#all i know is that it was long and frustrating and the word makes me shudder years later | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

salem-s · 7 hours ago

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FINAL ── PLAYING THE PART UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN (18+) ── RAFE CAMERON

── SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. ── WARNINGS language, flufffffffff, angst if you squint, smmmmmuuuutt (unprotected...everything so don't take after them please). 18+ mdni. ── WORD COUNT 13k. legit do not say anything. this was originally 4k words but i obviously couldn't let that happen for the last chapter. so. ── NOTES edited from third person perspective to second, so let me know if there are any mistakes. please see the note at the end of the chapter!! ── SERIES MASTERLIST ── SONG OF THE CHAPTER the only exception by paramore

Rafe swears he hears pounding on his door.

He takes an ear bud out, trying to discern if the noise was real or a part of the song he’s currently listening to. After a moment’s silence, he moves to put the bud back in but one, two beats later, the knocks sound again, confirming someone is at his door so late into the night.

Irritation bubbles in his chest.

Rafe’s been at these stupid memorization cards for what feels like hours, getting nowhere close to being ready for his eight a.m. exam. His mind has – obviously – been elsewhere for the betterment of a week, and he'd be lying if he said the attempt in drowning himself in work has properly distracted him from the events of last week.

Spoiler alert: it hasn't, and it's only getting worse.

Especially now, as the handwriting on the paper started giving him a headache hours ago, so he begrudgingly put on his glasses that he refuses to let see the light of day. The specks, unfortunately, do assist in not making the letters blur together, especially when he’s so tired that his gaze falls in and out of focus.

However, he hates them so goddamn much that it only worsens his already sour mood.

But now they aren’t the only annoyance of his night.

The fact that someone is ferociously pounding on his door only augments his headache, his frustration, and his precariously bubbling temper. He glances at the time, nearing two in the morning, angry that someone has the audacity to not only interrupt his studying, but probably everyone’s sleep on his floor, careless to rhyme or reason or simple ethics.

He wastes no time standing so quick his chair nearly falls over, stomping over, a long list of curses and horrific things to say are on the tip of his tongue, ready to viscerally berate this person until next Tuesday.

Rafe whips the door open. “The fuck is the–”

His words die in his throat when he sees you.

The air is momentarily knocked from his lungs.

Your hair and makeup are done, as if you've just come from somewhere, adorned in one of his favorite tank tops on you and jeans that hug you too tight to be anything holy. You peer up at him with wide eyes at his harsh words, hugging your basically bare frame in a feeble attempt to warm yourself from wherever you just came from.

God, you look beautiful.

He knows he’s supposed to be mad at you and giving you space and all that, but all of that fades in an instant when he notices your arms coated in goosebumps and your teeth slightly chattering.

Something ugly brews in his chest, discomforted by the thought of you bracing the cold all by yourself. Where is your jacket?

“Jesus, you’re freezing,” he grumbles, ushering you into his room without a second thought.

In an attempt to regain his cool, he frowns to keep up with his indifferent demeanor since he's supposed to be cordial and all, even though the mere thought of attempting small talk with you settles a kettlebell in the pit of his stomach. His heart aches looking at you, because you're simply a walking reminder of how he fucked it all up, said the wrong things and came on too strong with poor timing, a reminder of what he could've had if he was a little more patient, more calculated, less stupid in his endeavors.

Because the past week has been absolute torture for him.

He learned very quickly that almost everything around him reminds him of you: books with an aged spine and annotations adorning the wrinkled pages, simple parts of nature that resemble the color of your eyes, strangers hugging, the mere smell of eucalyptus, everything all at once. The day he got back, he went to the liquor store with Elliot in an attempt to distract himself, but it proved fruitless when he found himself wandering idly in the wine aisle, frozen in place when he found the same bottle that you snagged two of after that grueling dinner with your family.

From that point on, Rafe really only stayed in his room unless it was absolutely necessary to leave.

But it seems as though even the confinements of his room don't provide the solace he's been desperately seeking, as the knowledge of how your room shares a wall with his has been plaguing his conscience. There have been countless times where he's debated saying fuck it, knocking on your door, and begging on his knees to have you in his life again, but he knows he can't do that.

He needs to let you come to him, to not bombard you as he has before. That was what scared you off, his forwardness, so he's vowed to keep cool, keep a distance, and keep quiet as much as he can to give you the space you need.

So, he knows he needs to remain stoic, indifferent, guarded.

Reminding himself of this, Rafe hands you a hoodie off the back of his chair. “Did you lose your key again?”

The sound of his voice is so nice to hear, so refreshing, and you nearly sigh as you hug the hoodie close to your body before pulling it over your head, relishing in the way it smells like him, in its warmth as if he was just wearing it moments ago. Pathetically, you nearly sigh at how it feels adorning your body.

“I left my purse at Elliot’s,” you whisper, hugging your body. “Since when have you had glasses?”

Rafe freezes, forgetting he had them on.

Ignoring his pink cheeks and ignoring your question, he moves on, putting his guard back up.

Quickly.

“What are you doing here?” His tone is harsh, so he reels it in. “Uh, it’s late. I have an exam.”

You frown at the considerable distance he’s put between you, but part of you really can't blame him since you were the one who orchestrated the falling out.

“I won’t…I won’t take too long. I just need to know if…” You trail off.

How on earth are you going to go about this? Especially when his stare is so piercing, as if he's looking right through your body and into your soul, brows pinched in what you assume is irritation at your stammering.

“Know what?” he drawls out.

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish, gaping to try and find the words. You shiver as you recover from the chilly walk, but also at his stare that you can’t quite make out the meaning behind. Is he mad? Irritated? Relieved to see you? You hate how you can’t tell.

But you take a deep breath.

You know how he feels about you, you know all of it, despite this front he’s wearing right now. If Elliot can confirm it, it must be true.

And as if you needed the extra push, your gaze drifts slightly beyond him, fixated on his desk and noticing the sprawl of papers, his computer open to an online textbook, and notecards that have almost perfect handwriting etched onto them. What gets you, though, are the five almost professional looking photo prints laid out side by side across the top of his desk.

All of you.

You in the distance teetering your balance on a particularly precarious rock in your private cove. You walking up the dirt path to your nonna's cottage with the mountains behind you. You holding a hand up in an attempt to block the lens as your body adorns a hideous dress you only showed him for shits and giggles. You leaning forward to do your mascara in a tiny mirror hanging on the wall, wearing the perfect beaded dress. And, finally, you sitting alone in the garden chair in your nonna's yard, the moonlight hue behind you as you read your book, unknowing to his presence from the kitchen.

