#stand your ground and cry | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aleksatia · 2 months ago

Text

10 Ways You Ruin His Day (and 10 Ways You Ruin His Self-Control)

I originally made this list as character notes for future stories — I love digging deep into their dynamics and really breaking them down. But honestly? I couldn’t not share. Would love to hear your thoughts too: what do you think drives them absolutely mad, and what turns them into helpless fluff puddles? 🖤

�� Top 10 Things That Make Caleb Absolutely, Irrevocably Mad

1 He doesn’t know where you are Even when it makes sense. Even when you’re safe. Even when he’s on the far side of a tunnel with no signal and too much time to think. The silence eats at him, turns every breath into a countdown. By the time he’s back, no one on the base dares talk to him until you’re in his line of sight again.

2 You come home with a bouquet of flowers from another man It’s not jealousy, really. It’s… fury dressed in olive green. You’re standing there, smiling, saying some poor man gave you flowers because you saved his life. Great. Fantastic. Caleb’s thrilled that his girlfriend is both competent and accidentally irresistible. But now he has to pretend this isn’t bothering him while mentally comparing the man's face to strategic punching surfaces.

3 You climb on unstable furniture to reach something You know, nothing fancy—just a stack of books on top of a chair that’s on top of a bench. And you? Balancing like a gremlin in fuzzy socks. He walks in and suddenly the war flashbacks begin. You think it’s funny. He thinks it’s a workplace hazard, and you are the HR violation.

4 You rearrange his model planes He adores you. Worships the ground you walk on. Would throw himself in front of an oncoming dropship for you. But if you dust his shelf and dare to reorder his starfighters and aircrafts by vibes instead of model number? He's already rewriting his will. In blood.

5 You do something reckless and then smile about it You say “relax, I had a plan.” He hears: “I almost died, and I’d do it again, because I’m cute and unstoppable.” That smile? That grin you give when you know exactly what you did and you’re proud of it? That’s why he needs stress meds. And maybe a punching bag with your face on it. (Lovingly.)

6 You casually mention the girl he used to date You say it with a smirk, like it’s just some harmless teenage memory. But he doesn’t see her—he sees you. You, standing in the doorway that day. You, catching him with her, both of them half-undressed. And you looking at him like something cracked between you. Back then, you were off-limits. You were the girl he wasn’t allowed to want. So he wanted someone else. Easier. Safer. And now, years later, you bring it up like it’s nothing—while he’s still trying not to remember how badly he wished it had been you.

7 You weren’t his first kiss—but worse, he wasn’t yours It never comes up. Not out loud. But he remembers. Vividly. The hallway. The way your face lit up. The boy leaning in. You smiling. And Caleb—watching from across the room, fists clenched, jaw tight, playing the role of older brother when his whole body screamed mine. You never talk about it. But he never forgot. Never will. Because that moment should’ve been his—and someone else took it first.

8 You walk away during a fight, or shut down emotionally You call it “space.” He calls it “psychological warfare.” You shut down. He short-circuits. Nothing drives him more insane than trying to fix something while you’re actively ghosting him across the living room. He’d rather you screamed. Threw something. Anything. But this quiet? This distance? That’s the one thing he doesn’t know how to fight.

9 You cry—especially if it’s because of him And then he’s done. Game over. His spine straightens like he’s under military command and his entire soul just went through the paper shredder. You cry, and suddenly he’s the villain. You say “it’s not your fault,” but that doesn’t matter. He’s already rewriting the past and taking full responsibility. And yes, he’ll suffer in complete silence. Like a man.

10 You secretly try to uncover what he’s hiding from you You call it curiosity. He calls it a breach of protocol punishable by full emotional lockdown. You think you’re clever. He thinks you just walked into classified territory barefoot, blindfolded, and with a target on your back. You were never supposed to see that side of his world. And now that you have? He doesn’t know whether to yell, hold you, or lock you in a room with military-grade firewalls and a blanket.

🍎 Top 10 Things That Turn Caleb Into a Complete Fluff-Mess

You wearing his dog tags / uniform shirt / flight jacket Instant puddle. No chance. He sees you in his gear and his brain just... shuts off. All he can think is mine mine mine, and he gets this dumb, soft little smirk like he’s trying so hard not to combust.

You falling asleep on him—especially mid-conversation You’re curled into his side, mumbling something about dinner plans, and then: silence. He looks down, sees you asleep on his chest, and that’s it. Whole day ruined. Cancel all missions. He’s not moving.

You bringing him coffee exactly the way he likes it—without asking That quiet, thoughtful act? Hits him right in the soldier-shaped heart. He doesn’t even know how to process being taken care of, so he stares at the cup like it just proposed to him.

You absentmindedly touching him—fiddling with his fingers, tracing scars, playing with his hair He pretends he doesn’t care. He does. He cares so much he forgets how to breathe. Just turns into a warm, red-eared statue trying not to whimper.

You whispering “I trust you” or “I feel safe with you” in a soft moment Core memory unlocked. He stores that one like sacred intel. Will literally whisper it back to himself at 3 AM when he’s lying awake, missing you. It breaks him in the best way.

You clinging to him in your sleep / pulling him closer without waking up Caleb.exe has stopped functioning. He will lie perfectly still for HOURS if it means not disturbing that moment. Bonus points if you mumble his name while doing it.

You defending him when someone questions his methods or past He’s used to being the shield—not having someone stand in front of him. The second you raise your voice on his behalf? He falls in love with you all over again. Might even cry. Secretly.

You gently helping him out of his gear after a long day Soft hands on his buckles. A kiss to his shoulder. A low “You’re home now.” That’s how you make a Colonel melt. His fingers twitch like he wants to worship the ground you walk on.

You surprising him with something dumb and heartfelt, like a handmade gift or bad sketch of him He acts gruff—says “the hell is this, Pips?”—but then puts it in his locker or keeps it in his chest pocket for missions like it’s sacred treasure. Because it is.

You calling him “baby” / “handsome” / “sweetheart” when he least expects it He acts like it’s annoying. It is not annoying. It turns him into actual butter. If you do it with a teasing smile? He short-circuits. Might drop something. Might combust. Definitely blushes.

🩺 Top 10 Things That Make Zayne’s Calm Snap Like a Microsurgical Thread

You ignore his instructions when you're sick You had a fever of 102°F. He left explicit care instructions—bed rest, fluids, minimal movement. You, sweating and glassy-eyed, decided this was the perfect time to rearrange the furniture. When he came home and found you dragging a bookshelf across the room “because the light felt wrong,” he genuinely considered sedating you. Not as punishment. As damage control. For both of you.

You order greasy fast food instead of going somewhere “nutritionally viable” He offered to cook. You said no. Twenty minutes later, you’re eating fries from a paper bag while half of it spills on his clean table. You grin. He stares. Not angry at the food. Angry because you rejected his precision, then settled for processed chaos.

You leave wet towels on the floor after every shower He’s not sure when it started. Day three? Day five? But every time he walks into the bathroom and steps into cold, soggy cotton, something in him fractures. You claim you “forget.” He suspects a psychological experiment.

You casually mention spending time with male friends You think it’s harmless. Lunch with Caleb. Training advice from Xavier. You light up when you talk about them—and that’s the problem. Zayne doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t raise a brow. But the sudden over-fixation on his email inbox says everything.

You receive a speeding ticket. Forty miles over the limit. You wave it off like it’s a funny little anecdote. He sits in absolute silence, calculating the stopping distance of your car vs. standard reaction time at that speed. You think he’s judging. He’s actually trying not to scream.

You poke his ass. Specifically, between the cheeks. You call it “affection.” He calls it “emotional terrorism.” He flinches like he’s been electrocuted, whips around with murder in his eyes—and you’re giggling like a gremlin. Later, you regret nothing, but your thighs may beg to differ.

When you diagnose him with internet psychology You’ve read one book on attachment styles and watched three reels about emotional unavailability. Now you’ve decided he has "clinical avoidant tendencies with a hint of fear-based control fixation." He stares at you, deadpan, like he's about to perform your autopsy.

You keep spoiled food in the fridge and expired meds in the cabinet You say “it doesn’t smell that bad” or “maybe it still works.” His eye twitches. His gloves are already on. He’s not even mad at you—he’s mad at entropy. You’ve become its agent.

You watch reality shows. About infidelity. Willingly. You claim it’s “just background noise.” But he walks in and hears someone scream “that’s not even your baby, Kyle!” and your eyes are glued to the screen. His soul briefly leaves his body.

You washed his white lab coat. With your pink unicorn pajamas. It’s not just the color. It’s the betrayal. The symbol of his clinical neutrality now smells like bubblegum and looks like cotton candy. You say it’s cute. He looks personally violated by the washing machine.

🩺 Top 10 Things That Make Zayne Soft Against His Will

You bring him lunch at the hospital He never asks. You just appear—arms full of neatly packed containers, face lit up like this isn’t the third double shift he’s worked this week. He complains about the timing. The smell. The disruption. And then eats every bite with frightening focus. You leave. He stares at the empty container like it’s proof someone still believes he’s human.

You quote him back to himself like a philosopher You remember something he said weeks ago—some throwaway line about time or structure or entropy—and you drop it casually in conversation, like it’s wisdom from an ancient text. He doesn’t know how to react. You turned his logic into poetry, and he’ll never recover from that.

You wear the little seal keychain he made He didn’t think you’d keep it. Let alone turn it into your everyday keychain. But there it is—always with you, worn smooth from touch. You twirl it absentmindedly while talking to him, never noticing the way his gaze lingers. Never realizing how something so small can hit him so hard.

You put a photo of the two of you on his desk It appears one day. No fanfare. Just… there. A moment frozen in light, sitting quietly beside his surgical reports and diagnostic schematics. At first, he moves it to the edge. Then back to center. Now it lives next to his pen. He doesn’t talk about it. But it’s the only object on that desk he wipes clean with his bare hand.

His work shirt smells like you You borrowed it that morning, wore it while dancing around the apartment with wet hair and no real purpose. Hours later, when he pulls it on between rounds, the scent hits him like a loaded memory. He short-circuits mid-button. Everything feels warmer than it should.

You leave your phone with him while you shower No password. No hesitation. You toss it into his lap with a breezy “can you clear out whatever’s making it lag?” and vanish behind steam. He sits there, phone in hand, suddenly trusted with everything. He opens nothing. But the fact that you’d let him? That’s the part that shakes him.

You ask for his opinion on minor discomforts A papercut. A weird freckle. A suspicious sneeze. You hold out your hand, utterly serious, asking what he thinks. It’s laughable. Ridiculous. And it absolutely wrecks him. You could ask a dozen others—but you ask him. Like he’s the one who makes things better.

You’re on top He likes control. Precision. Strategy. But when you climb into his lap, all instinct and fire, hands braced on his chest and lips already parted—his brain stops cooperating. There’s something about you taking the lead that makes him unravel. Quietly. Violently. Completely.

You argue with him about complex theories—and mean it You don’t just nod. You push back. You challenge. You quote sources he hasn’t thought about in years. You spark. You flare. And he watches, fascinated, lips twitching with something dangerously close to pride. No one does this. No one dares. But you? You never flinch.

You whisper “I love you” in your sleep It’s not loud. It’s not even clear. Just a faint breath in the dark, like a dream half-remembered. But he hears it. Every time. And though he never says a word in return—not while you're sleeping—his fingers tighten around your waist like he's anchoring himself to the only thing that matters.

🎨 Top 10 Things That Make Rafayel Absolutely, Irrevocably Annoyed at You

You told him his painting was “nice” You stood in front of a piece that cost him three sleepless nights, a minor existential crisis, and two broken brushes—and said “Nice.” Just like that. No gasp, no poetry, no tears. He aged five years on the spot. Somewhere in the distance, a violin cried for him.

You dragged him to a cat exhibit You thought it would be cute. Enrichment. A bonding experience. Instead, he spent the entire time perched on edge, eyes darting like prey. You said “they’re just kittens.” He said nothing. He was too busy making sure none of them came closer than ten feet.

You cleaned his studio You thought you were being helpful. But you moved The Pile. The sacred, unholy, perfectly calibrated mess. Now he can’t find his favorite brush, and also he’s deeply offended by how cheerful you looked doing it.

You didn’t reply to his messages for over an hour He sent three texts, one meme, and a “thinking of you 💭” voice note. You replied 67 minutes later with “sry was showering.” By then, he’d already decided you were breaking up with him, joining a cult, or possibly dead. He had a whole monologue planned. And now you’ve ruined it.

You cut your hair He loved your long hair. Adored it. Worshipped it. You showed up with a sharp little bob and said “it’s just hair.” It is not just hair. It is the collapse of a visual era. He’s still adjusting. And by adjusting, he means mourning with wine.

You made fun of his driving You muttered “technically, you were meant to let the tram go first” He muttered “technically, silence is golden.” His driving is instinct. Vibe. Energy. If you didn’t want drama, you shouldn’t have sat in the passenger seat of a man who parallel parks like he’s in a ballet.

You woke him up too early He went to bed at 4 a.m. because inspiration struck. You woke him at 7:12 like it was nothing, and said “you have that interview, remember?” He does remember. He also remembers specifically telling you that if he ever falls asleep before sunrise, you are to let him die peacefully, cancel all earthly obligations, and throw his alarm clock into the ocean where it belongs.

You hid your phone screen when a message came in You were probably teasing. Just being playful. But now he’s spiraling. Who was it? Why the secrecy? What do you have to hide? Congratulations—you’ve just activated his inner opera villain.

You got jealous Which is absurd. He’s the one who invented possessive affection. But you being jealous? That makes him unreasonably indignant. What do you mean you “didn’t like the way that gallery girl looked at him”? Of course she looked. But he didn’t see her. He saw you.

You burned the bacon You say “it’s fine.” He says it’s charcoal. The entire kitchen smells like culinary war crimes. And now he’ll have to burn incense and replant three garden beds to recover emotionally. Who even let you near the stove? Who hurt you? Was it… the bacon?

🎨 Top 10 Ways You Accidentally Turned Rafayel Into a Purring, Love-Drunk Work of Art

You massage his head He’s mid-rant. Arms crossed. Absolutely furious about the lighting in that gallery. And then your fingers slip into his hair—and just like that, the war is over. His entire body melts like he’s been tranquilized. He’ll deny it later, of course. But the way he leans into your hand? Case closed.

You claim him in public It’s an art gala. He’s dressed to ruin people. And then you slip your arm through his, fingers just tight enough to say mine. You smile like a goddess. He pretends he’s unaffected. Inside, he’s writing vows in ten languages and considering printing matching business cards.

You actually listen to his advice He knows he can be dramatic. Unfiltered. Emotionally volatile. But when you sit there, really listening, nodding like his words matter—you destroy him. Suddenly he’s not the chaos. He’s the compass. And that? That’s love.

You share every detail of your day over dinner You talk about everything—the lady at the store, the funny email, the awful latte. You give him your day like a story, like he’s the only one you wanted to tell. He leans in, listens too closely, files away each emotion like a collector of rare art.

You’re always down for his wildest ideas It’s 3 a.m. He wants to hike 2.5 miles along the beach, take a boat to a tiny island, and watch the sunrise with wine. You say “give me five minutes.” And just like that, you become the only person worthy of his wildest, most beautiful chaos.

You let him photograph you Nothing compares. Not awards. Not praise. Nothing rivals the moment you look into his lens—bare, unfiltered, unashamed. Especially when you’re nude, glowing, and laughing like the world doesn’t exist. That’s when he falls in love with you all over again. And again. And again.

You let him choose your dress You come out in the one he picked. Elegant. Perfect. You spin for him. And the way he watches you? Like he made you. Like you’re the gallery and he’s the only one with the key. It’s not fashion. It’s trust. And he adores you for it.

You sing when you don’t know he’s home Wearing socks and earbuds, dancing with a broom, serenading your way through burnt pancakes. You’re off-key. Glorious. Real. And he stands in the doorway, silent, just watching. Because in that moment—you’re not posing. And he’s never loved you more.

You take care of him when he’s sick He has a fever of 99°F and insists he’s fading. You bring tea, stroke his hair, whisper that he’s “very brave.” You don’t mock him. You take his dramatics seriously. He will never forget it. He may also write you into his will.

You join him in the bathtub without asking He’s already halfway submerged, music playing, steam curling in the air—and then you slip in behind him, no warning. You nudge your legs around his hips, hand him your shampoo, and let him wash your hair while you giggle. He tries to act unimpressed. But when he starts kissing your toes? Yeah. You win.

✨ Top 10 Behavioral Anomalies That Triggered Xavier’s Internal Alert System

You break an agreement—even if it's “just a small one” It’s not about control. It’s about structure. You promised. And when you bend the rules—just slightly—he doesn’t react outwardly. No visible shift, no sharp breath. But something behind his eyes goes cold. Because for him, even small deviations mean recalculating everything. And that means risk. To you.

You create drama “just to get a reaction” You push. You poke. You escalate. And he gives you… nothing. No outburst, no flinch. Just that flat, unreadable stare while he mentally exits the room. He doesn’t get angry—he just shuts off the part of himself that wants to stay.

You refuse his protection—on principle You call it independence. He calls it a strategic vulnerability wrapped in pride. He won’t argue. He’ll just be one step farther back the next time, quietly cataloging how to stop caring just enough that it won’t kill him if something happens.

You call him cold—especially when he’s holding himself together for you You see stillness. He feels restraint. You accuse. He remembers what it takes to not become the darker version of himself. If only you knew how much energy it took to stay composed. If only you knew it was for you.

You’re late Five minutes. Ten. No message. No explanation. And his pulse ticks upward—not with impatience, but with pure, trained alertness. He starts looking for signs. Traffic reports. Emergency alerts. By the time you arrive, he’s smiling. But it’s the tight kind. The kind that says never again.

You skip training You’re tired. You had a long day. You say you’ll make it up later. He doesn’t argue. He just recalculates survival probabilities and mentally adds you to the list of people who might die because they were unprepared. And he will blame himself for letting you get soft.

You pull away from his touch when you're angry It’s not the rejection. It’s the meaning behind it. He reaches out—small, careful, calculated—and you shut the door in his face with a single backward step. He doesn’t try again. He doesn’t ask why. But the space you leave behind? It echoes.

You use a photo of Lumiere as a bookmark You think it’s cute. Maybe even sweet. He sees it—and freezes. He’s not jealous. Not exactly. But the idea that you might admire that version more—the legend, the mask, the sharpness—it unsettles something deep. Something he can’t name.

You secretly believe you’re not good enough for him You never say it out loud. But he sees it—in your deflections, your nervous jokes, the way you doubt his love like it’s a glitch. It doesn’t anger him in the usual sense. It just…hurts. Because you’re the only one who never had to earn it.

You throw yourself in front of him during a mission It’s instinct, you say. Split-second decision. You didn’t even think. And that’s the problem. He does. Always. Every variable, every movement, every risk is accounted for—except you breaking formation to protect him. You think it’s brave. He sees it as catastrophic miscalculation. Not because you acted without logic. But because you decided his life was worth more than yours. And that? That’s the one conclusion he refuses to accept.

✨Top 10 Things That Quietly Break Xavier’s Walls and Leave Him Unreasonably Soft About You

When you start reading the same book he’s readingYou don’t announce it. You just show up with the same title, a few chapters behind, and start casually asking questions. He plays it off. But inside? He’s spiraling. Because this—this—is how you speak his language. Silently. Precisely. Together.

When you knock on his door like you’re trying to break it downIt’s loud. Impatient. Inappropriate for the hour. But he knows that knock. That rhythm. That you. You need him. Not his solutions. Him. And somehow, that chaos pounding on his door feels more like home than anything else.

When you hug him from behindYou wrap your arms around his torso mid-task, face pressed between his shoulder blades, palms splayed across his chest like you’re anchoring yourself to something ancient and steady. He stills. Every time. Like someone just whispered a secret to his bones. He never asks why. Never moves away. He just tilts his head slightly—listening, as if your silence said everything he needed to hear.

When you touch his sword (the actual weapon, calm down)He never lets anyone handle it. Not even for cleaning. But your fingers skim the hilt, gentle, curious, reverent. And somehow… it’s okay. You’re not just touching steel. You’re touching him. And he lets you.

When you act like a little girlYou scrunch your nose. Say something ridiculous. Blush like you didn’t mean to. And he watches—utterly disarmed. Because he knows exactly what you want. You want him to carry you. Wrap you up. Keep you safe. And he will—without hesitation.

When you join him on a morning runYou complain. You lag. You swear this is “not your vibe.” But you still show up. Same hour. Same route. And when you match his pace for those few precious minutes? He doesn’t say it—but he’s proud. Painfully proud.

When you share your dreams—and say “we”You’re rambling. Light spilling from your words. Talking about the future, the maybes, the next steps. But you don’t say I. You say we. And that sound? That tiny shift in grammar? It settles deep. Irrevocable. Permanent.

When you make matching braceletsYou say it’s silly. Handmade. Slightly uneven. There’s a charm shaped like a rabbit. He never takes it off. Not in combat. Not in sleep. It rests against his wrist like a pressure point—and grounds him better than anything else.

When you remember his habitsYour shopping list always includes his cinnamon. His brand of shampoo. The exact instant noodles he pretends not to love. You don’t make a show of it. You just know. And that knowing? It destroys him in the softest possible way.

When you trust him completely in bed—even when his darker side surfacesThere’s a moment—quiet, charged—when the softness shifts. He waits. Watches. Braces for resistance. But you don’t pull back. You open your hands. Arch into him. Let him take control without fear. That? That’s what breaks him. Not the pleasure. The trust.

🖤Top 10 Things That Push Sylus Into Maximum Sarcasm and Mildly Homicidal Disapproval

Your outdated, unreliable weapon Yes, he gets it. It’s vintage. It’s “standard issue.” It’s approved by the Hunters Association. Congratulations. That won’t matter when it jams and gets you killed. Every time you return one of the sleek, upgraded firearms he hand-delivers like he’s your personal armory concierge, he has to resist asking if you've already made a draft of your death wish. Alphabetically sorted. With floral headers.

You chew gum—and pop it It’s not the gum. It’s the snap. The sudden, violent pop of sugary air bubbles that hits his trauma response like a trigger. He knows it’s just a noise. His shoulder still twitches. He’s this close to reaching into your mouth and extracting the gum like a gentleman. A very sarcastic, deeply annoyed, half-feral gentleman.

You try to shake your tail (him) You use stealth tech. You block your signal. You go dark. Adorable. You’re forgetting that the very system you’re relying on was developed by his own syndicate. The only person who ever really evades Sylus is Sylus. And maybe the cat that lives under his car. But not you. Never you.

You don’t introduce him as your boyfriend to your old classmates You panicked. He gets that. You called him “a friend.” And now he’s deeply committed to the bit. For the next seven days, every time you said anything, he replied with “Of course, as your friend…” in front of waiters, dealers, and one extremely confused ambassador. You only managed to shut it down by hastily posting a photo of you two with the caption “my boyfriend and the love of my life.” Acceptable recovery. Barely.

You refuse to use his resources His private jet? Untouched. His cars? Collecting dust. His black card? Sitting unused like some kind of insult in your purse. You say you’re “independent.” He says you’re actively offending his entire lifestyle philosophy. Do you have any idea how disrespectful it is to ignore an entire walk-in wardrobe prepared for you in his estate? Honestly, it’s almost admirable. Almost.

You once smoked a cigarette, and he saw it He didn’t say anything. At the time. Just looked at you. Silently. Like someone had drop-kicked a kitten in front of him. He’s not judging. He’s just picturing your lungs in an ashtray. And adding another page to your death wish list.

You speak in riddles and expect him to “get it” You want something—time away, a trip, his attention—but instead of asking, you sigh dramatically and murmur, “It’s fine. I guess some people just don’t want to escape the city with their girlfriends…” He blinks. Slow. Dangerous. “Was that a request, a riddle, or an emotional booby trap?” If you want something from him, Kitten, try using nouns and verbs. Not cryptic guilt puzzles.

You suggest another woman would be “perfect for him” It’s a joke. Offhand. Barely a breath. But your voice wavers—just slightly—and that ruins it. He doesn’t want her. He doesn’t want options. He wants you. And now, thanks to your charming lapse in self-worth, he has to waste the rest of the evening reminding you that this face, this power, this entire empire already belongs to someone. Guess who.

You sneak up on him You never mean to. But somehow, you're always the one person who slips past every alarm, every trained instinct, and ends up whispering behind him when his brain is still in kill mode. It takes everything in him to not react on pure reflex. You think it’s cute. He thinks it’s potentially catastrophic.

You don’t believe him when he says he’s fine Yes, he’s bleeding. Yes, his shirt is soaked. But he said “it’s a scratch,” and when he says that—he means it. His body heals like a myth. Your worried face? It makes something in him ache. Because the real wound isn’t on him—it’s in you, for thinking he’s anything less than unbreakable.

🖤 Top 10 Things That Make Sylus Dangerously Soft for You (And Yes, He’s Keeping Score)

When you finally spend his money It started with coffee. Small. Harmless. But the alert hit his phone and, for a moment, he genuinely wondered if his card had been stolen—until he saw your name. And something in him shifted. Not because of the cost. Please. He could buy the city it was brewed in. No, it was the fact you used it. You. Willingly. Now? You’re bolder—little dresses, shoes, jewelry you don’t need. And every time you do, he rewards it like you just proved you understand the assignment: what's his, is already yours.

When you give orders to his men like you're the boss You don’t ask. You instruct. Calm, certain, completely in charge. One of his men hesitates—just once—while you’re directing them to rescue a terrified kitten stuck in a tree. Sylus doesn’t interfere. He just watches, arms crossed, a grin tugging at his mouth as armed professionals scramble to obey you like you're the patron saint of lost animals. Somewhere in his mind, he’s already fitted you for a crown. With tiny cat ears.

When you secretly pet Mephisto The mechanical raven used to drive you insane. Now? You’re sneaking him treats and absentminded scratches under the jaw. Sylus sees it. Says nothing. But deep down, he knows: if you’ve accepted the bird—you’ve accepted all of him. And that’s lethal. To him.

When you make him a playlist You never explain them. Just send a link and say nothing. But he listens—every time. Alone. In his car. In the bath. Eyes closed, calculating your every choice like it’s encrypted intel. Each track? A hint. A mood. A coded message from you to him. He doesn’t ask for them. He just waits for the next one. And when it arrives, he treats it like gospel.

When you leave a trail of chaos in his car Your hair on the seat. Your gum wrappers in the cup holder. The seat so close to the wheel he practically has to fold in half. And the music? A full-volume love ballad ready to ambush his eardrums at ignition. It's obnoxious. It’s inconvenient. It’s perfect. His life, now featuring you.

When you eat from his plate You swore you weren’t hungry. You said “no carbs this week.” And now? You’re stealing fries from his hand and dipping into his steak sauce like it’s your birthright. He doesn’t stop you. He just watches you chew with that look that says: mine. forever.

When you talk and talk and talk Something happens. You spiral. Words spill. Thoughts tangle. You’re not even aware you’re rambling—but he is. He listens to everything. Stores it all. Because there’s something magical about your voice when it’s unfiltered. You don’t realize it, but he falls a little harder every time you forget to censor yourself.

When you crawl into his lap while he’s working He’s in the middle of paperwork. Calculating things. Dangerous things. And suddenly—you. Right there. Knees on either side, arms around his neck, like the world’s most beautiful interruption. He tells himself he needs to finish. But his hands are already on your hips.

When you call and ask for help A jar. A stuck zipper. A ride. It doesn’t matter. You’re a trained hunter—you’ve faced things with claws, fangs, and no name. But you still call him. Because you want him. And that? That wrecks him in ways he’ll never admit. He’s already on his way before you hang up.

When you scream his name right before you come There’s a lot he’s proud of. His empire. His power. His record. But nothing—nothing—satisfies him more than the moment your voice breaks open with his name. Like prayer. Like surrender. Like he’s the only thing in your world. Which, of course… he is.

10K notes · View notes

leclerc-verstappen · 7 months ago

Text

I'm very much rooting for max in this year's wdc.. next year, lando can come in the consideration, but not this year. Mclaren have been stupid ass team and they deserve to lose it.

#i need to see stella and zak crying #i hate those two #if it was any other team.....#itd be different #stupid ass team orders #lando you suck #oscar stand your ground #oh they make me so mad #its funny too cause one of my irl bestfriends adoreeeeees them so our convos are me always being mad at them and her being happy 😭#talking*

1 note · View note

readwritealldayallnight · 8 months ago

Text

‘Really really weird request, I know’

‘But could you please pick up a pregnancy test or two on your way home?’

‘I’ll explain when you’re here xx’

Gaz and Soap’s heads turn towards the sound of their Lieutenant dropping his phone to the floor.

“All good there, LT?” Gaz asks, watching as Ghost stands apparently stupefied to the spot where he stands, still staring at his empty hand where his phone had been.

“Look like you’ve seen a Ghost.” The Scot snickers to himself, earning an eye roll and a half-hearted swat to the chest from his fellow Sergeant.

Ghost finally snaps himself out of his shocked daze, grabbing his phone off the ground and silently sprinting out the door in the blink of an eye.

By the time he’s made it to his front door, a shopping bag carrying two of each brand of pregnancy test he could find at the closest shop dangling from his fist, Ghost is scrambling to get his key in the lock and find you wherever you are in the flat.

The normally ever so stoic man finds himself struggling with the mundane task, his mind in a frenzy over the idea of there being a baby inside you. A baby he put inside you.

It seems you’ve been just as eager for his return home, because you hear him at the door, unlocking and swinging it open for him.

“Oh thank god you’re here. She’s been a wreck all morning, hasn’t let me leave her to run to the shop myself.” You blabber, standing up on your tippy toes to quickly press a kiss to his still mask covered cheek, snatching the bag from his hand at the same time.

He is standing there stunned, when he spots who he recognizes as your best friend sitting on the couch in the living room, surrounded by wadded up tissues, obviously appearing as though she had just been crying.

“What-”

“She’s worried it’s her ex boyfriend. From before they had broken up.” You whisper quickly in his ear, thinking that you’re simply catching him up to speed as to why he had to go and fetch a test for your friend to use.

Unbeknownst to you, you’ve turned Simon’s world upside down for the second time today, all in less than a half hour.

As he watches you walk towards your friend with the dozens of tests in hand, he wonders if he can’t stash away a few for the two of you to put to use yourselves.

#call of duty fic #call of duty fanfic #call of duty #simon riley fluff #simon ghost riley fluff #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x you #simon riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost x y/n #ghost x you #ghost fanfic #ghost x reader #ghost cod #ghost fic #readwritealldayallnight #Drabble

10K notes · View notes

nanamisgirly · 2 months ago

Text

part.1 part.2 part.4

˖ 𑣲 comments and reblogs are always appreciated ma girliiies <333

virgin!nerdjo, ever the diligent student, stumbles upon tutorial on nipple sucking—so what does he do? he goes to the nearest pharmacy and buy a baby bottle to practice on. he got a baddie to please, after all. one who's already let him come inside her by the way and in record time. but also one who's experienced. and he's…well, him.

virgin!nerdjo frowns at the taste the moment he tries it, straight-up plastic. but still, he follows the video instructions step by step, phone in one hand, bottle nipple in his mouth, trying his best to mimic the motions—rewinding it over and over determined to get it right.

but of course, he's super bad at hiding stuff :( so the next time you're in his room you spot it on his desk, half-hidden behind his clutter of notebooks and cables. it's sightly chewed at the tip. and it definitely got your attention. “satoru…is this…yours?”

virgin!nerdjo goes red in seconds—like a cartoon character caught with porn. “w-what? n-no…” he tries, voice already cracking. you look at him, eyebrows lifted, tilting your head in amusement as a smirk tugs at your lips like you knowevery single embarrassing thought he's ever had.

he groans in defeat, “yes…it is.” his eyes are glued to the floor, cheeks blazing. he feels like if the ground could just swallow him whole right now, that'd be great. but for some reasons, his mouth had other plans, seems like it can't just shut up for his own good, “there was this video. a bunch of them, actually. about,um…nipple technique.” he stammers, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, eyes still avoiding yours “y'know like…oral stuff. and one of the top comments said it helps to practice on biberon because…it's kind of squishy? and it has resistance…”

you just stare at virgin!nerdjo, blank and expressionless. he feels so so dump. even dumper than when he cum in two seconds top-chrono in you. “i wanted to do it right!” he blurts, tugging his collar, desperately trying to get himself out of this. “last time i—uh—i lasted like one second. inside you. and you were so nice about it, but i wanna be better. I wanna make you feel good, not just…blow in my pants and cry.”

you walk slowly to him, eyes soft, voice lower. “so you practiced. on a baby bottle.” he nods, mortified. “and did it help?”

“no…it tasted like a melted barbie leg. i almost threw up.”

the next thing virgin!nerdjo knows, you're pushing him onto the bed as you pull off your top—he freezes in place, mouth open, glasses fogging like he's in the middle of a hentai scene he never thought he'd survive. and from where you stand between his thighs, you can see the bulge tenting his pants. poor baby probably got hard just thinking about this moment :(

virgin!nerdjo has his big hands clutching your ass, as your fingers tighten in his white soft hair—pushing his face to one of your nipple. “c'mon, nerd, show me what you've learned.”

virgin!nerdjo starts so awkwardly. there's too much tongue, too wet and sloppy—his teeth scrape a little too hard and you flinch. “ah—! ‘toru…gentle, you’re not chewing gum.” he recoils instantly, looking like he just failed a final exam. “shit! i'm sorry—i didn't mean to—fuck, i'm such an idiot, i—”

“heyy, baby," you coo, cupping his cheek, brushing his hair from his eyes. "it's okay. try again, would you?” he nods quickly at your words, blinking hard. you swear there are tears building in those pretty blue eyes but you don't have time to think about it as this time he goes slower, sucking tentatively, trying to remember the tutorial steps : tongue flat, lips soft, light suction—add it progressively. he's shaking with focus, sweat dotting his brow as if he's taking an exam worth his entire GPA.

but it seems to work because your whimpers grow louder, virgin!nerdjo's tongue turns messy, fast. he's drooling and panting as his hand clutch to your ass like he might float off the bed. every gasp you make goes straight to his cock. he grinds on your lap helplessly, every moan from you like a five-star rating on his progress. he groans, mouthing at your other nipple, “you taste so much better,” he muffle, tongue flicking on the neglected nipple.

virgin!nerdjo is leaking through his boxers, one hand going to the nipple covered in spit—massaging with his thumb, watching it shine. the other hand drops to your upper thigh, where he humps like a dog in heat.

