#a knack for losing everything | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

daosies · 11 months ago

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when you get injured

sylus, xavier, rafayel ♡ gn!reader

warnings: alcohol (sylus), graphic depictions of violence, sylus is his own warning he's so freaky (but hes so fine), major story spoilers (all three), blood, mc is the protagonist but gender neutral, lowercase intended

notes: MISTY INVASION GOT ME

sylus always looks forward to your calls.

he likes listening to you ramble about the little nothings of your day, the mindless white noise that echoes from your end whenever you get lost in thought.

more often than not, sylus isn't satisfied with just that. sometimes, he wishes he could witness your expressions for himself rather than through the chirps and retellings from mephisto, to narrow the distance between the two of you.

clink! he lifts a glass of whiskey up to his lips.

sylus eyes his phone before taking a sip, gaze beginning to drift around the vastness of his bedroom. warm lamps illuminate the corners and his attention redirects towards the various plushies that line the shelves.

ever-so slightly, the corners of his lips break into the subtlest of smiles.

his gaze returns to the phone.

later than usual, sylus thinks, staring at the pretentious (according to you) grandfather clock in his room. tick, tick. its tempo mimics his heartbeat, the steady rhythm falling into place.

sylus's days are redundant—they have been for quite a while—but what he always looks forward to is your calls, which always come at this time.

except for today, it seems. even though you're not obligated to call him, and you never told him that these calls would become a regular occurrence, sylus has grown expectant. terribly so.

he takes another sip of his drink, eyes darting back and forth from his phone to his wristwatch.

sylus would like to maintain his image as an independent, mysterious alpha; but you—oh, you—have a knack at dismembering him, at taking apart the chambers of his heart and weaving yourself into its tissue. you tattoo yourself into his skin, permeating into his existence without ever realizing.

you've always been a little cruel. sylus likes that about you.

tick, tick. he half-considers calling you first. when it comes to you, sylus has nothing to lose—from the crimson of his irises to the crimson of his blood, he's surrendered everything, offering all that he has in a ferocious, lovely organ that goes, endlessly: thump, thump, thump...

he thinks of your fantastic beauty. the tempo stutters.

tick, tick. ring! sylus reaches for his phone within an instant, not caring about luke and kieran's spiel about how a "real charmer" would wait for the phone to ring multiple times before picking up. but sylus doesn't have time to play games like that—he wants to hear your voice and he wants to hear it now.

"so, you finally decided to call, hm?" sylus asks, swirling his drink leisurely. he brings the glass up to his lips, unable to contain the way a smirk breaks out onto his face, the way you do so much as exist, the way you radiate and oh, the way you seek him out!

sylus thinks he's never felt so satisfied before, with all that he's ever achieved, you just might be the greatest of them all.

and he hasn't even achieved you yet. he thinks he never will; you've always been volatile, wildly beautiful and wildly free. again, sylus likes that about you.

you don't respond. sylus sets his glass down on the table, unbothered, smirk still fixed onto his lips. that is until he hears a loud crash from your end, the sound of labored breaths following soon after.

"[name]?" sylus calls, standing up immediately. his whiskey remains forgotten, free hand reaching for the leather coat draped across his chair, the fabric still stained red from earlier events.

sylus has no time to worry about how he presents himself, because before you can even utter another word, he's racing out of his pretentious (according to you) mansion and swinging a leg over his motorbike.

the steady tempo of his heart begins to race, beating the rhythm of the grandfather clock that, endlessly, echoes tick, tick... sylus attributes its consistency to the fact that the grandfather clock, in all its glory, has never had the pleasure of knowing you.

if it did, then its flow would be disrupted, its rhythm would stutter and leap, and sylus knows this fact all too well because it's happened to him. because it's happening to him.

thump, thump-thump... "[name]," sylus calls. he says your name just to say it, to feel its syllables on his tongue, to swallow the sound and let it reverberate throughout his chest, easing the spasm of his heart and the fracturing of his ribs.

"[name], talk to me," sylus says, the steadiness of his voice starkly contrasting the tremble of his irises. "[name], i'll be there. count to three?"

one. he revvs the engine.

two. his fingers tighten around the handlebars.

three. the tempo of his heart goes, achingly, thump-thump-thump, thump... for a second, the sound changes. for a second, the sound shifts and utters, in the softest of timbres: you.

black and red tendrils spew from the ground below you, wrapping your figure in a tender embrace whilst the sound of an engine rings throughout your ears.

smoke envelopes the room, your vision becoming blurry while the tendrils shrink away, their absence filled in by the warmth of calloused hands.

sylus lifts you up, pressing your head against his chest before whispering, "go to sleep, darling. it'll all be over soon."

when your eyes lull back, and your body falls limp, sylus goes mad. his hands never leave your figure, his evol forming limbs to strangle your opponent, watching the way they writhe and scream without ever tearing his gaze away.

"report," sylus demands, talking to no one.

"after finding out [name] was closely associated with you, boss, this person tried to get some information about you." still, someone responds.

sylus chuckles. "two corrections." he steps towards the suffocating person, crimson gaze trailing theirs and landing on you. when he notices this, sylus clicks his tongue, tightening the tendrils of his evol and forcing the perpetrator to look away from you.

tenderly, sylus caresses the side of your face, as if to brush away that person's distateful gaze.

"[name] and i are more than just close associates," sylus continues with his previous statement, holding you closer towards him. he finds solace in the way your chest rises up and down, reassuring him of your vitality, your incomparable radiance.

"and," he says, retracting his evol. the person falls to the floor with a harsh thud, and sylus merely tilts his head in the direction of the body, commanding the twins to clean the corpse up.

"that isn't a person. it's just some pest. kieran, don't make that mistake again."

luke snickers.

kieran straightens up, mop in hand. "yes, boss!"

only when your breathing steadies does sylus's heart return to its regular rhythm, matching the pace of the pretentious grandfather clock.

you've taken his bed (he's given it, really), and sylus doesn't bother pulling up a chair; sinking to his knees as he gazes at you fearfully, reverently. his hands come up to cover yours, elbows digging into the mattress. the warmth of your skin mixes with his own.

you've taken his bed, but sylus thinks that that's only one of the many things you've taken. you've taken his mind, his heart, him. you've taken all that he's got to give, all that he's ever fathomed of being his.

"you're always so cruel," sylus mutters to himself, thumb rubbing the back of your hand.

(but, i love that about you, he thinks.)

your head and side are wrapped with bandages, tended to by sylus himself. he doesn't trust anyone else—not even luke or kieran—when it comes to treating you; you're too delicate, too fragile for a place like this.

sylus's gaze remains fixed on the bridge of your nose, the cracks of your lips. sweat trickles down your forehead, your brows furrowed from discomfort and nightmares plaguing your sleep. he reaches a hand to brush the sweat away, grazing across your skin until your brows ease up, until your expression drifts into that of contentedness.

oh, you're beautiful. ethereally so.

(you don't belong here.)

still, sylus's hand traces over yours. he feels the callouses adorning your palm, marred by your work as a hunter. filling the gaps of your fingers with his own, sylus's hand locks into place.

(you call it abduction. he calls it love.)

whenever it comes to you, xavier is on high alert.

he's always hyper aware of your location, your status and your surroundings. whenever you fight wanderers together—as partners often do—he's always thinking of you, of ways to redirect everything towards him, of ways to get you as far away as possible.

for the longest time, xavier thought that that'd be enough. he thought that, so long as you're okay, he doesn't care about what happens to him, about what happens to anything. he's always thought that, really. here and philos alike.

"xavier!" you yell, and before he can even react, your figure comes colliding with his, arms wrapping tightly around the back of his neck as the two of you tumble towards the ground.

he doesn't know what went wrong—was it his clumsiness? was it his arrogance? he had always thought that, so long as you were safe, nothing else mattered.

but xavier had never thought of a situation where he was the one at risk, where he was the one who needed saving. he had never thought that you'd be the one to sacrifice yourself, because, ever since he met you, xavier identified himself as a sword, as a weapon at your disposal.

he is your weapon. he is yours.

xavier's hand comes to the small of your back, feeling the blood seep in between the gaps of his fingers. his breath falls short of escaping, shrinking down his esophagus and bringing everything, from the race of his heart to the warmth of his face to a standstill.

primal instincts take over. xavier fights with tooth and nail, forgetting all that he's learned from his swordsmanship classes—but oh, never forgetting his time with you—while his grip around your waist tightens.

his movements are quick and wild as he slices through each wanderer with the efficiency of a machine, running on a code that prints out, endlessly, you, you, you.

after everything has been eliminated, xavier reaches for your neck, searching desperately for a pulse. after confirming that it's there, he teleports away to the nearest hospital, free palm pressing into the center of your wound.

xavier's scared. he's scared you won't make it. he's scared he's failed you. he's scared of a lot of things, really.

when you're wheeled away in a stretcher, tended to by a whole team of medical professionals, xavier's left yearning and waiting, clinging onto nothing but hope and a fragmented memory of you. he's always yearned—back in philos and here, now—but it's a little different this time.

you've always been out of reach, like you were a star and he, an observer. but now, you're so tangible, so delicate and so fleeting despite being right there.

xavier feels like you could disappear within an instant, and he wouldn't put it past you to leave this life behind, to restart anew somewhere else. with someone who was a little stronger than him, a little less selfish.

he's selfish. so what?

you evoke something primal within him, something that makes him forget his etiquette classes and his time at the academy, wasting away at textbooks and duels. you make xavier burn, wildly, fantastically, like a flame—like a star, even.

you make him feel unlike himself, because xavier's used to being calm and collected and oh-so drowsy, but when it comes to you, everything changes. the world reinvents itself anew and presents itself, fogged in a pink lens, as something lovelier than before.

xavier resigns himself to one of the many chairs of the waiting room. he buries his face into his gloved hands, not caring about the messiness of his appearance.

when he closes his eyes, all he can see is your limp figure. he opts to stare at the television screen instead, the reports of the news appearing mute to his deafened ears. xavier swallows thickly, mouth feeling terribly dry, wrapped around the shape of your name. it waits.

a couple hours pass, and a nurse appears to fetch him. xavier says nothing, tongue still stuck in time.

only when he enters your room, and listens to the repetitive beep of the heart monitor, does his mouth free itself from its prison, liberating itself to utter, in the faintest of whispers, "[name]..."

you don't stir awake. xavier's fine with that. he pulls a chair to your bedside, and he sits, and he stares. periwinkle eyes trail across your features, tracing them like a sculptor, desperate to reshape the bandages and gauzes that cover your abdomen.

xavier wishes he could crawl into your body and steal all the pain for himself.

there's a great, irrevocable instinct within him, the kind of instinct that is only ever sung about in epics and myths and tragic, star-crossed plays.

he reaches forward, bare thumb coming to graze over your cheekbone. you're quiet, too quiet, and xavier's paranoid. too paranoid.

there's a great, irrevocable instinct within him. it takes over xavier's eyes and it trains them to fixate on you.

your image slips into his sight, swallowed greedily by xavier's pupils, remembered fervently by his mind. while his hands cannot have you, xavier compensates with his eyes, desperate and mad and oh, so lovely.

there's a great, irrevocable instinct within him. it's primal and it's primitive and it's hungry.

xavier forfeits his beloved sleep in order to watch over your heart monitor, to watch over your heart.

even when all the lights shut off, and when the device's beeps blend into the white noise of the hospital room, his periwinkle gaze never leaves your figure, adjusting to the darkness and finding solace there.

(a star has landed on earth. it's guided by a great, irrevocable instinct. it's primal and it's primitive and it's hungry.)

once more, xavier's mouth wraps around the shape of your name. it utters, in the softest of timbres, "[name], i love you."

although you aren't awake to respond, xavier is content with just this.

(a star has landed on earth. it stayed because it found you.)

"[name]," he whispers again, finding comfort in the familiar syllables, "i love you." maybe, saying it will make it realer than it already is. maybe, saying it will satiate his soul, providing him with enough sustenance to feast on for the next century or two.

maybe, xavier just calls your name to feel its syllables on his tongue. because he likes the sound of your name. because he wants to hear it, in whatever capacity, whenever he can.

maybe, it's just a great, irrevocable instinct.

whatever it is, xavier is content. he stares at you, and he feasts.

it always goes like this: with rafayel chasing after you.

you have a habit of leaving him behind—rafayel thinks it's just in your nature.

you give him a taste of everything before leaving him with nothing, and even though rafayel hates, hates you for that, he can't help but want everything again.

(he had everything, once.)

"[name]!" the scream that erupts from rafayel's throat is raw, marred by a desperation and anguish that travels across lifetimes. rafayel can't lose you—not again, not like this.

"raf—" you're interrupted by a violent cough, blood spilling from your lips. "just go!"

and there you go again, in all your selfish glory, in all your inconsiderate and shameless heroism. do you like watching his expression drop into that of utter horror, when all he's ever wanted was you?

he can never get his way.

"ugh," he mutters to himself, voice cracking at the end. "i just hate you, you know!?" your gaze is preoccupied by the giant wanderer that looms over your figure, its attention belonging wholly to you.

rafayel has the audacity to be offended. hello? he manages to think, despite all the fear and anxiety. why's it not looking at me? i'm right here!

you aim your gun at the wanderer's head, and rafayel almost wants to laugh. to think you're fighting close-combat with guns—wow, what an accomplished bodyguard you are!

rafayel is half-considering finding a new bodyguard now, because it looks like his current one isn't too bright in the head.

rafayel hates the way you go around, saving everyone, saving everything. he hates the way you save and the way you forget, the way you go around picking up more strays whilst forgetting your first one.

rafayel hates you. he hates you. he hates you!

despite all the pain and soreness in his (self-proclaimed) delicate limbs, he rushes forward, daggers in hand while fire vomits from the ground. rafayel hates you, sure, but hate and love are lawfully wedded, tightly intertwined and fueled by one another.

rafayel hates you. he hates you. but oh, he loves you. he loves you in the way he's willing to let you keep that heart of his, the way orpheus loved eurydice, the way he did everything and anything, only to catch a glimpse before losing it all.

he charges in front of you, occupying the wanderer while you take a couple steps back. rafayel half-wishes you'd run. he half-wishes you'd turn and abandon him so he could find it in himself to abandon you. you did it once before, so why can't you do it again?

when bullets stop flying, rafayel wonders if you left. he wonders if it's really over. so, he looks back.

you're still there. this time, you don't disappear. your eyes meet his, and somehow, you find it in yourself to smile.

he wants to cry.

"rafayel, let's resonate!"

and oh, you're otherwordly. you're so, so gorgeous. it's in the flame that dances across your irises, the determination that settles into your features.

you're so beautiful it hurts, because rafayel hates the effect you have on him, the way you go around enchanting everyone, everything!

when crimson blood trickles down your face, staining your skin a violent red, rafayel thinks you're sublime. he feels insignificant in your radiance, in your marvelous existence, your marvelous world.

"fine, let's!"

your hand locks with his, and rafayel hates the way his heart skips a beat. he hates the way yours didn't. he hates the way he's the only one overthinking these things, the only one who remembers after all this time.

the world is engulfed in flames. and rafayel spares you a glance, your skin illuminated by the warmth, flickering in and out. the wanderer disintegrates into ash, leaving nothing but a measly protocore for all the suffering it put him through.

your eyes fall back. instinctively, rafayel reaches a hand out, catching you in his arms despite hating the way you contort his limbs, the way you make him trail after you like a madman.

he is anything but a madman—in fact, rafayel is perfectly normal.

still, he cradles you in his arms. blood trickles from the side of your face.

"you're not the only one bleeding," rafayel mutters bitterly, feeling lightheaded himself. "who do you even think you are?"

his thumb comes to brush your chapped lips, wiping stray droplets of blood from the dried skin.

you're ethereal. rafayel will never admit that outloud. not like this. but, he thinks that you're something akin to a grecian statue, reflecting all that is lovely and all that is mortal.

rafayel thinks that, when you were crafted—long before this current incarnation—you were crafted with the most delicate of touches, the loveliest of visions.

he looks at you, and he wants to create. he wants to waste away at his canvases, wild and fanatic and looking over his shoulder, wondering if you'll still be there when it's all over.

knowing your nature, you won't be.

still, rafayel can't help but dream. dreams can change the world, after all. dreams are what led him back to you.

his thumb reaches for his own lips. he kisses the skin and he weeps.

rafayel hates you.

he hates you so, so much.

he shrinks into your figure and he follows your heartbeat, the sound so, achingly familiar.

when you regain consciousness, it's in rafayel's studio. your figure is drowned in pearl-white blankets, your wounds wrapped tenderly with fresh bandages.

"good mooorning, sleepyhead," rafayel says, not facing you. his hands are occupied with a brush and palette, head craned upward to fully take in the canvas. "some bodyguard you are, huh!"

"rafayel!" you quickly exclaim, trying to stand up. rafayel is quick to turn around, setting his palette down to wag a disapproving finger at you.

"nuh uh! don't get out of bed! get some rest! and oh, don't even talk to me! not until you've apologized for doing all that dumb, fish-brained stuff!"

rafayel looks back. you're still there.

in this life, rafayel thinks he has everything.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #xavier x reader #sylus x reader #rafayel x reader #lads rafayel x reader #lnds x reader #rafayel x mc #loveanddeepspace #sylus x you #love and deepspace sylus #xavier love and deepspace

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divinesangel · 7 months ago

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— random details about your future spouse [PAC]

pm me for an affordable, in-depth personal reading! — 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐚 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞!

— 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟏

they've been through some stuff and came out the other side with a calm, steady mindset. they're the type who doesn't get easily shaken or overwhelmed by life’s challenges.

when things get hectic or stressful, they stay chill and don’t panic. they can handle chaos without losing their cool, making them someone you can rely on in tough situations.

they’re not the type to rush into things. they like to take things slow, think things through, and make sure they’re making the right moves, whether it’s in relationships, work, or life decisions.

they probably have a strong sense of family and respect for long-held values. they believe in things like loyalty, commitment, and honoring what came before, whether that’s family traditions or their own personal principles.

they’re either spiritual or have a strong personal philosophy that guides their life. they probably reflect on the bigger picture and have a deep understanding of their own purpose or place in the world.

they're not afraid to step out of their comfort zone. they love exploring new places, trying new things, and keeping life exciting. they can be spontaneous and enjoy breaking out of routines.

always thinking outside the box. they might have a knack for coming up with new ideas or solutions, whether it’s in their work, hobbies, or just life in general. they love expressing themselves in unique ways.

they don’t take shortcuts. they put in the effort and grind steadily toward their goals, even if it takes time. they understand that success is built on consistent work and dedication.

you can count on them, no questions asked. they keep their promises and show up when they say they will, whether it’s for something big or small. they’re the kind of person you can trust with anything.

they’ve got their finances together. they don’t live paycheck to paycheck, and they know how to manage money responsibly. they’ve probably built a secure foundation for themselves and are smart about financial decisions.

once they’re in, they’re in for the long haul. they’re fiercely loyal and protective of the people they love. they’ll stand by your side through thick and thin, and you’ll always know they’ve got your back no matter what.

