#because she NEEDS to be in control of things

[maskedbyghost]

this is part 2 to toxic ex!Simon Riley x f!Reader, smut, mdni

You hadn’t planned to cry, and honestly, you weren’t even sure why your chest felt tight in the first place. It was just supposed to be a walk, nothing more, just some fresh air and sunshine and maybe a break from your own thoughts.

You thought moving your body might help. Maybe if you just walked far enough, breathed deep enough, looked up at the clouds instead of staring at your bedroom ceiling, something would click into place and you’d feel like yourself again. Like a person again.

But the universe clearly had other plans.

Because every corner you turned, there was another couple.

They weren’t even being obnoxious about it. It wasn’t the affection that made you roll your eyes or want to vomit. It was worse. It was the soft stuff, the connection you could feel without even hearing a word of it.

A guy was walking with his girlfriend, and his hand was resting right at the small of her back. Another couple sat under a tree with a checkered blanket spread out beneath them. She was half in his lap, trying to balance her drink, laughing at something he had said, and he was holding her as if she were made of glass and sunlight, one arm wrapped around her waist and the other brushing her hair with his hands, slowly.

An older couple walked by, holding hands, their fingers intertwined so casually that it made your throat ache. She was talking, he was nodding, and they stopped every few steps to point at the flowers planted along the sidewalk like they had all the time in the world.

And you just… froze.

It wasn’t jealousy. It wasn’t even sadness, just this deep yearning that settled heavy in your chest and refused to budge, this desperate ache for something that didn’t hurt, something soft, something simple, something that didn’t feel like you were holding your breath all the time, afraid of saying the wrong thing or asking for too much.

You wanted to be held. Not grabbed, nor thrown onto a bed because someone couldn’t control themselves. You wanted to be chosen in the quiet moments, when there was no sex or tension or drama to sweeten the deal. You wanted someone to look at you and think, There you are. I’ve been waiting for you.

You sat down on the nearest bench, dropped your phone into your lap, and just stared at the grass. You didn’t want to cry in public, not really, but the sting was there, just behind your eyes, and you blinked fast, hoping it’d go away.

Your phone buzzed.

You didn’t even want to check. You already knew, somehow, like a sixth sense, or maybe just muscle memory.

“Come over. I’ll order Thai. You can stay.”

As if it was some kind of prize. Like the offer of food and his bed was supposed to feel anything other than a pity invitation. Like that sentence wasn’t the exact same breadcrumb he’d been throwing your way for months, just enough to keep you following, never enough to satisfy.

He wasn’t saying I miss you. He wasn’t saying I’m sorry I hurt you or I didn’t know what I had until you were gone. He was saying Come over. Like this was still a game he was winning.

And maybe a week ago, hell, maybe even yesterday, you would’ve paused. You would’ve stared at the message with that same dull throb in your chest and thought maybe this time will be different. Maybe he means it. Maybe he’s trying.

But right now?

Right now, you felt done.

Done with making excuses for him. Done with confusing attention for affection. Done with dragging your heart behind you like dead weight every time he pulled you back in with nothing more than a half-assed promise and a takeout order.

Your fingers hovered for a second, just long enough to acknowledge the part of you that still wanted to believe he’d ever be capable of giving you what you needed.

And then you typed:

“No. We’re done, Simon. For real this time. Don’t text me again.”

Your thumb hit send before your brain could stop you, before your heart could scream, before the echo of what if could take root and grow into something dangerous again.

And then, without waiting for the three dots to pop up, without giving yourself a chance to hesitate or soften or let him back in even a little you blocked the number.

And that was it.

Your hand was trembling, your eyes burned, but the tears didn’t fall. And your heartbeat was steady in your chest, like it was relieved.

You looked up at the sky. Watched the clouds move slowly across the blue. They didn’t know what it meant to panic over someone who didn’t care.

You weren’t happy, not yet. But for the first time in too long, you didn’t feel chained to him anymore.

And that, in itself, felt like something.

...

You hadn’t seen him in over two weeks.

No texts, no calls, no sudden knocks at your door. No glimpses of him near your job, no DMs from new burner accounts, nor mutual friends trying to convince you he was “going through it.”

And honestly? You were starting to think he’d finally gotten the message. That maybe he’d realized what it meant when you said we’re done. That he’d felt the silence for what it was: a full stop, not a pause.

But then he showed up. Of course he did.

You were walking home from the grocery store, just a quick trip for bread and milk and some random snacks you didn’t need but bought anyway because the act of filling your cupboards made you feel happier. You’d just turned the corner onto your street, earbuds in, music low, mind somewhere else entirely, when you looked up and froze.

He was leaning against your building. And he had the nerve to be casual about it too, his arms crossed, head down like this wasn’t completely insane. He looked up when you stopped walking, and his mouth did that slow curl into a grin that used to make your stomach flip but now just made your jaw tighten.

You pulled your earbuds out and said nothing.

“Hey,” he said, as if this was normal or completely not out of bounds. “You’ve been hard to reach.”

“Simon,” you started, your voice flat, your pulse already kicking up. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “You blocked my number and my backup email. You weren’t really leaving me a lot of options.”

You blinked, stunned at how casually he said it. “So you decided to stalk me instead?”

“That’s a dramatic word,” he said, pushing off the wall and walking toward you like you weren’t already backing away slightly, trying to hold onto your grip. “I just wanted to talk. You made that impossible.”

“I made it impossible because we broke up,” you snapped, dropping your grocery bag onto the steps with more force than necessary. “I told you not to text me. Not to call. I said we were done—done, Simon—what don’t you get?”

He smiled again, that infuriating smirk, like you’d just said something cute instead of trying to set a boundary.

“Yeah,” he said, cocking his head. “We broke up, sure. But that doesn’t mean you get to erase me.”

You stared at him, jaw slack. “Are you actually hearing yourself?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Simon said, stepping closer now, his voice calmer, which, honestly, made you want to scream. “You think a couple texts and a blocklist are gonna make me forget what we were? You really think that’s enough?”

“I don’t want you to forget,” you snapped. “I want you to leave me alone. I want you to understand that this—whatever this was—is over. I’m not doing this anymore. I don’t belong to you.”

Something in his expression shifted then, just a flicker. A twitch of his jaw, a tightening of the eyes. You’d seen that look before, right before the walls went up. Right before the mask slipped into place.

“You keep saying we’re over,” Simon said slowly, “but you don’t get it.”

He stepped in so close you could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the scent of his skin, that cologne he always wore too much of, the one that used to make you ache but now just made your stomach turn.

“You and me?” he whispered. “We’re never really over.”

Your breath hitched, and for a second—for one stupid, fleeting second—you felt that pull again. That old, broken, magnetic force that lived in the space between his mouth and yours, in the memory of what it felt like to be wanted by him.

But you were so fucking tired of confusing that with love. So you stepped back.

You looked him dead in the eye, and you said:

“What do you want from me, Simon? Seriously. Do you want me to scream? Do you want me to cry? Do you want me to fall apart in front of you just so you can feel something? Because whatever this is—it’s not love, it’s not real. It’s you, trying to control me. And I’m done letting you.”

He didn’t say anything.

Just stood there. And you picked up your bag again, turned on your heel, and walked away. You didn’t look back, didn’t have to.

Because this time? You were the one leaving him behind.

...

It had been weeks.

Weeks of silence, weeks of healing, and pretending you were ready to move on, even when your heart still felt like a battlefield he’d walked away from without ever looking back.

So when your coworker asked you out—the nice one, the one who remembered your coffee order and always held the elevator—you said yes.

You didn’t feel fireworks, nor did you get butterflies. But you also didn’t feel dread, or the bone-deep exhaustion that came from chasing someone who only ever looked back when you were halfway out the door.

And maybe that was enough. Maybe soft was what you needed now. Safe and simple.

He took you to a cozy little restaurant tucked off the main street, the kind with candlelight and mismatched chairs and a menu written entirely in cursive. He held the door open for you, pulled your chair out when you sat, complimented your dress without looking at your chest. And you smiled, even if it felt a little forced. You laughed, even if it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You tried...

Halfway through the meal, you excused yourself to the bathroom. The ladies’ room was down a narrow hallway in the back, quiet and dim, music muffled through the walls. You were halfway there when you felt it.

That shift in the air.

That awareness that only ever came from one person. And you didn’t even get the chance to turn around before he was there.

He stepped out from the shadows of the hallway like a fucking ghost, like he’d been waiting, like he knew you’d be here and timed it down to the minute. And before you could speak, before you could even breathe, he had you pressed up against the wall, one arm caging you in, the other sliding slowly along your waist.

His mouth was at your ear in an instant, voice low, thick, dirty.

“Really, sweetheart?” he murmured, breath warm against your skin. “This the best you can do?”

Your heart slammed in your chest. Your hands went to his chest, pushing lightly, but you didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He leaned in closer, body not quite touching yours but so fucking close, you could feel the heat radiating off him like fire.

“You think he’s gonna fuck you better than I do?” he whispered, and it wasn’t even a question—it was filth wrapped in confidence. “You think he even knows what to do with you? Bet he doesn’t even know how you sound when you beg. Doesn’t know how your thighs shake when I’ve got my mouth on you—”

“Stop it,” you hissed, voice shaking, but your knees were already weak and your throat felt tight.

Simon smirked, eyes dark and gleaming. “Can’t stop thinking about it, can you? His hands won't feel right, will they? Bet you’d picture mine every time he touches you.”

Your hands pushed harder now, but he didn’t flinch.

“And what about when he’s inside you?” Simon rasped, mouth brushing your jaw, teeth grazing skin just enough to make you gasp. “You gonna close your eyes and pretend it’s me?”

“At least he’ll fucking stay,” you snapped, louder now, anger burning through the haze. “At least he won’t leave the second he gets what he wants. At least I won’t wake up to an empty bed.”

That got him. His jaw clenched instantly.

But he didn’t move. He just stared at you, breathing hard, hands twitching like he didn’t know whether to touch you or punch a hole in the wall beside your head.

You shoved him. Hard.

“Get the fuck out of my way.”

Simon didn’t move right away. He just stood there, watching you like you’d gutted him, like your words had cut deeper than you’d meant them to—but you didn’t regret it.

Not this time.

You stepped around him, ignoring the way your legs trembled beneath you, head high, heart pounding like it was trying to tear its way out of your chest.

You didn’t look back.

You walked straight back to the table, sat down, and smiled at your date like your ex hadn’t just whispered filth into your ear in a hallway like a man possessed.

“Everything okay?” your date asked gently.

You nodded.

“Yeah,” you said. “The bathroom line was just long.”

...

The walk back to your apartment felt like an out-of-body experience.

Your date had walked you home, smiling the entire way, hands tucked into his pockets, making soft jokes that you tried to laugh at, even though your stomach had been turning since the second you stepped out of the restaurant. He was kind. He listened, he held the door open, and he even complimented your dress without leering. And when you reached your door, he leaned in and kissed you, soft and gentle, just like the kind of kiss you should want from someone like him.

And you felt nothing. Not even a flicker, not even a spark.

You kissed him back out of politeness, maybe even a little guilt, and when you stepped away and thanked him for dinner, he smiled like he’d had a good time. And you hated that you hadn’t. Hated that he was everything you said you wanted—safe, respectful, sweet—and all you could think about the whole fucking night was Simon’s mouth, Simon’s hands, Simon whispering filth and promises and pain in your ear like he was made to ruin you.

By the time you reached your door, your hands were shaking. Not from fear, but from rage.

From this endless, exhausting loop of trying to do the right thing and still craving the wrong one.

You fumbled with your keys, cursing under your breath, eyes burning. You wanted to scream. Wanted to punch a wall. Wanted to shove Simon’s face into the fact that he’d broken you so thoroughly that now, even when someone was good to you, it felt wrong.

The door opened. And there he was.

Simon.

Sitting on your couch but he didn’t look cocky this time. Didn’t smirk or lean back with that smug glint in his eye. He just sat there, elbows on his knees, head in his hands like he didn’t even know what to say anymore.

You dropped your purse.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” your voice cracked, sharp and loud in the quiet room.

He stood, slowly, but you were already walking toward him, hands clenched, eyes blazing.

“How dare you?” you hissed. “How fucking dare you be here again. After everything.”

“Just listen—”

“No!” you snapped. “No, you don’t get to talk. You don’t get to sit there and act like you’re confused about why I don’t want you in my life. You ruined me, Simon.”

He flinched, and good. You wanted it to hurt.

“You took everything I gave you, every part of me, and you made it ugly.” Your voice shook now, rage mixing with grief. “You used me when you wanted company. Tossed me when you were bored. And I kept coming back, like a fucking idiot, thinking maybe this time you’d mean it when you kissed me.”

He was quiet.

“I went on a date tonight,” you spat. “With someone who treated me like I mattered. Someone who held doors and remembered things I said and kissed me like he gave a damn, and do you know what I thought the whole time?”

Simon swallowed, barely whispering, “What?”

You shook your head, tears stinging your eyes now.

“I thought about you,” you said, voice cracking. “I thought about your fucking mouth, about your hands. I thought about how I’d rather have your soft kiss than his perfect one. And I hate myself for it.”

Simon took a step forward. “I never meant to—”

“Don’t,” you snapped, voice trembling now. “Don’t stand there and act like this just happened. You did this. You made me believe you’d never care, and now I’m so fucking broken I can’t even feel anything from someone who actually tries. I still picture you when I think about love, Simon. That’s the worst part.”

He was right in front of you now, his breathing shallow, his eyes wide as he just watched you split yourself open in front of him.

“I imagine you,” you whispered. “But better, softer, and kinder. I imagine you as the version I needed, the one I deserved, and it kills me, because I don’t even know if that version of you exists.”

Silence.

He reached out then, so slowly it made your breath catch, and placed one hand gently on your cheek, the lightest touch he’d ever given you.

“I can be him,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I swear to God, I’ll try. I’ll be him.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

Because he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

And then another, on your temple. One on your cheek, your jaw, your nose.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered between them. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You were crying now, full-on sobbing, body shaking like it had been holding this in for far too long. And he didn’t grab you, didn’t pull you into him like he used to. He just stood there, kissing every tear that fell like he was trying to wipe them from existence.

“I didn’t know how to love you right,” he murmured, voice breaking. “But I will. If you let me. If you give me a chance, I’ll change. I’ll do the work. Just… don’t shut the door on me yet.”

You didn’t answer.

Because even after everything, even through all the rage and resentment and raw wounds, his kisses still felt like home.

And that was the scariest part of all.

He kissed your tears like they burned him, as if each one that slid down your cheeks was proof of what he’d broken, and he was trying, pathetically, hopelessly, to piece it all back together with nothing but his mouth and the weight of his regret.

You didn’t say anything when he pressed his forehead to yours. Didn’t pull away when he wrapped both arms around you like he thought you might disappear if he didn’t hold you tight enough.

You just stood there and let yourself breathe him in, his warmth, his scent.

“Let me show you,” Simon whispered, voice raw. “Please, just once. Let me make it right.”

You didn’t nod, you didn’t speak, but you let him take your hand.

He led you to the bed and didn’t tear your clothes off like he usually did. He didn’t grab or push or bite. He just kissed you, like you were something fragile, something he didn’t think he deserved to touch but was begging to try.

His hands trembled when he slid your top up over your arms. He took his time with every button, every hem, because rushing would ruin it. When your bra fell away, he kissed the center of your chest—not your breasts, not your neck—your chest, right over your heart, and rested there for a second like he was trying to feel it beat.

“You don’t have to forgive me now,” he whispered. “But I need you to know I’m gonna earn it. All of it. Whatever it takes.”

You didn’t stop the tears. You didn’t hide from them. They slid quietly down your cheeks as he lowered himself between your legs and pressed his mouth to your stomach, your hips, your thighs—anywhere but the place you were already aching for him.

“I’m gonna learn how to love you right,” he murmured against your skin. “I’m gonna give you every soft thing I never thought you’d want. You won’t have to beg for affection anymore. You won’t have to guess if I’ll stay.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh, then the other, then finally pressed his mouth to where you needed him. It felt as if he was praying with his tongue. Like this was how he was going to worship you now.

You gasped, hands fisting the sheets, more tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

And he noticed. Of course he did.

He looked up from between your thighs, his face a mess of want and pain.

“You don’t have to cry,” he said softly, crawling back up your body. “I mean… I know why you are. But I hate that I’m the reason for it. I swear, I’ll never hurt you like that again.”

You cupped his face, fingers trembling, and he leaned into your touch like it was the only thing holding him together.

He lined himself up, slow and careful, and when he pushed inside, he went still. Completely still. Just breathing against your mouth, his hands cradling your face like he couldn’t believe he was allowed this close again.

“You feel like home,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Fuck, you always did.”

He moved slowly, painfully slow. Like every thrust was an apology. Like he was rewriting the way he touched you, undoing every rushed, selfish fuck with something tender and earned.

Your tears didn’t stop. And neither did he.

He kissed your eyelids, your cheeks, and your jaw. Whispered everything he’d never said when it would’ve mattered most.

“I’m gonna do better.”

“I’ll take care of you. I swear I will.”

“No more games. No more pushing you away.”

You whimpered beneath him, arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, clinging to him like you didn’t know how to let go anymore.

He rested his forehead against yours and kept moving, slow and deep, every thrust sending something hot and unbearable through your chest.

“You deserve flowers,” he breathed. “And check-ins. And hand-holding and fucking morning texts and someone who doesn’t make you cry every goddamn day.”

His voice cracked again. You felt it.

“And I want to be him,” Simon said, nearly choking on it. “I need to be him.”

Your body trembled beneath him. You were already so close, not just because of his cock, but because of the way he was inside you.

You came with a broken sob, your nails digging into his back, your legs shaking.

He came a moment later, groaning into your neck, and holding you tightly.

He didn’t pull out and didn’t move.

Just wrapped his arms around you, face pressed to your shoulder, and kissed you again and again and again, believing that if he just stayed close enough, the damage might finally start to heal.

...

Morning came quietly.

You woke to the pale gray light bleeding through your bedroom curtains, the kind of early morning glow that made everything feel hazy. For a few seconds, it was peaceful. Warm.

And then you remembered.

The weight behind you wasn’t just a dream.

Simon.

Still here, and breathing steadily against your back, one arm draped around your waist.

Your stomach twisted.

It wasn’t that last night had been bad. It hadn’t. If anything, it had been too good. Too soft. Too vulnerable. It was the kind of night you used to pray for back when you thought he’d never give it to you.

And now?

Now it just felt like weakness.

You untangled yourself from his arm slowly, carefully, trying not to wake him as you sat up and slipped your legs over the side of the bed. But he stirred anyway, and you felt his hand twitch behind you, reaching for something that wasn’t there anymore.

You stood up and didn’t turn around when you said it.

“Simon… you need to go.”

Silence.

Then the quiet sound of bedsheets rustling behind you.

“...You serious?” His voice was rough from sleep, low and uncertain in a way you weren’t used to hearing from him.

You nodded, still facing the window. “Yeah. I am.”

He sat up, and you could hear it, the shift in weight, the creak of the mattress, the pause before the sigh.

“Last night—” he started, but you cut him off.

“Was a moment,” you said, finally turning around to look at him. “That’s all. A moment of weakness. It doesn’t mean everything’s okay.”

He blinked at you, eyes bloodshot, hair messy, mouth parted.

“I meant everything I said,” he told you quietly. “Every word.”

“I know,” you said. “But meaning it isn’t enough. Not yet.”

He was quiet again, looking down at his hands, he didn’t know what to do with them now that they weren’t holding you.

“Okay,” he said eventually, dragging a hand through his hair and exhaling slowly. “Okay. I’ll go.”

You watched as he stood, pulled on his jeans, his hoodie, his boots. He didn’t rush, nor beg. He just moved with weighted sadness, like leaving was physically hard to do.

But at the door, he paused and turned around. “This isn’t the last time you’ll see me.”

You opened your mouth, but he kept going.

“I’m gonna prove it to you. That I meant what I said. That I’m changing. You’re gonna look at me one day, and you’re not gonna feel stupid for loving me anymore.”

You didn’t reply.

You just looked at him, arms crossed, your heart pounding.

And then he opened the door and stepped into the hall, casting one last glance back over his shoulder.

“I’ll win you back,” Simon said, voice like a quiet promise. “Even if it kills me.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

And you didn’t breathe until you were alone again.

-----------------------------------------

@nightunite I'm not done with this bitch yet.

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[barnacles34]

Best Friends & a side of sex

MEOVV Gawon, Sooin X Male Reader

18+ smut 13k words

PART 2 of I Never Meant to Memorize your Smile

‘You’ve got dried cum in your hair.’ Your lips brushed her shoulder blade. Gawon's spine stiffened. ‘What?’

‘Morning, sunshine.’ She twisted, fingers probing her scalp. ‘Tell me you didn’t ejaculate into my hair last night.’ ‘Wouldn’t dream of it. Though… Exhibit A - ’ You tapped a pearlescent streak on her lower back. ‘ - and Exhibit B.’ A glint near her hairline. [1] [1] 'Aim' undersells it. Last night was less a targeted strike and more a Jackson Pollock session across her skin. Stain #1 ended with her pressed against the shower wall as you sprayed load after load over her face. Stain #2: the final piece of the day; Exhausted beyond belief, you came across her back, and the both of you collapsed from exhaustion. It's really a miracle the rest came off relatively easily. She groaned. ‘It’s crystallizing. Like sea salt.’ ‘Adds texture.’ You nuzzled the nape of her neck, inhaling lilac and sex. ‘Stay. Five more minutes.’ ‘Your semen is petrifying on my skin and you want to cuddle?’ ‘Yes.’ Your hand slid down her stomach. ‘It’s proof.’

‘Of what? Your inability to control your own - ’ ‘That we wrecked each other so thoroughly last night.’ Your thumb circled her navel. ‘That’s hot.’ She snorted. ‘You’re disgusting.’ ‘Your disgust sounds suspiciously like pride.’ ‘Fine. But if this gluey patch near my ear isn’t coconut oil, I’m bleaching your favorite jeans.’ 'Of course.' 'Lay back,' she said, still facing away from you, legs curled and slotted against your knees. 'I wanna see something.' You gently rolled onto your back, sinking into the pillow. She turned, entering your periphery with sleep-gleamed eyes and pink lips. 'Try swallowing,' she said, moving closer. You swallowed. Her lips found your neck right in the midst: a wet kiss to your Adam's apple. The sensation lingered. 'Why'd you do that?' 'Why not?'

Why not. Those two words contained everything: why not when you're curled against her like this, why not when you're deep inside her, why not when you're breathing in the sweet scent of her skin. She shifted back, still within the circle of your arms, her hair tickling your forehead. 'I'm all sore. No thanks to you.' 'I was adjusting to your needs. And your needs... are an acquired taste.' You snuggled upward, her hair now feathering across your chest, almost ticklish. She had no defense. 'The champagne was a nice touch.' 'Which bottle?' She tilted her face up, eyes still heavy but alert. 'Don't pretend there weren't multiple bottles. I counted at least three.' 'Two and a half. The third was already open.'

'Because you opened it.' Gawon turned over completely, facing you now. Goddess. Goddess. You didn't say it aloud, but she probably knew what you invoked with each gulp, each strained touch, each unfettered breath. [1]

-

[1] The thing about thinking "goddess" repeatedly during sex is that it's simultaneously the most embarrassing and most accurate thought possible. Like yes, technically we all know about oxytocin and dopamine and whatever chemical cocktail makes you temporarily insane, but that doesn't explain why her particular face makes your brain short-circuit into worship mode. Modern therapy would probably have words for this - "idealization" or "projection" or some other term that completely misses the point that sometimes a person just is that magnificent and your brain is simply reporting facts.

-

A comfortable pause; No awkwardness anymore, just the luxury of looking.

'Details.' You brushed a strand of hair from her face and planted a soft kiss on her forehead. 'How's your head?'

'Fine. I switched to water after the first few toasts. Unlike someone.'

'You're a lightweight.'

'I know. But you didn't fare much better.' She laughed properly then, burying her face in your chest. 'Certified Chair Tester.'

The memory clicked into place. 'Ah. I made you rate the chairs.'

'Yup. And I rated them all tens because I was tipsy.'

'A flimsy critic in my bed. How appalling.'

She poked your chest. 'You were swaying. It was way too funny to focus on furniture evaluation.'

'It's important information. What if we need to know which one's most comfortable?' 'At two in the morning?' 'Especially at two in the morning. That's prime chair-testing time.' 'You're ridiculous.' 'You helped.' 'Someone had to make sure you didn't fall off the balcony furniture.' 'I was perfectly stable.' 'You tried to serenade a potted plant.' 'It looked lonely.' She propped herself up on an elbow to study your face. 'What did you even sing to it?' 'I don't remember.' She blew at your face. You blinked. 'Liar. You remember everything.' 'Only the important things.' 'So what's important about last night?' You pretended to consider. 'Well, first, the sex - ' 'Hey.' Her hand found your shoulder in mock protest. 'Alright, but… come on.' You made the face that said you know it was, and she buried her face in your chest again, giggling. 'Fine. It was…' 'The best.' Another gentle smack. 'Then champagne in blankets. Plant serenading - ' 'You serenaded the plant.'

' - chair testing. When's the next time, anyway?'

'Never happening.' 'Come on.' You caught her hand, interlacing your fingers. Her skin was smooth, like heated marble. 'The way you looked in that dress…' 'Now you're just being smooth.' You traced her hand - the knuckles, the flesh between finger joints, her careful nails. 'Is it working?' 'Maybe.' She leaned in for a soft kiss. 'What else?' 'The way you insisted on ranking every wine from the minibar.' 'Research purposes.' 'On hotel stationary. With ratings out of ten.' 'What do you have against proper documentation?' Her eyes gleaming. Cute. [2]

-

[2] There's something deeply unhinged about making someone rate wines at 2 AM, but it's also exactly the kind of thing that seems brilliant when you're three drinks in and she's wearing your shirt and everything feels possible. The fact that she went along with it - actually took notes, actually assigned numerical values to '$8 minibar Chardonnay' - is probably why you're doomed. Anyone who matches your weird that precisely is either your soulmate or your downfall, and honestly… what's the difference?

-

'Nothing. Found it adorable.' You chased her as she dodged your kiss. 'What was the winner again?' 'The Rosé. Obviously.' 'Mm.' Your fingers found their way into her hair. 'We should probably get up soon.' 'Why?' 'Sooin's coming at 11:30.' She reached for her phone, squinting at the screen. 'That's… two hours away.'

'Exactly. Soon.' 'Your concept of time is broken.' The phone dropped back to the nightstand as she curled into you. 'Five more minutes.' 'You said that twenty minutes ago.' 'Did I? Must have been someone else.' 'In this bed?' 'Could be anyone. Very large bed.' 'True. I should check.' You shifted theatrically. 'Excuse me, mysterious person, have you seen my girlfriend?' She pinched your side. 'Stop.' 'About this tall, beautiful - and I mean beautiful - and makes spreadsheets about minibar wine?' 'I hate you.' 'Makes terrible threats?' She kissed you longer this time, a proper good morning. 'Better?' 'Getting there.' 'Impossible.' But she smiled against your mouth. 'What would make it better?' 'Hmm. Maybe if the mysterious bed person knew where my pants went.' 'Bathroom door.'

'How - ' 'You hung them very carefully while explaining the importance of wrinkle prevention. Very drunk. Very serious.' 'I was thoughtful.' 'You were tipsy trying to be responsible. It was cute.' 'Just cute?' 'And amusing.'

'I'll take it.' You caught her hand, kissed her palm. 'Though I notice your dress made it to an actual hanger.'

'I'm efficient even when compromised.'

'Compromised?'

'Slightly… influenced. By alcohol. And you.'

'Me?'

'You kept doing that thing.'

'What thing?'

Pink crept into her cheeks. 'The thing where you look at me like…'

'Like?'

'You know.' She hid her face in your neck. 'Stop making me say nice things. Too early.'

'It's past 9:30.'

'Weekend rules.'

'Since when do you follow weekend rules?'

'I'm adopting them. Selectively.' Her breath warmed your skin. 'Rule one: no embarrassing admissions before coffee.'

'After coffee?'

'We'll see.'

You wrapped both arms around her, content in the absurd luxury of this hotel bed. The room still held last night palpably - an empty glass on the far table, her shoes abandoned by the door, balcony doors cracked to let in cool morning air. Most importantly, her hair: properly mussed, frizzy where you grabbed it, where she moved in rhythm with your body. [3]

The morning stretched ahead, full of nothing but this.

-

[3] The morning-after hair observation thing is such a cliché it hurts, but: you become a forensic expert in the evidence of your own happiness. Every tangle says "this happened," every misplaced strand means "we were here, we were real, we were absurdly alive at 3 AM." It's pathetic how much meaning you can extract from follicular displacement, but then again, memory needs its anchors, and if yours happen to be keratin-based, so be it.

-

'It was nice watching you and Sooin together. All the history there.' 'Seven years of questionable decisions,' she murmured. 'Good decisions. Like this hotel room.' 'Mmm. I'll tell Sooin you approve.' She yawned. 'She'll be insufferable.' 'She's already insufferable. That's why we love her.' 'True.' A pause settled between you. 'Do you think she's okay? About the exhibition?' 'She will be. She always is.' 'I know. I just worry.' She shifted to look at you properly. 'Is that silly?' 'No. It's what you do.' You tucked her hair behind her ear. 'It's nice.' 'Nice?' 'Adorable. The kind where you pretend you're not soft but you actually are.' 'I'm not soft.' 'You made her a good luck playlist.' 'That's just being supportive.' 'With color-coded sections.' '…Organizational efficiency.' 'And little notes for each song.'

She buried her face in the pillow. 'Stop knowing things.'

'Never.' Your hand found her back, rubbing gentle circles. 'Hey. She's going to be brilliant. You know that, right?' 'I know.' Her voice came out muffled. 'I just want good things for her.'⁴ 'They'll happen.' She turned her head to peek at you. 'You really think so?' 'I do. And if not, we'll be there with emergency mimosas and terrible jokes.' 'Your jokes are terrible.'

'That's the point.' She smiled, reaching up to trace your face. She kissed your closed eye. You held her closer. Her eyes, the small mole on the tip of her nose. Palpable, the universe of you two. 'I love you.' She whispered. You kissed her in turn. 'I thought no embarrassing admissions before coffee.' Pink crept up her neck as she hid her face again. You pulled her closer. 'Nowhere else I'd rather be.' 'Even with mysterious bed people?' 'Especially then.'

She laughed, tugging you down for another kiss. 'Okay. Fifteen more minutes, then we really do have to get up.'

'Deal.'

'I mean it this time.'

'Sure you do.'

'I'm setting an alarm.' But she made no move toward her phone, already melting back into your arms.

'Very convincing.'

'Shh. Weekend rules. No calling out contradictions before coffee.'

'I thought that was embarrassing admissions.'

'I'm making new rules as needed.'

'Of course you are.' You kissed the crown of her head. 'Fifteen minutes.'

'Fifteen minutes.'

The promised alarm never materialized. Instead, your mouth found hers again, morning breath be damned. Your hands sprawled across her honey skin, palms pressing against the beginning swell of her breasts, circling slightly, drawing out those perfect little half-groans.

When you shifted to bracket her body with yours, she squealed playfully, pressing her palm against your shoulder. 'Someone's feeling bold.'

'Just thorough. You seemed cold.' The lie was transparent. She knew it, fingers already tracing your shoulder, eyes holding that particular heat from last night. 'Thorough, he says. Is that what we're calling it?' You answered by kissing the corner of her mouth, working your way to that spot below her ear that made her breath catch. She tilted her head automatically, a response coded into muscle memory. 'You're terrible,' she breathed.

'The worst,' you agreed against her skin. 'Absolutely the - oh.' Her words dissolved as you found that perfect junction of jaw and neck. Then, disaster: pins and needles shot down your supporting arm. She noticed immediately. 'Did your arm just fall asleep?' You lied by her side. With a big grin. So beautiful, when she smiles. 'Maybe.' 'Adorable. My strong man, defeated by his own circulation.'[1] Her hands worked your forearm back to life. 'Better?' You flexed your fingers in response. She caught your index finger, pressed a kiss to the tip. 'Competen - '

'Don't even start.' Her eyes blazed with mischief. 'Maybe stick to positions that don't require gymnastic endurance?' You pulled her firmly against you, her waist bending perfectly as she gasped. Your mouth found the flexing tendon of her neck, tongue tracing hollows and dips as she arched into you. Fifteen minutes became thirty. Thirty became an hour. Sooin could wait.

-

[1] All taut sinew; the next, your nerve stages a coup, flooding your limb with the fizzy static of a thousand dying televisions. The humiliation is exquisite: biology reminding you that you’re essentially a sentient meat puppet piloted by faulty wiring and whimsical blood flow. You try to play it off - Ah, just my corporeal vessel rebelling against transcendence! - but internally, you’re drafting furious letters to Evolution: “RE: Poor Design Choices in Homo Sapiens Model #27B-6. SUGGESTION: Prioritize limb reliability over, say, toe hair or the ability to taste cilantro as soap.” It’s the universe whispering, through pins and needles, that even ecstasy is provisional, subject to maintenance, and probably overdue for an upgrade.

-

Her breath hitched when your lips found the edge of her jaw. You kissed the hard angle first, then traced the taut cord of muscle down to the soft dip beneath her chin. When your mouth finally covered hers, it wasn’t gentle. ‘How’s that for competent?’ You growl. Into her mouth. Her breathless mouth. Inching for any opportunity to breathe. You sealed her protest with your tongue. Her hands locked behind your nape pulling you closer until her breasts flattened against your chest, nipples hardening directly on your skin. The scent of her skin - salt and gooseberries and lilac - flooded your nostrils as she arched into you. Your palm slid down her outer thigh, fingertips catching on the fabric of her panties. Higher. Over the curve of her ass, gripping the fabric until the muscle tensed under your hand. She moaned into your mouth, grinding against your hip, her bare feet wrapped around you, holding on for dear life. Then her hand was on you - fingers curling around the thick outline of your cock through your underwear, squeezing just enough to draw a ragged groan from your throat. You felt the damp heat between her legs when your thumb brushed her clothed pussy.

‘Fuck me,’ she gasped, hips jerking as you pushed two fingers past her waistband, through slick folds. ‘Turn around.’ She smirked before she pivoted, turning around, back pressed to your chest. You hooked your thumbs in her panties - black lace - and dragged them down to mid-thigh, perfectly profane. Her skin burned where your knuckles brushed her inner leg. 'Please.' She pleaded, pushing her ass against your erection' You fumbled with your underwear, cock springing free against her lower back. She guided you with a hand behind her, fingers wrapping your shaft, angling you downward. Your first thrust grazed into her. Too tight.

‘Wrong - ,’ she yelped, pain and laughter trembling. 'Oh fuck. I'm so sorry.' You sidle up next to her, 'Are you - '' 'Keep going. Don't ruin the mood. Keep going. Please.' You choked; you adjusted, the head of your cock catching on wetness this time. She gasped as you pushed past swollen flesh, sinking an inch into her. Her inner muscles clenched.

‘Deeper.’ she begged, fingers clawing at your thigh. ‘Please - ’ You drove forward until your hips met her ass. A choked cry tore from her throat as she took your full length. She was fracturing. 'Fuck. Fuck - ' You held still, letting her adjust, feeling the flutter of her walls around you. 'Take it. Take it.' You breathe out, out of breath, fucking her into heaven. Nothing to offer but your length divvied into her wet walls. Hips pinned against her every turn. Your cock kissing her cervix - the rim of her moist cunt pressed oh so tight, filthy, dirty. ‘Should’ve - ah - aimed better,’ she panted, rolling her hips to take you deeper still. You moved then - thrusts that dragged just so, perfectly, leaving just the crown of your cock before pressing your full length inside her. Her moans sharpened, pitching higher with each retreat, each return. You slid a hand around her hip, fingers finding her drenched folds, circling her swollen bud as you fucked her. Her thighs shook. ‘Come on,’ you urged, thumb pressing hard. ‘Let go.’ You fucked deeper. Restraining her neck, her back compressing into an arch that left nothing in the middle. Only her nape and ass pressed against you. You dug your palm into her navel, 'Cum for me. Princess. Cum for me.' You growl, drawl. Her back arched, more than before. More than what should be possible. A scream ripped through her as she came, muscles milking your cock. Pulse after pulse. You groaned, and you followed, hips slamming forward as release tore deep into your muscles, your bones. Rope after rope. Cum served right to her cervix. Glancing off the walls, eventually sickeningly spread all inside her, filled to the brim, spilling like lava through the slightest crevice of her folds. All she could offer was a soft sigh.

-

Her back was to you, she was still trembling. Sweat glued the both of you together. Your fingers stroked the damp hair at her nape.

'I don't think I can walk.'

You smile. 'Who said you had to walk?'

‘Mmm,’ she hummed, turning in your arms. ‘Such a charmer.’ Her hand slid down your chest, pausing at your abdomen. ‘Prove those muscles aren’t just for show. Carry me.’

You lifted her easily, fireman-style. Her laughter vibrated against your neck as you carried her to the bathroom.

She opened the doors. 'Though I'd be of help, you know, my arms, and your legs situation.'

'Appreciate the assistance.' You jokingly say.

The shower hissed, steam immediately fogged the mirror.

‘Brunch with Sooin later. Before her exhibition.’ she said, a reminder to herself. Water sluiced through her hair, darkening it to ink.

You followed, hands sliding over her slick shoulders. ‘And after?’

She tilted her face up, droplets catching on her lashes. ‘Haven’t decided.’ Your palm cupped her breast, thumb rubbing a taut nipple. She sighed, leaning back into you. ‘Maybe we’ll just… see.’

'Wait.' You reached for the shampoo, squirting some into your palm. 'Did Gawon just suggest winging it?'

'I'm full of surprises.' She turned, presenting her back to you as you worked the shampoo through her hair.

'Next you'll tell me you threw out your color-coded calendar.'

'Let's not get crazy.' She was soft, content. Her head steadily went along with your touch. 'This feels nice though.'

'What does?'

'Not knowing. Just… being here with you.' She leaned back slightly into your touch.

'Even with soap in your eyes?'

'Especially with soap in my eyes.' She laughed, swiping at her face. 'Very romantic. Really setting the mood.'

'I do my best.' You helped rinse her hair, fingers gentle against her scalp. 'So this spontaneous Gawon - should I be worried?'

'Terrified.' She grinned up at you. 'I might suggest something really wild. Like trying that new Thai place without checking reviews first.'

'The horror.'

'Or walking through the park without a clear idea.'

'Now you're just talking nonsense.'

'I'm learning spontaneity from you. So to speak.'

'That's either very sweet or you're setting me up for something.'

'Can't it be both?' She reached for the conditioner. 'Your turn. What do you want to do today?'

'Honestly?' You took the bottle from her. 'Whatever makes you keep smiling like that.'

'Smooth talker.' But her smile widened. 'Though I notice you didn't actually answer.'

'Maybe I'm learning from you. Keeping my options open.'

'A convert!' She pressed a wet hand to her chest  in mock surprise. 'My work here is done.'

'So Sooin at… noon?'

'Eleven-thirty. She's got that exhibition at two.' Gawon tilted her head as you worked conditioner through the ends of her hair. 'She's nervous about it.'

'Art?'

'Mhm.'

'She'll nail it.' You guided her back under the water. 'She's got that whole eccentric thing down.'

'I'll tell her you said that.' She wiped water from her eyes. 'She thinks she's too cheerful for the part.'

'That’s charm though. No one has energy like her.'

'She contains multitudes.' [1] Gawon's eyes sparkled with mischief. 'Speaking of which, you never told me who your favorite poet actually is.'

-

[1] Gawon deploys Whitman quotes like other people deploy "um" or "well". It's her tell. You've catalogued them all: 'I contain multitudes'; 'I am large' when caught crying at a commercial; 'Do I contradict myself?' when she changes dinner plans for the third time. If you were confronted on behalf of her, you'd say, to the world and above 'She's a loser, your honor'. Though the fact that she only does this for maybe four people in the world makes you stupidly proud to be one of them.

-

'You're not getting out of the Whitman bit that easily.'

'Worth a shot.' She reached past you for the body wash. 'Though I bet it's someone properly pretentious. Ezra Pound? T.S. Eliot?' You had your hand out, she spooled some body wash on your palm.

You rubbed your palms together, getting suds out. 'Baudelaire, actually.' You softly rubbed her body down.

She paused, surprised. 'Gross.'

'What?'

'Pervert.' She smiled, something tender in it. 'I see where you get your naughtiness from.'

You smiled back.

The water ran.

'See?' she said finally. 'Spontaneity. We just had a poetry moment in the shower.'

You pressed a kiss to her damp forehead. 'Maybe ease up on the transcendentalists before coffee.'

'No promises.' She tucked herself against you for a moment. 'I'm feeling very one-with-the-universe today.'

'God help us all.'

'Just you.' She pulled back, eyes bright. 'Think you can handle it?'

'I'll manage somehow.'

'Good.' She headed for the bedroom, calling back, 'Because I'm thinking we skip the predetermined brunch place and just walk until we find somewhere that looks good.'

'Living dangerously.'

'Try to keep up. This new spontaneous me waits for no one.'

'Except for the fifteen minutes you'll spend choosing which spontaneous outfit to wear?'

A towel flew back through the doorway, her laughter following it. 'Twenty minutes, minimum. Some habits die hard.'

You helped her dry her hair, something you’d underestimated, she had a mischievous smile the moment you accepted her offer of drying her hair. The best part was, indeed, the scent of her hair, the softness of it, gliding along your hand.

‘Didn’t expect it to take this long?’’

‘Not at all, it's your hair. Any time is too short.’

‘You got vocal chords shaped like a heart don’t you?’

'Only for you.' You wrapped your arms around her waist, and kissed her neck once.

‘I’m feeling beguiled.’

‘Unsafe?’

‘Very. Where’s the exit?’

‘Oh. I’m not that easy.’ You tightened the embrace.

She giggled, her hand wrapping endearingly around yours.

You had maybe 3 outfits; they were also scattered - the rest of the time, you and Gawon had to look for it. You finished just a little later than Gawon.

Outside, Sooin was sitting in her jeep with the windows down. She spotted you approaching with a grin.

'Morning,' she said, climbing out. 'I brought coffee but I drank it all. Sorry.'

'You okay?' Gawon asked.

'Yeah. Just couldn't sit still at home.' She leaned against the car. 'My neighbor started vacuuming at six AM so I figured that was the universe telling me to leave.'

You all climbed in. The car smelled faintly of coffee and the blue lavender sachets she kept tucked everywhere.

'Where to?' Sooin asked, pulling out carefully.

'I hadn't really decided,' Gawon said.

Sooin glanced over. 'Really?'

'Really.'

'Huh.' A small smile crossed her face. 'Okay. Let's just drive then.'

She took a left at the light, no particular destination in mind. The morning traffic was light, mostly delivery trucks and early joggers.

'The exhibition's at two-fifteen,' Sooin said after a while. 'They want a 'spontaneous review' .'

'You're good at those,' Gawon said.

'Sometimes.' She adjusted the mirror unnecessarily. 'It's three months in Hokkaido if I get it.'

'That's far.'

'Yeah.' Another adjustment. 'Really far.'

They drove past a small café with outdoor seating. Sooin slowed.

'This works?'

'Perfect,' Gawon said.

Sooin parked, taking two tries to get it straight. Inside, they found a corner table. The place was nearly empty, just them and an older man reading a newspaper.

'Tea?' Gawon suggested when the server came by.

'Coffee,' Sooin said. 'I know, I know. But tea makes me sleepy.'

'Since when?'

'Since always. I just pretend to like it.' She smiled at the server. 'Biggest mug you have, please.'

They ordered food too - eggs, toast, nothing fancy. Sooin picked at hers.

'Not hungry?'

'I ate earlier. Made eggs at home too. Forgot I did until just now.' She laughed quietly. 'I'm a little scattered today.'

'You'll be fine,' you said.

'Maybe.' She took a sip of coffee. 'My agent actually said 'think less.''

'Helpful.'

'Right?' She managed a real smile then. 'I should just channel Gawon. Very contained.'

'I'm not that contained,' Gawon protested.

'You made me use a coaster at your apartment during a party.'

'That's just common sense.'

'It was a red solo cup.'

They fell into silence. Sooin's hands had stopped fidgeting, wrapped around her mug.

'Thanks for this,' she said eventually. 'I know I'm being weird.'

'You're not,' Gawon said.

-

'Right.' She put the phone down. 'Tell me something normal. Anything.'

'Like what?'

'I don't know. What you had for breakfast yesterday. Your grocery list. Literally anything that isn't about auditions.'

Gawon thought about it. 'I bought new socks.'

'Thrilling.'

'They have cats on them.'

'Of course they do.' But Sooin was almost smiling. 'Are they at least subtle cats?'

'They're wearing top hats.'

Sooin smiled.

'What? They were on sale.'

You laughed. 'Show her the ones from last week.'

'No.'

'They have tacos on them,' you told Sooin.

'Tacos?'

'Tiny dancing kitty tacos.'

Sooin stared at Gawon. 'You're secretly twelve years old.'

'They're comfortable.'

'That's not a defense.'

'It's the only defense I need.' Gawon took a sip of coffee. 'Besides, you have that shirt with the - '

'We don't talk about the shirt.'

'The one with the sequined - '

'I said we don't talk about it.'

They went back and forth like that, and slowly Sooin's death grip on her mug loosened. Her shoulders came down from around her ears.

'Fifty minutes,' she said eventually. 'Think I have time to throw up?'

'You're not going to throw up.'

'I might.'

'You won't.' Gawon pushed the water closer. 'Drink this.'

'Bossy.'

'Yeah.'

Sooin drank the water. 'Remember when I auditioned for that commercial? The one with the cat?'

'You were allergic.'

'So allergic. My face swelled up like a balloon.' She touched her cheek. 'At least there's no cats this time.'

'Small mercies.'

'Huge mercies. Can you imagine? Sorry, I can't quietly unravel, I'm too busy sneezing.''

'You'd still get it,' you said.

'With my balloon face?'

'Even then.'

'Liar.' But she looked calmer. 'Thirty minutes. Oh god.'

'You want to head over?'

'No. Yes. I don't know.' She stood up, sat back down. 'What if I forget my own name?'

'Then make one up,' Gawon suggested.

'Hi, I'm… Gertrude.'

'Aim higher.'

'Beatrice?'

'Now you're just listing old lady names.'

'Those are sophisticated names.' Sooin stood again, for real this time. 'Okay. Let's go before I really do throw up.'

You paid and left. Outside, Sooin stopped walking.

'I don't want to go to Hokkaido,' she said quietly.

'Then don't,' Gawon said.

'I need the job.'

'You need a job. Not necessarily this job.'

'It's a good opportunity.'

'Is it though?'

Sooin looked at her. 'You're supposed to be supportive.'

'I am being supportive. I'm supporting your right to not freeze your ass off for three months.'

'That's…' Sooin laughed, surprised. 'Actually helpful?'

'I have moments.'

They walked to the car. Sooin got in, started it, didn't drive.

'What if I bomb?'

'Then you bomb,' you said.

'That's it?'

'Then you bomb and we get lunch and tomorrow's another day.'

'You make it sound simple.'

'It is simple. But cruel.'

Sooin considered this. 'I hate when you're profound.'

'Sorry.'

'Don't be.' She finally put the car in drive. 'Twenty minutes. Let's do this.'

At the theater, she parked crooked and didn't fix it.

'How do I look?'

'Like yourself,' Gawon said.

'Is that good enough?'

'It's perfect.'

Sooin nodded, grabbed her bag. 'If I die in there - '

'We'll delete your browser history.'

'I was going to say tell my mother I love her, but that's better. Thanks.'

She hugged them both quickly, then walked inside before she could change her mind.

'She's going to nail it,' you said.

'Yeah.' Gawon was already looking for somewhere to wait. 'Coffee?'

'Obviously.'

You found a place across the street. Ordered. Sat by the window where you both could see the theater doors.

'She really doesn't want to go to Hokkaido,' Gawon said.

'No.'

'Think she'll take it anyway?'

'Probably.'

'Yeah.' Gawon turned her cup three times. Caught herself. 'Damn it.'

'I didn't say anything.'

'You were thinking it.'

'Little bit.'

They sat quietly, waiting. Normal morning. Normal coffee. Two people waiting for their friend to maybe change her life or maybe not.

Either way, they'd be there.

-

Sooin's exhibition was successful. She sold 3 pieces. 3 more than she expected. She was more than ecstatic. And she was hired.

'I got it!' Sooin shouted from the hallway, fumbling with her keys. 'Holy shit, I actually got it!'

'We heard you the first ten times,' Gawon said, taking one of the champagne bottles before Sooin dropped it.

'I'm going to keep saying it.' She finally got the door open. 'Maybe forever.'

Her apartment was a mess. Empty wine bottles from last night's panic session, canvases against every wall, a dead plant she kept meaning to throw out.

'Sit,' Gawon ordered. 'You're vibrating.'

'I can't sit. I might explode.' But Sooin collapsed on the couch anyway. 'They want me for three months. In Hokkaido. Starting next month.'

'That's fast,' you said.

'That's terrifying.' She opened the champagne badly. Foam everywhere. 'Shit. Sorry.'

'Leave it.' Gawon was already in the kitchen getting glasses. Real ones, not the plastic cups Sooin usually used.

'Fancy,' Sooin said.

'You got a real job. We're using real glasses.'

'It's just three months.'

'It's a whole thing. With a budget. A whole mentor.'

'Who thinks I have 'luminous loneliness.' Sooin made air quotes. 'Whatever that means.'

'It means you're hired,' you said.

'Yeah.' She drank half her glass at once. 'Weird though, right? Like he saw through me or something.'

Gawon and you exchanged a look.

'What?' Sooin caught it. 'What was that?'

'Nothing.'

'Bullshit. You did the thing.'

'What thing?'

'The worried look thing.' She poured more champagne. 'I'm fine. I'm great. I'm employed.'

'We know,' Gawon said carefully.

'Do you? Because you're looking at me like I'm about to cry or something.' Sooin laughed. Too loud. 'I'm not going to cry. I got the part.'

She kept drinking. Fast. By the third glass she was quieter.

'Three months is long,' she said eventually.

'We'll visit.'

'Yeah.' She picked at the couch cushion. 'It's just. I'll be alone. Again.'

'You won't be alone. You'll have the cast, the crew - '

'That's not what I mean.' Sooin looked at them. 'When's the last time someone actually wanted me around? Like, really wanted me?'

The question hung there.

'See?' She smiled, but it was all wrong. 'Can't remember either.'