“you're doing so good, such a good boy, aren't you?” virgin!nerdjo moans your name like a prayer, sucking harder, hips stuttering against your thigh—he's leaking all over himself, so desperate and clumsy.

your sweet virgin nerd couldn't help himself. he had to make a sticky mess in his boxer :(

✩*:.⸝⸝>o<⸝⸝.:*✩

#jjk x you #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #gojo headcanons #satoru gojo x reader #gojo smut #jjk satoru #gojo saturo #satoru headcanons #satoru smut #nerdjo #nerd gojo #gojo x reader #satoru x you

4K notes · View notes

rafesangelita · 2 months ago

Text

♡ when rafe accidentally snaps on bambi!reader

warnings: a little bit of crying, hurt + comfort

a/n: thank you so much to the anon who sent in this link <3 this little drabble is inspired by it!! i might open up req’s soon because even though i have prompt ideas already, lately i’ve just felt uninspired to write them out..

“are you almost ready?!” rafe called out from the front door, his truck keys hanging from his fingers. you didn’t respond, instead you panicked once you realized you weren’t even close to finishing your makeup. “oh, god..” you whimpered, scrambling to your feet to try and put a quick outfit together while you patted in your blush.

at your lack of response, rafe cursed under his breath before slamming the door shut and making his way to your room. “are you fucking serious?” you jumped when you heard his voice, your head shooting in his direction as you stood there, dumbfounded. your hair rollers were still wrapped tightly in your hair, your robe hanging haphazardly off your shoulders. it was needless to say you looked far from being ready.

“son of a bitch—” rafe’s eyebrows knitted together as he pinched the bridge of his nose, a frustrated sigh falling from his lips. he was already irritated upon arriving to your place. rafe had spent all afternoon arguing with ward over some ‘cameron development’ stuff, he had deadlines he already accepted he wasn’t going to be able to meet, it was like a thousand degrees outside and to top it all off; he was hungry.

“we’re just getting something to eat, bambi. you could honestly just leave the house like this.” rafe grumbled, already moving to get ahold of your elbow and drag you out. “what?! no— ray, can you please just give me ten minutes? all i have to do is put on some clothes and finish my makeup real quick. i’ll even take my rollers out in the truck, okay?” rafe studied you for a moment, his nostrils flaring as he let out a deep breath.

“fine,” he nodded, “i’m gonna go turn the ac on in the truck, then. please try to make this fast.” you muttered an ‘okay..’ before spinning around and taking a seat at your vanity. you worked as quickly as you could, only getting as far as putting on some lip liner and lipgloss before you heard a honk outside. curling your lashes hastily, you wasted no time in slipping on a dress you hadn’t worn in a while.

grabbing your purse on the way out, you skipped down the stone walkway just in time for rafe to roll his window down. “do you have everything? your phone?” you paused. your phone was on your bed last time you saw it. “uhm, i’ll be right back..” you apologized when you saw the scowl on rafe’s face. your boyfriend shook his head when you tripped, nearly sending yourself on the ground as you rushed to go back inside. setting your purse down on the couch, you grabbed your phone and walked back out, your chest rising and falling as you tried to remain calm and collected.

“did you lock the door?” oh, you could just cry right now. “no..” you winced, walking up to the truck so rafe could give you his key. “my, god, what the hell is going on today? it’s like everyone is trying to piss me off.” you ignored his words, quicky making your way to the front door so you could lock it shut. it wasn’t until you were halfway down the driveway when you realized your purse wasn’t on your shoulder. “wait, i forgot one more thing—” that was it. you had definitely pushed rafe past his limits now.

rafe snapped, the vein in his forehead bulging out of his skin as he shouted. “holy shit, just get in the fucking truck!” he waved his hands in the air as if you couldn’t see him standing right in front of you, his volume alone making you jolt. you stared blankly at him, your chest caving in on itself as rafe blinked, both of you sharing a knowing look. rafe watched your face morph as your chin wobbled and your eyes welled up with tears.

“i’m sorry—” he exhaled, instantly wrapping his arms around you, “i’m so sorry, baby, i won’t do that again.” you sniffled, letting him embrace you. it took you having to cry to make rafe realize he’d been acting like an asshole since he got here. “you know that scares me!” you cried, the velcrow of your rollers tickling his neck. “i know, i know,” he cradled your head, pressing kisses along your cheek, “here, we’ll just order something instead, yeah? we don’t have to go anywhere.” he turned off the truck, guiding you inside by the small of your back.

4K notes · View notes

earlgreylatte · 3 months ago

Text

Hello, You

(Invincible Variants x Reader) Of course he would come to see you. You’re the reason he’s here, after all.

After hearing the news to stay inside as the attack of Invincible copycats decimated cities across the globe, you hid under your blanket, the light from your phone illuminating your face as you watched the broadcast for any sign of your Mark.

You could only hope that he was alright, that he wasn’t blaming himself, that he knew you were waiting for him to come back safe. He already has enough problems as is.

Your distress is momentarily tempered when you hear your window slide open and your floorboards creek. When you don’t hear Mark immediately greet you or tease you for being bundled up, any concern you felt for Mark becomes overshadowed by fear for yourself as you hear footsteps near your prone form.

You can only tremble, clutching your blanket close to your body until the room goes silent. You shakily exhale, becoming confused when another quiet beat passes. When your breath returns to normal, the blanket is ripped off of you, eliciting a scared yelp.

For a moment you only stare in confusion at the sight of your boyfriend’s estranged father before realizing it’s not Nolan Grayson that stands before you, but Mark clad in a costume similar to his father’s. His face is impassive, mouth a firm line, so unlike the expressive nature of your Mark.

He calls your name. Quietly, yet there was something heavy in his tone. Something you could almost delude yourself into thinking was longing.

His hand brushes against your cheek, moving down your face before resting on your shoulder, a finger pressed against your pulse.

“You sound healthy,” he comments, deceptively neutral in his delivery, but even behind his goggles, you could feel his gaze burning into your face, “In my world, you had cancer. By the time the Viltrumites reinforcements had arrived, it was too late. All that talk about life changing technology and medicine, but it ended up being utterly useless to me.”

Your breath hitches, but he continues, “But here there’s a me that rebelled and an you that never got sick. That got to live past high school. That’s just the way it goes, I suppose.”

His hand travels lower, brushing past your collarbone before resting on your breast, your heart hammering beneath his palm.

“Do you know why I came here?” He wonders, his free hand planting itself on your bed, as he moves his body to hover above yours until the only thing you can see is him.

“No,” you whisper, staring into black lenses.

“Because even after all these years, the only heart I wish to know, to hold, and to cherish is yours. I was willing to play human for you, to tolerate the presence of the idiots that breathed the same air as us, but then they all had the audacity to outlive you. And I can’t move on. So the selfish man that I am, I’m here to take you. To have you by my side again, no matter how much blood I have to spill,” He declares before pressing his lips against yours, muffling your gasp and cries, gripping your wrist when you try to shove at him.

He only pulls away when you start to feel lighthearted, looking down at you as you struggle to catch your breath.

“You can cry and protest all you want. You loved me once, you can do it again,” he asserts, bring your wrist to his mouth, leaving a kiss against your pulse point. “This world was doomed the moment your Mark decided to rebel. I won’t let you die because of his delusions.”

“…I’m not her,” you speak up. “I don’t know you, not really.”

“I know,” he responds, “but every inch of my body is crying out to you, and I’d rather kill everyone on this planet before I let you go again.”

He releases your wrist, instead sliding both hands under your shirt, gloved hands savouring the feel of your skin, your warmth seeping through the fabric.

“…you’re shaking,” he notes, throwing a glance at your discarded blanket on the ground, “I’m sorry, I’ll warm you up. I promise.”

“Mark,” you say, out of instinct more than anything else, your mind coming to a blank.

“Shh,” he hushes you, voice gentle but firm, “Let me take care of you. Like I always do.”

A part of you is relieved that he hasn’t taken off his cowl because you knew you’d crumble under the emotion that would undoubtedly be in his eyes. The same eyes that always held so much love and adoration towards you.

His lips press against yours again, more demanding and heated, as hands travel higher and higher until—

“Looks like I wasn’t the only one that thought to come here,” an amused but familiar voice drawls out, the Mark on top of you pulling away, body covering yours protectively.

Another Invincible sat at your window ledge, black and yellow costume starkly contrasting the rest of your room. He smiles at you when you peak around Mark’s arm.

“Honestly, you were acting so high and mighty earlier, but you’re pretty desperate, huh?” He mocks as the other Mark’s face becomes stonier. “But, really, you should fuck off somewhere else because that’s my girl you’re feeling up right now.”

Before he can respond, another voice interrupts him as you notice yet another Mark, floating behind the one at your window.

“Fucking seriously? How did you even get here before me? I bet you halfassed your locations,” The Mark with a mohawk that has you raising your eyebrow complains, “I literally called dibs on this one! Find someone else!”

Feeling the tension build up, you only hope that Mark checks in and saves you from the bullshit you’re witnessing as they begin to snarl and yap at each other like feral dogs.

Why me, you lament.

Shiesty Mark: hey, babe, it’s Big Dick Friday—why the fuck are you all here??

Why is there no Omni Mark content, he and that shiesty mark were my favourite…

I feel like omni mark is the definition of ‘quite literally hates everyone but you’

Masterlist

#invincible x reader #invincible imagine #mark grayson x reader #invincible variants #invincible #omni mark #yandere invincible #yandere mark grayson #yandere x reader #thriller #sinister mark #mohawk mark #afab reader

6K notes · View notes

tinysunshine · 4 months ago

Text

━━━ ✧˖° 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐘, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐇𝐄’𝐒 𝐒𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐍

‎ ‎ [ 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐱𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ]

female reader, inclusive language. minors dni.

kinks: protective daryl, reader is extremely girly and feminine, fingering, very light dom/sub, fucking on a motorcycle, daryl sucks his fingers, pet names, oral sex, cum swallowing, slightly rough sex, some dirty talk, true love

warnings and triggers: age difference, reader is a former sex worker, trauma bonding, violence, death, slut shaming, bullying

word count: 13.4k

plot with porn, slight alternate universe.

you’re known as the princess of your group - soft, feminine, a girly girl who doesn’t want to get her hands dirty. despite the cruel new world you’re living in, you still hold on to whatever remnants of beauty you can find, hoping for a better tomorrow.

daryl is the opposite of everything you stand for. he’s hardened, rugged, ruthless - he’ll do whatever it takes to survive. despite your differences, you find yourselves drawn to each other in ways nobody, not even you two, can really understand. you bring softness to his strength, and in daryl you find a friend, a lover, a protector.

he’s everything you find warm and safe in this cold, scary world. you cling to him, and the best part?

daryl clings back.

“Cookies?”

The look Daryl gives you actually makes you crack a smile, and it’s a nice feeling. It’s been a long time since you smiled, now that you think about it - but it’s not like you’re keeping score.

Because if you were - you’d probably be able to count the amount of grins that’ve graced your face in the last eight months on one hand. Life has been brutal to everyone this year.

“I know it sounds weird,” you explain, crossing your legs on the rock you’re sitting on. Daryl’s supposed to be keeping watch of the camp while Rick and a few other men from the group make a run into the neighboring town for supplies. The plan was, because even the smallest things need well thought out plans in this world, that the women and children of the camp would rest, and if Daryl saw any walkers, he’d wake everyone up.

Sort of dumb, in theory, with how fast things happen when walkers are added to the equation, but it’s all this group has got.

Plans and Rick’s hope.

You’re supposed to be resting too, since yesterday was a travel day - long and exhausting. But you can’t sleep. You’ve got a headache, you’re hungry, and your sleeping bag is still a little damp from your water bottle, the plastic gone thin from having been dropped too many times, breaking while you drove from your last destination. Your tent is cold and you’re sharing it with a single woman who has a child, and their crying is really starting to bum you out.

So you decided to join Daryl keeping watch. He’s perched on a little ledge that overlooks the rest of the camp, able to see anything coming or going before anyone on the ground can. You’re not great with a gun, but since the world went to shit, you can handle yourself pretty well.

You want to help protect the camp and everyone in it, especially since you asked Rick to pick up another reusable water bottle for you while he was in town. The look on his face was so priceless it actually made you a little sad.

“Doesn’t just sound weird,” Daryl replies, shifting to get more comfortable on the grassy ground. There’s another rock for him to sit on, but it’s something you’ve noticed about him - Daryl always chooses to sit close to the ground, even if there’s a proper place for him to sit. “It is weird,” he grumbles the last part, busying himself with chucking a rock a few feet away while a squirrel scampers up a tree. He curses under his breath, no doubt pissed at himself for not securing another meal.

You’re distracting him. You should feel bad, but you don’t.

Before walkers and the end of the world as you knew it, you used to be so concerned with manners. Worried about what others thought about you more than you worried about your own well being. You’re not like that anymore. It’s a dark, although funny thought - that it took something as drastic as an apocalypse to finally rid you of your people pleasing habit.

There’s a crunching sound a few yards away that has the both of you tensing up, frozen while you listen for the sound of growling, but it never comes. Daryl visibly relaxes after a minute, which is your cue to start talking again. He just listens, although from the angle you’re sitting at, you swear you see him roll his eyes.

“You ever think about how weird it is, the stuff we miss?” You ask, but you already know he’s not going to reply. Daryl rarely replies, but you know he’s listening. You don’t have any real proof that he is - but what else would he be doing while you chat his ear off? He can stand up for himself, doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do - if he didn’t want you talking to him, he’d tell you to fuck off.

It’s a small victory you hold close to your heart - the fact that he just puts up with you. You continue. “I mean, everyone always says they miss things like hot showers, electricity, or whatever. I do, but I guess it’s not the thing I miss the most. For me, it’s cookies. But not bakery cookies. The kind of cookies you get from the store, the cheap ones. When you flatten the cookie dough yourself, and no matter what, always burn them or undercook them,” as you talk about it, you can taste the ghost of cookies past on your tongue. It waters a little, your mouth, which goes to show you just how hungry you are.

All you eat these days are protein bars and uncooked cans of whatever food the group can find. Sometimes, with your eyes closed and your breath held, you’ll try bits of squirrel or owl or whatever other animal Daryl hunts and shares with the group, but even the thought makes you nauseated. You never knew you’d be able to have preferences when the other choice is starving to death, but the difficult human spirit prevails, you suppose.

Daryl glances at you, and although it’s pretty dark, the moon shines light enough that you can see his expression. You’d expect his face to be mean, aggravated - tired. Listening to a young woman ramble about baking cookies while his body is on high alert to protect an entire fucking camp - but instead, Daryl’s expression is soft. He lets you continue, although his reaction does remind you that you’re also on guard. But aren’t you always?

The gun strapped to your hip and the knife in the pocket of your boot feel extra heavy at the reminder.

You clear your throat, trying to keep your voice low. God forbid a fucking walker kills you or anyone else in this group because you couldn’t shut up about cookies.

“Maybe it’s stupid, you know? I just,” you look down, playing with the zipper on your jacket. Suddenly, you feel really embarrassed. On the spot. Daryl probably thinks you’re a fucking idiot. Your face heats up.

But it’s not just the cookies. You leave out the part where the cookies remind you of your parents. How your mom, when she was alive, used to make them for you after a rough day. That those cookies were the staple of every sleepover you’ve ever had with your best friends. How those cookies were -

“It ain’t,” Daryl’s voice takes you out of your thoughts. You look at him, brows furrowed. You catch his eyes for only a second, before he looks away quickly, pretending to be occupied by something on the dirty ground. “It ain’t stupid,” he finishes.

You wonder that night, after Rick and the others come back to relieve you and Daryl of your duty, while you’re laid up in your sleeping bag that hardly protects you from the cold - what does Daryl miss? Sure, out of everyone in the group, he’s most equipped at living this kind of life. Knows how to hunt, can stomach raw fucking meat, isn’t scared of anything, or so he says. What reminds him of home? What thoughts comfort him?

Surely, whatever those thoughts are, they’re not as dumb as store bought cookie dough.

But what Daryl said stuck with you. Not stupid. You fall asleep, albeit with one eye open, feeling a little less cold.

Because for a moment, Daryl’s understanding?

It made the world feel a little less broken.

────

“Gross,” you mutter, blood slashing on your face. You just shot a walker in the head, and your ears are ringing from the loud noise of the gun. You’ll never get used to firing that thing. How loud it is, the way your hand shakes even minutes after you pull the trigger.

Daryl comes from behind you, and he lets out a laugh. It’s low, short - if you weren’t trained to hear the noise, you’d miss it. Because really - it’s like you’ve literally trained yourself to look for little cues that Daryl is having a good time. Or, since you doubt anyone these days is having a good time, at least that he’s alright. That he’s not annoyed at you for hanging around him or talking to him or irritated at your presence in general.

“Blood on your face grosses you out, but you’ll pick through walker guts for a bottle of nail polish,” he shakes his head, but it's not like he’s judging. In fact, Daryl actually seems a little…fond? He’s teasing you, and normally the reputation you have in this group as a girl that’s afraid to get her hands dirty, too girly to do anything for yourself - it stings.

But not when it comes from Daryl. You can tell he’s teasing, and you roll your eyes playfully.

“Didn’t dig in walker guts for that nail polish,” you remind him, even as he walks past you to lead the way. You glance at his back, the angel wings on his leather vest, and will yourself to stop the heat rushing to your face and the arousal pooling in your belly at how fucking strong he is. Big arms, muscles that look like he should be on the cover of a body building magazine instead of in these creepy woods with a crossbow. You gulp. “There was a little blood in the nail polish section when we did a run the other day. I cleaned it off the bottle I wanted. No biggie.”

Daryl scoffs, and you smile. “Yer crazy, girl,” he replies, and at that you look down at your nails. Baby pink, the same color you always used to choose when you’d get your nails done back at home. You could shiver with pleasure, just from thinking about the feeling of warm water on your hands, someone paying special attention to your cuticles - lotion, that you don't have to share with every other woman at the camp. The polish you’re wearing, painted just two days ago, is chipped and stained red with walker blood, but it’s better than nothing.

Makes you feel a little more human. A little more like a woman. A little more like yourself.

Now, if only you could find some hairspray and a razor.

You’ve been joining Daryl whenever he lets you - or, more truthfully, whenever Rick tells Daryl it’s okay for you to join him. Rick still doesn’t believe that you know what you’re doing, thinks of you as a liability, but you’re determined to prove yourself. You got to go on a run the other day, and today, Daryl went to check out the perimeter of the grassy hill the group is currently camping in, and you volunteered to go with him.

“You sure?” Rick had asked when the plan was originally made, looking at Daryl with squinted eyes. He pretended like you didn’t exist, even as you were standing right next to him. Daryl nodded. “S’okay with me. I’ll look out for her. Bring yer gun,” he told you, and you nodded, skipping after him down the trail.

Around Daryl, and maybe this is why you like him so much - it’s easy to feel like a woman. Easy to feel safe, too. Daryl just knows what he’s doing, and he’s so strong, big, can handle so much. Being around him feels good, but you know it’s all just a farce.

You’re not safe and neither is Daryl, a fact that becomes even clearer when you almost trip on a dead body by a stream you’re both passing on the way back to camp, alerting a walker that was only a few yards away. Daryl was able to kill him with an arrow, but it was a close call.

One minute, laughing and talking. The next, like you’re begging death to open the door after ringing his doorbell a few too many times.

You walk back to camp in silence, walker blood splattered on the both of you. When you get back, it’s nearly dark, and you help a few of the other women finish some laundry and keep an eye on a few restless kids. Life sucks in this world as an adult - but you can’t imagine living like this as a kid. Although, you think, watching them throw dirt at each other and believe the food their mothers are giving them really tastes just like chicken nuggets, maybe being so clueless is for the best.

After dinner, on your way to your tent, you see Rick and Daryl talking. You try to listen in, pretending that you’re just getting your sleeping bag ready for bed, but you don’t hear anything of importance. Meaning, you don’t hear either of them bring up your name. You feel like a highschooler, desperate for friends, eager to belong - hoping your crush notices you.

Because that’s what this is with Daryl, isn’t it? You’ve got a crush on him. Butterflies, wanting his attention, looking for excuses to be around him. It’s pathetic but a little beautiful, you admit - that even in a situation like this, where death surrounds every person, no matter who they are - there’s room in the human spirit for a little love.

A crush, you think again, fixing your nails in your tent. You can almost convince yourself that life isn’t so horrible, just for a minute, until the woman you share your tent with comes in for bed and complains that the smell of the polish is too strong and makes it hard for her to sleep.

Okay, bitch, you say in your head. It’s not like the walker guts and dead bodies beyond our tent smell any better. You bite your tongue and walk out of the tent, making your way to the empty clearing a little ways away from the tents. It’s so quiet, there’s no way you wouldn’t hear a walker if one was to come around you, but you have a knife on you just in case. No gun, since the noise would just draw more to you.

You think these things through. You just wish Rick, and the rest of the group, would see that too.

It’s dark, except for the moon and the stars shining pretty above you. Maybe the little fact you read online years ago about the environment is true - people are the cause of everything bad and all the pollution. A little more than half a year into the apocalypse, and there’s no smog clogging up the skies. It’s a gorgeous night.

You sit with your hands flat on the ground, waiting for your nails to dry. You get a good few minutes of silence, until the noise of footsteps has you nearly jumping out of your boots, reaching for your knife, only to realize that it’s not a walker, but Daryl coming to plop down next to you.

“Gosh, Daryl. You scared me,” you complain, letting out a whine. He doesn’t say anything, just sits next to you on the ground, although he moves so his back is facing your back. Makes sense, so you're both safe from all angles. Daryl always thinks about little things like that.

He’s quiet for long enough that you start to think of something to fill the silence. “Damnit,” you mutter, letting out a huff. “I ruined my nails.”

“Oh, quit it,” Daryl replies. “Whatcha doin’ out here all by yerself? You got a death wish, girl?” You’re mortified that Daryl is scolding you like you’re a kid, like you’re an idiot, and coming from him it just hurts even more.

You’ve always had an even temper, but in this new world, you lose it more often than you used to. It’s probably just the way life is now - the stress, the hunger, the cold and the dirt and the sweat and the lack of anything that used to bring anyone joy. It makes everyone crazy.

“Yeah, well - ‘m sure your buddy Rick hopes a walker gets to me. Know he was talking shit about me earlier.” You sniffle, but you’re not crying yet - it just really hurts, that you feel like such dead weight at this camp. You’ve never really been insecure, but you feel like nobody likes you. Nobody understands you. And yeah, surviving is more important than being miss popular with a group of people in the apocalypse, but everyone’s always talking about this group being family. Does that include you? It doesn’t feel like it these days.

Daryl is silent, as you expected. Normally you don’t mind the company, even if it’s a mute one, but tonight you’re feeling on edge. Until Daryl speaks. “Rick ain’t my friend. No one wants you to die, kid. Yer too much,” he mutters, and then you stand up, aggravated and not wanting to take it out on him.

You begin to walk away when Daryl reaches out and grabs your ankle to stop you. “Daryl,” you warn, as if you’d do anything to retaliate even if he pulled you on the ground with him. But you keep up the hard ass attitude - it feels good, you admit, being difficult for once. You don’t get to be anything but accommodating at camp.

“Rick and I were sayin’ how valuable you are to the group. How much you’ve grown,” he explains, and you roll your eyes, make a show of stomping away, knowing, loving that Daryl is right on your heels. Because there’s no reason for him to stay in that clearing - he’s not on watch tonight. He was only hanging around there for you.

Despite acting like Rick’s comment meant nothing to you, on the inside, as you walk to your tent, you fight a smile. So Rick has noticed your effort. That’s all you wanted, except -

You realize that maybe approval you wanted so badly never needed to come from Rick -

Because the approval from Daryl feels pretty damn good.

────

Daryl fixes you with a look that makes you burst out laughing.

You’ve only been at this spot in the woods for a few weeks, but so far, quality of life among the camp has improved. Almost a year in this new world, and this is the first time anyone’s ever slept with both eyes closed since before people turned into the living dead. There’s a river nearby perfect for fishing, and tonight at the campfire, you had your first taste of - what did Daryl call it?

Sushi.

“Just so you know,” you say, crossing a leg over the other on the little log you’re sitting on. The sun is going down, and the sky is a pretty shade of pink and even a little purple. You wonder if nature has always been this beautiful - you’d always just been too preoccupied to see it. You put a tiny piece of the fish Daryl caught and cooked into your mouth, surprised at the taste. You don’t have to fake your reaction. It’s not bad at all - but you wouldn’t necessarily say it’s good. Tastes better than another can of old spaghetti rings though, that’s for sure.

Still, you can’t help teasing. You finish your original statement. “Sushi tastes much better than this.”

Daryl smiles, just slightly. And not the fake kind of smile he does when he’s just trying to be polite. Like when an elderly man from the group tells a joke no one else laughs at, or when the strap of your last bra broke and you started crying until Rick promised, cheeks red, that he’d look for your size on the next run.

Right now, it seems like Daryl’s actually having a good time.

The thought makes you smile.

“Thank you,” you tell Daryl, and you swear you see him blush. “It's better than sushi, really.”

“Yeah,” Daryl says, nodding. He’s grown uncomfortable with the compliments already. “It’s the best yer gonna get.” Others from the group join you around the campfire, and then Daryl takes off, but not before giving you one last lingering gaze. He has small eyes, you’ve noticed - a little hooded, but so beautiful. He’s incredibly handsome, in a unique way. A pretty, no, beautiful man. His stare burns you, warms you up even with the chill in the air.

It’s only later, when the rest of the group clears off and you and Daryl are alone again, that he speaks. He’s sharpening a knife, leaning on the side of a camper van for support, and you’re at a makeshift sink (bucket) washing the dishes. It was your least favorite chore before this new world, and it’s still your least favorite after.

But, if you let your mind go there - something about the dynamic between Daryl cooking dinner and you cleaning the dishes up has you -

No. You’ve got to stop acting so juvenile.

On one hand, this little crush you have on Daryl is something positive that gets you through the day. Waiting to talk to him, excited to be around him - it shines light on a dark, terrible reality. On the other hand, getting attached to anyone at this camp is a bad idea. You just lost someone else a few days ago.

The reality, that death really is lurking everywhere - that something could happen to you, or Daryl…it makes your palms sweat and your breathing become erratic. The reality of this new world is just so scary and cruel.

You’re done with the dishes and you dry your hands on an old flannel that the camp uses as a dish towel. You feel Daryl watching you, and you like it.

“What are you looking at?” You tease, pushing some hair away from your face. “There a walker behind me or something?

He scoffs. “I wouldn’t look at no walker like that,” he grumbles, but then he must realize what he said - what it really means. You’re so excited you’re almost vibrating, wondering, realizing now - that maybe this crush isn’t one sided. But you still try to play it cool, even as Daryl shakes his head, says, “Wasn’t lookin’ at nuthin.’”

You don’t know what to say to that. You begin to walk away, excited to spend the rest of the night in your tent going over this interaction until you fall asleep, but what Daryl says next stops you in your tracks. You freeze.

“Gotta get you a bra on the nex’ run,” he says, and your knees feel weak. “Those things almos’ poked me in the eye. You cold or sumthin’?’”

You fast walk to your tent, nearly crying from embarrassment - but your entire body is dizzy with excitement. It’s adrenaline, but not the same kind you get when you’re running or kill a walker and make it out alive - a different kind, one you haven’t felt since maybe even before the walkers. It lights you up inside, makes it hard to breathe - and the funniest part?

Daryl has no idea your nipples are hard because you’re aroused - all from watching him sharpen a knife. What can you say? A man who can handle a weapon like that can surely handle…other things.

────

The fire crackles as you sit back, the warmth from the flames doing little to ease the chill in your bones. It’s freezing outside, but you’re under a warm blanket, and if you delude yourself enough you can almost convince yourself that this is just a toasty evening with friends and not a risky fire that could very well lead walkers directly to the camp.

But there’s nothing the group can do - it’s simply too cold to go without a fire tonight. Even Daryl, king of having his arms always showing, is in a jacket tonight. Which sucks, because you really love looking at his arms…but this is survival.

There’s hushed conversation while Rick tells a story, a few pairs to the side chattering, and you feel left out until you notice that Daryl isn’t talking to anyone either. He’s just looking at the ground, then the fire, gaze flickering to you every few minutes.

And you only notice that because your eyes can’t stay off of him. You can’t help it - it’s like you’re always looking for him. There’s something about that man, as dumb as it sounds, that makes him feel like your own security blanket. Even seeing him from across the camp, just a glimpse, can settle your nerves like nothing else.

Suddenly, a voice from next to you tries to get your attention. It’s Derek, a decent looking guy about your age - but he’s pretty useless, as far as skills go. He accompanies the rest of the men for runs into town, can kill a walker if necessary, but he’s selfish and all about himself. Won’t even take watch at night, says it interferes with his sleep. You can’t stand him.

You try to avoid his gaze and pretend to be busy, picking at your cuticles and hoping he leaves you alone, but no such luck.

“Look at you, princess,” he teases, and you cringe so hard you wonder if it’s visible. It’s embarrassing, being referred to like that - so what, that you like the color pink and happen to be attractive? You’re not hurting anyone. The clothes you’re wearing, the pink clips you have to hold your hair back, the floral printed pillow case - those were all things you had before the world went to shit.

You didn’t know the apocalypse had a dress code.

You’re sick of being teased. Of being reduced to this overly feminine character - as if you don’t keep watch just as much as the men. As if you don’t kill walkers when they get close to the camp, while the other women hide. As if you don’t cook, and clean, and -

Derek is still talking.

You sneak a glance across the campfire at Daryl, who holds your gaze for a minute before dropping it. You look back down too, play with your fingers on your lap. You’d go to your tent right now if you weren’t scared about the safety of falling asleep with no one actively on watch.

“So, what’d you all do before this?” Derek asks, leaning forward. He’s asking the group, but he’s looking at you, which means - you’re supposed to go first?

You wonder if this has anything to do with what you told Cindy, someone you used to share a tent with before she found room in another one. There’s not much to do these days when you’re not cooking or cleaning or hunting or moving - lots of time to sit and talk. The apocalypse is so much more boring than you ever anticipated. You shared a lot about your past with her, but surely she wouldn’t gossip about you to the others in the camp?

You thought girl code was still a thing, even in these trying times.

Everyone is silent, waiting for your answer. Even Daryl and Rick seem interested, which makes you feel even worse. You wanted to fit in, not be the center of attention.

You shift uncomfortably, before clearing your throat. You can feel Cindy’s eyes on you, sitting just a few people down. “Nothing special. Just,” you pause and shrug, unsure of what to say. “Whatever I had to. To survive.”

Back then, surviving was all about money, and ever since your parents died when you were a teenager, money is the one thing you never had enough of. One thing you did have though, is your beauty. So you used it, to get the things you needed, and sometimes a little more - but it all boiled down to one thing, just like it does now - to survive.

That’s all life is about, really? Take away the frills, the fun - people just want to stay alive, no matter how rough things get.

So - you had a boyfriend to pay your rent. A man that loved to take you shopping. A lonely guy who paid off your car. You’ve never lived in luxury, but you always made it. Always got by. Had the things you needed and a little bit more. Always -

“Yeah, well, we all knew you were a whore.”

The words leave Derek’s mouth and you’re frozen. Speechless - and that never happens to you. You’re so shocked at what he said that your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, and it’s only then that you realize the bottle of hard liquor on his lap.

You glare at Cindy, who quickly gets up and runs to her tent, more scared of you than walkers apparently - good, you think, because she’s such a bitch for talking about you behind your back. You try to be cool about it, to laugh it off like Derek is so wrong it doesn’t even deserve a reaction, but you’re so embarrassed you feel your chest aching.

Has everyone known about your history the entire time you’ve been at camp? You shared those stories with Cindy in the beginning, one of the first nights you arrived, desperate for some comfort. Is that why everyone treats you so differently from the rest? Is that why you’re the black sheep of a fucking camp formed during the apocalypse?

Does Daryl know?

You’re ready to defend yourself, but you don’t get to. Because Daryl is around the fire so fast you don’t even have time to blink, grabbing Derek by the collar of his shirt and pounding his fists into his face.

The sound of knuckles against bone is excruciating, makes you want to hurl - but you don’t tell him to stop. You’re frozen, and anyway, Derek deserves it, doesn’t he?

It’s Rick, and a few other men that pull Daryl off of Derek, who’s sporting an eye so swollen it won’t shut and a busted lip, a cheek that’ll be purple for the next few weeks for sure. “Whore,” he spits, still able to talk, even as someone drags him away. “Man, shut up already,” one of the guys says to him, but nobody eases the sting of what he says.

Daryl wipes sweat from his brow while Rick walks off to talk to Derek, but he can’t get a word in with the shit the other man is spewing. “Fucking whore,” he keeps grumbling. “There’s no money to milk from men anymore, is there? Bet you put out for that fish Dixon caught for you. Did you do the same for that new bra? Or that water bottle Rick brought back for you? Almost died you know, getting that shit for you, maybe you can thank me with,” Rick kicks him in the ribs before he can finish and tells him to shut up in that leader voice of his.

You run off, now that the rest of the group has scattered, but you hear Daryl yell out, “Yeah, man, you should’ve died,” with a string of curse words. “All you fuckin’ people looking’ at her. Yer all whores in your own way. Useless too,” he continues, but you don’t hear it because you get into your tent and zip it up.

Great. All this drama, and now nobody is ever going to fucking like you now. You’ll be the black sheep forever, won’t you? It’s a harsh wake up call, and you’re thankful you’re alone. Your tentmate must’ve taken her daughter out to be with the other kids, away from the rowdiness at the fucking campfire. You sniffle, and climb into your sleeping bag.

