs, the fights, the hole he’d dug so deep he wasn’t sure he’d ever crawl out? Or maybe with you, with the way he’d pushed you away until you had no choice but to hate him?

“I don’t know,” he said finally. His eyes stayed glossed over on a spot on the carpet “I guess...uh, I should start with my mom, right? She died when I was fourteen. Leukemia.”

The therapist didn’t say anything, just nodded like she was giving him space to keep going. He hated the silence, how much it made him feel, but he kept going, because if he was going to do this shit right, he might as well not half-ass it.

““I’m sorry to hear that,” she said gently. “What do you remember most about her? What was she like?”

Rafe’s lips twitched, “She was… everything, y’know?” His throat felt sore, “I know everyone says that shit about their mom, but she really was. She was the one who kept everything together. When my dad was being—”

He stopped short, his jaw twitching at how hard he bite his tongue.

“When he was being what?” the therapist prompted.

“When he was being him, she was the one who’d step in. She’d tell him to back off, that I was just a kid, or that I didn’t deserve whatever shit he was throwing at me that day. She was the only one who ever really had my back.”

“How did losing her affect your relationship with your dad?”

“It changed everything. When she got sick, it was like… I don’t know, like everything just fell apart. She was the glue, y’know? Without her, my dad just—he went full-on Ward Cameron.”

His voice cracked on the last word, and he swallowed hard, “I remember the day she died,” he said after a long pause. “I thought I’d have more time. They kept saying it was bad, but I didn’t think it would happen that day. And then it did. Just like that.”

He rubbed his hands together, the motion frantic, restless. “I didn’t even cry. I just sat there, staring at the floor while my dad kept saying, ‘We’ll get through this. We’re Camerons. We don’t fall apart.’ And I was like, okay, I guess that’s what we’re doing then. Not falling apart. Just… moving forward.”

“What does that mean to you, ‘full-on Ward Cameron’?”

“It means he turned me into his fucking project.”

“Did he ever talk to you about what you were feeling? About how hard it was to lose her?” the therapist asked, her tone pointed.

“No,” Rafe said immediately,“My dad never wanted to talk about it. He acted like it was this... inconvenience. Yeah, he was sad, but he just buried it, wanted me to do the same.”

“What do you mean by that?” she prompted

Rafe let out a bitter laugh.

“I’m the oldest, out of three. Not just the oldest— the only son. Wen she died, my dad decided I had to step up, be the man of the house. Take care of my sisters, keep everything running smoothly. Be his goddamn mini-me, like that was even possible. I was fourteen, but that shit didn’t matter. My dad expected me to bury all the shit I was feeling, I had to be twice as strong because I was the only man left.”

“How did that make you feel?” she asked, her tone measured but firm.

“How do you think it made me feel?” he snapped, his voice rising before he caught himself. He sighed, leaning forward again and dropping his head into his hands. “Shit, sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay,” she nodded, not the least bit fazed, “But I think it’s important to answer that question. How did it make you feel?”

“Like shit,” he admitted after a long pause. “I couldn’t do anything right. I was pissed at him for putting all of that on me, pissed at my sister for needing me, pissed at her for dying and leaving me with all this. And most of all, pissed at myself because no matter what I did, it was never enough. Not for him, not for me.”

“Do you think you could have stopped it?” the therapist asked softly.

Rafe’s head snapped up at that, but then he shook his head. “No,” he admitted, “I know I couldn’t, it wasn’t my fault. But it felt like it was, if I’d been better—smarter, stronger—she would’ve stayed. Or at least… she would’ve been proud of me for trying.”

He hasn't said it out loud since that night, with you.

She pursed her lips, as she took notes, “You should give yourself more credit, for how much you’ve survived.”

“Credit? For what? Being a fuck-up?”

She barely looked up from her notebook, changing the direction of her questions, “What do you think your mom would say to you now, if she could?”

Rafe’s throat tightened, and he looked away, “I don’t know. Fuck, maybe... maybe she’d say she’s proud of me for being here. For trying to fix it, even if I should’ve done it years ago,” He paused, swallowing hard. “She probably would think I’m a fucking idiot, I pushed away the one person who actually fucking mattered.”

“Who’s that?” the therapist asked gently.

“My girlfriend,” He bit his tongue, the word stinging, “Ex-girlfriend now, I guess. After my dad died, I just—I started pushing her away. Picking fights over Ward, shutting her out when she tried to help me see the truth about him,” He swallowed hard, his throat burning.

He hadn’t expected to feel this vulnerable, but now that he’d started talking about you, about what he’d ruined, it was hard to stop.

“She’s the one, y’know?” he muttered, his voice distant as though he was speaking to himself more than anyone else. “I fucked it all up.”

“What happened?”

Rafe let out a shaky breath.

“I was an asshole. I told her I didn’t need her, that she should just leave, like it wasn’t me who was the fuckin’problem. She did—she left, thought if I cut her loose or pushed her away, maybe I wouldn’t feel so fucking broken. Maybe if I wasn’t constantly looking at her and seeing everything I couldn’t be, I could... I don’t know. Get my shit together or some bullshit.” He rubbed his temples, frustration mounting “But then, like a fucking idiot, I started seeing someone else. All I could think about was how much it would hurt her if she found out. And it did.” His voice cracked, “It fucking destroyed her, I knew it would. That’s the worst part—I fucking knew, and I still let it happen, like the selfish piece of shit I am.”

He pressed his palms to his eyes, hoping it could block out the memory of you—your tear-streaked face.

“What do you think that relationship was about?”

His fists clenched again, “A distraction? I thought if I just... started fresh, started with someone who didn’t know all my baggage, someone who wouldn’t make me feel like I was constantly failing, I could just... forget. Forget everything. Forget her, forget my dad, forget how fucked up I was.”

“And did it help you forget?” she asked, her voice steady, but full of understanding.

“No,” He gritted out, “I couldn’t stop thinking about her, even when I was with someone else. Every time I closed my eyes, it was her face I saw. Her voice I heard in my head, telling me I could do better, be better. Shit, all I could do was prove her wrong.”

The therapist leaned forward slightly, her expression compassionate. “It sounds like she means a great deal to you.”