'Sooin - '

'It's fine. I'm used to it.' She stood up too fast, swayed. 'I'm going to bed.'

'Let us help - '

'I'm good.' She wasn't. 'Really. Thanks for… this. For being here.'

They watched her weave toward her bedroom. The door closed with a soft click.

-

The apartment had gone quiet except for Sooin's gentle breathing from the bedroom. You'd both helped her there an hour ago, after the toasts became mumbled and her eyes started closing mid-sentence.

Just you and Gawon on the couch, the Yamazaki bottle between you on the coffee table. She poured two fingers each, no ice.

'She was happy,' Gawon said, tucking her legs under herself. 'Really happy.'

'The exhibition was a success.' You add.

'That's not what I mean.' Gawon took a sip, considering her words. 'Did you see her face when that couple was discussing her work? How she lit up?'

'She loves when people get it.'

'No.' Gawon shook her head. 'She loves being seen. There's a difference.'

You waited. Gawon had that look-the one that meant she was working up to something.

'She told me she hasn't been with anyone.’ She said, quiet.

'She's focused on her work.'

'She's scared.' Gawon stared into her glass. 'I mean, I know the feeling now, you know? She’s never been with anybody - I never thought that concept would be so important to me now.’

She looked at you then. 'When's the last time someone chose her? Really chose her?'

Japan’s humid night tucked the both of you in this comfortable atmosphere.

'I've been thinking,' Gawon continued. 'About what she needs.'

'Gawon - '

'Just listen.' She shifted closer. 'You're good. Actually good. Not just nice, not just charming. Good.'

'I'm not - '

'You are.' Her hand found yours. 'And she trusts you. We both do.'

'What are you asking?'

'I'm asking…' She took another sip for courage. 'I'm asking you to make her feel wanted. Even just once. So she knows what it's like.'

'You want me to-'

'I want her to stop believing she's meant to be alone.' Gawon was fierce but quiet. 'I want her to know how it feels when someone sees all of her and wants her anyway.'

'This is whiskey talking.'

She set her glass down. 'This is me talking. Me loving her enough to be unconventional.'

'And you'd be okay with it?'

'I'd be there.' The words came out sure. 'If she wanted. If it helped her feel safe.'

You studied her face - earnest, determined, maybe a little scared herself.

'This could complicate everything,' you said carefully.

'Everything's already complicated.' She laughed softly. 'We're sitting in her apartment, drinking her celebration whiskey, trying to figure out how to fix her loneliness. We passed complicated a while ago.'

'She might say no.'

'She might.' Gawon picked up her glass again. 'But she might not. And maybe that's what she needs - to choose. To be chosen.'

From the bedroom, Sooin murmured something in her sleep. You both turned toward the sound, then back to each other.

'Think about it,' Gawon said. 'That's all I'm asking.'

'I don't need to think about it.' You touched her face gently. 'If you're sure. If she wants it. If it would help her…'

'You'd do that?'

'I'd do anything for the people I love.' First time said aloud. 'Both of you.'

Gawon kissed you then, soft and grateful.

She curled into your side, and you sat there with the weight of what you were contemplating. The whiskey bottle refracted and diffracted, amber and warm, like the feeling in your chest.

'When?' you asked eventually.

'When she's sober. When she can really choose.' Gawon was sleepy now. 'When it's not about the exhibition… but just… us. Being here for her.'

'Okay.'

'Okay?'

'Okay.'

She smiled against your shoulder. In the bedroom, Sooin slept on, unaware of the promises being made in her name, for her heart, in the whiskey-soft glow of her own living room.

-

Morning came with the quiet sounds of movement in the kitchen.

'There's coffee,' Sooin said without turning when you and Gawon came in. She was at the stove, hair messy, wearing the same paint-stained shirt she always wore for cooking.

'Smells good,' Gawon said, settling at the table.

'It's just eggs.' Sooin was carefully neutral. 'Nothing fancy.'

'Sleep okay?' you asked.

'Fine.' She still hadn't turned around. 'You?'

'The couch was comfortable.'

'Good. That's… good.'

Gawon nudged your foot under the table. The eggs were starting to stick to the pan.

'Here.' You stood, moving to help. 'Let me - '

'I've got it.' But she let you take the spatula, stepping back.

Standing this close, you could see she'd been crying again. Not recently, but enough to leave traces.

'Sooin.'

'Don't.' Her voice was very quiet. 'Please.'

'Okay.'

You focused on the eggs, salvaging what you could. She stayed nearby, not quite touching but not moving away either.

'I said things last night,' she said finally.

'You were honest.'

'I was drunk.'

'Both can be true.'

She laughed softly, without humor. 'I guess.'

The morning light caught her face when she finally looked up. She looked tired but also somehow lighter, like crying had washed something away.

'I meant it though,' she said. 'About being tired of being alone.'

''I know.'

'It's not…' She glanced at Gawon, then back. 'I'm not trying to make this weird.'

'You're not.'

'I am though.' She moved closer, just barely. 'Aren't I?'

You set the spatula down. 'Look at me.'

She did, reluctantly.

'You're not making anything weird. You're being you.'

'That's the problem.'

'No,' you said gently. 'It's not.'

Something shifted in her face. 'You mean that.'

'Yeah.'

'Even though…' She gestured vaguely between you and Gawon.

'Even though.'

She was very still now, watching you. You reached up slowly, giving her time to step back. She didn't. Your hand touched her face.

'Oh,' she said softly.

The kiss was brief, gentle. Her fingers wrapped around your wrist, not pulling away, just holding.

When you stepped back, she stayed still for a moment, eyes closed.

…

She opened her eyes, looked at you, then at Gawon who had moved closer.

'I don't understand any of this.'

'That's okay,' Gawon said quietly.

'Is it?'

'Yeah.'

Sooin took a breath. Looked at the stove. 'I burned the eggs.'

'I noticed.'

'They're completely destroyed.'

'We'll make more,' you said.

'Right.' She turned off the burner, moved the pan to the sink. 'Right. Okay.'

She ran water over the burned mess, watched it steam.

'Thank you,' she said to the sink. 'Both of you.'

'For what?'

'I don't know.' A small laugh. 'Everything. Nothing. The eggs.'

'Anytime,' Gawon said.

The morning sun filled the kitchen. Three people standing in the aftermath of something shifting. The burned smell was already fading.

Sooin dried her hands, turned around. 'So. Breakfast?'

'Breakfast,' you agreed.

And that was enough for now.

-

The taxi smelled like fake pine. Gawon sat by the window, arms crossed.

'You okay?'

'Fine.'

'You're doing that thing with your jaw.'

'What thing?' Her jaw unclenched slightly.

'That thing.' You poked her shoulder. 'When you're annoyed but pretending not to be.'

'I'm not annoyed.'

'Okay.'

'I'm not.'

'I said okay.'

She turned to glare at you. 'Her lipstick is on your collar.'

You glanced down. There was indeed a faint pink smudge. 'Huh.'

'Huh? That's all?'

'What do you want me to say?'

'I don't know. Something.' She turned back to the window. 'Never mind.'

'You're jealous.'

'I'm not jealous.'

'You're a little jealous.'

'Shut up.'

You slid closer. She leaned away.

'Gawon.'

'What?'

'You literally suggested it.'

'I know what I suggested. Doesn't mean I have to like it.'

'Fair.'

The driver changed lanes. Gawon stayed pressed against the door.

'She uses vanilla lip gloss,' you said conversationally. 'Very sweet.'

'I don't care.'

'Like candy almost.'

'Stop talking.'

'You use that mint one. Much better.'

She finally looked at you. 'You're enjoying this.'

'A little bit.'

'Ass.'

'Yeah.' You touched her knee. 'Come here.'

'No.'

'Come on.'

'I said no.' But she wasn't pulling away from your hand.

'One kiss.'

'You've had enough kisses today.'

'One more.'

She rolled her eyes but turned toward you. 'You're ridiculous.'

'Yeah.'

'And your collar is still pink.'

'I'll wash it.'

'Good.' She leaned in then, quick and firm. When she pulled back, she was almost smiling. 'There. Happy?'

'Getting there.'

'Don't push it.' But she let you take her hand. 'How was it anyway?'

'How was what?'

'You know what.'

'It was nice.'

'Nice.' She considered this. 'That's it?'

'She was nervous. Kept apologizing.'

'Sounds like her…'

…

'I also liked it.' She added, in the silence.

Wha-

She swiftly kissed you this time, harder, hands on your jaw. The taxi driver coughed pointedly.

'We're almost there,' Gawon said against your mouth.

'We could circle the block.'

'That's very Pretty Woman of you.'

'I've never seen it.'

'Liar.' But she was smiling now, the tension finally breaking. 'You probably cried at the end.'

'Every time.'

'I knew it.' She settled against your side properly. 'You're such a soft touch.'

'Only for you.'

'And Sooin, apparently.' She smiled, now with an air of mischief.

'That's different.'

'I know.' Quieter now. 'I know it is. Still.'

'Still,' you agreed.

The hotel appeared ahead. Gawon straightened, already reaching for her bag.

'For the record,' she said as the taxi slowed, 'I prefer when your mouth tastes like mint. Or nothing. Or me. Or you.'

'Noted.'

The taxi stopped. The doorman was already moving toward them. The moment broke, but the understanding remained - she'd given something, watched something, felt something she hadn't expected. And maybe that was okay.

-

The hotel already felt like home. Two days. Just two days and the air carried Gawon's scent.

And the traces of the entire day, and the day before that.

You carried a box of cookies that Sooin made into the villa. She said it was just a parting gift just for today, but it felt more like she was trying to forget what happened. It was the opposite for you, you couldn't forget; and the fresh smell of the cookies, reminded you exactly of Sooin's plump lips, pressed desperately against yours, as the scent of the cookie caramelized in the oven.

You left the box of cookies on the table.

The door to the bathroom clicked when you sat on the bed. And Gawon emerged. Sheer stockings covering her feet to the midway of her thighs. A stunningly webbed black lingerie piece that covered just the right amount to leave you anguish, while still narrowly hiding everything.

Her bra was the same too, the underswell, the upswell, the way her breasts coupled just over the edge of the bra, just so, god almighty.

-

'Sit on that chair.' She was firm.

You moved, still admiring her, but now sat facing her.

She approached, slowly at first, between you and the bed, and she sat.

'I suppose this is what I planned as payback.'

'Because of yesterday.'

'Among other things. You kissing Sooin, keeping me sore this entire week.'

Her stocking-clad foot traced a deliberate path along your denim-clad thigh - a slow exploration. ‘Gawon.’ The name escaped you, raw and pleading.

‘Hush.’

Your fingers dug into the chair’s worn knit fabric. Her toes pressed, finally, against the aching bulge straining your jeans - then lifted away. ‘Gawon.’

‘Keep saying my name.’ A command.

Both feet settled heavily on your thighs now, warm soles pressing heat through denim. Your knuckles whitened. ‘What do you want? Tell me.’

‘Help me. With your feet.’

‘Good boy.’

One foot slid upward, the nylon catching on your zipper. A single toe hooked under the button. Relief was a breath away. ‘Take it out.’

‘What?’

‘Take it out.’ Her foot pressed down, the arch molding perfectly to your trapped erection. Toe pads dragged firmly along the swollen length. ‘Look at you. Hard just from my feet. Naughty boy.’

‘You’re the reason.’ Your voice was gravel. Her sole pressed harder, feeling the rigid heat through the layers of cotton and denim.¹

Her hands clenched the bedsheets, knuckles taut.

Then - emptiness. Her feet withdrew.

You looked up, lost. ‘Wh - '

Her fingers hooked the waistband of her skirt. A slow, slide down endless legs. The fabric caught briefly on her toes before pooling on the floor. Art unveiled.

You released the chair, transfixed. The air hummed with worn nerves. She planted her feet firmly on the mattress edge, wiggling her toes - a deliberate provocation. Her gaze pinned you, savoring your desperation.

Slowly, deliberately, she ripped the seam of her left stocking. White-painted toes emerged. ‘These were expensive,’ she murmured. ‘I expect… reciprocation.’ The contrast - torn black nylon against creamy skin - was devastating.

‘Take it out.’ This time, it was final. You shoved your boxers down, freeing yourself.

Gawon’s eyes widened. Her left foot landed on your bare thigh, sole searing against skin. Then the right. Both feet bracketed your shaft, radiating unbearable heat just millimeters away.

‘Let me show you what these can do.’ A soft, dangerous smile.

Her feet closed around you. Her warm textured soles around your shaft, bare toes wiggling, brushing. Pressure. Friction. Gawon grinned, your cock trapped between her arches, twitching, helpless, pooling with precum.

She asked you to move closer, ‘Wait - closer. I can - ’

You dragged the chair forward immediately, wood scraping floor. She slid toward the edge. Your hands locked around her thin calves, feeling the flex of muscle beneath nylon.

‘That… works.’ Her breath hitched. One hand slid down her stomach, fingers pressing into soft skin below her navel. Lower. Beneath the lace edge of her panties. A sigh escaped her as her fingers moved slow, shadowing across her lace panties, hints of knuckles, fingers, the soft squelch. Her hand emerged glistening.

‘God. You’re so wet.’ You barely tear out.

‘Like you wouldn’t believe.’ She held up her slick-coated hand. ‘Want it? Be good. Take it.' She wrapped that wetness around your cock. Tight. She spat into her other palm. Both hands worked you now, while her feet maintained their tight grip at the base of your cock, barely moving, but destroying your nerves nonetheless.

Then she moved. Her hand held crown of your cock as her soles pressed heavily on either side. Her hand worked the precum down, her feet worked all of it: saliva, precum, her slick.

You twitched. Back arching. Your grip on her calves was too tight at some point, to which she moaned a soft rebellion: you stopped immediately.

You dug your toes into the carpet, your biceps pulsed, you lost oxygen after every filthy pass of her feet along your length.

And yet,

Her feet never stopped - a slow, torturous undulation against your shaft. The textured nylon dragged and pulled every moan from you, every hunchback position to prevent spilling on her textured soles rubbing against the slit of your cock.

Then just as you half-twitched to completion.

She stopped.

'You want my hand?'

'Yes.' You barely say.

You were prey to Gawon: 'Louder, beg for it.'

'Please. Your hand. My cock. Please.'

Her hand gripped your cock like it was a squeeze toy, a welcome sensation when you're passing in and out of consciousness.

Every downward stroke of her hands synced with her soles pressed hard around your cock.

'Look at you,' she breathed. 'Twitching like a rabbit in a snare.'

A strangled sound escaped you. Her thumbs circled your swollen head, smearing her wetness mixed with yours. Pre-come slicked the path. The schlick-schlick of her pumping hands synced with the shush-shush of nylon soles gliding.

Then she changed rhythm.

Her feet stilled, clamped tight just below the head. Her hands accelerated, twisting on the upstroke, thumb digging into the frenulum.

'Gawon - !'

'Not yet.' Her command was amber and honey and gunpowder pressed to your very nerves. 'You hold it. Hold it for me. Be a good boy.'

Sweat beaded your temples. Your hips jerked, seeking deeper pressure, but her feet held firm, denying release. Muscles trembled - thighs, abdomen, the cords in your neck standing rigid. The need was a live wire sparking behind your eyes.

'You taste the air?' She murmured, inexplicably.

You did. Salt. Her arousal. The tang of overworked nerves.

'That’s you unmaking. That’s what I do. Now, come here. sit here.' She patted on the part of bed between her thighs.

You stood up immediately, sitting between her thighs, her arms now entangled around your waist.

'I have a request.' She pressed a kiss to your jaw.

'Mm.' You reply. Running on fumes.

'I want you to… are you listening?' She says, now soft.

In a flash, her legs wrapped around your waist, her hand wrapped around your cock. Her heels just hovered by the sides of your shaft.

Then her heels dug in.

You let out a groan. In pleasure.

'I want to watch you have sex with Sooin.'

You twitched. You almost came. You groaned too. She's trying to fucking kill you. Her heels moved just so, the muscle of your shaft shifting in turn, her soles now pressed on either side of your shaft.

'Gawon - '

'Fuck Sooin for me. I won't force you. I want you to. I liked it… I liked it when you kissed her.'

'Gawon - ' You breathe. You were about to break. You were twitching. One more move. That's all she needed to break you.

'So?' Waiting for an answer.

Her left foot shifted. Just the big toe, dragging slowly, agonizingly, from root to tip along the pulsing vein underneath your cock. A whimper tore loose. Her hands tightened, twisting harder.

'Ok! I will. Fuck. I'll fuck Sooin. In front of you... I'll cum inside her.'

You groaned, her soles continued its movement, along the length of your cock, the whole of her soles, milking you.

She moaned. She came before you did. She moaned right on the rim of your ear, vibrating her perfect orgasm.

Holy Fucking Shit.

You detonated next.

It was a structural collapse. Spine arching, heels digging into carpet, vision whiting out as heat roared up your spine. Her hands milked every spasm, her feet a warm, grounding weight as you emptied yourself over her fingers, stripes of white landing hot on your stomach, her fingers, the carpet below the bed.

You panted, Gawon held you firm.

Gawon watched, chest rising and falling rapidly, her own arousal glistening visibly now at the lace edge of her panties. She lifted her slick, glazed hand, studying the mess with detached fascination.

'Holy fuck.' She said, spent.

You laughed.

She laughed in turn.

Her foot, still resting against your spent cock, gave one final, proprietary squeeze.

-

Tomorrow. Tomorrow was when everything was gonna happen.

You and Gawon shared a shower. Went along with the routine of days past.

With a commitment etched into eachother's hearts.

-

The day was neutral. Routine. You and gawon showered together. She scoffed when you held her waist with a half-hard cock against her back; all she could offer was, 'Tonight, you'll have all the time you need.' She didn't know how much that made you ache.

The hours ambled past. You and Gawon made rounds to cafes, pet shops, summer trees. Her honey hand was wrapped with yours the entire time, even when clammy: a soft proclamation that the both of you would be through thick and thin.

By evening, you walked nervously with Gawon to Sooin's place. She said everything was arranged. What did that mean?

The walk upstairs was even more nerve-wracking. It was until Gawon hugged you, right outside the door to Sooin's, that you calmed down. 'Sooin deserves the best. You deserve the best. I won't be jealous. I want Sooin to feel loved - more than just a kiss. I want you to understand, more than just sex, that I'll be forever yours.'

'It's a pity I can't throw you against this wall and make love. Hm?' You grin. She grins back. You kiss. You have no idea what you did to deserve Gawon.

The door softly cranked open and Sooin was stood there. Her hands raised perpendicular, waiting for you.

You walked towards her, then hugged her.

Sooin stood on her toes for a moment, readjusting her arms around your neck. She was secure, holding your head, looking at you; maybe she was trying to conceptualize something, something more foreign than just kissing.

Your hands were at her waist now, against her warm skin.

You were already half-hard. Half-dizzy. Crazed: Gawon's watching you, Sooin wants you. Focus, for once, focus.

Two beautiful women, one observing, one right in your arms - the one that isn't your girlfriend. You were confused.

Things were uncoiling. You aren't sure what it was.

'Kiss me. Again. More. As much as it takes.' Sooin whispered, right on your ear. Her moist breath tingling the side of your ear, your face.

Your breath caught. AWOL. You looked at Sooin once more. Her cheeks flush, her breaths heavy, her hair tangled so perfectly around your fingers.

You caught the side of her chin with one hand. Tilting her head just a little, just so, and you touched her lips. She was breathing fast, her heart was beating, you felt it on her lips.

You slid your tongue between her lips, selfishly. mmph she says, christ almighty. You traced her lips, her tongue.

Her arms tightened around your neck, and she took initiative: pushing her tongue deep into your mouth. You moved in response, in surprise. 'Gently' you whisper, she nods; now, licking softly, her tongue to yours, exploring you. Her hands were stretching the quarter-zip that Gawon bought for you.

You were catastrophically hard. You weren't privy to what Gawon was doing, what she was saying, most of all, what her reaction was. You were a deer under spotlight. Sooin coodinating perfectly to make sure you couldn't look at Gawon.

'Was that good?' She asked. Cheeks flush. Breathing heavily. Her hips were gently rocking against you. On your hardness.

'Yes. That… was perfect.' You whisper, just loud enough. Gawon surely heard it. Your cock jerked in excitement.

Without saying anything, you pulled her tight, entering her mouth once more, harder, without sympathy. She squealed something. You kissed her hard. Passionately. Far passionately than before, far more than the other times.

Your arm seized the small of her back. You helped her rock her body against your hardness. She was moaning in tandem with your pushes and pulls.

You looked down to see, to go past concept, to see what you were doing to Sooin. But before then, Sooin pulled your chin again, and kissed you hungrily.

Don't worry.

Just enjoy it.

'Christ almighty Sooin.' You balk, speech almost unintelligible. Desperately clinging to Sooin's body.

'Grind into me. Please.' She begged. That was it. That did it.

You nearly lifted her into the air as you ground yourself deep into her. Separated by cloth. Your cock against her pussy.

She moaned deep into your mouth. Her husky voice destroying a piece of you every time.

'I'm gonna come.'

'Keep going. Please. Keep going.'

You desperately move. Forgetting everything. Concepts forgotten. Just Sooin body perfectly sidled up on your brick-hard cock.

Then:

Gawon wrapped her arms around your shoulders. Forehead against your nape.

'I want in.'

Sooin retreated back. Cheeks red. Breathing heavily.

Gawon’s lips left a searing trail down your neck - half-graze, half-bite - as her fingers hooked the hem of your shirt. Fabric rasped upward, baring skin to the cool air and her hotter mouth. She mapped your shoulders, the tense cord of your triceps, then circled to face you, eyes locked on yours as her tongue flicked a nipple. The jolt went straight to your groin.

‘I want to suck your cock.’

No preamble. No permission asked. Her hands were already at your waistband, deftly working the button, the zipper teeth parting like a sigh. Your fingers tangled in her hair, not guiding, just anchoring, as she sank to her knees.

Behind her, Sooin stood frozen. Back pressed to the doorframe, knuckles white where she gripped the wood. Her breath hitched - a soft, involuntary sound. Gawon heard it. Didn’t turn. Just smiled against your hipbone, her breath humid through the thin cotton of your briefs.

‘Watch,’ Gawon murmured, not to you.

She peeled the briefs down. Your cock sprang free, flushed and straining and dripping with pre cum. Gawon’s gaze didn’t leave Sooin’s face as she took you into her mouth.

Her cheeks hollowed out, a gentle sucking noise rang out as your knees almost buckled right then and there.

The soft whimpers of Gawon going deeper.

The slick noise of her tongue circling the head.

Sooin made a sound - a whimper trapped in her throat. Gawon hummed around you, the vibration ricocheting up your spine. Encouragement? Mockery? Impossible to tell.

‘Gawon - ’ you choked out.

She pulled off with a filthy pop. ‘Patience.’ Her hand replaced her mouth, stroking slowly. Deliberate. Theatrical. ‘She’s never seen this, has she? Never seen how pretty a man comes apart.’

Sooin’s eyes were wide, dark, fixed on Gawon’s hand moving on your shaft. A fevered flush crept up her neck.

Gawon’s free hand reached back, blind, and found Sooin’s wrist. ‘Touch him,’ she ordered, voice thick around the command. ‘Just here.’ She guided Sooin’s trembling fingers to your hip, to the tense muscle jumping beneath sweat-damp skin. ‘Feel how hard he is for us.’

Sooin’s touch was feather-light. Terrified. Electrifying. Her fingertips traced the V of your pelvis, then flinched back.

‘Look at him,’ Gawon insisted, taking you deep again, hollowing her cheeks. _‘Look at what we do to him.’

Sooin’s breath stuttered. This time, when her hand returned, it didn’t tremble. Her palm flattened against your stomach, feeling the clench and release of muscle as Gawon sucked harder, faster. Her thumb brushed the base of your cock where Gawon’s lips stretched tight.

Two hands now. Two women. One unbearable friction.

Gawon moaned around you - a sound of pure satisfaction - and Sooin echoed it, softer, wonderstruck. Her nails bit lightly into your hip as Gawon took you to the hilt, throat working, eyes watering but never closing, never looking away from Sooin’s rapt, overwhelmed face.

Gawon’s throat flexed - a tight, rippling swallow against the head of your cock. Her nose pressed into your base. You felt the ridge of your crown catch momentarily on the tense ring of muscle at the back of her mouth before she forced herself deeper, her throat opening in a practiced spasm. Tears welled at the corners of her eyes, tracking mascara-smudged paths down her flushed cheeks. She didn’t blink. Didn’t look away from you.

Her lips sealed impossibly tight around the root, the stretch burning. You felt the thump thump thump of her pulse through the soft flesh of her palate, pressed directly against your straining underside. Saliva overflowed, thick and slick, dripping down your shaft onto Sooin’s hand still splayed on your lower belly. The warm rivulet traced a path through the sweat-sheened skin.

Gawon held you there, buried to the hilt. Her breath came in short, desperate sniffs through flared nostrils, unable to inhale fully. Her jaw trembled with the effort. A low, guttural hum vibrated through her throat and into your cock - a physical buzz deep in your core.

Then, slowly, agonizingly, she retreated. Her throat released its grip with a wet, sucking pop. Your cock slid back through the tight tunnel of her mouth, every ridge, every vein catching exquisitely on her tongue, her palate, her teeth held carefully back. Her tongue flattened beneath you, a hot, broad pressure massaging the sensitive frenulum as she withdrew. Cool air hit the slick length for a fraction of a second before her lips, swollen and red, sealed back around the head.

Her tongue pressed hard under your cock, making you wince with pleasure, all the joints of your body gridlocked under blissful tyranny. Her lips pulsed around your shaft, the softness of the inside of her mouth, molded around your shaft, all velvety and fucking outrageous, dragging horribly along your length, the suction of her lips making a meek sound as it passed the crown of your cock.

Her hands never stopping working the base of your shaft and your balls. Switching rhythmically, squeezing lightly, fingers rolling your sac, just so, just so.

'Fuck. Gawon.'

'God. I love you. And this cock. And everything.' She breathed out, all flush and bothered, intermittently sending a hand down her panties, knuckles shadowing along her panties as she fucked herself on her fingers.

Gawon's saliva ran glistening along your shaft. Before it could pass down your legs, her lips surrounded your shaft again. Slicking Sooin's fingers where they still pressed against your hip. The sound was obscene: wet schlicks on the upstroke, guttural swallows of choked gasps when she surfaced, the constant drip onto skin.

Her hot gusts fanned your wet skin when she, occasionally, came up for air: short, sharp inhalations followed by low moans directed at you, directed at her fingers working on her pussy, before she plunged down again.

Sooin’s hand on your hip shifted. Her thumb found the taut tendon running from your hip bone towards your groin. She pressed into the rigid cord of muscle, her nail scraping lightly through the sweat and Gawon’s spit. Her other hand, the one Gawon had guided, lifted from your belly. You felt her hesitation in the air above your cock, then the tentative brush of a fingertip against the slick, spit-sheened head - just below where Gawon’s lips were sealed. A jolt shot through you.

Gawon felt it too. Her eyes, locked on Sooin’s, narrowed slightly. She increased the suction, hollowing her cheeks sharply, pulling Sooin’s focus back to her mouth, her control. She released you with another filthy pop, saliva stringing between her lower lip and your crown.

'See?' Gawon rasped, her voice wrecked. She didn't break eye contact with Sooin. Her tongue darted out, broad and pink, lapping at the pre-come beading at your tip, collecting it messily. 'See how he leaks for it?' She guided your cockhead back to her lips, her tongue swirling over the slit once more before taking you in, not deep this time, just the head, sucking hard and fast, her cheeks collapsing inward. 'All this… just from my mouth. Imagine.'

Gawon looked at you once again. This time, she stood up, wrapping her arms around your neck before kissing the side of your face, then pressing her tongue deep into your mouth.

Sooin stood there, wet-handed, even flusher, but she still just stood there: waiting, patiently.

'Sooin.'

That was all she had to say for Sooin to rush back towards you. But before she came, Gawon pushed you. You lost the abiltiy to maintain balance a long time ago, your knees were fucked, your brain was totally fucked. You were just fucked.

So you fell. Onto the bed.

'Calculated.' You breathe, masking the previous panic in your voice.

'Always.' Gawon says. And she leans on you, her knees on the bed. Hand on your wet cock.

Her lips surrounded your nipple, and a faint suction ran through your entire body.

Gawon's hand, the one taht was preoccupied with stroking you into madness, pulled for Sooin to come. And, again, she did.

Knees on the bed.

Palpably close to your cock, Sooin kneeled closer. And her lips pressed warm against your nipple.

Gawon motioned for Sooin, something unspoken, and you felt her hand wrap around your shaft.

Schlick.

Her moved. Her hands were smaller. Warmer. Tighter.

Schlick.

'Sit on him.' Gawon said. You darted up to look at them. Sooin was silent, eyes wide, her hand stopped moving.

'Are you sure?'

'Sit on him. Dear.'

The side of your chest where Gawon stayed was warm, she was there, looking at Sooin, she slid off your body, steadying herself. Her skin glanced off the sunlight, she was paler, a born deer surrounded by two wolves.

You were complicit in her ruin. You knew it now. Your cock grew harder the more you looked; soft skin, large bosom, thick thighs. You took a deep breath when Sooin straddled you, your lungs ballooned, the sides of her inner thighs pressed to your outer thighs. Her body was just inches off your rock-hard cock.

Gawon slid behind Sooin. Sooin didn’t turn - her gaze stayed locked on you, lips swollen and bitten red. The snick of a bra clasp echoed in the quiet. The garment slid down Sooin’s arms and landed in your lap, warm from her skin.

'Ah.'

Their laughter tangled - light, nervous. Gawon’s hand darted out, snatching the bra away.

Sooin’s breasts were bare now, high and full, nipples flushed pink. Your gut clenched, a visceral pull to bury yourself inside her - now.

She crossed her arms over her chest. 'You’re grinning,' Gawon observed, mischievious.

'I know.'

'Approved?' Gawon’s tone was all edges.

'Jesus. Are you blind?' You shifted closer, easing Sooin back against your chest. She was gentle, her back was arched. She was so so soft. Her bare shoulders trembled.

'Mm!' Sooin gasped as your thigh brushed her inner leg.

'Okay?' you murmured.

She nodded, cheeks blazing with red.

A hand closed around your cock - Gawon’s. Her thumb pressed the leaking tip. 'Hard as marble. Is this for her?'

You stayed silent. The answer pulsed in her grip.

Sooin arched when Gawon’s other hand slid between her legs, palming her through damp cotton. 'It’s really happening. Oh fuck, it's really happening.' Sooin breathed, pinned between you.

Gawon hooked a finger in the waistband of Sooin’s panties. Look. She peeled the fabric aside.

Wet heat glistened. No barriers left.

-

You traced Sooin’s inner thigh, feeling the jump of her muscle. 'Tell me.' 'I want' Sooin’s voice frayed. 'Just… touch me first.'

Gawon’s hand left your cock, guiding yours to Sooin’s center. 'Here.' Your fingers met slick heat. Sooin whimpered.

'Like this?' You circled her clit, her viscous slick covering the pads of your fingers. Holy fuck. Sooin’s head fell back against Gawon. 'Yes. God - yes.'

Gawon bit Sooin’s shoulder, leaving a red bloom. 'He needs to feel you. Ready?' Sooin nodded, frantic.

You lined up, the head of your cock nudging her entrance. Her hips jerked. 'Wait,' Gawon ordered. She spat into her palm, slicked your length. 'Now.'

You pushed in - slow. Sooin cried out, back bowing. 'Breathe,' Gawon commanded, pinning Sooin’s hips down. 'Take it.'

Sooin’s walls clenched, scalding tight. 'More - ' You thrust deeper. She sobbed, nails scraping your forearm.

Gawon watched. She moved to the side of the bed, sitting next to you. Hand on her mound - fingers moving. She breathed soft. She was looking at you, how you moved into Sooin. You met her eyes, once or twice. Making sure she saw, how your hips crushed against Sooin. Gawon's grin didn't leave her, her lust-gleamed eyes didn't change. Her fingers were still inside of her. In the background, as you stared at Gawon, Sooin let out pitiful moans that was more inspiration than anything else.

You moved deeper. Found her shoulder to bite on. Her pussy was wet, hot, her slick passed through your entire shaft, collecting down your balls.

'I'm fucking losing it. I'm fucking losing it.' She repeated, in your ear. You went faster.

Her hips moved up, your hands pulling as support, and she crashed back down. Her ass against your thighs. Smack.

She let out a pitiful moan again.

She moved back to find a different position. Her breasts bounced up and down. Your cock ground against her g-spot. She came.

She came just like that.

'Ahhh. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck' She buried her head in your shoulder. Trembled. Lost herself. Regained herself. Grinded her hips just a little. Letting your cock move and scrape against her sensitive spots.

'How does it feel? His cock grinding you. All inside you. Stretching you out.' Gawon's hand held Sooin's sweaty nape.

It wasn't question: an observation.

Her pink pussy was swollen around you. Morphed around you. Her stomach moved as her diaphragm collected oxygen. It felt unreal, her pussy tightening as she breathed in and out. It reminded you of a grounding detail, as the pause ensued: fucking Sooin as your girlfriend watched.

This time, Gawon's hand wrapped behind you, and she kissed you; first, on your ear, a tender, wet kiss that traced the outline of your ear; then, as you tried to kiss her back, her finger hovered over your chin, and pushed it back: 'I'm a spectator.' That was all she said.

Sooin was still breathing softly, her forehead still pressed against your left shoulder. The sides of her body still moved in accordance of her breaths, her humid breath hovered on your collarbone - worn out, high on bliss.

'Slap me.'

What?

'What?' You say, this time, with your mouth. Doubly processing.

'I want you to slap me.'

You look at Gawon, only to find her smiling.

The only clueless person in the room - you. [1]

-

[1] The exact moment your brain, which was previously operating on a simple "This is nice / This is weird / This is hot" flowchart, blue-screens entirely. It's the dawning, ice-water horror of realizing that the other two players in this… scenario… have apparently been co-authoring a very specific Google Doc of Kinks & Agendas in a shared folder you were never invited to.

-

Sooin blew air at you. You looked, she was smiling, still rawing from the pleasure, and then, just then, kissed you.

You locked your arms behind her back, and pressed your cock so deep that she groaned into your mouth. Her tongue moved in frantic movements as you pressed deeper and deeper into her; her folds pressed wet against the base of your shaft. You let the kiss go - to Sooin's dismay: mouth open and dizzy and flushed - to press your face against the space between her breasts; on either side, there was hills of perfect upswell dotted with pinkish nipples. You held her firmer as you plowed into her. She was still, victim to her pleasure, moaning, groaning, releasing her slick - some of it dripping on the carpet.

You saw Gawon move behind Sooin in your periphery. A sharp crack echoed - Gawon’s palm landing hard on Sooin’s ass. Sooin yelped, her fingers digging into the back of your neck. You held her hips down against your lap, your cock buried deep inside her, and delivered your own stinging slap to her other cheek. The flesh jiggled, already flushed.

'Thought you could just take and take, little thief?' Gawon hissed, naked, pressing her front against Sooin’s sweaty back. Her lips brushed Sooin’s ear. 'Squeeze her tight. Make her gush. Let her ruin her own fucking carpet.'

No more talk needed.

You stood, lifting Sooin’s legs, hooking them over your shoulders. She groaned, back arching, as the angle drove you impossibly deeper, the head of your cock grinding against her cervix. A raw, punched-out whimper escaped her - she was still trembling from her last climax.

You pulled her ass back, just enough for the tip to catch, then slammed home. A wet thwack of flesh meeting flesh. Sooin shrieked. You grunted, the force driving your hips forward.

Glancing down, you saw Gawon on her knees between Sooin’s splayed legs. One hand was frantically rubbing her own swollen clit. The other hand rose and fell in weak, almost spastic slaps against Sooin’s reddened ass. 'Close… oh fuck, close,' Gawon gasped, her voice thin and strained.

Sooin’s ass slammed against your hips again, slicker now. The wet sound was obscene - a mix of her slick, her cum, your pre-cum, smearing across skin and dripping onto the carpet below. The air reeked of sex and sweat.

Gawon’s head snapped back. A ragged cry tore from her throat as she came, her hips bucking against her own hand, her weak slaps stopping entirely as her body seized. 'Yes! Fuck! YES!'

The sight, the sound, the feel of Sooin’s cunt clamping down like a slick fist - it pushed you over the edge. 'Gonna - !' you managed, pulling out just as the first hot pulse surged up your shaft.

'Fuck! Fuck!' Sooin sobbed, her body convulsing. Her swollen pussy clenched around nothing, and a gush of clear fluid splattered onto the carpet between her thighs, soaking into the fibers. 'Oh god! Oh god!' she gasped between desperate cries, her hips jerking as she squirted again.

You gave her no respite. Still hard, still throbbing, you shoved back into her sopping, pink entrance. This time, you crushed your mouth to hers, swallowing her gasps as you fucked her through her own aftershocks. Deep, punishing strokes. The final sprint.

You buried yourself to the root, grinding hard. 'Fuck!' The growl ripped from your chest as you locked Sooin against you, fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise. You emptied yourself deep inside her - one thick, hot rope after another, painting her inner walls, each pulse kissing her cervix. Your balls tightened, drawn up, as Gawon ducked her head, hollowing her cheeks to suck them greedily, swallowing what spilled.

'You… filled me,' Sooin breathed against your lips, dazed.

You kissed her, deep.

You thrust twice more, shallow and possessive, grinding your spend deeper into her core. Then you pulled out with a wet suck.

Thick globs of your cum spurted onto the soaked carpet, joining her slick puddle. One stray pulse landed on Gawon’s waiting tongue. She closed her mouth, swallowing.

You lowered Sooin onto the bed. She collapsed, chest heaving, looking up at you with glazed, awestruck eyes.

Your gaze locked onto Gawon. She was still panting, her own climax lingering. On her knees, she shuffled forward until her face was level with your softening cock, still glistening with a mix of your spend and Sooin’s slick. She let the heavy head rest on her tongue for a heartbeat, tasting it, before closing her lips around your shaft. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking firmly, cleaning every inch with slow swipes of her tongue.

To be continued.

a\n: And here we are! Hopefully this fic isn't too bad, I forgot how to write, and then maybe remembered…. idk. So for a few updates, I think releases will be monthly. Commissions are a bit of an issue - since i live somewhere where receiving payments or even operating a paypal account is strictly forbidden - so I decided to close the Ko-Fi account. When push comes to shove, and I mean when I'm really seeking money, I may find a work around. For now, here are my free works: monthly, utterly imperfect, barely edited, yet here. right here.

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine being Caleb's non-mc significant other. Alpha/Omega verse.

Imagine the Skyheaven Academy was filled with steel towers and crystalline skies. A sanctuary for the elite, soldiers, empaths, and psychics. It was a place for ascension, both in rank and social standing.

Imagine, somewhere among these floating island and shining uniforms, you found love in the most unexpected place. One of the academy's strongest Alpha, Caleb.

Imagine, Caleb wasn't just admired, he was respected. His psychic resonance cut through space like gravity, his instincts honed with near animalistic precision. He was a living symbol of dominance and control.

Imagine and yet he chose you. You, with no second gender. No heat. No scent. No place in the primal biological dance of Alpha and Omega.

Imagine you always thought his love would be enough to silence the whispers behind your back. That it would shield you from the subtle rejections at formal events, the way professors avoided eye contact when grading your reports, the way other Omegas stared at you with sympathy or worse, disdain.

but Imagine the one you could never win over was Caleb's mother. She never raised her voice. She didn't need to. Her disdain was precise, venom hidden beneath the silk. She once told you with a smile that your love was "Admirable" like a child playing dress-up in the clothes of something sacred.

Imagine you kept it together. You always did. For Caleb. But the night you asked him.

"If I were an Omega, would things be different?" His silence spoke louder than any betrayal. He didn't say yes. But he didn't say no either. That's when the crack in your heart began.

Imagine it happened during Skyheaven's lunar convergence. When psychic storms made it dangerous to suppress instincts. The Academy called it "Resonance Week." For most Alphas and Omegas, it was treated with caution. For you and Caleb, it was a test.

Imagine walking in, and the person you love doesn't see you.

Imagine it wasn't because he forgot you.But because instinct buried everything else.

Imagine the door wasn't locked. That should've been the first sign. You stepped into his quarters, fresh from drills, still half in uniform. You thought he might be resting. Maybe already asleep. You thought he might smile when he saw you. But he didn’t.

Imagine the air was thick. Too warm. Mixed with something unfamiliar. And then you saw her. The Omega. Not just any Omega. Perfect. Engineered. Glowing with heat and pheromones like honey and wildfire. And in front of her was Caleb.

Imagine his eyes were dilated. Chest rising and falling like he couldn't breathe. Shoulders shaking under the weight of instincts barely held back.

Imagine you call out his name once. Soft. He didn't hear it. You said it again, louder this time. And then again, a crack in your voice could be heard this time. Still nothing.

Imagine his whole body was just facing the Omega. Tension in every line of muscle. His hands clenched, then flexed, then reached forward.

"Caleb." You snapped. "Don't." That got his attention. But not like you hoped. He turned toward you. And for a second. Just for a second his eyes flashed with something animal. Not recognition. Not love. Threat. Then he lunged.

Imagine the moment he did that, you didn't think. You moved. You threw yourself between them. And it all happened too fast.

Imagine he hit you. Not a punch, not violent. But a shove so forceful it knocked the air from your lungs and sent your back into the wall. Your shoulder cracked against it. Pain spread down your arm.

Imagine Omega flinched behind you. Their scent flared. You stood again anyway, shaking and gasping. "Caleb. Look at me." Your voice broke. "It's me." And finally... Finally his eyes focused. Just a little.

Imagine could see the war inside him. Recognition crawling its way up through instinct. Through scent. Through everything screaming in his blood to claim the person behind you instead.

Imagine his body was trembling. He took a step forward again and you braced yourself. Not because you thought he'd hurt you. But because the truth already had. He wanted you gone. Not Caleb. The Caleb you knew wouldn't. But this thing inside him.

Imagine reaching out, hand against his chest, just over his heart. "Don't do this." You whispered, almost crying.

Imagine the way he twitched like it burned him. But just then was when the security team burst in. It happened do fast. The suppressants hitting him like ice water and he collapsed to his knees. Gasping. Clawing at the floor. His breath caught on sobs he wasn't fully conscious of.

Imagine all you could do was watch. You didn't go to him. You couldn't. Because it hurt. It hurts to see the person you trusted more than anything fall apart like that. Not because he stopped loving you. But because he couldn't even see you through the fog of what he was born to be.

Imagine as you stood still as they carried him away. The Omega too. Quiet. Unshaken. But no one looked at you. After all you weren't the one he tried to touch.

Imagine later on as you sat by his unconscious figure at the infirmary, they would call it an unfortunate misunderstanding. They'd tell you it wasn't his fault. That it was just biology. Stress. Poor timing.

Imagine you understand but none of that really mattered. Because for those few minutes... You were invisible. And love, the thing you built together so carefully broke under instincts weight. Not with a scream. Not with a goodbye. Just a shove. And silence.

Imagine wanting to scream. You wanting to stay. But more than anything, you wanted to believe that what you had could survive biology, tradition, and the crushing weight of instinct.

but Imagine, love doesn't erase the truth. It just delays it.

My love, Caleb,

I loved you fiercely and I never wanted to leave. But I saw it, what lives in you. What wakes when you're vulnerable. What you were built to be.

It's not your fault. This world was made for Alphas and Omegas, and I was foolish enough to think we could rewrite it.

You once told me I was your anchor. But I think I was just a rope tied to a storm.

When you wake up, please don’t come looking for me. Let this be mercy, not abandonment.

Yours, once.

Imagine, you left that night. Going through Skyheaven Academy gates unnoticed. Behind you, the sky burned with silver, and the man you loved slept alone, still dreaming of you. But dreams like love are fragile things in a world built on instinct.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

[dakusan]

UNTOUCH-UP

Tattoo Artist!Lee Minho x Reader | Exes. Ink. Unfinished business. And nowhere left to run.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You go in for a touch-up. He’s the one holding the machine. Your ex. The one who fucked you like he loved you—and left like he didn’t. Now he’s working on your skin again. And you’re both trying not to fall back in. Too late. You never stopped wanting him. He never stopped being yours. This time, he’s not letting go.

💌a/n: bro. BRO. i am ✨deceased✨ this fic nearly ate me alive. i was so lazy writing it my brain was just like . . . O.O static noise the ENTIRE time. BUT I DID IT. I DID IT. SHE’S DONE. Minho's demon dick: delivered. Tattoo angst: served. You: ruined. also not me having a day™️ — my cat knocked over a potted flower like she pays rent in this house?? broke the damn pot. soil everywhere. ON. THE. CARPET. and guess who was sitting in the mess like a chaotic forest gremlin? her. the criminal. not even sorry. anyway enjoy the filth I bled for <3 p.s. reblog for minho's sake. he worked very hard. p.p.s. if you read this and didn’t moan once, you're lying. p.p.p.s. minho said “mine” and I folded like a lawn chair in a hurricane.

⚠️ warnings: 18+ ONLY | MINORS DNI | Exes to lovers with years of tension | Fingering (f. receiving), oral sex (f. receiving), face riding | Protected sex because Minho is a King | Overstimulation, squirting, rough sex | Hair pulling, light choking, possessive behavior | Filthy talk™ and degrading praise | Clit play so intense you might ascend | Reader is gone. dumb. dripping | Minho lives upstairs. You live upstairs now too. It’s canon.

📌 Please read with caution. Scream into a pillow. Mop your floor. Apologize to your downstairs neighbors.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » WANT — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:29 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

BACKSTORY

You met Lee Minho back when he was still building himself. Not the man with a waitlist. Not the name clients whispered like prayer. Just a perfectionist with ink-stained fingers, a cigarette habit, and a sketchbook full of obsessions.

He only took blackwork clients. His designs were architectural. Cold. Brutally beautiful. Like cityscapes carved into skin. Like cathedrals swallowed by shadow. You used to tease him—“Do you ever draw anything soft?”

He never answered.

But he kissed you like his mouth was a vow.

You were chaos to his control. Bright to his brutalism. A fire escape on legs, always halfway out the window—but you stayed for him.

The first tattoo he gave you was on your ribcage. Fine lines. Intricate, dark, permanent. He said, “I’ve never done this for someone I care about before.”

You said, “Don’t make it perfect. Just make it ours.”

He made it perfect anyway.

But love wasn’t enough—not when his world narrowed to ink and reputation, and yours was spinning with needs he couldn’t name, let alone meet. He stopped coming home. You stopped trying to explain. The last fight was quiet. The kind of silence that ends things.

You left. He let you. Neither of you ever reached out again.

Seoul, South Korea. Wednesday, 4:03 PM

The bell over the door jingles.

It’s the same goddamn sound. That soft metallic chime, like a warning.

You step into NO SAINT INK and inhale the familiar scent—disinfectant, ink, citrus cleaner, and something darker beneath it. Nostalgia, maybe. Or just Minho’s ghost.

“Hi! Welcome to—”

Jisung’s voice cuts off the moment he looks up. Eyes widen. Blink. Blink. Jaw slightly drops. He’s behind the counter in a ripped vintage tee, one glove on, holding a paper cup of iced Americano like it’s mid-scene in a music video.

“...Holy shit.”

“Nice to see you too,” you deadpan, stepping up to the reception desk like it’s a confession booth.

From the back, Felix emerges, sliding in with a practiced spin on the rolling stool. His crop top says “NO SAINT, JUST HOT” and he’s chewing pink bubblegum like it’s personal.

He squints. “Wait. Waitwaitwait—no way.” He turns to Jisung. “That’s her, right?”

Jisung nods slowly, eyes still on you like you might disappear if he blinks. “Mm-hm. That’s her. The ribcage girl.”

You sigh, reaching for the clipboard. “Still the same greeting process, I see.”

Felix leans in over the counter, lashes weaponized. “So. What brings you back to the scene of the crime, gorgeous?”

“Tattoo,” you say simply, checking the box marked cover-up on the intake form.

Felix raises a brow. “Cover-up? On what?”

You give him a flat look. Then slowly, deliberately, tap your rib.

Jisung immediately chokes on his iced coffee. “Oh my god. You’re covering Minho’s piece?” he hisses.

“Don’t say it like that,” you mutter.

Felix gasps dramatically, grabbing your form. “Does he know? Does he know you’re here?”

“No.”

“Does he know you're gonna cover the sacred rib tattoo of doomed romance™?”

“Still no.”

Jisung is now whispering to himself in horror. “He’s gonna combust. He’s gonna short-circuit like a printer from 2003.”

Felix pats your hand. “You’re braver than the Marines.”

You slide the completed form back to them. “You gonna let me through, or you want me to relive the breakup right here?”

“Booth Three,” Jisung says instantly. “He’s in there right now. I’ll text him that a client is coming in.”

Felix grins like the devil. “We won’t say who. Surprise trauma!”

You exhale slowly as you make your way to Booth Three and pushing the door open.

Minho is inside, doesn't even look up. Of course he doesn't. He is seated at his workstation, black hoodie sleeves pushed up, long fingers flying over his iPad. The screen glows with precision: a mandala lattice interwoven with brutalist architecture, all angles and absence. It’s violently elegant. Just like him.

He’s got one AirPod in. The other rests on the desk, silent. His tattoo gun is prepped and sterilized beside it. Black gloves folded, still untouched.

You stay silent for a beat.

He’s changed, but not really. Hair darker now. Under-eye shadows deeper. Forearms inked in blackwork he used to say wasn’t “for him.” You recognize his neck tattoo—you designed that motif. He said he’d never use it. Guess he changed his mind.

You speak, voice even, soft.

“Hope you still remember how to do ribs.”

He freezes. Literally freezes mid-stroke, like someone hit pause on a film reel.

His eyes flick up.

And when they meet yours—his stylus drops.

“...No fucking way.”

You smile, tight-lipped. “Hi.”

Minho blinks. Once. Twice. Then leans back slowly in his chair, as if needing distance just to believe you're real. He doesn’t say anything at first. His eyes drag down you like a scan—lips, collarbones, arms. His gaze stops right where it used to rest: the dip beneath your ribs. “What the fuck are you doing here.” You shrug, like this isn’t a slow-burn emotional arson scene. “Cover-up.”

He exhales like he got sucker punched.

You don’t say it. You don’t have to. He knows which one. For a moment, neither of you move. The only sound is the quiet buzz of the fluorescent light, and your pulse hammering against silence.

Minho finally breaks it, voice lower now. Raspier. Rough around the edges.