— 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟐

they’ve been through some tough stuff before (like heartbreak or betrayal), and they’re still working on getting over it. they’re in a process of healing, so they might be a bit cautious when it comes to love, but they’re definitely growing through it.

at times, they might feel a little lost or unsure about where they’re headed. they’re working on figuring things out, but they can get stuck in their head, trying to make the right choices. they may need a bit of time to get their confidence back before moving forward with big decisions.

they used to hold onto things too tightly, whether it was their money, their emotions, or their need to control everything. but now, they’re realizing they need to loosen up a bit and trust the process. they’re getting better at letting go of the things they can’t control.

they care a lot about building something real and secure for the future. they’re the kind of person who’s thinking about their career, their finances, and how to make sure they’ve got a strong foundation. they’re not into quick fixes; they’re focused on what lasts.

they can get caught up in the “what ifs” and feel like there are too many options to choose from. they might struggle with indecision or fantasizing about all the possibilities instead of making moves. they’re learning to focus and stop overthinking everything.

they’re someone who’s always looking for fresh starts. they might be starting a new chapter in their life—whether it’s career, relationships, or just personal growth. they’re focused on making things better and are always willing to work toward something new and more secure.

they’re ambitious and want more for themselves. they’re standing at a crossroads, thinking about what the next step looks like. they’re starting to plan ahead, but they’re also trying to figure out what path is the right one for them.

they’re soft-hearted and sensitive, not afraid to show their feelings. they’re the type to express their emotions and be vulnerable with the people they trust. they’re also really intuitive and can pick up on how others are feeling, offering emotional support when needed.

— 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟑

they’re someone who’s got their life together and doesn’t rely on others to feel secure. they’re proud of what they’ve built and enjoy the rewards of their hard work. they’re confident in their own abilities and don’t need validation from anyone else.

they know that good things take time. they’re not into rushing through life but are all about putting in the work and letting things grow naturally. they’re all about steady progress and building something real and long-lasting.

sometimes they feel unsure of themselves, especially when things aren’t going as planned. they may have moments of questioning their strength or abilities. they’re still figuring out how to trust themselves fully, but they’re working through it.

they can be a little guarded, especially when it comes to their emotions or what they’ve worked hard for. they like to keep control, but they’re learning to let go and trust more. it’s a process, but they’re getting there.

they’re the type of person who handles life with a lot of maturity. they take responsibility seriously and know how to manage their finances, their career, and their relationships in a practical way. they don’t take shortcuts.

they can be hard to read sometimes, and their emotions are deeper than they let on. they’re intuitive and sensitive, but they often keep their feelings under wraps. they might struggle to fully express what they’re going through, but they’re working on understanding themselves better.

they don’t like rushing into decisions. they’ll spend a lot of time weighing out their options and might even avoid making tough choices altogether. they want to make sure they’re doing the right thing, but they can get stuck in overthinking.

when they finally make up their mind, they’re sharp, direct, and won’t hesitate to go after what they want. they’re all about clarity and truth, and once they’re sure about something, they’re confident in their actions.

𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 !

hi! it's daphne here.

i'm currently offering personal readings for €8 and soulmate readings for €15 so don't hesitate to send me a private message if you're interested!

thank you for being here!

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pavedinashes-if · 3 months ago

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PAVED IN ASHES—DEMO UPDATE

Prologue & Chapter 1 — Wordcount: > 145k

DEMO LINK [CoG Demos]

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WHAT IS PAVED IN ASHES ABOUT?

You're only 20 when suddenly your life goes bam! Throwing you into a whole new city, a different country even. Wasn't part of the plan, but you know how life loves to mess with plans. People happened, stuff happened, and suddenly you're on the move. The new chapter ahead? Buckle up, 'cause it's not gonna be all sunshine and rainbows. And guess what? Your step-mom? Yeah, she's right there in the same city. She's always had this knack for trying to steer your ship, like every decision's a GPS checkpoint. But hey, there's this one thing that's never let you down—your skateboard. It's like the buddy that's been with you through thick and thin, the one that never bails. Among all this craziness it's like your anchor. So, the big question is—can you break out of the loop you got in? Find your place in the world and restart or lose yourself in temptation? Time to find out.

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Below you find a little insight on the contents of the update - beware of potential spoilers!

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What's going on in Chapter 1?

First full day...and night in Hamburg, Germany.

Have breakfast with your stepmother...if you feel like it.

Go shopping & check out the local skate shop.

Take a lunch break, enjoy some tasty food and make a call?

Visit the "Hafengeburtstag" or go home early...

What else do you need to know?

You'll be able to meet up to 6 strangers, depending on your choices.

Use your time wisely, because you can't meet nor see everything on the way.

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Official Trailer

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Join DISCORD to discuss the demo with others! Exchange about the ROs, the different paths, achievements and your MC!

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For typos, bug reports and other feedback, please send a DM. Thanks a bunch and enjoy!

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@interact-if

#if game #skateboarding if #if wip #paved in ashes #interactive fiction #interactive novel #demo drop #wip demo #if demo #demo release #cog wip #interactive fiction wip #choice of games

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nemo-writes · 3 months ago

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𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter four

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: jack’s feelings for you grew in the dusk. then, a whispered incident shatters the stillness, and he realizes too late that something’s already broken.

⤿ warning(s): none

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 1.8k

Jack first saw you exactly four years ago during shift‑change—him coming in for the ER night grind, you stalking out after twelve hours in Surgical with three lunch boxes stacked like ammo. Two interns are nipping at each other’s heels until you raise a single finger; the quarrel dies in mid‑air. He watches, amused, then watches again a few minutes later when those same interns turn up in the break room wolfing down a mouthful of poppy-seed muffins that smell like pure comfort.

“Who baked that?” he asks.

They point after you with crumbs on their cheeks and fingers: a hard‑headed nurse from Surgical.

He notices you in passing—but the meeting comes much later, high above the noise.

It is barely dawn, once again shift‑change o’clock. As usual, he takes the stairs to the roof for a hit of cold air before plunging into his ER night. You are already there, arms folded on the railing, watching the river steal the first light. He almost turns back, but you don’t glance over, and the quiet feels too good to waste. So he stands a dozen paces away, breathing steam into the sky. Neither of you speaks. Five minutes later the freight elevator clangs below and you disappear down the stairwell, a ghost in gray.

That becomes routine: his night beginning where your day ends, both of you claiming the same ten minutes of sky. At first it is silence—two strangers dividing the dawn. Then a nod. Then, on a morning whipped by sleet, you mutter, “Coffee? Again?” Jack snorts, raises his styrofoam cup, and admits it is sludge. You offer no sympathy, only a sideways grin that feels like permission.

Conversations creep in. You talk about nieces who mail you science‑fair photos, about Jack’s improbable knack for fixing malfunctioning IV pumps, about cilantro storage and the best pierogi on the South Side. He learns you feed residents and med students like stray cats. You learn his leg squeaks in the rain and he deals with it by over‑tightening the socket and cursing under his breath. That way, the roof becomes neutral ground, a borderland between the hospital’s fluorescent chaos and the city’s slow river.

Jack falls for you in increments—not all at once, not with fire, but in the way late sun warms cold bones.

The first time is maybe a dry joke you lob over your shoulder in passing. The second, the way your eyes soften when a helicopter banks in low, shadows flashing across your face as you pause mid-chat. And after that, it’s everything.

He hasn’t let himself feel something like this in a long time. Not since… and even that name, even the memory, doesn’t ache like it used to—but it has left behind a hollowed-out space where nothing has taken root since. There have been flings, sure. Company here and there, something easy and understood, but nothing that lasts beyond the night or the need. He hasn’t wanted anything to last.

Until you, that is.

And so, he begins hinting—carefully. A stupid pun scrawled in the margin of a half-finished sudoku you’ve been grumbling over all day. A couple of lumpia he manages to snag—somehow, without losing a limb—from Princess and Perlah’s fiercely guarded monthly stash. A quiet confession, offered one chilly morning, that sunrise feels less sharp with company. Each gesture small, deliberate, afraid that pressing too hard might crack the quiet, steady rhythm you both come to rely on.

Because the roof has become necessary.

And still, he can’t lie to himself: the feeling scares him. The possibility of caring again, of wanting something that can’t be controlled or triaged or explained—it unmoors him a little. But it also makes him feel alive in a way he hasn’t let himself feel in years. You make the hours between dusk and dawn feel less like a stretch of survival and more like something to look forward to.

And that… that is terrifying. But it is also good. Very good.

Then, four dusks in a row, you don’t show.

On the eve of the fifth night, he types a message he doesn’t plan to send: Haven’t seen you on the roof. Everything okay?

Ten minutes tick by before your reply arrives: I’m alright—just busy. See you tomorrow?

Something is off, and it isn’t the hour. He fills his thermos anyway and snags a terrible slice of cafeteria pound cake—knowing you’ll roast him for it if you ever find out—and promises himself that if dawn doesn’t bring answers, he’ll start asking better questions.

For now, he simply shoots back: Works for me. Sunrise tea?

And you, a simple but earnest confirmation: Sunrise tea.

Jack can be reckless, but war zones and widowhood have taught him this: when the strongest person in the room starts acting skittish and absent, you step closer and keep watch—especially if the room is a rooftop at sunrise, and the person is the nurse who once turns five minutes of shared silence into the best part of his day.

. . .

He arrives at the hospital, stepping through the double doors with his usual resolute gait, one hand hooked casually under the strap of his tactical backpack. His expression is calm, composed, shaded by that habitual, guarded optimism he wears for years.

But something is off.

It’s not loud. In fact, that’s what makes it strange. The usual din of residents bickering over charting, wheelchairs squealing across tile, interns nervously chugging coffee—muted. Not gone, just… held back, like the The Pitt is holding its breath.

Jack’s eyes scan the room, already sharpening beneath the calm. He catches sight of Dr. Ellis—one of his best senior residents—cutting across the ER with purposeful steps. Not rushed, not panicked. But something close to tight. Her face is unreadable, grim where it’s usually brisk.

“Jack,” she says as she reaches him. No Dr. Abbot, no pat on the arm, no idle quip. Just a quiet, urgent gesture for him to follow. “Come with me for a sec.”

His brow lifts, but he doesn’t ask questions. Not when she’s looking like that.

They weave past triage, through a set of doors into the cramped staff room. The door clicks shut behind them, and instantly the world narrows. The light feels a little too bright. The hum of the fridge too loud.

Jack leans against the counter, arms folded, expression even. “Alright,” he says, not unkindly. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

Parker doesn’t answer right away. She shifts, visibly uncomfortable. No sarcasm. No smirk. Just that rare, uncertain edge Jack only sees when things are about hit the fan.

“Something’s wrong up at Surgical,” she says finally. “Trauma Surgery, specifically.”

Jack doesn’t move, but his gaze sharpens. The inside of him goes still. You work Surgical long enough that his mind jumps without permission.

“What do you mean?” he asks, his voice steady. “Is it about a patient? A case?”

Parker shakes her head. “No. It’s personal. It’s… her.”

She doesn’t say your name. She doesn’t have to. The second she says it—her—Jack knows. The knot that’s been building for days, through missed rooftop meetings and clipped, careful texts, cinches tight, pressing into his ribs like a vice.

Of course he’s heard the way people talk. The way the nurses elbow each other when he walks past. Even Parker, just now, had paused like she expected him to flinch at the mention of you.

But Jack doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t correct anyone, either. Let them talk.

It’s not that anything’s happened—not really. Not yet. But something’s there. Has been for a while now. He just doesn’t have the time or energy to pretend otherwise.

His jaw ticks, barely. He fights the instinct to reach for his phone, to scroll through that last short message—just tired—and see if it reads any differently now.

“She’s been dealing with something,” Parker continues, lower now. “Something bad. I don’t know the whole story. Not really. Nobody does, I think. But… word’s spreading fast.”

Jack doesn’t breathe, but he listens.

“She broke down in the middle of her shift. Not just a bad day. Panic—real panic. Security got called in. So did Gloria.”

The weight of it settles hard. He turns his eyes to a crack above the microwave. It’s been there for years, a small fracture in cheap cabinetry, but tonight it looks like a fault line.

“She alright?” he asks.

Parker gives a vague nod. “I think so. But here’s the thing—no one’s talking. I mean, not even the nurses.”

That gets his attention.

Parker goes on. “You know how they are. They could tell you what kind of gum a new hire chewed three floors down before HR finishes onboarding. But this? They’re locking it down. Close. Fierce. Like they’re closing ranks over her.”

Jack runs a hand down his face, slow. Subdued, yes—but not at peace.

“Do you know why?” Jack asks, voice low and even.

Parker hesitates, then shakes her head. “No. Not really. Just bits and pieces. Like I said, no one’s giving the full story. Not even the nurses, and you know how they are—usually you can’t get them to stop talking. But now? Radio silence.”

Jack watches her carefully. She’s being honest. He can tell.

“I can poke around,” Parker offers, almost reluctantly. “Ask some questions, feel out what’s being held back—if you want.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales, slow through his nose, as if weighing what kind of damage that might do. His fingers drum once against the thermos in his hand. Then he shakes his head, once.

“No,” he says. “Leave it. Maybe it’s not for the best.”

That stops her cold. She studies him, really looks—and the silence between them sharpens.

Because Jack never says leave it. Not when someone’s in trouble. And the line of his jaw, the way his shoulders lock down… that’s not calm. That’s containment. Worry wrapped so tight it’s just short of boiling over.

She doesn’t press. Not now.

Jack straightens, but his expression doesn’t change. If anything, it stills into something harder. More focused.

His name hasn’t come up, and that almost bothers him more. If you’d talked to someone—anyone—why not him? And now that’s too late. The missed rooftop meetings, the clipped texts, the careful way you said “I’m just tired.” It all slides into place with a sickening click.

He tugs his backpack strap a little tighter over his shoulder, eyes distant but burning behind the quiet.

“Thanks for letting me know,” he mutters. “Let’s get to work.”

Parker only nods. She doesn’t add or ask another thing.

And when they walk out of the staff room, there’s no storm in his step, no rush in his pace. But the tension radiating off him—quiet, coiled, dangerous—is enough to make two med‑students step out of his way without a word.

Something’s wrong. Someone’s hurt you. And someone else is going to regret it.

divider credit

#fanfiction #fanfic #the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt fanfic #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #dr. jack abbot #dr. jack abbot x reader #dr. jack abbot x you #female reader #nurse reader #older reader #small age-gap

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yoursjaeyun · 11 months ago

Text

𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬.

𝐩airing. bf!jay x fmr

𝐠enre. angst, fluff, suggestive ( tiniest bit ) | post-sex-argument kinda thing

𝐰arnings. not that many tbh… nicknames, lots of kissing, jay being clingy, lmk if i need to add more.

𝐰c. 1k+

𝐚/𝐧. yes i wrote another argument with jay drabble leave me alone pls . :)

you lie on your side, staring at the wall, the last remainders of anger still simmering in your chest. the sheets are tangled around your legs, sticky with sweat and other remnants of the night. you can feel jay's presence behind you, his warm body felt in sharp contrast to the lingering cold tension on your skin.

the argument keeps replaying in your mind like a stuck record. the raised voices and harsh words now seem pointless. your heart is knotted with frustration, and even though there's been a spark between you, your anger hasn't fully faded.

you hear jay shift behind you, the bed creaking under his weight. a moment later, his arm snakes around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. his breath is warm against the nape of your neck, but instead of comforting you, it only fuels your frustration. how can he be so calm? so casual? after everything that was said.

“still mad?” his voice is soft.

you bite your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. the last thing you want is for him to think that he can just brush everything under the rug with a few well-placed kisses and whispered apologies.

but jay has always had a knack for finding the cracks in your armor. his lips find the curve of your shoulder, trailing lazy kisses up your neck. you shiver despite yourself, your body betraying the anger still coiled in your chest.

“y/n,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a velvet caress that sends a shiver down your spine. “come on, baby, talk to me.”

you let out a sigh, your irritation slipping through in the sound. “i don’t want to talk to you right now.”

his lips pause in their journey up your neck, and you feel him pull back slightly. there’s a moment of silence, and you can practically feel the gears turning in his mind as he tries to figure out how to approach this. jay is many things—charming, witty, endlessly patient—but right now, you don’t want any of those things. you want him to understand how much he hurt you.

“i messed up. i shouldn’t have said those things. i’m sorry.” he says finally, his voice losing some of its playful edge.

you close your eyes, willing yourself not to cry. you’re still so angry, but there’s a part of you that hates feeling this way, hates the distance that’s grown between you two because of a stupid argument.

“you always do this,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “you say things you don’t mean, and then you act like everything’s fine. its not.”

there’s a pause, and for a moment, you think he might just drop it, let the silence stretch out between you like a chasm neither of you are brave enough to cross. but then he sighs, and you feel his arms tighten around you, pulling you closer.

“y/n, i’m sorry. i was stupid, and i said things i didn’t mean. i don’t want to lose you over something so dumb.” you could tell he regretted it now, especially by the tone of his voice.

you want to stay mad, to hold on to the anger a little longer, but it’s hard when he’s being like this—when he’s holding you like he never wants to let go.

but instead of responding, you push his arms away and slip out of bed, the cool air hitting your bare skin as you stand. without a word, you grab the discarded shirt from the floor and pull it over your head, barely covering yourself as you make your way toward the bathroom. you can feel jay's eyes on you, but you don’t turn around. you’re still too angry, too raw.

you hear him sigh behind you, a soft sound filled with frustration and regret. a moment later, his footsteps follow you, and before you even think to close the bathroom door, his arms are around your waist again, pulling you back against him. his lips find your neck, pressing soft, apologetic kisses to your skin.

“y/n, please,” he whispers, his voice laced with guilt. “this is the last thing i’d ever want to happen between us—” “you made it happen. this is your mess.” you cut him off.

you take your hands off of the edge of the sink, looking up at him from the mirror, trying to focus on anything but the feel of his lips against your skin, the warmth of his body pressed against yours. but it’s impossible to ignore the way your heart beats just a little faster when he’s this close.

“you can’t keep hurting me and then expect everything to be okay because you apologized,” you continue, your voice barely above a whisper. “it’s not that simple.”

“i know it’s not. but i love you, and i’ll do whatever it takes to make this right. just... don’t push me away.” he says, and there’s a tremor in his voice that makes your heart clench.

his words hang in the air, heavy with sincerity, and for a moment, you feel your anger slip away, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. you don’t want to fight anymore. you just want to be held, to feel like everything will be okay.

you stay silent, allowing jay to cling to you as you both begin to clean yourselves up. his hands are gentle as he helps, and the quiet between you is soothing, a way to ease the tension without words.

jay doesn’t push you for conversation, his presence a steady comfort as he quietly assists. he’s patient. the room slowly returns to its normal state, and the silence between you starts to feel less oppressive, more like a shared space where both of you can catch your breath.

finally, as you finish up and the room is back in order, jay breaks the silence. “do you want some tea before bed?” he asks softly, a hint of hope in his voice. “it can help you sleep better.”

you nod, the gesture small but meaningful. “yeah, that would be nice.”

jay’s face brightens with relief, and he moves to prepare the tea. you watch from the edge of the kitchen, the familiarity of his actions a comforting reminder of the normalcy you both seek. he works efficiently, filling the kettle, selecting your favorite tea, and letting the water come to a boil.

when the tea is ready, he brings a steaming cup to you. you take the cup from him, the warmth of the ceramic soothing against your cold fingers. jay settles beside you, his gaze attentive as you sip the tea slowly, savoring the calm it brings.

the room is quiet, the only sounds being the gentle clinking of the cup and the soft hum of jay’s breathing. he watches you with an unreadable expression as you finish your tea.

as you place the empty cup down, you finally turn to him, your eyes meeting his with a gentle smile. he waits, his gaze steady, and you can see the vulnerability in his eyes.

leaning in, you press a gentle kiss to his lips, the touch tender—and jay’s arms instantly wrap around you, pulling you close as he returns the kiss, a sigh of relief escaping him.

the kiss deepens, his lips moving in unison against yours as his hands slide up under your shirt, his touch firm but gentle. your arms wrapping around his neck as you both lose yourselves in the kiss.

you break the kiss, both of you breathless and flushed, and a soft giggle escapes your lips. jay’s eyes sparkle with such affection, and he pulls you into a warm embrace, holding you close as you snuggle against him.

