#to think they played in such a small place...

[buckyseternaldoll]

all mine, baby

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Summary: You crossed a line to finish the mission. Bucky saw it. Now he’s going to remind you who that pussy belongs to—with his mouth, his cock, and his name on your lips.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v (doggy + missionary), oral (f receiving & m receiving), facial + cumplay, overstimulation, marking, possessive!bucky, jealousy sex, creampie, shower aftercare, dominance (non-degrading), soft switch tension

Word Count: 5.9k

Author's Note: Hope you'll love my take on Bucky's more dominant side too. Thanks for reading 💜

“Just get the intel,” Bucky muttered, catching your wrist before you could step out of the SUV.

His grip wasn’t hard—but it stopped you. That said everything.

You turned, your eyes dropping to the flesh fingers wrapped around your wrist, then rising to meet his face. His jaw flexed. Tension rolled off him, held back behind stubble and armor and a soldier’s discipline he wore like a second skin. But it was more than that.

He knew how this worked. You both did. Sometimes missions blurred into seduction. Sometimes flirtation was the weapon.

Still—he breathed out, voice dropping. “I know what this is. I know you’ve gotta flirt. Play the part. That’s fine.”

You held his gaze, silent.

“But I’m gonna be in that room too,” he added, quieter now, almost like it hurt to say. “Watching him look at you. Listening to every word you say in my goddamn ear. And I can take a lot, but I’m still a man, alright?”

His thumb brushed across your pulse—gentle now. “Just don’t overdo it. Don’t give him more than what’s needed. Don’t make me sit there and hear you moan in his ear like it doesn’t fucking ruin me.”

The last part nearly broke in his throat. It wasn’t anger. It was something else. Something hot and human, coated in restraint.

You softened.

“I know,” you said, quieter. “It’s just a means to an end, Bucky. You have my word. I’ll do just enough.”

His eyes searched yours like he needed to be sure. Needed it anchored.

You gave him a small nod.

But deep inside, you knew.

These missions never stuck to plan. Sometimes the target needed a little push. Sometimes—when the drug took too long, when the man was strong, when timing burned too fast—you had to exaggerate. Make it look real.

And maybe, just maybe…

tonight would cross that line.

—

The club slammed into your senses—bass pounding through the floor, lights slicing in deep violet and strobe white. The air smelled like sweat, spilled liquor, and desperate heat. You walked in wrapped in that second-skin black silk, your dress clinging to every curve like it had been poured on. Short. Low-cut. Slick with sin.

You didn’t head to the target right away. You let yourself exist first—moving through the room like your heels wrote every beat of the music. You knew the asset was watching. You felt his eyes from the second you crossed the threshold.

Two tables behind, you knew Bucky was watching, too. Close enough to cover you. Far enough to let you work. His voice echoed in your head even now: “Don’t make me sit there and hear you moan in his ear like it doesn’t fucking ruin me.”

You swallowed it down. Focused.

The asset looked exactly as briefed—ex-military bulk softened by money and whiskey. Sharp eyes. Thick hands. Smiling like he already owned the room.

His men came to you, one leaning in just enough to graze your hip. “He’d like to meet you.”

You smiled. Innocent. Deadly. “That’s sweet. But I like to make the first move.”

You crossed the space, hips swaying. His gaze never left your legs.

In your hand: a glass of vodka, clear as a lie. Laced. Fast-acting. Measured.

You slid into the booth beside him, placing the drink between you.

“Didn’t think a man like you would have to send others to flirt for him,” you said, voice like warm smoke.

He chuckled, slow. “I like efficiency.”

You stirred the vodka with your finger—smooth, teasing—then pulled it back and offered the glass with a smirk. “So do I.”

He took it. Drank. Eyes never leaving the curve of your mouth.

You leaned in, just close enough for your perfume to do the talking. “This kind of attention you always get, or am I just special?”

He let his gaze drop, soaking in the cleavage framed perfectly by the dress. “You’re not like the girls I usually see here.”

“I’m not a girl,” you murmured. “And you’re not just some guy, either.”

You let it linger in the air. Heavy. Coded.

He shifted closer. “You speak in riddles?”

“I speak in trades,” you said, voice low. “You look like a man who deals in things that shouldn’t be touched.”

He smiled, drunk on you—but not drunk enough. The serum should’ve hit harder by now. Should’ve softened his eyes, loosened his tongue. But he was sharp. Solid. The clock was ticking.

You glanced toward Bucky’s table.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But your skin burned under the weight of his stare.

You knew what you were about to do would hurt him.

But this wasn’t a game anymore.

So you swung a leg over the asset’s lap and settled down, smooth and slow. The hem of your dress barely covered your ass now, riding up just enough to reveal the snug stretch of your tactical shorts—black, skin-tight, regulation-issue but cut scandalously high for mobility. His eyes dipped lower, breath catching as the illusion unraveled.

Your shorts pressed flush against the bulge already forming beneath him, the fabric thin but secure—barrier, not invitation. His breath hitched. His hands landed at your waist, eager and clumsy, fingertips brushing the edge of nylon instead of skin. You let your hips roll once, slow, deliberate—not to tease, but to extract. Mechanical. Controlled. Just enough friction to fry his brain and loosen his tongue.

“What are you guarding so tight?” you whispered in his ear. “Where does it sleep? Who tucks it in?”

He groaned, breath hitching. “Red Hook… basement level… old biotech clinic—front’s shut down. Back entrance behind the deli. Third keypad to the left… code’s three-nine-alpha…”

You tilted your head to let him nibble your earlobe while he spoke, your hands running lazily over his chest. You hated it. Hated every second. But your face didn’t show it.

Not until his words slurred. His grip slackened. And his head dropped back.

Out cold.

The drink finally worked.

You climbed off slowly, fixing your dress with careful fingers.

And when you stood?

You didn’t need to look.

You felt Bucky’s stare drilling into your spine. Hot. Furious. Silent.

You’d done what you promised.

Just enough.

Barely.

But the line had been razor-thin.

And the aftermath?

It was coming for you.

—

Bucky didn’t say a word when you stepped away from the asset.

Didn’t look at you.

Didn’t nod.

Didn’t even breathe your direction.

He just turned. Shoulders drawn tight. Vibranium fist clenched. He moved fast, controlled, vanishing through the back exit of the club like he couldn’t stand to be in the same room as you one second longer.

The comm in your ear clicked off.

That silence hit harder than any slap.

You stood there for a breath—dress still slightly hiked, heart hammering against your ribs—before forcing your legs to move. Every step down the hallway felt heavier. Guilt wrapped around your spine like ice. You hadn’t wanted to go that far. But you’d known the second the serum lagged that it was either that grind… or let the op slip through your fingers.

You pushed through the alley door into the night.

The air outside was sharp and sour—wet asphalt, exhaust, the dull hum of street noise. The black SUV waited by the curb, engine already running. Bucky sat behind the wheel, face cast in the glow of the dash lights. Vibranium hand flexed once on the wheel. Then again.

You approached carefully, like he might shatter if you spoke too soon.

You slid into the passenger seat. Closed the door softly.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak.

Just stared straight ahead, jaw locked, teeth clenched so tight it looked painful. The city passed in silence as he pulled out onto the road, hands steady, eyes burning holes in the traffic.

You glanced down at your lap, fingers fidgeting. “I had to get him talking before the serum kicked in,” you said quietly. “He was resisting it harder than expected.”

Still nothing.

“Bucky…”

He exhaled—through his nose. Sharp. Barely contained.

“I know why you did it.”

His voice came out flat. Controlled.

You turned toward him, catching the hard line of his jaw, the way that vein in his neck was still ticking.

“I just—he was slipping under, and I knew if I didn’t do something, I’d lose him. I wasn’t enjoying it—”

“But you fucking ground your hips on him,” Bucky snapped, eyes finally cutting to you. His voice didn’t rise, but it cracked, broken glass under velvet. “You pressed your body against another man’s cock like it wasn’t mine you’re supposed to be riding.”

Your breath hitched. Shame curled in your stomach like fire.

“I didn’t want to,” you said. “It was only ever for you.”

He looked away again, jaw flexing hard.

“I get it,” he said, after a moment. “I do.”

But it didn’t sound like understanding.

It sounded like restraint.

He said nothing else.

Just kept driving.

Until his right hand—the flesh one—left the gear shift and slid onto your thigh. Slowly. Hot.

You blinked, heart skipping. His palm moved up, lifting your dress inch by inch until the tactical shorts underneath came into view—thin, black, still dry against your skin. A reminder: that entire act, that entire grind? It meant nothing. No arousal. No pleasure. Just strategy.

But when his fingers slid under the waistband?

When his knuckles brushed your heat?

That’s when your breath hitched.

Because you started getting wet then—only then. Your body responding to him, and no one else.

He paused for half a second. Felt the shift. The slow bloom of warmth between your thighs.

A low growl rumbled from his chest.

“Look at that,” he muttered, voice low, dark, possessive. “You’re only getting wet now, sweetheart. Not for him. Not up there in his fucking lap.”

You whimpered, your thighs tensing, hips twitching toward his touch.

“This?” His fingers pushed deeper. “This is mine. No one gets this but me.”

“Only you,” you breathed, voice barely holding. “Only you, Buck.”

His fingers pumped slow at first—two… then three. His thumb flicked your clit in lazy circles while the pads of his fingers curled up, hitting that spot that made your mouth fall open in a gasp.

You moaned. Soft. Stifled.

But not enough.

“Say my name,” he growled. “Say it like it fucking means something.”

You tried. Choked on it.

He fucked his fingers in deeper.

“Say it.”

“Bucky,” you gasped, the sound breaking free as your head tipped back. “Bucky—please—”

He swerved hard into a side street. Then another. Pulled into an alley dark as sin, hidden behind crates and dumpsters and silence. He slammed the car into park. Killed the lights.

Turned toward you with that fire in his eyes.

—

“Back seat,” he ordered. “Shorts off. Now.”

You didn’t question it.

Didn’t ask.

You scrambled over the center console, breath caught in your chest, heat pooling between your thighs. The dress was already bunched around your waist, riding high. You leaned back against the cold window, knees bent on the seat, and finally hooked your fingers under the edge of your tactical shorts—still clinging to your thighs, still damp with your own guilt.

You peeled your shorts down, slow but shaky, skin prickling as you dragged them past your knees and tossed them aside. The leather was cold beneath you, but your body burned hot. You shifted, leaned back against the SUV window, legs parting instinctively in the tight space.

Through the tinted glass, you saw Bucky climb out of the front seat, jaw tight, eyes stormy.

He slammed the door behind him, hard enough to rattle the frame—then opened the rear passenger side.

And when he stepped in, he filled the entire space.

Broad shoulders ducked low, head nearly brushing the ceiling, body moving with purpose as he sank into the backseat with you. The air between you thickened instantly—hot, electric, inevitable.

He was everywhere. The space felt smaller with him inside it—broad shoulders brushing the roof, body folding awkwardly in the tight quarters, but he made it work. He always did. And now, he was on his knees between your thighs, crouched over you, arms braced on either side like a man caging what’s his.

“No more pretending,” he rasped, breath thick, eyes locked on your dripping heat.

He gripped your thighs, calloused fingers digging in, spreading you wide open.

“No more acting.”

Then his breath hit your folds. Hot. Possessive.

“And no one,” he growled, voice dark and deadly, “will ever make you come the way I do.”

Then he buried his face in your pussy like it was his fucking prize.

Not soft.

Not slow.

But god, not careless either.

He licked you like he needed it to breathe—tongue flat and strong, dragging up your slit and latching onto your clit like he was starving for it. He sucked hard. Claimed it. The sound of it—wet, lewd, hungry—filled the cramped SUV, echoing off the windows.

You moaned, legs already trembling, head thudding softly against the glass.

He groaned into you—tongue flicking, circling, devouring—like he knew exactly how your body worked and wanted to remind you who trained it. His nose brushed your mound, his chin soaked with you, his mouth relentless.

It wasn’t just need.

It was marking.

Like he was writing his name in your cunt with every lick, letting the whole damn city know whose you were.

You squirmed, overwhelmed, but he locked your hips in place.

“Stay still,” he warned, voice raw against your skin. “Take it. You owe me this.”

You gasped, back arching, nails digging into his scalp.

“James—fuck—”

“Say it louder,” he growled, licking harder now. “I want it echoing in your fucking skull the next time you let someone else touch what’s mine.”

“Bucky,” you choked out. “Bucky, please—I’m—”

Your voice shattered as the orgasm slammed through you—hot, fast, brutal. You came on his mouth with your thighs trembling and his name torn from your throat like it was ripped from the center of you.

But he didn’t stop.

Even as you cried out, shaking, spent—he kept going.

He licked you through it, slow and thorough. Cleaning you up. Tasting you like you were the only thing that could calm the fire still burning in his chest. His mouth dragged along your folds like he needed more. Like he’d never get enough.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were swollen, chin soaked, eyes burning.

He leaned up, voice rough and quiet.

“Mine.”

Then he backed out of the seat and got behind the wheel again—still hard, still silent, cock straining against his pants as he shifted back into drive.

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t have to.

You were panting in the passenger seat, legs still spread, cunt still aching from his mouth.

And the safehouse?

Ten minutes away.

You weren’t going to walk out of that room.

You were going to crawl.

—

Bucky killed the engine like it had offended him. His hands were still tight on the wheel. His cock was straining, painful in his pants, his breath ragged from holding back ever since he licked you raw in the backseat.

He got out first—door slamming shut behind him—then moved to the rear.

The moment the back door opened, you blinked up at him, legs still parted slightly, the hem of your black dress bunched indecently high on your hips. Your tactical shorts were somewhere on the floorboard. Forgotten.

His jaw ticked hard.

Without a word, he reached in—gripped your waist, fingers biting into your skin—and pulled you out like you weighed nothing. You gasped, hands flying to his shoulders, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

You could feel his cock through the rough fabric of his pants—thick, hot, pressed right between your thighs.

Your lips crashed into his before either of you could think.

It was rough. All tongue and teeth. No rhythm. Just claiming. His vibranium hand gripped your waist to keep you balanced, fingers pressing through the dress. His flesh hand slipped low—cupping your bare ass under the hem, gripping, kneading.

You moaned against his mouth, and he answered with a groan that rumbled from deep in his chest.

He carried you like that—mouth on yours, kissing like he was branding you—toward the front door of the safehouse. His back hit the wall as he fumbled for the keypad, keying in the code with fast, practiced taps. The lock clicked.

The door opened.

He stepped inside, still holding you up, the door swinging shut behind with a deep slam that vibrated through the floor.

You didn’t stop kissing.

You couldn’t stop.

He walked you deeper inside, mouth never leaving yours, breath hot, cock twitching against the heat of you. Each step toward the bedroom felt like another second he was barely keeping it together.

By the time he reached the doorway, you were gasping into his mouth—desperate, wrecked, clinging.

He broke the kiss with a heavy breath. Set you down slowly, like he was restraining the urge to throw you on the bed and rip the rest of your clothes off in one go.

His eyes dropped, dragging down your body.

Then he spoke—voice low, rough, possessive.

“Strip. All of it.”

You didn’t hesitate. Hands went to the hem of your dress, still clinging to your skin—wrinkled from the SUV, soaked with heat and sweat. The black silk slipped up your body in one smooth pull, dragging across your hips, your waist, your breasts.

The backless cut slid over your shoulders like a final sigh before you tossed it aside.

No bra. Just bare skin. Breasts flushed and rising with your breath. Nipples tight. Still sensitive from the way you’d been edged on the drive here.

Bucky’s jaw flexed. His eyes dropped—drank in everything.

He knew. He’d seen the way the fucker had looked at you. Had seen his eyes drop to your cleavage over and over again. Had heard the bastard groan when your pussy rubbed against his lap.

And now here you were—naked in front of him.

And he was the only one who got to touch.

As you stood there naked, his hands went to the buttons of his shirt. He popped them open one by one—quick, clean. Then peeled it off and let it drop to the floor behind him.

His pants?

He unbuttoned them. That was it. He met your gaze as he pushed the waistband down just an inch—enough to reveal the shadow of V-lines and the thick bulge still fighting for release.

He stepped closer, low voice sharp and steady:

“You started this.”

His gaze dropped to your still-wet cunt.

“Now you’re gonna take everything I’ve got.”

—

Bucky’s pants were already unbuttoned, low on his hips, the thick shape of him straining against black boxer briefs. He looked down at you, chest rising and falling, eyes dark and hungry.

“On your knees,” he rasped. “You wanna make it up to me, sweetheart? Start there.”

You dropped instantly—knees hitting the hardwood, palms sliding up his thighs.

He hissed through his teeth when you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and dragged them down just enough.

His cock sprang free.

Hard. Thick. Flushed deep red at the tip and already leaking. Your mouth watered.

He watched you watch him. Smirked like he was reading your mind.

“Like what you see?” he murmured. “Is this what you were thinking about while grinding on that fucker’s lap?”

You shook your head, breath shallow, voice barely a whisper. “Only ever think about yours.”

He stepped closer, cock inches from your lips. “Say it again.”

“Only want your cock,” you said, eyes locked on his. “Always.”

“Yeah?” He reached down, wrapped his metal hand around the base, gave it one slow stroke. “You want it in that pretty mouth?”

You didn’t answer. You just opened your mouth and took him.

The first inch made his hips stutter. The next made him groan.

“Fuuuck, baby…”

You slid your tongue along the underside, hollowing your cheeks as you sank lower—taking more, deeper, until your nose brushed his pelvis and spit started to drip down your chin. You bobbed your head with purpose, working him like you’d done this a hundred times—like his cock was the only thing you were meant to swallow.

He hissed, one hand gripping your hair, the other braced against the wall behind him.

“God damn—you look so fucking good with my cock in your mouth.” His voice was gravel now. “So fuckin’ perfect… every inch of it.”

You moaned around him—on purpose—tongue curling just right, letting the sound vibrate through his shaft.

His hips jerked forward and he groaned. Deep. Raw.

“Oh, you like that, huh?” he growled. “You like the taste of my cock? Like how it fills that needy little throat?”

You moaned again, this time louder, eyes fluttering shut as you sucked harder—lips tight around him, spit pooling at the corners.

“Look at you,” he panted. “So desperate to please me. All that shit back there, and now you’re here… gagging for it.”

You swallowed around him once. Then again.

He let out a broken, wrecked sound that made your thighs clench.

“My cock,” he muttered, voice gone low and fucked-out. “Always gonna be yours, baby. No one else gets it. No one else deserves it.”

—

Your throat was wrecked from the effort—slick with spit, lips swollen around his cock as you sucked him deeper, faster, like you couldn’t get enough of the taste of him.

Bucky’s hips twitched, breath hissing through his teeth, every muscle in his thighs taut.

“Fuck—don’t stop, baby. Don’t you fuckin’ stop—”

You moaned around him again, greedy and soft, and that was it.

His grip in your hair tightened—his thighs locked—and then his cock pulsed once, twice, and he let go with a deep, broken groan.

Hot, thick ropes of cum painted your face.

Across your cheek. Your lips. Your chin. A drip landed at the corner of your mouth, warm and heavy. He held your head still, letting it happen. Letting you take it.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he panted. “Just like that.”

You stayed there, kneeling, breath shallow and mouth parted—cum dripping down your skin, cooling in the air. Dazed. Ruined.

But he wasn’t done admiring you.

He reached down, cupped your jaw in both hands—flesh and vibranium—guiding you up, slow, until you were standing again, swaying slightly on your feet. His thumbs dragged through the mess he left, smearing it across your flushed cheeks, his eyes devouring every inch.

Then he leaned in.

And licked it off your skin.

His tongue dragged up your cheek—slow, filthy—then circled the corner of your mouth. He moaned low, like the taste of his own cum on your skin satisfied something animal in him.

“Mine,” he growled, voice dark and reverent. “You wear it so fuckin’ well.”

You whimpered, eyes half-lidded as his tongue lapped once more—this time over your bottom lip.

Then, without warning, his arms wrapped around your thighs and lifted you clean off the floor.

You gasped as your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist again, arms clutching his shoulders. His cock, still hard and leaking, pressed between your soaked folds—barely touching, just there, heavy and teasing as he walked you across the room toward the bed.

You felt it—every step—the way your slick coated his length, the head of him bumping your clit, sliding through your folds as he carried you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, smirking against your neck. “You’re dripping for me only, aren’t you?”

His flesh hand gripped your ass tight, fingers spreading across the soft skin like he owned it.

“You dirty little slut,” he growled—voice smug, filthy, hungry. “All this mess, and you’re still so fucking wet for me.”

You moaned against his throat, clinging to him tighter.

“You think sucking me off makes it even?” he breathed. “Nah. You’re not off the hook, sweetheart. Not ‘til I’ve fucked that grind out of your memory.”

He reached the bed.

Dropped you onto the mattress with a low grunt, his chest heaving.

—

You looked up just in time to see him wrap one hand around his cock—thick, flushed, still slick with your spit and the mess between your thighs. He stroked himself once, slow, his jaw clenching tight as his hand glided over the length.

Your slick made every sound wetter, filthier. And he watched you like you were prey.

“Turn around,” he said—voice low, gravel-wrapped filth. “Back to me.”

You obeyed instantly.

Rolled over, lifted your hips, and grabbed the nearest pillow—propping yourself up just right. Your chest sank into the sheets as your ass rose high, knees spread wide to accommodate for his size, your folds glistening and parted, waiting for him.

You heard it. That sound. That moan he didn’t even try to hold back.

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathed. “So perfect. So fucking obedient for me.”

You arched deeper, giving him more. Offering yourself the way he liked—completely. Without hesitation.

He stepped between your legs and ran the thick head of his cock through your folds—gathering slick, bumping your clit once, twice, making you whimper into the sheets.

“You’re soaked,” he muttered, voice low and tight. “Dripping all over me.”

Then he pushed in.

Slow.

Deep.

Thick.

The stretch made your mouth fall open, eyes squeezed shut as he filled you with one steady thrust—your cunt sucking him in, clenching around every inch.

“Goddamn,” he groaned, hands gripping your hips. “You were made for this cock.”

You whimpered, body tensing, back arching deeper.

“Yeah… that’s it, baby,” he murmured, rocking in just a little more. “Feel that? Feel how tight you are around me? Fuckin’ gripping me.”

He bottomed out, hips pressed against your ass, and let out a low, broken moan.

“Shit. So fucking good. This pussy—this cunt—was made to take me.”

Then he started moving.

Thrusting hard. Controlled. Not rough—but not gentle either. A rhythm built for branding, for claiming, every movement steady and deliberate. His cock slammed into you with that perfect drag—thick and hot, sliding through soaked walls that welcomed every inch like it belonged there.

You moaned into the pillow, fingers gripping the sheets, your thighs trembling as he fucked you deeper.

“Look at you,” he rasped. “Ass up, knees wide, taking every fucking inch like a good little slut.”

You whimpered—because it wrecked you when he said it like that. Not to degrade, but to own. To punish you in pleasure.

“My good girl,” he moaned. “You’re so fucking wet for me. Clenching like you need it.”

Each thrust slammed your hips forward, his grip unrelenting, cock buried in you over and over again, the sound of skin on skin filthy and perfect.

And he wasn’t even close to done.

—

You were moaning into the pillow, fingers clawing at the sheets, every thrust dragging you closer to the edge.

“Bucky—fuck—I’m gonna come,” you gasped, voice high and wrecked, thighs trembling under the force of him.

But his hands didn’t slow.

If anything, they tightened on your hips.

“Not yet,” he growled. “Not the fucking time, baby.”

His hand tangled in your hair, tugging your head back—not too rough, just firm, in charge—until your spine arched and your mouth fell open in a cry.

Then he slammed into you harder. Deeper.

You could barely breathe. His cock pounded into you from behind, thick and relentless, dragging over every perfect spot inside you. Your slick made it loud, each thrust a wet slap that echoed through the room.

You sobbed, close, body twitching.

“Please, Bucky—I can’t—”

He yanked your hair again—harder this time—until you were upright, your back flush to his chest, ass pressed against his hips. You whimpered, the new angle hitting you even deeper, your cunt fluttering around him as your orgasm crashed through you with violent, blinding heat.

You squirted, soaking his cock, the sheets, everything.

And Bucky? Fucking smirked.

“Goddamn,” he grunted, cock twitching inside you. “Look at that mess, baby. Look at what you gave me. No one’s ever made you come like that.”

You were shaking, limp in his arms—but he didn’t let go.

Didn’t stop.

He kept going—fucking you through the aftershocks, through the overstimulation, through the trembling cries that spilled from your mouth as your pussy clenched again and again.

“Bucky—James please—too much—”

Your voice broke, hoarse, desperate, head falling back onto his shoulder.

But he just moaned into your ear, voice filthy and breathless.

“No, baby. You don’t get to tap out yet.”

His teeth grazed your jaw as he drove into you again, rougher now, cock dragging through your soaked walls like he was trying to ruin them.

“This’s what happens,” he growled, “when you grind your pretty little pussy on another man’s lap.”

You sobbed again, your cunt fluttering around him uncontrollably.

“You let him feel it,” he panted, hips slamming up into you. “Now I get to remind it who the fuck it belongs to.”

You whimpered, hands slipping off your thighs, too weak to hold yourself up.

He caught you, arm locked under your chest, still fucking into you like it was the only language he spoke.

“This pussy,” he whispered, voice low and dangerous, “is mine. Say it.”

—

Your voice broke again—“Bucky—too much—please—”

And this time, instead of pleading the word, you meant it.

You reached back, tapping his thigh gently, hips squirming away as your overstimulated cunt fluttered helplessly around him. Your hand slid to his, guiding it away, your body trembling in the cradle of his chest.

He got the message.

He slowed.

Breathed heavy against your back… and finally let you go.

He pulled out with a low, drawn-out groan—his cock slick, flushed, twitching from the effort not to come right there. He sat back on his knees, then dropped off the bed, standing at the foot now, watching you like something sacred.

You moved slow. Gently flipped onto your back, thighs still shaking. You folded your knees up, spread them apart, presenting yourself with your head tipped to the side, hair messy against the sheets. Your fingers slipped between your folds, teasing yourself—wet, messy, flushed from being pounded raw. You looked at him through heavy, lidded eyes.

“My pretty little pussy’s only for you, baby.”

His mouth parted.

His body twitched.

“Fuuucking Christ,” he muttered, voice half-broken, hand running down his face. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”

He climbed back onto the bed—over you now—knees braced to either side of your hips, cock bobbing near your entrance but not touching yet. He leaned in and kissed you—really kissed you. Slow. Deep. Tongue sliding against yours with a reverence that made your chest ache.

He pulled back just enough to pant against your lips. “I fucking love you,” he moaned. “Every part of you. Every inch. You know that, right?”

You nodded, dazed, breathless. “I know. I love you too.”

He kissed you again—one hand cradling your face, the other made of vibranium, cold but careful as it slid down your chest. He cupped your breast, thumb teasing the peak, fingers squeezing gently. Your nipple twitched under the metal and he smirked against your mouth.

“So sensitive,” he whispered.

Then he slid down your body, vibranium fingers trailing from your breast to your slick heat. He circled your clit gently, slow and patient now—just enough pressure to make your hips jerk. You were so wet still. So open.

One vibranium finger slipped in.

You gasped.

He groaned.

“Still clenching,” he murmured. “Still so fucking tight for me.”

He thrust it slowly once, twice, and then pulled it out—watching your walls twitch around the loss.

Then he grabbed his cock—thick, veined, soaked—and lined himself up again. He braced one hand on the mattress, the other at your thigh, and pushed back inside—slow and deep, his moan shaking through your chest.

Not rough this time.

Not punishing.

But no less intense.

He fucked you with love now—hips rolling into yours, cock dragging over every sensitive spot like he knew the shape of you from the inside out.

Every thrust said: you’re mine. I love you. You’re safe.

And your pussy soaked it in like it never wanted anything else.

—

Bucky’s thrusts were slow and deep now, rolling through you like waves—his hands sliding under your thighs to press your legs higher, folding you up just the way he knew drove you wild.

“Hold them here,” he whispered, voice rough and reverent as he guided your knees up toward your chest. “Let me in deeper, baby.”

You obeyed, trembling slightly as your knees framed your chest, and he slid in all the way—his cock dragging through your dripping, overstimulated walls with a rhythm that felt like he was fucking straight into your soul.

He leaned down, pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, your collarbone—then sucked, just enough to leave hickeys blooming across your skin.

Marks.

Proof.

His.

“I love you,” he murmured between kisses. “Love your body. Love this pussy. Love you.”

His thrusts deepened, hips rocking harder now—controlled but urgent.

“You love me too, right?” he whispered near your ear, voice quieter now. “You only act like that with me, yeah? Only mine, baby?”

You nodded, breath catching, hands gripping his shoulders. “Only you, Bucky. Always you.”

That broke him.

“Fuck,” he groaned—just as your orgasm slammed through you again.

You clenched around him, crying out his name, and he came with you—cock pulsing deep inside as he filled you with heat, hips jerking forward in short, frantic bucks. His moans were wrecked, low and filthy against your neck.

Even after he emptied everything into you, he didn’t move.

Didn’t pull out.

He shifted, carefully—sliding one arm under your back, the other under your thigh—until he could lay beside you in that tight fit of tangled limbs. His cock still inside, your bodies joined. Your walls fluttered around him in soft, pulsing squeezes, but they were easing now, slowing. Content.

You exhaled, eyes closed, lips parted.

Done.

So full of him.

So full of love.

He left soft, fluttery kisses on your cheek. Then a plush one on your lips.

You smiled against his mouth.

“Baby,” he whispered, nudging his nose against yours. “We gotta clean you up. We still need to shower.”

You hummed, too tired to lift your head. “You carry me. I can’t feel my legs.”

He chuckled. “I got you.”

—

The water was warm, steam curling around your bodies. Bucky stood behind you, gently massaging shampoo into your hair with careful fingers, rinsing you like you were made of something breakable. His cock had softened, finally, resting against your lower back.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into your wet shoulder. “If I was too rough. If I hurt you.”

You shook your head lightly, water cascading down your back. “I’d do the same if you were the one grinding on another woman.”

He stilled behind you.

You added, voice soft but dark, “Actually… I’d probably do worse. Maybe a little dick-chopping.”

Silence.

Then—“Jesus fuck,” Bucky muttered, stepping back half a step. “You’re not joking.”

You turned your head slightly, smirking. “I don’t joke about that kind of thing.”

He grabbed your shoulders gently to turn you around. The shampoo dripped down your temples, eyes squinted closed as you faced him.

He cradled your cheeks in his palms, kissed your nose once, then said with absolute sincerity:

“I swear on my long-ass life… I will never, ever test that.”

You both laughed—soft and tired—your foreheads resting against each other under the water.

Still full of heat.

Still full of love.

Still his.

[a-casxandra]

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐃 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐀 𝐓𝐖𝐎-𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄.

Zayne x non-mc, angst because that's all i'm good at lol

𝑺𝒚𝒑𝒏𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒔 : Dating a renowned cardiac surgeon was never meant to be easy—but falling in love with a man who already has a child and a history he never quite let go of? That’s something else entirely. Caught between hospital corridors and family day events, you tries to find your place in Zayne’s world—until one mistake shatters the fragile balance, and you're forced to ask yourself the question that’s haunted you from the start: did you ever meant to belong?

Being a surgeon’s girlfriend is already difficult—but what if your boyfriend also has a child with his ex?

When you first started dating Zayne, he didn’t hide anything. He told you about her—MC—and their daughter, Aurora. You were stunned for two reasons:

One, that Zayne Li, of all people, was dating you.

And two, that he had a child out of wedlock.

Still, you told yourself you could handle it. That you would try.

But no matter how hard you tried to be close to Aurora, she would quietly slip away. No tantrums, no words—just cold avoidance. At first, you told yourself she was only six. She couldn't possibly be hostile, right?

Zayne often brought you along to see her. Said it would help. You played along. Even MC was polite, if a little…off. You told yourself it was nerves—maybe jealousy. Or maybe it was just you, trying to ignore the invisible thread that still seemed to tie her and Zayne together. The shared child. The memories. The easy familiarity.

One evening, while sitting across from Zayne at his house, you hesitated before speaking.

“Zayne… do you think we could go out next Saturday?” your voice was soft, almost reluctant.

He was just returning from work, undoing his coat and sinking into the couch with a tired sigh. “I’m sorry. I have a scheduled surgery that day.”

You nodded, then asked again, a little more hopeful, “Then… how about Sunday?”

Zayne leaned his head back and rubbed a hand down his face. “Aurora has a family day at school on Sunday. She asked me to be there... You understand, right?”

You did. You always did. But this time, something inside you pushed back.

“…But you’re always busy,” you said quietly. “If not at the hospital, you’re with them. What about me?”

“What about you?” Zayne said sharply, straightening. “That’s nonsense. We live together—you see me every day.”

And just like that, the silence cracked into an argument.

But it never lasted long. Zayne, as always, came back to you hours later—apologetic, calm, promising to make it up to you. And he meant it. He always meant it.

So here you were, at Aurora’s school on a cold winter Sunday—Family Day.

Zayne brought you along again. Said it would help. Said it mattered.

You stood on the sidelines, watching him and MC playing with Aurora.

They looked so natural together. Laughing, moving in sync, fitting into the same frame like a picture that had never been taken apart. Aurora was radiant between them. And Zayne… he looked so happy.

They looked like a perfect family.

And you?

You were the stain on the canvas. The outsider in the photograph.

You flinched slightly when you felt a small tug on your sleeve. Aurora stood beside you, looking up and pointing at a nearby ice cream truck.

You blinked, surprised. She’d never approached you before.