“Sit.”

You walk forward. The vinyl of the chair squeaks as you lower yourself onto it.

Minho adjusts his stool with one foot, pulling closer—close enough that your knees nearly touch. He reaches for a fresh pair of gloves and pulls them on with a muted snap.

“You still flinch?” he asks, without looking up.

“Only when it matters.”

A breath leaves him like a short laugh, disbelieving and hollow. He nods at your ribs.

“Show me.”

You tug your top up slowly. The air is cool against your skin. But his gaze is colder.

The tattoo’s still there—his lines, his shape, the intimate architecture of a design he once called a cathedral just for you. You watch his eyes trace it like he’s reading a language he forgot he wrote.

He exhales through his nose, once. Then leans in. Not touching. But close.

“Still healed well,” he mutters. “Even after everything.”

He lets out a short sound—not quite a laugh. Not quite not.

Then turns to grab his iPad.

You watch him swipe past old sketches. Lines. Shapes. A few human figures, but mostly… structures. Always structures. Stained glass, brutal staircases, the shadows between pillars. And suddenly—one design with your face sketched into the edge of a crumbling spire flashes past.

You blink.

He quickly flips to a blank layer.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, stylus in hand.

You hesitate. Then: “Something clean. Cold. Geometric. No softness.”

He looks at you. Just looks. Then tilts his head. “So the opposite of what you used to want.”

You lift a brow. “People change.”

“Do they?” He doesn’t say it like a question.

Silence. Only the soft tick of the stylus moving. Drawing. Erasing. Redrawing.

You glance over.

The lines are sharp. Intricate. Interlocking shapes—architectural, yes, but still haunting. There’s depth beneath the harshness, shadows where light should be. He’s already building something brutal.

“You always sketch this fast for clients?” you ask.

He doesn’t look up. “Only the ones who know how to bleed for it.”

Your breath stutters. He notices.

After another beat, he holds the iPad out to you, jaw tense. “You want this? Final answer.”

You study it. And it’s beautiful. Devastatingly so. The kind of piece that erases history—not by covering it, but by burying it in monument.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It’s perfect.”

He huffs softly. “It’s not.”

“Minho—”

“It’s not what I wanted to put here.”

The sentence hits like a quiet car crash. No screech, just impact. You say nothing. He turns away to print the stencil. You watch the lines appear on paper, black and cruel.

“This gonna take long?” you ask lightly, trying to breathe again.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “It’s big.”

“Good. I’ve got time.”

He turns. Looks at you—really looks. The gloves are still on. The stencil in hand. “You sure you can lie here for hours with me that close?”

“You sure you can touch me for that long and not fall apart?”

For one suspended moment, the room goes still.

Then Minho steps forward. “Let’s find out.”

He sets the stencil aside. Pulls out the prep tray. It’s methodical—his ritual. You remember it. He moves with that same detached precision: antiseptic wipe, alcohol spray, barrier film over his tray, black nitrile gloves pulled snug with that quiet snap that used to make your stomach twist.

The scent of alcohol hits first. Then the click of the spray bottle. Then his voice—low, close. “I’m cleaning the area.”

He waits. You nod.

And then his hand—gloved, cold—presses gently at your side, just under your ribs. The contact makes your breath hitch. He feels it. “Still ticklish,” he murmurs, but there’s no amusement in it. Just memory.

His fingers move across the old tattoo and you close your eyes as he presses the stencil on.

“Hold still,” he says softly. Too softly.

You feel the pressure of his palm, the warm slide of his knuckles against your waist, the careful tension as he positions the design.

Then he pulls back. Steps away. And you exhale.

“Mirror’s there,” he says, voice neutral.

You sit up, top still raised, and step to the full-length mirror near the booth’s edge.

The stencil is stark black. Clean. Brutal. It spans from just under your chest down to your hipbone—an interlocking spiral staircase, collapsing inward on itself, surrounded by broken geometry and cathedral archways. Inside the spiral, there’s a single vacant silhouette—like a missing piece in the shape of a person.

“It’s…” you begin. But you can’t find the word.

“Empty?” he offers.

“Yeah.”

Minho shrugs slightly, adjusting the height of the chair. “You wanted cold. Unsweet. Brutal.”

You nod. “I did.”

He doesn’t move until you return to the chair and settle in again. He leans down, pulls the stool closer—so close his knee brushes yours. “Ready?”

“No.”

A pause. Then: “Good. That’s honest.”

The machine buzzes to life. He dips the needle into the ink—pitch black—and presses the foot pedal. Then the first contact hits. The sting. The bite. The sound.

Your breath stutters. His hand is firm on your waist, grounding. “Still breathe like that,” he murmurs.

“Still touch like that.”

The buzz of the machine fills the booth like static between stations.

Minho works in silence. You breathe in silence. Time stretches. His gloved hand stays steady on your waist—anchoring, professional, unyielding. But every time his fingers shift to wipe the ink, every time his forearm brushes your side, you feel something buried rattle. Like bones under floorboards.

You focus on the ceiling tiles. Count them. Try not to flinch when he drags the line near your ribcage. He’s precise. Too precise. You feel every goddamn millimeter.

And still—he says nothing. It’s been maybe an hour. Then—quietly, like a thread being tugged:

“You finish school?”

Your eyes blink open. “Yeah. A while ago.”

“Thought so,” he murmurs. “You used to study here. In this chair.”

You huff. “I used to do a lot of things in this chair.”

He pauses. Then wipes your skin with slow, deliberate pressure. “Still mouthy.”

“Still quiet.”

“One of us had to be.”

The machine hums again. You both fall silent. But the air isn’t. It hums now—charged and heavy. After another few minutes, you speak, voice softer.

“You still living above the shop?”

Minho’s hand doesn’t pause, but you hear the answer in the way he exhales. “Yeah.”

“You ever fix the leak by the kitchen window?”

“Eventually. Felix slipped on the water and broke his assbone, so…”

“Justice.”

A faint smile ghosts across his lips. You catch it. Pretend not to. “What about you?” he asks. “Where are you now?”

You shrug. “Seoul. Still. I work freelance—mostly visual design, some concept art stuff. Clients suck. Pay’s decent.”

“Still draw?”

“Always.”

He nods, as if that explains something only he understands.

Another beat of quiet. Then: “You tattoo now too?”

That makes you pause. “A little. Not full-time.”

“Anyone ever ink your ribs like this again?”

You meet his eyes. “No one ever touched me here again.”

That silence? Not like before. This one cracks. Minho sets the machine down slowly. Wipes the needle. Re-inks. Doesn’t speak for a full thirty seconds.

Then: “Good.”

You shift, heart thudding. “Why?”

He glances up, and for once, doesn’t look away. “Because it’s not theirs to touch.” He says it like he didn’t just lay a claim. Like it’s fact. Like it’s law.

You don’t reply. You can’t. Your ribs ache—not from the needle, but from the breath you’ve been holding since he started this goddamn piece.

Minho presses the foot pedal again.

The machine whirs to life, slicing through the silence. The black ink spreads, sharp and deliberate, marking over what was once softness.

His hand settles against your waist again. Firmer now. Less technician—more… anchor. His fingers brush under the hem of your top again. Not on purpose.

But he doesn’t apologize.

“Gonna do the lower spiral now,” he murmurs. “I need to adjust your position.”

You nod. Try to keep your voice even. “Tell me what you want.”

His gaze flicks up. Something flashes in it—heat, recognition, regret. “Lift your arm. Stretch back.”

You obey. Your back arches slightly. The angle shifts. Your shirt slides up higher. And suddenly, his breath catches. Not visibly. Not loudly. But you feel it—in the tiny hesitation between glove and skin. He moves slower now. Drapes the barrier cloth gently over your chest. Focuses on the lower edge of the design.

His hand brushes the curve of your hip. “Still got the scar,” he mutters.

“From your old chair. That screw that stuck out.”

“I told you to stop climbing into my lap during sessions.”

“I told you to fix your fucking chair.”

Another small ghost of a smile. Another memory you didn’t mean to let through. The machine buzzes. The lines go deeper now. Bolder. You wince slightly—less from pain, more from the weight of his closeness. “Hurts?” he asks, quiet. “Not as much as losing you did.”

The machine goes silent. He sets it down. Slowly. His head tilts up, eyes dark, unreadable. “You think I didn’t lose you too?”

Before you can answer—knock knock knock.

The booth door creaks open an inch, and Jisung’s head pops in. “Hey, just checking—OH.” He blinks. Stares. Feels the temperature of the room. “Never mind.”

Another head appears behind him—Chan, black tee, clipboard in hand. Owner. OG. Quiet ringleader of this whole tattoo circus.

“Minho, did you review the—” He pauses mid-sentence. Eyes shift from Minho to you. To your lifted shirt. To the way Minho’s gloved hand is hovering just above your skin.

Chan arches a brow. “...So this is happening again.”

Minho doesn’t even flinch. “Out.”

Jisung salutes. “Godspeed, soldier.”

Chan just sighs. “Try not to punch holes in the wall this time.”

The door shuts. The lock clicks. Silence again.

You exhale. “They always this nosy?”

“You always this distracting?” His voice is low now. Tight.

You blink. “Minho—”

“Lie back.”

You obey. He pulls the stool closer. Closer than necessary. Then, gloved hands on your hip, he says—quiet, slow: “I’m finishing this. Every goddamn line.”

You nod. And the machine starts again.

You lose track of time somewhere around the fifth wipe.

The sky outside is darker now. The booth hums with that post-tattoo stillness—low light, blood buzz, the deep ache under your skin like something blooming and bruised.

Minho’s working slower now. Not out of fatigue. No—he’s dragging it out. You can feel it in the way he traces your skin. The pauses. The glances.

It’s 7:23 PM.

You know this because your phone buzzes uselessly on the counter and Minho glares at it like it’s an intruder. Then again—he hasn’t looked away from you much at all.

“You’re almost done?” you ask quietly, voice hoarse from the hours of not speaking.

“Final shading,” he says, shifting. “Then bandage.”

You nod, letting your head fall back against the chair. You close your eyes.

Until—click. The door opens again.

“You better not be tattooing her feelings back on,” Jisung says, peeking in once more.

“It’s after seven,” Chan adds, stepping in behind him. “We’re leaving. You can lock up.”

Minho doesn’t even glance at them. “Bye.”

“Damn,” Jisung mutters. “I missed when you were nice.”

Chan folds his arms. “He was never nice.”

Minho wipes your side again. “Do you two need something, or are you just doing walk-in commentary now?”

“We’re giving you the key,” Chan says patiently, tossing it toward the counter. It lands with a clatter. “And also warning you: no sex on the chair.”

“Especially not that chair,” Jisung adds. “That’s the holy one. Client blood and heartbreak juice only.”

You blink up at them. “You do know I can hear you, right?”

“Sweetheart, you’re like three moans away from a confessional,” Jisung grins.

Minho’s hand tenses on your hip.

Chan gives Jisung a sharp look. “Okay, that’s enough. Let the man finish tattooing his ex.”

Minho’s voice cuts in—low, flat, and dry: “I’m raising the booth rent if you two don’t leave.”

Jisung gasps. “You can’t evict my vibe.”

“Watch me.”

With one final laugh, Chan tips an invisible hat at you. “Pleasure seeing you again. Don’t break our boy, yeah?”

You don’t respond. You just hold Minho’s gaze.

The door closes. The lock clicks again. Alone. Again.

He exhales. “They never change.”

You hum. “Neither do you.”

“Not with you.”

His hand brushes your skin again, wiping the last bit of ink away. He doesn’t move it. Just leaves it there. Warm and steady.

“I’m done.”

You nod. Slow. Dazed. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Me too.”

But neither of you move.

The machine is off. The gloves are still on. His hand is still resting on your bare waist.

You watch his throat move as he swallows.

“I need to bandage it.”

You nod.

Minho finally pulls back. Peels off the gloves, slow. Tosses them into the bin with a soft crack. His hands are bare now—warmer, familiar, devastating. He reaches for the tattoo film. The kind that clings like a second skin.

“This part’ll be cold,” he murmurs.

“So were you.”

His hands pause.

Then, with infinite care, he presses the bandage to your ribs. The plastic clings, sealing the ink beneath. His fingertips ghost over your side. Flattening. Smoothing.

Too gentle.

His hand lingers a second too long on your hipbone. Then again on the edge of your waist, just under your breast. You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

Neither does he.

“You’re still warm here,” he murmurs. “Still soft.”

“I never stopped being yours here,” you whisper. “Even after you let me go.”

His hand freezes.

And then—

Minho exhales. Slow. Controlled. Devastated. “Fuck,” he says. “Don’t say shit like that unless you mean it.”

“I do mean it.”

He looks up at you, finally. Face unreadable. But his eyes? Wrecked.

“I didn’t stop wanting you,” you say, soft. “I just stopped begging.”

And that’s when something inside him cracks. Minho drops the rest of the bandage. One hand cups your jaw. The other pulls you forward by the waist. His lips crash into yours—not neat, not planned, not patient. Just real. Messy. Hot. Familiar. Like all the years you lost were just smoke.

He tastes the same. Regret and hunger.

You kiss him back. Desperate. Needy. Home.

When he pulls away, he’s breathless. “The shop’s closed,” he says hoarsely.

“I know.”

“You’re not leaving yet.”

“I know.”

But he can't stop kissing you and his kisses leave you gasping, lips parted, your ribs burning with fresh ink and something even hotter under your skin.

But Minho doesn’t move for your mouth again.

He just looks at you. And presses the last edge of the bandage into place. Palms flat on either side of your ribs, holding it there. Holding you there.

“You need to keep this clean,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Saniderm on for at least a day. No sweat. No friction. No heat.”

You smirk. “So I shouldn’t fuck my tattoo artist, huh?”

He closes his eyes like that physically hurts. Then opens them again, and they’re darker. Gone. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Come here.”

He grabs your face and kisses you again—harder this time. His mouth is warm, demanding. He tastes like ink and restraint and the last piece of something you thought you’d never get again.

You whimper into it, fingers fisting into his hoodie, tugging him closer. He moves fast now, pulling you upright, spinning you around so your back hits the wall behind the chair.

Your top rides up, exposing your waist. His hands drag along the un-tattooed side of your ribs, his touch finally hungry.

“Minho—”

“You still talk too much.”

His hand finds your thigh, fingers digging in as he lifts you onto the edge of the chair.

“Don’t you dare come undone on this chair unless you want your name carved into it,” he growls.

“Do it,” you whisper, breath hot. “Like old times.”

He groans. Hands gripping your hips, pulling you forward against the bulge in his jeans. But even now—he's careful. His fingers skirt around the bandage. His mouth trails everywhere but the fresh ink.

“I can’t touch there,” he pants. “But everywhere else? Mine.”

He leans in—bites at your neck. Licks under your jaw. You shudder. “Mine.”

You nod, breathless. “Yours.”

“Say it again.”

“Yours.”

He groans into your skin. One hand slips under your waistband—slow, deliberate, filthy. “Keep still. You move too much, I’ll stop.”

“Minho—”

He kisses your collarbone. Soft now. “I never should’ve stopped touching you.” His voice is low, almost broken against your skin. And then his hand dips further—sliding past the waistband of your pants, then beneath your underwear. You flinch at the first brush of his fingers against your bare heat.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Already soaked?”

You moan, soft and unfiltered. “You did this.”

“Damn right I did.”

He doesn’t dive in right away.

Minho’s fingers ghost along your folds, barely there—just the suggestion of touch. Teasing, cruel, worshipful. Like he wants to remember this. Every slick, desperate twitch.

“Still so fucking warm,” he murmurs. “Still react to me like this.”

“Because I never stopped needing you.”

That does something to him. His jaw tightens. His free hand grips your thigh harder.

His fingers stroke your clit now—slow and purposeful. He still hasn’t pushed in. Just teasing, rubbing, feeling every tremble in your core.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers. “All this time and I still ruin you like this.”

You whimper, hips bucking up—but he presses you down against the chair again.

“What did I say?” he growls. “Keep. Fucking. Still.”

You nod, gasping. “I’m trying—fuck—Minho, please—”

He slips one finger inside. Just one. It glides in so easily, so wet, he groans low into your neck.

“Still tight,” he pants. “Still perfect.”

You clench around him and he curses, fingers curling just slightly as he begins to move.

“Say it again,” he whispers, lips dragging over your ear.

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m—fuck—Minho, I’m yours—”

His second finger joins the first. Scissoring. Filling. So slow it’s maddening. His thumb circles your clit in rhythm, expertly cruel. You’re grinding against him now, trying not to cry out.

But it’s no use.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Let me hear you. You think I forgot what you sound like?”

You moan—loud this time—and he smiles against your skin.

“There she is.”

His fingers curl again—deep, deliberate, cruel. You cry out, thighs trembling, body completely unhinged on his tattoo chair.

“Fuck, you’re clenching so hard,” he groans, dragging his fingers out almost entirely before plunging back in with a wet sound that makes you whimper. “You missed this, didn’t you?”

“Y-Yes,” you gasp.

“How much?”

You can barely breathe. “So much—Minho—fuck—”

“That’s not good enough.”

He pumps harder. Faster. His fingers scissor deep inside you, stretching you wide while his thumb circles your clit with just enough pressure to keep you right on the edge. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged, jaw clenched like he's holding back a growl.

“Feel how fucking hard I am for you,” he grits, grabbing your free hand and dragging it down between you both.

Your fingers brush the bulge in his jeans and—fuck. He’s thick. Hard in a way that hurts even through the denim.

“All that from just your voice,” he rasps. “From your pussy sucking my fingers in like it still belongs to me.”

You whimper, hand tightening instinctively over his cock. He twitches under your grip.

“You’re gonna make me cum just from your fist at this rate,” he breathes, panting into your mouth. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Your hips roll against his hand, the wet slap of your cunt obscene now, the squelch of each pump making your eyes roll back.

“M-Minho—can’t—too much—”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Take it. You used to take it so well.”

You cry out, grinding shamelessly against his hand, your wrist still caught against the outline of his cock. His fingers are relentless now—deep, punishing strokes that angle just right, hitting the spot that makes your back arch.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers, voice hot and filthy. “You gonna cum for me?”

“Please—need to—”

“You think I’m letting you go home with anyone else’s cum in you again?” His hand grips tighter. “Nah. You’ll cum on my fingers. Then my tongue. Then my cock. One by one. Until you remember who you belong to.”

You sob into his shoulder, body locking up.

“Then cum,” he growls. “Let me feel you fucking fall apart.”

And you do. You shatter. Right there in his chair, cunt clenching around his fingers so hard he curses, hips bucking involuntarily, thighs shaking. The orgasm crashes through you like a wave that never breaks.

You’re still gasping, barely coming down, when he kisses you again—rough and breathless.

Then he pulls his hand out and brings his digits to his lips, licking his fingers clean with a sinful groan. “Still the sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Minho leans in—presses a soft kiss just beneath your jaw. Then another. Then pulls back, his lips swollen and wet with you.

“Stay,” he says simply.

“Yes.”

“Upstairs.”

You nod again, dazed. He grabs a clean towel, wipes his fingers off, then flicks off the booth lights.

You stumble to your feet. He steadies you with a hand on your lower back—protective, but firm. The other hand? Already sliding down to cup the curve of your ass.

“Don’t test me,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Or I’ll take you right here. Front door be damned.”

You laugh breathlessly. “You always talk this much now?”

“Only when I’m starving.”

He steps out first. Walks to the front.

The shop’s dark now—just the glow of the neon sign outside, and the sound of him flipping the lock with a click. Pulling the blinds. Turning the CLOSED sign.

The only other sound is your breath. And the creak of stairs.

Minho turns back to you. Extends his hand. “Come home.”

And you do. You follow him up the stairs—your fingers tangled in his, your heart in your throat. He pulls you behind him, not once looking back.

The upstairs apartment is dim, clean, and familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

His hoodie hits the floor first. Your shirt follows. Your bra is gone with one snap of his practiced fingers.

“Fuck,” he breathes, stepping in closer. “I’ve dreamed about this. Exactly this.”

“Then stop dreaming.”

“I’m not stopping anything tonight.”

He kisses you hard, mouths crashing, tongues tangled. His hands roam over every inch of skin he missed—the good side of your ribs, your back, your thighs. He lifts you. You wrap your legs around his waist.

Your back hits the hallway wall.

Your pants are yanked down, barely a memory. His belt clinks open, jeans shoved past his hips. You’re both gasping, biting, pulling, years of silence poured into filthy, reckless touch.

“I missed your body,” he mutters into your mouth. “Missed how you sound. How you taste. How you fucking feel.”

“Then take me.”

“You think I won’t?”

He kicks the bedroom door open with one foot, lays you down onto his bed, and finally—finally—he crawls over you like you’re something holy. You are.

Minho kisses you again, slower now, lips dragging down the column of your throat. Over your collarbone. Across the top of your chest. He palms your breast—squeezes, just enough to make you gasp—and then closes his mouth over your nipple.

You arch.

“Still so responsive,” he murmurs, flicking his tongue over the peak before sucking hard, slow. “Still so good for me.”

Your hands knot in his hair.

He kisses across to the other one—giving it the same attention, tongue lazy, mouth open and hot. Every sound you make fuels him.

Then lower.

His mouth trails down the center of your stomach—soft kisses, open-mouthed and hot, then bites just sharp enough to leave blooming heat behind. He kneels between your legs, hands parting your thighs.

You’re soaked again. Dripping. Panties long gone.

He growls low, eyes locked to your pussy like it’s fucking divine.

“You knew this was next,” he says, voice low, hands sliding under your thighs to lift your hips. “I told you.”

“Then shut up and—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

Minho licks one long stripe up your slit—slow and filthy—from the bottom of your entrance to your clit. And moans. Loud.

“Still taste like a fucking fever dream.”

Your hands shoot into his hair again. “Minho—fuck—”

He flattens his tongue against your clit, then circles it. Slow, heavy pressure. Just enough to make your thighs jerk around his head. “Keep them open,” he mutters, pulling back only to kiss your inner thigh, your hipbone, your mound. “Let me see all of you.”

And then he devours.

Tongue pressed deep. Lapping. Sucking. Flicking. He eats like he missed meals for years and this is how he survives now. Your moans go from soft to broken, gasps ragged, legs shaking around his head.

“Oh my—fuck—Minho—”

He groans into you, the vibration making your hips buck. His arms wrap tighter around your thighs, holding you down, keeping you right there as his tongue circles your clit in tight, ruthless rhythm.

He sucks your clit—harder now. Lips wrapped around your clit, tongue swirling in circles so precise it feels like he mapped this out. Every flick is a promise. Every kiss, a punishment.

“Minho—fuckfuck—please—”

Your thighs tremble against his shoulders, toes curling, head thrown back into his sheets. But he’s relentless. Focused. Cruel in the way only someone who knows your body this well can be.

Then—suddenly—his tongue dips lower again.

He licks into you—deep—pressing into your entrance, slow and wet and hot.

Minho—”

He moans into your cunt, arms flexing around your thighs, nose pressed into your mound like he never wants to come up for air. He tongue-fucks you harder, the slick sounds obscene now, spit and arousal dripping down his chin.

He pulls back just enough to suck your clit again, messy and loud—then goes back down, tongue fucking you like it’s a competition. Like it’s penance. Like he’s going to draw the second orgasm out of you with his mouth alone.

“You’re close again,” he pants. “I feel it. You gonna cum for me, baby? Gonna soak my face?”

“Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. In fact, he doubles down—tongue driving in and out while he rubs tight, fast circles on your clit with his thumb. Your thighs snap around his head. You try to pull away, too sensitive, too much—

But Minho just growls, deep and possessive.

“Fucking take it.”

Fuck you do. You fucking do take it. How can you not. And you finally break apart on his face, legs locking, body spasming as that second orgasm rips through you harder, wetter, longer. He holds you through it, licking and sucking until your voice is nothing but choked whimpers and your body can’t stop twitching.

When he finally pulls away, his mouth is glossy, chin soaked.

He smirks—wild, satisfied, dark before kneeling up, grabbing a condom from the drawer, tearing it open with his teeth.

“Now I’m gonna ruin this pussy properly.”

You’re barely conscious of the way he tears the condom wrapper open—just the sound of it, sharp and needed in the haze of your wrecked body. He rolls it on quick, jaw clenched, hand pumping his cock once, twice, eyes locked on you like you’re prey he’s finally allowed to devour.

“Get on all fours.”

You try to move, limbs shaking, but he grabs your hips and flips you himself—effortless, firm, like muscle memory. You barely get your arms under you before he’s behind you, one hand gripping your ass, the other dragging along your spine.

“You remember how loud you used to get?” he mutters, voice thick. “Gonna make you scream into my fucking sheets again.”

He guides his cock to your entrance—rubbing the tip through your soaked folds, slow and teasing, soaking himself in your mess.

“Fuck—you’re dripping,” he groans. “You came so hard for my mouth, and you’re still ready for my cock?”

“Please—Minho—need it—need you—”

He sinks in. Deep. One smooth, devastating thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

“Oh my fuck—”

“That’s it,” he growls, bottoming out. “Tight as ever. Like your pussy never forgot me.”

You choke on a moan as he pulls out slow—just to slam back in, harder this time. Your arms buckle, face falling into the mattress as his hips snap against your ass with punishing rhythm.

“Minho—fuck—you’re so—deep—”

“Yeah? You missed this cock?” His voice is ragged, filthy. “Tell me. Tell me who fucks you like this.”

“Only you—fuck—only you, Minho—”

“Damn right.”

He grips your hair, pulling you up by the back of your neck, arching your body so your back curves into him. His mouth is by your ear now, panting, biting.

“No one touches you here,” he growls, fucking into you harder, deeper. “Not your mouth. Not your thighs. Not your pussy. All mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours—Minho—I’m fucking yours—”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours!”

He snarls into your neck and slams into you so deep you see stars. One of his hands slides down to your clit, rubbing fast, relentless circles while his cock drags against your g-spot.

“You gonna cum again?” he pants. “On my cock this time?”

“Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

“Let go for me, baby.”

You don’t even need to try.

His thumb circles your clit with such devastating precision, and his cock hits so deep, so right, you come apart again—body locking up, mouth falling open in a moan that barely sounds like your own.

Your orgasm slams into you like a wave, sharp and overwhelming, your pussy fluttering around him, gripping him, milking him like your body knows he’s supposed to stay there.

“Fuuuuck—Minho—!”

“That’s it,” he growls. “Cum on my cock like a good girl. So fucking wet—so tight—I can feel you pulsing, fuck—”

Your vision blurs. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps thrusting through it, relentless, dragging it out with brutal pace, your pussy so sensitive now you can barely breathe. His hand’s still on your clit, rubbing slow now—just enough to make you whimper.

“Minho—please—I can’t—”

“Yes you can.”

He leans over your back again, teeth dragging along your shoulder, breath hot and harsh. “You gonna take it, baby,” he pants. “You’re gonna be good and take it. All of it. Until I cum too.”

You cry out when he fucks you harder, cock slamming in deep, hips slapping skin, the sound so obscene it makes your whole body flush. You feel your own slick running down your thighs, pooling under you—and still he keeps going.

“You said you were mine,” he groans. “So act like it. Let me fuck you how you need.”

“Minho—f-fuck—it’s too—too much—”

“It’s never too much,” he hisses. “Not for my good girl.”

His fingers leave your clit, only to grip your throat—lightly, possessively, pulling you up so your back is flush to his chest. His cock drives into you deeper from this angle, the stretch unbearable, perfect.

“You feel this?” he whispers into your ear. “You feel how hard I still am inside you? I’m not even close, baby.”

“Oh my god—”

“You’re gonna take every fucking second of it.”

You moan, broken and needy, as he slams into you again and again. His hips are ruthless now, fucking you straight through your oversensitivity, chasing his own high while demanding you keep up.

“Gonna ruin you,” he groans. “Gonna fill you up and fuck you until you can’t even stand—until all you know is my name in your throat.”

“Please—Minho—yes—yes, please—”

You feel another orgasm building and he knows it. His hand snakes down again, fingers finding your clit, rubbing quick tight circles just as he starts fucking you even deeper, fucking into your sweet spot with perfect, punishing rhythm.

“Cum again,” he growls. “Do it. Show me how good your pussy gets when it’s mine.”

Your legs are trembling now, slick and spent, but Minho doesn’t let up.

“C’mon,” he pants, voice wrecked. “Give it to me again. You know you can.”

His fingers never leave your clit—tight, ruthless circles in time with the brutal rhythm of his thrusts. He’s fucking into you so deep you swear he’s carved out space inside you. Your body’s a live wire, too sensitive, too soaked, too close.

And then—

You break.

A cry tears out of you as your body convulses, squirting hard around him, wetness gushing as your vision whites out. He curses low and vicious, gripping your hips to ride it out, holding you through the aftershocks.

“Fuck—just like that, baby. Look at this mess. All for me.”

You’re limp, gasping, gone—and he’s still fucking you, chasing the edge with a growl in his throat. His rhythm stutters, hips snapping faster, deeper, until he finally buries himself to the hilt with a sharp gasp.

“Mine,” he groans. “Taking all of me—fuck—mine.”

You feel the shudder of him spilling into the condom, body tight, muscles locked, every filthy, pent-up second poured into you.

And then—

Silence.

Only breath. Sweat. Your heartbeat in your ears. He doesn’t pull out right away. Just stays there, chest pressed to yours, mouth by your ear and pressing soft kisses.

Then finally—slowly—he pulls out. You both shiver from the loss.

Minho moves carefully now, the storm in him simmered down to something softer, raw-edged but human. He slides off the condom, ties it off, discards it in the bin by the bed. Then he vanishes for a beat—into the bathroom maybe—but returns just as fast with a warm cloth, water, tissues.

“Easy,” he murmurs as he wipes between your legs, his touch gentle, reverent. “Let me take care of you.”

You wince slightly when the cloth brushes too close to your clit, overstimulated and twitchy. He notices immediately.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “You okay?”

You nod. Too gone to speak yet, but he sees it—your blinking gratitude, the softness returning to your breath. He kisses the inside of your knee before tossing the cloth aside.

And then he climbs back into bed, arms open. You crawl into them without hesitation. He pulls the blanket over both of you, tucks your head beneath his chin. One hand rubs slow circles into your back; the other is tangled in your hair.

For a long time, neither of you say anything. Just breath. The muted thud of his heartbeat under your ear. The faint creak of the studio pipes somewhere above.

Until you finally whisper, “Why’d we stop talking?”

His fingers still for a moment. Then resume. Slower. “I was angry,” he says. “And stupid.”

You hum. “Me too.”

He sighs. “I hated that you left without saying goodbye.”

“I hated that you let me.”

A pause.

“You came back,” he says quietly.

“I never stopped thinking about you.”

Another beat of silence, heavier now. “I never moved on,” he admits.

You look up at him, eyes glassy. “Neither did I.”

His jaw flexes. His thumb brushes your cheek. And this time, when he kisses you—it’s slow. Deep. No lust. Just longing. A kiss built on what-ifs. On might-have-beens. On maybe-again.

He whispers against your lips, “Stay the night.”

You nod, barely breathing. “Okay.”

It’s been three weeks since that night. Since Minho locked the studio door, fucked you senseless, and told you—without words—that he never stopped wanting you.

Now?

Now, your toothbrush is in his bathroom. Your sketchbook’s on his kitchen counter. Your bra’s been living on his bedpost for four days and counting.

You’re upstairs more than not—first it was overnight visits, then a drawer, then a closet, then one morning he just grunted, “Your stuff’s already here. Might as well stop pretending.”

So you stayed.

Mornings are quiet. Shared coffee in oversized mugs, his hand on your thigh while he skims client bookings. Nights are louder—sometimes it’s just TV and takeout, sometimes it’s moaning into his mouth while he fucks you over the arm of the couch, one hand tangled in your hair and the other keeping your legs spread.

Rebuilding hasn’t been linear. You argue. You remember old fights. You see old wounds still healing. But you talk now. And when you don’t have the words, he kisses the silence out of you, palms framing your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks too long.

One afternoon, Jisung barges in to drop off a delivery and freezes at the top of the stairs. You’re half-naked in one of Minho’s shirts. He’s behind you, tattoo gun still buzzing.

“Are you seriously tattooing her naked again?”

Minho doesn’t even flinch. “My apartment. My rules.”

Jisung groans. “I’m gonna start charging rent for the trauma.”

Minho just smirks, wiping your skin clean and pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “Close the door on your way out.”

You laugh into the sleeve of your shirt. You’re glowing. A little inked, a lot in love.

And Minho? He’s not going anywhere this time.

[sprenthecreator]

IMPURITIES EP. 4 | Falling Away From Me

Final episode from this LSF mini-series

Male reader x Chaewon, Eunchae

9,4k words

tags: hate sex for chaewon, fluff for manchae, threesome

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If you'd known how things were going to end, maybe you would have thought twice before falling for Yunjin and Chaewon's manipulation that night in New York.

You were in the living room, sitting in your usual spot, with an iPad on which you checked schedules that apparently no one cared about anymore, your hair messy and your shirt wrinkled, thinking about how you'd lost control of everything thanks to the seeds of chaos you'd once planted and that were now weeds impossible to prune.

A year had passed since that night, and what started as a little game you thought wouldn't amount to much had mutated into the main source of your exhaustion, because the truth was that your authority had eroded to the frustrating point where none of the girls respected you like they used to.

Nah. They didn't even respect you, in general.

Much of it was solely your fault, and it was something you'd made peace with a long time ago. But the girls had been consciously pushing the boundaries ever since, knowing it was as simple as giving you pussy once in a while to get you off your butt. That way, they killed two birds with one stone: they satisfied their carnal needs, and kept you appeased.

At first, it was one-off things you didn't worry too much about, like staying out late without telling you or breaking minor rules of living together. However, when they realized you weren't making a big deal out of it, they started skipping practices, staying out all night without checking in, and seeing as many guys and girls as they pleased.

And all this while making you cover for them.

For God's sake, what the hell had all that become? It was a fucking circus, and you were the highest-paid clown in it. It had to end, and soon. Of that you were sure.

Unfortunately, your only problem was that you had no idea how to proceed. While it was true that your emotional bond with Chaewon—who was the best-behaved of all of them—was by far the strongest compared to the other girls, your relationship had soured thanks to your constant encounters with the others. If it had happened a year ago, you might have been able to address the situation with the levity it required, but now you felt like there was a sea of ​​distance between you.

And all because of jealousy, bad decisions, and the audacity of four girls in their prime.

Laughter upstairs brought you out of your reverie. It couldn't be Chaewon, since you knew she was busy with her own things at that hour, and it couldn't be Kazuha, since she was out on one of her individual photoshoots. That left you with the Three Musketeers.

It wasn't your business to know what they were laughing about, and it never had been, since it was their personal space. But for some time now, you'd been suspicious of even the smallest thing. The laughter could only mean two things: either they were laughing at something innocent, or they were committing one of their misdeeds.

Experience told you it was the latter.

With a heavy breath, you put the iPad aside and stood up, heading for some stairs you hadn't climbed in days, maybe weeks. As you climbed them, you felt a strange discomfort run through your body, knowing you were entering a domain over which your jurisdiction was now null.

Upstairs, you looked around, noticing one of the doors was wide open: the bedroom Sakura and Yunjin shared. More laughter came from there. You walked cautiously, careful not to make your footsteps creak the wooden floor as you approached. A few feet away, you frowned as a smoky smell reached your nostrils. Like... burnt grass, but more intense.

When you peeked your head around the left side of the frame, your suspicions were confirmed and even exceeded.

Sakura and Yunjin were sitting on one of the two beds, dressed in loose clothing and with their hair down. Nothing out of the ordinary until you noticed that Yunjin was holding a lit joint between her index finger and thumb. She didn't notice you were watching, so you watched as she took a quick drag, held it, and then blew the smoke into the air.

They had a long history of inappropriate behavior, but this was completely new and more serious. At least for you. And you weren't going to tolerate it.

"Can you explain to me what the fuck you're doing?!" you asked, abruptly entering the room.

They both got a bit of a shock, but relaxed—yes, they fucking relaxed—when they saw it was you.

"Oh, calm down, manager-nim," Yunjin said, dismissing it with a wave of her hand. "It's just a friendly joint, it won't hurt anyone."

Maybe you were just too irascible and irritable, but that alone was enough to make your blood boil.

"Do you do this shit outside the house too?" You raised your voice and took a step forward. "Do you know that crap can ruin your fucking career? For the love of God!" You threw your hands in the air. "What the fuck are you thinking?"

"If you don't like it, leave," Kura said, shrugging. She took the joint from Yunjin's hand. "We're adults and we know exactly what we're doing."

"And I don't think you're the one to lecture us on morals, are you?" Yunjin asked with a giggle, tilting her head. "My throat still hurts from how well you fucked my face last night."

You snorted, feeling your frustration rising in your body.

"Maybe I'm not, but I'm still your fucking manager, and I've had enough." You walked over to them, grabbing Sakura by the wrist with one hand and taking the joint from her with the other. Then you turned around to walk to the door. "Next time I'll inform the company, see if that will get you in line."

Sakura and Yunjin laughed behind you. Did you tell a joke?

"Yeah, we'll just sit here and wait for you to do it," Kura mocked. "Take your time."

"Goodbye, manager-nim!" Yunjin said to you, still giggling, as you stood under the door, biting your tongue to avoid responding.

In the end, you left the room and slammed the door behind you.

The joint in your hand was still lit, and since you didn't have a stain-resistant surface nearby to put it out, you simply let it burn in a corner of the hallway floor.

As you turned around and started walking down the hall toward the stairs, one of the doors at the far end opened. You stopped as Eunchae emerged from her shared room with Zuha, wearing headphones, a cropped T-shirt that showed off a good portion of her belly, and tight shorts.

And she was carrying a can of beer.

"Oh, hello, manager-nim," Eunchae greeted with a nod of her chin after hanging the headphones around her neck. With a defiant look, she opened the can of beer in front of you.

You clenched your fists and teeth, closing your eyes to summon whatever patience you had left after dealing with the other two.

Since becoming an adult seven months ago, Eunchae had joined the others and started acting like a rebellious brat, and she was undoubtedly the biggest pain in the ass. Not because of what she did, but because, as the maknae, everyone jumped to her defense as if she couldn't even kill a fly.

"Hong Eunchae..." you began in a low but threatening voice. "You better have a good reason for having that damn beer in your hand. You know very well we don't drink here."

Eunchae walked toward you and stopped about a meter away, leaning her weight on one leg and crossing her arms.

"I'm 18 now. I think I can do whatever I please, right?"

"You can do it outside the house. But there are rules here."

"Rules?" Eunchae chuckled. "The same rules under which you fuck my unnies over and over again?"

You were silent for a moment. You had no defense against that.

"That has nothing to do with all of you being brats in constant disobedience," you opted to say.

"If we're in constant disobedience, it's because you haven't had the courage to stand up to us," Eunchae took a step forward. "Or am I wrong? Huh?"

At your silence, Eunchae brought the beer can to her lips and took a long sip. A bit of beer trickled down the sides of her chin and slid down her long neck. Then she looked at you again, closer this time.

"I just drank," she said defiantly. "Are you going to do something about it?"

Eunchae studied you for a moment, noticing your fists clenched in rage. You were about to say something, but she got there first.

"I thought so."

Then, leaving you fuming at her insolence, Eunchae turned on her heel and walked back to her room, her hips swaying.

Definitely, you'd had enough. Something had to change, and it had to change right now. Your mind immediately went to Chaewon. She was the leader, and also supposed to be the most mature, she had to take responsibility for the behavior of her members.

Feeling steam coming out of your ears, you walked to the other end of the hallway. The door to Chaewon's room was ajar, and with your best-contained anger, you entered.

Chaewon was sitting on her messy bed, knees pointed out and feet tucked under her thighs as she scribbled in a notebook. She was wearing short pajama shorts and a loose shirt that slipped off one shoulder, and she was listening to music on her AirPods. Her gaze shifted toward you when she noticed your presence, her expression stern.

"What's wrong?" she asked me with a coldness that made your heart sink, taking out her AirPods as you closed the door behind you with a firm click.

You stood near the door and crossed your arms, feeling the full pressure of being in a place you shouldn't be under normal circumstances weighing on your shoulders. You felt like an intruder, and that's probably what she thought.

"Chaewon, this has gone too far," you finally said, your voice calm and in contrast to how irritated you felt. "The damn house is in disarray. There's no more respect, no more order. Everyone does whatever the hell they want without fear of the consequences, and honestly, I'm fucking exhausted. Do you know what Eunchae was doing? She..."

You stopped saying what you were going to say when Chaewon put her notebook and mechanical pencil aside and got out of bed with a sudden movement.

"Same thing again?" she asked, her tone cutting, taking slow steps toward you until she stopped less than a meter away. "Do you realize the way you're talking?" She tilted her head. "I'm not your fucking babysitter! When are you going to get this through your head?"

You gritted your teeth, focused on not getting any more upset than you already were.

"No, you're not the fucking babysitter. You're the leader of the fucking group, and you don't seem to care that this shit's going down!"

Chaewon let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. She turned and walked over to the desk, where she began shuffling her sheet music, something she did when she was under severe stress. Her hands were shaking.

"And what about you?" Chaewon asked without looking at you. "How can you expect to blame me when this whole fucking mess is your fault?"

"My fault?" You pointed at yourself, walking over to her side. "I've been trying to keep them in line for a damn year, and you just let them do whatever the hell they want," you were inadvertently raising your voice. "You're not using the damn authority you're supposed to have! This is your responsibility too!"

Chaewon turned to face you, her face inches from yours.

"My responsibility?!" She raised her voice too. "I'm sick of taking the fall for your damn mistakes while you..." her voice cracked. "While you fuck the others like you don't care about what I feel!"

Bingo. That's the root of the whole damn situation. The worst part is that it was also your fault for letting her get involved not only sexually with you, but emotionally as well. You liked each other, a lot. But the nature of your working relationship complicated things a lot on your end. Of course, she didn't care, and she allowed herself to feel jealous of the others.

"Chaewon... ugh!" you huffed in frustration, bringing your hands to your face. When you lowered them, your eyes wandered down to her desk, where you noticed an envelope among the sheet music with what appeared to be the HYBE logo. "What's this?"

Chaewon looked where you were looking and tried to hide the envelope, but you were quicker and grabbed it. It was, indeed, an open envelope with the HYBE logo in one corner. She tried to take it from your hands, but you covered yourself and pulled out the folded paper inside.

"You've got to be kidding me..." you muttered.

The sheet contained a notice: an anonymous complaint about LESSERAFIM's behavior, mentioning rumors of parties in nightclubs, lack of discipline, and even dating scandals, with implications for legal action if these behaviors weren't corrected.

Every ounce of patience you'd been mustering evaporated in the heat of your boiling blood. That explained everything: both the girls' audacity at seeing their actions had no consequences and Chaewon's passivity in the matter. She was hiding it.

Betrayed by the leader of the group you were leading. It had gotten to that point.

"Kim Chaewon..." you slowly lowered the sheet of paper, your gaze fixed on the floor. "You knew about this and didn't do anything to fix it?"

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Chaewon tense, completely still on her feet. You could tell she hadn't planned for you to find out.

"It's not my problem..." she said hesitantly. "If they want to come, then let them. I'm tired."

You raised your gaze to face her, frowning.

"Then let them? What the fuck are you talking about?" You shook the sheet of paper in your hand and then threw it on the desk. "Don't you realize that your passivity makes you just as guilty as the rest of us?!"

"Guilty?!" Chaewon raised her voice, her face turning red. "Of course, because you can fuck the others like common whores in need of cock, and I have to smile and act like it's nothing!" She gave you a little shove. "You think it doesn't hurt me to see you with them? It makes me sick! Sick!"

"Chaewon-ah! It's not all about you!" you yelled, hands outstretched. "Don't you understand? You're being a fucking selfish bitch and letting everything get ruined over a fucking jealousy scene!

"I..."

"Grow up and talk things over with me instead of letting things get to this point!" Fuck!" You slammed the side of your fist against the desk and turned your back to take a few steps away, feeling your head start to hurt.

Chaewon, instead of closing the distance between you, took a slight step back.

"Do something, then," she said, her voice shaking.

You stood very still, thinking you'd heard her wrong.

"Excuse me, what?" you said, slowly turning around and closing the distance between you.

"Do something," Chaewon repeated louder. "Be a damn man, and do something. You're the highest authority in this house, right? Do something."

You stood in front of her, staring into her eyes as your breathing grew labored. Rage took hold of you and clouded your thinking, so you didn't measure your strength when you grabbed her by the arms and slammed her against the wall on one side of the bed, smashing your lips against hers.

Chaewon moaned and grabbed at your shirt, tugging at it and biting your lower lip as you kissed her furiously. You wrapped your arms around her body, and she wrapped her arms around your neck, one hand in your hair and the other across your shoulders. She fought for control of the kiss, making your teeth clash and your tongues swirl. In the end, it was your determination to prove your dominance that allowed you to subdue her.

You grabbed her by the thighs and lifted her into the air, spinning her onto the bed and throwing her face up against the mattress. Chaewon trapped your torso with her strong thighs, hands on your shoulders as you exchanged saliva and heavy breaths.

In a pure surge of desire and anger combined, you ripped off Chaewon's shirt with a sharp upward jerk. Chaewon gasped, her small breasts covered by a black bra that you wanted to rip to shreds.

"You're going to learn who's boss, you fucking whore," you growled. "Open your mouth."

"Make me, asshole," Chaewon barked back. "You're not gonna boss me around after months of being a pussy."

In response, you slapped her firmly across her left cheek, making her moan. Then you grabbed a handful of her short brown hair, pulled her head back, and bit her exposed neck. Chaewon dug her nails into your shoulders and let out another moan, letting you trail kisses and sucks down to her chest. You slid your hands under her back, and after removing her bra, you took one of her breasts into your mouth.

Chaewon's back arched as you swirled your tongue around each nipple and sucked on them like never before. After leaving each mound covered in saliva, you slowly lowered your mouth between them until you reached her tummy, pausing there for a moment before moving to her lower abdomen and, with your hands on her waist, yanked her shorts and panties down her legs.

With her now wet pussy exposed, you wasted no time parting Chaewon's legs, pushing her thighs back and planting your mouth there, giving her an upward lick before devouring her silky folds, addictive not only for their texture but for their taste.

"Oh god," Chaewon moaned after a few seconds, as you sucked and licked her clit. "Stop being such a fucking weakling and fuck me already."

"Shut the fuck up," you snapped, and slapped her pussy. She moaned. "You're not in charge. Get it through your fucking head."

Before Chaewon could protest further, you sucked on your middle and ring fingers and slowly guided them into her tight pussy. Chaewon reached out and gripped strands of your hair as you began pumping your wrist, simultaneously licking her clit in rapid motions.

Chaewon writhed on the bed, her moans getting louder as you went faster, your sole goal being to make her explode as quickly as possible. You succeeded after a few seconds, when Chaewon tensed her thighs and exploded against your mouth, stifling sweet squeals of pleasure that she muffled against the forearm she was biting.

"Cum again," you said, in a low but commanding voice, still pumping your fingers even though Chaewon was still squirming.

"B-But! I'm still-"

"I said cum again."

Chaewon grabbed your hair with both hands, pulling hard. Not even a minute passed before your commands sank in and she came for the second time in a row, her body seized by a series of spasms that made her crumple the sheets beneath her.

"Good girl," you said, standing up while her legs were still shaking. "That's the least obedience I expect from now on."

Still somewhat dazed from climaxing twice in such a short amount of time, Chaewon remained silent as you removed your clothes. When you were completely naked, you climbed onto the bed with her and, kneeling beside her face, took your hard cock in one hand and forced it into her mouth.

Chaewon didn't protest and closed her lips around your cock with a moan, propping herself up on one elbow to grasp your shaft at the base and pump her head with long, hard pumps. Her control didn't last long, however, as you pulled a handful of her hair into a ponytail and began fucking her face.

"That's it, slut, take it all," you groaned, rapidly pumping your hips.

This wasn't anything new between the two of you, so she was able to take almost all of your cock before her gag reflex kicked in. Still, saliva slowly seeped from the corners of her lips and dripped down her chin, and it only got worse when, after a moment, you buried the entire length of your cock inside her mouth, resting it against her throat.

"Choke on it, bitch," you gasped, tightening your fingers in her hair, feeling her throat caress your tip.

Chaewon gagged against your cock, saliva spilling from her mouth in thick drops that fell onto the sheets. Her nails dug into your buttocks, a signal to stop that you ignored at first. Only a few desperate slaps on your thigh finally made you give her a break, letting her cough and catch her breath.

"You fucking..."

You returned the words to her mouth with another sharp slap to her cheek. Chaewon groaned, looking up at you with eyes filled with pleasure and anger.

"I don't want to hear you, shut the fuck up," you said, going to kneel between her legs.

"Fuck you, motherf... mmmgh!" Chaewon squealed as you took your cock inside her in one swift motion. "God, why can't you just be mine?"

You placed your hands on her thighs and pressed them back, fucking her slowly at that angle you knew she loved. Funny, but yes: even mad as hell at her, you cared that she enjoyed it.

"Because I'm not interested in belonging to a selfish bitch," you said, jaw clenched, panting at how good the way her pussy squeezed your cock so deliciously always felt. You didn't really think that, but it was the first thing your anger put in line.

Chaewon grabbed her legs behind the knees, keeping them spread. She moaned as you went faster and pounded her against the bed.

"Those bitches don't deserve you!!" Chaewon protested amidst her moans.

"And do you?"

"At least I truly love you!" Chaewon squealed, closing her eyes and tilting her head back. "Why doesn't that matter to you?!"

You pressed both of Chaewon's thighs together and rested both of her heels on your right shoulder, then leaned forward and pushed her legs against her body with your hands flat on the mattress.

"Then why did you let all this happen?!" you yelled through a grunt, reaching deep into her pussy with each thrust. "You don't do that shit to someone you love!!"

"And you don't deliberately fuck that person's groupmates either!"

That was the last thing Chaewon screamed before cumming again, suffocating your cock with her tight walls. She shuddered beneath you and gripped your forearms, every muscle in her body contracting in an orgasm that wasn't half as strong as what you knew you could achieve in her.

"If that bothered you, you could talk to me, Kim Chaewon," you murmured, fucking her slowly. "Talking. You know what that is, right?" You slowly raised your voice. "Talking instead of putting the fucking executives on our fucking heels!! What the fuck were you thinking?! Ugh!"

You pulled out of her pussy and grabbed her forearm to force her to stand up off the bed, carry her to the desk, and bend her against it. Chaewon braced her hands on the surface, crumpling some sheet music and knocking a couple of pens out of their containers to the floor.