“you’re cute when you’re mad,” he murmurs, his voice light and teasing.

“shut up,” you laugh, your voice muffled against his chest as you hug him tighter.

jay chuckles, his hands stroking your back in a soothing rhythm, until there was a little silence again, as if he was trying to find the right words to say. “i’m sorry, y/n. i really am.”

you look up at his lips again and only nodded, caressing his cheek with your thumb. “its okay, but if it happens again. there will be consequences.” you raise your eyebrows

“yeah? what kind of consequences?” he teases and you roll your eyes as he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “you’ll see,” you chuckle.

“i love you.”

“i love you too.”

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cheralith · 4 months ago

Text

— say all that you have to say.

oliver aiku — he says that the kiss that he gave you one evening "didn't mean anything", asking you to forget about it. but he has trouble believing his own words when you do act like it didn't happen, his heart heavy when you go back to treating him as just another friend. okay, so maybe it didn't mean anything to mean to him, but surely it had to mean something to you... right? (wc: 10.6k)

contains: fem!reader, she/her pronouns, jr manager!reader, misunderstandings, fluff, angst with comfort, aiku doesn't understand feelings, happy ending i prommy, not fully edited as of 03/23 a/n: trying out some new headers! are these ok? are the old ones better? lmk!!

“Coach is going to murder you.”

“I’ll let you give my eulogy then.”

Sendou snorts obnoxiously as Oliver buries his face in rough hands, groaning. The gigantic weight on his chest has yet to go away and unfortunately for U-20’s captain, he doubts it’s going to dissipate into thin air any time soon. Especially with how dense the tension in the room is now, everything in the world just seems to be against him right now.

His lips tingle a bit. Oliver puts a finger on the plushness of it, feeling another warmth rush to his cheeks when his mind flashes back to last night, the little incident involving their junior manager, who was also under the title of being their coach’s niece. If word got out about what happened between the two of you to him, Oliver was sure that he’ll lose his captain position that he’s worked towards in the blink of an eye…

… all because he couldn’t contain himself.

Alcohol is a funny thing. It’ll make you feel the high of a plethora of emotions in just a few hours the longer it stays in your system, restraints against the world’s expectations gradually disappearing and an arrogant confidence growing within oneself. Oliver likes to think of himself as a rather resilient person, one that knows his limits all too well, even when drunk. So what exactly took over him in that singular moment, he doesn’t know.

All he knows is that he doesn’t want to believe that what he did was from his own accord. That his actions were based on something other than impulse.

And he wasn’t even that drunk! He would’ve totally passed a sobriety test at the time if it was handed to him.

The more he tries to figure out a reason for his actions, the more Oliver comes to dead ends over and over again, and he thinks his headache is now caused by his overthinking rather than the remnants of his hangover.

Oliver leans back and throws an arm over his eyes, the bright lights making his eyes pulse. “Promise you won’t tell anyone else about this? I don’t want a shitstorm blowing up.”

Sendou slyly smiles, but hums regardless. “Yeah sure. Anything for my best bud.”

And in comes the rest of the U-20 team ready to change for practice, chattering about, seeping into the locker room one by one. Oliver hears them greeting their ace and captain, but he can’t be bothered to try and put in the effort to say a polite hello back given his current dilemma that he doesn’t know is going to get worse in a second,

Sendou, always having a slight knack for a kick of drama, juts his thumb at their disoriented captain.

“Oliver kissed (Y/N) yesterday night after karaoke, by the way,” he says casually as he examines his fingernails. “When he was dropping her off.”

Oliver sits up and gawks at the striker, Sendou only throwing a casual smirk at him—consider this payback for when Oliver whipped his wet towel at his rear yesterday a little too harshly.

Chaos ensues, clearly. The atmosphere within the locker room levels up by threefold, with his teammates scattering around him, question after question being thrown his way faster than he can blink. Neru shakes him like a saltshaker, desperate to try and get an answer out of him. Kitzunezato scolds him heavily like a mother to a child, demanding what overtook him to do something so reckless. Darai, the most level-headed out of all of them, even goes to pinch his brow and ask why he’d do such a thing towards their junior manager.

And that’s the thing. Even if he wanted to answer, it’ll all just come out in jumbles and clusters that can’t fit properly together no matter how hard he’ll try to fit them together. He didn’t know yesterday, he didn’t know this morning, and he doesn’t know now. Frankly, Oliver thinks that he might not have an answer for a while and he’ll be leaving not only his team, but himself in the dark for sometime. Maybe he deserves it, to wallow in his own worries, especially after doing something like that. It might give him time to properly analyze a headspace he hasn’t visited in sometime.

He stands up abruptly, silencing them at last. Inhale, exhale… inhale exhale… just to properly gain his proper semblance back again. Oliver then says something that’ll help shut them up for good, at least for the time being.

“I’ll say this once and I’ll say it once only,” he starts sternly as he looks at all of his teammates in the eyes to ensure his message gets across and to end the commotion. “Yes I kissed (Y/N), but we were drinking prior, neither of us were thinking properly. That’s what happens when you’re drunk—you get impulsive. Don’t think about it too hard. It didn’t mean anything. So let’s not dabble on this any longer and get to practice, yeah?”

He finishes his closing statement, shunning them and before they say anything, he claps his hands together to indicate everyone be quiet and prepare themselves for practice. Oliver’s austerity echoes through, seeing as how they all tighten their lips and start shuffling around the locker room. He sighs, shoulders dropping.

It didn’t mean anything…

The bitterness of the words sting his tongue, sourness spreading on his palette. When he swallows them, or at least attempts to, it almost… burns. Like the shots he consumed yesterday, they roughen his throat almost like a punishment, the words unwelcomed. An unease lingers about, clearly indicating that to him, something felt wrong about saying it.

His head says he’s right—that it was just a casual kiss. He greeted a lot of people like that when he was leaving, a signature almost. So really, there shouldn’t be a difference when it comes to you. He was just simply saying goodbye in his own style.

His heart, however…

The elevator’s gateway to the hallway has a slight hitch to it, one that the tip of your shoe grazes against as you step, or at least attempt to, out of it.

“Woah, watch your step,” Oliver warns when you yelp and begin falling forward, an arm catching your own to pull you back. “You’re only a couple feet away, don’t go dropping dead on me now.”

You laugh quietly, apologizing for your clumsiness. A warmth pulses through Oliver’s chest when he hears the whisper of a giggle, and it’s not because of all the booze he consumed earlier, either. “I’m sorry… I guess I’m just a little tired.”

Oliver quirks up a grin as he drags your arm over his shoulder to keep you steady. “Only a little? Says the one who kept yawning on the way here.”

“Not my fault,” you roll your eyes, a heavy fatigue in them that sags your eyelids slightly, “you guys were the ones that kept making a mess that I had to clean up constantly.”

“‘You guys’?” he feigns a hurt in his voice, a rawness starting to embed itself within it from the aftermaths of karaoke. “Don’t lump me in with those chumps. I at least helped you.”

You blow a stray piece of hair out of your face in annoyance, and when it does go out of the way like you desire, Oliver goes to tuck it behind your ear when you whine. “Whatever. You only did it ‘cause you’re the captain.”

He gives a boisterous laugh at that, one that may wake your neighbors up to your displeasure.

“In what way does being captain have to do with me being a decent person?” he guffaws. “What if I just wanted to help you out?”

“If you’re trying to get something out of me by doing so, fat chance,” you huff, pout forming on your lips that glisten a little brightly at him. “I could’ve taken care of it myself.”

He sighs with a grin, understanding that there may not be a way out of this conversation that doesn’t gain a win in his favor. You were quite stubborn and adamant, after all, a trait that made you a rather good manager to a bunch of boys who were just starting to get their acts together, never swaying to their bribes or pleas.

You start mumbling things to yourself suddenly, something about getting groceries and tomorrow’s breakfast plans, an incoherency running back and forth that Oliver listens somewhat intently to. He always liked it when you talked, since you often had to keep to yourself and just simply jot down notes in the shadow of your uncle—it gave him a sense of closeness to you to be able to have a conversation with you that didn’t involve the team.

“We’re here,” he chimes, head fuzzing a little when he reads the letters of your apartment. He lets go of your arm, letting you balance yourself on the doorframe as you rummage about your bag and fetch your keys. He has to fight a chuckle when he sees your keychains—he’s never been too familiar with the specific names of Sanrio characters, but he can tell you’re quite the fan of this specific little one by the many decorations that hang from the chain. Cute, he thinks.

Oliver watches as you fumble around trying to fit the key into its designated hole, your drunkenness making you a little more prone to mismeasures. When you begin to grow frustrated, he gently cups your hand that clutches your key in his and slowly leads it into the keyhole in a steady motion.

“There you go,” he murmurs, twisting your hand so the latch clicks as he notices how nicely your hand fits in his. A softness in his eyes seeps itself within when he stares at them connected.

You thank him quietly, body moving forward to enter your apartment and away from the shelter that is Oliver Aiku. A chill runs through him when you move from him, your body warmth no longer radiating onto him.

“Well…” you clutch the side of your apartment door, staring up at him, eyes a little wondrous. “This is where I leave you.”

Oliver scratches the back of his neck, trying to ignore the heaviness in his feet that seem to want to stay where they are. “Yeah, haha. Should start heading back soon.”

Your gaze softens and Oliver can feel his breath hitching when he sees a fondness swimming in it. A fondness just for him.

“Thank you for making sure I got home safely. It means… a lot.”

He likes the way you fidget a little bit, shy and meaningful. A side of you revealed to him that he hopes you’ve never shown anyone else.

“Of course, I’d hate for anything to happen to our precious manager.” he whispers, fingers twitching. “Also your uncle would have my head if something did, really.”

Shared laughter bounces between you both, a quiet understanding between you and him that your uncle was not a force to be reckoned with when it came to his niece.

You begin to close the door, indicating your leave was starting and that you wanted him to head home as soon as possible before the nightlife of the city really began to reach its heights. Oliver stills, something in his chest burning when he watches the door’s gap get smaller and smaller.

All it takes is that doe-like gaze you give him for him to lose a sense of himself.

“I’ll see you tomorrow th—!”

And Oliver, for whatever reason, dips his head towards you and gives the softest kiss he’s ever given to anyone to you.

A silk-like movement flows between your lips, synchronization naturally flowing. The warmth from earlier blooms in his chest, vining it through his body. Nothing but affection ebbs and flows within your lips and his, no other hidden intent behind his kiss other than the passion he’s harbored for you for the past few months you’ve been a part of his life.

You and him break away. Funny how a kiss lasting five seconds or so feels like it’s lasted a lifetime, because the clock has barely ticked. Even the incredulous stare you give each other lasts longer than your kiss.

You slice through the silence first.

“I–”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Oliver chokes out abruptly and turns on his heel towards the elevator, praying you don’t see the flush of red that he can feel rising at the tip of his ears.

He swallows thickly once he’s inside it, feeling your burning stare on his back when you gaze at him from the hallway. He doesn’t want to turn around, scared for what expression you may behold. Without looking, he presses the lobby button on the button-pad and seals his fate as the doors close.

… clearly wants to scream at him, wants him to face the music and grasp the reality of the situation.

But he can’t. Not when he has so much at stake.

Oliver gives a sigh audible only to him as he begins to exit the locker room, letting his thoughts from the locker room be left in the locker room and his execution plans for this practice taking over.

That is until he sees you standing outside, next to the door.

He jumps slightly, eyes widening when he sees how close your presence was to it. You hold two rolls of athletic tape in one hand, scissors in another. Your face lifts from the ground, flat lips you transform it into a smile that almost looks screwed on to reflect at him.

There was no way you had heard him, right? Not with such a thick wall separating the two of you.

He stutters, but you beat him to his own words.

“(Y/N)–”

“Hey there,” you greet a little too sweetly, “can you give this to Hayate, please? It’s for his shoulder.”

Oliver pauses, looking at the two items you hold out in front of him in your hands. He stares and blinks slowly at them, your words clearly delayed in his ears. He suddenly blinks hard and gains back his consciousness, and his vision focuses on the beige tape and scissors before him.

“Sorry, yeah,” he mutters and takes them from you, trying not to graze your palms in fear of your warmth scorching him. “Um… did you happen to–”

“Coach says you guys need to hurry up, by the way,” you cut him off again, smile still on your lips that when Oliver sneaks a glance at, feels that fizzy feeling on his own again. “He wants everyone to be out on the field in five.”

You give him a nod of acknowledgement, turn on your heel, and stalk off, leaving him alone in the corridor.

It was barely there… and if he were to blink, Oliver was sure that he would’ve missed it.

But it was there, the dejection on your face revealing itself when you took your mask off once he wasn’t in view.

Your figure just barely appears in his vision just as he turns his head, a sweat misting on his skin.

Just before you’re able to round the corner, Oliver grabs your shoulder and forces you to look at him.

“Hey,” he breathes, “can we talk?”

You give him that artificial smile again. Your eyes don’t move when you lift your lips almost forcibly and the emptiness within them remains. “Sure,” you reply simply.

Oliver scans his surroundings first, making sure there are no additional ears to hear this conversation; he doesn't want another storm swirling. Scornfully, he takes you to a more secluded corner, one that shadows itself with darkness to fully ensure no attention would be brought to you and him.

He only has five minutes until their break is done, so he supposes that he should just rip the band-aid off and get it over with. For the greater good.

“About yesterday,” he starts, scratching the back of his heating neck. “Listen, I’m sorry. What I did… it was just something I did accidentally ‘cause I was drunk. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable in any way.”

Oliver looks up and flinches at the blankness spread across your face. As though you’re unconvinced by his words. As though his words sound meaningless like the kiss he insists is.

You say nothing, just blinking honey-slow. Oliver takes the chance to try and say something, to take a jab.

“It’s just—I often say goodbye like that to people, y’know? Well, maybe less on the lips and more on the cheek and forehead,” he mutters, throat constraining a bit at the unnecessary add-ons. “You can ask any of the guys, I’m sure Sendou is sick of my shit, haha…”

He manages to get a monotone hum from you, a paced nod indicating his words were somewhat getting through to you.

Oliver purses his lips, trying to search for something in your empty stare. Anything will work, really, just something that he can grasp to get a feel of your emotions so he can plan how to go about this.

“I think that—”

“Is it true?” you cut him off, capturing his attention. Oliver raises his eyebrows and lets out a confused sound. “What you said in the locker room.”

Guilt seeps into him. So you did hear him, even through the concrete walls and iron door. He supposes such weighty words are bound to break through the barrier to get to you in some aspect or another.

“W-what did I say? What’d you hear?” he asks.

You challenge his gaze, something forcing him to look at you pulls him into you.

“That it didn’t matter,” you state simply. “That it didn’t mean anything.”

Oliver feels a heaviness on your shoulders when you echo his words through your own voice that he can’t detect the emotion of. He opens his mouth, trying to choose his words carefully, but it takes him a few seconds to gather his act.

“I—” he pauses, jaw gritting. Oliver fights the urge to hang his head in shame, forcing himself to look at you. Your gaze is testing; you really are their coach’s niece, given how there’s a similar pressure radiating off of you that mirrors your uncle. It’s waiting patiently, though with a certain standard in mind.

Oliver swallows thickly before spitting out a half-baked answer, one that adds another weight to his shoulders. Whether he believes it or not… that didn’t matter. Because he ultimately says something that will better the trajectories of tomorrow, not something that will entertain his own wants. He can’t afford to do that right now… not with you, at least.

“Yes,” he says, the familiar bitterness from before scattering on his tongue again. “Sorry. I really didn’t mean anything else by it other than goodbye. I hope that I didn’t give off a wrong impression of some kind.”

You go still again, motionless.

And then your face cracks a smile, the same uncharacteristically wide one that doesn’t seem to fit your face quite right.

“Okay,” you state simply with an assured nod, sighing in what seems to be relief. “Just wanted to make sure so we don’t run into misunderstandings. Thanks for clearing it up, Captain.”

Oliver thins his lips at your response. You don’t seem to be too phased at his words—unlike the other girls that came before you whose faces would contort into irritation, sadness, or confusion. He was ready to tackle all of those emotions he’s grown familiar with, but the content shown on your face is unlike anything he has ever seen.

And he doesn’t quite know what to make of it.

“So,” he starts slowly, “what should we do now? Or, what do you want to do?”

Your head lilts to the side. “Well, you said to forget about it… so, let’s do just that. If that’s what you think is best.”

Your words feel strange when they register in his mind, but Oliver gives a quick nod.

“Yeah. Let’s just… forget about the entire thing. For the better of us and the team. And also so your uncle doesn’t kill me.” Oliver attempts to crack a joke to ease the tension in the air, but he doesn’t think this is the time. Not when you look like that.

A familiar laughter is nowhere to be heard, and your smile feels unsettling the more he looks at it. It doesn’t feel like it’s yours, but rather a stranger’s. But you keep it on your lips regardless, showing amiability of some kind.

“Alright,” you nod. “Then let’s agree to never talk about this again? Go back to our normal life?”

You put your hand out for him. Oliver takes it, your palm so oddly cold it makes him shiver a bit. You and him shake on the agreement, hand in hand, eye to eye.

The deal is settled. History has been erased.

There was no kiss between you and him. Nothing has happened.

All is well…

… he thinks.

A week passes by.

You and Oliver have gone back to the way things were before instantly, talking and chatting just as friends like you always have been. He still receives the warning glares from your uncle to not get too close to you, but he’s able to bypass them just as he had been doing since you first got here on behalf of your university.

He reflects on that day fondly. How awkward and quiet you were when you first introduced yourself, stating that you would be interning as a junior manager on behalf of your major for their season. How Oliver was the first person to make you feel truly comfortable without having to worry about your uncle’s wrath, how conversations began to flow within you and him more easily rather than just the typical morning greetings and after-practice wrap-ups.

When he looks at you now, you’re akin to a flower. One that has bloomed in the right environment as time passes comfortingly. You’ve grown to be friends with everyone on the team, his teammates holding you to a high regard that mirrors Oliver’s own status. It took awhile, like everything does, but you’ve blossomed. You show more of your true nature nowadays as a result.

He thinks that the new hairstyle that you adorn today is quite cute, fitting for your face. He especially likes the little clips of your favorite Sanrio character that he can’t ever seem to remember the name of that clip back your hair a bit to fight against the warming weather.

“—ku.”

He likes that lip color on you that kind of matches with your outfit right now, a little detail he’s noticed you do sometimes.

“Aiku.”

Oh, that bracelet is new. Looks expensive, too. He likes all those charms that hang off it, the metal clinking harmoniously to him—

“Aiku!”

