#...Every time I remember what happened to them I feel pain.

[orellazalonia]

I’ll Still Love You

Summary: After a mission gone wrong, you lose all memory of your relationship with Bucky. Even though it pains him to the core with grief, he stays by your side and quietly swears he’ll always love you no matter what happens. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.8k+

A/N: This has ANGST!!! I hope you cry /j. I love this version more than the other to be honest, maybe you all will like it too! You are responsible for the media you consume. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Your Version

There were things Bucky didn’t think he’d ever have again.

Peace. Sleep. A future. And you.

You came into his life like silence after gunfire. Still and steady, almost unnoticeable at first. You didn’t push or prod. You didn’t flinch at the name Winter Soldier or look at his arm like it was a loaded weapon. You just existed in that calm, present, and kind way.

Many times you would ask how his day was, not his past. You told him what you dreamt about instead of asking what woke him screaming. You made him feel like a person, not a project nor a burden. And that was enough to terrify him.

But he kept coming back.

The first time he held your hand, it was hesitant. He was half-expecting you to pull away, but you didn’t. The first time he kissed you, it was desperate. Like he was drowning in memories and you were the only air left. And you kissed him back like you already knew how many pieces he was in, and didn’t mind picking them up one at a time.

He didn’t say I love you for a long time, not until it slipped out during a fight that he couldn’t remember why it happened to begin with. The words had always felt too big, too fragile. But he knew it the night you fell asleep on his chest, your breathing slow and your fingers resting over the surface of his metal arm. Like you cherished even the parts of him that brought so much destruction. He watched you sleep for hours, just holding you, trying to remember what it felt like to want to stay alive.

Sixteen months with you, and he still couldn’t believe it was real.

The little apartment above the bookstore wasn’t much, but it was yours. The heater barely worked. The neighbors were loud. But there were books in every corner, and a photo of you both pinned to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a cat. You called it “home.” And for once in his life, Bucky did too.

Every morning, he woke up with you tangled in the blankets beside him. Your head tucked beneath his chin, one arm slung over his waist. You always woke up first, but you never moved until he stirred. You said you liked to watch him even though he never knew why.

He always figured you saw something in him he couldn’t. And maybe that was what scared him most. That somehow, one day, you'd wake up and see him for what he really was. Not a man. Not a boyfriend. Just a weapon with blood on his hands.

But that day hadn’t come. Not yet.

-

When the mission briefing came through, it was supposed to be simple and low risk. An abandoned Hydra lab flagged for cleanup. Just intel recovery and demolition. No fights, no enemies. He didn’t want you going in. Something about the location sat wrong in his chest. But you insisted. Said you’d handled worse.

And maybe that was the problem. You always handled everything for him. For others. Even when you shouldn’t have had to.

He watched as you went down another hall to split up and cover more ground. He wished he had never left your side. Because then came the moment of static on the comms, then the flicker of power loss, and lastly the sudden radio silence.

He ran. It took six minutes to find you.

You were in a containment room, collapsed near a machine that looked like something between a scanner and a torture device. Your body was curled on the ground, breathing shallow, hands twitching.

He dropped to his knees beside you. “Hey. Hey… C’mon, Doll, open your eyes.”

You blinked and looked up at him. You stared at him like he was a stranger. When you spoke up, your voice was hoarse. “Who are you?”

The question didn’t register at first. He thought maybe it was the shock. Or a concussion. Maybe you were disoriented. But then you pushed yourself away from him and crawled back, visibly panicked. Your eyes were wide and your throat was working hard to swallow a scream.

“Please… don’t touch me.”

And just like that, the air left his lungs. He tried to stay calm. He tried saying your name, gently. Over and over. You flinched every time like it was a threat. Like he was. It was the look in your eyes that gutted him the most. Not fear of what had happened. Not confusion. But the absence of everything.

Everything you’d shared. The way you looked at him every morning. The jokes you made in the kitchen. The way you once whispered you’d never been safer than in his arms. It was all gone.

You didn’t know who he was. You didn’t know you loved him. And in that moment, he’d never felt more like the ghost they said he was.

-

You didn’t come home right away.

When he managed to coax you back to the tower, the Medics cleared you, of course. Physically, you were fine. Not a scratch on you. But the memory loss was real. The device had done something. Wiped neural pathways, scrambled connections, stripped entire years like peeling wallpaper.

You remembered your name. Your training. How to handle a weapon. How to take apart a gun and stitch a wound. But not him. Not the man who held you every night like you were the only thing tethering him to this century. Not Bucky.

At first, you stayed in a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility while they ran scans and tests. Bucky barely left your side. He hovered in corners, not too close, watching you try to relearn yourself in pieces. You were calm, quiet, and even polite.

You just didn’t know him.

He heard it in your voice every time you said his name: Barnes, not Bucky. Cold and distant like a fellow agent rather than the man who once made you laugh so hard you cried over a burnt grilled cheese sandwich in the middle of a power outage.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” You told him once, hands folded in your lap, and voice so gentle it cut him clean. “But… I don’t feel anything when I look at you. I’m sorry.”

He nodded and didn’t say anything more. What could he say?

He didn’t cry in front of you. But later, in the hallway, he braced his metal hand against the wall and exhaled like it hurt just to breathe. They had given you the option not to work for S.H.I.E.L.D anymore, to never see him again. To transfer and reset your life wherever you wanted.

But you didn’t. You looked at him and said, “Maybe… if I spend time with you, it might come back.”

So you came home.

You sat in the apartment like it was a museum. You traced the spines of your own books with unfamiliar fingertips. You opened drawers and stared at the little things like the shared grocery lists, photos of the two of you at Coney Island, a half-finished mug you’d made in a pottery class Bucky had hated but gone to anyway, just because you asked.

None of it sparked anything. But you wanted to remember and that mattered.

He made dinner the first night. Pasta, simple. You smiled faintly and said it tasted good. But you had always used to make fun of him for using too much garlic. He waited for you to say it, but you didn’t.

Later, you sat on opposite sides of the couch while a movie played in the background. You asked questions about yourself: what kind of music you liked, what books you used to read, or if you ever learned to play the old keyboard tucked beside the bookshelf.

Bucky answered every one like he was handling glass.

“You hated horror movies,” He said softly. “Used to bury your face in my shoulder even during the trailers. But you’d watch them anyway, just to laugh at me jumping.”

You tilted your head. “You get scared at horror movies?”

He cracked a faint smile. “Terrified.”

You laughed, really laughed, and for a second, just one fragile moment, it felt like you. He clung to that.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t kiss you. Didn’t call you doll or lean against you the way he used to. You weren’t his anymore. Not yet. Maybe not ever again. But every time you laughed or asked about a memory, he let himself hope.

Hope that somewhere, buried deep inside your mind, you were still his.

When he wasn’t spending time around you, he could tell how the rest of the team practically tiptoes around him now.

Some aren’t subtle. Natasha gives him long looks across briefing tables, equal parts pity and protectiveness. She doesn’t speak unless spoken to and whenever she does, her voice is softer than usual. Controlled.

Sam tries, bless him. He cracks a joke or two, light and quick, as if humor could stitch something this deep. He claps Bucky on the shoulder once in the gym and says, “You’re still in there. She’ll find you.” But he doesn’t say anything back, simply giving a tight nod before walking off.

Tony doesn’t gloat much anymore. He doesn’t joke either. He just sends a file to Bucky’s secure inbox about neural-recovery tech, theories, names of people who’ve studied memory wipe reversal. No subject line. No message. But Bucky understands it for what it is: support in Stark language.

Even Clint says it plain. “You’re not giving up.” And Bucky says it back. “I’m not.”

But none of them really know how to be there for him.

Because they saw the way you used to look at him, like he wasn’t a weapon or a man with blood on his hands, but simply yours. And now… you don’t even flinch when you stand near him, because you don’t remember what there is to be afraid of or to love.

So they give him space. But not Steve.

It’s late when Steve knocks. He doesn’t bother answering, but Steve comes in anyway. He finds Bucky in the kitchen, t-shirt and sweatpants, staring at a chipped mug on the counter like it just insulted him.

Steve doesn’t say anything at first, just leans back against the counter, crossing his arms and waiting.

Bucky exhales, but doesn’t look up. “She used to use that one,” He murmurs. “Every morning. Even when the handle cracked.”

His best friend glances at the mug to see the tiny sunflowers on it, slightly faded from too many washes. He remembers seeing it in the sink a hundred times. He remembers seeing you curled against Bucky on the couch, sipping from it with both hands while Bucky tucked a blanket around you like you were something breakable.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Bucky says. His voice is low, shaky even now. “She’s here. She’s here, Stevie. But it’s like watching her ghost walk around our apartment.”

Steve swallows as his chest aches, but he doesn’t show it.

“She’s not gone, Buck.”

“She doesn’t remember me.”

“But she’s trying.”

That lands hard. Bucky finally looks up, eyes bloodshot but dry.

Steve pushes off the counter and takes a slow step forward. “You’re angry. You’re grieving her, even though she’s right in front of you. That’s hell. But Bucky…” He sighs. “You know what it’s like to lose everything and still survive. You’ve done it before.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches. “It’s not the same.”

“No. It’s not. Because this time, she’s trying to come back to you. You just have to be patient.”

Bucky looks down at the mug again. He breathes slowly, his tone more vulnerable now. “What if she never remembers? What if she falls in love with someone else, and I’m just some… ghost in a photo?”

Steve’s expression cracks for a moment but his voice remains gentle. “Then you’ll still love her. You’ll still be there, however she needs. Because that’s what you do when someone’s your home.”

Silence fills the air before Bucky finally nods. It’s a slow, pained motion done only once.

Steve steps closer to his friend and grips his shoulder, firm and steady. “You’re not alone in this. You never were.”

And with that, Bucky stays. He stays by your side at a comfortable distance, offering a steady presence and patient answers to any questions you have.

Even though it hurts him to see you this way, makes him sick to his stomach with grief and anguish at the loss of your love; Bucky never let it show around you, not even once.

Because if there was one thing he remembered and understood better than anyone, it was what it meant to lose pieces of yourself. He couldn’t be angry with you for forgetting, not when he’d spent decades trying to remember who he used to be.

So he doesn’t beg. Doesn’t plead. He doesn’t guilt you into trying harder either. He just stays.

Sometimes, you asked him questions.

“Did I… love you?”

He never lied. Never told you stories to manipulate your heart into remembering. He just answered, gently and honestly.

“Yeah,” He’d say. “You did. And I loved you too.”

And when you looked down or away or offered a polite smile instead of a knowing one, he’d excuse himself for a few minutes to the hallway where he could breathe through the ache in his chest. But Bucky wasn’t a man who gave up. Not on you. Not now.

Because the truth was, he’d wait as long as it took. Even if you never remembered. Even if he had to fall in love with you all over again from scratch and let you fall for him at your own pace, in your own way.

-

On some days, something sparked enough to give him hope.

One morning, it started small. Not with a kiss. Not with some dramatic tearful moment or sudden flood of recognition. Just… a hum.

You’re making tea, quiet and slow, the way you always did. The kettle hisses and clicks, and you’re standing in Bucky’s- your kitchen, waiting.

And you hum. A stupid little melody. Out of tune and familiar.

Bucky freezes in the doorway, his breath caught like a hook in his throat.

Because you always used to hum that song. A dumb old jazz piece he played on vinyl one night just to tease you, and you rolled your eyes and said it sounded like elevator music. Then you got it stuck in your head for weeks to the point where he’d find you humming it while brushing your teeth or waiting for the microwave. Once he heard it while you were patching up a bullet graze.

And now you’re doing it again, without realizing. He doesn’t say anything. He’s afraid if he moves too fast, the moment will vanish like mist.

You pour the tea then turn enough to notice him, tilting your head slightly in concern. “You okay?”

He swallows. “Yeah. Just… you always used to hum that.”

You blink. “Did I?”

He nods and you don’t say anything else. But you look thoughtful. Like maybe, for a flicker of a second, something stirred inside.

Later, it happens again.

You’re sitting on the couch. He’s a few feet away. Respectful as always. You yawn, curl your legs up under you, and reach for the blanket on the back of the couch. Without thinking, you toss one corner toward him.

He stares. Because you always used to share it like that. The dumb little blanket-sharing ritual, a habit you never talked about. Just muscle memory. A routine born of hundreds of nights side-by-side.

And now… now your body remembers what your mind doesn’t.

You notice the way he’s looking at the blanket. “Is this something I used to do?”

He nods again, slower this time. “Yeah.”

“…Do you want it?”

“No,” He says quickly, quietly. “I’m good.”

You study him a moment longer, then gently drape it across both your laps anyway. You don’t say anything. Neither does he. But he doesn’t move for a long time.

That night, when you go to bed, Bucky stays on the couch like he always does now. It’s separate and distant, yet safe. But his heart is full of knives. Because every second you’re here, every time you smile or laugh or hum that dumb melody, he remembers how it used to feel. The ease and the intimacy. The way you’d tuck your face into his chest and call him “Buck” in that soft, sleepy voice like you’d never say it for anyone else.

And he wonders if he’ll ever have that again. But even if he doesn’t, even if you never remember, and even if you move on someday and love someone else…

He knows one thing like gospel truth:

He will still love you. Always. Even if it breaks him.

Because it was never a choice. Not with you. You were the first thing that made him believe he could have a future. And he’ll keep loving you even if all you ever give him now are flickers of hope.

And now, even with your memory scattered like ash in the wind, you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever lost.

[vampiriito]

Pillow talk and pleading the fifth amendment (r.c flashback)

(JJ Maybank x pogue! reader x Rafe Cameron) ..in which you found yourself torn between two worlds when your best friend, JJ Maybank, who you've been in love with since forever starts dating Kiara. In a jealousy haze you start hooking up with Rafe Cameron, the infamous kook prince. Do you manage to keep everything casual and under control? No, is it fun? Also kind of no, given you hate yourself each time you managed to orgasm. And especially since Rafe's favorite activity is to pick on you and your friends outside the bedroom..

warnings; mentions of drug use, over-dosing? (not quite), me losing the plot lowkey, Ward Cameron, sex in a public space (please don't do it. we are so back baby). likes, reblogs and comments help a lot! hope you enjoy reading! <3

"Silence" noun /ˈsaɪ.ləns/

1. The absence of sound. 2. A deliberate pause or withholding of speech, often loaded with unspoken meaning or tension. 3. In emotional contexts, the space between words where truth often lingers too loud to name. 4. A fragile truce between two people who’ve said too much and not enough all at once. 5. What settles after confession, when honesty becomes too heavy to fill with noise. Example: "I just figured we’d have this conversation sober," she said, and silence followed—not empty, but full of everything neither of them was ready to admit.

The LED lights above you hummed with a soft, indifferent buzz, a sterile kind of white that made the whole waiting room feel colder than it already was. You could barely feel the sharp edges of Rafe’s car keys biting into your palm, but you wouldn’t let them go. They were the only solid thing anchoring you to the moment—those keys, still warm from his hand when you pried them from it, now cold with panic.

The hospital was your least favorite place on the entire island. Not because it was loud or ugly or smelled like bleach, but because nothing good ever came out of it. Hospitals were made of death and pain and long silences between life-altering news. And your life already had too much of all three. Every second you spent here felt like a second stolen from whatever version of reality you were trying to hold onto.

You tried to block out the overlapping voices, the faint, mechanical beep of monitors, and the shrill distant wail of a new ambulance pulling in. None of it mattered. Not the way the receptionist eyed you with thinly-veiled judgment, or the way your friends hovered a few feet away, whispering among themselves, waiting for you to crack first so they wouldn’t have to ask the question. So they wouldn’t have to look you in the eye and say what the fuck happened.

But you couldn’t crack. You didn’t even know how anymore. The tears had dried up somewhere between them dragging Rafe out of your arms and wheeling him down a corridor you weren’t allowed to follow. The sobs stopped sometime after you dropped into this plastic chair, too shell-shocked to scream, too sunburnt and exhausted to care about how ridiculous you looked—wrapped in a towel, an American flag bikini still clinging to your damp skin, legs sticky with the remnants of sunscreen and sweat.

You were a walking contradiction: someone who looked like they’d just come back from a beach bonfire but felt like they’d aged ten years in a single afternoon.

You weren’t shaking anymore. Your legs had gone still ages ago, and the sting of your sunburn barely registered over the weight that pressed into your chest like a truck parked on top of it. All you could focus on was the thought—obsessive, looping—is he gonna die?

Was Rafe Cameron, insufferable, impulsive, fucked-up Rafe, really going to die? Would your voice be the last thing he ever heard? Would he remember your fingers against his clammy neck, checking for a pulse? Your trembling hands slapping his cheek, begging him to wake up, to breathe? Would he remember you screaming his name, flooring it through red lights, cursing at your tears because they made the road blur?

And worse—what if he didn’t die? What then?

Would you go back to pretending it was just fun? Just sex? That you didn’t stay up thinking about him when you left his bed, or that your heart didn’t stutter with guilt and something more when his name lit up your phone?

How would you even look him in the eye? Hey! You survived an overdose, let’s go back to sneaking around and pretending we don’t actually care about each other.

No. It wouldn’t be that easy. It was never supposed to be that easy with him. And now, you weren’t sure if anything about this would ever be easy again.

You blinked slowly, numb all over, your grip tightening on the keys until one jabbed painfully into the fleshy part of your palm. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was fear. Or maybe it was the sinking feeling that no matter what happened in that ICU room—whether he made it out or not—something between you died today. Something that wouldn't be revived, even if he was.

And still, you sat. Frozen. Waiting.

Because deep down, no matter how many times you tried to convince yourself you didn’t love him, you knew that if someone came out and told you he didn’t make it—you wouldn’t know how to keep living in a world where Rafe Cameron no longer existed.

The sound of footsteps padded softly on the vinyl floor, growing fainter as the person walked further down the hall, leaving you in the midst of the quiet, steady beeping of the machines around you, the hum of overhead lights. You didn’t look up, didn't look up even as the sound of footsteps grew closer again, and you didn’t look up at first when someone sat down silently in the seat next to you.

“Hey.”

Your eyes flicked to the side, surprised to see Pope settling into the seat like he was just waiting for a bus. He said nothing else for a long moment, his eyes staring straight ahead at the white wall across from him.

You didn’t respond right away. Your mouth opened slightly, as if some instinct urged you to speak, but nothing came. The silence dragged out, thick and awkward, pressing into your ears like cotton. Eventually, you turned your head, eyes flickering up with effort as your surroundings slowly registered again. That’s when you really saw them—your best friends—standing a few feet away like ghosts waiting for permission to haunt you.

JJ looked like he was trying not to pace, jaw clenched so tight you could see the tension in the muscle along his cheek. His arm was slung loosely around Kie’s shoulders, but the hold didn’t look casual. It looked protective. Tethered. Like he needed her there to keep from unraveling completely. Kie’s face was unreadable, her lips pressed into a thin line as she studied you with that same careful gaze you’d seen her use when bandaging wounds or picking her way through a fight she didn’t want to escalate. Wary. Measured. You couldn’t blame her.

John B stood nearby with his arms around Sarah, who had her face buried in his chest like she could physically block out the entire hospital if she just held on tight enough. She was whispering something to him, her fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt, and you didn’t have to hear the words to know what she was saying. You knew that tone. That low, scared murmur people used when they were bargaining with reality. When they were saying please, not like this.

It hit you then—Sarah was scared, too. And of course she was. No matter how much animosity existed between her and Rafe, no matter how venomous their sibling dynamic had grown over the years, they were still bound by something that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with blood. You thought of your own brother, your chest tightening at the idea of losing him. The idea of watching someone you’ve known your whole life fade into something cold and still. If the roles were reversed, if it were him, you’d be inconsolable.

So maybe you did understand Sarah after all.

Pope sat beside you now. You hadn’t even noticed him take the seat until you felt his presence next to yours—calm, quiet, unnervingly gentle. His hands were folded in his lap, fingers twining and untwining like he was trying to work up the nerve to speak but hadn’t yet figured out where to start. You felt the weight of his concern without him saying a word. It radiated from him, warm and grounding in the worst possible moment. And that was almost worse than if he’d snapped or shouted or asked a hundred questions you couldn’t answer.

You stared down at your hands again. The keys had left little imprints in your skin, angry red lines that throbbed faintly. You blinked at them like they didn’t belong to you, like you were watching someone else clutch them with white-knuckled desperation.

It took everything in you to pull your voice from wherever it had retreated to.

“Hi,” you said, barely above a whisper. The word tasted unfamiliar in your mouth, thin and fragile like it might fall apart if you tried to say anything else.

Pope turned his head to look at you, but didn’t speak. JJ shifted like he was about to, but Kie stopped him with a gentle hand on his chest. Sarah finally lifted her head, her tear-streaked eyes landing on you, and for the first time in what felt like hours, you met someone’s gaze. Her expression broke your heart. It wasn’t anger or blame or pity—it was something more painful. Something like recognition. Like she saw a version of her brother reflected in you, and maybe, for a second, she hated that she understood.

But none of them said anything. None of them moved closer. They just stood there, orbiting you like satellites around a dying star, unsure of what to offer.

And maybe that was the worst part—knowing there wasn’t anything they could say to fix it. No words to erase the image of Rafe’s body slumped against the car seat, breath shallow and lips tinged blue as you drove. No sentence strong enough to soften the way your heart kept replaying his name over and over again like a prayer you weren’t sure anyone was listening to.

So you sat there, still and sunburnt and trembling somewhere deep inside, not knowing what you needed—only that it wasn’t this. And maybe that was the scariest thing of all.

Pope fidgeted on the chair, his foot tapping impatiently against the scuffed vinyl floor as the silence stretched between you both. He didn’t mean to stare, knew it must have been the last thing you wanted right now, but he couldn’t help it. It was the first time in a long time that you really looked vulnerable, and it scared the hell out of him.

He ran a over his face, the gesture half-nervous tic, half-nervous habit, and felt his leg bounce more urgently against the floor. It was an uncomfortable kind of quiet. The kind of uncomfortable that sat wrong between friends. Friends who usually knew how to fill the silence with laughter and bad jokes and too many drinks. But none of that worked here.

He cleared his throat.

“You did a good thing today, you know.” The words landed flatly, but the look in his eyes softened the blow. He meant it. You knew he meant it.

“It was the correct thing to do…” you mumbled, the words catching in your throat like gravel, swallowing hard in a useless attempt to ease the ache that had rooted itself there. It didn’t budge. The lump sat stubborn and swollen, pulsing with every unspoken thought you were too tired to shape into words. Your gaze dropped again, first to the floor, then to the keys still gripped in your palm—his keys. They’d left indentations in your skin, shallow reminders that your fingers hadn’t relaxed since you’d parked his car outside. You couldn’t remember pulling the parking brake or locking the doors. It had all blurred together—sirens, shouting, hospital lights, his name. His name, always.

You didn’t look up, but you could feel their eyes on you, all four of them. The weight of their attention pressed down like a humid storm before the first thunder cracks. Pope had meant well—you knew that—but his words still rang with something deeper than what he said out loud.

“It was the correct thing to do,” sounded like comfort on the surface, like reassurance passed between two lifelong friends. But you knew him too well. You could hear the subtext in his voice. You did a good thing today. Even if it was for someone we all hate. Even if it wasn’t what we would’ve done. The rest went unsaid, but you could feel it all the same. Hanging there in the air between you and everyone else. Suspicion masked in concern. Unspoken questions tucked into silence so loud it bordered on cruel.

Because of course they were wondering. Why you? Why had you driven him here? Why had you been with him in the first place, let alone close enough to get him into a car and rush him to the ER before he stopped breathing altogether? And more importantly—what the hell had been going on between you and Rafe Cameron behind everyone’s backs?

You could see the confusion in their posture, even without meeting their eyes. The discomfort. The uncertainty. They didn’t want to say it here—not while sterile walls and beeping monitors were separated from the waiting room by a single swinging door—but you knew it was coming. Later. At the chateau. Probably the moment they thought your nerves had settled and the adrenaline had drained from your system. That was when it would begin.

JJ would be the one to break the silence. He always was. He never let tension linger long enough to rot. He’d corner you with that same mix of protectiveness and fire, demanding answers the others were too polite or too shocked to voice. His voice would be sharp, edged in disbelief. What the fuck were you doing with Rafe? How long has this been going on? Is this some kind of joke? And you'd sit there, either lying or giving him fragments of a truth that none of them were ready to hear.

But that confrontation wasn’t happening yet. Right now, you were here, in this awful waiting room that smelled like bleach and despair, clutching keys that didn’t belong to you and wondering why the hell it felt like you were the one bleeding out.

Another beat of silence.

“Pope’s right. You did the right thing.”

It was JJ this time. You could tell because the words were more blunt on his tongue, the tone a little too matter-of-fact in an effort to mask the concern. If it had been Pope, the words would’ve come out softer, maybe even gentle. You thought for a second that it should’ve bothered you how different they were at the same time they were just alike, but nothing felt normal right now. Nothing felt right.

The chair creaked as JJ shifted on to the edge, leaning his elbows on his knees in a way your mother always told you gentlemen shouldn’t. His fingers fidgeted with his cuticles, picking at the skin surrounding his thumb with anxious agitation. His expression was almost unreadable, if it weren't for the concern you'd come to know so well.

“The right thing,” he said again, like he was trying to convince you as much as he was himself.

Kie spoke next, her voice uncharacteristically fragile. She was holding onto a crumpled piece of paper, ripping and smoothing the edges like it was the only thing she had. It was the first time you’d heard more than a syllable from her in hours—hours it felt like, anyway.

”This wasn’t your fault,” she said, the words firm and deliberate.

"I'm not blaming myself." The words came out quiet but steady, a practiced kind of control that didn't match the chaos clawing through your chest. Your fingers kept turning the keys over and over again in your lap, fidgeting with them like they might morph into something useful—like they might grow a mouth and explain all of this to you. That it was a prank. A twisted cosmic joke, carefully engineered by whatever cruel forces were watching from above. Because that would almost make more sense than the truth: that you were sitting in a hospital waiting room still in your swimsuit, clutching Rafe Cameron’s car keys, waiting to find out if he was going to live or die.

JJ's words hung in the air behind yours, his comfort soft but cautious, careful not to press too hard. But your own echoed louder. “The right thing.”

Of course it had been the right thing. There was no debate about that. But the thing no one told you about doing the right thing was how awful it could feel—how it could splinter something inside you even as it saved someone else. And it especially didn’t feel good now, when even saying “was” felt like a gamble. Because was implied a past tense, and past tense meant he didn’t make it. The only thing keeping you in this seat instead of curled up beside his hospital bed was the slippery, uncertain promise of if.

If he made it. If he woke up. If you’d get the chance to look at him one more time before walking away for good.

But if was dangerous. It was hope dressed up as mercy, and mercy was something you didn’t feel like you deserved.

Even now, as the hum of fluorescent lights pressed down like static and the hospital sounds all blurred together, you felt the guilt weaving itself through your veins. Not guilt for saving him. No, that part you’d do over again without hesitation. But guilt in advance—for the lies you were going to tell your friends when they finally asked what happened. For the half-truths you'd feed JJ, whose eyes you'd avoided since the second you stepped inside. For the way your heart still ached when you looked at JJ, even though it had been somewhere else lately. Somewhere messier. Somewhere with Rafe.

Maybe that was the worst part. That every version of guilt you carried tonight was layered—dense and heavy, folding in on itself until it was hard to breathe under the weight of it. You didn’t even know who you were trying to protect anymore—Rafe, yourself, JJ. All of them, maybe. Or none at all.

Everything around you felt too sharp now. Too clear. Like the moment you finally put on your glasses after weeks of pretending you didn’t need them, and the world snapped into place a little too harshly. The edges of your decisions became impossible to ignore. You saw the lines you’d crossed. The wreckage you might’ve left behind. And yet here you were, sitting in that uncomfortable chair like a penitent sinner, praying for a second chance you knew you couldn’t afford to take.

Because if Rafe lived—you’d lose him anyway. And if he didn’t—God, if he didn’t— You weren’t sure who you’d be on the other side of that.

Pope shifted in his seat, fidgeting with the edge of his backpack. The look on his face said he had more to say—a lecture about guilt, maybe, or an attempt at comfort that would’ve fallen flat. But he didn’t have to make the mistake of speaking. It was JJ’s turn again, and he wasn’t one to hold back for long.

”You didn’t mean to get him so high he nearly overdosed, did you?” It was the first direct question aimed at you, and the accusation stung.

JJ’s voice sliced through the fog in your head like a sudden crack of thunder, pulling you from the repetitive fidgeting of Rafe’s keys in your hands. You hadn’t even realized how tightly you were still gripping them, your nails half-mooned into your palm, metal pressing cold and unforgiving into your sweat-slick skin. You should’ve returned them to Sarah by now. You knew that. But some part of you—some pathetic, panicked part—wasn’t ready to let go.

His accusation wasn’t loud, but it still hit with the weight of something unforgivable. Like a dull knife hurled into wet sand—too clumsy to pierce clean, too heavy not to land with impact. And still, it lodged itself in your chest, lodged itself deep. You blinked at him slowly, your stomach flipping not from guilt but from the raw shock of the moment.

Was that what they thought? That you got high with him? That you were the reason he ended up in the ICU?

JJ didn’t dress his concern up in soft words the way Pope had. He never did. He didn’t believe in cushioning the truth. Not with you. Not now. Especially not in the sterile, too-quiet hallway of a hospital, where everything already felt too raw and exposed.

You looked up at him finally, your head moving slowly, your gaze skimming across each of your friends’ faces like you were taking roll in a classroom you no longer recognized. Your eyes asked a silent question—Is that what you all think?—but none of them answered. No one said a damn thing. Not Pope. Not Kie. Not Sarah. Not even John B, who looked almost guilty just for standing there. All of them just… watched. Silent. Waiting. Like they were giving you a chance to explain, like their belief in you was on pause, suspended between JJ’s words and your response.

“Excuse me?” you asked, voice low and disbelieving. Your eyes narrowed just slightly—not a full glare, but enough to slice through the stunned concern on JJ’s face. Enough to let the irritation break through the shellshock that still gripped your shoulders. You didn’t yell. Didn’t cry. But the edge in your tone was unmistakable, sharp with disbelief, scraped raw from everything you'd already been through tonight.

JJ’s expression didn’t soften—but the look in his eyes did. There was a flash of recognition as you finally focused on him, a brief moment that said he’d hit a nerve he wasn’t sure he should’ve touched. A beat later, it was gone.

He’d pushed too hard. He’d done the one thing they’d all agreed on—don’t ask questions, not yet. But his mouth worked like a well-worn habit, his temper pushing him to keep going, the worry inside him demanding answers from someone, anyone.

JJ held your gaze as your words landed between you, every line of your face shifting from shock to irritation to something that looked like a cross between vulnerability and defiance—your eyes glittering bright and sharp in the fluorescent light, like you were willing him to keep pushing. He hadn’t gotten any real answers yet.

He had no choice but to keep going. It would be easier for everyone if he’d just let it go. He knew that. He usually tried to let it go. But JJ was a lot of things, and rational didn’t rank very high on the list.

"You heard what I said." It came out less accusing this time, more like a tired statement of fact. He was still holding your gaze, but the way he was still fidgeting with the hem of his shorts betrayed the indifference in his voice. He was getting antsy. He needed better answers if he was going to step back and let this go. He just didn’t know if he really wanted to hear them. “Did you… get high with him?”

The look on their faces wasn’t unfamiliar—but it was devastating. Quiet guilt. Subtle judgment. They didn’t need to say it. You could see it in the shift of their weight, in the way they avoided your gaze even as you searched each of them for a scrap of defense. They’d talked. They’d all talked. About you. About Rafe. About this. You weren’t imagining that—they had already decided something before JJ even opened his mouth.

The realization made your chest tighten until it ached, until breathing felt like trying to swallow glass. They’d formed their theories in hushed tones while you sat with his blood drying under your nails. You weren’t angry yet. That would come later. What you felt now was something worse—abandonment. A brutal kind of loneliness that tasted metallic in your throat. You didn’t just lose Rafe tonight—not entirely, not yet—but you were beginning to think you might’ve lost them too.

You exhaled slowly, not trusting your voice at first. “No,” you finally said, the word sharp but cracking at the edges. “I didn’t get high with him.”

It was a simple sentence. It should’ve been enough.

But none of their faces shifted. No one softened. No one moved to apologize.

Your gaze flicked to JJ again, hardening despite the sting behind your eyes. “It’s not like me and Rafe are—” You stopped yourself, the sentence dying somewhere in your throat, unraveling before it could even form. Your lip curled, more in confusion than anger, as the absurdity of it all sank in. “Why the hell would I be doing coke with Rafe Cameron?”

You hadn’t meant to raise your voice, but it echoed anyway—cutting through the buzz of hospital lights and the occasional intercom call like glass underfoot. The question wasn’t just for JJ anymore. It was for all of them. A direct accusation. A demand for answers you weren’t sure you wanted to hear.

All four of them jumped when your voice cracked, all of them looking away except for JJ. His eyes were fixed on you in a way that bordered on uncomfortable. This wasn’t what he was expecting. Sure, he didn’t like the idea of you getting high with Rafe, but that had almost seemed like the logical explanation until you pushed back, the harsh tone of your question making his chest squeeze unpleasantly.

“Well, I don’t know. I sure as hell didn’t think you’d be driving him to the damn hospital either,” he shot back.

Your voice came out thinner than you expected—strained and bitter, the exhaustion eating at your edges finally forcing its way out. A small, humorless scoff clawed up your throat, barely past your chapped lips before your jaw locked tight around it. Disbelief buzzed in your ears, thrumming louder than the hospital lights, louder than the beeping monitors and the clipped footsteps echoing off sterile floors. This—this—wasn’t the time. It wasn’t the place. But apparently, your friends disagreed.

You hadn’t said anything when JJ started dating Kiara. Not really. You hadn’t brought up how it hollowed you out. How it carved up all your softness and left you aching in a place none of them could see. You didn’t tell them that Rafe was a coping mechanism with a pretty face and dangerous habits. That he was the wrong person to reach for, but the only one who felt just as wrong inside as you did.

And now—now they wanted to play detective? Sit in a hospital hallway and dissect the choices you made while you still didn’t know if Rafe was going to survive?

“I should’ve let Barry drag him into his filthy trailer, right?” you said, voice trembling with restrained fury. “Gone about my day while he OD'd on Barry’s floor somewhere on the filthiest edges of the Cut?”

Your words came in a rush, raw and cracking at the seams as your expression twisted under the weight of too much emotion and too little rest. You could feel yourself shrinking under it—into the ugly discomfort of the molded plastic chair, into the fabric of your damp clothes, into the guilt that clung to your skin like sweat. You weren’t trying to be dramatic. You were trying to survive the night.

“I saved him,” you muttered, quieter this time, gaze falling to the keys again—those fucking keys still warm in your hand like they meant something. “And all any of you care about is why.”

None of them answered. And that silence—that hollow, heavy silence—told you everything you needed to know.

Each of your words landed like a blow, and you watched as they flinched from the impact—Sarah, Kie, and Pope. They all looked away, the guilt weighing on them like a physical thing. But not JJ. His arms folded across his chest, his jaw clenched tight.

“Nobody’s saying you didn’t,” he finally muttered. “I’m just trying to figure out how the hell this even happened.”