“Talking about her,” He paused, wincing as if he was in physical pain, “She’s just—fuck, man—she’s always in my head. It’s worse than talking about my parents, worse than remembering my mom dying or my dad. Because with them, it’s just... loss, y’know? Her? I had her, she was there. She loved me, and I ruined it.”

“What do you think she would say to you now, if she could hear this?” the therapist suggested, “You don’t have to think about it, if you don’t want to.”

Rafe’s breath hitched, and he rubbed the back of his neck. He chuckled, but it came out jagged “Shit, that sounded real fuckin’ pathetic, huh? I can’t even talk about her without losing my shit.”

“It’s not pathetic. Give it a try.”

“I don’t know,” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his noise, “That it’s too late? She’s done with me, and I deserve it. I think she’d still tell me to get my shit together and she’s proud of me for trying, even if I’m still the same fucked-up mess I was when she left, even if she hates me. That’s the kind of person she is.” His throat tightened again, and he looked away. “But even if she did, it doesn’t change the fact that I broke her heart.”

The therapist let the silence stretch for a moment before speaking again. “It’s clear that you’re carrying a lot of pain, not just from losing her, but from how you see yourself in all of this. Have you ever thought about what it might look like to forgive yourself?”

“Forgive myself?” Rafe repeated, his voice incredulous. He shook his head, scoffing. “I don’t even... know what that would look like, y’know?” His leg started bouncing again, the restless energy coursing through him. “How do you even do that? Is there, uh, like, a fucking manual or something for that shit?” His voice cracked on the last word, and he shook his head, “I keep replaying it. All the shit I said to her.”

The therapist didn’t say anything, just watched him, her expression poised. He hated that, how calm she was when he felt like he was losing it.

He huffed, leaning back against the couch. “I mean, yeah, maybe that’s why I’m here. I don’t even know where to fucking start. It’s just—fuck, it’s just a lot. Too much.”

“It’s a lot of guilt for just one person, Rafe,” she pointed out, “Your mom, your dad, your relationship. And I think you’re right—talking about it won’t change the past, but it might help you figure out how to move forward.”

He scoffed “Yeah, okay. Move forward. Sounds easy enough.”

“It’s not easy,” she admitted. “But it’s possible. You don’t have to figure it all out today, or even next month.”

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“You’ve already started,” she pointed out. “You’re here.”

You’re here.

Those two words rattled around in his skull. He was here, but why? To make himself feel better? To prove to himself—or you—that he could do this, could change? Did he even believe that?

He thought about the nights he spent pacing his room, phone in hand, your number glowing on the screen. He’d wanted to call, to apologize, to beg, but he couldn’t. What would he even say?

Rafe let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping, his foot tapping out an uneven rhythm. He didn’t have it in him to argue, not anymore.

“Yeah,” he muttered, “I’m here.”

He was there, sure, but the room still felt small, the air dirty, his own body too restless to sit still for another second. His hands clenched into fists against his thighs, his nails biting into the fabric of his levi’s.

“You say you’re a mess, but you’re here,” the therapist said after a moment, her tone even. “You’re talking about it, trying to figure out what went wrong and what you can do to make it right. That doesn’t sound like someone who’s given up.”

He wanted her to push, to give him a reason to bolt out of there, to justify why this whole thing was a stupid mistake. But she didn’t, she was waiting like she had all the time in the world.

“Why’s it gotta be like this, huh? Why does everything have to hurt so f-fucking much? Why can’t I just... be normal? Like everyone else?”

“Normal is a lot more complicated than it looks. What does ‘normal’ mean to you?”

He scoffed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “I don’t know. Not waking up every day feeling like... like there’s this weight on my chest.”

She nodded slowly, her gaze firm but not invasive. “That sounds exhausting.”

“Yeah, well, welcome to my life,” he scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s like... I can’t turn it off, y’know?” He gestured vaguely at himself, at the space around him. “It’s just there. Always.”

“You mentioned earlier that you feel like you’re not enough,” she said, her tone thoughtful. “Not enough for who?”

“For anyone,” he said immediately, then paused, his throat tightening. “For my dad, for my sisters... for her. I mean, shit, if I can’t even be enough for me, how the fuck am I supposed to be enough for anyone else?”

The therapist smiled faintly, not unkindly. “That’s what we’re here to understand.”

Two hours later and 300$ short, his phone buzzed on the passenger seat, the screen lighting up with two missed calls and a flood of texts. All from Topper.

Rafe grabbed the phone, unlocking it with his thumb and scrolling through the messages.

Topper: “Bro. SOS.” “I think she hates me.” “Like, actually hates me.” “Call me back. This is a situation.”

He huffed out a breath, tossing the phone back onto the seat. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. Topper’s idea of a crisis was probably that your coffee order had foam when you wanted oat milk or some shit.

Rafe rubbed his temples knowing he wasn’t exactly in a position to play mediator.

The last call came in five minutes ago, he muttered, “What the fuck did you do now?” and hit the call button.

Topper picked up on the first ring.

“Rafe!” Topper’s voice was a mess— frantic, breathless, like he’d just run a marathon. “Okay, okay, it’s official—she’s gonna kill me or us—”

“Top, what the fuck are you talking about?” He snapped, already annoyed.

“I—uh—Did you tell her I told you?” Topper stammered. “Because she blocked me, everywhere. She told me, ‘Never speak to me again,’ and blocked me! I’m dead. She’s gonna cut me off for good, man.”

Rafe bit the inside of his cheek, “I didn’t, but Sarah knows you know.”

“Why would you tell her?” Topper grumbled out, “You know she hates me too. She’s the enemy.”

“She’s my sister you fuckin’ idiot.”

“Semantics.”

Rafe leaned back in his seat, staring at the ceiling of his truck. He wanted to hang up, but Topper’s desperation was almost pathetic enough to make him stick around

His friend fell silent for a moment. Then, quietly: “You think she’s gonna be okay? I mean, with everything?”

“I don’t know. But she’s strong. She’s gonna do what she needs to do—whether we’re in the picture or not.”

Topper swallowed audibly. “So… what do I do?”

Rafe sighed, “Give her space. Just… back off and let her come to you. If she even wants to.”

“It’s kinda crazy, right? Asking you for advice? For the longest time, you were public enemy number one. You, the big, bad ex who broke her heart.” Topper’s laugh was nervous, he knew he was pushing it but couldn’t stop himself. “Now she hates me more. Like, I dethroned you. That’s wild.”