The snap of your fingers and your voice finally breaks him out of his trance of admiration. He spurs, blinking rapidly. The giggles of his teammates float about from where you all are on the field.

“You good, man?” you ask.

“Huh?” he questions for a bit, trying to remember his current predicament. Oh yes, that’s right. The after-practice wrap-up where you summarize all their coach’s analysis to them and discuss plans moving forward. “Right, yeah. Uh huh.”

You roll your eyes, sighing and going back to your tablet. “As I was saying, Captain,” you throw a narrow-eyed glance at him, a doubt in his beholding of his title visible, one that makes him chuckle. “Try to sharpen up your skills as best as possible. I think it’s advised for you guys to showcase the best of your capabilities rather than dwell on your weak points— especially with how close the Blue Lock v. U-20 Match is.”

With that, you dismiss them, his teammates giving a loud thank you to you. Oliver is last to follow, with you tagging along behind him just before he enters the locker room.

“Hold on, Captain,” you call for him, tugging on his sleeve. “We’re still on for Shibuya later, right?”

Oliver nods affirmingly at you. “Yep. Need to get some new cleats before the game.”

“Oh okay,” you throw him a thumbs up, “but uh. Sendou won’t be able to make it. Says he’s got some sort of dinner with his brother. You okay with it just being us two?”

Oliver’s eyes widen, purple and green revealing themselves in full in a state of mild surprise. Originally, you guys were supposed to go as a trio, with Sendou wanting some new earrings for his piercing and you wanting to look at a new brand’s collection. But with the former out of the question… Oliver realizes it’d just be you and him.

Something in him stirs.

“Yeah,” he says a little too simply, trying to fight a grin rising on his lips. “That’s all good by me.”

You pat his arm affirmingly when you nod. “Alright then. I’ll meet you outside the facility’s entrance. Rest up while you still can.”

With that, you take your leave and throw him a friendly wave over your shoulder. Oliver watches as you exit the field a little too intently, your perfume lingering in the air.

He had been with you alone on some occasions, since he was the captain and it wasn’t uncommon for him to be called in privately, but it was almost always soccer-related. And the few times it wasn’t, it was often with the team like karaoke or a group dinner. So, he supposes that this would be the first time ever that you and him have actually hung out as… friends?

Friends.

Right. Yes, that’s what you were to him. Just friends. You’re a friend, and this is a friend-oriented shopping hangout.

Oliver trails back into the locker room, ignoring the tingling on his lips.

“Those are nice,” he says when he peeks over your shoulder, watching as you examine a pair of earrings. “Pretty.”

You give him a glance from the mirror, sighing when you put them down and return them into their little slot. “Nah, I don’t really suit chunky earrings. Would like to, though.”

Strange how you say that, considering Oliver thought they looked quite nice on you—just like how every single clothing item you’ve been trying on has been.

“I think they look alright,” he remarks, plucking them out of the display stand and holding them to your face again. “Yeah, they look fine to me?”

“You don’t get it ‘cause you’re a guy,” you give a light titter, shaking your head. “Plus they’re a little out of my budget.”

Oliver goes to glance at the price and doesn’t really think much of it. Maybe his perspective is a little skewed, considering that your salaries as an intern versus a professional soccer player were quite spaced out.

“Hm,” he mumbles, “want me to buy them for you, then?”

You gawk, a choked sound coming out of your throat. “What?! No. I-I wouldn’t wear them anyways, I don’t think they’d look good. You’d just be wasting your money.”

“Well I think they look good, so I’m sure everyone else thinks they’ll do,” Oliver playfully cajoles to your dismay. “Maybe just step out of your comfort zone.”

“I know when to step out of it,” you groan as you stalk over to another area of jewelry. “I just don’t think those specifically will do me justice.”

Oliver hums quietly, still examining the earrings from his distance. A store assistant suddenly appears from behind, a smile on her face when she shares Oliver’s view of you.

He jumps a little when she makes her presence known. “I think your boyfriend is right, ma’am. I think those earrings will look lovely on you, really,” she chimes.

You pivot your attention to her and chuckle mirthlessly, not really convinced by her words that you’re sure she’s adding sugar to help you buy it. “Haha, thank you, but I’m okay… also,” you gesture to you and Oliver. “We’re not dating. We’re just friends.”

Oliver winces at the word. It takes a small jab at his chest.

“Oh! My apologies,” the assistant excuses. “Sorry, you two just looked so lovely together—my mind just automatically assumed!”

You reassure her that there were no worries with another fleeting laugh, one that’s a little too dismissive of her assumption. “No worries.”

You excuse yourself and stalk off to another branch, Oliver watching you from his peripheral vision as you examine the bracelet section of the department store. He supposes that looking into the mirror at oneself for too long can disfigure a person’s self image—since he doesn’t seem convinced that you think you look bad in the earrings. When he can detect you’re out of view, he murmurs the same assistant over.

“Would you mind wrapping this up for me?” he asks quietly, sliding over the pair of earrings to her. “Preferably somewhere out of her view.” He goes to jut his thumb over his shoulder, indicating your presence from behind him. “I’d just like to get them for her as a gift.”

The store assistant draws her gaze over to you, ignorant to their interaction when you admire the articulation of a specific necklace in the display case. She nods affirmingly, a knowing glint in her eyes.

“You know, we have a special gift box for couples for jewelry, if you’re interested,” she inquires, making Oliver’s eyes widen. “It’s a white velvet box to help properly store the jewelry.”

“Oh, haha,” he laughs, attempting to remind her of your current status with each other. “We’re not—”

“I know,” she affirms, winking at him, as if she knew something he didn’t. “I’m just saying.”

The assistant smiles ever so politely. Oliver pauses. He throws a look over his shoulder to see if you were still there, far enough away from him and sure enough, you’re bouncing about the display cases, admiring all the jewelry clearly out of your budget.

He softens when he sees your eyes sparkle at a specific bracelet, wondrous and amazed.

Oliver turns back to the assistant, who grins at him.

“Sure, why not?”

And just before he drops you off at your apartment when the day is done, he quietly slips the white velvet box into your bag without a word, hoping that you’ll take the chance and wear them on his behalf.

“Nice earrings, where’d you get them?” Oliver asks the following day when practice wraps up again. The same earrings he had seen yesterday were now adorned on your ears, glinting at him curiously when he pokes at them.

You turn away from him and focus on your tablet, a heat rising on your cheeks. “Found them in the garbage.”

He laughs aloud at your evident embarrassment of your acceptance of his gift. But that’s okay; he figures you’re still trying to get used to them, so he’ll let you take your time. Maybe you’ll eventually see what he sees.

“You still coming to karaoke?” he inquiries when he helps you clean up the team’s remnants of play on the field. He feels a little hesitant asking you such a thing, even though it was quite often the team went out for karaoke to ease up after practice. The lingering tension between you and him from the aftermath of last time has long dissipated, but there’s always that chance it may come back to haunt him.

“Yeah but,” you groan when you throw some sweat-soaked towels in the bin, “I’m not staying long. I’ve got some homework to finish up on, so no drinking for me tonight.”

The words come faster out of his mouth before he can catch them—reflex taking over consciousness.

“D’you want me to walk you home later then?”

Oliver flinches. You blink at him, eyes wide, like he has the audacity to say such a thing after the incident.

But the way your eyes soften so gently at him makes him rethink his assumption and he feels a relief that flows in his chest when you give him a grateful smile. One that he’s quite accustomed to, one that you only give him.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Okay Sendou, your turn!” Neru exclaims and thrusts a microphone in the striker’s hands.

The karaoke has long been forgotten, now replaced with just a casual truth or dare game since everyone’s voice has finally been roughened up a little too much after shouting and yelling during practice. Oliver has had to admit three truths and two dares so far, with his last dare being to prank call their coach from a payphone in a funny voice and ask him if his refrigerator was running and to go catch it.

He’s sure that if their coach finds out it was him, he’ll get an ass-whooping later. But it’s okay. He got to see you laugh, so it was worth it.

“Alright, truth or dare, bud!” Neru announces from his own microphone, putting Sendou on the spot.

“Uh,” he stammers, clearly aware of the heights he’ll have to go if he chooses either. “... dare.”

“Yikes! Wrong choice!” Neru chimes gleefully to Sendou’s horror. He attempts to take back and choose truth when he sees the wicked smile spreading across Neru’s face, but it’s too late. “For your dare, you must chew a piece of chewed-up gum stuck underneath the table!”

“That’s so fucking nasty, Neru?!” Sendou shrieks to everyone’s bemusement. “I might die from that!”

“Ugh, you’re so boring, this is why no girls like you,” Neru retorts to Sendou’s displeasure. “Fine then, I’ll show mercy. Show us the last thing you saved to your phone from your camera roll.”

Sendou sighs in relief and pulls out his phone to his camera roll, only to gape in horror and flush with embarrassment. His reaction pulls excitement from everyone, Niou and Wakatsuki going to tackle him before he can hide it from view, Wakatsuki obtaining it and laughing hysterically as he shows off what’s on Sendou’s screen.

A rather raunchy picture of one of his favorite Hollywood actresses displayed on his phone, making some people whistle at Sendou’s pervertedness. You sigh upon seeing it, remembering that you were in a room filled with boys that were just crawling out of teenagerhood and that the female body to them was still just something taboo to them.

Sendou snatches his phone back, grumbling to himself. Neru then focuses his gaze onto you, eyes shining with anticipation to your apprehension. You squirm in your seat.

“Manager,” Neru sings and motions to you. “Your turn! Truth or dare!”

All of the team focuses their attention to you, wondering if you’ll finally pick dare after so long of choosing truth, but as always, you go to choose the safety of truth.

“Boringgg,” Neru drags, but goes on to ask his question anyway. “Fine then. Who was your first kiss?”

Oliver can feel a few of his teammates sneak a glance at him, a clear elephant appearing in the room. But he fixes his stare into your figure, curious about your answer and not wanting to cause more drama.

You laugh hastily, scratching your cheek.

“Actually…” you begin shyly, “I haven’t actually had my first kiss yet. I haven’t gotten the chance yet.”

Silence fills the space. Most of your other truths have stirred reactions of all kinds so far, but everyone draws a blank at your answer. Neru flickers his gaze at Oliver and sees nothing but dread written across his captain's face.

Despite the fact that everyone knows it’s a lie, seeing as how Oliver had admitted to them a week prior that he did kiss you, everyone (but Oliver) nods and nervously tells you that you’ll have it one day, patting your back in reassurance. Maybe their captain was lying? Maybe he just simply kissed you on the forehead or on the cheek? Regardless of what they hypothesize, clearly it wasn’t any of their business to try and intrude on, and Neru moves onto his next victim.

Oliver, however, fixes where he is, too filled with trepidation to try and move. Yes, you and him agreed to talk about the matter ever again and to pretend it never happened, but Oliver didn’t think you would take it to such a height that you erased what was your first kiss from existence. Ultimately meaning… he gave you your first kiss, and he asked you directly to pretend like it never happened. He asked you to pretend your first kiss never happened, that it was an accident and that it didn’t matter.

He’s been told that he’s an asshole from all the girls he’s collected over the years, but in the current heat of the moment, he truly feels like the title bestows him.

The clock moves fast in the moment he contemplates his thoughts, and he feels you tapping his shoulder suddenly. He looks up and sees the warmth of your gaze looking down at him, your coat all buttoned up and bag hooked on your arm.

“You ready to go? I gotta get home soon.”

“Oh,” Oliver steadies himself, not noticing the glances his teammates give him when he fixes himself up. “Yeah, sorry. I’ll be there in a second, you can wait by the lobby, if you’d like.”

With a nod of your head, you say goodbye to everyone and whisk yourself out. When they can’t hear your footsteps anymore, everyone scrambles toward their captain.

“You said you kissed her!” Sendou accuses.

“What, did you just kiss her somewhere else other than her lips or something?” Kitzunezato inquiries with a furrowed brow. “C’mon man, you can’t insinuate something like that so casually.”

“I’ll talk about it later,” Oliver mumbles as he zips up his coat. “Continue without me. I’m gonna walk her home.”

The questions in the air still linger behind him when he exits the room to meet you at the lobby, a casual smile on your face as if nothing happened, as if you weren’t noticing the tension he’s feeling.

Oliver cracks a sheepish grin back. At least, what he can hope for is a grin.

The walk back is quiet. You walk a little bit in front of him while he trails behind. Oliver wants to say something, but he feels as though he shouldn’t. But… something gnaws at him. Something that yearns for an answer, even though he knows he’ll lose sleep over whatever you give him.

So he asks you, right before you enter your apartment. A ghost of last week’s past in the air, haunting him.

“(Y/N),” he starts slowly, his eyes filled with self-contempt. “I was your first kiss, wasn’t I?”

Your grip around the doorknob tightens. He can see a slight tick in your jaw when his question comes out. A bitten lip is hidden from view, but you’re quick to replace it with that same uncanny smile he’s not familiar with seeing.

“I haven’t had my first kiss yet,” you say simply when you turn to him.

Oliver pauses, confused. “But last week, we—”

“I haven’t had my first kiss yet,” you repeat again, a strength to your words that silences him.

Oh.

He takes a step back. He sees what you’re doing. You and him agreed to pretend like the kiss never happened, and clearly here you were, upholding your side of the agreement. Who was he to try and break the contract you and he made?

A silence draws on his tongue, something otherworldly telling him not to say anything more to not worsen the situation. You allow him a brief moment of quiet to say something, and when he doesn’t, when he’s faltered to nothing, you take advantage of the moment.

“Thanks for walking me home. I’ll see you tomorrow, Aiku,” you mumble quietly, shutting your door and leaving him dumbly standing in front of your door.

Oliver stays there for a bit, wanting to knock on your door and ask you to tell him without a filter if he was your first, if he stole your first kiss and shoved it right back into your face. But he knows better.

So he turns and walks away, letting it be if that’s what you wanted.

Apparently, you have a date today.

You didn’t actually say anything, but the rumor floats about after Hayate overheard you discussing some plans with someone on the phone, a giddy smile on your face.

“She literally said ‘I can’t wait to see you’! That’s totally telling she has a date with some guy,” Hayate exclaims.

Darai is unconvinced. “Or she could just be talking to a friend or family member. Let’s be realistic, with how busy she is as a student and a junior manager, I highly doubt she has the time to go around and date.”

Oliver is quiet in his little corner of the locker room, his ears listening despite not facing his team. He doesn’t want them to see the heaviness in his eyes when Hayate first told them about it. He doesn’t want to hear more, but… he can’t help but indulge, irritably curious to see who this person was if he did exist at all.

Neru agrees with him, his eyes dancing over to Oliver’s figure. “Yeah. Let’s not assume anything. It’s her business anyways.”

“But what if this guy takes her away from us?!” Hayate babbles, worry evident on his face. “We’re gonna lose our precious manager! Oliver, surely you’ve got a say in this!”

A vexation takes over Oliver when Hayate brings up the possibility of you removing yourself from the team. His normally-balanced emotions suddenly unstable for a fleeting moment, making him shut his locker door a little too harshly than normal, making everyone in the locker room flinch at how the room shakes a bit from his strength.

He draws a shaky breath, regaining his balance again before he turns and faces them with his normally calm demeanor slapped onto his face. Don’t mind the small vein on his neck.

“Neru is right,” he says simply. “Let’s not meddle our heads into our manager’s outside business unless it revolves around soccer.”

With that, he leaves the locker room first, before they can stir up anything that may irritate him any further.

You leave an hour earlier than normal, wishing your uncle goodbye during one of their matches. Oliver, from the middle of the field, can just barely see your uncle wagging a finger at you and the words “be safe” being read from his lips. He watches as you quietly exit the field, not noticing how Niou had passed the ball to him.

“Aiku!” he shouts harshly. “The ball!”

“Oh shit,” Oliver hisses, taking notice of the black and white blur at his feet and how close Darai was to taking it. “Whoops. Sorry!”

Curiosity kills the cat, they say. Then collar up Oliver right there and then if he is one, since his curiosity takes over him when he asks out of impulse why did you leave early to his coach when they wrap up practice.

“She’s got a date with my coworker’s son,” Hoichi grunts, a clear disapproval of the date on his face. He supposes that’s what’s bound to come to him seeing as how Hoichi himself has daughters, and this may be a routine he’s grown used to. “My cute baby niece… she’s too grown up!”

Hoichi goes to sob into a handkerchief to Oliver’s contempt and he leaves his coach to wallow in his sadness… before he gets more second-hand embarrassment.

Oliver drags a hand down his face at the confirmation of the rumor. He keeps it to himself, however, when he tidies himself up in the locker room as everyone stirs about, knowing that something like this would surely ensue chaos amongst the men. But it’s a secret he’s burdened with keeping all to himself, the blatant fact that you may belong to someone else soon if this date went well.

He bids everyone goodbye, head hung low when he pictures you all pretty and dolled up for someone he thinks doesn’t deserve it. Maybe you’ll be flaunting one of your signature hair clips, or perhaps the earrings he bought for you. It’s been two weeks since he bought them and you’ve been wearing them more often, after all.

The walk back to his house begins in a quiet restaurant district of the city. He’s used to the hustle and bustle of lines outside some well-known restaurants, everyone donned in semi-formal wear with friends or partners in line. It’s not a place where a singular guy like him seems to blend in with.

He nearly rounds the corner from one restaurant in particular, but stops himself in his tracks when he registers what he sees.

You sit alone at the table nearest to the window, a poorly-disguised disappointment spread across your face when the waiter comes over and gestures to a couple that’s waiting for a table amidst all the filled ones in the restaurant. Oliver watches as you apologize to him and gather your stuff, exiting the restaurant shortly after the waiter gives his condolences.

You carry yourself out of the restaurant and Oliver’s breath hitches when he sees how you’ve gathered yourself up for tonight in full. You wear only a blouse and a skirt to match, heels that make you seem a little taller, to seem more confident, though now it’s nowhere to be found given your solemn features. The wind bites almost harshly, making you shiver from the chilled air.

Oliver is quick to unzip his jacket and his feet carry him to you before he can process where he’s going… what he’s doing. He drapes the thick fabric over your shoulders, the sudden warmth from seemingly nowhere making you look up.

He sees a framing of tears in your eyes that you’re trying not to let fall, and you manage to catch them just in time when you widen your eyes at his sudden appearance.

“Captain,” you greet softly with a fake smile, clearly taken aback.

Your voice cracks along the way when you say it. Oliver’s eyes soften when he registers the grasp of the current situation, understanding why you clutch your stomach and why you look dejectedly defeated.

“I’ll take you home,” he murmurs tenderly, an arm around you to shield you from the cold. “We can get something for you to eat along the way.”

Oliver hopes the sandwiches and ramen he got at the nearby convenience store will ease your growling stomach. He would have treated you for a better meal, one that isn’t loaded with insane amounts of sodium and preservatives, but it was clear to him that you just wanted to go home after a failed date.

He watches quietly when you insert your keys into the keyhole of your apartment door, but raises his brows when you refuse to twist it to unlock the latch, going to lay your forehead against the coolness of the door instead. A stillness overtakes your body, seemingly paralyzing you to the spot.

Oliver stays quiet, not wanting to interfere with… whatever it is you’re doing. He just watches from his position near the wall, not wanting to leave until you enter inside the safety of your apartment.