“You want that? Okay, let’s get you one,” you said gently, a quiet warmth blooming in your chest. Maybe… just maybe, this was a start.

But the moment shattered in an instant.

Aurora began coughing violently—ice cream falling from her hand, her little fingers clawing at her throat as she struggled to breathe.

Panic consumed you. “Aurora?”

Zayne and MC rushed over immediately. You fumbled for words, heart racing, explaining what happened—but you barely got a sentence out before MC’s face twisted in alarm.

“She’s allergic to dairy!” MC cried, snatching Aurora from your side. Her eyes were wide with fear—and something else. Accusation.

“I— I didn’t know—” you stammered, heart racing. You were shaking. You didn’t know.

“She’s six! You should’ve asked!” she snapped, voice cracking with panic. “I know Aurora doesn’t like you—but you didn’t have to do this! Was it really that bad? That you had to—” Tears welled up in her eyes as people began to gather, murmuring, whispering. Judging.

You turned to Zayne, desperate. “Zayne, I swear—I didn’t know—”

“Shut up, [Reader].”

The words hit you harder than anything else. His voice was sharp. Cold. And worse, disappointed.

Zayne never yelled. Never lost control. And now, he couldn’t even look at you.

He scooped Aurora into his arms, MC following close behind. And without another glance in your direction, they left—getting into his car and driving away.

You stood there, frozen. Surrounded by strangers with pointed eyes and low murmurs.

They didn’t know you. And yet… they were already judging.

And somehow, you didn’t blame them.

Because in that moment, as the wind bit at your skin and your heartbeat rang in your ears—

You knew the truth.

You didn’t belong here.

You never did.

Author's note : comments is very much appreciated! i like reading your comments and also, should i do a part 2? zayne's pov, maybe.

[skzophreniic]

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content · graphic sex · rough sex · orgasm denial · dom/sub dynamics · dirty talk · aftercare · possessiveness · emotional vulnerability · toxic ex / abusive relationship (past) · physical assault · violence · blood · protective behavior · minor alcohol mention · language

notes: in which your regular bartender minho lets you stay at his apartment when your toxic ex-situationship gets physical — and things spiral from there.

The bar doesn’t have a sign. Just a brass door with no handle and a button that glows red when you press it. Inside, it’s all velvet and shadows—low jazz crooning from invisible speakers, smoke curling from too-expensive cigars. The kind of place that smells like secrets and old money.

You don’t belong here. But you come anyway.

Mostly for him.

Minho’s behind the bar like always. Shirt black, sleeves rolled just once, collar stiff against the sharp line of his neck. He doesn’t look up when you walk in, doesn’t smile. He never does.

You don’t need him to.

It starts like most nights do—low lighting, soft jazz, the smell of expensive bourbon and even more expensive cologne drifting through the speakeasy’s velvet-lined walls. The kind of place that pretends not to notice you unless it wants to.

He always notices you.

Minho’s already at the bar, polishing glassware with deliberate, almost surgical focus. No smile. No greeting. He doesn’t do small talk—just glances at you when you slip onto the stool you always take, his gaze lingering for a moment too long on the bare skin above your knee before it flicks away like you imagined it.

He slides a drink toward you without asking.

Tonight it’s something amber and sharp—neat, no garnish. Not the floral bullshit you usually order to irritate him but don't actually enjoy.

“You’re learning,” you murmur, fingers curling around the glass.

“You’re predictable,” he says, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Amusement. Approval, maybe. It’s hard to tell with him.

You take a slow sip, letting the burn settle in your chest before you speak again.

“Gonna make fun of me tonight, or just stare at my legs?”

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“Why can’t I do both?”

You raise an eyebrow. He’s in a mood.

Good.

You lean in a little, voice dipping low. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you liked me.”

Minho finally looks at you head-on, the edge of a smile ghosting across his mouth.

“If I liked you,” he says, smooth as glass, “you’d know.”

The heat that curls low in your stomach has nothing to do with the liquor.

You shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve been playing this game for weeks—weeks of drawn-out glances and sharp tongues, of letting your knee graze his thigh beneath the bar, of asking him questions you already know he won’t answer just to hear the dry curl of his voice when he tells you no.

But tonight, the rules feel different. The air feels heavier. Charged.

You blame it on the day you had. On the message you didn’t answer. On the fact that your body still remembers the way your so-called lover grabbed your wrist last night when you dared to pull away first. The apology this morning was short. Cold. Like a favor he did you.

You’re tired of favors. Of men who act like your body is borrowed space.

So maybe that’s why you’re here again. Why your dress is a little shorter than usual. Why your smile is a little sharper. Why you stare at Minho like you want him to cut you open and see what’s underneath.

“I think you like me,” you say, swirling the amber in your glass, eyes fixed on his fingers as he reaches for a bottle behind him.

He uncaps it without a word. Pours slow—like he’s buying time or maybe making you wait on purpose. The line of his jaw is clean and sharp in the bar’s dim light, a profile carved in something colder than marble.

You’ve never seen him fluster. Not once. That’s part of why you keep coming back. That composure, that razor-thin control—you want to see it slip. Just once. Just enough to know what he looks like when something matters.

But Minho doesn’t rattle. Doesn’t rise to the bait. He sets the bottle down, replaces the cap with the same care you imagine he uses with everything else—his knives, his words, his hands.

“I think you like being watched,” he says finally, without looking at you. “That’s not the same thing.”

Your lips curl. “Is that what you do? Watch me?”

He glances up, and the full weight of his gaze hits you square in the chest—dark, steady, measuring.

“Only when you want me to.”

You swallow. Hard.

There’s nothing coy about it now. No masks, no playful deflection. Just static in the air and the slow realization that this isn’t banter anymore.

It’s foreplay.

Your thighs press together instinctively beneath the bar. The liquor burns differently now—hotter, deeper.

Minho sees it—how your legs shift, how your breath stutters—but he doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t need to. The power slips over him like a second skin, smooth and effortless, like he was born to unravel people slowly and never touch them at all.

You try to hold your ground, try to find something clever to say, but the words stick to your tongue. They don’t come.

He leans forward—just slightly, just enough that you catch a whisper of his cologne, clean and sharp like crushed pepper and steel. The kind of scent that makes you ache without knowing why.

“You always drink faster when you’re upset,” he murmurs. “Didn’t think he’d blow you off again.”

Your stomach flips.

You didn’t tell him that.

Not out loud.

But you’ve mentioned him in passing before—your almost-boyfriend, your never-quite-yours. The man who texts when he’s bored and shows up when he’s drunk, who fucks you like a secret and then disappears for days. You’ve never named him. You never had to.

Minho’s too observant for that.

You look away, embarrassed, a little raw.

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

Minho hums like he understands. Not kindly—accurately. Like a blade understanding the softest part of skin.

“Didn’t think you would.”

His voice is soft. Low enough that it doesn’t carry over the jazz humming through the room, but not so low that it misses the mark. It slides under your skin, settles there. Warm. Heavy.

You press the rim of your glass to your lips, but don’t drink. You’re stalling. He knows it.

“Is this where you offer comfort?” you ask, tilting your head toward him, trying to claw some of the power back with your voice. “Tell me I deserve better?”

Minho chuckles—quiet, sharp-edged. “You know you deserve better.”

He lets it hang there for a beat too long, until you can feel the unspoken part of it clawing up your spine.

You deserve better, and I could give it to you. But I won’t.

Not yet.

His fingers flex against the bar’s edge. It’s the first crack in his control tonight, the only betrayal of the restraint wound tight through every part of him. You don’t think he even notices it—but you do.

Because that’s what this has always been, hasn’t it? A standoff. A war of glances and gestures. Who can make the other want without asking.

You swirl the last inch of liquor in your glass, watching the amber catch the low light, pretending like you’re not memorizing the shape of his hand against the bar.

Minho isn’t looking at you anymore. Not directly. His eyes are focused somewhere beyond you—on a bottle that doesn’t need touching, a thought that doesn’t need voicing. But his body betrays him in small, precise ways. That flex of his hand. The stillness of his shoulders. The slow, measured breaths like he’s giving himself rules to follow.

Don’t reach for her. Don’t say her name. Don’t touch unless she begs.

You can feel it—how close he is to undoing himself. How he’s fighting it like it would cost him something if he gave in.

And that makes you reckless.

“Why haven’t you?” you murmur, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “If you’ve thought about it—which you have. Why haven’t you done anything?”

You lick your lips—subtle, involuntary—and his eyes drop to your mouth like it was the only thing in the room worth watching. Just for a second. Just long enough to make your pulse thrum in your throat.

“You’re not going to offer comfort,” you say, quieter now, more to yourself than him. “That’s not your game.”

Minho doesn’t deny it.

“I don’t comfort girls who let men treat them like that,” he murmurs, voice like slow smoke. “I fuck it out of them.”

Your breath catches.

You can’t help it.

It punches the air straight from your lungs—just for a second. Just long enough for your lashes to flutter and your grip on the glass to falter and your entire body to go still.

You should’ve known that’s where he’d take it. You should’ve seen it coming. But hearing it—feeling it—low and steady like that, like an invocation and not a threat?

It’s something else entirely.

Your thighs clench beneath the bar. Instinctive. Useless. You feel suddenly too warm in your skin, in your dress, in this damn chair. Like the room’s shrunk down to just the two of you and the weight of those words lingering in the air between them.

He said it like a fact. Like a promise. No smirk. No tilt of his head. No performance.

Just Minho—staring at you with that terrifying, surgical precision that’s never been louder than it is now.

He knows what he just did.

Knows you’re squirming. Knows you’re soaking. Knows exactly where your mind’s gone—and he hasn’t even touched you.

Your tongue darts out again, a nervous reflex.

And that’s when he leans in.

Not by much—just enough that his mouth is close enough to graze the rim of your glass if you tilted it.

“I’d start with your mouth,” he says, barely louder than the jazz, like he’s confessing something obscene to a priest. “Because I know you’d still try to be smart with it. Even while you’re choking.”

Your stomach drops.

Your fingers curl tight around the edge of the counter to ground yourself, but it’s no use. His voice is a velvet hand at your throat, gentle enough to tease, firm enough to hold

Minho doesn’t linger.

He doesn’t let the silence stretch into tension, doesn’t wait for your reply, doesn’t press a single inch further into the ache he’s just created.

He simply pulls away.

Smooth, unbothered, like he didn’t just fillet you open with nothing but words. Like your insides aren’t still ringing with the ghost of him. He reaches for a towel, wipes a nonexistent smudge from the rim of a coupe glass, and then—casually, almost bored—slides the folded slip of paper toward you across the polished marble.

Your bill.

Back to business.

It’s maddening. Unbearably normal. Like he didn’t just spit filth into your ear that made your spine arch in the seat. Like he didn’t just speak to you like he already owned your body and was only waiting for the right time to claim it.

Your hand moves on autopilot.

Fingers dip into your purse, fishing out your card, swiping it through the reader like this is any other night, like you’re not unraveling at the seams. Like you’re not trembling just slightly beneath the surface of your skin, still burning with every word he spoke to you moments ago.

The reader beeps.

Declined.

You blink.

Try again. Slower this time. Like it might make a difference.

Declined.

The air shifts.

You don’t look up. Can’t. You stare at the reader, thumb hovering over the chipped edge of your card like pressing harder might fix it. Like it wasn’t inevitable. Like you haven’t been running on fumes and stubbornness and overdraft protection for longer than you want to admit.

You exhale through your nose. Force a quiet laugh. “Sorry,” you mutter, trying for nonchalant. “Guess it’s been a week.”

Minho doesn’t move.

You finally glance up—and he’s already looking at you.

Not annoyed. Not smug. Just still. Measured.

Then he takes the bill back without a word.

Folds it in half.

Tucks it beneath the register.

“It’s okay,” he says, and his voice is different now—softer, low and careful like a hand on the back of your neck. “I’ve got it.”

You hesitate. “No, really. I can come back tomorrow—”

“I said it’s okay.”

The quiet in his tone settles over you like a coat. Warm, heavy. Weighted with something you don’t quite recognize yet.

You search his face for a catch. A smirk. A condition. But there isn’t one.

And that—that’s what undoes you more than anything else.

Because it’s not a trade. Not a tease. Not a power play.

It’s just kindness.

Uncomplicated. Unexpected.

From him of all people.

You swallow hard. Nodding feels dangerous, so you don’t.

You just sit there, small and grateful and aching in a way you didn’t expect.

“I’ll pay you back,” you say quietly. “Next time.”

Minho doesn’t respond right away. Just tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re not a charity case,” he says finally. “I know you’ll settle.”

You nod again. This time it lands.

He straightens. Pulls your empty glass away, sets it behind him.

“You staying a while?” he asks. Not teasing. Not performative. Just… offering.

And you want to say yes.

But your throat is tight and your wrist still hurts beneath your sleeve and your body feels like too much tonight—too raw, too full, too loud.

So you say, “Think I’ll head out,” and your voice sounds gentler than it should. Like you’re asking permission.

Minho nods. Doesn’t question it. Doesn’t try to stop you. Just wipes the bar in front of your empty seat like he’s already preparing for the next ghost to sit down.

You stand slowly. Adjust your bag over your shoulder, glance toward the hallway that leads to the exit.

He doesn’t say anything at first. But you feel him watching you—not your ass, not your dress, but the way you cradle your arm. The way your hand hovers over your wrist like you’re guarding something.

And then—

“Did he grab you?”

Your spine stiffens.

Like someone cracked ice down your back.

You don’t turn around right away. You just stand there, shoulders drawn tight, fingers white-knuckled around the strap of your bag.

“Excuse me?” you ask, voice sharper than you mean it to be.

Minho doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t repeat himself, either. Just waits.

You finally turn, chin lifted in that familiar tilt—the one you wear like armor, the one you’ve perfected for moments like this. When someone sees too much. When someone dares to ask.

“I don’t need you psychoanalyzing my love life,” you say flatly. “It’s none of your business.”

Minho says nothing.

Which somehow makes it worse. And for some reason, you can’t stop talking.

You huff a laugh, bitter and breathless. “Jesus. You let one card decline and suddenly you think you’re my therapist?”

Still nothing.

Just that same steady gaze. Not pitying. Not cold. Just... seeing.

And maybe that’s why it stings. Because he’s not wrong.

You fold your arms, fingers pressing hard over the bruise like you can erase it by force. “He didn’t mean to,” you finally mutter.

Minho’s voice is quiet. Even.

“But he did.”

You look away.

It’s not a fight. He’s not raising his voice. He’s not accusing you of anything. But something about the way he says it—flat, factual, calm—makes you feel like you’ve been caught doing something shameful.

You shake your head. “It’s not that simple.”

His expression doesn’t change. “It never is.”

You exhale hard through your nose. Every part of you wants to run. You don’t like feeling cornered like this—especially not by someone like him. Someone who doesn’t play pretend

Someone who sees everything and speaks only when it counts.

“I’m not some broken girl who needs saving,” you snap.

“I know.”

And again—it’s not cruel. Not dismissive. Just a truth, spoken plainly.

That disarms you more than anything else.

He knows.

He knows you’re angry and proud and stubborn. He knows you want control, even when it costs you peace. He knows you’re clawing your way through something you don’t want to name yet. He knows—and still, he said nothing until you were already walking away.

You sigh. The kind of sigh that tastes like surrender.

“I’m fine,” you say. Softer now. “Okay? I’m fine.”

Minho doesn’t agree. Doesn’t argue. Just nods like he’s filing it away for later.

And then, gently:

“Text me when you’re home.”

You look at him.

Really look at him.

The dark sweep of his lashes. The slow tension in his jaw. The barest flex of his fingers against the rag he’s holding—like he’s grounding himself on the bar instead of reaching for you.

“I don’t have your number,” you say, quiet again.

He doesn’t even blink.

Just reaches for a napkin. Writes it down in clean, deliberate strokes. Slides it to you without flourish, like it’s nothing.

You take it with fingers that don’t feel like yours.

The napkin is soft, a little damp in one corner, the ink bleeding just slightly where his pen dragged too slow over cheap paper. His handwriting is neat. Precise. The kind you’d expect from him. Not a flourish in sight.

You stare at the numbers for a beat too long.

Like if you memorize them now, maybe you won’t have to admit how much you care that he gave them to you.

“I’m not going to cry in the cab,” you mutter. Not to him. Just to yourself. A warning. A promise. A lie.

Minho’s mouth twitches—too fast to call it a smile. “Good. They charge extra for that.”

You roll your eyes, but the sound that escapes you is almost a laugh.

Almost.

You fold the napkin once. Then again. Tuck it into your purse like it’s fragile, like it’s worth something, like it matters. You don’t say thank you. Can’t. The words would taste too much like gratitude and not enough like the armor you’re trying to put back on.

He doesn’t press. Just nods once—final, quiet—and goes back to polishing the same glass he’s been holding all night. Like none of this ever happened.

You walk away before you can change your mind.

Before you do something stupid, like apologize for flinching. Like ask him to say it again, that he knows you’re not broken. Like ask if he’s ever been hurt in a way that still echoes years later.

The hallway is dim. The velvet curtains at the door part with a whisper. The street outside is colder than you remembered.

You step into it anyway.

That night, lying on your side with the city leaking through the blinds in long gray stripes, you stare at your phone screen for too long.

You’ve opened a new message three times. Deleted it each time.

Minho’s number sits untouched in your contacts now. Just a string of digits and a name that feels like something you shouldn’t be allowed to keep.

Eventually, you type:

[you]: home.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Then nothing.

Then:

[bartender]: good. sleep.

You stare at it for longer than you should.

Just those two words. No punctuation. No fluff. Just simple, clean concern dressed up like a command.

You can almost hear his voice in it—low, even, with that deliberate edge that makes everything sound like a dare.

You think about typing something back. A joke. A thank you. Something to make it lighter.

But it’s too late for pretending now. And maybe—just maybe—you like that he didn’t say take care or sweet dreams or anything that would let you brush this off as ordinary.

Because it’s not.

You set the phone on your nightstand.

And for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep before the sun rises.

The bass is too loud.

It rattles your ribs, crawls down your spine, settles behind your eyes like a headache waiting to happen. Bodies press in on all sides—sweaty, glittered, half-drunk strangers shouting lyrics they only know the chorus to. The lights strobe fast enough to make you nauseous.

You wish you were having fun.

You should be having fun. It’s Maya’s birthday. Everyone showed up. Friends, coworkers, mutuals you forgot you still followed. You wore the good dress, the one that makes you feel like the sexiest version of yourself. You downed two shots at the bar and danced until your skin burned.

And for a while—it worked.

Until he showed up.

You feel him before you see him. Isn’t that always the way?

That weight in the room. The static against your skin. The sharp twist in your stomach that feels too close to guilt to be anything else.

You turn. And there he is.

Leaning against the bar like he owns it, drink in hand, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make a show of it. He doesn’t look at you at first. He never does. Always lets you spot him first. Lets you feel him before he lets you see him.

Your heart drops anyway.

It’s been three weeks since you told him not to text you again.

Not after the last time—not after his fingers curled too tight around your wrist and left a bloom of purple that took a week to fade. Not after he said your name like a curse when you tried to walk away. You were never his. That was the whole point. And yet… it never seemed to matter.

You turn back toward your friends. Pretend you don’t see him.

It works for ten minutes.

Then a hand slides around your waist.

“You look good tonight.”

You freeze.

His breath is warm against your ear. Familiar. Suffocating.

You force a smile, even as your whole body goes still. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he murmurs, voice syrup-smooth. “Say hi to my favorite girl?”

Your throat tightens. “I’m not your anything.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” His fingers flex at your waist. Not hard. Not yet. Just enough to make you feel like you’ve already lost something.

You shove his hand off. Step back.

“I said don’t.”

He laughs—soft and cruel. “You’ve got some nerve, walking around like that. That dress. That mouth.”

You’re not sure what breaks first—the fear or the fury.

But your hand moves before your mind can catch up, pushing at his chest, not hard enough to knock him back but enough—enough to draw a line, enough to say stop, stop, STOP.

He stumbles back half a step, but the grin doesn’t falter. If anything, it widens.

“Oh, she’s got teeth tonight.”

You hate that he says it like he’s proud. Like he likes it when you push back—because it means he gets to push harder.

“Don’t touch me,” you spit, louder this time. Louder than you meant it to be. Louder than the beat crashing around you.

A few heads turn. Not many. Not enough.

He laughs, cruel and close and reeking of entitlement. “Calm down, drama queen. We used to have fun, remember?”

You take a step back.

He follows.

His hand shoots out again, this time not for your waist—but for your face. Fingers clamp around your jaw, sudden and firm, yanking you forward so fast your breath lodges in your throat.

You gasp.

Pain sparks where his thumb digs in. Your hands shoot up instinctively, trying to pry him off, nails raking across his skin in desperation.

“I said don’t fucking touch me!” Your voice breaks—sharp, raw, real—and for a second, just one, the crowd parts around the two of you like the air shifted.

He leans in closer. His mouth is at your ear. “You think you’re better than me now?” he snarls, voice low and mean. “Is that it? That little bartender got you feeling brave?”

The blood drains from your face.

Because you never mentioned Minho. Not to him. Not to anyone who would repeat it.

It hits you like a punch to the chest. Not just the shock of his voice, low and poisonous in your ear—but what he said.

That little bartender.

Minho.

He knows.

You don’t know how. Don’t know who told him or what he heard or why it matters to him at all—but the fact that he said it means he’s been watching. Listening. Picking up pieces you didn’t even know you were leaving behind.

Your stomach lurches.

“I said—” you shove him with everything you have, panic fusing with rage “—get off me!”

This time, he stumbles. Actually stumbles.

His grip slips from your jaw, and you recoil like you’ve been burned, taking three steps back so fast you nearly trip. Your chest is heaving. Your eyes sting. The club feels too loud, too tight, the lights flashing like warning signs behind your eyelids.

But he recovers fast.

Too fast.

And now he’s pissed.

“You fucking slut,” he spits, voice ugly and thick with venom. “You think someone like him is gonna want you for anything more than your mouth? You think he’s any different?”

You don’t stay to hear the rest.

You turn.

You run.

You don’t care that your friends will wonder where you went, that your drink is still half-full on the table, that your heels weren’t meant for this kind of escape.

You just run.

Out through the club doors, down the street, across the crosswalk without waiting for the signal. You walk like if you stop, he’ll catch up. Like the weight of his voice will sink into your skin and stay there. Like you’ll never feel clean again if you don’t keep moving.

You’re breathing too fast. Hands shaking. Vision blurry. Heart thudding like it’s trying to break out of your chest.

You swallow around the knot rising in your throat, the panic curling its claws up your spine, pressing down hard on your ribs like punishment.

And before you even know where you’re going, your feet are taking you there.

You don’t remember making the turn. Don’t remember crossing the street. You just blink—and suddenly the neon glow of the bar bleeds into your vision, cool and low and familiar in the haze of your panic. The bar. His bar.

And he’s there.

Outside, leaning against the brick wall near the back entrance, one arm crossed over his chest, the other holding a lit cigarette between two fingers. The glow of the cherry lights his face in pulses—his cheekbone, his mouth, the sharp line of his jaw. His sleeves are rolled up, and there’s a smear of something on his forearm. 

He hasn’t seen you yet.

Not until your steps falter and the click of your heels dies out beneath the sound of his exhale.

Then—he lifts his head.

And his whole body goes still.

You must look like a disaster. Eyes wide. Breath shallow. Shoulders drawn up like a cornered animal. Your lipstick smeared, hair falling out of place, the strap of your dress slipping.

But he doesn’t comment. Doesn’t move.

Just watches you.

The silence stretches for a moment too long. Then, quietly—

“Did something happen?”

Your throat tightens at the sound of his voice.

Low. Measured. But not indifferent.

There’s something else beneath it. A thread of tension wound so tight it barely makes it to the surface. The kind of control that only comes from practice. From restraint.

He doesn’t take a step toward you.

Doesn’t reach out.

Minho can read a room better than anyone you’ve ever met, and right now, you’re a room filled with alarms—flashing, screaming, crumbling.

He sees it.

“I…” Your voice falters. “No.”

You mean yes. You mean everything.

But the syllables won’t fit in your mouth.

He nods once. Slow. Like he hears what you didn’t say.

The cigarette between his fingers burns to the filter before he drops it to the pavement and crushes it beneath the heel of his boot.

You don’t realize you’ve been swaying on your feet until your hand shoots out to brace against the wall.

Minho’s eyes flick to the motion, then back to your face. He still doesn’t move.

Instead, his voice softens—somehow quieter than before, like he’s afraid even sound might be too much for you right now.

“I’m just down the block.”

You blink at him, still catching your breath.

“My place,” he adds, nodding toward the street, toward the night that still hums like static around you. “Nothing weird. Just… quieter. Warmer. No one else there.”

You hesitate.

Not because you don’t trust him—you do, in ways you probably shouldn’t—but because your whole body still feels wrong. Like your nerves are too close to the surface, like any wrong move might set them off again.

Minho sees it.

He doesn’t rush to reassure you. Doesn’t over-explain or fumble for comfort.

Just lifts a shoulder in a light shrug and says, dryly, “I have cats.”

Of all the things he could’ve said. “Cats,” you repeat, the word catching oddly on your tongue like it doesn’t belong in a night like this. Like it’s too soft, too domestic, too absurdly normal for the way your heart is still hammering inside your ribs.

Minho nods. “Three of them.”

You raise an eyebrow—wary, trembling, but still capable of curiosity. “Three?”

“Soonie. Doongie. Dori,” he says. “They're spoiled. Judgmental. Loud as hell.” His tone doesn’t change. Still calm. Still flat. But there’s something careful behind it. Like he’s offering you a rope. Something to hold onto. Something that doesn’t smell like sweat and fear and everything you just ran from.

You nod. Just once. And somehow, that’s enough.

His apartment is small. Not cramped, not cold—just lived-in. Clean in that intentional way, like someone takes pride in it but doesn't obsess. The floors are wood, soft under your bare feet when you kick off your heels by the door. The kitchen glows faintly from the under-cabinet lights he left on, casting long amber streaks across the floor.

And the cats… the cats are waiting.

One sits perched on the back of the couch like he owns the place—which, judging by the scratch marks in the armrest, he might. Another peeks out from under the coffee table. The third appears from the hallway, tail high, meowing like you’ve personally offended him by existing.

You blink again.

“They’re boys,” Minho explains as he hangs his keys. “But they act like little old ladies. Dori’s the mouthy one.”

The meowing continues. A chorus now. You’re too stunned to respond at first. But then—Doongie, maybe?—pads up to you with those wide, judgmental eyes and headbutts your calf like it’s his god-given right.

Something inside you breaks. Not in the sharp, painful way. Not like at the club. No. This is different. This is soft. Shaky. This is the moment your body decides it’s safe enough to start crumbling. You crouch down—slow, careful—and let your fingers curl into his fur.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until you feel it drip from your chin. Until your breath stutters. Until you fold over completely, arms wrapped around a cat who didn’t ask for this, face pressed into the warm softness of something alive and gentle.

Minho doesn’t say anything. He doesn't touch you. You feel him move quietly behind you—setting a glass of water on the coffee table, flicking off the main lights until only the soft kitchen glow remains. And then… he just sits. A few feet away. Cross-legged on the floor, still in his black button-up and rolled sleeves, watching you like you’re made of glass and still trying to figure out if the cracks were already there.

You stay curled there on the floor for a while—knees tucked beneath you, fingers knotted in soft fur, cheek pressed to Doongie’s side like it might anchor you to something solid.

The apartment is quiet, save for the occasional swish of a tail or soft thump of paws. You can feel the warmth of Minho’s presence without looking at him. He doesn’t crowd you. Doesn’t try to fix it. Just stays—close enough that you don’t feel alone, far enough that you don’t feel trapped.

Eventually, your breath starts to come steadier. The shaking dulls. And when you finally lift your head, cheeks sticky with dried tears and eyes too tired to hold anything else, he’s still there—arms resting loosely over his knees, gaze steady. You wipe at your face with the back of your hand, half-laughing, half-apologizing.

“Sorry,” you murmur, voice rough. “I didn’t mean to—fall apart all over your cat.”

Minho shrugs. “He probably liked it.”

You snort, exhausted. “He’s purring.”

“Doongie’s kind of a slut for attention.”

You laugh—a real one this time, hoarse and soft—and drag your fingers through Doongie’s fur once more before sitting up straighter, wiping your cheeks with the sleeve of your dress.

Minho stands slowly, careful not to startle the moment, and disappears into the hallway without a word. A minute later, he’s back, holding a folded bundle in his arms—what looks like a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie so worn it’s probably been through a hundred washes. He sets them gently on the arm of the couch beside you.

“Shower’s through there,” he says, nodding toward the narrow hallway. “First door on the right. Towels are on the rack. The water takes a second to heat up.”

You blink up at him, the offer settling slowly over you like warmth. He doesn't say you look like a mess. Doesn’t tell you to clean yourself up. Just offers you comfort in the quietest way he knows how. You nod.

The bathroom is small, clean, and filled with that same soft golden light that seems to follow him everywhere. You peel yourself out of your dress, step under the spray, and let the steam unwind you. It’s the first time all night you feel like you’re breathing in something clean. Like maybe there’s still space in your skin for something that isn’t fear.

You stay until the water starts to run cold. When you finally step out, dressed in his clothes, skin still damp and flushed from the heat, your heart thuds with a strange, fragile kind of relief.

And then you see it.

The couch. The cushions have been cleared, a blanket folded neatly at the foot, pillow fluffed, a glass of water on the side table. One of the cats is curled up like a sentry near the armrest, blinking at you lazily as if to say it’s fine now.

You stare for a second. Because it’s not just that he made up the couch. It’s that he didn’t assume. Didn’t point you toward his bed. Didn’t insist. Didn’t press. He just knew.

You sit down slowly, tucking the blanket over your legs, body sinking into the cushions like they were waiting for you.

Minho reappears from the hallway, already dressed down—black joggers, a loose hoodie hanging off one shoulder, hair damp like he rinsed off too. He gestures toward the light. “You good if I kill this?”

You nod. He flips the switch. The room dims. He doesn’t say goodnight. Doesn’t do the awkward lingering thing. He just turns, quiet as always, and heads for his bedroom.

And for a moment, you let him go.

For a moment, you think it’s fine. But the second the door clicks shut, something tightens in your chest. Your breath catches. Your pulse jumps. That same fear from earlier curls back in under your skin—not loud, not sharp. Just a whisper now. A what if. What if he comes back. What if he finds out where you went. What if this silence isn't safety at all, but the space before another breaking point.

You sit up. “Minho?”

A beat. His door opens again. The light from his room spills into the hall. He’s already halfway back into the living room when he says, “Yeah?”

Your throat works around the words. They feel small. Silly. Needful. But you say them anyway. “Can you stay?”

He pauses. Looks at you. And you can tell—he knows. Knows exactly what you mean. Knows it’s not about him. Not about company. Not about flirting or closeness or warmth. It’s about safety. It’s about knowing the world can’t get to you if he’s there. He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t make a sound. Just disappears for a second, then comes back with two blankets folded under one arm and a spare pillow under the other. He drops them on the floor beside the couch, shrugs out of his hoodie, and settles down without a word.

The hoodie slips off his shoulders in one smooth motion, revealing the thin black tank top underneath—clinging just enough to map the sharp cut of his collarbones, the slope of his shoulders.

You don’t mean to stare.

But the fabric hangs loose at the chest, dipping just low enough to expose the curve of ink over his left pectoral—black lines disappearing into shadow, something abstract and intricate. Just a glimpse. Just enough to wonder what the rest of it looks like when he breathes.

Minho doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just too tired—or too gracious—to call you on it.

He lies on his back beside the couch, one arm tucked under his head, the other draped loosely over his stomach. Doongie circles once on the rug, then collapses beside him like a guard, chin resting on his forearm.

You turn onto your side. The room is still. Not quiet—still. Like the air itself is holding its breath. You don’t sleep. You can’t. Not with the phantom heat of a hand still lingering on your face. Not with the aftershocks of fear still curling around your ribs. Not with the weight of this unfamiliar kindness just a few feet away, warm and steady and unearned.

So you watch him. And eventually, he turns his head. Eyes open. Heavy-lidded but focused. A slow drag up your face. Your cheekbone. The faint shadow blooming just below your temple. His jaw ticks, subtle but sharp, and he doesn’t look away. You don’t flinch.

“Didn’t know you had a tattoo,” you whisper.

He blinks. Like the words take a second to land. “Mm.”

His gaze flicks down briefly—to where the fabric clings to his chest, then back to your face. There’s no smirk, no warning, just a shift in the air, like gravity tilting. “Wanna see it?”

The question isn’t loaded. It’s not teasing. It just is. You nod. Minho sits up slowly, one hand tugging at the hem of his tank top. The fabric slides up and over his head in one clean motion, soft and soundless. He tosses it to the side and leans back on his elbows, the muscles in his arms flexing, loose and languid.

The tattoo stretches across the left side of his chest—black ink, fine lines, bold shapes. It isn’t a compass. It’s a storm. A swirl of wind and waves, jagged mountains etched in silhouette. At its center, the faint outline of a wing—fractured and rising, like something caught between ruin and flight. The ink moves with him, flexes when he breathes, like it’s alive beneath his skin.

You stare.

Not because it’s beautiful—though it is—but because it feels right on him. Like he was born with it. Like whatever storm he came from left its mark on the inside first, and this was just its echo.

Your hand moves before you can stop it.

Slowly, like reaching for fire. Like asking for permission with the space between your fingers. When you don’t meet resistance, you touch him.