He watched as you pressed your lips together, almost wincing when your jaw clenched—almost. JJ had lost his temper before. Hell, he’d lost it with you more times than he could count. But you’d never looked at him like this. He’d never seen you this cold, this furious, this… wounded. He wanted to fix it. God knows he wanted to fix it. But he didn’t have the right words, and he was never good at apologies.

JJ ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, frustration and guilt twisting in equal measure, his chest tightening until it ached.

“I didn’t even think you two talked,” he said, words tight in his throat. They should’ve come out lighter, more casual. Like he didn’t understand. Like he didn’t even care. Instead, they came out almost desperate, the effort of hiding them like sandpaper against his skin.

"We don’t!" you whisper-shouted again, and your voice cracked just enough to betray the pressure building behind it. You pressed your lips into a thin, pale line, blinking hard, willing yourself not to cry—not from sadness, but from frustration. The kind that felt like you were being backed into a corner, surrounded by people you loved who couldn’t seem to recognize how hard you were trying.

You looked at JJ, really looked at him, and saw that flicker of something dark and unrelenting behind his eyes—the kind of thing he got when he felt betrayed. But what did he expect from you? To let Rafe die on the floor? To pretend like it hadn't happened?

“The only time me and Rafe ever talk is when he decides he needs to put me and my social status down at work,” you spat out, your voice trembling now with the effort to sound collected. “Or when I defend you guys from his stupid remarks.”

That much was true. It was also not the whole truth—and the guilt made your chest burn hotter because of it.

You and Rafe had done a hell of a lot more than talk. Recently. Often. Sober. With a kind of desperation that neither of you dared put a name to. And the memories came flooding back now, like cruel ghosts rising up to mock you.

Just last night—Jesus, just last night—he’d cornered you upstairs during the costume party. Your friends had been dancing downstairs, shouting lyrics, laughing. And upstairs, he was fucking you like he needed to carve the shape of you into his bones. Like it was the last time. Maybe it was.

The image made your stomach twist violently. Now here you were, the heat of his hands still seared into your skin, and he was somewhere at the end of the hall with a tube down his throat and charcoal in his stomach. Maybe dying. Maybe not.

Suddenly, the guilt bubbled up like bile, thick and acidic, choking out anything that sounded like reason. You could feel your pulse in your temples, the nausea curling at the base of your throat. Because the truth was ugly. And you couldn’t tell it. Not here. Not now.

So instead, you swallowed hard and clung to your anger like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

“I drove him here because no one else was going to,” you added, softer now, but just as sharp. “And maybe that makes me stupid. Maybe it makes me a traitor in your eyes. But it doesn’t make me a liar.”

You didn’t mean to look away from them so suddenly, but you did—your gaze dropping to your lap, to the keys you’d nearly dented into your palm. Anything to not see the judgment or confusion or betrayal on their faces. Anything to keep from breaking open right there in front of them. Because if you started crying now, you wouldn’t stop.

And none of them—not even JJ—would understand what the tears were really for.

JJ hated himself for pushing you. For making this—this—happen in a hospital hallway, in the place that stank of too-clean surfaces and too much death. He could see it, in the way you were breaking apart—in the way you looked like you were going to say everything you were keeping locked away and let it burst open right here, right now. It made him want to scream. Or throw up. Maybe both.

Pope cleared his throat, and JJ sent him a warning look that all but begged him to stay quiet. But Pope, for once, ignored him. He looked almost pained, watching you fold back into yourself, shoulders hunched and head bowed like you were trying to hide from them. Even with your face partly hidden, JJ could still see the hurt on your

“No one’s saying you’re a liar,” he said gently, shifting to face you in his chair beside you. Hand twitching as if he wanted to reach out and touch you before he spoke up again, to soften the blow of his next words. “We just don’t understand how you ended up in a car with Rafe Cameron.”

He waited for you to speak, but the only sound you made was an ironic, bitter scoff—not even lifting your head to acknowledge him. Pope was patient, though—he always was. He waited another beat, another moment. And when you still didn’t answer, he let some of the tension in his back loosen, voice quieter now, almost imploring.

“Come on. It’s just a question.”

Kie was the one who spoke up this time, and her voice broke right through the heavy silence in a way that made the hair on JJ’s arms prickle upright. “We’re not calling you a liar,” she said, the edge to her words a little too sharp to sound like anything but annoyance.

“We’re just trying to figure out why the hell you drove him here.”

Your eyes moved from Pope to JJ and then to Kie when she finally spoke, her voice careful like she was trying not to spook you. But it still felt like some poorly written intervention scene in a low-budget indie drama. You could almost hear the imaginary director yelling cut and reset. Except this was real. Your reality. Your consequence. Your secret, bleeding out under the sterile lights of the ICU waiting room.

You pulled the hospital-issued blanket tighter around yourself, the synthetic material scratching your already sunburnt skin, but you didn't flinch. You didn’t even register the keys still biting into your palm, half-moon indents surely forming from the grip you hadn’t loosened once. Your body was a collection of sensations you couldn’t bother to decipher right now. The only thing you were sure of was that this—them—was the last thing you needed. Their prying. Their assumptions. Their questions dressed up as concern.

You could feel their eyes on you. Studying. Waiting. Pressuring. And you knew you had to lie. You had no choice but to lie.

Because what were you going to say? That Rafe had his hand between your legs twelve hours ago while calling you a thousand pet names with a smile on his face? That he kissed you like he hated you but needed you, that you had buried yourself in him like he could drown out everything else that hurt? That this thing between you wasn’t about coke or love or loyalty—it was about escaping, about breaking something before it broke you?

No. You couldn’t say any of that. Not when their eyes held quiet judgment and their hearts still thought of you as their moral compass. The “good” one. The level-headed one. The one who wouldn’t touch Rafe Cameron, let alone let him touch her.

So you inhaled slowly and said instead, “Because he needed help?” Your voice cracked only slightly, but it was raw enough to force the silence back down their throats. You met Kie’s gaze dead on—like you were daring her to call you out.

“It’s not like he came to visit me on the cut so we could get high together,” you continued, the bitterness in your throat almost stronger than the desperation. “He was at Barry’s, clearly messed up, and then suddenly… he was just there, standing at the edge of my yard like some statue. Just watching me argue with my mom.”

You swallowed, the memory flickering behind your eyelids. Rafe’s pale, slack face. The stillness in his movements. The silence in his stare.

“I got pissed. Thought he was being a creep, like usual. I dragged him back toward his car—back to Barry’s—and that’s when I noticed he was too quiet. Like… not there. His eyes weren’t focusing on me. His skin felt wrong.”

You blinked hard. “I panicked,” you said, and that was the truest part of all. “I shoved him in the SUV and drove him here because I know what an OD looks like. I've seen it before. My cousin—” You stopped yourself, realizing your voice was rising not in volume, but in edge. That familiar rasp of unraveling.

A beat passed. The silence grew teeth.

“He needed help,” you repeated, this time quieter. Like the words were losing their weight, or maybe just their ability to hold the wall between you and everything you weren’t saying.

And still, none of them spoke. Not even JJ. You could tell they were trying to process, trying to parse truth from performance.

You wondered if any of them would notice the story didn’t quite explain why Rafe came to you.

Or why he trusted you.

You sat there in the thick silence, waiting for someone to break it. But no one spoke. Each one of them watching you, like you were something complicated. To be figured out. It was all too familiar. JJ was clenching and unclenching his fists in the seat beside you, like he was physically holding himself back from opening his mouth. He’d never been good at staying quiet.

Another excruciating minute of silence passed before JJ spoke again, his gaze drifting back to you.

“Are we supposed to believe you just happened to drive him to the hospital because it was the right thing to do?” Each word was tight with pent-up frustration, his eyes hard as he fixed you with a look that was just as desperate as it was accusatory. He didn’t give you a chance to answer.

“Because that’s some serious bullshit.”

The moment you stood up, the room seemed to pull tighter around you, like the hospital walls were leaning in to listen. The blanket hit the chair with a quiet thwap, and for the first time since you sat down, your body felt separate from the heaviness you'd been carrying. But it didn’t lift the pressure—it just gave it space to move.

You could hear the shift. Their silence wasn’t empty anymore—it buzzed, like a live wire was running under the floor. The faint rustle of Kie adjusting in her seat. The subtle exhale Pope tried to stifle. The way JJ’s jaw twitched, like he was biting back something he wasn’t sure he had the right to say. And you could feel the weight of Sarah’s stare most of all, her quiet, tense heartbreak radiating from across the room.

“What is wrong with all of you?” you snapped before you could reel it in, the heat in your voice cutting through the stale air. Your voice wasn’t loud, but it sliced. You could see JJ stiffen. Pope blinked. Even Kie recoiled slightly.

You turned your attention to Sarah, and it made your throat constrict. Because this wasn’t just some girl from your friend group. This was the girl who’d first made you feel like you belonged somewhere. Who never once looked at you like you were less. The one who painted your nails on her bedroom floor and helped you lie to your mom about where you were spending the night. The only other person who really knew what it felt like to straddle the blurred line between two sides of the island.

“This is your brother we're talking about here,” you hissed, your voice low but heavy, so weighted with disbelief it hurt. “Did you guys expect me to let him die?” You laughed, sharp and humorless, your hands cutting through the air like punctuation marks. “Sure, I hate Rafe Cameron—who doesn’t? But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna sit there and watch him choke on his own tongue without lifting a finger.”

You were unraveling now, but it wasn’t messy. It was sharp. Controlled. A blade pressed flat instead of plunged deep. “I wouldn’t do that with anyone,” you added, your voice quieter now, trembling with something close to defeat. “I don’t care who he is. Who I am. If it were any of you… you think I wouldn’t do the same?”

Sarah didn’t respond right away. None of them did. Just the low hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant squeak of nurses' shoes on the linoleum.

You were breathing harder than you realized. You wiped at your face, not even sure if there were tears or sweat or something in between. And still, the only sound was the too-steady rhythm of the hospital around you—heartbeats and machines and a silence that felt colder than anything else.

You’d never seen JJ look so still. No fidgeting, no tapping his foot, no hands drumming across his chair. He was frozen, face so carefully blank it made your heart clench. His eyes never left your face. In any other scenario, he probably would’ve stood up and started pacing with a violent energy, running a hand through his hair and yelling until he ran out of steam. But not now. He looked like he was holding his breath. Like if he moved even an inch, the moment would fall apart.

Pope was the one who shifted this time. He’d always been the peacemaker, the one who tried to get the right words out before anyone could say something they’d instantly regret.

“We’re not trying to say you shouldn’t have helped him,” he started, his voice measured and neutral.

Your head turned so fast it startled even you, the momentum matching the fire finally catching in your chest. “No,” you cut Pope off before he could finish his statement, your voice low but loaded, vibrating with the kind of fury that came from being both heartbroken and insulted. “You're all just a bunch of fucking children.”

It wasn’t a shout, but it landed like one. You saw it hit them—the recoil in Kie’s posture, JJ’s eyebrows pulling together tighter, Sarah’s mouth parting like she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Pope flinched, barely, but enough for you to feel like you’d just struck something solid and vital. And maybe that was fair. Maybe they deserved to hurt a little.

“You’re too wrapped up in your stupid little social feud to realize that a living, breathing person was close to dying today.” Your voice cracked on the word, like the weight of it had finally started to catch up with your throat. “And if I hadn’t been fast enough—if I hadn’t gotten in that car and shoved him in the passenger seat—he would’ve died with me. In that fucking SUV. With me.”

You jabbed your chest with your finger like a physical reminder that you’d been the one there. You. Not them. Not his friends—because he didn’t have any. Not his family—because they’d all given up. You.

“A person he doesn’t even like. Or know. Imagine that,” you scoffed bitterly, voice trembling again despite how hard you tried to hold it steady. “Imagine if the roles were reversed.”

And that was when the memory slammed into your chest like a brick wall.

The kook party. The spiked drink. The way the music had warped and melted around you as your limbs turned foreign and numb. The way no one had noticed you slipping out the front door, or cared when you stumbled into the yard, head spinning, skin clammy. The way you were slumped on the curb, eyes glazed over, mouth full of dry cookies and iced tea you didn't even remember purchasing from that stupid corner store.

Rafe.

Rafe Cameron, with his stupid expensive shoes and permanent scowl, crouched in front of you with an unreadable look on his face after he realised you'd been spiked. Not judgment, not amusement. Just a cold, sharp focus—like he was calculating. And then a ragged breath, a low curse, and he was the one who sat next to you until you could walk again. The one who didn’t leave and instead carried you to his car and took you his house to throw up. Who didn’t even mention it again.

You hadn’t told anyone. You never would. And today felt like repayment. Like some unspoken karmic loop closed in on itself.

But they didn’t know that. None of them did. And that was the worst part.

So you let the silence settle in again, harsher this time. You watched them—JJ, Pope, Kie, Sarah John B—and for the first time ever, you didn’t feel like you belonged among them. You felt like an outsider, like the girl from the wrong part of the island who had accidentally seen too much and been through even more.

The silence fell hard. None of them knew how to respond. Because you were right—no matter how badly they hated Rafe, they couldn’t deny the fact that his life had basically depended on you being there. And maybe they didn’t want to admit that.

Sarah was the one who finally cracked. Her shoulders slumped, and her eyes closed like it physically ached to look at you. Her voice was low. Just barely above a whisper, like she was holding back tears.

“I get that,” she said, and she sounded tired. Weary. “And I’m sorry. Thank you. For helping him.”

Kie was the next to speak. Her words were measured, but there was a tinge of guilt behind his her tone.

“We’re not saying you didn’t do the right thing, okay? We’re just—we’re just worried.”

Your eyes lingered on Sarah for a beat longer than necessary, trying to decipher whether her quiet “thank you” held any real weight or if it was simply a lifeline tossed into the storm to steady things before they unraveled further. You wanted to believe it was sincere. You needed it to be. But the walls were too high now, the hurt too fresh, and trust felt like something fragile you’d dropped miles back.

Your gaze shifted then, cutting to Kiara—seated like she always was, perfectly poised next to JJ, her hand draped gently over his like a calm hand on a loaded weapon. JJ still looked at you like he wanted to dissect you open, like he was trying to untangle the muscle and sinew of your soul just to uncover the why of everything. You met his stare for half a second, just long enough to remind him you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of breaking down. Not here.

You nodded once, short and stiff, something final in the gesture before you spun on your heel. The ache in your feet was a dull throb against the sterile floor, but you welcomed it—anything that grounded you, anything that made you feel something other than the guilt and rage still boiling beneath your skin.

You walked with your shoulders tense and jaw locked, brushing past nurses and patients and the too-familiar, soul-draining scent of antiseptic. You ignored the stares that trailed behind you—people squinting in curiosity or judgment at the bikini top you’d never had time to change out of, the faded denim shorts that barely covered your thighs, the sneakers scuffed beyond recognition. Your hair was a mess and your makeup had long since smudged away, but none of it mattered. Not tonight. Not after what you’d seen. What you’d done.

Your legs carried you toward the end of the corridor, away from the ICU and the harsh fluorescent lights, until you found yourself standing numbly in front of a vending machine tucked into a quieter corner of the hospital. It buzzed softly in the silence, promising the kind of mindless comfort only processed snacks could give.

You pulled out the only bill you had—creased, torn at the corners, damp from your palm. A pathetic, crumpled dollar. You smoothed it with your thumbnail and fed it into the machine, watching as it inhaled it slowly and blinked its readiness. You keyed in the number for a small pack of crackers, your stomach reminding you it hadn’t been fed in hours.

Nothing happened.

The machine blinked. Thought about it. Then blinked again.

Nothing.

You scowled, hitting the return button, already knowing what was coming. The machine spit out silence. Your snack remained in its place, unmoved, sealed behind a wall of plexiglass and rejection.

Of course. Of course.

Your head thudded lightly against the cool glass of the vending machine as you closed your eyes, willing yourself not to scream, not to cry, not to let the exhaustion win. You barely heard the footsteps behind you until a crisp, clean ten-dollar bill slipped past your shoulder and into the machine’s slot.

A voice followed. Calm. Rich. Familiar in a way that made your stomach twist.

“Try something with a little more substance.”

You froze.

Slowly, like a horror movie character sensing the monster behind her, you turned your head to the side.

Ward Cameron stood behind you.

Casually dressed in a navy pullover and khakis like he’d just come from a dinner meeting instead of a hospital waiting room. His hair was neatly combed, face calm in that practiced, politician-perfect way of his. The faintest smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Your throat went dry. You didn’t speak. Not yet. You were too tired, too stunned.

He punched a few buttons on the machine, and you watched as a small bag of chips dropped into the bottom of the dispenser. He bent down and grabbed them, holding them gently in his hands.

Then he offered them to you, like you were a terrified animal who might run if he moved too quickly.

You’d never admit it to Sarah, but her father scared you. Not in the way most adults scared teenagers—with strict rules or power trips—but in a way that felt older, colder, and far more calculated. Like his smile had been carved from something artificial and his charm practiced in a mirror. There was a distance in his eyes, something eerily hollow, like he was always looking through people rather than at them. He resembled Rafe, and not just in the obvious genetic ways. It was the kind of resemblance that made your stomach twist—the kind that reminded you of sharp smiles, quick tempers, and threats laced with courtesy.

His presence beside you now felt oddly surreal, especially here, under the washed-out hospital lights. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there with the ease of a man used to getting what he wanted, used to owning every room he entered. And without a word, he slid a clean ten-dollar bill into the vending machine slot from behind your shoulder, punching the selection number for the bag of chips you'd tried and failed to buy. When the machine clunked and whirred, the packet dropping into the tray with a finality that sounded louder than it should have, he plucked it out and offered it to you like it was some ceremonial gesture.

Your stomach gave a soft, traitorous grumble. You were too hungry to pretend you didn’t need it. So you took it, slowly, hesitantly, your fingers brushing against his for the briefest second before pulling the bag close to your chest.

“Thank you,” you muttered, clipped and stiff. The words didn’t feel like enough, but nothing would’ve.

Ward’s mouth curled into a smile—tight-lipped, unreadable. “Of course.”

He said it like it meant something. Like the thanks wasn’t really about the chips.

You focused on the bag, trying not to let your shaking fingers crinkle it too loudly. Trying not to recoil from the weight of his attention.

“You know,” Ward said, his tone light but laced with something else, something that made your spine stiffen, “when I got the call, I assumed it was a mistake. My son, overdosing in a car… and not alone. And then they tell me you drove him here.”

Your jaw locked. Of course he’d heard that much. Probably heard more than he should have already. “Not exactly what I expected,” he added, voice softening just enough to sound polite again. “You must’ve cared a great deal to get him here in time.”

“I didn’t do it for Rafe,” you replied, tone flat, eyes still fixed on the floor, on the vending machine, anywhere but him. “He showed up and needed help. That’s all.”

Ward’s gaze didn’t waver. “Still. Most people would’ve called someone else. Or left him there. Especially people who’ve been taught not to trust my family.”

You finally looked at him then, your stare tired but direct. “Most people aren’t me.”

He seemed to consider that for a moment. Then nodded, slow and thoughtful, the smile never quite reaching his eyes. “True.”

There was a pause—long enough to make your chest tighten. “Were you with him?” he asked finally, voice calm but edged with something darker. “When it happened?”

Your blood ran cold.

The question didn’t need clarification. It wasn’t just about geography. He was asking if you had been with Rafe in the way people whispered about. If you were the kind of girl who would be with someone like his son. His words weren’t crude. They didn’t need to be.

“He showed up in front of my yard,” you said, your voice low and even. “Didn’t say a word. Just stood there watching me fight with my mom. He looked… off. Quiet in a way Rafe Cameron is never quiet. So I dragged him to his car and realized something was wrong. That’s it.”

Ward nodded again. Like he was filing the information away for later, tucking it into some private ledger where people’s actions were weighed and tallied. He didn’t ask anything else. He didn’t have to. He'd already seen enough.

“I’m sure Rafe will remember it,” he said, stepping back, fixing the collar of his blazer with a slow, careful hand. “If he wakes up.”

The statement struck with more finality than intended. You tensed, shoulders rising toward your ears, but you didn’t flinch.

“I don’t really care if he does.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, flat, cold, unfeeling. You wanted it to sound defiant, bold. It just sounded tired.

Ward gave another slight nod, a flicker of something—pity, maybe?—crossing his face before the mask settled back into place, as smooth and blank as before.

His eyes lingered, studying you, weighing you in a way that made goosebumps prickle up your arms. He had a habit of looking through people like they were just objects, toys to be used. When he spoke, his tone was too quiet, too gentle.

“Rafe’s not someone anyone wants to help. Hell, he doesn’t want it. From anyone.”

He was looking at you with something new in his eyes, and you couldn’t tell if it was sympathy or warning.

You paused mid-bite, the taste of salt and starch going flat on your tongue as Ward’s statement settled into the space between you. Rafe didn’t want help. You turned the words over slowly in your mind, trying to decide if that was truth or just the version his father preferred to believe. You’d only been sleeping with Rafe for two weeks— barely fourteen reckless, stolen, chaotic days—and even in that short time, it had become painfully clear that he did need help. Maybe more than anyone else you’d ever met. He needed it in the way someone drowning needs air but forgets how to reach the surface.

And still, his father said it like a final verdict. Like needing help was weakness, and weakness wasn’t something a Cameron could afford to admit.

“No one wants help,” you said after a long silence, your voice quieter now, stripped of the edge it had when you’d spoken to the pogues. “People think they’re supposed to do everything alone. Like it makes them stronger.”

Ward’s expression didn’t change, but you saw something shift behind his eyes. A flicker. Recognition, maybe.

“But that’s not how it works,” you continued, gaze slipping back to the vending machine, your body starting to sag under the exhaustion curling in your bones. “Especially not when someone’s life’s on the line.”

You hesitated again, then resumed chewing slowly, forcing yourself to swallow around the knot in your throat before you added, “I didn’t ask him if he wanted my help.”

You looked up now, met Ward’s gaze dead-on. “Didn’t think he’d argue with me on whether or not he deserved to live.”

The silence stretched between you, taut as wire.

Ward blinked, once, slowly. His posture didn’t shift, his hands still folded loosely in front of him like he had all the time in the world. Like your words meant nothing—or everything—and he hadn’t decided yet which it was.

Finally, he gave a small nod. “Good,” he said simply, almost absently. Then, as if remembering who he was supposed to be, he added, “He’s lucky you were there. Even if he doesn’t know it yet.”

He reached out then, lightly patted your shoulder—like he thought that was what a grateful father should do. But the gesture felt off, misplaced. Like a wolf trying to comfort the rabbit it might eat later.

Then he turned again, his shoes clicking faintly down the sterile hallway.

You watched him disappear around the corner, your appetite gone and your mind buzzing. Because what scared you more than Ward’s calmness… was how much of Rafe you’d seen in it.

And maybe—how much of yourself you'd started to see in Rafe.

You stood alone in the corridor, watching the vending machine whir and clink and blink like everything was normal. You’d been expecting an argument, an explosion, threats that were easy to brush off. Instead, you felt like you’d been dissected. Like your reasons were laid out on a table for someone else to read, leaving you torn open and wrong.

The first thing Rafe noticed was the beeping. Slow. Rhythmic. Loud enough to irritate the back of his skull but not loud enough to drown out the weight in his chest.

The second thing was the taste in his mouth—cotton and metal and something sour. His tongue felt thick, throat raw like he’d been yelling or crying or choking. Maybe all three. His hands twitched against the stiff, tucked-in hospital sheets, and the tape on the IV in his arm tugged like a leash.

Then the third thing hit.

You were the last thing he remembered. Your voice, sharp with panic. Your hands—clumsy, but determined. The distant sound of a car door slamming and you yelling at someone—maybe him, maybe the universe. Then everything had gone sideways and black and gone.

Now his eyelids fluttered open, slow and sluggish. The light was too bright—so bright it made his stomach turn—and he squinted against it, trying to make sense of the washed-out ceiling tiles above him. Everything in his body felt wrong. Heavy. Weak. Cold under his skin. His heart was beating in uneven, anxious thuds, like it wasn’t sure it wanted to keep doing its job.

And then the real awareness set in, slow and thick like syrup. He was in a hospital. There was a needle in his arm. His shirt was gone. There were machines.

Fuck.

His fingers curled into the blanket like they could disappear inside it, embarrassment settling somewhere beneath his ribs and shame chasing quickly behind. He didn’t have to look down to know what had happened. He could feel it in the hollowness behind his eyes, the pressure in his skull, the vague, acidic memory of being empty and scared and spilling over.

OD.

He’d fucking OD'd.

And you were the one who helped him.

His jaw clenched automatically. That alone was worse than the vomiting, worse than the tremors in his limbs or the blood in his mouth. Because it wasn’t supposed to be you. It wasn’t supposed to be anyone. He’d been careful. Or he thought he had. Stay away from the hard shit unless you want to tap out early, Barry used to say. But he hadn’t. He’d gotten sloppy. Sloppy enough that you—your bikini probably still half on, attitude still sharp—had to scrape him off the floor of his own mess and drive him here.

The thought made him want to tear the IV from his arm and bolt out the door. Instead, he sank further into the bed, chest rising unevenly as the door to his room creaked open.

He didn’t look.

He didn’t want it to be you. But part of him—the loud, ugly part—ached for it.

Because for all the shit he gave you, all the twisted, toxic back-and-forth between you two, when you touched his wrist in that car, when you yelled his name and refused to let him fade out, it was the only time in the past year that someone had held on like they meant it.

The shame came like a slap.

His head throbbed, dull and mean, like the aftermath of a riot. His stomach churned. The last thing he remembered was Barry’s trailer, the heat, the stench of unwashed clothes and stale beer—and then your voice. Sharp, irritated, panicked. Your hands on him, shoving, dragging. His car. The movement. You yelling something—his name?Your mom?

He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. His body didn’t want to move. Like it was punishing him for trying to leave it behind.

Rafe closed his eyes.

He had almost died. Again.

And the only person in the world who had done something about it was you—the girl he wasn’t even supposed to look at. Not in public. Not in front of anyone. He exhaled, bitter and slow. You didn’t even like him. And yet, when it mattered, you were the only one who showed up.

How fucked up was that? A slow, creeping dread curled in his stomach. Not about dying—but about waking up. About whatever came next. About seeing you again and pretending nothing happened. About pretending you were still just fucking and fighting and keeping secrets in the dark.

Because now you’d seen him. Really seen him. Broken and quiet and half-dead.

He didn’t know how to come back from that.

He lay there, the pain in his head and the ache in his chest warring with the shame that was starting to seep through his bones. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin. His fingers clenched the edges of the thin hospital sheet, twisting the fabric like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

He heard the door to his room creak open, letting in streaks of sterile fluorescent light that pierced his retinas. His eyes stayed resolutely shut, his entire body tensing like steel cables.

He heard the soft, tired voice of his sister bleeding into the sterile hum of the hospital corridor outside his door. Even with his eyes closed, he could tell she was talking to someone—her tone was lighter than it had been before, but still frayed at the edges, like string unraveling under too much pressure.

Sarah lingered in the doorway for a beat. He could feel her silhouette blocking the light, casting a soft orange glow across his eyelids before it disappeared again. The door creaked, then clicked shut, sealing off the hallway noise and wrapping the room in the kind of dim silence that made it hard to breathe.

Rafe stayed still, chest rising and falling in the even rhythm of someone trying a little too hard to look unconscious. Then he heard the footsteps. Soft. Hesitant. They padded across the linoleum floor like whoever they belonged to didn’t want to be heard. Then the scrape of a plastic chair being dragged forward, legs dragging against the tile. A pause. Then it settled—closer to his bed than he liked.

His breath hitched for half a second, barely noticeable unless someone was looking for it. His fingers curled tighter into the thin sheets, the IV tugging slightly at the motion. He didn’t dare open his eyes.

He didn’t know who had sat down.

He wanted it to be Ward—that made sense. That was easy. Safe. Ward would sit silently, probably judging him with narrowed eyes, mentally filing this moment away under “disappointments,” but Rafe could take that. Could handle the sharp-edged disappointment of a father who’d seen too much already.

But the air was wrong.

The person sitting beside him didn’t bring that cold, authoritative weight with them. They brought a buzz. Nervous, jittery, anxious. The kind of presence that made his skin prickle under the hospital gown. Not Ward. And not a nurse either. Nurses didn't sit that close.

This was someone else.

And even though he kept his eyes shut, Rafe already knew. It was you. Because no one else would sit in silence like that. No one else would come into the room like they didn’t know whether they were allowed to. No one else would carry that specific kind of guilt and urgency in the way they breathed—soft, deliberate, like you were trying not to make it worse.

You were here.

You’d seen him like this and you still came back. That realization twisted something inside him, something raw and unfamiliar and dangerous. His jaw clenched. His heartbeat kicked up just slightly, loud in his ears. He wondered if you could hear it. He wondered if you were looking at him now, sitting there with your arms crossed or your fingers laced together like you didn’t know what to do with them.

He wanted to open his eyes and meet your stare, say something cruel or flippant just to tip the power back into his own hands. Just to remind you that this—this version of him—wasn’t supposed to exist. Not in front of you.

But he didn’t. He stayed still, breathing slow and shallow, chest burning with shame and something more dangerous creeping underneath it. Because the longer you sat there, the more it started to hurt.

That you came.

That you cared.

That you were quiet.

And that now, you’d really seen him.

The room smelled like disinfectant and antiseptic. The fluorescent lights hummed softly as he lay there, still and silent. He’d been here before—or similar places, at least. Hospitals came with a kind of static air. He hated it. The smell. The sounds. The way the machines beeped in regular intervals, a reminder that time was passing, even if Rafe felt permanently stuck.

But he didn’t want to move. His limbs felt heavy, like weights were strapped to his arms and legs. His head throbbed with every heartbeat, a steady, dull pain that made him dizzy.

He shifted, his hospital gown rustling with the movement, making soft, grating noises against the paper-thin sheets. The IV in his arm burned, but he didn't have the energy to do anything about it. He just lay there, breath shallow and unsteady, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. The air conditioner clicked on with a shuddering groan, and the sound of the ventilator's steady hum filled the room. He wondered how many people had shared this bed before him. He wondered how many of them had made it out alive.

He was alone. Completely alone. The machines beeped their steady refrain around him, and the sterile walls seemed to press inward. He knew nobody was coming for him. Nobody ever had.

He was used to the isolation. He was used to being ignored. It had been that way ever since his mom left. Maybe even before. His family didn’t know how to love. How to care.

So he lay there, feeling the walls close in, the beep of the monitors mocking him. The emptiness of the room a mirror for the emptiness inside his chest.

In the haze of his mind reeling and his thoughts swirling around his head like bees, he almost forgot that technically he wasn't alone. The presence on the chair next to his bed mocked him, taunted him to open his eyes and look. To confirm it was indeed you. He could hear your breathing, the way you fidgeted with something. The jingle of keys. Your shoes as you moved and tapped your foot on the floor softly.

The sounds made Rafe’s entire body tense. Every muscle coiled like a spring, ready to snap. He wanted to scream, to make you leave. To make you go away forever. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t trust himself to speak. He couldn’t trust his voice to work. He just lay there, listening to the quiet sounds of you in the room, and silently seethed. And if he closed his eyes tight enough, he could pretend you weren’t there at all.

His fingers curled into the hospital sheets again, knuckles whitening. His jaw ached from clenching it so hard.

He hated this. He hated you. He hated himself. He hated the whole damn situation.

He wanted to scream. To rage. To shout for someone—anyone—to come in and chase you away. He wanted you gone. He didn’t want you to see him like this.

But he couldn’t make a sound.

So he stayed quiet. Listening. Breathing. Hating.

And then he heard you. You weren't speaking to him. You were whispering to yourself, still fidgeting with whatever object you held in your hands. He couldn't really make out what you were saying, your voice too low, drowned out by a deep sigh as you shifted in the chair. You thought he was asleep. And he wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

His chest stung with the realization. You thought he was asleep. You weren’t talking to him. And yet, you still stayed.

A flicker of something twisted in his chest, sharp and hot. It felt like anger. Like irritation. Or maybe something more like hurt. He didn’t like it.

He didn’t want your pity. He didn’t want your concern. He didn’t want anything from you.

But you were still here.

Why were you still here?

He swallowed hard, his throat tight and dry from exhaustion. The monitors beside his bed beeped irregularly, betraying his rising heart rate. The IV in his arm itched. The hospital gown scratched his skin.

He wanted to open his eyes. He wanted to sit up. He wanted to yell. To scream at you to get the hell out. To tell you to leave him alone. That your presence made him nauseous.

But he just lay there. Breathing. Silent. Helpless.

He swallowed again. The hospital smells were starting to make him nauseous. The antiseptic. The bleach. The smell of death and illness. It seeped into his nostrils and made his head spin.

He closed his eyes harder, as if he could block out reality by shutting out his vision. His breaths came faster now. Ragged. Unsteady.

He didn’t want you here. But he also found himself clinging to the sound of you breathing. The soft, rhythmic in and out of air. It was a lifeline in the suffocating silence.

His fingers curled and uncurled in the sheets like dying spiders. The monitors beeped louder now, the irregular rhythms giving away his rapid heart rate. His temples throbbed with each passing second. He felt vulnerable. Weak. Exposed.

And you were still there. Sitting. Watching. Judging him. Silently waiting, like some twisted guardian angel sent by his own personal hell.

He wanted to scream. To lash out. To tell you to leave him. But the words stuck in his throat. Choked by shame. By humiliation.

His chest heaved now, the air labored, like the room was filled with smoke instead of oxygen. Every breath burned. Every movement sent spikes of pain through his ribs. But he couldn’t stop himself. He was coming undone, piece by piece, and you were watching, silent and unmoving.

His eyes burned even as they stayed squeezed shut, hot tears pooling behind his lids. He hated himself. He hated you for seeing him like this. He hated how weak he felt. How pathetic.

And yet, he found himself almost, almost hoping you’d say something.

Instead, you shifted again, the chair legs scraping back with that low, dragging sound that felt too loud in the small room. Rafe’s chest went still for a second—panic and relief crashing into each other so hard it almost made him nauseous.

Maybe you were leaving.

Good. That would be easier. If you walked out now, he wouldn’t have to deal with the weight of your presence, the echo of what you’d seen, what you knew. He could open his eyes and pretend none of it happened. No witnesses. No shame. Just a bad night and a blank space.

But the footsteps didn’t go toward the door. They moved closer. And then he felt it—subtle, but unmistakable. The slight shift of weight on the mattress, the dip beside his hip as you sat down on the edge of the bed. He swallowed hard, but didn’t move. His hands curled tighter under the blanket. His heart stuttered once, then kept going.

You were so close he could feel the warmth of your skin bleeding into his. Then came the touch. Just a finger. Light. Tentative. Brushing against his hand, against the knuckle where one of his rings rested loosely. It wasn’t a full touch, not really—more like a test. A question. Are you awake? Are you here?

You lingered there, not pulling away right away, like maybe you were working up the nerve to say something or maybe you already had. Your voice came a second later, so quiet he wasn’t sure he even heard it out loud.

“Still wearing this one,” you murmured, fingertip tracing the worn silver band on his ring finger. It had a small dent near the edge—something you’d noticed once when he was drunk and letting you touch him without flinching, after one of the nights he slept with you. You’d pointed it out and he’d laughed, said it was from when he punched a door in high school. You’d said something sarcastic. He didn’t remember what, only that it made him smile for too long after. Maybe something about therapy.