You close your eyes, letting out a stuttering breath to try and compose yourself. Don’t fall apart now, you tell yourself in your head, you’ve been doing so well so far. Just wait until he’s out of view… then drown yourself in your tears.

But your lips warble. Your chest hurts—you feel a pang every time you reflect back on your mountain of texts asking your date if he was still coming, the empty seat in front of you collecting dust for nearly an hour. You bite your lip harshly to try and distract yourself from the sadness that flows through your veins, but to no avail does it work, because you can just feel the river of quiet tears streaming down your cheeks. The plastic bag of food falls miserably on the floor.

Oliver lifts his head up when he hears a soft sniff. He thinks it’s just from the cold, but when he can see the glisten of tears from your closed eyes, he stiffens.

“Hey,” he starts softly, a hand going to rub your back to attempt comfort. “You alr—”

“Three times…” you mumble. “Once is just by chance… the second time is maybe a coincidence… But three times? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

He doesn’t really know what to say. He’s not sure if he should, really, considering he has absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, though context comes shortly after without him having to ask.

“Being stood up three fucking times in a row… how embarrassing,” you lament, a few tears falling from your chin and onto the carpet.

Oh. He sees the picture more clearly now. Oliver takes a step back to give you space. So this wasn’t your first date, but your third so far of the season. Or, at least an attempt at one. To be stood up and left in the dark three times is what no one wants, as he’s experienced it before and understands the looks of pity from strangers does no good in such a situation, like the one the waiter gave you before he asked you to leave.

“Shit, is there something wrong with me that I don’t know about or—?!” you draw a breath, turning your somber visage to Oliver suddenly, as if he had the answer.

He doesn’t. Or maybe he does; it’s just not the one you expect. Because although he doesn’t know what’s wrong with you specifically, he thinks there’s nothing wrong in general. Not with you.

You’re nothing less of kind and understanding, always attentive to each of the players’ needs. Oliver thinks of you as headstrong, determined to always push people to the best of their capabilities without degrading their integrity. But at the same time, you’re easy to be with, for everyone could show their authentic self around you without much filter needed.

He had always thought of you as beautiful as well, ever since the beginning from that day his coach introduced you. If anything, your beauty had bewitched him in the first place, and he’s sure it’s had the same effect on others—he even remembers Sendou’s cheeks being humiliatingly pink when you had talked to him for the first time.

So he doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with you. At least not from his angle.

“Not at all,” he whispers, trying to bring you a sense of peace.

He expects your eyes to soften, your lips to curl—but they do neither. Instead, your gaze hardens at him unexpectedly, one that makes him swallow thickly.

“Funny how the guy that told me to forget my first kiss is saying that,” you spit cruelly, reddened eyes boring into him.

Oliver recoils and takes his hand away from you, giving you space. So he was a part of his too, huh? He supposes that he’s not one to try and say something as comforting as what he said when he was just like the others, if not… worse, considering he had kissed you in the flesh and abandoned you all in the same breath, leaving you in the dust.

You lift your head off the door and face him, a tired look in your eyes.

“I know we said to never talk about it again,” you mutter, “but I think I deserve to know. Tell me, Aiku, was it something I did? Did I say something that made you kiss me? Did you want something? Shit, did my breath smell?”

The words he wants to say knot in his throat again. He opens his mouth, but closes it when he realizes he can’t conjure anything right now. So he just simply stares at you with a longing he hopes you can see.

Clearly not. You grow frustrated at his silence. “That’s not fair. I need an answer. I don’t care what it is, just tell me something at least,” you plead.

A silence whirs by. And again, Oliver cannot come up with a proper response that feels honest, that feels whole. You’d settle for a lie at best, but even that, he can’t come up with.

Your eyes water when he just continues to stay quiet, lips sealed and locked from his opinion of you. His silence is more suffocating than whatever you want him to give, the worst of your thoughts embedding themselves even further in your mind.

You give him your last breath. And if he doesn’t respond to this one, you’ll leave him be and enter into your apartment for the night.

“Was it because it was me that you kissed?” you ask sternly, heart shattering by each second that goes by without another sound. “Did you regret kissing m—”

“No.”

Oliver says his first word to you, clear and true, finally finding something from the knot of words lumped from his throat. He lifts his shameful head up to look at you with an earnest he’s found in himself.

Regret isn’t what he felt in the aftermath… it was doubt.

Doubt of his feelings for you. Doubt that he could live up to your standards. Doubt that he could treat you as well as you deserved.

He told you to forget about the kiss because he doubted himself too heavily that he’d be able to be a person worth deserving of your time, because if he wasn’t, he didn’t want the remnants of his thoughts of a chance to exist in fear of looking like a fool.

Oliver was doubtful of the meaning of the kiss between you and him, not finding a clear answer of why he did it and what it may have meant to you, so instead of trying to figure out a solution, he had chosen to ignore its existence for the better of himself, for his own protection, while completely ignoring your own thoughts in the process. A selfish act, he thinks bitterly.

You blink at him, confused as a few stray tears fall.

“I don’t regret kissing you at all,” he mutters. “I just… I just wished it didn’t happen in the way that it did.”

You go still, trying to register the meaning of his words. Oliver’s melancholy is radiating all over him, something that is in similar style to yours.

“I wish I kissed you in a better setting. I wish I kissed somewhere more romantic, where I was sober,” Oliver states slowly, plucking out his feelings in a tender manner. “Where I could control myself. Where I could tell you my feelings straight up instead of throwing them in your face.”

When he looks back on the moment where he kissed you on impulse, his alcohol taking over his body and his restraint to fully show his honest feelings toward you, he may feel regretful that it wasn’t as grandeur as you deserved, but kissing you could never be regretted. Kissing you in the moment was a doubtful decision, sure, but Oliver doesn’t regret it for a bit. Not you. Never you.

Not when your lips felt so plush and so fit with his, not when you kissed him in equal fervor that mirrored his own feelings that he didn’t realize you did so until now, because no one would kiss him like that if they didn’t feel the same way.

“I didn’t hate the fact that it was you I kissed, but… more so I hated the way I kissed you during then,” his voice strains, the air in his lungs lessening. “And I wanted to forget about it because I was embarrassed that I did something so impulsive to you.”

Him telling you to regret it was his version of drawing a blank slate. For him to rewrite something more meaningful with you, if you allowed it. If he knew earlier that it’d be your first kiss, he would’ve had the measures to at least stop himself and give you the experience of what would’ve been a much greater and beautiful moment.

But no matter how much you and him try to bypass his kiss, try to say it was nothing, that it was meaningless—the more it becomes repressed, the more significance it picks up. And all Oliver can do now is just accept it and to simply go forward.

So he takes a daring step forward, a distance closer to your radius.

He steadies his breathing, fixating his vision on the fullness of your face. He wishes it was him that outfit was for, as he curses at the fact it was wasted on such a shitty day like today. He wishes that your face wasn’t stained with tears as it was right now, but instead, featuring a soft smile you’d often give him during fleeting moments between the two of you alone.

But if you’ll allow him to, Oliver thinks he could still get that smile on your lips tonight. One that he’d be the sole cause of.

His hands lift to rest on your cheeks, thumbs caressing over them to wipe some tears away. The soft lilt of your head lets him better see you from his angle above.

He’s sober—you are too. There’s nothing but pure blood running through each of your veins, nothing to cause anything reckless other than his own self.

Oliver asks you quietly, devotedly, “Can I show you the way I’ve always wanted to kiss you?”

He stares into the glimmering pools of your eyes, searching for something to grasp and hold onto, to nurture and take care of.

Another shuddered breath draws from your lips. You go still again for a moment… before you give him a nod and let him bring you to him.

He kisses you tenderly, his lips capturing your own in an essence he had been craving to emulate with you since the moment he laid eyes on you for the very first time. The warmth from then blooms itself within his chest, and he presses his lips more firmly against yours when you allow him to deepen the kiss after the first few soft, careful grazes.

The softness of your lips he had felt just a few weeks ago sends sparks on his, that familiar tingling feeling they had been yearning for finally feeling satisfaction. His arms go wrap around your waist and bring your bodies closer to each other as you steady your hands on his broad shoulders, distance unheard of between your heartbeats that mirror each other's rhythm. Your lips feel like cotton against his roughened ones, but you still invite him to savor you, to taste you in full awareness.

You’re first to break away to catch some air. Oliver allows you to, his forehead resting on yours as you try to compose yourself as he admires you from the closeness between you and him. You suddenly take the lead this time, hungry and craving for more from him, kissing him again in a manner so passionate, it lands you against the door. But you and him go unfazed from the impact, heads too filled with the yearning for each other to notice.

Oliver separates slowly from you, lips swollen and wet from the fervor of the kiss. He breathes slowly, synchronizing with your own breaths as you gaze into each other fully. Your tears have stopped, he’s noticed, and on your lips is an ever-so-soft grin melded from the moment between you and him.

A hand goes to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear, one that reveals one half of the pair of earrings he gifted you all those days ago, before it cradles your face again.

“Something like that,” he whispers. “If that was okay.”

You give a soft sigh of contentment. “I think that was more than okay…”

He chuckles lowly, a weight being lifted from his shoulders. “Yeah?”

You lick your lips before you giggle soundly, nodding almost shyly as you feel the leftover sparks from the kiss on your lips.

“Yeah.”

Your hands intertwine with his, sharing a warmth between each other. Oliver brings one of your interconnected ones up and gently kisses your knuckles, a flutter in your chest arising when his eyes soften at you, full of love and devotion solely for you to consume.

“Twelve more to go, Aiku!” Hoichi hollers.

Guilt builds itself within you, especially as you trail Oliver’s lethargically-running figure from the stands as he continues running laps around the field. The rest of the team has been long gone, and it’s been two hours since practice has ended, but their captain remains on the field, his punishment for his earlier actions being to run fifty laps.

What exactly did he do to deserve such a fate?

Ask your uncle permission to take you on a date.

You’ve never seen such a fire rage in your uncle’s eyes when Oliver had brought up the topic, one that even made you flinch at his fury. Men he barely knew were one thing… but Oliver? Someone he’s known for years and has brought up a reputation for being a playboy? Dating his precious niece? How dare he even bring up the topic!

But you had explained to your uncle as best as possible that all you wanted to do was just go on a simple date with him, just to test out the waters. Nothing too crazy at first. He supposes that your reasoning made better sense, as it managed to relax some of his nerves, but the remnants of his wrath remained and your uncle will grant Oliver permission to do as he wishes under one condition.

“You wanna earn my blessing?” your uncle had declared with folded arms. Oliver had nodded from his bowed position, only for him to freeze when he heard the singular condition that would grant him permission. “Run fifty laps around the field. Straight. No breaks.”

“You don’t think you’re being too harsh…?” you question quietly to your uncle, whose hard stare remains on Oliver from above. “I think he’s done enough.”

“If he wants to show that he’s devoted to you like he said he did,” your uncle starts, “then let him work for you. Don’t let him or any man half-ass their way to you if they show they're not dedicated enough.”

You sigh miserably, supposing he’s right in some sense or another. But you just wish that his punishment was much less harsh than over-exhausting his captain.

But when you see Aiku throw a grin your way and a warbly thumbs up mid-run, making you laugh softly, you suppose that this is his way of showing he truly was ready for you, that he’ll earn his way towards you in every possible instance if it means he’ll get to have you as his.

a/n: so this was not supposed to actually be this long... i anticipated it to be somewhere along the lines of like... 4k at most? i apologize that this was extraordinarily lengthy 😭

i almost ended up cutting it into halves/thirds, but i figured i'd be too lazy to try and continue it so i just kept writing and writing. mind you i started this literally yesterday, adhd and hyperfocus is a funny thing. hopefully this turned some of u guys into aiku fans bc he got my ass unfortunately

but regardless, thank you for reading! comments and reblogs are the best way to support creators you enjoy, and leaving one will always be noticed and appreciated (´• ◡ •`) ♡ !!!!

#blue lock #bllk #blue lock x reader #blue lock fluff #blue lock angst #bllk x reader #blue lock smut #oliver aiku #oliver aiku x reader #oliver aiku x you #oliver aiku x y/n #fem!reader #blue lock ; oliver aiku

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lovelyghst · 2 years ago

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könig is definitely the type of man to keep you in bed all morning on christmas. he’s soo clingy and he refuses to break it for a second.

he gets to spoil you every day of the year but this holiday is one of the few days he gets to spoil himself. and you know he’d be so selfishly selfless with it, too. you’d think him focusing on you for hours without break was his way of showing his love for you, which it certainly is, but at the same time he’s really just doing it all for himself.

lying on his stomach with his head between your thighs as you’re both still so sleepy having just woken up, kissing and marking all up your thighs before even thinking about removing your cotton panties. licking at the little wet spot of fabric that forms from his teasing but he’s too far into his own headspace to even recognize how horribly he’s torturing you. soft and gentle lapping at your clit soon turns into him full-on finger fucking you after your first orgasm cause he adores so much how you lose your breath, convulse so, so tightly around him, and unintentionally tug harshly at his hair when you come.

he’ll fuck you in all of them later but his favorite positions so early in the morning are lazy missionary and prone. just the way your entire body presses up against his has him so cozy, and how he gets to bury his face in your neck and hair whilst listening to your soft whines and panting. your giggles when he grabs your leg and flips you over onto your front so easily, wrapping his big arms around your chest and shamelessly crushing you with his weight. you just get so pliable when you’re given his cock and he wants to play with you for hours.

he gives you breaks in between and each time you think he’s finally letting you out of bed, but instead he’ll be dragging you onto his lap for another make-out session that’ll soon turn into you riding him.

you tell him so many times that you wanna open presents, show him all the little knick knacks you got him but the fucker just responds with something like, “why would we need to do that when i’ve got everything i want right here?” before going down on you again. and if you’re still complaining after that, he’ll just grumble before leaning over to the nightstand, opening the drawer, and pulling out a pretty box with some sort of jewelry for you. he’s always prepared!!

#i need him #cod mw #könig #könig x reader #könig x female reader #könig smut #könig cod #könig mw2

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dollyfiles · 3 months ago

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INTRODUCING.. SWEETHEART!READER ₊˚⊹♡

pure soul. doe-eyes. polka dots. red nails. dreamer. vintage. coffee and vanilla. mini skirts. lace. paired with single!dad!rafe.

SWEETHEART!READER who is a 25 year old waitress at rosie’s diner, a charming old-school spot with checkered floors, red vinyl booths, and a jukebox that still plays rock ‘n’ roll classics. she’s been working since she was barely a teenager, hustling to escape a rough home that taught her resilience but never hardened her heart. she earned the nickname sweetheart from the regulars—not just because she’s got a kind spirit and always a smile on her face, but because she has a way of making everyone feel seen, even on their worst days.

SWEETHEART!READER who is warm and generous, but still nobody’s fool. sweetheart got a vintage soul, soft curls in her honey smooth hair, a swing dress hugging her waist, and a swipe of cherry-red lipstick on her heart-shaped lips. she’s learned how to handle the flirty old-timers at the diner with ease, shutting down their bad pickup lines without losing her charm. she’s got a backbone of steel when it comes to standing up for herself and others, especially the new girls at the diner who might not have found their voice yet.

SWEETHEART!READER who has a deep love for music. when she’s alone in her tiny apartment, she’ll put on a record and dance barefoot in the kitchen, letting the music take her worries away. she also plays the guitar—and sings with a voice that could stop time. she is not a professional by any means, but she has a knack for whipping up the perfect homemade pie or a batch of warm cinnamon rolls. she also never leaves the house without her dainty gold heart-shaped locket necklace, which was the very last thing her granny gave her before passing away, leaving her to figure out how to handle everything on her own.

SWEETHEART!READER who has always been careful with her heart. she grew up seeing what happens when love turns into something heavy and painful, so she promised herself she’d never settle for anything less than the real thing. and then rafe and his little girl walked into her life, giving her security in a way she has never known. and once she falls, it’s deep. and from the moment rafe saw her, it’s like something clicked into place. he wasn’t looking for love either, but there was something magical about her and despite their age difference, she softens the edges of his world in a way no one ever did before.

ᢉ𐭩 how sweetheart!reader and single!dad!rafe met

ᢉ𐭩 single!dad!rafe asking sweetheart!reader out

ᢉ𐭩 how sweetheart!reader and single!dad!rafe’s first date went

ᢉ𐭩 single!dad!rafe’s reaction to sweetheart!reader not shaving

ᢉ𐭩 single!dad!rafe’s reaction to sweetheart!reader turning him down

ᢉ𐭩 single!dad!rafe helping sweetheart!reader out of her dress

ᢉ𐭩 things sweetheart!reader and single!dad!rafe do during a car ride

.ᐟ layout credit/inspo: @rafesangelita

tags: @gibson-g1rl @dearapril @rafecami @fawnhart @isasweetie @beausling @angellocket @rafesbowbunny @rafesangelita @chris444evr @drewsephrry @littlelamy @sturn777 @bradshawed @cherrygirlfriend @trusweethrt @inspiredangel @whinyangel @et6rnalsun @luckycrys @bluemerakis @figthoughts @rafeysbangs

#dollys !readers `♡´#sweetheart!reader ᢉ𐭩 #sweetheart!reader x single!dad!rafe ᢉ𐭩 #single!dad!rafe ᢉ𐭩 #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x fem!reader #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe cameron

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v6quewrlds · 6 months ago

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imagine being joe's person.

author's note⠀⁎⠀suffering from major joey withdrawal. reads more like a character study/brain dump than anything else but enjoy <3

For as long as Joe can remember, he had been told by everyone - coaches, doctors, teachers, teammates - that his coolness was to be envied. In the pressure cooker of professional football, the ability to keep his nerves in check had been his superpower. He loved the feeling of the game slowing down when everyone else was speeding up, the way he could read the field and make split-second decisions that could change the course of a game. From the minute he stepped onto the field, he was in control. He was commanding the huddle, keeping his eye on the clock, setting up the play, and taking lead on the outcome. He thrived when he was in control.

But when he stepped off the football field and into the public eye, all of that control completely slipped away. He couldn't help but feel like he was performing, acting the role of someone named Joe Burrow instead of just being himself. It didn't help that the cameras and curious eyes followed him everywhere. Everyone seemed to be eager to catch him off-guard, eager to see the "real" side of him, eager to witness him lose his cool.

She had caught on to his nervous tells early on in their relationship. It was subtle at first, just a hint of a tremor in his voice when he cleared it before speaking, or the way he'd swipe his palms against his pants when he was about to be interviewed, even the way he would shift from side to side slightly when he felt uncomfortable. But over the course of their two years together, she had learned to read him like a book.

He would never admit it out loud to anybody but her, but Joe was terrified of letting his guard down. The weight of his ever increasing fame and the constant pressure of living up to expectations had turned his life into a tightrope walk. But with her, everything felt different. Her presence was like a gentle breeze that calmed the static in his brain. It was always just a touch, the smell of her perfume, or the sound of her approaching footsteps that could soothe him.

His foundation was always a top priority for Joe, and today was particularly special. The charity golf event was a chance to give back to the communities in southeastern Ohio and Baton Rouge that had supported him through his football journey. From the moment they started dating seriously, she had been by his side at every event, making herself available to support him in his philanthropic efforts. His mother constantly gushed about how she was the perfect partner for Joe, handling the social graces with ease, and contributing her talents to make sure the events ran smoothly.