"I don't have to go around telling you what the fuck to do and what not!" Chaewon yelled back, a moan escaping her throat as you came back inside her. "You're a fucking adult and you know exactly what you're doing!"

"And that excuses you from being fucking negligent?" you asked, hands gripping her waist as you pounded her pussy again with fast, hard thrusts. "I understand that you're mad at me, but hiding something like that from me? What the fuck is wrong with you?!"

"You had to wake up somehow, you fucking asshole! Mmmgh!" Chaewon squealed, slumping her upper torso against the desk, knocking more of her things over. "I hope it teaches you to think with your head and not your dick!"

You reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair. Chaewon moaned as you pulled it back, causing her to lift her chest slightly off the desk.

"So you're not even sorry?" you growled, your brow furrowed.

"I won't fucking be sorry until you are!" Chaewon snapped back. "And believe me, you have plenty of reasons to apologize!"

You wished your mind had come up with a response to that, but all you could muster was a resounding slap to her right buttock that reverberated throughout the room and made her scream. More like those landed, on each buttock. One after the other until her ass was tinted a bright red, making it look like a jelly cake that you jiggled with each violent thrust.

"Keep going, keep going, keep going!!" Chaewon squealed, her hands braced against the wall in front of her. "Keep going, daddy, please!"

Chaewon exploded within seconds, in an electrifying orgasm that still wasn't the strongest you could get out of her, so you lifted one of her knees and placed it on the edge of the desk to adjust the angle and continue fucking her through a climax that still didn't relax her body.

"Oh fuckkk!!" Chaewon slammed her hand on the table, resting her forehead on one of her notebooks. "That feels so good!"

You gritted your teeth, sweat dripping from your temples and onto your chest as you redoubled your efforts. You squeezed her left buttock with your hand, and with the other, you had her behind the neck, both grips tight and rough. The railing continued until Chaewon came again, and this time you smiled when her neck arched back and she screamed at the ceiling.

"My god!!" Chaewon growled, her pussy squeezing you as her whole body shook. "How can I hate you when you drive me so fucking crazy, son of a bitch!"

"I'm the one who should hate you for what you did," you gasped, sliding a hand from her ass to her waist and pulling out of her pussy.

"And yet, you don't," Chaewon turned to look at you over her shoulder, straightening her back slightly with her hands resting on the desk again. "I'm everything you've ever wanted, and that's why you love me."

"Then you understand how disappointing it is for me that you would hide something like that out of jealousy," you said, unclenching your jaw and calming your breathing. The anger was slowly dissipating. "I… didn't expect that from you, Chaewon,” you shook your head. “You're better than that."

Chaewon opened her mouth to say something, but only a stutter came out. Then her eyes glazed over, and she wrinkled her nose in an attempt not to cry. She was realizing.

"I-I..." Chaewon pouted and looked away, two tears falling down her cheeks. "God, I'm sorry."

That looked more like the Chaewon you knew, one who put her pride aside and was mature enough to know how to give in when necessary. But despite it all, it broke your heart to watch her cry. Always.

You sighed and tilted your head, watching her as she wiped away her tears to no avail, as she sobbed on and on. Chaewon then straightened her back, turned around, and snuggled up to your chest with both arms in front of her.

"I'm so sorry, I really am," Chaewon sobbed. "You don't deserve to go through this because of me."

You swallowed and wrapped your arms around her, holding her close. You stroked her back and hair to comfort her.

"I'm sorry too," you said quietly, staring into space. "For... acting without thinking about how you'd feel."

"What I did is much worse!" Chaewon whimpered. "I messed up, and now we're going to be in trouble!"

"Chaewon-ah, please breathe," you said, seeing that she couldn't find relief from her tears. "There's time to make things right. We just have to absorb the blow and improve. It won't be more than a scolding."

That seemed to calm her down a bit. Chaewon made an effort to regulate her breathing and hold back her sobs, after leaving your chest wet with her tears.

"You think so?" Chaewon looked up at you. "I really don't want this to end because of me. I've worked so hard in this group, and... and..."

You cupped her face and kissed her gently. Chaewon held onto your wrists, kissing back.

"We both made mistakes, okay?" you said, gently holding her face. "You've already apologized for yours, and I apologize for mine."

"Can you really accept my apology? What I did..." Chaewon looked to the side and slowly shook her head. "God, I'm really sorry."

"I can accept them as long as you commit to putting things in order. To really put things in order like the leader you are," you did a pause. "Can you accept mine?"

"I can accept them..." Chaewon now looked at you. "But you know what that entails."

"I... I think I know," you nodded.

"We have terms, then?"

"They're going to riot about it, and we will have to find a solution for them, but we have terms."

"Great," Chaewon sighed and rested her forehead against your chest. "I'm still mad at you, though."

"I know, I know," you said. "Can I do anything to remedy it, even just a little?"

Chaewon looked up at you, and slowly reached down to grab your cock and rub it.

"Fuck my ass," she said, her hand sliding down your cock, wet with her own fluids. "You've never done it, and I think this is a good time to."

You chuckled.

"Really? Right now?"

"Well... you're not doing it with Kura anymore," Chaewon scribbled on your chest with a finger from her other hand while giving you a lazy handjob. "So you better get used to doing it with me."

Damn it, you weren't going to fuck Kura's ass again. The thought was painful. The sacrifice was more than necessary, though.

"So be it, then," you said, and slid a hand behind her to squeeze her ass. "Turn around."

Chaewon obeyed and bent back against the desk, her fists resting on it. She pushed her round ass back, pressing the back of your cock between her buttocks. There was no lubricant on hand, so you'd have to settle for natural methods, using saliva and her own fluids to prepare her ass.

"Mmm, fuck," Chaewon moaned, straining as two of your fingers made their way inside her butthole. "Slow, slow."

"Haven't you done this before?" you asked, carefully stretching her insides. "Not even with toys?"

"Those three have put the wrong ideas in your head, honey," Chaewon sighed, your fingers now fully inside her. "Not all girls are sluts who like things up their asses."

"I had to ask," you shrugged. "Do you feel ready yet, sweetie?"

"I think so..."

You removed your fingers from inside her ass and grabbed your cock, pressing it against it. For her first time, her hole yielded quite easily to your length, slowly filling it. Chaewon dropped her chest onto the desk.

"Well, it's not as bad as I thought..." Chaewon murmured. "Wait stop!" she said, when you were only inches away from being completely inside her.

"Is that your limit, baby?" you asked, your hands on her waist. "You can relax, I won't push any further."

"Yeah, I'm sorry, darling," Chaewon sighed, looking at you over her shoulder. "I know Kura can take it all, but I..."

"Kim Chaewon," you grabbed her neck and pulled her closer so she was looking into your eyes. "Never, and I repeat, never. Compare yourself to other girls."

"But..."

"Never. You drive me fucking crazy, no matter what. I've told you that more than once, I’m pretty sure."

Chaewon remained silent, and looking into your eyes, she pushed her hips back and drove the rest of your cock into her ass with a small cry of pain. You took her hands and intertwined your fingers together.

"Hey!" You frowned, concerned by her pained face but also delighted by how good it felt. "Baby, you didn't have to do that..."

"Shut up," Chaewon reached behind her to cover your mouth, her eyes closed as she adjusted to having you inside her ass. "You shouldn't have said that: you forced me to prove how much you deserve the best of me."

Chaewon took your hand from her mouth and returned it to the desk.

"Are you sure it doesn't hurt?" you asked.

"Just move, asshole," Chaewon replied. "I'll get over it."

Somewhat hesitantly, you began to move slowly, your hands on her waist. Your cock slid in and out of her with some friction, lacking proper lubrication, but that didn't stop it from feeling simply delicious after just a few pumps. For Chaewon, it was a similar sensation: over time, her expression softened, slowly transforming to evoke the pleasure she felt.

"Is that better, darling?" you gasped, one hand slowly moving up her smooth, beautiful back to rest on one of her shoulders. Now your rhythm was steady, not too fast for fear of hurting her.

"Oh yeah, it's feeling like I thought it would," Chaewon replied. "You can move faster."

You did so, gradually picking up a steady rhythm until you were slamming your pelvis against her ass with each thrust. Chaewon's moans grew louder and louder, letting you know that ecstasy was taking over her and that she was beginning to enjoy every second of it.

"Do you like it, sweetheart?" you asked, gaping, your fingers clutching her shoulder and waist.

"Yes daddy," Chaewon nodded quickly, gripping the opposite edge of the desk. "I love it."

"Can I go faster?"

"I'm not in pain anymore... so use me however you wish."

Those magic words were like gunpowder to the flames, allowing you to slip out of your restraints and give her a good pounding against the desk. All Chaewon did was moan, squirm, and throw even more things off the desk, including HYBE's letter. The room erupted into a perfect cacophony of flesh against flesh and moans.

Interrupted by the sound of the door opening to your left.

You and Chaewon quickly turned your heads and turned your backs to hide your private parts, seeing Eunchae standing under the door, her eyes wide open, fascinated by the scene before her.

"Hong Eunchae!!" Chaewon squealed, frowning, her face flushed. "What did I tell you about knocking on the damn door?! Get lost!!"

"No... this is entertaining," Eunchae said, looking down—probably at your ass—with the door still wide open behind her.

"God, I said get out!" Chaewon yelled, grabbing a pencil to throw at her. She missed badly. "And close the damn door already!"

You grabbed Chaewon's wrist and leaned close to her ear.

"Let her stay," you muttered, glancing at Eunchae out of the corner of your eye.

Chaewon glared at you like you'd gone crazy.

"Huh?! Didn't you learn anything from our argument?"

"This is our chance to start weeding," you said even more quietly so Eunchae wouldn't hear. "Trust me. I have a plan."

Chaewon stared at Eunchae for a moment, rolled her eyes with a snort, and stared at the ceiling.

"Okay, Eunchae," she said loudly. "You can stay. But for God's sake, come in and close the damn door!"

Eunchae hurried into the bedroom and closed the door behind her. You then carried Chaewon to the bed, putting her on her hands and knees as she faced Eunchae, whose eyes lit up at the sight of your naked bodies.

"Should I just... stay around here?" Eunchae asked nervously, pressing herself against the wall next to the door with her hands behind her back.

"If that's what you want," you shrugged, and as you looked down at Chaewon, you thrust back into her ass with a single gentle thrust.

Chaewon moaned, her ass raised from you and her back arched. You left your hands on her buttocks and went back to fucking her with the same intensity as a moment ago, only now looking at Eunchae as you did so.

Eunchae watched intently, leaning against the wall, her breathing quickening as she brought a hand to her crotch to touch herself over her shorts.

"Enjoying this, huh?" you asked between gasps, watching her rub circles on her slit.

"You two look... so hot, yeah," Eunchae nodded, biting her lower lip as Chaewon whimpered in pleasure, seconds before experiencing her first anal orgasm.

You gripped Chaewon's waist with both hands, thrusting slowly and deeply as she moaned and writhed, crumpling the sheets beneath her hands. Her ass suffocated your cock at one point, forcing you to stop and enjoy the sensation.

When Chaewon's orgasm passed, you grabbed her shoulders and straightened her back to press her against your chest. She turned her face, kissing you as she met your lips. You wrapped your arms around her, one hand playing with one of her nipples and the other between her thighs, rubbing circles on her clit. Then you pulled your cock out of her ass and quickly slid it back inside her tight, warm pussy. Chaewon moaned against your lips, placing her hands over yours, and fell forward again as you began pounding her pussy with fierce thrusts that made her shake like a rag doll.

In front of you, Eunchae had one hand inside her shorts and panties, fingering herself faster. She let out small, almost inaudible moans.

"Look at that, baby," you told Chaewon, and you slapped her ass so she arched and looked at Eunchae. "The brat is horny."

"Manager-nim... you move so well," Eunchae said with a small sigh, her cheeks flushed, moving her wrist faster inside her shorts. "When are you going to...?"

Perhaps sensing what her question was going to be, your body tingled to let you know you were close to cumming. So, grabbing Chaewon by the arms to keep her back straight, you pumped up your energy to give her a few last wild thrusts before erupting inside her pussy.

"Mmmgh fuck!" you groaned, balls deep inside her as you filled every corner of her pussy with slow pumps.

"Fuck..." Eunchae moaned. "Is he...?"

"Cumming inside me, yeah," Chaewon nodded, looking into your eyes with her mouth agape. "And he's cumming a lot."

Your head was spinning at that moment, overwhelmed by pleasure. Chaewon fell chest first onto the bed as you released her arms, now giving her buttocks a hard squeeze. Her grippy pussy was also throbbing around you, and you looked down before pulling out of her and watching your cum spill out of it.

Chaewon slid an arm underneath herself and with her fingers scooped a good amount of cum from between her folds.

"Baby," Chaewon looked at Eunchae. "Could you pass me a wet wipe?" She pointed to her nightstand, and as Eunchae watched, she brought her fingers to her mouth to eat your cum.

"Y-yeah, sure," Eunchae nodded, practically trotting over to the nightstand to grab the pack of wet wipes and hand them to Chaewon, her gaze fixed on your fluid-soaked cock.

While you sat down to rest and catch your breath, Chaewon took a brief moment to clean herself up. A minute later, Chaewon tossed the two wet towels she'd used, crumpled into her trash can and looked at Eunchae.

"So? What are you waiting for?" Chaewon asked. "Come here, cutie."

Eunchae kicked off her slippers and climbed onto the bed, kneeling beside you. Chaewon knelt in front of her and, taking her by the shoulders, led her into a gentle kiss that slowly turned passionate. Eunchae was visibly nervous, but Chaewon was sweet to her the whole time until she warmed up and was able to relax.

Chaewon grabbed Eunchae's crop top and slowly pulled it over her head, revealing the pastel pink bra underneath.

"Can I take that off too?" Chaewon asked, her hands behind Eunchae's back.

Eunchae nodded, and Chaewon unclasped her bra so it fell onto the mattress. Eunchae's tits were even smaller than Zuha's, but they looked soft, and her nipples were small and pretty. Chaewon brought one to her mouth, making Eunchae moan and grab the sides of her head.

"Unnie, touch me down there too..." Eunchae moaned, twirling strands of Chaewon's hair around her fingers.

"Hm?" Chaewon looked up with a nipple in her mouth. "Like, here?"

Chaewon slipped her hand inside Eunchae's shorts and panties, and you watched as she reached her pussy, making Eunchae roll her eyes as she circled her slit with her fingers.

"Oh yeah, just like that," Eunchae sighed, as Chaewon continued sucking and licking her small tits. "You can undress me too."

"I'm a little busy," Chaewon replied, kissing between her breasts. "Manager-nim, will you help me?"

You looked at Eunchae silently, and only when she nodded in approval did you knelt up to go behind her and pull both her shorts and panties down to her knees. Eunchae gasped, feeling your cock brush against one of her buttocks. Chaewon, for her part, arched her back and lowered her kisses to Eunchae's tummy..

"Just relax, princess," Chaewon said, looking into her eyes. "We're going to make you feel good."

Eunchae reached behind her to cup the back of your head, while Chaewon inserted two saliva-stained fingers into her pussy. She let out a moan, and you noticed a slight tug on your hair from her, a signal you took as a green light to bury your face in her long neck and shower it with kisses.

"Can I touch you, sweetheart?" you asked in Eunchae's ear.

"I can literally feel your cock against my ass, manager-nim," she replied, turning her head to look into your eyes. "I don't even know why you're asking."

Then Eunchae subtly joined her lips with yours, in a tender kiss you hadn't expected from her, considering the way she'd been behaving all these days. You placed both hands on her small waist, then moved them to different places: the left one to her tits, playing with one of her nipples between your fingers, and the right one between her legs to rub her clitoris.

Chaewon began slowly pumping her fingers in and out of Eunchae, who moaned against your lips at the double stimulus that made her squirm her hips and buck slightly. Soon, Eunchae's breathing became heavier as Chaewon fingered her faster and you rubbed faster, pushing her hips back to crush the back of your cock between her nude, soft buttocks.

"Does that feel good?" you softly said against her lips.

"So, so good," Eunchae moaned, her eyebrows raised and her mouth gaping. "I think... I think I'm gonna... Oh lord!"

Eunchae tightened her fingers in your hair as she came with a soft moan, her body trembling against yours. You moved your fingers slower, and Chaewon pulled her fingers out of her to go down a little further and lick her pussy with gentle licks. 

"I want you to... eat me," Eunchae managed to say in the midst of her climax. "Can you?"

"I'll take care of it," you replied, taking her hand and leading her to lie down on one of the pillows.

Eunchae made herself comfortable with a pillow under her head, right in the center of the bed. You got on top of her, and after a small, warm kiss on her lips, you slowly moved down her upper torso, stopping at her tummy to lick and kiss it. Then you went a little lower, now between her thighs, pressing them back and bringing your mouth to her pussy.

"Oh my... so good," Eunchae sighed, arching her back and grabbing your hair.

Chaewon joined you and lay down next to Eunchae to kiss her lips. Then she moved down her neck, stopping at her tits and sucking on them again, one hand coming down to join you as you ate her pussy with slow licks, soft kisses, and gentle squeezes of her thigh.

Eunchae's moans grew louder as you let go of the gentleness and began to eat her pussy the way you really knew how, resulting in another orgasm that had her whimpering against Chaewon's lips and cuddling her like a teddy bear.

"Mmm, I think it's time for the main attraction," you said, wiping your chin as you knelt between Eunchae's spread legs. "Do you want to do it?"

Eunchae broke away from Chaewon's lips and looked into your eyes, then at your cock just above her pussy. She bit her lip, her cheeks flushed and her breathing ragged, visibly very horny.

"Yes... I do," Eunchae nodded. "Please fuck me, manager-nim."

You took your cock and pressed the tip between her folds, but instead of taking it inside, you rubbed it up and down between them.

"Why should I?" you asked.

Eunchae frowned, confused. Beside her, Chaewon, on the other hand, gave a small smile, knowing where this was going.

"Well... because I'm naked in front of you and you just have to put it in?" Eunchae retorted.

"Indeed," you nodded. "But I'd be giving you what you want. Why would I give you what you want like you deserve it?"

"Oh come on, manager-nim!" Eunchae protested, clutching the pillow under her head with one hand. "Don't be like that! I'm sorry, okay?"

"Your apologies aren't enough, I need something more."

"What the fuck do you mean?" Eunchae tilted her head and grabbed your cock, trying to push it inside her. "Just do it!"

You grabbed her wrist and stopped her, doing it yourself, but you only got the tip inside. Eunchae twisted her hips in a desperate attempt to push more inside her.

"I need you to promise me that you'll start behaving," you said, with a stern tone in your voice that you hoped would work. "And that you'll start respecting my and Chaewon's authority, no matter what."

"And if I refuse, what are you supposed to do?" Eunchae challenged you.

You shrugged and pulled your tip out from between her folds. You made as if to get up from the bed.

"No, stop!" Eunchae stopped you, trapping you with her legs around your waist. "Oh my god, I can't believe you coerced me into this!"

"It's your fault for being nosy and not knocking before entering," you said. "And now you only have two possible choices. Decide."

"Fuck, fine! I promise!" Eunchae said. "Just fuck me!"

"You promise what?"

Eunchae rolled her eyes and growled in frustration.

"I promise I'll behave and respect your authority no matter what!" Eunchae finally blurted out.

A surge of relief washed over your body, making you take a deep breath. Nothing assured you she wasn't lying, but it was a start.

"Good girl," you smirked. "It wasn't that hard, was it?"

"Shut up."

"It's weird to ask, but are you a virgin?"

"That's none of your business!" Eunchae snapped.

"Just asking, rude ass."

Now certain you'd gotten what you wanted from her, you grabbed your cock by the base and slowly guided it inside Eunchae. The absurdly tightness of her pussy led you to believe she was indeed a virgin, but when you looked up, you didn't notice her even the slightest bit worried about it. A pained expression was what you would have expected, but Eunchae just seemed to be enjoying every inch of you filling her.

"Damn, look at you," Chaewon said from beside Eunchae, kissing her neck. "Taking all that cock in exchange for not being such a rebellious brat anymore. Don't you think that's a reasonable exchange?"

"I'm not so sure you know?" Eunchae retorted, when you were halfway inside. "But I don't think I’ll regret it anytime soon."

You sincerely hoped she wouldn't, because you wanted to get that matter with her over with so you'd only have to worry about the other three musketers.

After a few seconds of slow thrusting, your cock was buried deep inside Eunchae's pussy, which felt like a tight, warm glove enveloping you perfectly. You placed her right heel on your shoulder, and with your hand on her left thigh, you began to move your hips.

"Oh my god, Eunchae," you sighed. "You're crushing me, damn it."

"Yeah? Does it feel good?" Eunchae asked as you took the entirety of your length in and out of her with each slow pump.

"It feels amazing," you nodded, squeezing the flesh of her soft thigh beneath your fingers. "And for you?"

"You have no idea," she sighed, letting out a long moan.

Chaewon ran a hand down Eunchae's tummy and between her legs to rub her clit with swift, agile movements of her wrist. That urged you to go faster. Eunchae found Chaewon's lips again and moaned against them as you began to fuck her with swift thrusts, her hands cupping her unnie's face.

Not wanting to keep her waiting, you reached out and slid a hand between Chaewon's buttocks and found her pussy, inserting two full fingers inside her. Chaewon moaned and pulled away from Eunchae's lips, watching as you moved your wrist as you fucked Eunchae's tight pussy at a perfect pace.

The room was soon filled with both of their moans and the occasional thump of your pelvis against Eunchae's crotch. The two of you merged again in a kiss, and the first to cum was the maknae, squealing and squirming her hips. Her pussy felt even tighter that way, throbbing around your shaft and wetting it with her warm fluids.

After a few seconds, you pulled out of her and lay behind Chaewon, placing a few kisses on her shoulders.

"Come ride me, my love," you whispered in her ear.

Chaewon quickly pulled away from Eunchae and straddled you, taking your cock straight and impaling herself on it in a single motion that made you both moan. She placed her hands on your chest, and with her face only inches from yours, she began to rapidly move her hips to fuck herself against you.

Eunchae snuggled up close to you, making you turn around for a kiss. You gasped against her lips, and she caressed your abdomen. Chaewon then began to go faster, straightening her back to jump on your cock. Eunchae knelt right next to her, and returning the favor, began to kiss both her neck and her tits until she came.

Chaewon's nails dug into your abdomen as her slim, sexy body writhed on top of you, her hips grinding back and forth with your cock buried deep inside her. Soon, she got off of you, and Eunchae lay down next to you again, this time on her side. You turned toward her, and with her back pressed against your chest and your arms wrapped around her body, you went back inside her pussy.

Your lips and Eunchae's met again, this time in a fiery, heated kiss. Chaewon lay in front of her, intertwining their legs together as you fucked her pussy with hard, deep pumps. A few seconds later, you broke away from Eunchae's lips and brought Chaewon's face closer. Eunchae tilted her neck toward you, enough so the three of you could share a sloppy three-way kiss.

"Oh my fucking god, I'm going crazy," Eunchae moaned, breaking away from the kiss. "Keep going, oppa... god, keep going, keep going!"

You planted one foot on the mattress and gripped Eunchae's waist, slamming your pelvis against her buttocks and making her whimper in pleasure until she came in a maelstrom of moans and little whimpers. The way her pussy clenched around you made you moan and realize how close you were to cumming too.

"Eunchae, I'm really close..." you gasped, squeezing her against you as she writhed in pleasure. "Where...?"

"Out, oppa, please," Eunchae replied with a moan, clutching your forearm. "Not inside."

Exactly the response you expected. You buried your face in her neck, making her feel your hot, labored breathing as you resumed the rhythm in and out of her. Eunchae reached behind her and gripped your head, tugging at your hair. A minute later, you moaned as you felt that delicious tingle travel down to your lower region, and just before cumming, you quickly pulled out your cock, pressed the tip against her ass, and masturbated until you exploded.

"Mmmh fuck!" you groaned, squeezing Eunchae tightly against you as you shot a thick load that stained her waist and hips, and completely filled her ass.

"Mmm," Eunchae moaned, watching you cum, stroking your hair. "It feels so warm against my skin..."

"Let me do you a favor," Chaewon said, kneeling up to bend over Eunchae's ass and wipe your cum off with her tongue while it was still coming out from your tip. "Stay still."

Chaewon did an impeccable job cleaning every stained spot on Eunchae's skin, and when she was done, she brought your cock to her mouth to suck every inch slowly. When she left you glistening, with only a light layer of saliva, she lay down next to Eunchae, staring at the ceiling.

Silence then reigned in the room, your breathing slowly returning to normal. A while later, Chaewon sat up, covering her breasts with a blanket, and looked at you.

"This is the first and last time this happens, okay?" she asked. "You know exactly why."

"I know," you nodded, part of your head resting on Eunchae's. "You can trust me."

"Very well. The ship will stay afloat, then."

"Look on the bright side, we've already taken a step. It's one less weed to cut."

"Oppa... unnie," Eunchae said in a small, tired voice. "Please don't let the others find out about this. I'm a little embarrassed that they'll get that image of me."

You hoped Sakura and Yunjin weren't paying attention to the noise because of how high they must be, because otherwise, they would surely have realized it was two pairs of moans, not just one, and immediately associated it with Eunchae.

"They won't, sweetie," you replied, stroking her hair. "Don't worry."

You then felt a calmness you hadn't felt in a long time. HYBE's letter was still pounding in your head, but patching things up with Chaewon and putting Eunchae back in line was definitely a turning point you were grateful for.

Chaewon stood up and began searching for her clothes with slow movements. You stared at her, noticing a big change in her expression. Her anger and resentment had definitely disappeared. Eunchae, for her part, just squeezed your hand with her eyes closed, relaxing.

Then your phone rang with a notification. You looked for it, but the noise had come from the floor. Chaewon ended up passing it to you, and you sighed in relief when you read what you'd received.

"What's wrong?" Chaewon asked.

"HYBE postponed the meeting to Monday. We have time to sort this whole mess out."

Chaewon mimicked your sigh, putting on her panties and T-shirt.

"Thank the Lord," she said, lying back down.

Eunchae sat up a minute later and got out of bed to find her clothes. Her cheeks were still flushed, and she glanced at you, embarrassed.

"I'm... sorry about the beer, oppa," she said, putting on her panties and bra. "And everything. I promise to improve and help you with the others. To... I don't know, make them reconsider."

Chaewon nodded, a proud little smile on her face, a mirror of yours.

"Thanks, Manchae," you said, watching her get dressed and imitating her, putting on your boxers and sweatpants. "I really appreciate it."

"It’s nothing. But can we take a nap?" she asked, already dressed. "I'm exhausted."

As soon as she said that, Chaewon got closer to you and cuddled up to you.

"Yes, but he's mine," Chaewon said. "You lie down over there," she pointed to the other side of the bed.

Eunchae rolled her eyes, shook her head, and lay down with you two.

But not even five minutes had passed when you heard a sudden commotion in another room: music now playing incredibly loudly. The ones responsible? Probably Bob Marley and Willie Nelson.

You sighed against Chaewon's back, realizing you had a lot of work to do.

[azzinator3000]

Locked Doors

Title: Locked Doors 

Word count (so far): 1.9K 

Content: Friends-to-lovers, secret relationship, intense sexual tension, UConn season 2023/2024

Warnings: Mature Content (Minors DNI)

Pairing: Pazzi

Summary:

Azzi Fudd has one golden rule: don't like this too much. Especially not when "this" involves tangled limbs, whispered reassurances, and the intoxicating heat of Paige Bueckers' lap. They're UConn's star duo, aiming for a national championship, meticulously crafted for public consumption. But behind closed dorm doors, their long-standing "friendship" has morphed into something dangerously undeniable

INTRODUCTION (December, 2023)

Azzi Fudd had decided: she really, really shouldn’t be liking this as much as she did.

She was trying to make sense of it in her head, but, honestly? Not that hard.

Maybe it was the tequila, still drumming hot in her body, like a bassline she couldn’t quite shut off. Maybe it was the pure, sharp joy of being back on the court with the Huskies after so long, slipping into that rhythm that felt like home. Maybe it was just that being near Paige Bueckers always made her lose every shred of common sense

Probably all of the above

That’s how she’d ended up here, sitting on Paige’s lap in her dorm room, like the next morning wouldn’t come and they wouldn’t both go back to that careful, careful dance where they swore it didn’t mean anything

Except, it did

It always did

And truly, there was no place Azzi liked being more than right here—her arms looped around Paige’s shoulders, her fingers tangled in Paige’s impossibly blonde hair, her body pressed against Paige’s chest. There was no place that felt more right than Paige Fucking Bueckers’ lap.

Which meant she was utterly, completely, fucked

She shouldn’t be wanting this so bad. She shouldn’t be wanting her so bad

Because the thing about Paige Bueckers? Everyone wanted her. On the court, off the court, on highlight reels, in sneaker deals. Paige was the girl. Tall, blonde, built like she was carved out of pure focus and sharp edges. She played like a storm and walked like she didn’t owe anyone her time. She was confident, she was controlled, she was… everything

The only problem was: Paige didn’t do this. She didn’t talk about feelings. She didn’t have girlfriends. Paige had been raised in a world where she was supposed to be perfect. Marketable. Carefully built for greatness.

So, when they touched—when they kissed—when they stumbled out of parties together and into the mess of each other—it always came with this quiet, heavy but.

But we can’t.

But it’s just for now.

But it doesn’t mean anything, right?

Azzi had been pretending that was enough.

But she was starting to wonder if pretending was just another way to break her own heart.

Their teammates knew—of course they knew.

KK would just roll her eyes whenever Azzi sat just a little too close to Paige on the team bus. Ice would nudge her ribs like we see you or just grin and say something just on the edge of teasing.

But no one said it out loud. Because Paige and Azzi didn’t say it out loud.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

But Azzi was beginning to think yet was still coming. And when it did, she wasn’t sure either of them would know what to do with it.

But for tonight? For now?

Azzi leaned in, her breath ghosting over Paige’s lips, smiling like she knew exactly what she was about to ruin.

“Tell me to stop,” Azzi whispered.

Paige’s grip on Azzi’s waist didn't just tighten; it became an anchor, pulling Azzi flush against her, no space left to breathe or think. And then Paige kissed her. It wasn’t a kiss, not really. 

It was a declaration, a guttural need pressed against Azzi’s mouth, claiming her. 

Paige’s lips were open, hungry, demanding, and her tongue was already there, sweeping inside, a desperate dance that left Azzi breathless and reeling. 

This was not the gentle exploration of friends; this was a storm, wild and consuming.

Azzi’s body arched, responding instinctively, her own desperate desire mirroring Paige's ferocity. She gasped into the kiss, a soft moan escaping her throat, and Paige devoured the sound.

There was no room for thought, no space for the "buts" that usually haunted them. 

Only sensation: the sharp taste of tequila and the cool whisper of mint on Paige's breath, the subtle scent of Paige’s shampoo, the soft friction of their clothes, the hard, unyielding muscle beneath her hands as Azzi’s fingers dug into Paige’s scalp, pulling her impossibly closer, deepening the kiss, chasing that feeling of blissful oblivion.

Paige shifted, a low sound vibrating in her chest, urging Azzi on. Her leg hooked around Azzi’s hip, a natural move, one they’d done a hundred times, on a hundred different couches, in a hundred different moods. It felt like coming home, even as it felt utterly dangerous. 

Paige’s hand slipped under Azzi’s shirt, cool fingers tracing the curve of her breast, then splaying wide over her lower back, pressing her closer still until Azzi could feel the frantic beat of Paige’s heart against her own.

This was December. The air outside was crisp, winter settling in. The Huskies were deep into their season, every practice, every game, a step closer to the national championship. The stakes were higher than ever, the pressure palpable.

And here they were, two of the best college players in the country, tucked away in a dorm room, risking everything for moments like these.

Azzi knew the narrative: Paige Bueckers, the golden girl, the current face of women’s college basketball, meticulously crafted for superstardom. And Azzi, the quiet powerhouse, the future of the game. Their careers, their public images, were meticulously managed. A whisper of this could unravel it all. 

Paige broke the kiss, just enough for Azzi to gasp for air, her forehead resting against Azzi’s. Her light eyes, usually so sharp and analytical on the court, were soft now, a little dazed, but burning with an unyielding hunger.

“I would never,” Paige breathed, her voice rough, hoarse, her gaze fixed on Azzi’s lips like they were the answer to every question. “I would never tell you to stop.”

“Think they’re still at the bar?” Azzi finally managed to whisper, her voice barely a breath. The words felt ridiculously mundane, but the question was urgent. They’d slipped away, two minutes after Ice had started dancing on a table, feigning exhaustion and an early night. 

“Probably ordering another round, Princess,” she murmured, her thumb tracing the curve of Azzi’s jaw, sending shivers down her neck. The pet name always made Azzi’s stomach flip. 

Princess. It felt possessive, intimate, everything they weren’t supposed to be. “We bought ourselves… maybe ten more minutes before KK decides to come hunt us down and ask why her favorite ‘friend’ is missing.”

Azzi laughed, a low, shaky sound that still felt a little too loud in the quiet room. She imagined KK, all five-foot-nine of her, stomping down the hall.

“Yeah, so we need to be quiet,” Azzi said, her eyes flitting to the door, then back to Paige.

The memory of the bar bathroom flashed through her mind—the sticky floor, the faint smell of disinfectant, the frantic, desperate scramble of their bodies against the cold tile, hands tearing at clothes, mouths devouring mouths.

They’d stumbled out, flushed and disheveled, pretending it was just the heat of the crowd, the effect of too many drinks. No one had looked twice. Or maybe everyone had, and simply chosen not to comment (as usual).

Paige’s gaze followed hers, then returned, darkening with a playful intensity. “Quiet? Is that a challenge, Princess?” Her fingers tightened, pulling Azzi’s hips forward, grinding them subtly against her own. Azzi gasped, a small, choked sound.

“Paige,” Azzi whispered, a warning mixed with a plea. “They’ll be here any minute. We can’t…”

“Can’t we?” Paige cut her off, her eyes holding Azzi captive. She leaned in again, not for another full kiss, but to whisper against Azzi’s mouth, her breath hot and sweet. “Or do you just want them to hear, Azzi Fudd?” 

The sudden, jarring realization that their time was truly finite struck Azzi with a cold force. It wasn’t just the fear of being caught by the team; it was the larger, more existential dread of their expiration date. Paige was a senior. This was her last year at UConn, her final shot at the national title with this team, with Azzi by her side. After this, everything would change. 

Paige would go pro, the WNBA, a world of even harsher spotlights and greater scrutiny. Azzi would still be here, playing another year, leading the Huskies. The distance, the pressure, the inevitable public scrutiny—it would swallow whatever this was whole.

“We really need to be quiet Bueckers,” Azzi insisted again, her voice a little stronger this time, even as her mind still wandered. She pressed her fingers against Paige’s strong shoulder, a silent plea for restraint. It was a self-preservation instinct kicking in, a tiny part of her still fighting for control.

“Fine,” Paige said, but then her eyes narrowed

Azzi knew that look. It was the same look Paige got on the court when she was about to do something audacious, something that shouldn't work but always did. It was the look that said, I dare you.

Her gaze dropped to Paige’s lips, still slightly swollen, still looking utterly kissable. “What?” Azzi asked, her voice barely audible. Her body was still on fire, every nerve ending alive and buzzing, a stark contrast to the silence she was now trying to enforce.

Paige leaned in, her eyes never leaving Azzi’s. “We have to be quiet,” she repeated, her voice a low murmur that seemed to wrap around Azzi. “But we don’t have to stop touching.” Her hand, which had been resting on Azzi’s knee, began to move, slowly, deliberately, up the inside of Azzi’s thigh. The heat of her palm seared through the soft cotton of her underwear, a direct line to Azzi’s core.

Azzi gasped, her breath catching in her throat, her eyes widening. The sudden, intimate touch was a direct assault on her precarious control. Every fiber of her being screamed to pull away, to regain some semblance of composure before the girls came back. 

“Paige,” she breathed, a desperate plea.

Paige’s grin widened, a silent, knowing triumph. “Shhh, Princess,” she whispered, her gaze locked with Azzi’s as her fingers moved higher, her touch light but insistent. “Wouldn’t want anyone to hear us, would we?”

Paige was pushing Azzi to the very edge of her control, demanding a different kind of quiet, a breathless, desperate silence born of raw, unadulterated sensation. Azzi could feel the tremor starting in her legs, the slow, agonizing build of desire that Paige always seemed to orchestrate with such effortless precision.

Each creak of the floorboards outside, each distant murmur from the hallway, was a stark reminder of their impending discovery, but even that fear, potent as it was, couldn't completely drown out the delicious, terrifying pull of Paige's touch.

Azzi closed her eyes, biting down on her lip, a silent battle raging within her, but for tonight, right here, on Paige Bueckers' lap, Azzi was ready to burn

[brights-place]

[KPDH] ━━━ ．°˖✧ Ｍｙｓｔｅｒｙ ˚₊ ⊹ x Reader

Contains: Slightly Suggestive, Cursing, Collar, Barking, Teasing, making out, Baby just calling shit out

A/N: I WAS LISTENING TO SIR MIX ALOT OKAY! LISTEN AND I HAD A WHOLE IDEA NGL I FEEL LIKE I COULD MAKE A FULL FIC FOR THIS? but also I feel like I could make angst guys BRO I HAVE A DEVIOUS ANGST PLAN also I really hope people won't just start writing Mystery like he's just a guy who barks and all that because after this and one more writing about mystery I have an angsty idea that I'mma write whehehe!

Summary: BARK LIKE YOU WANT IT, He’s barking at fans in meet and greets if they pass a boundary like they owe him rent. He’s quiet and mysterious on stage like always and somehow Mystery Saja is your boyfriend. Sure, he barely talks, sneaks around slyly like a cat, and barks like a dog with an attitude problem… but he’s yours. Off-stage, he's all sneaky footsteps, silver hair in his eyes, and low growls when you're not paying him enough attention. So, obviously, you bought him a collar with a bell because if he’s gonna act like a dog, he might as well look the part. But here’s the thing there’s something weirdly real behind those sharp teeth and silent being keeping to himself. Something darker...Something… hidden and now that you’ve tugged the leash, you’re not sure who’s really in control. So go on. Bark like you want it

Ｍｙｓｔｅｒｙ was, well… true to his stage name. A mystery.

He didn’t talk unless he really had to, kept to himself, and always moved like he was running on empty. Quiet, reserved, and perpetually slouched after long idol schedules. It was clear the spotlight wasn’t his natural habitat. Not like Jinu, who somehow thrived in the chaos of fan service and flashing cameras even if it was all an act.

Mystery wasn’t one for acts. Not unless growling at a fan during a fan signing counted.

You watched the clip from the safety of your phone screen, eyebrows raised as he practically barked like fully barked at a fan who’d leaned just a little too close, fingers outstretched like she tried to invade hsi personal space. The way he snapped, lips curling, sharp eyes glinting beneath his silver fringe… it was less “idol charm” and more “try that again and I bite.” and god help you, it was kind of hot to see him act like that. You couldn't help but pause and side eye something in your bag you bought for your friends pet dog as a gift yet you couldn't help but snicker at an idea popping up in your head.

You were curled up in one of the hidden lounges far from the chaos of the Saja boys and their over-scheduled madness, Mystery slumped beside you on the couch.

His head dipped lazily toward your shoulder. Hair damp from a recent shower, his silver strands tickled your neck. His body was heavy tired but not enough to stop him from nuzzling into your side like a sleep-deprived stray.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to but you? Oh, you had plans for your boyfriend with a mischievous grin, you reached into your bag and pulled out a collar a sleek black collar with a delicate silver bell that jingled softly between your fingers.

You dangled it just out of his reach, eyes glittering “Mystery,” you cooed slyly his head jerked up. Slowly. Narrow-eyed. Like a cat catching movement out of the corner of its eye. His gaze flicked from the collar to your face, then back again, as if trying to figure out if you were serious or just dangerously bold.

He didn’t speak blinking and inching forward you wiggled the collar a little higher. “C’mon. You bark at fans like they owe you rent. You gonna let me tease you and get away with it?” Mystery tilted his head slightly more tense, almost curious. Almost but you weren’t fooled.

His lips parted just enough to let out the smallest, softest sound from deep in his throat. Not a word, Not quite a bark. Not quite a growl. Something in between. “Mm-mm.” You shook your head. “Not good enough.” and that’s when he lurched forward.

You squeaked as he suddenly lunged forward, not aggressively, but fast enough that your back hit the cushions behind you. He climbed into your space, straddling your hips, the weight of his body pressing you down. Silver hair fell like curtains around your faces, hiding you both from the world. His hands braced on either side of your head, and his lips were just inches from yours.

“You’re so tired,” you teased breathlessly, still clutching the collar. “Didn’t you just say you needed rest?” He didn’t respond. Instead, he leaned in, mouth grazing the curve of your neck, the tip of his nose brushing your jaw like a lazy nuzzle.

You giggled with a smile on your face as the bell jingled again, trapped between your fingers “Don’t think I won’t put this on you.” you said in-between small snorts and mystery he froze for a moment… then moved even closer. His lips brushed your ear, and his voice raspy and low spoke for the first time that night.

“Then do it.”

You blinked mouth agape as he pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes. His fringe framed his face, making his expression unreadable except for the slight, smug curve of his mouth.

“Put it on,” he whispered. “If you’re brave enough.” Your heart slammed. The collar in your hand felt a little less like a joke and a lot more like a dare now. You swallowed slowly as you felt it how he was so quiet, calculating, and worst of all waiting.

Somewhere deep down, you remembered that Mystery wasn’t just your mysterious, slouchy boyfriend. He was a demon. A being with teeth and claws and something else hiding just behind that unreadable gaze. Still… you weren’t scared.

You slipped the collar around his neck and clicked it shut the bell jingled as you stared up at him as he didn't move. You leaned forward, lips brushing his as your finger tugged onto the collar.

“Good boy.”

And that was the moment he grabbed your hips kissing you deeply messy, tired, intense. A little desperate. A little smug. Like someone who’d been holding back just enough to let you think you had control, only to steal it all back with a single kiss.

The bell jingled again as your fingers curled into Mystery’s shoulders. You kissed him back, slow and soft, eyes fluttered shut completely unaware of the way that tiny bell kept chiming with every movement. Lost in the moment, you didn’t even register the cool brush of something leathery sliding around your neck. You felt it kind of but waved it off as nothing, too busy melting into him.

A smile tugged at your lips mid-kiss, only for it to drop the second you heard the unmistakable click of the apartment door unlocking.

“We’re back!” Jinu’s voice rang out, loud like always Your eyes flew open. Panic shot down your spine. You turned toward the door just as Mystery leaned in again, deepening the kiss very much not helping. His lips moved with slow, deliberate dominance, smug in every motion as you frantically tried to push him off.

“Mystery-!” you hissed into the kiss, but he didn’t budge. Instead, he smirked against your mouth, like this was all just another casual Tuesday, before finally pulling away smooth and unbothered, standing tall like he hadn’t just tried to make out with you in full view of the incoming chaos.

Your face burned. You side-eyed him, flustered, breath caught in your throat only to realize something was off. The collar... It was gone. You blinked. Tilted your head slightly, trying to find it only to freeze when the soft chime of a bell echoed again but not from him.

From you

You froze as your hand slowly reached up and felt the firm press of leather and cold metal against your neck. The bell jingled again as your fingers touched it.

You could feel the heat rush up your neck as you sat there, stunned, just in time for Baby to plop down beside you on the couch. He blinked lazily at the collar, lips curled around a lollipop, then reached out and flicked the bell with one finger as it chimed. His expression unreadable, but his eyes sparkling with silent laughter.

Mystery? He didn’t even look your way. Just stared forward like he’d ascended to a higher plane of peace. Baby smirked wider, unbothered, pulling away just as Romance, Abby, and Jinu entered the room in a cluster of conversation and snacks.

Romance caught sight of you first. Stifled a laugh behind his hand. Abby’s eyes widened. And Jinu? He blinked. Paused. "A collar with a bell?" he repeated, eyebrow arching, gaze sliding toward Mystery. Mystery shrugged casual, chill, innocent. The picture of saying “Who, me?” even though he didn't even need to say anything.

You dropped your face into your hands, groaning in pure shame. “Oh my god,” you mumbled. Baby popped his lollipop from his mouth just long enough to say, “Didn’t know we were into pet play now.”

You considered evaporating on the spot

۶ৎ ⌗ 𝐊-𝐏𝐎𝐏 𝐃𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⸝⸝

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 25

˗ˏˋ vanilla drips ˎˊ˗

"Sometimes the sweetest confessions come in the form of flour wars and vanilla extract kisses, when 3 AM vulnerability meets kitchen counter chemistry and you realize you've been lying to yourself about what you actually want."

next | index

✧ chapter details ✧

word count: 11.2k

content: 3am sourdough therapy sessions, flour warfare, vanilla extract as foreplay, kitchen counter confessions, raw intimacy (literally), tessa reconnaissance missions, jason date debriefs, smut, penetration, vanilla kink as always

✦ author's note ✦

Okay. Before anyone starts warming up their fingers to type “why is Y/N being such a hypocrite about Tessa,” let’s stop right there because actually? She’s not. Not even a little bit. What you’re witnessing here isn’t hypocrisy—it’s human behavior. It’s trauma logic. It’s psychological realism. And it’s honestly the most consistent Y/N has ever been.

Here’s the thing: what she has with Jungkook is sex. She’s said it, she’s acted on it, and more importantly—she believes it. Her brain doesn’t categorize him as a romantic option, not even subconsciously. So when she pushes Tessa toward him, it’s not because she’s lying to herself—it’s because, from her point of view, Jungkook deserves something good. After Mia? Yeah. He deserves a little sweetness. Tessa’s nice. That’s literally it. She’s responding with a moral instinct, not romantic jealousy. And that’s not hypocrisy—that’s compartmentalization paired with a genuine (if ill-defined) desire to see someone be treated well.

But here’s the question the chapter’s really asking: is “something good” always what someone needs?

Because Jungkook doesn’t recognize affection as safe. The boy has trained himself not to see it—thanks to a past that weaponized intimacy against him. So of course he doesn’t clock Tessa’s interest. It’s not him being stupid. It’s a trauma-informed blind spot. He’s too tuned into control dynamics to perceive sincerity when it’s offered without strings. (And let’s be real, how many of us have had our receptors miswired by the wrong person?)

That’s where the mutual curiosity comes in—both Y/N and Jungkook ask about each other’s dating lives in this chapter. Not because they’re pining or secretly in love or any of that fluff. They’re not. What they are, though, is interested. Maybe not in a romantic sense, but definitely in a human one. They’re trying to read each other. Understand each other. That’s what friends do. Or, in their case, that’s what trying to be friends looks like. They’re clumsy, they’re defensive, but they’re showing care in the only languages they know—flour fights and 3 AM bread commentary and checking if the other person is sleeping with someone else, just to make sense of the shape of things.

And Jungkook? For all his snark and dodging—he reads her this chapter. Like really reads her. He names her deflections. Calls out her need for control. Gives her permission to let go in ways no one else has. That kitchen scene isn’t romantic, it’s recognition. And that’s what makes it intimate. Not love. Not pining. But connection.

The vanilla extract moment—look, I know some of you are rolling your eyes at the "of course it's vanilla because that's Y/N's scent" metaphor, but hear me out. The fact that he was drinking it? That's not cute quirky behavior—that's concerning. It's self-medication disguised as harmless habit. For those of you who don’t know or haven’t caught up—vanilla extract is ethanol. Which means, it is alcohol. And Y/N recognizing it but choosing to transform it into something sensual instead of confronting it directly? That's her attempting to heal through intimacy rather than conversation, which is very much her emotional language at this point in the story.

Anyway. Enjoy the mess. Enjoy the tension. Enjoy Jungkook's dirty talk and Y/N's stubborn deflection and the way they're both falling without admitting it. It's about to get so much more complicated, and I am absolutely living for it.

✧ read on✧

ao3

wattpad

You're halfway to sleep when the knock comes.

Soft at first, almost hesitant, like whoever's on the other side isn't sure they should be there.

"What?" you mumble, voice thick with exhaustion.

No response.

Another knock, louder this time.

"Whatttt?" you snap, sitting up and glaring at the door.

Still no answer.

With an annoyed huff, you throw off the covers and march to the door, yanking it open—and nearly stumble into Jungkook.

He's leaning against the frame, one arm braced above his head like he's posing for a magazine cover. His hair is messy, his silver ring catching the faint light from the hallway.

You take a step back instinctively, narrowing your eyes. "What do you want? It's three in the morning."

He tilts his head toward the kitchenette, lips quirking into that infuriating half-smile. "I'm making sourdough."

You blink at him. "Sourdough?"

"Remember I told you about my Steam nickname? The baking pun?" He raises an eyebrow like he's daring you to remember.

"Huh," you say flatly, still trying to process why this man is standing outside your room at an ungodly hour talking about bread.

"Wanna see?" he asks, his grin widening.

"No," you reply immediately, crossing your arms. "Why would I want to see your midnight bread experiment?"

"Because it's cool," he says simply, as if that explains everything.

You stare at him for a long moment before sighing and stepping out of your room.

"Fine. But if this is stupid—"

"It's not stupid," he interrupts, already turning toward the kitchenette. "It's art."

"Oh my god," you mutter, following him reluctantly.

The counter is a mess of flour and bowls and what looks like a dough blob covered with a damp cloth. Jungkook gestures at it like it's a masterpiece.

"Behold," he says dramatically. "The future of bread."

You squint at it.

"It looks like a brain."

"Shows what you know about baking," he retorts, grabbing a wooden spoon and poking at the edges of the dough. "This is proofing."

"You're proofing my patience right now," you mutter, leaning against the counter.

He smirks but doesn't look up from his work. "You're just jealous because I have hobbies."

"Making bread at 3 AM isn't a hobby; it's a cry for help."

"Says the girl who reads Kafka for fun."

"It's called intellectual stimulation."

"It's called depressing bug stories."

You roll your eyes as he starts shaping the dough.

"So this is what you do when you can't sleep? Play housewife?"

"Better than doomscrolling Twitter," he shoots back without missing a beat.

"Shut up." You watch him for a moment longer before asking, "Why sourdough?"

His hands pause briefly before resuming their rhythm.

"My mom taught me how to make it when I was younger," he says quietly. "I loved it, so I picked it up quite easily. I guess it's just habit now."

There's something softer in his voice now, something almost reverent.

You don't press him for more details; it feels like enough that he shared this much.

"But I mean... why do it now?" you ask instead.