“Yeah, hilarious,” he muttered.

Topper either didn’t catch the sarcasm or chose to ignore it. “A real plot twist. I knew I’d screw up eventually, but I didn’t think I’d ever top your record.”

“Topper,” Rafe growled, “this isn’t a fuckin’ joke. You don’t even know the half of it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? You mean, like… she really hates you, or…?”

Wow.

Rafe clicked his tongue in annoyance, “The fuck you think?”

"Wait, wait," Topper said quickly, his voice climbing. "You still haven’t asked her? Confirmed all this? What if I—what if I misunderstood or something?"

His eyes squeezed shut, as if the sheer force of Topper’s stupidity might give him an aneurysm. "Yeah, fuckin' genius. Because it’s so easy to ask someone who won’t even look at me, let alone talk to me."

"Okay, okay, fair," Topper admitted, “Your sister could’ help.”

“Again Top, be fucking serious.”

"Yeah, okay, nevermind. But what if it’s not true? What if I made things worse for no reason?"

"You did make things worse," Rafe snapped, his patience hanging by a thread. "You’re lucky she hasn’t shown up at your door to shoot you.”

"Not helping, dude," Topper muttered, then hesitated. "So… what’re you gonna do? I mean, if she won’t talk to you, if Sarah won’t fess up, how’re you gonna know for sure? What if she really is—y’know—and you’re just sitting here like a dumbass, waiting for a miracle?"

Rafe opened his eyes, staring blankly at the dashboard. Topper wasn’t wrong, but hearing it said out loud made his stomach burn, especially after he just spent a good fucking hour talking about you, pouring his feelings out to a stranger he paid for.

Was he wasting time—time you needed him to be stepping up?

"I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, okay? I want to know, but—she’s got every right to hate me, man. How am I supposed to just… show up and ask her something like that, huh?”

Topper exhaled loudly, his usual bravado replaced with uncharacteristic uncertainty. "Yeah, I guess you’re kinda in a lose-lose situation. Damn. That’s rough, bro."

"Thanks for the insight. Real helpful," Rafe grumbled, running a hand over his face.

“She’s blocking me, she’s not talking to you—you think she’s just gonna wake up one day and decide to make it easy for us? For you?"

Rafe sighed, "No. She’s not."

"So… what’s the move?"

Rafe stared out the windshield, his heart pounding in his chest. What was the move? He didn’t have an answer.

"Guess I’ll figure it out," he said finally, voice rough around the edges.

Topper hummed thoughtfully. "Well, uh, good luck with that. And, y’know, if you figure it out… let me know if I’m, like, still alive in her eyes or if I should start preparing for witness protection."

Rafe rubbed his forehead, trying to avoid the headache that was building behind his eyes. "You’re on your own there.”

"Fair," Topper said lightly, “Shit, this is depressing. We should go on a boat ride tomorrow.”

A boat day? He could almost hear the suggestion in Topper's voice: a desperate, half-hearted attempt to get away from it all.

"Yeah," Rafe hummed, "Maybe.”

"Seriously, though, it might help," Topper said, but he could tell the guy was genuinely losing it, "Get out on the water, clear our heads, get some space.”

Rafe pinched the bridge of his nose, staring at the dashboard “Space,” he repeated hollowly. Empty. "Yeah, I guess.”

Topper's voice came through again, sounding more serious "Just don't stay in your head too long, man. Don't get stuck there. You deserve a break too.”

Maybe the boat ride was the kind of distraction he needed to stop the spiral he’d been going down over the past few days. To stop thinking about all the things he couldn’t fix right now.

"Alrigh’, we’ll do the boat thing."

Topper, as if relieved that Rafe was playing along, responded with a chuckle. “Sweet. I’ll get the cooler ready. It’ll be good. I’ll try not to drive you completely insane.”

“Don’t make any promises,” He rolled his eyes, feeling the tension in his body soothe slightly, though it was still there—a bruise that hadn't healed.

The call ended shortly after, leaving him alone with his thoughts again.

He glanced at the phone, the notifications still lighting up with messages from Topper. He barely glanced at them, his mind turning instead to you, as always. To the things he should have said, the things he should have done. To the feeling of you slipping farther away, out of his reach, out of his life.

He didn’t know what the hell he was doing anymore, didn’t know how to fix any of this.

He just knew that at least for a little while, he wouldn’t have to be alone with his thoughts.

You were at ponguelandia again for the night, it wasn’t exactly where you wanted to be, but beggars can’t be choosers, right?

Sarah had insisted, practically dragged you here after hearing about your “severe anemia” situation. Add the fact that carrying the baby could fuck up your health to the point where you’d be bedridden for the rest of your life (or worse), and it was a recipe for a meltdown.

You couldn’t be alone right now, not after all that. Being around people was better than being alone.

Her and John B were being everything you needed, so you’d put on a happy face and pretend you weren’t dying inside. They were doing their whole supportive couple thing, and it was almost everything you needed—if it weren’t also so annoyingly them. Could they be more in love? Probably not. It was nauseating in the best and worst way, watching the life you could’ve had with someone else if things had turned out differently.

Then there was Kie and JJ. They were around, too, in their usual JJ-and-Kie way: watching you, but not prying, holding back out of respect—or pity. They knew you’d passed out on the beach two weeks ago and that you were “sick,” but Sarah had spared them the details. Small blessings, you guessed.

You were trying your best to keep up the whole "everything’s fine" act, but it was getting exhausting. Sarah had been the one who knew the real story—about the anemia, the baby, the complications—and she was the only one who knew how much of a mess you were in.

You’d asked her not to tell any of them. That didn’t make the pretending any easier. All they knew was that you were feeling a little under the weather, run-down, nothing too serious. You didn’t want to tell them. They’d never understand, not in the way you needed him to. Not when the issue was...everything.

You were curled up on the couch in their messy living room, a blanket thrown over your legs, you were trying to hide under it. You were just tired of pretending you weren’t falling apart inside. But you could do it for Sarah, she deserved to have a normal night, one that wasn’t filled with you sobbing in her arms.

John B was sitting on the other side of the couch, there was an awkward space between you two. Not in a bad way, just... you didn’t really know him. He and Rafe had a history, to say things were tense between them was an understatement. But you liked him for Sarah, he treated her right.