A minute later, before you’ve even had time to process what’s happening, Daryl enters the tent. He’s so big, it’s hard for him to fit, but he manages - cursing and crouching in a way that would make you laugh if this wasn’t such a depressing situation.

He sits next to your sleeping bag. Knees bent, arms around his legs. He just sort of watches you. You look anywhere but his face, but you notice his knuckles are bloody red and torn, all because of you.

“Didn’t have to defend me,’ you say, instead of thank you. “I wasn’t a whore, so,” but Daryl cuts you off.

“Don’t matter what you were. He shouldn’t talk to you like that. Little prick deserves his ass kicked anyway. Can’t even shoot straight,” it’s like this moment is as uncomfortable for him as it is for you. You share a look, but you look away first, afraid of the intensity. You’ve never had someone stand up for you before - not like this. What are you supposed to say? What are you supposed to do?

You say nothing at all. A few more minutes go by, with your vision blurry as you stare at Daryl’s knuckles and he stares at the hole that shows the grassy ground in the bottom of your tent. Finally, he sighs, annoyed, and even though you’re not talking you’re still worried he’s going to leave. He’s your teddy bear after all, right? Your security blanket. Maybe you’re selfish - but you don't want him to go.

And he doesn’t. Instead, Daryl adjusts his position so he can reach into his pocket and pull something out. It’s bright pink, satin looking - you wonder if he’s going to hand you a pair of racy panties just to seal the deal that he thinks you’re a slut. A whore.

But is he wrong? The look of the muscles in his arm, at his sheer size - at the smell of him, so masculine and woodsy in this little tent it almost makes you dizzy with want.

After what just happened, how can you be thinking about sex? Maybe you are a slut. A whore. You’ve done things for money before, but -

Daryl hands the piece of pink satin to you. “S’posed to be a ribbon,” he says, shrugging. He’s embarrassed you realize, and it’s cute. “Found it on a toy, er, teddy bear, thought you might like it. If you don’t, I,” but you cut him off, scoot closer to him as you tie it around your wrist.

“Thank you, Daryl,” you say softly, sweetly - and it feels so natural to lean in and press your lips against his cheek. His body is warm, and when you grip his bicep every cell in your body is on fire with desire. He must’ve taken his jacket off after the fight. If it could even be called that, with the way Daryl jumped Derek. Fights are usually a two way street.

Your heart swells, at the fact that he protected you. Thought about you on a run. Saw something and thought of you. Men have bought you things before, of course - but never something personal like this. Never something you didn’t have to ask for beforehand, for nothing in return.

Daryl, he - he gives you feelings so fuzzy and pure in your chest that you almost forget you’re sleeping just a few feet away from a forest of dead bodies.

He doesn’t wipe his cheek when you pull away after the kiss, which is a step in the right direction. You’ve seen Daryl lose his shit over the intimacy of a simple thank you hug with someone else from camp before.

You feel special.

“Was nothin,’” he says, before pausing. He looks at you, then away again, wringing his hands before continuing. “Don’t feel any typa way about doin’ what you had to do to survive, ya hear me? I know what it’s like to do what you hav’to to live, ya know? That fucker. He doesn't have a clue about makin’ it on your own. How tough it can be. Don’ listen to the shit he’s got to say. Don’t listen to none of these people,” he won’t look at you, but you look at him, the side profile of his face so handsome you want to reach out and touch him. But you refrain.

Instead, you squeeze his arm, bicep tan and bulging. You lick your bottom lip. “Daryl,” you interrupt him and he looks at you, gaze on your eyes, then your lips, then to the pretty ribbon tied around your wrist. He visibly swallows, before looking back at your eyes. His eyes are blue, pretty. Too pretty for a man as rugged as him, but what’s the saying?

A person who is good on the inside - their beauty shines through. You think that’s true about Daryl. At this moment, you don’t think you’ve ever seen a man as beautiful as him. You breathe him in, going crazy over his pheromones - his smell. You can feel your body getting aroused at his closeness, and he’s not even doing anything sexual.

“Next time,” you say, teasing tone in your voice, “Can you bring the whole bear?”

────

“Look at us,” you say, trying not to skip beside Daryl. A mood this good feels eerie in this new world, but you can’t help the way you feel.

Daryl asked you to join him for a walk, and ever since that night when he gave you the ribbon in your tent - you’ve been closer than ever. You wear the ribbon around your wrist every single day, except for right now, when you’re wearing it to hold some of your hair back.

You’re not sure what’s going on with you and Daryl, but there’s a freedom about it that fills you with joy. Helps you exhale easier in this crazy, cruel world - because he’s safe, and you like being around him, and he obviously likes you too, right? Or he wouldn’t ask you to go for a walk every single day, wouldn’t pay special attention to you during meals, making sure you’re eating enough -

And he really wouldn’t have kissed you against a tree during his watch last week if he had any bad feelings towards you.

Things at the camp are complicated, because that stunt Derek pulled separated the group. There’s people that hate you, because they’re really mad at Daryl - but nobody can be actually mad at Daryl, since he does so much for the entire group. Catches animals for food, is one of the strongest men besides Rick. You’re not exactly his girl, not even close, but you know that the only reason you haven’t been used as walker bait is because of Daryl’s status at the camp.

When he kissed you, just a few weeks after that night in the tent - it was so much softer than you imagined. Because, yeah - you imagined what it would be like to kiss Daryl Dixon. Ever since you met him, really. He’s so tough, so crass, such a force. It’s always been an opinion of yours, that the toughest people really just need some softness. You wonder now, when he smiles shyly at you as you walk past a stream, if you’re that softness for him these days.

“Look at us, what, girlie?” He asks, and you stifle a giggle, trying to remain serious for the bit of the joke. You brush your hand against his as you walk, wondering when he’ll grab it. Wondering when, if, he’ll ever claim you. But you’re trying not to rush things. It’s easy to get worried about time, when every single day is life and death - but there's something kind of beautiful about just going with the flow of what feels good.

Living in the present, which is literally all you have now. All anyone has. And right now, your goal in the present, is to make Daryl laugh.

“You’ve got your bow,” you say, gesturing to his weapon, “And I’ve got mine.” You flip your hair, showing off the pink, satin ribbon holding your hair away from your face. Daryl chuckles and shakes his head, but it only lasts for a second.

Your face heats, pleased with yourself for making him laugh, and then your breath hitches when he grabs hold of your hand.

“Yer sumthin’ else, girl,” he says fondly, and you walk into an area dense with trees before he nudges you against the trunk of one.

You don’t know what life was like for Daryl before walkers took over the population. You’re not sure if he had a lot, or a little, experience with women before this all happened. In fact, you don’t know a lot about Daryl at all. He’s closed off, he’s a little mean sometimes, too tough for his own good -

But god, the way he kisses.

Hesitant, like he’s scared to take something he didn’t earn. You want to tell him that every single part of you, he has earned. You’ve known him for more time than your longest relationship. You’ve seen each other filthy, desperate, depraved. Covered in blood, covered in guts - starving, dirty, depressed. For a man that hardly talks, Daryl somehow knows you better than any man, maybe even any other person, ever has.

He stood up for you. He tries to take care of you. He’s a good friend, he’s -

When he slips a hand to your hip and drops his crossbow on the ground, squeezes at your skin in a way that’s so possessive it makes your breath hitch, you literally let out a cry. Against your lips, Daryl murmurs, “Quiet, ‘less you wanna have a threesum with a walker.” His tongue tastes like cigarettes, a little bit like the apple juice one of the kids at the camp wanted him to try, because he’s a good sport, even if his resting bitch face might suggest otherwise.

There’s something about him ordering you around that does it for you. You let him take charge of the kiss, but you grab his roaming hand and move it to your breast. He squeezes, but in your new bra, you don’t feel the friction you’re so desperately craving from him rubbing over your nipples. You want more, and you whine, trying not to be greedy but it’s just so damn hard.

Against the tree, Daryl slips a leg between yours, and you shamelessly bend down to try to rub your aching core against it. “Daryl,” you whine, and he laughs, pulling away to look at you, his hair that’s getting longer plastered against his forehead with sweat. Everything about him is overwhelming. His smell, intense, his lips, delicious, his strength and size, so fucking hot you just want to curl up in the pocket of his shirt and stay safe forever.

Because you don’t have a doubt in your mind - Daryl would keep you safe. You wonder, why you wasted your time with finance guys and entrepreneurs and men who’d never gotten their hands dirty, back when life was normal. Daryl, with calloused fingertips and his thick accent, a country boy through and through - he pleases you, makes you happier than anyone you’ve ever met before.

Yeah, even in the apocalypse, you can find the romance. You kiss Daryl deeper.

He moves his hand down from your breast to slip it into your pants, and he lets out a low noise in his throat at the feeling of your wetness already. Just from kissing him. You’re not ashamed - it’s been a long time since anyone touched your pussy like this, a long time since you even touched it yourself. There’s just no time alone, and you share a tent, and -

“Yer soakin,’” Daryl comments, and your entire body flushes with humiliation. But the good kind. You nod. “For you,” you whisper, and he leans his forehead against yours before capturing your lips in his again.

Just as you expected, Darly is good with his fingers. He positions one of your legs over his hip so he has better access to finger you, rough hands, the calloused pads of his thumb dragging over your clit, so swollen after so long without cumming. It’s not going to take long, you know, to completely fucking burst. You want it so bad, to come apart on his fingers, to show him just how good you can be. He’s knuckle deep inside of you while still also putting pressure on your clit when you let out a screech, thankful you opened your eyes in time to see the walker coming from behind Daryl.

You push him off of you until he curses and tries to pick up his crossbow, fingers still slick with your pussy, but you beat him to it. You grab the knife out of your boot, even though your body feels like jelly, and you slam it into the walker’s forehead as hard as you can. You huff and puff, because it takes a lot out of you, and when the walker is on the ground you slam your boot into its face a few too many times until the bottom of your shoe is covered with walker brains.

“He’s dead,” Daryl says behind you. “Don’ waste yer energy.” You roll your eyes, wiping sweat from your face with a bandana you had in your pocket.

“I know. That’s for him ruining my orgasm,” you say out loud, and behind you, Daryl lets out a low whistle. You’re really humiliated now, but what are the chances? A fucking walker trying to eat Daryl while you’re trying to get him to eat you? Some fucking luck.

There’s still blood splattering on your face, and you turn to Daryl, wiping it with your sleeve. “Doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you,” you say sheepishly, unsure of how to read his bland expression. But just because a walker interrupted, doesn’t mean you don’t want to continue your little fingering session. Just in case, shame out the window, you reach for him. Daryl backs away slightly.

“Slow down,” he says, pulling away from you. “Don’ wanna fuck you in the forest,” and you understand, but also - where else can you have sex? Everyone’s always watching each other. When else can you get some time alone?

Daryl looks down at the bulge in his pants, and you reach down and grope him, like some kind of horny harlot. Maybe you are. He watches you, the color of your nails, your tiny hand - and he lets out a groan himself.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he says, leaving you speechless and wet in the middle of the woods. He starts to walk away, but his head is turned to you and his eyes never leave you. You know it’s because he’s making sure you’re safe, watching over you, even with his dick chubbing up in his pants. He tugs his weapon up to rest on his shoulder.

If that’s not a man, you don’t know what is.

“Daryl,” you start to say, following him, about to beg him for something more, but he just throws an arm around your shoulders and tugs you along. You use the opportunity with his hand on your shoulder to tie the ribbon around his wrist, a small mark of your ownership. You wonder what he’ll say about that, if he’ll be mad -

He just squeezes your shoulder. “Not tryna deny you. I want you. Me and the little guy,” he looks down to his cock in his pants, obviously referring to that. “Yer just too pretty to do somethin’ like that in the woods. My tent, tonight?” You know that his tent mate is keeping watch tonight, so you’ll be alone for a good amount of time. Enough time to - you shiver just thinking about it.

You nod eagerly.

“You sure you’re not just disgusted at what I just did?” You phrase it like a joke, gently rubbing your lips on the healing cuts of his knuckles, but you’re serious. Maybe seeing a woman behave greedy, wanting, desperate - violent - maybe it was a huge turn off.

Daryl shakes his head and tugs you closer, presses his lips to the top of your head. “Nah,” he assures, looking back down to the bulge in his pants. It’s even more noticeable than before. He takes the hand he used to finger you and sucks the digits, covered in your slick, into his mouth. The muscles in your cunt clench, at the way his cheekbones look, the level of lust in his eyes aimed at you.

“That was fuckin’ sexy,” he assures, popping his fingers out of his mouth.

────

At dinner that night, which is squirrel - so you settle for half a protein bar and a bruised apple, Rick sits down beside you. You’re eating away from everyone else, because Daryl’s helping someone with something like he always is, but it’s alright because you’re in your own world, thinking about what’s to come later tonight with him.

You’re in a trance, remembering the way he scratched at your scalp fondly when he walked you to your tent and watched you bend down to get inside. “Don’t sprain yer wrist before tonight,” he joked, insinuating you’d be finishing yourself off. He went off with a wink, leaving you reeling - because since when did Daryl Dixon joke around?

You’ve been riding on a high for the rest of the night.

Rick sitting beside you takes you out of your thoughts. You look at him and swallow the bit of stale protein bar you’ve been chewing for probably ten minutes, quirking an eyebrow at him. He’s so serious, it’s annoying.

Don’t get it wrong - you like Rick. Appreciate everything he’s done, does for the camp - he’s just so intense, but he’s handsome in his own right too. Not your normal type, but then again - neither is Daryl. You just don’t understand a man like Rick, and he doesn’t get you. But he’s the best thing this group has, because he has everyone's interest at heart. Even someone like Daryl, well -

He puts himself, and you by extension now, maybe - first. It’s not a bad thing, in fact, you find both sides of the coin admirable in their own way.

“What’s up, Rick?” You finally ask. He looks down to his hands, before nodding behind you, and you turn and look at what he’s referring to - it’s Daryl, looking angrily at Derek, who’s by the fire drunkenly talking shit about everything while people try to calm him down. You sigh.

“You and Daryl,” Rick says, and you’re not sure what to say to that - statement? Accusation? You just nod. “What about us?” You ask, and you really don’t mean to be rude, but you’re not sure why whatever you’re doing with Daryl is any of Rick, or anyone’s, business?

You expect a lecture. Something about needing to earn your keep, to stop distracting him, to make things right with Derek. Instead, Rick just pats you on the back, literally.

“You’re good for him,” he says, before awkwardly walking off when someone calls his name. No doubt for a crisis that could easily be solved without his help. You feel sorta bad for Rick - people are so stressed, so traumatized in this new world, that they don’t want to use their brains at all. They put all their problems, no matter how small, on Rick, and that’s gotta be hard.

You want to call out some sort of acknowledgement for all he does as he walks away, but Daryl begins walking towards you before you get the chance. You’re still looking towards Rick. “You checkin’ the boss out?” Daryl jokes, with something like possessiveness or jealousy in his tone. It burns you in the best way possible - that Daryl might worry about something like that.

What can you say? You’ve always thought a possessive man was hot.

Daryl plops down beside you. You’re sitting on a log, but he’s on the ground. Typical Daryl behavior. He wraps a hand around your ankle - and suddenly you’re very glad you got a chance to shave with the razor you stole from someone’s pile of toiletries after the last run.

“That all yer eatin?’” He asks, referring to the empty wrapper in your hand. You shake your head and show off your sorry apple, but Daryl just shakes his head and scoffs. “Tha’s not enough. You can’t be picky about,” but he stops when he sees the expression on your face.

You’ve talked to him about this before. He didn’t reply, but you know he was listening. Food - it’s the only thing you can be a little picky about. Everything else, you don't have any choice over. Where the camp goes, who you share a tent with. Food and now, this thing with Daryl - that’s all the power you have. Daryl nods, like he gets it but doesn’t like it, and then changes the subject.

“Are you cold?” You ask, and Daryl laughs. As kind as he is to you, you know that he’s uncomfortable when you, or anyone, tries to show any kind of care for him. He nods his chin towards the ratty blanket you’re using. “You gon’ share with me, girlie?” You shake your head, a grin spreading across your face.

“No,” you say, tossing the blanket, the apple, and the wrapper into a duffle bag next to the log you’re sitting on. “Just thought I could warm you up in your tent.” Daryl looks like a deer caught in headlights as he peaks over your shoulder to where the rest of the group is getting ready for bed, his tent mate grabbing a gun before heading to the area where he’ll keep watch while everyone sleeps.

Daryl nods. “Yer dirty,” he grumbles, standing up, but he runs his hands up and down his bare arms like he’s feigning being cold. “C’mon then. You gunna warm me up or what?”

────

The first time Daryl fucked you, he went slow. Took his time, opening you up with his thick fingers, even though you didn’t need the extra time. You were aching, wet - desperate for him to shove his cock inside of you, because you’d been thinking about it for too long. Too much kissing, humping, friction between the two of you - all you wanted, could imagine, was how his cock would feel against your throbbing center.

When he finally thrusted inside of you, stretched you out and began to fuck into you, he didn’t let himself go like you always imagined. Insecurely, you narrowed your eyes, even as your back arched off of his sleeping bag. “When’s the last time?” You asked, referring to the last time he had sex. Daryl just let out a shaky laugh and calmed your fears with a thrust that made your toes curl and a moan escape your lips.

“Long enough, pretty girl,” he assured, all while you huffed in brat and dug your nails into his shoulders. “Jus’ wanna enjoy it. We’ve finally got the time.” And Daryl was right, but really, when is he ever wrong?

The first time you had sex you got to enjoy going slow. But the rest of the times after that - and there’s been a lot now, it’s always a quickie. A rush, because shit hit the fan at your current camp soon after the first night together. The entire group had to move, you lost people to walkers (though not Derek, unfortunately), and now getting off with Daryl only happens in quick spurts whenever you’re alone.

In a way, the drama surrounding the camp has made the two of you closer.

When the entire group has to drive down a walker infested highway, normally you’d be in a camper van with the other women and children, but Daryl has your back.

“You’re ridin’ with me,” he says, shooting Rick a look before anyone can object. As he walks off, he purposely bumps his shoulder into Derek, who scoffs and does the same to you. Daryl doesn’t notice, but Rick does, and he tells Derek off before Daryl can do anything drastic like beat his ass again.

“Hey,” he warns, shoving Derek away from you. “Watch it,” Derek grumbles, glaring at you before hopping into the back of a truck with a few of the other men. “What?” He asks mockingly, because you’re frozen, watching him in a trance while Daryl starts up his bike.

Derek just can’t leave you alone - he picks on you every single chance he gets. “You got Rick standing up for you now too, huh?” He says, shaking his head in disgust. “You let him fuck you too?”

It’s not his words that hurt so much, but it’s the fact that he’s saying them at all. You’ve never done anything to Derek, have only been nice, yet he looks at you like a target and it hurts so bad your eyes threaten to spill tears. Thankfully, Daryl comes for you, and you get on the back of his bike with ease.

“You okay?” He asks, even though it’s hard to hear with the sound of the rumble from the motorcycle. You nod, and press your face into his back. Daryl takes off down the highway, leading the way while Rick follows behind, and you selfishly let yourself doze off against him. You trust Daryl, more than you’ve ever trusted another man - and that’s a lot of pressure.

Trusting anyone these days means you’re putting your life in their hands. It’s exhausting. When you tell the women at camp you’ll watch their kids while they go to the restroom, or go for a walk - essentially what you’re saying is you’ll protect their kids if shit was going south. Even just the thought, being responsible for someone else - it makes your chest heave.

Your arms are tight around Daryl as he drives. You’re not sure how long you’re on the road for when the motorcycle stops, but you know you’re much farther ahead then the rest of the group. In another life, you imagine Daryl happy and free - driving to a city, or another town on a brand new motorcycle. Maybe working in a shop. You feel a pang of sadness, that he’ll never get that.

He deserves so much more than this shit. You all do.

Except maybe Derek.

And Cindy. Fuck that bitch.

Daryl stops the bike and you get off, stretching your legs.

“You good, dolly?” He asks, and you wrinkle your nose at the nickname. You’re pretending not to like it, when in reality, it makes you tingle all over. You nod.

“You go fast,” you say, and he laughs, steps off of the bike and walks to an empty field off to the side of the highway. “‘S the only way to go. Stay here,” he orders, before walking off. He grumbles something about taking a piss and you stifle a laugh, pretending to salute him. You see his hand twitch, like he wants to jokingly flip you off, but he stops himself.

Something about that, that he won’t play rough with you, has your knees feeling wobbly. You feel like you can breathe, without the rest of the group breathing down your back, insulting you, accusing you of doing sexual things just to be treated like a human being. You try not to think about it, because you want to have a decent day and don’t want Derek to be the cause of tears when you’ve been through worse circumstances without crying. It’s hard though.

You walk around the motorcycle, eyes on the ground. You catch a glimpse of your shoelace, pink against the black of your boot, because you used the ribbon for added flair when you gave your shoelace to someone at the camp who needed a belt.

Daryl saw you, and promised you that night with his cock buried deep in your throat, “I’ll get you some more ribbons, pretty girl,” he assured, while you gagged and spit dribbled down your chin. “Too hard to hold your hair back when yer suckin’ me off like a pro.”

That comment should’ve stung, but you know Daryl didn’t mean it like that. In fact, it was so hot that you did your best, until he spilled down your throat and you licked the mess you made off of his cock and balls and thighs.

You’re lost in your thoughts, busy giving your pussy a heartbeat when you notice a little gold, bullet shaped thing on the ground. You’re not sure what it is, but if it is a bullet, you know having extra is always good. You reach down to grab it, only then realizing that it's a lipstick.

You pop open the lid. It’s a pretty pink color, and while it’s used - you can’t even remember the last time you wore makeup. You wipe the top layer off before dabbing some with your finger and putting it on, trying to check yourself out in the mirror of the motorcycle when Daryl comes back.

“The fuck are they?” He asks, zipping his pants up. He’s so, so, so - crass sometimes that it’s endearing. You shrug, and that’s when he notices the lipstick you’re wearing. His eyes are hooded, heavy with tiredness, and it makes him look all the more handsome. “There a makeup store aroun’ here I shud know about?” He teases, and you shake your head and hold up the lipstick tube.

“Found this. How’s it look?” Daryl just nods, looking at you with a strange expression. You’re not sure what he’s thinking, until he tugs you closer to him by the wrist and tentatively presses his lips against yours.

“Don’ care about the gloss,” he comments, and you resist the urge to explain it’s not gloss, it’s lipstick. “But I don’ call you pretty girl for no reason. Always pretty,” he says shyly, and Daryl is a perfect guy, but he never opens up. Hardly ever says how he feels, or what he thinks - but he’s being clear now. That he wants you, verbally, even though his actions in everything he do is always proving that to you.

It’s crazy, the feeling of happiness bubbling in your chest, all thanks to Daryl Dixon. On the fucking highway filled with walkers probably silent in their cars, with flat tires and blood stains and ramsacked belongings, you stand on your tip toes and nudge the toe of your boots against his, grabbing hold of his handsome face and peppering kisses all over. You leave pink lipstick marks, but he doesn’t know that yet - and it makes you giggle.

Putting your mark all over Daryl - you’ve never been possessive, but wow does it feel good. When you finally pull away, Daryl looks at you like you’re crazy. Then he takes a look down the highway to make sure nobody’s coming, before bending you over the front of his motorcycle.

“Grab the handlebars,” he orders, a hand on your back before roughly pulling your pants down your ass. It’s risky, knowing that the rest of the camp could drive up at any minute, but who really cares? They already think so low of you. They already -

Your eyes shut as Daryl shoves his half hard cock inside of you, and your walls clamp down around him, so tight you feel him growing. It happened so fast he wasn’t even fully hard, but now he is, small thrusts so the both of you can get used to the feeling. Your hands are cramping where they grip the bars of his bike, so tight, until it almost starts to tip. Daryl has an idea.

He pulls out, cock in hand with his fucking pants not even pulled all the way down, and he sits himself over his bike like normal. “Take em’ off,” he says, nodding towards your pants, and you obey, stripping them off until it takes too long because of your boots and Daryl just hauls you over to him.

You almost trip as he lifts you onto the bike, bent over the handlebars, eyes on the road, before he slips his cock into you. It’s like you’re sitting on his lap, and he reaches around you, fully supporting your body while rubbing your clit.

“Can you move?” He asks roughly, and you whine, trying to go up and down on his cock but it’s too hard at the angle. Daryl presses a kiss to your head, moves some of your hair back while he takes hold of your hips and ruts you back and forth over his dick. You know he’s strong, but feeling it first hand is something else entirely. It’s like you’re a doll with the way he easily controls your body, dick so thick it feels like he’s stretching your pussy into the perfect mold just for him.

“Don’ worry,” he assures, letting out a breath of pleasure right by your ear. “I got ya. Only time yer quiet ‘s when you got my cock in you, huh?”

He’s not wrong. You wish you could see his face, but this position, your back to his front, is pretty hot too.

It’s only a minute later, when his hand slips while you try to pull your body up to do some of the work, that he nearly pinches your clit and it’s the pain that sends you over the edge. You cum, that easily against him, and you cry out his name just as you both hear the sound of an engine in the distance. Daryl curses, throws his head back at the feel of your tight pussy squeezing him, and quite literally picks you up off his cock and puts you on your feet.

“Knees,” he says quickly, and you obey, because of course you do, even though the gravel of the road is a little painful on your knees. He grabs you by your hair, and forces your mouth onto his cock where he spills his load down your throat. You swallow it down and kitten lick the head of his cock clean after, admiring the pink lipstick marks all over his perfect dick as he quickly zips tucks his dick in his pants and zips up, but not before helping you get your pants back up too.

“If we live another day,” Daryl says, helping you straighten out your pants when the other cars pull up. He snaps the band of your panties, white cotton and floral print, against your skin while the rest of the group gets out of the cars to have a meeting over some bullshit, you’re sure. “I’ll return the favor,” he finishes.

You don’t know if he’s joking or not, but you pull up his arm and cuddle into his side as he stands up, his tongue on your mind even though you just came all over his cock. You wish you could’ve had time to ride your orgasm out, but you’ll take what you can get.

Rick nods to Daryl as he gets out of his truck. He looks between the two of you, and for the first time, maybe ever, - you see him smirk a little.

“‘S your color, man,” he says, closing the car door. Daryl is confused, and takes a look at himself in the rearview mirror of his motorcycle, notices all the kiss marks and another first happens -

Daryl Dixon blushes red.

────

“I wanna come,” you say, resisting the urge to literally stomp your foot as Rick and Daryl and a few other men head out on a run.

It’s not like you actually want to go, but you can’t bear the thought of Daryl leaving without you. You know he can take care of himself, but the thought of him not returning - it literally makes you feel sick. You tug on the sleeves of your sweater while Daryl loads a bag of guns into the back of Rick’s truck, the other men exchanging glances that you know are them hoping Rick puts you in your place.

Ever since people caught on about you and Daryl, they’ve kept their mouths shut in regards to you. Which is good. You’re still ignored, like before - but at least you’ve got a little respect. You cross your arms as Rick and Daryl walk towards you.

“It’s dangerous out there,” Rick says, as if you’re an idiot who’s head has been buried in the sand for the past year. He sighs. “Look - we need you here. This is your role,” he looks like he wants to continue, but Daryl places a hand on his shoulder and gives him a look that Rick knows means let me handle this.

But you already know what Daryl is going to say to you, and you don’t want to fucking hear it. “I want to come, Daryl,” you say, trying not to whine. “I’m good with a gun, and since Derek can’t go,” you lower your voice, but Derek must’ve been slinking around. He pops up next to you, and Daryl tenses.

“You,” Daryl warns, mood gone sour just from Derek’s presence. “Fuck off.”

Derek laughs, but he’s obviously pissed. He can’t go on anymore runs, at least not for a while - he’s too scared, after a walker almost bit him the last time.

It’s only when you tense up, that Daryl realizes the other reason you don’t want to be left alone.

You don’t want to be alone with Derek. Yes, there’s other women at the camp and a few other men, but Derek is a scary, loose cannon. He’s the last person you want to be around right now. Daryl’s jaw locks, and he looks between the two of you, at the way you’re uncomfortable. Someone in Rick’s truck blares the horn, and he turns around, stressed out, not knowing what to do.

“Fuck face,” Daryl grumbles, running a hand down his face. He’s addressing Derek with a glare. He walks closer to him, chest to chest almost, backing Derek almost onto his ass. Derek can pretend to be tough all he wants - but he’s a bitch in comparison to a man like Daryl.

“Stay away from her. Don’t even look at her. If I come back and you so much as,” but Derek smirks. “If,” he emphasizes, until Daryl literally shoves him. Rick calls his name, and Daryl backs off.

You end up dropping whatever you’re saying, hating the position you’re putting Daryl in - like you’re a kid who has to have your way. Daryl is just trying to help the group, he has responsibilities - you don’t need to make his job harder than it is, so you wave him off. “I’ll be fine, Daryl. Just - come back safe.” You kiss his cheek and then he’s off.

You go to your tent to avoid Derek when the men going on the run are gone, but as you walk away you hear him speaking to you. “What’re you doing with that white trash? You might’ve been a whore, but you’re no trailer trash. You wouldn’t be with him if this was any other world.”

You stop in your tracks. “Don’t talk about Daryl like that,” you say softly, but firmly. For all Daryl does for everyone - you can’t believe Derek has the fucking nerve to talk shit. You want to flip him off, but he walks closer to you, and you freeze. You’re more scared of this man than a fucking walker, and your stomach flips with anxiety at his nearness.

“I worked in finance,” he says, like it matters. You actually have to stifle a laugh, confused at why his past matters - he’s so worthless that this is all he has to brag about? He thinks you care? Is he trying to relate to you, by putting Daryl down? He’s an idiot.

You smile sweetly, as if that’s anything to brag about. All the finance guys you knew in the city before all of this - they were horrible people. Of course that’s what Derek used to do.

“Trust me, Derek,” you say, hoping it stings. “I know.”

You walk away again, but just as you do, he grabs you by the arm. You try to pull your arm out of his grasp, but he won’t let you go. He tugs you closer to him, and you wish anyone cared about you enough to help you.

“Let go of me,” you spit, but Derek just shakes his head.

“You’re such a stupid bitch, you know that? Acting too good for any of us, treating all of us like shit. But you put out for fucking Dixon - let all of us hear you letting him fuck you in his tent and the woods. We saw you on your knees that day on the highway. I mean, it’s not a secret you’re a slut, but it’s another thing to see it. And now Rick is defending you? That why you were talking to him the other day for dinner? Offering yourself up for more rations or something? You’re sick,” Derek rants and raves, bruising your arm with his grip.

“Let me go,” you say, trying not to show how scared you are. “Or I’ll fucking scream.”

Derek actually laughs, shaking his head. You’re disturbed to know that he’s been watching you? Following you and Daryl? Because the both of you know - you only ever fooled around with Daryl when nobody could listen and see unless they were trying to. You wouldn’t do that, and neither would Daryl.

“If I’m such a stupid slut, that must make you pretty bad, huh? That I won’t even put out for you,” you hate that you even say those words, like you’d ever consider having sex with this man, but you want to hurt him. To get him to see that he's wrong about you - you want him to leave you alone.

“You fucking bitch,” Derek says, pushing you to the ground.

You let out a cry. You should’ve never told Daryl and Rick you’d be okay, you should’ve -

Suddenly Derek is off of you. You’re frozen for a second, before you hear screaming and someone calling out your name.

You’re in shock as someone helps you up. You know it’s Rick, because you notice his watch. “Damnit,” he curses, and you register the sound of Daryl’s voice. You look around for him, and when you find him, you see Derek on the ground, an arrow in his head.

He’s dead - for now. That fast. Until he turns into a walker.

Daryl walks to you, pulls you into his arms. “What happened?” He asks, and you’re worried he’s going to blame you, because you provoked him, and you stupidly left your weapons in your tent. You’re worried he’s going to think differently of you, that Rick will be mad that Derek is dead, and all these worries start swirling in your head until you can’t be strong anymore. You start crying so loud that you know you’ll be responsible for any walkers coming into camp tonight.

Rick starts to talk, but Daryl, for the first time ever, shuts him down harshly. “No, man. I ain’t sorry. He had it coming,” he says sharply, and Rick just swallows, holds his hands up like he agrees.

“Jus’ was gonna say to finish the job,” and you know he means, kill the fucker before he turns.

But you don't want Daryl to do it.

No, this is a job you can do.

Wordlessly, you pull yourself out of Daryl’s arms and walk towards Derek’s corpse. Everyone at the camp has gathered around now, too little too fucking late, but Rick tries to stop you from getting closer. You smack his hand away, and hold your palm out. It takes a minute, until Daryl finally orders Rick to give you what you want.

Rick hesitantly places a gun in your hand - and you shoot Derek in the head.

────

You’ve never killed someone who hasn’t turned yet. Derek was the first.

What scares you the most, is how little you care.

After what happened, you told Daryl everything that Derek said. You learned that night, from both Rick and Daryl, that the reason Derek was so horrible is because he wanted you - and how scary is that? What if he hurt you in another way once he had you on the ground? You’re lucky Rick forgot his gun and backpack on the run, that they had to turn around and come back to camp - the reason they got to you in time.

Rick assured you that you did the right thing. Which felt good, coming from the moral compass of the group. Everyone else was kind too, apologetic - you guess Derek scared more people into submission than you thought.

But Daryl was just pissed. More angry than you’d ever seen him. Throwing shit, breaking stuff - burning Derek the minute he dragged him a far enough distance from camp. Derek never even got a chance to turn.

Daryl threatened to leave the group with just you. It seemed like a good idea at first, until the reality that two people can’t survive on their own. No matter how resourceful, strong, and brave Daryl is.

But that meant a lot, that Daryl was trying - but the important thing is to survive.

The last few weeks, you’ve kept your head down. You clean, you help cook, you even take a few bites of whatever Daryl cooks because he pretty much forces you to - and because, secretly, you like how proud of you he looks when you try something new.