He shrugs but doesn't look up. "I told you, it helps me think."

You scoff, trying to keep the mood from dipping too far into serious territory. He finishes shaping the dough and places it on a tray before turning back to you.

"Wanna help?" he asks, holding out the wooden spoon.

"Nope," you say immediately.

"Oh come on." He wiggles the spoon enticingly. "Live a little."

"I'm living just fine without touching your weird blob bread."

"You're no fun."

He sets the spoon down with exaggerated disappointment and starts cleaning up the counter.

You watch him for another moment before grabbing the spoon and poking at the dough experimentally. It feels weirdly satisfying under your fingers—soft but firm, pliable but resistant.

Jungkook glances over and smirks again.

"See? Told you it was cool."

"Don't push it," you warn, but there's no real bite in your tone.

He chuckles softly and continues tidying up while you poke at his sourdough creation like it might reveal some hidden secrets about him—or maybe just about yourself.

And somehow, in this quiet kitchen at three in the morning, surrounded by flour and sarcasm and unexpected softness, it feels... okay.

You're still poking at the dough when Jungkook flicks a bit of flour in your direction. It lands on your arm, a tiny white puff against your skin.

"Oops," he says, not sounding sorry at all.

You narrow your eyes. "Don't start something you can't finish, Rogue."

His eyebrows shoot up at the nickname, a challenge sparking in his eyes.

"Is that a threat, Phoenix?"

"Yes it is."

You dip your fingers into the flour bag and flick it back at him, leaving a white streak across his black t-shirt.

"Oh, that's how it's gonna be?" He grins, reaching for more flour.

You back away, holding up your hands. "Don't you dare."

"What are you gonna do about it?" He advances slowly, a handful of flour cupped in his palm like a weapon.

"I'm serious, Jungkook," you warn, but you're already calculating escape routes. "I just showered."

"Should've thought about that before you started a war."

You dart around the sofa, putting it between you.

"This is childish."

"Says the girl hiding behind furniture," he counters, mirroring your movements as you circle the couch.

"I'm being smart."

"You're being a chicken."

You gasp in fake outrage. "Take that back!"

"No can do," he taunts, lunging suddenly to the left.

You shriek and bolt right, nearly slipping on the tile as you move through the narrow space between the coffee table and the couch. He's right behind you, laughing as you sprint to the other side.

"Get away from me, you monster!" you yell, but you're laughing too, the absurdity of the situation hitting you.

"Never!" he calls back, his voice pitched higher in a cartoonish villain impression. "Ueheheheh!"

You grab a throw pillow as a shield, holding it in front of you.

"I'm warning you!"

"Oh no, not the pillow," he mocks, still advancing. "Whatever shall I do?"

You swing it at him, but he dodges easily, grabbing your wrist with his flour-free hand.

Before you can react, he's smearing the flour across your cheek, touch surprisingly gentle despite the roughhousing.

"Got you," he says, voice low and triumphant.

You retaliate immediately, snatching the bag of flour from the counter and shoving your hand in.

"Fuck that, this means war!"

And so then, war begins indeed.

Flour flying everywhere, breathless laughter echoing through the apartment, furniture used as barricades and launch pads.

You leave white handprints on his shoulders when you try to push him away; he leaves them on your waist when he catches you mid-escape.

The aftermath leaves the kitchen floor looking like a disaster zone, flour coating every surface like a dusting of snow.

You're both covered in it—hair, clothes, skin—looking like ghosts in a low-budget horror movie.

"Truce?" you gasp finally, out of breath from laughing and running.

"Never surrender," he declares, lunging for you again.

You dodge, but your sock slips on the flour-covered floor, and before you fall, Jungkook grabs you, steadying you with a hand on your waist.

"Gotcha," he says again, softer this time, his face inches from yours.

You're both breathing hard, covered in flour.

His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up, a question in them.

And then—

SMACK.

His hand connects with your ass in a playful swat, leaving a perfect white handprint on your black sleep shorts.

You gasp in outrage as he dances away, cackling like a maniac.

"You did NOT just—"

"I did," he confirms, looking far too pleased with himself. "And it's a work of art, if I do say so myself."

You glance over your shoulder, trying to see the handprint.

"I'm going to kill you."

"Worth it," he declares, already backing away as you advance on him. "Totally worth it."

"You're dead, Ro," you threaten, grabbing another handful of flour. "Dead!"

He just laughs, eyes bright with mischief, not looking sorry at all.

"Come and get me then, Phoenix."

And despite yourself, despite the mess and the late hour and the flour in places flour should never be, you're laughing too, chasing him around the kitchen like you're both twelve years old instead of college students with responsibilities and complicated lives.

It's ridiculous. It's childish.

It's the most fun you've had in weeks.

Flour permeates the kitchen air like falling snowflakes.

Jungkook is now leaning against the counter, still grinning like the Cheshire cat, surveying the flour-dusted disaster.

You, for your part, are trying to brush flour off your arms, which is mostly just smearing it around.

"You know," Jungkook says, his voice laced with that fake-innocent tone he uses when he's about to say something outrageous, "all this flour… it's probably not great for your pores."

You eye him suspiciously. "And?"

"And," he continues, pushing off the counter and taking a step closer, "you should probably shower again."

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock." You gesture vaguely at your flour-coated state.

"I could help," he offers. "You know… save water. Be environmentally conscious."

You burst out laughing, a startled, disbelieving sound.

"Are you serious right now? We just had a flour war, and your first thought is how to get laid?"

"Efficiency, Nix," he says, tapping his temple. "Always thinking efficiency."

"You're deranged," you choke out between laughs. "A completely deranged, horny bitch."

He just shrugs, unbothered.

"Maybe. But think of the planet."

You're still chuckling, shaking your head at his sheer audacity, when a thought flickers through your mind, uninvited and slightly uncomfortable.

Tessa.

If he actually starts dating her, if they become a thing… this—the easy banter, the late-night flirting, the casual hookups—it would all have to stop, right? You can't exactly keep sleeping with him if he has a girlfriend.

The thought leaves a weird, vaguely metallic taste in your mouth. Not jealousy, exactly. You don't want Jungkook in that way.

But the dynamic you have, this messy, undefined thing… it's familiar.

Weirdly comfortable in its own chaotic way.

The idea of it changing, ending… it's just… weird.

You push the thought away, shaking your head again, trying to clear it. Not your problem right now.

"Yeah, I'll pass on your noble environmental efforts," you say, trying to regain control of the conversation.

You look around at the white-dusted apartment, then back at him.

"Seriously though, when did you even get home? I didn't hear you come in at all."

He leans back against the counter again, crossing his arms over his flour-streaked chest.

"A while ago. Maybe you were too busy dreaming about me to notice."

"In your dreams, Rogue." You pick a stray piece of dough off your sleeve. "I was sleeping. Like normal people do at"—you glance at the microwave clock—"three-thirty in the morning."

"Normal is boring," he counters easily. "Besides, I'm stealthy. Like a ninja. A bread-making ninja."

"A messy ninja," you correct, gesturing at the flour coating literally everything, including him. "You look like a powdered donut."

"A sexy powdered donut," he clarifies, striking a pose.

You snort. "Keep telling yourself that."

You start trying to wipe down a section of the counter with a paper towel, which mostly just creates floury streaks.

"Seriously though, you didn't make any noise. I would've heard the door."

He shrugs, grabbing another paper towel and starting to help, surprisingly.

"Maybe I'm just light on my feet. Or maybe your ears are full of wax."

"Rude."

You throw the floury paper towel at him. He dodges it effortlessly.

"Just stating facts," he says, grinning. "Maybe you should get them checked. Could be impacting your hearing. Explains why you never listen to me."

"I listen," you argue, crumpling up another paper towel. "I just usually choose to ignore you because ninety percent of what you say is bullshit."

"That feels statistically inaccurate," he muses, wiping down the handle of the fridge. He leaves a faint white handprint behind. "I'd say it's more like… eighty-two percent bullshit. The other eighteen percent is pure genius."

"Delusional," you mutter, tackling the flour patch on the floor near the sink. "Completely delusional."

He stops wiping and just watches you for a second, a thoughtful expression replacing the usual smirk.

"You really didn't hear me come in?"

"No," you say, looking up. "Why? Should I have?"

He shakes his head, the smirk returning.

"Nah. Just means my ninja skills are improving. Or you're a really heavy sleeper." He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Do you snore, Nix? Is that your dirty little secret?"

"I do not snore," you hiss, flicking water at him. "And get out of my personal space."

He laughs, easily dodging the water droplets. "Just asking!"

He resumes wiping the counter, humming softly under his breath.

You watch him for a moment, thoughts about Tessa still churning in your mind.

It's ridiculous, standing here covered in flour at nearly four in the morning, cleaning up a mess you both made, arguing about ninja skills and snoring.

But somehow, it feels… normal. Your kind of normal, anyway.

Messy, complicated, and definitely not boring.

You're on your hands and knees, attempting to wipe up a particularly stubborn patch of flour near the leg of the kitchen island, when you decide to go for it.

Operation: Tessa Reconnaissance. For the sisterhood, obviously.

And maybe a tiny bit because you're curious how this whole mess fits together.

"So," you say, keeping your voice casual as you swipe uselessly at the floor, "your friends seem… like a lot."

Jungkook snorts from where he's attempting to de-flour the coffee maker.

"Yeah, they're idiots. But they're my idiots."

"Including Library Girl?" you ask, aiming for nonchalance. "The redhead? Tessa?"

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder.

"Tessa? Yeah, she was there. Why?"

"No reason," you say quickly, maybe too quickly, focusing intently on the flour patch. "Just noticed you two talking a lot. She seems… nice."

"She is nice," he agrees easily, turning back to the coffee maker. "Super smart, too. Knows her shit about film. Like, really knows it."

Okay, good start. He acknowledges her existence and intelligence. Phase one complete.

"Yeah?" you prompt. "She mentioned you guys talked about… Park Chan-wook?"

You pronounce the name carefully, hoping you got it right based on Tessa's text.

He brightens instantly, forgetting the coffee maker entirely and turning to face you fully.

"Dude, yes! She actually got why The Handmaiden is structured the way it is. Most people just focus on the twists, but she was talking about the shifting perspectives and visual storytelling… it was cool."

His enthusiasm is genuine, almost nerdy. It's the same way he lit up talking about John Mayer's guitar playing. He's clearly impressed by her film knowledge.

"So… you like her?" you ask, trying to sound like you're just making conversation while scrubbing the floor.

"Yeah, she's cool," he says easily. "Definitely one of the few people in that class who isn't a total poser. We had this debate about Bong Joon-ho's genre blending—it was actually interesting."

He seems focused entirely on the intellectual connection. No hint of anything else.

Time for phase two: physical attraction assessment.

"She's really pretty, too," you add, still scrubbing. "Like, model pretty."

He shrugs, grabbing a damp cloth to wipe down the counter where his dough blob still sits.

"Yeah, I guess. Didn't really notice."

You stop scrubbing and look up at him incredulously. "You didn't notice? She looks like she walked off a runway and directly into that ramen shop. How could you not notice?"

He frowns slightly, like he's genuinely trying to recall her appearance beyond 'classmate'.

"I mean, she's got… hair? And a face? I don't know, Nix, I was more focused on the conversation." He seems genuinely perplexed by your insistence. "Why are you so hung up on how she looks?"

"I'm not hung up!" you retort, feeling defensive for reasons you can't quite articulate. "I just… stating facts. She's objectively attractive."

"Okay?" He draws the word out, like he doesn't understand the relevance. "Lots of people are attractive. Doesn't mean anything."

He gestures vaguely with the damp cloth.

"Are we gonna finish cleaning this up or are we analyzing the relative hotness of my classmates now?"

You huff, returning to your floor scrubbing.

Unbelievable. Either he's genuinely oblivious or he's the world's best actor.

Given his track record, oblivious seems more likely.

"Fine," you mutter. "Just making an observation."

"Well, observe the flour patch you missed by the trash can," he retorts, pointing with the cloth.

You glare at the spot, then at him.

"Bossy."

"Best one."

You crawl over to the trash can, wiping up the offending flour.

Okay, so he acknowledges she's nice, smart, shares his interests, but is apparently blind to the fact that she's a literal goddess?

Why are men so confusing?

"So," you try again, shifting tactics. "Since she's so cool and smart and into the same weird movies as you… you gonna ask her out?"

He stops wiping again, looking genuinely surprised by the question.

"Ask her out? Why would I do that?"

"Because… you like her? You just said she was cool and smart?"

Are you losing your mind? Is he actually this dense?

"Yeah, as a friend," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "We're in the same class. We talk about movies. That's… what friends do?"

"Jungkook," you say slowly, sitting back on your heels and facing him directly. "Girls like Tessa—girls who look like her and are that nice—don't usually go out of their way to talk to guys about obscure Korean directors unless they're interested."

He stares at you, blinking. Like the concept is entirely foreign.

"Wait, you think she… likes me? Like, likes likes me?"

"Is there an echo in here?" you ask dryly. "Yes, you absolute walnut. That's generally how that works."

He runs a hand through his flour-dusted hair, looking completely bewildered.

"No way. She's just… friendly. People are friendly sometimes, Nix."

"Not that friendly," you insist. "Trust me. There's friendly, and then there's 'laughing at all your jokes and touching your arm every five minutes' friendly. That's different."

He actually seems to consider this, replaying interactions in his head.

His brow furrows.

"She does laugh a lot… And she did touch my arm…" He looks back at you, still skeptical. "But maybe she's just, like, a touchy person?"

"Or maybe she wants to touch your dick," you deadpan.

He chokes on air, eyes widening.

"Dude! What the fuck?"

"Just saying! It's a possibility you seem to have completely overlooked."

He shakes his head, a disbelieving laugh escaping him.

"Nah. No way. You're messing with me."

"I'm really not," you say, suddenly feeling bad for Tessa—because this poor beautiful girl is putting in the effort, and he's completely clueless. "She basically told me she likes you."

"She told you?" Finally, he looks like oxygen is reaching his brain. "When?"

"At the party. We talked for a bit."

"And she just… announced her romantic interest in me? To my roommate? That seems weird."

"It wasn't like that! She was asking for advice! Because she was nervous!" You're practically defending her now. "She's really sweet, Rogue. And clearly into you."

He leans back against the counter again, processing this information.

He doesn't look smug or pleased, just… thoughtful.

And maybe a little overwhelmed.

"Huh," he says softly. "Never would've guessed."

He's quiet for a moment, staring down at the floury cloth in his hand.

"I mean, she is… really nice."

"So?" you prompt. "Now that you know the feeling might be mutual…?"

He sighs, dropping the cloth into the sink.

"I don't know, Nix."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

He avoids your eyes, turning on the faucet and starting to rinse the cloth with unnecessary focus.

"Dating's… complicated, you know?"

"Everything's complicated with you," you mutter.

He glances back, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before it's gone.

"Yeah, well. Maybe that's just how it is." He turns off the water, wringing out the cloth. "Besides, I'm not really… looking for anything right now."

"You're never looking for anything," you point out. "Except maybe your keys. Or a clean mug."

"Exactly," he says, attempting a grin, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Too busy looking for my keys."

There it is again. That deflection. That hint of something heavier beneath that he refuses to acknowledge.

You think about what Yoongi said, about Mia, about Jungkook needing to be careful.

Maybe he's right to be hesitant.

"Okay," you say quietly, deciding not to push it further.

You've done your recon. You have information for Tessa, even if it's not the straightforward green light she might be hoping for.

"Just… don't be a dick to her, alright? If you're not interested, fine. But she's nice. She doesn't deserve games."

He looks surprised by your defense of her.

"I wasn't planning on playing games." He hesitates, then adds, almost reluctantly, "She does seem… different. From…"

He trails off, but you know who he means.

Mia.

An awkward silence hangs between you for a moment.

Unspoken history and potential futures.

Jungkook breaks it first, clapping his hands together with forced brightness.

"Okay, enough about my potential love life," he says, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "Let's talk yours. How was the date with Jason?"

You freeze, paper towel in hand, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation.

"What?"

He's halfway through sweeping a particularly stubborn pile of flour when he pauses, leaning on the broom handle.

"You know, Jason? Tall guy, glasses, probably owns more vests than actual personality traits?" He waves the broom vaguely. "The one you were all dressed up for earlier?"

"I wasn't dressed up," you protest automatically, even though you know it's a lie.

You definitely put effort into your appearance for that coffee date.

Jungkook snorts.

"Please. You were wearing makeup on a Sunday. And that green top thing that makes your—" He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "Anyway. Spill. How'd it go with Professor Boring?"

You narrow your eyes at him.

"His name is Jason, and he's not boring. He's... mature."

"Mature," Jungkook repeats, drawing out the word like it's a foreign concept. "Right. Because that's what every college student dreams of. Maturity."

"Some of us actually want to date functioning adults," you retort.

"Functioning is overrated," he says with a grin. "But seriously, how was it? Did he dazzle you with his extensive knowledge of... what does he study again? 18th-century doorknobs?"

"Modern literature," you correct, rolling your eyes. "And it was nice."

Jungkook raises an eyebrow.

"Nice? That's it? Wow, don't oversell it or anything."

You sigh, grabbing the dustpan to help him with the flour pile.

"It was really nice, okay? He's smart, and he actually listens when I talk. We had a great conversation about female agency in Gothic novels."

"Riveting," Jungkook deadpans. "I'm sure the sexual tension was off the charts. Did you hold hands while discussing the patriarchal oppression of women in corsets?"

"You're such an ass," you mutter, but there's no real heat behind it. "Not everything has to be about sexual tension, you know."

"Doesn't have to be," he agrees, sweeping the last of the flour into the dustpan you're holding. "But it sure makes things more interesting."

And yeah, you catch him looking.

That look.

The one that says he's already decided how this ends.

One hand still loosely gripping the broom handle, the other braced against the table as he leans into it like he's posing for a fucking cologne ad.

You don't acknowledge it at first. Too proud. Too fucking annoyed by how easily he can flip the switch. One second you're arguing about Gothic literature and vests, the next—he's practically leaking testosterone across the countertop.

"I know that face," you mutter, not even looking up. "That's your 'I need to nut or I'll die' face."

He grins, unbothered. "Not wrong."

"Go jerk off in your sad little windowless cave like a normal person."

He shrugs, grabbing the bag of flour again, sifting some through his fingers with mock concentration.

"Mmm. Say it again. That mouth of yours, Pix… always so fuckin' mouthy."

You roll your eyes, but your stomach dips. "Maybe if you had more than two brain cells to rub together, I wouldn't have to talk so much."

"Yeah?" he says, ignoring the flour and stepping forward.

One stride. Two. And then he's right in front of you, eyes glinting.

"Keep runnin' that smart pretty mouth. See what happens."

You're about to fire something back—something snarky, something biting—but he grabs you.

Just yanks you forward by the waistband like it's nothing. Like you're nothing but a ragdoll he gets to toss around.

Your body stumbles into his chest and suddenly both his hands are on your ass, gripping it with filthy enthusiasm—greedy, solid handfuls of flesh through thin cotton, palms still dusty with flour. His fingers press, squeeze, spread, claim.

You gasp—too startled to bite it back.

And he fucking grins.

"See what you do to me when you act like that?"

His cock's hard against your stomach. Rock solid. Obvious. Shameless. He doesn't even try to hide it.

"God, Nix," he mutters, voice thick now. "C'mon. It's been too long."

You snort. "I sucked your winny yesterday."

He breaks—a bark of laughter, genuine and scandalized.

"Winny?" he repeats, like he can't believe you said it. "You calling my dick a preschool toy now?"

You shrug, deadpan. "Fits. Loud, annoying, kind of a drama queen."

He leans in again, dragging his mouth close, too close.

"Uh-uh, and I ate you out the day before that," he says, scornful little smile tugging at his lips like he's winning something. "So technically… still overdue."

"So?" you snap, but your voice is breathier than it should be. "That's not overdue."

"It is," he says, like it's math. "I mean actually being inside you. Kinda been craving it for a while now."

You swallow. Loud.

"Should I bend you over the kitchen table?" he murmurs. "Fuck you from behind? Bet you'd like that, huh?"

"Please," you scoff. "You'd probably knock over your sacred sourdough."

He grins, cocky and low and unbearable.

"So protective of the dough. But not my Winny?"

You slap his chest, trying not to laugh.

"Don't say it like that."

"Me? You gave it a name, so… C'mon, give my Winny some love, Pix."

You snort, and it comes out halfway between a laugh and a groan because your thighs are starting to ache with how badly you want pressure. Relief. Something.

"Counter or table?" he asks, already walking you backwards.

You hesitate. Just a second.

"…Counter."

He doesn't wait. Doesn't ask. Just grabs you and lifts like it's easy, like you weigh nothing. Drops your ass right onto the cool marble and steps between your legs—close enough your knees bracket his hips.

And his voice? His voice is low and filthy and unforgiving.

"Atta girl."

His mouth is on you before you can roll your eyes.

Hot, hungry kisses trailing up your neck—messy, unhurried, lips dragging like he wants to brand you. He bites at your jaw, just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. You tilt your head without thinking, baring your throat like a fucking offering.

And he groans—low and wrecked—like that does something to him. Like you're giving him more than skin.

His hands stay on your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft crease near your hips, holding you open while he devours.

You blink, and something catches the light near the sink.

Tiny. Brown. Familiar.

Your arm reaches past him, still off-balance on the counter. Fingers curl around it—vanilla extract.

You hold it up between two fingers, smirking.

"Why the fuck is this out?"

His head lifts just enough to glance at what you mean.

"Oh," he says, then immediately dives back in, mouthing at your collarbone like he didn't just answer you. "Nothing. Was sipping a lil bit earlier."

Your body stiffens. Barely. But he feels it.

You don't say anything for a second. You just… look at the bottle.

That rooftop moment. Yesterday. Him alone up there while the party buzzed under your feet. You didn't press then, just made a joke, let him deflect.

But it doesn't take a genius to figure out why someone drinks baking extract ethanol like it's bourbon.

You lick your lips. Keep your voice easy. Teasing.

"That why you smell like a cookie?"

He huffs a laugh against your throat. "You love it. Bet it's makin' you wet just thinking about biting into me."

He's joking. He's back to kissing.

But the bottle is still in your hand, glass warm from your skin, rolling between your fingers like it's got a heartbeat.

And okay. Fine. Maybe you're a little unhinged too.

"Wanna try something?" you ask, voice quiet, a little hoarse.

His head lifts slow. Eyes lazy. Lips wet.

He tilts his head, cock twitching against you like it heard the shift in your voice before he did.

"Yeah?" he says, grinning like he already knows he's gonna say yes no matter what it is. "What're we trying, Phoenix?"

Because you know—you know this man would let you pour hot sauce on his dick if you told him it'd turn you on.

His gaze flicks to the bottle still resting against your palm. Back to your mouth.

"Fuck, yeah," he says, voice already going gravel. "Show me."

You dab two fingers against the lip of the bottle, tilting it just enough to coat your skin in that sticky-sweet scent. Not much—just enough to cling. Your pulse, your collarbone, the hinge of your neck.

His eyes track everything. Like he's under hypnosis.

Slow drag up your wrist, down your throat. Pupils blown wide. Tongue peeking out to wet his bottom lip like it's instinct.

And then you offer it to him.

Your throat—tilted, bare. Vanilla blooming warm across your skin, seeping into heat, mixing with your scent.

You watch his jaw tick, tension wrapped in restraint.

He hesitates. Just for a breath. Not because he's unsure. But because he knows what'll happen if he starts.

His eyes drop to your hand. Then back up to your face. And then—

He grabs your wrist, rough but reverent, and slides your fingers straight into his mouth.

His tongue curls around them, sucks them clean like he's starving and this is the only sweet thing he's allowed to have.

His eyes don't leave yours for a second.

Heavy. Dark. Quietly fucking feral.

You feel it in your cunt.

That twitch—sharp and sudden—when he lets your fingers fall from his mouth with a wet pop and immediately dives back into your neck.

No warning. No mercy.

Just mouth on skin, lips dragging open over the vanilla, tongue flattening against your throat like he's licking you clean. Like you're the bottle. Like he's drunk and this is the relapse.

"Mmmfph—fuck," he groans against your neck, hot breath flooding over your skin. "You're—fuck—you're dessert, Phoenix."

He's biting now. Mouthing. Bruising.

Your head falls back against the cabinets with a dull thud and you don't care. Not even a little.

His hands are under your thighs again, yanking you closer to the edge of the counter like he's going to eat you here and now and be proud of the mess.

He doesn't stop licking your neck—just shifts slightly, mouth dragging lower, wetter, hungrier—until he can grab the flask again without even looking. He uncaps it one-handed, like he's done it a hundred times in the dark.

Because he probably has.

And then he's holding it over your chest.

"Hold still, Phoenix."

Voice low. Thick with something needy.

You barely nod before the cool drip hits your skin—fuck—a slow, deliberate trail spilling from the center of your collarbone and down, sliding between your tits, disappearing under the fabric of your tank top.

He watches it move. Doesn't blink. Bites his bottom lip like he's trying to restrain himself and failing spectacularly.

"Fuckkk," he mutters under his breath, and the way he stares?

You'd think he just watched God part the Red Sea between your tits.

But he can't see where it goes. Not really. Because of the shirt.

And that?

That's unacceptable.

So he doesn't ask. Doesn't even warn.

He just grabs the hem of your tank and yanks it up, fast and messy, until it's bunched under your armpits. The cool air hits your bare skin, but his gaze is scorching—dragging down to your breasts, then lower, following the trail of sticky syrup that's now sliding beneath.

He drops the flask without care.

Leans in.

And presses his mouth to the spot just under your breasts, where the drip ends. A hot, open-mouthed kiss. Tongue darting out to chase the taste.

He groans against your skin, like you're something forbidden and fuck, he's eating it anyway.

Then he starts licking up.

Slow. Thorough. Filthy.

Tongue dragging up the underside of your tits, between them, following the line of vanilla all the way back to your cleavage. His breath is hot and shaky, hands holding your thighs tight like he needs to anchor himself before he devours you.

"You taste like fucking heaven," he growls against your skin.

And you can barely breathe.

You lean back on your palms, spine arching subtly, thighs spreading wider across the counter—silent invitation.

His mouth twitches. Just slightly. Like he's trying to play it cool, like he's not already mentally wrecked.

Your fingers close around the vanilla bottle again.

And you tip it over your stomach.

A thin stream spills, slow and syrupy, tracing a path from just under your ribs down to your navel.

Sticky gold pooling in that soft dip, then slipping lower—toward your waistband, beneath it.

He stops.

Mid-breath.

Eyes drop.

Then drag back up to your face, slow as fucking sin.

And those eyes… those fucking eyes.

Dark like blackout curtains. Hungry. But quiet, too. Restrained. Like he's hanging onto the last thread of control and it's fraying fast.

He bites his lip again, teeth dragging over it, jaw flexing.

You raise a brow.

"Aren't you licking the vanilla off my skin, Rogue?" you say, voice steady, teasing, like your pulse isn't sprinting. "Go ahead."

He snorts through his nose—horny.

It's not even a laugh, not really. More like disbelief.

"Jesus, you're such a fucking menace."

Then he moves.

Hands at your waistband, yanking your shorts down like they've personally offended him.

There's no grace. No finesse. Just desperate, fumbling urgency, like if he doesn't get them off now he might lose it.

They hit the floor. So do your panties.

And then he drops to his knees.

Hooks your thighs over his elbows and pulls you closer to the edge of the counter, eyes level with your pussy. Eye to eye with his fucking meal, and the smirk that twitches at the edge of his mouth is so cocky it should be illegal.

But then he pauses.

Eyes catch on the fact that you're smooth. Bare.

His gaze flicks up, that same damn smirk sharpening.

"So you did plan on wishing me a happy birthday, huh?"

You groan, head thunking back against the cabinets.

"Shut up before I change my mind."

He just laughs, grabbing your thigh and yanking you closer, like that's his response.

It is.

"Thanks for the gift," he says with mock sincerity, "but like… full runway smooth? Nix. Just so you know, I like a little design."

You gape at him.

Is he serious right now?

Does he ever stop speaking?

Or think before he speaks? Like 'oh this might sound embarrassing coming from my mouth, I probably should keep it to myself.'

No. Definitely no.

"Design?"

He nods, dead serious now.

"I'm just saying. Little lightning bolt? Maybe a star? I could help you trim it next time. Get real artsy with it."

"I hate you," you mutter, scandalized and laughing, because of course this is what he's focusing on.

"I'm just saying…" he defends, grinning like a madman. "Bare's too creepy. I like texture, Phoenix. But not, like, a forest. I'm not tryna floss with it."

"God, you're disgusting," you shoot back, heat simmering low in your gut despite the absurdity.

"Disgustingly honest," he counters. "I want a little… edge. Like an angled fade. A pussy taper."

You laugh so hard your core clenches and he notices. Eyes drop. His smirk vanishes.

And just like that, he's focused again. Hands tightening around your thighs. Mouth opening. Ready to dive in.

But not before he whispers:

"Now be good and let me taste my birthday cake."

His mouth hovers. That maddening space—right there, close enough to feel his breath but not close enough to feel him.

It's hot. Each exhale fanning over your cunt like a fucking tease. You twitch, involuntary, hips tilting forward on reflex, thighs tensing around his shoulders.

"Rogue," you murmur, half-warn, half-beg.

He smirks. That slow, cocky pull of his lips that tells you he's going to drag this out just to see how long it takes before you snap.

He leans in, tongue barely peeking out like he's going to lick—

And then doesn't.

"I will actually punch you in the face," you hiss.

But he's already grabbing the bottle again.

His other hand steadies you, fingers splayed on your thigh, as he lifts the vanilla flask to eye level. Tips it slightly.

"Wait—" You grab a fistful of his hair. "Wait. Is that even safe?"

He pauses. Looks up at you, eyes wide, surprised—but not annoyed. Just… calm.

"Yeah," he says, voice casual but sincere. "This one's alcohol-based, not oil. No sugar. Won't mess with your PH or anything, I like your pussy way too much to risk it."

You roll your eyes, but okay. Fine. He's got a point.

And he's never put you in danger—annoyed, yes. Insane with frustration, absolutely.

But never unsafe.

"Okay," you mutter. "Proceed with your perversion."

"Oh, I plan to."

He uncaps it.

And the way he does it—so casually, like this is just some Wednesday night extracurricular?—makes your whole body lock up in anticipation.

He tips the bottle, lets a slow stream of vanilla drizzle from just above your navel, down the curve of your belly, heading lower.

It tickles. Warm and sticky, trailing through your folds, and your whole fucking body tenses with it.

His tongue flicks out, but this time, it's not teasing—it's the real deal.

His tongue drags up.

One long, slow stroke—base to tip—starting where your thighs twitch and ending where the vanilla's pooled.

He groans into it. Groans. Like it's crème fucking brûlée and he's been starving for a week. Like your cunt is the main course and dessert and a Michelin star.

You blink down at him, suddenly weirdly self-conscious.

Because—why the fuck is he acting like it's the best thing he's ever tasted?

It's vanilla extract and you, not caviar. Chill.

Your instinct is to kick him. Or flick his stupid forehead. Something.

But your cunt's already clenching around nothing, wetter than you want to admit.

Because—goddammit—his enthusiasm is doing something to you.

Like deeply. Shamefully. Physically.

You glance down, ready to call him dramatic. Maybe smack the back of his head.

But his eyes are closed.

And not in a performative way. Not for show.

They're hidden—lashes soaked, hair falling in messy dark strands over his brows. His whole face is fucking soft—relaxed, like he's at peace. Like this is meditation. Like your pussy is his church.

You reach down, tug his hair back just enough to uncover his face—need to see him.

Need to look.

And then—fuck. He looks up.

And he smirks. Caught you in 4K. Knew exactly what you were doing.

You want to smack him. Or yank his head down harder. Or kiss him. Or maybe scream.

It's all too much. He's too much.

But he just shifts again, mouth zeroing in now—on your clit this time. Tongue flat. Warm. Pressure steady and—fuck, fuck—

Your head slams back against the cabinet. You don't even feel it.

Because he's staring straight at you while he licks.

Intense. Sure. Smug. Like he knows. And the worst part?

He does.

You don't like eye contact. You hate eye contact.

Or—you did. Before he made it his fucking thing.

Now it's some kind of sex death ray. You're melting under it. You can't breathe under it.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his voice hoarse, lips slick with you.

"So mouthy up there…" he breathes, thumb dragging over your inner thigh. "But fuck, you're weepin' for me down here."

You choke on your own spit.

"Shut the fuck up with your cringy little sex monologue."

He snorts. Has the audacity to laugh into your cunt like it's funny.

"Uhhh? I thought we were past that whole thing where you pretend you don't like my dirty talk."

"I don't—"

He cuts you off with a slow circle of his tongue around your clit. Just once. Cruel.

"Right. That's why you got all hot when you said, 'Do you want me to ride you?'" he mimics, low and teasing. "Looked me in the eye when you said it, too. Said it just like that. Fuckin' purring, Pix."

You groan. "God, I hate you."

He grins. "No, you don't. You just hate that you like this."

Another lick.

Another smug look.

Another twitch deep in your gut.

And all you can do is glare at him—until his mouth is back on you, and then you can't even do that.

Because fuck, he picks up the pace.

Your right leg bends, heel dragging up his arm, foot planting itself on his shoulder like it belongs there. Toes curling the second his tongue swirls just right—just there. Over and over. Unrelenting.

Your whole torso arches back, spine stretched out like a bow. Head thunked against the cupboard above, hands gripping the edge of the counter so tight your knuckles go white.

And he doesn't stop.

Both his hands keep you steady, locked around your thighs, until the right one slides up—palm dragging over your skin, hot and too much. It settles right in that spot between your hip and waist. Thumb pressing into your side like an anchor.

Like he's keeping you from falling.

Like you're breakable.

You want to scream. Or sob. Or maybe just bite him for being so fucking considerate while simultaneously licking your pussy like he's trying to win a Michelin star.

You whimper. Actually whimper.

Because it's too much.

Because how the fuck does he even do that with his tongue?

It's obscene. Criminal. Feels like he's mapping you from memory now—like he's figured out every angle, every twitch, every exact combination that gets you to the edge in five minutes or less.

And—fuck—there it is.

That low hum in your belly, spiraling sharp and fast, heat pulsing outward. Nerve endings tightening. Your thighs start to close but he forces them open with a flex of his arms, tongue flattening again.

You gasp. Loud. Desperate.

Your hand flies down to his head and you yank his hair—hard.

He growls against you, frustrated, head jerking up, lips glossy and chin slick and brows scrunched like he's ready to fight.

"What," he snaps, breathless, panting. "What—what the fuck—"

You just whisper, shaky:

"Inside."

He blinks. Once. Twice.

Mouth parts. Eyes still a little wild.

"Huh?"

You meet his gaze, still breathless.

"I wanna cum with you inside me."

It short-circuits him. For real.

He pushes to stand so fast he almost stumbles. Feet trip a little. Palms slap the counter behind you as he catches himself and mutters, "Yeah—okay—fuck—gimme a second—"

But you reach out. Grab his arm. Stop him cold.

You lick your lips.

Probably look stupid. Glossy-eyed and dazed, like someone just rewired your brain through your pussy.

Whatever. You don't care.

You don't care because you can feel it now.

That ache. The need. The desperate, pulsing want for him to just get inside already. Your whole body's still twitching from his mouth and now it's fucking empty.

No thank you.

So you yank him. Hard.

Fingers curling in the loose fabric of his tee, tugging him back toward you like gravity's rewired itself around your cunt.

He lets himself be pulled. Doesn't even fight it. Just stumbles forward until he's between your legs again and then—then you're crashing his mouth to yours.

No hesitation. No buildup. No thoughts.

Just heat. Tongue. Need.

It's messy. Teeth clash. Vanilla and sweat and slick.

His hands slam to the counter beside your thighs for balance, knuckles brushing your waist as your tongue slides against his and you swallow the groan he lets out.

And yeah. You don't kiss men after they eat you out. Ever.

You've always thought it was gross, honestly. You live in your pussy. You don't need the flavor profile introduced.

But with him? Right now?

You don't even care.

You just want to taste what he tastes like. Want his spit in your mouth. Want to feel him.

So you kiss him like you mean it. Like you're not overthinking it. Like this doesn't break five of your own personal rules.

When you finally pull back, lips slick and breathing uneven, you keep your hands fisted in his shirt.

And say—quiet. Calm. "No need for condoms."

His eyes snap open.

You watch them go wide like you just told him the world's ending tomorrow and there's a free-for-all orgy scheduled at noon.

He coughs. Legit coughs. Like your spit went down the wrong pipe.

"Wait—what?"

You shrug. "I have a copper IUD. Works from minute one. I'm good."

His mouth opens, then closes again. Brain buffering.

"I mean…" he blinks. "I—I just—I didn't think you'd…"

You arch a brow.

He shakes his head a little, eyes dropping to your lips.

"No—like—I'm not complaining, I just—" His mouth staggers like he can't quite get the words out fast enough. "Are you sure?"

"I mean, you've been fucking with condoms, right?"

"Yeah. Always. Jesus. Yeah."

"And you've been getting tested?"

He gives you a look. "You think I'd be rawdogging around Brooklyn without paperwork?"

"Kind of," you mutter, just to mess with him.

"Okay, rude," he says, palm flattening on your thigh like it's involuntary. "I'm not feral. I'm—I'm… a respectful slut."

You almost laugh. Almost.

Then you say, quieter, "I haven't fucked anybody else since I fucked you."

And that? That actually makes him pause.

He blinks again. "Wait. For real?"

"Yeah. Nothing so far."

And he doesn't make it a thing. Doesn't get all soft and stupid about it.

He just takes a beat, stares at you, lips slightly parted like he's replaying it. Like the logistics are finally syncing in.

"Okay," he says. Rough. Breathless. "Yeah. Yeah, that's… okay."

You tap his chest. "Just cum outside, alright? Just in case."

He groans. Low and pained.

"Pix."

"I'm serious."

"You're killing me."

"Don't care."

"I'll pull out," he promises, fingers tightening on your skin. "But I swear to god, if you keep saying shit like that—inside, raw, no condom—I'm gonna lose it before I even get my pants off."

You grin back. "Sounds like a you problem."

And he breathes out, frustrated and horny and fucking wrecked, and mutters—

"You're my fucking problem."

He licks his lips.

Slow. Deliberate. Like he's already tasting you again.

Then he leans in and murmurs against your cheek—

"Okay. Turn around."

You blink. "Huh?"

The corners of his mouth tug up. "Turn. Around."

"Of course you wanna change positions."

"What can I say," he shrugs, cock already visibly straining through his sweatpants. "Artist's curiosity."

Still. You do it.

He helps you down—steadying hands at your waist, guiding you like you're breakable, which, let's be honest, rude. And once your feet hit the floor, you shift, pivoting slowly to face the counter.

Elbows down. Back arched.

You stick your ass out just to be a bitch about it.

He groans. Actually fucking groans. Like it hurts him.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, hands immediately cupping your ass like it's reflex. "You're such a bitch."

You smirk into the counter. "Complaining?"

"No complaints." He huffs out a laugh. "Hands on the counter."

You glance over your shoulder. Raise a brow.

"Trust me," he says, already dragging one palm up the curve of your back.

You hum. But you do it. Flatten your hands, palms flush with the counter's edge.

Behind you, there's a shuffle.

Then that sound—the sound.

Elastic snapping as he yanks his waistband down.

You hear him shift his stance, toes lifting slightly as he lines himself up behind you. And then—

The press.

Just his tip, nudging against your entrance, and your whole body seizes, lips parting around a silent gasp as your thighs instinctively press together.

"You better not let go of that counter," he mutters low.

You don't answer.

Not out of defiance—just because your brain's gone static.

So he spanks you. Sharp and hot and immediate.

"I said something to you," he growls, palm landing hard enough to echo. "Did you hear?"

"Yeah," you breathe. "Okay."

"That's what I thought."

Then his hand drops from your ass, slides between your thighs, fingers spreading you open as he lines himself up again. Still doesn't push in.

Just rubs.

His cock slides up and down your slit, slow, deliberate strokes. Slick everywhere. Your breath stutters every time he nudges your clit on the way up.

"God, you're so fucking slippery," he mutters, almost in disbelief. "Dripping for it. I haven't even put it in yet."

You close your eyes, grip tightening on the edge of the counter.

"Your pussy's acting like it missed me," he adds, rocking his hips again, cockhead dragging lazily across your folds. "She's not even pretending."

"Maybe she has bad taste," you snap, voice shaky.

He laughs. Loud.

Then does it again—another glide, another tease, tip pausing right at your entrance just long enough for your breath to catch, then slipping away again before you can adjust.

"You're gonna lose it, huh," he murmurs. "All that smart mouth. All that sass. Gonna forget how to speak when I give you what you want?"

You grit your teeth.

He slides his tip back again, holds it there—barely inside. Just pressure.

Still not pushing in.

Still not giving it to you.

You whimper, shoulders tensing.

"Gripping the counter, Phoenix?" he asks sweetly. "Like I told you to?"

Your fingers curl tighter.

He grins.

And stays right fucking there. Not moving.

Just waiting.

Just standing there behind you like a smug little shit, cockhead resting at your entrance, hot and heavy and perfectly fucking poised—and somehow not going any further.

You shift your hips back slightly, trying to bait him.

He clicks his tongue. "Uh-uh."

"Rogue."

"Pix."

You groan. "You're so fucking annoying."

"Don't tempt me. I could stay like this all night," he says, cock dragging up through your folds again just to prove his point. "Just rub it against you until you're crying."

You scoff. "You act like that's a threat."

He leans forward, chest brushing your back, voice right at your ear.

"You'd cry so pretty."

You twist your head just enough to glare at him.

"You're actually insane."

"Says the girl bent over the counter like a porn scene," he grins, straightening back up. "All 'no condoms, fuck me raw, Rogue' like it's nothing."

You roll your eyes. "Oh, sorry. Do you not want it?"

He hums thoughtfully. "Kinda liking the view, not gonna lie."

"Oh my god."

"Seriously. You ever seen your ass from this angle? Top-tier."

"Shut the fuck up," you mutter, squeezing the counter harder. "You gonna give a Google Maps review next?"

"Might," he shrugs. "Five stars. Would fuck again."

You start to reply—some scathing, lethal retort—but you don't even get the first word out.

Because suddenly—he pushes.

All the way in.

One smooth, brutal thrust.

And you moan.

Loud. Unfiltered. Embarrassing.

Your hands slam flat on the counter like your body can't fucking handle it. The stretch, the shock of it.

You feel full. Too full.

He doesn't ease in. Doesn't give you time to adjust. Just buries himself in one go like it's his fucking right.

Then—smack.

His palm lands on your ass again, sharp and fast.

"That's more like it," he pants behind you, hand lingering after the slap. "There's my girl."

He pulls out slow.

Real slow.

Too slow.

Like he wants you to feel every inch leaving you, feel how empty you get without him. Like he's making a point.

Then—slam.

Hard. Deep. Ruthless.

You jolt forward, hands scrambling for grip as the counter rattles under your hips. A broken sound slips out of you—more instinct than choice—and behind you, he laughs.

Actually laughs.

A horny little chuckle, cock still buried deep like he didn't just rearrange your goddamn organs.

If you could twist around and kick him in the ribs, you would.

"What the fuck are you laughing at," you bite out.

He hums, smug as ever. "Sounded cute."

You glare at the spot, then at him.

"I'll show you cute—"

But you don't finish it. Because he pulls out again, and then slams back in with the same brutal force that leaves your legs trembling and your lungs gone.

What the fuck is he so cocky about?

He's the one getting it raw.

You're the one granting the privilege here. He should be grateful. You could revoke his rights real quick.

Even though… you won't.

Because there's something about it. About this.

No condom. Just skin. Just him.

It's different.

You don't know why it's hotter. Why it feels so much more intimate. You didn't think it would be. It's just cock. Just fucking. But now you feel everything—every twitch, every drag, every time he shifts his angle and catches that spot that has you choking on air.

And then he murmurs behind you, voice low—

"Does it hurt?"

You swallow. "No."

"Good," he says. Calm. Like it's logistics. "If it does, just arch your back more. Fixes the angle."

Fucking hell.

There it is, again.

How is he being considerate and a little shit at the same time?

You're not even flustered because of the sex anymore—you're flustered because he's flipping toggles like he doesn't even notice he's doing it.

You don't respond.

You can't. Because he grabs your hips and—

Slams into you again.

Not fast. Not rushed. Just one clean, devastatingly hard thrust that knocks the breath straight out of you. His grip holds you there, cock pressed deep, dragging that edge of pain into something white-hot and filthy.

"God," he mutters, breath catching. "The way you're gripping me—fuck—you like that, Nix?"

You don't answer.

Too proud. Too dazed. Too stubborn.

So he spanks you. Again.

Sharp and immediate.

"Answer me when I talk to you."

You flinch. Then growl, "Keep spanking and being demanding and I'll revoke raw rights so fucking fast—"

But he just snickers.

"Oh, will you?"

You can hear the smirk.

Then he leans over, chest brushing your back, breath hot on your ear.

"You like it when I slap my hand on your ass, Nix," he says, low and satisfied. "That's why I keep doing it."

You scoff. "You're making shit up."

He grinds into you once, slow and cruel.

"Am I?"

"Yup."

"Naaah. I've been testing."

You blink. "Testing."

"Mhm," he confirms. Another slap to your ass, gentler this time. Palming over the skin after. "And now I know."

You suck in a breath. "How would you know what turns me on?"

He huffs a laugh—mean, hot, unbothered.

"Because you always mouth off about the shit that gets you going."

Your heart stutters. He keeps going.

"Too embarrassed to just let yourself enjoy it, so you talk shit. Every single time."

"Fuck off," you hiss.

He smirks again, hands dragging your hips back slightly. "Nah. You're not fooling anyone, Pix."

"Eat shit," you bite out, but your voice betrays you—tight, breathy. Fucked.

He groans, head tilting back for a second like he can't believe how good he has it.

"You're so full of it."

You scowl over your shoulder.

He slaps your ass again. Just to punctuate it.

"This," he says, palm dragging slow over the sting he just left, "is textbook Phoenix behavior."

"Fuck's that supposed to mean?"

"What I just said. You always talk shit about what you like." He thrusts again, not deep—just enough to feel like a warning. "First it was the dirty talk. Remember?"

You roll your eyes. "Barely."

"Oh, you remember." His voice drops. "Because you called it cringey, and five minutes later you were soaking my jeans."

You grit your teeth.

"And then you rode me," he continues, like he's delivering an airtight closing argument. "Said 'do you want me to ride you?' all breathy. Like you hadn't spent days pretending you were above it."

You don't reply.

He leans in, hips pressing closer, cock buried deep and still not moving.

"And yesterday?"

You clench without meaning to.

"Yeah," he laughs softly. "Yesterday. You wouldn't even look at me when you were sucking me off. Acted all bratty and 'ugh I hate eye contact,' and now tonight you were pulling my hair back just to see my face."

You did do that.

"And now it's the spanking," he says, rocking his hips slow. "Bitching about it."

Another smack, firm and deliberate.

"But you just clenched around me. Again."

You groan into your arm. "You're fucking exhausting."

He grins against your shoulder. "You're fucking lying."

You shake your head. "You're not right."

He pulls back a little, just enough to move again. One clean stroke, all the way out and back in with a grunt.

Then—

"You're wet as fuck."

And you are. You feel it. Feel him glide. Feel the mess. Feel how your body wants him deep, no matter what your mouth says.

"You keep acting like you're not into it," he murmurs, breath hot. "Like you don't love being talked to like this. Touched like this."

"Shut up," you whimper, because you don't want to admit it. You don't want him to be right.

But he already is.

"You act like it's for me," he mutters. "Like I'm the one getting off on it."

And he is. Of course he is.

But so are you.

"You keep lying like it's gonna protect you," he says. "But your body gives you away every time."

He's still going.

Deep now.

Fast.

No hesitation, no mercy—just relentless drive, hips snapping into yours, angle brutal and right. Every time he hits bottom it knocks a broken little moan out of you. Loud. Unfiltered. Fucking real.

And still—still—he doesn't shut up.

"You've convinced yourself it's all for me. That you don't enjoy it. Can't. Won't."

Your jaw clenches.

"You can't let yourself," he continues, thrusting hard enough to slap skin. "Because you need to stay in control. Need to be good. Do it right."

His hand grips your hip tighter, pulling you back to meet every thrust. Your ass bounces off him with every slam, lewd and hot and loud.

"You need to know I like it," he says, "so you can file it under 'doing well,' and that's how you let yourself feel good."

You want to argue. You really do.

But you can't.

You're moaning too loud.

"You don't even stop to ask what you like," he growls, eyes locked on where you're joined. "But I'll tell you."

Smack.

"You like this position."

Smack.

"You like it raw. Hard. Deep."

You whimper.

"You like when I spank you," he murmurs, biting his lip, thrusts picking up even more.

"Shut up," you hiss. "Shut up, shut up—"

But it's useless.

You're already flushed down to your chest. Already arching into every thrust. Already leaking down your thighs.

Your hands grip the counter like a fucking lifeline—knuckles white, arms shaking.

He groans, hands adjusting—one on your waist, the other wrapping low across your belly to pull you into every stroke.

"It's okay, Nix," he says, voice rough but coaxing. "You don't have to say it."

He slams in harder, burying himself to the hilt, making your knees buckle on instinct.

"Just keep gripping the counter."

Your breath stutters.

"Don't let go if you like it."

You bite your lip.

"Don't say anything. Don't explain. Just grip."

You hesitate. One second. Maybe two.

And then—you do.

Fingers curl tighter around the countertop edge. You lock in. Anchor yourself.

Give it to him.

You don't say a word. But that grip? That's your answer. That's your yes.

He groans, hand dragging up your spine, palm flat between your shoulder blades like he wants to feel how it wrecked you.

"There she is," he whispers. "There's my good fucking girl."

That last comment—

There's my good fucking girl.

It does something. Snaps something in your spine. Or maybe your brain.

Because your cunt flutters around him hard, slick tightens, thighs tremble, and yeah, yeah you're closer. Closer than you should be. You were already there when he first slid in—already so worked up you could've finished in sixty seconds if he just shut the fuck up and focused.

But of course he didn't.

Of course he ran his mouth. Called you out. Read you like a book.

And now?

Now you're clenching around his cock like you're about to shatter, and he feels it.

You know he does.

Because he leans in, breath gone wrecked. Lip caught between his teeth.

"Hmm?" he pants. Thrusts harder, deeper. "What's that? You like when I call you that?"