That was more than you could say for a lot of people in her life, so... here you were.

Kie was sitting cross-legged on the armchair, holding a bottle of something that definitely wasn’t soda, while JJ sprawled across the floor by her feet. John B had his arm slung casually around Sarah, who was perched on the couch between you and him, her body half-turned toward you as if she were ready to intervene at a moment’s notice.

Always watching, always waiting.

JJ tossed a pretzel at Kiara, which she caught without looking up.

“So, tomorrow’s the big day,” he announced, grinning like a kid.

Kie rolled her eyes. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“To you,” he shot back, pointing dramatically. “To me? Monumental. Legendary. Historic.”

Sarah groaned. “He’s talking about the party,” she explained, bracing for your reaction.

“What party?” you asked, already regretting the question.

“Just a little thing at Poguelandia,” John B said casually, brushing popcorn crumbs off his jeans. “Bonfire, some drinks, a couple of people. Nothing crazy, it's promotional."

“A couple of people? Dude, half the island’s gonna show up.”

John B shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. “It’s not a party unless it’s packed.”

“Exactly,” JJ said, leaning back on his elbows. “You have to come. It’s gonna be sick.”

You made a face, “I’m not really in a party mood.”

Sarah turned to you immediately, her eyes wide and full of meaning. The look. The one that said, C’mon, you need this.

“It’d be fun,” she pouted, “You could use a little fun right now.”

“I’m fine,” you said, avoiding her eyes and focusing on the popcorn in your lap. “I don’t need a party to cheer me up.”

Kiara raised an eyebrow. “Oh, come on. Just a chill day. You won’t even have to talk to anyone if you don’t want to.”

“And there’ll be drinks,” JJ added with a wink. “Or, you know, drink-adjacent options for those who can’t hang.”

For a second, your stomach almost dropped. Did he know? The way he said it—so casually—it almost felt like he did. It felt like he was teasing you in that obnoxious JJ way, but with an awareness that made you want to crawl out of your skin. But then logic kicked in.

They didn’t know. Not about the baby, at least. As far as they were concerned, you were just sick. Which, to be fair, you were. “Drink-adjacent” made sense because no one expected you to down shots when you could barely keep yourself upright most days.

Still, the comment made you uneasy, and your fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket.

“Right,” you grimaced, your voice stiff. “Because nothing says ‘party’ like seltzer water.”

“That’s the spirit. We’ll even get the fancy kind, with lime or whatever. Really roll out the red carpet for you.”

Kie snorted. “You’re so generous, JJ.”

“Hey, I’m a man of the people baby,” he said, throwing his hands up like he was defending his honor.

Sarah nudged you again, harder this time, and you glanced at her out of the corner of your eye. She was giving you that look again, the one that screamed, Just say yes already.

“You’re not gonna let this go, are you?” you muttered, aiming for annoyed but landing somewhere closer to resigned.

“Nope,” she said brightly.

You sighed, sinking deeper into the couch. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

JJ whooped, pumping a fist in the air like you’d just agreed to crown him king of the Pogues. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

“I didn’t say I was going. I said I’d think about it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, waving you off like the details didn’t matter. “Thinking about it is basically saying yes.” JJ grinned at you, “But y’know,” he started, pointing a lazy finger in your direction, “it’s still kind of insane that you’re here. The literal kook of the kooks.”

You rolled your eyes, “And yet, here I am. Stuck with the pogues. Truly the highlight of my life.”

“Admit it. You love it. The... gritty charm.”

“Right,” you casted a skeptical glance around the room. “Because who wouldn’t love the charm of beer-stained furniture, half-empty snack bags, and... whatever that smell is?” You wrinkled your nose for effect, though you weren’t entirely joking.

The place was a dump.

John B chuckled from his corner of the couch, tossing a piece of popcorn at JJ. “She’s not wrong, man. This place barely qualifies as livable.”

“Livable?” JJ looked mock-offended, clutching his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. “This is prime real estate! You kooks don’t appreciate the artistic chaos.”

Kiara looked up from her phone. “It’s chaos, all right.”

Sarah leaned toward you, her voice low and teasing. “Don’t let him get to you. He’s just salty you make this place look like a dump by comparison.”

“Please,” JJ cut in, leaning forward, “This place looks like a dump because it is a dump. But it’s our dump.” He grinned, flicking his eyes back to you. “And now, apparently, it’s yours too. Welcome to the family, kook princess.”

You snorted, unable to help yourself. “Don’t get used to it.”

JJ clutched his chest again. “Ouch. Cold. But fair.”

The truth was, you did think the place was terrible.

Objectively, it was, you already knew that since last week.

The furniture didn’t match, the walls had stains you didn’t want to think too hard about, and everything felt sticky, even if it wasn’t. You were used to perfect beachfront properties with matching decor and staff that catered to your every whim. This? It was a wreck.

But at the same time, there was something about it that felt... alive. The chaos wasn’t just chaos—it was theirs. The mismatched furniture, the random surfboards propped in corners, the lived-in feel of a space that wasn’t trying to impress anyone. It made you hate it and love it all at once.

Your eyes flicked to Kie, who rolled hers at JJ but couldn’t hide her smile. He said something under his breath, too quiet for anyone else to hear, and she shoved his shoulder in mock annoyance. He grinned at her, that lazy grin he probably didn’t even realize he saved just for her. And she was trying so hard to look unimpressed, but her expression softened anyway, she couldn’t help herself.

Sarah caught you looking and smirked, nudging you. “Cute, right?” she whispered.

You gave her a half-smile, more honest this time. “Annoyingly so.”

JJ, oblivious to the exchange, flopped onto his back. “I don’t know why you all keep insulting my hospitality. If this was a five-star resort, it wouldn’t have vibes.”

“Yeah, vibes of a condemned building,” you grumbled back, unable to help yourself.

And when everyone laughed—Kie’s chuckle, Sarah’s giggle, JJ’s full-blown cackle—you hated yourself a little for loving it here, even as you pretended you didn’t.

Would things have been different if you hadn’t been born a Kook?

The thought hit you out of nowhere, unwelcomely, like it always did when you let your guard down. Would your family still be alive if you weren’t wrapped up in the trappings of wealth and privilege? If your dad hadn’t been able to afford that stupid private jet, if your mom hadn’t insisted on using it for every family trip, if your sister hadn’t tagged along on that one last flight...