He stayed still now, muscles locked up under the sheets, afraid to breathe wrong. You didn’t move away. Didn’t say anything else. Just sat there, beside him, like that didn’t terrify you. Like he hadn’t just barely made it out alive. Like he wasn’t the one who had shattered the rules and the boundaries and dragged you into something you never asked for.

Rafe wanted to open his eyes and look at you. He wanted to push you away. He wanted to pull you closer. He did nothing.

His hands were trembling again. The air caught in his throat as you touched the ring, his mind flashing back to that night. The feel of your fingers tracing the indentation. The curve of your hips under his own.

His heart was jackrabbiting in his chest now, every beat sending his ribs screaming in pain. He wondered how long you’d stay here. How long you’d sit and watch him like some kind of wounded animal. He wondered if you’d ever leave.

He wanted you to stay. But he couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

"I brought you your keys…" you whispered again, barely loud enough to register over the faint whir of machines. He heard the soft clink of metal, the way your fingers shifted against each other as you fidgeted with the keyring—his keyring. The one with the faded OBX lanyard and the crooked house key he always meant to replace.

“I think I fucked up your car,” you added, and he could hear the attempt at humor in your voice, brittle and strained, a laugh that barely made it past your throat. “But I’m not sure since I don’t know anything 'bout cars.” Rafe’s jaw tightened, throat constricting around a knot of something too complicated to name. You were trying to talk like none of it mattered. Like this was just some awkward errand you’d done out of obligation.

But your voice said otherwise.

“I should probably get my license, right?” you said, tone a little lighter. Like you were waiting for him to say something. Anything. He didn’t. Couldn’t. And then you sighed—quiet and slow, like you were grateful for the silence. Or maybe just resigned to it.

The keys clicked softly as you set them down on the rolling tray near his bed, and that little sound felt louder than it should’ve. Like it meant something. Like a line being drawn in the sand.

Rafe stayed still, breathing careful and measured, heart aching behind his ribs. You’d brought him here. You’d stayed. You were still here. Sitting on the edge of his hospital bed in that damn bikini top and a hurricane of a night behind you, still finding a way to be soft when he hadn’t earned it.

He wanted to open his eyes and tell you not to feel bad about the car. He wanted to tell you that he'd let you crash it ten times over if it meant you'd still be the one driving him out of the worst night of his life. But he didn’t.

He let the moment sit there between you, thick and trembling and unspoken. And then, like you could feel the weight of his silence pressing down on you, you shifted again, your hands brushing against your thighs, restless and uncertain.

“I just… didn’t want to leave them in the nurse’s station,” you mumbled. “Figured you’d want to know you weren’t alone. Even if you are.”

That cracked something in his chest. But he still didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t deserve to. Not yet.

His heart thundered in his ears, the silence between you both deafening. His fingers twitched violently against the hospital sheets, the urge to reach out nearly overwhelming him.

He wanted to grab you. To pull you closer. To bury his face in your hair and inhale that familiar coconut scent, like the beach and salt and trouble and safety all wrapped up in one.

But he didn’t. He stayed still. Breathing. Silent. Staring at the inside of his eyelids like the sight of you so close was a punishment he hadn’t earned.

Your silence was killing him. It was suffocating. Every second that passed, every breath you took, every soft sound of your fingertips grazing the hospital sheets—it was like a stab to his chest.

Yet he didn’t move. He didn’t open his eyes. He stayed still, frozen, terrified to break the spell.

He thought of the beach. Warm sun. Cool water. The taste of your lips. The way you felt pressed against him, drunken laughter bubbling out of you like summer itself when he magically made you laugh.

His throat ached.

"I wonder if you're gonna speak to me. When you wake up, I mean…" Your voice was softer this time, nearly swallowed by the hum of the machines and the distant sounds of the hospital beyond the door. It wavered, unsteady under the weight of the moment, and Rafe had to clench his jaw to stop himself from reacting. From flinching. From looking at you.

"Don't know how that will work…" you continued, quieter now, like you were talking more to yourself than to him. "We don't even like each other. We barely tolerate each other in bed…"

Your fingers brushed against his ring again—slow, unsure, but still careful in a way that made his heart stutter. That small touch shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did. Because you lingered. Because you stayed. "You're probably gonna yell at me about your car," you whispered, your voice curling at the edges with a sad kind of humor, "and I'll roll my eyes at you and tell you to go fuck yourself. That’ll be less awkward, I guess…"

Rafe’s throat tightened. Every muscle in his body screamed to move—to do something. To open his eyes. To say your name. To tell you that the last thing on his mind was the goddamn car. But he stayed still. He couldn’t move without shattering the illusion. Without cracking open whatever this fragile moment was between you.

He hated this.

Hated how raw it felt.

Hated that you thought he’d pretend again. That he’d yell and you’d roll your eyes and you’d both go back to the toxic little orbit you’d created around each other. Because the truth was, he didn’t want to go back to that. Not now. Not after you'd seen him like this—broken, scared, almost gone. And still here.

Still here, talking to him like you were waiting for the ghost of him to answer.

His hand twitched slightly beneath yours, involuntary. Not enough to give himself away, but enough that the touch of your fingers sent a new kind of ache through him. One that wasn’t about the overdose. One that was about you. About everything you’d just said. And everything you didn’t.

He wanted to tell you he heard you. That he wanted to hear you. That maybe—just maybe—he didn't want to pretend anymore either.

But instead, he let you keep talking, your words weaving into the stillness of the room like confessions meant for a boy already gone. And for now, that was all he could take.

The sound of your voice was the only thing anchoring him to reality. The softness, the vulnerability in it—he wanted to wrap it around himself like a blanket and never let it go.

His fingers curled slightly, a weak, involuntary movement, but it was enough to brush against your hand. He wondered if you noticed, if you felt the way his entire body shivered at the touch. He wondered if you knew the power you had over him. If you could sense how much he wanted to open his eyes and see you. How his jaw ached from the effort of staying still…

He could smell you—coconut and ocean and something faintly sweet. The scent was familiar, intoxicating, and it filled his lungs with a mix of nostalgia and longing. He wanted to breathe you in until nothing else mattered. Until the pain faded and the fear subsided. But instead, he stayed quiet. The monitors beeped, a constant reminder of his mistakes, of the fragility of the moment. Of how easily this could all crumble—like the walls he’d built around himself long before he realized how desperately he wanted you on the other side.

The silence hung heavy, the quiet beep of the monitors the only sound cutting through the air. He could feel you sitting there beside him—close enough to touch, close enough to hear your every breath. But he didn’t dare reach out. He didn’t dare move. He just lay there, suspended in the tension, his heart hammering in his chest like a trapped bird.

And then, suddenly—softly, so softly he almost thought he imagined it—he felt your fingertip trace a slow circle on the back of his hand. Barely touching skin, yet it sent sparks up his spine.

His pulse roared in his ears. Every nerve, every muscle in his body screamed at him to move. To reach out. To pull you into him. To feel the warmth of your skin against his. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He stayed still, frozen, his fingers trembling as your touch burned a path across his skin.

His throat tightened, breath shallow and uneven, the faintest gasp escaping his lips before he could stop it. He was unraveling. One soft circle at a time.

One tiny, simple touch—yet his world was crumbling beneath it, every brick of his defenses crumbling, every wall he’d built to keep you out collapsing into dust. Your fingertip kept tracing that slow, gentle circle, and he was drowning in the feel of it. He was drowning in you.

His hands twitched. Once. Then again. He wanted to grab your wrist and press your palm against his chest. He wanted you to feel his racing heart, to know exactly what you were doing to him.

His eyes burned behind closed eyelids. The urge to look at you, to see your face, was almost unbearable. He wanted to memorize every inch of you. The way your brows furrowed when you were worried. The way your lips parted like you were searching for something to say. The way your hair fell across your face when you leaned over him…

But he stayed still. He didn't move, his body trembling with the sheer force of staying frozen. He let you keep tracing those circles on his skin—slow, deliberate, achingly intimate.

"I wonder if you can hear me. Even subconsciously…" you murmured into the dim hospital air, barely loud enough for your words to drift beyond your lips. It didn’t matter. You weren’t sure you wanted him to hear you. You just needed to say something. To fill the silence that was starting to feel like a punishment.

"Or if you're having a nightmare… Seems like it, by the way you're twitching." Your voice cracked a little, soft but frayed at the edges. You shifted on the bed, trying not to jostle the mattress too much as you glanced at his face—still slack, still pale, but that barely-there crease between his brows hadn’t been there before. His fingers twitched once, a sharp jerk beneath your hand like his body was rejecting the peace around him.

Your finger resumed its invisible path on the back of his hand, tracing the same slow, anxious circle as before. Relentless. Nervous. A part of you was afraid to stop, like if you did, the beeping of the machines might slow down with it. It didn’t feel right, sitting here next to him. But it also didn’t feel right to leave.

"You don't look peaceful, right now" you whispered again, eyes flicking up to his face. His jaw was tight even in unconsciousness, a muscle flexing once in his cheek before going still again. "You never do. Even when you're asleep, you're fighting something." Your thumb brushed the side of his hand without thinking. He was colder than you expected. Not freezing. Just… wrong. Like his body hadn’t fully decided whether it was staying or going. And that scared you more than anything.

You didn’t want to admit how long you’d been sitting here. How many times you almost walked out. Or how the second Sarah had asked you to go in and sit with him while she went back to her house for some clothes for him, your chest had cracked open in protest—but your feet had moved anyway.

And now here you were. Sitting on his hospital bed. Talking to someone who might not even hear you. Tracing circles on a hand that had gripped your hip with bruising force just nights ago. And you didn’t know what that meant. Or why it hurt the way it did.

You exhaled shakily. "I think I’d prefer you angry, honestly. That would make this easier," you murmured, half to yourself. "You yelling, me rolling my eyes, walking away like we always do… that’s easier than this."

Than watching him lie there, skin pale, breathing thin, so still. "Are you angry?"

He felt like his whole body was on fire. Every word you spoke, every touch of your fingers on his skin, every breath you took—it hit him like a tidal wave. His mind was a storm of emotions, a maelstrom of fear, hurt, longing, anger... but also something dangerously tender. Something that felt dangerously close to hope.

But he didn’t—couldn’t— move. His chest remained still, his eyes squeezed shut like a child too terrified to look under the bed.

Your words cut like a blade, sharp and honest.

His breath caught in his throat, a choked sound escaping his throat before he clenched his jaw again. Your words were like salt in the wound—true, but stinging all the same. You always did know how to push his buttons. How to make him feel raw, exposed, seen in a way he didn’t want to be.

But worse than that—he knew you were right. Being angry was easy. It was his default. He’d perfected the art of being a dick a long time ago.

The silence stretched out between you, thick and heavy as the oxygen in the hospital room. You kept tracing those circles on his hand, every movement like a tiny stab at his heart. His mind was still a tornado of tangled thoughts and emotions, but one thing crystallized in the chaos: He longed to move. To open his eyes. To reach out and touch you, to pull you into his arms and cling to you like a man drowning.

But he stayed still. Terrified of what he’d see if he looked at you—and even more terrified of what he’d feel.

And then Rafe felt it. It was annoying, being bound by his closed eyes to only feel and not see. Brace for impact. Your finger stilled and you shifted, leaning over him as your hand swiped at his forehead, as if checking for his temperature but not quite. Maybe pushing his hair back gently, too hesitant and afraid not to wake him.

When your fingers brushed his forehead, a soft gasp escaped his lips before he could stop it. Your touch was gentle, tentative, but it set his skin on fire all the same. The feel of your hand gliding over his hair, shifting strands aside... it took everything in him not to pull you closer, to bury his face in your lap and cling like a child.

His body tensed, the muscles in his arms straining against the urge to move, to open his eyes, to drink you in like a man dying of thirst seeing an oasis.

Your touch was a drug, a dangerous, addictive drug, and he was drowning in it. Every sweep of your fingers across his forehead, every brush of the strands of hair—it sent shudders through his body. His heart hammered against his ribs, the beep, beep beep of the heart monitor giving away his racing pulse.

He wanted to reach for you. He wanted—needed—to touch you back. To feel your skin beneath his fingertips. To know you were really there, solid and real and not just a hallucination.

You pressed your lips to his cheek. Awkwardly, like you wanted to kiss his forehead but settled on his cheek. Maybe Rafe was dreaming. He actually was fast asleep and not wide awake pretending to be unconscious, and you weren't real. Because in no parallel universe, did Rafe think you out of all people, would kiss his cheek so gently, barely there. Even if these past weeks sent you spiralling into his bed, kissing him drunkenly every chance you got.

For a moment, time froze. The feel of your lips on his cheek—warm, soft, real—sent a shiver through his body. His breath caught, his eyelids fluttering with the urge to open, to look at you, to make sure this wasn’t some cruel trick of the universe. But he stayed frozen, every muscle taut with restraint.

His heart was racing, his thoughts a jumbled mess of how is this happening and I don’t want this to stop and please don’t leave me like this.

The moment stretched on, and Rafe was beginning to wonder if he’d imagined the whole thing. Had you really just kissed his cheek? A dream. It had to be a dream. Or a hallucination. This kind of tenderness, this kind of tenderness from you… it couldn’t be real. Right?

But then you spoke, your voice softer than before, tinged with something vulnerable.

"Rafe…?"

His breath caught in his throat as your voice cut through the silent. His name on your tongue—so soft, so quiet—it sent a shiver down his spine. His heart thudded loudly in his chest, his mind racing. Was this real? Was he dreaming? Or was he just crazy… like he’d always been?

He struggled to keep himself still, his fists clenching and unclenching beneath the sheets, his body shaking with the effort. He wanted to move. To speak. To hold you. But he stayed frozen, paralyzed by fear and want.

"Still asleep.." you mumbled, your soft sigh fanning across his cheek as you lingered leaning over him. "What the hell am i doing..?" you asked yourself, pulling back just a little, poking the back of his hand faintly.

The touch of your finger against his hand—like a spark of electricity—nearly sent him over the edge. His body wanted to respond, wanted to reach out and grab your hand, to pull you back, to keep you close. But he stayed still, his eyes still shut, his jaw clenched tight. He was hanging on by a thread—a fragile, dangerously thin thread—and one more touch, one more word from you, could send him crumbling into pieces.

And then your words—muttered, almost to yourself, but he heard them. "What the hell am I doing…" it echoed in his head like a refrain. He wanted to answer you, to tell you that he didn't know, that he didn't understand any of this, but that it was the best damn thing that had ever happened to him. But he stayed silent, his body still trembling with the effort of keeping his eyes closed, of pretending that he was asleep when he was anything but.

The room was so quiet that he could hear his own heartbeat—loud and erratic in his ears. He could feel you hovering over him, your presence like a weight on his chest. He wanted to open his eyes. He wanted to look at you. To see your face, to see if this was real. But the fear kept him paralyzed. The fear that this was a dream, and that he’d wake up any second, and you’d be gone.

He stayed still, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his mind a swirling storm of emotions and confusion.

Your finger traced mindless patterns on the back of his hand, a tender touch that sent sparks flying across his skin. He wanted to pull you closer, to gather you in his arms and hold you tightly against him, to bury his face in your hair and lose himself in your scent. But he stayed still, every muscle tense with restraint, his mind screaming at him to move, to act, to do something.

He could hear the soft, barely audible sound of your breathing, and it was driving him insane. He wanted to hear you say his name again. Just once more.

The silence between you stretched on, and with every second that ticked by, Rafe was increasingly certain this was a dream. There was no way in hell you could be here, sitting next to his bedside, holding his hand like you actually, inexplicably, cared. But he clung to every second, relishing the feel of your fingers brushing his skin, savoring every quiet breath you took.

And then, with a sudden jolt, his eyes fluttered open—just a fraction, just enough to catch a glimpse of you through half-lidded lashes.

Not clearly—not the way he wanted to—but enough. Enough to make his stomach twist. You were hunched slightly, posture tense, like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to be comfortable next to him. Your finger kept tracing the back of his hand, slow and repetitive, and he realized you weren’t even really thinking about it anymore. It was just something you were doing. Something to keep your hands busy. Or your mind quiet.

Your lips moved with a soft, low hum, breathy and almost inaudible, but it was enough to worm its way under his skin. The melody was familiar, some song he knew from somewhere—maybe a party, maybe his car, maybe just something you sang under your breath when you thought no one was listening. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that you were here. Still here.

And he was awake.

But he didn’t move.

He didn’t say a word.

He just watched you from under his lashes, forcing his chest to keep the same rhythm it had when you walked in. Because if he broke it—if he let himself react—then you’d stop. You’d jerk your hand away. You’d fold in on yourself and walk out. Maybe for good this time. He didn’t want that.

Not now. Not when he could see the faint tremble in your fingers and the raw edge of exhaustion tugging down your features. You looked like you hadn’t slept. Like maybe you couldn’t sleep after dragging him out of whatever hell he'd created for himself. Like some part of you had been stuck in that moment ever since.

His throat tightened.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to care. You were supposed to hate him—do hate him. Weren’t those your words? We don’t even like each other? But you were here anyway. Sitting beside a half-dead asshole who never gave you the decency of a real conversation, and humming like you were trying to coax something alive in him again.

He lay there, frozen, his eyes widening slightly as he took in the sight of you, hunched over his bedside, humming some nameless tune. Your fingers lingered on his skin, your touch soft and lingering, and he felt his breath hitch in his throat. He should look away. He should close his eyes and pretend to still be asleep. But he couldn't. He wanted to commit this moment to memory. The way the moonlight caught in your hair, the soft curve of your lower lip as you hummed, the tension in your body that screamed "i don’t belong here."

His chest ached with the effort of stillness. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to speak, to move, to say something—anything—before you realized he was awake and pulled away. But he stayed silent, his mind racing, weighing the pros and cons, considering the consequences. And then you started humming. The sound was soft, almost soothing, like a salve on his frayed nerves.

He let himself savor it, let the sound infiltrate his veins, let it sink into his bones. For a brief moment, the pain and emptiness of the hospital faded away.

Your humming washed over him, a soothing current in his stormy mind. He wanted to let himself get carried away, to lose himself in the sound and the feel of your touch, but something held him back.

Fear. Fear that if he moved, if he spoke, if he in any way reacted, you'd stop. And god, he didn't want that. Not when this, this quiet moment with you, was the closest he'd ever felt to peace.

You. The girl from the wrong side of the island. Part of the group of people he looked down on, His little sister's best friend. The girl in love with her best friend who had a girlfriend. You had nothing but lust and some sort of irritation burrowed in your heart for Rafe and yet you were sitting beside him like an angel, humming a song casually like he hadn't survived an overdose.

The irony of it all wasn't lost on him. You were not supposed to be here. You were not supposed to be by his bedside, holding his hand, humming a tune like you actually cared. But he didn't want to think about that now. He didn't want to think about what it meant or what this meant for the future. He just wanted to stay here, in this moment, and savor the feel of your presence beside him.

He didn't know what would happen tomorrow. He didn't know if he would wake up to find you gone. But for now, he decided, for once he would just let himself have this. Just for a moment, he would let himself pretend that you were here because you cared, not just because you pitied him. He’d enjoy the way your humming vibrated in his bones, the way your fingers sent tingles across his skin. He'd commit every second of this to memory, storing it away like a precious relic to be taken out and admired later.

And if tomorrow came and took you away, well… he’d deal with that when it happened.

His eyes closed again as the weight of exhaustion pulled on his eyelids. Every part of his body was screaming for rest, but he didn't want to miss the sound of your humming. The way it lulled him into a false sense of security. He was half tempted to risk it all—to reach out and pull you closer, to bury his face in your hair, to wrap his arms around you like some sort of lifeline.

But he didn't. He stayed still. He stayed frozen. He stayed silent. Pretending to sleep. Pretending to be dead when he was more alive than he'd ever been.

You didn’t know he was awake.

He could tell by the way you sat—shoulders still tense but less guarded than before, like you’d let yourself forget, for just a moment, that you were in a hospital room with a boy who nearly died. Like you were slipping into the space between what was and what almost was.

And then there was the humming again. Soft. Slow. Soothing in a way that made something ache behind his ribs. It was familiar now—recognizable. Nothing’s gonna hurt you baby…

Cigarettes After Sex. He knew the song. Not from a playlist of his own, but from the first night he took you home, when you’d passed him your phone in a haze of tequila and dare-me eyes, telling him to pick something. Anything. And when he’d scrolled past that one, you said, “Skip it and I’ll punch you.” He hadn’t. You’d hummed along back then too. Just like this. Breathless and detached, like you were somewhere else. Like the song was safer than silence.

Now, it felt like you were trying to lull him back from the edge. Like you thought the humming might keep the nightmares away.

Nothing’s gonna hurt you baby, as long as you're with me, you'll be just fine…

It didn’t make sense. Not coming from you. Not when the last real words you’d said to him were probably something sarcastic or cruel or both. But here you were, fingers ghosting his, voice so low it barely existed, and humming a song that sounded like a promise.

He swallowed hard. Or tried to. His throat still felt like sandpaper. You were too close. Too kind. Too real. And Rafe didn’t know how to exist around that. Not without tearing it apart or pretending it didn’t mean anything.

But here, now, under the white fluorescent halo of a hospital room where everything was too quiet and too honest—he didn’t have the strength to pretend.

So he watched you. Watched the way your lips moved with the melody. Watched the way your thumb occasionally brushed against his knuckle like you didn’t even realize you were doing it. Watched the way your eyes stayed on his hand like if you looked at his face, you’d break apart.

And it made something unravel in him. Quietly. Without drama.

Just this slow, deep kind of ache he couldn’t name. Because you were humming a love song to a boy you weren’t supposed to love. To a boy you didn’t even like. And yet you were here. Humming like it mattered. Like he mattered.

And he’d never hated himself more for letting you be the one who had to carry this weight.

The song carried on, your honeyed voice weaving the lyrics of cigarettes after sex like a lifeline through the stillness of the hospital room. The sound was soothing, but the meaning hit him like a punch to the chest.

No one was supposed to care. Hell, he wasn't even sure if he deserved such gentleness. But here you were—sitting beside him like some angelic apparition, humming a goddamn love song like you were trying to stitch back together the pieces his own recklessness had shattered.

His heart was hammering again, but not out of fear. Out of something dangerous and unfamiliar.

Every note that left your lips seemed to resonate in his bones, a steady, melodic rhythm that drowned out the beeping of the machines beside him. He was entranced, captivated by the sound of your singing, the way your voice dipped and rose with the tune. It sent a shiver down his spine, a small part of him wanting to reach out and touch you, just to prove to himself that this was real.

And then the song ended, and you still sat there—thumb brushing his knuckles like you'd forgotten you were even doing it. Like it was just second nature to be so tender with him.

He let out a slow, shaky exhale, his eyes flickering from your hand to your face and back again. This was dangerous. Whatever this was. It felt too real, too intimate. The way your touch felt like both a comfort and a dagger in his chest. He wanted more. He wanted to reach out and pull you closer, to bury his face in your shoulder and inhale the scent of your hair. But he didn't.

Instead, he let the silence stretch on, the aftertaste of the song lingering in his throat like a vow neither of you had spoken aloud.

Which was stupid on Rafe’s part, really. Because the only reason you ever let yourself get close to him was another boy. Not him. Never him. You’d been in love with JJ. Everyone knew it. Especially Rafe, who saw it in the way your eyes always flicked toward him when he wasn’t looking. In the way your voice dropped around his name, like it was some kind of wound.

And now JJ was with Kiara.

So you ran. Straight into Rafe’s arms—or more accurately, into his bed, into his car, into his house at 2 AM with mascara smudged and a half-hearted excuse about needing a ride. You chose Rafe to be the one to catch all the shards when you shattered. Chose him to witness the parts of you you didn’t want anyone else to see—ugly, bitter, broken.

Maybe Rafe should’ve said no. Should’ve told you to go cry on someone else’s shoulder. But he didn’t. And he knew why.

Because even if you never really looked at him—not the way you looked at JJ—he liked being the one you came to. Even if it was just to bleed all over him and leave when you were done.

Maybe he would’ve been okay with that. Would’ve kept letting you swing by his house when the pain got too loud, would’ve taken your calls and your chaos and let you scream in his passenger seat until you felt like breathing again. Maybe he could’ve handled being the rebound, the fuck-up, the angry boy you used to forget another one.

But now you’d seen him.

Not in some backseat or drunken hallway. Not in the dim safety of a party hookup. You saw him sick. Fading. Dying. You saw the tremor in his jaw, the vomit on his shirt, the way his body crumpled under the weight of what he put in it. You saw him raw.

He didn’t know what that made you. Not after this. Not after tonight. His eyes stayed shut, but his mind raced with questions he couldn’t voice. How long had you been at the hospital? Did your friends know where you were? Did they ask what happened, or did they pretend not to care? Were you ashamed? Guilty?

Would you feel dirty for sitting here next to him? For caring, even a little?

Just like you did after the first time you slept with him. When you pulled your clothes on like you were trying to erase what had just happened. Like he was a mistake you kept letting happen.

And maybe he was. It didn’t stop him from wanting you to stay. Even if it was just to say goodbye.

The silence hung heavy in the air between you, his chest rising and falling with shallow, strained breaths. His breathing was still shallow, his voice rough and barely audible as he finally spoke—a quiet rasp that sounded like sand scraping bone.

He swallowed, his throat tightening with the words that threatened to surface. "How long have you been here?" he rasped out, eyes still closed. A beat of hesitation, his jaw clenching—then, quietly, like he was afraid of the answer.

The way your finger stilled on the back of his hand was the first giveaway. Not abrupt—just tense, like someone who'd just realized they'd been caught staring too long. Rafe didn’t open his eyes fully, not yet. But he could feel the shift. The way your breath hitched just slightly. The way your hand hovered instead of resting, suddenly unsure.

Then your voice broke the silence, and he felt it more than heard it. "How long have you been awake?" It wasn’t cocky. Wasn’t smug or sarcastic or sharp-edged like it usually was. It was weak—softer than he’d ever heard it. Meant to sound casual, maybe even a little accusatory, but it fell out clumsy and low. Awkward.

You sounded awkward.

You.

The mouthy, annoyingly perceptive girl from the Cut. The girl who’d once told him he had the emotional depth of a shot glass and the self-awareness of a toddler. The girl who rolled her eyes every time he opened his mouth, who pushed him away with insults but never actually left.

You sounded flustered. Like you weren’t sure if you should even be here anymore. Like the moment had stretched too far past what you could pretend to handle.

And Rafe almost hated how much he liked it.

He let out a weak, humorless laugh, his voice low and gravelly with exhaustion. "Long enough to hear you butchering Cigarette After Sex," he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lip despite the pain. His eyes flickered open, taking in the way you were still perched beside him like some kind of guardian angel with a barbed tongue.

He let out a quiet exhale, his gaze locking onto yours. "Didn’t think I’d ever get you singing Cigarette After Sex of all things."

Rafe would’ve laughed—should’ve laughed—if the weight in his chest didn’t feel like it had multiplied the second you pulled your hand away. Something about the way you retracted so quickly, like his skin had burned you. Like now that he was conscious, aware, the rules had shifted again and you were scrambling to keep up with the new version of reality. One where he could see you being soft.

You fidgeted like you hated yourself for being caught. Fingers twitching in your lap, restless. Your eyes flickered toward the windows like you were looking for an escape route, and Rafe tracked every micro-movement with a kind of quiet desperation, memorizing it like he wouldn’t get to see it again.

He caught the low mutter under your breath—half a curse, half a prayer. “Jesus Christ.”

Your hands dragged over your face, muffling the rest of it. “Great… That’s just… really awesome,” you said a little louder, sarcasm clinging to the edges like armor. And then, because you always had to find a way to downplay the tension before it suffocated you, you added: “Didn’t know you even listened to Cigarettes After Sex.”

He could feel the shift in the air, the way your body had tensed when he spoke—when he acknowledged the tenderness you’d been carefully hiding. It was like you’d been caught mid-act, exposed in a way you hadn’t planned. A vulnerability you hadn’t allowed.

But Rafe couldn’t help himself. He was a bit of a masochist, after all—and something about bringing out your softness, your humanity, when you were so desperately trying to bury it, just... did something to him.

His smirk widened, a flash of something darker behind his eyes. "What? You think I’m some kind of moron who doesn’t know good music when I hear it? Come on, Cigarettes After Sex? That’s like, basic indie-rock 101."

He let the words linger for a beat, watching you squirm—noticing the way your jaw clenched, the way your hands gripped your thighs a bit too tight. It was almost fun, teasing you like this. Almost. But there was something softer beneath it all, something he refused to acknowledge.

Your gaze flitted to him, half glare, half disbelief—eyes dragging slowly over his face like you couldn’t quite believe he was choosing to talk about music after waking up from an overdose. But you indulged him anyway. Maybe out of shock. Maybe because it was easier than bringing up the elephant in the room. Your voice, when it came, was soft. Brittle in a way he didn’t recognize on you.

"It’s a great song," you said simply. There was no venom behind it. No sarcasm. Just the quiet kind of honesty that didn’t need to be louder to be true. You didn’t look at him after you said it. Just stared at the window again like the night outside had anything to offer you. Your fingers still twisted in your lap, knuckles pale from how tight you were holding yourself together. And Rafe didn’t say anything right away. He just watched you—the way your jaw clenched, how your brows creased slightly like you were mad at yourself for still sitting there.

He should’ve felt powerful, he thought. Having you there like that. Rattled and trying not to show it. But he didn’t. He felt something heavier. Something that settled low in his chest and made it hard to breathe. Because this wasn’t you coming over drunk to mouth off and climb into his lap. This was you—staying. Still humming even when you thought he was unconscious. Still clutching his keys like they meant something.

And now here you were, trying to act like the song was all you cared about.

Silence settled over the room again. It was a heavy, palpable thing. Thick and suffocating, like the room itself was holding its breath, waiting. Rafe’s eyes stayed fixed on you, tracing your features like they might shift suddenly, like this version of you—soft, honest, real—might evaporate if he looked away. And he didn’t want to take his eyes off you. But he couldn’t find the words to break the silence.

Because what do you say to a girl who hummed a love song to your unconscious body and then pretended she didn’t mean it?

The silence stretched on, and Rafe could feel the tension tightening like a wire. The air was brittle, the hum of machines in the background only serving to highlight the weight of everything unsaid between you. The words were on the tip of his tongue, burning to be spoken, but he couldn’t bring himself to say them. The admission felt like carving out a part of himself, leaving him raw and vulnerable. And Rafe didn’t do vulnerable. Not ever.

But you... you were the exception. You always were.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke. His voice came out rougher, more vulnerable than he meant it to, but he didn’t let himself flinch.

"You stayed."

There it was. The truth—the admission. He’d known it the moment he woke up and his first thought had been you. But saying it out loud... that was different. It made it real. And it hung in the air, like a confession and a question, all rolled into one.

You wasted no time humming again, the soft sound barely audible over the machines beeping steadily beside him. Your fingers twisted around one of your cheap plastic rings, turning it again and again like it held all the answers you didn’t want to say out loud. You pressed your lips together, brows furrowed, pretending that piece of jewelry was the only thing that mattered in the room—like it was more interesting than the boy you’d just seen half-dead hours ago.

"Your sister asked me to sit here while she went back to get you clothes," you mumbled finally, voice low, casual in the way people get when they don’t want to admit they’ve been crying. "I think she suspects us sleeping together, but doesn’t wanna address it."

You scoffed softly, a bitter little laugh that didn’t match the flicker in your eyes when they met his again. Like the idea should’ve been ridiculous—like it was—but some part of you knew it wasn’t, and the weight of that truth lingered behind your stare. You tried to stay dismissive, light. But your gaze was too charged, too heavy. The kind of look people give when they’ve seen too much and don’t know how to carry it.

Rafe watched you in silence, throat tightening as his heart gave a tired, stuttering thud. He wanted to say something smug. Something easy. Something that would make it all feel smaller than it was.

But all he could do was look back at you. And wonder why the hell it suddenly felt harder to breathe now that you weren’t pretending to hate him.

His fingers flexed against the hospital sheets, his jaw clenching as his mind raced. Everything felt raw, exposed. His thoughts flickered between the words he wanted to say, the ones trapped in his throat— "I don’t want your pity." —and the ones that might actually slip out— "Why are you still here…" He swallowed hard, the hospital lights making everything too bright, too harsh. He wanted to reach out. To grab your hand, to yank you closer, to push you away, to… what?

Instead, he turned his gaze to the sterile white walls. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, illuminating the sterile room and the cold machinery around him like a spotlight. Every breath felt heavy, every muscle in his body tight, like a coiled spring about to snap. He closed his eyes again, letting the familiar hum of the machines fill the silence between you. When he spoke, his voice came out rougher than he intended.

"I don’t like pity, you know." His knuckles whitened against the sheets, jaw clenched. "You think I want you here because you feel sorry for me?"

You sighed, the sound quiet but weighty, and your fingers finally stilled in your lap. For a second, you didn’t look at him—only down at his hand, the one you’d been tracing soft circles on like it was second nature just minutes ago. Now you stared at it like it burned. Like touching him had been some kind of betrayal, and you weren’t sure to who.

Your jaw clenched. He could see the muscle tick. Then you shifted beside him on the bed, the movement stiff and restless, like your skin didn’t fit right. “I don’t pity people,” you muttered, almost defensive, your voice quiet but carrying that familiar edge. You glanced away again like it hurt to look at him for too long. “I’m here because…”

The pause stretched. You hummed again, low and distracted, your mind clearly elsewhere as you tried to fish out the right words.

“I don’t know,” you said finally, a bitter little breath escaping you. “It didn’t feel right leaving without making sure you were, y’know…alive.”

The word hung between you, thick and uncomfortable. Not dramatic. Just true.

He let the silence linger for a beat too long. The hum of the machines filled the air, sharp and mocking, like they were laughing at him. But Rafe couldn't bring himself to move. Couldn't bring himself to speak, because that would mean acknowledging the way his heart thudded in his chest like a wild thing. That would mean admitting that your presence was doing something to him. And Rafe didn't do softness. Not ever. But...

He swallowed hard, his voice a gravelly, ragged thing. "Still alive," he whispered, the words rough with something like pain.

His gaze flicked to the window, rain pattering against the glass like a hollow applause for his survival. The sound was monotonous. So quiet, but somehow louder than everything that came before. Another pause.

He licked his lips, his voice cracking slightly with vulnerability, and he hated himself for it.

"You can go now. If you want."

It was a lie and they both knew it. He didn't want you to go, but pride choked the words. He wanted you to stay. To stay and keep humming that damn song.

Your gaze snapped back to him, sharp and unsettled, like something he said had cut too close. Your brows drew together, the tension in your jaw so familiar it almost mirrored the pounding in his own skull. Rafe didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Not with the way his head felt like it was splintering open and every emotion he’d swallowed over the last twenty-four hours was clawing its way back up his throat. But you looked at him like you already knew. Like you could see inside the mess of him and still hadn’t flinched yet.

"I don't," you said, voice plain. Flat in that way you got when honesty made your skin crawl. "I don't have anywhere to go at the moment."