Your jaw clenches. You want to scoff. Or deny it.

But your cunt clenches instead.

He feels it.

"Ohh fuck," he groans, like it hits his brainstem. "You do."

You turn your face into your arm, humiliated by your own goddamn response. But it's too late. He's already there—already winding it tighter.

"Let's see if you like it even more when I do this."

You blink. "What are you—"

He grabs your thigh.

Hooks it up onto the counter. Bends your leg at the knee beside your elbow, spreading you wider without warning. Opening you up. Letting him deepen.

And he does.

Slams into you again with the new angle, and fuck—it hits different. Hits deep. Your whole body pitches forward with the force, mouth open on a sharp moan you can't swallow.

Then—his hand.

His fingers find your clit. Circle it once, slow and effective.

And you whimper.

It's high-pitched. Unintended. Undignified.

You want to vanish.

But then he's right behind your ear again, voice slurred and drunk on it.

"Gonna cum for me, angel?"

Your body jolts.

Because yeah. Yeah, you are, especially now that he's got your leg hooked, your pussy stuffed, your clit being worked with just enough pressure to make you lose it.

He feels your thighs twitch.

"Do it," he breathes, cock dragging thick inside you, fingers pressing just right. "Come on, let me feel it. I'm close too. Gimme it, Pix."

And your body obeys.

It rolls over you in one hard pulse—core tightening, vision blanking, thighs squeezing in and failing to stay strong.

Your moan punches out of your chest, loud and cracked, hips grinding back into his like you need more even as you're falling apart.

"Ohhhh my god, fuck yes—fuck, yes, Nix, fuckkkk."

He keeps fucking through it. Doesn't stop. Lets your pussy spasm around him, wet and squeezing and pulling him deeper as you ride it out. You whimper, already too sensitive, hips twitching, but he's not done.

Because he's laughing now.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

Just that fucked-out little giggle he always gets when he's high on it. Like your orgasm lit him up from the inside.

"Jesus—oh my god—holy shit," he's muttering, still fucking you, little messy stutters in his rhythm now. "You feel so fucking good when you cum, I swear—fuck."

He moans again—short and desperate and real—and you feel it in the way his thrusts go uneven.

"Where—where do you want it?" he gasps. "Fuck—I'm gonna—I'm so close, where do I—"

"Ass," you croak, head low, voice barely there.

That's all he needs.

He pulls out instantly, like he's yanking a ripcord.

You whimper at the loss but then you feel his hand—fast and rough—working himself over the curve of your ass.

"Oh fuck—oh god, yeah, look at this gorgeous ass—fuckfuckfuck—"

And then he's cumming.

Thick, hot ropes spilling over your skin as he pants and jerks through it, one hand steadying himself on your back, the other stroking through every twitch of his cock like he's trying to squeeze out every drop just to paint you.

"Shit," he gasps, hips still flexing forward. "Fucking hell, Phoenix."

You don't move.

You just breathe. Still shaking. Still clenched. Still wrecked.

There's cum on your skin, sweat between your shoulder blades, and your thighs feel like they've forgotten how to exist—and somehow, you still feel good.

Too good.

And a little fucked up about how good.

But you'll deal with that later.

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[that-faerie-in-the-corner]

you know what I find fascinating about how Helen is talked about in the works in the epic cycle?

everyone has argued to death over whether she was kidnapped, went willingly, was influenced/controlled/threatened by Aphrodite, whatever, but the thing is the actual TEXTS can't seem to make up their minds on Helen. everyone will be cursing Helen's name as an unfaithful wife and destroyer of men in Agamemnon but then Paris will be called a "robber-rapist" which would obviously heavily imply that he stole and assaulted her (plus the part where Clytemnestra basically says "shut the fuck up about Helen she didn't force you to do all that", although how much we're supposed to agree with her is debatable). In Iphigenia In Aulis we're going to war to get REVENGE on the Trojans AND HELEN but then Agamemnon will accuse Menelaus of "lust(ing) only to hold a lovely woman in (his) arms", calls him crazy for wanting her back, and then when Menelaus changes his mind about killing Iphigenia to get the winds back he says "Could I not obtain A perfect marriage elsewhere, if I longed for Marrying? But a brother whom I should Most cherish, I was about to forfeit To gain a Helen, so bartering excellence For evil" which is still pretty spiteful towards Helen but also really fucking weird to say if he only wanted her back to kill or otherwise punish her. Then, in the same play, the Greeks are described as wanting to sail to Troy so "That they may halt the plunder of marriage beds And the rape and seizure of Greek women" which would also imply Helen was, in fact, raped and seized, otherwise why would it be phrased like that and not like, "seduced" or "whisked away" or whatever? In Orestes Elektra and Orestes interpret Helen's actions in the worst possible light while when Helen actually speaks she seems generally sympathetic towards them, distraught and grieving over the whole situation, and claims that she went because Aphrodite made her mad, which could absolutely be a lie, but the thing is we just don't know who's the unreliable narrator here Is this a translation thing? Indicative of a really weird idea of what rape is? Is this an intentional writing choice? This got me to thinking and then I realized that if Menelaus was away when Helen left then he almost certainly doesn't actually know what happened. He didn't see or hear what happened, he doesn't get a chance to talk to Helen and have her explain until after the war, and obviously none of the other Greeks would know for sure either, right? And I just think it is kind of a missed opportunity that adaptations don't really do anything with this kind of unspoken conflict at all. Paris the Musical kind of does (Menelaus believes Helen was abducted when she ended up begrudgingly going with Paris trying to help him to escape) but like, why do all the greek men have one idea of Helen in adaptations? Why don't they argue about it? Why don't they question Menelaus about his motivations more? What if (especially if Aphrodite fucked with her head, as I am one to believe) Helen doesn't even trust herself on her own intentions? What if Menelaus tears himself up debating this with himself every night? Like, could I trust that she wouldn't do this to me and our daughter? Is it better that my wife doesn't love me anymore and is safe with her new lover, or that she does but is trapped against her will having who knows what done to her? Do I know my wife anymore? Did I ever know her in the first place? What if he lays eyes on Helen, his Helen, for the first time in ten years and his sword slips from his grasp as he realizes that yes, of course he knows her, how could he have ever doubted? Or maybe he still doesn't know if he knows her, but maybe he doesn't need to, because he knows that she is tired and scared, and he still loves her, and he just wants to take her back to their home? What then? Hm?

[ask-the-rag-dolly]

this is going to be long . but at this point what else do you expect from me .

i've always had a Feeling that ragatha might've gone through abuse since the pilot , and the feeling got stronger with each new episode . her lines employed a lot of passive voice ; which speaks to how astronomically Low her self-esteem is without actually saying it . on top of that , her behavior blared those alarms for me . constantly blaming herself ? people-pleasing ? emotional repression ? they're hallmarks of the fawn response . you know ... one of the four f's of Trauma Responses .

now knowing that aspect of her backstory it ... Sadly makes sense . did i see it coming ? yes . do i still find it sad how it puts so much of her behavior into perspective ? also yeah .

just taking notes from her present behavior and the tiny hints given of her home life , i imagine she grew up in an overly-controlling , repressive environment deprived of love and affection . the perfect incubation chamber for one , fully fucked-up child , basically . it's no wonder that ragatha's desperate for companionship and validation — because it's something that was never given to her all her life . there's a pit where a mother's love should've filled .

with no mention of her father or any other relative , it paints ... a very bleak and isolating picture . like , no wonder she misses her horses , i think the animals were the Only thing that brought her joy in that farm . either her dad is absent OR if we consider how traditionally feminine ragatha is ( being demure , modest and passive ) , it could be a conservative household that's patriarchal ... or maybe she's a child of divorce . idk which one i prefer lol .

either way , she Might've had ... Zero Support ! i can't believe we've gotten to a point that i could confidently say i was a lot Nicer to ragatha than gooseworx was . like the implications here are Not pretty . it could explain why she's desperately grasping for Any strand of companionship she could have in the circus .

obviously , fawning comes from appeasing to The Threat , and you can make an argument that by appeasing to a non-existent threat in the circus , she thinks she's avoiding The Scenario™ .

but something is telling me that she was taught all her life that love is to be Earned . that you have to Prove that you are worthy of being Loved . and of course , not being able to meet her mother's impossible expectations , she didn't really ... get it . and now being in an environment where there's people that actually Cares for her , she's Grasping . she's keeping them Pleased because It's All She Has . seeking warmth in a dwindling fire kind of thing .

BUT THAT'S JUST MY INTERPRETATION . i'm not really completely with it but ! it's what i came up with . whatever interpretation you can come up with , it adds a level of tragedy into ragatha's increasing distance from the others . her pleasing works for Avoiding Conflict , not for Creating A Deep Connection . which is why i like that one line where gangle thanks ragatha for teaching her softball . ragatha sharing her interest instead of giving empty praise made them bond , yay !

so yeah ragatha needs to be spoiled and pampered lovingly this post is already long enough i'm going to drink water

[janiehellion]

𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⋮ 𝔇𝔞𝔯𝔶𝔩 𝔇𝔦𝔵𝔬𝔫

𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: Daryl Dixon doesn't say much—but when you almost die, he finally tells you everything. Turns out, the man who you thought hated you the most was the one who loved you the hardest.

𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: Submissive Daryl Dixon ⋮ Angst ⋮ Hurt/Comfort ⋮ Smut ⋮ Violence ⋮ Fluff ⋮ Dry Humping ⋮ Trauma ⋮ Cock Teasing ⋮ Handjob ⋮ Orgasm Control ⋮ Body Worship ⋮ Size Kink ⋮ Condom Use/Play ⋮ Praise Kink ⋮ Cock Riding ⋮ Dissociation ⋮ Aftercare ⋮ Daryl Dixon's Biceps

𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝑪𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕: 26.062 ⋮ 𝑺𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈: S02E04 ⋮ 𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: Fem!Reader

𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ⋮ 𝑹𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑮𝒖𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔 ⋮ 𝑨𝒓𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝑶𝒇 𝑶𝒖𝒓 𝑶𝒘𝒏

The Georgia sun was already feeling way too hot by mid-morning, shining down on the farm like it had a personal problem against you as soon as you and the rest of the group had arrived on the Greene's property. After the funeral of a man named Otis, you stood near a truck with your arms crossed, listening to the voices around it. Maggie had put a map onto the hood for Rick and the rest of you to continue the search after Sophia.

"How long has this girl been lost?" Hershel asked, looking at Rick's pale face. You didn't blame him—Carl was still inside the house, recovering and quiet in bed, and everyone else was still somewhat in shock since Otis didn't come back, especially Shane. Or so it seemed.

"This'll be day three," Rick answered, and the sound of exhaustion in his voice was very noticeable.

Finally moving closer after some time, you stood right next to Hershel Greene. Not because you wanted to, but because it was the only space left around the hood of the truck.

"County survey map. Shows terrain and elevations," Maggie had said, making Rick nod, looking at everyone around him.

"This is perfect. We can finally get this thing organized. We'll grid the whole area... start searching in teams."

But Hershel immediately cut him off. "Not you. Not today. You gave three units of blood. You wouldn't be hiking five minutes in this heat before passing out," he said, then looking over at Shane. "And your ankle... Push it now, and you'll be laid up a month, no good to anybody."

This nearly made you open your mouth, about to offer something—you hadn't given any blood, your ankle was fine, and you wanted to help, just like everyone else—but Daryl beat you to it, jerking his chin toward the map and pointing at a spot with one finger.

"Guess 's just me," he threw in. "'M gonna head back to the creek, work my way from there."

Of course.

"I can still be useful," Shane added quickly, adjusting the police cap on his now-shaven head. "I'll drive up to the interstate. See if Sophia wandered back."

Rick looked down but then nodded. "All right, tomorrow then. We'll start doing this right."

"That means we can't have our people out there with just knives. They need the gun training we've been promising them." Shane leaned forward, looking past you and toward Rick.

But Hershel didn't back down from what he apparently had told both Rick and Shane already. "I'd prefer you not carrying guns on my property. We've managed so far without turning this into an armed camp."

"All due respect," Shane fired back in an instant, shaking his head, "you get a crowd of those things wandering in here—"

"Look, we're guests here," Rick started and silenced him, then looked at Hershel again. "This is your property, and we will respect that." Before he even continued, he pulled his Colt Python revolver from the holster and placed it on the hood of the truck.

Shane hesitated, then did the same with his pistol.

"First things first," Rick then said. "Set camp. Find Sophia."

Finally, you cleared your throat. "We'll find her," you said. "We're not giving up."

Shane shot you a quick look but nodded. "Right... But I hate to be the one to ask," he said further, "but somebody's got to. What happens if we find her and she's bitten? I think we should all be clear on how we handle that."

"You do what has to be done." Rick's answer came with no hesitation.

Maggie looked up, her gaze switching from him to Shane. "And her mother? What do you tell her?"

"The truth," Andrea suddenly answered flatly, but that was about it.

Shane took a step back from the truck. "I'll gather and secure all the weapons. Make sure no one's carrying till we're at a practice range off-site. I do request one rifleman on the lookout. Dale's got experience."

"Our people would feel safer, less inclined to carry a gun," Rick told Hershel again, who finally gave him a thoughtful nod in return.

"That stuff you brought… Got more antibiotics, bandages, anything like that?"

But as the conversation turned toward medical supplies, Daryl grunted and moved away from the group. Just like that. You didn't hesitate—your feet were already moving after him as he walked in the direction of his tent like he'd never been part of the conversation at all.

"Hey!" You called out, running a little. "Wait up."

He didn't turn, but he didn't speed up either. That was about as much of an invitation as you were ever going to get from Daryl Dixon.

You caught up to him just as he was about to kneel down, grabbing some more bolts for his crossbow and a knife. "The hell ya followin' me for?" He asked, not even looking up.

"I want to go with you," you answered. "I can help."

But Daryl snorted. Actually snorted. Like you'd just offered to fix his engine with a wrench and no knowledge at all when it comes to motorcycles.

"Go back to playin' nurse for the kid," he answered. "Ain't draggin' yer ass out there just so ya can trip over yer own damn self and die."

You blinked. "Okay, Daryl. How about you try to not act like a dick?"

"Ain't got no time for that."

You moved closer, squinting against the sun as you stared him down. "Listen, I'm not stupid. I can handle myself. If something happens, then you're there to help. And I would help you in return."

That finally made him look back at you with narrowed eyes… all blue and pissed. "Ya got a death wish, that it? Go wanderin' out there like a dumbass; gonna end up just like that lil' girl."

"That little girl is the whole reason we're out here in the first place!" You snapped at him, gesturing around. "You think you're the only one who cares? The only one who can search for Sophia?"

Daryl stood back up. But in the same way as when he was trying not to punch something. "Ain't 'bout what ya can do. 'S what ya shouldn't be doin'."

You were breathing hard, just as he turned away. "Don't follow me," he added, before turning and stomping off across the field and toward the tree line.

Without thinking, you walked after him again.

"Daryl, wait!" You called, grabbing for his shoulder as he reached the edge of the field.

He turned around like he'd been attacked, shrugging you off. His elbow hit you hard enough to surprise you and enough to hurt, making you stumble back a step.

"Don't ya touch me!"

You stared at him with wide eyes. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Daryl looked you up and down like you were a problem he didn't have the time to fix. "Nothin' wrong with me. I ain't the one out here goin' after people who told 'em no."

"That's just because you're being such a stubborn asshole, Daryl!"

He laughed, mean and without amusement. "Oh, ain't that rich, comin' from a bitch wearin' her goddamn perfume and pink nail polish—hair all shiny, clothes all clean! Ya ain't shit."

That answer felt like a slap in the face for you. "You don't know anything about me, Daryl. Don't talk about me like that." Blinking hard with a slightly trembling lip, you realized too late that he noticed it.

"I only want to help!" You quickly continued to shout. "You think I'm useless? I'm trying! I care. Isn't that what matters? God, you're such a bastard! Do you really think I'm some helpless little—"

"Yeah, I do," he growled at you, his voice dropping lower and sounding meaner. "Ya don't belong out there. Hell, ya don't even belong out here! Yer like some damn doll that—"

"Why do you even care then?" You shouted back into his face. "If I'm so pathetic, why not let me get eaten?"

Daryl stopped talking in an instant until his voice sounded normal again… unbothered. "Don't care. Just don't wanna have to be the one cleanin' up what's left when the walkers're done with ya."

The silence that followed? All you could listen to was your pulse, which was pounding in your ears.

Daryl turned his back to you again—like he couldn't even stand to look at you—and finally walked off without another word, his crossbow hanging over one shoulder, going far from everyone, like he wanted it. Like he wanted to be.

You stayed where you were, jaw clenched, breathing fast. You weren't crying. Not really. But you wanted to. Just then someone stopped beside you, and you looked up to find Glenn.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I… just talked with Daryl," you answered, brushing your palms off on your clothes, trying to get the little shaking to stop.

Glenn let out a sigh and gave you a look. One of those typical looks—worried, a little amused, and very much not buying your bullshit.

"He always that much of an asshole to you?"

You let out a bitter laugh. "Pretty much. Guess I bring out the worst in him."

"I've noticed it already, believe me," Glenn responded. "As if... you walk near him and the guy forgets how to be a human being."

"He literally shoved me," you grumbled, more to yourself than to him. "Like, right now. And hard. Then told me I was useless and that I don't belong out here."

"Jesus…" Glenn blinked, shaking his head.

"Right? I ask to help, and he treats me like I'm the goddamn problem."

"Yeah, that tracks," Glenn answered dryly with a smirk. "That's what he does. Gets annoyed and acts like a dick to scare everyone away. Very much emotionally mature."

You snorted as if to laugh about it. But in reality? It hurt a little bit.

"He doesn't scare me," you answered. "He simply pisses me off."

"I think that's the same thing for him. Look, just give him some space. That man's got more walls than Fort Knox. But if you ever want to talk about it, I've got some time."

"Well, thanks for that. I mean it," you smiled weakly as Glenn started walking beside you, back toward the farmhouse. You glanced over your shoulder toward the trees where Daryl had disappeared. No sign of him. Was he already gone and looking for Sophia? You didn't know. And right now, you couldn't care less about Daryl Dixon.

But once you focused on what was in front of you, you saw her just before you reached your tent—Carol, standing off to the side, arms wrapped around herself like if she let go, she would cry. Her eyes were on the tree line, searching a forest for explanations that never answered any questions. She was waiting.

Waiting for a daughter who might already be dead.

You froze and felt it all at once—shame, guilt, helplessness. You'd been arguing around instead of helping, just because Daryl thought you were useless. But what were you actually doing to help?

What were any of you doing, really?

By the time you reached your tent, your mind was already made up. You waited until everyone had calmed down, until everyone was busy with any task they were able to keep themselves occupied with, and until Rick disappeared inside the farmhouse to look after Carl.

No one was watching. Not now, at last.

Grabbing the knife that Shane had sharpened for you a few days ago, you slipped it into your belt. It wasn't much. But it'd have to do. Not leaving a note behind, you just disappeared into the woods before you could talk yourself out of it.

Keeping to the trail you found at first, the knife gripped tight in your hand, your eyes were looking toward every rustle of leaves and creak of branches.

It wasn't brave. It was stupid. You knew that. But you didn't care. You had to do something to help. Anything.

Time passed as you walked, maybe an hour, maybe more. You weren't sure. The muscles in your legs ached, and sweat slid down your back, sticky and wet beneath your shirt. But you kept going. Eventually, you saw it. A clearing. An old house made out of wood and forgotten, with windows that looked long broken. It was something. Maybe it was a place a scared little girl might hide in.

You approached carefully, your heart immediately starting to beat faster. Each step seemed louder than it should've been. The door creaked when you pushed it open, and you winced, raising your knife. Nothing moved.

Good.

Inside, the place smelled like mold and animal piss. You gagged but forced yourself to step in, eyes scanning everything. There was a broken-down couch, a couple of empty cans on the floor—sardines, maybe?—and a hallway leading deeper into the house.

You moved slowly, your breathing as quiet as it could be. The floor creaked beneath you, and every move sounded way too loud in the silence. A few steps further into the nearest room, you saw it—something that looked like a tiny, makeshift bed in a closet.

Could've been Sophia.

Could've been… But after searching through the whole place, you came to the realization that it was indeed empty.

Stepping outside again, you blinked against the sun, squinting at the ground. That's when you saw them—white flowers, growing wild near the tree line. Cherokee roses.

You remembered these roses. The history lessons in school about the Trail of Tears, how the Cherokee people were forced out of their native land, and how the mothers of the Cherokee were grieving and crying so much that they were unable to help their children survive the journey. You couldn't help but crouch down to take a closer look.

But that was your mistake.

Something snapped beneath your foot. Not loud. But you fell forward fast, your ankle twisting itself hard to the side as your foot caught a rock buried in the grass. Your knee slammed down on another, and pain tore through your leg, making you forget that your head hit the ground as well. Crying out, you tried to catch yourself, but your arm hit something jagged. Wood? Rusted metal? You didn't know and didn't have time to find out.

Either way, it cut deep. A long, deep cut inside your forearm, bleeding quickly and not stopping.

You swore, grabbing it, gasping as the pain started to be felt. Your ankle wasn't broken, but it throbbed as you tried to stand back up, only to fail. The second your weight shifted, your knees buckled and you hit the ground again.

"Shit," you hissed out as quietly as possible. "Shit, shit, shit!"

You looked around—trees, grass, endless nothing. No one was coming. No one even knew you were gone.

The blood wasn't gushing, but it didn't stop either, making your heart race faster than it should've, and the heat of the sun made everything spin.

This was bad.

It felt bad. Not walker-bite bad, not definitely dead bad, but you'd hit your head a little too hard when you fell, and the pain behind your eyes was pulsing now, pounding even. A concussion? Maybe.

But worst of all—you were alone. Out here. No backup. No plan.

You hadn't found Sophia.

You hadn't found anything.

All you had found were the Cherokee roses that blurred by now in front of your eyes like your brain couldn't quite hold the shape. You blinked, but the flower didn't sharpen. Everything was spinning. The trees swayed too hard. Your arm throbbed in time with your heartbeat, and your ankle had gone numb, like your body gave up trying to feel it anymore.

The grass was warm under your back. That should've comforted you, right?

And then the memories started coming back out of nowhere. They came slowly, like a fever dream.

The firelight. The sound of crickets. The quarry just outside Atlanta, back when everything still felt new, when walkers were the worst of your problems, and Daryl Dixon was just some loudmouth redneck with a brother twice as bad.

You'd never forget the first real day around them. It had been a good day. At least at first. You'd just bathed down there, using some lotion afterward you'd scavenged from a motel, along with a broken brush that barely held together as you came back with damp hair and a pink towel around your body.

The shampoo you'd used? It was strawberry-scented, the cheap kind, but it made your hair all soft and shiny. You'd taken an extra five minutes to wash it out in the water, humming to yourself, just trying to feel clean for five seconds. You even wanted to wear one of the sundresses you'd taken with you, thinking, stupidly, maybe you'd feel safe again and that this whole pandemic would be over soon.

What a joke.

Then you remembered walking up to the fire, smiling, towel around your shoulders. The way Jim gave you a nod. How Dale smiled like he was just happy someone still knew what lotion was.

You remembered Merle's laugh next. Harsh. Mean. "Well lookit that," he'd snorted, loud enough for the whole camp to hear. "Miss Georgia's right here in the end times. Whatcha doin', girl? Waitin' on Prince fuckin' Charming, or you plannin' to start a fuckin' show out here for me, sugartits? Do you think some walker's gonna fuck your pretty lil' ass? Shit, don't even need them damn dresses you always wearin', I can give ya a damn good time without 'em."

You'd tried to ignore him. Dried your hair by the fire, doing your best not to just run away when he got closer.

And Daryl? He hadn't stopped Merle. He'd just joined in like he hated what he was looking at. "Ya really bringin' that kinda shit out here? She really tryin' to get a walker to fuck her ‘fore it eats her."

You'd looked up. Said nothing.

And then Daryl had spat. Not near you. On you. A glob of spit that hit your leg.

"Dumb bitch. Still ain't got nothin' worth keepin' alive."

He hadn't even looked at you when he said it. Like you weren't even worth the eye contact. After that, you didn't eat with the others for days. But you tried to stay useful. Stayed quiet.

Even now, lying here in the grass, while some of the blood dried on your arm, your head pounding, the memory hurt.

Not just because it had been painful. Not because it was mean. Because part of you had believed them.

You knew that you weren't a fighter. You were just… you. Still using cosmetics and having a heartbeat too slow to keep up with a world that was dying around you so fast.

And Daryl? He'd known it. He'd seen it. He still saw it.

And that look in his eyes when he shoved you away—like just being near you made him weak? That wasn't anything new.

You didn't cry. Not back then. You just got up and left to go into your tent, telling yourself over and over that you wouldn't let it show.

And now you were bleeding out next to a flower instead of finding Sophia for Carol—Carol, who was grieving and strong in all the right ways—and you were still that girl with the strawberry shampoo, trying to prove you mattered before the end of the world would kill you anyway.

Maybe Merle and Daryl were right all along. Maybe you weren't worth saving.

Even now. No. Especially now. Half-conscious, with blood running down your arm and your stomach wanting you to throw up from the pain, the realization hit you hard.

You weren't one of them. You were just decoration. A joke. Useless. Always useless.

The last thing you saw before your eyelids felt too heavy was that stupid white flower, moving just slightly in the warm wind of the Georgia sun, like it was just here, waiting and watching you die in silence.

Back at the farm, Daryl yanked his crossbow into place, holding the strap over his shoulder a bit tighter when he prepared to go into the woods to continue his search for Sophia. He had been gone, yes, but he hadn't continued his search for the little girl and was only now about to leave.

Just before Rick's voice stopped him.

"Daryl. You okay on your own?" He asked.

"'M better on my own."

Rick nodded like he already knew the answer. "We got a base now. We can get this search properly organized."

Daryl narrowed his eyes. "Ya got a point, or we just chattin'?"

"My point is it lets you off the hook. You don't owe us anything."

"My other plans fell through." And then Daryl turned without waiting for a reply.

Soon enough, the farm disappeared out of view behind him. Out there, it was quieter. No bullshit. No looks. No whispers. Just nature, animals, and the walkers.

Daryl followed a trail he had seen earlier, retracing old steps, ducking under branches, and stepping over logs. He kept his eyes low, scanning. Looking for tracks. A footprint. Any kind of hint he could find.

It was nearly an hour later when the house came into view.

That old abandoned building, half-eaten by time. He approached it slowly before he entered a place that felt like it still remembered the people who'd lived here once. Crossbow raised, he stepped in and moved from room to room. The first one? Empty. Except for an old can of sardines on the counter, peeled open. Recent.

Someone had been here.

He kept going. Into the hallway, past a bathroom, and into another room with a closet door half-ajar. Inside was a makeshift bed. Small. Like someone had curled up and hoped to disappear.

"Sophia!" Daryl called out, not loud, but clear. No answer. No hope, either… Giving up after he made sure the house was completely empty, he stepped outside again, squinting his eyes in the sunlight. That's when he saw it. The flowers.

Cherokee roses.

Moving slowly toward them to take a closer look, his gaze dropped just before he wanted to kneel down—and that's when his eyes widened.

You were lying there.

Blood all over one of your arms and your side. One foot was at an angle that wasn't looking quite right. Eyes closed. Lips pale.

Daryl didn't move at first and only stared. Like maybe it wasn't real. Maybe if he blinked, you would disappear and he could go back to pretending you didn't matter. But you didn't go away.

"God fuckin' dammit…"

His knees hit the ground as he dropped beside you before he grabbed your wrist first—rushed and too tight—but he needed to feel a pulse. It was there. Weak, but there. You were breathing, but shallowly.

"Shit," he hissed as soon as he saw the deep and long cut along your arm next, yanking a half-clean rug from his pocket and pressing it to your skin where the blood was coming out. "Stupid. Stupid goddamn—what the hell were ya thinkin'!"

Unable to answer, your head lolled to the side. Daryl pressed harder, trying to stop the bleeding.

"This what ya wanted?" He continued to yell at you, even though you couldn't hear him. He looked down at your face—smudged with dirt and sweat—and for half a second, he felt something like guilt. But it was gone before he could name it.

"Stupid girl," he grumbled again, but it sounded different now. Quieter.

Grabbing your other arm and pulling it across his shoulders, he lifted your body with a grunt. You were dead weight—not conscious, not responsive—but he got you up, holding you awkwardly against his side like you weighed nothing.

"I swear t'God, if ya don't die, 'm gonna kill ya, bring ya back, n' kill ya m'self again! Fuck!"

And then Daryl started walking. Back through the woods, back toward the farm, his jaw clenched, his face looking pissed, cursing the whole way like that would keep the anger away from him. Every step moved your body a bit, and every little noise you made had him tightening his grip.

You didn't remember much of the trip back. Just the Georgia heat and some motion above your head, all the while every breath was a fight. But Daryl remembered every step of the way.

His arms were on fire, his muscles burning by the time the farm came into view. Some of your blood had soaked through his clothes, clinging to his shirt and skin. The rug tied around your arm was doing a piss-poor job at stopping the bleeding, and you weren't doing much at all—not even mumbling like he had hoped you would do after some time.

Rick was now on the porch of the farmhouse, talking to Hershel about something—medicine, rations, or safety probably—when he caught sight of Daryl coming out of the tree line with you in his arms.

His eyes went wide. "What the hell… Daryl!"

"She's hurt," Daryl snapped, stomping past him. "Went out on her own. Found her like this, bleedin' near some old-ass house."

"What happened?" Andrea gasped, running up to him, while Lori covered her mouth with both hands as she got out of the house to see what was going on.

"Get outta my damn way!" Daryl barked, heading up the porch.

"There's no room," Hershel immediately answered, stopping Daryl from walking into his home. "Carl's still inside."

"Then where the hell do I put her?"

"The RV," T-Dog cut in, looking at Dale for his approval.

Dale didn't argue and rushed to open the RV door while Daryl climbed the steps. He moved quickly, lowering you gently onto the couch, and Hershel was following with some of his medical equipment the second Daryl took a step back.

"Let me see. She's lost quite some blood. Probably a mild concussion. I need some time."

Daryl backed off only because he had to, watching with his arms crossed and lips tight while Hershel cut the rag from your arm and cleaned the cut. It wasn't fatal. Deep, long, painful, yes, but you were lucky. Soon, Hershel said something about shock and rest and stitches. But Daryl still just stared at your face. Pale. Eyelids still closed. Lips dry. And all he could do was stand there and watch.

That night, the camp outside the farmhouse was rather quiet. Everyone from the group went to their tents as the time passed by. Glenn sat on the steps of the RV for a while like he was guarding you, but eventually even he wandered off. Daryl had waited. He was now behind the RV, chain-smoking cigarettes like it would give him a better excuse for the nervousness he was feeling.

He hated this. He hated you. No, that wasn't right. He hated how you made him feel like this. Like he gave a shit. Like he'd never forgive himself if you died. It was past midnight when he stepped back in. The RV door creaked a little as it opened, and for once, he flinched at the sound. You were still there on the couch, with a bandaged arm, and still as death.

Kneeling beside you and staring at the bandage, he imagined how many stitches on your arm there might be before he started talking.

"Y'know, I was gonna leave ya out there," he smirked. "Saw yer dumb fuckin' ass lyin' in the grass and thought, ‘Good. Serves that bitch right.'"

He suddenly sniffed and wiped his nose on his arm. "But I ain't done that."

Looking up at you—your sleeping face—his eyes went to look down to your lips. Just a breath away. Daryl leaned in slowly, like even gravity didn't want to push him too fast. But when his nose nearly touched yours, he stopped and pulled back with shaking hands and a dry mouth.

"Bet ya'd punch me if ya knew." His own words made him smile.

"'N I bet ya still got some fight left. Ya always been fightin' my damn brother away. Ya remember back at the quarry?" He continued. "Me 'n Merle… we used to—fuck, we were assholes. Used to think ya were the dumbest damn slut—girl—I ever met."

Daryl laughed again, shaking his head. "Painted nails. Lil' pink bag full o' crap. Lip stuff. Glitter lotion or some shit. Whatever the fuck that was. Dunno. Shit… who the hell wears glitter durin' the damn end of the world?"

His voice cracked, but he ignored it. "Ya were always tryin' to make things pretty. That damn girly shit. Ya got a whole damn bag of soaps and creams and fuckin'... ribbons. And what did I do? I spit more 'n once on ya and yer shit, remember that? Said it was useless. Said ya were useless."

He looked away, huffing, only to look down. "Fuck… Ya always kept all o' yer things clean. Yer tent. Yer hair. Yer hands. Made the rest o' us look like fuckin' trash. Not good 'nough for ya."

Daryl paused, inhaling deeply and breathing out slowly, making sure no one was coming to look at how you were doing. "That deer I brought in? When Rick joined? Got it for ya. Was fuckin' mad at ya that day, ‘cause ya smiled at Shane or Glenn or—fuck, I dunno why it bothered me, it just… did."

He then pulled something from his pocket—a dirty little bottle of rose-scented hand cream. "Ya had one of these once, 'fore the CDC blew up," he grumbled, setting it down on the little table beside you. "Said it reminded ya of home. Heard ya talkin' 'bout it with Lori. I told ya it was useless bullshit. Made fun of ya for it while I was wasted."

He swallowed hard but then continued to talk to you while you were sleeping. "I went back to that damn pharmacy for it 'fore I went lookin' for Sophia. Saw it on the damn map 'fore ya asked me to come along. Wanted to slip it in yer stuff when ya ain't lookin'. Did that more than once. Soap, too. That fancy coconut or vanilla shit."

He dragged a hand over his face. "'S my fault that ya almost… Yeah, mine. Shouldn't have gone to that damn pharmacy. Could've kept yer damn ass safe."

His throat felt tight. Everything ached. All his muscles were tense by now, burning with shame and guilt. "Dunno what this bullshit is. I ain't never had nothin' good. But if ya died out there…" He stopped, swallowing hard, as hard as it was even possible. "I think I'd lose my goddamn mind..."

The second the words left Daryl's mouth, he flinched again. Saying such things out loud hurt worse than any injury ever could. "Ya always tried to make me feel like I ain't just shit. Like I ain't just Merle's dumbass brother and a fuckin' problem. Like maybe I'm... I dunno. Somethin'."

His forehead dropped to the edge of the couch, hiding his face. Half a sob, half a curse, Daryl shuddered like a storm was rushing through him, one that refused to stop letting him drown.

And then you moved. A groan. Maybe a whisper. But he heard it, and his head shot up. You weren't awake. Not fully. Still out cold, or so it seemed. But your mouth had moved, you had talked; Daryl was sure of it.

Another groan from you—uncertain, half-conscious.

"Fuck this," he suddenly snapped, taking the bottle and grabbing for the door handle of the RV. "Fuckin' idiot! 'M such a fuckin' idiot…"

But he didn't go far, especially since he made sure no one was nearby who might notice him. No, Daryl just sat in the dirt by one of the RV wheels, with his head leaning back against it, his teeth biting into the palm of his hand to keep himself from crying.

Soon enough, the days passed, not many—but enough for the bleeding to stop and for the bruises on your skin to start turning all sorts of ugly. Your arm was stitched up, the muscle still pulling every time you moved. It stung like a bitch. And you weren't allowed to use it much, which meant you spent most of your days lying and sitting around in Dale's RV.

Rick had stopped by more than once to see how you were doing. Lori brought soup that tasted like water and, well, just water, really. And Maggie came around sometimes with Glenn, but that was about it. It got a little easier to move your arm, eventually. Easier to breathe, too, without feeling your head spin. The farm was quiet most of the time—birds, sounds from the horses here and there, and the distant sound of shots, since Rick and Shane had started to teach how to shoot.

You started making short walks around the farm. Then to the field. Then the house.

Still, you hadn't seen him again. Daryl was nowhere to be found anymore. But T-Dog found you instead when you were leaning on the fence one afternoon, holding your arm like it might fall off if you didn't. You weren't crying, but damn if it didn't feel like you could if someone even breathed too loud.

"Doing okay?" He asked, jogging over, but you just shrugged in return.

"I guess."

"Don't push it too fast. That kinda cut, it's no joke," he nodded toward your arm and held out his own. "Guess we're some kinda twins now, huh? Same side as yours."

You managed to give him a small smile in return. "You're not still hurting?"

"Oh, I'm hurting, alright. Just not bleeding on people anymore and leaving a trail of blood for the walkers to follow."

You glanced at him, almost laughing. "Yeah. I remember your accident, too. On the highway. I've never seen so many walkers at once."

"Shit, yeah. I sliced my arm open trying to get outta the way of one of them. Thought I was done for."

Your eyes narrowed as you thought back. Back to the walkers. Back to the ways every single one of you had tried to hide from the danger. "You know… I never asked, but how'd you even get out?"

T-Dog looked at you, a little sideways, like maybe he wasn't sure if you were serious. "You don't know?"

You shook your head slowly. "No. How should I know? I was up in the RV with Andrea. It was bad enough with that one damn walker in there and next to her in such a small place. But thanks to Dale, we're still alive... So? How did you make it?"

He laughed, but it sounded more like a huff. "Daryl. He's the one who saved my ass. White boy came up to me outta nowhere and covered me and him under walkers. We lay there under those dead bodies. Didn't even move."

"Wait, wait—Daryl Dixon?"

"Yeah." He scratched the back of his neck. "Wasn't what I expected either. I mean, remember Merle? That guy was a full-blown asshole. And I figured Daryl was just like him, you know? All that racist, hillbilly shit? But he didn't even hesitate. Saved my life."

"But… I also thought he was like Merle. In fact, I'm pretty much sure he is just like Merle."

"So did I," T-Dog admitted again. "Still not sure sometimes. But I guess he's loyal. Just doesn't know how to act loyal without being a real dick about it at the same time."

"Yeah… Sounds about right."

Watching how you turned a bit away from him, T-Dog took a step back, not wanting to make you uncomfortable. "You don't think he gives a damn about you, do you?"

"Why would he?" You asked dryly, shrugging your shoulders. "He's hated me since they'd arrived at the quarry. Said I was useless. Spit at me. Mocked me for every… well, every 'girly' thing I still owned. Stuff I still own."

"But he carried you back," T-Dog answered quietly. "Didn't stop to ask, didn't wait for help. He found you and moved. That's Daryl."

You looked down at your hand, flexing your fingers slowly. The wound on your arm still ached. But this time, it didn't feel like what hurt the most. You didn't say anything else in response at first. Just looked back out toward the tree line, where the wind had started blowing just slightly.

"But I'm so sure that he hates me. You just don't treat someone you don't hate the way he treats me."

T-Dog looked at you for another moment, then shrugged as well. "Could be. Or maybe he just doesn't know how to act loyal. Loyalty doesn't always come with manners."

You huffed at that. "He didn't even stop by. Not once. And I've been stuck in that RV for days. That man does not give a damn, believe me, T."

"'Cause he doesn't do ‘checking in.' Dude's probably sitting alone somewhere, thinking too hard and pretending not to give a shit."

"Think I should go and thank him?" You asked, biting the inside of your cheek and laughing quietly.

T-Dog snorted in response. "If you can find him. It doesn't hurt to say thank you, especially if you don't care about how a man like Dixon might react."

His words made you think. Daryl had saved T-Dog. Daryl had saved you. And yeah, maybe he was a dick about it. Maybe he said mean things and looked at you like you were pathetic. But you also remembered this tiny, stupid stuff you found in your bag that you thought was from Jacqui or Amy before they'd died—cute little comforts that you couldn't even imagine may have been from someone like him.

Soap. Lip balm. A tiny comb. A little pink lighter that still worked…

Thinking back to these many things that had magically appeared in your belongings, the sun was starting to go down when you finally worked up the nerve to find Daryl. You'd been pacing near the RV restlessly for half an hour, or longer, chewing your lip, thinking of a hundred different ways to start a conversation, and hating every single one of your ideas.

Why'd you carry me back?

You chose the most neutral thing you could come up with: Ask him why. Casually. Like it means nothing.

You spotted Daryl's tent now much further from the rest of the group, like he couldn't stand the sound of humans for longer than ten minutes. He was sitting outside, sharpening the blade of a knife with that same pissed-off expression he always had when someone approached him.

You stood there for a second, watching Daryl from a few feet away, just long enough for him to notice you. But he didn't look up.

"Lost?" He then asked, still dragging the knife along whatever he used for sharpening it.

"No," you answered, stepping closer. "I was looking for you."

"Well, ya found me. Congratulations."

"I just wanted to ask you something," you swallowed hard. This was a mistake, for sure. But it was too late now.

Daryl didn't answer you, waiting for you to speak, and just kept sharpening. So you pressed further and finally asked the question. "Why'd you bring me back?"

He stopped moving, but then he scoffed. "Was out lookin' for the lil' girl. Found a body bleedin' in the grass. Figured I'd put it over my shoulder and be done with it."

"You're saying you didn't even know it was me at first?"

He looked up now, finally, and his eyes were cold. "'M sayin' it wouldn't have mattered shit. Just don't need 'nother walker out there. Woulda put a bolt in yer head if—"

You flinched, and he saw it. Of course, he did. "Hell, shoulda just left ya there. Woulda saved me a helluva walk, too."

You blinked hard. From anger, not from tears. Not this time. "Why are you like this, Daryl?"

"Like what?" He smirked at first, scoffing quietly.

"This… cruel."

Daryl's smirk was gone fast, and, putting his knife aside, he finally stood up. "I ain't cruel, woman. 'M honest. World's gone to shit, and ya still walk 'round like yer a fuckin' princess. Maybe if ya stopped worryin' 'bout bubble baths and started learnin' how to not get yerself sliced open, ya wouldn't need any damn carryin'."

Staring at him for another moment, not saying anything, not giving him the satisfaction, you just turned and walked off. You didn't run. You didn't cry. You didn't say another word. Just walked. Wanting to leave him to rot with whatever broken part of a soul made him push kindness away if it disgusted him this much.

Again, the hours passed quietly, like the world was trying to pretend it was peaceful. In the meantime, you had cleaned up as best you could. Maggie had brought you food. Glenn had made a dumb joke that almost made you smile. Almost. You went to your tent later, rubbing near the itchy spots on your arm where the stitches were pulling a little too tight. Dropping to your knees, you unzipped the flap, reached for your bag… and froze.

There, on top of your stuff, was lip gloss. Not the lip balm you always used, but the exact kind of lip gloss you'd run out of weeks ago. Next to it? A tiny bottle of rose-scented hand cream, a little dirty, but still sealed. And a small bar of soap, wrapped in light purple wax paper with floral patterns on it. Lavender. And so much more... And next to it all?

A white Cherokee rose. No note. No explanation. Just there.

No one else would've thought to bring you that kind of stuff. You were sure of it by now as you sat back. Hell, most of the group didn't even know when some of your things were empty to begin with. Nor did any of them know that you were bleeding out right next to a Cherokee rose bush. Except one. The same man who'd told you to your face that he should've left you to die.

Touching the edge of the rose gently, you laughed. A bitter, breathless, and choked laugh. "Asshole..."

You sat there on your knees in silence, with your heart beating harder than it had during the walker horde on the highway. But what you felt at that moment? It was fury. And it was the kind of fury you hadn't let yourself feel in a while. Maybe ever.

You gathered the things carefully but not tenderly. All of them, even the flower, with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. Then you stood up, walking back out of your tent. Daryl was still where you left him. He was leaning over a small fire now, poking it. His crossbow leaned next to a log, untouched, and he didn't look up when you approached. Typical.

But he didn't have to. He felt you coming.

"You think I'm fucking stupid?"

Daryl flinched at your words, but his eyes stayed fixed on the flames.

"You think I wouldn't notice? The things you put into my shit? The gloss, the balm, the shampoo, the soaps, the stupid-ass lighter with the pink rhinestones? Oh! There's so much more!"

Now he looked up with narrowed eyes. "I told ya, I—"

"No! No," you cut him off, stepping forward. "Don't do that! You got me these things. You went out of your way. Hell, you got me the exact same hand cream I told Lori about, didn't you? Smells like roses!"

You kept going like your voice just had to be heard for once. "I'm not stupid. I'm not blind. But you want to treat me like I'm some idiotic little girl who can't survive without her glitter and her goddamn bubblegum lip gloss, right? Like I'm just some waste of fucking space!"

Daryl scowled. "Ain't never said—"

"You didn't have to," you snapped back. "You made sure I knew!Every single day! You spit on my things, Daryl. On me! You called me useless! You mocked everything I had left before the world ended. Everything that reminded me I was still a fucking human being!"

"I ain't done that—"

"You did! And now you brought me back? But you won't look me in the eye? You won't talk to me? You don't even admit it, you damn coward!"

"Ain't got no time to explain, woman."

"Bull-fucking-shit, Daryl Dixon," you hissed. "You owe me an explanation! Not for carrying me. For this."

You stared down at all the things in your hands. Then, slowly, you raised one of them. "You wanna know what this is?" You asked quietly, while Daryl didn't answer. So you threw it at his chest.

"It smells like lavender… and feels like shame on my skin."

You threw the next one—the lip gloss. "This one's pity, right?"

Another bottle, this time aimed at his shoulder. He flinched when the hand balm hit him. "This one's your hate… and my guilt. Smells good, doesn't it?"

You threw the last—a tiny little mirror—and it cracked when it hit the ground near his feet. "And this one, Daryl? This one's not even from you, but it's my reminder that when I look in the mirror now, I hate what I see. Because every time I see my face, I hear your voice calling me useless."

He flinched again, breathing faster now. "I never meant—"

"You never meant to?" You cut him off, shouting at him. "Stop! You meant every word you ever said to me; you just didn't expect me to remember them all!"

His hands curled into fists, and he stopped poking the fire. "Ain't done it for ya."

"Really?" You asked back. "Then who was it for? Your fucking idiot brother, Merle? Amy? Andrea? Jacqui? Lori? Carol? Yeah, right! Fuck that!"

He got up and stepped forward suddenly, with an angry expression on his face. "Don't talk 'bout shit ya don't understand."

"Oh, I understand plenty," you shot back, not moving an inch. "I understand that you only know how to hurt people who give a damn. I understand that you are scared as fuck of someone giving a shit about your sorry ass!"

Daryl pointed at you, stepping closer. "Ya don't know anythin' 'bout me."

"Oh, I know enough! I know that you'd rather make a girl cry than admit you were scared when you saw her bleeding out."

"Shut up," he growled, his voice cracking.

But you didn't. You leaned in, close, your nose almost touching his. "You don't hate me... You hate that I make such a pathetic being like you feel like a person. Human."

Daryl pushed you roughly away from him. Not enough to knock you down. But enough to get your attention. "Ya don't know shit! I carried ya back ‘cause I didn't want 'nother fuckin' dead body walkin' 'round here! 'S it!"

"Liar!" You spat, throwing the last thing he got you without even looking at what it was, almost hitting his head. "You carried me back because if I died out there, you would've had to admit you cared!"

"Ya don't get to say that! Ya don't get to decide why I do shit, 'n ya don't know what I—"

"You liked watching me bleed out, didn't you?" You then continued, your face turning red in anger. "Made you feel strong, didn't it? Because a girl like me needing a man like you meant you weren't nothing for once in your pitiful life!"

Dead quiet, Daryl stepped back. And the expression on his face? It was pain, rage, and shame, all at once. "Don't fuckin' say that," he whispered.

But it was too late.

"What, does it hurt?" You scoffed, your eyes still cold. "Good! Do you know what else hurts? Lying in the woods bleeding out, thinking the man you thought was cute at first, but who actually hates your ass to death, is the last person you'll ever listen to! Wishing you'd actually died instead of having to face him ever again! And you know what? I fucking liked you, Daryl. God help me, I fucking liked you. And you made me feel like shit for it."

Daryl didn't look up… as if he couldn't.

"Stupid fucking redneck. Giving me this shit like it means anything."

"'CAUSE I AIN'T NOTHIN'!" He suddenly shouted, with his fists gripping at his hair like he could rip his thoughts out. "'S ME WHO AIN'T SHIT!"

Daryl sank down on his knees, both hands still on his head, gasping wildly, rocking back and forth, back and forth. "SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!"

His voice broke off, and he started hitting his head with the side of his fists. Once. Twice. More and more. He did not stop until he felt dizzy. You blinked in shock, your heart pounding in your ears. That wasn't the Daryl you knew. This wasn't even the Daryl you hated. And it made time seem as if it stopped.

"W-why do you hate me?" You whispered carefully. "What did I ever do to you?"

"I didn't know how else to do it!" He shouted, his voice cracking hard. "Ya want words? I ain't got the damn words! I don't—" He broke off, breathing fast, dragging his hands down his face.

You didn't respond.

"I got ya that bullshit ‘cause ya fuckin' liked it! ‘Cause it made yer stupid ass smile! And I—I dunno—I thought maybe if ya smiled at me for one goddamn time 'stead of—!"

He sniffed loudly. Like he wanted to cry or just say something nasty, but nothing came out. Only a tiny, broken inhale. All you could do was stare, but this time? It was still shock and confusion. "God, I'm such a dumb bitch… Shit…"

You started to turn, just a little bit, ready to go somewhere and scream at yourself for what you've done—but movement stopped you. Daryl reached out. Clumsy, almost afraid to touch all of it, he picked up the lip balm first. Cracked now, dirt stuck to the side. Then the mirror. The bar of soap. The hand cream. One by one, he gathered all of it together.

You paused, arms crossed, trying not to care. Trying. Then you saw it. A single, tiny tear landed on the hand cream as he held it in his palm, the tremble in his hands impossible not to notice. He stared at it for a long moment, sobbing as quietly to himself as possible. Then he looked up. Not at you. Toward you. And he stretched out both arms, holding the little pile of things in his big, strong hands. No words. Just his eyes that were all wet and looking hopeless, like he was offering up what little was left of himself.

"Take it back…" Daryl sobbed. "I… I didn't mean to… I dunno why—"

His voice cracked again. He looked like he wanted to die. And with a deep breath, you stepped back in his direction, shaking your head. He kept staring at the stuff in his hands, his voice dropping even lower, like he hated every word coming out of his mouth.

"I don't hate ya! Just… didn't wanna care," he sobbed, and you swallowed hard. "But… ya just kept bein' all… you."

You blinked several times in a row.

"I thought… if ya hated me, then it wouldn't matter if ya left one day—if ya died... And ya weren't s'posed to be prettyand smell like fuckin' strawberries or whatever and look at me like I was anythin' other than white trash! Ya weren't s'posed to matter!"

By now, you were crouched down right in front of him. "But you were mean," you then whispered. "You hurt me, Daryl…"

He nodded slowly. "I know."