You just wish the world was different. But Daryl’s been amazing.

Rick’s been kind too. Everyone has, and maybe -

The sound of the zipper on your tent takes you out of your thoughts. You’re braiding your hair since you just washed it, but it’s proving to be a difficult task. You’re thankful for the distraction.

It’s Daryl.

“I already ate,” you tell him, worried that he’s bringing you some rodent that’s badly cooked. But you’re trying to be nice - he’s the only good thing in your world these days, so you soften your words. “Come inside and cuddle.”

Daryl squeezes inside the tent, and he leans on his side by your sleeping bag, just watching you. His head balanced on his hand, propped up on his elbow.

“Have somethin’ for you,” he says, not waiting for you to reply. In his hand is something wrapped in a tissue and you wonder what it is. He places it on your lap, and you look at him, excited but also a little upset.

“I told you to stop risking your life to get me things,” you scold, because everytime Daryl goes on a run, he finds things for you. Ribbons, hair clips, a pink toothbrush the other day. Lip gloss and lipstick (he knows the difference now), a pair of socks with little bows on them that are a size too big but still your favorite. He’s always saying how cute you are, how he thinks about you whenever he sees something pink.

It’s the best compliment ever.

You look to the other end of your sleeping bag, where a teddy bear Daryl found for you on a run a few weeks ago faces you both. It’s missing an eye, has the ribbon, the first gift he ever gave to you tied around its neck, and you love it so much that you sleep with it every night.

It’s definitely seen better days, and you don’t really know where he found it, but it’s so special to you - partly because Daryl gave it to you, and partly because it’s a little part of him that’s always with you. Part teddy bear, part security blanket - just like him.

It’s also a little scraggly. Sort of rough, dirty - but cuddly just the same. Kind of like Daryl. You move it a little closer.

Daryl groans in frustration and you almost roll your eyes at the dramatics. “Hush, lady, y’know I can take care of myself. ‘S nothing,” he nods to the thing on your lap, and you sigh and open the tissue.

It’s a cookie.

Your brows furrow, and you look at Daryl, all confused. “What,” you start, and he shrugs, sitting up. He rubs a hand down his face.

“Remembered what you said, about the cookies,” he’s sheepish, as if this isn’t the sweetest thing in the world. You gulp, trying not to cry at how touched you are, but you can’t help it. Tears brim at your waterline, and you wipe your eyes.

“Oh,” he scolds, letting out a huff. “Don’ cry. I just remembered what you said, is all. It’s probably not good anymore, but you’re my girl, and I want,” you smile even as tears run down your face.

“Your girl,” you hold that close to your heart, and Daryl nods, avoiding eye contact. You don’t care. You throw yourself into his arms.

His hug is warm, strong, and you feel the stress leave your body as he kisses your temple. He was listening, all those times you were talking.

Daryl Dixon, you think, the man that you are.

Your silence must be unexpected. He pulls away, watches your thumb brush over the most likely stale cookie he probably found on a run. You’re not really gonna eat it - but it’s the thought that counts.

“You talked about what ya miss, from before. But when I look back,” pretty blue eyes look at you. He cups your chin, presses his lips against yours.

You make a note to ask for chapstick for the both of you on the next run.

“Don’ cry, c’mon. You’re makin me soft,” he complains, even as he holds you closer. You want tell him that you can’t make him something he already is, but what he says next throws the sass right out of you. “When I look back, before I knew you,” he finishes shyly, “I just miss you, ya know?”

Daryl says that he’s not romantic, but he’s the most romantic man you've ever met. He’s a good person. He’s kind, and thoughtful, and even though he’s vague sometimes, too quiet for his own good - you know what he means.

You can’t believe there was a time you didn’t know - a time you didn’t love - this man. He’s everything to you.

And maybe, yeah - this world is hell. There’s death and decay and too much sadness to catch a break, but there’s one good thing in all of it. One thing so important to the both of you, that gives a little bit of meaning to this shitty, shitty world.

You found each other. You have each other.

You sniffle and nod, holding the cookie close, but Daryl even closer.

“Yeah,” you say, kissing his cheek softly. You feel him relax at your touch. “I’ve always missed you too, Daryl.”

4K notes · View notes

heeluvv · 2 months ago

Text

˗ˏˋ 01. NEW CONTENT DROPPED

warningsᝰ.ᐟ masturbation, unprotected sex, soft praise kink, noona kink, light crying, degradation kink, etc.

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

statusᝰ.ᐟ 1/9 completed!

taglistᝰ.ᐟ @starry-eyed-bimbo @vixialuvs @justaquarium @dark-moon-light02 @deobitifull @minjeong28 @wonzzziezzzz @wonsohl @psychicyouthfox @honeyfever @strayy-kidz @bloomiize @tunafishyfishylike @jaehaki @ihearteatingxo @songbyeonkim @sol3chu @mo0neng3ne @strxwbloody @hii01mii @merwdusa @dorrissakurada @lycxee @frequentlykit @heeenha6484 @sjakewrld @stwrlightt @parkjjongswifey @haneulhee @fr34k4c1dr41n @cozyre @vwricky @nyxtwixx @nuggets4lifers @yunkiconico @mynameis-rosie1 @leeknowslefteyebrow @babygguk98 @noiiny @horijiro

──

you don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until the number on the page blurs in front of your eyes. the red ink bleeds through the letter like it’s been branded there on purpose, like it’s taunting you. bold, underlined, and cruel: payment past due. the amount is higher than you thought. higher than last month. higher than what’s sitting in your checking account—and your savings? nonexistent. your fingers twitch around the edges of the paper, and you stare at it for a few seconds longer, as if maybe if you look hard enough, the numbers will shrink, change, disappear entirely.

but they don’t.

your hands move slowly, almost disconnected, as you place the letter down on the edge of the kitchen counter. the paper crinkles beneath your fingertips, the sound sharp in the quiet of the apartment. you rake your fingers through your hair, dragging your nails gently across your scalp, trying to ground yourself—trying not to panic. it’s not working.

you don’t have time for this. not now. not with finals looming, two shifts left this weekend, and rent due in five days.

the sound of approaching footsteps makes you flinch.

“everything okay?” nari’s voice is soft, cautious, like she already knows the answer. she probably does. she always does.

you don’t look at her. not yet. you feel her presence behind you, hovering by the counter, hesitating. she picks up the letter carefully, and you hear her breath catch as her eyes scan the contents. there’s a beat of silence before she speaks.

“it’s more than last month,” she says, barely above a whisper.

you nod, still not meeting her eyes. your throat feels dry, your heart pounding behind your ribs like it’s trying to escape. the shame tastes bitter in your mouth.

“i can’t pay it,” you finally say, voice flat. “i barely made it through last month’s bill. and now they’ve added more fees.”

it’s not new. this has been happening every few months. random charges. late penalties. service increases you never agreed to. and no matter how many hours you work or how much sleep you lose, it never seems to be enough. you thought you were managing. thought maybe you were finally getting ahead, even just a little. but here it is—proof that you’re still drowning.

nari places the letter back down and moves to stand beside you. she doesn’t speak right away. her eyes flick toward you, soft with concern. she’s been your roommate for over a year now—someone you met through a shared thread on social media venting about overpriced meal plans and the bullshit cost of dorm laundry. back then, you were both strangers trying to navigate the mess of college life with nothing but broken bank accounts and coffee-stained syllabi.

now, she feels like family.

you’ve always admired how gentle she is, how thoughtful. she worries without smothering, helps without asking, gives even when she barely has enough for herself. you hate how easily she sees through you.

“i’m so sorry, y/n,” she says gently. “let me help. i mean it. just this once.”

you squeeze your eyes shut. you’ve had this conversation before. more than once. every time the bills show up with too many zeroes or your bank app sends another low balance alert, she offers. she always offers. and you always refuse.

because this is your responsibility. your education. your choice.

you never wanted to drag her into the mess you made just trying to survive.

“nari, no. it’s fine,” you say, brushing it off the same way you always do, even though nothing about this feels fine. “i’ll figure it out. i’ll… find another job or something.”

another job. the words sound ridiculous even as they leave your mouth. you’re already balancing two. your body aches at the thought of adding a third, your schedule stretched so thin it feels like one missed alarm could unravel everything.

nari doesn’t argue. she just stands there, looking at you with wide, worried eyes that say more than her words ever could.

you turn away.

you don’t want to see that look. don’t want to see the guilt in her expression or the way her lips part like she’s about to say something she knows you won’t let her finish. instead, you press your palms flat to the cool countertop and try to slow your breathing.

you can’t keep doing this. living check to check. sacrificing sleep, time, your sanity—only to still come up short.

“let me help find you one, y/n. at least let me do that…” her voice was quiet but firm, laced with the kind of gentle urgency that made it hard to ignore. she pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down beside you, her knees bumping yours softly as she reached for your hands.

her fingers curled around yours without hesitation—warm, grounding, comforting in a way that made your chest ache.

“you’ll get out of this before you know it,” she said, her thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “just hang on a little longer.”

the words should’ve felt like encouragement. to someone else, maybe they would have. but to you, they barely registered. her voice echoed distantly in your ears, dulled by the weight pressing down on your shoulders. you wanted to believe her. you really did. but there was only so much hope could do when your brain felt like it was unraveling thread by thread.

you were tired.

not just physically—though that part never seemed to go away—but mentally, emotionally, in a way that left you hollow at the edges. your thoughts were messy. loud. overwhelmed with numbers and due dates and rejection emails you didn’t have the energy to open.

you’d always wanted more for yourself. a degree. a real future. stability. success. the version of adulthood that didn’t involve counting coins at the bottom of your purse to buy groceries. being able to chase something you loved without sacrificing everything just to survive.

and yet… here you were. still stuck. still drowning.

“i’ll talk to my friends,” nari added, her voice picking up as she stood again. “i’ll ask around, see if any of their jobs are hiring. you don’t have to do this alone, okay?”

you blinked up at her, too tired to protest, too drained to offer anything back. you barely nodded.

she didn’t wait for an answer. instead, she gently tugged you to your feet and led you toward your room, her hands guiding you like muscle memory.

“just hurry,” she said over her shoulder, already halfway down the hall. “get ready before you’re late.”

you let the door close behind you, the soft click echoing in the quiet space, and leaned back against it for a second too long—breathing in slow, like maybe it would help ease the burning behind your eyes.

but it didn’t.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

you can’t hear yourself think anymore. the noise presses in from every direction—muffled conversation, the beep of the register, shoes skidding across tile, the mechanical whirring of the blender as it screams through another drink. the scent of syrup, espresso, and sweat mixes into something you’re far too familiar with by now. it clings to your clothes, seeps into your hair, follows you home every night and lingers even after you’ve scrubbed your skin raw.

your apron feels too tight around your waist. the name tag keeps flipping over, catching on your shirt. your hands ache from repetition. your back stings from bending, twisting, reaching for things without stopping. your legs burn, but you keep standing. because if you stop—just for a second—you don’t know if you’ll start again.

you’ve lost count of how many customers you’ve helped. they blur together—faces that don’t really look at you, names that repeat too often, voices that never say please. someone spilled a drink ten minutes ago and just stared at you like it was your fault. someone else snapped when you misunderstood their order and then smiled like it never happened. you’re used to it. too used to it.

the blender screams again, and you find yourself zoning out, eyes on the flashing light of the machine, ears ringing. you place a sweaty cup down on the counter just as your coworker brushes past you, muttering something, her voice barely registers.

“we’re out of cold brew, can you let the manager know?” she says, breathless.

you nod without thinking and duck into the back, weaving past crates of milk and mop buckets that haven’t been moved since your last shift. you find her—your manager—hovering near the inventory shelf, tablet in hand, expression unreadable. she looks up when she hears you but doesn’t say anything. just waits.

“we’re out of cold brew again,” you say softly.

her sigh is immediate. clipped. already annoyed. “i told the morning crew to prep more.”

“they didn’t,” you reply, just as soft.

she exhales again and gives you a glance that feels like a warning. “make a new batch. and try to keep the line moving—we’re backed up out there.”

you hesitate, shifting your weight from foot to foot, unsure if now’s a good time. but you don’t have a choice. not really.

“hey,” you begin, voice lighter than you feel, “i was wondering… if you had any extra shifts next week? i could take one. or two. anything that opens up, i’ll take it.”

you see it the moment her expression changes. not enough to be obvious, but enough that you feel it in your gut. she blinks at you once, slow. “you already have four shifts on the schedule.”

“i know,” you say quickly. “i just… if anyone drops or calls out—”

“i’ll let you know if something comes up,” she interrupts, sharper now. “but we’re fully staffed right now. you’re already lucky to have the hours you do.”

lucky.

that one stings.

you nod like it doesn’t bother you. “okay. thanks anyway.”

you turn back toward the front before she can see the heat crawl up your neck. the shame, the frustration, the quiet burn of helplessness that never seems to leave you alone. it coils tight in your chest as you slide back behind the counter, the overwhelming noise greeting you like a wave to the face.

you move through the orders on autopilot—pour, cap, swipe, pass. your body knows the motions. it always does. even when your brain doesn’t catch up. your arms are heavy. your thoughts are too loud.

your phone buzzes in your apron pocket.

technically, you’re not supposed to check it during a shift. but you do anyway, slipping your hand inside just enough to pull it out, eyes flicking to the screen beneath the counter.

nari: i have something to tell you.

you pause.

your breath catches in your throat.

the message is short. way too short. there are no emojis, no dramatics, no little additions she usually throws in to make you laugh. it’s clean. intentional. unsettling.

you type back fast.

you okay? what’s up?

your fingers hover over the screen, waiting. no immediate reply. no typing bubbles. just silence.

you slip your phone back into your apron, heart racing now—not from caffeine or exhaustion but from something else. dread, maybe. anxiety. it curls low in your stomach and spreads like smoke, slow and sickly.

the hours bleed together until they don’t feel real anymore. it’s like you blinked and suddenly the sky was dark, the register was silent, and your shift was over. you don’t even remember clocking out. your body moves on instinct as you grab your things, slinging your bag over one shoulder, feet dragging slightly with every step. you’re too tired to even complain out loud. exhaustion sits heavy on your shoulders, weighing down every bone like bricks. every joint aches. your eyes sting from the fluorescent lights. your muscles are tight, sore, stretched too far. and the worst part is knowing you’ll have to do it all again tomorrow.

the walk home is a blur. you barely register the passing cars or the hum of traffic. your legs are on autopilot, your thoughts too noisy to settle into anything coherent. by the time you reach your building, your fingers fumble with the key from how badly they’re shaking—whether from fatigue or stress, you’re not sure.

the moment the front door swings open, you’re greeted by a sudden, high-pitched sound that makes you flinch.

“oh my god, y/n!”

nari’s voice rings out before you even step fully inside. she appears from around the corner, practically bouncing on her feet as she rushes toward you with wide eyes and a wild grin.

“i think i’ve secured something for you!” she announces proudly, reaching to help you with your things without waiting for permission. your bag slides off your shoulder with her help, and she carefully sets it down on the couch before turning to face you again.

you blink at her, too tired to match her energy, voice low and worn. “how so?”

the contrast between your tone and hers is stark—hers bright and excited, yours soft, raspy, touched with exhaustion that even you can hear.

“okay, so,” she starts, already walking toward the kitchen like she’s been waiting all day to spill this. “i was talking to one of my classmates earlier—casual stuff, whatever—and she would not shut up about this app she’s using and this guy she’s obsessed with on it.”

you follow her slowly, the smell of something warm and savory pulling you forward. dinner is already set out, steam curling up from the bowls on the counter. she’s cooked again. you don’t even have the energy to thank her properly, but it sits in your chest like a quiet comfort.

“she said it’s this platform where you can post content—videos, mostly—and people follow you, tip you, subscribe to see more. apparently, it’s easy money if you know how to catch attention,” nari continues, grabbing utensils and placing them gently next to your bowl.

you lean against the counter, brows slightly furrowed as you try to keep up.

“what kind of videos?” you ask slowly.

and that’s when she pauses.

her hands still for a second, and you notice the subtle way her eyes flick to the side—toward the fridge, the floor, anywhere but you. she busies herself wiping down a clean countertop, her mouth tight, like she’s carefully choosing what not to say.

the silence stretches just a little too long.

you narrow your eyes. “nari?”

she still doesn’t look at you, her fingers now fiddling with the corner of a napkin that doesn’t need adjusting.

and that’s when you know—whatever she’s about to suggest, it’s not exactly a regular part-time job.

you don’t say anything. not at first.

you just watch her fidget—her hands smoothing the same wrinkle over and over again, her mouth parting like she wants to say something but can’t figure out where to start. her excitement from earlier has dimmed slightly, not completely gone, just… more careful now. the shift is subtle but it’s there, and you feel it tighten something in your chest.

your voice is quieter this time. gentler. “what kind of videos, nari?”

she glances up at you for a split second, then looks away again, reaching to stir a pot that isn’t even on the stove. she’s stalling.

finally, she exhales, turning back to you with both palms pressed to the counter.

“okay, so… don’t freak out.”

you stare at her.

“it’s… kind of a subscription thing,” she says, slow and cautious. “like, you post content—just whatever you’re comfortable with—and people tip you for it. sometimes a lot.”

you don’t speak. not yet. you just let her keep going.

“my classmate told me she made almost five hundred dollars in one weekend. literally just from one post. and this guy she follows? apparently he makes thousands. like, thousands. maybe even millions.”

your mouth is dry.

“what kind of content?” you repeat, even though you already know the answer.

nari bites her lip. her eyes finally meet yours. “sexy stuff,” she admits. “but it doesn’t have to be all out. it can be suggestive. artistic. faceless, even.”

you blink at her. once. twice.

the silence between you stretches until it’s not silence anymore—it’s tension. thick and heavy, sitting right in the center of the kitchen with both of you tiptoeing around it.

“it’s not as intense as it sounds,” she adds quickly. “she said she started small. built her page up over time. and no one from school found out. not even her roommates.”you sink into one of the kitchen chairs, your arms resting limply in your lap. you don’t say anything yet. you’re not even sure what you feel.

nari’s eyes soften as she watches you. “i know it sounds… out there. but i just thought—i don’t know, maybe it’s something you could look into. just to hold you over until things get better.”

you nod, but it’s slow. not agreement—just acknowledgment.

you’re too tired to argue. too drained to pretend the idea isn’t already crawling under your skin, planting itself somewhere dangerous.

because the truth is, you’ve heard of it. everyone has. whispered about in late-night dorm conversations, on private stories, in anonymous confessions posted on spam accounts. girls making rent money in a weekend. boys going viral for being faceless and filthy and addictive.

you never imagined doing it yourself.

but then again… you never imagined being this broke, either.

you stare at your untouched bowl of food, heart thudding softly in your chest.

you’re not disgusted. not even shocked.

you’re just… thinking.

and that scares you more than anything else.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

you tell yourself you’re just looking.

that’s it.

just a little more scrolling. just a few more profiles. you’re not doing anything. you haven’t made an account. you haven’t posted. you haven’t committed to anything except curiosity, and that—well, that’s harmless, right?

you open your laptop again. it’s sometime past midnight. your room is dim, the only light coming from your screen and the soft amber glow of the lamp tucked in the corner of your desk. it casts everything in that moody, late-night hue that makes the whole world feel quieter. heavier.

you pull your knees up to your chest, the blanket draped loosely over your shoulders as the homepage loads. it’s different now. you’re not looking aimlessly anymore. you know what to search for. you type top creators, and a list appears almost instantly.

you click one.

@heefreakshow. verified. 5.2 million subscribers.

his profile loads, and it’s exactly what you expect. polished, but not too polished. his display photo is somewhat dark and grainy, a half-lit frame of his bare chest, chin tilted up just enough to be teasing without giving anything away. the banner across the top reads: “i don’t just talk dirty. i make you feel it.”

his content is locked, but the previews aren’t.

you hover for a moment, your thumb pausing above one of the thumbnails before tapping it without thinking. the video opens in a small window, looped, muted at first, but it doesn’t matter—what pulls you in is the way he fills the frame. it starts with a soft hum of music, low and bassy, vibrating faintly through your speakers as the camera tilts upward from a dark-lit bed.

his chest appears first—broad, smooth, glowing faintly under the moody blue light. he’s shirtless, his skin flushed, breathing slow but deep. the camera dips, revealing his thighs spread wide and relaxed, and the hard, unmistakable bulge straining through his pants. your breath catches. the fabric looks tight—too tight—like it’s fighting to contain him. you can almost feel the pressure through the screen.

his hands trail over his torso, slow and lazy, fingers dragging along the curves of his stomach, tracing the line of muscle before resting on the waistband of his pants. his face isn’t fully visible—just the faintest shadow of his jaw, a teasing sliver of his bottom lip. the only thing clearly captured is his hair: pink, messy, soft-looking and slightly damp, like he’s just run his hands through it too many times.

and then he moves.

his fingers slip down, unbuttoning his pants with quick, practiced ease. the zipper lowers with a soft click, and he pushes the fabric down just enough for his cock to spring free, already hard, tip flushed and leaking as it rests against his abdomen. his breath stutters slightly, chest rising as he wraps his hand around himself, stroking slow—deliberate, like he’s savoring it. he tilts his hips toward the camera, giving you a better view, and you swear he’s looking straight at you even though you can’t see his eyes.

his voice comes in a beat later—low, raspy, thick with arousal.

“i couldn’t help myself, baby…”

you feel something warm twist in your stomach. the words feel too direct, too personal. his pace quickens as precum beads at the tip, slicking over his fingers as he groans, deep and breathy, like it’s pulled straight from his chest.

his other hand rises, trailing over his stomach until it reaches his chest, fingers pinching at one nipple as his hips twitch upward. the reaction is instant—a quiet moan spilling from his mouth as his head tilts back slightly, lips parted in pleasure.

“fuck…” he breathes out, barely audible between sharp inhales. “i want you here with me, baby…”

you freeze, the weight of the moment crawling down your spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

you scroll down to the next name on the list.

@jayafterhours. verified. 5.3 million subscribers.

his banner is simple—black background, sharp white font. his bio reads: “don’t waste my time unless you can take it.”

you don’t hesitate. you click.

the video loads instantly, and the difference between him and the last profile is immediate. there’s nothing soft about it. no slow lighting, no teasing buildup. it opens straight into a scene already mid-motion—loud moans echoing through your speakers, fast and desperate, though none of them are coming from him.

the camera is perfectly framed, clearly placed on a desk, angled to capture everything without obstruction. a woman lies flat on her front, arms outstretched as her fingers curl over the edge of the wood. her legs tremble slightly, back arched, skin damp with sweat. behind her, jay moves with sharp, brutal rhythm—his hands gripping her hips like he owns them, fingers pressing deep into the flesh as he drives into her hard enough to rock the table beneath them.

“such a fucking slut, aren’t you?” he grits out, his voice low and full of gravel, each syllable landing like a slap.

his hand comes down suddenly to grip her ass, squeezing tight before delivering a sharp slap that makes her body jolt. the sound of skin meeting skin cracks through the room. she lets out a choked moan, broken and messy.

“d-don’t stop—j-jay!” she cries, voice high, shaking as her nails drag along the desk surface for something to hold on to.

but you barely register her.

your eyes stay on him.

he doesn’t look at the camera—not directly—but the angle captures enough. his head is tilted back slightly, the veins in his neck prominent, his jaw clenched. his lips are caught between his teeth, biting down like he’s holding something back. there’s a faint flush along his collarbone, sweat trailing down the side of his throat.

he isn’t shirtless.

somehow, that makes it worse.

he’s dressed in a crisp white button-down, slightly wrinkled now, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. a black tie hangs loosely around his neck, the knot crooked like it was tugged halfway through the scene. it swings gently with the movement of his hips, adding to the rhythm, the sound, the image of him fully in control without even needing to try.

there’s something terrifyingly composed about him. like he’s done this a thousand times. like nothing surprises him anymore. like the entire scene is unfolding exactly how he planned it.

and yet, despite the chaos, the noise, the cries echoing off the walls—you can’t stop looking at him.

you don’t hesitate when your eyes land on the next name.

@jakeoncam. verified. 5.5 million subscribers.

simple bio: “i like being watched.”

your heart skips slightly as you click on the preview, already familiar with the routine by now. and yet, nothing about this feels repetitive—each creator you've looked at so far has had their own way of pulling you in, but jake’s feels… different.

the screen fades in slowly, no music, no buildup. just the soft creak of bedsheets and the low, wet sound of friction. he’s fully on display, his body stretched across a dark comforter, shirtless, skin glowing with a light sheen of sweat. the camera is placed at a low angle, perfectly capturing the curve of his back as he grinds down onto a pillow with messy, desperate rhythm.

his blonde hair sticks to his forehead in damp strands, a few pieces plastered to his cheek. his eyes are shut tight, brows drawn in deep concentration, lips parted as he pants softly into the mattress. his hips roll in tight, fluid motions, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he presses himself down harder into the cushion.

“fuck… i’m gonna cum… fuck, baby…”

his voice is breathless—higher, whinier than the others—and it hits you unexpectedly. it’s not performance. it sounds real. wrecked. like he’s been holding back for too long and is just now letting go.

he gasps softly, his pace stuttering, body tensing as the pressure builds—but the clip cuts off just before the release, leaving you blinking at your screen with your chest tight and your legs shifting.

you don’t realize how long you’ve been holding your breath until it escapes you all at once.

and you don’t stop there.

you move onto the next one almost instinctively, driven more by something primal now. not even out of curiosity anymore—need. something about each of them feels increasingly personal, like they’re not just performers, but something else. something closer.

@hoononrepeat. verified. 5.3 million subscribers. “if it’s not messy, i don’t want it.”

you click, the motion smooth and practiced now. part of you knows you’re getting too deep, that this is becoming more than just research, but you don’t stop.

his video starts mid-motion.

the frame is tight, focused completely on him—sunghoon’s hand gripping his cock, already soaked and shining with cum, sliding along the length with slow, deliberate strokes. his chest is heaving, his abs flexing with each movement. the lighting is dark, moody, barely enough to cast definition over his frame, and yet it still highlights every shift of muscle.

a silhouette appears at the bottom of the screen—a woman, faceless, mouth parted and positioned perfectly beneath him. her head bobs forward as he pushes his cock into her mouth without hesitation.

he groans, long and drawn out, his voice rough like it’s scraped from the bottom of his throat.

“fucking hell…”

his hand buries in her hair, fingers curling tight as he guides her down, hips jerking forward sharply. the wet sound of it echoes faintly, almost drowned out by his ragged breathing. she gags softly, hands pressing at his thighs, but he doesn’t let up.

he’s focused. lost. unrelenting.

“take it,” he mutters, jaw clenched. “take all of it, princess…”

the words hit hard. not because of what he says, but how he says it—low, commanding, almost personal. like he knows you’re watching. like the words aren’t meant for her at all.

you feel your pulse thud somewhere low in your stomach. your fingers curl tighter around the edge of your laptop.

you should stop.

but you don’t.

@watchmesunoo. verified. 5.4 million subscribers.

his page is simple—light pastel banner, soft text, almost misleading at first glance. but when the preview loads, there’s nothing soft about it. it starts mid-action, no intro, no setup—just raw, unfiltered need. his body fills the screen, the lighting harsh enough to highlight the tension in his muscles, the sweat slicking down his chest in messy trails.

his hand holds a small vibrator—slim, silver, and humming at a steady pace as he presses it along the length of his cock. it’s already hard, flushed dark and leaking, twitching visibly each time the buzzing toy runs over his slit. he slides it slowly, teasingly, from the base to the tip, circling it around the head before dragging it back down again. his hips jerk, his thighs tightening under the pressure.

his face is in view. fully.

his cheeks are red, tear-streaked, lips trembling with every breath. wet hair clings to his forehead in dark strands, and his eyes are glassy—shiny with desperation, the kind that makes your chest tighten just watching. he looks completely wrecked. beautiful in a way that shouldn’t feel this intimate, like you’ve caught him in something far too private.

“fuck… noona…” he whines, voice high and broken as his fingers curl tight around the bed sheets. “let me cum… please—noona…”

his hand trembles slightly as he lowers the vibrator, pressing it to the base of his cock as his other hand slides upward, two fingers dragging through the mess that’s already smeared across the head. he rubs the tip quickly, desperately, almost like he’s punishing himself for how close he is. his back arches sharply, the line of his throat exposed, jaw slack as more tears spill freely down his cheeks.

“f-fuckkk—i’m cumming!” he cries out, voice cracking as his body jerks violently, hips lifting off the mattress.

you can’t look away.

his cock twitches hard in his hand, and a thick wave of cum spills over his fingers, dripping down in messy strands that coat his palm and smear over his abdomen. his chest heaves. his thighs shake. he doesn’t stop moving until his hand is completely soaked and his voice has faded into soft, hiccuping breaths.

you’re still staring, eyes wide, mouth parted slightly. the screen is glowing in the dark of your room, and all you can do is sit there, frozen, pulse pounding behind your ribs as the clip loops quietly again.

@wonsodirty. verified. 5.2 million subscribers.

his profile surprises you even more.

the name alone already catches your eye—bold, a little cheeky, a little misleading. you expect something bratty, maybe cocky, something playful or reckless. but when the preview loads, it’s none of that.

it’s quiet. intimate.

the camera is placed at a low angle, steady, fixed on soft bedsheets that shift with every subtle movement. the lighting is warm and dim, the kind that wraps everything in a golden hue and makes skin look like silk. there’s a soft rustling in the background, the sound of him breathing, uneven and slightly hitched.

he comes into frame slowly—first his legs, then his thighs, spread slightly apart as he settles against the headboard. he’s not doing much at first. just breathing. just existing. but even that feels heavy with tension, like something just below the surface is about to break.

he’s shirtless. not in a performative way. just bare. his chest rises and falls in shallow motions, skin flushed with heat, the faintest sheen of sweat glinting under the soft light. his hand moves slowly at first, fingers wrapped tight around the base of his cock, stroking with careful precision. it’s already hard, already leaking at the tip, the kind of arousal that’s been building for far too long.

you watch as he closes his eyes, biting down on his bottom lip, his brows knitting together like he’s trying not to fall apart too quickly.

then, he whispers something—so soft you almost miss it.

“feels so good…”

his voice is high, sweet, breathy in the most fragile way. and it’s real. not loud. not dirty. just pure and cracked with something raw.

his strokes stay slow, almost too slow, like he’s punishing himself for how sensitive he is. his hips twitch every time he passes over the tip, precum smearing down the shaft and making his hand glisten as he continues.

you can’t help but watch his face—how red his ears are, how hard he’s trying to keep his composure. you notice how his legs tense, thighs flexing every time he lets out one of those quiet, needy sounds.

his strokes get faster, hips starting to lift slightly off the bed, his thighs trembling beneath him. he looks like he’s trying to hold back. like he’s afraid of what’ll happen if he lets go too soon.

“i can’t… i c-can’t hold it, please…”

he cries out as his hand jerks up once, twice, and then his entire body stutters. his back arches just slightly, his mouth dropping open in a silent gasp as ropes of cum spill over his fist, painting across his stomach in messy spurts.

his breathing turns shaky. his head tilts back against the pillow, eyes fluttering, lips parted as a tiny, breathless whimper escapes him.

the clip ends with his fingers still curled tightly around himself, his chest rising fast, his body twitching as he comes down—wrecked and glowing and silent.

you move onto the last profile.

@nikiuncensored. verified. 5.6 million subscribers.

the name alone already tells you everything you need to know. it feels reckless. raw. unapologetically bold in a way that makes your pulse skip without warning. you hesitate only for a second before clicking on the preview.

the video starts without ceremony—no soft intro, no teasing buildup. just action. the camera is low, placed somewhere near the base of the woman’s stomach. you can’t see her face, not even her chest—just the lower curve of her abdomen rising and falling with every sharp breath she takes. her thighs tremble faintly at the edges of the frame, knees slightly parted, twitching every time his mouth presses in.

but she’s the background.

your eyes go straight to him.

ni-ki comes into view slowly—his shoulders first, broad and tense, then his head, tipped slightly as his mouth lowers between her legs. his tongue flicks upward in tight, rhythmic strokes, wet and steady, circling over the clit with agonizing precision. the movement is deliberate. practiced. his lips part to suck softly, then flatten again as he switches pace, building her up in waves.

his fingers move with the same energy—two of them disappearing inside her only to pull out again, slick and glistening before they’re thrust back in with a soft squelch that echoes in the low hum of the room. the air is heavy. the lighting is dim, warm enough to cast shadows over the sharp line of his jaw, the flushed curve of his cheeks.