Just above his desk, just hovering over the photos, is his ceramic fish hanging on the wall, one of his only pieces of decor in his entire room.

Rafe follows your gaze with confusion, and his posture stiffens when he realizes what you're looking at, what you discovered. Instantly, he frowns as he side steps just enough to block your view of the photos, of the fish. But the damage has already been done, and your breath hitches as you immediately get the confirmation you need to open your heart up.

All of a sudden, you're blurting it out.

“Elliot told me what you said to him.” The lack of clarification has Rafe raising a brow, to which you add, “About what happened with Yara.”

Rafe’s breath hitches.

“Is it true?” Your voice is so small that it doesn’t sound like you.

“Which part?”

“All of it.” You take a cautious step closer, the tequila running through your bloodstream giving you the confidence.

Rafe doesn’t answer, instead he cocks his head to the side and lets his eyes trail down your body in calculation, gears working overtime in his head as he soaks in your words, the sliver of desperation coating your tone, the way you're playing with the hem of his hoodie, your brows etched in slight worry as you anticipate his response.

Then, it clicks with him, eyes slightly widening at the realization. The reasoning behind your acute coldness towards him wasn’t out of unrequited feelings, but rather the latter.

You cared too much, felt too much.

The thought gives him whiplash. You must've seen him and Yara in that godforsaken closet and gotten the complete wrong impression on the matter. His heart fucking lurches at your wordless confession, and no wonder you were so apprehensive about his words, about his intentions, and pushed him away at every single opportunity that presented itself because of a stupid miscommunication, because of her stupid actions.

“Is that why you were upset?” He takes it further and steps closer. “At your nonna’s, you said you were upset about something that made you tell your mom about us. You saw us? In the closet?”

Suddenly, he’s standing right in front of you.

“Is that why?”

You can’t speak, not while he’s practically caging you in, standing so broad and tall in front of you that it renders you speechless. He faintly smells of shampoo, an intoxicating scent, and you can almost see yourself in the reflection of his thinly wired glasses, only shielding his bright blue eyes through shiny glass. His hoodie swallows you whole, and you're grateful for the extra layer that feels like it’s warding off the vulnerability you're reeking of.

All you can manage is a small nod.

Rafe clenches his jaw, and a part of you fears you've said the wrong thing.

But then his eyes immediately soften as he brings a hand up to hover over your jaw, almost in muscle memory, as if he's been paining him to not do so, to not touch you.

For fuck's sake, he almost looks relieved.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You nearly snort at the simplicity. For a number of reasons, really, but the biggest one comes first.

“I was embarrassed. I thought you didn’t mean what you said in the ballroom.”

Your voice is so quiet that you almost think he doesn’t hear it, especially when he gives no reaction for a few seconds.

Then his palm is pressing harder, fully allowing himself to touch you. And, god, you can't help but lean into the embrace with a long sigh through your nose, not breaking eye contact with him as his thumb ghosts over your bottom lip, over the wound that’s practically all healed with little to no remnants of the disaster that occurred in that bathroom all that time ago.

A flicker of pain etches over his face at the reminder of the cut, of what your own mother did, but then his eyes trail back up to meet yours, now glossing with certainty.

“Nothing happened with Yara,” he reassures firmly.

You nod, sure of yourself now. “I know.”

“All I could think about was you.”

You can’t breathe.

Cautiously, Rafe leans down to test the waters, and once you make no move to pull away from his touch, he indulges in his endeavors to brush his lips against your cheek, pressing a chaste kiss there.

“About your pretty smile.” He pulls back to move to your other cheek. “Your pretty laugh.” To your forehead. “About how being with someone else made me sick.”

The air escapes your lungs.

“I meant what I said.” Rafe pulls back so he can meet your eye, a flicker of worry glossing over his pretty eyes, but nonetheless filled with determination. “Every word.”

You can’t help your second nature and let a sliver of panic let up.

“I thought you didn’t want to date in college.”

The excuse is meek, you know that, he knows that. It’s a last ditch effort for him to truly understand what he’s getting himself into.

But he's serious. Not a fraction of uncertainty glosses over his pretty features, or give you any shroud of doubt that he didn't mean what he said on that ballroom floor. With the firmness of his palm against your burning skin, the narrowed yet softness gaze in his blue eyes, and the way his other fingers on his other hand twitch in your direction tell you all that you need to know: that he's fucking missed you as much as you've missed him.

And – normally – that thought would scare you and send you running for the hills with a heartbeat too erratic and a mind too gone, but now it only solidifies you, grounds you, keeps you tethered to the boy standing in front of you. He's handing you a proverbial knife and hoping you don't stab him with it, and you have once before, but now you don't dream of letting it happen again.

“I didn’t,” he confirms cautiously. “Not until you showed me what it could be like.”

If it’s possible, you lean further into his touch, frowning in your overwhelming blossom of emotions. The thought of being wanted by someone settles a foreign feeling in your gut, wavering between pride and uncertainty.

“I want you, too,” you whisper, nearly sighing at how he visibly relaxes at your words, but your voice remains shy. “But I’m scared.”

Rafe pinches his brows in the slightest at your tone. “Of what, baby?”

The words die in your throat.

The list is endless, really, piling with a million excuses that only grow by the second. Where can you begin? How the idea of someone wanting more than just your body is evidently unheard of? How the concept of more implies putting up with the ugly parts of life, the parts you push deep down and never let see the light of day?

Your hands find his unoccupied one, holding onto your lifeline as if it'll fucking kill you if you let go.

“I don’t know how to be more than just…a body.”

That makes him frown. Immediately.

Despite it, you continue.

"All my life, I've just been..." You try and find the right words, avoiding his eyes and looking down at your connected hands instead at the weight of your upcoming words. "I've never been wanted, or yearned for, or anyone's first choice. It's really hard for me to believe that someone...that you...would want me..."

Rafe reels.

Have you really thought this entire time that he’s only here for the sex? That that’s all you're good for? All you're worthy of being loved for?

How can you not see how much more you are? How much you mean to him? Don't you know that you occupy his mind at every waking moment? That you're the first thing he thinks of when he wakes up in the morning to the last thing he sees at night, and how he shuts his eyes when he’s alone and pretends you're right there beside him, holding his hand or scratching his back or playing with his hair.