"And I almost died thinking you hated me…"

Daryl finally looked up. His eyes were red as he looked into yours. "I didn't—I didn't mean for that to happen."

"I-I know," you cut in, your voice now trembling slightly too. And then, finally, your hands reached out. You touched Daryl's cheek first, your thumb sliding along his jaw before you cupped his face, making him shudder.

"I ain't good," he whispered. "Don't talk right. Say shit I don't mean. I fuck everythin' up. And I—" His breath hitched. "I jus' wanted ya to… not die."

You saw it again. The pain. The way his mouth opened like he had something—everything—to say and didn't know how. And that was when you put a soft kiss on his forehead as you pulled him close.

Daryl made a tiny broken sound before his brain caught up, and he immediately panicked. "Don't," he gasped. "Don't do that. Don't… don't pretend!"

He looked scared when you didn't answer. But you just wrapped your arms around him and held him tight. Like you were trying to hold the broken parts of him back together with just your touch. Daryl's face pressed to your neck, his hands suddenly gripping your back like you might be gone if he opened his eyes again. You felt it—the trembling, hearing the sobs, feeling the way he pressed into you.

"M'sorry," he whispered into your shoulder. "M'sorry. I didn't mean it. I-I swear, I just…"

You didn't need an explanation. You just held him tighter. Let him feel you. Let him know you weren't going anywhere, even if his whole body desperately tried its best to relax against you. His breath hitched differently now. The sobs turned a little quieter. Less panic. More need. Not pulling away, you saw it now. All of it.

The little boy who never got love. The man who thought hatred would keep him safe.

How much time passed by wasn't on your mind as you knelt there with Daryl for a while, letting him fall apart into your arms, until the shaking slowed and the wet sobs against your skin turned completely quiet. When Daryl finally let go of you, there was this dazed look in his eyes. Like he'd forgotten where he was or who he even was.

"Come on," you then said gently, just loud enough for him to hear. But Daryl didn't move. So you pulled gently at his hand and helped him up, patiently, and as fast as he wanted to move again. He followed you without a word, stumbling a little, his head low as you helped him back into his tent before he sat down without any words on his sleeping bag.

In the meantime, you reached for the stuff he'd gotten you—picking it all back up off the ground, since he'd let it fall into the grass once you'd put your arms around him, and brought it with you. Daryl didn't even look up when you left all of a sudden; he still sat there.

Once back in your own tent, you moved as fast as possible. Wipes. Lotion. Some clean water in a bottle. A small towel. The flannel shirt you always wore on warmer nights that was way too big for you. You carried it all back in your arms.

Stepping inside Daryl's tent and kneeling down in front of him, he glanced up, confused and wide-eyed.

"I ain't…" He started, his voice shaking. "I don't want—"

"Quiet," you answered gently, pressing a finger to his lips. "You don't have to want anything right now. But you need. Listen, just sit there, alright? Let me."

You took the wipes first, pulling one from the pack and warming it a little bit between your hands. Then, slowly and carefully, you wiped the dirt and tears from Daryl's face. His mouth trembled when you touched him, his lips twitching like he might say something—but he didn't. He just let you clean him. Quiet and shaking ever so slightly.

"I ain't clean," he then said, almost ashamed. "M'dirty…"

"No," you whispered with a small smile. "You're not."

Soon enough, you worked your way down his arms, wiping off dirt and sweat and the faint bits of blood that were still left on his skin. Then his hands—his big, rough hands, all calloused, but still trembling. You took your time there. Between each finger. The back of his palms. His wrists.

Daryl watched you in silence, but when you started pulling at the hem of his shirt, he finally flinched, and his eyes were going wide again. "What're ya doin'?"

"Just going to clean you up proper," you answered softly. "It's just a shirt. Relax."

He looked like he wanted to say no. Like he wanted to grab it and yank it back down. But something in him broke a little more, and he let you pull it over his head, only to turn away from you as if in shame. And that's when you saw them. The scars. Not all of them, since he wasn't fully turned away from you, but what you saw was enough to notice how deep and all over the place they were. Scars that shouldn't have been there across his back.

Daryl panicked the second he realized what you were seeing and tried to back away. "Don't—don't fuckin' look at that, a'ight? Ain't nothin'! Nothin' ya gotta—fuck, just—just leave!"

But you didn't pull away as you reached for the small towel and the water bottle you brought with you, opening it to clean him a little more. "Who did this to you, Daryl?"

"Don't matter," he grumbled, arms now crossed tight across his chest. "Ain't yer damn problem."

You leaned forward, arms wrapping around him from the side, your chest pressed to his biceps. "It is my problem," you whispered. "You are."

Placing the towel over his shoulders after you were done drying him off, you grabbed the lotion next. You rubbed it slowly over his arms, his shoulders, and his hands, all the while he sat frozen and looking confused, like it was the first time someone had touched him without hurting him.

"You smell like me now," you smiled, but he just sat there, swallowing hard, breathing shakily.

You reached out and touched his shoulder gently. "Don't worry, I'm not gonna ask."

"Yeah, 'cause ya don't even—"

"I'm not gonna ask," you said again. "You don't have to tell me anything, Daryl. But I'm not going to pretend I didn't see it. And I'm also not going to pretend it changes anything."

He turned fast. Wild-eyed. "Ya don't needa pretend nothin'. Yer—yer tryin' to be nice or some shit. Ya don't—"

Not finishing what he wanted to say, Daryl stared at you once more, his chest rising and falling fast. His mouth was open like he wanted to scream or cry but didn't know which one would save him.

Using the moment, you reached for the flannel now. "Arms up..."

He blinked in confusion, maybe wondering why you were still here, which made you smirk. "Come on now, Daryl. I'm not leaving you sitting around shirtless."

He let out a weak, stunned huff but lifted his arms, watching as you slipped the flannel over his head and let it fall around his body, the sleeves way too short for him.

Then, slowly, you reached for his face. "Look at me."

He did as you held his chin, caressing it. "You don't have to be an asshole around me, Daryl. You don't have to yell. Or lie."

All he responded with was a nod in return.

"You want me to stay?"

Another nod.

And you didn't try to pull back. You just stayed there, kneeling in front of him, one hand still on his face, the other soon resting over his chest where his heart felt like it was trying to beat out through his ribs. He looked at you like he didn't get it. Like he was still waiting for the trap.

"You wanna lie down?" You asked eventually, voice soft, but he hesitated until he gave the tiniest nod again.

So you laid down first, letting your side press down on the sleeping bag before you patted the spot in front of you. "Come here."

Daryl snorted, but it came out cracked, sounding more ashamed than mean. "Shit. Ain't never—"

"Now's a good time to start."

He grumbled under his breath but crawled toward you anyway, arms stiff, not really knowing how to be held. Like it was something that needed instructions.

You wrapped your arms around him from behind, pulled him in close, and let your body press to his. His back pushed against your chest, all tensed up and full of confusion, still waiting for some kind of rejection that wasn't even coming. His hands stayed awkwardly near his chest, and his shoulders trembled now and then like he still hadn't run out of tears but just didn't have the strength to let them fall anymore.

"You're shaking," you whispered, holding him a little tighter.

"M'fine..."

"Nope. You're not."

Daryl didn't continue arguing. You pulled the sides of the sleeping bag up over both of you and put your face into the crook of his neck, letting your breath warm his skin there.

He was quiet for a while, and you didn't rush him, since after some time, he finally spoke up again. "Why ya always been like that?"

"Like what?"

He hesitated again. "Weird, I guess? N'... y'know. Just girly. With all them lil' bottles n' fuckin'... soaps n' shit. Creams or whatever all that stuff is ya usin'."

You snorted against the back of his shoulder and kissed the skin there, which made him squirm. "Is that such a big problem for you?"

"Nah, I just... I don't get it. Ain't never made sense. Ya know... world's gone to fuckin' hell, n' ya still put on lotion as if it matters."

"Well, it matters to me," you laughed in response.

"Why?"

You held him a little tighter. "Because it's who I am. I've always been that way. Even before the world ended, I guess. It's what makes me feel human. Like I'm still me. Not just some scared girl trying to survive."

Daryl was quiet again until he whispered. "'N why the hell would a girl like—" He started but cut himself off. "Don't need someone smilin' at me."

"Daryl."

He didn't answer, so you let your hand glide over his side. "You're the first person that ever made me feel safe back at the quarry. Shane always seemed so… impulsive. The others? Well, no one really fought like you did. I'm not saying the rest of the group can't keep us safe, but when that walker got that deer you were hunting down? Made me realize you knew more about survival than everyone else. You were the first one to point out that we need to destroy their brains. You were the first one, the only one, really, who knew how to hunt. It seemed so… natural. Not because you're big or strong or scary—though, let's be real, you kinda are—but because you see people. You look after them. Even when you act like an asshole."

He huffed out a grunt, his shoulders relaxing a little more.

"You gave me those things," you continued softly. "Little things. Stupid things. A flower. A bar of soap. So many things… So you cared. Even if I didn't know at first."

He didn't answer you, but his hand found yours, holding it tight against his chest.

"And yeah, you're… you. Sometimes a bit rude. But now I think that—" You didn't talk about it further, just pressed another kiss to the back of his neck, softer this time. "You don't have to understand it. Not all at once. But I really do likeyou. I liked you right from the start. I just didn't smile at you because… well, you know how you were acting around me."

His grip on your hand loosened, and you felt him slowly, finally, letting out a deep breath. Like he'd been holding that breath since Atlanta. And you stayed like that. Daryl didn't say anything else, but his breathing slowed after a while, sounding calmer, until he fell asleep like that, in your arms.

Like a broken, little boy who'd never been held in someone's arms for the sake of it.

And when you were sure Daryl was out, you slowly, so slowly, moved yourself away from him, pressing one last kiss to the side of his face and putting the sleeping bag tighter around him. He grumbled something in his sleep. A quiet sound where you couldn't make out what he was saying. But it didn't matter what exactly he said when you gathered your stuff back together and stepped out of his tent again. At least you knew he was feeling safe for now.

The next day when you were back on your feet, you weren't thinking too hard about the night before. Making yourself as useful as possible, you tried to help the rest of the group as best as you could in the morning.

Lori handed you a knife while Carl ran around the farm, finally able to move after he'd been out for days after the incident, and already having more energy than he should've had after being shot. But hey, Hershel worked miracles. The kid was back to running around as if nothing ever happened.

"Don't let him wear you out," Lori said with a wide smile, wiping her hands on a towel. "He'll run circles around you until you get dizzy."

You snorted. "That's what I'm afraid of. And I think he's already making my head spin. But, you know, he's feeling like a kid again for once; that matters the most, especially with everything going on…"

Carl then ran up beside you, holding out a deflated ball to play with. "Wanna play catch real quick?"

"Only if you go easy on me," you answered, pointing to your arm. "Doctor's orders."

"Deal!" He grinned and ran back a few feet, while Lori chopped onions beside the fire. For a moment, it all felt so… normal. Almost like something from the before-times—morning air still chilling and not too hot, smells of wood and watery coffee in the air, people waking up, stretching, and starting their day.

And soon enough, you noticed him from the corner of your eye before you heard him—always the quiet one.

Daryl.

He was walking in from the tree line, his crossbow as always with him. Same sweat-drenched skin while walking around in the sun, the same scowl that was more habit than emotion. But he didn't look your way, and you didn't call out, since Carl had already started playing with you. Still, you couldn't help but watch him walk toward the RV before returning your attention to the kid.

Meanwhile, Daryl pushed open the RV door. He'd been avoiding Carol for a while now—not because he didn't give a shit, but because he didn't know how to. What was he supposed to say? "Sorry yer kid's missin'? 'M still searchin'?" That didn't help anyone.

But he had remembered the roses that bloomed in the woods. Right there, where you had been bleeding near the house, like they were waiting for him again. He'd stared at them for a full minute before pulling one out of the dirt and shoving it into an old beer bottle he found.

He felt stupid carrying it back. Felt even more stupid walking up the steps of the RV, holding it. But he did it anyway.

Inside the RV, Carol was cleaning everything, trying to distract herself from the emptiness that was eating her up from the inside out. "I cleaned up," she said without looking at him. "Wanted it to be nice for her."

Daryl glanced around. "For a second I thought I was in the wrong place." He set the beer bottle with the rose down on the little table.

She finally turned. Her eyes looked at it, then back at him. "A flower?"

"'S a Cherokee rose." He sighed. "The story is that when American soldiers were movin' Indians off their land on the Trail of Tears, the Cherokee mothers were grievin' and cryin' so much 'cause they were losin' their little ones along the way from exposure, disease, and starvation. A lot of 'em just disappeared."

Carol froze but continued to listen to Daryl. "So the elders, they said a prayer, asked for a sign to uplift the mothers' spirits, and give 'em strength and hope. The next day this rose started to grow right where the mothers' tears fell. I ain't fool 'nough to think there's any flowers bloomin' for my brother. But I believe this one bloomed for yer little girl."

Her eyes filled up with tears, but she shrugged it off with a laugh.

"She's gonna really like it in here," he added, nodding once. Then he turned away and stepped back outside.

But Daryl didn't head straight back to his tent. Not right away. Instead, he stopped near one of the fences, where he could see you, even though he'd made up his mind to head out again soon.

You were laughing, tossing a ball, even if your movements were stiff, and Carl almost fell when he caught it. Lori said something, probably about food or ordering Carl to be more careful. But you, you looked...alive.

Still pretty. Still you. Still 'girly n' shit,' with your beautiful hair and your clean clothes and that voice that didn't sound like anyone else's.

Daryl could still feel your hands on his skin; that damn flannel shirt still smelled like you, which he carefully left in his tent.

Raising a hand without thinking, he waved a little. Awkwardly. But you looked up and smiled at him. Really smiled. And that's when Daryl's face turned red and he damn near panicked. He dropped his hand, spun around, and stormed off toward his tent like he hadn't just spent a few hours walking through the woods while secretly hoping to see you at the end of it.

Meanwhile, Lori leaned over, grinning a little confused. "What was that about?"

"Long story," you answered, shaking your head.

Lori raised her eyebrows but didn't push any further when you turned your attention back to Carl.

"Alright," you challenged him. "Last round. The loser has to eat a whole onion raw!"

But every now and then, your eyes looked toward the tree line again, right where Daryl had disappeared again. You'd be checking on him later. And as time passed, it was safe to say that you barely saw him all day. He was nowhere to be found. Not that you were watching or anything—okay, maybe you did want to look after him. Still, you weren't about to start jogging all over the Greene's property, but damn if your eyes didn't automatically look to every movement of the trees, every corner of the farm, every second someone from the group came walking out of the woods or was near you.

Still, Daryl was just... gone.

And it wasn't like you to worry—not in the clingy, 'where's my man?' kind of way, but after last night, after everything he let you see, the way he sobbed in your arms like a hurt little boy, the way he clung to you like he'd drown otherwise? It didn't sit right with you that he could disappear so easily, like none of it ever happened.

By the time it was afternoon, you finally gave in and went looking.

Finding Glenn near the stable while Maggie stood at one of the stalls and stroked one of the horses, you heard them talking, laughing about something.

"Hey," you called as you approached. "Have either of you seen Daryl? I saw that he left again, but he's still not back."

Glenn tilted his head. "Yeah, earlier, when we came back. He asked me about the town where the pharmacy is. The one Maggie and I hit."

You nodded slowly, a little confused. "But doesn't he already know where it is? Did he say why?"

Glenn shrugged. "Said he was going scavenging again. But probably still looking for Sophia too. Guess that takes some time."

You tried not to let the disappointment show on your face. Of course, he went alone. Again.

Meanwhile, Glenn narrowed his eyes a little. "Why, are you still trying to go thank him for saving your life or for ruining it a bit more?"

"Wow. What a joke, Glenn. Maybe I just miss his charming personality," you snorted, rolling your eyes.

Maggie laughed, and Glenn wanted to answer, but your mind was already somewhere else, and your feet followed those thoughts soon after—back down the way to Dale's RV.

You stepped up into the RV with the intention of grabbing a weapon. Not a big one. Just something small enough to carry, big enough to keep you from getting attacked by a walker if you crossed paths with one. A pistol. A knife. Both.

But the second you turned and went back outside…

"Where do you think you're goin'?"

You froze. Shane was leaning up against the RV, arms crossed over his chest, eyes narrowed just enough to let you know he'd been waiting and watching.

"Just walking around, looking, watching," you lied flatly.

He stared at you with a smirk, shaking his head. "Don't look like walkin'. Looks like you were grabbin' a gun."

"Maybe I wanted to do both," you grumbled. "Feels safer."

"What's goin' on?" Rick's voice stopped you from behind Shane, who still didn't move.

"My bet? She was about to head out on her own."

Rick frowned, stepping closer, looking at you like he already knew he wasn't going to like the answer. "Is that true?"

"I just wanted to check out that town Glenn and Maggie went to. That's all."

Rick sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You're still not fully healed. You know how dangerous it is out there. Especially alone."

Shane was shaking his head. "What he said. Not happenin'. Not alone."

"It wasn't up for debate," you argued back. "And it still isn't up for debate. I can handle myself just fine."

"Well, now it is," Shane answered. "You're not goin'. Period."

And just like that, they were walking off, leaving you alone. But Lori showed up not even a minute later, carrying a basket and looking somewhat amused.

"Okay," she started. "What's going on this time?"

You let out a deep breath, staring at the spot where Rick and Shane just stood. "I wanted to go look for Daryl, but no, of course, the only two cops that are still alive around Atlanta stopped me from doing so."

She stopped mid-step, but without answering you, so you glanced at her. "What?"

But Lori just smiled. Not in a mean way—just a knowing one. "I'm sure he's fine," she said gently. "Come help me with the eggs, okay?"

"The chicken coop? Eggs? Really?"

"Yeah. Besides, you've got to keep your hands busy before you go out and annoy both Rick and Shane at once. Believe me, you don't want that."

You followed her, grumbling, "Not a bad idea, actually..."

"Oh, by the way," Lori added casually as you reached the coop. "Daryl actually called me Olive Oyl."

You turned your head in confusion as you crouched down. "Wait, what?"

She smirked, crouching down by one of the nests as well. "I called him selfish. He called me Olive Oyl. You figure out what that means…"

You stared at her, half confused, half in thought, and she just tossed you a couple of eggs like she wasn't just out here admitting something to you, but you weren't really sure what she meant.

Hours passed again.

Chickens were settled, dinner was halfway done, and, as always, everyone kept themselves as busy as possible.

You were wiping your hands on a towel near the porch of Hershel's farmhouse when Lori nudged you with her elbow. "Look," she said softly, nodding her head toward the tree line.

You turned. And there he was. Daryl. Finally.

He came walking out of the woods, a bag slung over one shoulder. No blood. No obvious injuries. No anger in his walk. Just calm and relaxed, like he hadn't just ghosted you the entire day. And without even looking over to the farmhouse or at the group, he walked straight to his tent and disappeared as if nothing ever happened.

But you knew that it would soon be late enough where no one would pay attention. No one would notice if you moved away during the night. And if Rick or Shane would notice? You somehow counted on Lori to have your back.

You caught sight of Daryl before you made it to him—sitting outside his tent with his back turned, searching through that bag he probably found in that small town nearby like he was checking it for something. And you could see how stiff his shoulders were, even from a distance.

Hesitating for a second, you then decided to walk over to him as quietly as you could manage in hopes of not scaring him off, your hands curled into fists like the pressure might help with the sudden nervousness you felt out of nowhere.

Being close enough after a while, you could see the fumbling of his fingers and the new bits of dirt beneath his nails. You reached out, one hand raised and your fingers stretched, just about to tap his shoulder—and the second your hand made contact?

Daryl moved fast. Too fast.

Before you could even yelp, he had you pushed on your back in the grass, one foot pressing down by your hip, the other leg straddling your thighs. His forearm came down hard near your neck, not on it, but close enough that you knew—if he'd wanted to hurt you, really hurt you, or even worse—he could've.

His other fist was in the air, ready to punch. And then he saw you. Stunned. Taken aback. Breathing hard and trying to cough beneath him.

Daryl's mouth fell open the second he realized it was you. Shock and horror were written all over his face, his eyes quickly looking around, as if unsure what part of your face they should focus on, and his fist dropped instantly.

"Shit! Shit! Fuck," he stammered, pulling back but not quite getting off you. "I ain't—fuck—I didn't know! I thought—hell, I ain't mean—shit! Shit!"

You reached up before he would freak out completely, both hands finding his face. Your thumbs slid along his cheekbones, and he flinched like you'd hit him. But you didn't say a word. You simply lifted yourself as best as possible and kissed his forehead like you'd done before—slow, soft, waiting for him to calm down. You felt the panic slip out of him in shaky breaths, his body relaxing against yours, until you pulled back and wrapped your arms around him.

Daryl didn't say anything. For quite a while, he simply let you hug him, his forehead dropping against your shoulder like he wasn't sure he deserved it.

Eventually, he crawled off you completely and helped you up, grumbling a bunch of apologies—and curses—as he did. You could barely make them out. He was red in the face, not just from embarrassment but from shame.

Brushing your palms off, you followed his eyes to the open bag beside his tent. Whatever was in there had fallen out in the heat of the moment—some canned food, a bottle of water, some medicine he'd found, a few hygiene things that looked suspiciously like they'd been taken from a women's section—and then, carefully folded underneath it all, was a dress.

Pink. With ribbons. Not over-the-top, but definitely... you. Your size. Your style.

"Well," you said with a smirk, stepping closer and crouching beside the bag. "What's this?"

Daryl went stiff. "I—ain't—look, I didn't mean nothin' by it," he answered fast, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand like he wanted to disappear into the ground. "Was just... y'know, ya still like all that stuff, an' I saw it hangin' there all clean-like, figured it'd maybe... I dunno... ya still like that kinda shit, right? Thought maybe ya'd... wear it. Or somethin'. Ain't mean nothin' by it, just saw it, figured it was dumb, but it made me think'a ya, and—fuck…"

"It's not stupid," you said, cutting him off gently, but he looked at you like he couldn't quite believe you meant it.

You picked up the dress carefully with your hands, held it against your chest, and spun a little around as if you were modeling for him. "You got the size right. And it's got some ribbons as well... You really have been paying attention, huh? To everything."

His head was so red by now you thought it might explode on the spot.

"I like it," you continued, more quietly this time, not wanting to push him too much. "A lot."

Daryl swallowed so hard it was almost audible, his eyes looking at the dress, then to your face, then immediately away again. "Y'do?"

You nodded.

"Yer so fuckin' weird," he responded, but it sounded like a joke. No anger behind it.

"Guess I am," you answered with a smirk. "And I guess you like weird girls who wear pink dresses and make you sleep like a baby when they hold you."

Daryl opened his mouth to argue for a second, then shut it again. Stepping toward him and sliding a hand into his hair, brushing through it gently, you watched how his eyes shut close at the contact. He was so touch-starved it somehow hurt to see.

"Ya, uh... ya gonna go back to yer tent now?"

You tilted your head in confusion at his sudden question. "Why? Do you want me to leave?"

Daryl shrugged a little, rubbing the back of his neck once more. "Just... Y'know. 'S gettin' cold and all."

"Daryl? It's warm. I won't freeze to death." Shaking your head, you held back a smile. "Are you asking me to stay?"

He huffed a breath and gave a helpless little nod of his head, not looking at you. "Yeah, yeah, right… But… Ain't askin'. Just… Would be okay if ya did, s'all."

Quickly taking a step back, you leaned down to put all the things that had fallen out of his bag back into it, picking it up and holding it out to him until he took it. Finding his other hand, you then put it into yours.

"I'll stay."

Daryl followed behind in silence as you slipped inside his tent without any hesitation, with him throwing the bag into one corner of the tent as fast as he could. Inside, it was dark, but not pitch black—the moon gave you just enough light to see everything—the sleeping bag, his gear, and the flannel shirt you'd given him that smelled like you, lying right next to where some improvised pillow was lying on the ground.

You turned toward him, still holding his big, calloused hand in yours. His fingers twitched like he wasn't sure if he was supposed to let go or tighten his grip.

"So," you said softly, smiling at him. "We sleeping or what?"

Daryl shrugged, his eyes switching from you to the sleeping bag like the situation was somehow too complicated for his brain to process. "Yeah," he grumbled, "guess so."

He sat down awkwardly first, then lay back, giving the sleeping bag a few rough pats like that was going to magically make it more comfortable. You crawled right beside Daryl and turned your back to him instinctively, expecting him to just sort of… get it.

But Daryl didn't move an inch.

Peeking over your shoulder, he just grunted at you, clearly ashamed and confused, but finally slid closer next to you. He lay on his side behind you, arms straight at his sides like he was getting ready for a casket instead of cuddles.

You waited. And waited…

Finally, you sighed and reached behind you, grabbing his wrist and putting his hand over your waist.

Daryl went rigid. Completely tensed up and unsure. So you laughed to yourself and wiggled back into him until his chest was pressed against your back and his big, strong arm rested across your stomach.

"Do you still not know how spooning works, Dixon?"

Still awkward. Still stiff.

"What, this?" He scoffed. "Ain't nothin' to it."

But his voice cracked just a little, and you could feel the hesitation in the way he touched you. Careful. Nervous, even. But you didn't push him. You just covered his hand with yours and rubbed your thumb over his knuckles.

Daryl's breathing slowed eventually. You felt his nose against the back of your head, his fingers twitching now and then against your side, and soon, your body relaxed too, feeling his chest rising and falling behind your back.

You felt safe, stupidly so, when you dozed off like that. And it might've been an hour later when you felt it.

A little movement. Barely there, at first. Just the press of his hips rougher against you, and then again.

And again.

You blinked awake slowly, still a little bit sleepy. And then it hit you.

He was hard. Really hard. And he was—shit, he was humping you in his sleep.

Not fully. Not aggressively. But enough that you could feel the drag of his cock against your ass, big and hard, right through his pants, softly grinding, lazy and slow, as if he didn't even know he was doing it.

You smirked to yourself, eyes still half closed, not daring to move just yet.

Holy shit, that man was packing.

With your thighs clenching a little without even wanting them to do so, you didn't even need to see it to know. You could feel it. How thick he was. How the head of his cock pressed against you when he moved like he was grinding in a daze, with no idea you were wide awake by now.

You bit your lip at the realization of it all—Daryl Dixon, quietly, accidentally dry-humping you in his sleep as if he was desperate and didn't know how to ask for what he wanted.

Holding your breath, you tried not to giggle—because laughing would wake him up, and waking him up might ruin the moment. Or worse, embarrass the hell out of him. But shit, the way his hips rolled was so slow and lazy… His body was dreaming of something he'd never admit to wanting.

Another sigh left his lips. This one was more like a whimper. And that's when your thighs clenched for real. You pressed your lips together, closing your eyes. You couldn't help it. Couldn't stop your hand from drifting down to rest on his again. The one he still had on your waist.

Daryl's fingers twitched. He reacted. Shit, was he waking up?

"Mhm..." He mumbled. Not a word. Just a sound. And he moved again, a little more this time, his cock pressing harder against your ass, making your breath hitch.

The longer it went on, the hotter it got—him so unknowingly needy, and you, getting wet from the feel of it, every roll of his hips pressing that thick, aching cock against you like it just needed somewhere to go.

Daryl let out another soft sound behind you. Not a groan. Just a broken sigh that made you swallow hard and your pussy throb.

You could wake him up. You could turn around. You could grab his jaw, kiss him just like that, and show him what to do next. Or you could wait a few more seconds and see just how far that sleepy little grind of his was going to go.

And Daryl kept it going, his hips rocking ever so gently, pressing himself against your ass like he was in a different world entirely—a fantasy, a dream—where he got to have this. You. Where it was okay to want.

And oh, how he wanted you. You could also hear it by now, the way his breath hitched just a little more each time he moved. Louder. Another soft whimper barely made it past his lips. You wondered if he even knew he was making those little sounds and if he'd hate himself for them in the morning.

Shifting slowly, you let your thighs part just a little. Not enough to be obvious—just enough to feel him better. You let his hand go, moving back with your own until your fingertips brushed over the side of his thigh. He jerked, only a twitch, like his body felt the touch even if he wasn't awake yet.

Then, quietly, carefully, you rolled over to face him, feeling how his strong arm slipped off your waist. His brow was furrowed just a little, his lips parted, almost looking innocent. And maybe he really was.

Reaching up, you couldn't help but let your thumb touch his bottom lip softly, parting his mouth a little more.

And then, you kissed him. Only one deep kiss.

Poor Daryl had no idea. Or maybe he did and just couldn't help himself. But then you slid your tongue along his lips. That was the moment he stopped moving entirely, and you didn't have to look to know he was wide awake now.

Still, you froze for a second. So did Daryl.

Then he pulled back in an instant, realizing what kind of situation he was in. "Shit! I… fuck! What—?"

"I noticed," you whispered and gave him a loving smile in response. "And I simply kissed you in return."

He opened his mouth, like maybe he had something to say, maybe an apology, maybe an excuse, but you beat him to it. Crawling toward him, you quickly pushed him back down to keep him from escaping you, straddling him.

Daryl's face turned a shade of red you didn't think possible for a man who spent all day out in the sun. "I—I didn't know I was—fuck, I didn't mean nothin' by it! I wasn't…"

You caught one of his hands and wrapped your fingers around his. "It's okay," you said, your thumb stroking his knuckles gently. "Was kinda cute, actually."

He made a strangled noise like he couldn't decide whether to groan or storm out of his tent as fast as possible. "Cute?" He asked, clearly offended by the word.

"Yeah… You heard me," you answered, sliding your hand down between your bodies until your palm pressed against the hard outline of his cock.

Daryl didn't know what to say anymore, but he didn't stop you either.

So you kissed him again, with just enough pressure to make him gasp. You felt the way his mouth opened for you, the way he stopped breathing, so you let your hand continue to move against his cock ever so slowly, and when it moved over the thick tip of it, he choked out a sound that damn near made you moan in return.

"Jesus," he groaned, letting his head fall back with his eyes squeezed shut.

Taking the opportunity, you leaned forward and kissed his jaw and his neck, nipping gently at his skin.

He was already so fucking hard…

"Shit," he hissed through clenched teeth like the word had been ripped out of him.

"What?" You smiled against him. "You literally hump me in your sleep and then act like you don't want it when you're awake?"

He made another strangled sound, somewhere between a grunt and a moan this time, his face turning deep red. "I wasn't—I didn't!"

Daryl's eyes looked into yours, wild and wide, and then lower, down your body.

"Yeah, you did," you smirked, pulling back a little, not wanting to overwhelm him. "You just didn't know I'd let you. Now..."

Making yourself comfortable to straddle him tighter, you pulled your shirt up and over your head, slow enough to make your point clear. His eyes never left your skin—staring at every inch like it was something new, something forbidden. Your bra came off next.

And Daryl looked like he forgot how to breathe. His jaw dropped, his tongue wetting his lips so fast he didn't even realize he was doing it, his eyes fixed on your tits like he was terrified to blink, and his hands twitched at his sides.

You tilted your head and grinned. "Are you going to touch or do you want to stare all night?"

Swallowing hard and not wanting to refuse, one hand came up trembling, like he was expecting you to slap it away, but then he stopped halfway.

"Daryl... I'm letting you. Just try and touch me."

That certainly helped. His fingers moved up your waist first, cautiously, like he needed to warm up to the idea. Then, slowly—so goddamn slowly—he brought his hand up to your chest.

And fuck, the look on his face… As if he'd never seen a naked woman in his life and wasn't sure if he was hallucinating or about to die from it.

Daryl's palm cupped one of your tits with doubt, but also hunger, like he wanted to devour them but was too scared he'd hurt you if he squeezed too hard.

He didn't even squeeze. He held.

But when you gasped—when your back arched a little more and your mouth dropped open in a silent moan—then he started to touch, kneading gently, his thumb brushing over your nipple, where he didn't even realize what he was doing until you shivered from it.

His eyes looked up to yours, panic on his face, thinking maybe that noise meant he did it wrong.

Reassuring him, you shook your head, smiling gently. "That was good, baby. Don't stop."

Daryl didn't. He kept touching. You could see the way his jaw clenched, see the tense muscles in his neck, and feel the way his cock twitched hard beneath you in an attempt to hold himself back from thrusting up against you.

Leaning down, you let your tits rub across his chest up to his face, just enough to tease, and kissed the corner of his mouth.

Daryl whimpered. He whimpered, the poor thing…

You could feel the tremble in his thighs now, his hand still clinging to your tit with a look that said he was afraid you'd change your mind. But his fingers tightened further, wanting to make himself believe that your sounds weren't even pity, but want. Real want.

"Do you want to come for me, Daryl?"

His hips bucked up without permission, and his breath hitched again at your words, all the while you kept your hand on him—pressing and sliding your palm over the bulge in his pants, feeling how hard he was, but still trying to hold himself together, which was getting harder with every second that passed.

"I, uh," he stuttered, almost too quiet to hear. His eyes went shut when your fingers squeezed just the tip of his cock through his pants out of nowhere. "F-fuck—don't… don't... PLEASE."

You bit back a grin. There it was.

His hips bucked up once again, just a little, trying to get you to touch him some more. It was obvious that his body didn't care that he had no real idea what he was doing—it wanted more of you.

Leaning in close, you let your tongue lick over his parted lips. "You sound like you're begging for it, you know..."

Daryl's eyes snapped open at your words.

Wide. Confused. Embarrassed.

You watched the realization hit him—watched him remember what sounds came out of his throat. His mouth was still open, attempting to take it back, maybe deny it—but nothing came out. Only another moan. By now, he was all whimpers and stutters and fuck-me eyes.

You laughed softly, rolling your hips against his thigh. "Didn't even realize, huh? You're just so damn worked up you don't know what you're saying anymore."

Tilting your head, you pressed another soft kiss to the corner of his mouth before dragging your lips along his jaw. "You never had someone make you feel like this before, Daryl?"

"N-no…"

"Mhm," you smiled against his skin. "I didn't think so."

Daryl whimpered again, and you felt his cock twitch under your palm.

You leaned closer, letting your breath tickle his ear, whispering. "Does your dick get hard like this for just anybody, sweetheart?"

His head turned to the side with the expression of someone who was more than just ashamed.

"I'm gonna touch you for real, Daryl," you whispered, not moving your hand further for now. "And you're going to be good and let me. You're going to say ‘thank you,' too… like a sweet little boy who listens."

"I…"

"You what?"

"I… thanks," he stammered, hardly able to say it out loud.

"Good boy. All the while you're begging for it without even meaning to."

His hips jerked up again—uselessly on instinct—and he made the softest sound you'd ever listened to in your life. Was it a sob? You weren't sure with his fingers still on your tits and him looking too stunned to do anything.

"Oh, baby…" You smirked, pretending to be all sweet and kind while grinding down against his thigh. "You want it that bad?"

Daryl nodded. Just a tiny, helpless nod—but he meant it.

You sat back some more, sliding your hand from his cock up to the button of his pants, but didn't open it. Not now. Reaching up, you started to open the buttons of his own flannel shirt instead, one by one, only to kiss your way to the middle of his chest. One kiss. Then another. Then lower, sliding your lips and tongue down to his stomach.

He was panting now, his chest rising and falling wildly, his other hand twitching like he didn't know where to put it. "Please," he whispered. It slipped out quietly. But you heard it. Hell, you felt it.

"Please?" You asked, not stopping your trail of kisses down to the skin just above the waistband of his pants. "Please, what? Tell me."

"Dunno," he whimpered, almost desperate. "Just, just—don't leave."

You couldn't help but giggle at his words, kissing his skin just above his belly button. "Don't worry, Daryl. I won't leave, and believe me, I'll tell you what to do."

He blinked down at you, looking like he'd agree to anything if you just kept touching him like this.

As soon as you got off, kneeling down beside him, you grabbed his jaw. "Lay back onto the sleeping bag."

He obeyed immediately, lying down flat on his back and breathing like he'd run for miles, his eyes looking from your face to your tits and back again.

You straddled him again, slowly, getting comfortable like you had all the time in the world. "Wanna suck on my tits now?"

His mouth dropped open at your question. No sound came out. Just an overwhelmed, shaky cough. Suddenly cupping your own tit in your hand, you gave it a light squeeze, then brushed your thumb over your nipple, watching how Daryl's eyes followed the movement of your finger.

"How many times do I have to tell you? I'm letting you, Daryl," you whispered. "Come on. You can do that. Be a good boy for me and do as I say."

Daryl nodded slowly, pushing himself up on his elbows and thinking he might still be dreaming of a fantasy. A fantasy he's had since the first time he saw you at the quarry outside of Atlanta. But he already knew it back then… how you'd become his undoing.

You guided him gently, making yourself comfortable next to him now, and arched a little closer so he didn't have to reach far. He stared for one more second—just one—and then leaned in. Awkwardly so. His mouth was unsure at first, with quivering lips brushing over your nipple that didn't quite know what was allowed and what was not.

So you sighed and put your fingers into his hair, caressing the back of his head. "Open that pretty mouth, sweetheart."

Daryl obeyed. You brought your nipple to his mouth and watched him. Watched him take it in, his lips wrapping around it as if he was scared. "That's it," you whispered. "Suck."

He did. Carefully at first—then with more confidence when your hand returned to his hair, guiding him. His tongue flicked over your nipple, his lips sucking gently, then harder when he heard you moan. You felt the way his cock throbbed beneath your thigh, how he was still so hard it probably hurt—but he didn't ask for anything. Didn't even grind up to feel more. He just sucked. Sweet. Quietly. Needy.

"You're doing so good right now," you whispered, letting him take the other nipple into his mouth next, his tongue moving with more urgency now. "Look how well you listen."

Daryl whined again but never stopped. By the time you looked down at him again, his lips were shiny, and his cock was leaking so much precum that his pants were dark and soaked through a little.

But you let him continue to explore your tits as long as he wanted to—slow little licks, then sucking gently, then sucking harder when he was sure you liked it as much as he did. One of his hands came back up too, holding your tit, trying to memorize the feel of it while he kept going, switching sides when your hand in his hair pulled it a little.

And all the while, he kept making those noises. Not words. Just quiet, breathy sounds. Whimpers. Moans. Every now and then, a broken little 'fuck' or 'shit,' wanting to try and hide that he couldn't really handle it. Pulling back after a while, only enough to see his face, you smiled down at him.

Daryl only blinked at you, so you kissed his temple. "Do you realize how sweet you are? I bet I could make you come like this. Just from sucking on my tits."

That made his hips buck again. And the noise that came out of him? Practically a whine. You knew it now—knew Daryl. How desperate he was. How careful. And you could tell that he was already close. Only from this. The thought alone turned you on.

You couldn't help but press your knee between his legs to tease him a little and to feel it—that cock throbbing against you, for you, and still aching. Poor boy was losing it, and you hadn't even taken his pants off yet.

Reaching down slowly, you let your fingers tease the skin near the waistband, making him shiver. Daryl froze for a moment like he was trying not to run away. But he didn't stop you, even though he was still fighting with himself. You worked his button open, then, patiently, pulled the zipper down just enough to slip your hand into it. His breath hitched when you brushed over the front of his boxers. So warm. So hard. Fuck, he felt like steel, and he throbbed so wildly under your hand when you barely even touched him.

"You're so cute," you whispered, letting your lips kiss his jaw as your hand started moving over his cock. "So sweet…"

Daryl moaned—not even loud enough, really, making it sound like a broken whimper. He looked down between you with disbelief in his eyes. It was clear no one had ever touched him that way before. And he wasn't even able to concentrate on touching you as well when you teased him for a while through his boxers.

Long strokes. Nothing fast. And enough to keep him on edge.

Watching him being this close so easily felt almost unfair.

"Don't," he whined all of a sudden. "I—I can't!"

"You can, believe me," you hushed him softly, watching him hide his face out of embarrassment, but you could still hear every broken little noise that left him. Then you slid your hand down, right inside his boxers.

Trembling and barely able to hold himself together, he gave you a shocked gasp when your fingers wrapped around his cock. His body betrayed him, wanting more before his mind could even catch up.

"You poor thing." You said, kissing his neck. "I hope that didn't hurt?"

Daryl didn't answer. He couldn't. His hand had grabbed part of the sleeping bag, eyes shut tight when you started to move your hand—once. Just a pump. Twice. Again. Watching the way he reacted to every single one. He couldn't stop shaking. Couldn't stop gasping.

"Already this wet and leaking," you smirked, feeling the precum dripping down along his shaft. "It's quite impressive how much you're trying to be good."

"Please…" He then sobbed, and you looked up at him. That red face. Those quivering lips. His pleading eyes.

Oh, shit.

Your brain just kind of stopped working when your fingers wrapped harder around his cock at that sight. He felt so warm. So thick. And Daryl groaned—deep, broken, as if in actual pain—and his hips bucked up just barely. Lord... He really was desperate.

Slowly pumping his shaft with your hand moving up and down, you kept the pressure torturously gentle, making his abs clench every time you reached the base of his cock, his breath shuddering.

He was losing it, and his hand found your wrist suddenly, gripping—not to stop you, but to beg you without words.

You leaned down, lips brushing over his jaw. "What is it, baby? You wanna come for me?"

A strangled groan left him. He was too scared to say yes.

"You think I'll stop if you come too fast?"

Daryl didn't know if he should nod or shake his head at your words, and it turned into a mix of both. It looked almost pathetically wholesome how this strong man let himself go in a way you could've never even imagined. Especially not a few days ago.

"Good thing I want to see you come." And then, without warning, you changed your rhythm, pumping his cock harder now, faster.

"F-FUCK—m'sorry—I can't!" He moaned, louder this time. His back arched up off the sleeping bag, unable to control his body anymore, even though he wanted to.

Your other hand went to his hair again, stroking it gently. "Look at you. So cute. And I haven't even started riding you."

"I—I'll do anythin'! Just wanna come for ya… fuck! I'll be good!"

"Oh, I know you'll be good," you giggled. "But good boys wait. Good boys hold it back."

"Please," Daryl whimpered in response. "Please, please, please…"

You hushed him, cupping his cheek as he shook, letting it overwhelm him. Every twitch. Every breath. Every bit of feelings he didn't know how to handle.

"That's it, baby," you encouraged him. "Good boys come when they're told... Do it."

His whole body jerked and tensed up. A quiet, choked groan, a full-body tremble, and then a broken moan that ripped itself from his throat as he came—hard—right in your hand.

You felt Daryl's cum shoot into his boxers, his cock pulsing against your palm while he gasped for breath, hoping that maybe you wouldn't see how ashamed he was.

"N-no," he whimpered to himself. "I—I didn't wanna! Fuck!"

"You didn't want to?" You teased softly, licking your lips. "Seemed like your dick had other plans."

Daryl groaned again as he let himself fall back down onto the sleeping bag, his hands covering his face, totally embarrassed. He didn't even realize your hand was still inside his pants, but you felt him shiver beneath you, his cock still throbbing in your grip.

He was quiet. Not because he didn't have anything to say—but because he didn't know how to handle this situation. Even when his sticky cum in his pants had to be starting to feel awkward, he just lay there, soon with his hands over his face.

But eventually, you moved just a little and smiled, "Let me clean you up."

Daryl stiffened immediately. "Ya don't gotta—"

"No arguing. Be quiet. Give me something to clean you with. I want to. Now."

He flinched at that as if it hurt more than helped, but he obeyed, reaching for a cloth near him. You sat up gently and took it from him, just when he tried to push you back down—his hand on your body feeling so unsure, like he didn't even know how to ask you not to leave. But you just kissed his forehead.

"Just a few seconds, sweet boy. Then you can go back to hugging me."

It made Daryl grumble, but he let go. You pulled his pants and boxers down slowly, cleaning him up with care. Like taking care of him was just what you did. And Daryl watched in silence. Red in the face, lips parted, still breathing a little too fast.

He didn't say thank you. But his hand found your thigh, poking it to make you notice him. It was a nervous apology for coming too soon, for shaking too hard, and for needing too much.

Once you were done, you smiled and kissed his forehead again. Then you crawled back into his arms, and this time, you were facing each other. Daryl's hand trembled where it rested on your back. Not from exhaustion—though you knew he was exhausted—but from a little bit of fear. So you hugged him. Let him breathe. Let him come down for a while. And when he finally spoke, it was so quiet you almost missed it.

"Yer not… just doin' this 'cause—I dunno," He started. "Told ya… ya don't gotta pretend."

You tilted his face up, kissing the tip of his nose. "Daryl. Stop. Stop it right there."

Without saying anything, he put his head beneath your chin, one arm trying to pull you closer. You were still shirtless, and you felt the way his breath stuttered against your skin when his cheek pressed to your tits once more, but he didn't try to pull away this time. Didn't want you to cover up, either.

He just grumbled something into your skin, probably some curses, and you couldn't help but giggle. Another grumble. And his arm only held you tighter.

"You know… I know that you know that Maggie and Glenn went to the town not far from here, right? The pharmacy's still got a stash… I bet," you smirked, kissing his hair.

That made him lift his head just a little more. "What kinda stash?" He asked, confused.

"Oh, I dunno. Things a girl might need. Like... lip balm. Some body lotion. Maybe even condoms."

You ran your fingers through his hair again, and Daryl stared at you. Clearly shocked. His mouth opened, but he couldn't say anything, just like before.

"And if there are still some left," you added in a thoughtful voice, "maybe I'd put on that pink dress… Let you lay back. Let me climb on and ride you until I come."

Daryl whined. Honest-to-God whined and dropped his face back against your tits so fast it made you laugh. "Oh, you like that idea," you teased, stroking the back of his neck.

Without answering that question, he nuzzled deeper against your tits, praying that if he hid there long enough, the shame would go away. You stayed like this a little longer, just feeling the way his body stayed tense against yours, but Daryl feared that maybe if he moved again, he'd come a second time just from breathing the air you were breathing as well.

"Hey," you soon whispered into his hair.

A muffled grunt answered you.

"I've been thinking…"

Another grunt. Thinking was clearly dangerous right now.

"About that pink dress you got me," you smiled against his head, sliding your fingers up the back of his neck gently. He didn't say anything. But you could feel the answer.

Leaning back just enough to search for his gaze, you looked down at him. His eyes, still a little glassy, still wide and panicked, blinked up at you.

"Daryl," you continued, "do you want me to wear it for you?"

His mouth dropped open. Then shut it again. "I—I dunno…"

"You don't know?" You asked sweetly. "Or do you not want to say it out loud?"

He looked away fast, so you just giggled and cupped his cheek. "It's okay. You don't have to say it. But maybe…" You let your thumb slide slowly across his skin, making him shiver. "Maybe I should try it on right now."

His whole body tensed up immediately when you pulled away, trying to reach for the bag where the dress was still inside, along with the other things he'd scavenged.

"What? No... No, don't!" Daryl reached for your wrist, panicking, but his pants were still half-down his thighs, and he couldn't move worth shit. "Just wait! I didn't... I just—fuck!"

But you were already crawling to the other side of his tent as you reached for the bag to get your hands on that dress again.

"Don't," he still begged, sitting up halfway but unable to stop you. "Ain't—just… Just wear it t'morrow!"

You turned to look at him, though you were a little confused by his weird reaction. "I could wear it tomorrow, or I could just wear it right now. Where is the difference? Why are you freaking out about a dress?"

"I ain't freakin' out!" He snapped back, his voice rising, and yanked his boxers and pants completely down to get them off and to finally move. "Just don't—ain't no need for ya to wear it now!"

"Daryl, stop… I'm sorry, but," you laughed, grabbing the bag anyway, "now I have to wear it. Whether you like it or not. And I think you will like it. Calm down."

Daryl groaned and dropped back flat onto the sleeping bag, his hands covering his face. "Jesus...shit…"

You pulled the first couple of items out that you've seen before: the canned food, the bottle of water, the medicine, and other hygiene things that he probably got for you. But once you reached for the dress, your hand touched something else at the bottom of the bag.

Pulling it out slowly and turning it over in your hands, you had to blink several times in disbelief.

"...Daryl." He didn't answer, and you stared at the condoms in your hand. "Are these… what I think they are?"

He groaned once more and turned his head away from you, feeling how the shame was about to kill him. "I ain't—I wasn't—I just found ‘em!"

"Found them?" You responded, grinning by now. "And you just happened to put them safely into the bottom of your bag? For what, for emergencies?"

He grumbled something you couldn't make out, so you turned back and got closer to him, waving the condoms in front of his face on purpose. "Daryl Dixon," you whispered playfully, "you got these because of me."

"Nah. I didn't."

"You little liar," you smirked. "You didn't think I'd find out? Or were you just hopingyou'd need them in the future?"

"I didn't even think ya'd—" He sat up finally, his face red all over, and ran a hand through his hair. "I ain't even know if they're good; I just…"

Leaning in close, you reached down between you both, putting your hand on his thigh and feeling him shiver. "You've been dreaming about fucking me, haven't you, Daryl?"

His breath hitched.

"Don't worry, baby. I won't do anything… yet. But…" You leaned in to whisper right into his ear. "I love knowing that you thought about it."

Moving slowly, you gently pushed him back down by the chest until he lay flat again, with his eyes shut tight and parted lips.

"I should reward you," you continued, crawling onto him. "For being brave enough to even think about it."

Daryl's hands twitched at his sides as you straddled him, not right against his cock, but close enough.

"Undo my pants," you smiled, and he froze. "You heard me."

"I—I don't…" His voice cracked. "I never—"

"Doesn't matter," you promised, nuzzling his neck now. "All you gotta do is use your hands."

With shaky fingers, he actually reached for your waistband, but still, he looked at you once, pleading in confusion, and you gave him a nod. "Go on, baby. You can do that."

The button popped open under his fingers.

"Good boy," you praised softly. "Now the zipper."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. But he did it. Slowly. Carefully.

You moved your hips to help him, watching as he opened your pants, and when your panties peeked out beneath them, Daryl let out another shaky breath.

"Want me to take them off for you?" You asked, all gentle and sweet.

He nodded fast. Desperate. Unsure if he should've said no and shaken his head instead, especially since he didn't know what you'd say next.

"No… You do it."

"W-what?" He asked in shock, staring at you.

"You're the one who wants to see," you teased. "So go on, sweetheart. Take them off as well. Not just my pants."

He was breathing harder again now, his chest rising and falling fast, his hands shaking like he didn't dare to touch.

"Don't be scared. You won't hurt me. I promise."

Slowly, shakily, his hands slid to your waistband. With a quiet grunt and a whole lot of effort, he tugged them down your hips.

"I—" His voice cut off into another broken groan. He was getting hard again. You could feel it. Your position over his thighs was perfect, and that little bit of pressure was definitely waking up his cock.

"Shit… Please…" He begged, though he probably didn't even know what he was asking for.