Just a single point at first—your fingertip landing lightly on the edge of the wing, where ink meets skin just beneath his collarbone. His breath hitches, subtle but real, a flicker of tension in his chest. You feel it before you hear it. Then you trace. Softly. Reverently. Down the curve of the wing, across the stormline where jagged wind spirals out into broken waves.

Your touch drags slow, deliberate, following the black lines like you’re learning a language. One that only his body speaks. Minho doesn’t move. He just watches you. The way your lashes lower, the way your lips part slightly like you’re holding your breath for him. The silence between you is thick but not heavy—dense with something neither of you are ready to name.

When your finger glides over the highest peak—inked mountain just above his heart—his head tilts back slightly, like the contact pulls something from him. His throat bobs with the swallow he doesn’t bother to hide. You pause. Right over his heart now. The skin is warm. Steady. And for a second, the storm beneath your own ribs goes quiet—like his rhythm tames yours without trying. He exhales.

His eyes flutter shut for a beat, then open again—slow, measured. He looks at you like you’ve unraveled something in him, like your touch left ink on him instead. But when his gaze drops lower, it changes. Softens. Darkens. And then his hand moves. Carefully. Cautiously. Like he’s seen too many things break when touched too fast.

He lifts it to your face, the backs of his fingers ghosting along your jaw—light enough to be mistaken for air. He doesn’t go straight for the bruise. He lingers near it, watching you, waiting for the slightest sign of retreat.

You don’t give it.

So he shifts—just slightly—until his knuckles brush the edge of the swelling beneath your eye. You flinch. Not because of the pain. Not because it hurts. Because of how gentle it is. Like he’s afraid to hurt you, like he doesn’t know how to hold something unless he’s sure it won’t shatter. Like he wants to carve your bruises from your skin and wear them instead. His fingers hover there. Still. Tense. A breath away from trembling.

“Fucker’s lucky I wasn’t there,” he murmurs.

You inhale—slow, shallow. The air catches in your throat like it’s thick with something unspoken, something too big to name. Minho’s hand starts to pull back. And maybe that’s why you speak. Maybe that’s why you reach for something else, anything else, before the room folds in too tightly.

“So,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, “that tattoo.”

Minho pauses. Just for a moment. His eyes flick back to yours, and he knows what you’re doing. Of course he does. The deflection is transparent, but he lets it happen anyway—lets you steer them away from the heaviness still clinging to your skin like ash.

“What about it?” he murmurs, settling back on his elbow, the other hand now resting on his chest near the ink you traced. You mirror him slightly, folding into the edge of the couch, letting your cheek rest against the pillow, eyes fixed on the storm etched into his skin.

“The wing,” you say after a beat. “In the center. What’s it mean?”

He’s quiet for a second.

Then: “Freedom.”

You blink. “It’s broken.”

His mouth quirks—barely a smile, not quite bitter. “Yeah. It usually is.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you say nothing. Just let your gaze trace the peaks and spirals, the places where black lines blur like smoke, the edges of him carved in ink instead of bruises. His body tells a story too. You just haven’t read all the pages yet.

Minho shifts again, slowly lying back down on the floor, the side of his arm brushing the base of the couch now. You're above him on the couch, laying on your side so you can look at him.

“You can ask,” he says softly.

“About the tattoo?”

“About anything.”

You hum—soft, skeptical. The kind of sound that curls into the quiet and lingers, not quite a no, not quite a yes. You’re tired now. The real kind. The kind that settles into your limbs like gravity, like wet sand. Your eyes flutter half-shut, your voice feather-light.

“That sounds dangerous.”

Minho lets out a low exhale, something between a laugh and a sigh.

"Maybe.”

Your gaze slips to his again—his eyes open, trained on the ceiling like the answers might be there if he stares hard enough. One hand still rests loosely over his chest, the other pressed against your cheek.

You reach for it. Not with purpose. Not even with need. Just because it’s there. Because it feels like the thing to do.

Your fingertips graze his, gentle, thoughtless. And then his hand shifts—just slightly—so his pinky catches yours. Hooks. Holds.

It’s not a kiss. It’s not a confession.

But it feels like both.

You don’t speak for a while. Don’t need to.

The silence feels clean now. Like rain after smoke. Like you could fall asleep inside it without drowning.

Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe too loud. Just lets you anchor there—your hand half-curled over his, your lashes brushing your cheek as your eyes slip closed.

But then, soft and slurred, half-dreaming:

“You have a nice voice.”

You feel his hand twitch. Just a little.

“Yeah?” he says, and it’s quieter than anything else he’s said tonight—rough around the edges like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the compliment.

You nod against the pillow. “Mhm.”

There’s a beat.

“You’ve heard me say some pretty fucked-up things.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at your lips. “Have I?”

He huffs a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Just a sound with history behind it. With edge. With weight.

“Don’t play innocent,” he murmurs. “You remember.”

You do.

Of course you do.

Words like silk and smoke, coiled tight with implication. The things he said across the bar, into your drink, into your skin without ever laying a hand on you.

You remember all of them.

But you’re tired. Softened. And the edges of those memories feel dulled now—faded by warmth and flannel and the rhythm of his breathing a few feet from your chest.

So you hum again, lashes still pressed to your cheeks. “They didn’t sound fucked-up at the time.”

Minho’s quiet for a while after that. The kind of quiet that hums.

You can feel it in the space between your bodies—how the air thickens again, but not with tension. With memory. With the weight of everything you haven’t said and the things you probably never will.

“That’s the problem,” he says eventually, voice low enough that you almost miss it. 

Your eyes open again. Just barely. The room is still steeped in shadow, but your vision finds him easy—half-lit, half-lost in the floor beside the couch. One arm tucked beneath his head, the other still tethered to yours.

You study the line of his jaw, the way it tenses and relaxes like he’s caught between restraint and regret. He’s not looking at you anymore. Just staring at the ceiling again, like maybe it’ll answer for him this time.

“You say that like you’re proud of it,” you murmur.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just exhales, rough and dry.

“No,” he says. “I say it like I don’t know how to stop.”

That hurts in a way you didn’t expect. Not because of what he said—but because of the way he said it. Like a flaw in the foundation. Like a truth carved into him long before you ever stepped foot inside that bar.

You shift a little, turning more fully toward him, cheek pressed deeper into the pillow. Your fingers are still slotted with his. His skin is warm. Callused at the tips.

“You don’t have to stop,” you say quietly. “Just don’t lie about what you mean.”

That gets him.

His gaze flicks to yours—fast, sharp. Like he wasn’t expecting that. Like no one’s ever said it to him quite like that before.

“I never lied,” he says.

You blink at him. Slow. Sleepy. “No. But you hide.”

Minho doesn’t answer. Just watches you. Face unreadable. Chest rising slow beneath the ink on his skin.

And then, almost too soft to hear:

“I don’t want to scare you.”

That makes you pause. The silence stretches thin and long between you.

“You don’t.”

Minho swallows. His thumb brushes, barely, against your knuckle.

“Not yet.”

You shake your head. Your voice is nearly gone now—nothing but a breath. “I think I’m harder to scare than you think.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite not.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I’m starting to believe that.”

The air settles again. Like the truth came in and made itself comfortable.

You close your eyes, finally letting your body sink into the couch. Letting the warmth of him—his hand, his presence, his voice—press into all the places that still feel fragile.

“Don’t stop talking,” you whisper.

He blinks. “What?”

“Your voice,” you murmur, already half gone. “It’s nice. It helps.”

And when you drift off like that—quiet, safe, held by nothing more than the sound of him—Minho stays awake long after. Eyes on the ceiling.

Still talking.

Just in case you can still hear him.

You wake to the scent of coffee and something faintly savory—garlic maybe, or eggs. The couch beneath you is warm where your body curled into it, blanket tangled around your legs. A cat is pressed to your ribs like a living paperweight, tail flicking once when you stir.

For a moment, you forget where you are. Forget what happened. Forget him.

Then the ache hits. Dull and deep, low in your chest and blooming outward. You shift to sit up, and it all comes back.

The club. The hands. The words.

The running.

And then—Minho.

His apartment is quiet now, but not empty. There’s music playing low from somewhere down the hall. You follow the sound on slow feet, dragging the blanket with you like armor.

You find him in the kitchen, barefoot in gray sweatpants and a loose black t-shirt, sleeves pushed up. He’s at the stove, spatula in one hand, coffee mug in the other. There’s a pan of eggs on the burner. A second mug waiting beside the sink.

He doesn’t turn when you enter. Just glances over his shoulder and says, “Mornin’.”

His voice is rough with sleep. Deeper. It hits somewhere low in your spine.

You hover at the doorway, feeling small in his clothes—his hoodie draped over your frame, sleeves too long, the hem brushing your thighs.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Making breakfast,” he says, cutting you off with casual finality. “You still eat, right?”

You blink. “I… yeah.”

“Good.” He turns back to the pan. “Then sit.”

You do. Quietly. At the counter, fingers curling around the warm ceramic of the mug he left for you. It smells like cinnamon.

He plates the eggs. Adds toast. Pushes the dish toward you and leans back against the counter with his own. He eats without looking at you at first, fork moving in clean, efficient motions.

When he does speak again, his voice is softer.

“You don’t have to go back.”

Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth.

“What?”

Minho lifts his gaze. Steady. Calm.

“I’m serious. If you don’t feel safe there…” He trails off, jaw tensing. “Stay here.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

He doesn’t let the silence stretch far.

“I’ve got room,” he adds. “Cats already like you. You don’t snore.”

That last part earns the smallest smile from you. “You don’t know that.”

“I was up half the night,” he says, mouth twitching. “I’d know.”

You look down at your plate, pretending to rearrange the toast like that’ll somehow buy you time to think. But the words—stay here—they’ve already lodged themselves under your ribs. Warm. Unexpected. Real.

And terrifying.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you say finally. Quiet. Like if you speak too loud, you’ll ruin the softness of it all.

Minho sets his fork down.

The sound is soft, deliberate. When you glance up, he’s watching you again. Really watching—like he does when he’s about to say something that’ll cut deeper than you expect.

“You’re not.”

Just that. Nothing flowery. Nothing performative. Just the fact of it, laid bare on the table between you like it shouldn’t be questioned.

You want to believe him.

You almost do.

But then your fingers twitch near your coffee, and the pain in your face pulses a little sharper—pulling you back into the fragile ache of your own body. You shift to look away, to hide the swelling that’s bloomed across your cheekbone and down to your jaw.

But Minho doesn’t let you.

He moves around the counter slowly, like he’s trying not to spook you. His hand is warm when it finds your chin again—fingertips brushing along your jawline, coaxing your face toward his. Gentle. Grounded.

“Let me see.”

You don’t pull away.

You don’t want to.

His thumb ghosts beneath your cheekbone, skimming over the darkened bloom that’s bloomed overnight. His brow furrows—not in pity, not even in anger. Just... stillness. A silence that hums with the kind of fury he’s learned how to wear like armor.

His voice is low when it comes.

“I hate that he touched you.”

You blink. Something thick swells in your throat, too full to swallow down.

“I hate that I didn’t find you first.”

That hits you harder than it should.

You try to speak—but your voice sticks somewhere behind your teeth. So you just nod, your cheek pressing into his palm like your body can answer for you.

Minho doesn’t let go—not yet. His fingers trail down to the edge of your neck, where the fabric of his hoodie pools at your collarbone. You’re not sure if he realizes how close he’s gotten. How the warmth of him wraps around you now, even without touching anything else.

“I want you to stay,” he says again, steady now. “Not because I feel bad. Not because you need help. I want you here.”

Your next breath comes too fast. Too shallow.

His thumb moves again—just a gentle stroke along your jaw.

“Say something,” he murmurs.

You breathe in once, shaky and thin. “Okay.”

The corners of his mouth pull—slow, subtle. Not quite a smile. Something quieter. Relief, maybe.

He lets your face go with that same care—like he’s afraid it’ll leave a mark if he’s not gentle enough. Then he steps back, returns to his plate, and picks up his fork again like he didn’t just hand you the softest kind of shelter.

You take another bite of your eggs.

They taste better than they should.

You don’t move in all at once.

There’s no official decision, no suitcase moment. Just the slow accumulation of things—your toothbrush beside his, a sock that somehow never made its way back into your bag, a t-shirt folded neatly at the foot of the bed that you don’t remember taking off. A rhythm forms. One that begins with his voice in the morning—low, rough, coffee-laced—and ends with the soft click of the front door when he comes home from the bar past midnight, thinking you’re asleep.

You never are.

The apartment starts to feel different. Lived-in. Yours, even if you never say it out loud. Your shoes by the door. Your laughter echoing off the tile. Your perfume clinging to his sheets like memory.

Minho doesn’t comment. Not once. He just starts making a second cup of coffee without asking. Starts keeping almond milk in the fridge. Throws your laundry in with his like it’s never been separate.

And you—you watch him fall into it as easy as breath.

He moves through the apartment like smoke. Silent, confident, present in ways you’ve never been used to. There’s no performance with him, no empty gestures. If he folds your towel, it’s because it needed folding. If he brings home your favorite tea, it’s because he remembered. And if he looks at you too long in the mirror while you brush your teeth, it’s because he wants to, not because he expects anything in return.

One night, he comes home late. The bar ran over, and the cats had started pacing like they could feel the quiet shift without him. You’re curled on the couch in one of his hoodies, a half-finished movie playing on low, just waiting for the lock to turn. When it does, and he steps inside—shoulders drawn, eyes tired, the scent of smoke and whiskey clinging to him—you don’t say anything at first.

Just watch him.

He slips off his boots. Shrugs off his jacket. Walks into the kitchen and pours a glass of water like he’s not sure how to be here yet.

Then he grabs the pack from the counter.

You sit up.

“Minho.”

He pauses. Doesn’t look at you.

You rise slowly, tugging the sleeves of the hoodie over your hands, padding barefoot to meet him.

“You said you were trying to quit.”

“I am.”

“You’re also lighting a cigarette at midnight.”

He exhales through his nose. Tired. “Rough night.”

You stop just short of the threshold between the hallway and the kitchen, bare toes curling against the tile, the silence stretching taut between you.

“Want to talk about it?” you ask softly.

“No,” he says.

Not harsh. Not clipped. Just final.

Minho pulls the cigarette from the pack with that same familiar motion—two fingers, flick of the wrist. The sound of the lighter clicks once, twice, before the flame catches. He doesn't look at you as he inhales, jaw tight, lashes low. The cherry glows in the dim.

You wrap your arms around yourself.

He leans against the counter, exhales slow, smoke curling up toward the ceiling. It swirls around the line of his jaw, catches the faint sheen of sweat at his temples, clings to him like it’s part of his skin.

You hate how good he looks like this. Angry. Quiet. Unreachable.

But you hate more that you can’t reach him.

“Was it something at the bar?”

His lips twitch. He doesn’t answer.

You step closer, voice gentler now. “You don’t have to carry it alone, you know.”

“I’m not,” he says. Still not looking at you. “I’m carrying it just fine.”

You frown.

“Minho—”

“I said I’m fine,” he snaps.

And this time, it is clipped. Sharp. The kind of sharp that cuts more than it means to. He finally looks at you then—eyes rimmed with something hot and unreadable, mouth hard.

The silence that follows is cold.

You shift your weight, wounded but trying not to show it. “Okay.”

Minho’s jaw ticks. Like he wants to take it back, but doesn’t know how. Like everything in him is fraying at the edges, and you just happened to be the softest thing close enough to get caught in it.

He curses under his breath. Stubs the cigarette out halfway through, presses the filter down into the tray until it smears.

Then, quieter: “It’s not you.”

“I know.”

He runs a hand down his face, palm dragging hard across his mouth like he’s trying to erase himself. Then he sighs and looks at you—really looks at you. The hoodie swallowed around your frame. The bare legs. The worry softening your brow.

His voice breaks a little on the next part.

“Had a guy come into the bar tonight. One of those types—smiles too wide, looks through women instead of at them. He kept cornering this girl, leaning over the counter, asking me why I gave a shit when I told him to back off.”

You say nothing. Just listen.

Minho swallows. “He called me a cockblock. Said I must’ve been jealous.” His gaze drops, eyes narrowing. “Said I looked like the kind of guy who watches.”

You don’t interrupt.

“He grabbed her arm when she tried to leave. Wouldn’t let go."

The words hang there. Not just what he’s saying—but why he’s saying it. You feel it bloom in your chest. Cold. Familiar.

You walk the last few feet.

He doesn’t stop you this time.

Your hand finds his wrist—warm, tense, still trembling slightly. You run your thumb over the bone there, grounding him.

“You’re not that kind of man.”

“I know,” he says. “But I wanted to be.”

That makes you pause.

He looks up. His voice is low. Bitter.

“I wanted to slam him into the bar. Make him bleed. Make him feel small. And the worst part?” A breathless laugh. “I would’ve enjoyed it.”

“I know,” you whisper. “But you didn’t.”

“Yeah, well. Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to.”

You squeeze his hand.

It’s quiet for a while. The kitchen lit only by the soft amber under the cabinets, casting warm shadows along the tile. The cats have settled somewhere in the living room. Even the city feels hushed.

He rubs his thumb over your palm absently.

Then, suddenly: “He looked at her the same way—”

He stops himself. His jaw locks.

You swallow.

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. You know.

And he knows you know.

So you step closer. Gently. Carefully. Press your forehead to his shoulder, breathing him in—smoke and soap and something like home. You pluck the cigarette from his lips and he lets you, watches as you toss it into the sink.

“Come to bed,” you murmur.

He doesn't move.

You tug on his hand again. “Please.”

Minho glances at you—eyes a little too tired, a little too dark—but he lets you guide him.

He doesn’t say much once you're in the bedroom. Just peels his shirt off and tosses it into the corner. You catch a glimpse of the tattoo on his chest again—the wing in the center of the storm, fractured, fighting to stay airborne.

You turn away to climb into bed, give him space.

But when you settle under the blanket, he’s already there. Already behind you. Warm and solid, arm slipping around your waist without hesitation. His chest to your back, his breath against your neck.

He’s quiet for a long time. And then:

“I hate that I couldn’t stop it. What happened to you.”

You close your eyes.

His fingers tighten slightly against your side. Not rough. Just firm. Just real.

“I think about it more than I should,” he murmurs. “What I’d do if I saw him again.”

You shift, just enough to feel him breathe differently—like your movement catches him off guard, like he wasn’t expecting you to respond. But you don’t turn around, not yet. You just let your voice slip into the quiet, soft and slow.

“What would you do?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then another.

His breath ghosts across your shoulder. “Don’t ask me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d scare you.”

His voice is quiet, but not gentle. Measured. Sharp at the edges like he’s spent all night filing it down.

You blink slowly into the dark, heart thudding, air thick between your bodies. You feel him behind you—warm, solid, tense. A wall at your back. A shield. A fuse.

“Tell me anyway,” you whisper.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t exhale.

And just when you think he might pretend he didn’t hear you, Minho speaks.

“I’d wait,” he says, voice low, words heavy like molasses. “Wouldn’t say anything. Wouldn’t warn him. Just watch. Let him come close. Let him think he could try again.”

Your breath catches.

His fingers curl slightly where they rest on your waist, grounding himself in the shape of you.

“Then I’d take his hand,” Minho murmurs, “the one he used on you, and I’d break every fucking finger. One by one. Slow. Make sure he remembered why.”

A chill snakes down your spine.

Not fear.

Just something colder. Older. Like someone had finally said the thing you weren’t allowed to say out loud. That it wasn’t okay. That it would never be okay.

“And when he screamed,” Minho continues, voice almost tender now, “I wouldn’t stop. I’d make sure he understood what it feels like to lose control. To be small. Helpless. The way he made you feel.”

You turn in his arms.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Face to face now.

His jaw is clenched. Eyes storm-dark. He looks dangerous like this. Not because he’s violent. But because he’s loyal. Because he means every word and there’s no drama in his voice—just truth. Cold and clean.

You reach for him without thinking.

Your hand moves to his face, fingers threading into the hair at his temple, thumb brushing the curve of his cheekbone like you’re trying to soothe something in him—or maybe in yourself. And Minho… he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t soften either. He just lets you hold him, lets your touch settle over the anger still thrumming in his bones like a warning bell that hasn’t stopped ringing.

“You wouldn’t scare me,” you whisper.

His brow twitches, just slightly. “You should be scared of a man who wants to hurt for you.”

“No.” You shake your head. “I’ve been scared before. You’re not that kind of man.”

His mouth parts. His breath hits your lips. The weight in his eyes shifts—something cracks beneath it. Not entirely. Just a fracture. A weakness. A truth.

“You don’t know what I’d do,” he murmurs.

You lean in, close enough that your breath brushes his skin when you speak.

“I don’t need to,” you whisper. “I know what you’ve already done.”

His brow furrows, but you go on—soft and steady, the words falling between you like they’ve been waiting for a place to land.

“You made space. You listened. You held me when I couldn’t hold myself. You let me have silence without asking for anything in return.” Your fingers press more firmly against his jaw, thumb brushing just below his lower lip. “That’s enough. That’s more than anyone else ever did.”

Minho’s eyes darken—not with lust—but with something thicker. Something closer to reverence. Like the weight of your trust is heavier than all the violence he ever imagined inflicting in your name.

His hand rises slowly, palm cupping your cheek with a gentleness that borders on fragile. His thumb swipes beneath your eye like he’s checking for something he missed.

“I don’t deserve that,” he says, voice raw.

“Maybe not,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his. “But you have it.”

And that’s what breaks him.

Not dramatically. Not all at once.

Just enough to make him move.

Minho kisses you like he’s falling. Like he’s been holding himself upright for so long, he doesn’t remember what it feels like to give in. His mouth finds yours, and there’s no hesitation in it—only heat, only hunger. His tongue slides against yours with a quiet groan that vibrates in your chest.

You gasp softly when he pushes you back, his body pressing you into the mattress, weight balanced on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you. One hand slips under your shirt, fingers skimming up your ribs, pausing just beneath the curve of your breast.

He pulls back barely an inch, eyes flicking over your face like a question.

His breathing is uneven, but his touch isn't. His hand rests there—still beneath your shirt, just barely cradling your breast like he's not sure he deserves to hold anything so soft. So willing. His thumb strokes gently, slowly, and his eyes search yours like he's waiting for a line to cross. Or worse—waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, you reach for the hem of your shirt, dragging it up with trembling fingers. You don’t break eye contact. Don’t speak.

You just offer.

And Minho accepts.

He helps, silent, peeling it over your head with quiet reverence. He looks at you like you’re made of something rare and unrepeatable. And when his gaze drags over your chest, down the soft swell of your ribs to your stomach, he breathes your name like a confession.

His voice is wrecked when he says it—your name, cracked and reverent like he’s saying it for the first time. Like it’s a word he isn’t worthy of.

“Fuck, look at you.” His hands drag down your sides, slow and sure, palms wide and heavy like he’s trying to ground himself. He shifts over you, mouth lowering to your breast, and he moans as soon as his lips close around your nipple—no restraint, no performance. Just need. He sucks hard. Just once. Like he can’t help himself. Then he pulls back, panting, and shakes his head like he’s already losing it. “I’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

You smile—lazy, wrecked, already warm all over—and tilt your head just enough for your lashes to sweep up, gaze locked on his. You reach for him, fingers trailing down his arm until your palm flattens against his chest, right over the fractured wing. “I’m not looking at you like anything,” you whisper.

Minho’s breath stutters—one of those shallow, fractured exhales that says he doesn’t believe you for a second. Not when your palm is flat against his chest, thumb grazing the tip of that wing inked over his heart. Not when your eyes look like that—half-lidded, dark, shining with something he’s not sure he deserves.

“Yeah,” he mutters, voice rough. “Keep lying to me.”

But he doesn’t pull away. He watches you. Watches the way your hand trails lower, slow and certain, down the cut of his abdomen. Fingertips ghosting over the faint dip of muscle, over the waistband of his pants, teasing the edge like you’re not sure yet—like he has any say in it anymore.

Minho goes still. Not because he doesn’t want it. God, he does. He’s so hard it hurts, cock straining against the fabric, already leaking for you. But there’s something in his face—tightness around the mouth, tension in his jaw. A flicker of control barely clinging to the edge. And you see it. You see all of it. So you press your lips to his collarbone—soft, reverent—and whisper, “Let me.”

Minho shudders. And then he nods. You sink down the bed a little, propping yourself on one elbow, other hand already slipping beneath his waistband. He lifts his hips to help, pants shoved just low enough to free him. His cock springs up, flushed and thick, tip slick with precome, veins standing in sharp relief.

“Jesus,” you murmur, fingers curling around the base. “You’re so hard…”

“Because of you,” he rasps. “You lying, teasing little thing—”

You give him a slow stroke, and he chokes.

You give him another stroke, tighter this time, and the sound he makes punches straight through you—low and ragged, a shattered groan caught in the back of his throat. His hips twitch, almost against his will, and you can feel the restraint vibrating through his body, every muscle tight like he’s on the verge of snapping.

“You’re shaking,” you whisper, almost teasing. “What happened to all that control?”

Minho laughs—just barely. Just a breath.

“Keep talking like that,” he mutters, “and I’ll ruin you before you even get the chance to try.”

But the way his eyes flutter shut when you twist your wrist on the upstroke says otherwise. “Hah—fuck—” He’s panting now, head tipped back, one arm holding himself up beside your head for support while the other fists the sheets like he needs something—anything—to hold onto.

You lean up, breath brushing the underside of his jaw, your voice soft and honey-sweet in his ear.

“You gonna beg for it?”

He freezes. His eyes snap open, and there’s something electric in the silence between you. His cock throbs in your hand, twitching like the idea alone nearly undid him. He turns his head slightly, lips brushing yours.

“Do you want me to?” he whispers.

You smile, smug and slow. “Wouldn’t hate it.”

He groans—deep, guttural, wrecked—and it makes your cunt clench. He looks like he could devour you whole, like he might if you ask nicely. Or if you don’t.

“I’d get on my fucking knees if you told me to,” he mutters, mouth moving along your jaw, your cheek, your throat. His hand finds your hip and grips, firm enough to bruise. “I’d crawl. I’d beg. I’d say please—is that what you want?”

You don’t answer. You just stroke him again—slow, tight, deliberate—and feel the way he shudders against you, how his whole body flinches like your hand alone is enough to wreck him.

“Mm— baby, slow down—fuck—” He buries his face in your neck, teeth grazing skin.

“I’ll give it to you,” he murmurs. “Anything. You want me desperate? Pathetic? Done. Just say it.”

You hum, soft and pleased, lips brushing his temple. “I think I like you pathetic.”

Minho groans—“Fuck, you’re evil,”—but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he sinks into it. Into you. Every stroke of your hand wrings another sound from his throat, each more desperate than the last.

You swipe your thumb over the slit, smear precum down the shaft, and his entire body jolts.

“Shit—don’t—f-fuck—”

“You gonna make a mess in my hand, baby?” you ask sweetly, tightening just a little. “Gonna come like this? Without even being inside me?”

He growls. “No.”

You blink up at him, lips parting in mock surprise. “No?”

Minho pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes absolutely wrecked. Hair messy, jaw clenched, throat flushed with effort. He’s trying so fucking hard not to lose it.

“I’m not coming until I’m inside you,” he says, voice low, dark, edged with pure hunger. “Until I’m fucking deep in that pretty cunt, feeling you squeeze me while I lose it. You think I can come just from your hand?”

He leans in, nose to yours, breath harsh. “I’d beg for the chance to do it right.”

You blink once. Then twice. Then you let go of his cock. Minho groans like it physically hurts.

“Then beg.” He stares at you. One long, heavy moment. Then he kneels back on his haunches, hands splayed on your thighs, and dips his head.

“Please.”

Just one word—but fuck, the way he says it. Voice hoarse, raw, like it’s scraped from the bottom of his chest. His lips graze the inside of your knee as he speaks again.

“Please, let me in. Let me fuck you slow. Let me feel you stretch around me.”

You exhale shakily.

He presses another kiss higher. “Let me make you come on my cock. Let me ruin you so good you forget anyone else ever touched you.”

Your thighs tremble. He reaches for your underwear, eyes flicking to yours for permission, and when you nod—barely, breathless—he tugs them down with reverence, slow enough to make you whimper.

Minho drags your underwear down your legs like it’s the last ribbon off a present, like beneath it is something he’s been waiting his whole life to unwrap. When the fabric slips past your ankles, he tosses it somewhere behind him without a glance. His gaze never leaves you. You’re already soaked.

He sees it—feels it when he runs two fingers through your folds, slow and deliberate, spreading you open with a breathless “fuck me.” His knuckles tremble.

He sees everything. Every flutter of your lashes, every twitch of your thighs, every slick sound his fingers make as they glide through you, slow and reverent. His knuckles tremble, but his touch doesn’t falter—not even a little. If anything, the way his hand moves only deepens, turns hungrier.

“Fuck me,” he breathes again. He parts you with two fingers, spreads your folds and watches your cunt clench on nothing, dripping for him, aching.

“Look at you,” he mutters, like he can’t help it. “So wet I can see my reflection. What the fuck did I do to deserve this?”

You’re panting now, back arching just slightly off the sheets, eyes half-lidded but fixed on him, on the way he looks at you like you’re something sacred and ruined all at once.

“Touch me,” you whisper. “Please.”

Minho sinks two fingers into you in one smooth stroke—slow, thick, curling just right until your breath hits the back of your throat. He groans, low and guttural, watching your cunt stretch around his fingers like it’s something holy.

“So fucking tight,” he grits out, voice wrecked. “How the fuck am I gonna fit my cock in you if you’re already this tight around my fingers?”

The question is low, more to himself than to you, but it rips through you like heat, like lightning. Your walls flutter helplessly around his fingers at the thought, and Minho groans—long, drawn out, wrecked.

“Oh, you like that,” he breathes. “You want me to stretch you open, don’t you?”

Your answer is a breathy whimper, more sound than word—your hips canting up, your fingers curling in the sheets. Minho watches you, chest rising and falling like he’s the one being touched, like you are the thing unraveling him.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and then he’s lining up. His cock drags through your folds, thick and flushed, already smeared with your slick. He grinds once—slow, deliberate—letting the head catch against your clit before slipping lower. When he presses in, the stretch burns, even as your cunt welcomes him, soaking and clenching and shaking just from the promise of it.

“Jesus—ngh, fuck—you’re tight,” he growls, jaw clenched, forehead tipped against yours. “Gonna ruin me.”

He gives you an inch. Then another. Then thrusts the rest of the way in with a groan that sounds like it’s been caged in his throat for weeks.

You cry out—sharp, startled, stretched to the brim in one sudden, devastating motion.

“Minho—”

“Shh,” he pants, not stopping. His hips roll into yours, hard and deep, dragging his cock through your walls like he’s trying to etch himself into them. “You can take it. I know you can. Look at you—fuck—made for this.”

The first few thrusts are brutal. Snapping, deliberate, filthy. Your thighs tremble. Your back arches. He pins your hips down like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t keep you there. Every time he sinks back in, your breath knocks out of your lungs, and his name falls from your lips like a prayer—wrecked, endless, real.

“Just like that,” he grits, cock dragging against your walls, soaked in you. “Let me fuck it into you—let me make you feel me.”

But then— Then he slows. Not because he has to. Because he wants to. Because he wants to feel all of it. His hand slides under your thigh, hikes your leg higher around his waist, and he sinks into you again—slower this time. Deeper. His hips roll instead of snap, the rhythm shifting into something that feels closer to worship than fucking.

He fucks into you slow, deep—each thrust wringing a breathy moan from your throat, each drag of his cock carving his name deeper into the heat of you. The sweat on his skin glistens under the low light, hair clinging to his forehead, jaw tight with effort and restraint. You’re clinging to him now—arms looped around his shoulders, nails dragging across his back, body arching to meet every roll of his hips. And then he says it—low, ragged, right in your ear.

“Feel good?”

You gasp, nod, whisper-plead a breathless “Yes.”

He hums—a soft, dark thing, almost smug. He thrusts a little harder, just once, like a reward, like a test. “Yeah?” he pants. “How good? Tell me."

You try—but your voice catches. It’s just air at first, punched out of you by the deliberate grind of his hips, by the thick, aching stretch of him moving so slowly inside you you could scream. You manage a broken, breathy sound: “So—fuck—so good…”

And Minho groans. Long, low, full of grit. He kisses your jaw, your cheek, your lips—messy, hot, open-mouthed. His breath fans against your skin as he mutters, “That all you’ve got for me, baby?”

You dig your nails in—fuck him, he knows what he’s doing. He knows exactly how good he feels, the way his cock strokes that spot just right, again and again, with filthy precision. The way his hand curls around your thigh to keep you spread for him, to keep you right there

You whimper his name—soft, ruined—like it’s the only word you remember, and he groans, sharp and deep, lips dragging along the sweat-slick curve of your throat.

“God, you feel—” he pants, voice splintered, barely holding. “You feel so fucking good, baby. You’re so tight, so warm, you—fuck, you ruin me.”

Another thrust—slow, deep, devastating—and your head falls back against the pillow, mouth open in a silent cry. Minho watches your face twist, watches your chest heave, and it breaks something in him.

“I—shit—I think I’m in love with you.”

It slips out like a sin. Like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Like he couldn’t hold it in one second longer.

Your whole body goes still beneath him—just for a moment. Like your brain’s catching up. Like his words are a second kind of penetration, sharp and unexpected. He freezes, too. Breath held. Eyes wide. The moment burns.

And then you whisper, broken and trembling: “Say it again.”

Minho doesn’t hesitate this time. “I love you.”

He moans it into your mouth, like it hurts to say, like it hurts more not to. His hand slides up your side, tender now, reverent.

“I fucking love you,” he says again, forehead pressed to yours, hips still rolling deep, slow, full of everything he never knew how to say before now.