You grimaced right after—sharp and involuntary—like even admitting it out loud made you sick. Like the words left a bad taste in your mouth. And Rafe didn’t need to ask why. He knew that look. He’d only ever seen it when you talked about your mom—brief, bitter mentions that always came wrapped in sarcasm and avoidance. That expression had followed your voice more than once: slurred and distant when he’d driven you home from a party, or breathless and quiet when you sat up in his bed and reached for your clothes. Anytime he asked “where are you going?” you’d answer with that same grimace, muttering something vague about your mom like it was the last name you ever wanted to say out loud.

And now you were sitting here. Not running. Not making a joke to deflect the heaviness in the air. Just... sitting. Grimacing. Still beside him. And for some reason, that made it all feel heavier. Realer. Like the space between you was full of things you didn’t know how to say and both too exhausted to lie about. "Do you want me to?"

His throat tightened, the machines and the rain and the silence of the room all pressing down on him like a physical weight. He couldn’t look at you—not without feeling like his chest was cracking open. So he stayed focused on the hospital wall, staring at the cracked-white paint like it held the secrets to life. But his hand twitched toward you. A fleeting, involuntary movement that betrayed the need he refused to name.

"You don’t have to stay," he murmured, voice rough.

But his hand stayed there, just beside yours, fingers twitching like they wanted to reach for you. The tension in the room was suffocating. The unspoken questions, the tangled emotions, the ache of something neither of you could name.

Rafe’s gaze flickered toward you, just for a moment, before he forced himself to look away again. When he spoke, his voice was barely more than a rough whisper, the words like sandpaper in his throat.

"But don’t go. Please. Unless you want to."

You nodded—slow, absent-minded—then blinked like you were coming back into your body. Your fingers twitched again in your lap, and you shifted slightly where you sat on the edge of the bed. Like being there was either the most natural thing in the world, or like you were tethered by something invisible—some mix of guilt, habit, or maybe that awful, unspoken thread neither of you could name. A part of Rafe wanted the silence. Wanted the solitude that always came after these things, the numb emptiness that used to wrap around him like a blanket. Loneliness had been the only thing that never left him, the one constant. But another part of him—ugly and vulnerable and twelve steps past pathetic—knew he’d take it personally if you got up and left. Especially after he said please. Probably the first time in his life he ever meant it.

He didn’t know what would happen once he got out. Didn’t know what the rules were anymore, or if there even were rules. Would you keep sneaking into his room? Would you stop pretending it was meaningless? Would you stop showing up at all? He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t predict much when it came to you—not anymore. All he knew was that the second JJ looked at the girl he liked to pretend he was loyal to, said the wrong thing, or kissed Kiara in front of you again, you’d come crawling back, eyes glassy and voice mean, and Rafe would be right there waiting. He hated it. Hated how willing he was to be your crutch. But the thought of not being the one you came to was worse.

"I wouldn’t like to be alone after something like that," you said quietly, barely above a whisper.

The words pulled him out of his spiral. His gaze snapped back to you, and something in his chest cracked a little. Because it didn’t sound like pity. It didn’t feel like judgment or guilt or some half-hearted attempt to be kind. It felt... honest. Like you meant it. Like it came from some place deeper than you probably meant to show. He glanced at you then, studied the softness in your face that you didn’t try to hide, the way your features relaxed into something real and open instead of guarded. And suddenly he wasn’t thinking about the overdose, or your mom, or JJ, or anything at all—just the strange comfort of you still being here, still tethered to the bed like you hadn’t found a reason to walk away yet.

His throat tightened at your words, his pulse thundering in his ears. You’d always been fiercely independent, never needing anybody—and here you were, admitting you didn’t want to be alone. It sent a spike of something sharp and unfamiliar through his chest.

He nodded slightly, jaw clenching, but he didn’t say anything. Because what you’d said... it felt raw. Real. And Rafe didn’t have words to combat it. So he just sat there, looking at you. Silently begging you not to leave.

The soft hum of the machines filled the silence, the steady rhythm matching the unsteady beat of his heart. His fingers twitched again, the urge to reach out nearly overwhelming. To touch you, to anchor you in some way.

Instead, he swallowed hard, jaw ticking. The quiet stretched on, and Rafe felt like something in his chest was being slowly, painfully unraveling.

"Tell me what to do," he rasped, voice gravelly and low, like the words had clawed their way out of him against his will.

"What do you mean?" you asked, brows furrowing in confusion now.

There was something vulnerable in his gaze when he looked at you, his voice coming out more hoarse than he meant it to. Like admitting what he needed was a kind of violence.

"In this moment. Right now. What do you need me to do?" he said, voice cracking just slightly, his hand finally reaching tentatively out toward you, just a feather-light touch grazing the edge of your thigh, the gesture almost involuntary.

You snorted—a sharp, graceless sound that once upon a time would've made Rafe roll his eyes and say something cruel just for the hell of it. He even remembered doing it once. Made some sarcastic jab about you laughing like a pig or something equally shitty, just to get under your skin. But now he just stared, oddly still, watching the way you hunched over and brought your hand to your mouth, laughing into your fingers like you didn’t mean to. Like the sound embarrassed you. It almost sounded forced—except it wasn’t. He’d heard it before. Seen it before. That same laugh breaking free when you thought no one was listening, or when your walls slipped just long enough for something real to get through.

"I want you to stay alive, preferably," you muttered, the words half-sincere, half-laced with that same snorty kind of humor. Then, leaning closer like you weren’t perched on a hospital bed beside a guy who nearly died, you added, "And not be a dick towards my friends anymore..." Your tone turned teasing, and you tilted your head slightly, close enough that he could feel your breath and see the glint of playfulness behind your eyes. Like you were back at some party, standing too close and saying something sharp, trying to provoke him just because you liked the way he bit back.

And for a second, it really did feel like that. Like the hospital bed and the IVs and the faint bruises didn’t exist. Just the two of you, toeing the line between flirtation and a fight, because it was the only language you both knew how to speak.

His gaze sharpened as your tone turned teasing, heat flickering behind his eyes at the proximity. His thumb brushed your thigh instinctively, the touch light—almost accidental. He snorted at your jab, the sound harsh but tinged with amusement, because old habits die hard and this… this was comfortable, in its own messed-up way.

"Don’t give my dick a complex, angel," he retorted, the edges of his lips twitching upward in a smirk. "Besides, you’d miss my particular brand of dickheadery."

The smirk faded for a moment, your proximity suddenly overwhelming in a way it hadn’t been before. Your hair brushed his shoulder when you leaned closer, and the scent of your shampoo flooded his nostrils—something sweet and faintly ocean-like that reminded him of late-night drives down to the marsh. He wanted to lean into it, to press his face against the curve of your throat and breathe it in like it was oxygen, but he restrained himself. Barely.

"I’ll play nice," he rasped, fingers tightening on your thigh despite himself. "…when I want to."

"You'll play nice?" you echoed breathlessly, a small smile tugging at your lips in spite of everything that didn't allow you to act like this. The hospital, the insistent smell of anti-septic, the whole situation itself. Flirting in a hospital room after he almost died.

He nodded, eyes flicking to your lips for just a moment before meeting your gaze again, his voice rough and low. The scent of the hospital stung his nostrils—sterile and harsh—only adding to the surrealism of the situation. His fingers flexed against your leg, his touch still lingering, as if he couldn’t bring himself to pull his hand away.

"For you," he murmured. "I’ll play good. Most of the time."

His thumb rubbed a slow, absent-minded circle against your skin, the contact both grounding and stirring something low in his gut. The hospital lights buzzed faintly in the background, the sterile smell mixing with the sudden, electric awareness of how close you were. How, under different circumstances, he’d pull you into his lap and kiss the smirk off your face. Instead he just looked at you, jaw clenched, like you might dissolve if he didn’t focus.

"What else do you want, then?" he rasped. "A pinky promise? My firstborn?"

You shrugged, casual but too aware, your eyes dragging slowly over his face like you were mapping it—memorizing the exhaustion, the dullness in his eyes, the bruising under them that hadn’t quite faded. You didn’t flinch or look away like he expected you to. Like most people would have by now. Instead, you just nodded, lips twitching with some barely-contained smirk. “First born works, yeah,” you said, voice dry but light. Then you shifted, leaning slightly into your palm, the space between you and him warm and quiet and impossibly charged.

Your gaze flicked sideways to the monitor—subtle, but not subtle enough. He followed it with the corner of his eye just in time to catch the slight uptick in his heart rate, that little spike on the screen giving him away before he could even pretend to keep his cool. And then you were looking back at him, lips pressed together like you were trying not to laugh. Like maybe it gave you some kind of satisfaction knowing he was still so easy to read when it came to you.

“But I’ll take anything you’re willing to part with,” you added, voice lower, slower, softer—but not soft. Not gentle. Not with him. Just real. Your gaze dropped briefly to his mouth and then lifted again, dragging slow and deliberate. Close enough to feel the shift in the air. Close enough that if he turned his head even slightly, your noses might brush.

His eyes darkened, his breath hitching slightly as you leaned in closer. The hospital bed creaked faintly under your weight when you shifted, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. He swallowed hard, the monitor’s sudden uptick in rhythm giving away how fast his heart was pounding. He should be annoyed, irritated that you knew him well enough to know exactly what buttons to push.

But he wasn’t. Instead, his fingers flexed against your thigh, grip tightening almost possessively. A low, rough chuckle escaped his lips.

"Careful, angel. That’s how accidents happen."

The words lingered, thick with tension, and he knew you could feel the heat of his gaze on your mouth. His throat bobbed again as your breath mingled with his, and his heart rate spiked again on the monitor. He shouldn’t, he knew he shouldn’t—you were perched on his hospital bed like some kind of damned miracle, and he was a goddamn mess. But the distance between you was narrowing, and his restraint was slipping, and—

"Christ." His fingers dug into your thigh. "Just… c’mere."

"Where?" you feigned innocence and confusion, throat bobbing as you swallowed "Are you delirious from the morphine perhaps?" eyes flicking down at his hand on your thigh like it belonged there.

A sharp, rough laugh escaped before he could stop it. He tugged you abruptly toward him, a smirk playing at his lips. The monitor’s beeping rate increased, betraying the quickening of his pulse as you leaned into him.

"Delirious?" he echoed, breathless, hand still gripping your thigh like a lifeline. "Try desperate."

His gaze burned into you, thumb brushing the inside of your knee as if it were accidental, like that simple touch hadn't set his skin alight. The monitor's sharp beeping was all but forgotten now, his other hand reaching up to brush a strand of your hair behind your ear with unexpected gentleness. His voice came out low and hoarse, like your proximity was testing his control.

"You’re a goddamn menace, angel." He murmured, calloused fingers lingering on your jawline. "How the hell do you make a hospital bed feel dangerous?"

You huffed, a breath caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief, eyes narrowing just slightly as you took him in. Of course he’d say something like that. Here he was, still pale and drawn, hooked up to machines that were literally keeping track of whether he was still breathing right—and he had the audacity to talk about hospital beds feeling dangerous. Like this was just another place to play the game you two always tiptoed around, even when everything else had fallen apart. Like his father or sister couldn't walk in any minute to check up on him.

Your voice dipped, slow and teasing, “What exactly feels dangerous about the smell of antiseptic and the constant beeping of a heart monitor?” You cocked your head, eyes dragging across his face, lingering on the faint color climbing up his neck, blooming just enough at his cheekbones to make your smirk stretch wider.

He was flushed now. Flushed and watching you like he wasn’t in a hospital gown and you weren’t the girl who had drove him to the hospital half-dead. "You're in a hospital bed, not a goddamn motel, Rafe.."

And still, somehow, the tension between you hummed louder than the monitor.

He didn’t flinch when you said his name, didn’t look away. He just kept staring at you, gaze sharp, his calloused thumb tracing slow circles on your skin like the gesture somehow calmed him. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, mouth quirking at your teasing tone, though the monitors’ frantic beating gave him away.

"Motel’s got better sheets," he retorted, fingers tightening on your thigh. "This bed? Might as well be a goddamn medieval torture device. Still doesn’t stop me from wanting you in it, though."

He leaned closer, his breath hitting your mouth, the beeping of the monitor growing louder as his heart rate spiked. The scent of hospital disinfectant was faint against the sudden heat of his proximity, the warmth of his palm searing through the thin fabric of your pants. His thumb pressed harder into your thigh, as if anchoring himself there, and his voice came out in a low rumble.

"Maybe it’s the threat of somebody walking in," he murmured, his lips tilting in that infuriating smirk. "Adrenaline’s a better rush than morphine, angel."

“I’m not fucking you in a hospital, Rafe.” Your voice was flat, deadpan, not budging an inch even as he leaned in slightly like he thought he could charm his way through heart monitors and IV lines. Your brow arched in mock boredom, feigning nonchalance like you weren’t acutely aware of how close he was, or how his gaze lingered too long on your mouth every time you spoke.

You didn’t move back. Didn’t need to. He was the one tethered to wires and machines, and you were the one making his heart rate stutter with every calm, teasing word. You tilted your head, letting your eyes flick slowly over his face, deliberately lazy in the way you studied him.

“How would that even work?” you murmured, softer this time, your tone shifting—mischief laced into every syllable. You leaned in, just a little, the corners of your mouth tugging upward as you caught the way his monitor spiked again, a telltale rhythm you didn’t need a medical degree to interpret.

“I mean,” you added, almost too thoughtfully, like you were really considering it, “unless you’re into dangerously public, half-conscious near-death experiences. In which case—we should probably unpack that when you’re not attached to an EKG.”

The monitor's rhythm spiked again, betraying the way his breath caught in his throat as you leaned in, your words hitting their mark. His mouth twitched, struggling to hide a smirk even as his heart skipped. His grip on your thigh tightened, fingers digging in almost as a reflex.

"Dangerous? Baby, I’m always down to unpack my daddy issues in the most wildly inappropriate way possible. But…" he paused, his voice dropping, rougher now. "You gonna be the one stuck explaining to the nurses why my pulse is going into cardiac arrest while they’re on break?"

"Okay but, how would that work?" you asked again grimacing in amusement and curiosity.

He snorted, a low, almost wicked chuckle escaping him. His thumb pressed a slow, deliberate circle into your thigh, palm still pressed firmly against your skin. The thought of it, of doing something so reckless in a place where he was tethered to machines and beeping monitoring instruments, was both stupid and undeniably thrilling, and he had never been good at resisting the urge to test boundaries.

"Where there’s a will," he murmured, voice low, gaze flicking to the door, "and a hospital bed with built-in handrails… there’s a way."

"You’re actually serious," you said slowly, blinking at him like you were still trying to make sense of whether he was joking or just deeply unhinged. There was a pause, one filled with disbelief and faint amusement, your eyes narrowing slightly as you studied his face—like the answer might be etched into the lazy curve of his mouth or the glint behind his heavy-lidded stare.

His expression didn’t change much, if at all. That was the part that got to you. He wasn’t smirking the way he usually did when he was baiting you into snapping at him or storming off. He looked almost unbothered. Like he really thought the two of you could get away with something like that here—surrounded by antiseptic, cold fluorescent lights, a heart monitor still chiming at steady intervals, and nurses roaming just beyond the thin hospital walls.

“You’re not kidding,” you added, tone somewhere between amused and incredulous, your voice low as you leaned slightly forward, like proximity might help you figure out if he’d truly lost his mind or if this was just Rafe being Rafe—disaster disguised as charm, heat tucked inside recklessness. “You actually think this is the time and place to pull the ‘we’ve got tension to burn’ card?” you asked, a breath of laughter escaping you as you sat back again, shaking your head. “Jesus Christ, Cameron.”

He let out a soft, hoarse breath, his smirk widening at your reaction—the disbelief, the amusement. The way you looked at him like he’d lost his damn mind, and you still hadn’t moved a single inch. The fact that the thought of doing something so reckless in this sterile hellhole, with his heartbeat still racing like a junkie’s, made his blood run hotter than a normal person’s should.

"Think you’re doubting my creativity, angel," he murmured, thumb still tracing circles on your thigh, eyes dark and burning as they flicked to the door.

You bit the inside of your cheek, suppressing the flicker of heat that crawled up your neck at the nickname, at the way his thumb kept moving like he had all the time in the world—and not a damn IV still attached to his arm. You should’ve pulled away. You should’ve rolled your eyes and told him he was out of his mind. But instead, your thighs pressed a little tighter together where you sat, a reflex you hoped he didn’t catch, though you knew damn well he did.

“Creativity’s not the issue,” you murmured, voice just above a whisper, your gaze following his to the door for a second, just long enough to feel the weight of what he was implying. You looked back at him, heat dancing behind your eyes as you leaned in slightly, hovering just close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek. “I just don’t think you’d survive a round with me in your condition,” you added, smirking faintly, letting the challenge hang in the air between you. “Might flatline for real this time.”

You tapped the monitor lightly with your finger, the beeping still erratic but steady—mocking the way your own pulse started to climb.

His pulse spiked as you leaned in, the monitor’s steady rhythm skipping with a sharp uptick at the sound of your voice, low and challenging, a hint of that smirk tugging at his own lips. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on your thigh—a reflex he couldn’t control—and he exhaled slowly, his tone lowering to match yours, the heat in his gaze intensifying.

"Sweetheart, I’ve survived worse than you. I’m not scared of a little cardio."

You didn’t mean to breathe in so slow, didn’t mean to let your lashes lower the way they did as his words hit—sharp, cocky, completely inappropriate considering the location and the context. But god, he was infuriating. And warm. And stupidly charming in that reckless, firestarter kind of way that always got under your skin when it shouldn’t. Your eyes flicked down to where his hand gripped your thigh a little tighter, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. You knew better than to entertain it. Knew better than to let that look in his eyes unravel something in you. But he made it impossible not to—especially when he looked at you like that. Like you were a dare. Like you were the sweetest sin in reach.

You let the silence stretch, just for a second longer than necessary—because you could feel the anticipation thick between you, like molasses in the summer heat—and you liked watching him squirm beneath all that cocky bravado. His breath faltered just barely, just once, and it gave you the smallest high.

Then you leaned in close enough for your nose to almost brush his, your voice low and sweet and laced with trouble.

"If you die with my name in your mouth, Cameron, I’m haunting you."

Your fingers slid up over his wrist, featherlight, deliberate. Not quite giving in, but not pulling away either. His skin was still warm despite the chill of the hospital room, and you swore you could feel his pulse beneath your fingertips—racing, eager, like it was daring you to keep going.

"And if I so much as hear a nurse coming," you murmured, your gaze dragging slowly from his mouth to his eyes, "I’m letting you explain exactly why your heart rate’s off the charts." You tilted your head slightly, lips ghosting by his ear now, barely brushing. He smelled like antiseptic, faint sweat, and something distinctly him that you couldn't quite name—but you hated how much you liked it.

“Try not to be too loud, hm?” you added, voice like silk over broken glass. Your hand rested just above his, your thigh still pressed under his touch, and you let your smirk bloom—slow and mean and dangerously amused. “Or do. I’m sure Sarah would love to come back early and hear what kind of recovery exercises you’re into.”

You didn’t move away. Didn’t back off. You just let him sit in the tension of it, let it wrap tight around his lungs like a vice, daring him to close the distance first.

His breath hitched as you leaned into him, the heat of your body searing into his own, your proximity dizzying and dizzying. The monitor's rhythm spiked sharply with each beat, giving away how badly his heart was pounding, no doubt setting records in the process. His lips twitched into a smirk that was all teeth and zero grace, his eyes dark and daring.

"Angel, you’ve got no idea the kind of exercise I’m capable of even flat on my back. And as for Sarah? She’d probably start taking notes."

You bit back a laugh, biting your bottom lip instead, though it didn’t help much with the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. His voice was low and cocky, all smooth filth wrapped in rasp and adrenaline, and the image he painted only made it worse—made your chest tighten with a mix of disbelief and that unmistakable, dangerous heat that only he seemed to spark.

“You’re disgusting,” you whispered, your voice breathy with amusement, like you didn’t actually mind one bit. Your nails grazed the inside of his wrist, slow and featherlight, a small retaliation for how smug he sounded. “Delusional too. You think I’m gonna fuck you while your father’s down the hall and your IV’s still in?”

You shook your head but didn’t move, didn’t inch away. In fact, your knee slid just a bit closer to his hip, your lips dangerously close to brushing his again. You saw the way his eyes tracked your mouth like it was a lifeline, saw the way he swallowed thickly like that smirk of his wasn’t fooling anyone.

“I mean…” you added, a wicked edge sneaking into your tone as your thumb traced a slow, taunting circle over the faint line of his waistband beneath the scratchy hospital blanket, “I could see how a girl might be tempted. You do look kinda hot with the whole tragic overdose thing going on.” You grinned, sharp and playful, and leaned in to murmur, “But I like my men conscious enough to beg.”

Then you let the silence stretch again, your mouth barely hovering over his, letting him feel the threat of a kiss you didn’t quite give, letting your breath ghost across his lips like a dare.

“Think you’ll be up for it by tonight, or do I have to schedule your next overdose for the weekend?”

He let the silence stretch, his own heartbeat filling the void, the monitor's beeping still erratic and sharp. The hospital lights flickered faintly overhead, casting strange shadows across his face as he held your eyes with an intensity that bordered on desperation. His thumb brushed your jaw, rough and trembling, like he was holding back some fierce, wild thing—and losing the fight.

"Christ, woman… you gonna actually kiss me or is this just another goddamn mind game with that pretty mouth of yours?"

You didn’t hesitate—your fingers curled beneath his jaw, thumb brushing over the bruise blooming on his cheekbone as you leaned in and caught his mouth with yours. It was soft for half a second—tentative, almost uncertain—but that vanished the moment you felt him respond, his lips parting under yours like he’d been starving for it, for you. A breath escaped from your chest like it had been trapped there all day, caught somewhere between panic and want.

This was insane.

Less than ten hours ago you’d been pacing a sterile waiting room, wondering if his overdose would be the last thing you ever heard about him. And now you were here—kissing him like it was second nature, like nothing else existed beyond the way his hand moved to your waist, pulling you closer with a low, strangled sound lodged deep in his throat.

Rafe Cameron had always had a way of undoing you, unpeeling the carefully built walls of hate and snide remarks until all that was left was the heat. The tension. The reckless pull neither of you could name out loud. You thought burying your heartbreak in him would be a one-time mistake, something to drown out the aching echo of JJ and Kiara. But the mistake had festered—had grown legs and teeth and need. And now it was kissing you back like he’d die if you pulled away.

Your hands were in his hair, pulling just enough to make him hiss through his teeth, his tongue tracing your bottom lip with that same cocky desperation that always made you weak. You barely noticed the wires and IV lines anymore, not with the way his hand slid beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers burning hot against your skin.

The heart monitor was losing its mind beside you, the high-pitched beep a giveaway that should’ve made you stop—but it didn’t. If anything, it made you kiss him harder, made you climb onto the bed, straddling his hips with a kind of quiet urgency you weren’t ready to name. His mouth broke from yours only to trail down your jaw, teeth grazing your pulse as you gasped, hands gripping his shoulders to steady yourself.

“Careful,” he rasped against your skin, voice wrecked and breathless, his smirk practically audible. “You’re gonna flatline me for real.”

You laughed—soft, disbelieving, drunk on adrenaline and heat—and kissed him again, deeper this time, like you didn’t care who was outside that door or how messed up everything was. Because right now, none of it mattered. Not your heartbreak, not his overdose, not the arrangement you both pretended wasn’t turning into something far more complicated.

Right now, it was just you and Rafe, tangled up in the chaos you created together.

The monitor was screaming now—sharp, rapid notes that vibrated with each frenzied beat. Your hands slid beneath his flimsy gown, exploring the muscles of his chest, the heat of his skin nearly scorching beneath your palms. The hospital lights seemed to flicker and dim, the room around you both a blur of antiseptic and adrenaline as the kiss turned filthy and desperate.

He groaned into your mouth, his hands moving to your hips, grip bruising as he rocked against you, his voice a shattered whimper muffled by your lips.

"Don't stop. Don't— god, don't stop."

His breathing was ragged, almost labored now, the sound of his shallow gasps matching the erratic rhythm of the monitor as he clutched your hips—fingers digging in so hard he was almost shaking. His mouth dragged wet kisses along your jaw, your neck, his voice a mix of urgency and fever. His voice trembled, ragged and unguarded.

"You’re— f-fuck—" he panted, his words breaking as he dragged you impossibly closer, heart hammering wildly under your palm. The monitor whined sharply, like a panicked alarm in the background.

“You’re stupid.” You finished his sentence with a scoff, but the edge of it was breathless, all heat and tension as your hips hovered just inches above his lap. You weren’t sure if you were trying to protect him or protect yourself, but the hesitation didn’t match the way your fingers curled tighter in his hair, tugging hard enough to drag a sharp breath from his throat. There was something dangerous about how gently you were treating him and how rough you were holding on—as if your body was at war with itself, unsure whether to cradle or devour him.

Rafe’s eyes fluttered for a second, not in pain, but because you looked at him like you were trying not to fall apart. His smirk faltered just slightly, like he wanted to say something smug but didn’t have the air left to manage it. His hands gripped your waist, firm but not pushing—guiding, like he needed to feel that you were real. That this was happening. That you were here, in his hospital bed, straddling him like he wasn’t one second away from falling apart again. You weren’t letting him fall apart. Or maybe you were both unraveling, and pretending it was still casual was easier than admitting what this really was.

“If you’re gonna talk shit,” he rasped, voice low and husky against your mouth, “at least commit to it while you're riding me.”

And maybe you should’ve been more careful, more thoughtful, more anything. But instead, you shifted your weight, finally letting yourself sink onto him, just slightly, just enough to make his breath stutter—and yours catch right along with it. Even if technically you were still clothed.

His eyes blew wide, a ragged groan tearing from his throat as your weight settled against him. The bed creaked, his hips jerking upward reflexively, the hospital sheets twisting around them both as his head fell back against the pillow. His chest heaved, the monitor's rhythm now a frantic, erratic crescendo.

"F-Christ," he gasped, his voice cracking, "This… this can’t be real, I’m actually halluc—hnghhh—" His head lolled back, his words dissolving into a low, guttural groan.

His fingers dug into your thighs, hips rolling upward—slow, deliberate, like he was savoring the friction and the contact even as the heart monitor screamed in protest. His teeth grazed your collarbone, your pulse fluttering violently under the scrape, his own pulse racing to match.

"Careful," he muttered against your skin, one hand slipping up your spine to curl around the back of your neck, dragging you closer, breath hot. "Still need… t'breathe…"

“Not a hallucination,” you muttered, lips brushing his, your breath fanning against his mouth as you dove back in, desperate and rushed, like kissing him could drown out the chaos spiraling in your head. It was reckless. It was impulsive. It was so Rafe. The kiss wasn’t tender—there was nothing soft about it. It was messy, laced with frustration and need, your hands sliding into his hair, anchoring yourself there like you were afraid he’d vanish if you let go.

There was a voice in the back of your mind, the only sane part of it still functioning, screaming for you to stop—reminding you that he was in a hospital bed, that he nearly died, that his sister could walk in any second with his clothes and find you straddling her brother like some deranged porno cliche. That his father, of all people, could appear with one knock and a disapproving stare that might actually end you. But none of it stuck long enough to matter. Not with the way he kissed you back like he needed it to survive. Like this was more than just lust or bitterness or some fucked-up coping mechanism.

Rafe let out a low, strained groan into your mouth, and his grip on your waist tightened, his fingers pressing hard into your hips like he was daring you to move, even a little. Even as your knees dug into the mattress on either side of him, careful not to press too hard into his sides, you felt the tension simmering under his skin. His chest was still faintly trembling, and you hated that you noticed it. Hated that it made you slow down just enough to pull back an inch and stare at him.

“Tell me to stop,” you whispered, breath catching in your throat as your thumb ghosted across his cheek. “Say the word and I’ll get off.”

His breath hitched, pupils blown wide as he stared up at you, his thumbs rubbing frantic circles into your hips like he couldn't decide whether to push you away or pull you closer. The monitor beeped wildly in the background, a frantic counterpoint to his own fractured breathing.

"Stop," he murmured hoarsely, voice trembling—then his lips crashed against yours again, his hands sliding to your lower back to yank you flush against him, hips bucking upward. A low, shuddering groan escaped his throat. "Don’t. Don’t you dare stop."

“You just said—” The words barely left your lips before you gave up on them entirely, leaning back in, lips crashing against his with more heat than logic. It was messy and fast and selfish, all tongue and teeth, a frantic kind of kiss that came from something deeper than lust—something raw, like fear and relief twisted together. Your hands slid down his shoulders, pushing him back into the pillows with more care than you meant to show, silently pleading for him to stop moving so much, to stop trying to meet you halfway when he was still strapped to machines and barely a few hours out of hell.

There was no rhythm to any of it. No slow burn. Just urgency. A need to feel something else, to get lost in something you knew—Rafe’s mouth, his hands, the heat rolling off his skin. You kissed him like you were trying to forget the look of him pale and unconscious, and he kissed you like he was trying to forget the weight of his own failure. His fingers gripped your hips like he didn’t care if he got caught, like he didn’t care that this was reckless and loud and borderline insane.

Your breath hitched as he moved against you again, and you pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, “You just said stop.”

His breath was ragged and uneven when your lips left his, his hips still instinctively rocking upward like he was desperate to have you back. The monitor beside the bed was shrieking at a full-out, shrill alarm now, but you could barely hear it over the drumming of your heartbeat against his chest.

"I lied," he rasped, "Now get back here before I die for real."

"This is a shitty hospital, with even shittier staff," you muttered, breathless against his mouth, your words brushing his lips as you pulled back just enough to catch your breath. Your fingers fumbled with the zipper of your hoodie, dragging it down just slightly, exposing the swell of your chest and the thin strings of the bikini top you were still wearing—the same one you had on when you drove him here in a panic, heart in your throat, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

You scoffed softly, the sound laced with disbelief as your eyes flicked toward the heart monitor. The numbers were climbing, spiking, flat-out screaming that something was happening. Something intimate. Something reckless. “Your heart monitor is going crazy and no one's busting through the door to check up on you.” You looked back at him then, expression wry and amused despite the tension in your limbs. “We could be murdering each other and no one would even blink.”

The joke was there, hanging loosely between your panting breaths and the heat simmering in the tiny hospital room. But your tone dipped—low, dark, laced with something that wasn’t just lust. It was challenge. Temptation. The urge to pull him under all over again. And from the way his fingers were digging into your hips, you knew he felt it too.

His eyes tracked the way your hoodie slipped down your shoulders, a sharp, ragged breath catching in his chest. His pulse spiked, sweat beading at his temples as the machines beside you screamed in alarm. But he was focused on the way your skin felt under his palms—hot, alive, still clinging to the faint coconut scent of the sunscreen he’d smelled earlier. The hospital gown he was wearing did nothing to mask the heat and hardness of him against your thigh, the flimsy fabric doing nothing to shield him from the hunger in your eyes.

"Christ, you are going to get us murdered."

Your hand dipped down between your bodies, eyes still locked on his flushed, blown-out expression as your fingers patted blindly over the thin fabric of the hospital gown. When you finally found him—hot, hard, and straining beneath the useless cotton of his gown—your lips curled into something between a smirk and a scoff, equal parts amused and aroused. You pressed your palm against him fully, teasing, slow, feeling the twitch that followed your touch.

"You're this hard over the thought of having felonious sex?" you murmured, voice low and thick with disbelief, like you couldn’t decide if you wanted to laugh or moan. Your thumb dragged lazily along his length, still through the boxers, and you leaned in closer, letting your breath ghost along his jaw. “You realize this is probably illegal. Immoral. Borderline psychotic, right?”

Your tone was laced with amusement, but your hand didn’t stop—just squeezed a little tighter, a little slower, as if daring him to say it out loud. Daring him to admit he wanted it anyway. And from the wild pace of the heart monitor and the tension buzzing beneath his skin, you already knew the answer.

His hips pressed upward reflexively against your hand, his head falling back against the pillows with a soft, breathless laugh that turned into a shaky gasp. His hands found your hips again, grip bruising, as if the contact was the only thing anchoring him to earth while the monitor screamed in protest beside them.

"I’m—hnghh—pretty sure they don’t list reckless hospital hookups in the Ten Commandments," he managed to spit out through gritted teeth, a half-hysterical grin cracking across his face. "But I’ll pay your bail. Promise."

His eyes fluttered shut, his breathing growing ragged as the heart monitor's frantic rhythm matched the pace of your hand against him. Every touch, every press of your palm had him unraveling further, the heat between your bodies like a live wire. His hands roamed your skin, sliding up your back, dragging your body closer as if he could fuse you together and end this agony of wanting you. The heart monitor's screech spiked, a shrill reminder of the danger of this—of wanting you this desperately when his own body was still a mess of tubes and bandages.

"Don't cum yet." you murmured, your voice just barely above a whisper, low and commanding as your hand slipped beneath the gown and into his boxers. You wrapped your fingers around him fully, the heat of him pulsing in your palm as you moved with slow, deliberate strokes—purposeful, unhurried, like you wanted to drag it out just to punish him.

Your forehead pressed against his, breath mingling with his shallow ones, the closeness almost too much to bear. You squinted into the dim hospital room, eyes flicking down instinctively as if trying to catch a glimpse of your hand around him, half hidden by flimsy fabric and shadows. The rhythm of the monitor behind you ticked higher with every passing second, a sharp, steady reminder of how dangerously close this all was—how alive he was under your hands, how much control you held in this exact moment.

"I swear to God, Rafe, if you come before I say so—" you started, voice strained and breathless, more threat than plea, but the growing slickness of your strokes betrayed your own restraint cracking too.

His mouth fell open in a silent gasp, the sound of his name from your lips like a plea and a curse all at once as he arched his hips upward in a futile search for more touch—more friction, more you. His grip on your hips tightened, nails digging into your skin like he was holding on for dear life, as if letting go would shatter the fragile high he was chasing, one far more intoxicating than anything he'd ever snorted or swallowed. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one stuttering out of him like a confession, catching in his throat with every slow, deliberate drag of your hand along his length.

The heart monitor spiked again, the rhythmic beeping climbing to a shrill pitch that matched the pulse he felt hammering in every vein. He knew he should tell you to stop, that this was insane, that if someone walked in they’d probably sedate him and drag you out—but his body was louder than his brain, and your touch drowned out the rest of the world anyway.

"Fuck—" he choked, voice raw and hoarse as his hips jerked again, but you held him steady, pushing down harder on his pelvis with your free hand to keep him in place like he was some wild thing you were taming. Your forehead pressed firmer against his as your eyes locked, breathing the same stale hospital air and somehow still managing to make it feel heavy with heat. You looked like you were studying him—his flushed cheeks, the twitch in his jaw, the way his eyes flickered from yours down to your lips and back again.

And still, your hand didn’t falter. If anything, you tightened your grip, twisting your wrist just slightly as you dragged your palm up the underside of him, deliberately slow, like you wanted him to feel every second of it. You watched the way his brows pinched and his mouth parted again, the way his body tensed under yours like he was seconds from falling apart.

"You’re gonna make a mess," you whispered, voice low and warm and sinful as your thumb circled his tip, teasing. "And you’re gonna thank me for it."

His chest heaved with every ragged gasp, the heart monitor’s rhythmic warning screaming behind him, the sound of your voice in his ear making his pulse spike all over again. The way you commanded his body with touches that were both sinful and divine left him dizzy, the heat pooling beneath his ribs threatening to erupt like a wildfire.