It was a cruel, useless spiral of what-ifs that never went anywhere but still had you choking on guilt every time. Because it wasn’t just the money. It was the whole stupid kook world—the private schools, the country clubs, the constant need to show off and be better than everyone else. That world had shaped your family, pushed them into the roles they played, and it had been the death of them, literally and figuratively.

You wondered, not for the first time, if they would’ve been safer if you’d all been normal. Just some middle-class family driving to vacations in an old station wagon, complaining about rest-stop food and fighting over the radio. Maybe your parents wouldn’t have been so busy, and maybe your sister wouldn’t have been on that flight at all.

Your throat burned, and you blinked hard, trying to push the thoughts back where they belonged. The pogues were still talking, still laughing, completely unaware of the war blazing in your head.

“You’re lucky to be here, kook princess. You’re getting the real-life experience.”

You forced a weak smile, still staring at the popcorn. “The real-life experience.”

If this was real life, you thought bitterly, maybe you wouldn’t have so much to regret. Maybe you’d still have them. Maybe you’d even know who you were outside of the perfect, shiny bubble you’d grown up in—one that had popped so catastrophically you were still finding pieces of it in your skin.

Maybe if you hadn’t been born a kook, you wouldn’t have met Rafe when you were kids. You wouldn’t have been his best friend, wouldn’t have spent your whole childhood trailing after him, clinging to every crooked smile and reckless dare like they were proof that you mattered.

You wouldn’t have fallen in love with him at sixteen, back when you thought love meant him driving you to the beach in his dad’s truck, his hand on your thigh, telling you you were the only person who really got him. You wouldn’t have had your heart broken by him now, when he was with someone else. Your hand drifted to your stomach, a subconscious gesture that made your breath hitch. You wouldn’t be pregnant with his kid, either. Or sick.

You’d built this whole life around him without even realizing it.

Would it have been better? Not having Rafe at all?

You wanted to say yes. You wanted to imagine a version of your life where he’d never existed, where you didn’t have his name carved into your heart. Where you weren’t here now, still loving him. Where you weren’t pregnant and alone while he was somewhere else.

The truth—the awful, undeniable truth—was that you couldn’t imagine your life without him.

For all the ways he’d broken you, Rafe had been the one to hold you together when everything else fell apart, the one who pulled you out of bed when you couldn’t find the strength, who made you laugh when you thought you’d forgotten how.

If it weren’t for him, you didn’t know if you’d even be here now.

And you wouldn’t trade the sound of his laugh for anything in the world. Not the condescending biting one he used to throw around when he was being an ass, but the real one, the one that came out when he was caught off guard.

Even if you hated him, you couldn’t regret him. Not all the way. Not enough to wish he’d never been in your life. Despite all of it—he’d been there when no one else was, that was enough to keep him tethered to your heart, even now, when you wished it wasn’t.

“Earth to princess,” Kiara's voice cut through your thoughts, bringing you back to the dimly lit room and the blanket over your legs. She waved a hand in front of your face, “You still with us, or are you planning your escape route?”

You forced a smile, “Just trying to figure out how I got roped into your weird little cult, that’s all.”

They laughed, the sound was bright enough to pull you out of your head, just for a moment. It wasn’t the same as Rafe’s laugh, but it was something. Right now, you’d take it.

When you woke up, the house was already buzzing.

The pogues were up and at it, setting up for whatever party they had planned. You’d slept in, which wasn’t like you, but Sarah had all but forced you to stay in bed last night, insisting you needed the rest. She’d even made John B sleep on the couch so you could take his spot in their bed. You felt bad—guilty, really—you tried to tell her it wasn’t necessary, but Sarah was Sarah. Stubborn, loyal, annoyingly sweet Sarah.

The morning, however, had been nothing short of a disaster.

You barely made it out of bed before you were sprinting to the bathroom, dry-heaving over the toilet like you’d had one too many shots at a party the night before. Except, this wasn’t from partying—it was the fucking morning sickness. Thank God everyone else was outside setting up, or you’d have to deal with their questions.

You stayed in the bathroom longer than you wanted to, rinsing your mouth out and glaring at yourself in the mirror like your reflection was to blame for your misery. Your hair was a mess, your skin looked pale. You looked like shit.

To make matters worse, the house was painfully loud. Every noise from outside echoed through the shitty walls, stabbing into your head. The party. Where everyone would be drinking, laughing, and probably noticing that you were the only one sitting in a corner looking like you’d been hit by a train.

Groaning, you wiped your face with a cold washcloth. “Fuck,” you complained under your breath, glaring at yourself in the mirror.

You grabbed the bottle of pre-natal vitamins from your bag, the ones that looked like horse pills, and twisted off the cap. The nausea was already crawling up your throat again, and the last thing you wanted was to shove a giant vitamin down your stomach.

You didn't have much of a choice. You needed it, not just for the baby, but because of the anemia. If you didn't stay on top of it, you’d end up worse than you felt now—and that was already a nightmare you were trying to avoid.

You stared at the pill in your hand, mentally preparing yourself.

“Just swallow it,” you muttered, willing yourself into doing it. It took a moment, but you finally threw it back. You chased it down with a sip of water, grimacing as it settled in your stomach. It felt like you were choking on a rock, and you had to fight to keep your stomach from revolting all over again.

For a while, you sat back on the edge of the bed, elbows on your knees, head in your hands, hating the lingering taste of bile in your mouth even after your oral hygiene.

You let yourself fall back, staring at the ceiling fan as it spun lazily, pressing a hand to your stomach, not out of affection but frustration.

"I’m trying here, okay? Can you at least meet me halfway?" you muttered.

The distant noises and commotion from outside seeped in through the window, but it only made you feel more isolated. You reached for your phone, scrolling aimlessly through notifications you didn’t care about. A text from Sarah popped up: "Take your time. We’ve got it covered out here.”

You tossed the phone aside, rubbing your temples. You wished you could just stay here all day, curled up under the covers, but the thought of Sarah’s concerned face, of the inevitable questions and glances, made that impossible. You were tired of being a problem, tired of being the fragile one everyone tiptoed around.

You sighed, knowing there was no way you’d make it through this day without looking like total crap. You grabbed a hoodie from the back of the door, tossed your hair up into a bun, and made your way downstairs.