“You hear me? You’re not just someone I fuck, you’re—god, you’re everything.”

Your lips part—words rising up like breath, like instinct—but you don’t get the chance.

Minho kisses you before you can speak.

Not soft. Not tentative. It’s all tongue and teeth, heat and hunger, the kind of kiss that steals thought and gives only feeling in return. His mouth crashes into yours like he’s been starving for it—like he’s still starving, even now, with his cock buried deep inside you and your body curled so sweetly beneath his.

You gasp into him, and he drinks it down—tongue licking into your mouth, filthy and tender and real.

And then it’s all friction.

The slow roll of his hips turns urgent, dragging moans from your throat he swallows between kisses. He fucks into you like he means it now—like every thrust is a promise carved into your bones. You cling to him, helpless against the way your body arches, the way your cunt tightens around him, soaked and pulsing, every nerve on fire.

“M-Min—hah—Minho—”

He pulls back just long enough to look at you—just long enough to let you see how wrecked he is, how far gone, how in it he is with you.

“You’re mine,” he pants, voice rough and wrecked, thrusts hitting deeper now, harder, his hand gripping your thigh to keep you open for him. “You hear me? Say it.”

You nod, broken. “Yours—fuck, I’m yours—”

And that’s all he needed.

He groans—loud, guttural—and buries himself deeper, cock twitching as he fucks you through it. His thrusts lose rhythm, chasing his high, and you’re barely hanging on, every drag of him inside you rubbing all the right places, the sweet heat spiraling again in your belly.

You’re both so close. So close.

And when you come again—tight and soaked and shaking all around him—he feels it. Feels you flutter and pull and milk him until he can’t hold back anymore.

He buries his face in your neck, gasping your name as he spills inside you, hips stuttering, voice wrecked.

“I love you—fuck—I love you, I love you—”

It’s not gentle when he comes.

It’s everything.

And when the tremors subside, when your nails loosen from his back and your breaths sync again, he still doesn’t let you speak.

Not yet.

He just kisses you.

And kisses you.

And kisses you.

You learn something about Minho that night. That as nonchalant and unshakable as he seems—cool and composed, cigarette smoke and sharp tongues—when he gets going, he doesn’t stop. Not until you’re crying his name again. Not until your thighs tremble and your voice is wrecked and your body’s too boneless to beg for more, even though your eyes still plead with him.

You lose track of how many times.

The night runs long and slow and molten—fucking turns to touching, touching turns to laughing, and every kiss feels like a secret passed between mouths.

Now, the room is quiet again. Still.

You’re sprawled across the sheets, skin bare, limbs warm and heavy with exhaustion. The duvet’s been kicked down to your ankles, your body slick with the soft sheen of sweat, your chest rising in steady, sated waves.

Minho is gone—but only for a second.

You hear the quiet thud of the fridge door, the sound of a glass under the tap. When he returns, he’s shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, and he’s holding out a glass of water like it’s some sacred offering.

“Drink,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and sex. You sit up just enough to take it, careful not to meet his eyes at first—and then you see them.

The marks. Dark smudges blooming across the sharp cut of his hips. Nail trails raked down the meat of his shoulders. A bite on his collarbone, faint and already bruising. All yours. And suddenly you feel… Shy.

You didn’t before—when his mouth was on you, when his hands were everywhere, when your back arched and you begged him not to stop. But now, in the soft quiet, with morning somewhere close on the horizon, it hits you. So you reach for the blanket, dragging it up your chest like modesty matters, like you didn’t spend the whole night unraveling beneath him.

Minho sees. Of course he sees.

And he smiles.

That slow, crooked thing. The one that doesn’t show teeth but somehow says everything.

“Oh?” he murmurs, placing the water on the nightstand before crawling back into bed. “Now you’re shy?”

You don’t answer. Just burrow into the pillow, cheeks hot. He slips beneath the duvet anyway—doesn’t give you a choice. Just tugs it down again with a smug little hum, eyes flicking across your face like he’s trying to memorize the exact shade of your embarrassment.

“I like the marks,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “Wish you’d left more.”

You blink at him. He just keeps going—slow, lazy kisses trailed down your arm, his body curling around yours like he can’t bear the distance. One arm loops under your waist. The other hooks over your thigh. And then he’s half on top of you, all weight and warmth and him. Clingy.

He tucks his face into your neck like it’s the only place he knows how to breathe. His nose nuzzles behind your ear, lips brushing the shell of it when he speaks again—low, slurred, thick with sleep and smugness.

“Gonna have to start wearing long sleeves to work.”

You choke on a breath, eyes fluttering open. “Because of me?”

“Mm.” He kisses your jaw. “Unless I want to get fired.”

You raise an eyebrow. "You work at a bar, not an office."

“Yeah,” Minho hums, lazy and amused. “But people tip more when I’m unmarked.”

The words slip out casual, offhand—like a throwaway comment he doesn’t mean anything by.

But your smile falters anyway.

Just a flicker. Just enough for him to see it.

You shift beneath him, eyes drifting away, teeth catching your lower lip before you can stop the twist of something sour in your gut. You don’t say anything—not right away—but your silence says enough.

Minho stills.

Then lifts his head, just barely, so he can see your face.

“Hey.”

You blink up at him, startled by the sudden seriousness in his voice.

“Does it bother you?” he asks, tone low. Honest. “Because I’ll quit.”

Your heart stutters.

“What?”

“I mean it.” His hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “If you don’t like it—me working there, people flirting, whatever—I’ll quit. I don’t give a fuck about the tips.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off before you can answer.

“I only took that job to kill time. To pay rent. But you—” His brow furrows. “You’re not something I’m willing to risk for a few extra bills thrown in a jar.”

You swallow hard.

He watches you.

Your eyes search his face—his furrowed brow, the firm set of his mouth, the dark smudge of sleep still softening the corners of his eyes—and there’s no doubt. No teasing in his voice, no smirk on his lips. Just Minho. Serious. Steady. Unflinching in his honesty.

“I’d rather be yours than anyone’s favorite bartender,” he says, quieter this time.

Your throat tightens.

And for a second, you can’t speak. You can only stare, caught between the weight of his words and the way his fingers stay curled so gently around your jaw—like you might vanish if he lets go.

You whisper, “I don’t want you to quit.”

He waits.

You blink slowly, pulling in a breath thick with the scent of him, the warmth of his body still heavy across yours. “I just didn’t like the idea of someone else looking at you like I look at you.”

Minho’s expression shifts—barely, but you feel it. Something in his chest loosens. His eyes soften, flicking between yours.

“No one else gets to,” he says simply. “Not anymore.”

You exhale, shaky with something that feels suspiciously close to relief. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He leans down, brushes his lips against yours—so soft, so sure. “They can look all they want. But I go home with your marks on me. I come home to you.”

Your pulse trips. Your hand fists the sheets at your side, but he feels it. Feels the way the tension bleeds out of you when he says it like that. Like a promise.

And then he flops on top of you.

Dead weight. Limbs loose. Hair flopping messily across his forehead as he buries his face in your chest with a dramatic sigh.

You laugh, startled. “Minho!”

“Mmm,” he grunts, nuzzling between your breasts. “Too early for serious talks. Thought we were in our post-sex cuddling era.”

You squirm under the sudden weight, still giggling, breath hitching when his cheek brushes the swell of your breast. “We can’t be in our post-sex cuddling era if you suffocate me in it.”

He hums again. Doesn’t move.

Just slings an arm over your ribs like a human paperweight, sighs through his nose like he’s never been more at peace. “Shhh,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “You love it.”

You do.

You really, really do.

You let your fingers find his hair, carding gently through the tangled strands at his nape. He melts into it, chest rising and falling slow against your stomach. The silence between you stretches—soft, golden, alive with the echo of everything that came before. Of everything that now lingers.

Minho doesn’t say anything else for a while. He just breathes you in. Lets you trace lazy shapes along his spine. Lets his lips ghost across your skin every now and then, aimless, unthinking. Like he needs the taste of you to fall asleep.

Eventually, you murmur, “You’re not really gonna wear long sleeves, are you?”

He snorts into your chest. “Hell no.”

“Good,” you whisper.

He hums again, content. Almost purring.

Then, after a beat: “Might even go shirtless.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Mmhmm.” His voice is muffled against your skin, low and lazy. “Let ‘em see everything. Let ‘em know I’m taken. Ruined. Whipped.”

You huff a laugh, warm and breathless, chest shifting beneath him. “You’re not whipped,” you tease, even though your heart trips a little at the word. The way he says it like a badge of honor, like something he wants people to know.

Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t even lift his head.

“Babe,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin with every syllable, “I let you suck a bruise into my neck while my dick was still inside you. I think the jury’s in.”

Your face heats instantly. “Oh my god—”

He grins, smug and sleepy and so clearly unrepentant. “Should’ve taken a picture. Hung it behind the bar.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m so serious.” He nuzzles into your sternum, exhales a satisfied sigh. “Caption it: Do not touch. Fed and fucked.”

You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “You’re insane.”

He chuckles. “I’m in love.”

The words land softer than they should, but firmer than you'd expect. Not casual—comfortable. Like truth in its final form. And you feel it, all the way down: the weight of his affection, the certainty of it, so tangled up in the ridiculous things he says that it feels like breathing.

You wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer even though there’s nowhere left for him to go. “You’re still insane,” you whisper, lips pressed to his hairline.

“And you’re stuck with me.”

The truth of it rings out between you—not heavy, not sharp. Just there. Simple. Whole. You are. He is.

His fingers drum a slow beat against your ribs. He studies you for a second longer, then tucks himself back in, face hidden against your skin, every inch of him wrapped around you like a shield.

“Go to sleep,” he murmurs, already halfway there. “We can fall in love more tomorrow.”

You close your eyes.

And you do.

It’s been a few weeks.

A few golden, quiet, full-bodied weeks—where everything that once felt fragile now feels real. Whole. Yours.

Minho had asked you properly—booked out the bar for the night, turned the lights low, played your favorite song on vinyl, and gave you a private bartender show complete with one too many shirtless shaker tricks and your name carved into a lemon twist.

He cooked, too. And kissed you between courses. And pulled you into his lap to ask—not casually, not like it was assumed—if you’d be his girlfriend.

You said yes.

Of course you did.

And now you live together. Officially. Your clothes are in his drawers. His toothbrush sits next to yours. He makes you coffee and you fold his laundry and somewhere in the haze of shared spaces and soft kisses, you forgot what it felt like to flinch.

And then it happens fast.

One moment, you’re walking up the block—hands tucked into your sleeves, heart light from the texts Minho sent not even ten minutes ago.

[Minho] : hurry up[Minho] : wear that thing i like [Minho] : might be drunk by the time you get here if i keep taste-testing the menu

The bar’s glowing ahead, amber light spilling out of the windows like warmth. You’re already rehearsing the way you’ll slip onto a barstool, lean over the counter just far enough for him to grab your waist and kiss you across the spill mat—

You weren’t expecting him.

The ex.

Slurring your name like a threat. Blocking the sidewalk like a curse you thought you’d buried for good.

And for a second, it startles you. Not because you’re afraid—no, not anymore. But because how dare he.

How dare he still think he has access. How dare he act like the time you spent clawing your way out of the wreckage didn’t matter. Like the scars he left didn’t teach you how to fight.

You meet his stare.

Voice steady. “Get out of my way.”

“Oh, now you’ve got a mouth?” he slurs, taking a step forward. “What, dick that good it grew you a backbone?”

You don't flinch.

Not when he leans in, not when he sways close enough for you to smell the sour reek of alcohol clinging to his breath like bile. Not even when his voice drops lower, curling around your name like it still belongs to him.

It doesn't.

"You heard me," you say again, firmer this time. "Move."

But he doesn't. He laughs instead—ugly, mean, mouth curled in that old, familiar smirk that used to make your stomach sink.

Now it just makes you angry.

“You always thought you were better than me,” he sneers, stepping closer, invading your space like he owns it. “Acting like you're some fucking saint now, just ‘cause you got a new dick to suck—”

You move to sidestep him, but his hand shoots out—grabbing your wrist, hard.

Too hard.

You stumble back with a gasp, shoulder slamming into the brick wall of the alley beside the bar. Pain sparks up your arm, sharp and hot where his fingers dig into your skin.

"Let—go of me—"

He doesn't.

His grip tightens.

“Don’t fucking walk away from me—”

And then it happens in a blink.

A blur of dark hair, a sharp crack of movement, and suddenly your ex is off you, shoved back so fast and so hard he nearly falls into the curb. The momentum knocks him sideways, but he catches himself, stumbling back with a curse.

Minho steps between you.

Calm.

Controlled.

Lethal.

Minho’s voice is low. Measured.

“You have until the count of three.”

Your ex scoffs, bloodshot eyes narrowing. “The fuck are you gonna—”

“Three.”

No warning. No buildup.

Just violence.

Minho’s fist slams into his jaw with a sickening crack, the force of it snapping his head sideways. He stumbles—off-balance, stunned—but Minho doesn’t let up. Another punch, straight to the ribs, and you hear the breath leave his lungs in a strangled wheeze.

Your ex hits the ground hard.

But Minho’s not done.

He drops to one knee beside him—precise, deliberate—and grabs his hand.

The hand he used on you.

You freeze, breath caught in your throat.

Because you remember.

“Then I’d take his hand, the one he used on you, and I’d break every fucking finger. One by one. Slow. Make sure he remembered why.”

And now—

Now you watch it unfold in real time.

Minho takes that wrist in both hands, pins it to the pavement, and presses down—hard—until your ex screams.

“No—no, fuck—stop—!”

Minho’s grip doesn’t waver.

He curls his fingers around one of your ex’s.

“First one,” he mutters—almost gently. Like he’s naming something, not destroying it.

Then he bends.

The crack is sharp, grotesque. It splits the air like a firework misfired—brief and brutal and final.

Your ex howls, voice cracking as he thrashes beneath Minho’s knee, but it doesn’t matter. Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.

Just shifts to the next finger.

“Second.”

Another break. Another scream.

You don’t look away.

You should—maybe. A part of you knows that. But the rest of you, the part that remembers—remembers shaking hands, bruised ribs, the way your ex used to whisper apologies into your hair while you cried onto the bathroom tile—that part of you watches.

And breathes.

Minho leans closer.

Not loud. Not unhinged. Just cold.

“Third.”

Crack.

Your ex is crying now. Tears, snot, spit—he’s babbling nonsense, slurring pleads that dissolve into whimpers.

“Stop—please—I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean—”

Minho grabs the fourth finger. “You meant it every time.”

“Fourth,” he says, and the word falls like a guillotine.

He pulls.

The snap is quieter this time—deeper, more internal. A tendon giving way. A joint yanked cruelly from its socket. Your ex lets out a broken sound, not quite a scream anymore. Not loud. Just raw. Hollow. The kind of sound a man makes when he realizes no one’s coming to save him.

Minho still hasn’t raised his voice.

Hasn’t needed to.

Because this isn’t rage. It isn’t revenge.

It’s justice.

Delivered slow. Delivered steady. Delivered by the man who saw every crack in you and loved you anyway—especially because you survived them.

Minho shifts again.

“Fifth.”

“No,” your ex gasps, eyes rolling, lips slick with blood from where he must’ve bitten through them. “No—no more, I—please, please, I—”

But Minho’s hand is already there, curling around that last finger like a closing grave.

And this time, he doesn’t say anything.

He just looks at him—right in the eyes. Like he wants this to be the last thing your ex ever remembers when he reaches for something in the dark.

Then he snaps it clean.

The sound is sickening.

The scream is hoarse. Shredded. Barely human.

“Touch her again,” Minho murmurs, bending the wrist back until the guy writhes, “and I’ll break your fucking spine next.”

And finally—finally—Minho lets go.

He rises slowly, like he’s not rushing to leave the wreckage behind, like he wants your ex to feel every second of what it means to be beneath him. A shadow cast by justice. A reminder that some hands don’t heal—they answer.

He turns to you.

And all of it—the sharpness, the stillness, the steel in his spine—it bleeds away when his eyes meet yours.

He sees the shock there, the tremble hiding in your shoulders.

And he moves to you—not with fire this time, but with the same careful quiet he always gives you after storms. Hands gentle. Expression softer now, but no less certain.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek.

You nod—but it’s shallow. Fragile.

So he cups your face in both hands, grounding you.

“Look at me,” he says. “You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

And you know it's true.

Because he is here.

Behind you, the sirens wail.

[kenntoria]

synopsis ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ nanami accidentally finds your small, anxious-but-sincere vlogs and quietly falls for you through the screen. and when you meet, he becomes a gentle, faceless presence behind the camera—helping you grow, and loving you all the while.

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ this was so fun to write

nanami doesn’t really use youtube. it’s too loud, too cluttered, too full of people trying too hard. he’s more of a quiet reader or podcast listener—he likes his content slow and thoughtful. but sometimes, during quiet lunch breaks or sleepless nights, he finds himself scrolling, searching for something simple to fill the silence.

the first time he sees your face, he skips the video. it’s nothing personal. the thumbnail just seems… ordinary. a soft smile, a blurry background of what looks like a street food stall, and a simple title: “trying something new today (๑•́‿•̀๑)”. he doesn’t think much of it.

but youtube, in all its persistence, keeps putting you in his recommendations.

every few days, your face reappears. new title. new blurry background. another small smile. there’s something oddly comforting about it, even if he hasn’t clicked yet. eventually, curiosity wins. one night, half-asleep and curled up on his couch, he taps on a thumbnail without thinking.

the video is quiet. not silent, but there’s no obnoxious background music or jump cuts. just you. talking a little nervously to the camera, explaining how you’ve never tried this kind of food before, how it makes you anxious to eat alone in public but you’re doing it anyway, for yourself. you pause a lot. laugh at yourself. your editing is minimal—sometimes you just leave long clips in where you sit there silently, debating the next bite.

and nanami… stays.

he doesn’t mean to. he thinks he’ll just let the video play in the background while he dozes off. but he finds himself watching. then clicking on another one. and another. you talk to the camera like it’s a friend. you say things like “i know no one’s really watching this, but…” and “this was scary for me, but i’m proud of myself anyway.”

there’s no performance. no show. just you, trying. trying to live a little braver. trying to make the world a little softer for yourself. and even though your videos have only a few thousand views at most, and a comment section with maybe ten or twenty kind words, nanami can tell you read every single one. you reply with gratitude and sincerity. you sign your replies with hearts and “thank you for watching!!” even when someone just says “nice vid :)”.

he doesn’t comment for a long time. he watches quietly, always late at night, a silent companion to your small adventures. his favorite video becomes one where you try to bike through a park trail you’ve never been on before. the camera shakes the entire time, the sky is gray, and you end up getting rained on halfway through. soaked and breathless, you laugh and say, “this was a disaster. but i don’t regret it.” and something about that sticks in his chest.

he comments on a video one day. it’s short, awkwardly formal:

“i admire your courage to keep stepping outside your comfort zone. thank you for sharing.”

a few hours later, you reply.

“thank you so much!!! i get really nervous about posting sometimes so this means a lot ;; i’m trying my best!! ♡”

nanami reads that reply more times than he’d like to admit.

—

he doesn’t think he’ll ever meet you. you feel like a little glowing orb in his private world. something precious that lives on his phone, just a click away, not real, not tangible.

but then, he’s at a weekend market. the kind of place you’d probably vlog, actually. he’s just there to buy fresh bread, enjoy the quiet, maybe grab a coffee. he’s walking past a stand selling handmade keychains when he hears a familiar voice.

soft. a little unsure. asking for the price of something.

he turns.

and you’re there.

you look just like your videos—maybe a little shorter, bundled in a cardigan despite the warmth, your bag too big for your frame, holding a small camera that’s not even recording. your hair’s a little messy. your eyes bright, darting around nervously. you’re alone.

and suddenly, nanami is nervous in a way he hasn’t been in years.

he debates not saying anything. he could let this pass. keep you as a digital secret. but then you glance in his direction, and smile—just polite, a brief flicker of recognition for another passerby—and nanami finds himself stepping forward before his brain catches up.

“…excuse me,” he says, and your eyes widen a little.

“yes?” you ask, voice soft.

“i’ve… watched your videos,” he says, and you freeze for a second. “they mean a lot to me.”

you blink. your mouth opens a little in surprise, then closes. and then you smile.

“really?” you say, a little breathless. “you… you actually watch them?”

“yes,” he says simply. “i think you’re brave.”

your hand flies up to your mouth, eyes darting away. “oh my god,” you mumble. “that’s—thank you. that’s so nice. i didn’t think anyone recognized me. my channel’s tiny.”

“doesn’t change the impact,” he says, and it’s honest. the way he always is.

you talk for a while after that. awkwardly at first—your nerves, his reserved nature—but slowly, something soft and lovely builds in the air between you. you laugh a lot, mostly just nervous. he listens a lot, mostly because that’s just the way he is. he tells you his name is kento. you tell him you were scared to even leave the house today, but you’re glad you did. he smiles.

before you part ways, you ask, very shyly, if he’d be okay with you filming just a little. not his face, of course—just his voice, his presence. he agrees.

that night, a new video goes up.

“a tiny adventure at the weekend market ✿ i made a new friend today…”

nanami watches it from his bed, and when his offscreen voice appears—gentle, amused, offering to carry your bag for you—his heart does something strange in his chest.

—

the first time nanami appears in a vlog, it’s his hand passing you a coffee.

you call him “a friend i made recently,” and giggle when he corrects your pronunciation of a pastry. he’s never shown — not fully. a shoulder here. the back of his head. your viewers are very curious. you just smile, almost bashful, and say, “he’s camera-shy, but he’s very sweet.”

you start mentioning him more in your vlogs. he’s still off-screen, but you’ll glance his way and smile. say something like “he helped me set this up,” or “he picked this place,” or just “he’s here with me.”

you don’t have to say his name. he stays a faceless figure in your videos. your viewers start to notice something more.

you never confirm anything. you just smile, cheeks pink, and say, “he’s really sweet. i’m lucky.”

nanami doesn’t need the spotlight. he’s happy to carry your bag, offer a steady hand when you’re nervous, and hold the camera when you want to capture something new. he’s happy to be the one encouraging you behind the scenes, whispering that you’re doing great when you doubt yourself.

you film together more and more. he goes with you to bookstores, little food stalls, quiet museums. he carries your tripod. holds your coat. gives you gentle encouragement when you freeze up in public and smile too hard when it’s over.

he falls in love with you quietly. over time. he doesn’t say it at first. he lets it bloom through little gestures — buying the tea you liked, learning how to edit videos just to help you with cuts, leaving voice notes when you’re too anxious to leave the house. he listens. he supports. he stays.

and he’s happiest when, in a quiet clip near the end of a video, you look off-camera and say, “i think i’m a little less scared of the world lately.”

he squeezes your hand off-screen. you smile at the touch.

and your viewers never hear the softest part—how, when the camera stops recording, you lean into his side and whisper, “thank you for finding me.”

nanami, who never believed in fate or chance or algorithms, just kisses your cheek and replies, “thank you for being found.”

[cherrygirlfriend]

─── YOU'VE GOT MAIL .ᐟ

...or off-brand gossip girl.

★ pairing.ᐟ frat!rafe x nerd!reader

★ summary.ᐟ rafe cameron is the golden boy of kildare university; certified frat boy, captain of the football team, relentless party animal with lines of girls to sleep with.

reader couldn't be more different; while she has the best grades in the whole school, she suffers from social anxiety disorder, and her social life is limited to her three best friends and the cat she secretly snuck into her dorm room.

both of them decide to join the anonymous chatroom for their campus, and start talking to one another, a friendship starting to form between the two; but neither of them know how different the other is.

★ author's note.ᐟ this is a day late because i was celebrating midsummer with my family yesterday <3 i hope you like it!!

YOU'VE GOT MAIL!

"i was gonna go see her, but when i went to our meeting place, she was there with another guy, and left with him. then when i asked her about it, she lied. so i'm pretty sure he's hooking up with him and i'm the biggest fucking idiot on planet earth."

the gears in vivian's head turned, until the small smile on her lips slowly vanished when she finally realized why the story was so familiar. "holy shit." she mumbled, eyes as wide as saucers, "you're him."

"what?"

"you're MalachiConstant."

"how do you know about that?" rafe asked, his breath catching in his throat, "did she... she told you?"

"wait... you know who she is? like, her real identity?" vivian asked, the moment uncomfortably sobering for rafe, the boy looking away, "why haven't you told her?"

rafe sighs, turning to look out at the scenery in front of him, "you wouldn't get it." "well, stop being melodramatic and try to explain it to me." vivian rolled her eyes, making rafe let out a quiet chuckle.

"i'm afraid she's gonna think i'm a douchebag, or something." "she probably will. she can be judgmental." rafe's brows furrowed, "said with affection." vivian rolled her eyes, "but trust me, she judges herself a lot more than she judges anyone else. and trust me, she's not hooking up with anyone. it's adorably pathetic how obsessed she is with you."

"really?"

"i don't think i've ever seen her smile as much as she has after you two started talking. she's not good with guys, or even people in general but she really seems to like you. i have no idea what she sees in you, to be honest."

"gee, thanks." "but she's been overthinking a lot since you've been ghosting her. she's been going crazy worrying that you don't care about her and she ruined… whatever you two have going on. but rafe, i want you to seriously think this through. she doesn't trust people easily, and i don't want for her to have to go through heartbreak. so if you're just gonna… dump her when you get bored of her… please, just… let her be." vivian brought her hand to his shoulder. "cause if you hurt her, i'm cutting your dick off."

rafe let out a chuckle, nodding, "can i… ask you for a favor?" "no promises." "can you just… not tell her yet? just wait a bit until i feel like i can do it." "although i am fond of gossip, it's not my secret to tell." vivian took a chug out of her bottle, "but you should tell her soon. i think she deserves to know the identity of the random guy she's talked online who she's pretty much head-over-heels for. even if it's a douchebag like you." vivian grinned, stepping towards the patio door, "good night, no-longer-mystery guy." vivian's words make the boy snort, "night." he mumbled, the girl leaving the patio, unaware of the girl listening over to the conversation.

you were wrapped up in a blanket, 10 things i hate about you, you and vivian’s shared comfort movie playing on your laptop while angel was in your arms, the little kitty purring as you stroked her soft fur. you looked down at your phone, at all the texts vivian had ignored.

YOU: i'm so sorry.

YOU: i never should've said those things.

YOU: i was hurt and i took it out on you. it wasn't okay, but i hope you know how much i regret it. i miss you.

however, your wallowing in self pity was interrupted when you got a new notification from KildareUChats. you opened the app, your heart beating against your chest when you noticed that MalachiConstant had messaged you after a day of radiosilence.

MalachiConstant: im sorry ive been a dick MalachiConstant: and i miss you MalachiConstant: im drunk but im an idiot

you couldn't help the small smile that took over your lips, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. you kicked your feet against the mattress, letting out a quiet, excited squeal that caught angel's attention, "sorry." you mumbled, pressing a kiss on top of her head, before turning back to your phone, texting MalachiConstant back.

YOU: idiot. ❤️

you woke up to the sound of someone bursting into your room, your heart nearly beating out of your chest, until you noticed the flurry of pink hair entering your room, carrying white boxes that you immediately guessed were donuts.

"jesus, vivian!" you mumbled groggily, running a hand through your messy hair, "you scared me half to death…" "sorry, man." she giggled, putting the donuts down onto your bedside table, "i'm still a bit drunk from a party i went to last night." she crashed onto your bed, turning to look at you.

"i'm sorry about the things i said to you, viv." you frowned at her, your mind still groggy with sleep. the girl smiled, taking your hand in hers. "i'm sorry, too. boys are the stupidest thing to fight about. totally not worth it."

you chuckled softly, "well, speaking of boys…" "oh, god. mystery boy news?" "sorry, we don't have to talk about him if you don't want to." you feel your cheeks getting warm, vivian grabbing the box off the nightstand and placing it between you two; when she opened, your suspicions were proven correct. donuts. "if i'm gonna have to listen to your love life without yacking, i'm gonna need some donuts in me."

RAFE: hey

UNKNOWN: who dis?

RAFE: rafe RAFE: i asked top for your number

UNKNOWN: ok

RAFE: listen, i need some advice RAFE: should i ask her to meet up again?

UNKNOWN: jesus christ UNKNOWN: you asked top for my number for advice on my best friend?

RAFE: pls viv

VIVIAN: fine. then do it loser VIVIAN: and this time don't leave before she can get there. and tell top to not give out my number again.

rafe rolls his eyes and takes in a deep breath, going to KildareUChats, his heart racing in his chest; he types the message and erases it for about a thousand times, before he was finally satisfied with it, pressing enter before he could regret it.

MalachiConstant: hi, i know we were supposed to meet and i kinda fumbled it, but i wanted to ask if you'd be willing to try it again? i get it if it's too late but you can't blame a dude for trying. anyway lmk.

rafe's message was marked 'read' within seconds of him sending it; but several minutes ticked by with no response. maybe you were trying to find a way to let him down easy, or telling him you weren't interested… but soon enough, he got a response.

AnnabelLee: let's do it. monday, at 6pm in front of the fountain?

MalachiConstant: it's a date.

rafe ran a hand through his hair as he reread your message over and over again; he finally felt like he was ready to tell you who he was. even if things change.

monday morning came, but for some reason, you didn't feel nervous at all. if anything, it was like your stomach was bustling with butterflies, and you felt... ready to meet whoever you'd been chatting to online.

your earbuds were in your ears as you made your way towards your first lecture for the day, humming along to fleetwood mac's sara. you spotted vivian and zainab almost immediately, but the two girls didn't seem to notice you, too busy hunched over and looking at something on vivian's phone, giggles echoing around the classroom.

you made your way over to them, and as soon as you pulled your chair back, the two of them looked up at you in complete alarm. you let out a soft laugh, looking between the two with furrowed brows as you sat down, "who died?" but neither of your friends laughed, you started to feel unnerved, "did... did someone actually die?"

vivian and zainab shared a look, before sliding the girl's phone over to you. you picked it up, but as soon as you saw the screen, your blood ran cold. it was a post on KildareUBlindItems, and the subject was 'MalachiConstant'.

"what..."

'overheard at friday's party: football team captain and fraternity president with the initials r.c was telling a certain pink-haired party girl that he's secretly into some chick he met online who he hasn't even met. he goes by MalachiConstant. no one seems to know who the mystery girl is.'

your eyes widened as you re-read the post, starting to put the pieces together... you turned to look to vivian with your jaw clenched in anger, unable to bite your tongue.

"rafe cameron is MalachiConstant? and you knew?"

TAGLIST: @yktayy9669 @tinythebunni @dywho @melalsworld @akobx @samwinchesterisawhore @st8rkey @jjasmiineee @ltristessedureratoujours @a-lovers-card @uselessnewt @lunaleah @letstryagaintomorrow @cinnamqnnlatte @papapoy @kay133sposts @wtfisastiles @butterfly1c @emmiesummers @melodyyybubbles @toomanywhitelies @littl3loveydovey @scne-vampire @alwaysmaybank @mysticbby2009 @luna443 @drewstarkeyswife-7 @flowerluvr @kisselxoll - cont. in com

[flux1563]

Gambler ft Chaewon

Words : 7k

Tags : squirting, vibrator, nipple clamp

Chaewon sat cross-legged on the floor of y/n's apartment, her eyes scanning the neatly organized bookshelf in the corner of the room. She was a small, slender girl with a quiet demeanor that often made people underestimate her sharp mind and fiery spirit. Her shirt hugged her modest chest, hinting at the curves that lay beneath, and her jeans were snug enough to accentuate her toned legs. She had a penchant for simple yet stylish outfits that made her look both comfortable and alluring.

"So, what do you feel like doing today?" y/n called out from the kitchen, their voice muffled by the clinking of glasses and the hum of the fridge.

Without taking her gaze off the book spines, Chaewon replied, "How about a card game?" She had a mischievous twinkle in her eye that suggested she had more than just a friendly competition in mind.

y/n poked their head out of the kitchen, a beer in one hand and a pack of cards in the other. "Uno, then?"

"But with a twist," Chaewon said, her smile widening. "Every time someone loses a round, they have to take off a piece of clothing."

y/n's eyebrows shot up. "Strip Uno? That's a bit risky, don't you think?" They took a swig of their beer, watching Chaewon's reaction with amusement.

"Not if you're good at bluffing," she quipped, her tone light and teasing. She knew y/n had a penchant for daring games and was eager to see if they'd take the bait.

Setting the beer down on the coffee table, y/n shuffled the cards with a grin. "Alright, you're on. But only if we make it interesting." They paused for a moment, a glint of excitement in their eyes. "How about this: for each round win, you can put one piece of your clothing back on"

Chaewon felt a thrill run through her body at the proposal. She nodded eagerly. "You're on."

The room was filled with the sound of shuffling cards and the occasional laugh as they began to play. Each card laid down was met with a smack on the table, the tension between them growing thicker with every passing minute. The air was charged with anticipation, as if the room itself was holding its breath, waiting to see who would make the first move.

In the first round, Chaewon's hand was not as kind to her as she had hoped. She found herself stuck with a pile of high-value cards and no way out. With a dramatic sigh, she played a Reverse card, hoping to buy herself some time. But y/n was ready with a Draw Four, turning the tables and forcing Chaewon to accept her fate.

With a mock look of defeat, Chaewon stood up and began to strip off her jacket. It was a simple black leather number, but it framed her body perfectly, accentuating her narrow waist and the swell of her breasts beneath her shirt. As the jacket slipped down her arms and fell to the floor, she couldn't help but feel a rush of exhilaration. The cool air of the apartment kissed her bare skin, sending goosebumps racing down her spine. She folded the jacket neatly and placed it beside her, her eyes never leaving y/n's.