His fingers found the messy curls at the nape of your neck and tugged, dragging your face closer until your mouths nearly crashed together in a clash of desperation and hunger. His voice came out in a groan more than words, rough and desperate. "Do it, then. Make me lose my fucking mind."

That was all the permission you needed. You shifted back just enough to unbutton your denim shorts, the stiff fabric tugging awkwardly as you shimmied them down your thighs in the cramped space between his body and the rails of the bed. It was clumsy, ungraceful, your movements rushed and frantic. You didn’t bother kicking them all the way off—just enough to pull your underwear to the side and climb back over him, the air between your legs already hot and damp with everything you were feeling and refusing to name.

Rafe watched you like he was hallucinating all over again, his hands itching at your thighs like he wanted to help but couldn't move fast enough. His breath came in short, shallow bursts, chest rising and falling beneath your palm as you steadied yourself. You reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around him again to guide him to your entrance. The second his tip brushed against you, slick and aching, you both exhaled like it was the first breath in hours.

You sank down onto him slowly, every inch drawing a guttural sound from his throat, his hands flying up to grip your hips like a lifeline. The stretch burned in the best way possible, the position awkward but grounding, the high-pitched beeping of the monitor spiking in time with your movement. Neither of you acknowledged it.

He threw his head back, eyes squeezed shut, a string of curses falling from his lips as you settled fully onto him. It wasn’t graceful—it wasn’t meant to be. You both moved like people starved, like the day had unraveled something deep and frayed inside you that only this could stitch back together, even if it didn’t last.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed, hands sliding up to your waist like he didn’t know whether to hold you tighter or worship you. His gaze flicked up to your face, flushed and focused, and the corner of his mouth tugged up even as his breath faltered. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smirked, breathless, fingers curling around the edge of the headboard behind him for leverage as you rolled your hips. The sound he made was somewhere between a moan and a prayer. “You’ll die happy,” you murmured, half-joking, half-maddened with want.

And as you found your rhythm, the creaking of the hospital bed mixing with the frenzied monitor and the sound of skin on skin, nothing else mattered. Not the beeping, not the hallway, not the fact that this was the most reckless, fucked-up thing either of you could’ve done. It was just him. Just you. And the fire you couldn’t stop stoking.

Your movements were frantic, reckless, as you rode him with a desperation that left no room for breath, let alone words. But even his own breathless gasps couldn’t drown out the sound of the monitor—the steady, insistent shrieking that pulsed in time with the building pressure in his core.

His eyes locked with yours, wild and unblinking, and he tried to form words between thrusts—to tell you to slow down, to take it easy, to be gentle. But the words died on his tongue, replaced by a keening sound that teetered between pain and relief.

His calloused hands slid up your thighs, fingertips digging into your skin like he was anchoring himself to the only steady thing in this world. Your name burst from his throat in a broken, ragged moan—equal parts plea and worship—as he surged upward, meeting your frantic rhythm with equal passion, no thought for finesse or finesse.

The hospital bed shook beneath you both, the shrill, erratic rhythm of the monitor finally matching the pulse racing beneath his ribs. A broken laugh escaped him, breathless and wild, tinged with a manic edge. "You’re insane. We’re both insane."

"It was…" you started, but the words stumbled and caught in your throat, lost in the effort to stay quiet and the full-bodied concentration it took to keep him buried deep inside you without faltering. "It was your fucking idea, not mine. I’m just—getting corrupted here," you finally breathed out, the sentence tangled and rushed, barely making it past your lips as your pace picked up again. The obscene sounds filling the sterile room—slick, needy, desperate—only spurred you on, drawing a deep, guttural groan from his throat as your hips rocked into him.

Your grip on the bedframe tightened, knuckles white as the other hand slid up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone. His hands alternated between gripping your hips with bruising intensity and sliding up to your chest, fingers dragging over the exposed curve of your breast where your hoodie had fallen open, nails grazing your skin like he wanted to memorize the feel of it. Your eyes dropped down between your bodies, your breath catching as you watched the way he disappeared inside you over and over again, the slick mess you were both making only adding fuel to the fire crawling up your spine.

"I’ve never been more wet in my entire life," you confessed in a low, wrecked voice, a shiver of disbelief laced through the admission. It wasn’t a line. It wasn’t something to make him lose it—it was the truth. Raw and unfiltered, just like every breath you shared between the frantic kisses and trembling exhales.

Rafe let out a strangled sound that was half laugh, half moan, the cords of his neck straining as his head fell back against the pillow. "That’s 'cause you love being bad," he rasped, eyes meeting yours with a feverish gleam. "Just needed the right fucking reason."

You clenched around him involuntarily at his words, the pressure curling low and fast in your stomach, that reckless, overwhelming tension building to the point of no return. His fingers dug deeper into your thighs, pulling you down harder, deeper, chasing that brutal, perfect rhythm as if this was the last time either of you would ever get to feel it.

And maybe it was. But in that moment, nothing else existed. Not the smell of antiseptic, not the heart monitor blaring at your pace, not the ghosts of everything unspoken. Just this: your bodies tangled in a hospital bed, both wrecked in entirely different ways, clinging to the only thing that still felt alive.

His own breath came in shaky, frantic whimpers, eyes wild and unfocused as he watched you ride him with an intensity that bordered on violent. The slap of skin echoed in the air, sharp and obscene, drowning out the screams of the monitor—or maybe he just didn’t care to hear it anymore. He thrust upward to meet your movements, the hospital bed groaning beneath you both, and the words tore themselves from his throat through gritted teeth. "You’re ruining me." His voice was raw and ragged, torn apart with want.

His thumbs dug into your hips—a silent plea to slow the punishing pace as his breath hitched, the rhythm becoming erratic. The monitor��s tempo quickened, a shrill, erratic hum. His head swam with the heat, the oxygen-deprived frenzy, the dizzying high he chased toward.

A broken laugh spilled from between his lips despite the way his chest trembled with shallow breaths. "Christ, we’re gonna get—ahh— caught. ”

Your gaze snapped to his, the sharp rise of your brows echoing the storm of pleasure and irritation flashing across your face. The rhythm of your hips faltered for just a second, breath catching in your throat as you steadied yourself enough to speak. "So be quiet then," you hissed, voice low but scolding, like it wasn’t your fault he couldn't keep it together. Your fingers wrapped around his jaw, firm and demanding, thumb grazing just beneath his lip as your eyes locked on his, wide and unrelenting—expectant. Daring him to defy you.

He looked up at you like he might, like he’d throw something cocky right back in your face—but then he saw the fire burning in your expression, the intensity barely held together by the thin thread of control you were clinging to. His mouth parted slightly under your grip, a heavy breath slipping past his lips, but he didn’t speak. Not with words, at least.

You didn’t wait for a promise or a nod—you just resumed the motion of your hips, slower this time, deliberate, grinding down against him in a way that made his eyelids flutter and his back arch off the mattress. You kept your hand on his face, holding him there, making him feel it. Making him watch you fall apart around him all over again.

"Good," you muttered, barely audible over the harsh breaths filling the space between you. "You’re prettier like this anyway."

The praise hit him like a punch, his body tensing beneath you as he bit back a moan. His hips rolled upward instinctively, chasing the friction even as his hands slid down to grip your waist—a fleeting struggle between need and control. But the monitor’s shrill scream was a constant reminder of where they were, and his breathing stuttered erratically as he met your slower pace. His jaw tensed under your grip, eyes never leaving yours as you rode him, his fingers flexing against your hips like he needed to anchor himself to something real.

"Better shut me up then, or someone’s gonna come in.."

He fought to keep the sounds trapped in his throat, chest heaving as his trembling hands gripped your hips harder. The heart monitor screamed louder, as if mocking his struggle to stay under your control. His eyes flinched toward the door before snapping back to your face, a ragged groan escaping as his hips jerked upward wildly against yours—a reckless, desperate plea without words. He could feel himself unraveling, the heat pooling low in his gut, but the threat of someone walking in only heightened the thrill.

"You're the one whimpering like a bitch in heat at the thought of someone walking in…" you bit out between ragged breaths, your voice strained with the effort it took to keep your moans low. Your words came out slurred, not from lack of intent, but from the pleasure starting to get the best of you. Still, the taunt landed exactly how you wanted it to—cutting and breathless.

Your gaze didn’t leave the mess of your bodies, focused intently on the way his trembling hand alternated between scrabbling for your thigh, gripping tight enough to leave marks, and fumbling lower, desperate to find your clit. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to anchor you to him or pull you further apart. Every time his fingers brushed the right spot, your body jolted, rhythm faltering for just a second before you picked up the pace again with a curse under your breath.

The slick sound of you moving against him was absolutely filthy, echoing off the sterile hospital walls like you were taunting fate itself. You could feel how close he was in the way his muscles locked under your hands, the way he couldn’t even look at you without his breath hitching. Your fingers dug into his chest as you rocked faster, trying to chase your own release even if it meant dragging him with you at full force.

"Fucking pathetic," you gasped, the insult laced with something far more sinful than cruelty, your smirk barely held together as your moans grew shakier. "You’re lucky I’m not the one who scares easy."

His laughter was a choked, fractured thing, almost lost beneath the sound of your bodies moving together. His fingers gripped your hips almost violently, the line between pain and pleasure blurred beyond recognition as he clung to you like a lifeline. The edges of his vision blurred, his mind consumed by the heat between you, the sharp, desperate rhythm building to a crescendo. The words you spoke dug into him like a blade, sharp and biting, and he let out a raw, guttural sound that bordered on a shout—part moan, part prayer.

"You wanna— try—me?"

His gaze found yours in a sudden, sharp jerk of his chin, eyes wild and hungry and bordering on feral. He shifted under you, body trembling with the effort it took to sit up, his arms wrapping around your waist like manacles. He hauled you back until you were flush against his chest, your head falling back against his shoulder in a strangled gasp. His mouth closed in a hot, messy kiss against your neck, teeth grazing your skin in a way that sent a sharp bolt of heat straight to your core.

Your pace faltered when he yanked you down against his chest, your gasp swallowed by the heat of his skin as your mouth pressed against the curve of his shoulder. The sudden change in position made your breath catch, especially when his hands gripped your ass and started thrusting up into you—deep, purposeful, almost punishing. There was nothing gentle about it. Each snap of his hips had your moans breaking into fractured, muffled whimpers against his collarbone, your nails digging into his shoulder like you needed something to anchor you.

"Try you?" you breathed, half-laughing, half-moaning, the sound wrecked and breathless as you pulled back just enough to sneer into his neck. "What the hell are you gonna do, all strapped up to an IV and bed-ridden?" Your voice was defiant, teasing—but it cracked slightly at the end, betrayed by the pressure building low in your stomach and the wet slap of your bodies meeting. He could feel it—how your resistance was slipping, how much you wanted this, even while your words played the opposite role.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he shifted beneath you, adjusting his angle with a hiss through his teeth, forcing a strangled moan from your throat as he found the spot that made your thighs tremble around his hips. The rhythm got rougher, more frantic, the rustle of fabric and the creaking of the bed only half-drowned by the wailing of the heart monitor.

You buried your face in his neck again, teeth scraping over the sensitive skin there, one hand fisting in the sheets beside his head, the other planted over his heart like it might steady either of you. His heartbeat was racing—wild, reckless, unhinged beneath your palm. Like it didn’t care about stopping. Like it wanted to burn out on you.

"Still think I can't do anything?" he panted into your ear, voice thick with that dangerous edge you both knew too well. His hand slid between your bodies again, this time finding your clit with unsteady but determined fingers, and your body jerked above him, a shudder wracking your frame as the friction sent a jolt through your spine.

You barely managed a sound, hips stuttering again as your mouth hung open, eyes fluttering shut. Every part of you was hypersensitive—his voice, his heat, the way his body kept trying to outpace the limits it was under. It should’ve been pathetic, considering the circumstances. It should’ve been reckless, wrong. But it felt like everything you needed right then. Something to drown in. Something to want.

And fuck, you wanted.

He felt dizzy, his chest heaving beneath your palm like he didn’t have enough air in his lungs to keep his heart beating. The monitor was louder, almost screaming, but neither of you paid it any mind now. The sound was distant, forgotten, a steady rhythm that was no match for the erratic thunder he felt racing through his ribcage. His fingers stilled against your clit, his body tensing as his head fell back against the pillow, eyes squeezing shut like he couldn’t handle looking at you any longer.

He looked wrecked.

His eyes opened, unfocused and wild, fixing you with a ragged look that was all heat, no clarity. He looked dizzy, undone, like he was teetering on the edge of losing control, of giving in. "Say it again," he rasped. "Say I look prettier like this."

The words hung sharp and needy in the air, your ragged breaths echoing between them. This was a different plea. A warning. You could feel how close he was, how hard he was holding on to the last threads of restraint. So you gave in. You didn’t have a choice.

Your mouth parted on a breathless sound, not quite a moan, not quite a laugh—something wrecked and fond and barely stitched together by lust. You leaned in closer, your lips brushing his jaw as your fingers tangled in his damp hair, tugging just enough to keep him looking at you, eyes locked even though his were half-lidded and glossy with pleasure.

"You look so fucking pretty like this," you whispered, slow and deliberate, voice like sin wrapped in silk. You dragged the words out just to watch what they’d do to him. And they worked—his entire body tensed beneath yours, a low, guttural sound catching in his throat like it hurt to hold it in. His jaw clenched, his hands gripping your hips like he needed something to anchor himself to the earth.

"Prettier than you deserve to look," you added, mouth ghosting over his cheekbone, "especially with me like this on top of you." Your nails scratched lightly down his chest, following the flush that bloomed hot and fast across his skin. His eyes fluttered shut for a second—just a second—but that second was enough for you to feel his restraint snap, his hips jerking up hard into you, the groan that tore from his throat unfiltered, raw.

"Fuck—" he hissed, as if the praise alone shattered something inside him. The way he held onto you shifted, no longer just grounded in desperation, but something close to reverence. Like your words had marked him in a way that left bruises invisible to the eye but not to the soul.

You kissed him then—open-mouthed, messy, uncoordinated—as his body started to stutter beneath yours, as if your voice had been the final push off that edge he’d been dangling over. And you didn’t stop. You chased every tremble in him with the drag of your hips, every fractured breath with something filthier whispered against his skin.

You meant every word. He really did look fucking pretty like this. And he was too far gone now to argue.

He didn’t hold back this time—he didn’t hold back anything. The sounds he let out were obscene. He didn’t care if they heard him, he didn’t care who heard him. All he could focus on was you. The way you felt beneath his fingers, the way you moved above him, the sound of your breath, your voice in his ear, telling him how good he was, making him feel like he was the only thing in this world worth existing for.

His fingers dug into your thighs so hard you felt like he was going to draw blood, but the flash of pain only sent more heat coursing through you. The way his breath hitched in his chest, the sound of your name tumbling from his lips in broken whimpers, was just enough to finish you off. You felt yourself falling apart with a strangled moan, your head dropped to his shoulder, body trembling with the force of it. And he was still moving against you, even as the wave started to slowly recede, as if he just couldn’t bring himself to stop just yet.

You could barely breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but hold on as he kept thrusting up into you—chasing that high like he needed it to live. His rhythm had lost any sense of control now, sloppy and urgent, all instinct and need. Your moan was still echoing in the sterile air of the hospital room, and his name was still caught somewhere in your throat, raw and sweet and soaked in aftershock. He was the one unraveling now, and you could feel it. In the way his hands trembled where they gripped you, in the way he buried his face in your neck and let out a groan that sounded more like a sob.

"Fucking—shit, angel—" he gasped, the words muffled against your skin. And then you felt him stiffen underneath you, a broken sound tearing from his throat as he came, hips jerking up into yours in shallow, frantic thrusts, chasing every last ounce of pleasure like he was scared it might disappear. You held him through it, body still twitching from the remnants of your own orgasm, nails dragging lightly down his back, whispering something you didn’t even know the meaning of against his ear—something like 'good', something like 'I’ve got you'.

He slumped back against the pillow, chest heaving, face flushed and lips parted in total ruin. The heart monitor was still beeping far too fast, still betraying every flutter of his pulse like it was trying to tattle on both of you. But neither of you moved. Not right away. You just sat there, still connected, your fingers brushing through his damp hair as your breathing slowly came back under control.

"Told you," he murmured eventually, voice hoarse and wrecked. "Still got it. Even flat on my back."

You let out a shaky laugh, forehead resting against his, but didn’t argue. Not yet. Not when your legs were still trembling and your heart was beating just as loud as his. Not when the taste of him was still on your tongue and the stupidest decision of your life still felt like the most intoxicating."We just had sex in a hospital room." you stated the obvious, trying to regulate your breathing enough to climb off.

He chuckled, the sound rough but somehow just as soothing, wrapping his arms around you like he couldn't bear to let go just yet. There was a vulnerability in his voice as he caught his breath, something raw and honest. "Didn't exactly have a lot of options here, did we?"

"There was only one option and it was not having sex in a public space where people come to get treated." you mumbled, forehead resting against his shoulder as you finally tapped his forearm, a silent request to release you so you could shimmy back into your shorts and get decent before Sarah showed up. Rafe let out a low, breathless laugh against your hair, chest still rising and falling like he’d run a marathon. His grip loosened on your hips slowly, almost reluctantly, like his body hadn’t caught up to the reality of what you were asking. “Yeah, well, he rasped, eyes fluttering shut as if even the thought of letting go was too much. “We didn’t exactly weigh all our options, did we?”

You sat up carefully, legs aching in that sore, satisfied way that made your heart thud with leftover adrenaline—and maybe just a touch of shame. You grimaced as you reached blindly for your shorts, fingers fumbling with the denim as you tried to make yourself presentable again. The sticky evidence of what you’d just done still clung to your thighs, making the act of pulling your clothes back on feel like a cruel joke.

Rafe watched you from under heavy lids, his gaze shameless as always. “You know,” he drawled slowly, voice wrecked but teasing, “for someone who was very against hospital sex, you were extremely committed once we started.”

You turned to glare at him over your shoulder, zipping your shorts up with more force than necessary. “Because someone,” you muttered, shooting him a pointed look, “can’t go five minutes without being a walking, talking bad idea.”

He just smirked, not even bothering to cover himself fully yet, looking all too pleased with himself even while tangled in hospital sheets and sweat. You pulled your hoodie back on and zipped it halfway, giving him one last look—the kind that warned him not to push his luck—before settling back down into the chair beside his bed, still flushed, still breathing a little too fast, but now trying to look like you weren’t falling apart from the inside out.

And right on cue, there were footsteps down the hall. You both froze. You glared at him again.

“Not a word,” you warned, and Rafe just grinned, letting his head fall back against the pillow like the bastard he was.

He watched as you shot him another glare, the smirk that had been on his face only growing wider and more infuriating. God, he loved it when you looked at him like that—like you wanted to punch him and kiss him and strangle him all at the same time. He let out a low, shaky chuckle, the sound still ragged and rough from all the sound he’d made just moments ago. "Don’t worry,” he rasped, “my lips are sealed.”

The door creaked open just as Rafe finished speaking, and your entire body went stiff in the chair, trying to school your face into something resembling casual boredom rather than post-orgasmic wreckage. Rafe’s smugness didn’t falter an inch—if anything, it deepened—while you reached up to smooth your hair, forcing yourself to sit back like you hadn’t just been fucking his brains out minutes ago.

"Knock knock," Sarah’s voice rang out in that half-sarcastic, half-sweet way she always used, and she stepped inside, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. "Wow, you look like shit," she told Rafe without missing a beat, dropping the bag at the foot of the bed. Her eyes swept over him, taking in the messy hair, the flush still high on his cheeks, and then flicked to you, brows lifting just slightly. "You look… less like shit. Which is shocking, honestly."

You gave her a tight smile, trying not to let your voice come out winded or shaky. "Thanks, Sarah. Always a pleasure."

She snorted. "Got your stuff. Hoodie, sweats, your gross sneakers. Figured you'd rather wear something that didn’t scream overdose victim." Her eyes didn’t linger long—thank god—and she didn’t seem to pick up on the weird tension still clinging to the air like smoke.

Rafe, for once in his life, said nothing.

Sarah turned back to him, finally noticing his silence. "What? You die again or something? You’re being weird."

"I’m on a spiritual journey," he rasped, eyes fluttering closed like he was genuinely reflecting on his near-death experience, hands folding over his chest. You choked on a laugh, and Sarah rolled her eyes.

"You’re a dumbass," she muttered, walking over to plop the bag onto the bedside table. "Anyway, dad’s in a meeting with hospital admin. He’ll be here soon. Thought I’d beat him to the punch and make sure you didn’t look like an unsupervised crime scene when he walked in."

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak without giving something away, while Rafe gave a half-assed thumbs-up. Sarah turned to leave, tossing one last glance over her shoulder.

"You two… good?" she asked, casual but just curious enough to make your stomach clench.

"Peachy," you said quickly, maybe too quickly.

"Never better," Rafe added, his voice smug again beneath the hoarseness.

Sarah gave a short laugh. "Okay, freaks." she looked between the two of you, lingering at the foot of the bed while Rafe shot you a look behind her back. Your eyes tracked her silhouette as she made her way across the room to the table further in the room, reaching for one the water bottles left there courtesy of the nurses.

You let out a breath, forcing yourself to relax as she took a few sips, the silence heavy in the room. You could feel the heat in the room, still thick with the aftermath of what you and Rafe had just done, could feel the dampness in your shorts and the flush still lingering across your skin beneath the hoodie.

Rafe’s eyes flicked from Sarah to you, something dark and hungry flashing in his gaze when he took in the way your chest still rose and fell a little too fast, the way you were avoiding his gaze. Then his gaze shifted back to Sarah, his expression casual and almost relaxed, like he already hadn’t been taking pictures of the memory of you in his head only minutes ago. He cleared his throat.

Sarah stopped mid-sip, turning back to give him a curious look, like she couldn’t quite reconcile the fact that he'd just gone for over a full minute without saying something offensive or obnoxious.

Rafe shifted against the pillows, fingers toying with the sheet in his lap. "So, uh, you heard anything about when I’m getting out of this shithole?" he asked, tone deliberately casual.

Sarah set the water bottle down, leaning against the table with her arms crossed. "Don’t be so dramatic. You’re basically on bed rest for, like, ten days or whatever. Then you’re home free, as long as you don’t immediately get yourself killed.”

He grunted. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’ll try not to overdose within the next ten days. No promises, though.”

Sarah rolled her eyes.

"I know you’re joking, but you’re not funny." she deadpanned, and he actually cracked a smile.

You watched their exchange in awkward silence, hands curled tight in your lap. It was surreal, hearing them talk like this. You’d gotten so used to them hating each other.

And then, just when you thought the tension might start to dissipate, Sarah redirected the spotlight back onto you with a disarming sort of casualness that made your spine straighten instantly. She leaned against the table, legs crossed at the ankle like she was lounging at brunch and not in the aftermath of a near-death experience.

"So," she started, her voice light—too light—“did you thank Y/N for… y’know?”

She trailed off, and her smile faltered just enough to show she realized the sentence carried more weight than she intended. Her eyes darted between you and Rafe, like she was picking up on something—something subtle, or maybe not so subtle—and trying to decide if she should push further or back off.

You didn’t dare look at Rafe. You could feel his body still radiating heat beside you, could still feel the ghost of his hands on your skin, the echo of everything that just happened thudding beneath your skin. The flush that was rising in your cheeks had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with being thrown under the bus.

Rafe, of course, didn’t make it easier. He let out a breath, almost a laugh, as he tilted his head slightly like he was trying to play it off.

"Yeah," he rasped, voice still ruined from earlier. “Thanks for the… ride.”

The way he said it made your skin crawl, because you could tell he was being smug without even looking at him. And Sarah, bless her, didn’t seem to pick up on the double entendre—or if she did, she didn’t let it show.

You forced a tight smile, swallowing hard as you avoided both of their eyes. “It was nothing. Just glad I got here in time.”

Sarah gave you a genuine, if slightly confused, nod. “Still. We all owe you. I don’t even want to think about what would've happened if you weren’t there.”

Rafe shifted beside you, and the mattress creaked under his movement. You finally dared a glance at him, catching the glint in his eye. It wasn’t teasing—not entirely. There was something else there. Quiet. Heavy. Unspoken.

He held your gaze for a moment, something almost gentle flashing in his gaze, like he was trying to say something without saying a word. The moment was broken by Sarah’s foot tapping the floor impatiently, and he tore his eyes away.

Sarah cleared her throat, eyeing the two of you with curious suspicion. She looked back at Rafe, shaking her head lightly.

"You’re lucky, you know.” she said to him, and then shot you a look.

Rafe chuckled. "Oh, I know," he murmured, that smirk back on his face. "Got a guardian angel.”

The comment made your spine tingle. It was almost sweet. Almost intimate. And it was far too much to unpack in front of Sarah, who was glancing between you like she had no idea what to make of it.

Sarah looked wryly between the two of you, her brows lifting just slightly as if, for the briefest moment, she'd caught the double entendre stitched neatly into the charged silence between your bodies. Her gaze narrowed with faint suspicion, scanning the room like it might offer up a confession neither of you were willing to voice. Then she laughed, light and pointed, brushing off the tension with a flip of her hand as she leaned back against the windowsill.

"Funny story," she said, cocking her head, "I passed by the nurses' station on the way back and one of them was joking about some weird sounds coming from one of the rooms. They think someone was having sex in the hospital…"

She trailed off with a chuckle, shaking her head as if the idea was so ludicrous it could only be laughed off.

Your laugh came out on cue—slightly too high-pitched, a little too sharp—as you fidgeted with the zipper of your hoodie, pulling it up just enough to cover the deep breath you took to keep your face neutral. You didn’t dare glance at Rafe, not with the way his stare was burning holes into the side of your face, not with the way you could still feel his touch like a phantom pressed into your skin.

"People are insane," you said finally, voice strained with false disbelief as you tucked your hair behind your ear and offered Sarah the most casual smile you could muster.

Sarah hummed in agreement, eyes still flicking between you and Rafe with a trace of skepticism lingering just beneath her grin.

"Yeah. Totally wild," she said, almost too slowly. Then she let it drop, pushing off the windowsill and heading for the chair beside the bed. "Anyway, I told them maybe it was just someone watching porn with the volume up. Poor guy might’ve just had a heart condition or something."

She dropped into the chair, crossing one leg over the other as she propped her elbows on the arms.

"But I mean, what kind of sicko would be in the mood to have sex in a hospital of all places?”

She let out another little disbelieving laugh, shaking her head like the whole idea was so insane that it didn’t even deserve being talked about.

You laughed again, trying to control your shaky breaths. The sound came out hoarse and forced, even to your own ears—and from the corner of your eye, you saw Rafe’s teeth sink into his bottom lip.

Sarah continued, oblivious. "I don’t know how the hell anyone could get turned on in a hospital. It's like the least sexy place on the planet.”

Rafe let out a low chuckle from his spot on the bed, shifting slightly against the pillows. "I dunno. I’m finding it pretty sexy in here right now.”

Usually, you would’ve rolled your eyes at Rafe’s crude comments—he had a long-standing habit of tossing out suggestive bullshit whenever you were around his sister, half to irritate her and half to rile you up. It was a game you’d learned to ignore, brushing off every innuendo with an unimpressed look or a sharp retort. But this time was different. This time, it felt like there was a neon sign blinking above your head in bold, blaring letters: I fucked Rafe Cameron in a hospital room.

You could feel it—flashing in red, angry and accusatory, illuminating every corner of your shame as Sarah’s eyes narrowed with something a little too perceptive.

You forced a scoff, leaned stiffly back in your chair, arms crossed tight across your chest like they could somehow shield you from the scrutiny. “Of course you do,” you muttered, deliberately dry, eyes flicking toward Rafe with a sharpness that clearly meant watch it.

And then, without missing a beat, you turned to Sarah, masking the heat prickling at the back of your neck with a casual shrug. “I was gone for a little while to get food, remember? Might’ve been your brother with one of his hookups. I actually saw some girl leave his room when I was coming back.”

You let the lie settle, sweet and venomous, your tone laced with the kind of practiced indifference that only made it more believable. “Looked like she couldn’t get out of here fast enough,” you added with a slight smirk, eyes locked on Sarah’s face instead of the storm brewing silently in Rafe’s expression.

Sarah let out a short laugh, raising her eyebrows.

"Right, of course. Probably just someone from around here trying to snag a sick millionaire." She rolled her eyes, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Although, I don’t think that’s the kind of action a sick millionaire should be getting anyway.”

You let out a short laugh, forcing the tension from your shoulders as you let your gaze drift lazily back to Rafe. He was glaring at you like he wanted to throw you into the next room and strangle you.

The glare was so sharp and hot it burned, and you knew your words were only going to get you in more trouble once Sarah left, but it was worth it for the way Sarah nodded in agreement.

"Not really a time to think with your dick,” she said with a snort, like she’d heard those words a million times before. “But then again, we are talking about my brother here, so.”

Rafe rolled his eyes, still staring daggers at you.

Sarah looked over at him, raising her eyebrows. “What? You can’t argue that I’m wrong.” She let out a short laugh, looking between him and you for a moment before shaking her head.

"But, you know what, you should probably focus on getting out of here first. And then finding some girl to hook up with."

He finally looked away from you, his glare settling back on Sarah. You exhaled quietly, feeling some of the tension leave your body.

"What makes you think I haven’t already?" Rafe drawled.

Sarah raised an eyebrow “Seriously? I’m sure a hospital full of sick and depressed people is just teeming with desperate girls.”

Rafe rolled his eyes for a second time. "Haven’t you heard? Chicks love a guy in pain.”

Sarah snorted derisively, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, maybe a guy in pain that they like. But I don’t think you’ve exactly been winning any popularity contests lately. I’m pretty sure you’ve pissed off every girl in this town."

Rafe leaned back against the pillow, scoffing. "Not every girl..."

"Yeah, the one who left your hospital room didn’t exactly look pissed off…” you chimed in, tone breezy as you examined your chipped nail polish like your stomach wasn’t currently folding in on itself. You didn’t dare look at him, not when the memory was still seared into your skin—him beneath you, hands clutching your thighs like a lifeline, mouth slack and gasping your name like it meant something.

It was meant to be teasing, a jab to throw him off, to claw back a shred of the upper hand. But all it did was trigger a visceral replay behind your eyelids—his voice, guttural and wrecked, the press of his mouth against your collarbone, the way he tasted when you kissed him like you were starving.

Your breath hitched before you could stop it, covered by the scratch of your thumbnail against a flake of polish. Less than twenty goddamn minutes. That was all the time that had passed since you were sinking down onto him in this very room, your hoodie shoved halfway off your shoulders, the heart monitor going berserk while you moaned into his neck and pretended like the world didn’t exist beyond the four sterile walls.

And now you were here—fully clothed, acting like nothing happened, with his sister three feet away and completely unaware of the wreckage still radiating off both your bodies.

You could feel him watching you. That low, smug heat that always simmered behind his eyes when he knew he got under your skin. And he had. He always did.

You crossed your legs tightly, blinking hard as you forced a smirk and added, “She looked… satisfied, if anything.”

There was a beat of loaded silence, the air shifting with a sudden tension as his eyes burned into your downcast face, tracking each tiny movement like a predator, picking up on the twitch in your fingers, the hitch in your breath, the flutter of your eyelashes. It wasn't lost on him. Nothing ever was.

Sarah looked between you, brows furrowed in slight confusion. She let out an airy laugh. "S-satisfied...?”

She let out another laugh, eyes flitting up to the heart monitor which was beeping rhythmically.

"No way. That’s a little much for the hospital, don’t you think?” She shook her head in mock disbelief, eyeing Rafe’s smug face and then turning back to you for confirmation. Except you couldn’t look away from the heart rate monitor.

The beeping of the monitor filled the room, almost loud enough to cover the thumping of your own racing heart. You could feel his eyes on you, like the memory of it all was playing in his head, like he was watching all of it unfold across the room.

The silence was heavy, like the whole room was somehow picking up on the charged energy between the two of you, when in reality, it was only you and Rafe aware of the heat and tension crackling through the air.

Then Sarah broke the silence—thank god—with an eye roll and a scoff, standing up from her chair like she was suddenly tired of the strange mood that had settled over the room.

"You never change," she said, shooting one last look at him before shifting her attention to you. "I'll be back tomorrow. Try and stay out of trouble." Her eyes flicked over to Rafe, one eyebrow raised. "And do not, repeat, do not get yourself arrested—or worse, into another hospital bed."

The door clicked shut behind Sarah and with it, the last buffer of normalcy vanished. The silence that settled wasn’t comfortable—not like relief or calm—but something tighter, heavier. You could feel it snake back in immediately, wrapping itself around your spine and tugging.

Rafe still hadn’t looked at you, but his chest was moving just a little too fast for someone trying to act unaffected. You could tell he was doing the same thing you were—replaying it. All of it. The taste of each kiss, the rhythm of your hips, the reckless desperation that got tangled in his sheets and now in your thoughts.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t know what to say.

The air felt thick with everything you weren’t acknowledging. Your hoodie was still rumpled, half-zipped over your bikini, and your thighs were pressed tightly together like that might erase the way you still felt him. Rafe finally shifted, dragging a hand over his face like it might clear the look from his eyes—the one that said he was still there, in that moment with you.

He tilted his head slightly, finally glancing at you, and the eye contact was a hit to the chest. Not mocking or smug like it usually was, not even playful—just raw, wrecked, and unreadable.

His voice came low, rough-edged. “You’re not gonna say anything?”

You blinked, pulse spiking. “About what? The thing we just did or the fact that it was probably a new personal low?”

He smirked slightly at that, lifting his head off the pillow. “It was probably a new personal high for me, if you want to be specific.”

You forced your jaw to stay slack, keeping the shock from your face. “Why am I not surprised,” you deadpanned, trying to ignore the rush of heat that flared all too quickly in your body at the memory. “Add it to the list of things to regret then, I guess.”

He let out a low laugh, the sound almost lazy. “The only thing I’m regretting is not doing it sooner.”

You sighed, long and exhausted after the day you had, eyes fluttering closed and lolling your head back against the hospital chair.

"Great, I'm happy we had this educational talk.." you muttered, voice quieter than you'd meant it to be, bringing your knees up to your chest on the chair, arms wrapping around them like you were trying to physically fold in on yourself.

When Sarah had been in the room, you’d been too focused on acting normal—on pretending you weren’t still flushed and wrecked and vibrating from what had happened minutes before. Now that she was gone, the silence didn’t bring relief. It made the tension heavier, thicker. And it wasn’t the kind of tension that made you want to snap at him or throw a sarcastic jab. It was the kind that made your skin feel too tight, the kind that made guilt curl up beneath your ribs and settle in deep.

Rafe was still watching you. You could feel it like a brand on the side of your face, his gaze dragging over you, not just your body, but everything—the memory of your breathy moans, your hand on his jaw, your hoodie shoved halfway off, his name on your lips like a secret. You could still feel him. Inside you. Under you. Around you.

And worse, you still wanted him. That was the part that made your stomach twist.