She had a knack for making people feel at ease, a skill that Joe greatly admired. She had a way of connecting with people from all walks of life, and it was evident in the way the guests at the check-in lit up when she greeted them. Her genuine smile and warm handshakes made even the stiffest of the corporate sponsors crack a smile. Joe watched her from across the room, feeling a sense of pride swell within him.

The golf event was in full swing now. The sun was high in the sky, casting a golden hue over the meticulously manicured greens. Joe's could feel his mind racing, his inner monologue murmuring his anxieties as he mingled with the guests as they arrived.

Between the never-ending carousel of guests, Joe would find himself glancing in the direction of the entrance, hoping the line would soon thin out and she would be by his side - where she was supposed to be. The hour reserved for check-in seemed to drag on with Robin and Jimmy occasionally stepping in to take some of the conversational weight off him. He loved them for it, he really did, but all he wanted was her comforting presence, her hand in his, her laugh in his ear.

Finally, she appeared, looking absolutely radiant in a simple white sundress that contrasted with her brown skin, her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and a small black handbag in her hand. She made her way through the crowd, a vision of confidence and grace that made Joe's chest tighten. She had that special glow about her today, something that seemed to have been amplified by the excitement of the event.

Her eyes met his and he couldn't bring himself to focus on what the shorter, gray-haired man in front of him was saying. Everything around him blurred into a muffled murmur. She was everything he wasn't in social settings: poised, articulate, natural, and absolutely magnetic. As she approached, Joe felt his body relax, his breathing even out, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. She was by his side in an instant, taking her rightful place as she handed him a chilled bottle of water.

His hand gravitated to her waist, and he felt a wave of comfort wash over him as she leaned in slightly, her hand brushing against his back. He could feel his back straighten, his shoulders ease, and his breath deepen. The familiar warmth of her body began to ground him, bringing him back to the present, and reminding him that he was more than capable of remaining in control.

"George, Tim, this is my girlfriend," Joe introduced, his voice steady as he finally had the strength to redirect his focus to the guests. He watched with a proud smile as she offered the two men her hand for a handshake, easygoing greetings of "Nice to meet you," and "Thank you for coming," leaving her soft lips.

She tucked back into his side in an instant, her free hand coming up to rest between his shoulder blades, his hand wrapped around her waist once more. They made small talk with George and Tim, who both looked at Joe with a knowing smile, nodding their heads in approval at the mention of her name. Though they wouldn't have guessed it before she appeared by his side, they could see his nerves smooth out, his shoulders drop, and the tension in his jaw ease.

"So, how long have you two been together?" George inquired, sipping his drink and looking at the couple with genuine curiosity.

Joe's gaze flickered to her, a hint of a smile playing on his lips as he replied, "Two years now."

Her eyes sparkled with affection as she listened to Joe speak, her thumb idly tracing patterns on his back. "It'll be three years in August," she added, clarifying gently.

Tim, the taller of the two, chuckled and said, "Well, Joe, you're getting closer to the big 3-0. Maybe it's time to start thinking about settling down? I think you've got a pretty good candidate by your side. My wife was raving about her when they were setting up the check-in."

Joe felt his cheeks warm slightly, but the smile didn't leave his face. "I've already started planning, actually," he responded, surprising even himself with his decisiveness. Her hand stilled its motion on his back, her eyes widening in shock as she turned her face to meet his eye.

"Oh, really?" she asked, her voice a mix of surprise and amusement. "That's news to me."

Joe felt a twinge of panic, realizing he had spoken before thinking. But the look on her face wasn't one of annoyance or upset; her eyes sparkled with excitement and anticipation. He took a deep breath and said, "Well, I mean, I've been thinking about it. We've got a good thing going, and I can't see my future without you in it."

That was the truth. He often found himself wondering what life with her could look like beyond football. The dream with the white picket fence, curly-haired kids playing in the yard, her standing in the kitchen with a baby on her hip and a smile on her face when she welcomed him home. It was a picture that had started to form in his mind more and more often in the quiet moments between games and practices. At times, he questioned how he managed to be motivated to do anything that wasn't football before her - couldn't fathom how he managed to exist before her.

Her smile grew wider. "Is that so?" she said, raising an eyebrow playfully. "Very interesting."

Tim and George laughed heartily, their faces reddening with good cheer as they slapped Joe on the back. "Good for you, Joe," George exclaimed. "You're going to need someone like her to keep you grounded in this crazy world. Good luck, you two."

The conversation flowed around them as they found themselves in the middle of the bustling golf clubhouse. The air was filled with the chatter of excitement and the clinking of glasses as people mingled and shared stories. She leaned closer to Joe, whispering, "So, you're planning our future, without my input?" Her voice was teasing, but her eyes searched his, looking for a hint of what he might be feeling.

Joe looked down at her, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "Well, I figured you'd be okay with it, given that you're a big part of it," he replied, trying to keep his tone light despite the sudden seriousness that had entered their conversation. The room felt warmer, and not just from the bodies packed into the space. "I want to do this right, babe. I want to make sure you're happy, that we're both ready."

Her expression softened, and she leaned in to kiss his cheek, the gesture unseen by the surrounding guests. "Joey," she whispered, "you always make sure I'm happy. I'm ready for whatever comes next, whenever it comes."

#&. joey b.#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fluff #joe burrow x black reader #joe burrow x black!reader #x black reader #x black!reader #black!reader #black reader

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almostfoxglove · 7 months ago

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ONE NIGHT EARLY

a secret santa surprise for @talaok ! ✨ as part of @pedrostories' #pedrostoriesgift24 event ✨

RATING: Explicit (18+) | PAIRING: Joel Miller x f!Reader WORD COUNT: 2.2k | CW: Established relationship, tooth-rotting fluff, brief reference to canon-typical violence / danger / the end of the world, but you're safe.

SUMMARY: You vow to find out where Joel hides his Christmas gifts while he's away on patrol.

read on ao3 | main masterlist | get notifs

It has to be here somewhere.

In the three years since you moved in with Joel—hell, even in the two years before that—you have never found your Christmas present before the day. The man’s determined, sworn to his secrecy. Takes great pride in catching you snooping around, digging, scurryin’, as he once muttered under his breath, shaking his head with that charm and smirk you can’t help but fall for. Every year, you swear you’ll find it, and Joel just crosses his arms with a shrug, cheek dimpled and eyes dark with affection, and tells you good luck, darlin’, confident you won’t.

This year, though. This year will be different because for the whole week leading up to Christmas, Joel is away with Tommy on patrol and you have the house to yourself. Seven days of freedom to pry and stick your nose where it probably doesn’t belong.

It takes you two days to tear the house apart. Every dish yanked from his cupboard, every shirt and worn pair of jeans thrown from the closet, every pocket turned out—you flip the mattress and unbundle his socks and rip the covers off all the couch cushions and find fuck all. One old, oxidized penny. Dust bunnies, dryer lint, wood shavings. Spent matches, a bullet case. A fossilized receipt robbed of its printed contents.

You spend two more going through everything again. The place is a dump; when Ellie swings by to borrow his guitar she lifts one eyebrow at you from the doorway, weary of the tornado you’ve left scattered across the first floor. Says, “Good to know four days is all it takes for you to lose your shit.”

“I’m not losing my shit,” you say, one hand waving dismissively as you climb the stairs.

Quick on your heels she mutters, “Whatever you say, grandma,” just loud enough for you to hear.

When she’s gone, you take a deep breath. The living room is a slaughter, more disastrous than the aftermath of any raiders or weather event. Couch cushions stand mountainous and stripped naked, the carpet’s rolled up against one wall, all the charcoal and half-spent logs have been scraped from the fireplace onto the floor. You’ll admit that might not have been strictly necessary, but you’ve looked everywhere, checked everything, and uncovered zilch. No gifts. And at the very least, Joel has—with his handsome, freckled, silvered face proud and smiling—conceded that his hiding spot is in the house. Doesn’t stash nothing at Tommy’s or in Ellie’s garage. It’s here. Somewhere. Driving you up the goddamn wall.

It’s not like you even know what you’re looking for, but you’ll know when you see it—of this you are sure.

Room by room, you reassemble the house, shuffling all the knick-knacks you’ve each cautiously assembled in this bizarre second chance at a life into their proper positions. His carvings are your favorites, and you rehome them on their shelves with care. You slide the few photographs each of you has into line on the mantle, behind the string lights. It ain’t the same as the world that for nearly thirty years has been dead and gone, but now and then you get flickers of that long-absent comfort. The day the Christmas lights go up in Jackson. The snowmen built by your neighbor’s kids in the street. Jars of homemade strawberry jam.

Ellie and Joel playing guitar, his deep timbre humming along to her clumsy chords.

The tight squeeze of your chest when his boots croak the porch and you know he’s finally home.

The softness of his face first thing in the morning, scarred and weathered, kind. All the long tresses of his graying hair slumped out of place.

As you restore the house’s comfort and clutter over the shrinking days of his absence, you recheck and recheck and recheck and continue to come up empty. At night in the black veil of your shared bedroom, you sleep on his side of the bed with your face crushed in his pillow, breathing him in.

On the 24th, you wake prepared to wave the white flag when he returns in the evening. You’re going to pout about it, but you’ll give in. Surrender to the superiority of his stupid, squirrelling mind, and admit once and for all that he’s bested you. You have no fucking clue where he hides his gifts. He wins. But you sulk as the day bleeds by, and more than once catch yourself affixed with a frown as you trudge through the crunch of Jackson’s snow-packed streets. As you groom the horses due for the next patrol shift and eat your dinner in the mess hall across from folks you’re only half listening to as they regale you with tales of their day, too distracted by the scrape of spoons against bowls and the emptiness of your hands.

Greedy, that’s what you’re being. Wanting all of him for yourself. You just miss him. You hate when patrol stretches this long, leaving you alone with your cloying worry.

After the sun has set and bowls have emptied, Jackson goes blue. All the snow piled to frame the gravel roads glitters with fresh frost and ice. On your way back to the house, you watch your shadow slide and flicker as you pass beneath the warmth of streetlamps. Someone down the road has a window open, letting the notes of their piano ribbon through the air.

Even with all the lights and the chatter that tonight could bring fresh snow to the valley, you can’t help but feel a hollowness that you’ve only managed to shake when Joel’s around and the two of you are alone. It’s not all the time, but it happens—a magic you’d believed impossible before you stumbled across this Eden half-dead and were brought inside. Impossible until you met him, and everything latched into place.

You’ve loved before. Almost got married once, in the world that’s gone. But there’s no comparing how it felt to fall slowly, clumsily into Joel.

You’re not sure when he’s due to return tonight. Hopefully soon.

Shedding layers as you tread into the hollow house, you light a weakling’s fire in the hearth you know he’ll tease you for, then ascend to your bedroom to change, flicking the light on upstairs so he knows, whenever he gets back, that you’re home. Waiting for him, empty-handed but no less relieved. But as you cross the gold-lit bedroom, a floorboard near the foot of the bed wheezes strangely. This whole house croaks and groans just like everything in Jackson—that sure ain’t new—but this sound is different. You’re not sure you’ve heard it before. Not sure you’ve ever stepped in this exact place.

A grin slips sharp across your face at the smell of victory. You kick back the corner of the rug to bring your heel down hard against the board beneath it, and pop. Up comes the plank, perfect as a seesaw, revealing the black cavern beneath.

In the shadowed hideaway, a small box lies in the dark beneath the floor.

There it is.

But all the world beyond this room, this box, disappears the moment you set it in your palm.

You don’t hear the porch steps’ announcement, nor the turn of the latch. You don’t hear the squealing door or how the heavy footsteps soften as he removes his boots to leave outside. Not even your name, often intoxicating on his tongue, reaches you in the bedroom—nor when he repeats it on the stairs.

You’re too busy staring at what you’ve found after all you’re searching.

Then Joel’s in the doorway behind you, and you wake from what you’ve just now begun to believe must be some strange dream.

“Stubborn,” comes his voice, and at the sound you smack the box against your chest to hide it as you whirl around, still on your knees. Stupid you know. Useless. He can see the rug peeled back and the hole cut out of the floor, slender as a piano key. He knows you’ve won.

Broad in the door’s wooden frame, pink-cheeked and snug in his leather coat, Joel stands with the frosting of fresh snow clinging to his hair. He’s been growing it out, to your great pleasure, letting all his silver and curls go free. “I didn’t—” you start to say, but the words thin out and crumble. Your head’s not on quite straight, your heart not yet settled. Eyes still nickel round with shock.

You hadn’t considered how he might react if you succeeded. Maybe he’ll be mad. Take it back.

But as you stare up at him, all bambi, Joel shakes his head and one snow-dotted curl slips out from the shell of his ear. As he rights it, his scarred hand rising, you see the dirt under his nails in the warm light. The stain on the knee of his jeans. You see too his lips, plush and touched by winter’s aridity, as they twitch in one corner, curling into his cheek. Curling up. Smiling as his eyes hold yours, not mad. Not shy. He’s been inside long enough now that there’s a fifty-fifty chance that the color in his cheeks might even be a blush.

“Are you mad?” you ask, your voice soft enough to call a whisper.

He shakes his head again, steps over the threshold, and amber light from the lamp falls over him like Midas, turning him from man to gold. One step more and his mouth pulls wider, cuts that wink in his cheek you can’t help but stare at. “Course not,” he says gently. “Knew you were lookin’. Y’can have it one night early.”

It probably doesn’t mean what you think it means, but you’re surprised to discover you’re hoping as you swallow hard, blinking some of the shock from your eyes. He’s here; you ought to get up and hug him—welcome him home, your person here, safe and whole—but you’re too scared to move. Terrified that any flinch will make the box and its contents disappear.

“Is this for me?”

Wry, he rolls his eyes. “Think you know it is.”

“I feel bad,” you say. “I got you a shirt.”

He’s generous enough to chuckle, and the low, earthy sound of it strikes flames along the column of your neck. “Could use a new shirt,” he says, smirking a little. “This one needs a wash.”

“Shut up,” you chide, but the words come out weak. He’s not allowed to joke right now because if you laugh, you might start to cry.

“Darlin’,” he says too softly. That’s the tone that makes honey of your insides, cruel in the gentle way it asks you to let him in.

Though your vision starts to puddle, you wrestle the feeling back. “S’pretty.”

The slightest nod. Then he unzips his coat to lay over the armchair in the corner of the room and you watch him, pinned to the floor despite the ache in your knees. “Was hopin’ you’d think so,” he admits with his back to you, the blades and muscles in his shoulders and back sliding gracefully beneath his flannel like waves on a lake. Antithetical to the thunder of your heart, Joel moves with a patience you can’t quite believe. In no rush at all, like you’re not holding what you’re holding in your shaking hands. Like some little band of metal doesn’t mean what it did before the world bit the dust and fell away.

The question sits like an icicle on your tongue, slowly melting, pooling behind your teeth.

Joel lumbers back, the soreness of his body just barely visible in his bow-legged stride, to sit on the edge of the bed just behind you. The mattress squeaks. One hand cards through his hair. Slow is his next breath. Steady. But on the exhale, you swear you hear the tiniest shake, a tiny tremble.

Realization strikes down at you like lightning: electric and tingling, zipping skull to spine to fingertips, blinding and white. He’s nervous.

Which means the ring in your hand isn’t just a ring.

Lamblike, you force yourself to your feet and the mattress mouses as you sink against his side. Igneous is his body against yours—such a familiar warmth. Rigid and walled to all but a few. Open to you, in moments like these, when he lets you glimpse the whole of him in his eyes and you swear you might be capable of reading the thoughts straight from his mind. Joel nudges his arm harder to yours, and you see the question coming before it slips from his tongue. You see it brewing in the gilt of his eyes just as clearly as you hear your own answer ricochet in your head.

You don’t cut him off, jump to yes. Instead you lower your hands from their hold against your chest at last, letting the box sit in your lap, open to his regard. Evening lamplight makes ice of the clear stone set squarely on its ring, and the heat of his breath kisses your cheek as he leans in to mumble,

“Y’gonna make me get down on one knee?”

dividers by @saradika-graphics!

NOTE: I am officially moving away from tag lists as they've gotten lengthy (thank you for that <3) so please follow @foxglovenotifs and turn on notifications to get alerts for future updates!

#joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fic #tlou fanfiction #pedrostoriesgift24 #joel miller #pedro pascal #almostfoxglove #myfics #fic: onenightearly #pedro pascal fanfiction

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ka1rin · 6 months ago

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Blue Lock Romantic Tropes

isagi, kaiser, sae, rin, reo, nagi x reader (separate)

word count: 1.1k , genre: romance / fluff

note: this story is about what romantic trope would suit these Blue Lock characters. I hope you guys love this!

Isagi Yoichi — Childhood Friends

Yoichi Isagi had always been head over heels for her—though he didn’t realize it until it was almost too late. She’d been his best friend for as long as he could remember. She was the one who stayed after practice to kick a ball around when no one else would, the one who always seemed to know exactly what to say after a tough game.

But lately, everything felt different. He couldn’t stop noticing the way her hair caught the sunlight or the way her laughter softened the edges of a bad day. He wasn’t sure when it started, but he knew one thing for certain: she wasn’t just his best friend anymore.

They walked home together like always, her voice filling the air with stories about her day. Isagi barely heard a word. His mind was somewhere else, lost in thoughts he didn’t have the courage to say out loud.

When they reached her street, she stopped and turned to face him. “You’re quieter than usual. What’s up?”

He hesitated, his fingers tightening around the strap of his bag. “Do you ever think about the future?”

Her brow furrowed. “Sure. Why?”

“I mean… us,” he said softly, forcing himself to meet her gaze. “Do you ever think about where we’ll end up?”

Her eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. “What are you trying to say, Yoichi?”

“I think—no, I know—I want you in my future,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not just as my best friend, but as… something more.”

Michael Kaiser — Enemies to Lovers

Michael Kaiser had never believed in losing. In his mind, every match, every argument, every moment in life was a game to be won. That’s why she infuriated him so much. She wasn’t interested in playing by his rules.

From the moment they met, she challenged him—both on and off the field. She had a knack for seeing through his façade, stripping away the charm he used so effortlessly on everyone else. At first, he hated it. Then he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

One evening, after yet another clash on the pitch, he found her sitting alone in the stands. The moonlight caught the curve of her profile, making her look softer than he was used to seeing.

“You’re staring,” she said without looking up.

“Maybe I’m trying to figure you out,” he replied, sliding onto the bench beside her.

“You won’t,” she said, finally meeting his gaze. “You’re not as good at reading people as you think.”

Kaiser smirked, leaning back on his elbows. “And you’re not as immune to me as you pretend to be.”

Her lips twitched, but she said nothing.

For the first time, Kaiser felt like this wasn’t a game he could win—or one he wanted to.

Sae Itoshi — Second Chance

Sae Itoshi had always been good at letting go. Whether it was friends, family, or teammates, he had a way of detaching himself from people, of moving forward without looking back.

But she was different.

She’d been his calm in the storm, the person who grounded him when the pressure of his career threatened to swallow him whole. He hadn’t realized how much he relied on her until the day he walked away, convincing himself it was for the best.

Now, years later, she stood before him at the airport, looking as composed as ever. His pulse quickened at the sight of her, and for the first time in a long while, Sae felt unsure of himself.