You found her in the kitchen, already pouring drinks and bossing JJ and Pope around. She spotted you lingering in the doorway and waved you off before you could say anything.

“Nope,” she shook her head, clicking her tongue at you like you were a misbehaving child. “Don’t even think about it. Go sit down. Rest. It’s gonna be a long day, and you need it, okay?”

You blinked at her, then at the mess around the house. Decorations were half-done outside, the tables and counter were an explosion of snacks, and JJ was currently trying to balance three folding chairs in one hand like a party trick. Kie was arguing with John B about where the cooler should go, and Sarah was somehow keeping it all from falling apart.

You leaned against the doorway, hand still on your stomach, glaring at her as she poured some sort of drink into a plastic cup. “You could’ve woken me up. I’m not completely useless.”

Sarah spun around, eyebrows raised and gave you a look that could kill. “Uh, no, you don’t get to complain. I let you sleep in because you need it, and I’m not about to let you overdo it, okay.”

You sighed, leaning against the counter. “I feel like a freeloader right now.”

“You’re not a freeloader,” Sarah said, rolling her eyes. “You’re my sister. And you’ve been through... a lot. So just chill. We’ve got this.”

“I’m not an invalid.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re pregnant, which means you’re officially on my do-not-let-her-do-anything list. Now go sit your ass down before I make one of them carry you.”

“Don’t drag them into this,” you muttered, but you were already giving up the fight. Sarah was like a pit bull when she made up her mind, and there was no arguing with her. You nodded reluctantly, letting her win this one. It wasn’t like you had the energy to argue anyway.

Outside, the rest of the group was scattered around the yard, setting up for what promised to be a classic pogues-style party. Pope and Cleo had arrived at some point; Pope was trying to figure out how to hang a string of lights between two trees, while Cleo stood nearby, holding a roll of tape and offering sarcastic commentary.

“Maybe if you’d let me do it, we wouldn’t be out here for an hour,” Cleo teased, tilting her head.

“And maybe if you didn’t talk so much, I could concentrate, baby.”

JJ was dragging a cooler across the sand, muttering something about how “beer doesn’t carry itself,” while Kie followed behind him, laughing and tossing bags of chips into a pile on the picnic table.

Sarah joined you on the porch, a can of sparkling water in her hand. “See? We’ve got it under control,” she said, gesturing to the scene in front of you. “Now, sit down, relax, and enjoy the show.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What about you? Aren’t you gonna take your own advice?”

Sarah grinned, “I’ll relax when the party starts. For now, my mission is to make sure you don’t lift a finger.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but you love me,” she replied, linking her arm through yours.

And she wasn’t wrong. As much as you hated being doted on, it was hard not to appreciate everything she’d been doing for you.

Cleo spotted you from across the yard and waved, her smile wide and warm. “Yo! You gonna come hang out or just stand there looking pretty?”

“Both,” JJ called out, smirking as he cracked open a beer.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling.

“I said pretty, rude boy. It doesn’t include your ass.”

“Cleo, you wound me. I thought we had something special.”

“Yeah, it’s called my patience, and it’s runnin’ real thin,” Cleo yelled back, smirking as she handed Pope the tape. “Here. Fix your mess before the whole damn tree comes down.”

Pope muttered something under his breath but took the tape anyway, climbing back onto the ladder. “You could’ve just done this yourself if you were so sure about it.”

“And rob you of the chance to prove me wrong? Never,” Cleo quipped, crossing her arms as she stepped back to watch him work.

The two of you headed toward the table where Kie was busy arranging snacks, her brows furrowed in concentration.

“How are we still out of guac?” She muttered, her tone more annoyed than concerned. “I swear I made enough to feed an army.”

“Your boyfriend happened,” Sarah said without missing a beat. “I saw him sneak off with a bowl earlier.”

Kie groaned, hands on her hips as she glared at the blonde boy, who was now lounging in a chair with his feet propped up on the cooler.

“You are a menace to society.”

“And yet, here I am, invited to all your parties,” JJ replied, raising his beer in a mock toast.

Kie grabbed a chip and threw it at him, hitting him square in the forehead, "It's your party too, dick."

“Guys,” Pope called out from the ladder, sounding exasperated. “Can someone just hold the other end of the lights? I’m not trying to die out here.”

“I got it,” Cleo said, strolling over and grabbing the string of lights. “Don’t let go of that tape, or you’re on your own.”

Cleo had finally climbed up the ladder with Pope, muttering something sarcastic, only for him to pull her into a quick kiss that made her giggle.

It wasn’t long before everyone started getting ready for the party. It was only around 3:30, but you could tell everyone was in full-on prep mode, running around and grabbing last-minute things. You figured you should probably start getting ready, too, if you wanted to make it to the party without looking completely out of it.

You escaped, fully aware that Sarah would check on you soon if you didn’t start moving. Sitting on the bed, you scrolled aimlessly for outfit inspiration, but everything felt wrong—too tight, too flashy, or too… not you. You hadn’t exactly packed for a pogues-style party, and the thought of showing up in your worn-out jeans or one of John B’s oversized T-shirts made you shudder.

Sarah’s closet caught your eye, the door slightly ajar. A beacon of decent fashion that you knew was still hiding in there, despite her efforts to shed the kook label. She still had a few relics from her old life, buried beneath tie-dye and frayed denim.

You’d teased her about it last week, calling her out for keeping a little piece of her former self tucked away. She’d rolled her eyes and said, “A girl’s gotta have options.”

Today, you needed those options.

You bypassed the flashier options in favor of something understated. Nestled between a linen sundress and a denim jacket was exactly what you needed: a simple, fitted black dress. It was sleeveless, with a subtle scoop neckline and a hemline that hit just above the knee. The fabric was soft and unassuming but hugged your frame just right, giving it a quietly polished look.

“This one,” you murmured, pulling it off the hanger. It wasn’t loud or overly attention-grabbing—more like the kind of dress that someone who didn’t need to try would wear.

Elegant, minimal, perfect.

Sliding it on, you immediately felt the difference. It didn’t scream for attention, but it made you feel put together, which was exactly what you needed right now. You ran your hands over the fabric, smoothing out any wrinkles before stepping into a pair of nude sandals you’d found shoved in the back of the closet. Flat, simple, and mercifully easy to walk in.