The second round began with a similar tempo. Chaewon's heart hammered in her chest as she drew her cards. She tried to focus on her strategy, but the anticipation of the game's outcome kept distracting her. Her eyes kept drifting to y/n's face, watching the way their gaze lingered on her chest as she moved. Despite the friendly banter, the air was thick with a tension that was anything but innocent.

As the round progressed, it became clear that Chaewon's luck hadn't changed. She drew a series of unhelpful cards, and y/n's smirk grew wider with each one she played. When she was down to a single card, she knew it was only a matter of time before she had to reveal more of herself. The moment came, and with a dramatic flourish, she played her final card.

"I'm afraid it's your turn to pay up," y/n said, their voice low and smoky.

Chaewon felt the heat rising in her cheeks as she reached for the hem of her shirt. She had worn a plain white tank top underneath, which she now peeled off with a sense of defiance. Her breasts bounced slightly with the movement, and she watched as y/n's eyes darkened, their pupils dilating. The tank top joined her jacket on the floor, and she sat back down, trying to regain her composure.

The third round began, and the tension between them grew palpable. Chaewon's mind raced with both the desire to win and the thrill of the game's increasing stakes. Her hand was a mix of numbers and colors, and she struggled to form a coherent strategy. Despite her best efforts, she found herself with a handful of cards that didn't match up.

When y/n played a Wild Draw Four, Chaewon couldn't help but laugh nervously. She was now down to her jeans, and the thought of stripping in front of her friend was both exhilarating and nerve-wracking. She took a deep breath, bracing herself for the inevitable.

With trembling hands, she began to unbutton her jeans. The zipper whispered as it slid down, revealing the lacy black thong she had chosen that morning. She slid the denim down her legs, the fabric catching briefly on her hips before pooling around her ankles. She stepped out of them gracefully, the fabric whispering against the hardwood floor.

The fourth round had begun with a renewed sense of urgency. Chaewon's heart pounded in her chest as she held onto the hope that this time, she could be the one to turn the tide. Her eyes narrowed in concentration, she played her cards with precision, almost seeing the victory within her grasp. But y/n had other plans. They played a sly Reverse card, followed by a Skip, leaving Chaewon with no choice but to draw two more cards. Her eyes widened as she took in the new additions to her hand, realizing that she was still one step away from victory.

The tension in the room grew palpable as the two friends stared at each other, the unspoken challenge hanging in the air like a dense fog. Chaewon knew she had to act fast if she wanted to regain the upper hand. She played a series of low-value cards, hoping to catch y/n off guard. But y/n was a skilled player and quickly countered with a flurry of strategic moves that left Chaewon feeling both frustrated and thrilled by the challenge.

As the round drew to a close, y/n played a wild card, changing the color to green. Chaewon's hand was a sea of red and blue, with not a single green card in sight. She swallowed hard, knowing that she had no choice but to draw four. The room was silent except for the sound of her breathing, which had grown heavier and more ragged.

With a dramatic flourish, y/n claimed victory in the fourth round. Chaewon's cheeks burned with both embarrassment and arousal as she reached for the bottom of her tank top. She pulled it up over her head, the cool air in the room caressing her bare stomach and the tops of her breasts. The tank top joined her discarded clothing on the floor, leaving her in just her thong and bra.

"What if I don't have anything to strip?" Chaewon asked, her voice quivering with a mix of excitement and nerves as she looked up at y/n. The question hung in the air, thick with the scent of their desire and the electricity of the moment.

"Then you'll do what I say," y/n replied, their eyes gleaming with mischief. "But for now, let's keep playing. Who knows, you might get lucky and win a round or two."

The fifth round began, and Chaewon felt the weight of the game pressing down on her. Each card she played was a declaration of her vulnerability, and with every piece of clothing she removed, she felt more exposed—both physically and emotionally. She drew a card, her hand shaking slightly, and played a blue seven.

y/n played a blue four, and the game went on. Chaewon's breath hitched as she drew a Skip card, her eyes darting to her opponent. The anticipation was unbearable. She knew what was coming next.

As expected, y/n played a Draw Two, and Chaewon's heart sank. She reached behind her back and unclasped her bra, her breasts spilling out into the open. The fabric slid down her arms, and she let it fall to the floor with a soft thud. Her cheeks were crimson, but she couldn't look away from y/n's intense gaze.

The sixth round began with a sense of finality. Chaewon's hands trembled as she picked up her cards. Her chest heaved with every breath, her nipples erect from the coolness of the room and the heat of the moment. She played a yellow two, and y/n smirked, playing a yellow seven. Chaewon knew she was going to lose again.

With a flick of her thumbs, she pushed her thong to the side, revealing her shaven mound to y/n. She stepped out of the scrap of fabric, feeling a rush of cold air between her legs. The thong joined her other clothes on the floor, and she stood before y/n, completely naked.

The silence was deafening as they stared at each other, the air thick with desire. Chaewon's chest rose and fell rapidly, her heart pounding in her ears. The game had taken an unexpected turn, and she was surprised by the thrill of it all. The heat in the room seemed to intensify, and she felt her body respond to the raw sexual energy.

The seventh round began, and Chaewon played with renewed determination. Each card she placed on the table was a declaration of her intent to win back some of her dignity. She played a blue five, and y/n laid down a yellow eight. Chaewon felt a flicker of hope. Could she finally win a round and put something back on?

But fate had other plans. With a wicked smile, y/n played a Draw Two, and Chaewon knew she was doomed. She drew two more cards, her hand shaking as she looked at them. A red six and a blue nine stared back at her, offering no escape from her current predicament.

"What should I do?" Chaewon whispered, her voice barely audible. "I don't have any fabric left."

y/n's smirk grew wider, and they stood up from the floor, gesturing for her to follow. She did so, her nakedness feeling less like a penalty and more like a thrilling secret shared only between them. They led her to the bedroom, a place she had never been in before, and she felt a mix of curiosity and excitement as she stepped into the dimly lit room. The scent of y/n's cologne filled the space, and she couldn't help but notice the unmade bed and the mess of clothes scattered across the floor. It was a stark contrast to the neat living room where they had been playing.

On the bedside table lay a shiny, black object. Chaewon's eyes widened as y/n picked it up. "Wear this while playing the next round," He said, holding out the ball butt plug to her. It was a bold move, and she felt a jolt of arousal at their command. The plug was smooth and slightly cold in her hand, the metal feeling foreign and intimidating.

"Okay, I will do it," Chaewon murmured, her voice a soft whisper of submission. She took a deep breath and slowly inserted the plug, feeling it fill her and the pressure building inside her. She bit her lip to stifle a gasp as it settled into place, the sensation both strange and exhilarating. She could feel it shift with every step she took as she moved back to the living room, the weight of it a constant reminder of the game's stakes.

The next round began, and Chaewon's mind was a whirlwind of emotions. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and more turned on than she ever had in her life. Each card she played was a dance of defiance and submission, her body reacting to the thrill of the game. As she lost again, she knew what was coming.

y/n's voice was low and commanding as they handed her a small box. Inside, she found two shiny silver nipple clamps attached by a delicate chain. The sight of them made her breath hitch in her throat. She had never used anything like this before, but the excitement of the moment made her want to try.

Her hands trembled as she opened the box and took out the clamps. The cold metal sent a shiver down her spine as she placed one on her left nipple, squeezing it shut with a gentle yet firm pressure. The sensation was surprisingly pleasurable, and she couldn't help but let out a soft moan. y/n's eyes darkened as they watched her, the heat in the room seeming to increase with every second that passed.

The next round began, and Chaewon played with a newfound sense of urgency. Her body was alive with sensation, the plug in her ass and the clamps on her nipples creating a symphony of pleasure that was almost too much to bear. She bit her lip to keep from crying out as she played a blue three. y/n's eyes never left her face, watching her every move with a predatory gaze that sent shivers down her spine.

But it was not to be. y/n played a green seven, and Chaewon knew she was out of luck again. The room spun around her as she reached for the next item of clothing to remove, but there was none left. Instead, y/n leaned over and whispered in her ear, their hot breath sending waves of heat through her body. "This time," he said, "you're going to use this." he placed a sleek, black vibrator into her trembling hand.

Chaewon looked at the device, her eyes wide with a mix of excitement and trepidation. She had never used a vibrator in front of anyone before, let alone during a game of Uno. She bit her bottom lip, the taste of her own desire mingling with the metallic flavor of the nipple clamp. Slowly, she slid it between her legs, feeling the slickness of her arousal.

The vibrator was cold against her heated skin, and she gasped softly as she positioned it at her entrance. With a deep breath, she pushed it in, feeling the fullness and the vibration that echoed through her core. The game had taken an unexpected turn, and she couldn't believe the thrill it brought her. The room was a blur around her as she focused on the sensations building within her, the cards on the table forgotten for a moment.

y/n watched her intently, their eyes never leaving hers as she began to move the vibrator in and out of herself. Chaewon's breath hitched with each stroke, and she felt the pressure building within her. The game had become a dance of power and desire, and she was utterly captivated by the thrill of it all.

The next round began, but y/n had a different plan. He was a master of patience and strategy, and he knew exactly how to push Chaewon's buttons—both on the card table and off. He played his cards slowly, drawing out each move with a deliberate precision that had her on the edge of her seat. The vibrator was relentless in its rhythm, and she could feel her orgasm approaching like a freight train.

Chaewon's hand trembled as she tried to play, the sensations overwhelming her. She knew she couldn't hold out much longer, and she desperately hoped she'd be able to win this round. But y/n was unyielding, playing card after card without giving her the opening she needed. The tension in the room was unbearable, and she could feel her body tightening around the vibrator.

Suddenly, unable to take it anymore, she threw her cards into the air with a shriek. The room was filled with the sound of them fluttering to the floor as she lost control. Her body convulsed, and she felt a rush of wetness between her legs, soaking y/n's shirt. The intensity of her orgasm took her by surprise, and she collapsed back onto the couch, the vibrator slipping out of her.

y/n chuckled softly, the sound sending another shiver down her spine. They had won the round without even playing their last card, and she was left panting and exposed before them. But the thrill of the game had only just begun.

"I guess I won that round," y/n said, their voice filled with amusement. Chaewon nodded, still trying to catch her breath. "But don't think you're off the hook just yet." They reached out and picked up the discarded cards, shuffling them back into the deck with a mischievous smile. "We're not finished until one of us is completely bare."

The air was electric as the game continued, each round bringing them closer and closer to their ultimate goal. The sounds of their laughter and the occasional slap of a card on the table were punctuated by gasps and moans of pleasure. The room was a whirlwind of emotions, each more intense than the last.

As the final round approached, Chaewon was down to just the plug and the nipple clamps. She knew that if she lost this round, she would be fully exposed and at y/n's mercy. The anticipation was unbearable, her body wound tight with tension and need.

With a flick of the wrist, she played her last card and watched as y/n's smirk grew into a full-blown grin. "Looks like it's my turn to win," they said, leaning back in their chair. Chaewon felt a mix of relief and disappointment, the thrill of the game leaving her craving more.

"Suck my dick," y/n ordered, his voice low and commanding. Chaewon's eyes widened, and she felt a jolt of excitement at the sudden shift in dynamics. She had never been so boldly told what to do before, and the raw power in his words sent a thrill through her. She hesitated for a moment, her hand hovering over the vibrator, unsure if she could go through with it. But the heat in their eyes was undeniable, and she found herself eager to please.

Her trembling hand reached down to unzip y/n's jeans. The sound of the zipper was loud in the quiet room, a stark reminder of their newfound intimacy. His cock sprang free, erect and flushed with arousal. It was a beautiful sight, and Chaewon felt a rush of desire that surprised even herself. She leaned in, her breath warm against the velvety head of his cock.

"So big," she murmured, her voice a mix of awe and challenge. It was a declaration of her willingness to take him on, to conquer this final frontier of their daring game. She took him in her hand, the weight and heat of him feeling so real, so alive in her grip.

Her mouth opened, and she took him in, inch by inch, feeling the stretch of her jaw muscles as she tried to accommodate his size. It was a delicate dance, one that required precision and skill, much like playing the perfect Uno card. She felt his cock hit the back of her throat, and she gagged slightly, her eyes watering. But she didn't pull away. Instead, she took a deep breath and pushed through the sensation, determined to show y/n that she was more than just a pretty face and a clever player.

"So tight," y/n murmured, their hand coming to rest on the back of her head, guiding her movements. "Your mouth is so skillful." The praise washed over her like a warm wave, filling her with a sense of pride and accomplishment. Chaewon had always enjoyed the feeling of giving pleasure, and the knowledge that she was pleasing y/n in such a raw, primal way was intoxicating.

With a sudden jolt, y/n's grip tightened, and they began to thrust their hips, fucking her mouth with increasing force. Chaewon's eyes watered, but she didn't protest. Instead, she took it all in, the salty taste of y/n's arousal mingling with her own excitement. Her tongue danced around his shaft, exploring every ridge and vein, eager to give him the best experience possible.

The hand on the back of her head grew more insistent, guiding her movements with a roughness that she found thrilling. Each time y/n pushed into her throat, she gagged slightly, the sound muffled by the flesh filling her mouth. The vibrations from the plug in her ass seemed to sync with the rhythm of his hips, sending waves of pleasure crashing through her body.

"Glukk glukk glukk," was the only sound Chaewon's mouth could produce as she worked her way down his cock, the wet noises echoing through the quiet apartment. The salty taste of him grew stronger, and she could feel his body tense with each deep throat. Her own arousal was building again, the clamps on her nipples adding an extra edge to the sensation.

Her hand wandered down to her clit, the nub of sensitive flesh begging for attention. She began to rub it in small circles, her fingers slipping through her wetness. The combination of the plug in her ass and her fingertips on her clit was driving her crazy. She could feel an orgasm approaching, and she knew she couldn't hold out much longer.

y/n noticed her movements and chuckled darkly. "Looks like you're enjoying yourself." he didn't stop fucking her face, instead increasing the pace. Chaewon moaned around his cock, her hand moving faster and more desperately. She felt like she was on the edge of a cliff, the wind whipping around her as she approached the precipice.

With each thrust, the plug pushed against her g-spot, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through her body. She could feel y/n's cock swelling, and she knew he was close too. The power dynamics had shifted again, and she was in control now. Chaewon's hand flew over her clit, her thumb pressing down harder with each stroke. The tension grew unbearable, her body coiling tightly like a spring ready to snap.

The world around them faded away as they both focused on the moment, the only sounds in the room being the wet noises of her mouth and the slap of his hips against her face. Chaewon felt the first wave of her orgasm crash over her, the intensity of it taking her by surprise. Her body bucked, and she almost pulled away from y/n's cock, but his hand held her in place, not letting her escape the delicious torment.

The second wave hit her harder, and she came with a muffled cry, her muscles clenching around the plug. y/n groaned, their grip on her hair tightening as they felt her spasm around them. They could feel her body pulsing with each wave of pleasure, and it pushed them over the edge. With a final, rough thrust, they came, filling her mouth with their hot seed. Chaewon swallowed, her eyes watering from the intensity of the sensation.

When he finally pulled out, Chaewon gasped for air, her cheeks flushed and her eyes glazed over with lust. They both sat there for a moment, panting heavily, the room spinning around them. The game of Uno had become a battle of wills, and she had emerged the victor, at least for now. The look of surprise and satisfaction on y/n's face was all the prize she needed.

"Tell me what you want, Chaewon," y/n ordered, his voice gruff and demanding. It was a question that held no room for refusal, and she felt a thrill run through her at his dominance. She knew what she wanted, but saying it out loud was a whole different ball game. She took a deep breath and looked him in the eyes, her voice steady and sure.

"Fuck me, y/n," she said, her voice a little louder this time. "I want to feel your big dick inside me."

Without missing a beat, y/n stood up and walked over to her, his cock still hard and glistening with her spit. He grabbed her by the waist and effortlessly lifted her onto the coffee table, positioning her on all fours. The coolness of the wood sent a shiver up her spine, and she arched her back, her ass high in the air.

He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. "You're going to get what you asked for," he murmured, the promise in his voice sending a thrill through her. His hand slid down to her ass, and with one swift motion, he pulled out the butt plug.

"Ahhhh," Chaewon moaned, the sudden emptiness making her body spasm with pleasure. She could feel her juices dripping down her thighs, the anticipation of what was to come making her pussy clench. She had never been so ready for anything in her life.

And then, without any warning, y/n's cock filled her completely, sliding into her wetness with ease. The feeling of fullness was intense, and she could feel her walls stretch around him. At the same time, he pushed the butt plug back into her ass, and she let out a gasp of surprise and pleasure.

"Ahh, so much," Chaewon moaned, her voice echoing through the room. She had never felt so filled before, and the dual sensations were overwhelming. The plug was cold from being out of her body, but her ass quickly warmed around it, welcoming it back with a delightful shiver.

The vibration of the plug in her ass synced with each deep stroke of y/n's cock in her pussy, creating a symphony of sensations that sent her spiraling. "It's...it's amazing," she panted, her eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy. She could feel her orgasm building again, the pressure mounting in her core. "So...so full."

Without warning, y/n's hand cracked against her ass, sending a shockwave through her body. Chaewon's eyes flew open, and she gasped. The sting was unexpected, but it only served to heighten her pleasure. "More," she begged, her voice needy and desperate.

y/n's hand came down again, harder this time. "Tell me," he demanded, his voice a low growl. "How does it feel?"

Her words became a staccato of moans and gasps as he spanked her, each smack punctuating his thrusts. "It...it feels...so...so good," she managed to say, her voice breaking with each hit. The pain melded with the pleasure, creating a delicious cocktail of sensation that had her on the edge of madness.

The sound of his hand connecting with her skin was a rhythmic counterpoint to their movements, a perverse metronome that kept time with their passion. "Again," she whimpered, pushing back into each slap. "More."

Her body was a canvas of sensation, the butt plug and smack of his hand painting a new picture of pleasure. The plug in her ass felt like it was swelling, pushing against her insides in time with the pounding of his cock. "It's...bulging," she managed to gasp out, her voice strained with each deep thrust. "I can feel it...under my stomach."

The pressure was unbearable, a delicious ache that grew with every moment. Chaewon's entire being was focused on the fullness of her body, the way she was stretched to accommodate him. It was as if she was being rewritten, transformed by the force of his desire. She moaned, the sound deep and guttural, a primal acknowledgment of the power he wielded over her.

The room was alive with their passion, the smell of sex thick in the air. Her body was a symphony of sensations, each one playing off the others to create a crescendo that she knew she couldn't withstand much longer. "I'm going to...I'm going to cum," she panted, her voice rising in pitch. She could feel it building, a pressure that threatened to tear her apart at the seams.

"Good girl," y/n murmured, his hand moving to her clit to add to the sensory overload. His fingers danced around the sensitive nub, his touch sure and precise. Chaewon felt her body tighten around him, her muscles clenching as she approached the precipice. "Cum for me," he ordered, and she felt the power in his words, a command she couldn't ignore.

With a scream that seemed to shake the very foundations of the room, Chaewon came. Her orgasm washed over her like a tidal wave, consuming her in a torrent of pleasure so intense it was almost painful. Her pussy clenched around his cock, her ass contracting around the plug. "AHHHH," she screamed, the sound echoing off the walls.

The world around them shattered into a million pieces as she rode the wave of pleasure, her body shaking with the force of her climax. y/n's hand remained on her clit, his strokes never faltering, pushing her higher and higher. Chaewon could feel her eyes roll back in her head, the intensity of the sensation too much to bear. "Y/N! Oh my god!" she cried out, her voice hoarse from her screams.

As she came back down, she found herself gasping for air, her body limp and trembling with aftershocks. y/n didn't stop, his movements relentless as he brought her to the edge again and again, her orgasm stretching out into an endless horizon of pleasure. Chaewon had never felt so alive, so in the moment. The game of Uno had turned into a battleground of desire, and she had never felt more powerful, more vulnerable, or more alive.

Chaewon's body was limp, trembling with the aftershocks of her intense orgasm. y/n's cock remained deep inside her, his strokes slowing but not stopping. He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back as he kissed her neck, his teeth grazing her skin. "You're mine now," he murmured, his voice a dark promise that sent a thrill through her.

"I know," she whispered, the words barely audible. The intensity of the moment had left her breathless, but she knew it was true. In that moment, she belonged to him in a way she had never belonged to anyone else. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

He began to fuck her again, his movements slow and deliberate. Each stroke was a declaration of ownership, a claiming of her body that she couldn't deny. Chaewon felt her arousal begin to build once more, the plug in her ass adding an extra edge to every sensation. She pushed back into him, her hips meeting his with a need that was almost desperate.

Their bodies moved together like a well-oiled machine, each thrust bringing her closer to the brink of ecstasy. She could feel him swell inside her, his grip on her hips tightening. "I want to cum" she begged, her voice a breathless whisper. "Please, y/n. I need it."

Her words seemed to be the trigger he was waiting for. He slammed into her, the force of his movements making the table shake beneath her. "Beg for it more," he ordered, his voice low and commanding. Chaewon's eyes rolled back in her head, and she let out a moan that was half pleasure, half desperation.

"I'm...I'm begging," she panted, her voice a ragged mess of need. "Please, y/n. Please make me cum." His strokes grew harder, more demanding, as he pushed her closer and closer to the edge. "I'm...I'm so close," she whispered, her voice trembling.

The sound of his hand slapping her ass filled the room, and she felt a new wave of pleasure crash over her. "More," she moaned, her voice needy and raw. "Harder, y/n. I need it." The pain was a sweet agony that only made the pleasure more intense, and she found herself pushing back into each slap, her body craving the release that she knew was just out of reach.

Her voice grew louder, more demanding, as she begged for her release. "Please, y/n," she whimpered. "Please, let me cum." The words were a plea, a desperate cry that seemed to echo in the air around them. She could feel his cock pulsing within her, the heat of his arousal matched by the fire in her own body.

y/n's hand moved from her clit to her throat, squeezing gently as he whispered in her ear. "You want it that badly?" His breath was hot against her neck, and she could feel his teeth grazing her skin. Chaewon's eyes fluttered closed, and she nodded, unable to form coherent words. "Beg," he demanded, his voice a dark caress that sent shivers down her spine.

"Please," she choked out, the word a strangled cry. "I'm begging for it. Please, let me cum." Each word was a prayer, a desperate plea for the release that she knew was just out of reach. His grip tightened on her throat, cutting off her air just enough to make her dizzy with need. "Now," he murmured, his voice a promise of what was to come.

And with that, he slammed into her one last time, the force of it sending her over the edge. Chaewon's body convulsed, her muscles clenching around his cock as she came hard, her orgasm tearing through her like lightning. She screamed, the sound muffled by the hand at her throat, as the world around her went white-hot with pleasure.

"Tell me this pussy belongs to," y/n ordered, his voice a harsh demand that cut through the haze of her climax. Chaewon's eyes snapped open, her vision swimming. She could feel him, so close to his own release, his body taut with tension.

Her voice was barely a whisper, but it was filled with a certainty that left no room for doubt. "It belongs to you," she said, her words a declaration of surrender and ownership. The power dynamics in the room had shifted again, and she was fully under his control.

y/n's eyes narrowed, his gaze dark and possessive. He could feel his own climax approaching, the heat building in his balls. "Mine," he growled, his grip on her throat tightening as he thrust into her one final time. With a roar, he came, filling her completely. Chaewon's body clenched around him, her orgasm spiking again with the intensity of his own.

For a moment, they remained there, their breathing ragged and their hearts pounding in unison. The room was silent, save for the sound of their bodies coming down from the peak of passion. It was a moment of pure connection, of understanding and acceptance of the raw desire that had taken them both over the edge.

Slowly, y/n pulled out of her, the absence of his cock leaving her feeling empty. He removed the plug from her ass with a gentle tug, and she shivered at the sudden coldness. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and her cheeks flushed. "What now?" she asked, her voice still shaking with the aftermath of her orgasm.

He smirked down at her, his eyes filled with a hunger that had yet to be satiated. "Now," he said, his voice low and filled with promise, "we do it again. And this time, I'll show you what it really means to belong to me."

With surprising strength, y/n picked Chaewon up, lifting her off the table. She squealed with a mix of excitement and trepidation, her legs wrapping around his waist. He carried her through the apartment and into the living room, the journey feeling like an eternity as the anticipation built. He sat down on the couch, holding her in place with ease, and she could feel his cock still hard against her ass. "Ride me properly," he ordered, and she knew she had no choice but to comply.

Chaewon straddled him, her pussy slick with their combined juices. She positioned herself over his cock, the tip pressing against her entrance. Looking into his eyes, she felt a sense of empowerment as she lowered herself onto him. He was hers to control now, and she was eager to show him what she could do.

"Remember," y/n said, his voice a low growl, "you don't cum without my permission and u will count how many times u cum." Chaewon bit her lip, the challenge in his words sending a thrill through her. She nodded, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She began to move her hips in a slow, sensual circle, her pussy squeezing him tightly with each rotation.

"I wanna cum y/n, can I?" she asked, her voice a sweet whine that was almost a moan. She watched his reaction closely, her heart racing with anticipation.

y/n's eyes gleamed with dark satisfaction. "No," he said, his voice a low, firm command. "Not yet." Chaewon's eyes widened, but she didn't protest. Instead, she leaned forward, her breasts brushing against his chest, and began to move her hips faster. She knew the game they were playing, the delicious dance of control and submission that had come to define their night.

Her pussy was a tight, wet glove around his cock, her inner walls clenching with each movement. The sound of their bodies slapping together was almost as arousing as the sensation of his cock sliding in and out of her. Chaewon could feel the pressure building again, the beginnings of another orgasm coiling in her stomach like a spring.

"Cum for me," y/n ordered, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down her spine. Chaewon's eyes widened with surprise at the sudden command, but she found she couldn't resist the urge to obey. She leaned back, her hands planted on his chest for balance as she rode him with renewed vigor. Her breasts bounced with each bounce of her hips, the nipple clamps adding an extra pinch of pain with each movement.

Her breathing grew ragged as the pressure inside her built. "Ahh...ahh...ahh...yes!" she panted, her voice rising in pitch. "I'm gonna...I'm gonna..." And with that, she squirted, the warmth of her release flooding over his cock and down her thighs. The sensation was like nothing she had ever felt before, a powerful explosion of pleasure that seemed to radiate from her core.

y/n watched with a mix of amazement and hunger as Chaewon's body convulsed around him. "One," she gasped, her eyes squeezed shut tightly as she felt the first wave of her orgasm wash over her. Her pussy clamped down around him, her muscles contracting in a way that was almost painful. But she didn't care. All she knew was that she needed more.

"Again," he ordered, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to resonate through her entire being. Chaewon nodded, her eyes snapping open to meet his. She began to bounce on his cock, her movements growing more erratic as she chased the high of another climax. Each time she felt herself getting close, she would slow down, teasing herself and him.

"Can I cum?" she asked, her voice a desperate whine. y/n's eyes narrowed, his hand moving to her clit. "Not yet," he said, his thumb pressing down on the sensitive nub. "Keep riding me." Chaewon's breath hitched, the anticipation of his permission making the need to cum even more intense.

Her hips rolled in a sinuous dance, her breasts bobbing with each movement. She felt his cock swell inside her, knew that he was close as well. "Please," she begged, her voice a needy whine. "I need to cum again."

y/n's hand moved to her throat, his grip firm but not painful. "Two," he murmured, his thumb moving in slow, deliberate circles around her clit. Chaewon's body responded immediately, her pussy spasming around his cock as a second orgasm ripped through her. "Good girl," he praised, the words sending a fresh wave of arousal through her.

The hand on her throat tightened slightly, cutting off her air. "Beg for it," he demanded, his eyes never leaving hers. Chaewon's chest heaved, her breath coming in short gasps. "Please, y/n," she moaned, her voice thick with desire. "Let me cum again."

The room was filled with the sound of their breathing, the wet slapping of their bodies. She could feel the tension building once more, the pressure in her stomach growing with each second that passed. "Now," y/n said, his voice a dark command.

With a scream, Chaewon came again, her body bucking wildly as she lost control. "Three," she managed to choke out, her voice a ragged whisper. y/n's grip on her throat loosened, allowing her to breathe again. She felt him tense beneath her, his cock swelling even more.

"Take it all," he grunted, his hips thrusting up to meet hers. Chaewon's eyes rolled back in her head, her pussy clenching around him as she felt the warmth of his cum fill her. The sensation sent her over the edge again, a fourth orgasm crashing over her like a tidal wave. "Four," she murmured, her voice barely audible.

They sat there for a moment, both panting and trembling with the aftermath of their shared pleasure. y/n's cock remained buried inside her, his semen leaking out around the base. Chaewon felt utterly claimed, utterly owned by this person she had once considered just a friend.

Their eyes met again, and she knew that she would never be the same after this night. The power exchange had changed her in ways she couldn't begin to understand. But for now, all she knew was that she was his, and she had never felt more alive.

With a grin that was almost feral, y/n leaned in and kissed her, his tongue claiming her mouth as his cock had claimed her pussy. "You're mine," he murmured against her lips, and she couldn't help but agree. "Forever," she whispered back, her voice filled with a mix of awe and desire.

The game of Uno had led them to this moment, a moment where the lines between friendship and dominance had been blurred beyond recognition. Chaewon knew that she would never be able to look at a simple card game the same way again. But she also knew that she didn't want to. This was a part of her now, a part of her she had discovered with y/n.

As they broke apart, panting for breath, she looked into his eyes and saw the same realization reflected there. They had stumbled into a new chapter of their lives, and she had a feeling it would be one filled with passion, pain, and pleasure beyond her wildest dreams. And she was ready for every moment of it.

But the night wasn't over yet. With a wicked grin, y/n reached for the bowl of toys they had used earlier. Chaewon's eyes widened as she watched him pick out a large dildo. Her body was already so sensitive, so swollen and stretched from his cock and the plug, but she didn't protest. She was his to do with as he wished.

He gently removed the plug from her ass, and she felt the coolness of the room rush in to greet her. Then, with a slick of lube, he began to push the dildo in. It was much larger than the plug, and she gasped as it filled her completely, the length of it reaching deep inside her. She could feel herself stretching around it, the sensation so intense it was almost painful.

He didn't stop there. With a flick of his wrist, he inserted a vibrator into her pussy, the buzzing starting at a low hum that grew more intense with each passing moment. She was already so close to the edge again, and she knew she couldn't hold on for much longer. "I'm gonna...I'm gonna..." she panted, her body shaking with need.

But before she could finish her sentence, she felt the darkness closing in around her. Chaewon's eyes rolled back in her head, and she passed out from the overwhelming pleasure. Her body went limp, but y/n didn't stop. He turned up the vibrator, watching as her body responded even in unconsciousness.

For twelve hours, she squirted and convulsed on the couch, her pussy clenching around the vibrator as it brought her to one orgasm after another. The smell of sex and sweat filled the air, mingling with the faint hum of the vibrator. It was a symphony of pleasure that played out across her unconscious mind, a testament to their newfound bond.

When she finally came to, she was lying in a pool of her own fluids, the dildo still in her ass and the vibrator buzzing away in her pussy. y/n was sitting beside her, watching her with a look of pride and possessiveness. "Welcome back," he murmured, his voice a gentle caress in the quiet of the early morning.

Chaewon blinked, trying to focus on his face. "What...what happened?" she managed to croak out.

"You passed out," he said, his smirk never wavering. "But that didn't stop me from having my fun."

Her cheeks burned with a mix of embarrassment and arousal. She had never experienced anything like this before, and the thought of being used so completely was both terrifying and incredibly thrilling.

"Do you want me to take them out?" he asked, his eyes on the toys still embedded in her body. Chaewon's gaze darted down to where the dildo and vibrator lay, her body still quivering slightly from the aftershocks of her marathon orgasm.

With a shaky nod, she whispered, "Yes, please."

y/n leaned in, his hand moving to the base of the dildo. With a slow, deliberate motion, he began to pull it out, the sensation of being filled and then empty sending fresh waves of pleasure through her. As the last inch disappeared, she felt a gush of wetness, her body still responding even now.

He turned off the vibrator and removed it gently, placing both toys aside. Then, with the tender touch of a lover, he pulled her into his arms, holding her close as she trembled with the aftermath of what had happened. "You're mine," he murmured into her hair. "Mine to use, mine to protect, and mine to love."

Chaewon couldn't argue with that. As she curled into his embrace, she knew that she had found a part of herself that she had never known existed. And she was ready to explore it further, with y/n by her side.

Their friendship had transformed into something darker, something more primal and raw. And as the dawn broke outside, casting a soft light across their tangled forms, she knew that she would never want to go back to the way things were before.

[ilium-ilia]

ichor tongue; salted wounds

simon ghost riley x fem!reader | warlord x servant | masterlist

Chapter Two: mouse

tw: non-con groping, dub-con, nudity, bathing, mouth kink, minor spit play

You stare at your palms the entire way to the bath house. 

Indentations still plague your skin, nettling deep into the thick tissue where it saves the memory of the brush you clutched in your hands. Sturdy wood and bristles thick enough to shed long rotting skin. You attempt to recall the last time someone had ever got your hands to curl, either out of indignation or panic, yet nothing comes to mind; not much phases you these days.

Ghost is sure to change this, you think. The tips of his toes nip at your heels as you lead him through the palace, and you’re certain you feel his breath huffing on the back of your neck. He looms. Lowering clouds kissing the horizon, promising a flood, promising lightning and destruction. You’d feel the wrath of the sky if it wasn’t for the fact that it’s already fallen upon your city. You see it in the changing of banners in the corridors; pristine white and silver cloth like wispy clouds are now replaced with red and gold, and an unfamiliar crest—the symbol of barbarians, of your new leaders. The storm has come and passed, and you’re wading through the aftermath. Through the lingering destruction that lies at your feet.