“fuck…” he breathes, voice strained with something between amusement and awe, “you’re so fucking wet…”

he groans as he presses in harder, his mouth practically consuming her now, lips wrapped fully around her clit as he sucks with loud, messy slurps. the sound is obscene, echoing in the quiet room—wet and desperate and hungry.

his eyes flutter shut, like he’s savoring the taste. like he could stay there all night and never come up for air. his free hand curls around the outside of her thigh, gripping tight, keeping her in place as his tongue works mercilessly. her moans are loud, cracked and high-pitched, but you barely register them. all you can hear is him—groaning, gasping, devouring.

he moves his head side to side slightly, mouth still latched to her clit, and the slurping sound becomes louder, wetter. his fingers curl up inside her and she screams, hips jerking toward his face, but he doesn’t back off. if anything, he doubles down.

he growls, low in his throat, sending vibrations straight into her core as his grip tightens.

and you’re stuck there—watching the way his mouth works, the way his muscles flex with every movement, the way he loses himself in it like it’s the only thing that matters.

the preview cuts off just as his lips part again, tongue dragging in a long, slow lick up her slit like he’s far from done.

and god—you believe it.

you’re completely breathless.

your chest rises and falls in slow, uneven waves, lungs struggling to catch up with the flood of emotions coursing through your system. your skin is warm, flushed, your fingers twitching faintly from where they rest on your thighs. everything inside you feels electric. overstimulated. wired with something you can’t quite name—but it’s there.

now, finally, you understand.

you understand why this app—the one you opened on a whim—could stir something so heavy inside you. why it’s been sitting in the back of your mind like a spark waiting for oxygen. it’s not just sex. it’s not just content. it’s control. attention. power.

you shift slightly where you sit, the damp heat between your thighs impossible to ignore. your panties are soaked, your breath shallow, and despite the way your body aches, you force yourself to sit up straighter. you push the thoughts down, shake your head, blink yourself back into focus.

you’ve battled with yourself long enough.

without giving yourself the space to overthink it, your finger moves. you press the button—create account—and watch the screen change, your heart racing with each small confirmation box that pops up in front of you.

you type quickly. no hesitation now. @babydollxo.

the name feels soft. flirty. safe.

but the next part isn’t so easy.

you hesitate when it asks for a profile photo. you scroll through your gallery—old pictures, half-deleted mirror selfies, nothing that feels right. nothing that says what you want it to say. nothing that matches the version of yourself you’re about to become.

you toss your phone onto the bed and push off the covers, the sheets falling away from your legs in soft folds as you rise to your feet. your room is still quiet, dimly lit by the lamp in the corner, casting soft golden shadows across your walls.

you move quickly.

your drawer slides open with a soft clatter as you dig through the scattered mess inside—tangled bras, folded shorts, tucked-away lace. your fingers pause when they find it: a tiny, black thong. the skimpiest one you own. barely fabric at all.

you strip out of your shirt first, letting it fall to the floor without a second thought. the cool air hits your bare chest, making your nipples pebble instantly. there’s no hesitation now. no shame. just movement.

you tug the thong on slowly, adjusting it at your hips, letting the waistband hug your curves as you step in front of the mirror.

you pose without overthinking it—back facing the mirror, head turned slightly over your shoulder, your front angled just enough to tease without revealing everything. the lighting does the rest. it casts your silhouette in soft shadows, highlighting the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, the swell of your hips. everything else remains hidden—blurred in the low glow of the lamp.

it’s just enough to make someone want more.

you lift your phone, frame the shot, and for the first time in a long time…you feel powerful.

you set your phone carefully on the edge of your desk, adjusting the angle until it captures only what you want it to—the lower half of your body, your thighs parted slightly, your stomach rising with shallow breaths. your face is out of view. there’s no light beyond the soft glow of your desk lamp, and the shadows cast across your skin make everything look muted, quiet, secretive.

your thumb hovers over the record button, trembling slightly. you're not nervous because you don’t know what you’re doing. you’re nervous because you do.

your mind is cluttered with noise. doubt swims through you in thick waves, crashing hard against the edges of your resolve. your chest feels tight. you can feel the fear circling in your gut, whispering things like what if you regret it? what if someone finds out? what if you can't take it back?

but the fear isn't loud enough to drown out the truth.

you think of the letter on the counter, the rent due in less than a week, the account notifications warning you that your balance is low—too low. you think of the long shifts, the missed hours, the denial from your manager. you think about how you’re out of options.

and then you press the button.

the recording begins. the red icon glows faintly in the corner of your screen. it’s happening now. you’ve officially started.

your breath catches as your hands move instinctively, dragging down the curve of your stomach with a slow, deliberate rhythm. you let your fingers tease the hem of your thong, playing with the waistband, pulling it slightly before letting it snap back into place. you don’t say a word. there’s no script for this. you let the action speak for itself.

you shift in your seat, angling your body just enough for the camera to catch the soft curve of your ass, arching your back to deepen the shadow and leave the details to the imagination. it’s subtle. sensual. controlled.

then, after a pause that makes your heart pound harder, you bring your fingers to the front of your thong. with one smooth motion, you pull the fabric aside.

just enough to reveal yourself.

your folds glisten, slick already gathered between them from the buildup of watching, waiting, and wanting all night. you’d been trying to ignore it. trying to focus on the mechanics of the process. but your body never really forgot. not after what you’d seen. not after the way they sounded.

your fingers move without hesitation now, sliding between your folds and gathering the wetness. you exhale slowly, letting the feeling settle, letting the camera keep rolling. your touch is gentle at first—small, slow circles around your clit, nothing too fast. you don’t want to rush. you want it to look natural. sensual. you want it to feel good.

and it does.

your body shifts. your back arches slightly. your thighs tense. your fingers grow bolder, faster. not by much—just enough to feel it start to build. your breathing grows uneven. soft, audible. you hold back the sound in your throat, biting your lip hard enough to feel the pressure.

and then you think of them.

the teasing smirk from the one who never broke eye contact. the groans that scraped low and rough from behind clenched teeth. the soft, desperate whimpers that bled through clenched fists and sweat-slick sheets. the sharp snap of a hand against skin. the steady rhythm of fingers soaked to the knuckle.

you remember the flushed cheeks. the breathless pleas. the soaked mouth of someone who looked ruined just from giving. the thighs that trembled under the weight of restraint. the tongue that moved with unshakable precision, curling into someone’s heat like it was instinct—like it was art.

your fingers speed up.

your hips jerk slightly, your body reacting without permission. you tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as your clit pulses beneath your touch.

“fuck…”

the word leaves you in a low, broken whisper. it’s almost inaudible. almost too quiet to catch. but it’s there.

your chest rises with effort as you force yourself to stay quiet—to stay in control. nari is just a few feet away, asleep or scrolling in the room next door. you can’t let her hear. you can’t risk that. so you press your lips together tightly and breathe through your nose, letting your hand do the talking.

your fingers move in tighter circles. your stomach contracts. your legs pull in slightly as the pleasure curls deeper inside you, hot and electric. you don’t stop. you can’t stop. not now.

you don’t need to speak. the way your body moves is enough.

the video keeps recording, and for a second, everything else disappears—your exhaustion, your guilt, your fear. all of it fades into the rhythm of your own breathing, the slick sound of your fingers working between your thighs, and the realization that this isn’t just a performance.

it’s power.

and for the first time in a long time… it’s yours.

your fingers work faster now, soaked and steady, slipping in and out of your cunt with a rhythm that’s grown almost frantic. the sound of it—slick, wet, obscene—echoes low in the quiet room, barely masked by the rapid stutter of your breath. your body moves with instinct, hips rising to meet your hand, legs spread wide as you chase the heat that’s been coiling deep in your core since the moment the video started.

you start with two fingers, curling them up just right to press against the spot that makes your stomach tighten. your lips press into a thin, trembling line as you try to keep quiet, forcing yourself to muffle the moans that threaten to spill out with every thrust. your walls clench tightly around your fingers, greedy, hot, desperate for more.

and you give it to yourself.

you let out a ragged breath as you push in a third finger, the stretch making your thighs tremble. the pressure is overwhelming now—blinding, almost painful in the best possible way. you shift in your chair, back arching as you press your heels into the floor, legs falling open wider to give yourself more space. your body is flushed and burning, skin damp with sweat, nipples tight from the brush of cool air and lingering adrenaline.

your chest heaves as you move faster, harder, fingers curling deep into yourself as the pleasure builds fast and sharp like a scream stuck in your throat. your head tilts back, eyes fluttering shut, and for a split second, you forget about the camera. you forget about the fear. you forget about everything but the feeling—

“fuck… oh my god…”

the words tear from your throat, broken and low, muffled by the force of your own clenched jaw. your legs start to shake, your body twitching with the effort to stay upright as your orgasm rushes up and crashes through you.

“fuckkk—i’m gonna cum… shit…”

your voice is higher now, cracked at the edges, as your hips jerk forward and your muscles seize. the pressure bursts all at once, your cunt clenching around your fingers as you gush hard, soaking your hand and the inside of your thighs. the release is hot, messy, completely overwhelming—wave after wave rolling through your body until you’re panting, twitching, slumped over the desk with your mouth open in a silent gasp.

your other hand scrambles toward your phone, shaking as you fumble to tap the screen. the camera is still recording—still capturing every shudder, every twitch, the flushed glow of your skin and the shine slicked over your thighs.

you end the video with one shaky movement, chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath.

your hand is drenched. your skin is burning. your thoughts are scrambled.

and you don’t hesitate.

you upload it raw, unfiltered, untouched.

you don’t trim the edges. you don’t add a caption. you don’t even blink before pressing the button.

you want it to speak for itself.

you want them to wonder.

you watch the screen as the upload bar slowly completes, your profile still blank, still new, still waiting to be discovered.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

the soft chirp of birds cuts through the stillness of morning, gentle and rhythmic, floating in through the cracks of your half-open window. golden sunlight pours across your sheets, casting long shadows along your floor, warm and soft against your bare legs. your body is sprawled out lazily across the mattress, limbs tangled in the fabric as your eyes flutter open slowly, blinking away the blur of sleep.

your room is quiet except for the persistent buzz of your phone vibrating on the nightstand beside you. it hums every few seconds, faint but constant, like it's trying to get your attention. you glance at it, brows furrowing slightly, but you don’t reach for it. not yet. your body still feels heavy with sleep and something else—something deeper.

you push the covers off your legs, the cotton sheets rustling as you sit up and stretch, your spine arching with a soft crack. you move slowly, stepping onto the cool floorboards and making your way toward the bathroom, your legs stiff, your joints still waking up with you.

just as you reach the door, nari’s voice floats out from the hallway, warm and familiar.

“good morning, girl,” she calls casually, emerging from her room with a yawn, her hair tied up messily and hoodie falling off one shoulder. she looks at you for barely a second before launching into what’s clearly been sitting on her mind.

“so,” she says, tone direct, “are you planning on making an account?”

you pause.

the words land heavier than you expect, and for a second, the hallway feels too quiet—like her question has taken up all the space. the thought hadn’t left your mind, not really. it was still there, tucked into the corner of your chest like something that needed to be dealt with eventually. she had brought it up before. multiple times. her voice always hopeful. her offers always kind. and you always deflected.

your throat tightens. not painfully—but just enough to make you hesitate.

you turn to look at her, your expression unreadable. the memory of last night creeps back in, vivid and electric. the video. your fingers. the way your breath had caught in your throat when you hit upload. the warmth that still lingered between your thighs. the weight of what it meant.

“i’ll look into it,” you say, voice hoarse. “but i don’t know, nari… does it really even work?”

she crosses her arms gently, leaning her shoulder against the wall. her gaze softens as she watches you.

“i can’t really speak from experience,” she says slowly, “but from what i’ve heard… it’s definitely something you should consider. especially with how much you’ve been struggling. i know it’s not what you’re used to. i know it’s different. but y/n… it’s real money. quick money. and you wouldn’t have to break your back for it.”

her voice stays gentle, but her words hit hard. your shoulders drop slightly, and her eyes flick down to your expression, reading you the way only she can.

“just think about it, okay?” she continues, her tone still light. “i’m heading out in a bit, but whatever you decide, just let me know. i can look around for other stuff too, if you don’t want to go that route.”

your chest tightens again—this time from emotion.

you don’t say anything. you just step forward and wrap your arms around her, pulling her in tight. the words rise up in your throat before you can stop them.

“thank you so much, nari,” you whisper. “what the fuck would i have done without you…”

your voice cracks on the last word. you bury your face in her shoulder and hold her a little tighter, your body warm against hers.

you don’t thank her enough.

not for the rent reminders. not for the quiet way she pretends not to notice when you come home late and fall asleep in your work clothes. not for the soft leftovers she always leaves out with a sticky note. not for the way she never once judged you when you admitted you were coming up short again.

she just showed up. over and over.

and you couldn’t be more grateful.

“i’ll always be here for you, y/n,” she murmurs, her arms wrapping tighter around your waist.

when you finally pull back, there’s a single tear running down your cheek. you wipe it away quickly, hoping she doesn’t notice—but she does. she always does. she doesn’t say anything this time, just gives you a gentle look before stepping away.

you clear your throat, trying to shake the emotion from your voice.

“you can go ahead,” you tell her softly. “i… i just have something to check really quick.”

she nods, disappearing into her room.

you stand there for a moment, your feet unmoving, the silence returning like a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. you exhale through your nose and turn around slowly, walking back into your room and closing the door behind you.

your phone is still buzzing on the nightstand.

and you’re finally ready to see what it has to say.

you close the door behind you and pause for a moment, letting your fingers linger against the wood. your room is quiet again, but it’s not the same kind of quiet as before. it’s weighted now—thicker, charged with something unspoken. your steps back to the bed feel heavier than they should. your body isn’t sore in the traditional sense, but there’s something beneath your skin that hasn’t left you since last night. like your muscles remember what you did. like your skin is still humming from the heat of it.

you sit on the edge of your bed, your blanket half-pulled down, the air cool against your bare legs. your phone is where you left it—face down on your nightstand, completely still. the buzzing that had filled the room earlier has stopped, like it’s holding its breath. waiting for you to be ready.

you reach for it slowly, with both hands, like you’re afraid you’ll drop it if you don’t steady yourself. the moment your fingertips brush across the screen, it lights up.

and everything changes.

1,462 new notifications. tips: +$1,951.76. new subscribers: +863.

you sit there, frozen, as the likes roll in by the second, stacking in waves across the screen. every few seconds, another tip comes in. ten dollars. twenty. fifty. a hundred. your balance is growing so fast it doesn’t feel real.

you open the comments, and the words hit you all at once.

“this is art. actual art.” “i’m obsessed.” “i came without even touching myself. that’s how real this felt.”

you read them with wide eyes, your thumb scrolling slowly, like dragging through honey. it’s too much to take in all at once. too many voices. too many people who’ve seen you now—really seen you—and want more.

you click over to your inbox. there are dozens of messages, all timestamped from the early hours of the morning. most of them are praises, offers, begging. a few are bold. graphic. unfiltered. and buried among them—at the very top, a verified profile—is the one that makes your entire body still.

@heefreakshow.

you’re completely taken off guard.

nothing could have prepared you for this—none of it. not the flood of attention. not the numbers still rising. and especially not him. not the quiet, effortless way one of the creators you watched last night—half in awe, half with your hand buried between your thighs—has now turned his gaze on you. messaged you. noticed you.

you stare at the notification like it might disappear. like maybe your phone glitched and it’s not really him. your thumb hovers just inches above the message, heartbeat loud in your ears, the weight of everything that’s happened pressing down on your chest.

and then—before you can overthink it—you press.

the message expands across your screen in one clean, perfect line.

god, you were so fucking hot. why don’t you let me see what more you’re capable of doing?

you go still.

your throat tightens. your lips part, but no sound comes out. your entire body feels like it’s pulsing—heat rising from your neck, crawling down your spine, settling low in your stomach. your eyes read the words once. then again. then again.

you’re speechless.

not because it’s crude—though it is. not because it’s confident—because of course it is. but because it’s him.

you sit there, phone trembling slightly in your grip, and all you can think about is how none of this would’ve happened if nari hadn’t pushed you. if she hadn’t looked you in the eyes and told you she believed in you. if she hadn’t said the words you were too afraid to say out loud.

you owe her everything.

because now? now you’re more than okay. you’re not just surviving—you’re starting. you’re in it.

and you have absolutely no plans of stopping.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ first episode is done! honestly i'm excited to see how this will play out because a lot more is coming, i hope you all enjoyed!

3K notes · View notes

maccreadysbaby · 2 years ago

Text

Some of my favorite words and phrases to describe a character in pain

coiling (up in a ball, in on themselves, against something, etc)

panting (there’s a slew of adjectives you can put after this, my favorites are shakily, weakly, etc)

keeling over (synonyms are words like collapsing, which is equally as good but overused in media)

trembling/shivering (additional adjectives could be violently, uncontrollably, etc)

sobbing (weeping is a synonym but i’ve never liked that word. also love using sob by itself, as a noun, like “he let out a quiet sob”)

whimpering (love hitting the wips with this word when a character is weak, especially when the pain is subsiding. also love using it for nightmares/attacks and things like that)

clinging (to someone or something, maybe even to themselves or their own clothes)

writhing/thrashing (maybe someone’s holding them down, or maybe they’re in bed alone)

crying (not actual tears. cry as in a shrill, sudden shout)

dazed (usually after the pain has subsided, or when adrenaline is still flowing)

wincing (probably overused but i love this word. synonym could be grimacing)

doubling-over (kinda close to keeling over but they don’t actually hit the ground, just kinda fold in on themselves)

heaving (i like to use it for describing the way someone’s breathing, ex. “heaving breaths” but can also be used for the nasty stuff like dry heaving or vomiting)

gasping/sucking/drawing in a breath (or any other words and phrases that mean a sharp intake of breath, that shite is gold)

murmuring/muttering/whispering (or other quiet forms of speaking after enduring intense pain)

hiccuping/spluttering/sniffling (words that generally imply crying without saying crying. the word crying is used so much it kinda loses its appeal, that’s why i like to mix other words like these in)

stuttering (or other general terms that show an impaired ability to speak — when someone’s in intense pain, it gets hard to talk)

staggering/stumbling (there is a difference between pain that makes you not want to stand, and pain that makes it impossible to stand. explore that!)

recoiling/shrinking away (from either the threat or someone trying to help)

pleading/begging (again, to the threat, someone trying to help, or just begging the pain to stop)

Feel free to add your favorites or most used in the comments/reblogs!

#fanfiction writer #writing angst #creative writing #writers #writing #hurt/comfort #writing tips

44K notes · View notes

nephynes · 1 month ago

Text

You were just Heeseung’s girlfriend’s cousin—quiet, polite, a little too naive for your own good. Then you met his friends. Now you’re in the middle of a spiraling mess of jealousy, bad decisions, emotional whiplash and two boys who treat boundaries like suggestions. Oops.

• minors do not interact

• pairing: park sunghoon x afab reader x jake sim

• wc: 33k (i’m so sorry)

• genre: slow burn, darkish? fic, angst, smut

• content tags: SMUT, toxic friendships, possessive behavior, emotional manipulation, jealousy, angst, character conflict, questionable decision-making, emotional tension, verbal degradation, crying, physical altercation, unhealthy coping mechanisms, complex feelings, power imbalance, mentions of blood, depictions of anxious behavior, manipulative dynamics, sunghoon speaks in italics, jake has issues, messy people being messy, mentions of enhypen’s heeseung and lesserafim’s yunjin. not proofread.

• a/n: this got a little out of hand. everyone in this is insane and needs therapy (except maybe yunjin). please remember this is fiction and not a guide to healthy relationships. enjoy the chaos.

• nsfw tags under the cut

praise kink, degradation kink, oral sex, jealousy kink, crying during sex, possessiveness, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, aftercare, slutty behavior, dirty talk, intense emotional sex, soft dom undertones, toxic tenderness (let me know if i missed any)

══════════════════════════

You don't know why you're still here, the music's too loud, the laughter too sharp and the room too small for how much it feels like it's pressing against you, closing you in. You're not even sure how you ended up here, or why you let Yunjin drag you out when you knew damn well it was going to be one of those nights. She's busy talking to someone else now, lost in the chaos, and you're left to wander, like always.

You clutch your cup tighter, not because you want more to drink but because it's the only thing grounding you. It's plastic, cheap, and it's all that's standing between you and the clamor of this stupid, stupid party. The people around you are so loud, so unapologetically themselves. Everyone's happy, laughing, drinking, talking with their friends, and you? You're just another face in the crowd, a blur, standing on the edge of it all.

There's a group of girls dancing by the window, the kind of girls who laugh too loud, talk too much, their bright colors making it clear they've got more attention than you ever will. You want to look away, but your eyes keep dragging back, following them as if your brain can't help but analyze the way their bodies move, the way they shine so effortlessly. And then, you wonder how they'd look if you were in the center of their circle, taking the place of one of them, laughing, dancing, without a care in the world. You can almost see it, but the picture feels blurry, like it's just out of reach.

Somewhere across the room, you spot a couple making out by the fridge, their hands wandering, the slapping sound of wet lips and muffled giggles piercing through the noise. The guy's hands wander lower, and she pulls him in closer, her body shifting beneath him. It's normal, you think, but the weird feeling in your stomach twists deeper. You've always felt like an outsider in these situations. These people, they know what they're doing, know how to have fun, know how to look and act in the moment. You never really fit in like that.

You glance around again. There's a guy on the couch talking too loudly, probably trying to impress someone with some half-baked story, and another girl, looking over at him like she's interested but not enough to give him her full attention. You catch bits of conversations, fragments, half-formed words and laughing sentences that don't make sense to you. People throwing their heads back and laughing like it's the easiest thing in the world. And you're standing there, holding your cup like it's a shield, too afraid to walk into any of it, too scared to be a part of it.

You sigh, letting your gaze wander to the corner by the stairs, where a few of the guys are hanging out. They're laughing, but their laughter sounds different from the others. Louder, sharper. There was something about observing everyone else that made you feel detached, almost like an outsider. Heeseung, of course, was the life of the party, laughing loudly with friends, always the center of attention. His presence demanded it, naturally. And then there was Sunghoon, looking as composed as ever, standing off to the side with his arms crossed, watching the room with his usual detached gaze.

But what caught your attention most in that moment was Jake. The chaos of the party seemed to swirl around him like he was at the eye of the storm. You caught a glimpse of him near the drinks table, his usual smirk on his face as he chatted with a girl who was all doe-eyed and giggling, the kind of girl who looked like she'd fall for anything he said. He didn't seem bothered by the attention, though.

In fact, he seemed...pleased.

You watched, your heart picking up pace, as he gently guided the girl toward Sunghoon. Jake's hand rested at the small of her back, his smile playful and effortlessly charming as he introduced the girl to Sunghoon. The moment wasn't anything special on the surface, but the way Jake's hand lingered, the way Sunghoon tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable... it sent an unexpected ripple of discomfort through you.

It wasn't just the way Jake stood so confidently, so familiar with the girl, but the way Sunghoon's lips curved upwards—slightly, ever so slightly—into something that resembled a smile. It was the first time you'd seen him genuinely show any hint of warmth toward someone in this room, especially a stranger.

Sunghoon took the girl's hand delicately, raising it to his lips in a soft, almost theatrical gesture, kissing her knuckles with a quiet grace that didn't match the chaos of the party. His gaze flickered briefly to the girl, and then back to Jake. You couldn't hear the words they exchanged, but the scene itself was enough to make your stomach tighten, an odd mix of curiosity and something heavier—something that felt like jealousy, though you quickly pushed that feeling aside.

The girl blushed, her smile sweet as she laughed at something Sunghoon said. You couldn't help but notice how easy it was for her to slip into this world, how effortlessly she fit into the social dynamic that you were still trying to make sense of.

And then your eyes caught Sunghoon's gaze—just for a moment. His eyes met yours across the room, cold and distant, before he blinked and shifted his attention back to the girl in front of him. But it wasn't the usual indifference you were used to; there was something there, something flickering beneath his cool exterior that made your heart skip a beat. But then it was gone, and he was back to his composed self, nodding politely at whatever the girl was saying.

You shook your head, blinking away the strange feeling of being left behind. You had no reason to be affected by any of this, right? You were just... observing. That was all..

You shift your weight, trying to ignore the way your heart beats a little too fast. You wonder what he's thinking, or if he's thinking anything at all. He never really pays attention to you. At least, that's how it feels. Sunghoon's the kind of person who sees everything but says nothing. He can be in a room full of people and somehow make you feel like you're invisible. Like it doesn't matter if you're there, or not. But you know better. Deep down, you know he notices. He has to. Why else would you feel like your pulse quickens every time he's near?

You turn your eyes away from the corner and try to focus on something, anything else, but your mind keeps drifting back to them. To him. To the way the whole room feels different when he's around. You wonder if they all see it — the way he stands apart from everyone else, like he's above it all. And you wonder if they notice that you're always the one looking at him, the one too afraid to be noticed, but always noticing him. Your breath hitches slightly as you feel the weight of your own thoughts.

There's a sudden burst of laughter nearby, and someone bumps into you, startling you out of your thoughts. You almost spill your drink, but you catch it just in time. Your hands tremble slightly, and you hate yourself for it, because who the hell gets nervous in a crowded room full of drunk people?

The night is too long. It's too much. It's too overwhelming.

And just when you think you've had enough, just when you're about to leave and find a quiet place to breathe, someone grabs your wrist gently but firmly.

"Hey, are you okay?"

It's Yunjin. Again. Her eyes are softer now, concerned.

You blink up at her, not even realizing you'd been holding your breath. She's got that knowing look on her face, like she can see right through you.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. You're not okay, but what's the point in admitting it?

Yunjin doesn't buy it. "You're not fooling anyone. Loosen up. Let go. It's just a party."

You swallow, then force a smile. "Yeah, just a party."

She gives you one last look before pulling you toward the kitchen, ready to distract you with something, anything to get you out of your head. You follow her, only half-present in the moment, lost in thoughts of someone who probably doesn't even know you exist.

The music is a dull hum in the background as Heeseung finds you and Yunjin. He looks a little too smug, like he's up to something. You feel a sinking feeling in your stomach as his eyes flash between you and Yunjin, and you know exactly what's coming.

"You two," Heeseung grins, "let's go say hi to the boys. They're over by the back corner."

You immediately freeze. No. No way. You'd rather do just about anything else than walk up to that corner of the room. It's always them, always Jake and Sunghoon, always that strange tension that makes everything feel ten times harder than it needs to be.

Yunjin, surprisingly, seems to read the atmosphere instantly. "Heeseung, no. We're good. Let's just—"

But before she can finish, Heeseung's already dragging her along, and of course, that means you have no choice but to follow. You want to protest, but the words catch in your throat. You could leave, but that would make you look like a coward. So, you trudge after them, barely registering the shifting in the crowd as Heeseung pulls you both toward the back.

As you approach, you see them. Sunghoon, leaning against the wall like he owns the place, his eyes cold but somehow piercing. He's not looking at you, and the familiar ache in your chest stirs again. And then there's Jake, that infuriating, charming, always-too-confident smile on his face. He's leaning toward Sunghoon, whispering something in his ear, and for a brief moment, Sunghoon's lips curl up into a rare smile—an actual, genuine one. Your heart lurches in your chest, an unfamiliar feeling tightening your throat.

It's the kind of smile you rarely get to see from him. It's like a secret just for Jake, a look of camaraderie you'll never be a part of. It almost feels like you've just been slapped. Why does it bother you so much?

And then, before you can even process the feeling, Heeseung's already talking to them about something you can't hear over the thrum of your heartbeat

Jake, not missing a beat, looks over at you with that mischievous glint in his eyes, smiling like he just found his favorite toy unattended. His lips curve into that damn teasing smirk that makes your stomach churn.

"Well, well, well," Jake begins, leaning in a little too close, voice dripping with something far too cocky, "look who finally showed up, Sunghoon's biggest fan" His eyes scan you up and down, like he's not even trying to hide how much he's enjoying seeing you squirm.

You swallow, trying to keep your expression neutral, but you know your face is probably betraying you. The red creeping up your neck is only the start of it and like clockwork the memory of that damn day starts playing in your head, that damn art show.

The school art show wasn't your idea of fun, not by a long shot. It was all cliché stuff—overpriced paintings no one understood, weird sculptures that looked like junk, and way too many people pretending to care about the "emerging artists." You hated those events, but Yunjin had dragged you there because Heeseung had convinced her it'd be "fun", at the time you had even wondered if this was what your life would amount to, Yunjin dragging you everywhere Heeseung drags her too, You wanted to be anywhere else that night but there you were, standing in the middle of a sea of pretentious art students, holding a plastic cup of wine that tasted like it was from a box, trying to look like you belonged.

You were trying to blend into the background, holding your drink like a shield. You hated how awkward you always felt around people you didn't know, how out of place you were in spaces like that. But that wasn't the part that had bothered you. No, what hit you hardest was when you saw him.

Sunghoon.

He was standing across the room by a few abstract paintings, his expression as unreadable as ever, hands shoved into the pockets of his blazer, looking as out of place as you felt. You could never fully decipher what was going on in his head, but it didn't stop you from trying. He was stunning, impossibly cool, like he belonged in a different world, not the sweaty, underfunded art gallery that smelled like paint fumes.

You didn't know how long you'd been staring at him until you felt the weight of someone standing beside you. When you glanced over, it was Jake, his usual smirk plastered across his face. He didn't even need to say anything, not really. You could tell by the look in his eyes that he already knew.

"Interesting, huh?" Jake's voice was low, teasing, like he was reading you like a book and you were too obvious for him to care.

Your heart skipped, heat creeping into your cheeks, but you just shrugged, trying to play it cool. "Not really. I'm just looking around."

But Jake wasn't buying it. His gaze flicked over to Sunghoon, then back to you, sharp and calculating. He raised an eyebrow. "Right," he said, his tone dripping with mock amusement. "You sure you're not looking at him?"

Your stomach dropped. The way he said it was casual, too casual, like he was testing the waters, but you felt your pulse quicken. No. This couldn't be happening. You could feel the blood rush to your face, betraying you. The truth was, you were looking at him. It was hard not to. Sunghoon had a way of standing in a room and making everyone else feel irrelevant. But of course, you couldn't admit that to his demon of a best friend, not now, not ever.

You turned away quickly, pretending to focus on some abstract art that was meant to be a painting of a tree but looked more like a tangle of colorful spaghetti. "I wasn't—"

Jake didn't let you finish. He stepped closer, his voice a little too loud, cutting through the low hum of the party. "You know, you're really obvious sometimes."

You froze. The words burned, like they were meant to sting.

"I mean, you're always so quiet around him, so careful not to look at him too much, like you're afraid he'll notice." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "But I noticed. I always notice."

You swallowed hard, your heart racing in your chest. You hadn't realized it was that obvious. Had you really been that transparent? You'd tried so hard to hide it, but it felt like every single moment around him was a magnet that pulled your attention back to Sunghoon, even when you didn't want it to.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you muttered, trying to backpedal, but Jake was already laughing, low and knowing. He was enjoying this. He was enjoying the fact that you couldn't hide from him, not anymore.

"No need to deny it," he'd said, leaning in a little too close, his smirk practically leaking into his words. "It's cute. How you've got it so bad for him. But you're not the only one who notices, you know? And don't even bother you're way too plain for...well, anyone." He nodded in Sunghoon's direction, and your heart froze at the thought of him knowing too.

Before you could even form a response, Jake was already walking off, leaving you standing there, your thoughts spiraling. The rest of the art show blurred into the background as you watched Sunghoon from the corner of your eye. He was talking to a group of people, his expression still cold, his gaze distant. He wasn't even looking at you. Of course he wasn't. You were just another face in the crowd to him.

But for that brief, horrible moment, you felt completely exposed, like your deepest, stupidest secret was laid bare for everyone to see.

Jake had seen it all and made you feel bad for it like you were so wrong for even thinking about Sunghoon. All the thoughts and memories were quickly pushed out by Jake's laughter, his reaction to your stunned expression.

Before you can muster any response, Jake's voice lowers, and he asks, his tone far too casual, "So, did you touch yourself to the thought of him this morning? I mean, come on, it's not like you've been hiding it."

Your stomach drops. The world feels like it slows down as your cheeks burn with the harsh sting of embarrassment. You're about to say something, anything, but Yunjin immediately jumps in.

"Jake, stop," she snaps, her hand on his shoulder, trying to push him away but her voice doesn't hold the sharpness it needs. It sounds more like a half-hearted attempt at deflecting, not like someone who's genuinely defending you.

You can't even look at her, the humiliation swarms you, sinking in deeper as Jake's laugh fills the space between you all. It's mocking but there's something else in it too, something darker and of course, Sunghoon is just standing there, arms crossed, his expression still unreadable. He meets your eyes for a split second and for that brief moment, your chest feels tight, like the air's been sucked out of your lungs.

His gaze is cold, but there's something there. Is it judgment? Disinterest? You can't tell. Before you can make sense of it, he looks away, turning his attention back to the group, like the brief moment never happened. And that feeling—the one you've been trying to avoid all night—surges again. You want to disappear. You want to vanish into the floor, to leave this all behind. To not have to stand here, in front of them, where every word feels like a betrayal of yourself.

"Wow, she's really shy," Jake continues, noticing the red creeping up your neck, "don't worry, I won't tell anyone. Your little secret's safe with me." He says crossing his heart clearly to continue in his mockery of you.

Yunjin steps in front of you, her posture protective, though you can tell she's just as uncomfortable with the way Jake's been pushing. "Jake, seriously. Just, cut it out."

But Jake doesn't listen, of course he doesn't. He's too caught up in the fun of teasing, in watching you squirm under his words. He steps closer to you, leaning in, the space between you shrinking with every breath.

"Tell me, did you think about it when you were alone? How badly you want him, hmm? I bet you've been thinking about it for a while now." His words are so casual, but the intensity behind them has your heart racing, your hands shaking at your sides.

You don't know how to answer. You don't know how to respond without making it worse. The silence stretches too long. You feel the weight of everyone's gaze, even if most of it is on you, the heat of the room pressing in, suffocating you.

And Sunghoon—he just keeps ignoring you. Like he always does. Even now, when Jake is throwing all of this in your face, Sunghoon just looks away. He doesn't speak, doesn't even acknowledge the tension between you all. You're invisible to him, and that hurts more than anything else.

The world suddenly feels smaller. You want to crawl into a hole, to escape from the fire that Jake's started with his words but for some reason you can't. Not yet.

Yunjin doesn't know what to say anymore. The air is thick with the weight of unspoken things, the tension hanging between all of you, and nothing will be the same after this.

You didn't even realize your body had moved you to walk way until you hear Yunjin calling after you but you ignore her, you don't care, you need to leave, her voice fading with every step you take. You don't care about that look of pity Heeseung probably gave you slipped out of their presence, or that anyone else in that damn party even notices your absence. All you can focus on is the frantic pounding of your heart, the feeling of humiliation that's gnawing at your insides, like it's eating you from the inside out.

The cold night air hits your skin like an ice-cold slap, sharp enough to snap you back into some kind of reality, but not enough to stop the sting in your chest. You press your arms tighter around yourself, the thin fabric of your jacket doing little to protect you. The tears you don't want to cry keep falling, though they're dry now, the cold air sucking them away before they can even make it down your face.

You hate Jake.

You hate him so much.