Sarah popped her head in just as you were brushing your hair out into soft waves. “There she is,” she said, giving you a once-over. “God forbid you wear something ugly, huh?”

You tugged lightly at the hem of the dress. “I’m doing this closet justice.”

“You are. I forgot I even had that dress or I would've given it away."

“Thank God for that,” you replied, slipping on a simple gold bracelet you found on her dresser. “The pogues' style is great and all, but I have my limits.” You hadn’t even touched your makeup yet. With a sigh, you glanced at Sarah. “I’ll be ready in five.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t tease, already heading downstairs to check on the others. You glanced at the clock—it was almost party time, but you needed a few more minutes to look presentable.

You grabbed her makeup bag from her vanity and settled in front of the mirror. Starting with a light layer of foundation, you evened out your complexion. You weren’t trying to hide anything; you just needed to look less like you’d just rolled out of bed.

For the first time in what felt like years, you weren’t thinking about the baby. You weren’t worrying about keeping your secret from Rafe or everyone else around you. You weren’t wrapped up in the anxiety of it all. Instead, you were just doing something that felt simple, that belonged to your age—putting on makeup, getting ready for a party, like a normal twenty-year-old something woman.

This was the most normal you’d felt in months.

You’d been so consumed with everything pregnancy-related, trying to stay on top of your emotions while dealing with the fear of being found out. It was exhausting. You had forgotten what it felt like to be carefree, to be you—not just someone wrapped up in worry. There was something so familiar about it—the way the brush swept across your skin, the way you mixed your bronzer just right to highlight your cheekbones. It felt like the old you. Who knew this shit could be so therapeutic?

A soft sigh slipped from your lips. You needed more moments like this. Simple, easy moments where you didn’t have to think about the rest of the world. Just doing your makeup. Just getting dressed. Just being you—even for a little while.

When you made your way downstairs again, the mess had somehow multiplied. The house was alive with movement, and the sound of JJ yelling something unintelligible from the backyard. People had already started arriving—pogues, and a handful of kooks who never missed a good party. You spotted Sarah in the kitchen, pouring drinks into a massive punch bowl, looking entirely in her element.

You sidled up to Kie, who was setting out plates of food with military precision. “Hey, you need any help with this? Or anything, really?”

Kie glanced up, her brows shooting toward her hairline as she appraised you. “Is this the control freak in you?”

“Funny,” you deadpanned, leaning on the counter. “Seriously, though. Put me to work.”

She snorted, grabbing a handful of napkins and shoving them into your hands. “Fine. You can help set these out on the tables outside. But if Sarah catches you, this conversation didn’t happen.”

“Deal.”

The yard looked like something out of a fever dream. String lights were half-strung between trees, chairs and tables were scattered everywhere. A cooler sat precariously close to tipping over, its contents already being raided by JJ, who was popping open another beer while Cleo scolded him for being “absolutely useless.”

You moved through the yard, laying out napkins and straightening plates, feeling some of the earlier tension and sleep deprivation ease from your back. It felt good to do something normal, something productive. By the time you circled back to the porch, Sarah was waiting for you, hands on her hips and a knowing look in her eyes. “I thought I told you to sit down.”

You shrugged, trying to play it off. “Kie needed help. I’m fine.”

Sarah didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push it. Instead, she handed you a cup of water and gestured toward one of the chairs on the porch. “At least pretend you’re taking it easy, okay? You’re gonna need your energy when this party really gets going.”

You rolled your eyes but took the seat, sipping the drink as you watched the guests buzz around the yard.

Cleo and Kiara were already in tears laughing as JJ dramatically narrated Pope’s “world record attempt,” complete with fake announcer voice. By the time Pope finally flipped upside down with his help, everyone was cheering loud enough to drown out the music blasting from the backyard speakers.

JJ was yelling something about “legendary keg stand form” as Pope balanced upside down on the keg, supported by Cleo and a very unenthused Kie.

It was hilarious watching his usually composed demeanor dissolve into giggles as beer dripped down his face, but even funnier was JJ hyping him up like this was the Olympics. “That’s my boy! New record! Somebody time this shit!”

You laughed, for once letting yourself enjoy the day. It felt good to be surrounded by fun, to not be caught up in your head for a change. Maybe Sarah had been right—you needed this.

For once, you were wiping tears of laughter from your eyes. It felt so good to do it too, to feel like you were part of something instead of just watching from the sidelines. You could breathe again.

Pope wobbled, barely lasting ten seconds before collapsing onto the grass. JJ threw his arms up like they’d just won the championship, shouting, “A legend was born tonight!”

You felt all the stress and heaviness you’d been dragging and moping around had finally been put on pause.

Then, subtle at first, a tickle at the back of your neck, a whisper of unease. You moved around on the railing, trying to shake it off. You glanced around, casually at first, scanning the crowd. Everyone seemed caught up in something—JJ was on his third keg stand attempt, Kie and Cleo were busy arguing over the playlist, and the rest of the partygoers were either dancing or clustered around the fire pit.

Nothing out of the ordinary. You tried to ignore it at first, brushing it off as your brain’s way of being a buzzkill. It had a way of doing that—ruining a perfectly good night with its tendency to overanalyze everything. You were having a good time, and you weren’t about to let paranoia ruin it.

But then you spotted her, Sofia.

She was standing near the back door, lit by the string lights strung across the porch, holding a beer cup. And she was staring at you.

Not just a quick glance, not the way someone looks when they’re zoning out. No. This was…staring. Your stomach twisted. This couldn’t be about you, she was just drunk and in her feelings or whatever. But there was something about the way she looked—sad, almost heartbroken—that made you want to bolt home.

You turned away, feeling like you couldn’t breathe, the night wasn’t as fun anymore. Maybe she wasn’t even looking at you. Except, you couldn’t shake it. You drained the rest of your water and headed inside to refill it, telling yourself you needed a second to breathe.

But of course, the second you stepped into the kitchen, Sofia was there.

She was crying—full-on crying—her mascara smudged and her cheeks streaked with tears. She was drunk, that much was obvious, so drunk she had to grab the counter.

Jesus.

“Uh…? Are you okay?”

You weren’t Sofia’s biggest fan.

She had the love of your life—the guy you’d once thought was it for you—and that alone made it impossible to feel anything but complicated about her. Add to that the fact that she was a pogue, and… you’d never been friends.