Don't you know how much he loves you?

“Sweet girl,” Rafe murmurs gently before leaning forward, wrapping you in a bone crushing hug that makes you oof against his chest, getting pulled taut against him. “How can you say that? How can you even think–? When I can’t even–” He grips you tighter. “Fuck.”

Your confusion is through the roof at his desperation. “Rafe, are you–”

“Do you even know how much you mean to me?”

That silences you.

“I’ve never felt like this about anyone,” he says in a wrangled breath. “Ever. I don’t know how to trust people. I don’t like to and I don’t know how. But with you, it’s never felt easier.”

A large hand comes to cradle the back of your head, and your heart lurches when you can feel a slight tremble.

Especially when he murmurs your name so quietly, so ardently, that you can't help but just listen.

“You’re so much more than a body.” Rafe’s voice is quiet yet firm and it makes you fumble at the sincerity. “You’re smart. You remember things better than anyone I’ve ever met. You wouldn’t admit it, but you’re actually sweet. You take care of things and people you deeply appreciate. I’ve never seen someone so delicately handle a ceramic fish before.”

You shakily chuckle against his chest.

“And the thought of not being around you anymore really scared me. And even if you...didn't feel the same," he says low, "I wouldn't have minded, as long as I could be in the same room or exist in the same friend group, it wouldn't...matter. As long as I could still see you.”

Rafe finally relents on his grip, pulling back a fraction and taking his hand to gently grip your chin, forcing you to look up at him and face the ferocity of his words, as if they didn't just fucking crush you in a way you've never felt before.

“I liked being with you.” His stare is piercing. “Existing together. Doing all of it.”

You hum. On instinct, you reach up to brush some hair out of his eyes.

Rafe’s heart pounds. “Tell me,” he says, voice dripping in desperation. “Tell me it was real to you.”

You nod instantly. “It was real. All of it.”

He sucks in a breath at the verity, and goes to say something else but you don't let him, instead pulling him down to kiss him.

And, god, it’s exhilarating.

All of your fears, all of your doubts, all of your uncertainties that plagues yours and his heart, mind, soul all fly out of the window. You can finally lean into one another without the steel weights cursing your shoulders or the cage locking in your hearts. The kiss is a wordless promise, an oath, a safety net.

His hands are everywhere instantly: arms, waist, face. Not an inch goes unnoticed as he finally, finally can touch you again, feel you again, hear you again. Your hands trail up to the nape of his neck, holding yourself here in his arms as if to remind yourself this is real and happening. He’s here, right here, and he’s not going anywhere, nor is he letting you go anywhere.

As much as it scares you, the tension in your shoulders slowly release.

You slowly back him up until his knees hit his desk chair, Rafe taking the hint and sitting down and wasting no time to pull you into his lap. It's muscle memory at this point, molding yourself onto his body. You both sigh at the sensation of the familiarity.

Straddling him, you place your hands on his shoulders, smoothing out the wrinkles in his t-shirt as his hands trail up and down your side, settling under your – his – hoodie and skimpy tank top to feel the ridges of your ribcage, a connection he's been yearning to make ever since his hands left your body last. His palms are hot against your icy skin, sending a plethora of goosebumps up your spine.

Rafe simply stares at you, watching you admire the planes and grooves of his shoulder muscles, his biceps, anything you can get your hands on to make up for lost time spent pining in silence.

When you finally meet his eye, you shyly smile when you notice him already shamelessly looking right back at you.

One of your hands cradles his jaw, fingers gently skimming over the lenses of his glasses. “I like these.”

Rafe groans, rolling his eyes and darting his gaze away. “I hate them.”

“Why?” You nudge his cheek to force him to look at you. “I think they make you look handsome.”

“They make me look stupid.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “There’s no need to be embarrassed about it. They're glasses."

"Still stupid."

"You should wear them more often,” you demand lightly.

Rafe frowns. “No.”

“Well, don’t they help you see?”

“Obviously, but–”

You smile, and he’s having trouble focusing. “Then case closed.”

His lips twitch. “Sweet girl,” Rafe warns.

There’s no backbone to it.

“Don’t sweet girl me,” you warn right back at him. Then, quieter, “Why didn’t you bring them?”

Instead he cocks his head to the side with a teasing smile.

“Are you really that interested in my optical choices or is this your sweet little way of getting in my pants?”

You snort. “We both know I don’t have to be sweet to get into your pants.”

Rafe laughs boyishly and you love the sound. But he’s still avoiding your question.

“Answer.”

“Bossy.”

“Rafe.”

“Okay,” he huffs playfully, “I didn't really have to bring them. I only need them when I’m reading or writing a lot. My eyes get tired.”

You pout endearingly. “That’s, like, the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard–”

“Fuck off.”

“No.” You lean forward and press a slow chaste kiss on his lips.

Of course, he can’t even fathom pulling away and mmrphs low into your mouth, leaning up to chase your lips again for another kiss when you lean back. You hum at his neediness, but giving in anyway and slightly parting your lips to give him all the access he wants.

Rafe wastes no time in doing so, a hand coming up to cradle the side of your neck to guide your movements as he lazily makes out with you as if he has all the time in the world to do so. The warmth of his mouth, his body, his palm nearly make you melt in your very spot, a wave of relief washing over you.

You decide that you love this spot right here on his lap. Your favorite seat. Your throne.

When you happily hum again, Rafe kisses you harder, squeezes a little harder.

“God,” he mumbles against your lips, “I can’t believe you’re mine.”

The possessiveness makes your stomach pool with pride. All his. All yours. No one else's but each other's.

You can’t help but tease him. “I don’t remember you asking me officially.”

“You’re still mine.”

And Rafe kisses you again. Harder. A mark of his words.

“Say it,” he demands quietly against your lips.

And you just fucking beam. “I’m yours.” Your fingers splay through his hair. “All yours, Rafey.”

Scoffing, he turns his head away as you chuckle at his reddening cheeks, peppering kisses on his cheek, jaw, lips, anywhere available for you to coat in markings of you, you, you.

“Stop calling me that,” Rafe murmurs, but loses all the edge in his tone because the feeling of you pressing your lips all over him sends his mind for a loop.

You simply hum. “No. You have so many names for me.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but you like those.”

“Who says I do?”

“Be so fucking for real.”