How dare he? How fucking dare he see through you like that, so easily, like you were some pathetic little thing for him to toy with? Like you weren't even a person, just some... joke for him to laugh at, to humiliate. He knew exactly what he was doing when he cornered you like that, when he asked you about Sunghoon like it was the most casual thing in the world. He had to have known how you'd react, how fucking embarrassed you'd be. He had to have known.

And yet, he didn't stop. He didn't care.

Your thoughts spiral, each one more self-loathing than the last, each one making your chest tighten until it's hard to breathe. You should've known this was coming, right? You should've known it would end like this—Jake, smirking, tearing you apart with a couple of words, and Sunghoon... Sunghoon—who just... looked at you. Like you were nothing. Like you were invisible.

You didn't even have the strength to stay at that party. You couldn't even pretend to enjoy yourself. You were suffocating, choking on your own insecurities. Every breath felt heavier than the last, every step you took colder than the one before.

"God, I hate him..." The words slip out before you even realize you're speaking them, your voice shaking. You're not sure if you're talking about Jake or Sunghoon anymore, but in this moment, it feels like the same thing. Like both of them were the reason you were this miserable.

Your pace quickens, though you don't know why. Maybe it's the restlessness, the panic bubbling up in your chest that makes your heart race faster, like you can't get away from the thoughts, from the feelings fast enough. You can feel your chest tightening, your breath coming in shallow gasps. You can almost feel the anxiety creeping in, wrapping around you like chains.

You want to scream, but it gets stuck in your throat. You don't know how much longer you can keep it together, keep pretending like none of this is killing you inside.

The city lights flicker in the distance as you push through the cold, the emptiness of the streets echoing the emptiness in your chest. It feels like you're walking on autopilot, each step taking you further from the party, further from the night that just destroyed everything. It's not until you reach the alley by your apartment building that you stop, your back pressed against the cold brick wall, fighting to get control of yourself.

Breathe. Just breathe.

But even the simple task of breathing feels like too much. Your head is spinning, the world around you feels far away, like you're trapped inside your own head and can't escape.

You press a hand to your forehead, trying to steady yourself, but the dizziness doesn't go away. Everything's too loud. Your thoughts are too loud. Your own heartbeat is too loud.

You can't stop thinking about what Jake said, what he made you feel. And Sunghoon... he didn't even notice. Did he notice? Probably not. He never notices you. You weren't worth noticing.

Tears prick at your eyes again, and you curse under your breath, wiping them away furiously, but they keep coming. How could you be this weak? How could you let them both—Jake and Sunghoon—tear you apart so easily?

It feels like everything is unraveling, like you're losing control of the only thing you had left: yourself. And you want to scream, to punch something, to hit Jake and Sunghoon for making you feel this small.

But instead, you just stand there, on the sidewalk. feeling completely hollow inside, letting the cold air do what it does best—drown out the tears you couldn't stop.

Two weeks, that's how much time had passed since the night of the party, two weeks of you keeping your distance from both Jake and Sunghoon, not that you were ever willingly in their presence anyway—it was easy. You'd stayed firm, avoided every chance to interact with them, despite Yunjin's insistence that you needed to stop being so stubborn. You weren't about to let yourself be subjected to Jake's taunts and Sunghoon's indifference. So, you avoided them. Kept your head down, and kept to yourself.

Whenever Yunjin tried dragging you to Heeseung's apartment or anywhere you knew they would be, you'd fake an excuse, stand your ground, and avoid them like the plague. It had been too humiliating, too hurtful to let them into your space again. Jake's teasing, his knowing smirk when he'd drop hints about Sunghoon, about your obvious feelings—everything about it made your skin crawl. Sunghoon's lack of acknowledgment had only made it worse. You weren't sure what was worse: the way Jake tormented you or the way Sunghoon simply didn't care.

But today was different. Yunjin had made a big deal about a girls' day out. Just you and her, no boys allowed. You weren't sure how she convinced you to go, but you'd relented. You needed a break from everything—the pressure of avoiding people, the stress that kept mounting every time you had to walk past Jake, every time Sunghoon was just there.

So, you got dressed.

A simple dress—nothing too flashy, but it was enough to make you feel good about yourself, for the first time in weeks. The fabric clung just enough to your figure, and you paired it with simple sandals that didn't make you feel like you had to put on some act. It was just you, trying to feel a little more like yourself.

But then, of course, life had other plans.

You met Yunjin at Heeseung's apartment, ready to head out. She'd already slipped into a playful, teasing mood, chatting excitedly about the day ahead. But as you stepped through the door, you froze.

Jake and Sunghoon were sitting in the living room, you think about bolting, making a run for it. Why are they here anyway? Don't they have some super expensive off campus apartment?

You tried to avoid eye contact, hoping they wouldn't notice you, but of course, Jake's eyes were already on you, studying you in that way that made your skin prickle.

"Y/N," Jake drawls, voice warm like honey—if honey were made of gasoline and meant to burn. "You're looking... fuckable today."

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

"What the actual—"

He's already pushing off the couch, making his way toward you like a predator who's just noticed his prey flinching. You take a step back instinctively, fingers gripping your phone like it could protect you.

Jake hums as he circles you. "You got a date? Some sweet campus boy finally grow the balls to ask you out?"

"I'm here for Yunjin," you bite out. "She's just grabbing something." You add, you yourself wondering why you're explaining it to him.

His eyes drag over your figure slowly. "Blue suits you."

You fold your arms over your chest. "Whatever game you're playing—"

But then his hand moves. Quick. Thoughtless.

He flips the hem of your dress up just enough to see the skin of your upper thighs and lets out a low whistle. "Damn, sweetheart. Who's the lucky guy today? Or lemme guess..."

He leans in, breath ghosting your ear, "You wore this for Sunghoon?" Your entire body stiffens and you glance past Jake's shoulder—expecting, maybe, for Sunghoon to roll his eyes, or finally say something to make Jake shut the hell up but he doesn't look at you.

He stays exactly where he is, face blank, eyes still trained on his phone like you don't even exist.

It stings more than it should.

You turn on your heel and head toward the door, heart thudding somewhere between your ribs and your throat

"Jake—" Yunjin started, her voice sharp, defensive, but it wasn't convincing. She didn't sound angry enough. Didn't sound protective enough. "Heeseung! Tell Jake to leave Y/N alone! For fucks sake". She says to her boyfriend but he just looks around like he doesn't want to get involved.

You wanted to disappear. Wanted the floor to swallow you whole.

You looked at Sunghoon again, hoping for a flicker of recognition, maybe even a hint of something. But no. His gaze was trained on something else entirely, indifferent to the scene Jake was creating. He didn't look up at you. Didn't acknowledge you at all.

And then, as if to prove that he'd never been part of this conversation, Sunghoon looked away towards the hallway.

You bit your lip to stop the tears from welling up, your throat tightening. The humiliation was unbearable. You didn't even care about Jake anymore, or what he said. What hurt was the fact that Sunghoon didn't even spare you a second glance.

"Jesus, Yunjin, relax," Jake continued, his voice light but dripping with mockery. "She's just dressed up. Can't blame me for noticing. Not like she's got anyone else to impress."

You wanted to scream. Wanted to say so many things, tell him to fuck off, tell him you weren't anyone's joke but you couldn't. You were stuck in that moment, frozen, watching as he mocked you.

You finally managed to move again, head low, pretending you were above it all, pretending it didn't hurt, but it did.

As you turned to leave, Jake's voice rang out again, as if he hadn't had enough of toying with you. "See you later, baby girl," he called after you, too casually, too easily. You're almost out. One hand's on the handle, back turned because you don't want to give Jake the satisfaction of seeing your face, or how flushed you feel.

But you pause against your better judgment and look back and see Sunghoon lean in to whisper something into Jake's ear his voice is low, soft. You barely hear it, just a whisper, meant only for Jake.

You don't catch the words—but you do catch Jake's reaction. He jerks his head toward Sunghoon, brows lifted in disbelief. "Are you fucking serious?" Jake mutters, like it's something vile. You don't wait to hear more, you're already out the door, the fabric of your dress still settling around your thighs, and your chest feels tight again. Not because of Jake but because you don't know what Sunghoon said.

And it's driving you crazy.

Yunjin is still babbling behind you, but you barely heard her.

You pressed your hand to your chest, feeling your heart thudding too fast. The burning in your throat was almost unbearable. You didn't even want to go out anymore. You didn't want to do anything. You were sick of feeling this way. Sick of the way Jake had gotten under your skin, sick of the way Sunghoon could make you feel like nothing without even trying.

The day blurred into night, the girls' day with Yunjin more of an exhausting performance than any kind of relief.

You laughed when she laughed, smiled when she took pictures, nodded along when she gushed about Heeseung and the shoes she wanted to buy next. You pretended. Pretended you weren't thinking about the way Jake flipped your dress like you were nothing but an object. Pretended your mind wasn't stuck on the mortifying second you caught Sunghoon not even looking at you.

You had tried.

And for a few moments, it almost worked until you were back alone in your dorm room, peeling the dress off like it was a brand you couldn't scrub off fast enough. The blue fabric lay crumpled at the foot of your bed, a mocking reminder of everything you wanted to forget.

You sat on the floor in front of your bed, knees pulled up to your chest, the textbook you were supposed to be reading long abandoned beside you. The words wouldn't sink in. Your brain was too loud, too crowded with shame. You couldn't stop replaying it, Jake's smirk, Yunjin's half-assed defense that reminded of when you were younger and her mum would make her play with you, Sunghoon's nothingness.

Your phone buzzed beside you. You didn't even think before reaching for it, needing any kind of distraction. It was a message from Jake's private instagram.

smjyn: you should let me fuck you in that blue dress, baby girl.

You stared at the screen, the bile rising in your throat so fast it nearly choked you. For a moment, you couldn't even breathe, then you were typing before you could stop yourself, your fingers moving too fast, too angry.

you: kill yourself.

You hit send, your heart hammering painfully against your ribs, the aftershock making your hands tremble. Jake didn't reply. You wished that was the end of it, you wished the night would just swallow you whole, let you sink into the silence, into the smallness you couldn't seem to shake off lately.

You tried to study. Opened the textbook again, blinked at the words until your eyes blurred. Your phone buzzed, you didn't want to look, every part of you screamed not to. But you did anyway and this time, it wasn't Jake.

It was from Sunghoon.

The username from the account you had endlessly stalked, made your stomach drop, made your fingers clench tighter around your phone. You had never texted before. He had never even looked at you like you existed, the message was short, almost careless.

parksgh: don't let jake get to you. he's just fucking around

You read it once, then again, and again. Your heart was lunging up into your throat, thudding painfully against your ribs. You hated how fast you moved to open it, hated how warm your cheeks got even though you knew better. You didn't know what to say back, you didn't even know if you should say anything back and it didn't even matter because by the time you thought about it long enough, he had already gone silent again.

Like the message itself had been a fluke. A mistake. A momentary lapse in his indifference. You set your phone down face-down on the carpet, your chest rising and falling too fast, your hands refusing to steady. You couldn't even remember what you were supposed to be studying anymore. All you could think about was the way his username looked lit up on your phone screen and how stupid you were for letting it mean something.

Your chest was tight, the weight of everything catching up with you all at once. It wasn't just the text; it was his name on your screen. You didn't know how to feel about it. He barely acknowledged you when you were in the same room, so why was he even texting you now?

You tried to resist but you couldn't help but type back.

you: okay, thank you

It felt like an awkward response, but you didn't know what else to say. It didn't even make sense that you were talking to him, you barely knew him and yet here you were, replying to his message like this was normal. You waited, breath held, for a reply, not sure what you were expecting but certainly not what came next.

parksgh: wyd

Your heart skipped a beat. What? He was asking what you were doing. Wyd?

You hadn't spoken before, he hadn't even looked at you in that way. So why was he reaching out now, like you were old friends? You sat frozen, staring at the words, your mind swirling in confusion.

The little bubble popped up again, a response almost immediately.

parksgh: you good?

Your brain stuttered as you tried to process it. This couldn't be real. Sunghoon—the guy who never said anything to you, the one who had barely looked at you, was texting you and not just some generic message, he was asking about you. You didn't know what to say, so you just typed something simple, something that wouldn't give anything away.

you: yeah, just tired

You waited, heart racing, unsure of what was going on. His responses kept coming. Short, blunt, and entirely unbothered.

parksgh: sounds like it, you been studying?

Another message came through as you were reading that one, making your head spin.

parksgh: you should get some sleep, it's kinda late no?

You didn't even know how to reply. He wasn't a friend, wasn't someone you were close with. Why was he being so... normal with you? But then, his next message made everything stop. A simple question, one that you couldn't even begin to understand.

parksgh: do you actually touch yourself while you think of me?

You froze. The air left your lungs. You couldn't breathe. The panic crept up your throat, your heart pounding violently as though it wanted to escape your chest. The words felt like a slap, hard and painful, as if your body was rejecting the sheer audacity of them. Your thoughts crashed together, the weight of what he was implying sinking in. You felt dizzy, like you were spiraling into something you couldn't control.

You couldn't—you couldn't—tell him the truth. That you had done what Jake had accused you of that night, that he was the star of all your wet dreams so instead you denied. You scrambled to type your response, fingers shaking with the intensity of the emotions clawing at you.

you: no, no i don't. of course not.

You hit send almost too quickly, hoping the denial would settle your racing heart, but the seconds felt like hours as you waited for him to respond. Your hands were trembling, your breath shallow, as you tried to keep the panic at bay.

And then, after what felt like an eternity, there was nothing. You stared at your phone screen, willing the next message to come, but the minutes passed in silence. Your mind raced with confusion, frustration, and a strange, bitter emptiness. You tossed your phone aside, hoping the night would be over soon so you could just sleep and forget about everything, forget about him.

But of course, right when you were about to close your eyes, your phone buzzed. The message was simple, curt, and devastating.

parksgh: liar

You stared at the screen, your pulse still thundering in your ears. The word was a punch to your gut, sharp and cutting, like it was meant to tear something inside of you. You couldn't understand it, couldn't understand him but all you knew in that moment was that you were utterly, completely, lost.

You dropped your phone onto the floor like it burned.

You sat there for a minute, staring at your lap, feeling your face get hot, your chest get tight. It didn't make sense. None of it made sense.

Sunghoon had never said more than a casual hey when you'd bumped into him before. That was it, a polite, distant nod in a crowded hallway, a meaningless word tossed over his shoulder when Heeseung introduced you to the group once, barely even looking at you.

Now, he was accusing you of touching yourself while thinking about him? And calling you a liar when you denied it?

You scrubbed your hands over your face, willing the burning behind your eyes to go away. What the hell was happening?

You weren't close. You weren't even friends. You were just Yunjin's cousin, the quiet tagalong at parties you didn't want to be at, the awkward extra body in rooms you didn't belong in. Not the kind of girl Sunghoon would think twice about as Jake had said to you before. Definitely not the kind of girl Sunghoon would text.

But he had.

You leaned back against the frame of your bed, feeling the cold seeping through the concrete, feeling the ugly knot of confusion and shame twisting in your stomach.

You hated this. You hated the way your heart had raced when you saw his name light up your screen. You hated the way you couldn't even deny it properly, because somewhere, deep down, you had thought about him. Exactly the way Jake always teased but enough that the accusation had knocked the breath out of you and you hated, just hated how badly you wanted another message from him.

You pressed your palm against your chest like you could force your heart to slow down, it didn't help. Nothing helped, you genuinely felt sick.

You weren't the kind of girl this happened to. You didn't even know how to flirt, let alone handle whatever the hell this was. You were good, you were quiet, you kept your head down, you knew your place.

Still, you were sitting here, trembling like some desperate little thing just because Sunghoon, with his pretty face and cold eyes, decided to say a few reckless words to you. You didn't know what he wanted, didn't know if he was serious, if he was playing some fucked-up joke, if he even cared what his words would do to you.

Maybe he was bored, maybe he didn't even think twice about it.

Maybe you were just a stupid, convenient distraction for him. The thought made your throat close up, made the sting behind your eyes sharpen. You climbed up into your bed turning your head into the pillow, biting down on your lip hard, willing yourself not to cry over something so stupid, over a boy who probably didn't even remember texting you.

You squeezed your eyes shut and tried to breathe.

You didn't ask for this. You didn't want this.

You just wanted to go back, before the art show, before the party, before the texts, before your heart learned how it felt to be pulled in two different directions at once.

You just wanted to be invisible again.

You knew should've gone the long way around the finance building, you should've kept your head down, kept walking, kept pretending like the weight of that unanswered text didn't cling to you like a second skin.

Instead you stood there, muttering under your breath about your asshole finance professor, flicking through your notes like you could understand what was in it despite being the one who wrote them all down, your hands curled tight around the notebook, trying to fight the rising frustration buzzing under your skin. The sky was cloudy, the wind sharp against your legs where your skirt ended.

You didn't even notice him at first, not until you glanced up and there he was. Across the street, leaning against the stone wall like he was born there, staring at you.

Blank face, hands in his pockets. Eyes so sharp they cut through the heavy air between you.

You froze, every instinct in your body screamed to run but it was already too late. Sunghoon pushed off the wall, crossed the street without looking, closed the space between you in a few long strides like he had every right to.

You couldn't breathe, couldn't move and hated how your pulse quickened anyway.

He stopped too close. Close enough that you could smell the clean laundry scent of his hoodie. Close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes.

He didn't say anything at first. Just stared down at you like he was trying to figure out what you were made of.

And then, flat voice, barely louder than the wind:

"Why'd you ignore my last text?"

You blinked at him, like he was insane. Like you were insane for being the only one who thought this wasn't normal. You shifted your weight, glanced away, noticing how his body blocked your only exit, of course it did.

You hated how small you felt and you really hated the way his words hung between you, sticky and hot, like you owed him something.

You hated him.

"I didn't know you cared," you said finally, your voice sharper than you meant it to be. You crossed your arms, armor thin and cracking. "Since when do you even talk to me?"

He cocked his head to side, his eyes never leaving your face like he genuinely couldn't understand why you seemed mad. "Oh" He said lowly, "I thought you wanted my attention."

The breath you were holding punched out of your chest, making you take a step back but he followed, slow and lazy, like he had all the time in the world to watch you unravel.

You didn't know what you hated more—how smug he looked or how badly you wanted to grab him by the front of that stupid hoodie and shake him until he made sense.

"I don't," you said, even though it sounded like a lie.

He tilted his head in the other direction, watching you, like you were something pathetic he'd found crumpled on the sidewalk, like you weren't even real.

You swallowed hard, the bitterness burning your throat.

He said nothing, just stood there, letting the silence stretch so taut between you it could slice you open. before you could snap, before you could say something you'd regret, he reached past you, flicked the ends of your sleeves with two fingers like he couldn't help himself.

And maybe you would've stood there forever, frozen in place, if Jake hadn't come strolling around the corner at the absolute worst moment, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, a smug smirk pulling at his mouth like he knew exactly what he was walking in on. He slings an arm around Sunghoon's shoulder like he's crashing a party—his usual stupid grin painted across his face, and an energy so casual it only makes things feel worse.

"Aw, am I interrupting?" he coos, eyes flicking between the two of you. "You look like you're about to cry, baby girl".

Your cheeks flame instantly. "Shut up, Jake."

He just laughs—God, you hate him—and leans in a little too close, voice low but far from discreet.

"Would she let me watch you fuck her, Hoon?" he said, all fake innocence, all ugly laughter, eyes trained on you but directing the question to Sunghoon as if you weren't there and you felt your entire body seize up, blood rushing to your face, stomach flipping painfully like you were about to be sick.

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but Jake was already bumping Sunghoon's shoulder, brushing past like this was normal, like this was just what they did.

You didn't even notice the way Sunghoon's mouth twitched, the way something dark and unspoken passed between them, because your brain refused to process it, refused to even consider it.

All you could think about was getting away, getting anywhere that wasn't here, before you embarrassed yourself even more.

You didn't see the way Sunghoon's eyes stayed on you long after you turned and fled.

You didn't know yet what they were really like.

* You should've stayed home, when the smell of opened beer cans hits your nose you realize you should've stayed home, stayed small, stayed out of the fucking way like you'd been doing for the last month, shrinking yourself into something harmless, something invisible, something that Jake and Sunghoon couldn't touch even if they wanted to.

But you didn't, against your better judgement let Yunjin drag you out, wide-eyed and whining about how you were turning boring, how Heeseung promised it would be chill and Jake and Sunghoon would be on their best behavior, how they swore they wouldn't even look at you and you believed it, like an idiot.

Now you're standing here in the middle of some shitty house party, abandoned, holding a lukewarm plastic cup like it's a fucking shield, feeling stupid, feeling trapped. The music is too loud, the floor is sticky under your shoes, someone's laughing way too hard behind you and it feels like the sound is aimed directly at your back.

You look around like maybe you'll see Yunjin and Heeseung, maybe you'll see a way out but they're already gone, already swallowed up by the night, already tearing at each other in some dark corner and you're left with nothing but your own pathetic loneliness.

You hate this, you hate how obvious you must look, you hate how you're gripping your cup so hard it's starting to crumple in your hand and you hate that you thought, even for a second, that you'd be safe here. You really try to suppress it but a part of you starts to build resentment towards your cousin.

You're just about to turn and leave, cut your losses and slip out the door like a coward, when you feel it. That horrible prickle at the back of your neck, the sensation of being watched, heavy and suffocating and familiar in a way that makes your stomach twist.

You already know who it might before you even turn around, only two options come to your mind and you can't even decide which one is worse but of course it's him.It's always him.

Sunghoon stands across the room, half in shadow, arms folded across his chest, head tilted like he's studying you again, not smiling, not frowning, just watching.

You freeze, panic blooming low in your stomach but look away quickly, pretending you didn't see him, pretending you don't care. You take a shaky sip from your cup, trying to check your phone like you have somewhere better to be.

You lie to yourself with every breath you take but it doesn't matter because he's already moving toward you.

Your heartbeat stutters painfully in your chest as he crosses the room, cutting through the crowd like he doesn't even see anyone else, like you're the only thing that matters.

You turn your body slightly, angling away from him, hoping he'll take the hint.

He doesn't.

He stops just in front of you, so close you can smell the clean, sharp scent of his cologne, can feel the heat radiating off his skin.

"Are you avoiding me?," Sunghoon asks voice indifferent like this is just some passing question he doesn't seem to want the answer to.

You swallow hard, throat dry and say nothing, even if you could speak, you don't know what to say. You don't know why he's even talking to you, why he's pretending you exist after ignoring you so effortlessly for so long.

"You look pretty." You blink. "What?" His voice is low, steady and as usual unemotional.

"Your dress is pretty and you look pretty in it, Y/N" He says so matter of factly and it almost sounds like he's telling you the sky is blue and it makes you scoff, turning your body away like maybe that'll help you breathe again. "Please don't start. I'm not doing this tonight." "Doing what?" he asks.

"You know what, Sunghoon. Why don't you and your guard dog just leave me alone?", you grit and instantly you swear you can see his mouth twitch like he's about to smile

He doesn't deny it, doesn't even argue, he takes one slow step forward. "Guard dog? You don't seem so mouthy when he's in front of you though" he almost taunts, clearly referring to how you lock up whenever Jake is close. The comment hits you so hard, you don't even notice you're against the wall now. His hand barely grazing your waist, his voice brushing your ear.

"Do you wanna kiss me?" Your breath hitches because there's no teasing tone in his voice not like the way Jake would say it just to fluster you and make your cheeks flush. He's genuinely asking if you want to kiss him.

Sunghoon says it like he's asking a favor, like he's letting you decide.

"I—no. I mean—" you stammer, heart climbing into your throat. "I don't know what you're doing, but—"His lips brush your jaw and you immediately go quiet, your mind shifting between how this is the closest you've ever been to him and how this is also the longest conversation you've ever had.

You gasp—his hand is suddenly pressing flat against your stomach, holding you in place. "Sunghoon—"

"You don't sound like you want me to stop." You shake your head, eyes wide. "This isn't fair." "I didn't say it was."

His mouth trails lower, his breath is warm and while you're melting he's still expressionless, calm, like nothing about this affects him and maybe that's what finally breaks you.

So when he whispers, "Let me take you home," you're nodding because your body listens faster than your brain can protest.

Sunghoon unlocks his car without looking at you and gets in without waiting. You just followed him, numbly, helplessly, into his car, stomach churning and heart hammering so hard you thought you might be sick.

He drove like he kissed—silent, steady, like none of this meant anything. You sat there in the passenger seat, hands clenched in your lap, trying not to look at him, trying not to think about the way your body was still burning where he touched you, trying not to wonder why he hadn't even smiled once.

He drives in silence, not looking at you once, not when he's merging onto the freeway, not when you're stopped at a red light, not when you pull up to the underground parking lot of his building. He just turns off the engine and gets out.

You sit there for a second, paralyzed, watching his frame walk towards the elevator. Then you force yourself to move, force yourself to follow him inside, force yourself to pretend that this is fine, that you can survive this, that you won't fall apart the second he touches you again.

You don't even know why you do it, you don't know what you're hoping for or what you're trying to prove.

Maybe you just want to feel wanted or to hurt and maybe right now to you, it's the same thing.

The door shuts behind you with a soft click. You half-expect him to push you against it, mouth hungry, hands impatient but instead, Sunghoon walks ahead, tossing his keys on the counter like this is routine, like you've done this a hundred times before.

You stand uselessly at the door, all stiff, unsure, heart climbing your ribs like it's trying to get away from you. He finally turns around, his eyes meet yours for the first time since the party but you can't help but look away, attempting to look around to observe the space

Sunghoon's apartment is exactly how you'd pictured it, it's big, cold and kind of empty. Everything is clean, clean to the point of sterile, all dark hardwood floors and concrete walls, black leather couch, black coffee table, flat screen bolted onto the wall.

No clutter, safe for the pile of PS5 games next to the console and a camera that's charging in the corner. Even the lights are dim, recessed into the ceiling, casting everything in sharp, ugly shadows.

There are no photos or trophies or notes on the fridge. Just space, silence and a daunting kind of emptiness. He doesn't say anything when you walk in or ask if you're okay, he just tugs you by the wrist down a short hallway into what you assume is his bedroom, like you're an obligation he's trying to get out of the way.

The room matches the rest of the apartment—gray walls, dark bedding, no signs of life. A single queen-sized bed in the center, neatly made with black sheets, a dresser, a nightstand and nothing else.

You hover awkwardly by the door, arms wrapped tight around yourself, not knowing what else to do. You want to ask him what you're doing here, or if this means anything to him at all, you want to ask him if you mean anything.

You don't, you don't say a word. He crosses the room in three long strides and crowds you against the wall again, just like he did at the party, pressing his body into yours, slotting his thigh between your legs.

You gasp, hands scrabbling at his chest. He kisses you, rougher this time, hungrier, but still there's that same frustrating emptiness radiating off him, like he's only half there.

It stings and you know it shouldn't but it does. You kiss him back anyway, desperate and clumsy, letting him push you toward the bed. You fall back against the mattress, bouncing once, heart pounding so loud you're sure he can hear it.

He shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it aside, then hooks his hands under your thighs and yanks you down to the edge of the bed, manhandling you like you weigh nothing.

You squeak in surprise, trying to suppress the fluttering in your stomach as presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. The touch sends a shudder through you, he doesn't seem to notice or if he does, he doesn't care, he just pushes your dress up higher, baring your thighs, your panties, the flushed vulnerability of you.

You try to press your legs together instinctively, but he's already settling between them, mouth dragging hot and slow along the sensitive skin. Your head drops back against the bed with a helpless whine. It's overwhelming, the weight of him, the heat of him, the way he's so calm while you're falling apart.

He kisses the crease of your thigh, breathes against the damp cotton of your underwear, licks a slow stripe over the center and you jerk, thighs trembling but he doesn't stop, he doesn't even flinch. It's almost clinical, the way he touches you , it's efficient, methodical but his mouth. God, his mouth.

His mouth might be the only part of him that's honest, it is frantic, almost desperate even. Devouring, like he's starving for you, like he's trying to say everything he's never said aloud, everything he can't bring himself to voice.

You fist his sheets, chest heaving, feeling tears sting at your eyes. It feels too good, too much, like you're dying but also floating. You barely register it when he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and tugs them down, baring you completely. You barely register it when he slides a finger through your folds, testing your wetness, humming low in his throat like he's pleased.

You only really come back to yourself when you feel the tip of his finger pressing against your entrance, when your whole body locks up in terror, when you squeeze your eyes shut like you're bracing for impact.

Sunghoon halts. You can feel it, the sudden tension in his body, the way his head lifts, the way he goes still between your legs. You crack your eyes open to find him staring up at you and his brows are drawn together, just slightly. You realize you're shaking and quite clearly crying. "Have you..." he starts, voice rougher than before, almost uncertain before he clears his throat. "Have you done this before?"

You shake your head, violently, squeezing your eyes shut again, humiliated beyond belief. You're so sure this is it, he's going to kick you out, he's going to laugh in your face and tell you he doesn't fuck virgins. So you brace for it and wait for the disgust, the mockery but it doesn't come. Instead, you feel his lips against your knee, soft and featherlight, like an apology he doesn't know how to give.

"Don't cry," he murmurs. Your breath shudders out of you and when your open your eyes, Sunghoon is still kneeling between your legs, still staring at you with that same unreadable expression, but there's something different now, something softer, something almost vulnerable.

He brushes his thumb over your thigh, gentle and you can't even hide your surprise that he doesn't move to get off you or tell you to leave.

He stays, like maybe, just maybe, you're not completely disposable after all. He's there looking at you in a way that has you trembling, gasping for air and blinking tears from your eyes, when he leans in closer, breath ghosting over the slick, swollen heat of you, his mouth brushing your inner thigh as he speaks. "So," he says, low and almost lazy. "What did you do when you touched yourself thinking about me?"

You choke on your own spit and you feel your whole body lock up again, shame burning hotter than your skin. "I— I didn't," you lie, immediately, stupidly. He huffs a laugh against your thigh, the first real sound he's made all night but it's not cruel, not that it's kind either. It's just amused. "Oh?" he murmurs, lips still trailing your inner thighs, "Then why are you shaking like that?"

You squeeze your eyes shut again, trying to disappear but he doesn't let you. He presses a kiss to the very edge of your hipbone, then another, closer and another.

"Tell me," he says, voice slipping lower, rougher. "Tell me what you did." You can't breathe, like the air has been completely stolen from your lungs. You can't lie either, not when he's looking at you like that, like he already knows and he's just waiting for you to admit it.

"I— I just—" you stammer, your voice breaking. "I just rubbed—" you curl in on yourself, mortified, "I rubbed my clit a little, that's all, I swear." You force the words out like a confession, like a sin and Sunghoon? He smiles. For the first time since you've known him, for the first time ever, he smiles at you. It's small, almost imperceptible but it's there and it knocks the air out of your lungs.

Like he's pleased, almost like he's proud of you. "Good girl," he says, and your heart almost explodes. You're still trying to process that, still trying to make sense of the sudden weightlessness in your chest, when he dips his head again, mouth closing over your clit without warning. You cry out, hips bucking up off the bed but he doesn't even flinch, he just pins you down, hands bruising against your thighs, licking you like he's been starving for it, like you're the only thing he's ever wanted and you sob, writhing, overwhelmed.

It's too much but it's not enough, you don't even know anymore.

He doesn't give you a second to breathe, to think, to ask him why he's doing this, what you are to him, why it feels like you're being torn apart and stitched back together all at once.

He just keeps going.

Keeps sucking your clit into his mouth, keeps teasing your entrance with the tip of his finger.

When he finally pulls his mouth off you, you're keening, fists twisting in the sheets, tears spilling freely down your cheeks. He lifts his head to look at you, face flushed, mouth slick, and mutters, almost to himself that you barely hear him over the roaring in your ears. "Need to get you ready."

You sob again when you feel him nudge a finger at your entrance. "Please," you whimper, not even sure what you're begging for. "Please slow down, I—" He cuts you off by tapping your thigh, light but firm. "Tap my shoulder if you want me to stop," he says, flat and emotionless, like he's just reminding you of the rules he never even told you in the first place.

Then he pushes inside, you gasp, a very raw, broken sound, as your walls clench instinctively around him. He groans low in his throat, but otherwise shows no reaction, like it's nothing, like you're nothing. You clutch at the sheets, tears burning your eyes again, but you don't tap out. You don't stop him, you can't because it's not like you want to anyway.

He works his finger in and out of you slowly, methodically, never looking up, never checking your face. You try to catch your breath, to calm down, to not cry harder but fail.

And Sunghoon doesn't stop, he just keeps going—steady and unflinching, like you're a problem he's determined to solve, like your pain and or pleasure isn't even real to him, like you're something he already owns but somehow, somehow, it still feels like the best thing anyone's ever given you.

He's relentless, barely even gives you a second to breathe, to think, to feel anything but the stretch of him working you open, one finger at first, slow and steady, ignoring every soft sob that falls from your lips.

You feel like you're drowning. The bed is too big, the room too cold, the walls are grey, the sheets are dark, the only light coming from the dim bedside lamp casting long shadows across the plain white walls, like he doesn't feel anything and maybe he doesn't and you're the idiot for expecting him to.

You dig your fingers into the sheets tighter, squeezing your eyes shut, trying not to sob out loud again. Trying not to embarrass yourself even more. Then you feel it, the slow, deliberate curl of his finger inside you.

You hiccup, chest spasming with another silent cry. Sunghoon clicks his tongue, sharp and soft at the same time. "Stop crying," he mutters, not looking up from between your thighs, it's almost bored, almost annoyed but there's something under it too, something you can't name.

You sniffle pitifully, nodding even though he's not looking at you, even though you don't think you could stop even if you tried. Then he shifts again, sliding his mouth back over your clit, and the heat of it makes you jolt. You mewl helplessly, high and broken, when he sucks harshly at the sensitive bud.

"Gonna add another," he mutters against you, voice low and unaffected, like he's just narrating, like you're not trembling beneath him. You barely have time to brace yourself before he's pushing a second finger inside. The burn is sharp, almost unbearable, and your whole body arches off the bed involuntarily, you're gasping, panting, trying to wriggle away from the overwhelming sensation, but he just presses your hips down, holding you in place like it's nothing.