“You’ve changed,” she said softly, studying him like she was trying to figure out a puzzle.

“Not enough,” he admitted, his voice steady but quiet.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she glanced away. “Then why are you here?”

“Because I couldn’t stay away,” he confessed. “Because letting you go was the biggest mistake I ever made.”

Rin Itoshi — Sun and Moon

Rin Itoshi didn’t believe in distractions. He’d built his life around focus and discipline, shutting out anything that might interfere with his pursuit of perfection.

Then she came along.

She was everything he wasn’t—bright, cheerful, and completely unafraid to push her way into his life. At first, Rin had found her presence irritating, but over time, he started to notice the small things: the way she always brought him water during practice, the way her laughter filled the empty spaces of his world.

One afternoon, as they sat in the park, she turned to him with a mischievous grin. “You should smile more, you know. It’s not illegal.”

He frowned, looking away. “Why does it matter?”

“Because it suits you,” she said simply, leaning back against the bench.

Rin’s chest tightened at her words. He didn’t know how to explain that smiling felt foreign to him—except when she was around.

Reo Mikage — Unrequited Love

Reo Mikage had always been drawn to her. She was different from everyone else in his life, uninterested in his money or his status. She treated him like an equal, never hesitating to call him out when he deserved it.

He’d fallen for her quietly, keeping his feelings to himself out of fear that she’d never see him the way he saw her. Still, he stayed by her side, always there when she needed him, hoping one day she might look at him differently.

One evening, as they sat together in a quiet café, she broke the silence. “Reo, why are you always here for me?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… you’ve never asked for anything in return,” she said, her voice softer than usual. “Why?”

Reo hesitated, his heart pounding. “Because you’re important to me. That’s all.”

Her gaze lingered on him, and for the first time, he thought he saw something shift in her eyes.

Nagi Seishiro — Forced Proximity

Seishiro Nagi didn’t like effort. He preferred simplicity, staying in his comfort zone, and avoiding anything that felt like too much work.

So when she moved into his apartment as his new roommate, he wasn’t thrilled. She was loud, messy, and always finding ways to drag him into her whirlwind of energy. At first, he counted the days until she’d leave. But as time passed, he started to notice the way her laughter brightened the dull moments, the way she always made sure he had dinner even if she didn’t cook for herself.

One night, as they sat on the floor eating instant ramen, she looked over at him and smiled. “You’re not so bad to live with, you know.”

Nagi shrugged, his usual indifference masking the warmth spreading through his chest. “You’re okay too, I guess.”

She laughed, nudging his shoulder. “Wow, such high praise.”

He glanced at her, his voice softer than usual. “I mean it. I don’t mind you being here.”

Her laughter faded, and she looked at him with an expression he couldn’t quite place. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time, Nagi felt like that was exactly what he wanted to hear.

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itneverendshere · 1 year ago

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THE OTHER SIDE OF PARADISE - r. c (+18)

WARNINGS: smut; kidnapping; violence; blood. pairing: maybank!reader

◛ masterlist

The sun dipped low, painting the Outer Banks marshes in shades of fiery orange. Tensions between Kooks and Pogues had hit a fever pitch, and in the middle of it all?

Rafe Cameron, the last person you'd want to encounter.

Ever.

Every run-in with him left a bitter taste in your mouth. It was like he had a knack for getting under your skin. Arrogant, volatile, downright psychotic — he was a fucking walking disaster. Each interaction with him sucked the life out of you, you were convinced that nothing good could ever come from being around him.

And yet, there you were, another Maybank, caught in the mess of the island's most influential family feud. You knew the risks, but loyalty drove you forward. And now you were in deep shit.

Your plan had been reckless, driven by the desperate need to save Sarah from her deranged family and retrieve Pope's stolen cross. Everything had gone smoothly until chaos erupted, and you found yourself abruptly yanked away from the corridor by a strong grip on your arm, before you could even call out for your brother and Kie.

Another hand clamped over your mouth, stifling any attempts to scream. In a mattr of seconds, you were dragged into a dark cabin, the men's hold on you unyielding. Struggling was futile and stupid against his iron grip, he tossed you inside like you were trash, slamming the door shut and locking it behind him.

The gravity of your situation hit hard immediately – you were alone, at the mercy of the Cameron's. Ward Cameron, the man who'd silenced anyone who dared oppose him, even going as far as faking his own death, kidnapping his own daughter, and manipulating his son into committing murder.

Because in his sick twisted world, family trumped everything, even murder.

Great. This was fantastic.

Your mind raced as you took in your surroundings. The cabin was small and sparsely furnished: a bunk, a tiny porthole high on the wall, and a single chair bolted to the floor. There was a hum of the ship's engines, reminding you that you were far from land and any chance of immediate rescue.

You quickly checked your options but there weren't many, the door was solid, and you didn't have anything strong enough to force it open. Fuck, fuck fuck.

You took a deep breath, trying not to lose your shit, panic wouldn't help; you needed a plan. But then, like a nightmare come to life, the devil himself stepped into the room, his eyes piercing as they landed on you. The man who had captured you stood behind him, a smug grin on his face.

Rafe was visibly surprised to see you, but he quickly concealed it behind his usual deranged expression. His forehead glistened with sweat, his hair damp and sticking to his temples while his shirt clung to his back, soaked through from the scorching heat, beads of perspiration trickled down his face. He wiped his brow with a weary hand and his gun gleamed ominously in the faint light.

"Well shit,” Rafe's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Look what we have here. Didn't expect to see ya again so soon pretty Maybank.”

You tried to keep your expression neutral, but your mind was racing with questions. Where were your friends? Were they safe? Was your brother even alive?

Before you could ask, Rafe continued, his tone mocking.

"Your brother really did a number on you, huh? Left you behind without a second thought. Typical Maybank shit, always knew your kind was unreliable."

Son of a bitch.

You clenched your fists, fighting to keep your composure. "You're lying," you countered, "He wouldn't leave me."

Not unless he was forced to.

Rafe chuckled, a humorless sound. "Believe what you want. They left, now, you're my problem. Lucky me."

“You’re lying.”

His eyes gleamed dangerously as he walked towards you, you took a step back, but there was nowhere to go. The cold, metal wall pressed against your back, mirroring the chill that settled in your bones.

It felt like you were being hunted.

"What am doing with you?" he mused, tilting his head as if genuinely contemplating your fate. The gun in his hand swung lazily at his side, but you knew better than to think it wasn't ready to be used at any given moment. You knew what he'd done before.

You swallowed hard, your mind frantically searching for a way out of this hellhole. He was unpredictable and volatile; years of snorting cocaine and family trauma did that to some people. But maybe you could reason with him. You were always a litte too good and hopeful for your own good.

“Rafe, listen. You don't have to do this. Let me go and we can both walk away from this. No one has to get hurt."

Again.

His laugh was bitter, like you were trying to humor him,"You think I'm gonna let you go just 'cause you asked nicely?" He stepped closer, his breath hot against your face. "Nah. You're going to stay right here until I decide what to do with you.“

You tried to keep your breathing steady, but all you felt was fear, the odds had never been so against you.

"What do you want? The cross? We can make a deal."

No, you couldn't.

His eyes narrowed, the amusement fading.

"You think this is about money? About that fucking cross? This is about power. Control. And right now...huh, shit, I control you." He leaned in, his voice a deadly whisper. "The cross is mine now. How do you feel about the Bahamas?”

What the fuck did that even mean?

Your top lip curled in disgust, “I’d rather drown.”

His smile twisted into something even darker. “I think you’re worth more alive, at least for now.”

You refused to show him any more fear.

“To you? Or Ward? Do you only get this cocky when daddy’s not around to rein you in?”

Rafe’s expression hardened, you knew you were pushing it.

He leaned in close, his blue eyes unforgiving even in the dim light, “Watch your fucking mouth, Maybank. You don’t know anything about my family.”

You laughed bitterly, unable to stop yourself. If you were going to die you might as well take advantage of it.

“Yeah, no. You're right. Just that you're dad’s little lapdog, doing his dirty work while he pretends to be some upstanding citizen. And where’s your mom in all this? Oh! She left.”

The punch came so fast, you didn’t see it coming.

Pain exploded across your jaw, and you tasted blood while grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. “You don’t fucking talk about her, dirty pogue.”

Anger took over you hotter than the pain, yeah your jaw throbbed, but the rage was stronger. You wanted to hit him back, to wipe that smug look off his stupid face, make him feel the hurt he had inflicted on you.

Your fists clenched at your sides, every muscle in your body burning with desire for retribution. You spat blood at his face, proud to see him flinch while glaring up at him defiantly.

“You’re just a puppet. Your sister hates you, your dad uses you, and deep down, you know you will never be more than his bitch.”

His grip tightened painfully, rough fingers digging into your flesh, lips twitching into a snarl, but you didn’t flinch. If you were going down, you’d go down fighting.

His eyes flickered with something you’d never seen in him, before he released you, stepping back. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you? So tough.”

“Smarter than you,” you shot back. “At least I know who I am. What are you, Rafe?“

He stared at you, tongue pressed against his cheek, eyebrows furrowed. Then he laughed, a harsh, grating sound that sent chills down your spine. His hand reached out, and your breath stilled throat tightening as he fiddled with a lock of your hair. He’d let out another laugh, entirely dismissive of the way you’d felt.

“You’ve got guts, Maybank. It's gonna get you killed.“

You wiped the blood from your mouth, “I’ve survived worse than you.”

And you had.

If anything prepared you for violence, drugs, and pain, was living with Luke Maybank your entire life. Maybe if you didn’t hate Rafe with every fiber of your being, after everything he’d done, you’d feel sorry for him. But you didn’t, and he sure as hell didn't feel sorry for you.

The room was silent except for the sound of the ship’s engines, but then Rafe turned on his heel, motioning to the man by the door.

“Watch her. Make sure she doesn’t go anywhere.”

“Do I look like fucking Michael Phelps? Where the fuck would I go? We’re on a ship you crazy bastar—Hey! Rafe! Open the fucking door!”

The door slammed shut behind him, the sound echoing through the small cabin. You listened to his footsteps fade away, feeling a sense of dread settle in your chest.

What the fuck had you gotten yourself into? They could kill you, dispose your body in the ocean and no would care. No one would think you’d gone missing, because you were a Maybank and that’s what your kind of people did, apparently.

Your brother would probably assume you were dead, he’d try to get justice and fail in the end, because the rich always won.

The musty air of the cabin felt oppressive as you turned away from the small porthole, where the bright sun and endless expanse of blue ocean mocked you from beyond.

The days melded into one another, marked only by the delivery of meals and the sporadic presence of Rafe. You had hoped for some clarity, some clue of what your future looked like, but his visits offered nothing but insults or complete silence.

Charming.

You paced the small room, your mind racing with the possibilities of what they had planned for you. The guard remained a silent sentinel, a constant reminder that escape was not an option. But then, the cabin door creaked open again, and you tensed as Ward Cameron stepped in.

Great, because crazy number one hadn't been enough.

He gave a nod to the guard, who stepped out, leaving you alone with the man who held your fate in his hands. A fucking lunatic with enough means to play for all the dramatics he enjoyed. Great.

"Get comfortable," Ward announced, "We're almost there."

"Almost where?"

"The Bahamas," he replied, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "A little slice of paradise, if you will."

"And what happens then?" you pressed, needing to know more.

Ward studied you for a moment, “Keep out of sight, stay quiet. Rafe and I have some business to attend to, and we can't afford any distractions."

"And if I refuse?" you challenged, though you knew the answer.

Ward's smile widened, but there was no warmth in it, you knew he enjoyed watching people squirm around like worthless worms.

"Let's not be stupid, sweetheart. You're here because you know too much. Refusing isn't an option. Cooperation, however…”

A chill ran down your spine at his words.

The answer was very clear, and you realized that your only chance was to play along, at least until you could figure out a way to escape this nightmare.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. Eventually, you felt the ship slow, the engines quieting as you approached your destination and when the door opened again, Rafe was there, that stupid frown always attached to his face.

"Time to go," he motioned for you to follow, hardly sparing you a look. "Move."

You stepped out onto the deck, the warm, salty breeze hitting your face as you looked around.

The sight of the lush, tropical landscape did little to ease your anxiety, you were being held captive. You were led to a smaller boat, and soon you were speeding towards a secluded island, the main landmass of the Bahamas visible in the distance.

You were a world away from the familiar streets and faces of The Cut.

It was straight out of a postcard, something you and JJ would fantasize about while high of your asses and writing bucklists.

God, JJ.

You only hoped he made it, you’d never gone a day without each other before you were dragged into this mess last summer. It wasn’t fair. You only wanted enough money to get by, an easy fix to get everything sorted, finish college, ship your dad somewhere far away from you two. But Ward’s greedy ass had to ruin everything.

As the boat neared the shore, you couldn't ignore the feeling of impending doom. Were you going to die out there? In between pristine beaches and swaying palm trees? Alone?

Rafe’s hand gripped your arm, his grasp tight, blunt nails digging into your tanned skin as he led you onto the sandy beach, Ward followed close behind, as he surveyed the scene before him.

"This way," he said, his voice cutting through the sound of the waves crashing against the shore.

You followed obediently, your mind already racing with possibilities.

Escape seemed unlikely, but there was still a slim hope that you could find a way out of this mess, eventually, even if it took you months.

The path led deeper into the heart of the island, the dense foliage casting long shadows as the sun began to set. You could feel Ward and Rafe's gazes on you, watching their prey.

Finally, you reached a clearing, and your heart sank as you saw what awaited you...a small house, in the middle of nowhere. Oh god, you were a dead woman.

“This will be your home for the time being." Ward said it like he was offering you a vacation rental and not kidnapping you, such a fucking lunatic.

You wanted to demand more answers, but you knew it was futile and there was little fight left in you from how tired you'd been feeling.

“Rafe will be keeping you company."

The way Rafe’s head snapped in his father’s direction told you more than what you needed to know.

Once again, daddy dearest was calling the shots without taking his opinion into consideration. Ward’s casual cruelty was suffocating, reminding you of the power he had over everyone.

As he turned to leave, leaving no space of negotiations or pleadings, Rafe’s eyes bored into yours, no questions asked, only blind devotion to his father.

The door slammed shut, leaving you alone with him once more. He looked at you, resentment playing across his face, like this was your fault and not theirs.

“I’m not going to make this easy for you," You hissed, “I’m not dying here. Not with you.”

Rafe chuckled, greasy bangs moving as he shook his head, “You really think you have a choice here?” He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming in the confined space, “You think you’re special? Nah, Maybank. He’ll get rid of you eventually, don’t worry.”

“Exactly. He will, not you. You don’t have any control either and I think you hate being here as much as I do, that shit makes us both prisoners.”

He blinked, momentarily thrown off guard, “Stay out my fucking way or I’ll kill you myself.”

You were sure he wouldn't, only if Ward asked him to.

He’d fucked up enough before, when he accidentally shot Sarah and didn’t look the slightest bit apologetic. You knew he wouldn’t do it again, not if he wanted to keep his head on his shoulder and his trust fund. Ward Cameron hated slips ups, hated even more the monster he raised, but he sure came in handy when he needed him.

"Empty threats," you squared your shoulders. "I've dealt with bigger monsters than you."

He only stared at you, eyes bloodshot red, perhaps from the lack of sleep or maybe because he was high off his mind, you didn’t care to ask. Just as quickly, his usual sneer returned.

"Enjoy your stay, Maybank.”

With that, he turned and left the room, him and the stupid slamming of doors.

You had to get out, you knew it wouldn't be easy, but you were a Maybank—survival was in your blood. You took stock of your surroundings once more, this time with a sharper eye.

The walls were thin, the windows barred, but there had to be some weakness, some way to exploit the situation. You ran your fingers along the seams of the walls, looking for anything that might give.

Your mind raced through every piece of advice JJ had ever given you about breaking and entering. You’d done a lot of that over the years, and while most people thought you pogues were simply criminals, they never cared enough to ask why you and your brother spent so much time in and out of the sheriff’s department.

So, what if two dirty, no-good kids were barely hanging on for dear life? No one gave a shit.

Weeks blurred into each other marked by the same routine.

Rafe's visits, Ward's passive aggressive threats, and the endless search for an opportunity to escape.

You watched Rafe carefully, noting his every move, his every interaction with Ward, noticing how the later belittled him at every chance he got, treating him more like a tool than a son.

It was a toxic dynamic, one that made you wonder if Rafe was as much a victim as you were. You’d seen bits and pieces before, but Sarah had described Ward as some sort of saint up until recently.

She hadn't done the same for Rafe. Their dynamic was so different from what you were used to. You and JJ were like two peas in a pod, you’d die for him and you know he would do the same, no questions asked. If there was one good thing in your life, it was your brother.

You couldn't help but feel a little pity for him, despite everything he'd done. He was a product of his environment, molded by a father who saw him as nothing more than a means to an end. It was easy to spot his weakness if you spent enough time in the same room, the secretive moments of doubt and vulnerability.

His hands would shake every time Ward raised his voice, he would bite his nails to hide the embarrassment booming in his cheeks and he never walked into his father’s space or any other room without announcing his presence.

It gave you whiplash.

You began to argue less with him, your animosity giving way to a grudging understanding. You hated feeling so…forgiving, this boy had done unspeakable things to you and your friends, to your family…and there you were.

Feeling sorry for him like you didn’t know better.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the small house, Rafe brought you dinner. He placed the plate on the table, his movements tense, his expression unusually subdued, strangely so, you’d memorized that expression.

You didn’t even have to ask to understand what had gotten under his skin.

"Why do you let him treat you like that?" you asked, not understanding why you did it.

You regretted the words the moment they came out of your lips, but there was something inside itching you to ask.

His eyes snapped to yours, "What the hell do you know about it?" At this point he just sounded tired.

"I understand,” you replied, thinking of your own father. "I know what it's like to want to prove yourself, to be more than what they think you are."

Rafe's jaw clenched, his eyes dropping to the floor, for a moment, he looked lost, like a boy searching for something he could never find.

"You don't know shit," he muttered, but there was no conviction in his voice.

"I know enough," you said quietly. "You don't have to keep doing this. You don't have to be his puppet."

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "You think it's that simple?"

"Maybe not. But you can choose to be better than him. You can choose to stop this.”

Rafe looked at you, really looked at you, for the first time and it was borderline unnerving. The weight of his stare, how way your stomach flip-flopped under his attention.

“Shut the fuck up and eat, Maybank."

But beneath it all, there was something else, you’d seen before, when you looked at yourself in the mirror after you took the biggest beating of your life and Luke finally got thrown into jail: hope.

He didn't say anything, just turned and walked out, leaving you alone.

The days continued to pass, but something changed. Rafe was less hostile to you, more contemplative. He didn't treat you as roughly, didn't hurl as many insults. It was a small change, but it was there.

That's when you finally began to see a way out, not just for yourself, but, maybe, for him too.

You knew what he did, what he was capable of, but no one deserved to rot in hell with someone like Ward. You needed to bide your time, wait for the right moment, and when that moment came, you had to be ready to act.

Another day began with the same oppressive humid heat, the sun had just started to rise, casting golden hue over the island. You were in the small kitchen of the house, preparing a meager breakfast from the limited supplies you had that day.

The routine had become almost mechanical, a way to keep your mind occupied and stave off the panic.