The last thing you wanted to do tonight was play therapist, especially not for her. But she was still a girl, drunk and crying in the middle of a party, and no matter how much history—or lack thereof—existed between you, there was no way you were going to leave her like that.

You sighed, setting your cup down on the counter, “Do you need to sit down? Water?”

She only sobbed harder. Okay, not helping, noted.

“Hey, sit down,” you murmured, guiding her to the bench by the window. She didn’t resist, collapsing onto it.

Her eyes glassy and red. She looked up at you like you were the last person she wanted to see, but also, somehow, the only one she needed.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, her voice cracked. “I shouldn’t—this wasn’t supposed to happen.”

You crouched down in front of her, arms resting on your knees as you tried to figure out what the hell she meant. “What wasn’t supposed to happen? Did someone do something to you?”

“No,” she said quickly, shaking her head hard enough to make her curls bounce. “No, it’s not like that. It’s just… it’s Rafe. He—” Her voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands.

The second she said his name—Rafe—you already knew.

You didn’t know the details, didn’t need them, but you knew it was going to hurt like a bitch. That name always did.

Sofia’s voice cracked again, her words coming out between hiccuping breaths and slurred apologies, but you’d already braced yourself for whatever you were about to hear.

And yet, when she finally said it—he dumped me—it still felt like someone had thrown a bucket of water in your face.

What the fuck were you supposed to say to that?

"I’m not sure what you want me to do with this."

She flinched, her glassy eyes darting up to meet yours, but she didn’t say anything, just sniffled and stared at you like you had all the answers. You didn’t. Not for her.

"You’re upset, I get that," you continued, "But coming to me about Rafe? Really? What did you think was going to happen here?"

Her lip trembled, you thought she might start wailing again. "I—I didn’t plan this, okay? I just… I didn’t know who else to—"

On one hand, you felt bad for her.

How could you not? She was drunk, sobbing, in a way that felt painfully familiar. But on the other hand… what the fuck did she expect? She’d dated Rafe—your Rafe—knowing you were a six-year-long shadow she could never step out of.

She was with him knowing now she wanted you to what? Comfort her? Be her shoulder to cry on?

This wasn’t the time to be petty or mean, not when she was looking at you like you were the only person who could possibly understand.

“H-he dumped me,” she repeated, her voice cracking. “said… he said he’s not over you. That he c-can’t give me what I d-deserve because… because his heart’s still with you.”

You pursed your lips, a tangled knot of guilt, and something dangerously close to vindication swimming in your head.

Of course, it felt good to hear it—of course it did. But that didn’t make it easier to watch another girl fall apart in front of you because of him. As pathetic as it was, you knew what it felt like to be that girl.

You bit the inside of your cheek, holding back the snarky comment sitting on your tongue. As much as this whole thing screamed bad decision after bad decision, she was still here, crying her eyes out, and you weren’t heartless. Not entirely, anyway.

“I knew,” she whispered, “I knew he wasn’t over you. From the beginning. I thought I c-could… I don’t know. Change his mind?” She let out a choked sob. “I’m sittin' h-here, drunk and crying to you, of all people, because I d-didn’t li-isten to my gut when it told me to walk away. I’m sorry,” she blubbered, wiping at her face with the sleeve of her shirt. “I shouldn’t be bothering you with this. You probably hate me.”

You didn’t answer right away because, yeah, she wasn’t entirely wrong. You didn’t like her, that was for damn sure. But hate? Hate took too much energy.

You didn’t know what to say to that. Couldn’t say what you really thought—that she should’ve walked away, that no one could ever fill a space someone else left behind. So instead, you sat down beside her.

“I know it doesn’t help,” you said finally, “but it’s not your fault. Rafe… he’s complicated. He doesn’t know what he wants half the time, and even when he does, he’s too scared to hold on to it.”

She looked at you through teary eyes. “He held on to you for years.”

“Yeah. And look how that turned out.”

"If this is how I feel now, I can’t even imagine what you went through."

You bit your lip. She honestly thought this was the time for some heartfelt apology? God, bless her heart—no, scratch that, bless her delusions. She was standing there, looking like a wet mess, telling you she couldn’t imagine how you felt? If only she knew.

You sighed, grabbing a towel from the counter and tossing it at her. "Here. Fix your face. You look like you’ve been crying in a frat basement."

She caught the towel, her cheeks burning as she dabbed at her ruined makeup. "I—thanks," Her voice shook as she continued her drunk ramble, "I didn’t know... I didn’t realize how bad it hurt you."

You took a breath, part of you wanting to snap at her, tell her it was too little, too late. You could’ve easily unleashed all the venom you’d kept inside for so long. But then, there was that little voice in your head—one that, surprisingly, wasn’t making fun of her. You couldn’t be that cruel, you weren’t heartless, no matter how complicated things had gotten.

Sofia, in this state—drunk, emotional—didn’t deserve that.

"You need to get your shit together, stop letting your entire world revolve around him.” You could see her flinch at that last part, but you weren’t done yet.

How ironic.

"You’re better than this. You don’t need a guy—especially Rafe—to make you feel whole. I learned something, and you’re going to learn it too. Life doesn’t revolve around some guy’s bullshit feelings. The sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be, put yourself first, always. I’ve been there. You’ve got to live with the fact that he chose someone else. It doesn’t matter if you did everything right—sometimes, it’s just not enough."

There was a part of you that really felt sorry for her, the part that was human, not just jaded from all the pain. But there was also a voice in your head saying, You don’t owe her understanding.

Loving Rafe Cameron could feel like the best and worst thing at the same time.

You watch her carefully, making sure she’s soaking it in. "You deserve better than a guy who doesn't know how to value you. And don’t get me wrong, I get it. We’ve all been there. You can’t fix him."

Sofia was still sniffling and wiping her eyes, catching her breath, maybe even trying to piece things together. You felt like you had done something... good? Maybe not good, but at least you’d been the bigger person, showing her a bit of mercy.

Before she could answer, the door creaked, and you both turned to see your cousin standing there. Instantly, all alarm bells went off in your head, your eyes narrowing instantly, hands searching for something to throw at his face.

"Topper," you spit out, the name coming out like acid, "What the fuck are you doing here?"

ooop- y'all not ready for chapter 12 heheheh

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