You whimper, the sound muffled against your fist when you shove it into your mouth to stop yourself from making more noise. You don't even realize you're babbling until you hear your own voice cracking through the air, "Sunghoon, Sunghoon—"

You're not even thinking, you're just saying his name like a prayer, like it might save you. For a second, he stills, before softly, curiously, he murmurs, "Yeah?" and it's he thinks you're trying to talk to him, like he doesn't even realize it's just moaning.

Your whole face burns hotter, your body trembling harder, you shake your head frantically, tears dripping onto the pillow.

You don't know what you're saying anymore, you don't know anything at all, except for him, his mouth, his fingers, the way he's filling you, the way he's making your body light up in ways you've never known it could.

He curls his fingers again, deeper this time, deliberate and suddenly you see stars behind your eyelids. You cry out, bucking your hips up against his mouth, sobbing out another desperate, broken whimper of his name.

And he gets it then, you can feel it in the way his mouth curves into a smirk against you, the way he presses in deeper, harder, finding that spot again, hitting it relentlessly until you're gasping, twitching, clenching around his fingers so hard it hurts. Your whole body's on fire and you're so close you can't even think. He's still so calm, so detached, like he's just...studying you, watching you fall apart with that same unreadable look on his face.

You don't even realize you're crying again until he lifts his head, looking up at you with a frown. "You're so sensitive," he says, almost wonderingly. "You gonna cum already?" You shake your head, sobbing harder, even as your hips grind desperately against his fingers. He huffs a soft laugh under his breath, not mocking, just...satisfied.

And then when he's lowering his mouth again, sucking harshly on your clit while his fingers fuck into you deep and slow. You don't stand a chance, you come undone with a wrecked cry, shattering under him, your whole body locking up and then convulsing, thighs trembling uncontrollably.

He doesn't stop or even slow down. He works you through it, fingers deep, mouth unrelenting, until you're gasping, shaking, tears flooding down your cheeks from the overstimulation and only then—only then, does he finally pull back.

You feel so empty when he does, you almost sob again, he sits back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand — looking completely unaffected while you lay there ruined, shaking, broken on his bed.

You cover your face with your hands, humiliated, you don't even know what you're crying about anymore. The pain? The pleasure? The way it all feels so impossibly hollow when he's looking at you like that?like he's still a thousand miles away even when he's inside you.

"Don't cry," he says again, voice almost too soft to be real but he doesn't reach for you, doesn't comfort you or say anything else.

He just sits there, watching and waiting like he doesn't know what to do with you now that he's broken you but then you feel him lift off the bed and you hear the faint sound of the door opening and closing.

You're alone now and you don't know how long you lay there, body trembling, cheeks sticky with tears drying into itchy trails down your skin. Minutes pass, maybe even hours cause it feels endless.

The room is too quiet without him, so quiet you can hear your own heartbeat, your own ragged breathing. The ache between your legs hasn't faded. It throbs there, humiliating and hot, like a bruise you can't stop pressing on. You stare up at the ceiling. You wonder if this is it, if he's just going to leave you like this. Used up, humiliated and forgotten.

You try to move, but everything feels too heavy, you feel stupid for thinking it might've meant something different when he touched you and you feel even stupider for still wanting more.

The door opens again, making whole body tenses on instinct. You don't sit up because in reality you can't. You listen to the soft footfalls across the room then the mattress dips beside you.

You flinch, you can't help it then something presses into your arm, you blink and look. It's a water bottle, unopened and cold. You glance up at him, confused, uncertain but he's not looking at you. He's staring blankly at the floor, legs spread casually, one arm draped over his bent knee.

You fumble to unscrew the cap, hands still shaking, and take a small sip, the water almost choking you. The silence is suffocating. You don't know why you're surprised when he breaks it first. When he turns his head just slightly, eyes flickering to you, dark, unreadable and says, almost absent-mindedly,

"You want more?"

Your breath catches and you stare at him, wide-eyed, like you must've heard wrong but then you see his mouth twitch. The tiniest hint of a curios smile, genuine like he really doesn't know the answer.

Your heart stutters painfully as you set the water down on the nightstand with clumsy fingers.

Your throat is dry even though you just drank and you nod.

Barely, a small, scared movement.

He watches you steadily for a moment then he tips his head slightly, like he's trying to get a better look at you. "You sure?" his voice is lower now, rougher but still that same detached calm but something else too, threading underneath.

Something you want so desperately to be real and it makes you nod again, a little firmer this time because don't trust your voice to come out right.

He stares at you a second before moving slowly.

He stands up, shrugging his t-shirt off in one smooth motion, leaving him in shirtless with just his jeans. Your heart hammers against your ribs, panic and anticipation fighting for space in your chest. You watch as he unzips his jeans, pushing them down his hips with a casualness that almost makes you dizzy.

He's already half-hard, think and heavy between his thighs. You realize, distantly, that you're gawking so you quickly jerk your gaze away, cheeks burning.

You hear a soft, breathless chuckle from above you not mean and then he's crawling back onto the bed, over you, caging you in with his body.

You feel so small beneath him like prey. He's looking at you differently now, not in the normal cold and empty way, he's looking at you with hunger now and it makes you shiver.

"You sure?" he asks again, voice barely a murmur this time, lips brushing your temple.

You nod frantically, squeezing your eyes shut. "Say it," he says, tone still maddeningly calm. "Need to hear you." Your voice is a whisper, a plea, a confession. "I want you," you breathe. "I want more."

Something in him finally cracks. You feel it in the way his whole body shifts closer, the way his mouth finds yours in a kiss that's nothing like before. His tongue slides against yours, filthy and slow, and you whimper into his mouth without meaning to.

He kisses you like he wants to consume you as if he needs to and when he pulls back, just barely, his forehead resting against yours, he's panting. For the first time tonight, he doesn't look unreadable, wrecked and hungry. He shifts, reaching between your bodies to guide himself to your entrance — the swollen, aching place between your legs still slick from his mouth.

He rubs the head of his cock against you, slow, deliberate, pulling another pathetic whine from your throat. You feel him smile against your cheek. "You're so wet," he murmurs, nudging your thighs wider with his knees, not even asking, just taking. You feel the blunt head of him pressing against you and it's too much, it's not enough, you can't tell which.

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear. "Tap my shoulder if you want me to stop," he reminds you, voice rougher now. You nod frantically again because you don't want him to stop, you just want everything he's willing to give. Even if it's nothing real or even if it feels you emptier than before.

He doesn't say anything when he pushes in. Doesn't shush you, doesn't kiss you, doesn't tell you it's okay. He kind of just watches, like he's waiting for something, like you're some sort of test he's trying to pass. The stretch is unbearable, sharp and hot and you're scrabbling at his shoulders before he's even halfway in, breathing fast and panicked against his neck.

You hear yourself whispering, wait wait wait wait but he's already slowing, already stopping, his hands bracketing your hips steady and firm like he expected this because he knew you'd break apart underneath him. You feel him breathe against your temple, slow and even. He's still hard, still not fully inside you but he's giving you the space to catch up even if he looks utterly unbothered doing it. "Relax," he says after a beat. "You're making it worse."

You nod frantically against him, squeezing your eyes shut, willing your body to loosen, willing the burn to subside. It takes a minute, maybe longer and he waits like he has all the time in the world.

Not stroking your hair or murmuring sweet things like you imagined the person you'd lose your virginity to would do, none of that. He's just existing above you, warm and solid, until finally you whimper, nodding again, giving him permission to move.

He pushes in slower this time but you still cry out, it's too much, too much, you feel so impossibly full but he hushes you, a soft sound, almost absent-minded, like he's trying to focus. You claw at his shoulders, needing something to hold onto, needing something real while your body stretches and aches around him. You hear him swear under his breath when he bottoms out, low and strained, like he's barely keeping himself together.

He stays there, buried deep, not moving. You don't realize you're crying again until he shifts just enough to catch your face in his hand, tilting your chin up to look at him. "Still with me?" he mutters, thumb brushing your wet cheek almost carelessly. You nod, trembling, wrecked and he gives a low breath of a laugh, amused but not mean. "Good girl," he says, more to himself than to you and it makes your heart seize painfully in your chest.

Good girl.

You cling to it like a lifeline.

He moves then.

Slow at first, dragging out almost all the way before pressing back in and it's overwhelming, the feeling of him inside you, the stretch and slide and pressure so much you can't breathe properly. You can hear the slick, embarrassing sounds your bodies make, can hear the broken little noises spilling from your own mouth. You bury your face in his shoulder, too humiliated to meet his eyes. He fucks you in slow, grinding thrusts, deep and steady, like he's trying to memorize the way you feel wrapped around him.

You're babbling something, you don't even know what, little pleading sounds that don't form real words. You hear him murmur something against your hair, so soft you almost miss it. "Fuck," he mutters. "You're so fucking tight." You whimper at the words, at the ragged sound of his voice, at the way he sounds affected for once, not calm, not detached, but wrecked. He groans low in his throat when you clench around him by accident, and his hips stutter for the first time.

"You're not doing it on purpose, right?" he mutters, almost teasing. "You're just that desperate, huh?" You shake your head frantically, sobbing against his skin, too overwhelmed to even think straight. You hear him laugh again, a breathless, disbelieving sound and then his mouth finds your shoulder, your neck, teeth scraping lightly. Your nails dig into his back, desperate, and he lets you, he lets you cling to him, lets you leave marks on his skin.

At some point, you don't know when, he finds a rhythm that brushes something devastatingly good inside you. Your whole body jerks when he hits it and you cry out, high and sharp.

He stiffens, then slowly, he pulls back and thrusts into that same spot again. Harder and deeper. You keen, the sound raw and broken, he does it again and again. Until you're sobbing into his neck, clinging to him like he's the only thing keeping you alive, you can't seem to stop moaning his name. You don't even realize you're doing it until you feel him smirk against your throat.

"Yeah?" he says, almost amused. "Is that what you like?" You nod frantically, tears leaking out the corners of your eyes. "You're so fucking sensitive," he murmurs, almost admiring. "Didn't even know girls like you existed."

You want to ask what he means. You want to ask what kind of girl he thinks you are but you can't speak, you can barely think only feel. It feels too much, too good, too raw. He keeps fucking into that spot, relentless, steady, unforgiving, until you're arching beneath him, your whole body trembling, your voice breaking on desperate cries. You cum with a strangled sob, clenching around him so tight he curses, low and vicious. You shake and shudder, tears spilling hot and fast, still clutching at him like you'll fall apart without him but doesn't stop moving or give you a second to catch your breath. He keeps fucking you through it, slow but deep, grinding against that sensitive place inside you until you're gasping and whimpering and scratching at his back without meaning to.

You can't take it, your whole body feels too raw, too overwhelmed and overstimulated. You tap frantically at his shoulder, voice breaking. "S-Stop— please—"

He stills immediately, breathing hard above you. You feel him pull out slowly, carefully, and you collapse back against the sheets, boneless and trembling. There's a pause and you barely register him looking down at you, at the spots of blood smeared between your thighs, at the stains on his sheets.

He sighs.

"You bled on my bed," he mutters, like it's mildly annoying and it makes you flinch, humiliated, curling in on yourself but then before you can sink too deep into the shame, you feel him brush a hand over your knee. Gentle, almost absent-minded that it makes you blink up at him through tear-blurred eyes. He looks exhausted, disheveled and a little dazed. His thumb traces circles into your skin, not looking at you.

"You did good," he says quietly, almost endearingly. Then, louder, more to himself than to you — he mutters, "First time... fuck."

He leans back on his palms where he's sat at the edge of the bed, dragging a hand through his hair, looking genuinely thrown off for the first time. You don't know what to say, you didn't even know if you should say anything at all so you just lie there, aching and ruined, staring up at the ceiling like maybe you'll wake up and this will all have been some fever dream.

But you don't wake up, because this is real and he's real. Your whole body feels heavy, used up, raw and your thighs are sticky, the sheets beneath you damp and crumpled. The room smells like sweat and sex and something softer, something sweeter—him, you think. Sunghoon moves around the room in that quiet, efficient way he does everything, tugging the blanket up over you, finding the bottle of water from earlier and cracking it open but he doesn't look at you while he works. You think, distantly, stupidly, that he looks more real like this, less like the untouchable version of him you built in your head and more like a boy with messy hair, bitten lips and fingerprints pressed into his hips.

He comes back to the bed, crouches at the edge, and presses the bottle into your hand. You almost drop it cause your fingers are too shaky but he catches it, wrapping his hand around yours until you can hold it steady. "Drink," he says simply. You sip, obedient, trying to focus on how it tastes metallic now that it's lukewarm. You don't realize he's still touching you until you feel his thumb stroking over the inside of your wrist, absent and repetitive, in a way that seems like he doesn't even know he's doing it. He watches you drink, then takes the bottle from you when you're done and tosses it onto the floor with a soft thunk.

There's a weird, heavy silence between you, not uncomfortable, just thick with something you don't have the words for. He shifts back onto the bed, sitting with one knee drawn up, shirt sticking to his chest. He clears his throat once, like he's thinking through what he wants to say. "You want me to drive you home?" he asks eventually, making you blink up at him, throat dry even thought you just had water. You're not sure what you expected him to say, something colder, maybe. Something meaner but his voice is weirdly careful, almost... tentative.

He scratches the back of his neck. "I live with Jake," he mutters, like it's some necessary disclaimer. You realize, a beat too late that it's not about him hiding you. Something in you convinces yourself that this is his own weird way protecting you. From Jake and from the teasing you know would come if Jake figured this out.

It's almost enough to make you cry again but you bite it back, swallowing around the lump in your throat. You're about to shake your head to tell him no, it's fine, you'll call a cab, you don't want to be his problem anymore but then you realize he's now holding you. Somewhere in the middle of everything, somewhere between the water and the words, he'd pulled you against him, tucked you into his side and you didn't even notice.

His arm is around your shoulders, warm and steady. His hand is rubbing slow circles into your bare thigh, not sexual just steady and it knocks the air right out of your lungs. You blink up at him, wide-eyed and wrecked, he catches your stare and raises an eyebrow, that unreadable almost-smirk twitching at his mouth.

"What?" he says, voice rough and low. You shake your head, bury your face into his chest instead, trying to hide the way you're falling apart all over again. Trying to hide how much this, the tiny stupid casual tenderness of it is undoing you faster than anything else tonight.

He keeps holding you, stroking your back now and it's all the gentleness you wanted in the start, It feels so good, you don't realize you've fallen asleep, maybe it was somewhere between his hand tracing slow lines up and down your thigh or when you curled deeper into his chest, hiding from the world outside the four walls of his room.

You don't know but you wake up to the feeling of him shifting, gathering you against him, moving you like you're something breakable. You blink up at him, dazed and disoriented. "C'mon," he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "I'm driving you back." The way he says it so definitively has you thinking there was never a version of this story where he didn't

You don't remember getting dressed cause he helps you, pulling your dress down over your hips, smoothing it out like it matters if it's wrinkled now. He doesn't touch you wrong or linger where he shouldn't, he just gets you ready, like you're something he needs to take care of.

The drive back is nothing like the drive to his apartment.

The first time, it had been silent, heavy even, your heart slamming itself against your ribs with every mile closer you got to something inevitable. Now it's quieter, somehow, still tense and thick but not scary. Not when he keeps glancing over at you, real glances this time, not just bored flickers, like he's making sure you're still breathing.

"You okay?" he asks when the stoplight stretches a little too long. His hand settles on your thigh without even thinking, warm, steady, thumb stroking small arcs into your skin. You nod without thinking, too cause you don't trust your voice and his jaw tightens like he doesn't believe you but he doesn't press, he just squeezes your thigh gently, keeping it there, like he needs the contact to stay grounded.

The city blurs by outside the window, neon smears, headlights, the occasional drunken laughter of a group stumbling home from the bars. You stare out at it and try not to think about the fact that his hand hasn't moved and that he's still touching you like it's second nature now.

When he pulls up in front of your building, he cuts the engine without a word and climbs out. Your brain can barely register that you didn't give him an address but yet here you are. You fumble with the door handle and your seatbelt, still half-dazed, but he's already there, opening it for you, offering a hand you don't take because you're too stunned to move. You look up at him and can't help but sense there's something different about him now, something softer around the edges, something raw. "Text me," he says, low and serious, an order. "And..." he hesitates, jaw clenching, like the next part hurts to say. "Don't cry again."

It's almost desperate, almost as if it does something to him, seeing you fall apart. You open your mouth to say something but nothing comes out. You're standing there on the sidewalk, small and ruined and still half in love with a boy who doesn't even know how much damage he's doing. He watches you for a second longer, waiting, like he's giving you the chance to say no, tell him to fuck off and end whatever this is before it starts but you don't.

You just nod, biting your lip so hard it stings. Without another word, he's backing away, climbing into his car, pulling off into the night with the windows down and the music low and his hand still flexing like he misses the feel of you under his palm.

You don't text him or even think about texting him, you genuinely try not to. You bury your phone under your pillow, your backpack, sometimes even your bed, as if that'll keep the temptation away. As if you're not sitting there, curled up in bed with the covers pulled up over your head, thinking about his hand on your thigh during the drive back. Thinking about the way he opened the door for you like it mattered. Thinking about the way he said don't cry again like it physically hurt him to see it.

It doesn't help, none of it does so much so that you spiral, slow, inevitable all into something heavy and gray and miserable. Yunjin notices immediately, of course she does, she keeps knocking on your door, calling you, threatening to break in if you don't answer her. She even gets Heeseung to come at one point, she probably told him something frantic enough that you have to lie through your teeth and tell them you're just sick or tired or busy.

Anything but the truth.

You don't leave your dorm except for class and even then, you barely make it out the door, trudging across campus like a ghost.

Until, three days later, you drag yourself out to a small cafe off campus, needing a change of scenery, somewhere quiet to pretend you're still a person. You've been there for maybe an hour, laptop open, notes spread ever, highlighter caps scattered across the table then you feel it.

A presence, a shadow falling over your table that makes you look up and there Sunghoon stands, different hoodie, same unreadable face but there's something in his eyes, something sharper, something frustrated, something almost desperate when he says, "I told you to text me." You blink at him, heart slamming into your ribs so hard you swear you hear it. He stares down at you for a second longer, shoving his hands into his pockets like he's physically stopping himself from reaching for you.

Then, deadpan, he says "Don't you wanna have sex again?" You just stare at him, absolutely dumbfounded, mouth opening and closing but no words forming. The cafe noise blurs around you and you shove your chair back roughly and stand up, your heart hammering, your hands shaking, your voice raw when you snap at him "I'm tired of being confused."

He blinks, actually looks caught off-guard but you're not finished. "What do you even want, Sunghoon?" You're almost yelling not caring if people are looking cause now you just need to know. You need to stop being this wreck, this ruin, this stupid girl still hoping for softness from someone who only ever gives you pain.

Sunghoon doesn't answer right away, he just looks at you, unmoving like he's thinking or deciding something. And then, so soft you almost don't hear it, he says "You." Your breath catches as your whole body goes rigid. For half a second, half a heartbeat, you believe him, you believe he means it Until he tilts his head slightly, voice dropping, eyes darkening as he adds "In my bed again." It just feels like you've been punched hard and straight through the chest. Your hands tremble at your sides as you stare at him—at this boy you thought you hated, thought you craved, thought you needed and you realize; You don't know him at all.

You're about to walk away, already trying to gather up your things into your bag, you're thinking about how you'll shove past him, out the door, back into the rain-slicked street but then Sunghoon leans in. So close you can feel the heat of him bleeding into you. His voice lowers like something rougher and raspier, like it's been clawing its way out of his throat. "I meant it," he says. "You."

You halt, you hate him, you hate him so much but he's still leaning in, dipping his head down slightly like he's confessing something dark, something private, like he's handing you a piece of him, bloody and raw. "You don't get it," he says, almost whispering now. "Nobody's ever been like that. In my bed." Your heart cracks, the worst part is you believe him, you believe he's telling the truth but there's still that sharp, selfish edge to it, that gleam in his eyes like he's not just confessing, he's coaxing, begging even.

"Let me have you like that again," he says, and his mouth is so close to yours it almost feels like a kiss. It's almost sweet, if not for the way he says it—half desperate, half manipulative, like he thinks those are the words you want to hear and he knows you'll fall for it. Maybe you already have because your body is betraying you, shivering, leaning closer, your fingers curling into fists at your sides so you don't grab him by the hoodie and kiss him first.

You want to hurt him back but all you can do is whisper, broken "You don't even know what you're asking for." Sunghoon just looks at you, silent and still, a flash of something almost like regret in his eyes but it's gone too fast for you to catch it properly. His fingers twitch in his hoodie pocket, like he wants to reach for you and doesn't know if he's allowed.

He hesitates, for the first time, he hesitates, before he speaks again "Let me learn" and it guts you because you're stupid enough to want to believe it. You're stupid enough to want him even when you know better. If you weren't so stupid you would have noted the amount of chances you had to turn away and tell him no but you don't, not when he's helping you pack up your things or guiding you to his car, not when he's pulling you in for desperate kisses at stoplights, you don't say no because the part of you that wants him is bigger and anything else and because you're stupid.

The memory of how you got here is a haze, you remember him frantically pulling off your sweater as soon as you walked in through the door, unlike the first time you were in his apartment and he waited to take you into his room, it's all so frantic, the heat of his mouth on your neck, the way his hands tug at your skirt frustratingly before he's grunting against your mouth like he's telling you to do it and you do, You remember him picking you up off the ground making your legs instinctively wrap around him as he holds you up effortlessly, taking you to his room again and placing you on the bed more gently.

You can't help but notice how his room looks a bit different in the daylight but your thoughts about it are thrown out the window when you feel him pull your panties down your legs and stare at where you're wet for him. His mouth is just devouring as devouring as it was the first time, it's so skillful, it has you arching instantly, grabbing at his hair and bucking your hips up to meet his mouth.

You don't hear the door open or even sense someone is in the room until his voice cuts through the dim air like a blade.

"Well, well. Look at you."

Your eyes fly open to meet Jake's, he's leaning against the wall, jaw clenched, arms crossed, eyes dark but he's not mad. No, he's smiling, slowly and cruelly like watching the punchline of a joke he told hours ago finally land. "Guess I was right about you."

Your hand flies to Sunghoon's shoulder, tapping at him panicked, breathless. "Hoon—Sunghoon—stop. He's here—" But Sunghoon doesn't even glance back. He just coos, soft and low. "It's okay," he murmurs, almost fondly. "Ignore him." Ignore him? Ignore Jake standing there, wolf-eyed and grinning, hands shoved into his pockets like he's about to stay a while.

You try to pull away again, one last desperate wriggle of your hips but Sunghoon is relentless. His mouth finds your clit again, his hands pressing your thighs wide, pinning you open like a butterfly.

Pinned, shivering, exposed and Jake fucking laughs under his breath. "Desperate little thing," he says, almost sweetly. "You like this, huh? Like having an audience?" Your throat closes up and your heart punches against your ribs.

You squeeze your eyes shut humiliated, so humiliated but Sunghoon's tongue doesn't falter, his fingers don't slip. He's focused like you're the only thing in the world, like Jake's presence is meaningless. Maybe it is. Maybe all that matters is the way Sunghoon is pulling these pathetic little sounds out of you, wet, broken and soft.

Jake comes closer because you feel his heat at your side, hear the way he crouches down, mouth grazing your ear when he speaks "Go on, pretty baby," he whispers. "Cum for him." You sob, you can't help it and Sunghoon's tongue just flattens harder, swirling, ruthless.

Jake hums approvingly.

"Yeah, that's it. Cum like a good girl for your beloved Sunghoon." Your whole body snaps tight and you fall apart like he ordered it, helpless, degraded and soaked. You cum hard, gasping, clutching at the sheets, your hips jerking up into Sunghoon's mouth like you're chasing it, like you need it to survive. It's pathetic; it's degrading and it's the best thing you've ever felt. Sunghoon doesn't even slow down through it, just keeps licking, gentle now, coaxing the last little spasms out of you until you're shaking, whimpering, completely broken open.

Jake just watches, smirking.

You don't even realize you're shaking until you try to sit up, your hands are trembling and the sheets are damp under your thighs, your whole body still pulsing from the devastating orgasm Sunghoon wrung out of you like it was nothing.

You don't even have time to gather yourself or to cry or scream or run, before Sunghoon is shifting, sitting back on his heels between your spread thighs. "Let Jake take your top off," he says, all flat and dispassionate like he's asking you to hand him your notebook in class.

Your mouth falls open and you blink at him—once, twice—because surely you didn't hear that right."No," you croak, voice ragged with confusion, shame and heartbreak. "What the fuck—" You glance between them, voice rising. "You guys are fucking weird." You yank at the sheets, trying to cover yourself but Sunghoon doesn't even flinch. Jake that's still smirking devilishly just shifts closer to the bed, looming over you and Sunghoon? God, Sunghoon just tilts his head, looking at you. That same unreadable stare, dark and heavy and burning but this time there's something different there. Something that reaches out and claws at you even as you recoil. Not affection or cruelty, just want, so intense it's borderline unbearable.

Jake's gaze is different, lighter, crueler, like he's seeing you as something to be played with but Sunghoon—Sunghoon is hungry. You feel it crackling in the air, feel it vibrating against your skin and God, you hate yourself, because your body is betraying you again — your head nodding before you even realize it, weak, desperate, aching.

Jake grins, sharp and wolfish—the second you do. "Good girl," he breathes, wasting no time, before you can regret it, his fingers slip under the hem of your flimsy top, tugging it over your head, baring you completely, safe for your bra that he immediately discards and his mouth is on you immediately, hot and slick and brutal.

Sucking at the soft flesh of your tit, biting down just enough to make you whimper. You gasp, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders, not pushing him away or pulling him close either, just clutching him, trying to hold yourself together. It's too much, their hands, their mouths, the heavy stare of Sunghoon's black eyes like he's drinking you in.

You can't catch your breath and Sunghoon's patience wears thinner by the second. You can feel it in the way his hands slide up your thighs, the way he spreads you open again without a word, the way his cock twitches against his thigh as he watches Jake mark you up.

He's done waiting, he wraps his hand around the base of his cock, not even bothering to slow down, not even pretending to give you time to adjust. "Move," he mutters to Jake, a single word, sharp-edged. Jake laughs against your skin but he obeys, pulling back just enough for Sunghoon to settle between your thighs. You barely have time to whimper before Sunghoon is there, pressing the blunt head of his cock against your entrance, not cruel but not careful either, sliding in with slow, brutal finality.

You gasp high and broken—your nails digging into the sheets. Jake's mouth finds your ear, murmuring filth. Sunghoon just fucks into you like you're a thing he's owed, stretching you open on his cock and you clench on him, your hips jerking with every punishing thrust, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes and soaking the sheets beneath you. Your head is spinning, your chest heaving, every nerve ending raw and oversensitized.

You think if he fucks you any harder, you'll just shatter apart and you almost want him to. You almost want him to break you completely so you'll stop feeling this ache, this desperate, hollow yearning for something he refuses to give you. Your eyes screw shut, your fingers scrabbling uselessly at the sheets and it's all just white noise.

Until one particularly brutal thrust has your whole body jerking and your eyes fly open on instinct and that's when you see it. Through the blurry haze of your tears, your vision sharpening in short, frantic bursts. You see Sunghoon not just fucking you but kissing Jake, in fact it's not just kissing, it's devouring. Sunghoon's mouth is slanted hard over Jake's, his tongue forcing its way between his lips, messy and aggressive. Jake is grinning into the kiss like he's won, one hand tangled in the back of Sunghoon's hair, the other lazily tweaking his own nipple through his t-shirt, like he's savoring the way Sunghoon is practically fucking his mouth too.

You whimper without meaning to, your body clenching helplessly around Sunghoon's cock at the sight because it's so much, too much even. Sunghoon driving into you, Sunghoon moaning into Jake's mouth, Jake playing with himself, Jake smirking like he knows exactly what this is doing to you and somewhere deep down, even through the pleasure flooding your body, even through the slick obscene noises filling the room, you know now what you hadn't let yourself believe before. That this thing between Jake and Sunghoon—whatever it is—It's more.

They're not just friends, they can't be, not with the way Sunghoon is gripping Jake's jaw, the way he's pulling those filthy little noises out of him like he knows exactly how. Your stomach twists, sick and overwhelmingly turned on. You're so close again, you can feel it, your whole body trembling on the precipice of another orgasm, Sunghoon's thrusts getting sloppier, deeper, his low grunts spilling out of him like he can't even hold them back anymore.

"Jake," Sunghoon suddenly groans all wrecked and desperate "I'm—" Before you can even understand what's happening, Jake is moving, quick and decisive. He shoves Sunghoon back by the hips, pulling his cock out of you with a wet, messy noise that has you gasping at the sudden emptiness. Your legs twitch, your pussy instinctively clenching down around nothing and then you watch, horrified as Jake drops to his knees in front of Sunghoon like it's normal, like it's natural and wraps his lips around Sunghoon's flushed, dripping cock without hesitation.

Sunghoon moans, really moans. Loud, guttural, shameless, the kind of sound he never gave you, the kind of sound you ached to pull out of him. Jake hums smugly around him, looking right at you, his eyes sharp and gleaming with amusement.

Like he's mocking you, almost daring you to say something. To admit how much you wish it were you making Sunghoon fall apart like that. Your breath hitches in your throat, your hands fisting in the ruined sheets, every inch of you burning with humiliation and confusion and sick, aching need.

Sunghoon stands there, looking disheveled and flushed, his skin slick with sweat, the faintest smirk pulling at the corner of his swollen mouth. Jake wipes his lips with the back of his hand but instead of stepping away, instead of giving you a moment to think, he's reaching for you.

His hand tangles in your hair firm and he's dragging you forward, toward him. You don't even resist, too stunned, too broken open already, too ruined by the heavy tension that wraps around the room like a noose and then he's kissing you, messy and wet, so incredibly obscene. You whimper into his mouth when you taste it—Sunghoon's lingering arousal still coating Jake's tongue, thick and salty and wrong. You should pull away, shove him off and spit it out you don't because Jake is holding you there, mouth slanted over yours, his free hand cradling the back of your head so you can't escape the way the taste spreads and soaks into your own tongue and somewhere in the blurred confusion of it all, you realize you're kissing back and obeying when he pulls away and looks at you with those sharp eyes, telling you to swallow.

Your knees buckle, but Jake catches you easily, turning you towards Sunghoon. "You were such a good girl for me," he says under his breath, incongruous with the essence of him still coating your lips. "You'd be even better if you let Jake fuck you too." You glance up at him through a blink, stunned, teetering on the edge of sanity, knowing exactly what you should say.

No. No. No.

But it's like there's a part of your brain wired exclusively for him, for the soft cadence of his voice, the weight of his hand on the curve of your waist, the promise of his approval, so nod weak and trembling, before your mind even finishes forming the thought.

Jake grins, triumphant and he's moving immediately, not wasting a second, grabbing your hips and turning you around like you're just something to be positioned, something to be used. "You're going to let me fuck you? After all that mouthing off? Telling me to kill myself?" he taunts, "What was it she called me again, Hoon? Your guard dog?" he adds, running his hand down your back and pressing down so you're perfectly arched for him.

You can see Sunghoon sitting back against the headboard now, watching you with lazy, half-lidded eyes. Jake's hands are rough as he spreads you open, humming low under his breath when he sees just how wet you still are. It's shameful, the way your body betrays you, throbbing and slick and eager.

"Fuck," Jake mutters, almost to himself, "Sunghoon really did break you in, huh?" You hear Sunghoon laugh, smug but you don't dare lift your head to look at him. You're too busy squeezing your eyes shut, fists curling tight in the sheets, bracing yourself for whatever's about to come.

And when it does come, when Jake finally pushes into you, it's so different, he's not as patient. He's rougher, filling you quick and deep, grunting under his breath when your body clenches down instinctively. "Still so tight," he breathes, reverent, like he can't fucking believe it. You whimper, your arms shaking, your body arching more without your permission, as he starts to move. Long, deep thrusts that make your back curve, your mouth fall open in helpless little gasps and all the while Sunghoon is watching.

In a silent possessive way, you can feel like a brand burning into your skin. You know you're not supposed to want this, you're not supposed to like the way Jake is fucking you, hard and fast and unrelenting while Sunghoon watches like you're putting on a show just for him.

Your body doesn't care, it's already chasing the next brutal, devastating high and Jake aids it, fucking you with sharp, brutal thrusts that knock little gasps and whines from your throat without mercy. Each snap of his hips punches forward into that spot inside you that feels too raw, the overstimulation crackling up your spine like electricity.

It's nothing like how Sunghoon fucked you. Where Sunghoon was calculated, almost teasing in the way he stretched you open, Jake feels like punishment, like he's trying to split you in half just because he can. His pace didn't slow once, not even when Sunghoon shifted closer, not even when the softest brush of lips pressed against your temple like a secret only you were supposed to feel. If anything, it got worse. Harder, deeper, like he was trying to fuck the kiss right off your skin.

And it was so stupid, it was so stupid, because your body betrayed you instantly, muscles clenching down around him so tight you felt it too, the way your walls tried to drag him deeper, how your toes curled and your back bowed like you were desperate for more.

Jake's laugh was low and rough against your ear, all teeth and mean amusement as he tightened his fingers around your waist. "She's fucking clenching. Just 'cause you kissed her," he taunted, and you wanted to say no, wanted to deny it, wanted to pretend you had any dignity left but it was impossible when Sunghoon's mouth was finding the corner of your lips now, slow and tender and unbearably sweet. "You're so pretty"

"Pathetic little thing," Jake cooed, voice dipped in false pity, "Sunghoon calls you pretty and you're already squeezing my cock like it's the first nice thing anyone's ever said to you." You whimpered, pressing your forehead to the mattress, trying to hide from them both, from the unbearable heat prickling under your skin. You could feel Sunghoon smiling against your cheek, soft and secretive, and when you cracked your eyes open, you caught it, that tiny, almost imperceptible look he passed to Jake. The faintest tilt of his mouth. Permission. Encouragement.