You shifted, trying to shake it off, your fingers tugging absently at the frayed hem of your shorts, eyes still closed. The sting of guilt hadn’t fully sunk in when it happened—it had been buried under adrenaline, lust, the high of knowing he was alive and whole and his. But now it was creeping in, mixing with the ache between your legs and the phantom of his hands still on your hips.

Rafe’s eyes tracked every movement, his lips curving in a mocking smirk but it didn’t reach his eyes. They were dark, gaze still locked on you like he could see right through to your thoughts. “I know that look. What are you thinking about?”

"How horrible i keep feeling with each shameless orgasm you give me, in spite of being the one who also initiates things sober.." came your answer, blunt. Too blunt it sounded sarcastic, head still lolled back and eyes closed. "Can't blame the alcohol or weed for this one.."

He didn’t respond right away, eyes still roaming over you, taking in the way your thighs flexed as you wrapped your arms around your knees, trying to press your legs together like it might lessen the throb between them.

He let out a short “hm”, and you could almost hear the smirk in his voice when he spoke, even if you didn’t look at him.

"That guilt must weigh heavy if you’re making jokes like that."

"At least my guilty conscience works properly, country-club."

He chuckled softly, raising one hand out from the sheets and running his fingertips down your calf, gently digging into the sensitive flesh behind your knee. It was a surprisingly tender gesture, absent of the biting comments he usually shot at you.

"And mine doesn’t?” he asked. There was no malice in his voice, instead, the words came out low, almost soft.

You inhaled slightly, startled as he touched you. Your skin tingled where his fingers roamed, his palm sliding over the curve of your knee, squeezing gently. It was too light, too different from the way his hands had gripped your thighs earlier. You still refused to look at him even as you spoke, feigning nonchalance "I dunno about the guilty conscience but your usual classism complex is definitely shattered." you mumbled, voice betraying how the softness in his voice made you feel "Y'know the thing when you put my friends down for being from the wrong side of the island and then hook up with a girl exactly from the worst side of it."

He chuckled softly again, his hand moving to your knee, thumbing the soft flesh there like he was trying to soothe you, even though you were pretending to be unaffected by his touch.

"No need to sound so condescending, baby."

The words rolled off his tongue low, almost affectionate, but there was a hint of mockery in the way he referred to you.

"I hate you so much as a person, and truly to your core." you bit back, words low and dry.

He scoffed, almost like that was the exact response he'd expected from you, thumb brushing back and forth across your knee, his touch firm and gentle, making you shiver slightly. "I hate you too, baby."

He said the words easily, but there was a hint of mocking affection in his tone, like using the term of endearment was supposed to throw you off.

It did.

You closed your eyes, breathing out heavily. Every touch, every pet name, made something flutter low in your stomach. It was infuriating. It was intoxicating. It made your head feel light and your heart thump in your chest.

You tried to find something to say— a snarky comeback like you usually had on the tip of your tongue, but your brain felt scrambled, all thoughts replaced by the sound of his quickening breaths, the way his fingers traced up your thigh, his face when you were on his lap…

The air felt thick. Tense. His fingers kept roaming, like he was mapping every inch of exposed skin, and he was. Every swipe of his fingers left a trail of fire that had you clenching your thighs, trying to relieve the ache he’d put there. And still, you refused to look at him.

Your hand reached out, subtly flicking his hand away without opening your eyes, sighing in annoyance at the way he was touching you. With the confidence of an entitled prick. "Quit it, Rafe."

He made a low noise in the back of his throat—somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.

But he pulled back his hand, the one that had made its way to the top of your thigh, his touch leaving a burning trail even after he'd moved it back to the sheets. He shifted in the bed, tilting his head as he looked at your stubborn face, stubbornly refusing to look at him.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm in your ears, and you hated how much that sound made your blood hum.

"Why are you being so difficult?" He sounded amused.

"Plagued by the overwhelming guilt that comes after hooking up with you." you answered dryly, teeth gnawing at your bottom lip lazily.

"Oh yeah, you definitely looked guilty, babe." He snorted sarcastically.

The nickname was meant to sound mocking and condescending, but the word came out of his mouth like a sigh. You could tell he was grinning by the sound of his voice, the smile evident in his words.

"What is your deal?" your eyes shot open. Your expression was part curious part annoyed like you were actually wondering what the hell was wrong with him. Humming before speaking like you considering your words. Something you never did usually.

He raised an eyebrow, his expression amused as he watched the different emotions flicker across your face. Your eyes were fixed on him now, finally locked in on his smug face, and you felt your stomach twist with a familiar sense of annoyance.

"You need to be more specific." He smirked, feigning cluelessness, pretending like he doesn’t know exactly what you mean.

"I'm talking about your tendency to hook up with pogue girls." You closed your eyes again, head tilting back as if your sentence was the most obvious and casual thing ever. "Last summer it was Sofia, this summer it's me." you added, arms wrapped around your knees loosely now. "Feels like you love the power play."

He chuckled, the sound low and taunting. "You’re not the first one to try and psychoanalyze me, you know that, right?"

You grunted. Like you were lost in your own thoughts before speaking again "How did it end?" you asked simply, voice distant and lacking the bite in it. Like you were more focused on the inside of your eyelids than the conversation.

The change in your tone took him off guard, his smirk faltering for a moment. He raised an eyebrow, confused.

"With Sofia?" He clarified.

You nodded your head slightly against the chair, still refusing to look at him even though you could feel his gaze like a brand on your face.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "She was obsessed with me. It was cool at first, but then it became annoying."

"Define obsessed. "

He huffed, rolling his eyes, clearly not enjoying the topic. "She wanted to hangout with me all the time. She was all over me. It was fun at first, but she started getting clingy and whiny. And she constantly wanted to talk."

You chuckled lightly. Despite the fact that technically Sofia was your friend. Kinda. You weren't sure. She was your co-worker. "Isn't that what every other guy wants?"

He groaned, throwing his head back against the pillow before peering up at you through lowered lashes.

"I prefer my girls a little more unattainable." His voice trailed off in a husk, and it made your heart trip.

Your eyes shot open now, grimacing ever so slightly at his attempt to be smooth. "So you decided to hook up with a girl who's pining after another dude this summer?" you asked, tone bitter and mocking.

He smirked. "Yeah, actually." He had the audacity to look amused. "Guess I have a thing for unavailable women."

"So you're a glutton for punishment with commitment issues?" you asked, grimace deepening.

His smirk widened. "If we’re really being thorough, you should add in a hint of daddy issues and a dash of narcissism.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes so hard it made your brain jiggle "Me using you to get over the fact that i'm in love with JJ and it's not reciprocated is your karma for what you did to Sofia." you stated bluntly, deadpanning at him.

He snickered, his gaze on you sharpening. "Damn, baby. You really aren't a fan of holding back punches."

Your eyes roamed over his form, still slumped in the hospital bed, clad in that thin, wrinkled gown like it was some kind of throne instead of a reminder of how close he’d come to dying. He looked way too comfortable for someone who’d scared the shit out of everyone who cared about him—and way too smug for someone who probably committed a felony by having sex in a hospital.

"I'm a fan of blunt transparency," you muttered, voice syrupy with sarcasm as you fixed him with a look that fell somewhere between unimpressed and exhausted. Your arms wrapped loosely around your tucked-in knees, chin resting lazily on top of them as you leaned back in the plastic chair that had molded itself to your spine.

You raised your brows slightly, watching the way his smirk deepened like he knew exactly what he was doing—like your irritation was a language he spoke fluently and loved translating into something dirtier.

His dark eyes lingered on your legs as you shifted in the chair, still refusing to look at him, your thighs spread slightly and legs parted as you sat with one knee bent and one leg hanging off the side. Rafe’s lips twitched with arrogance at your attempt to keep him at bay, like you knew what he was doing. He let his eyes rake over your body, taking in your folded legs and exposed skin like you were his for the taking.

His voice came out low, almost taunting.

"You don’t want complete transparency, baby."

You huffed again, head tilting back against the chair as your eyes fluttered shut, like the weight of everything—the hospital room, the conversation, him—was finally settling too heavy on your shoulders. Your tone was dry, laced with exhaustion and the kind of sarcasm that didn't bother disguising how tired you were of talking around things.

"Complete transparency is all I want, country-club," you muttered, lips twitching with a humorless chuckle that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

There was a beat of silence before you added, voice lower this time, almost like an afterthought: "I’d prefer if you offered it."

It wasn’t a demand. Not exactly. But it wasn’t a suggestion either. It was an invitation he didn’t deserve but still got anyway—a rare glimpse into the part of you that hadn’t entirely learned how to detach from people, no matter how much you tried.

Something changed in the air at your words.

Rafe shifted in the bed, his eyes sharpening, fixating on your face, on the slight furrow between your brows, on the way your jaw clenched just the slightest bit, on the tired slump of your shoulders.

When he spoke next, his voice had lost its taunting edge, replaced by a sudden serious note. "What do you want to know?"

Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, hesitation flickering across your face like a crack in the bravado you usually wore so easily. The words burned at the back of your throat before you even let them go, heavy with all the implications you weren’t sure you wanted to deal with once they were out in the open.

"Why do you allow me to use you?" you asked finally, voice quieter than before, stripped of the usual bite—just raw and curious in a way that almost made you uncomfortable. You tilted your head slightly, gaze fixed on his in the dim hospital light like you were trying to read his mind.

"I get the whole appeal of it… I match your freak in bed or whatever," you added, lips tugging into the ghost of a smirk that didn’t hide the vulnerability underneath. "But is it just ‘cause you have no one at the moment? Is that the reason you let me?"

The question settled in the space between you like a challenge and a confession all at once—tinged with bitterness, maybe jealousy, definitely fear. Because if the answer was yes, if it was just convenience, just vacancy he needed filled until someone better came along—then what the hell had any of this even been for?

Rafe's eyes stayed locked on yours, the smirk gone from his face, replaced by a sort of contemplative brooding that gave away nothing. You could see his mind whirring behind the intensity of his gaze, and there was a moment of silence before he opened his mouth to answer that felt like an eternity.

But when he spoke, his voice was steady. Almost soft. And his words changed the game entirely.

"I don’t let you use me."

The answer caused you to avert your gaze to the side, a small, genuine chuckle slipping out before you could stop it. It sounded condescending, maybe, but it wasn’t. You were just…amused. By him. By yourself. By the mess you’d both willingly walked into.

"You and I both know why we started hooking up in the first place," you said, your voice low but edged with something that almost sounded like regret—regret not for what you’d done, but for how easy it had been to fall into it. "The guy I’m in love with has a girl." You paused just long enough for the weight of it to settle between you, then looked back at him, your gaze steady now. "Technically, I am using you."

There was no malice in the words, no cruelty. Just honesty, uncomfortable and sharp in the dim hospital room. You shrugged like the admission didn’t crack something inside you just a little.

"I just figured we'd have this conversation sober," you added, a wry smile tugging at your mouth. "Since I saved you from death, basically."

It was a joke. A shield. Something to hide behind when everything else felt too naked, too raw. But beneath it was the truth you both hadn’t been brave enough to name: something had shifted. And once things shifted, they didn’t just go back.

This time, Rafe actually laughed—a harsh, short sound that sent shivers down your spine because you realized you'd somehow caught him off guard.

For the first time in your life, he didn't have a ready answer, a snide comment. He was just staring at you, his eyes boring into yours like he was fighting with a decision right in front of you.

Before you could get your hopes up, he finally found his voice. "You are such a damn hypocrite."

You followed suit, another small chuckle escaping you "And why is that?"

He smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. "You're using me for the same reason you don't like me using everyone else.” He paused, watching you closely, watching the way you stiffened at his words.

And then he added the one word that had your stomach dropping to your toes.

“Unavailability."

author's note: long time no see, i promised fluff and i added some smut because someone said these two can't be alone without fucking and i agree. rafe is so submissive i'm actually kicking my feet and giggling. also weird update if anyone cares but the owner of this blog actually had her first real kiss despite writing the most outrageous smut. crazy right? i'm a loser irl and i get no play ya'll but i have a picnic date planned so maybe in the next update we might be getting more action. I NEED in depth feedback about this chapter, what did you guys think of the song, do you miss me? talk to me i love you all and the more comments and asks the better. is there anyone who's team jj anymore?? (p.s cherry bomb is the next on my updates so be ready cherry bomb lovers.) i'll try and be more consistent but i'm looking for a summer job so i'm only writing at night, on my phone... don't be shy to join my taglist! <3

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Tag-list*:･ﾟ✧ @cali-888, @bee-43, @jjscoquette, @melsbels-zip @stanseventeen @wh0reforbucknasty,@wtfisastiles,@annaconscience,@pqndxra,@carrerascameron,@nini2mem,@iynsane,@gublerstylesobrien1238,@wrldfilms ,@shayofandoms @wren5650 @alimarie1105 @chuuuchuuutrain , @literallylexie, @polli05927

[itoshiierae]

Hi so maybe I just loveee reading angst and Idk if you’re taking request but I wanna request something where the reader caught them red-handed with another girl 😭😭😭. ( w/ Kaiser & Aiku if possible 🥺 )

ᡣ𐭩 ft: michael kaiser, oliver aiku x f!reader

ᡣ𐭩 notes: ohh so you wanted angst??? fineee. here you go 😈 don’t even think about asking for a fluffy part 2. this drabble ends in pain, as it should 🫣 (( not proofread btw ))

ᡣ𐭩 cw: ANGSTTT, heartbreak, cheating (implied & confirmed), emotional betrayal, toxic dynamics, hurt no comfort, suggestive themes, established relationship (fragile), messy endings, emotional devastation

౨ৎ MICHAEL KAISER ౨ৎ

he said he had a late meeting. something about scheduling, sponsor logistics, nothing important enough to question but just vague enough to leave you feeling uneasy.

"long night ahead — save yourself the trouble, okay?" that’s all he says in the voice note, with that low, half-there tone you'd grown too used to hearing, the kind that felt like an afterthought more than a promise.

but you'd left your charger in his room again and now your phone was clinging to its final 10%, blinking like a countdown. to make things worse, the backup charger you swore still worked had given out hours ago. so, with nothing left but frustration and low battery desperation, you found yourself heading to his place.

even though he wasn't supposed to be home.

──★

you'd been to his place more times than you could count — the route was practically muscle memory by now, and you weren't expecting anything, just a quick visit to grab your charger, maybe even leave a note if you felt like it — a soft little "found it. hope the meeting went okay," scribbled on a scrap of paper and left on his desk.

your fingers had barely wrapped around the doorknob — the metal cool against your skin, when the door eased open with a soft click.

and that's when you heard it.

a laugh — light, unfamiliar, and unmistakably not yours... or his, echoing through the space like it had every right to be there.

your body stilled. not out of fear, but with that slow, sinking kind of knowing that settles in before your mind catches up to what your heart already understands. and still, you opened the door, before you could pretend you hadn't heard what you already knew.

and that's when you saw it — saw her — perched at the edge of his bed like it was muscle memory, her legs crossed with ease, posture dripping with the kind of comfort that doesn't come from a first visit, but from familiarity.

her fingers dragged lazily across the sheets, slow and absentminded, like she'd done it before without needing permission. and draped over her shoulders was his jacket — not just any jacket, but the one he always wrapped around you when your shoulders ran cold, the one that smelled like comfort and every moment you thought only belonged to you.

and before you knew it, your worst nightmare slipped quietly into reality.

her fingers brushed his shoulder — delicately, and then her lips pressed against his.

he didn’t startle. didn’t tense or pull away. he simply let it happen, eyes fluttering shut for half a second — not in affection, but in resignation. and maybe that was worse. but for one unbearable moment, you realized — he didn't have to kiss her back for it to be considered a betrayal, he just had to let her. and he did.

and not long after that, he realized you were standing there — frozen in the doorway, watching the whole scene unfold and his body immediately stiffened like someone had hit pause.

he pulled back too fast, too late — panic flaring in his eyes as if suddenly remembering the weight of what this looked like, what it meant & what it had already cost him.

"liebling—" he stuttered, eyes widening, voice soft like he already knew how this would end.

"… what is this?"

he moved like you mattered — like every step risked losing you, gaze flickering between your eyes and the space between the both of you, unsure if coming closer would be comfort or catastrophe.

"liebling..." he said again, gentler now. almost as if the name would save him thinking it hadn't already lost its place in your chest.

“she kissed me,” he whispered, barely audible — like he was more afraid of your silence than your actual reaction.

“it didn’t mean anything.”

his eyes searched yours, not with certainty, only with desperation — a plea for belief without the weight of truth behind it, offering nothing real to hold onto, just enough to wound you softer. and for a second, you hated that he was being careful, like he still wanted to protect you from the truth even while standing knee-deep in it. because if it really meant nothing, then why did he look guilty? why did he look like he'd already lost you?

you laughed, but it came out wrong — bitter, shaky, like something cracked loose in your chest and escaped before you could swallow it back down.

"you let her," you said, voice low, trembling around the edges.

"you didn't even flinch."

and that was what broke you. not the kiss that happened, not the girl wearing his jacket, not even the lie he tried to pass off as mercy — but the stillness, the ease, the way he just sat there and allowed it happen like it didn't cost him anything.

afterwards, you didn't scream, didn't throw your keys or even demand an apology that would probably come too late. instead, you walked away — quietly like you just knew if you didn't leave now, your feet would eventually betray you and stay.

he tried calling after you but his feet stayed rooted where he stood, because somewhere deep down, even he knew that this time, there was no talking his way out of it, no charm to lean on, no version of this where you stayed.

౨ৎ OLIVER AIKU ౨ৎ

you'd seen it coming. not all at once, but in pieces. the late nights, the vague excuses, the shift in the way he kissed you — less gentle, like affection had become something he owed instead of something he felt.

you told yourself it was stress, the season, the pressure of playing well — anything to keep from naming what was already unraveling between you.

but that night, when you let yourself into his apartment with a quiet kind of hope and a spare key he swore only you had, it hit all at once.

another girl’s heels sat by the door. her laughter spilled out from the kitchen, soft and careless, and his voice — low, familiar — was speaking to her with a comfort that used to only belong to you. you didn’t even move. just stood there, keys still in hand, heart dragging behind you like it had just learned how to limp.

then she appeared — flushed, half-dressed, wearing one of his old training shirts like it had always been hers. she reached for him like it was nothing — wrapping her arms around his waist with a kind of ease you hadn't felt from him in weeks.

and he let her.

he didn’t flinch or pull away. one hand rested lightly against her back, his head dipping slightly already familiar with the shape of her in his space. there was no urgency in the way they held each other, the kind that was built through repetition rather than impulse.

then his eyes met yours — and in that instant, you saw it. the slight flicker of surprise. the slow unraveling of someone who hadn’t realized you’d been watching long enough to feel everything twice.

but he didn’t tense. just looked at you — calm, unbothered as if you’d shown up early to something you were never invited to in the first place.

"thought you'd be out late," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, voice too casual for the way your world had just cracked in two.

"…. so you're not even gonna lie?" your voice came out softer than expected, like you weren’t sure which would’ve hurt more — the truth, or him not even trying to soften it.

"what's the point?" he said with a shrug, the smallest twitch of a smile in the corner of his mouth.

"you knew what i was when you met me."

you wanted to throw something at him, scream until the walls peeled, cry until your voice gave out — but all you managed to say was, "i thought you were trying to be better."

he didn't answer. didn't even bother to argue, just stood there in the silence he created, arms slack at his sides, mouth parted like maybe the words were coming — but they never did. and that silence told you everything. you should’ve known by now: oliver aiku doesn’t change. not for anyone.

not even for you.

© itoshiierae 2025 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ please do not modify or repost my content onto any other platforms.

[yeonmuse]

In which our hatter is deeply in love or more like obsessed with his alice since the moment he set eyes on her. He cant bear let her or go and he’d rather die than let anyone else have her.

Request from @addictedtohobi : Chosen Journey [ hatter guide, teapot tether, traveling to the wonder forest & white kings palace ]

✧ tw. smut (18+ mdni!),readers first time, jake worshipping reader, impatient jake, oral , readers on the receiving end, hes kinda obsessed ngl

Authors notes: req 6 for musies 1k req event hi my loves I’m so sorry to keep you all waiting, a lot has happened over the course of two weeks but hopefully I can get the rest of your reqs out by the end of the upcoming week

Other reqs can be found here

It was known by all of wonderland that Sim Jaeyun had been completely over the bend, to those he surrounded himself with he was of course completely normal, because every one of them had seemed to have been mad, but to you..the sweet innocent little thing he’d found capturing his heart he was completely normal. Of course that was because you hadn’t known his true colors, you had only just met all of them— fell down a rabbit hole and hit your head so hard you'd thought you knocked yourself into some state of psychosis.

When you finally came to your eyes cracked open to find yourself in a bright and colorful room you’d never seen, not even in your dreams. As you push yourself up from the soft comfort of the mattress beneath you a sharp pain shot through your head making you elbows weaken beneath you and your body fall back against the mattress. You weren’t sure how you’d gotten here or what events had occurred leading up to you having got there, but one thing was for certain, you weren't anywhere close to home.

You lie back in bed gently rubbing at your temples, trying desperately to blink away the pain that had shot through your head. Your attention is momentarily stolen away as the door at the front of the room shoots open and in walks a tall man who looked to be about your age, a tray full of pastries and a white teapot sat on a tray in his hands.

‘Oh you’re awake.’’ he beams, making his way over to your side and placing the tray down at the bedside.

“How's your head?’’ he asks, seeming to be genuinely concerned for your well being, despite one simple fact. You had absolutely no idea who he was, and worst of all you couldn’t seem to remember who you were either.

“Where..where am i?’’ you finally speak, interrupting his nagging and seemingly endless banter about how you should be keeping your head elevated against the pillows.

“Oh…if you don’t know then you must not be from underland..’’

“Wonderland?’’

“Underland it’s a place unlike any other, the place where the impossible becomes possible, where all things logical cease to exist.’’ His words seemed to have fallen upon deaf ears as you took a moment to gather your surroundings, it was then that you realized all the interesting things about the room. A piano floating on the ceiling, flowers watering themselves, lights dancing and casting shadows upon the ceiling.

“You must be from somewhere far…What is your name love…?” he asks, resting a palm against your head and neck, you assumed to check your temperature.

“I don’t…i don’t remember..’’

“You don’t remember? You must have fallen pretty hard here, let's get you up.’’ He helps you sit up in bed making sure you’re stable before placing a cup of tea into your hands.

“Until you remember we’ll just call you Alice.’’

“Alice?’’

“A peculiar name for a peculiar girl, what normal person forgets their own name.’’ he laughs, a laugh that seems to lighten your mood, though to anyone else it would seem off putting.

“Make sure you drink up, it may not help with your memory but it’ll at least make your head feel better.’’

“Well what is it?’’ you eye the mysterious liquid curiously, although really faint you could almost catch a hint of lavender.

“Tea.’’ he responds, pushing himself up from the bed.

“Wait where are you going?’’ you watch as he places the plate of pastries onto the bedside table and takes the tray.

“You should rest up after, we’ll talk more once you’re awake.’’ and with that he leaves you alone to the silence of the room, your gaze drops to the steaming cup of tea in your hands. Finally you bring it to your nose, taking in it’s sweet aroma before bringing it to your lips

Jake found his thoughts drifting to you as he stood in the kitchen. The way you burrowed yourself into his chest when he’d found you in the forest, eyes half lidded as if you were grasping onto the last bit of consciousness you’d had left. It startled him at first, no one had ever gotten that close to him, had ever touched him so softly or gently as you had. Then there were the soft whines and whimpers that spilled from your lips as you’d begged him to ease the pain, the aching in your head.

For a moment he just sat there in complete shock, someone like you was asking for his help. You looked sweet and endearing, as if you yourself were not meant for a world like this or any other. It had been his first time laying eyes on you and yet in that moment you would become something so precious to him. A jewel for him to keep and take care of before the others would corrupt you and have you think of him as someone that’s gone completely mad.

“What are you thinking about?’’ His reminiscing is cut short as Sunoo enters the kitchen, pulling a red apple from the fruit bowl sitting on the dough table and bringing it to his lips.

He couldn’t let anyone else know about you, he didn’t want you to need anyone else, he didn’t want anyone else to care for you in all the ways he knew that he should.”nothing, just finished making tea.’’ he responds, holding up the half empty teapot as proof of his lie.

“Well when you’re done, Sunghoon asked to meet with all of us tonight.’’

“Oh do you know what for?’’ Jake's brows crease together, it wasn’t unusual for them all to meet with one another, but it wasn’t usually Sunghoon calling together for such gatherings.

“Something about a girl, Jungwon spotted a girl in the forest today, Sunghoon thinks she might be from the overlands.’’ Jake's blood ran cold at the mention of you, his Alice, the one he had found on the brink of passing out.

“Is he looking for her or something?’’ Sunoo simply shrugs, failing short of the information Jake now so desperately seeked.

Once Sunoo has finally gone he hurries out of the kitchen and speeds down the hallway to the room that housed you. You were startled awake when the door came swinging open and Jake walked in seemingly bothered by something.

“Jake?’’ you called through half lidded eyes, still feeling slippy from your momentary doze off before he’d entered the room. “What’s wrong?’’

“Hm? Oh nothing..nothing. Listen i know i told you to rest, but we’re going to go someplace else, can you walk?’’ he asks, his eyes scanning the entire room but never once looking you in your eyes.

You nod, pushing the sheets off of yourself and swinging your feet over the side of the bed. “But where..why are we leaving?’’

Jakes heart sank in his chest, he didn’t know how to tell you the truth without seeming selfish in his intentions, he needed to come up with something quick.

“The house, the house will be in his shrinking period soon.’’

“Shrinking period?’’ you blink at him curiously, head tilted to the side as you gave him a look so innocent it made his heart melt yet swell with guilt.

“Here in wonderland the homes have shrinking periods, wonderland grows bigger but the houses sometimes shrink depending it’s age.’’ he mentally curses himself, the lie itself sounded so stupid, but to his surprise you believed it.

“Oh..then where are we going.’’

“To my place.’’

‘This isn’t your home?’’ you ask, confusion evident in your tone.

“No, I share this place with my friends. It’s basically like a headquarters.’’

‘Your friends? Oh are they here!? Can I meet them too!?’’ your face brightens at the mention of others, a smile that somehow makes his skin crawl with envy.

“They all left already.’’ he lies, watching the smile slowly fall from her face into a pout. You had grown so excited at the mention of others after being alone for what felt like hours.

“But you can meet them soon, maybe when we come back?’’ Jake didn’t even know if his own words were true, if he’d grant you that freedom of meeting them knowing you might possibly be taken away, but even if it was a lie on his part it was worth it all to see that smile return to your face.

Jake thought that the walk through the wonder forest would be the utmost agonizing, he was expecting to be bombarded with questions about your friends or maybe even a killing silence but you’d somehow made a walk he’d taken a thousand times the most joyful. He had forgotten that you had never been here before, that you were looking at wonderland through new lenses , taking it in for all it was worth. The entire walk consisted of him staring in complete adoration, watching the way you danced beneath the trees, the way you’d curiously run over and let your fingers graze every shrub, plant, mushroom , every flower or fruit– he was completely stolen by you.

Eventually the two of you had arrived at a clearing in the forest, there stood a beautiful blue house, quite smaller in size in comparison to the one you’d been inside, but it was more than enough room to give the two of you comfort.

“This is your house?’’ you ask, eyes raking over the exterior, the green vines and blue and white flowers that twisted and coiled around its outskirts.

“It’s where i stayed before we all met, now i just come here when i need time alone..sometimes for tea with the others.’’ he responds, making his way over to the door and eventually after taking it in for just a little while longer you trail behind him.

“It’s beautiful.’’ the words fell from your lips so sweet and genuine that he knew for certain you meant it.

“It’s all yours.’’ he responds looking over at you, who’d been taking in your surroundings, seemingly capturing and memorizing each moment with you gaze.

“Mine..?’’ your eyes flutter over to him, lashes batting with each blink as you stared at him so adoringly it made him want to melt at your feet.

“If- if you’d like it?” he watches as a smile spreads across your lips and you ran over to hug him.

“I love it, thank you Jake.’’ his heart pounds in his chest, so hard that he’d thought it burst from his shirt. “I don’t know when my memory will return or how long I'll be here, but thank you for everything. For looking after me.’’

His arms wrap around your waist, so snug that anyone would have thought the two of you were made for one another. That you were made to be held in his arms and his arms only.

“Are you hungry?’’ he asks, finally releasing you from his hold and watching as you walked around to take in more of the place you would now call home.

“I have somewhere to be soon, but i could make you something before then?’’

“You’re leaving?’’ he could see your eyes saddened at the mention of him leaving you alone again and his heart breaks a little

“I won’t be long i promise, you still need time to rest and nourish yourself after hitting your head so hard, or else i would take you with me.’’

“Okay, i guess you’re right. But you promise you’ll come back after?’’

‘‘I promise.’’

After making sure that you had eaten well Jake left you alone to go meet with the others as promised. The entire walk to the white castle he couldn’t help but think about you and if you would be okay alone. He was afraid that you’d go out and wander on your own and get lost or worse get hurt.

When he finally arrived at the palace everyone had already been there, all gathered in the reading room seemingly waiting for him.

“About time you get here what took you so long.’’ Niki complains, throwing his arms over his chest and sitting back in his seat.

“Yeah you disappeared on me today, i went looking for you a little while after we talked in the kitchen and you weren't in your room.’’ Sunoo chimes in, both of them grilling him back to back made his stomach tied in knots.

“I had to take care of something at the shop, sorry i’m late.’’ he lies, something the he had unfortunately had to continue doing now that he was in so deep.

“Doesn’t matter, you’re her now so Sunghoon can start.’’ Heeseung adheres.

Everyone's attention is now on Sunghoon who had been silent up until now.

“Someone from the overworld is here.” There it was, the entire reason Jake had been so nervous to attend this meeting.

“Wait what, as in like…up..up there?’’ Niki sits up in his seat, the sudden revelation seeming to have all of them at the edge of their seats, all except jake who had already known.

“A woman fell down a rabbit hole and that’s when Jungwon saw her before he blinked out of the forest. I’m sure wherever she is she’ll be confused or even scared. We need to find her and make sure she makes it back home.’’

Jakes heart dropped in his chest, send you home? He had just found you. He had just made you feel at home and now he was meant to send you back?

As Jake finally arrived back to the house a sigh spilled from his lips. The moment he shoved the door open he found you sat at the window, your eyes glued to the outside until you heard him come in. he froze dead in his tracks as you jumped up from your seat at the window, your hair curly and damp, and you stood there in nothing but his shirt, and god forbid you wore nothing underneath.

“Is that- is that my shirt?’’

“Yes, I'm sorry my clothes were ruined and I didn’t have anything else to wear. I can..I can take it off if you want.’’

“No! I mean..no you look beautiful. Whatever you want, whatever you see in my closet it’s yours.’’

For you the following days passed by in a blur. Jake was always free to come and go as he pleased, sometimes bringing dresses and trinkets back home for you but eventually it became disheartening. Your time with him has been sweet. You found yourself completely captivated by him, every waking moment was spent with him, so much so that when he went away it made you sad. But knowing that you were trapped within the walls of the house alone sometimes put a bitter taste in your mouth.

So you decided to do exactly what he had told you not to do, throwing on one of the many outfits that he had gotten just for you, a soft apology spills from your lips as you for once go against his wishes and slip outside.

You were somewhat nervous of course you’d be nervous you hadn’t stepped foot outside of the house on your own, let alone into the forest. What if you got lost or hurt yourself again and this time he couldn’t find you? All thoughts that plagued your mind but didn’t hinder your desire to explore more than just that of what you’d already seen.

You’d walked for what felt like hours, at some point you even thought yourself to be lost until you heard the sound of busy footsteps and endless chatter nearby. There were others.

As you pushed past the trees, getting a little scraped up in the process your intuition proved to be right as you found yourself standing in the alley of what you assumed was a town square. Your first taste of freedom from those teal walls you’d been confined to over the last four days.

You allowed yourself to wander and take it all in, the shops, markets and boutiques. The endless sea of people that all seemed so peculiar yet unique in their own ways. It almost overwhelmed you how much there had been to see in that moment, in so little time.

Jake had been preparing to open up shop when he saw you, and the worst part wasn’t that he saw you standing there out in the open happy as ever to be talking to the very people that outcast him, but Sunoo stood only a few feet away from him and it was only a matter of time before he saw you and recognized who you were.

“Shit, I need to go grab something open up without me?’’ without even waiting for a response he disappears into the crowd of people leaving an heir of confusion behind as he runs off.

You had been happily conversing with some guy that you had just met near the town fountain. He of course seemed suspicious of you at first but once he realized that you seemed a little lost he’d softened up to you.

“Alice.’’ as if a cold chill had run up your spine making you shiver you froze in an instant, you didn’t want to turn around. Didn’t want to face him because you weren’t entirely sure how he’d reacted.

The old lady seemingly realizing that he had been referring to you, gives you a concerned look.

“Be careful with him.’’ you’d barely had any time to ask what he meant before Jake’s hand clasped around your wrist and he was dragging you all the way back home and inside the house.

When you finally stepped inside he didn’t say a word.

“Jake..?are you mad?’’

“I told you that i’d take you out soon why didn’t you wait for me? Why did you have to go out on your own?’’

“I- I’m sorry i was getting bored, i missed you and staying in here was like i was being haunted by the outside.’’

“Who was he..? The guy you were talking to who was he?’’

“What?’’ you give him a confused look, you had only just met the man today, he had been acting as if this was someone you had seen time and time again.

“Jake I- Jake I don’t know him.. He was only helping me because I was lost.’’

“Did you like him more…do you like him better than me? I won’t let him take you. You’re mine, you’re no one else’s and if you think for a second I’ll let you leave me I’ll make sure whatever guy that has you stops breathing” there was a complete change in his demeanor, this Jake was scarier, much more intense than the sweet and caring man you knew him to be.

“Jake you’re scaring me..” with every moment he inched closer, the less space you had to back away, until he had you completely fenced in against the door.

“They want to send you home. To send you away from me if they find you when they don’t even know where home is, I can’t let them just send you away.” His voice softens as he brushes your hair behind your ear.

“You’re my alice, my beautiful girl.” He mumbles, lips so close to your neck it makes your breath catch in your throat.

“I’ll give you every reason to stay, I’ll worship your body until you can call me by your name. Until you remember who you were before me and realize all the reasons you never want to go back.” And with that his lips latch onto your neck, sucking your supple skin and leaving sweet sloppy kisses.

“Wanna see how you look when you come undone under me.” He breathes out before taking your lips against his.

“I’ll do anything you want, anything you ask me to. I’ll devote my life to this body.” He says, trailing sweet kisses all down your neck as his fingers graze your skin.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, cant let them take you,” he murmured, his hands framing your face as his thumbs stroked your cheeks.

“Jake..”

“Want to have myself so deep in you we become one, but for now…I’ll taste you. To do the one thing I’ve been yearning to do since I first saw you wearing my shirt.” He interrupts, lifting you up and carrying you to the couch.

his hands immediately go for the dress you’re wearing, working to push it just above your waist rather than over your head. You weren’t sure why but having the dress skirt block your vision and leave everything all to your imagination made this all the more nerve wracking.