The laugh that escapes your mouth is loud and boisterous, probably waking up someone on your floor. But Rafe can care less because the sound is music to his ears, despite you jesting at his expense. Shit, you can make fun of him all you want if this is how you're gonna react, smiling and sitting pretty in his lap whilst drowning in his clothes, kissing him like he hung the stars himself.

You playfully slap his shoulder. “Whatever. But I’m still going to call you–”

“No.”

“Yes. When you’re least expecting it.”

Rafe hums low, a warning.

Shrugging, you suppress a smile. “What? I gotta keep you on your toes somehow.”

“Shut up.” Then, softer. “C’mere.”

You laugh incredulously. “I’m already here.”

You nearly have the gall to laugh again when he ever-so-slightly pouts, but it all dies in your throat when he’s tugging you impossibly closer, resting your face in the crook of his neck as his hands splay wide and broad on your back. It takes you one, two seconds to register his actions, and you find yourself melting at the notion of Rafe Cameron hugging you.

It feels so achingly familiar that you can’t help but sigh in contentment, letting your eyes shut for a few moments as you feel his chest heave in and out with his low syncopated breaths.

Your heart lurches at the action, pressing yourself impossibly tight against him in fear he's going to disappear if you inch back even in the slightest. He takes a particularly deep breath, one of relief almost, your chests brushing together even closer than before. It makes you hum, pressing another kiss to the soft skin on his neck.

You speak before you register it. "Thank you."

His hands gently rub up and down your back. "For what, baby?"

"For..." You swallow the lump in your throat. "For not running."

Your words make him frown, and he eases you back so he can look you in the eye, confusion glosses over his features as one of his hands reaches up to cradle your face, forcing you to look at him when you turn your head away in embarrassment.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says firmly. "Gonna take a cavalry to get rid of me."

A smile twitches at the end of your lips.

His gaze flickers down to your mouth, letting it linger there for a moment before moving back up to meet your eyes, but before he can do anything else, you're already leaning in and severing the distance.

Rafe's large hand holds you in place, reciprocating your kiss with more fervor than before that makes his breath hitch. Your hips barely – just barely – move in tandem with his that has his hand gripping your waist, stopping your moments immediately.

You lean back at his sudden apprehension, almost shy. "What?"

"Don't- Don't do that," he answers meekly.

Of course, you've never been one to listen.

You roll your hips again.

His other hand leaves your face to grab your waist, both of his palms and all of his fingers digging deep into your flesh to cease your movements. His face is uncharacteristically scrunched in pain at the reluctancy of initiating what he's been dreaming about since the last time you had him.

You notice immediately. "What's wrong?"

Rafe's eyes dart between yours, sucking in a breath as he looks at you. "I don't want to hurt you again."

The words confuse you. Tilting your head to the side, you try and rack your brain on where this sudden approach is coming from, where the sudden apprehension stems from. The expression on his face tells you that he's holding back, he's pained, haunted by something you can't conjecture.

"You haven't hurt me," you tell him earnestly, a little confused, but one-hundred percent honest.

He furrows his brows. "...The day of the wedding?"

What?

You only look at him in befuddlement, mind trailing off when you replay the course of events of the day in your head. The only thing that would pertain to his words was when he fucked you deep and rough that morning because you asked him to. It had felt good. Too good. It was when you realized you were in too deep and it scared the shit out of you.

"Rafe," you say slowly, "what are you talking about?"

He looks pained even repeating it. "You cried. After we..." He shakes the thought away. "There were teardrops on your pillow."

The confession makes your heart skip.

That's why he was so weird with you for the entire day? Why he kept himself at an arm's length and could barely look you in the eye when you lounged together on the beach? Because he thought he'd hurt you? Made you cry? When you were upset for the complete opposite reason?

You frown at his anecdote, hurt that he's had to carry this miscommunicated guilt with him for a week, unknowing to the real reason, and under the complete wrong impression of your feelings.

Before you know it, your hands are reaching up to cradle each side of his face tenderly.

"That wasn't because of you," you whisper ardently, almost pained that he's been thinking that the whole time. "Not at all."

But Rafe doesn't seem to believe that. "I was too hard."

"No," you say immediately, shaking your head to emphasize your point. "No, you were too gentle."

That makes him furrow his brows.

At his silence, you continue with a deep breath.

"I thought that if I asked for it rough, it would let me get over my feelings for you, to remind me that it had to just be sex." Your voice is impossibly quiet yet firm. "But you didn't treat me like another fuck, you made sure I had what I needed, said all of these beautiful things, treated me impossibly gentle afterward."

The pad of your thumb brushes over his cheekbone.

"I cried because I was scared," you admit gently. "Not of you. Never of you. But of my feelings. You didn't make it easy for me to try and stop liking you."

A smile twitches at the end of his lips.

"So," he says quietly after a moment, "I didn't hurt you?"

You shake your head earnestly to confirm. "No. I'm sorry that I let you believe that you did."

His eyes blink, soaking in the weight of your words with a slow nod, the gears in his head turning as he gradually lets himself understand that it wasn't his hands that orchestrated your tears. He didn't hurt you. You are fine.

"You're okay," Rafe drawls out cautiously. "Right?"

Your nod is immediate. "Yes. Always with you."

That seems to make the tension in his shoulders release bit by bit, relaxing under your touch and allowing himself to believe you, believe that it wasn't what he thought it was, believe that he didn't hurt you.

"Okay?" You ask gently, confirming that he understands what you're saying.

Now he does, nodding against your touch and letting his hands experimentally skim your waist, easing up on his grip, and letting them venture over the smoothness of your skin. He waits a beat for you to pull back, to tell him to stop, but you don't.

Instead, you press yourself down onto him, making his breath catch.

It's out of clarity, certainty, especially when you lean forward and press a chaste kiss on his lips, a confirmation of your truth. He leans up to chase your mouth, and he's successful when you close the distance, allowing his tongue access to your mouth as teeth clashes against teeth, a wave of passion emerging like a tidal wave at the notion that he didn't hurt you. He didn't hurt you. He didn't hurt you.

"Fuck," Rafe mutters against your lips when you roll your hips once more. "You're going to fucking kill me. I swear."

Experimentally, he grips your waist and moves you back and forth against his already hardening dick, and when you don't pull back or voice your discomfort, he allows himself a deep exhale, allows himself to soak into the moment, allows himself to enjoy the feel of you, you, you.

"I missed you," you nearly whisper before you can stop it, the vulnerability feeling foreign on your tongue. "Missed this."