"Don't listen to him," Sunghoon murmured anyway, voice as soft as his kisses, pretending like he wasn't the one feeding the fire. His hand stroked lazily down your spine, light enough to make you shiver. "You're pretty. That's all that matters."

Pretty.

You could have cried.

You almost did.

Jake's laugh rumbled against your back as he thrust up into you again, hard enough to have you gasping, scrabbling uselessly at the sheets. "Such a good girl," Jake crooned mockingly, dragging the words out, slow and sticky like syrup. "All pretty and dumb for us."

Sunghoon just kept petting you, like you were something small and helpless. His fingers tracing your spine like he was counting your vertebrae, his mouth ghosting over your skin, and then he was murmuring almost absently, like he was thinking out loud, "So pretty like this. So pretty I almost feel bad."

You didn't even know who he was talking to—you, Jake, himself—it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the way Jake's cock bullied into you without a hint of mercy, and the way Sunghoon looked at you like you were something sacred he was offering up to be ruined.

"Are you gonna fucking cum or what," Sunghoon muttered next, his voice a little rough around the edges, impatient, a glimpse of the colder boy underneath all the tenderness, "You never take this long with the other girls."

Jake barked a short laugh, snapped his hips forward once, hard enough to make you cry out. "Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all, "she's just a little too fucking sweet." You didn't know if he meant the way you tasted, the way you sounded, the way you looked sprawled out for them like you'd forgotten how to say no. Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it.

You couldn't think straight anymore.

You couldn't do anything but clench and sob and ache for them, feel Jake's cock dragging in and out of you, feel Sunghoon's kisses ghosting over your skin, hear their low voices murmuring above you like a prayer and a curse all at once.

You heard it, heard it even through the messy sounds of Jake using you, even through the haze of your own breathless little cries and for a second everything inside you pulled tight.

Other girls.

He said it like it meant nothing. Like it was just some passing detail, a shrug of the shoulders, a fact you should already know but you didn't and in the haze of it all you almost didn't realize Sunghoon wasn't yours, maybe he was Jake's but one thing is sure though; you weren't the first girl they'd done this with.

Your throat worked uselessly, a desperate little sound clawing up before you could stop it and you hated it, hated that they would hear it, hated that it gave you away. "S-Sunghoon"

He turned to you, still petting you absentmindedly but you could feel the slight hesitation in his touch, the way his fingers paused just a little too long at the dip of your spine, as if considering whether he'd gone too far but he didn't apologize, he didn't even look sorry. He just leaned in closer, brushing his lips over your shoulder, whispering sweet nothings into your burning skin like he could stitch up the bleeding hurt with pretty words.

"You're better than them," he murmured, so quiet you almost thought you imagined it. "So much better, baby." You despised how easily you melted for him. Jake thrust particularly deep and you choked on a sob, "Oh my God! J-Jake!", hips jerking helplessly back against him, desperate for any kind of grounding. Your mind was a mess, a riot of shame and pleasure and need and you didn't know how much longer you could hold yourself together, you tongue was already dropping out of your mouth, making you drool.

Above you, Sunghoon just smiled, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was pleased you were breaking because to him it was probably the whole point.

Jake groaned low in his chest when he finished, the sound rattling deep in his throat, but you barely heard it. You were already gone, gone somewhere far inside yourself, where you didn't have to feel the way Sunghoon was murmuring at Jake to "go ahead, finish inside," like it was just another order to be given. Where you didn't have to feel Jake's lazy satisfaction as he spilled inside you, one hand gripping your hip like he owned you, like he had some right to leave pieces of himself inside your body.

It hit you all at once, the whiplash of it, how went from being a virgin a week ago to this, spread out, used, letting boys who barely even liked you do whatever they wanted with you. The shame was so thick it tasted metallic in your mouth. You scrambled, struggling to move, your limbs trembling and slow. Jake was still inside you and you hated it, hated the hot sticky reminder of everything you'd let happen, hated him for still being there like he had every right.

You shoved at him, weak and clumsy but desperate enough that Jake gave a startled grunt and stumbled back, finally slipping free. You barely registered it. You were already trying to crawl off the bed, blind and panicked, desperate to get away before they could see the tears slipping hot and furious down your cheeks but before you could even swing your leg over the edge, Sunghoon's hand closed around your wrist.

Firm that it makes you halt, chest heaving, refusing to look at him, refusing to let him see how broken you were. You tugged weakly against his grip, but it was useless. He didn't say anything at first, just held you there, thumb brushing thoughtlessly against the inside of your wrist, as if soothing you. As if he thought he could soothe this.

You yanked at your wrist, the pathetic sound of your struggle filling the heavy room, Sunghoon didn't even flinch and his grip stayed firm, like he barely noticed how hard you were trying. He just stared at you, something strange and unreadable flickering in his dark eyes, his gazed held confusion, as though he couldn't understand why you were crying.

His gaze dragged over your face, the wetness on your cheeks, the trembling of your mouth, the way you could barely breathe around the panic squeezing your ribs and then he asked it, so casually you almost thought you imagined it.

"Why do you cry all the time?" Asking as if your tears were an inconvenience but it makes something inside you snap. You tore your wrist out of his grip with a violent jerk, your whole body swaying from the force of it, and you backed away so fast you stumbled over yourself. You didn't even care that you were still naked, still aching, still leaking down your thighs.

"I can't believe I did this," you choked out, voice cracking, the words coming in one ugly, messy rush. "You're both fucking weird. I can't believe I let you— I can't believe I—" but before you could finish, Jake's voice cut through the air, lazy and amused, like none of this meant anything to him. "You wanted it," he said, shrugging like it was obvious. "And from the way you were moaning for us? Pretty sure you enjoyed it too."

The shame burned hotter than ever, climbing your throat like bile. You wrapped your arms around yourself, wishing you could disappear into the floor, wishing you had never met them, wishing you could scrub the memory of all of it off your skin. They weren't even trying to comfort you or apologize, they were just standing there, like you were the crazy one for thinking any of this was supposed to mean something more.

You flinched when Sunghoon moved toward you, every part of you braced to be mocked again, humiliated further but instead of laughing at you, instead of pushing you back onto the bed and telling you to take it like before, his hand came up, slow, almost unsure, and wiped the tears off your cheeks with the pad of his thumb. The touch was awkward but gentle in a way that made your throat close up. He didn't know what he was doing, you could feel it in how clumsy he was, as if affection wasn't something he gave often, like he was terrified of getting it wrong.

Before you could form more thoughts, he was leaning in, mouth brushing yours so softly it barely even counted as a kiss, just a warm press, a quiet apology he didn't know how to speak. You made a sound, something broken and desperate in the back of your throat, and he caught it with his mouth, kissing you a little harder. "Don't cry again," he mumbled against your lips.

You squeezed your eyes shut, hating him for making it worse, feeling sorry for yourself for leaning into him without even thinking.

Jake stood a few feet away, still shirtless, still burning from the inside out, arms crossed, watching the whole thing with something close to murder flashing in his eyes. He wasn't smiling anymore, the lazy, taunting smirk was gone, replace with something aimed at Sunghoon like he had just witnessed a betrayal, as though Sunghoon wasn't supposed to kiss you like that, wasn't supposed to wipe your tears or whisper anything that sounded even remotely like he cared.

Jake's jaw clenched, his fingers dug into his biceps, nails biting through the thin fabric of his shirt. It made your stomach twist, that look on his face, the look of boiling anger and ugly jealousy.

Because Sunghoon had never, not once, touched another girl like that and now he was wiping tears off your face like you were some delicate fucking thing worth saving.

Jake's hands curled into fists and stomach twisted. The anger was old, nothing new because it had been sitting in him for a long time—months, maybe.

It started at the party.

The girl, he couldn't even remember her name now but he remembered how she was giggling, clutching his arm, pressing her tits against him like she didn't know he wasn't the one she needed to impress. Jake led her through the crowd anyway, up the stairs, through the half-cracked door where Sunghoon stood against the wall sipping something dark from a cup.

"She's cute, right?" Jake said, grinning, jostling her forward a little. Sunghoon barely even looked at her before he tilted his head, caught her wrist in his hand, brought it up to his mouth and kissed it, all while his eyes were on Jake, while his smile was directed at Jake.

It was mechanical, hollow even and Jake saw it even if no one else did. Sunghoon didn't even want her, he didn't want any of them, not really anyway. He just let Jake bring girls around because it was easier to use them than admit there was nothing either of them actually wanted. It was an arrangement, an easy and disposable arrangement.

Until you, Jake had felt it the day he saw you in Heeseung's apartment, you came over, looking so nervous you could barely meet his eyes. It was supposed to be a joke, flipping up your dress while you were trying to leave. Just to see if you'd cry, just to see if Sunghoon would even bother looking.

He did.

Jake caught it—the way Sunghoon's gaze went dark, sharp, almost hungry. He was the one who leaned over, under his breath, and whispered into Jake's ear. "I want her."

You.

Jake could still feel it, the way those words made something twist in his gut, made his palms itch to hit something. Sunghoon had never said that before. Not once, not even when Jake handpicked the prettiest, most desperate girls at every party but you, standing there like some little doll about to bolt for the door. You, who they hadn't even touched yet, you were the one Sunghoon wanted.

Jake ignored it, or he really tried to. He tried to brush it off, the same way he brushed off the weird sick feeling that climbed up his throat every time you looked shyly at Sunghoon instead of him.

But then the night came. The night Sunghoon was meant to fuck you, Jake was there in his room—had the door cracked open, waiting for Sunghoon to come to him.

It should've been routine, it always was, especially with the shy or naive girls and you were certainly naive, almost borderline oblivious in Jake's opinion. Sunghoon was meant to get you ready and Jake would join later if he felt like it, they'd use you up and that would be that. Instead, Sunghoon slipped out of the room, tight-jawed, tense and cornered Jake by the kitchen sink when he came to get you the water bottle. "She's a virgin," Sunghoon said low, eyes dark and unreadable. "We're not doing this tonight." Jake had laughed because it sounded like he was joking. "What, you scared or something?"

Sunghoon just stared at him. Something ugly, something furious flickering just beneath his skin. "I'm serious," he muttered, voice rough. "I'm not ruining it like this." Like this? Like it mattered?

Jake stood there, watching Sunghoon grab a bottle of water, stall for time, anything to calm down before he went back to you. It burned something inside Jake that he didn't even know he had, not jealousy, not really, it was something worse. Jake wanted to break something. Wanted to break him.

Sunghoon is still holding your waist, like you were his to protect, his fingers pressing deep enough to bruise, yet there's a softness to his grip. He's staring at you like he doesn't understand what's wrong, his eyes searching yours like he can make sense of everything. But he can't. He won't. His breath brushes against your ear as he whispers, "Stay."

It's quiet. Almost too quiet.

Your chest tightens, the words hanging in the air like a weight you can't shake off. You feel the tears welling again, the ache in your throat, the rawness of everything you've just experienced. This wasn't supposed to be you. You weren't supposed to be here.

But you're still here. Still in Sunghoon's room. Still caught between the chaos of two boys who have never looked at you like you were anything other than a game. The thought nearly breaks you, but you keep your head tilted away from Sunghoon's searching gaze, eyes trained on the floor.

That's when Jake's voice cuts through the silence.

"She's not yours, Sunghoon," he sneers, his voice thick with mockery. "She's a free use toy now, remember?"

The words hit harder than anything physical. Sunghoon's face tightens, a flicker of anger flashing across his features for the first time. This is the first time, in all the years of living with Jake, that Sunghoon's ever asked a girl to stay in his room. He never needed to. The others, they always left when the night was over, like it was just part of the script. But with you... he's different. He wants you here. Wants you more than he's willing to admit.

And Jake knows that. He knows it, and he sees the change in Sunghoon, the shift that makes everything spiral out of control.

Sunghoon tenses, his grip on your waist tightening, but it's not to keep you close anymore. It's like a warning, a subtle shift, like he's trying to hold onto something that's slipping through his fingers.

"You don't know shit about her, Jake," Sunghoon spits, voice low, dangerous. But there's a tightness in his chest, the kind that tells you this isn't just about you anymore. This is personal.

Jake laughs, the sound cruel and mocking. "I know enough. You're just fucking delusional, man. She's never gonna be anything but a toy, something to fuck when you need it."

And that's when everything breaks. That's when the jealousy and the anger in Jake's eyes finally win out. He's seething, and there's something darker in him now, something that twists his features into a snarl.

"You think she's different?" Jake's voice rises, thick with bitter disbelief. "You think she's special? She's just a body, Sunghoon. You're no different from me."

Sunghoon doesn't even think. His fist is already flying toward Jake's face before the words are fully out of his mouth.

The sickening crack of Sunghoon's punch echoes through the room. Jake stumbles back, a flash of shock before he's charging again, but this time, Sunghoon's ready. They clash together, their bodies colliding with a force that shakes the room, like they're trying to tear each other apart with their bare hands. You watch, heart pounding in your chest, unable to move.

Jake doesn't care. His gaze is locked on Sunghoon, furious and burning, but there's something else there. Something ugly. It's like he's mad at the whole world. Mad that Sunghoon is breaking the rules, mad that he's treating you differently, and mad that he can't have you like he thought he would.

"You fucking hypocrite," Jake spits, shoving Sunghoon hard enough that he almost knocks you over with him. "You think you're better than me? You fucked her first. You let me fuck her too. Don't act like you're some fucking savior now."

Sunghoon's fist lands again, and this time, the sound of the punch is more brutal, sharper. The room stills for a moment. Everything quiets.

And then Jake stares up at him, blood dripping from him his split lip, his expression twisting into something almost unrecognizable.

"You're not special either, Sunghoon. She'll never choose you."

And that's when the weight of it hits you. Both of them are broken. Both of them have pushed you to this point. But the one you can't seem to tear your eyes away from, the one who's been different with you, is Sunghoon. It's always been him, hasn't it? Even though everything's a mess, even though your mind tells you to run, your body aches for the one who's holding you in place.

But this fight, this ugly confrontation, it feels like the breaking point. Both of them, tearing each other down, just to try and prove something to you. And you don't know how much longer you can stand it.

Jake slammed the apartment door so hard the hallway lights flickered. His chest heaved like he'd run a marathon, every breath sharp and unsteady, and his jaw ached from how tightly he was clenching it. Sunghoon's words were still ringing in his ears. His fists still burned from the impact.

And you? You were still in that room, still with Sunghoon. The echo of it made something cave inside him and he wasn't sure if it was the punch or the shame that hit hardest. It hadn't always been like this.

Two months ago, that was when Heeseung brought you around for the first time. Introduced you casually at a birthday party as his girlfriend's cousin. Jake barely remembered whose birthday it was because the moment he saw you, you eclipsed everything. Not because you were trying to. No, you didn't even speak much that night. Just nodded politely, murmured a hello. It was your eyes that did it—too soft, too open, too easy to read. He saw the way you looked at the floor more than at anyone else, how your hands fidgeted with the strap of your bag.

You didn't belong in their world of sharp words and sharper games and maybe that's exactly why he wanted you. He told himself it wasn't serious, just a passing thing. You were pretty, sure. Innocent too but surely not his type. Except he caught himself watching you, noticing you, even wondering about you but then you had to go and ruin it—by looking at Sunghoon.

He hadn't even looked at you that night, he barely nodded in acknowledgment, said something offhanded to Heeseung about you being "quiet." Sunghoon didn't see you at all but you saw him and Jake saw you.

Staring.

It was in the little glances, the way you perked up just slightly when Sunghoon's voice cut into the room. The way you didn't blink when he walked past, as though you could memorize his silhouette if you tried hard enough. Jake had watched you the whole time, watched you light up for someone who never even looked your way and it made something petty and jealous unravel in him.

He approached you that night of the art show just to tell you, you were too plain for Sunghoon, he said like a warning but it came out more like a challenge. He saw your lips part, saw the brief hurt in your eyes before you turned away.

That was the beginning.

It became a game, or that's what he told himself. Teasing you at parties, mocking the way you watched Sunghoon like he hung the fucking moon. A part of him thought that if he made you feel small enough, you'd stop looking at Sunghoon like that, maybe you'd look at him instead, maybe he could rewrite the script if he could just make you flinch enough to forget what you wanted.

Then one night, after too many drinks, Sunghoon admitted it. "She's cute." Just those two words, offhanded, they barely even meant anything but Jake saw it. The way Sunghoon had been looking at you lately—less like he didn't notice and more like he didn't know what to do with the noticing.

It hit Jake like ice water before Sunghoon even whispered it in his ear that day at Heeseung's apartment, Sunghoon wanted you and you had always wanted him, so where did that leave Jake? He didn't even know who he was jealous of anymore. You, for getting Sunghoon's attention? Sunghoon, for having yours? Or himself—for turning something tender into something so vile?

Maybe that's why he let it happen tonight. Why he hadn't walked away the moment he saw you under Sunghoon like that. Why he'd joined in, touched you like he had any right, kissed you just to claim a piece of something that was never his but none of it made the ache go away, in fact it only made it worse.

"She's not yours, Sunghoon. She's a free use toy now, remember?"

He'd said it because he was furious, he needed to get under Sunghoon's skin because to him it was easier than admitting the truth; he still wanted you and not just your body and not just tonight but when Sunghoon looked at you like that—held your waist, whispered soft things into your skin, kissed your tears away—it gutted Jake.

Sunghoon had never asked a girl to stay, not even once, not even the girls that had way more experience than you and now he was asking you.

Jake punched the wall as he reached the bottom of the apartment stairwell, breathless. His hand split open against the drywall. Still, the pain didn't come close to what was boiling in his chest because the truth was, he never stopped wanting you and now he might've lost you forever along with his best friend.

Back in the apartment, the room still smelled like sweat and anger and something unspoken, thick in the air, clinging to your skin like shame. Sunghoon's touch was gentle this time, he didn't say much as he led you toward the bathroom, one hand lingering low on your back, the other steadying your wrist where his fingers had left slight red marks earlier. You were too quiet to fight him on it, too tired to explain the weight sitting in your chest like wet cloth.

The warm water hit your skin and it felt too good, too soft, like maybe you didn't deserve it. Sunghoon didn't rush. He moved like he'd done this before, washing over you with careful fingers, rubbing suds into your arms, your thighs, behind your ears like he was memorizing the shape of you with every glide. He kissed your shoulder once. Then your temple. Then your mouth. Quick, gentle intervals like he was testing if you'd still let him.

You did.

He didn't speak until he was drying you off, voice low, half-rasped. "Lift your arms." You obeyed. Not because you were weak but because for once, it felt safe to surrender. He slipped a soft shirt over your head, long enough to brush your thighs. It smelled like detergent and cologne and him. You could get drunk off the scent alone. Your legs wobbled as you stepped into clean pair of his shorts and he caught you without a word. He tucked you in like he hadn't just broken you down hours ago. Covered you up to your chin, smoothed the damp strands from your face, lingered a little longer than he meant to. His gaze was unreadable—something suspended between guilt and awe.

"I'll be back," he murmured, like he was worried you'd vanish if he didn't say it aloud.

The sound of the shower running again was the only thing that lulled you close to sleep. You didn't hear him come back in. You just felt the bed dip and the warmth of his body sliding in behind yours, arms looping slow around your waist, chest pressing to your back like he needed to feel you breathing to believe this was real.

He nuzzled against your hair. "Come here," he whispered and he pulled you into him like you belonged there, like he hadn't just chosen you in front of Jake, like maybe he always had.

*•*•*

Jake hadn't been back to the apartment in three days. He'd spent them mostly on Heeseung's couch, pretending to watch TV, pretending he wasn't thinking about you every second he blinked. He didn't say much and Heeseung didn't ask, that was the thing about old friendships—they left space where words couldn't go.

When he came back, the apartment felt the same but emptier, he told himself he wasn't looking for signs of you but the disappointment in his chest when he didn't find any told the truth.

You're gone.

He heard the door to Sunghoon's room click open not long after. He didn't have to turn around to know it was him. They stood in the kitchen like strangers. Jake's knuckles itched with memory, so did his ribs but his voice didn't shake when he finally spoke.

"She left."

Sunghoon didn't deny it. "She needed space."

Jake almost scoffed. "From you too?" Sunghoon looked at him, and there was something devastating in the softness of it. "From the both of us."

A beat passed. Then another.

"You know why you're this angry?" Sunghoon said, his tone level. "It's not because I touched her. It's not even because she let me. It's because you wanted to be the one."

Jake's fists curled before he could stop them.

"I didn't—"

"Yes, you did," Sunghoon cut in, unshaken. "You were just too scared to be anything other than cruel."

Jake's mouth opened, but nothing came out. He couldn't argue—not really. Not when Sunghoon looked at him like he already knew, not when he didn't even have to say it. There was a shift, almost invisible. A flash of something in Jake's eyes, something like grief or longing. It passed too quickly for anyone else to notice but Sunghoon saw it and maybe that's why, as he turned away, he said, "She's at her place."

Jake swallowed. "Why are you telling me?"

Sunghoon didn't answer.

But he didn't need to.

*•*•*

The stairs felt longer than usual or maybe Jake was just nervous regardless of the five days it took him to gather the courage to show up here. His legs didn't feel steady, not when he reached the third floor. Not when he raised a hand to knock on your door. His heart wasn't racing—it was free-falling.

He almost turned around but then the door opened and you were laughing.

It wasn't a sound he'd heard ever, it was soft, light, the kind of thing that came from somewhere safe. You were mid-laugh, leaning slightly into the doorframe, probably reacting to something Yunjin said behind you. Her voice floated out from the living room. Jake barely registered it.

Because then you saw him and everything about you changed. Your smile dropped like glass slipping from a ledge. You didn't say anything but your face said enough, the laughter hadn't just faded, it had recoiled almost like you were scared, like seeing him reopened something you'd tried to bury.

Jake felt it in his chest, low and sudden and still, he didn't speak because how could he? He had no right to be hurt, not after what he did, not after everything he'd been. Still, he stood there, holding his breath, waiting to be let in.

"Can I talk to you?"

Jake's voice was soft even careful like he wasn't sure if he deserved the words he was speaking. Yunjin was at your side in a heartbeat, sliding into the doorway with one brow raised, a hand coming instinctively to your elbow. "She doesn't owe you anything," she said, her tone sharp but calm. "So if you're here to play whatever game you were playing before—"

"It's okay," you said, cutting in quietly. Yunjin looked at you, frown deepening. "You sure?" You nodded. "Just give me a minute."

There was something in Jake's eyes, something raw and unguarded and even if your brain was screaming to slam the door, your heart—traitorous and trembling—wanted to know what he had to say.

You stepped out, closing the door gently behind you, and followed him into the empty hallway.

Jake didn't speak right away.

You could see it—the way his throat worked, how his eyes flicked to the floor and then back to you, like he was sorting through a thousand things he could say and none of them felt right.

Then, finally, "I'm sorry."

It was plain, simples and unpolished, it had you blinking. "What?"

"I'm sorry," he said again, firmer this time. "For everything. For how I treated you. For flipping your skirt up in front of everyone. For saying shit that made you feel—less than." His breath caught slightly. "I'm even sorry for fucking you like that. And calling you—"

You cut in before he could finish. "A free use toy?"

He flinched. "Yeah. That."

Your arms crossed over your chest, suddenly cold. "Are you only saying this because you and Sunghoon want to fuck me again?"

Jake's eyes widened. "No. No. God, no. That's not—I'm not—" His words tumbled, frantic. "I'm not here because of that. I'm here because I have to tell you. I have to tell you that I liked you first."

Silence blanketed the hall.

Jake took a breath and stepped closer, gaze never leaving yours. "That day Heeseung introduced you, when he said you were his girlfriend's cousin, Sunghoon didn't even look at you. But I did. I couldn't stop looking at you. You were so—" He stopped himself, jaw tightening. "And then you were looking at him. Always. Like he was everything." His voice cracked on that last word.

You didn't move.

He ran a hand through his hair, voice lower now. "I didn't know how to handle it. I just— I hated that you never looked at me the way you looked at him. And it made me cruel. I know that. I know I was an asshole. But I swear to god I was only ever like that because I didn't know how else to deal with it."

You stared at him, stunned into silence, noticing how his eyes were glassy like he was begging himself not to cry and maybe for the first time, you saw him. Not as the boy who teased you mercilessly, not as the one who touched you like you were nothing but as the one who was unraveling in front of you—afraid, desperate, honest. He huffed out a breath before continuing, "I know you think I'm just awful and that Sunghoon doesn't have feelings but he does and—" "I—I promise I'll be better and he will too, just come over please." "There's so much we want to tell you" he sighed the last part like he was using the last of his energy to say it.

That was the last thing he said before he left you standing there and you don't remember agreeing, not really. It's all a blur—Jake's quiet voice on the stairwell, the look in his eyes like he was begging without asking, the way he said please, the way he mentioned Sunghoon like the words had weight in his throat.

Maybe that's why you're here, maybe it's closure, maybe it's not.

The apartment is quiet when you knock but the second the door opens, you feel a pair arms around you. "You didn't cry again, did you?" Sunghoon's voice murmurs into your hair, soft and close.

You shake your head. No, you didn't, not this time. His scent is familiar, clean soap and something warm underneath. He lingers a second too long before he steps aside and that's when you see him—Jake, standing by the kitchen counter like he's unsure whether to stay or disappear. His expression flickers when your eyes meet, but he doesn't say anything. He just watches, you used to think his stare meant mockery but now it's something else. It's waiting, even hoping.

The silence stretches and you feel like you should say something. Sunghoon glances between you two like he's used to translating tension. "We talked," he says, mostly to you. "Jake wanted to say sorry. Properly this time." You nod because right now it's all you can do.

"Can I...?" Jake's voice trails off. He gestures awkwardly toward the couch, like he's asking for permission just to sit near you. He's never been this quiet before, never this cautious.

He settles beside you with careful space between your knees. The silence isn't comfortable, but it's not hostile either, just dense with everything unspoken.

Jake speaks first, the words low and halting. "I didn't mean for it to happen like that. Any of it. I was—" He stops, jaw tightening. "I guess I didn't know who I was mad at. You. Him. Myself." Sunghoon stays leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the exchange unfold like it's something he can't touch just yet. Jake glances at you. "You don't have to forgive me. I just... I didn't want it to end like that."

The part of you that once trembled under his cruelty now twitches at his vulnerability, you're not sure when that shifted. Somewhere between the teasing, the way he flung ugly words like armor, and the raw admission in his stare now—something changed.

Maybe you did want him, not like before, not in spite of the way he hurt you but because somewhere beneath the mess, something inside him looked like it had been reaching for you all along.

"You're not as mean as you think you are," you say quietly. Jake huffs a breath that sounds like he might cry if he lets it finish and it has you reaching for him rubbing his cheek with your thumb and you're not entirely surprised that he's leaning into your palm.

You don't know who moves first, only that the space closes and his lips are on yours now, frantic and almost clumsy, his hands find your waist and trail up to your back before he's pulling at your hair so your neck is exposed to him. He pulls away and his forehead presses against yours, Sunghoon is behind you again, kneeling on the couch and sliding a hand along your back like he's grounding you in the moment.

"You sure you want this?" Sunghoon murmurs. You nod, barely but he sees it. Jake sees it. The air shifts and you all somehow manage to make it to Sunghoon's bedroom. Their hands are everywhere, their lips too, kissing, biting, marking, Jake's hands are tugging at your clothes like they personally offended him, Sunghoon is kissing you like today is his last day on earth. He pulls off you placing kisses to your cheeks before speaking, "Come on, let Jake show you how sorry he is" he says as back away, you look to Jake and he seems to want it more than you realize. "Okay".

That was all it took for him to pull down the denim of your shorts along with your panties, staring at you between you legs like he was looking at art, "So pretty, so wet for us" he mumbles, placing kisses to your inner thighs. "Don't tease her, Jake. Do as she says", Sunghoon's voice rings through the room and it makes Jake look up at you like he's waiting for your command, the look has your breath stuttering before you say, quietly but firmly, "Eat my pussy".

Jake must have been on voice command because he immediately starts eating you out. You whimper, back arching as he leans in, licking up your folds with a deep moan like he's lost his mind.

"Fuck—Jake—"

His tongue is everywhere—sloppy, relentless, devouring you like you're dessert and he's starving and you're grinding against his face before you can help it, hand in his hair, breathy moans spilling from your lips like a prayer. Your thighs were already trembling but Jake wasn't slowing down, you looked up from his to see Sunghoon smiling down at you and it makes you moan out more, "Oh my god!"

If anything, Jake is more determined now—tongue working your clit with maddening precision, fingers spreading you open so he could taste you deeper, wetter, messier, like he's trying to pull those sounds from you. You tried to push him away—not because you wanted to stop, but because it was too much, too good but Jake just growled low and gripped your hips tighter, dragging you back to his mouth like he'd die without it.

And then, slowly, finally, he pulled back—lips and chin glistening. Your breath hitched at the sight, he looked wrecked. Hair a mess. Eyes dark and blown wide with hunger. "She didn't ask you to stop, did she?" You look up at Sunghoon as he spoke, just now noticing that he's taken his cock out, it's hard, red and leaking as he palms himself while looking right at you.

Jake look at you and then back at Sunghoon and Sunghoon comes up behind him where he is, "Go on baby, tell him what to do. Use him" he says to you but you can't really speak so instead you grab Jake's hair and pull him back where you're aching for them both.

Behind him, Sunghoon watches, calm and in control, one hand fisted in Jake's hair as if to keep him there. The warm flick of his tongue makes you jolt, your hand gripping the sheets. Jake moans into you, desperate, like he's trying to earn your forgiveness with every swirl of his tongue. You almost don't notice Sunghoon has pulled Jake up on his knees and now has Jake's shorts and boxers down to his knees where they meet the sheets. Sunghoon looks down at Jake where his back is involuntarily arched with lust filled eyes and the sight of him spitting a dollop of saliva right onto Jake's hole has you gasping, "Sunghoon" you gasp out and he looks at you with a smirk, you look down at Jake and notice his eyes rolling back, you can't tell if it's because of how you taste or because of Sunghoon's index and middle fingers that are now pushed into him.

Jake is still trying his best, his tongue is fucking your hole so good you're trembling but then suddenly he's crying out and you see that Sunghoon has pushed his whole length into him at once and it makes Jake choke on a gasp against your pussy.

"You're losing rhythm," Sunghoon murmurs, dragging his hips back before pausing. His voice is low. "Don't you want to show her how sorry you are?"

Jake whimpers, nodding frantically, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" his lips returning to you with renewed effort—tongue trembling, breath shaking. You arch, overwhelmed at the way he's trying so hard for you. For both of you.

And it's working.

Your thighs close around his head, your moans tangling with Jake's soft cries as Sunghoon keeps rocking into him. The way Jake's mouth moves on you—messy, reverent, aching—pulls you closer and closer until you're gasping his name, your fingers tangled in his hair as you finally finish against his tongue.

Jake groans, muffled by your release, clinging to your thighs like they're the only thing keeping him grounded but then he starts moving again—this time, back against Sunghoon. "Fuck," Sunghoon hisses, voice strained as Jake starts to push back harder. "So desperate to be fucked now, huh?"

You slide forward, cupping Jake's flushed face, and he looks up at you with wide, watery eyes. Your thumb brushes away a tear rolling down his cheek. "Pretty boy," you murmur, kissing his cheek, then the other. "You're so pretty like this." The moment your voice breaks through him, his eyes widen, lips parting in a shaky moan, just like Sunghoon once did to you—Jake clenches down hard around him, the shock drawing a ragged groan from Sunghoon. Sunghoon chuckles breathlessly, eyes flashing. "Oh, now that's familiar. You remember that, sweetheart?" he says to you.

You do remember and now it's Jake—whimpering, trembling, taking it. You trail your hand down Jake's trembling stomach and wrap your fingers around his cock, already dripping. He jerks in your hand, keening, hips stuttering as you start stroking him in time with Sunghoon's thrusts.

"Oh, fuck," Jake cries. "Please—please—"

"Look at you," you coo. "Falling apart just like me." "All that anger, you're just a fucking brat huh?" you ask and he shakes his head furiously. "I—I'm not!", you keep stroking him, speeding up your movements.

Sunghoon growls behind Jake, watching your hand work him while Jake chokes on a sob and fucks himself harder on Sunghoon's cock. "K—Kiss" he whimpers, "Aww, you want a kiss baby?" Sunghoon coos but Jake can only respond with incoherent babbles now. You lean down and kiss him but that means you neglect his aching cock, when he pulls away just to moan out, you go back to stroking him.

Jake lets out a wrecked, high-pitched moan, body trembling as you reach between you and wrap your hand around his cock again . He nearly collapses.

"Please—please, I'm gonna—"

You stroke him slowly, watching the way his body bucks into your fist and back onto Sunghoon's cock in perfect rhythm. He's whining, shameless and loud, hips jerking. Every time you squeeze, he moans louder.

Sunghoon grits his teeth. "Good fucking girl," he growls to you, fucking Jake harder. "He's gonna cum just like this—such a fucking mess."

Jake's the first to break. He sobs your name as he spills all over your hand, body curling in on itself. The clenching sends Sunghoon over the edge with a groan, and he pulls Jake close, hips stuttering as he finishes inside him.

And then, silence. Just heaving breaths, sweaty skin, bodies tangled together on the sheets.

Jake collapses against your chest, still gasping, and you stroke his hair without thinking. Sunghoon lays beside him, one arm thrown lazily over his waist.

For a moment, it's quiet.

Then Jake speaks, "You think Heeseung would be mad we fucked his girlfriend's little cousin?"

You blink. "I'm older than Yunjin."

They both whip their heads toward you.

"No fucking way," they say in perfect unison and somehow, that's the moment you realize you're probably not getting rid of either of them anytime soon.

══════════════════════════

#enhypen angst #enha smut #enha x reader #enha imagines #enhypen #enhypen x reader #jake angst #jake smut #jake sim #sunghoon smut #sunghoon angst #park sunghoon #jake x reader #sunghoon x reader #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen fic #enhypen smut

2K notes · View notes