There is a detached bath house that lies away from the palace, past the garden and just before a steep trail that leads down to a placid cove. The building winks in your periphery as it stands outside the windows while your feet carry you further down the corridor. It is one that’s saved for servants and soldiers. Anyone expendable. Anyone deemed not important. Communal, and with a single pool, it’s a great source of socialization where people sit among the curved stone, lathering each other’s backs, or diving into the depths of the water. 

It is a place free from prying eyes. Free from judgement of the superiors, of the aristocrats, of the kings one step below the gods themselves. 

Once, you attempted to use the same water as the others when rain had punished your city for a near week straight. Voices echoing off of the stone walls, wet skin glistening in the shrouded sunlight, they all fell silent the moment you entered. They questioned what you were doing there knowing full well you could not answer, only point in the water that they shared with one another, but refused to share with you. 

I’d rather share water with a pig. 

Caenis. That was the name of the servant who spat at you, sneering at the way your feet uncomfortably tapped at the marble floor knowing there was nothing you could do to spit back. No one has ever been kind to you since you lost your tongue and your parents, but no one has been quite as cruel as her. Pristine skin left unmarred, laying with soldiers to get favors, living as an underground princess beneath Emperor Shepherd’s very nose, she always gets her way. 

But you do not take Ghost to the same place the servants bathe—to the very place where you were made a fool of—instead, you bring your new lord to the same chambers Emperor Shepherd used when he still drew breath. Private. Quiet. Held with the decorum expected to be given to a ruler.

It is a small room adorned with stone nestled far back in the palace, well away from foot traffic and echoing conversations. A round hole cuts deep into the floor with stairs to lead to the bottom, and a lipped ridge to sit on. It reaches deep enough to kiss your hips, and is wide enough for you to stretch your arms, but not much more. Private. Not meant for sharing. A hand lever pump that joins directly to the aquifer stands towards the back of the room, waiting to fill the carved tub to the brim. Grandiose, this bath is one of the single greatest wastes of drinking water, second only to the ever flowing fountains that peasants sneak sips out of when soldiers aren’t looking. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost murmurs. Stepping around you, he marches to the side of the tub, curiously eyeing the craftsmanship. Engraved in the stone are various creatures of the sea. Clams, gulls, schools of fish and animals from ancient stories—krakens, ship eating squids, merpeople luring unsuspecting men to shore. “All this artistry for a man who starved his people.”

Now, it’ll be wasted on you. A wretched and unkind way to think, but it springs to mind. The blood that taints his skin. The scrapes on his arms. How many civilians did he cut down for this one spoil? For a bath soiled by another wretched man? 

Ghost looks to you as if expecting an answer, but you instead direct him to a wooden table against the wall behind him that holds all of Emperor Shepherd’s old oils and soaps. There are countless ones with various scents, consistencies, and medicinal effects crafted by the best artisans. He only scoffs at them. 

“Need me clean and smellin’ like a pansy?” he grumbles. 

Still, he offers you reprieve in distracting himself as you work on filling the tub. Ensuring that the metal plug is in place, you begin to pump water from the spigot, allowing it to gush and wet the stone at your feet. You are grateful it is not designed like a regular pump. It flows long after you’ve stopped working it, water still gushing from the pressure, spilling and babbling as if it were a waterfall. What should take you hundreds of pumps only takes you fifty before it’s full enough to bathe in. 

Not bothering to wait for your direction, Ghost removes his chiton with a stiff grunt while his shoulders pop. Now that you no longer look at him in terror, you take note of all the wounds he’s gathered from the battle. There’s nothing of importance. Nothing that would take his life now or later when the wound goes bad and rotten. He shamelessly struts before you, flaccid cock swinging between his legs, broad shoulders swaying and knees groaning as he steps into the water, hissing at the way the frigidness kisses his skin, smoothing over each injury. 

When you realize he hasn’t pointed out a preferred soap, you squeeze your eyes shut and breathe out your frustration before approaching the table yourself. Lavender. Lemongrass. Mint. Yes, mint will do. You grab the bar before you kneel at the ledge of the pool just next to Ghost, hands dipping in the water and lathering it as best as you can. 

“I don’t think you’ll be able to clean me from there,” Ghost deadpans. Pausing, you turn your attention to him. His elbows are on the ledge, head tilting to the side to look at you. “I’m a big boy.” As if to prove his point, he stretches his legs just as he rolls his hips. You try not to let the distorted image of his cock through the water distract you. “Gonna be hard to reach all of me if you’re sittin’ pretty by that ledge.” 

You freeze. Prey caught in the sights of a predator. If he wanted to, Ghost could gralloch you right here with his bare hands—nails digging through your navel, splitting you open, turning his bathwater pink. You clutch the bar of soap so tightly it nearly slips from your hands, and you opt to hold it against your stomach instead. 

“C’mon then,” he urges, not impatient but rather intrigued. “In the water, little bird.” 

Knowing better than to deny a powerful man his whims, you stand to your feet and pitifully trudge to the stairs. Ghost watches you like a vulture licks its beak over carrion, waiting to peck and tear flesh—to devour something rotten and whole. But you are a defiant creature to an extent. With no tongue to sing with, you hold onto what little power you have left. You do not shed your chiton before descending the stairs, cotton turning wispy in the algid water, hugging your body tight and tangling around your shins as you wade towards your relaxed warlord. The cold has your nipples hardening through the cloth, but you pay them no attention as you keep your chin high and your lips tight. 

He’s chuckling by the time you’re standing in front of him. Thick fingers tap against the stone at his back as he watches you wordlessly begin to wash him up. You start with his hands. His knuckles are split like grapes that are too ripe, but he doesn’t hiss at the sting. Meaty palms nearly devour your own hands, fingers and all, and you try not to pay too much attention to the way he seems to linger against you as you swipe the grime out from beneath his fingernails. 

Tendons pull taught in his forearms once you begin moving up. There are countless scars to trace. Deep ones that deform his skin, to lighter, silvery ones. Your knees knock against the sitting stone as you lean forward, reaching further along him, body bending at your hips. 

“D’ya always make things so difficult for yourself?” Ghost questions. Pausing, you look at his face for further explanation, brows nearly furrowing, but he seems to be waiting for something. On someone. For you. When you don’t respond, he sighs—then, he grabs. Hands slicing through the water, fingers digging into your hips, he pulls you towards him until your legs are spread wide around his thighs, rump resting in his lap. You gasp at the sudden movement, and a smirk pulls at his scarred lips. “Better?” 

Mind still spinning from the sudden movement, you attempt to distract yourself with your task only to realize that the soap has slipped from your hands. It floats along the surface, half buoyant and ready to sink, drifting further from your reach. You point at it, finger trembling too viciously to truly follow, but Ghost grabs your face. Thumb and forefinger digging into your cheeks, he turns your head towards him before releasing you. 

“I don’t care ‘bout the soap, little bird,” he says. His fingers drift from your face, down your neck, and to your collarbones. You pray to the gods that he cannot feel the way your heart thunders in your body. “Don’t care ‘bout the bath either. Just wanna hear you sing.” 

Dipping between your breasts, his hands grab your chiton and then pull. Thread yanks apart, linen ripping down your sternum, bosom on full display as the remaining tatters slip down your arms. Another gasp from you has him humming with pride as you look down at yourself, hardened nipples dancing with each shuddering breath you exhale. No one has ever exposed you like this—so scandalously on display before your lord like a whore.

“This is what you wanted, yeah?” Ghosts questions. His hands are on your chest now, palms cupping both your breasts, swallowing them whole with the ever growing cavern in his eyes until he drifts up to view your befuddled face. Despite the water, he’s warm. Too warm. Sweltering against your skin, the mixture of hot and cold threatens to undo you. “Or are you really expectin’ me to believe that a pretty thing like you would waltz into my room to serve me so willingly? Watched me conquer your city, now you want me to do the same to you, is that it? C’mon, pretty bird. Sing.” 

Ghost pinches you where you are soft and tender. The ripening bud of your nipple screams as he squeezes it between his finger and thumb, and it’s as if the sky is angry. Billowing clouds. Cracks of thunder and lightning rippling throughout your body. Your mouth opens enough for a squeak just as your body jolts, and he relents. Pauses. Eyes darkening, head tilting—Ghost looks at you with a fading smile and pursing brows. 

Then, he demands; “Open your mouth.”

The softest part of you. Ripe flesh around a peach pit. Teeth like brittle sand dollars waiting to crumble. You obey. You always do.

Lips parting just enough to open, Ghost hooks his thumb into your mouth without warning where he finds purchase behind your bottom teeth, then pulls. Jaw wide open, you stare at him as he peers into your mouth, and you note when he sees it. You. How you were marred beyond recognition. Humming, his thumb dips lower into the space that would harbor the soft tissue beneath your tongue if it were still here. A phantom tells you that you feel it; him. Prodding beneath the wet muscle. A bitter memory of what you once had. 

“I see.” He fits two fingers into your mouth and rides them along the ridges of your teeth. You feel him count each one. He presses against the edge. Each point. Enough for your jaw to ache. Nearly enough to draw blood. “You’re no bird. You’re a little mouse, yeah?” 

Soft palate now. Dragging forward. Hard palate. Incisors. Then, cheek. Hook and drag, saliva gathering on the tips of his fingers, running over the smooth skin and the indentations left from your teeth. 

“I’d ask who did this, but I have a feelin’ I already know. It was that bastard Shepherd, yeah?” Ghost questions with a hum. With his fingers still in your mouth, you nod. “Dirty cunt. This isn’t fresh either.”

He pushes further towards the back of your throat where the mangled remnants of your tongue lie. A branch cut too short on a tree, too much scar tissue and no reach. The nub pushes against the back of your throat as you swallow, skin melting beneath Ghost’s gaze. 

This is the most bare you’ve ever been in front of someone. Breasts spilling from ripped cotton, mouth open, lips wrapping around a stranger’s fingers as he pokes and prods at your greatest source of shame—of the hellfire and scorn wrought upon you that still lingers as embers and the smouldering remains of your past. 

Eventually, Ghost retrieves his fingers from your mouth, pulling them out slow and steady, prodding at your front teeth before his own lips part. Then, they’re in his mouth. Tongue lapping at your saliva, humming content at the flavor you can no longer taste—a sapor long forgotten. A shaky exhale fans across his face as you watch his eyes dilate. He has kind eyes, you think. A stark difference from the ruggedness strewn across his body, scars like mountains, bruises like valleys. They are soft. Warm like the rocks you sunbathe on after cleaning yourself with the brine of the ocean. Warm like the heated iron used to cauterize your tongue. 

“This city was bequeathed to me,” Ghost says, fingers popping free from his mouth before placing his hands on your hips. His thumbs wander. Rubbing, repetitive and soft against your waist, sending water singing around your bodies. “Everythin’ here belongs to me. Includin’ you.” 

Perhaps in another life his words would make your stomach churn, but the prospect of being owned by yet another ruler does not phase you. It’s something you require, now. Someone to take care of. Someone to serve. His words prompt you to nod, but his fingers squeeze against you and you freeze—a rabbit ensnared, a doe catching scent on the wind, a little girl kneeling before a man playing god. 

“But unlike Shepherd, I take care of my things. I don’t go destroyin’ things that could be easily fixed or corrected. And you—” Ghost pulls you closer, body dragging across his lap and chiton bleeding around you in the bath, forcing your hands to brace against his shoulders to steady yourself as water sloshes around you “—might just be my favorite possession yet.” 

For the first time you can recall, something besides fear or contempt swells in your chest. It is not pride, nor flattery, but something deeper. A beast with its maw opened wide, waiting to swallow something—but what? You? Unsure of what to do—here, in your city’s usurper's lap—you nod. You cannot name if it’s because you are saying you understand him, or if you’re agreeing with him. 

You tell yourself it’s the latter, but each beat of your heart strangely sounds like yes please, let me be something, anything more than this, something of importance, let me be useful, please let me mean something. 

Either way, Ghost chuckles before he taps your hips, legs stretching out behind you. The added buoyancy of the water allows him to move you easier, weightlessness taking over your body as if you’re caught in some sort of dream. 

“C’mon, little mouse,” he prompts. “No prized possession of mine will walk ‘round wearin’ rags like these. I like to rip through somethin’ of substance before I eat.”

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*full story is currently up for early access, updates will be posted every sunday night (may be a different day depending on time zones)

[kisses4themissus]

helloooooiooooooooo. Loveeeeeee the Robby fic so good. Your writing is amazing.

Now I have an idea (feel free to ignore) ya know Little Mix song Love Me Like You. Specifically the lyrics:

“I’m dealing with these bo-o-oys

When I really need a man”

Is soooooo Abbott or Robby Coded instantly. Though of them lol like no way anyone gonna love you better than them

Love Me Like You | M.R X Reader

a/n: tysm for requesting this!!

navigation | send me a love letter ୨ৎ

You sighed as you rested your forehead against the breakroom’s table; The cool surface cooling you off from the light sheen of sweat you earned from running around the ED.

Lifting your head up from the table, you could see from the small glass window all of the new med students running around, the older interns just snickered and attempted to guide them before giving them up to a resident.

A moment of silence was all you had asked for during your shift, not expecting to be the center of the new students attention.

As you placed your head back down you tensed up as the door opened and the sound of footsteps followed. Your eyes quickly recognized the new balances as the owner spoke up.

“Burnt out from those kids?” Robby asked, facing you as he poured himself another cup of coffee. 

You just laughed flatly, lifting your head up. “Ha…very much so, javadi swears she saw two of the boys push each other to follow me into a trauma..” You sighed, rubbing your forehead.

“You’re their leader now, what did walsh say during the mass casualty?” Robby sighed, thinking, his fingers tapping on his mug as he thought.

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown?” You questioned, a tiny grin growing on your face as robby lit up and snap his fingers, a matching smile on his face.

“That’s it, nice memory..” He chuckled before taking a sip of coffee.

You silently admired him for a moment, taking in each detail, from the hair that curled around his ears to the small but bright freckles on his cheeks, you had been zoned out but was brought out of it, jumping as one of the med students popped in, his eyes lighting up brightly as he found your own.

“Um, excuse us dr. robby, but our–uh ladder injury guy’s CT came back..” The student spoke up, you just nodded and stretched your neck, trying to pop it.

“I’ll be right there...” You brushed the kid off before standing up, following the student out the breakroom and towards a free desktop to look at the results.

Robby smiled as he watched from the door as the kid hovered over your shoulder while you tiredly scrolled through the results. 

- - - - - - - -

Exiting the curtained room a wave of exhaustion hit you, covering your mouth as you began to yawn. You quickly pulled out your phone to check the time, your lock screen lit up, a photo of your dog displayed on your screen.

“Is that your dog doctor?” One of the med students asked you, a smile on her face.

You smiled at her and nodded, turning the screen to her. 

“You have a dog?” One of the students, mason asked.

You sighed and attempted to hide your annoyance at the former frat boy. “Yep, he’s like my child.” You gave him a tight smile.

“I have a golden lab, we should set up a possible play date for them sometime no?” He asked, a cocky grin on his face.

You couldn’t stop a scoff from coming out, your laughter quickly followed, “Cooper isn’t too social, he got surgery recently and can’t do playdates, sorry.” You sighed, the other student just grinned into her hand as you brushed pass mason, walking towards central.

“Damn, you and your dog just got rejected..” Kaitlyn, the other student laughed at mason.

“Oh be quiet, i known girls like her, dated tons of them. They act not interested then as i “supposedly” lose attraction she’ll come to me!” He scoffed, looking at kaitlyn as if she was dumb.

Santos snorted at his logic, peering over at him, making it known she had heard the whole thing.

“Or you’re maybe just a jackass who doesn’t take no?” Trinity shrugged before grabbed her stethoscope from the desk, rushing as a trauma entered.

“I’m not an jackass..” Mason muttered under his breath.

“No but you got a good ass on you, turn to the side for me handsome..” Myrna whistled at him, making mason jump and quickly excuse himself before he got left with myrna alone.

Entering a trauma room, mason noticed you off the side, watching as robby cleaned up the intubated trauma’s mouth of secretions, as robby reached over to get more wiggle room, mason caught sight of a chain, a plain metal band sat beside another, a star of david on the other.

Mason kept quiet, making note to ask whitaker about it later.

- - - - - - - -

“Tell me i’m amazing!” You told robby as you approached him, your hands in your scrub pockets.

“Now what did you do?” Robby questioned, his eyes narrowing playfully.

“Got ICU to take three patients upstairs!” You smiled, bouncing around, making robby watch with a smile.

“Alright, you’re amazing..” Robby chuckled, running his hand over your lower back. From a distance, mason made a look which earned whitaker’s attention.

“I wonder how his wife feels about that..” Mason scoffed, dennis looked to the student, moving his eyes away from the chart in front of them.

“Who’s wife?” Whitaker asked, looking around for anything unusual.

“Dr. Robby’s wife, he seems oddly close with her..” Mason nodded in your and robby’s direction. Dennis looked over to see you and robby at central, robby watching you with a smile as dana handed over your energy drink, his hand still on your back.

“I think she’s fine with it..” Whitaker shrugged, not seeing anything wrong.

“Just seems odd to me..” Mason shrugged, walking away from whitaker who now sat at a desk confused.

Thankfully for the rest of your shift you had managed to hide away from the med students, as you collected your things from your locker you let out a yawn.

You shuffled your way out of the ED with the other day shift.

Making your way to the park, you all found empty benches, you looked around and sighed, not seeing robby nearby, you assumed he must’ve gotten caught up with jack on each patient.

Perlah handed you a cool water from donnie’s bag, you smiled and thanked her as you sat down on the wooden bench, opening the water.

“I need a warm bath and a whole bottle of wine right now..” You announced, slouching into the bench, exhaustion hitting you.

“That sounds nice..” Samira hummed in agreement with you as she sipped a beer donnie had handed her. “How’s cooper doing?” She asked, making you smile.

“He’s recovering, he loves how we’ve been spoiling him..” You chuckled, mindlessly you scratched your neck and pulled out your necklace from under your scrubs, on a dainty chain sat your wedding ring.

“He deserves it, he’s just a poor baby!” Samira cooed as you showed her photos of your dog.

Mason and the other interns walked over to the group and took a seat on the benches as the others began asking about their day.

As mason tuned out everyone, he noticed as you lit up at the sight of robby.

“I hate to leave you all so soon but i need to go see my cooper!” You announced, standing up from the bench, grabbing your bag.

Robby smiled and waved to the others, before leaving robby turned to mason, an off look in his eyes as he stared the frat boy down. “Get some sleep dr. mason, something tells me tomorrow’s gonna be tough.” Robby’s words make you snort, gently elbowing his side.

Robby just smiled at you and let his hand drift down to your back as you both walked to the car.

“Is no one concerned for dr robby’s wife?” Mason asked, making the others looked at him confused.

“What do you mean?” Samira asked, looking back at where robby’s truck pulled out of the parking lot. “Dr robby seems a little too close to his fellow attending, if i was married i would not be holding my attendings back or driving her home if she gave me those love filled eyes..” Mason scoffed, his words making everyone start to laugh.

“Oh my god, you still haven’t gotten it have you!?” Santos asked, her laugher booming as whitaker just chuckled and looked around.

“Get what?” 

“She’s dr. robby’s wife, they’ve been married for four years now dude..” Princess explained, laughing a bit.

Mason’s face dropped; now understanding he had spent most of his week and day flirting with his attending’s wife.

- - - - - - - -

You yawned as robby drove on the freeway.

“So that mason kid..” Robby spoke up, making you laugh.

“Jealous I got a young lover waiting at the door?” You teased, robby just shook his head, a small smile on his face. “Besides after tomorrow i’m sure he won’t even step a foot near me.” You both laughed.

You both sat in comfortable silence for the drive, growing sleep you had popped up from your seat and turned the radio on.

A laugh escaped robby’s mouth as the radio lyrics filled the tiny space.

You smiled at him and began to sing, occasionally brushing your hand over robby’s beard.

“When i really need a man, that can do it like I can!” You sang, leaning over the console to place kisses robby’s bearded cheek. “But you got that nasty, and that’s what i want!” You finished, making robby just chuckle, his cheeks turning a bright red as he shyly glanced over at you.

“You really don’t want a young guy?” Robby asked, his eyes softening at you.

You shook your head and held his unoccupied hand. “I prefer the active suicide risk type over former frat boys..” 

Robby just chuckled and kissed the back of your hand as little mix played in the background.

[trh0d3s]

Manager in the making!

Part1! After the prologue 😈

Saja boys x human manager reader

The morning light floods the living room waking you up from a good ass dream you were having… it was definitely not world domination via conquering the agency and kicking bobmagatron 2000 the man child in the face! No…Definitely not...

The regrets of last night’s fridge raid hitting your stomach and your wallet.

You sit up on your couch kicking a half empty can of soda that was dangerously close to your foot onto the floor.…on your phone! “ah shit-“Cursing more awake than ever you throw your blanket on the wet spot trying dry up where it got on your phone. This happened once but with grape juice and you missed a call from an employer which ended up getting you fired and passing your opportunity to someone else. Picking up the precious object with your poor blanket checking over it before turning it on. A sigh of relief it still works! Ok, maybe it’s still broken cause that can’t be a reply to one of your ads…?

You walk to the kitchen in your one-bedroom apartment eyes glued to the screen in both shock and horror mindlessly bumping into the chairs and small dining table to make it to the coffee maker. It was from craigslist…the one you hesitating to put up, you heard the stories from there and REALY don’t want to manage some kink or underground drug ring...

It’s all you got right now so if it’s something weird just turn tail and run! Maybe report to the police too if it’s the drug ring route. You punch in the buttons for the coffee to start brewing not too keen on drinking 2-day old coffee you left on a hurry to a company meet and greet.

Fromk:Xx//Demonboy//xx@gmal.com

To:._____________@gmal.com

Subject: We need a manager

We have looked at your skills and are willing to pay a set price of your choosing for your skills to manage our start up boy band.

The mug misses your mouth reading through the email. Boy band? Was expecting something off from craigslist also what is up with that email? I know I was 13 once but as a professional email…?

This boy band consists of 5 members you won’t need to worry about money whatever you need or want will be given to you. If you agree meet us at this location/_________/ at 12pm.

Very vague and mysterious… that place is only a couple blocks down, a small square with various food stands around. Popular spot for weekends and popups. ”Weird…bit at least its public” You mumble mid sip at your coffee, looking at the time 11.:40…OK YOU WILL QUESTION THIS LATER. Dumping your drink in the sink you rush to your room to get dressed something professional casual for a good first impression. This might be potential kidnapping but if the off chance it isn’t you have to be ready to wow to dazzle and get that bank! Cleaning up your living room will be held off for later, you shove your feet into your shoes grabbing you keys and phone. This might be your chance! (What do you think of that L this is my perfect victory-! I mean who said that!?)

The walk to small square was short but loud everyone was buzzing about the new single that dropped last night. Thought the girls were supposed to go on break before the idol’s awards? Guess if you love your craft every break is too long.  Screens showing the countdown passed you, people huddling together on their phone staring at the screen with mumbles and squeals of excitement.  

Ok what would a group of boy band wannabes look like? Dressed to the nines or playing it lowkey? You pass a empty alley that branched off to only one shop the smell of earth and herbs making its way to where you were. Weird I don’t see a group of 5 waiting for me? Can’t expect them to hold a sign to pinpoint where they though...

“If this is a scam and someone is playing with me, I’m punching someone” Mumbled under your breath scanning the crowd, is it me or wasn’t there light behind me? I look off my phone in front of me what used to be the sun was blocked off by a wall...? “What the…he-Ack“ You were pulled into the same empty alley you passed with a yelp two hands tugging you in by the shoulders. A slender finger twirls you into a dip the two hands prior long gone you were going to fall but it was misdirected to…. this?!

You open your eyes to a jaw dropping sight a clear face looking down at you with no expression before pulling you back up your feet with a smirk. Like he was playing with you, amusement to your reactions shown on his face. Grabbing your bearings against the stone wall beside you the wall that was blocking the sun was actually....5 HOT MEN?!

Maybe you weren’t being lied to and craigslist decided to bless you with something not weird and dangerous! Your awestruck staring was cut off by what looked to be the leader stepping forward. “Your _____ right? Accepted my proposal as manager?” His voice was smooth and fluid like liquid like he was nudging you into the direction he wanted.

“Ah yes that’s me! Are you…” You look back to your phone to read out his email receipt. “xxDemon boy xx?...” Voice unsure to even be saying that aloud. He coughs into his fist slightly embarrassed as the rest of his group look at him in pure bewilderment or is it something else? The baby faced one of the group was just dead-on staring at him.

“yes… That’s me. But forget that my names Jinu” He cuts into the silence before addressing the boys behind him like they rehearsed this. “Abbey” At his name the man with short pink hair and very much not fitting shirt stepped forward striking a pose…How is he that big did he eat the other idols in training?  His shirt looked like it was about to break at the seams if he strikes another pose. Your eyes make their way down his form honing in on the 8 pack he’s showing off with zero shame.

Someone else stepped in front of him big heart shaped pink hair striking a pose before blowing a kiss in your direction. “Romance” Jinus voice behind you placing a hand on your shoulder momentarily distracting you as a blue hair enters your vision staring you down with a cool nonchalant look. “Baby” Ok little on the nose with these names…he just gives you a nod eyes set on a bored expression brushing his blue hair out of his eyes. “and that’s mystery” Jinu turns your attention to the last one in the group grey hair in his face covering his eyes but it felt like he was staring into your soul…

Was he growling or is that you thinking crazy with these majestic men around you? Jinu spins you around to face him as abbey holds mystery back from baring his teeth. “We are the Saja boys” This boy strikes his own pose before straightening up smoothing his shirt over. “And you will be our manager, yes?”

You can’t help but blink at them before going into professional mode, turning a complete 360, you can see the potential now. You are going to skyrocket these men!  “What type of boy band are you? What music are you aiming for? Synthpop, dance rock, artpunk? Y'all do seem the type for bubblegum pop.” You start shooting out different genres of music found in Kop in rapid fire. It surprises them how fast you can switch into the manager persona your destined to be. You start walking around the boys, analyzing them, stopping in front of mystery to stare at the mass of hair where his eyes are supposed to be, before moving on with a hum of approval.

Before Jinu can reply you raise a hand shutting him up already making the loop around the 5 freakishly tall and handsome men.  “I can work with this. Ok, I accept your offer I will be your manager” you say triumphally arms crossing over your chest with a proud grin on your face. This is your big break! Nothing will stop you from getting this boyband into top five! Bob won’t see what’s coming! Mischievous giggling erupts from you as you plot silently in your mind the proud grin turning smug.

“Really? You can’t take it back now you know” Jinu voices from beyond your plotting pulling up a paper from somewhere behind his back for you to sign you don’t think too much of it. Not batting an eye at the way it shimmered or seem to come from nowhere too lost in the fantasy of recognition from the agency that failed, you sign it on the dotted line.

“We want to debut tomorrow” Ok, that snaps you out of your daydreams the contract long gone.

“Tomorrow?!” You cough out face molding into to shock the boys could only smile at your thoughtlessness. You ran in headfirst at the first opportunity given to you common for humans, and they know that.

“Yea tomorrow or can our wonderful manager not do it?” Abby butts in, smugness lacing his words as he stepped forward pulling the arms crossed behind his head move. Was he trying to intimidate you with his muscles?

“Can’t be too hard for you right? Oh, amazing manager” This time it was baby that stole your attention eyes lidded with that same grin everyone was sporting, eyes no longer bored but focused directly on you. He leaned on mystery who continued to stare into your existence with a blank face that slowly turned into that same fucking smile!

You’re probably going to regret this in the long haul. Who fucking cares you’re going to live your dream! You’re going to make them the next face of Korea. No, the entire world!

You look at your phone to check the time before nodding and thinking, “I can work with 24 hours, give or take.” Yeah, nothing is going to stop this manager in the making!

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Extra: :9

[tojisteddy]

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick Headcanons

now playing: Cashmere Tears by Kojey Radical

Such a quiet soul and he’s been that way his whole life. No, not an introvert (a high functioning omnivert if anything), when he doesn’t have anything to say he simply doesn’t say anything. He’s still polite though, greeting everyone in the room, making small talk with his mates. But if that’s it, thats it. He doesn’t try to fill silence. Deals with his trauma by constantly journaling, even in the midnight hours, it’s habitual for him. The type to quietly cave into themselves unfortunately, thinks a little too much. From a big family. And I mean big. Over 25 first cousins, 8 aunts and uncles all on his mom’s side. His dad’s side is small & from the UK. Mums family is across the diaspora, he’s very family oriented. Always hanging out with his cousins when he’s back in town, from young to the ones who are older than him. It’s a family hangout at his mums once a month. Mama & Papas boy (complementary, never derogatory). Willing to give, always. Especially for a good cause. But to the point it’s a bad habit. Loves to hang out with his best friends (two being his cousin, Soap, and dragging Simon out with Soaps help). Loves a good drink, could get his bartender license if he really wanted to. He’s a bar hopping fanatic, loves going to different places and singing his heart out. He knows at least 60-70% of the people at the party/bar.

The type to randomly invite you to hang out with his assortment of hobbies, “wanna go do pottery?” “Have a football game this weekend, you wanna come?” “My cousins girlfriend is dj’in at this spot, wanna go?” “Think ‘m gonna take a train to Paris, wanna come?” “Goin hikin, wanna come baby?” Sure hes out a bit but he does like staying home sometimes, cooking up rice & beans with plantains or making homemade pasta. Such a romantic babe. Romance movies and action movies from the 90s that include romance are his favorite. The type to fall in love at first sight, but he doesn’t rush anything- no— he’s taking his time to bask in it. Let you fall in love with him too, even if it takes 6 months, 2 years— he’ll wait. The type to play the waiting game (Price taught him well). Just a gentleman, he wants to be soft with you. Flowers even though he may have to take an antihistamine, well thought out dates frequently and/or randomly, well thought out gifts (it may be a necklace to your favorite snack). A chick magnet but the type to clear things up easily. ‘Baby’ ‘sweetie’ ‘lovely’ ‘beautiful’ always falls from his lips all the time. Casually dominate, opening every door, holding your hand and guiding you, asking for consent over small things— he does it all.

listening to: Little Simz, Skepta, A Tribe Called Quest, SWV Rema, Wizkid, Brent Faiyaz, Tems, The Neptunes, Sade, Pink Floyd.

a/n: a request, but I just went all out. These are just my thoughts of him. I know this has been done before 🤷🏾‍♀️

[bucketbueckers]

RECKLESS DRIVING

CHAPTER ONE

content: language, light alcohol use, the line between a slow burn and a fast burn is incredibly thin and cam and paige brought a ruler to measure it, unbelievably messy

wc: 6.3k

notes: super excited to start writing this for y'all 🫶 this has been in my drafts since february and im so happy that everything is finally falling into place for it. i will probably go back to eventually add a playlist but i was feeling very uninspired on that front sooo 😕 just know reckless driving by lizzy mcalpine and vibes by chase atlantic are the two main songs for this fic. i don't have as much of this prewritten like i did irp and i go back to class on the 30th so i have no idea what updates r gonna look like 💔 pls be patient w me but i love chatting w y'all so don't hesitate to send an anon 🫶 if i missed anyone on the taglist lmk, i still dont know how it works LMAO but i hope you guys love camille as much as i do (and as much as y'all loved tess) and as always lmk what y'all think and enjoyyy 🙂‍↔️

tags: @cowboybueckers @indigo491 @wnba-scotland @volleyballgirlsblog

Camille has always loved draft night.

There’s something so bittersweet, yet so impossibly exciting about it. She attended her first one in 2019 to support her Stanford teammate, Alanna Smith, who was drafted 8th overall to the Mercury. Cam was a rising junior when she heard Alanna’s name be called, when she watched her walk to the stage and pose with the jersey, when she realized just how monumental it is.

Draft night is one of those things that creep up on you. It’s easy to think about how long it takes, to sit there while the teams “make” their selection, as if they didn’t already know whose name they would be calling. In fairness, it’s a lot of sitting and waiting and watching highlight tape and analysts discussing the same things in different fonts.

She has great size, a true beast in the paint, they’d say. Or variations of, Her shot is clinical. The ball is through the net before you can get a hand up to defend. She’s dangerous in transition. A menace on defense.

Camille, honestly, doesn’t pay attention to that part. She pays attention to the people. That’s always been her thing. When she watched Alanna get drafted, she noticed the way her shoulders sunk in barely concealed relief. She noted the order in which she hugged the people at her table, the way she closed her eyes and held onto them a little tighter.

It’s bittersweet to know that the draft may take you far away from these people – your friends, your family, the teammates and coaches that held you up when everything had seemed so impossible. But it’s exciting, to watch these girls wipe away their tears, to hold their chin up and march across the stage like it was something they were destined to do as soon as they picked up the ball for the first time.

Cam likes that part where it sinks in. When they realize they’d truly been drafted to one of the most competitive leagues in the country, when the smiles come quicker than the tears. It’s that strong feeling of pride that keeps her coming back to watch these girls lift their jerseys.

Cam might not know a lot of them. She didn’t know Jackie well, or Phee, or Tearia, or Arike – but she stood and cheered as if they were her own teammates. Whether it was a conscious realization or not, they’d all had the same dreams of playing professional basketball. Draft night was something that just took them one step closer to that goal.