Rafe groans against your lips. "Me too, baby." He kisses you again as you moan quietly into his mouth as he continues guiding your movements against him. "Let me show you, mhm?"

Anticipation pools in your stomach, blossoming in your gut and sending warmth down to where your body touches his.

You're barely nodding before his hands venture down to your ass, holding you taut against him as he stands, your grip tightening around his neck like a koala and wrapping your legs around his middle. In seconds, your back hits the mattress, his knee is slotting between your thighs, and his lips are on yours again.

It's so familiar, so achingly familiar that you cannot believe you went so long without it, without him.

You arch into his chest, bodies molding together as puzzle pieces connect. A hand flies to his hair, tugging the strands gently that makes him omit a low groan into your mouth, one hand shamelessly groping one of your breasts under his hoodie and the other bracing himself over your body, barely hovering.

Rafe pulls back just slightly, a flicker of irritation coating his pretty face as he leans up to take his glasses off, ones that have slid down the bridge of his nose just enough to annoy him.

But you react before you realize it.

"Wait," you say, leaning up a tad for emphasis, a hand coming up to cradle his face and gingerly skim the metal as he freezes. "Keep them on."

A teasing smile twitches at his lips. "Seriously?"

You sheepishly nod, biting your lip.

Rafe stares at you for a moment, amused gaze darting between your eyes at the request.

"Please?" You add sweetly.

The scoff that leaves his mouth makes you suppress a grin, knowing how that one word makes him feel and using it to your advantage. He shakes his head in disbelief at you, but his faux irritation proves to be fruitless as a smirk can't help but grow on his lips.

"Can't say no to that, hm, sweet girl?" He murmurs, half in playfulness and the other half in adoration.

You shake your head slowly at him, your grin fading into something shy, as if asking for what you want proved to be difficult.

But he wouldn't dream of denying you that. Ever. Especially when you asked so nicely, so sweetly, just for him. Who is he to say no? Hell, you could've asked him for a car in that same tone and he wouldn't hesitate to ask what color, make, and model.

So Rafe indulges your request, pushing the glasses up further on the bridge of his nose and leaning down to connect your lips for the umpteenth time, nearly grinning when you let out a satisfied mmrph at him letting you get what you want. His hands are everywhere they can reach, groping and mapping out the curves of your body and nearly moaning at the softness of your skin.

"Can't believe you're mine," he murmurs against your lips, sending a shockwave down your spine as his thumb brushes over your nipple. "All mine."

"Yours," you whisper sultry, needy, desperately, nearly bucking up into him.

Rafe's eyes roll back at the sound of it, pushing the hem of your – his – hoodie to reveal your chest, and you sit up to aide him in taking it off. The act is deliberately thorough, as his calloused palms smooth over your skin, gingerly pushing it up over your head. Your tank top is next. Then, your bra. Then your jeans. Before you know it, you're almost completely nude, simply left in your light blue underwear and exposed in the cool air of his room.

All he can do is stare at your bareness, letting out an appreciative hum as one hand grabs a breast, his cool ring ghosting over your nipple that causes you to sigh deeply, eyes raking from your stomach, to your chest, and eventually back up to your face, where you peer up at him in anticipation. His hand gropes you meaningfully, as if he's studying the feel of the swell in his palm, relishing in your warmth.

"You're so beautiful," Rafe admires gently, almost to himself, before leaning down and taking the other breast in his mouth.

The words make your heart skip a beat, but you shove down the feeling as you arch into his mouth that licks and bites and sucks against the soft skin, a hand in his hair to keep yourself grounded, keep yourself tethered to him. No inch of your chest goes unnoticed, untouched, ignored.

Rafe is thorough in his appreciation, and as lovely as it is, you're growing impatient with need as you writhe underneath him.

"Want you," you whine under your breath, not like he can hear you anyway as it comes out as an incoherent babble, but figuring it's better than saying his name over and over like a mantra, but it proves fruitless when he albeit hums. "Rafe?"

"Yes, baby?" He asks lazily in between kisses as if he has all the time in the world.

"I want... I..."

He etches lower and lower on your body until his mouth is ghosting over your clothed cunt, a low hum emitted from his mouth as he presses a kiss against the wet patch on your underwear, greedily inhaling and exhaling hot breath that makes you squirm. By the looks of it, he's pleased at the sight of you eager for him, ready for him, squirming for him.

Instead of responding, he licks and sucks against the cotton of your panties, against the spot he knows makes you crumble all the same. You moan raggedly, almost embarrassed at the volume given the fact that you've just started, given that he's doing this over your clothes.

"Words," Rafe mumbles teasingly, the baritone of his voice vibrating your core with such fervor that it makes your back arch and your fingers grip a little harder in his hair. "What d'ya want, hm?"

"You," you manage to say, breathless and writhing. "Need you."

His nimble fingers hook under the waistband of your panties, sliding them down achingly slow until they're fully off, discarded somewhere carelessly as he resumes his position between your legs, taking in the sight of you: so pretty looking down at him, cunt glistening with need, face flush with anticipation.

One of your legs hooks over his shoulder as his mouth ghosts over your core.

"You have me," is all he says before closing the distance.

You moan at the contact, as his tongue plunges deep where you need him and his nose brushes against your clit. The taste of you has him groaning into your heat, the rumble causing your eyes to roll back at the sensation. The sound is obscene, especially when he eats like a starved man, like he's been depraved of his favorite meal, like he's ravenous.

"Taste so good, princess," he practically moans into your heat.

It's almost unbearable. You've been so worked up this past week at the thought of him, the thought of never being able to make things right, the thought of losing something you can't help but love. The wave of relief that washes over you only augments your pleasure, because your worries dissipate and you allow yourself to enjoy this, enjoy him, enjoy what he can give you.

One of his hands venture up your body to grab a breast, as if he can't allow his hands to be unoccupied, to not feel and dote on you with every fiber of his being. The added pleasure makes your eyes roll back involuntarily.

"Oh my god, Rafe," you whisper so quietly that it's barely audible.

Your other hand covers his, gripping the back of his hand and squeezing tight to wordlessly reciprocate your want, your need, your appreciation.

His other hand comes to aide his mouth, maneuvering his body so he can both use his fingers as they glide in with ease, and his tongue that can't bear to separate just yet. It makes you whine so beautifully that his hips stutter forward against the mattress, groaning low into your cunt at the sudden sensation.