You can't bear taking your eyes off him watching as he moves to his knees, pushing your dress up further above your hips before disappearing beneath it. Though you couldn't see him you could surely sense his presence as he began slotting himself between your legs.

you let out a soft gasp as he yanks down your panties and dress shorts, the cold air hitting forces out a choked breath. You could already feel the wetness of your own arousal that had once been soaking into the soft cotton of your underwear.

“Every inch of you, every pretty flaw and perfection is for me to worship.” he explains, pressing an unusually soft kiss to your thighs.

Before you’d been able to mouth a response he shoves his face between your thighs. His tongue lapped at your cunt like a man starved. He was eating you like it was his last meal on earth, as if this was not only the first, but the last time he’d get to taste you.

With every whine and moan that left your lips as he devoured you he felt like he’d go insane. The sweet sounds that came spilling from you was like music to his ears. You were like a siren enchanting him to show you just how much he could worship you. His tongue worked at your entrance before moving to your clit. He ran the flat of his tongue over the bundle of nerves and swirled around it. An act that sends shivers down your spine and trembles through your thighs.

“Jake.” He could tell by your ragged breaths that it was a lot for you. The way you cried out his name, the way he felt you fighting off the urge to clamp your thighs around his head. The way your hand found his hair and tugged, louder and louder moans spilling from your sweet lips.

“You’re doing so good love, let me taste you.” His voice sends vibrations through your cunt and spirals you over the edge, cumming all over his face. He hummed happily and drank up all that your blessed body gave him.

Of course, he didn’t plan on stopping there. no, he kept going, eating your pussy and groaning at the taste until you physically pulled him off whining about how it was too much.

That was only the beginning though, of course no matter how much you whined he wouldn’t stop there.

“Haven’t heard that pretty name. My pretty girl, my sweet Alice. I’ll make you mine. No matter where you go. Who you come across. You’ll always know I was the first to have you no matter who else you fall in love with you’ll be forever marked by me”

PERM TAGLIST : @planetmarlowe @dreeki @butterflywonz @sol3chu @squiishymeow @river-demon-slayer @jwonistic @getoxo @nithxhoon @lakoya @iichuuo @letmein2urheart @mitmit01 @hollxe1 @tinyteezer @jkslvsnella @manobillie @vvenusoncasual @i03jae @blackhairandbangs @sunooqvrlsx @addictedtohobi @gaytron3000 @firstclassjaylee @riribelle @ivyvioletcarson @academiq @claumbeju @bubblytaetae @pkjay @nightowlpudding @papichulomacy @celestenlav @50-husbands

[cinnamon7girl7]

"THROUGH THE SILENCE, I WILL RETURN TO YOU – PART 3."

♡ — Summary: I thought I had it all — Satoru’s love, Megumi’s warmth, and Suguru’s trust. But even the strongest love can break when truth hides behind silence. One betrayal changes everything; pain drives them apart, yet memories and a love still alive won’t let them go. Now, Satoru fights for a second chance, and she must decide if, after all the hurt, love is still worth it. ♡ — Author's note: This is the third part of this story. I recommend reading the first two chapters (one and two) so it makes more sense. I've already started writing the second epilogue, which I’ll post once the main story is finished. Without further ado, here’s the next one. Enjoy!

Chapter 3: The Truth on Your Lips

The sky was covered with clouds when you went out to look for Megumi. You didn't know why, but everything felt different. The wind blew with a sadness that seemed to reflect what you had inside. Something told you that today was going to hurt.

For days, Megumi's words had been spinning in your mind:

"Why don’t Satoru and Suguru look at you when you talk to them?"

At first, you didn't pay much attention. You thought it was just his imagination or a child’s joke... but you were wrong.

That same day, you saw Satoru talking to Suguru in a low voice. When you approached, both of them fell silent. They smiled at you, yes, but it wasn't the warm smile you were used to. It was forced, uncomfortable.

It hurt.

—"Is everything okay?" you asked.

—"Yes, love," Satoru answered quickly. Too quickly.

Suguru didn't even look at you. He just mumbled something about needing to leave and disappeared.

That night, when you lay down, he hugged you like always. But you couldn't sleep. You remembered so many beautiful moments with him.

When they first took care of Megumi together when he was sick.

When Megumi found you both asleep on the couch and snuggled up with you.

The afternoons when Satoru cooked with you, flour on his face and love in his eyes.

His voice when he would say, "My home is you."

But now... now you felt out of place in your own home.

The next morning, you confronted him.

—"Satoru," you said firmly. "We need to talk about something I've been feeling for a long time."

He blinked, nervous.

—"What do you mean, love? Did something happen to Megumi?" he said, trying to change the subject.

—"You know exactly what I mean, Satoru. What's going on with you and Suguru? Why is it that every time I ask you something, you don't look me in the eyes? What are you hiding from me?"

Satoru lowered his gaze. He never did that. He always looked you in the eyes. Always.

That silence shouted everything.

—"I can't tell you," he murmured.

—"Why?" you raised your voice a little.

—"It's better if you don't know," he said in a desperate tone. "But everything will be fine, don’t worry, love. How about you go shopping? Take the card, buy whatever you want, have fun." He extended his American Express card.

And then, you saw red.

—"Are you seriously trying to buy me with your money?" you shouted, offended. "I just want you to tell me what's going on with you. You've been acting so strange for months. I tried not to say anything for the sake of our family, but I can't anymore. Tell me the truth."

—"Love, please don't complicate things more. Just accept it," he said, giving you his best convincing look.

He came closer, but you took a step back.

—"I can't trust you if you don’t trust me, Satoru."

And then, his voice broke.

—"It's complicated... I can't... tell you."

—"It's fine, I see you don't trust me," you said, turning to go to your shared bedroom. "I think I need some space... I'm going to a hotel to think things through. Don't worry, I'll take Megumi with me so you don't have to lie to him either," you said, walking away.

—"...The Gojo clan is forcing me to marry someone," he whispered. "I've been attending their meetings to get them off our backs, but I promise I wasn’t going to do it. I just wanted them to leave us alone, and that was the only way I could think of to make them stop,"—he said, trying to justify himself.—"But please don’t leave. Don’t leave me. I know what I did was wrong. I shouldn’t have hidden it from you."

When he said all that, you stopped walking. It felt like a punch to the stomach. You realized that all the meetings where he came back tired or upset were because of that. It hurt that he hadn't trusted you. For all these years, you had trusted him blindly, and you thought it was the same for him.

You felt like a stranger with Satoru. You didn’t know what was true or a lie anymore. You felt the crack between you and him growing wider. You didn’t want this to happen. Satoru was one of your reasons for living, along with Megumi, and you didn’t want something so hard to build to be destroyed so easily.

But it was already too late.

—"I can’t... do this right now," you said, trying to stifle a sob. "I need time to think things through."

—"No... please, don’t leave... forgive me, please."

—"Understand that I can’t trust you."

Satoru fell to his knees.

—"Please... don’t leave me. I can't imagine my life without you... without us... without Megumi."

But you were already in your room, your soul shattered and your heart in pieces.

The sound of the door closing resonated like thunder inside the house.

Satoru didn’t move. He stayed on his knees, hands covering his face, as if he could erase the pain. As if he could change what had just happened

The house was silent. All that could be heard was the echo of your heavy breathing as you walked down the stairs, suitcase in hand. Every step hurt. Every step felt like a betrayal to yourself, but you knew there was no other option.

As you walked, memories crashed into your mind with force.

The time Satoru took you to the lake just to watch the stars and tell you that in another life, he would choose you again.

The times when he listened to you in silence, complicit, knowing what you felt without you saying a word.

The time Megumi ran to you shouting, "Mom!" for the first time, and Satoru cried more than you.

It was all falling apart.

Satoru got up, stumbling, and went after you.

—"Love, wait! Please, just listen to me! Give me a chance to explain everything!"

You didn’t turn around.

—"Explain? Now? After lying to me for so long?"

You turned, finally, and looked him straight in the eyes. His were red, broken.

—"It's not just about what you did..." —you said, your voice low, broken—. "It's about what you chose not to tell me."

—"It was to protect you... you know better than anyone what they would do just to force me..." he repeated, almost in a whisper.

—"You weren’t protecting me, Satoru! You didn’t love me enough to trust me!"

Your voice cracked. The tears were already running, unstoppable.

He tried to hug you, but you took a step back.

—"No," you murmured. "I can’t keep going like this. I can’t love with fear. I can’t live waiting for the next lie. I don’t know if I can keep trusting you."

Satoru stood still.

—"Is this the end?" he whispered.

—"This…" —you took a breath, swallowing your sob—. "This is a pause. For me. Because if I stay... we’ll end up hating each other."

And without saying another word, you turned around and left.

The door slammed behind you. And in that instant, Satoru collapsed once again on the floor, his face covered in tears, not knowing how to fix the situation, whispering your name over and over. He remembered every moment when you asked if he was okay or if he needed help.

Suddenly, his phone started ringing. Reluctantly, he answered.

—"Good afternoon, Mr. Gojo, we are calling to inform you that the jewel you requested is ready."

Satoru felt worse when he saw the contact name on the call. It was from the jewelry store, where he had ordered a beautiful ring with which he was going to propose to you.

[moraxine]

hello i saw u were begging for more expedition 33 requests so i am here to provide...i just hope it's not too much ;;

so, verso my beloved...i want him to deal with us/reader hiding an injury, pretending everything is fine, and even when he notices you're injured and trying to patch you up you still pretend it's fine. maybe you flirt with him a little and he's like not having it LOL

"a spark of jealousy" was great btw! loved it 💜💜

Patched Up Pride [Verso Dessendre]

pairing: verso x reader

words: 1.5k

i won’t say i’m obsessed because that would be an understatement

You marched near the back of the group, your boots crunching on loose gravel, cloak pulled tight to hide the tremor in your step. The rest of your comrades were a determined bunch, their faces focused as they pushed deeper into the continent.

And you were one of them, a fierce fighter with a stubborn streak, but lately, you’d caught the eye of Verso, the immortal who’d joined your group to guide you through the perils.

He’d taken a particular interest in you, always hovering nearby during fights, making sure that you were always warm, fed, and content with the funny stories he told you during your late-night talks.

You didn’t mind the attention; if anything, it stirred something warm in your chest, a feeling that, even though you hadn’t had time to name, it gently embraced your heart and made reality more bearable.

However, slowing down the expedition was your biggest concern. Though you wouldn’t mind if it were for your team, you didn’t wish to be a weight to them yourself. Even one or two days was too much time to waste. You remembered your colleagues who had almost made it, only to be separated with the ultimate victory in the very last moment.

No, this wouldn’t happen with you.

We always keep moving forward.

Which was why you hadn’t told anyone about the injury. It had happened earlier that day, during a brutal skirmish with a pack of Nevrons.

You’d taken one down, but not before its claw raked across your thigh, leaving a deep, bloody gash. The pain was sharp, radiating with every step, but you’d gritted your teeth, torn a strip from your undershirt, and wrapped it tightly around your leg.

You’d waved off Lune’s concern with a forced grin—“Just a scratch!”—and kept moving, determined to prove you could keep up.

But Verso wasn’t blind. He’d been watching you all day, his eyes narrowing every time you lagged behind or winced when you thought no one was looking.

Now, as the group paused to rest in a small alcove off the path, you leaned against a boulder, trying to catch your breath without drawing attention.

The expeditioners were busy setting up a quick camp—Lune and Maelle discussing the safest route, Sciel scouting the perimeter—but Verso’s focus was entirely on you.

“You’re limping,” he stated, his voice low and steady as he approached. His grey eyes locked onto yours, sharp and unyielding. “Don’t even try to deny it.”

He’d studied you too well. And yet, you were still willing to try.

You straightened, forcing a smile, though the movement sent a jolt of pain through your leg. “Limping? Nah, I’m just… pacing myself,” you said, aiming for casual. “You know, taking in the beautiful scenery.”

You knew you were being stubborn and this was a mistake. But the thought of finally putting an end to the gommage worked as a fuel in your body, moving the wheels and giving your strength despite the pain.

Verso didn’t smile back. Instead, he stepped closer, his presence towering, gaze dropping to your leg. “You’ve been ‘pacing yourself’ since the fight this morning,” he pointed out, tone edged with frustration. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” you pushed too quickly, and you cursed yourself for how unconvincing it sounded.

You shifted your weight, trying to hide the way your leg trembled, and flashed him a playful grin.

Okay, one last attempt to play it off.

“You’re so serious all the time, Verso. Maybe you should take a chill pill.” You leaned closer, your voice teasing, hoping to throw him off. “I can make you smile if you let me.”

His expression didn’t soften, though a flicker of something—amusement, maybe—crossed his eyes before it was swallowed again by worry. “You’re hurt, and you’re hiding it. I’m not playing this game.”

Your smile faltered, the pain in your leg flaring as if to mock your attempt at deflection. You turned away, pretending to adjust your cloak, but Verso was faster, his hand catching your arm—not hard, but just enough to stop you. “Show me,” he said, his voice quieter now, a plea wrapped in a command.

“Please.”

Charming fucking bastard.

You sighed, defeated, and you sat on the boulder, wincing as the movement pulled at your wound.

He always managed to find a way to the inner you, the you that had no place in a world like this. Prioritising feelings would be a grave mistake, especially knowing that any attempt to keep the stability would only lead to further destruction.

Verso knew this more than anyone.

And yet, malleable beings that we are, we keep falling into the same loop. Such is the essence of our hearts, rarely escaped.

Verso knelt in front of you, his hands careful as he pushed your cloak aside, revealing the makeshift bandage on your thigh. The cloth was soaked with blood, the gash beneath it deep and angry, and his breath hissed through his teeth at the sight.

“This isn’t ‘nothing,’” he said, his voice low, a mix of anger and hurt that caused your chest to tighten.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You looked away, guilt settled heavy in your gut. “I didn’t want to worry you,” you admitted.

“I didn’t want you—or anyone—thinking I can’t handle myself. We can’t afford to slow down, not now when we’re so close to her heart.”

He went silent for a moment, his hands still on your thigh, his touch gentle despite the tension in his frame. Then he let out a soft, exasperated laugh, shaking his head.

“You think I’d see you as weak because of this?” he scoffed, his voice softer now, though the worry hadn’t left his eyes.

“You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. But you don’t have to prove it by bleeding out.”

He had a point. You not taking proper care of yourself would only lead to more trouble later. One person less meant lesser chances of making it there.

Your throat tightened, and you blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall. “I just… I wanted to be enough,” you whispered. “For the group. For you.”

You were starting to become vulnerable around him, and it wasn’t even about your injury. Maybe it was just in his nature, drawing people in with his gentle demeanour. You were too quick to trust him when he joined you, and even though he hadn’t given you any reason to doubt him, you still wondered if he indeed was like the way he acted.

It would be a shame if not.

His eyes softened, and he reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek. “You are enough,” he said, his voice raw, a promise woven into the words. “More than enough. And we can’t afford to lose you, not to a Nevron, not to anything.”

The sincerity in his voice completely exposed you, and a tear slipped down your cheek despite your efforts to keep it in. The more time you’d spend with Verso, the more your walls would crumble, revealing your sensitive side, a side that should have remained buried deep.

And that was way worse than an open wound.

He brushed your tear away with his thumb, his touch warm.

“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I know,” he replied, his hand dropping to your leg again, his focus shifting to the wound. He pulled a small pouch from his belt—supplies he always carried, a habit from his immortal years—and began cleaning the gash, his movements careful but sure.

“But you don’t get to play tough at the expense of your own life.”

You winced as he worked, the sting sharp, but you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips.

“You get kind of bossy when you’re worried,” you said, trying to lighten the mood.

“It’s kind of cute, you know. I like it.”

He glanced up, his stormy eyes meeting yours, and for a moment, you thought you’d pierced through because his lips twitched, a hint of a smile breaking through. But then he shook his head, his expression firm again.

After a few moments, he finished bandaging your leg. “There,” he said, tying off the cloth, his fingers lingering on your skin.

“You’ll live. But you’re not fighting until this heals.”

“Verso—”

“No arguments,” he cut in, standing and offering his hand.

“I’ll carry you if I have to.”

You took his hand, letting him pull you to your feet, careful of your leg.

“You wouldn’t dare,” you teased, but the thought of him carrying you sent a warmth through you that had absolutely nothing to do with the bandage.

He raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes now.

“Try me,” he said, his arm slipping around your waist to steady you. “Now, let’s get you back to the group. And no more heroics, alright?”

You leaned into him, the pain in your leg duller now, overshadowed by the warmth of his presence.

“Fine,” you accepted your fate with a smile tugging at your lips. “But only because you’re so good at playing doctor.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, just for you, and as you walked back to the others, his arm around you.

The road ahead felt a little less dangerous, and the twilight a little less cold.

[greypistacchio]

frankly, OP hit the nail on the head with this post, because the one thing you need to understand about Dean Winchester to truly know him is that he guards his heart heavily around everyone except Cas.

although Dean has infinite love to give, and shows up for people without fail to the best of his ability precisely because that's how he's learnt to express how much he cares, he doesn't do feelings. he feels them intensely all the time, but he doesn't allow himself to ease into them around others. from what we can tell, he didn't tell Lisa about his deepest scars despite sharing a whole year with her and Ben, and one of the main reasons why shit happens all the time is that he would rather kickstart another Apocalypse than let his little brother Sammy know what he's been going through. he is a protector, after all, trained to hunt and raised to take care of everyone else.

yes, he's all smiles and attitude. but those are a performance, because Dean Winchester is pretending all the time.

he pretends to be doing alright.

he pretends that he doesn't need anyone.

he pretends that he's not in agonising pain.

he pretends that it doesn't hurt when he's left behind or abandoned.

he pretends that he's not deeply lonely.

he pretends that he's not severely traumatised.

he pretends that he isn't drowning in his grief for all the people he has lost, and all the ones he couldn't save.

he pretends that his mistakes do not haunt him relentlessly.

he pretends, and pretends, and pretends, but remember how I said that Castiel is an exception? he pretends, and pretends, and pretends around everyone but Castiel. even though Castiel's actions have caused the world in general, and Dean in particular, quite a bit of pain and loss, he's still the only one we've seen Dean be vulnerable with consistently.

which is why i must insist that the images above give away how deeply Dean cares for Castiel in a way he doesn't for anyone else. if he'd found any other person that he cares about after a year-long trek through torture forest, he would've gripped them tight while strategising about the best way to keep them safe.

but it's Castiel, so Dean allows himself the pure and unabashed joy of smiling as he squeezes him tight. it's Castiel, the angel he prayed to every single night even though Dean isn't religious and doesn't pray. it's his Castiel.

god i am so violently insane about them

Dean in Purgatory: * feral being who kills everything on his path, who threatens and insults his ticket out of monsters Heaven every couple of seconds *

Dean in Purgatory, when he looks at Cas:

[c4tluver02]

hi!!! i love everything abt ur page and ur writing is just *chefs kiss* - i was wondering, could u possibly write a steve x reader fic based on ‘delete ya’ by djo 🧐

okay that’s it.. thank u!!! bye :3

wc: 2.6k

cw: mention of dying (literally one line barely there), sad Steve :(, break ups, fighting, hurt/comfort

a/n: i hope you enjoy!! this song is so sad to me so i kinda kept w that theme lol!!. thank u so much for the kind words!!!!!!!!!! <333

And now I'm back on your couch, frozen peas to my head, driving up to your folks, cramming into your bed, you picked me up every time, drove me back to our home, it doesn't leave you alone.

When Steve falls asleep his mind loves to play back moments of when you two were at your prime. The ‘it’ couple that couldn't, wouldn't, let up. The dream wasn't even a dream really, just a replay of the times you've shared. One that meant so much to Steve. 

He had called you to pick him up after everything that happened at StarCourt. His family wasn't even a first thought at that moment, it was you. It was always you, when he woke up, when he went to bed, when he was high off his mind with Robin during the movie. His mind never let him wander too far. When you brought him to your place you immediately brought him to your family couch. Speaking of them, they weren't anywhere to be seen. Steve wishes he could have been here with you instead. 

“I’m gonna get you a bag of peas. Stay here okay?” You say it rushed like a second more he would bleed out and die. And really you weren't being too dramatic Steve was badly injured. But the guilt he felt for making you worry felt even worse than any pain. 

“I’m okay, really, I just have a headache.” He says as you gently press the freezing bag to his head. He was lucky to have you by his side at that moment. Being alone would have shattered him completely, instead he fell asleep with you and dreamt of something good. Unlike he is now. 

“I’m so sorry I wasn't there for you Steve.” Your eyes are glassy as you hug him and run your hand through his hair. Now you’re crying over him, but he doesn't deserve to be cried over. He rubs your back trying to soothe you even though he's the one who’s beat up.

“You’re here right now aren't you? I mean without you I'd have nowhere else to go.” He thought this would make you feel better but really it just confirmed that you should have been there. 

– 

Oh, God, I wish I could delete ya 'cause nothing can compete with ya I replenish and repeat ya a heart excretes only one of us, only one. 

Waking up was always the hardest part. Getting his dream of you out of his head was tough and it stuck to him all day. 

He tried to distract himself with work and talking to Robin. And when a girl walked in he tried even harder. But when he got the date or went for the hook up it never felt like it did with you. You weren't even here but somehow you were ruining everything for him. Each week a different girl came in and flirted with him and each date ended with him at their house for the first and last time. 

Robin would say that he needs to have a few rebounces and fun dates to get you off his mind. That it was normal to go through this period and one of these girls will be the one. Nancy said that he can't look for you in every girl he goes out with. Which she was right but here he was getting help from his ex girlfriend on how to get over a girlfriend to find a new girlfriend. Were you thinking about him like he was thinking about you? Was he the one keeping this relationship alive while you’d moved on? It all broke him all over again. 

–

Blue and gold, Friday night team up with Charlie, take these kids for a ride why's my heart pounding, beating out of my chest? remember to try and forget. 

The group had told him he needed to get out, hang with people who love him and care for him. And maybe it would help Steve. Having a distraction and doing what he knows he does best, babysitting. The kids are in the back of his car and the adults are in Jonathan's car, all ready to go to get ice cream and then go to the movies. This was a normal activity for the group, nothing crazy but something fun to get him out of the house.

At the ice cream shop they were playing your favorite song, one you and Steve danced to many times. His heart is pounding so fast in his chest he feels like he can't breathe. Quickly walking out of the small shop hoping to find some air. The wind helps him calm down but the song can be heard from outside and he feels like a train wreck. He’s supposed to be having a fun time and be a normal adult, instead he's sitting on the sidewalk with his hands over his ears and sweat dripping down his neck. 

“Steve?” He can hear Robin ask from the door.

“I’m fine.” It comes out louder than intended because his hands are so tightly pressed to his ears. 

Robin walks over to him and grabs onto his wrist. “The songs over Steve, you can come in.” 

He slowly lifts them up to make sure she's not lying to him, not that she would, especially about the song, but he’s scared. When the song is actually gone and Queen is now filling his ears he stands up. 

“You good?” Robins a little higher since she's on the sidewalk and he's on the gravel. They are at even heights now and eye level which allows Robin to really see if he's ok. 

“Yeah, I‘m sorry.” Steve says, hanging his head low. Completely embarrassed. But Rob just rubs his shoulder and walks him back inside and they all act like nothing happened. 

“You need to try and forget it, Steve. You can't live forever being scared of a song.” Nancy said. 

She’s harsh but the reality is she needs to be. He’s not getting any better and it's not like she's not saying anything that isn't true. When Steve drives them to the movies his heart is still pounding but he makes it there safely. The kids drag him out of the car and he has to yell at them for being loud in line for snacks. For 23 minutes he wasn't thinking about you, which is progress right? 

–

I'm locked, she's the key. I'm a boat that's sinking, guess who's the sea? It's hard to shake it off and get back to me when anything is a memory and you repeat to the nth degree.

When Steve has bad nights like tonight, when he can't sleep and his dreams are more like nightmares he wishes you the most. You’d always feel it yourself, somehow. He would wake up and minutes after, so would you, ready to talk about what is making him feel so off and every time you’d have the perfect answer to make him feel better. 

Where is Steve gonna ever find someone like that ever again? Will he ever find that again? Maybe he needs to get better at being that person for himself. So greedy and spoiled to have that feeling in the first place. 

He calls Robin to see if she's up, maybe her rambles could ease him into a calm state but she doesn't answer. He’s not mad at her for it but it does mean he won't sleep tonight. How’d you mess up his sleep schedule? Steve even washed his bedding so it wouldn't smell like you. He felt like grieving that day, feeling sorry for himself about something he’d never get back. It was something he had been putting off but smelling your perfume made him feel like suffocating in it, then he’d die happy. But that scared him so he washed them the next morning. 

All Steve dreams about is things you two used to do or things he’d wish you'd done. How you helped him with everything or what you would do to fix him back up if you were here right now. God he wishes you were here right now. It’s bad he's thinking like this, trying to shake it out of his head and get back to how he's gonna fall asleep on his own. 

–

And now I'm back in my truck, I'm driving up to our place. We're sitting dead on the ground, there's nothing more to be said. You kept it tight to the chest at someone else's expense. That doesn't sound like real love.

Steve wasn't opening up to you about Vecna or the mall. Or anything at all really. He often pushed everything down until he had bad moments and then you’d help him in any way you could and then he’d move on. An exhausting cycle of feeling untrustworthy with someone you told everything to. The dinner with Jonathan and Nancy went okay, you talked to them most of the time and Steve made some comments here and there. The drive home however, was silent. 

When you did get to Steves he finally spoke up. “The food was good huh? We should go there more often.” 

It made you boil. You’re surprised he tasted anything at all he was so far away all night completely spaced out. 

“Steve, we need to talk.” You pulled onto his hand and sat on the ground. His mom got rid of the couch and is looking for a new one after Steve threw a party and someone threw up on it. For right now the padded carpet will have to work. 

Steve sat with you and you could tell he still really wasn't there. His mind somewhere else that you couldn't even ask about knowing he’d turn you down. 

“What’s up with you?” You ask. It comes out a little more harsh than you meant but it’s needed since it knocks him awake. 

“What do you mean ‘what's up with me’ I haven’t done anything.” He answers defensively because of your tone. 

“You haven't done anything in days. I feel like I’m talking to a wall.” There's no emotion in your voice. But he can hear it’s raw.

 “I have been busy with work, you know this. What I really need is to just come home and know that I’m not gonna be asked a million questions. I thought we were having a nice day and dinner went well.” 

“Dinner wasn't good Steve. You barely talked. I was talking to Dean about it and he said-”

“Oh Dean said something, your new best friend at work? What the fuck does Dean know? He doesn't know shit about me.” It comes out with malice and the two beers he had at dinner is showing through. 

“Steve, I don't know shit about you. You won't tell me anything!” You yell. How can he be upset when you finally have a friend to talk to this stuff with when he's the one keeping it from you? Each barely there conversation you two shared pushed you further away. 

He stays silent and gets up to walk upstairs. Leaving you sitting criss-crossed on the ground with glossy eyes and a quivering lip. There’s really nothing to be said if he wont talk to you. Conversation over. 

–

I wanna know (Just two weeks, how'd you cut it like that?) Maybe you show me how (I'm built different, I don't work like that, huh) I got to repeat, chew up, spit out The blame complex in me, me, me. 

Two weeks after you adn Steve had broken up, news broke out that Dean had kissed you. He doesn't know exactly how it happened but apparently you didn't pull away. His throat burned and he could taste the acidity that was coming up. It was two weeks since you and him had cried in each other's arms and said nothing will change from the break up. But everything had changed, you won't answer his calls, you weren't going to group meet ups, and now you're kissing Dean. 

Everyone in the group knew and the adults got the brunt of it. Every hang out Steve talked about how you two broke up and how he misses you. Often drunk and slightly teary eyed but no one shuts him up. They allow him to slur his words and embarrass himself because you two were supposed to last till the end. By the end of the night his words turned venomous and had poison laces in every letter. So ready to blame you for ending things even though it was mainly mutual. Next week Robin will tell him to let up on it but for right now, after the Dean kiss, they’ll let him have it.

It was something they all just had to wait for him to grow out. Learn to move on and live without the person he’d spend most of his days with. Someone he thought he knew like the back of his hand. When he sits and really thinks about it Steve doesn't even know the specific time that things went so wrong and out of his control. Maybe he really wasn't there and things had been bad for a while. Little moments of uncertainty and secrets that grew with each day. 

It was understandable to have trouble when dealing with something as awful as underground Russian spies but it wasn't something you were taught how to handle nor was Steve taught how to deal with it. Still the fact that you couldn't stick it out with him and make it through to the other side told Steve all he needed to know. 

–

Oh, God, I wish I could release ya Wind it back and never be with ya Then I'd be happy just to meet ya (oh, my God) One heart could bleed for the future us If we were young, but this is done.

Three months have passed since you two broke up and Steve can finally sleep without seeing you. Getting used to living alone is something he finds hard to get used to but he manages it. Forgetting how he’d used to pour coffee in two cups but now one, or that he’d now have to put his own music on in his car now that it was only him. It was different but his new normal and that wouldn’t change. 

Steve has thought about what he would be like if you two did not meet. Maybe if you’d just given him a tight nod instead of your big bright smile Steve wouldn't have gone through all of this. But then he thinks about how he would have gone home alone after almost dying, having to put ice to his own head. He was lucky to have had you in that moment and now, years later, Steve could call it for what it was. A relationship that was good for him then but not now. Two people growing in different directions, experiencing different things. People grow apart even when it's not convenient and Steve can sleep peacefully knowing that. 

Robin and him have Friday night talks about everything that goes on with him. A dedicated time that Steve can talk to the one person who won't judge him and just let his feelings out. Something that he didnt do with you, and if he did maybe it would have helped but he didn't. He wouldn't have known he needed it until you left. 

Everyday he gets better and the kids are seeing him more now that it's summer which is fun. Nancy is hanging with him because Jonathan is in California so they both get to be lonely together. It’s new for him but with time he’ll heal and become a better person for it. Ready to be better for the next person who he pours two cups of coffee for.

[apheliaholmes]

It's two a.m, feelin’ like I just lost a friend

breathe - remus lupin - @taylorswiftmicrofic - word count: 605

☆ AO3

It’s two a.m when Remus nearly kills Severus. 

It’s two a.m when Sirius laughs at the near-death experience of Severus.

It’s two a.m when James saves Severus’s life from Remus’s claws. 

It’s two a.m when Remus has the feeling he just lost a friend.

A few hours later, around five a.m, when Remus gets back into his human form, he feels the pain from the transformation less painful than the betrayal. Memories of the night get into his mind faster as he gains more conscience. He remembers Sirius’s sarcastic face, arms crossed, leaning against a tree with a Machiavellian smile. He remembers Severus, looking around with his wand pointing in front of him, he remembers James, running toward him. 

Remus sits on the couch, feeling his laughter crushing under his transformation, he cries in pain. He ran so deep into the Forbidden Forest that he is not even sure he’ll find his way back. 

How could Sirius do that? How could he drag Severus near him… near the monster he was? What if he’d killed Severus? What would have happened to him? Prison? Azkaban? Being killed for being a werewolf? 

Remus feels a warm cloak enveloping him, and he doesn’t have to look up to know who it is. His werewolf instincts are still here, smelling every odour with a fine nose and slightly hearing a heartbeat close to him. The smell of vanilla, cinnamon, and coffee is enough to recognise Peter. The boy’s heart is rushing in his chest, nervous and tired to have run and searched for Remus that far in the forest. He is looking around, making sure no one, or nothing, is coming toward them. 

“Did you know?” Remus asks with pain in his voice.

“No. No, I didn’t, otherwise I would have lured you away from them.” Answers Peter crouching down next to Remus.

“James knew too?” The voice of Remus breaks even more.

Peter doesn’t find the courage to answer, he just nods. 

“They told me after, when we were looking for you.” 

Remus cried, hiding his eyes with his arm. He didn’t understand why his two best friends would use him as a killing machine just for fun. Why they would use his deepest and darkest secret just for a prank. 

Peter hugged Remus; he wasn’t great with words and usually James and Sirius were the ones comforting Remus, and for the first time they were the ones who made him suffer. Peter helped Remus to put his cloak on and cast a spell to warm it so Remus wouldn’t feel cold. 

As Peter supported Remus to walk into the Forbidden Forest, Remus could feel his heart breaking even more with each step getting closer to the castle. He was terrified to have killed Severus and forget about it or to learn that Severus had shared his secret with everyone at Hogwarts. 

But none of that happened. Everything was normal when he got into the infirmary and took some potions and rested for the rest of the morning. Later that day, when he went back to his dorm, he heard nothing. He thought Peter maybe had cast a silent spell so he, James and Sirius could argue, but it wasn’t the case. No one was in the dorm room except Peter, who was waiting for Remus to come back. 

And it’s at this moment Remus’s heart broke fully. James wasn’t here to apologise, Sirius either. And he broke down in Peter’s arms. 

He just lost two of his best friends, and they didn’t even care to make sure he was okay. 

He wasn’t. 

[tomatette]

Chapter 1

Billy doesn’t wake with a start as you might think he would after what happened at the mall. 

The memories are still so very fresh. Pain, first and foremost. Sharp talons digging into the tender meat of his sides, piercing his flesh. His panicked nerves sending lightning strike after lightning strike of pure, unadulterated agony into his thalamus, from where it scattered like wildfire through his brain, sparking every circuit that knew how to scream.

And, oh, scream he did. Until his throat was raw and he could taste black bile on his tongue.

He knew, then, that this would be the end. Had known it from the moment he’d surfaced from the bottomless well he’d kept drowning in whenever the shadow took over, which was pretty much always.

But he just hadn’t been able to stomach the thought of the girl, who had touched his face so tenderly, to die the same gruesome death he’d condemned the others to.

He sees them all the time, it’s like their faces are burned onto the inside of his closed lids. Men, women, children. Every single one he had fed to the shadow. God, there are so many of them. And they are surrounding him, their mouths open in silent screams, their eyes full of fear and rage and hatred, cutting into him sharper than the monster’s claws ever had, tearing him apart.

And right in the front: Heather.

He cannot bear to meet her gaze. She’d been worried about him, and look what it had gained her.

But it’s not an entirely new development, that. All he’s ever done was hurt the people around him. Even before the shadow. Max. Her friends. Harrington.

A whine escapes his throat, tearing the soft tissue on its way out. He squeezes his eyes shut but the tears escape anyway, burning salty trails wetting the hair at his temples.

So no, he doesn’t wake with a start, but slowly, gradually. And, frankly, he thinks he shouldn’t be waking at all. Because by all rights he should be just as dead as them. Still, they are gone and he’s not. So he decides that, no, maybe he really doesn’t deserve to be dead. Death would be too easy. 

The first thing he feels is the sun on his face. Something he had never expected to feel again. A soft breeze caresses his face, slightly cooler where the tear tracks are drying.

Where is he? It can’t be the mall, but he has no recollection of getting out (but he remembers dying, remembers it vividly).

His lashes are clumped, his lids heavy when he tries to open his eyes and squints when painfully bright light drills a direct path into his brain, making his whole head throb and pulse. Bile floods his mouth, bitter and sharp, and he rolls over retching, curling in on himself.

A voice that sounds eerily like his father’s sneers: “Look at you, can’t even die like a man, huh? Spineless pussy.”

It doesn’t hurt like it used to, which, he supposes, is a good thing. And when he finally manages to open his eyes, it’s not Neil he’s seeing, but the gentle, smiling face of his mother.