The 2020 draft was streamed online, and there wasn’t anyone from Stanford that had been selected for it that year, but Cam hosted a small, intimate watch party with her teammates.

And the 2021 draft? That one was hers. Her table consisted of her parents, Antoine and Valerie, her older sister Colette, and Coach VanDerveer. Her teammates filled the seats in the back and when Cam was selected first overall to the Dallas Wings, the room had exploded into an applause so raucous that you’d think Cam just scored a game winner.

She doesn’t think she’s an explosive player by any means. She’s calm. Confident. Dangerously consistent, known more for the leadership and poise that she brings to the court. At 6’2, she’s most comfortable in a versatile point-forward role, and while her offense is amazing, her defense is even better. Cam was the unanimous pick for the 2021 Rookie of the Year, so she thinks she might be doing something right.

Cam still went to the drafts. She greeted the new rookies, congratulating them and welcoming them into the league in a far kinder way than the other vets would (she likes to think she was preparing them for all of the Griner screens they’d get hit by). She made a conscious effort to prioritize the Wings rookies, knowing first hand how daunting it can be to go from the college season to suddenly being thrown in with the big dogs. It was less about networking and more about genuinely trying to make the rookies feel like they belonged.

It might be the younger sister in her. She’d spent so much of her life looking up to Coley – literally and figuratively since Coley was both three inches taller than her and somehow the coolest person she knew. She’s always a little bit in awe of everyone she meets.

To Cam, to go from being the one who used to look up to others to now have people looking up to her – that means a lot. It’s a role she takes seriously, even though Arike teases her about becoming the frontman of the unofficial Dallas Wings welcome squad.

Her rookie contract expired at the end of the 2024 season, although the front office had her in discussions for an extension. Cam wasn’t completely sold on returning. With a vacancy in the GM position, the head coach position, as well as the fact that Cam did not know what direction they were going in during the free agency period – okay, Cam might be hating a little too much. Dallas was her home, but things weren’t looking great, and she had offers from Atlanta, Connecticut, Phoenix, and Las Vegas.

Then Dallas won the draft lottery, which meant they’d get the first pick. Which unofficially translated to getting Paige Bueckers, which meant under the right GM, the right coach, and some good free agency moves, the Wings – hypothetically – wouldn’t suck as much. Insert new GM Curt Miller, then head coach Chris Koclanes – Camille honestly could not wrap her head around the fact that Curt passed on Lisa fucking Leslie for a USC assistant coach, but she was willing to give him a shot.

They would draft Paige Bueckers. The new staff promised as much. Through trades, they were getting Ty Harris, NaLyssa Smith, and DiJonai Carrington, and they signed Myisha Hines-Allen out of free agency. Despite a promising offseason period, Cam was sure she had her decision as soon as the lottery results were official. She signs the contract extension – just a one year deal given the new league negotiations – and that’s how she finds herself repping the Wings at the 2025 WNBA Draft.

“Camille Roman, as I live and breathe,” Rickea coos dramatically, and Cam grins as she allows herself to get swept into the interview. “If I had a dollar for every tall, Stanford baddie named Cam I knew, I’d have two dollars, which isn’t a lot but it’s weird that it’s happened twice, right?”

Cam nods solemnly as Rickea holds the microphone out for her. “Nai would kill me if I didn’t mention it, but for the record, I would like to point out that we are bad and educated,” she says into the mic, making direct eye contact with the camera.

“I know that’s right,” Rickea hums approvingly, before a slick grin appears on her glossed lips. “Emphasis on bad. Tell me about your fit.”

“Well, I just saw Kiki Iriafen walk by, so I’m feeling a little underdressed,” she starts, which makes Rickea laugh. Cam peers down at her outfit, pinching the fabric of her black bomber jacket modestly, pulling the lapels to reveal a simple white crop top. She’s wearing a pair of baggy black cargos that hang low on her hips, revealing toned muscle from hours in the gym. “This fit is a Cam Roman original. Uh, jacket’s from…my closet. Crop top also from my closet.”

“Are the pants also from Cam’s closet?” Rickea asks sarcastically.

Cam grins proudly. “These are actually from Coley’s closet. I stole them when I watched her play the Rise on Thursday – shout out to the Orlando Valkyries, by the way.” Then, with mock sadness, she adds, “In another life I’m a libero.”

“Still no luck convincing your sister to pick up a basketball?”

“Coley is unfortunately married to volleyball,” Cam replies, much to Rickea’s amusement. “I’m working on it, though! I keep trying to tell her that a Roman frontcourt would be nasty but she’s just not seeing the vision.”

“Dozens of WNBA players across the country just breathed a sigh of relief,” Rickea narrates. “Centers, your jobs are safe.”

“For now,” Cam interrupts.

Rickea nods in agreement, an unserious frown on her lips. “For now.” The two of them share a brief laugh before Rickea straightens up, eyeing her next interviewee from her periphery. “Alright, Cam, one last question and I’ll let you get out of here. It’s hard to beat the 2024 draft class–” Cam narrows her eyes at Rickea, who flutters her eyelashes innocently, although the both of them grin, “–but what are your first impressions of the 2025 class? What do you see from them?”

“Oh, energy,” Cam answers immediately, not having to think too hard about it. Rickea nods, listening. “I think this is a class that will surprise many people and will form the core of a lot of teams. Everyone jokes about their first ‘welcome to the league’ moment from a vet but I wouldn’t be surprised to see any of these rookies getting scrappy and giving that energy right back.”

Rickea’s grin is a little mischievous as she asks, “Any rookie in particular who might give you a run for your money?”

Camille smiles innocently, knowing exactly what Rickea means by this question, but she plays coy. “If I do my job right, then the league should be very scared of my rookies.”

Rickea thanks her, giving her a quick hug before she greets Georgia Amoore. Cam wanders around the orange carpet for a brief minute to say hello to some of the other rookies – Saniya Rivers, Hailey van Lith, and even Kiki again, who makes a joke about Stanford baddies that Cam can’t help but laugh at.

Cam doesn’t see the one rookie she’d spent the better part of the night looking for, which doesn’t shock her. She’s sure that Paige is somewhere outside getting hounded by photographers and reporters. Making her way through the room in which the draft is being held, glancing minutely at the crowd assembled and the families located at the center, Cam finds the backstage area set up for rookies to do media in.

Camille greets the workers warmly, accepting a Dallas Wings hat from one of them, and fits it snugly over her head. She gets dragged into a few media segments, answering more or less different variations of the same questions – What are you most excited for this upcoming season? Can you comment on the offseason trades? She even gets asked a less than subtle, Paige Bueckers is projected to be the number one pick tonight. What elements of her game set her apart from the rest of her peers? Cam answers that one with a response she’s sure she hand-selected from the Communication 101: Mastering the Art of Dodging the Question textbook, but everyone moves on when the draft officially starts.

Cam watches from a television set up in the back. The camera pans across a few of the draftees – Paige Bueckers herself, then Dominique Malonga, then further back to the audience where the entirety of the UConn women’s basketball team sits with their phones raised and wide grins on their faces. The sight makes Cam crack a smile, too, reminding her of her own draft where her Stanford teammates filled the audience to support her.

The commissioner, Cathy Engelbert, leaves the stage to await the Wings’ first pick, which amuses Cam because she knew they knew who they were drafting as soon as the draft lottery results were announced. While she waits, her phone buzzes, distracting her from the analysts’ commentary, and she glances down to find the team group chat alive with commotion.

Rike: Thank you God!!! 🙏🙏🙏

Maddy: Arike 😭

Nai: where’s the rookie welcome party

Already knowing that DiJonai is referring to her, Cam rolls her eyes, but angles her body towards the television to snap a quick selfie of her, Wings hat pulled low over her brow and the analysts discussing Paige’s game mechanics in great detail. She sends the selfie in chat, fingers flying across the keyboard.

Cam: I can’t wait for us to draft 2025 Rookie of the Year Sonia Citron

Lyss: girl

Lyss: be so fucking for real

Nai: oh i am so sick of ur ass

Cam grins to herself, not having the time to respond back. She slides her phone into her pocket and refocuses on the television screen as the commissioner returns to the podium. A hush falls over the crowd. Cam knows who they’re drafting. Cam knows that she knows she’s being drafted. Despite that, she can’t help but feel a flicker of nerves coiling low in her belly. 

Draft night is always a monumental moment. One rookie can change the future of a franchise forever. Just a few syllables spoken into a microphone and a jersey held up for the entire world to see can change a rookie’s life in seconds.

Cam is anxious – it’s a simmering, bubbling excitement that makes her want to hit the gym as soon as the last pick is called. The idea of playing with such an elite player — the idea of playing with Paige — makes her almost giddy, and Cam knows that she isn’t the only one on the Wings who thinks that.

They’d never had much of an opportunity to meet outside of the rare occasion in which Paige showed up to a WNBA game, or the summer she showed up to All-Star weekend. Cam was drafted the spring before Paige’s sophomore year so they’d just barely missed each other collegiately.

But now, Paige is about to be drafted by Cam’s team. Cam isn’t stupid. She knows Paige is a once in a lifetime generational player. She’d go as far to say that she’s their missing piece. Between Paige, Arike, Cam, NaLyssa or DiJonai or Maddy, and Myisha or Teaira or Luisa, they compose a roster that, under the right leadership, could genuinely go so far. And as much as Cam wants to win, she would love to do it with these girls right here.

Cam isn’t anxious just because she can taste the beginning of something new. Something promising – something that might turn this franchise around for the better. The anxiety reminds her of how she’d felt when she was moments away from being called number one, too; when the Wings had thought she was their franchise piece. And, sure, they had some success under her, but there was always just something missing.

Cam was a leader. She was the glue, but as good as she was at keeping things together, she could only stretch so far. She was consistent – maybe devastatingly so.

The thing about entropy is that chaos has to increase or remain consistent. The thing about Camille is that she’s not chaos. The thing about Paige Bueckers is that Cam knows she’s probably the perfect amount of chaos that will simultaneously set the league ablaze, stabilize it all at once, and make things just dangerous enough to fill their mouths with the addicting taste of adrenaline.

That is terrifying because the one emotion that burns a little brighter than the anxiousness is a fierce protectiveness. Paige is made for this, for the league, for the noise, for everything. She’s grounded in her faith and her mentality. She’s probably the most league-ready rookie in the entire draft class and that’s what makes Cam so fearful – because Cam was once hailed as the most-league ready rookie, too, and trying to pretend that she was almost killed her. Cam has lived it. Learned it. Grew from it. And as much as she knows that Paige is capable and can handle herself, Cam also knows that the stakes are so much higher now.

She’s not a stranger to it – the feeling of everyone constantly wanting more from you. Praising you when you have amazing games, downplaying your talent when you have decent games (yet uplifting other players and calling them generational for putting up the same numbers), wondering if your team had scouted wrong or made a mistake when you have an off-game.

In the league, it’s difficult to discern what is real – or who is real – when everyone wants something a little different from you, if you’re truly trusting the right people, if you’re truly trusting yourself.

Cam doesn’t want Paige to get lost in that. Not in the way she had when she was a rookie. She doesn’t fully believe that she’s ready for this narrative because no one ever is. There’s no amount of prayer, or media training, or support that ever truly makes you ready for it.

Being on top of the world is complicated because it’s so easy to forget who you used to be before you clawed your way to the peak. Before your fingers bled and scabbed over from the calloused rocks. Before every bone in your body ached, not because of the constant exertion it takes to stay up here, but because of a sort of exhaustion that calcifies in between your tendons and ligaments and buries itself in the soft tissue between your joints.

Being great is hard. Being great and being true is even harder, and all Cam ever wanted was for someone to tell her that she didn’t have to dive into the deep end just to prove that she could swim.

So when Cathy finally says the words, “With the first pick in the 2025 WNBA Draft, the Dallas Wings select…Paige Bueckers, University of Connecticut,” there is only one thing that Cam knows for sure:

This season is going to change her life. That thought doesn’t scare her as much as it should.

In retrospect, maybe that thought should have scared her.

Cam likes to think of herself as sensible. Level-headed. She’s always the voice of reason on the court when one of her teammates gets a little too heated trying to argue a foul call with a ref. Cam enjoys a good time, but she’s not reckless. She knows better. Her parents were both Olympians – she had eyes on her long before she picked up a basketball and the attention only grew when both she and Coley started getting recognized for their proficiency at their respective sports.

That’s all to say she was responsible. She knew how to play the game, how to divert the media, and what she reasonably should not be doing so she didn’t draw any unnecessary attention to her or her family.

Now, she’s realizing there might be some flaw in her otherwise immaculate decision making, because everything just goes downhill after the draft.

Paige Bueckers, the rookie of the hour, makes her way backstage, Wings hat tucked pristinely over her head. Cam can’t help but soften at the sight, unmistakable pride swelling in her chest – Paige’s smile is tender, a little loose, but her eyes are wide and excited. She almost looks like a kid on a sugar rush and it’s an expression that Cam knows well. It’s that expression that makes flying out to the draft every year so worth it.

Cam takes in Paige’s draft fit with a raised brow. She’s wearing an all black suit that sparkles in the light, and she bites back a smile at the exposed skin at her chest. “Number one pick in the draft and you can’t afford a shirt?” she asks teasingly.

Paige huffs, sounding more like a breathless laugh, and her eyes sparkle. “NIL ain’t what it used to be,” she jokes.

Cam laughs, too, holding her arms out, and Paige wraps her up in a hug. “Welcome to the Wings, rook,” she says softly, meaning every word, and she feels Paige’s entire body relax. When they break apart, Cam stuffs her hands in her pockets, bouncing on her heels, and Paige stares at her with something that might be an overwhelmed wonder. “Just so you know, I’ve been working on my rookie hazing rituals. Maddy said the tar and feathers were a hard no, but we all agreed that the first round of drinks are on you.”

“Oh, so I was just drafted for my Amex, huh?” Paige says unseriously. 

“Sorry you had to find out this way,” Cam responds, feigning sadness and trying not to grin. “I don’t know if we’ll have room for you on the roster, but maybe you could put those TikTok dances to good use and figure something out for halftime.” Paige stares at her unbelievingly before eventually, the corner of Cam’s lips twitch from the effort of keeping her face neutral.

The blonde’s expression melts, her shoulders relaxing with something like relief – like the Wings aren’t so unfamiliar after all. They’re already bantering like they’ve been friends for years. Paige is one of those basketball players that has a good working relationship with everyone, but the fact that friendship can come so quickly undoubtedly makes this transition easier for her.

“You’re not gonna take it easy on me, are you?” Paige asks, amused.

Cam gives her a gentle nudge with her elbow, her smile softening. “C’mon,” she says knowingly. “You’re a Husky. Something tells me you wouldn’t like easy, anyways.”

Something in Paige’s expression flickers, almost as though she hadn’t been expecting that response, almost as though she’s seeing Cam in a different light now. “I wouldn’t,” she agrees. Her tone is a little quieter, but her eyes still sparkle with that post-draft high, an excitement that doesn’t quite go away.

It’s at that moment that one of the media coordinators waves Paige over, wanting to run a couple segments and get some shots and interviews for the league page. Before the blonde can go, Cam rests a tentative hand over her wrist, stopping her, and when they meet eyes again, it’s like she loses all of her confidence.

She clears her throat, trying to find the words. She has a million statements at the tip of her tongue, but the one that comes out is, “I’m happy you’re here.”

Fuck. Even though Paige’s cheeks flush and her smile turns tender, Cam winces and sighs, because that was not supposed to be her opening line. “We all are,” she’s quick to correct. “You’re not gonna find a better group of girls anywhere else in the league. We’ve got your back, always. And…I know that you’re capable. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. But trust me when I say this transition can be difficult.” Cam bounces on her heels again, a nervous smile lighting up her face, her voice softening. “Just…don’t hesitate to reach out. Or ask for help. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, least of all me.”

The both of them are silent for a moment. Paige studies her carefully, as if searching her features for something. Cam isn’t sure what she’s looking for, but she hopes her rookie can see the earnestness, the assurance that no matter what, she’s ten toes down behind her.

Then, Paige’s smile grows, unrestrained if not a little bashful. “Thanks, Camille,” she says, the use of her full name causing a matching smile of Cam’s own to appear on her face. “I really appreciate that.”

Simply, she nods, extending her arms again, and she and Paige fall into one last hug. The media coordinators are getting impatient now. They break away quickly and Paige starts to follow one of them further backstage, but she spins on her heel, a palm reaching up to stabilize the lapels of her blazer as she calls out to Cam. “Nike’s throwing an after party for me later,” she says. “You should come by. First round’s on me, right?”

Huffing in amusement, Cam stuffs her hands in her pockets again if only to give them something to do. She cocks her head a little, thinking it over – she has an early flight back to Dallas in the morning to speak at UTA, then she has an afternoon workout with a trainer. She knew she would be a problem if she stayed up too late partying, but when she takes in Paige’s expression, the slight confidence mixed with a strong look of hope, she finds that she’d never truly had a backbone to begin with.

“I’ll see you there, rook,” she confirms, trying not to feel too proud of herself when Paige’s grin brightens. Finally, she disappears around the corner, and Cam exhales sharply as she redirects her attention back to the TV.

Cathy’s just now returning with the selection from Seattle, stepping up to the microphone again, but all Cam can think about is her rookie. Paige had said that Cam wasn’t going to make it easy for her. Part of Cam wonders if Paige was aware of the fact that Paige wasn’t going to make it easy for Cam, either. All it took was one look, one hopefully asked question for Cam to change her plans entirely.

The scary part? Cam wasn’t even sure if she minded all too much.

The subsequent afterparty smells like spilled liquor, the heady undertone of weed, and the musk of sweat. Cam has to dodge a few dancing bodies when she finally walks in, tucking her jacket closer to herself so as to not soak in any of the sloshing alcohol, and she presses herself up to the tips of her toes to try to look for the woman of the hour. The lighting is dim, strobe lights flashing, and the music courses through every inch of her veins. She’s confident that she’ll wake up tomorrow morning with the sound of the bass still reverberating through her ears.

People in various stages of inebriation are packed tightly together, which makes it difficult for Cam to squeeze her way to the front, but she manages to make it through the most contested sections. When she reaches the front of the room, she finds Paige at the center of a large circle, holding a huge tray of shots in her hand, and she has a grin on her lips as she passes them out.

Her wings cap is tucked over her head – some things never change, Cam thinks – although she’s redressed in an oversized, white button down and sparkling gray dress pants. Cam looks her up and down, figuring out pretty quickly that the ensemble is a full Nike get up, which makes sense considering the sponsor of her afterparty.

Paige catches sight of her, her grin widening, and the circle of people surrounding her join in on cheering for Cam as she’s gently pulled to the middle, towards Paige. Cam flushes under the attention and rolls her eyes – although she’s secretly pleased by the reception. “You made it!” Paige calls over the bass, offering her a shot glass. Her expression is soft, not wanting to make an assumption about whether or not Cam drinks, but she accepts the shot glass anyways, clinking it against Paige’s with a teasing smile.

“Not sure if it beats staying in and binging whatever’s on the hotel TV, but I figured I should make sure my rookie doesn’t get too plastered,” Cam jokes.

“Your rookie, huh?” Paige hums, eyes wide and mischievous. “Didn’t know I was already claimed like that.”

“You need someone responsible,” Cam retorts. “Rike and Lyss are bad influences. Nai would dress you up like a Labubu.”

Paige laughs, and she and Cam throw back their first shot of the night – well, Cam can’t be too sure if it’s Paige’s first, but that’s neither here nor there. Paige takes her empty glass, sets it on the tray, then wraps an arm around her shoulder, pulling her flush against her body. Yeah, Cam thinks, definitely not Paige’s first shot, but she’s smiling in amusement as Paige calls for the attention of their little circle.

“Everyone, this is Camille,” she states. Then, glancing once at Cam, the hint of a smirk tugs at her lips. “My vet. Her drinks are on me, aight? No funny shit.”

“I think the drinks are on Nike–” someone attempts to say, but Paige raises her hand, cutting them off, and everyone around them laughs.

“Drinks on me,” Paige says again, just so there’s no confusion. She squeezes Cam’s shoulder as everyone dissipates. Her hand drops to the small of her back, guiding her through the room to the bar. “What you drinkin’?”

“Surprise me,” Cam responds. “I trust you. No whiskey or I’m gonna make your ass run suicides at camp.”

Paige grins, something like you think so little of me. She calls the bartender over and orders two Dirty Shirleys. Cam huffs under her breath, amused, and Paige nudges her with her elbow. “What happened to allat trust?”

Cam raises her hands in surrender. “No judgement here. I just respect the fact that you can stare a bartender in the eye and ask for juice.”

“Wow,” Paige drawls. “I see how it is. You buy a girl a drink and this is how she repays you.”

“You bought me a Capri Sun.”

Paige sniffs dramatically. “I always imagined I’d get my welcome to the league moment by running face first into an Alyssa Thomas screen. Never thought it’d come from being bullied by my own teammate.”

Cam laughs as the bartender slides their drinks over. “Are you always this much of a drama queen?” she asks playfully, tapping the sides of their glasses together.

Paige takes a long sip before she responds, her eyes slipping shut like this is the best thing she’s ever tasted. A smirk appears on her face as she says, with a shrug of her shoulder, “If the crown fits.”

Cam rolls her eyes, taking a tentative sip of her drink, too. And – okay. Maybe Paige was onto something, because it’s not that bad. Cam’s never been one for strong drinks, more of a lightweight than anything else. But these? They’re dangerous. Cam could easily see herself downing five of them without thinking about the alcohol content.

“Good, right?” Paige asks, not even bothering to hide her knowing grin.

“I don’t think you should worry about getting hit by an AT screen,” Cam states, which causes Paige’s brows to raise, unsure of where she’s going with that. “That big ass head of yours would just cushion the fall.”

Paige gasps dramatically, clutching her chest like Cam’s words have genuinely wounded her. “I’mma let that slide, Cam, just ‘cause I know you like me. I’m growing on you–”

“–like a fungus–”

“– and I’m your rookie,” she finishes. Cam can’t help but smile at that. “Aren’t you supposed to be nice to me?”

Cam tilts her hat backwards, and Paige swats her hand away as it messes up her hair. “I’m toughening you up for the real world,” she teases. “Veteran duty.”

Paige raises a lazy brow, something reminiscent of a challenge in her eyes. “So this is business?”

“Isn’t it always?” Cam retorts.

A slow smile spreads across Paige’s lips. “Aight.” Paige has a determined look in her eyes, one that Cam’s not quite sure she’s familiar with. But she doesn’t have the time to question it before Paige’s hand finds the small of her back again, leading her through a crowd that parts easily for the both of them. “First song of the night’s all yours. Figure it out, then we’re dancing.”

“Bossy,” Cam mutters under her breath, not expecting Paige to catch it, but she does.

“I know what I want.”

Cam huffs, biting back a laugh. She leans in closer to the DJ, yelling over the music already playing, and he flashes her a sharp grin as he works on transitioning into the next song. She lets Paige guide her back towards the dance floor, but when the opening lines of “pushing P” reverberate throughout the room, the blonde turns to her with an amused look on her face.

“You think you’re funny?” Paige asks, but her smile is loose, welcoming Cam into her space. Her eyes are dark under the lighting in the room and the low brim of her hat. “Or you tryna tell me somethin’?”

“Can’t tell you anything if you keep running your mouth, right?” Cam says.

Paige only nods, taking another sip from her drink, and the look in her eye makes Cam think that she’s just started something that she’s not sure how to finish. Between the atmosphere in the room, the taste of the drink on her lips, and the way Paige is embracing the party, Cam doesn’t think that she does want to finish it.

It’s easy to get lost in the music, in the heady scent of adrenaline, liquor, and victory in the air, in the way Paige leaves just enough space in between their bodies to make it look like she doesn’t want this. But Cam knows. It should be enough to make her back away, to make her remember that she’s the veteran and Paige just got drafted to her team less than three hours ago.

Cam has spent so long restraining herself, trying to be perfect in so many senses of the word. The perfect daughter, the perfect teammate, someone who maintains order instead of welcoming chaos. That lifestyle was safe. Comfortable. Secure. Stale. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying a party. Nothing wrong with celebrating a rookie who’s worked so hard to even be here in the first place.

For the first night in a long, long time, Camille isn’t really thinking, certainly not about things like the consequences of her own actions. She’s thinking about how much fun she’s having, even if it means accidentally monopolizing Paige’s attention. She’s thinking about how good her drink tastes, and when she goes back for her fourth of the night, she orders a second one, too, bringing it back to Paige, who’s sporting a pretty flush under the dim lighting in the room. She’s thinking about how promising this next season is, about the fact that they could genuinely go so far.

One dance turns into multiple. The drinks are flowing, the vibes are high, and she can feel the music in her veins. She can feel Paige’s eyes on her when she gets overheated, shrugging out of her bomber jacket.

Cam is loose, the liquor flowing pleasantly through her body, and when the night begins to wind down and Paige’s hand is settling over her back again, murmuring something about heading back to her room, Cam agrees – because why wouldn’t she? She’s warm all over, not from the alcohol, and she’s drunk and giggly when she slips her hand into Paige’s, their thighs pressed tightly together in the Uber.

It feels good – that’s really all she’s thinking about right now. And when Paige leads her into her room, her palm burning hot over her waist, Cam lets her pull her in, her lips dragging across her skin.

Things like consequences or repercussions are a tomorrow morning thing. Right now – all Cam is concerned about is whether or not her rookie is as good with her mouth as she is at running it.

Cam wakes to her alarm. She doesn’t need to see the time to know it’s freakishly early in the morning. She can feel it in her bones, in the way the exhaustion sticks to her like glue, the way she feels as though she’s only had her eyes closed for twenty minutes rather than the full eight hours of sleep she’s accustomed to. Her hand reaches out to where she’s sure her nightstand is, but she meets air. She fumbles through the sheets, sure that her phone is simply lost somewhere, but she comes up empty, there, too.

It’s not until she registers the warmth of a body against hers that she realizes how badly she’s just fucked up.

Paige Bueckers, eyes shut peacefully, flush on her neck, arm slung lazily across Cam’s bare waist – bare waist! – groans into her shoulder. “Turn it off,” she grumbles, breath fanning across skin. Cam freezes, feeling her heart begin to race and her mind spin.

She’s so overstimulated that she could probably scream. Paige’s legs are tangled with hers, the warmth of body lulling her into a sense of peace, but anxiety swirls in her gut and her alarm is still fucking ringing.

“Fuck,” she whimpers out loud, pushing both of her palms to her eyes.

This was not how the draft was supposed to go. She was supposed to be there to say hello to Paige and Aziaha and Madison and JJ. She was going to do some media segments, solidify her title as the Rookie Welcome Officer, and then she was going to take her ass back to her hotel room, take a hot shower and unwind. 

Camille was not supposed to get herself invited to Paige’s afterparty, let alone go to it in the first place. She wasn’t supposed to take shots with her, drink with her, dance with her (although as the previous night’s memories come back to her, she’s certain there was some dancing on her – okay, yeah, not the time or the place to get caught up in that).

Most importantly, Camille wasn’t supposed to fall into bed with her either. That’s kind of the reason why alarm bells are ringing in her brain, and it has nothing to do with the 5am alarm she’d actually set on her phone so she can catch a flight.

She just slept with Paige Bueckers. Number one overall draft pick, twenty-three year old rookie to Cam’s twenty-six year old senior, Paige Bueckers. The Wings’ newest starting point guard. Her rookie, who she’d claimed the moment Cathy Engelbert spoke her name into the microphone. Cam was supposed to mentor her, guide her, help her adjust to professional life so soon after the end of her college season. Camille was not supposed to let her stick her hand down her pants.

She’s so unbelievably fucked. Sure, she resigned, but she could still get waived. This could have detrimental effects on the locker room. Detrimental effects on whatever beginnings of a friendship that she and Paige were supposed to be forming in the middle of sticking their tongues down each other’s throat. Cam was so excited for the beginning of the season, but now, all she can think about is the fact that she’s probably ruined it before Paige even put her jersey on for the first time.

Paige murmurs something under her breath again. Cam, already in full panic mode, pushes the blonde off of her, sending her sprawling onto the other side of the bed as she rises to her feet. “The fuck?” Paige mutters, undoubtedly bothered as she fights for consciousness.

Cam has to fight a wave of vertigo as she scans the floor for her pants, where her alarm is still ringing. Finally locating them, she rips her phone out of her pocket and silences her phone. Slowly, she turns back to the bed, where Paige is staring at her with wide eyes, the blanket pulled up to her chest. “Oh,” she whispers, some sort of clarity returning to her expression.

Oh is right. Because both she and Paige just did something that Cam isn’t entirely sure they can come back from, and they have no one to blame but themselves.

[gender-is-fake]

There was a small wooden rack filled with a collection of decorated eggs on the dilapidated mantelpiece. It looked out of place, but Shell had insisted on placing them there, those prized petty trophies he had stolen from the governor in their first successful art heist. Now he was staring darkly at the collection. Burn turned towards the window—anything to get out of the room. To think. To understand. The report droned on in the background.

It was the VCEA—“villain control enforcement agents,” who were really just police in fancy outfits. The VCEA had always been violent with them, but to go this far… no one had ever expected they’d do something like this. Torturing their friends to the point of killing them. Their bodies had been marked with burns. Their skin was blackened, blue, lumpy. The worst part was that the news was taking the side of the law enforcement. Acting like they’d had no other choice. But Burn knew that was wrong. There was no world in which his comrades would have actually confronted cops, especially not without reinforcements or preparation. They were too close to their homes for an altercation, just blocks away. They’d been ambushed. He couldn’t listen anymore. Burn clicked a button on the remote and the screen flickered to black. They were silent for a moment.

“… Nothing?” Burn asked.

Shell was despondent. His head hung low, his white hair hanging over his face, still staring forward at his trophies with an empty look. He didn’t reply. It didn’t make sense to Burn. Shell had had powers. Shell had been known to lob fireballs. Freeze tides with his icy winds. He was a master of temperature control and strategy. Sure Burn had never seen him lob a projectile at full scale, but Shell had demonstrated his power in front of him before, playing with sparks and icy sighs in his hands before his eyes. It was a way he liked to threaten the people usually; a small demonstration of the control he possessed. Burn had appreciated Shell’s powers, and that’s why he’d gone into Shell’s service.

“All this time. All this work,” Burn murmured. “Distracting the mob, the law enforcement, playing your intricate little games against them, and you don’t have anything you can do?”

Shell just shook his head.

“No? Your reputation is feared. It doesn’t make sense! Just hit them with a wave of destruction. Make them regret ever touching you in the first place. Then we can get back to what we do. The petty thefts, the drug trades with rich kid’s asshole children. The things we’ve always done.”

Shell’s gaze didn’t move, but he began to fiddle with his cuffhooks. Once he had undone the button he lifted his singed sleeve, revealing a bracelet underneath. He unhooked this bracelet, placed it on the table, and then pressed a red button. Little sparks sizzled outward by about a foot. Burn could only assume that the blue button did the frost wind.

“The fireballs were deployed by canons controlled by the lieutenants. The bracelets sold the illusion of my power in close quarters. With the other lieutenants gone… well, we just don’t have anyone to…” Shell swallowed. His face was grave. Ashen. Burn didn’t understand. How had they all believed it? This ruse?

“I just don’t get it. I mean, I just… No. No. Don’t say it…” Burn hung his head too. He’d said it himself. “Reputation.”

Burn understood the name Shell now. He understood fabergé eggs. It had always been in plain sight and he just never saw it. Shell’s powers were decorative on the outside, giving the impression that he was worth fearing. Inside, he had always been empty.

You pretend to be a small-time villain. At worst, you annoy the local supers but your crimes never hurt anyone. All fun and games until things change when a truly sadistic super villain invades your turf and murders a few of the supers. No one has seen the extent of your true powers until now.

[ao3commentoftheday]

hello! i'm not sure if this is entirely the right place, but do you have any tips for getting back into writing? because of real life stuff i haven't been able to write for months, and now that i have the time i just have... no idea where to begin

Oh man, I know that feeling. There's nothing quite like feeling "rusty" to make something seem almost impossible to do.

There are a couple of approaches to take (and I'm sure folks can suggest even more in the notes), and I'll start with the most common suggestion:

Start small. If it's been a while, you might not want to start with a huge fic. Knock out a oneshot, maybe even just do some free writing sprints, just to get into the habit of writing again.

Find your writing space. Relearn what position you like to sit in, whether you prefer to type on a keyboard or tap on your phone. Figure out whether you want a playlist going and what songs you want to include on it.

Don't begin with the intention to post. Start with the goal of writing not with the goal of having written. Write something that you are utterly enraptured by, something that absolutely tickles you in whatever way you want to be tickled. Connect to your id or to your inner child or to whatever part of you really wants to come out and play, and let that part of you loose onto the page.

Which leads me to my last point

Find a story that you can't stop thinking about writing. It doesn't have to be huge. It could even just be a single moment or scene. But if you can feel that inspiration hit you and experience that drive to capture that inspiration in words, that feeling can go a long way to getting you back into writing again.

Inspiration can come from other people, from music or art, from prompt memes or challenges, from the daydreams you drift off into when you're zoning out on the bus. Personally, I have a lot of success with just thinking of a joke that makes me giggle hysterically, and then I write 500 words that gets me to the punchline I want to hit, and I'm done.

What about the rest of you? Where do you pick up writing when you haven't done it for a while? How do you get started again after a break?