As Rafe sucks and laps and fingers you so brazenly, you let out a ragged breath at the plethora of pleasantries, suddenly hit with how nice everything feels, how the combination of his mouth, plunging fingers, and the hand fondling your breast start the familiar coil bubbling in your core.

"Fuck," you curse at the intensity, and how quickly it builds. "Please, I-I-"

Your hips writhe under his touch as you let out a particularly broken whine, chest heaving as you get closer and closer to your release.

"I know, baby," he murmurs low, almost strained.

Gasping, you momentarily lose breath at the speed of it, gripping his hand that's on your breast tighter, affirming how quickly you're approaching your high with your body language, one that he seems to understand quite well, something he's come to know better than a lot of other things in life. He's well versed in your tendencies, a pride he wears with his chest.

"Rafe," you whine as your orgasm comes closer, and closer, and closer. "I'm-"

You don't finish the sentence, and you don't even hear if he responds, because your orgasm hits you so quickly, so blindly, that your back arches off the mattress, a tidal wave of ecstasy flooding your veins and searing hot in your core. Your heartbeat is up to your ears, and he could be saying the secrets to the universe and you'd simply have no idea. It's pulsating, inebriating, because you don't hide behind a curtain of shame of how much you need him, not anymore, and that makes the release tenfold.

Despite your writhing hips, Rafe is able to lap up every drop, groaning deep into your cunt at the taste of you, of how nice you feel against his fingers, against his tongue, how pretty you sound as you let him hear you louder than ever.

Lazily, he licks and sucks you through the aftershock, nearly grinning at how your thighs tremble against his head and your ragged breaths ease from the intensity. Your thumb rubs absentminded circles on his hand, a gesture so fucking sweet that he reciprocates by placing a chaste kiss against your cunt, eyeing it for a moment as a brief goodbye before he sighs a hot breath against it.

"You did so well, sweet girl," he praises, trailing kisses up your body while turning his palm in your hand to gingerly lace his fingers through yours, squeezing once, twice, three times until his mouth is against your neck, sucking that sweet spot that makes you shiver.

You practically shake underneath him, still attempting to return to planet earth.

Rafe's nose nudges your jaw. "You okay?"

You exhale a noise that you think is affirmation, but frankly you're still trying to screw your head on straight after hearing your heartbeat in your ears, shuddering under his grounding touch that sends electricity through your already amplified veins.

"Yes," you start breathlessly, "I-I've just been– my brain– I couldn't... I need to..."

Rafe's face is suddenly inches from yours, practically beaming down at your incoherent babbling with a knowing glance, one that affirms just how nice he fucks you (your words, not his, as you've so graciously told him once). It's proving true now, as he takes in the sight of your gazed expression and bleary eyes, chest swelling with pride.

Watching you attempt to figure out your words all breathless and pouty, he can't help but let his gloating simmer into something more affectionate, something softer that he seems to only reserve for you. It's fascinating to see you like this, completely unguarded and fucked out and beautiful, nonetheless.

"Couldn't what?" He eggs on, heart blooming at the state of you.

"It doesn't matter," you mutter absentmindedly as you slip your hand out of his to paw at his chest, still recovering from the dizziness of your brain, movements sluggish as you reach down for the tent in his sweatpants while your eyesight slowly returns to normal. "C'mere, I–"

"Easy," he drawls out amusingly, taking the trembling hand that reaches for his dick and lacing his fingers through yours instead. "You're shaking."

You blink through your frustration, your vision returning (almost). "I'm not– I– You're being withholding."

His grin is impossibly wide. "I'm sorry, sweet girl." He doesn't sound apologetic in the slightest. "I'll give you another, just catch your breath, yeah?"

Your struggle is obvious, and your desperation even more, because you've missed him so fucking bad and all you want to do is feel him irrevocably, completely, ardently. The realization is pathetic, you know, but you figure that you're past the point of being shy, especially with him, who has seen you at your all.

You frown, spluttering, utterly flustered at his nonchalance, especially when his unoccupied hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, running the pad of his thumb on the corner of your mouth. "Wh– No, I don't want another, I want–"

"You don't want another?"

Groaning, you flush under his piercing stare. "No, I– Ugh, Rafe. I want you."

"Me?" Rafe repeats in faux surprise, brows raised playfully. "Could've just asked."

You roll your eyes so hard it only makes you a little more dizzy, trying really hard to appear angry but it goes nowhere when a hint of a smile ghosts your lips. And it only grows when he leans in, placing a long, chaste kiss on you, and you melt into it when you taste yourself, lungs wound tight. You figure you can breathe later.

He notices immediately, pulling back with a boyish chuckle that makes your chest feel funny. "Sorry. Couldn't help it."

"Do it again," you mumble shyly, eyelids heavy with desire. "Please."

And he does. Immediately.

You albeit whine into his mouth as he reciprocates the noise at the sound of it, squeezing your hand once more and the gesture nearly kills you as you practically pout into his mouth at the sweetness of it. With your mind airy and lungs breathless, all you can think about is Rafe, Rafe, Rafe, how he kisses you, how he touches you, how his voice sounds reverberated against your body.

It's incriminatingly intoxicating to be surrounded by him in all of your senses: his hand laced in your own, his breathy whimpers against your lips when your hand trails to the hem of his shirt to brush against his bare abdomen, teasing the waistline of his sweats. You're caught in a whirlwind of him, drowning in his scent and caged in by his arms.

You realize quickly, as you've noted before, that Rafe Cameron should come with a warning.

He pulls back, and you're about to protest until you see he's moving to take his shirt off in one swift motion, sick of the cotton barrier between your chests. As he begins to take his sweats and boxers off, you sit up, idly waiting for him as you tuck your legs underneath you. The sight of his cock hard and aching, dripping pre-cum off the tip, has you shamelessly staring, as you let out a small breath you didn't realize you were holding.

Rafe notices your change in position, patiently waiting all pretty and breathless and brazenly looking at his dick, and he can't help but tilt his head and stare at you with an amused gleam in his eye.

When he makes no effort to move, your eyes travel back up to meet his to see that they're already staring at you, a piercing gaze that has you biting your lip at the notion of being caught.

"What?" He asks teasingly, searching your face for any indicator of what you want.

But you're apparently good with your words now, or at least better than before.

"Wanna ride you."