But it didn't matter. You were going to give it to him anyway. Let him take off your panties. Let him see everything.

Out of nowhere, you stood up and got off of him slowly. He was still laid out on the sleeping bag, not wanting to move unless told to. Picking the pink dress back up from where you left it, you watched the way Daryl's eyes stayed on you while you played around with it.

"You want me to put this on for you, baby?" You asked, your voice sounding as sweet as sugar. "Me wearing this while I ride your dick like I promised?"

Daryl let out another groan and tried to hide his face behind his forearm.

"Oh no. Don't be shy now," you grinned, getting him to peek at you from under his arm in return, trying not to smile in embarrassment.

You held the dress up and slowly put it on, not pulling it all the way down just yet—only down to your hips, holding it there. You knew what you were doing, and so did he.

"You're thinking about it right now, aren't you? Me in this little thing… climbing on top of you, telling you how to fuck me? Or maybe I'd ride you with it bunched up around my waist, my tits out of the top for you to suck on like before…"

Daryl whimpered again with a visibly harder cock that wanted more, even if he wasn't sure he should.

Stepping further away from him, you pointed down at the end of his sleeping bag in front of you. "Crawl to me."

Daryl wasn't sure he'd heard you right and tilted his head.

"You heard me. Crawl. To. Me."

He opened his mouth to protest, but you looking at him like that stopped him before a word came out. Shame-faced and trembling, he started to move. And it wasn't exactly graceful. Daryl was awkward as hell trying to crawl with his cock hardening against his thigh, but he did it—hands on the ground, knees following as he moved closer, his face burning red the entire way.

Reaching down, you grabbed his jaw to make him look at you. "Good boy," you praised him with a smile. "Do you really want me to wear this dress when I ride you? Tell me."

"Y-yeah," he nodded shakily.

You smirked, letting out a relaxed sigh. "You really wanna be inside me while I'm wearing it, huh?" Another whimper. A twitch from his cock below. "But you know what you have to do first, don't you?"

Daryl swallowed, looking away from you. "N-no?"

You grinned a little and slid your other hand into the waistband of your panties but didn't pull them down. "You still need to take these off for me. But not with your hands."

He stared at you again, lips parted, a confused expression on his face. "Huh?"

"With your mouth, Daryl," you answered dryly, biting your tongue after those words left you.

His eyes widened. "With… with my—my…"

"Use your teeth," you continued sweetly, letting go of his jaw. "I'm not using my hands. And neither are you. Go on."

Daryl stared at what was in front of him, right at your panties, swallowing hard. And you? You just stepped a little closer. Close enough that your thighs were almost touching his face. "Do it, Dixon."

He stopped, but then you felt his breath on your skin as he leaned in, trembling. With his mouth open, he slowly caught the edge of the waistband between his lips, his nose pressing against your lower stomach. You gasped softly as the warmth of his breath hit your skin, his teeth barely biting into the fabric as he pulled at it. It took everything in you not to moan at how careful he was.

Working your panties down awkwardly slow, Daryl was clearly unsure if he was doing it right. But you just sighed calmly and stroked his hair, praising him further. "That's it. You're doing so good. Keep going, sweetheart."

He grunted, pulling them further down inch by inch, kissing your skin accidentally between his pulls, his stubble brushing your inner thigh—and by the time they slipped past your hips, his nose was buried close enough to your pussy that you felt his shaky breath there.

"That's good, baby. Now pull them all the way down."

Daryl obeyed. His teeth pulled them lower until your panties dropped to your ankles, and you stepped out of them, one foot at a time. You bent to pick them up, but not before giving him a full view of your pussy. Though you didn't have to ask—his eyes were already staring, wide and stunned.

"Gonna let me ride your dick with nothing but this pretty little dress on?" You asked once more to get his attention back, running your fingers over your thigh.

No answer.

You looked down at his cock; by now it was already leaking.

"Now, look at that," you smirked. "I think you liked that more than you want to admit."

Daryl simply nodded, his hands twitching like he wanted to touch you, to taste, but was too scared to do so.

"Can you wait for me?" You asked, wanting to calm him down softly. "Can you stay good a little longer?"

He nodded when you leaned down, giving him another kiss on the mouth, slow and soft, before you took a few steps toward the bag, grabbing one of the condoms. Daryl was still kneeling, his eyes looking from your fingers to your face, trying to commit the whole moment to memory in case it was just a fever dream in the end, even after everything that has happened so far.

"Lie back down."

Crouching down after you said those words and helping Daryl with pushing him onto his back again, you suddenly moved to press a kiss to the tip of his cock—just a quick one—and he almost sobbed. You then crawled up into his lap, straddling him, your pussy just above it, not touching it yet.

"Arms over your head," you said next, watching as he obeyed without any words.

Stretching them and holding one wrist with one of his hands made his biceps flex instantly, while he himself was looking all helpless beneath you.

That was the moment you were the one almost losing your mind—just because of him.

You hadn't expected how immensely strong he looked laid out like that. The second his arms flexed, you stopped breathing. No, you hadn't expected it at all. You'd known he was strong, sure—years of hunting, tracking, and surviving life—but seeing it? Your mouth went dry.

"Goddamn…" You stammered before you could stop yourself, blushing slightly.

Meanwhile, Daryl looked at you kind of confused, not understanding what was wrong. "What?"

"N-nothing," you answered quickly, hoping he wasn't able to notice the effect he had on you. "Just… stay still. Eyes on me."

He obeyed again. Good boy. Too good. So good that you had to let out a deep, long breath. And he saw it. But you caught yourself quickly, pressing your thighs a little together to hold back the trembling building between them, your knees pushing against either side of his hips.

"Don't move," you whispered. "Not a muscle."

Leaning back ever so slightly and spreading your legs wide enough to show off everything, you then slid your hand down the dress. "You will stay quiet and watch me," you explained to him. "That's all you're allowed to do for now."

You slid your fingers down over your belly, past the edge of the dress, and let your touch slip between your thighs, making your breath hitch, and his too. Daryl's hips twitched slightly, but he still didn't move his arms. He just bit his lower lip, which was trembling a bit now. But you kept your movements slow. One finger was sliding between your pussy folds, parting them. Then two fingers, spreading them wider and teasing yourself, rubbing them softly over your clit while you moaned—just for him.

Daryl groaned in return, and you pushed your fingers deeper, pressing inside enough to feel how wet you were before pulling them out and bringing them back to your mouth. You sucked one finger clean—still watching him—and his body shivered, his fists clenching where they lay above his head.

"Poor baby," you teased him on purpose. "You're trying so hard, aren't you?"

Daryl nodded desperately. No words, just him nodding, wanting you to save him from himself. Then, he did something again that made you stop.

Only one thing.

One tiny, unplanned, accidental thing.

Something he'd done since you'd woken him from grinding and humping against your ass in his sleep. It was him looking at you. But not at your tits, not at your pussy, but at your face. Daryl looked up at you with those goddamn blue eyes, as if he was already in love with you and wanting you to notice that this wasn't only about lust—it was all about you, you, you.

"God… f-fuck… Daryl," you whispered with a shaky voice.

Immediately grabbing for the condom next to you, you quickly bit at the edge of it, fast, tearing the package open with your teeth. Daryl's eyes went wide in confusion as you held the torn wrapper between your teeth, letting him see it there while you stared him down, lips parted around the piece you bit off, before spitting it away to the side.

Taking out the condom and throwing the rest of the package away, you moved lower over his body until your face was right above his cock. You watched Daryl flinch, his legs tensing as you reached out, gently wrapping your fingers around his shaft. He hissed through his teeth, whimpering at the feeling of your touch.

"Hush now," you whispered and began pumping him slowly, with just your fingertips at first. He throbbed in your hand, his head dropping back against the sleeping bag as you worked him up.

Still keeping your eyes looking at his, you leaned down toward his cock and pressed your lips to the tip, making it leak even harder, but you did manage to hold him still.

Smirking at him next, you brought the condom to your face instead, putting the ring of it carefully between your lips, and used only your mouth to roll it down over his shaft, inch by inch, holding his shaft steady with one hand. It took effort. But you managed it. When the condom finally slid all the way down, you pulled back, leaning over him again and letting your tits press against his chest.

Daryl moaned quietly, so you just kissed him again—really kissed him.

Not like before. This time, you kissed him roughly, letting your tongue slide into his mouth. He gasped and shivered under you, his tongue all clumsy but wanting more, his body shaking all over.

"Look at you," you whispered against his jaw when you pulled back. "Lying there and just waiting for me to fuck you."

Daryl swallowed hard at your words. Then you moved, sitting upright on his thighs and moving forward until your pussy pressed to the length of his cock, still not letting him inside, just grinding yourself down along the shaft.

The warmth of his cock, the shape… Shit, it felt good.

"F-fuck," Daryl breathed out when you rocked forward again, sliding up slowly, notching the tip ever so slightly against your clit before grinding back down.

"Shit—please—fuck."

You laughed as a response, short and sweet, and reached up to grab one of the straps of the dress, letting it slip slowly off your shoulder. It slid down, giving him another chance to look at your tits again.

"Wanna suck?" You asked him, and he nodded helplessly, staring up at you with an overwhelmed expression.

Leaning back down, you offered it to him. His mouth found your tit instantly, his lips sucking on your nipple while you kept grinding down along his cock. You could feel how close he was again, his cock throbbing with every little movement.

"God," you moaned. "You make me feel so good, Daryl..."

He whimpered against your skin, sucking harder at your nipple, until you straightened up, letting it slip from his mouth, only to reach down and grip his cock, guiding the tip right where you wanted it to be next.

That first moment—simply letting the tip of his cock push against your soaked pussy—was almost too much. Even through the condom, you felt everything. The thickness. The throbbing of it. The sheer size of him.

Jesus Christ. He really was big.

Then, slowly, so goddamn slowly, you sank down onto him. The tip of his cock pushed into you with such a deep, thick stretch, it made you both moan—louder and longer, but not too loud. And you took your time. Letting inch after inch of his cock fill you up until he was completely inside, your ass pressing down onto his lap.

"Holy… holy shit," you breathed out, half-laughing, half-groaning, your hands now on his chest to steady yourself as you rocked your hips forward, letting yourself feel him pulsing inside. "Daryl, you're—fuck…"

Looking down at him, Daryl choked on another moan, but still, he didn't look. That wouldn't do.

"Look at me, baby."

He shook his head, his eyes still squeezed shut. "Can't."

"Why not?"

"Don't wanna fuck it up," he sobbed in return. Your heart damn near broke at that, but you didn't let it show. Instead, you reached out to caress his cheek.

"You're not doing anything wrong. You're doing good. Now open those eyes and look at me."

His eyes opened slowly, almost afraid, but when he looked up at you, they seemed to relax.

And shit, there was that same look on his face again, giving away that he'd never seen anything so unreal in his life. You, in that pink dress, breathing hard, your tits bouncing just slightly as you ground your pussy on his cock, your eyes looking into his like you owned him. Like this moment, this man—was yours.

"There we go," you whispered. "Keep your eyes on me."

And then you lifted yourself just a bit, leaving only the tip of his cock inside of you before you sank back down.

Your mouth dropped open as he slid in again, inch by aching inch, and all you could do was to start riding him faster—and you meant it—your hips rolling, your ass slapping against his thighs. And the more you moved, the harder it was to stay calm. Especially when you looked at his reactions.

"Keep looking," you reminded him with a breathless voice.

Daryl tried; he really did. But his eyes looked down, then back to your face with another loud groan. His hips pushed up once, involuntarily, and you whimpered at the sudden, deep, rough thrust.

"Oh, fuck! Y-you like watching it go in, don't you?"

Daryl bit his lip and nodded, but then looked back at your face as if it was the most important part of you.

Smiling, you began to move faster again, your rhythm picking up, riding him harder now, which had both of you gasping, cursing, and trembling. Your soaked pussy was taking him again and again, his cock filling you so perfectly, stretching you with every movement, so deep you could barely concentrate.

And you loved it. Loved how shy he looked while his cock was buried inside you, loved how he watched you so insecurely, not wanting to hurt you.

Your hands moved to your tits, pulling out the other one, squeezing them right in front of him, and pinching your nipples as you bounced on his cock. That got you a grunt—and a broken, whispered, "Goddamn..."

Now he was really watching.

"Yeah… just like that," you breathed. "That's it, baby. Watch me."

He moaned again, his mouth open now, totally lost.

And you were getting close. You could feel it—the way your clit ground down against him just right, the muscles of your thighs aching from the effort of riding him. But you didn't stop. You could feel him fighting it, staying still beneath you, letting you use him just like you'd promised. But then he bucked again. Out of nowhere, his hips thrust up once more.

"Oh God—fuck!" You nearly screamed, your whole body tensing up as the thick tip of his cock slammed as deep into you as it possibly could.

Your hands searched for his shoulders as you struggled to hold on, and Daryl instantly panicked. "Shit—I—I didn't mean to!"

Not wanting to answer him, one of your hands grabbed for his wrists, holding them down roughly.

"Don't move," you hissed, but your voice cracked, sounding more like begging than an actual command he'd have to follow.

Daryl's biceps flexed, though he didn't resist as you leaned down, kissing him at first, only to bite him next, right on the muscles of one arm. Your lips left a bruise, your teeth a mark, and still you didn't stop moving, your pussy continuing to clench around his cock.

You couldn't even talk anymore. All the words were gone. All you had left were the noises you made. Breathy, broken moans. Shaky, little whimpers every time his cock filled you up completely. Soft, short gasps that escaped between kisses to his arms, his neck, his shoulder—anywhere you could reach his body with your mouth, but without ever letting go of his wrists.

"Fuck, fuck…" Daryl was groaning beneath you, ragged and fast, his muscles twitching under your grip.

He was trying his hardest to hold back, knowing it would be beyond any kind of hope if he let his body continue to respond to your every little touch.

You felt drunk on it. Wild. Overstimulated and insatiable all at once. Then it hit you, that deep feeling inside that told you that your orgasm was coming fast, and you barely managed to choke out the warning.

"S-shit! I'm about to—"

You had to slow down. With shaking hands, you let go of his wrists, putting your palms on his thighs instead, and leaned back—arching your body and trying to keep calm. It was right there… right there.

"Hold me," you then gasped. "Now. Please."

Daryl obeyed. His hands quickly moved to your hips, trembling and sweaty, but still as strong as always. And as soon as he gripped you, it slowed down everything. You didn't exactly know if time had stopped, but it sure felt like it. Just long enough to see him.

"Look at me," you whispered. He already was, and you knew that, but you felt the need to convince yourself that he wouldn't look away.

"I don't want to come without you… I want to come with you. With."

You weren't sure if you were begging or controlling anymore—maybe it was both. Maybe that's what desperation looked like on you: shaking, wet, aching, and stretched full with him, your voice almost nothing but that one plea.

With.

Daryl's fingers tightened just a little on your hips, but he didn't answer. His mouth opened in hopes to answer, to say anything, and to give you everything in return, but nothing came out except a long, needy moan that turned into a needy, broken sound as you rolled your hips slower, with Daryl feeling himself twitch inside you.

"Please," you said again, but this time it was quieter. You were so close it almost hurt—it was just too much—but you waited. You held it back with every bit of strength you had left. Simply to make sure.

Daryl looked done, even scared to let it happen. "'M tryin'…"

His voice broke off, and you nearly screamed. Everything inside you tensed up. "Come with me, Daryl, come on… Touch me."

His hands finally grabbed your ass hard, pushing you down onto his cock, and his hips bucked up into you, uncontrolled now, losing himself. Then it hit you both at once.

You cried out but didn't care. Couldn't hold back the sob as you came hard on his cock, taking your breath away, your everything. Daryl came the same second. You felt it. The way he shook. The way he groaned with his lips trembling and eyes squeezed shut as his cock pulsed hard inside you.

As soon as it was over, you leaned forward, your forehead touching his, kissing him softly several times in a row. And for a while, neither of you moved. Nothing but the sound of panting. Of hearts trying to calm down. And Daryl… poor Daryl looked like he wasn't sure he'd survived it.

"Still with me, sweetheart?"

He didn't answer at first but nodded. His voice, when it came, was sounding kind of hoarse and unsure.

"Y-yeah… I… goddamn..." He trailed off, burying his face in your neck, without being able to stop himself from remembering something. Something he'd already been trying to push away, probably the moment it happened.

"Ya bit me," he then whispered, his voice quiet like he was trying not to draw attention to it. "‘S'pose that was on purpose?"

Looking back at him, you raised an eyebrow, smiling knowingly. Not teasing in a way that might confuse him. Just amused. And maybe still a little… hungry.

"What, you didn't like it?"

Daryl looked away instantly. "N-no, I, uh, I didn't say that. I just—" He swallowed loudly. "Was kinda… surprised, I guess."

"Surprised?" You repeated, moving your hand across his chest and further until it stopped above the spot on his biceps that you'd bitten. Biting your bottom lip, you then grinned at Daryl as if you were about to devour him all over again. "I simply told you to keep still."

"But I did…"

Your smile turned into a tiny smirk. "Then maybe I was simply proud of you."

Daryl didn't know what to do with that answer. You could see it in the way he looked at you. He looked like a man who'd never been praised for anything except maybe not dying. "Flex your arms for me..."

"What?"

You pulled back just far enough to look right into his eyes again, your hand not leaving one of his strong arms. "I told you to flex for me. Be a good boy and flex your arms again. Come on, show me."

Daryl closed his eyes and still hesitated. Really hesitated. His brows were furrowed in thought, checking if you were messing with him. Knowing that his first instinct was to run away from being seen again, you continued to wait patiently until he breathed out slowly through his nose and obeyed. The muscles under your touch tensed, feeling ever so strong and still trembling a little from everything you'd done to him before.

Hell, he had no idea what that did to you.

You immediately leaned down and dragged your mouth along his bicep, soft at first, just a teasing little kiss. Then your tongue came out, licking along it until he shuddered, before your lips were pressed to the mark you'd left earlier, sucking a little harder this time.

"Shit," Daryl whispered. "What're ya doin'…"

But he didn't stop you.

"I'm making sure you know," you said quietly, pulling back again, "that you didn't imagine this."

He didn't answer, but his eyes looked at his arm to where your lips had just been, then back up to your face, unable to believe it. As if all of this—your mouth, your voice, your gentleness—was too much to understand. And that was when you could feel how something changed. It wasn't even noticeable at first. The way his hands twitched and then went still. The way he stopped looking at you, even though your face was still so close to his.

"Hey, hey," you whispered softly. "Daryl, are you okay?"

His jaw clenched and his shoulders stiffened further beneath you, making him uncomfortable. "…Yeah."

"Did I hurt you?" You sat up a little, carefully, and that's when he hissed again.

"N-no," he answered with a strained voice, not really convincing you.

"Okay, okay, wait," you whispered, slowly lifting yourself off him, trying to be gentle, but he winced again, his eyes squeezing shut as his cock slipped out. He turned his face to the side, biting down on his tongue, wishing it would help, since he didn't want you to hear him make another pitiful sound.

Once you slipped off him, you instinctively reached down to take care of the condom. Kneeling between his legs, your fingers cautiously slipped it off, tying it together and tossing it aside without saying anything, trying to keep things quiet.

But Daryl was trembling again by now. He was lying there with his face turned away, seemingly chewing on the inside of his cheek with his teeth. His hands were curled into fists on either side of him, his arms all stiff, not knowing what to do with them anymore.

Daryl only then realized that you'd pulled off him. Not because you weren't on him anymore, riding him. No, you weren't with him anymore. That was when his thoughts started screaming. That this was over. That you got what you wanted, and now you'd realize what an asshole he was underneath it all. He hated how much he wanted to pull you back down. Onto his lap. Onto his cock. Onto him. Just to feel safe again. Just to feel needed. But he didn't say a word. Didn't even breathe right.

Reaching out to caress his chest, you were caught off guard the second your fingertips touched him, his arm shooting out, grabbing your wrist.

You gasped, and Daryl realized what he was doing too late. His eyes snapped open, and he instantly let go. You pulled back a little from the shock of it, holding your wrist, and the expression on his face?

He looked like someone had just hit him. "Fuck, 'm sorry! This ain't—"

"Hey, it's okay," you cut him off fast, holding up your hands, even though your heart was still racing a little bit. "It's okay, Daryl. You didn't hurt me. I'm fine. I'm okay."

But you weren't sure he heard you when he sat up. His face was turning pale now, his hands shaking as he slid them through his hair, back and forth, over and over again. He was grumbling something—probably to himself—but you couldn't make it out.

"Stupid… stupid fuckin'—goddamn—shouldn't've…"

"Daryl," you said softly, still kneeling in front of him, but he didn't look at you. His eyes were somewhere else, far away.

"I fuckin' touched ya like that," he finally whispered. "Grabbed ya."

"Yeah, and then you let go," you said gently, but your voice was shaking now too, but not because of any pain he thought he'd caused. "Daryl, you didn't hurt me."

Then you realized he wasn't breathing right. Short, shallow gasps, like he was trying not to cry or scream or vomit. Or maybe all three.

"I ain't like that," he whispered. "I ain't—I ain't him!"

You didn't know who 'him' was, but your heart sank at the sound of it. Some memory, or so it seemed. Some long-buried monster, maybe.

Daryl looked at you once again. But there was no man in front of you. He looked like before—just a boy. A boy who never got held after someone hurt him. A boy who was taught that love was dangerous and wanting love made you weak. A boy who'd never been looked at like he was wanted, let alone loved, and now that he'd let you see all of him—let you use him, take him, and especially care for him—it was too much. And now the shame was devouring him from the inside out.

"I fuckin' spat on ya," he then remembered. "Treated ya like shit. Told ya that ya were nothin' but some fuckin'… useless dumbass…"

"Daryl—"

"Ya should hate me," he simply continued, louder this time. "Ya should. Ya should hate me, ya should leave, shit, ya should go!"

He moved to get up, but his knees wouldn't let him the second he stood. His legs gave out, and you caught him in time, your arms wrapping around him as he leaned against you, trembling harder.

"Daryl, hey… hey," you quickly said, holding him up, or trying to as best as you could. "I'm here. Listen to me… I won't leave. I won't."

Pressing his face into your shoulder, he didn't answer you and went silent. Breathing hard. Twitching a little in your arms like he was cold. Or scared. Or both. You sat down slowly, pulling him with you, holding him in your arms, sensing that he didn't know how to hold himself up anymore. You didn't do anything else for a while. You only held him.

Eventually, you felt one little, wet drop hit your naked chest. Then another.

And you said nothing, but Daryl had gone quiet now, with his forehead pressed against your collarbone. Eventually, he tried to put one of his arms around your waist, and the twitching of his muscles definitely wasn't the good kind. They twitched way too fast for someone who wasn't really moving.

As soon as you moved slightly away from him, he sobbed in shock, thinking you would really just leave.

"Easy, baby. Just grabbing something for you."

Daryl's eyes followed you, wide and glassy, unsure if he should stop you or not, so you gave him a tiny smile—just enough to convince him you weren't going anywhere for real. Then you crouched by the corner of his tent, searching through the clothing you left on the ground. His pants, your panties, his boxers, your bra, and your shirt were all tangled together, looking through it until you found what you were searching for.

The flannel shirt you gave him. You picked it up and brought it back over to where he was still half-sitting, dazed and shivering.

"Arms up," you whispered, remembering how you'd told him those same two words before.

But Daryl only sobbed.

"Come on now," you said gently, watching how he moved awkwardly and unsure. "Only the shirt."

You slipped the sleeves on, one at a time, then buttoned the middle lazily. Not all the way. Just enough so it wouldn't slip off his shoulders if he moved again.

Then you leaned in and kissed his forehead. "Lie down."

He did. Not all the way at first, but once he did, you lay down next to him, pulling the edges of the sleeping bag slightly over both of you, hugging him close until his leg rested over your hip, your hand on his chest, and his forehead against your temple.

You thought maybe Daryl would fall asleep like that. But his breath stuttered.

And the next sob came out of him so suddenly, so harsh, it didn't even sound like crying. It sounded like a choke. Like his body was wanting to push away the pain and couldn't keep it in.

Daryl then grabbed onto you like he was scared, and you could barely keep him still. Even with both arms around his shoulders, his sobs cracked, and he stuttered every time he tried to apologize, repeating it over and over as if it were the only words left in his throat.

"…'M sorry. 'M sorry. 'M sorry…"

"I know," you whispered and kissed his cheek. "I know. I know."

It went on for a while. You lost track of how long. Could've been ten minutes. Could've been thirty. But you didn't care. Eventually, Daryl's crying stopped. He was still trembling, but not violently. His hands relaxed around you, though they didn't let go.

"Daryl?" A hum was the only answer you got. "Can I ask you something?"

This time, he didn't answer with a hum. Just a slight nod, the tiniest one, like it was all he could manage.

"I wanted to know," you started softly. "When you came out of the woods and went up to the RV…" You waited, wanting to see if he remembered what you meant or if he would simply brush it off.

"Just gave Carol a damn flower..."

You nodded and smiled. Not a big smile. Not the kind that told him he did something wrong or something right. It was a quiet, understanding little smile, as if saying, I understand.

But once Daryl realized you weren't answering him, he looked up at you like he couldn't figure out why you weren't mad. Or confused. Or disgusted. Or whatever he thought he deserved. His hand then came up fast, moving in a way that wasn't really familiar for him, with his fingertips brushing against your lower lip once while looking at your mouth. And for a second, it really did feel like the world had gone normal again. As if all that crying and shame and panic never existed.

For you, it seemed Daryl just needed to remind himself that you were real. That your mouth hadn't cursed him out in secret, hadn't spat in his face like he used to do to you. That you were still kind. Still looking at him like he wasn't just white trash.

You then kissed the tip of his finger gently. That was all it took to undo him again. His eyes got wet instantly, and the little shaky breath he took like he was trying not to cry again—it hurt you. Moving closer, your nose bumped against his, one of your hands moving to caress his cheek with the back of it. His skin was still a little sweaty, and he swiped under his eye, even though the tears hadn't fallen again yet.

"You don't have to look at me like that," you whispered.

His voice cracked. "Like what?"

"Like you expect me to leave for good."

Daryl looked at your arm then, the one with the healing injury where you'd sliced it open, the one he thought he was guilty of, in shame and silence. He looked so tired. So tired from thinking that he was the one that almost killed you.

"I don't know what you told Carol," you then continued gently, brushing your nose along his cheek. "But you got her that rose for a reason, right?"

He swallowed once but didn't answer.

"She's not me," you whispered with a smile. "And I'm not her. But I understand."

That got him. He wasn't sure if he should move, if he should do what his twitching hands wanted to do right now. To hold you in his arms as well.

So you reached down and took one of his hands in yours and brought it to your chest. Laid it flat right over your heart. "I know the story," you continued. "The history of the Cherokee roses."

Daryl's lips were parting slightly, but he was nodding in silence.

"That flower only grew when their women cried. Their tears watered it. And when it bloomed, it protected them. It gave them strength. So they were able to keep going. So they could protect again as well."

"Yeah..."

You smiled when Daryl finally spoke, but still, you wanted to remain careful. "It's kinda like... it's a promise."

He tilted his head, still looking unsure.

"Like… no matter how hard it gets, no matter how much shit is in the way," you said, sliding your finger lightly over his chest through the flannel shirt, "there's this rose that grows. It's the courage to keep going, the strength to protect what matters. It sounds familiar, don't you think? Thinking it's invisible... but still holding on. Still here."

"But I hurt ya…" He answered and immediately buried his face in your neck, reaching for your waist so hard that it almost bruised, but not from aggression. Just panic and instinct.

"You didn't mean to. You were scared. You still are."

You looked Daryl straight in the eye so he wouldn't flinch too far away. His lip trembled. Then he did it anyway, apologizing again.

Sighing softly, you pulled his arm a bit tighter around you, letting him feel how warm you still were, how unbothered, how there.

"You're not a bad man, Daryl," you smiled. "But you're a man who got too used to losing."

He didn't answer but held you again, this time much more gently. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other sliding up your back, then stopping like he was still afraid he'd fuck it up. But you just cuddled close and let him.

For once in his whole life, someone was feeling warm, safe, and simply there, and it was him getting to keep it. And for the first time since the world ended, Daryl Dixon let himself fall asleep with someone in his arms—with no fear, no distance, no shame, and no guilt.

Just with you.

And he slept like he knew you'd still be there come morning.

𝑻𝒂𝒈-𝑳𝒊𝒔𝒕: @cokeangell

[lyricwritesprose]

Oh. So I was the bad guy.

I hadn't meant to be the bad guy. I don't suppose anyone does. But in addition to remembering things like the throne and the armies and the crown of fire (which I knew how to summon, now, and also had a feeling it would be a very bad idea), I remember the utter rage. You think that ruling the world would get rid of rage. Everyone knows what happened to the last person who annoyed you because the crows are still at the bits, so surely everyone around you would take care not to offend and everything would work smoothly and it would all be all right. If you can crush everyone and nobody can crush you (old memories of a dungeon, a torturer, the man who took me as an apprentice because that would hurt my weakling original father worst of all) then everything would be all right and you would be happy.

Right?

Doesn't work that way. There's always more to be angry at. Always something.

And despite a very large portion of my mind being just a scream right now (is that anger or fear? Do I know? Have I ever known?) I didn't want to go back.

It had been good here.

I did have to do something about these bandits, though.

The first was holding a sword on Aia, so I grabbed the sword and snapped it in the middle. Should have been enough to tell all of them that they were engaging in an act of stupidity. But the thing about bandits is that they're usually desperate. Since the Empire of the Undying fell, and right now I am not going to deal with that being my fault in several different ways at once, there have been lots of bandits, mostly because minor kings are generally bone stupid enough to give a man a sword and a job and then not pay him afterwards, and what the fuck did they think was going to happen, heavily armed tea parties? Look, they used to say that a child could carry a bag of gold from one end of the Empire to another without being bothered by anything more than well-meaning busybodies, and that wasn't just because of all the impaling and necromantic punishments, it was because my fucking soldiers. Got. Paid. Idiots.

I was woolgathering, and I shouldn't be, because one of the bandits was coming at me with a mace, which I took away from him and broke his ribs with, more because that behavior was extremely rude than because he was any kind of threat to me. Threw it at the head of the bandit leader in the back yelling, "He can't get us all!" First of all, it wasn't true, and second, even if I couldn't get them all, I could most certainly get him. I dodged a sword, broke the arm of the bandit wielding it, and—since Aia couldn't see me—let my eyes flare up a little.

They bolted. Injured members hindmost. The cads.

I sighed, and carefully got my eyes under control, and turned to face Aia.

Oh. Right. That was the other thing about being the Undying. You didn't have any friends. People said they were. But you could see it in their eyes, hear the undercurrent of please no please no please no in the magic. (So was that scream anger, or fear, or loneliness?)

The thing about Aia is that she takes care of things. I don't think she can help it. Orphaned birds. Orphaned deer. Orphaned overlords. Not that she knew about that one. It didn't give me much of a chance, but maybe—

I looked down at the hand I had grabbed the sword with and told it it to stop being quite as invulnerable for right now if it knew what was good for it. "I'll go," I said quietly. "If you want. I'd like some salve, but I don't have to stay here." I held up my hand with its newly manifested fake sword wound.

Which was dishonest of me, yes. On the other hand, the need in her to fix things was every bit as strong as the need I'd had to crush them, and—I don't know—I thought that maybe it would put her on firmer ground? Control is the only thing I know of that fixes the screaming. I didn't know what I was going to do about that on my end of things, I knew I didn't want to go back, but—I also wanted to fix the screaming a little bit for her. To let her control something.

"Oh." She beckoned me back towards the house. "Oren, you're going to turn all my hair gray, do you know that? Why would you do something so risky?"

Oren is very much not my name. "I was scared," I admitted. (Hadn't said that since I became an apprentice, the old man was weak, I wasn't weak, I wasn't going to be weak, someday I was going to…) "Why didn't you stay inside? I could have talked to them."

"Then they would have threatened you."

"Better for me to get a little hurt than you get hurt. There's—I'm—look, it's important that you stay safe, all right?"

"I swear I think you might have been a knight," Aia said, and held the door absently so I could follow her into the kitchen.

I had not been a knight. I was very, very much not any kind of a knight.

I wasn't going to tell her that today, though.

Found memoryless in a forest, you lived for years on a widow’s farm. She tried everything to help you remember. Nothing worked until the day you saw her held at swordpoint, and your true identity came rushing back.

[misaerabl]

MUTED 𝝑𝑒 - masterlist

✧˖°📷 ༘ ⋆｡˚ gamer&commentary creator!e x influencer!u (enemies to lovers) SUMMARY : wc... ? ˙⋆✮˙ A lifestyle creator with a flawless feed. A reaction channel with a talent for starting drama. Your world is all soft lighting and subtle shade—Ellie Williams is loud edits, louder opinions, and a fanbase that lives for her chaos. You and Ellie were never supposed to cross paths. But one reaction stream, one too-perfect subtweet, and the internet writes its own narrative: a rivalry they can’t get enough of. You’re curated. She’s unfiltered. You go viral for routines. She goes viral for ruining them. It should’ve ended online—but now you’re stuck sharing a cabin, sharing space, sharing tension that won’t stay hidden behind screens. Ellie is frustrating. Fame is relentless. And somewhere between stolen glances and snarky remarks, the line between content and connection starts to blur. Because when everything is made to be watched, the most dangerous thing you can do is feel.

˙⋆✮ READ THE REST ON AO3!

PROLOGUE -- "not sorry"

ellie.exe is live...

The screen is dimly lit in cool purples and flickering LED strips. A soft lo-fi playlist hums beneath the click-clack of keys and the occasional irritated—

“Dude, seriously?”

Ellie, tucked into a hoodie and headset, squints at her monitor, brows furrowed in the way that makes her fans screenshot the stream and tweet things like “she’s so baby when she’s mad”.

She's midway through a stream of some hyper-buggy online multiplayer game her chat begged her to play. She’s not good at it. She’s not pretending to be good at it.

Which is, naturally, why thousands are watching.

“Okay, there is no way that hit me. Roll back the tape. That’s cheating. That’s hacking, actually. I’m reporting him.”

The chat explodes:

lmaoo classic ellie L NOOB.exe pls check out @/reader’s new vid tho omg 😭 she’d beat this game faster than u lmao grwm girl supremacy!!!

Ellie groans, tossing her controller onto her lap and reaching for the watered-down iced coffee she’s been sipping since the stream started. The condensation leaves a faint ring on her desk.

“Okay, okay—pause. I need hydration and emotional support.”

Sip. Grimace. Another sip.

“Wait, who are you all yelling about?”

The chat floods with one name: your username, a wave of heart emojis, thirst comments, and “SHIP??” spam.

“Reader?” Ellie squints at the screen. “The GRWM chick? Seriously?”

A few more keystrokes, a few clicks.

“Okay, I mean… sure. Gotta give the fans what they want.”

The game feed shrinks into the corner. A new window opens on her overlay—your latest video.

GRWM: Night Out Routine (Even If You Cancel Last Minute) 💄🍷

The video fades in. You’re cross-legged on your bed, silky robe slung off one shoulder, hair twisted up with a claw clip, all soft lighting and softer skin. You’re smiling at the camera, walking through a lineup of glassy skincare bottles like it’s second nature.

Ellie leans forward slightly. Just a bit.

“She’s giving Vogue cover, but also… does she even sweat?”

Chat starts twitching:

UR EYES R TOO WIDE STAND UP she plugs her sephora code every 3 minutes she’s got you in a chokehold already babe 😭

“Like, does her skincare budget exceed my rent?”

She pauses—lets the silence sit there a second.

“I’m not judging—I’m just confused. Does she live at Sephora?”

The chat absolutely loses it.

no bc the tension already you’re just in love just say it someone ship name this rn you guys are delusional. ellie hates people like her

Ellie lifts her hands in mock surrender.

“Chat, I’m not a hater—I’m just a broke, bitter lesbian. Calm down.”

She smirks. Just a little. The kind that makes her left cheek dimple slightly, which only makes her chat explode even more.

nah she’s BLUSHING for real

She minimizes the window. Boots her game back up.

“Anyway. I’m going back to getting absolutely smoked in this trash server. Thanks for the detour, creeps.”

But it’s already too late.

The screen recordings are circulating. TikToks are multiplying like bacteria in petri dishes. The fan edits are being born—dramatic music, soft fades, your skincare and her flustered commentary spliced together.

Meanwhile, on your end. Your phone buzzes with a flurry of DMs. Some from fans. Some from mutuals. All of them saying the same thing:

“girl... ellie.exe just reviewed your grwm and i’m SOBBING” “you gonna let her talk to you like that or...?” “you got her blushing on camera 😭”

You scroll. You find the clip. You raise a brow.

Fuck this girl. Fuck her.

You stare at your screen for a bit before hitting post on the tweet.

you @/yourhandle ✨ skincare hits different when your lighting source isn’t a 3am Twitch stream 😘

Your mentions explode. The war has begun.

You swipe through your mentions, catching glimpses of your own face edited onto Mortal Kombat fighters, people tagging Ellie and begging her to respond. You tell yourself you’re over it. That you’ve said what you needed to say. That she doesn’t matter.

And then someone DMs you again.

“uhhhh did you see her tweet 💀”

You open Twitter.

ellie @/ellie.exe some ppl act brand new just because the sun hits them once and they didn’t burst into flames. proud of you 😇

You blink. Read it again. Your jaw actually drops.

That smug, passive-aggressive, “not-a-reply-but-yes-it-is” tone practically has her signature all over it. She didn’t tag you. She didn’t have to. It’s as good as a shot fired.

Like she didn’t start this by coming for your routine with her crusty gamer hands and talking about you like you were a mall display instead of a person?

Oh, hell no.

You set your phone down. Pick it back up. Type. Delete. Type again. Your jaw clenches as you pace your room, bare feet dragging across a fluffy rug as the late afternoon sun pours across your floor—the same one she saw in your video. The one she smirked at like it offended her personally.

You finally hit post.

you @/yourhandle ✨ no hate to the gamers but if your selfcare knowledge is based on your reflection in a loading screen… maybe hush 😘

You don’t even wait to see the fallout this time. You toss your phone onto your bed like it burned you and go to pour yourself something strong and unnecessary.

By the time you come back, Twitter’s already turned your quote tweet into a meme. Your face on a skincare ad. Ellie’s on a GameStop receipt. Someone edited a fake YouTube thumbnail:

“GRWM to fight a gamer lesbian (gone wrong) (emotional)”

You try to laugh, but it comes out tight.

Your blood is hot. Not quite angry, not quite amused. It’s something in between. Something irritating and unfamiliar. Something that smells like obsession.

comments: “they’re gonna make out or kill each other, no in between.” “this is the weirdest foreplay i’ve ever witnessed and i’m here for it” “ellie.exe called her sensitive and now she’s dismantling her entire existence 💅”

You actually exhale a disbelieving, “Oh my God,” into your empty room.

She’s insufferable. Infuriating. Smug. And you hate—hate—the way her face lingered in your head after watching her watch you.

You were supposed to win this. You were supposed to make her shut up. So You make her... By Clicking the block button.

KEEP UP! KEEP UP!

prologue... (you are here!) - "blocked. not sorry" part 1. - "fuck the algorithm" part 2. - "room for conflict" part 3. - "for the record" part 4. - ??? + more!!! (next parts will be posted daily! see you tomorrow!, please comment to be added to the taglist!)

[bewitched-hours]

ANGST IDEA: (if you write it uh.. he/they pronouns for reader)

Two-Time gets so enamored with y/n, they start following them around, until they get the idea,, that y/n would be the best sacrifice for The Spawn. And stabs them mid round (it could be anything, just as long as Two-Time or any other sentinel ends up killing y/n)

And 1x ends up being the killer..

While casting Necromancy, She summons y/n without realizing it, and while they’re checking their minions, he senses a new being under their control.

Revealing Y/n as a minion, somewhat still aware, like a sleepy person, kinda wobbling around and whatnot.. and feels a bit .. bad..

I don't do he/they but I can offer They/Them as the closest to male pronouns as stated in my ruleset(again, nothing against guys but I honestly write a bit more on relatability and for my fellow gals because I see mostly AMAB reader fics-) Also I may have misunderstood the request, I apologize if this isn't what you wanted-

Reader has They/Them-

It wasn't supposed to be even possible... But the Spectre seemed to have been bored.

And by the stars, Two Time's infatuation with you gave it an idea.

You thought it was innocent at first and that you could handle them despite not reciprocating their feelings. You were just kind like that, not wanting to hurt anyone's feelings.

Hell, you even went out of your way to apologize to killers and make sure they didn't feel discouraged by a missed attack... Even though they wouldn't be in the first place...

But what no one could've seen coming was Two Time suddenly backstabbing you and successfully killing you..?

That wasn't right. Something was up, especially when you were nowhere to be found after that round. Even your cabin was completely destroyed which only meant...

You were actually dead dead. Gone from existence entirely.

Obviously, the blame was on Two Time. They stabbed you after all and all they could talk about was the Spawn possibly giving them a third life to better protect everyone.

It left a sour taste in their mouths but the Spectre did grant them a third life to keep them insane.

The next round was when things got interesting.

1x1x1x1 was chosen as the killer and in the middle of it, she chose to use necromancy. Raising minions from the dead to help him with taking care of the pesky survivors.

Although you horrified the survivors with your appearance, 1x failed to realise it until much later while checking on the minions because she felt a new presence among them.

And there you stood. Not entirely stable as you looked more like someone fighting off exhaustion and being on the edge of collapsing. It looked pitiful enough.

So when the round ended and you were taken to the killer's cabin with them, 1x merely picked you up and explained what happened quickly before hauling you off with them.

Did you even know what was happening? You didn't show any resistance but the vengeance she could feel from you when you spotted Two Time was enough to allow you to be a true minion.

There would just need to be a few modifications...

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

[kawaiigirly21]

Our Little Soda Pop: Chapter 3

Later on, the rest of that day went about as smoothly as it could go. During the recording, the boys did become a bit more touchy but Natasha simply chalked it up to nerves. She fought the urge to smirk everytime one of them tried to allude to something sexual. She was perfect at playing dumb. As if she couldn't smell their wanton arousal. She knew she triggered something and had perfect and total control. So much for their loyalty to Gwi-Ma.

She bet that if she asked them to, they would give up all alliance with the so-called king. Watching as the boys got through their last lines, Natasha had food brought in so they could eat something after singing for so long. Abby and Baby were the first to attack the food but after minor scolding, made sure to leave some for the other three. “You boys sounded great in there.” Natasha complimented as she fixed a plate for Mystery who practically became attached to her hip. “Thank you Ms. Natasha. We're one step closer to our goal in taking down the hunters.” Jinu replied after taking a few bites of his food.

“Jinu lean forward.” Natasha responded. As he did so, his eyes widened as Natasha took a napkin and wiped the corner of his mouth clean. “There we go. Oh? What's up Mystery?” Natasha asked, turning her attention back to the other idol. “Hey um miss manager? When do we get what Romance got this morning huh?” Abby asked, huffing a bit. “I think we all behaved ourselves today. Don't we deserve a little reward too? How come you touched him?” Baby added. “I don't have to explain myself to you and if you keep asking about it, you won't get it. Eat. You have a photoshoot later.” Natasha replied unbothered.

That evening as the boys wrapped up the last of their photos, Mystery watched as Natasha typed away on her phone with a serious expression. She was talking to someone about something important for them. He loved that about her. She was always working. She always looked so busy. Like she completely had her shit together. He adored that about her. However, he also wished she would take a break every now and then.

“Alright boys. Time to go! Max, I expect those photos by Friday!” Natasha spoke while ushering the band out the doors and into their van. “I call shotgun!” Abby shouted as he practically launched himself into the passenger seat. “You had it on the way over here Abs, let someone else get the seat.” “Ugh fine!” He huffed as he moved to the back and Jinu climbed in the front. The drive home was silent save for the silent music playing in the background.

After arriving home, while everyone scrambled to get in Natasha's bed, still, she asked to speak to Abby alone in the living room. “I know you didn't want to give up your seat but you still did because I asked. I like when you boys listen to me.” She smiled as she led him to the couch and sat him down. “It makes me happy knowing that you respect me that much.” She whispered before leaning down to kiss him sweetly.

Almost instantly, his arms were around her and bringing her down to his lap. “Do I get some lovin this time?” Natasha giggled slightly before nodding. “Yes you get one thing of your choice tonight.” The man wasted no time in choosing his reward. “I want your mouth on my cock. I need it Mistress… please~” He whined as he began to free his cock from the confines of his jeans. Looking down, Natasha smirked before pressing a quick kiss to his neck.

“You’re a big boy aren't you?” She then moved off his lap and settled on the floor in between his legs. “Nervous?” Abby chuckled. “Oh please. I've had bigger sweetheart.” Natasha sighed before leaning in to press a kiss to the tip of the large cock waiting to take sanctuary in her mouth. That was a lie. Natasha had her fair share of fun sure, but none of her past exploits were ever this well endowed. Taking the tip into her mouth and swirling her tongue around it, her ears perked up at the heavy breaths Abby was starting to take.

Slowly but surely, she started to bob her head on the erection. Taking more and more of the cock until it almost filled her mouth completely. Save for a few inches at the base. “Oh f-fuck… you look so hot…” Now, at this point she would have smirked and made a comment about how desperate he sounded, but doing anything but trying to fit the rest of the cock down her throat was impossible. “Mm… oh yea… keep going…” Abby moaned as he watched Natasha suck his cock.

Although he was definitely enjoying himself, he was also physically fighting the urge to take the older demoness by her hair and fuck her throat. Not because he was worried about her, oh no. He knew she could handle it. It was his own safety he was worried for. Getting on her bad side was something that was not on his list for that evening. Suddenly, he began to moan louder and his grip on the couch tightened as his eyes watched Natasha quicken her movements.

Humming around his cock, creating vibrations that added to the pleasure. “Shit! Y-yes! Please! Oh fuck! Oh fuck!” Unable to resist anymore, Abby grabbed a fistful of Natasha's hair and began to fuck her throat. Pushing her head all the way down to his crotch causing her to deep throat him. “Fuck!! Mistress! Your throat feels so good! Your mouth! Mm! Mm! Fuck! So good!” The sounds of her wet mouth fueling his desire and urge to paint her throat white.

“Cumming! Oh shit! I'm cumming!! Yes! Yes! Mistress!! I'm cumming!” Looking up at the man, the moment Natasha's eyes met those of Abby's he immediately came down her throat. Pushing her head all the way down to his crotch once more. “Mistress!!! Mm! Fuck!!!” It didn't take long for the man to come down from his high after Natasha pulled away from his cock. “You alright? I-i didn't mean to get that crazy.”

Natasha only laughed and smiled before standing from her position and kissed his forehead. “I'm fine hun. Are you ok? I didn't think you could sound so…whiny.” She laughed as she watched the man groan before standing as well. “Put that away and get ready for bed. I'll join you shortly.” Natasha smiled before grabbing her phone and walking into the elevator. She then dialed a number, while the elevator descended.

“Natasha. I am pleased to hear from you. How are the boys settling in?” Gwi-Ma asked. “Fine. That's the only update you're getting from me, asshole. Don't contact me anymore.”

@prettygirlkiki

@rivainimermaid

Chapter 4

[rainrot4me]

Okay hear me out what kinks would the creeps have 🤔

✦ . jeff the killer

Degradation + Biting

Jeff gets off on power and chaos—so you better believe he enjoys hearing you beg, cry, and call him names. He wants you a mess.

“C’mon, say it again—call me a monster. You like it when I ruin you.”

Also: He bites. Deep. Playfully or not. If he draws blood, he considers it a job-well-done.

✦ . ticci toby

Overstimulation + Praise

Toby’s love language is praise when he’s not killing. He needs to hear you want him, over and over. He loses his mind if you beg him to keep going, digging his feet and going as hard as he can. All just to hear your approval.

“You’re takin’ it so good, s-sweetheart… shit, I didn’t think you’d last this long.”

✦ . eyeless jack

Body Worship + Control

Jack is surprisingly reverent. He likes the science of you—how your body reacts, what makes you tremble. He’ll pin you down and take his time, running over every square inch inside and out. Whatever makes you squeal is what he takes notes on.

“You’re beautiful when you fall apart like this. Slow down now, let me make you feel good.”

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Rough Sex + Ownership

Tim’s possessive in bed—he needs to claim. Nothing soft. He grabs your throat just to feel your pulse and squeeze the air out of your lungs. When your body is completely limp and eyes are rolling back, he really gets into you.

“Mine. You got that? Say it.”

Also: Gets off on you being fully clothed while he’s dry humping you. It’s the anticipation and desire to be inside of you, but making you cum in your underwear first that makes him feral.

✦ . hoodie (brian thomas)

Power Exchange + Silent Dom

Brian doesn’t talk much during sex, but his touch commands. He likes obedience—not because he demands it, but because you give it. It’s his touch and whispers against your neck that have you falling to his every whim, not any stern words or threats.

“Good girl,” murmured low, quiet in your ear while he ruins you slowly.

He’s the type to make you ask permission to cum.

✦ . kate the chaser

Spanking + Domme Energy

Kate likes control and isn’t shy about taking what she wants. She gets off on watching you obey—even better if you’re defiant first. Any excuse to grip you by the back do the neck and lay you over her lap is a good one.

“Don’t act innocent now. You wanted to be punished.”

Wields a knife and a strap equally well.

✦ . ben drowned

Teasing + Remote Control

Ben’s all about games—he’ll tease you for hours, hack into a vibrator, send you risky messages during work. He loves watching you squirm. Keeping that little pulsing bullet inside while you try and speak, yeah.

“Try not to moan, cutie. Everyone’s watching.”

✦ . clockwork

Switching + Knife Play

Natalie loves both topping and being thrown around. Knife against the throat? Yes. Letting you ride her while she moans your name? Also yes. Sex with her is always a dramatic rollercoaster of emotions and strength.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll leave a mark—but only where no one else can see.”

✦ . laughing jack

Fear Play + Pet Names

He lives for fearplay—light sadism, psychological teasing, and whispering filthy things through a grin. He’ll chase you through the woods, sneak around corners and pin you against walls, anything to get your heart beating out of your chest.

“You look scared… Don’t worry, doll. I’ll be gentle. Ish.”

✦ . slenderman

Mind Control + Tentacle Play

Slender’s kinks are cerebral, surreal—he gets inside your head. He makes you want it. Elegant, controlling, utterly overwhelming. Anything that has your mind pulsing along with your insides If your eyes are glassy and your mouth can hardly shut, he’s satisfied.

“You were made for this. Made for me.”

꩜ .ᐟ