[sophiewritesworld]

ROLL FOR REDEMPTION - E.M. (series)

SUMMARY: in which Eddie cuts you of his life, under his girlfriend's influence, discarding mementos of your friendship. As you withdraw, becoming a shadow of yourself, Eddie feels trapped, clinging to a small reminder of you. PAIRING: Eddie Munson x Female best friend previous part

FIVE : THE CAGE AND THE GHOST

The dice sit in Eddie’s pocket, a secret he carries like a talisman. The black polyhedral set, silver numbers glinting like tiny stars, is the only piece of you he’s allowed to keep. Tara doesn’t know about them—not the truth, anyway. She thinks they’re from the Hellfire Club, a harmless gift from his D&D buddies, and Eddie lets her believe it. He doesn’t tell her how he recognized them instantly, how he knew they were from you, how the memory of that day in Indianapolis—your quiet smile as he raved about them in the game shop—cuts him every time he holds them. He doesn’t tell her that late at night, when she’s asleep and the trailer is quiet, he sits on his bed, rolling the dice across his desk, watching them tumble, each clink a whisper of your name.

Tara’s presence in his life has become a cage. It wasn’t obvious at first, not when her smiles and touches felt like love, like something worth fighting for. But now, her rules—don’t talk to you, don’t keep your things, don’t mention your name—feel like bars closing in. She’s everywhere, her voice sharp with demands she doesn’t always say out loud. “Why do you need to go to Hellfire so late?” she’ll ask, her arms crossed, her eyes narrowing when he mentions the club. “You’re spending too much time with those guys,” she’ll say about the band, her fingers tightening on his arm when Gareth or Jeff bring up old stories that include you. She doesn’t like the way he laughs when Dustin tells a joke, doesn’t like the way he lights up when he talks about D&D, doesn’t like anything that reminds her he had a life before her, a life with you.

Eddie feels it, the way she’s reshaping him, cutting away pieces of who he is. His battle vest, once a patchwork of memories—your stitches on the Iron Maiden patch, your doodles on the lining—hangs in his closet now, untouched, because Tara said it looked “tacky.” His late-night drives, the ones you used to take together to the quarry or the edge of town, are replaced with dates at the diner where Tara picks at her salad and watches him like she’s waiting for him to slip. He tells himself he loves her, that this is what relationships are supposed to be—compromise, sacrifice—but every time he rolls those dice, alone in the dark, he feels the cage tightening around him.

You, meanwhile, are barely holding on. The record store on Main Street used to be your haven, a place where you and Eddie would spend hours flipping through vinyl, arguing over whether Master of Puppets was Metallica’s peak or if Ride the Lightning had more soul. You’d laugh until you couldn’t breathe, Eddie mimicking James Hetfield’s growls while you clutched a Bowie record and pretended to swoon. Now, you’re alone in the store, a ghost of yourself, your oversized hoodie swallowing your frame, your hair falling into your eyes as you move through the aisles like you’re sleepwalking.

It’s a Saturday afternoon, the store quiet except for the low hum of The Cure playing over the speakers. You’re in the back, near the used vinyl section, your fingers trailing over the worn covers. You don’t know why you’re here—maybe because it’s one of the few places Tara doesn’t go, one of the few places you can breathe without feeling her shadow. You pick up a copy of Houses of the Holy, the Led Zeppelin record Eddie used to play on repeat, and your throat tightens. You can almost hear him singing “No Quarter” off-key, his air guitar moves making you laugh so hard you’d spill your soda. You set the record down, your hands shaking, and move to the next aisle, trying to outrun the memories.

Eddie’s there, across the street, leaning against his van. He wasn’t looking for you, not exactly, but he’d driven by the record store on a whim, telling himself he just needed to clear his head. Tara’s at home, probably waiting for him to call, but he needed a moment to breathe, to feel like himself again. He sees you through the store’s glass window, and his heart stops. You’re not the girl he remembers, the one with the bright laugh and the quick wit, the one who’d challenge him to a “who can find the weirdest record” contest and win every time. You’re a shadow, your shoulders hunched, your movements slow and deliberate, like you’re carrying a weight no one else can see. Your face is pale, your eyes hollow, and the sight of you—fading, breaking—hits him like a punch.

He doesn’t move closer. He stays rooted to the spot, his hands shoved in his pockets, the dice a familiar weight against his thigh. He watches you flip through records, your fingers hesitant, like you’re afraid to touch anything too long. He wants to go in, to call your name, to say he’s sorry, to beg you to forgive him for letting Tara tear you out of his life. But he can’t. The cage is there, even now, Tara’s voice in his head: She’s not good for us. You don’t need her. He hates himself for listening, for standing here like a coward, watching you fade from afar.

Steve and Dustin are in the record store too, in the next aisle over, looking for a birthday gift for Lucas. They don’t see you at first, too caught up in their debate over whether The Clash or The Ramones would be a better pick. But Dustin glances up, catching sight of you through a gap in the shelves, and he freezes. “Steve,” he whispers, nudging him. “Look.”

Steve follows his gaze, and his face falls. He’s seen you around, noticed the way you’ve been dodging everyone, but this is different. You look like you’re barely there, like the life has been drained out of you. “Jesus,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “She looks… bad.”

Dustin’s eyes flick to the window, and he spots Eddie across the street, leaning against his van, staring at you like he’s seeing a ghost. “He’s here,” Dustin says, his voice low, angry. “He’s just standing there, watching her.”

Steve turns, his jaw tightening when he sees Eddie. He’s known Eddie long enough to see the guilt in his posture, the way his shoulders slump, the way his hands fidget like he’s fighting an urge to move. “What the hell is his deal?” Steve says, his voice sharp. “He’s the one who cut her off, and now he’s just… stalking her?”

Dustin doesn’t answer, but his mind is racing. He thinks of the dice, the ones he gave Eddie on his birthday, the ones you begged him not to say were from you. He sees the way Eddie’s staring at you now, like he’s drowning in regret, and it makes him furious. “He knows,” Dustin says, almost to himself. “He knows she got him those dice. And he’s still doing nothing.”

Steve looks at Dustin, confused. “What dice?”

Dustin shakes his head, not wanting to explain, not now. “Doesn’t matter. He’s letting her fall apart, and he’s just standing there.”

You don’t see any of this. You don’t see Eddie across the street, his eyes fixed on you, or Steve and Dustin watching from the next aisle, their faces a mix of worry and frustration. You’re too lost in your own head, the music in the store blending with the static of your thoughts. You pick up a copy of Disintegration, The Cure’s new album, and stare at the cover, the swirling colors blurring as your eyes sting. You think of Eddie, of the way he’d tease you for liking “depressing shit” like this, but how he’d still listen with you, sprawled on your bedroom floor, letting the music wash over you both. You set the record down, unable to buy it, unable to bear another reminder of him.

You leave the store, your hands empty, your heart heavier than ever. The bell above the door jingles as you step outside, and you pull your hoodie tighter, your head down, moving quickly to your car. Eddie watches you go, his chest aching, the dice burning a hole in his pocket. He wants to call out, to run after you, but his feet stay rooted, Tara’s rules chaining him in place. He tells himself it’s better this way, that you’re better off without him, that he’s protecting what he has with Tara. But the lies taste bitter, and the sight of you—so small, so broken—makes him feel like he’s betraying everything he ever was.

Steve and Dustin step outside a moment later, watching you drive away, your car disappearing around the corner. They turn to Eddie, still leaning against his van, his face pale, his eyes haunted. “You’re an idiot, Munson,” Steve calls out, his voice carrying across the street, sharp with anger. “You know that, right?”

Eddie flinches, his hand closing around the dice in his pocket. He doesn’t respond, just climbs into his van and slams the door, the engine roaring to life as he peels out of the parking lot. Dustin watches him go, his fists clenched. “He’s gonna regret this,” he mutters, and Steve nods, his jaw tight.

You drive home, the radio off, the silence louder than any song. You don’t know Eddie saw you, don’t know Steve and Dustin were there, don’t know that the dice you gave him are the only thing he’s holding onto, the only piece of you he hasn’t let Tara take. You park in your driveway, your hands shaking, and sit there for a long moment, staring at nothing. The world feels empty, like you’re the only one left in it, and you wonder how much longer you can keep going like this, a ghost in your own life.

Eddie, back at his trailer, pulls the dice from his pocket and sets them on his desk. He rolls them, one by one, watching them tumble, each number a memory of you—your laugh, your smile, the way you’d call him a nerd but still sit through his campaigns. He thinks of you in the record store, a shadow of the girl he loved like family, and the guilt is a knife in his chest. He doesn’t call you, doesn’t drive to your house, doesn’t tell Tara he’s keeping the dice. He just rolls them again, alone, the sound echoing in the quiet, a reminder of the cage he’s built and the friend he’s losing.

TAGLIST :

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[norcigs]

TEACH YOU

synop: rough jealous sex! very little plot, mostly just p0rn

warnings: charles is pretty mean, pnv, creampie, face fucking, use of slut, bitch, whore, toy and more.. dom charels, sub reader, spankings!, lot of degrading, some praise, aftercare!!!!

🛁: 4.8K words

you were being bratty. you knew that, you saw the way his jaw locked in place and eyes cut over you. you were pushing the line, and not letting up. charles hooked his pointer fingers in your belt loops on either side, pulling you flush against him. whispering something before he kissed the top of your head. 

“if you keep acting like a whore, i'm gonna start treating you like one” he leaned into your ear, before he planted a punctuated kiss to your head, for any onlookers to be fooled by the intimacy. 

did he think purring in your ear like that was gonna have you backing off?.. it only made you want it more. thighs clenching as you looked up at him with big wet eyes. 

“what do you mean baby” you asked, as your voice towed the line between peace and war. batting your eyelashes, begging him to crack, to show a hint of the blaze behind his sugarsweet exterior. 

unfortunately for you, charles didn't need much convincing. hand reaching around your jaw, gently, but demanding. jerking your gaze back onto him, as he pulled you in closer. 

“dont act fucking dumb with me” his tone was laced with venom, as warmth spread from your crotch. he moved his hand to rest at the small of your back. not speaking, but still telling you, stay. 

the party roared around you, your short red dress, floating against you. charlie's white shirt, wrinkled and top button undone now. people danced and shouted, but there was a stillness around you both. charles, all but twitching, as he waited for you to place the final straw. he could tell you whatever he wanted, praise you, degrade you, anything to make you act right. but both of you knew your mind was made up. you wanted to be taught a lesson, and he was just the guy to teach it. a guy walked toward you, definitely drunk, but carrying a cockiness that made him insufferable. 

“hey pretty lady, is this guy your boyfriend” he slurred. charles' hand was still resting on your back. you leaned into him like he was familiar. his hand locked around your side, claiming. eyes darting to you, knowing before you responded, that you were not going to pass up an opportunity to piss him off.

“depends who’s asking” you responded, more for charles than anyone else. the answer was a resounding yes. the hickey he left on your ribcage last night, and the thin silver 16 necklace around your neck was proof enough. charles was your boyfriend, you belonged to him. no amount of teasing or flirting would change that. 

the drunk guy took your response as an invitation. his hand raised towards yours, in an act to maybe pull you away. your hand didn't move to him. that wasn’t the game you were playing. charles’ hands dragged from behind you, around to rest on your stomach, encapsulating you. he leaned over your shoulder to speak to the man. hands only keeping you more flush to him. you rolled your hips against him, just in case you weren't already in enough trouble. 

“trust me mate, you couldn't handle her” he told the guy, smirking like he had already won. really, he had. you two had an unspoken understanding of what it meant when you acted like this. it was never a betrayal of trust, nor an excuse for you to stray from him. sometimes, you just wanted him to fuck you with the possesion and boiled-blood only this behavior gave him. as the drunk walked away, not daring to tempt your boyfriend again, he dropped his head to your ear, kissing behind it.

“follow me to the car, dont say a fucking word until i ask you too,” he seperated from you, quickly spinning on his heels and walking out. his weight against your back missing made you feel hollow, and gave you an itch only he could scratch. 

he didn't turn around, didn't wait for you, didn't slow a step. he walked to the car and sat in the driver’s seat. your heels clicked behind him as you tried to match his longer stride. he started the car without opening your door, or even glancing towards you. for a split second, you thought he might drive off and leave you there, wet and wanting.

when you sat down, dress riding to just below your crotch, you leaned toward him. warm hands wrapping around his bicep, needing to touch him. you pulled your face to his arm, kissing the top of it, sweetly. eyes staring up at him like he was heaven.

“sit still and dont touch me” he said, short, as he peeled your hands off himself. dropping your hands back to your lap, he finished “bad girls like you have to be punished”. his hand snaked around the back of your neck, as he found a grip that made you complacent to how he turned you. twisting you to look right up at him

“do you understand that, slut?” his eyes were dark as he searched your entire face for any glimpse of hesitation. unsurprisingly, he was met with your mouth parting, eager, and your head nodding hard enough to bounce your breasts. 

the ride home consisted of you pushing your hips into the seat, and doing anything for charles' attention. pouting and whining when his gazed stayed straight forward, unimpressed by your begging. 

parking the car in your driveway, he got out and muttered a quick “follow” to you. you listened, desperate to get inside so maybe he would finally touch you. he continued up the stairs toward your bedroom, as you turned to lock the front door and scurry up with him.

“baby, are you upset with me, i didn't mean–” regret pooled in your throat as charles had never used the silent treatment after you teased him. usually, he would take you to the club bathroom and turn you into mush as he ruined you. ruthless, fast, and mean. but this was different, this was calculated.

“didn't mean to what?” he cut you off as you stepped into the bedroom behind him. “didnt mean to act like some cheap fuck for any guy who stared at you?” he scoffed. “it seemed pretty intentional to me baby, and now you have some apologizing to do” he finished as he stepped towards you, closing the door behind you and keeping you surrounded against the wall.

he put both his hands around your neck and pulled you into a kiss. controlled by your throat, you had no say in how he kissed you. taking whatever he gave you, as your head had already started to go a little fuzzy. one hand moved to the back of your head, hand fisting your hair before he was pulling you down. he leaned over as you landed on your knees. 

“been running this fucking mouth all night, gonna show you what it’s really good for” he told you, hand reaching to his belt, unbuckling himself. ripping down his black slacks, and pulling you up enough to be level with his cock. 

he kept one hand in your hair, and used the other to free himself. moaning as you made eye contact with his cock. his grip hurt, but your mouth was watering. it was big, and heavy, and he popped it against your chin with force. 

“open bitch,” your jaw slacked as he didn't waste a second before filling your throat with his length. your throat was wet and greedy, sucking instantly. he grunted as he angled his hips to fit fully inside you. you were gagging around him, tears already stinging your waterline.

“is this what you wanted? wanted my dick as close to your brain as possible? so it could teach you your fucking place?” he mocked you, as he used his hands to pull your head on and off his cock– using you like a toy. 

he laid the back of your head against the edge of the bed, lifting a foot to be level so he could pump himself down you with more force. hips snapping back and forth, his tip bruising a place in your throat you didn't know existed. 

you clenched your hands and thighs together. staring up at him as he took what he wanted from you. tall and strong, head tilted back like he was in another world. his hands wrapped around your head, guiding you, felt oddly gentle now. your cunt leaking as you thought about how safe you were. he could be as rough as he wanted, you could fall apart for him completely, and the whole time you would never have to worry, it was still your charlie. your throat relaxed as you thought about how much you loved him.

“thats my girl, just let me use you” his head was still tipped back, but the way his dick was twitching you knew he was close. your tongue started doing what little it could to make it feel better for him. licking and suctioning anytime you could while he fucked your throat for just his pleasure. his mouth parted as noises fell softly from him. 

your hands raised to his, his eyes shot back down to you at the softer touch. your doe eyes looking up at him like he was everything. he let his hands go from where he was using them to fuck your face, as you gently guided them back. you continued sucking him at the pace he had set. too hard, and too deep for how you usually liked it. but it was driving him crazy so you weren't going to stop now.

“fucking slut-” his words were long, drawn out like moans. “my fucking slut– all mine, you belong to me” his hands clasped behind his back as he only bucked softly into your begging throat, while you did the rest of the work for him. stood towering above you, like a statue, as you knelt before him, like something to be owned. 

he grunted and bit his lip as hard as he could. his hips snapped forward as he kept his eyes trained down onto yours. you felt his whole length twitch before wet hot spurts were coating your throat. his hand reached back around to rest on the top of your head. he slowed your pace, only letting you bob gently, as he worked through his high. eyes shutting, lost in the moment. he blinked them back open to see you still staring at him wide-eyed, with your hands on his thighs keeping his cock as deep as possible. lips puckered perfectly around his length like you were made for it. pleasure surged back through him, sending a shiver down his spine. one last rope hit the roof of your mouth, before he was pulling you off completely.

spit connected his cock to your mouth until you pulled away far enough for the strands to break. you sat back on your ankles, gazing up at him, drunk in love and lust. he sat on the edge of the bed, and used the back of your head to guide your mouth to his. kissing you gently, like even after that, he could break you. the kiss held an unspoken tenderness, one that said, i love you and i trust you. 

he grabbed your arms and guided you to crawl up to him, then adjusting to pull on your waist to help you up higher. the kiss began to blur from sweet promises to heated passion. he held your weight as you sat above him, straddling his waist. the kiss was messy now, teeth clacking and spit still resting on your chin. his hand found its way back to your scalp, clenching a fistful and pulling your head down. breaking your lips apart, and exposing your neck. his lips found your sensitive spots instantly. 

“should leave dark marks on you hm?” he questioned between kisses, “so people can see what a nasty girl you are?” he continued as his fingers found their way to your still covered core. “parade you around the paddock? my pretty little girlfriend, who just lets me use her like a fleshlight? is that what you want, baby?” he finished, mocking, looking at you with the same stupid innocence you gave him earlier tonight. 

you were whining into him now. the need to be fucked out weighing any attitude you had left. 

“tell me what you want” he whispered against your skin, taunting you. you curled into him, getting any amount of closeness and friction you could. 

“you charli, want you” you pouted and looked at him with gentle desperation. his hand wrapped back around your throat and pulled your lips just millimeters from his.

“dont use that sweet little name, i told you what happens to whores like you. you wanted this” his voice was sharp, hands rough against you. but somehow, his eyes were still so caring. you nodded pathetically as you dropped your head to his shoulder. he pulled the thin straps of your dress off your shoulders. letting it drape around you and lifting your tits out from behind the fabric. he pulled the bottom of the dress up to rest around your waist. your garment bunched into a belt now, he didnt bother pulling it all the way off of you.

your panties showed as he exposed you to him, red lace, breath leaving his mouth before he could catch it at the sight of you. pulling them to the side, he ran his fingers through your folds, never filling the emptiness. 

“soaking fucking wet and i havent even touched you yet” he told you as your cheeks flushed. “does sucking my dick really get you this hot, bitch? or do you just like pissing me off?” you wanted to respond, wanted to shave a little cockiness off of him. but as you opened your mouth to retort, he dipped his fingers inside you. all that fell from your plush lips was an uncontrolled moan. 

“yeah? you got something to say?” your hips were rolling, shaking your head no, as you didn't dare do anything to make him want to take his fingers out. riding him, leaking on his fingers, as he was barely one knuckle deep inside of you. 

“all fours” was all he said as he lifted you to the spot of the bed next to him. knees resting right on the edge of the bed, back arching as you rested on your elbows. he stood behind you, feeling his warmth and stature radiating against your skin with the close proximity. he stared at your heat as you clenched around nothing, waiting. pushing your hips back as it ached to be so empty. 

he slapped your ass, the sharp sting shooting through you as his hand soothed the red mark. you bit your lip, trying to keep yourself quiet, failing. the flash of pain returning as he reddened the other cheek.

“how many do you think you deserve, baby?” he stepped closer to you, dick standing straight up and bumping against your clit. his voice was tempting you, basking in the pleasure he got from making you choose your punishment.

“five, five charles please” you said as you struggled to even keep yourself on your elbows. fists clenching around any bedding they could as you desperately tried to keep yourself from falling apart. the slapping noise was louder this time, so was the strangled moan it pulled from you. it hurt more, longer, hitting the same spot he had before. his hand did what it could to soothe you, rub the pain away. but as his left hand connected harshly with the opposite side of your ass again, your moan was unmistakably pained. stinging and sharp, a softer moan following as he gripped the skin of your butt tight. 

“taking your spankings so well, being so good for me” he praised you, knowing just when you needed it. keeping you stupid, and rutting against his dick. “can you take your last one honey?” he asked you, voice tender now. he was really asking, you could say no, you knew you could. beg for mercy and he would give it to you, no further questions. he would continue passed it, not letting it ruin the moment if you couldn't. never wanting to hurt you anymore than you asked him to. 

“please” was all you muttered as you arched your butt further up to him. the cutting sound and pain followed, softer this time. not noticeably, not unless you really knew charles. 

“thats my girl, shh, i know baby” he coaxed you. his hands rubbed at your skin gently. your moans were more sobbish now as the pain slowly weakened against your burning ass. 

he grabbed your waist, demanding, controlling, pulling you flush against his front. your cunt parted as his dick made room for itself. separating you, but not filling you. raising your hips ever so slightly so your clit would grind against the veins of his length. 

“tell me what you need, tell me who you need, slut” his voice was a ragged whisper. your whole body burned. heat radiating off of you from the inside out. the rush of dopamine feeling overwhelming. your head was spinning as you kept wrecked cries from leaving your mouth. you felt it start to hurt. the emptiness, the need, the want, the itch that covered every part of your skin he didn't touch. 

“you– ple– please fuck me” tears streamed down your face as you lost control. it was overpowering. you wanted to turn around, fall to your knees, and cry for his dick. you wanted to tell him you couldn't live without it for one more second. every nerve in your body alight as he hummed softly to you. 

he pulled back from you, separating just barely. you felt your throat open, ready to sob, before you could he plunged his cock into you, bottoming out immediately. the noise that was pushed from you was one of pleasure, or relief. they were so blurred together you couldn't tell the difference. he stayed still, for just a moment. a breath long enough for you to adjust, prepare. then he pulled halfway out and snapped his hips back against you with force. 

you extended your arms, not capable of staying stable on your elbows. pushing your own face down into the mattress. this time, he used his hands to push your form forward, his tip just barely feeling the cold air before he pulled you back, rough.

the noises were perfectly disgusting. the wetness of your cunt squelching around him. the clap of your hips reconnecting. the way you moaned, charles would describe it as fucking angelic. him grunting behind you as your pussy sucked his cock like it needed it. 

completely arched down, charles moved his hands to rest more on your lower back and hips. he used you for leverage. you held a majority of his weight as he pulled his cock and bottomed out with speed and strength. the rhythm was blistering. fast, hard, fucking, not making love. it would hurt tomorrow, but it felt too good to think about that right now. hell, you wanted it to hurt tomorrow. 

“who’s pussy is this” he asked you, trying to hold back the purrs that threatened to fall from his own mouth. he moved his hand to the back of your head, turning you to look sideways. you could see him now, just out of the corner of your eye. he could see your face, see just how gone you were. smiling as you faded in and out of reality, thinking solely about his cock pumping in and out of you. his words finally made their way into your fuzzy head.

“is y-yours, always yu-rs” you slurred, eyes rolling gently as you let it all go. charlie wasn't sure if that went more to his dick or his heart. either way, he was now completely focused on making you cum around him. still using your arched back as leverage, he kept rutting into you relentlessly.

he angled his hips just slightly, perfectly adjusting for his tip to land right on the spot that makes you– you were screaming into the mattress. walls fluttering around him like his dick was made to fill you. knocking against the spot that drove you crazy, he watched as everything else left. all that was in your pretty little head was him, his dick, and pleasure. 

you clenched around him so tight, it was making it hard to pull out. your cunt was pulling him in, and keeping him held there. he used his hold on your hips to pull and push you onto him. it helped with the movement, but the suction your hole had around him was maddening. 

you bounced back and forth at charles’ mercy now. your body was limp, moldable to whatever he wanted. like the only muscle you had left was your tight fucking cunt. every part of you shook as he all but ragdolled you against him.

you opened your mouth to speak, to warn him. but the way you were gushing and clenching around him– he knew you all too well. his tip punished your sweetest spot. a bundle of nerves so deep inside you, somewhere only he could touch. 

“i know baby, cum for me, show me how pretty you are when you fall apart” he told you. not needing you to waste any amount of thought on telling him what he already knew. 

you tipped over the edge, as he collided with you again, deep and hard, he watched as you found the top of the climax. he couldn't help himself. pulling his hand back and spanking you one more time. the noise was harsh as the sweat on you and his hand aided it. the pain sent you tumbling off the peak before you had any say in it.

your eyes squeezed shut as every muscle in your body lit on fire, clenching up and relaxing entirely. your vision went hot and white behind your eyelids. your ears rang and your mouth dried up. like all of your other senses had shut off completely. like you were controlled entirely by your cunt, and by charles fucking in and out of you. 

his thrusts were shallower now, gentler. he worked you through it. feeling the pleasure pour through you when he brushed against the spot he had been bruising. he tried– really tried, not to finish until he milked every drop of pleasure out of your orgasm. but the way your pussy was begging him to fill you, he couldn't deny it any longer. 

you felt the surge of warm, stickiness coat your insides. another wave of pleasure washing over you without warning. like charles finishing sent an entire other orgasm crashing through you. you shouted his name like it was the only thing you could remember.

as euphoria drenched all of him, he kept rocking you back on him, coaxing you both. skin buzzing, brain fuzzy, you lazily fucked against him to take everything he had to give you. slowly, you both came down, as charles pumped into you a few more times. the remaining pieces of your orgasm raked through you, sending shivers to different parts of you, until his cock had rubbed every itching nerve satisfied. 

your walls squeezed him barely as he left his length inside you while you both caught your breath. his hands were soft now, distinctly different from just moments ago. he leaned over you fully, letting his weight comfort you, ground you, pull you back to reality. brushing your hair to the side and kissing your shoulder so sweetly you could taste it. 

“that’s it pretty girl, did so good for me” he whispered in your ear from behind you. hand rubbing and squeezing your sides. “took me so well, made me so proud” he continued as you finally found the strength to raise your eyelids. you blinked, heavy and slow, as a whine escaped you. his cock resting against bundles of nerves that felt overstimulated now. even as he was softening, he was still too big for your aching pussy. 

“you ready?” he asked you. genuine, eyes searching. he didn't want to pull out abruptly, didn't want to empty you until you were ready. until you had come down enough to decide when his missing member wouldn't hurt more than it filling you.

“mhm” was all you had in you, as your tight suction relaxed and loosened around him. he dragged out gently, both of you mushy and softening. he rolled you over on your back, as delicate as you imagined an angel might. he returned to laying on you, giving just the right amount of weight to ground you but not overwhelm you.

he tucked his head into your neck, smiling against your soft skin. light kisses scattered across the area and trailing to your collar bones. you watched him, lazy. eyes full of love, admiration, and most importantly, trust. 

“i love you” you told him, dreamy and blurred. his heart swelled as he pulled back to look at you. how beautiful you looked now, messy and taken. every inch of you was soft and longing to be held. an ache opened in his chest as he watched you. his beautiful girl. 

“i love you, doll” he responded, accent heavy as the tiredness set in. “wanna shower? or just wipe off?” he questioned, not wanting to push you past where you wanted to be. 

“jus sleep” you said as he smiled at you, so in love. he wanted you to be relaxed and comfortable. but he cared too much about you to let you go to sleep like this. he kissed you once more, soft, spit connecting you both as he pulled away.

deciding for you, he stumbled to the bathroom and ran a washcloth under cool water. grabbing a dry towel as well. he returned to you, pouty, missing him. he grabbed your pjs, something comfy, light and loose. 

something between protective, nurturing, and caring flushed charles skin as he knelt down to clean you up. you were exhausted, half asleep as he pulled you to sit up. using the dry towel to wipe your skin down, taking precaution not to be too harsh with the rough towel. he knelt down to your most intimate area, still radiating heat. 

“this is gonna be a little cold, bubba, ill be quick” he said as he separated your knees and kissed the inside of your thigh. hissing as he used the wet rag to wipe your leaking and sore pussy. wiping you clean like you were a piece of fine art. detailed and delicate.

he pulled your panties up, cute pink ones with a little bow on the front, soft and silky as to not irritate your skin anymore. pulling his tshirt over your head, you giggled to each other as your arm got caught in the wrong hole. 

throwing on a pair of shorts and using the dry towel to wipe himself down, not at all minding your sweat mixing with his. he was finally able to crawl into bed with you. you were very sleepy, lulling into a drowsy state each time charlie looked away from you. 

he pulled your form up to his, laying your head on his chest and pulling your knee to have your leg over him as well. his thumbs drew light patterns and shapes on your thigh, as he pulled the covers over you and let you sink into his comfort.

“you okay baby?” he asked you, you didn't need to talk much. he just wanted to be extra sure you were as happy with tonight as he was.

“better than okay, you're pretty good in bed” you joked, tired, but cheeky. he laughed, honestly. mainly it was air escaping his nose, but his smile was big and you could see the white flash through the dark.

“i love you baby” he told you as your breathing slowed. he repeated it a few more times as you fell softly into the embrace of sleep. when you were drifted off entirely, he allowed himself to follow you. eyes heavy as the sound of your heartbeat was echoing around his head, as if it were his own.

[bibliophilea]

#i will preface with this issue has gotten better in the last year (used to be 80% of the main tag and now it's under 50% which I appreciate) #so thank you to everyone who's aware and have been responsive in keeping things contained off the main dp tag #but on the situation here are my thoughts: #i'd argue most ppl in the dpxdc fandom have never seen any actual danny phantom episodes #we joke in the dp phandom like 'fuck canon it's a dollhouse we do what we want' #but that's just a joke #even if it's not perfect the dp characters still have personalities stories and goals in the OG show #so i see things posted and im like ???? this is not these characters at all ???? #they share names and descriptions sure but they don't share anything else #i've also seen people in dpxdc on reddit and stuff saying things like they 'revived the dp phandom' and other disrespectful things #we were always here #we're a small phandom sure but we're very active with events every year #u did not 'revive' us #i have to say this every time but im NOT anti-crossover #i write crossovers myself #i've been interacting with OG dpxdc since way before it was a trend and it's what brought me into the dp phandom in the first place #and i know im far from alone in that #i love new people i always think it's wonderful #but just like know that dpxdc is NOT dp #and that's why people in dp get annoyed #well that and all these characters and this world that is very much a giant massive different fandom #so please leave the dpxdc off the main tumblr tag #we're too small and y'all overpower us here #i've made the mistake of accidentally flooding a small fandom before - we're all human and we all make mistakes #but i just quietly retagged my content and then didn't use their main tag moving forward #easy as pie (tags from @lexosaurus)

All of this. Like, DP does play fast and loose with canon, but it's still playing with canon. There's a basis that we all share that makes the characters recognizable, even when we throw them in AUs that explore how those characters would change due to the AU.

DPxDC of recent years, for the most part, does not share that basis. It takes the names and faces of characters in DP and characters in DC, and it builds its own fanon basis to fit the stories it wants to tell.

And there's nothing wrong with that! Fandom is a sandbox! Go play!

But don't go saying that you "revived" the Phandom sandbox just because DPxDC got popular. Danny Phantom on FanFiction.Net has been top 5 in the cartoons category since the early 2000's. It's only recently dropped to number 6. Phandom has a long history of events celebrating both canon and fanon. Heck, #dannypocalypse has gotten Danny Phantom trending every year on tumblr since its inception, to the point that Box Lunch has a Danno face enamel pin you can go out and buy. Claiming that DPxDC "revived" Phandom is disingenuous to Phandom history, and insulting to the pholks who have been here, building community and interacting with Phandom the whole time.

Phandom has always been in this sandbox, playing with our blorbos, building worlds that fill out our common basis in different ways. It kind of feels like we're getting steamrolled every time DPxDC folks suggest filtering the tags (a lot of us do) and blocking folks (a lot of us do) to not see DPxDC (we see it anyways because a lot of DPxDC folks still tag the main fandoms and don't tag the crossover). Folks who want to see DP and DC separately from DPxDC (which looks almost nothing like DP and almost nothing like DC for the most part) get hit the worst. They're forced to pick one fandom to block entirely - DP or DC - because of the lack of consistent tagging. It's really unfair.

A number of my good friends whom I met through Phandom have been driven out of Phandom because of DPxDC fandom behavior tied to the assumption that DPxDC has a common basis with Phandom (it doesn't, for the most part - mainly just common character names and appearances), the assumption that DPxDC "revived" Phandom (Phandom has been small but strong since before I stepped foot in Phandom), and the assumption from there that most of Phandom media is going to look like DPxDC media but without Batman or Constantine or Superman (a lot of it is very different from DPxDC character-wise and lore-wise and worldbuilding-wise). It's kind of disheartening, and it's antithetical to the idea of a "revival" of Phandom caused by DPxDC.

I guess, main thing I want to say is that DPxDC is its own sandbox doing its own thing. And that's wonderful! Have fun! Even I enjoy dabbling there sometimes! But Phandom and DC fandom are also their own sandboxes doing their own things. And sometimes - due to a lack of consistent tagging, but also due to assumptions made that are largely untrue - it feels like a number of DPxDC folks act like Phandom and DC fandom and DPxDC fandom are one and the same, when they're really not.

Again, there's nothing wrong with DPxDC having fun with fandom! But Phandom and DC fandom want to have fun, too! And it's a lot harder when the onus is placed on us to block tags and block people until our tag is clear of your fandom (which it never is). And even then, it gets complicated when a lot of Phandom folks would be fine interacting with DPxDC as its own thing, outside of the Danny Phantom tag; and it gets even more complicated when folks are in Phandom, and in DC fandom, and don't necessarily want everything about those fandoms to be overshadowed by a crossover that has taken on a life of its own.

finding out danny phantom fans are sick of dc/batman crossovers clogging THEIR tags is frying me idk why I never considered that. we are in the same damn boat omg