The sentence makes Rafe scoffs in disbelief, shaking his head at you as he runs a hand through his hair, practically in awe of you, of your words, of how good you're being for him tonight, how you're starting to ask for things. It makes his chest swell with pride, proud that you feel comfortable enough around him to start voicing your needs, your wants, things that he'll give to you in less than a heartbeat.

Nonetheless, once he's learned how to use his brain again, he leans forward, turning his body so he's sitting up against the headboard and extending an arm for you almost immediately.

Which you graciously take, gripping his forearm as you crawl onto his lap, sucking in a breath when his dick is the only thing in between your two stomachs. You can't help but stare down at it, bringing a hand to grip his length like you've been dreaming about for days, letting out a deep sigh that makes your hot breath fan over his tip.

Rafe lets out a low moan, gripping your hips impossibly tight as he watches you spread the pre-cum off his tip with your thumb, spreading it down his length and jerking him off at a painfully slow pace that nearly has his hips bucking at the sensation of it. The sight of your hand wrapped around him nearly makes his brain shut off, dumbifying him to the point where all he can do is pathetically whine as you hold his dignity in the palm of your hand.

A particular tight squeeze makes him tense underneath you, eyes screwing shut for a moment to compose himself as one of his hands leaves your hips to wrap around your wrist, stopping your movements altogether.

Your head whips up, pouting. "What?"

Rafe just shakes his head, almost pained as he can't even get the words out.

But you understand him, and you pout. "But I want to."

"Sweet girl."

You hum, looking back down as you feel his hand push your wrist down, down, down until, with some adjusting, his cock is sliding in between your folds.

The sensation makes you both moan shamelessly, your lashes fluttering as your eyes roll shut. Your stomach pools in warmth for the anticipation, especially when your hips rock back and forth against him to coat his cock with the remnants of your previous orgasm, mixing it with the pre-cum that you graciously spread on him. The feeling, almost on command, makes him practically shudder underneath you.

Rafe whines out a curse, and if you weren't so light-headed you'd think he's begging. "Feel so nice already, making me go crazy."

Frankly, the stubborn part of you wants to elongate this as much as possible, but as you feel your prior orgasm practically dripping onto his length, it's clear that you're in no position to withhold him from experiencing the same euphoria. All you want to do is give back what he did for you, how he made you feel, to wordlessly tell him how much you appreciate him, yearn for him, want him to be taken care of.

With shaky hands, you guide his cock to your entrance, not wasting another second before you're slowly sinking down onto his length.

"Shit," he murmurs shakily against your lips, his grip iron tight on your hips – borderline, your ass – as he feels you lower inch by inch. "Oh my fucking god, holy fuck. Taking me so goddamn well."

It isn't until you feel him fully bottom out when you're letting out a ragged breath, one that you were unaware you were holding at the intensity of the feeling, of the stretch, of how much more you can feel him in this position, his cock hitting places unknown as you still on his lap, soaking in the moment of simply being full of him, relishing in the notion of how nice it is to be in your favorite spot.

Your arms sling around his neck, draped over his shoulders to impossibly taut yourself to his chest as you place a chaste kiss on his lips, one that he can't even reciprocate because he's still sharply breathing, still not over how well you're taking him and how perfect you feel around him. It's, understandably, making his brain all fuzzy, and all he can try and concentrate on is not coming in this given moment.

So, no, he doesn't kiss you back. He can't.

Instead, he shakily exhales against your lips, gently shaking his head when you cheshire-cat grin at him, attempting to roll your hips in retaliation but his grip on your hips is iron. Part of you relishes in the marks you're going to wake up to, imprinted by him, and greedily want to and move again to get him to dig deeper, to be able to feel the reminders of him in the morning.

You try. He holds you still even harder.

"Just- Fuck," Rafe groans. "Gimme a minute, wanna feel you."

You pout, ignoring the way your heart thumps at the simplicity of his words, yet find yourself obeying. Leaning back a fraction, you take a moment to take a selfish peek at him: blue eyes blown black with lust, hair falling onto his forehead in messy waves that you brush back gingerly, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose that you fix silently, lips parted and swollen from all the activity he's been engaging in with them.

He looks unequivocally fucked out. You assume you look equally as such.

Without thinking, your arms retract from their position around his neck, slithering up the sides of his neck and letting your hands cradle each side of his jaw, holding his face in place as your thumbs absentmindedly trace circles, squares, triangles on the soft skin. You simply stare at him, admire him, wait for him to give you the green light to continue moving.

And Rafe doesn't think he's ever been held like this before.

It does something irreversible in his chest, a pang of an unknown emotion jolting through his skin like electricity as he simply sits under your touch, teetering between wanting to explode with admiration and shutting down altogether to sulk in the feeling. He's sure you have no idea what you're doing to him, and whether you mean to or not, he's sure there's nothing better on the planet than this, than the feel of you wrapped around him, holding him, grounding him.

His hands move up and down your spine, tracing vertebrae bone by bone in a delicacy he never knew he possessed. As his heart pounds in his chest, his mind morphs to mush, and the only thing he can conjecture is that he is, irrevocably, yours for the rest of his life. There's frankly no doubt about it, and the thought makes his lashes flutter shut to truly soak in the physicality of it all.

He feels you place a feather-light kiss on his lips, and before you can pull back to continue to give him the moment to gather himself, he's chasing the kiss and closing the distance again.

This time, Rafe's the one moaning into your mouth, especially as you accidentally shift your hips when kissing him back. At the slight movement, his impatience is suddenly through the roof as his hands venture down to your ass, slowly starting to guide your motions up and down, back and forth, taking him in ways that has his eyes rolling back.

Your thighs aide his movements for about a minute, but soon begin to tremble as your bounces get needier, kisses become breathless, sighs turn into whimpers. Calloused palms roam the entirety of your body, groping and rolling the flesh of your ass in tandem with your movements, slithering up your ribcage to squeeze and suck on your bouncing tits, down to where your bodies connect to press a firm thumb on your clit.

That right there makes you whine so gutturally deep where his hips unexpectedly jerk into you, his cock – somehow – burying deeper inside you to a spot unreached before.

Rafe moans your name like a mantra, like it's the only word he knows.

It makes your brain fuzzy, as your neediness takes over and your conscience is on autopilot. You say something, but it comes out like an incoherent babble, something insignificant and probably pertaining to how good he feels, as you continue to shift your hips up and down to take his full length, lift up to where his tip barely pokes out, only to sink back down onto him again. Over, and over, and over.