Rafe entered the kitchen, eyes barely open as he wiped the sleep away. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, the sound of the liquid hitting the glass breaking the silence. Very healthy.

He stood with his back to you, staring out the window.

“What’s Luke like?”

You froze, your hands pausing mid-motion. It was more than an unexpected question, it made you want to hurl on the spot even though you hadn’t had anything to eat yet.

“Why do you want to know?" you asked cautiously, wondering if it was some kind of trick question.

He shrugged, still not turning to face you. "

Just curious. You Maybanks are a tight bunch, right? So what's he like?"

Tight bunch…that was one way to put it.

You took a deep breath, trying to decide how much to reveal. "He’s a drunk, a thief. But he's still my dad."

He finally turned to look at you, his eyes narrowing. "So why do you stick around? Why not just leave him?"

You knew what he was trying to do, giving you a taste of your own medicine. You couldn’t blame him.

"Because he's family, and sometimes, family is all you have. Even when they’re terrible, even when they hurt you, sometimes you can’t just walk away."

"Family's supposed to be everything, right?" His voice carried a bitter edge, hinting at his unresolved inner conflicts that you'd grown accustomed to.

"That's what they say."

He took another sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Must be tough, having a dad like that."

Tough? It was heartbreaking. Knowing that the one person who was supposed to love you, cherish you and protect you for life never gave a single fuck about his kids? Yeah, sure it’s “tough”.

"Guess we have that in common.”

Rafe looked away, "Yeah, we do." He set his glass down with a heavy thud, the sound resonating in the small kitchen.

The two of you stood in silence, but then he took a deep breath, his shoulders sagging slightly.

"I get it," he said quietly. "More than you know."

You watched him, the way his fingers ran along the rim of the glass. "Then why do you keep doing this? You don’t have to."

“It's not that simple," he snapped. "I killed someone. For him.”

It was the first time he had said those words out loud, it made him sick to his stomach. He'd been scared and high enough to do something so reckless, just so they wouldn’t take away his dad.

"We always have a choice," you countered, "Maybe not the best ones, but we can always choose to be better."

He shook his head, turning away. "You don't know anything," he muttered, but there was less conviction in his words than before.

"I know enough," you watched his retreating back. "And so do you."

He paused at the doorway, his hand gripping the frame tightly.

Without turning around, he spoke, his voice strained. "I'll see you later."

As he left, the kitchen felt colder, but you knew you had reached him, even if just a little, and that gave you hope.

After that, Rafe’s visits were less frequent, and when he did come by, there was an uneasy tension between you both. You couldn't tell if it was because of your last conversation or the sheer exhaustion of being trapped in this toxic cycle. Still, every interaction seemed to chip away at the walls he'd built around himself, showing you little glimpses of the person he might have been, had his life taken a different path.

Tonight, the air is still, the only sound is the gentle lapping of waves against the shore.

You have been biding your time, watching for the perfect moment to make your run for it. The house is quiet, Ward is gone and you haven’t seen Rafe in two days. By now, you know how the guards outside fell asleep before 2am like clockwork.

You can it.

This is your chance, you can’t afford to waste it.

You move silently, slipping out of the small bedroom and into the hallway. Every creak of the wooden floorboards seems to echo in the stillness, and you hold your breath, praying you won’t get caught.

Your heart races as you slowly turn the handle of the front door, wincing at the faint click that accompanies the action. Once outside, you glance around, ensuring the coast is clear, then make your way towards the small boat moored at the edge of the beach.

The plan is simple: get to the boat, start the engine, and head for the main island where you can find help. You keep low, moving quickly but cautiously, like a cat. The boat is within reach when a noise behind you makes your blood run cold.

The crunch of gravel underfoot makes you want to cry.

You turn sharply, and in the moonlight, the silhouette of one of the guards emerges from the shadows, it's the asshole who got you here in the first place. He’s closer than you had anticipated.

Your heart pounds, adrenaline moving through your veins as you break into a sprint, abandoning stealth for speed.

"Stop!" the guard shouts, his voice carrying across the trees.

You don’t dare to look back, your eyes locked on the boat when you hear a loud noise split the night—a gunshot. That's when you feel a searing pain in your arm, but you don't stop, pushing through, your goal now just a few yards away.

Another gunshot rings out, but you are too focused to notice where it lands. You reach the boat, hands trembling as you fumble with the ropes. The pain in your arm intensifies, but you force yourself to keep moving, when suddenly, a heavy hand grabs your shoulder, spinning you around.

You struggle, kicking and thrashing, but he’s stronger as he knocks you to the ground, pinning you down as he radioes for backup.

"Get your hands off me!"

It feels all to familiar. You hate very second of it.

"Got her," he says into the radio, his terrible breath hot against your ear. You try to wriggle free, but his grip only tightens and moments later, two more guards arrive, hauling you to your feet and dragging you back towards the house.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

The sting in your arm is painful reminder of your failed attempt as they pull you inside, your brief taste of freedom slipping away.

You were so fucking close.

Moments feel like hours as you sit in the chair, the pain in your arm throbbing with each heartbeat, they don't even try to stop the bleeding.

Then the quiet murmurs of the guards outside is interrupted by the heavy, hurried footsteps of someone approaching. The door flies open, and there stands Rafe, disheveled and wild-eyed, a gun clutched tightly in his hand.

“What the fuck is going on?” he barks as his gaze scans the room, landing on you.

The sight of the blood staining your arm makes his expression change from bewilderment to fury. He storms towards you, his eyes blazing.

“What happened?” he all but demands. Before you can answer, he whirls around to face the guards who re-enters the room. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Rafe shouts, waving his gun erratically. “She’s bleeding! I try to sleep in peace and this is what I fucking come back to?”

The guards exchange nervous glances, shifting uncomfortably under his glare. “She was trying to escape, Mr. Cameron,” one of them stammers out. “We had to stop her.”

His expression twists with rage.

“So you fucking shot her?” His voice drips with incredulity. “Do you even understand what you’ve done? My father wants her in once piece.”

The guard who caught you tries to explain, but Rafe cuts him off.

“Shut up. Just... shut up.” He turns back to you, his eyes softening slightly as he takes in the sight of your injured arm, or maybe the pain is making you delirious.

“We need to get that cleaned up,” he mutters, more to himself than to anyone else. Without another word, he holsters his gun and gently takes your uninjured arm, pulling you to your feet as the guards look on, unsure of what to do or say.

He shoots them a deadly look. “Get out before I shoot you bitches myself.”

Once Ward’s men leave, he runs a hand through his long hair, pacing the small room before finally stopping in front of you.

He looks pissed as he sneers at you, his voice dripping with exasperation, "I thought you had some brains in that pretty little head of yours," he spats out, practically screaming in your face, "What were you even thinking? Do you realize how close you came to getting yourself killed?"

You try to speak, to defend yourself, but he doesn’t give you the chance. His words come fast, "You could've died out there! A bullet barely missed you—do you even understand how lucky you are?"

The monologue doesn't stop there.

His fists clench at his sides, "I just don't get it. Do you think you're invincible? Because you're not. You're just..." He stops himself, taking a deep breath as if trying to control his temper while he paces around th room, unable to stay put, "You're just reckless," he continues, his voice still seething, "You didn’t think about the consequences, about what it would do to..."

What?

"Don't act like you give a shit about me," you call after him, your voice trembling. You don't know if it's the pain or the weird pull in your stomach making you feel all weird and fuzzy inside.

He stops in his tracks, his back stiffening for a moment before slowly turning to face you.

"I don't," he retorts, "But my ass is on the line too. You think Ward won't come down on me if something happens to you?"

You take a step towards him, despite the throbbing pain in your arm, not buying his bullshit speech.

"So this is all about you, then? Your precious ass and how it looks to Ward? Typical Cameron bullshit, only caring about themselves."

Rafe's eyes narrow, "You don't know what you're talking about," his voice is dangerously low. "You think this is easy for me? Keeping you safe, dealing with all this? I gotta keep everything under control."

“Here we go again," You scoff through your nose. "Control? You think dragging me back here, shooting at me, is control? It's chaos, Rafe. You're just as trapped as I am, and you can't stand it."

His face twists showcasing his wrath, and he takes a step towards you, closing the distance.

"You don’t understand the pressure I'm under. The expectations, the demands. I didn’t ask for any of this."

"And neither did I," you shoot back, a strict finger aimed at his face in warning, “So shut the fuck up.”

He takes another step, his face inches from yours, his breath hot and ragged.

"You have no idea what you're talking about. You think this is just about me? It's about keeping everything from falling apart. It's about—"

Before he can finish, you grab the front of his shirt, pulling him even closer, your faces almost touching.

“I don’t care about your excuses, Rafe. I don’t care about your pressures or your fucking control. All I know is I’m not staying here.”

The look he gives you was filled with enough ire to have a hint of satisfaction sparking in your chest, the hollow beneath his dark brows deepening as his pretty features contorted.

His breath comes in short, sharp bursts, his hands come up, gripping your waist, not gently but not roughly either, as if he can’t decide whether to push you away or pull you closer.

"You're impossible," he hisses, like the snake he is.

"And you’re a coward.”

The next moment happens without much thinking, without any thinking, really.

Rafe’s grip tightens, before you can process what is happening, his lips crash into yours with a ferocity that you never saw coming.

His mouth is demanding, punishing, and you, like an idiot, kiss him back, your hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer even if you want to push him away.

The kiss is all rough, there's only room for anger and frustration after all you been through, a collision of two souls damaged beyond repair to recognize the depths of their own pain.

You should know better.

And yet, beneath the layers of animosity and resentment, there is a stupid spark—as if you are both too messed up to understand how much you need each other. Each fingertip of his leaves an imprint wherever he touches, and some sick twisted part of you finds that attractive. It’s like he’s fighting to contain this fury within him, to keep it from overwhelming you both, but you want it.

If someone told you you’d be kissing Rafe fucking Cameron of all people just a month ago, you’d think they were crazy. And yet…

All you want are his hands on your body, his warm skin against your own.

Oh his hands.

They roam over your lower back, over your waist again. You breathe out a sigh of relief, taking the collar of his shirt in both your hands as you pull him closer, relishing in his warmth. He smells like whiskey and cigarettes, and while you grew up hating that particular combination, it worked on him.

He pulls away slowly, your lips the last to part, and blinks down at you. You watch him lick his bottom lip, swollen, wet with both of your spits, taking in the sight of you.

“’You’re bleeding—“

“Shut the fuck up.”

His blue eyes flare with renewed anger, turning almost black. He doesn’t answer verbally; instead, he takes a half step back before swooping you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly.

With a swift motion, Rafe carries you to the dining table, and you barely have time to register the cool wood against your back before he’s on you again, his body pressing down on yours with a desperation that matches your own.

There’s no tenderness there, don't be fooled.

He pries your lips apart again, his tongue sweeping in as he kisses you deeply, his mouth moving invasively over yours. His fingers grip your jaw with a vice-like hold, angling your head the way he wants to.

A strange sensation flutters beneath your skin, and you wrap your legs around his hips, closing the distance between your bodies as he presses flush against your center.

His hands move with such intent, slipping under your shirt, his fingers tracing every curve with a delicious blend of roughness and urgency. Your hands tangle in his hair, urging him closer as your kiss deepens, his body is so close it's making you breathless.

You tug at his shirt, fingers fumbling with the buttons because you just can’t wait. He lets out a deep, sexy growl that makes a shiver run down your spine. His hands are all over you, touching your skin and leaving fiery trails wherever they go.

"You're impossible," he repeats against your lips, all ragged as he leans down closer to your collarbone, to catch the scent on your skin, and he can’t tell if you are amused or annoyed from the way your cheeks round.

"And you’re an asshole,” your voice comes out breathless.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, the tip of his nose brushing against yours slightly "Drive me fucking crazy.”

"Good," you reply, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling him down again. You can feel the tension in his body, you know he’s holding back on you, but you don’t want control.

You want to lose yourself in this moment, to forget everything you've been through and just feel.

Rafe seems to sense it, his hands becoming more insistent, his touch more possessive. He lifts you slightly, positioning you better on the table, his body slotting perfectly between your legs, the friction is exquisite.

"Rafe," He almost falls to his knees at the soft whimper that leaves your lips, unable to stop the jerk of his hips forward.

He responds instantly, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you closer as he kisses you with a fervor that leaves you dizzy. The table creakes under your combined weight, but neither of you care as your hand grabs his forearm, over the veins strained from his grip on you, your nails sinking into the skin exposed.

You break the kiss, gasping for air, your eyes locking with his. There’s a wildness there, and for the first time in your life, you like it.

You reach up, tracing his jaw with your fingers, feeling the grown out stubble beneath your touch as his mouth leaves a trail of fire in its wake on your neck. A noise of pleasure slips from your mouth as he palms at your tits, thumb grazing across your nipple as his teeth graze your collarbone, kissing down, littering your skin bite marks.

"I hate you," you pant, pouring as much venom into your words as possible. Your thighs tighten around his hips, feeling every inch of his cock against you.

“Your body doesn’t,” He replies, each syllable slowly drawn from his throat.

“Fucking asshole.”

“Fucking brat.”

You open your mouth to hiss something at him, to fight back, show him that you are the one in charge, but the intention dies the moment Rafe cups you through your shorts.

A pathetic excuse of shorts due to the heat.

Heat blooms in your stomach, melting into a torrent want that floods your skin and leaves you breathless. His determined blue eyes pierce into yours, watching as he presses the heel of his palm against the apex of your thighs, his middle finger tracing your pussy and applying light pressure to the sensitive dip between your legs.

“Cat got your tongue, pretty?” He asks, lips brushing over your mouth, loose bangs brushing against your brow. “Thought you had more fire in you.”

He moves your shorts and underwear out of the way and your lips part on a sharp inhale as you feel him touch you for the first time.

You can't think properly while he's doing this, it's been too long and your brain feels to mushy to form a proper sentence.

“Yeah, thought so.”

"God, I h-hate you," you whisper again, the words almost a prayer, a futile attempt to cling to the anger that has fueled you for so long.

But even as you say it, you know it’s was a lie. Partly. You hate how much you need him right now, how you crave his touch, his dominance.

Perhaps you’ve been locked away from society for too long, that’s gotta be the only plausible reason for you to let Rafe Cameron touch you.

He smirks, "No, you don’t.”

You do. At least you used to, everything is confusing now.

He teases you, his touch light, drawing out your frustration, your need. "Tell me what you want," he murmurs against your lips.

You bite back a whimper, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg. But the need is so overwhelming, you nearly give in.

“Fuck you," you spit out.

He chuckles, fingers finally slipping inside you, curling and stroking in a way that makes your hips buck against his hand. Oh, he was going to ruin you.

"That's right," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. "Let me hear you."

A broken moan escapes your lips, and you arch into his touch, your body writhing with need. His fingers move easily with how wet you are, finding all the right spots, making you drip all over his hand.

You hate that he's so good.

"Rafe," you finally gasp, the words ripped from your throat by the pleasure. "P-Please, I need you."

You'd be embarrassed later.

His smirk widens as he pulls his fingers away, making you whimper in frustration. He doesn’t make you wait long, though. With swift, practiced movements, he frees himself from his pants, the sight of him hard and ready making your mouth water.

Without a word, he positions himself between your legs, the head of his pretty cock teasing your entrance.

"You ready?"

You nod, your eyes locking with his, "Please.”

He doesn’t need any further encouragement.

With a single, powerful thrust, he buries himself inside yo, not giving you any time to second guess it. The sensation overwhelming, your back arches involuntarily, your lips parting as fills you completely in a way you have never imagined.

He rolls his hips firmly against yours, and your head tips back as his cock rubs perfectly against you. You don't think you ever felt so full.

He doesn’t give you a moment to catch your breath, giving you another firm roll of his hips, testing you out, figuring out his rhythm.

His movements are hard and relentless, pounding into you, knocking the breath from your lungs with each forceful thrust, barely giving you time to adjust. Not that you want slow.

You cling to him, your nails digging into his muscular back, your body moving in perfect rhythm with his. The table creaks and groans beneath you, but you don’t care.

All that matters is the man above you, his hands grip your hips, pulling you closer, deeper, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate. You can feel him losing control, his need matching your own. Maybe it's been too long for him too.

Your eyes squeeze shut, blocking him out so you can pretend you weren't stupid enough to let the man that ruined your life fuck the living hell out of you.

"Eyes on me,” he growls, his voice all commanding. "Lemme see you.”

Even though you really want to shut him out, you just can’t fight the crazy pull he has over you. His voice is like a force of nature, making you open your eyes against your better judgment.

Seeing him above you, his face twisting with need and determination sends chills down your spine. His eyes are locked onto yours, filled with this intensity you never seen before and that leaves you breathless. No one had ever looked at you like that during sex.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with approval. It makes you want to run for the hills, "Fuck—Oh, fuck. Y-You're sucking me in so nicely, huh?"

With each thrust, he drives you closer to your orgasm, your body responding to him in ways you can’t hold back. He leaves you gasping, moaning, begging for more. You don't even know what you're doing anymore but his name keeps slipping from your lips in a broken, desperate plea, and he answers with his movements becoming more frenzied.

"Fuck," His is strained. "...Feels so fucking good."

You can barely form coherent thoughts, let alone words. Your entire world has narrowed to the feel of him inside you, to the overwhelming pleasure that consumes you.

"Rafe," you whimper, the sound barely more than a breath. "I'm—I can't..."

He understands.

His pace quickens even more, his thrusts becoming almost brutal in their intensity. "Come for me," he commands his voice a whisper against your earlobe that sends shivers down your spine. "Let go."

His words push you over the edge, and you come with a scream, your body convulsing around him, squeezing him for all he's worth.

It's nothing you ever felt before, an explosion of pleasure that makes you lose it. So this was what great sex felt like?

Rafe follows you as you milk him for all he's worth, crashing through him with a force that leaves him shaking on top of you. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ragged against your skin as he rides out his orgasm, groaning as his movements slow down, until he finally stills, still buried deep inside you.

For a moment, everything is still, but then he lifts his head, his eyes meeting yours, and for a moment, there is something almost tender about him.

“Y-You—“ He sighs, pausing, “Don’t pull that shit again. I’ll get you out, okay?

“Rafe...“

Before you can process his words, before you can question or argue, his lips are on yours again. Differently this time. Gentle.

Devastating, almost.

“You’re still bleeding Maybank.”

Right.

He fucked you good enough to forget about the pain.

The moment of vulnerability between you evaporates, leaving you with the realization of your situation.

You just fucked Rafe Cameron. On a table. After being shot.

You push at his chest, forcing him to back off slightly, and hiss through clenched teeth when he twitches inside you.

“Then do something about it."

He just stands there, staring at you as if he has never seen you before, as if he’s truly seeing you for the first time despite having known you since you were seven, despite all the moments marked by violence and terror.

You hate every second of it because your heart is practically leaping out of your chest.

No one has ever looked at you like that before.

Then he simply shakes his head, coming closer again, resting his forehead against yours, hands back on your thighs, fingers pressing as if he needs to ensure that you are real, that everything’s real.

“We’re getting out.”

You want to believe in him more than anything. In that moment, it’s the only thing that matters. Even if it sounds stupid. You need it, at least for now.

“Yeah?"

“Yeah, pretty Maybank. You and me."

“Okay.”

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