“M-Mom?”

Soft, golden light surrounds her head like a halo, the wind plays with the sun bleached strands of her hair. It makes her look angelic. Ethereal. 

“My darling boy.” She cups his face, still smiling and his heart swells with emotions he can’t even begin to decipher, when suddenly her eyes turn sharp and her fingers dig into his cheeks, holding him still. “What a grave disappointment you are. Getting rid of you was the best decision I’ve ever made …”

And then she starts to laugh and Billy reels back, eyes wide in terror.

He wakes with a start.

*

I posted the full chapter on Ao3 but for registered users only. Please let me know if you want me to post the full chapter on tumblr too.

[voltronimus-prime]

Okay, finally got my brain to focus, here we go.

I fully understand where this viewpoint comes from, and I think it's pretty accurate for most of the show.

However, I think things would change a lot following the defeat of the Solver.

V distanced herself from N both because she didn't want to risk him remembering the past by interacting with her and because she was also trying to close off her own feelings.

If there was one mercy V could give him, it was making sure he didn't remember the trauma of what they went through. Considering he has a dream about an interaction with her in the manor after literally like a few hours with V unable to run away/pretend she didn't know him, I'd say her fear was well founded.

At the same time, she's desperately trying to convince herself that she now doesn't feel anything because otherwise she'd be forced to feel all of the pain, fear, and guilt of everything that's happened.

She can't do that if she's also being caring towards N, it's either no emotions, or all of them, so she has to push him away. (Not saying this is correct or healthy, just what she was thinking.) Of course N is far too stubborn and caring to stop though.

When N reached out to her and she pushed him away, that was because she genuinely believed that there wasn't another option.

What N wanted to figure out was the Solver, V already knew what it was, and nothing could come of that but pain.

She needed to put a stop to this before they brought the Solver's attention to them. (Unfortunately it was too late for that.)

It wasn't just about faith in their relationship to help, but about whether the problem was even something that was physically possible to fix.

By episode 8 however, V's outlook has changed.

She's already been slowly lowering her walls and showing more emotions as things progress, particularly after what happened in 'Home'.

As much as Uzi may be a dork, if anyone can help them, it's her. For better or worse they're going to take on the solver, and once she commits to that it changes everything.

She really starts to think about how much her actions have hurt N, and she hates it, and would do anything to fix even the tiniest bit of it.

I think V is more than willing to step aside if N will be happy with Uzi, but I don't think she ever lost her love for him.

Meanwhile as much as N has grown and learned to stand up for himself, he's still N, and while he may have been hurt and definitely won't let things go back the way they were before, I doubt anything could ever truly erase his feelings for her either.

Sorry, I have a lot of thoughts about these 3 idiots. (and honestly every other character in this show)

This is in no way a criticism or anything, I just really like talking about them.

I may or may not also be trying to convince one of my favorite artists to draw my favorite ship lol.

I know you focus more on Nuzi by itself, but what's your opinion on NVUzi?

I love the fan content for it, it’s very popular and I can totally see why. Personally though, I honestly can’t see N and V working like that anymore. (This is all my personal analysis of her) V very purposefully separated herself from N in the time that he was digitally lobotomized. I can only speculate what kind of things happened between them in their time as genocidal angels of death, but whatever it was like, it ended up with V not being by N’s “side” anymore. She cares about him a lot, and I think she wishes they worked out like that, but a lot happened to her since she was taken apart and she’s not the same drone who was happy to believe that things would be ok if they just stuck together. I think I saw another tumblr post once that pointed out this writing foil between V and Uzi: when N confronted V during the prom episode, he said that whatever it was, they could figure it out together. He had faith in their relationship, but her response (in a bit of regret) was to decapitate him and leave him to figure it out after she was done. I can’t blame her for that either, (he hasn’t had his memories in forever, there’s no point in trying with cyn as their admin), but it encompasses how she feels abt him. She wants to protect him but she’s not gonna hold his hand and tell him it’s ok (maybe partially because no one was there to do that for her when she was figuring it all out) But later in the series with Uzi, N tries comforting her and this time asks, “we can figure it out, together?”. He’s not so sure she’s gonna meet him on this anymore after he tried with V, but she does. Uzi is more than happy to meet him halfway, she needs his hand as much as he needs hers. They’re both by each other’s side and clinging tighter to each other the worse things get. Their hand holding and constant touching and grabbing each other is a reach out for support that gets a response back every single time. They have this mutual agreement to be there for each other because they understand each other, they’re both outcasts and although they seem very different in nature they just make sense to each other. After making a connection like that with someone who understands and needs you so much I doubt N would want to ever think about going back to romantic delusions towards someone deliberately babying him in such a cold fashion. And I don’t think V would want to revisit those feelings either because it’s a dead end now. She did that on purpose because she knew she needed to change to survive and at least protect N. There’s still a love between them but I can’t see it as romantic, it’s more of a growing respect I think. I realize I wrote a lot wow I’ve been thinking about this dynamic for a long time haha

[quincyhorst]

Society if Rose Griffon, Brockenborg and Red Matador got their proper anime artwork references

[voiceshearingyouloud]

Finally properly sobbing after not being able to cry all day is such a great feeling

[tyrianlynch]

I started watching Suits today and have been playing the sims nonstop and have been reading nothing but fanfiction about gay firefighters and articles about how the CIA started a domino effect that created al qaeda and the taliban so yes I’m doing super well mentally

[wesam12]

Save our lives ‼️🚨

"I am Wissam... The last time I hugged someone, it was a corpse." 😭💔

The night was very long that day. I was counting the days until I would give birth to my twins. I brought them names, and planned to wrap my body around them when the tents grew cold. But death was faster. 😭

We fled our home under shelling, and my father was in the hospital, unable to stand. I told them, "My father can't move." The soldier said, "It doesn't matter, leave." So we left... and my father was left alone, until his heart closed forever. 😔💔

On the way south, I walked for hours carrying two children in my belly, a bag in my hand, and the rest of my memories on my back.

I bled on the way.

I lost my twins there, on the asphalt, in front of my other children who couldn't even cry. 😭😭

The next day, I woke up and found them buried under the sand. No grave, no names.

Now, I'm seven months pregnant with my third child.

But anemia is tearing me apart, stress is breaking my head, and hunger is eating away at what's left of me.

I feel my baby pleading with me from within: "Mother, don't die."

And I apologize to him every day... because I can't promise him life.

“I am Wissam… I lost my father, my children, my home, and even my voice.

I don’t want to lose this child too.

Help me before I become another memory in this broken land.

My father was the only one I could place all my hopes and dreams on. He was the one who lifted me up whenever I fell, and held my hand when my steps faltered. In those dark days of war, I saw him strong in front of me. Even in moments of silence, his presence was enough to make me feel safe. He wasn't just the father I loved, he was my refuge, the hope I lived by. 😭💔

But one day, suddenly, that hope disappeared.

The sky was covered with heavy clouds, as if it knew what was going to happen. That day, I was at home, climbing on my tiptoes, holding on to any glimmer of hope, but when I entered our small room, I found my mother in the corner of the room crying, her face pale, her eyes filled with tears, and her mouth almost unable to speak. 💔😭

I couldn't believe what she was saying. My father, who had always been the strength in my life, was gone. In an instant, everything disappeared, and the words kept repeating in my head without me being able to understand them. "He's not coming back." Those words were harder than any blow I had ever received in my life. 😭😭

I felt like I was in a dark dream. How could my father disappear like that? How could time go on without his voice, without me seeing his face again? How much I needed him in those moments, how much I needed to hear his words of reassurance. But it was all over, and all that remained was the silence filling the emptiness around me. 💔

Every corner of the house became a tragedy. Everything reminded me of him, every corner, every smell, everything. I thought I would lose my ability to breathe. His absence was heavier than anything else. I cannot imagine a world without him, and I cannot see a future without his advice, without a hand to lift me up whenever I feel like I am drowning.

As I sit here, in that dark room, I remember everything about my father. How he used to laugh when I made small mistakes, how he used to hug me when the world was dark, and how his words filled my life with meaning. But now he's not here, and the emptiness in my heart can't be filled with anything else. Every time I close my eyes, I see him in every corner. I feel him, but I can't touch him. And despite all the pain, despite all the sadness, I know he's not coming back, that he's left me in this world, to face it alone.

He's gone, but a part of him, a part of his soul, will remain in my heart forever. Even though I can't hear his voice or see him, I carry his memories with me every step of the way, every moment. I've lost him, but I can never forget him.😭😔

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#30 Verified By @bilal-sala7 ✅️

Thank you 🩷

[tonycries]

Kiss Me More!

Synopsis. There’s always something that makes him lose control - and you love pushing those buttons.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Gojo x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, rough séx, unprotected, bodyworshíp, stuff with pantíes, bréeding, slight exhíbitionism (Sukuna’s), Nanami and Geto are a bit mean, overstím, finger suckíng, dacryphília (Geto’s), pet names, swearing.

Word count. 5.1k

A/N. Bro my laptop crashed thrice trynna write this um.

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - “Raw?!”

Great, Toji thinks, he’s finally lost it.

Because sooner have the words left your swollen lips, all the blood goes rushing to his achingly hard cock - so swollen and already leaking hot precum all over your trembling thighs. Some dark, primal part of himself being poked so dangerously awake.

“Are ya sure, doll?” he breathes, and the words come out ragged - pained even. Like some part of himself wanted you to save no, was begging you to say no - for his own sanity. Because just the thought of your pretty lil’ cunt wrapped around his cock makes him feel lightheaded. “We don’t-”

“I wan’ to,” you give him a determined little nod. Spreading your legs further and oh Toji lets out a hoarse grunt at the heavenly sight. Hanging on your every word as you continue, “What’s the worst that can happen?”

That was hours ago - oh, how foolish you were. 

You never thought that those would be the words that make your poor boyfriend snap. That it would only take him just barely grazing his angry, weeping tip between your puffy folds. Up and down up and down up and- down went every rational thought. 

Too depraved. Too lost in the feeling of finally having you and your soft pussy and you-

“C-can’t believe you’ve been ngh- fuckin’ holdin’ out on m-me.” He was in heaven, making you cum over and over and-

And you were clawing limply at the drenched sheets, the headrest, Toji’s shoulders - just anything and everything for some semblance of sanity. 

“T-Toji-” you sob, “S’too much. I- ngh- can’t anymore-”

“Fuck! Been hah- holdin’ out on me.” he groans, like a mantra. Brows furrowing as he squeezes his swollen cock harder into your plushy walls. And if it was any other time then Toji might’ve almost been embarrassed at the way his sentence cracks ever-so-slightly at the end. Choking out, “One more- gimme j-jus’ one more.”

“But-” Big, fat tears roll down your burning cheeks as large fingers dip down to toy your sensitive clit between them - no rhythm or rhyme, just to get you off. “You said the p-previous one would ngh- b-be the last.”

Ah, you were so cute blabbering out little pleas. And the only response you get is a devilish smirk, Toji’s darkened, hooded eyes boring into yours as he hums, “Did I? I don’t remember.”

He did remember. Very well, in fact as he pushed you to your nth orgasm tonight. And it took everything in him to hold off his high as he fucked you through yours, whispering out hollow promises about it being the “last time” and just “one more”. 

“S’okay-” Toji nips playfully at your wobbling lips. Salty with the taste of your overstimulated tears. “One more- you can mmpf- cum f’me once more, right?” 

And Toji’s barely-there sense of rationality in him knows he should slow down. Ease up his bruising grp on your hips. Have at least some shred of concern as he fucks your quivering cunt rougher, like his personal sex toy more than anything. 

Yet, no, right now he couldn’t even think straight. Too focused on how your moans were so sweet. Lips so pretty screaming out his name. Snug cunt too fucking heavenly when you cum all over his cock, squeezing him like your slutty lil’ pussy was trying to milk the fucking soul out of him. So hard and addicted that Toji was hooked. 

You mewl a delirious little, “H-hooked?” Batting your hazy eyes up at the monster above you, who seemed well and fully intent on making you cum until you couldn’t anymore. “Y-you’re hooked?”

Whoops, did he say that out loud? Seems you weren’t the only one that was completely and utterly wrecked here. 

“Shhh,” Toji drops his head once more to kiss away your adorable pout - the one that only makes his balls squeeze so painfully. “Just focus on how ngh- fuckin’ food ya feel, pretty.” Fingers erratic on your throbbing clit, just soaked in your sweet juices. Moving deftly to spell out a messy T-O-J-I. Over and over and- “After all, this hah- pussy now belongs to me now, right?”

And it’s all you can do to give a delirious little nod, words slurring together as you hiss a low, “Y-yours- S’all for- ngh- you-” Hips bucking wildly underneath his strong figure. “Close- m’gonna cum, Toji-”

The only response you get is a guttural groan of what sounded like your name - followed shortly by a string of profanities as Toji speeds up his abuse on your cunt. One hand reaching out to grip onto the headboard, so hard that if you were in any better state of mind the two of you would have registered the sharp snap! 

The other almost-feverish on your poor clit - like it hurt to not have you cumming all over his cock now. Spelling his name over and over and-

“Oh I’ll let ya cum-” Hips stuttering and so so sloppy now. Sounding like his sanity was dancing away every time his hips slapped bruisingly against yours. “Gonna make you c-cum so ha- hard you’ll forget everything else-”

You’re letting out strangled little gasps in response, hips torn between running away and fucking down for more more more-

“Fuck- hope you’re on the pill, doll.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Painted white

“Whoops.”

Nanami well and fully thinks that it’s your fault he feels less of a man than some monster right now. He acts like it, too, holding back a sultry little smile as he fucks you deeper and deeper into the mattress. 

Close - too close. 

Close enough that he’s immediately pulling out of your snug cunt. So fucking difficult with the way you’re sucking him up so good - but oh was it worth it watching the way your swollen lips drop into a soft oh! Glassy eyes snapping down to catch the way he fucks his fist once, twice. Before spilling all over your swollen folds, painting you such an obscene white over and over and-

“Now now,” you can only keen in response as your husband hums lowly. Fist sliding languidly up and down his angry, red cock. “Guess we hafta hah- do it all over again, my love.” 

Yeah, definitely worth it with the way he had you all breathless and needy, your slutty lil’ pussy just begging to go over the edge - only to tease you at the very last second. God, it’s been like this for so long now. 

“So mean,” you give Nanami a little pout - one that has his still-painfully hard cock twitching so sensitively in his hand. Big, fat tears welling up in your eyes as you continue, “You’re being so ngh- mean, Ken.”

Oh, damn that little nickname - the exact same one you’d scream when you’re close. Damn the way you cock your head just right, batting your lashes so deceivingly innocently up at him.

Damn the way he snakes his hand down to the sinful little pool of cum spreading all over your lower stomach. Letting it trickle onto his fingertips - immediately shoving them between your lips to shut up those pretty lil’ moans. 

“Mean?” he manages to chuckle. Tips of his fingers pressing right at the back of your tongue. Slapping his swollen cock on your stomach, “Is this what you ah- wanted? Are ya happy now, my love?” 

The sight of you all teary and gagging around his fingers was almost as addictive as the sight of you covered in his cum. Almost. 

He sweeps his eyes all over where you were splayed out so prettily for him. Your glossy lips, the streaks of cum on your stomach, your chin, everywhere and anywhere - except where you wanted the most. 

It had started with an accident, really, when he’d pulled out a bit too early tonight. And fuck if Nanami didn’t think that sight of you all dripping and covereed with him was like the gates of heaven spread wide open all for him. A new, dangerous addiction. 

Which is why he’s pushing his fingers deeper, whispering out a ragged little, “Shit, you’re so messy.” Purposefully dragging his thumb across your lower lip to smear the mess everywhere. Your lips, your chin, inside. “So filthy.” He can’t even think about bringing himself to be disgusted. Dipping down the valleys of your chest, down, down down, to where his achingly hard tip was just kissing your quivering entrance now, “So perfect.” 

And without warning, Nanami’s splitting you apart on his massive cock once more. Jaw falling slack ever-so-slightly at the way you’re taking him up so readily - inch by fucking inch like it hurt to be apart.

“F-fuck,” you moan, the words broken as he starts moving inside - back to picking up that unforgiving pace from earlier, like he never stopped. “Hngh- s’too good- too full, Kento-”

“Awww, what happened to ‘Ken’?” Nanami cuts you off uncharacteristically. Hips slowing down to lazy, mindless little movements that have you gasping in protests. “Was gonna cum on your pretty face this time hah- s-seems you don’t want it, hm?”  

And ah, let it be known that Nanami Kento would burn down the world for his wife. 

But what fun it was to tease you - to have your mouth dropping in disbelief, eyes widening in your delirious state. Babbling out a broken, “No no no, Ken- hngh- wan’ you to cum inside.” Back arching off the bed, grappling pathetically for more more more- “To paint me white inside- Please?”

Oh, did you know how to push his buttons just right. Because how could Nanami deny you begging so prettily like that?

Because the sentence is barely out of your mouth before neat nails are digging into your hips as Nanami pulls your hips closer, milking his cock on your snug cunt - so hard he knew it would leave marks. His heavy balls on your ass, your ankles on his shoulders, nails dragging down his bulging biceps as you moan his name. 

Whispering, breath hot against your ear, “You’re right.” Voice so strained and dark that you almost don’t recognize it as your husbands. “So, so right.”

Nanami’s index finger coming down to draw an invisible line right where he could feel his cock making a mess of you inside. 

“Ah! Ken, W-what-”

“You’re so right.” he’s breathing against your mouth, like a little prayer. Tasting the sweet candy of your lips and himself and you- “The next spot-” Pressing his finger down right on that spot, hard. Like he wanted to feel himself more than anything. “Will be here.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - Pretty when you cry

“S-Sugu, are you okay?” you’re looking over your shoulder to ask. 

Nothing. Absolutely nothing - except for Geto’s heavy breathing, and the lewd little squelches from down below, his swollen cock just barely sinking into your heavenly cunt. And you know it doesn’t bode well.

You’d be almost worried if it wasn’t for the way his eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown and just locked on that single, stray tear rolling down your cheek. Such a dark little glint in his gaze that had you wondering whether you should be concerned for him or yourself. 

Yet you manage to choke out a little, “Suguru?”

Ah that snaps him out of his little reverie, suddenly too-aware of your plushy walls sucking the soul out of his hot, angry head. 

With work, it’s been a while since Geto got to fuck your snug cunt - and you needed to breathe, maybe spread your legs more. Relax, because it was so fucking tight and Geto wasn’t even halfway. The stretch way too sinful. Too much. Your lips wobbling at how massive his cock was, and oh- was that another tear going down your pretty face?

You don’t even get to confirm because several things happen at once - immediately, he’s pushing his aching dick in one, harsh thrust. Head dipping down to pool the tears streaming on his hot tongue, groaning at the taste.

“O-oh.” you manage to grit out, feeling like Geto was pushing into your fucking lungs. “S’too big. Sugu, ah!”

“Shhhh, gorgeous.” he’s dragging his lips down your neck, fingers dancing down your body to roll your ravaged clit between them. “S’alrigh- ngh-” And you didn’t know whether he was reassuring himself more than you. “You got it. Y-you’ll take it- you always do, right?”

And he was right - but you’d forgotten how unforgiving Geto’s cock was. How unforgiving he was as he pries away your fingers gripping onto the headrest - trying pathetically to pull away from the pressure down below. 

Hah, he thinks, intertwining them so mockingly with his own, as if he’d let such a pretty lil’ thing like you escape. 

Romantic - the way this was supposed to be. 

Yet, now, Geto was fucking you like anything but. 

“You’re not trying to- fuck- run away,” he’s purring in your ear, rubbing his thumb over your swollen clit once. Twice. As if trying to will the answer out of you, “Right?” Not even waiting for your answer before reeling his hips back, all the way till his fat tip was just kissing your sloppy entrance. “After we hngh- haven’t done this in so-” Slamming his hips down. Harsh. “-long?”

And shit- he was acting like it, too. So depraved and filthy the way he was drinking up your cute lil’ moans, tasting your tears on his lips while he couldn’t decide between bruising your poor cervix and hitting that one spot. “T-too fuckin’ long, gorgeous.”

The only answer he gets is your sweet, simpering whine of “Sugu- Sugu Sugu- oh my god.” Back bowing off the bed because it’s gotten so much. “C-can feel you so deep inside.”

Really, how could Geto even think about stopping himself from kissing down your arched back? Looping two strong arms around your waist to pull you impossibly deeper down his cock. 

“Ah! Oh my god- Suguru!” you keen as he falls back on his knees with you in tow, your back against his muscled front. Spreading your legs to fuck up so mindlessly into you. Jagged, long thrusts, bouncing you like a toy on his aching cock. Rough. “So much- so- ngh-”

Ah, your pretty little cries are just music to his ears. Fuck, he forgot how pretty you looked when you were all breathless and crying on his cock.

“Such a cute lil’ actress.” he coos, voice going up each time his heavy balls smack your ass. Fingers drawing such tight little circles on your throbbing clit. “Love these hah- pretty tears.”

“S-So mean, Sugu-” you’re choking as his thrusts get purposeful - calculated. Hitting that one magical spot he’ll never forget no matter what. Over and over and over while all you can do is cry out teary moans of his name.

Thigh quivering at the sheer stimulation, “Yeah- yeah, jus’ like that.” And oh Geto wishes he could taste down there, too. But instead settles for doing that later - getting those sweet, overstimulated tears out of you. “My gorgeous girl, cryin’ on my cock. Ngh- gonna cum f’me?” Pressing a chaste kiss to the side of your forehead - the complete opposite of his hips. “Gonna c-cry while you’re mm- cumming all over my cock?”

And as if he really really wanted to see it - Geto’s only getting sloppier. 

So embarrassing with the way he was whispering out sweet little degradations in your ear, guiding you closer and closer. 

So embarrassing with the way he eagerly watched all your minute reactions.

So embarrassing with how you cum exactly the way he wanted you to - teary and breathless. A quick scream of Geto’s name before you’re seeing stars behind your eyes, blood roaring in your ears. 

Cunt clamping down so deliciously on his cock. So dizzying that you barely even register the hot tongue lapping at the fresh wave of tears.

“Ah, as perfect as I hah- imagined.” Geto grits out, sounding every bit absolutely wrecked. “Now I jus’ n-need to know if you’ll cry as much when m’filling you up.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - “Just the tip.”

“Hngh- f-fuck, baby.” he whines into your open mouth, strong hands pulling your trembling hips impossibly closer to his. “J-jus’ a bit deeper- only a bit deeper, I promise.”

Ah, if only you weren’t split apart so deliriously on Choso’s cock you might’ve been able to actually form a coherent sentence to- what? Snap at him? Beg him for more?

You don’t even know at this point, because it’s been like this for so long now, and Choso promised it would be just his weeping tip. He promised it would be quick and he just “wanted to feel his girl’s pretty pussy.” Over and over again as he pushed your legs all the way until they were pressed against your tits, heels pressing into the mattress as he slides his massive cock even deeper-

“Cho!” you yelp, feeling the thump! thump! thump! of those prominent veins down the side rub against all the right spots. “You said-”

“I know I know, m’sorry.” he gasps. Brows scrunching as he nevertheless bullies his cock deeper inside your gummy walls. Choso’s cock too big, the stretch too sinful. Dropping his head to kiss your bruised lips, “M’sorry, jus’ a bit more. Jus’ a bit- hah- a bit deeper-”

And oh, he shouldn’t have done that. 

Shouldn’t have let himself that last bit of freedom, because he sinks only a bit more into your heavenly cunt - so dripping wet and milking the soul out of him - that Choso can’t help but think he wants more. 

“Baby…” Choso purrs hotly against your ear, hips thrusting in slow, shallow little grinds - and you already know too well what he’s about to beg for.

“Cho.” you groan, warningly. “You said j-jus’ the ngh- tip.”

“Awww.” he groans. So fucking pretty with his long hair undone, some strands sticking to his flushed skin. Eyes hazy and miles away as he looks at you through those long, dark lashes. “Jus’ a bit ngh- more? Promise I’ll pull out.” As if to support his case, one hand gently tilts your head up to press chaste pecks at the corner of your lips. The other starting to toy with your ravaged clit, “Please?”

And how could you say no to that? 

Especially not when Choso digs his knees deeper into the sheets, rock-hard cock dragging so agonizingly against your walls as he reels his hips back, back, back-

Splitting you apart all in one, harsh thrust. 

It’s all you can do to whine out a pathetic, “O-oh fuck- fuck! S’too deep.” The stretch too sinful, his cock too massive. Tears springing to your eyes as he immediately starts fucking you in quick, ragged movements - not even easing you into it like he usually would. 

“M’sorry, baby.” Choso sounds so fucking wrecked, voice as rough as his hips now. “M’sorry m’sorry. Promise I won’t cum inside. Jus’ a bit more- some- some more-”

And for all the remaining sanity you had left, you didn’t know how promises of “just the tip” turned into empty wishes that neither of you had the patience - nor the sanity - to fulfill right now. 

“Please.” you arch your hips off the bed - and nothing more has to be said, because Choso reads that lust-drunk little plea in your eyes. “Ch-Cho-”

“A bit more.” he lets out a humorless little laugh. Reaching above to lace his fingers on top of your head, pushing you down, down, down impossibly deeper onto his painfully hard cock in a pathetic little cadence to match his. “Jus’ a bit- more.”

It was driving him insane. 

And for all his apologies, Choso isn’t one bit shy when rocking his hips harder into yours. So bruising with the way he leaves marks on your waist, your tits, probably even your poor cervix. Whispering out mindless little promises of pulling out and nonsense about going “jus’ a bit deeper”.

“F-fuck, wan’ you to cum, baby.” The bed is creaking in protest as Choso picks up the pace so sloppily. Hips stuttering and uneven with how fucking good it felt - but hitting the right spots every time. His hands snaking down to roll your sensitive clit between his fingers again. “Cum f’me. Please?”

And it seems that Choso had a penchant for getting what he wanted. 

Because no sooner do the words leave his rosy lips, you’re seeing stars behind your eyes. Blood roaring in your ears, mixing with Choso’s broken little praises as he fucks you through peak after peak of your high. 

Over and over and-

“Sorry-” your eyes snap open at that familiar little phrase falling from his lips. One that you knew didn’t bode well for you or your poor cunt. “Sorry sorry sorry-” Thrusting, once. Harsh. Twitching so wildly inside you that just one more squeeze and he’d be- “C-can I ngh- cum inside, baby?” 

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - A lil’ show

It only takes that first, broken little moan escaping your swollen lips and you already know you won’t make it out intact - nor will Sukuna’s sanity, apparently. 

Because no sooner has that sinful noise left you, Sukuna’s eyes glaze over, jaw dropping so uncharacteristically into a soft oh! Aching dick twitching wildly inside you, hips stuttering against yours as he breathes out, “What was that?”

He doesn’t have the patience to wait for your response - instead, squeezing his swollen cock deeper, fucking all the air - and the words - out of you. 

Which, unfortunately for you, wasn’t exactly the reaction he was hoping for. 

“Aww, c’mon.” the words are groaned into the crook of your neck, sending jolts of electricity all the way down to your dripping cunt. “Give me more ngh- of those-” Large hands tightening on your hips, shifting you around on where you were sat so prettily on Sukuna’s lap. “-pretty moans, brat.”

So that’s what he wanted.

And this was supposed to be something slow. Something lazy, and languid to get the king of curses off before that droning meeting today with his underlings - to take the edge off so that he probably won’t end up killing them all off.

Something it was not supposed to be was Sukuna spreading your legs so shamefully, splitting you apart deeper and deeper on his cock. Trying to find the angle that’s just right to rip those cute lil’ moans out of you.

“C’monnnn.” he gives short, sloppy little thrusts up into your heavenly cunt. “Where is-”

Then suddenly you’re wrapping your arms tighter around Sukuna’s neck, “Ngh! Oh fuck-” Teeth digging into his muscled shoulder, hard - hard enough that it might’ve drawn blood if this wasn’t the king of curses himself. 

“Found it.” And it’s all that’s said before he’s reaching down to spread your puffy folds further, eyes flicking between your wobbling lips and the way your tight pussy was sucking him up so good. Watching the way his massive cock was disappearing in and out in and out in and- “What? Not gonna hah- scream my name anymore?”

“B-because, Kuna-” you gasp, face burning at the way your thighs tremble with the effort to pathetically to meet his unforgiving pace. “They- they’re close.”

Humming in amusement, “Who?”

“Them!” you’re keening - and both of you know you’re talking about those footsteps outside, the thought of Sukuna’s meeting weighing much more on your mind than his. So you’re limply grazing your lips against his, trying to muffle those whimpers falling from your lips. “They’re g-gonna ngh- hear?”

“So?”

You don’t know what you’re reeling more from - Sukuna’s response or the way he’s increasing his pace relentlessly. Trying to pull those sweet sweet moans from you, no care or concern for the ever-closing footsteps outside. 

“I don’t care.” he groans, back arching off the sticky seat of his throne to fuck up into your sloppy hole deeper. “You’re ngh- above them, y’know.” Bouncing you like such a slut on his cock, “So what if they h-hear?”

And God you don’t know who’s more fucked-out right now - Sukuna, who was speaking mindless little nonsense into your ear, or you. Whiney and a mess, tugging on his soft locks - a warning.

One that the man himself blatantly ignores, instead having one hand reach down to roll your throbbing clit between his fingers. 

“Hngh- fuck!”

The moan escapes you before you can bite down on Sukuna’s neck, right above his racing pulse to muffle it. 

“Heh,” shivers run down your spine as Sukuna’s chest rumbles with a laugh. Pulling your lolling head away to crash his lips against yours. Panting into your open mouth, “Sneaky. But they’re only getting closer and-” Rocking his hips harder. Bruising. “-m’only getting more impatient.”

And then he’s fucking up into you with reckless abandon. Smirk spreading at that little ah! ah! ah! leaving your mouth each time he hits that one spot. 

You’re sure that if whatever unfortunate soul was outside couldn’t hear your delirious moans then they could definitely hear the lewd slap of skin on skin. Fast, so unforgivingly loud. His fingers just a blur on your clit. Just taunting those little moans out of you.

You’re gasping at the sheer stimulation, “Y-you’re so-”

“So what?” Sukuna spits into your mouth, “Don’t start ngh- sentences ya can’t finish, brat. Though-” His sharp eyes flicker towards the door, much more aware than whatever hazy mess was left of your senses. “I don’ think you’ll be able f-finish any of them soon enough.”

Barely even giving you the chance to register his words, you’re tilting your head in confusion up at him and-

Knock! Knock! Knock!

Oh, shit. 

“Come in.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - Blue blue blue!

It’s times like this - your blue lingerie almost in tatters, Gojo pushing you into such a tight mating press, filling up your poor pussy over and over - that you wonder when bones will start breaking.

Well, not that your boyfriend would mind either - he wouldn’t mind having to use a bit of reverse cursed technique on what was supposed to be a lazy little cockwarming session. Instead, too focused on how your cunt was sucking him up so good. His cum inside you so warm, the stretch so sinful, your lingerie too blue-

“Heh, what? C-can’t ngh- speak, sweetheart?” Gojo lets out a humorless little laugh. Fingers deftly hooking under your bra strap to give a sharp little snap! “You’re the one that a-asked for this, after ngh- all.”

“B-But, Toru-” you gasp, and it only has Gojo ramming his cock into you deeper. Awe-struck at how you were already so bloated with his cum, but still taking him so well. “Wasn’t on p-purpose-”

“This wasn’t on purpose?” And you know what he’s talking about - that barely-there fabric - the exact shade of his eyes. Only one glance at it had Gojo feeling like something snapped - possibly his restraint, maybe his sanity. Definitely you by the end of this. “This?” 

And you can’t even act coy - you don’t get the chance to. 

Because Gojo’s immediately got his hands everywhere. On your swollen breasts, your hips, the hem of your panties that he just barely had the patience to slide aside before stuffing you full. 

“Y-yes?” you ask, deliciously. Cunt clenching so sinfully around his throbbing cock in- fear? Anticipation? As he looked down so starved at you. 

“F-fuck. Ya shouldn’t have done this.” Gojo’s dragging his lips down your neck, soft. The exact opposite of how bruising his hips were of yours. “Oh, ya shouldn’t have done this-” Lewd curiosity getting the best of him as he dips his hand lower, pressing down just slightly on your lower stomach. “Because now,” Those blue eyes widening at the way his cum gushes down your legs, down his legs. “-m’not gonna let you go until I fuckin’ ruin these.”

And if you were in any better state of mind you could’ve almost laughed - because Gojo was acting like the soaked, flimsy fabric hanging around your body wasn’t already far, far past any salvation. 

No, he was fucking you like he was going to ruin them all over again. Tightening your legs thrown over his shoulders, folding you in half like some ragdoll as he bends down, down, down-

RIP!

You’re gasping at the sharp tear of fabric, one that you barely hear over the fucking obscene squelches from below. “T-Toru-” you squeal, ankles locking in warning. “These ngh- w-were expensive.”

“So?” And for all the world, Gojo has the audacity to sound so genuinely confused. Whispering a soft oh! as he angles his head just right to catch that sinful little tear in your panties. “Whoopsies.”

But, really, what your unregretful boyfriend was actually focusing on was how fucking illegal it should be for you to look this heavenly - legs shaky and limp, his seed forming a lewd little pool. Marked like you were fucking thrown to wolves, but, no, it was actually Gojo Satoru and he couldn’t fucking get enough-

“Five.”

The word comes out abruptly, strangled like Gojo himself was as bewildered as you as he suddenly blurts it out. 

And at your - fucking adorable - look of confusion, he’s kissing away the pout at your lips, murmuring hoarsely, “M’gonna buy you five more of these.”

That’s all that’s said before he’s only rocking his hips harder, feeling more of a fucking monster than he did when he was on the battle field. Wondering whether he’d have to buy a new fucking bed too with the way it was creaking under the pure power. 

And, well, it made some tiny, sadistic little part of Gojo delight to see the effect it had on you. Sweet moans of his name leaving your lips each time he draws rapid circles on your pretty clit. Hips fucking back down to meet his, so sloppy and needy - exactly the way he wanted you. 

“Sh-shit, Toru-” you’re bucking wildly underneath him, “M’close- so fucking close.”

He knew - of course he did. If the way your gummy walls were trying to suck the fucking soul out of him was anything to go by. Clit pulsing in a maddening little thump! thump! thump! that set Gojo’s animalistic rhythm. 

“Cum f’me.” he pants against your open mouth. Fingers hurrying on your clit because he wanted - needed - this so badly. “Cum f’me cum f’me, wan’ feel you squeezing my cock, sweetheart.” Needed to see if your tight pussy could take one more - to see if she’d overflow onto your poor panties again. “Cum f’me.”

“Ngh- fuck- Toru!”

And then you are - you feel it before you realize it. 

Just that white-hot electricity flowing through your veins, and your nails digging into Gojo’s milky skin. Leaving such angry red marks as you chase your high over and over and-

And Gojo wasn’t any better. Just barely having the sense to pull out as his balls squeezed so painfully and he’s painting your quivering pussy white. Thick rope after rope that the smug bastard purposefully smears all over your panties. 

So fucking filthy.

“Ten.” he’s groaning, and you already know what he means. “M’gonna have to buy you ten more after this.”

A/N. Plagiarism not authorized.