Your arms sling back over his shoulders, lazily linking behind his neck as one of his hands snakes around your back to pull you impossibly closer while the other works your clit, thumb pressing on it so firmly that you momentarily see stars at the ferocity of it all. Nails scratching the smooth skin of his back, you almost break skin at the attempt to pull him closer, as the need for more, more, more stems from the coil beginning to rumble in your stomach.

"Rafe," you gasp, sucking in a breath as you feel the familiar sensation bubbling. "Feel so full, feels so good."

"You feel like a dream," he mumbles shakily against your lips, hips jerking up into you as you recognize that he must be close. "Never gonna– fuck. Can't believe you were– and I was– oh my god, oh m– You feel so fucking nice– I'm gonna–"

Your chest is light, core on fire. "Something's– I feel– I–"

For a second, your eyes roll back as a searing hot sensation floods your lower half, and you momentarily only see white as you feel your body practically give out and lean forward onto his, gasping into the crevice of his neck as his hips slam into you from underneath. Your nails sink into the skin of his shoulder blades as firmly as you can muster with your little-to-no strength in a feeble attempt to ground yourself. Your whines are loud and straight pornographic at the branding fire feeling in your cunt.

Did you just come?

Given the heat overwhelming your core and the bundle of nerves shooting electricity through your veins, you think you just did. With your heartbeat in your ears, the sound of Rafe's shameless moans feel like they're underwater as you're practically putty in his grasp, both of his arms bear-wrapped around you as he thruuuuusts up into you with such intensity, such fervor, that you think he just came, too.

Spots blur your vision as you moan into the hot skin of his neck as he fucks you through your orgasm, only now feeling the hot spurts of his cum gushing into you with every upwards thrust of his, and you can't deny how fucking good it feels to be full of him – to be really full of him – as the sensation is burning hot and tempestuous and everything you've needed.

Your chest heaves at the intensity, clawing at his upper back for some sort of leverage that you're not sure will do anything to aide your limp body. His hips grind up into your core, and once you gain some sort of semblance back from practically passing out from the orgasm he just gave you, you realize he's been speaking the entire time.

You happen to catch the tail end of his words.

"–ve you, I fucking– I– fuck-" Rafe whines, and the sound vibrates your lips that are pressed against his vocal cord. "It's like you're made for me, feel so fucking nice, so pretty on top of me, I– fuck. How could I– When you–? With the–? Oh my god, oh my fucking god."

All you can respond with is a low moan, overstimulated as you come down from your earth-shattering orgasm as he fucks himself using you through his, his cum leaking out of you and spilling down your thighs and onto his lower stomach. The sight of it makes your breath hitch, breathless at how much you both came at the same time.

His bucking gradually ceases, becoming less and less grandiose and eventually settling in stillness as his chest heaves against yours. You register his hands trailing up and down your back soothingly, lips pressed to your hairline and placing chaste kisses with sweet nothings riddled between them. Your eyes flutter shut, butterfly kissing the skin on his neck that makes goosebumps adorn his arms.

The two of you sit like this for a minute, mentally coming down from the daze your simultaneous orgasms put you through. Once your vision returns to normal (i.e. you're no longer seeing stars every time you open your eyes to try and look at him), you gently press the palm of your hands to his shoulders, pushing yourself up off his chest to sit up and find some semblance of independence.

Your brain is foggy, no doubt, as you hazardously sway as you blink at him, heart racing as you discover he's already looking at you.

"Holy shit," you murmur, dazed and fighting exhaustion.

He exhales shakily. "I know."

You manage a wry smile. "That was-"

"I know," he repeats bashfully, a smile twitching the corner of his mouth.

With a trembling hand, you reach up to push his glasses further up his nose, letting your fingers dwell on the metal sides before bringing it down to cup his jaw. It's as if you're a ghost in your own body, feeling airy and light yet wrecked all the same, shaking as if you've been left in the freezing cold with no amenities, shaking as if he just gave you the best orgasm you've ever had.

Noticing your frailness, you laugh in a self deprecating way. "I think I passed out."

Rafe exhales a shaky chuckle, one of disbelief, as a hand travels up to the side of your neck, keeping your head in place from all the swaying. Though a flicker of concern coats over his eyes at the hazy smile you're flashing him, eyes blinking ferociously as if they're regaining sight.

It makes him frown. "Did you? Are you okay?"

You nod, lazy yet immediate. "Uhm, did you hear me? I think our neighbors are gonna kill us."

A boyish laugh escapes his lips, and he lets himself ease into the fact that you're fine, you're smiling, you're gazing at him like he hung the goddamn stars himself.

His thumb brushes a tear from the corner of your eye, one that you didn't know you had, humming low and sure as his eyes rake over the features of your pretty face. Now, you're left in the stilled silence of your own doing, basking in the aftermath of your actions, of the words that led you to this point. Your heart skips a beat at the vulnerability, knowing it's more than sex, knowing that what you're feeling right now – the gravitational pull towards him – is reciprocated, especially as his gaze softens. It's replaced by something deeper, more raw, cut open for you to do what you please.

The intensity of his stare makes your breath hitch, and, despite literally what just occurred, a wave of shyness overcomes you, averting your gaze down to his chest.

But in your bottom peripheral, you catch a glimpse of the fucking mess.

Your eyes widen, looking down to where your bodies connect. "Oh my god."

His gaze follows lazily, glancing at the sight with nonchalance for his soaked bedsheets, suppressing a shit eating grin as he continues to see small amounts of cum still dripping out of you, as if there's an endless supply of it inside you, continuously adding to the plethora of a mess on his (freshly washed, by the way) bedsheets.

You blink stupidly, attempting to fathom the sheer amount of mere sex all over your lower bodies, all over the sheets, some of it even grazing his abdomen. How did that even get there? How could the two of you produce that much? And – oh, god – is it ever going to come out of his sheets? Fuck, is it leaking through?

But he has no qualm with the matter, and instead beams at the fact.

"That was all you, sweet girl," he teases with a hand skimming the faint bruises starting to form on your hip. "You came so hard. You squir-"

Your hand comes up to cover his mouth.

Your face scrunches up in embarrassment at the word, because you fucking hate the term, and frankly assumed it was a myth for the longest time since you've never done it before, nor have any of your friends. Yet your heart thumps at the possibility that – most of – this mess is from you.

No, it couldn't be. It can't be.

Because if it is, he is never, ever going to let you live it down, and you can count on that for a fact.

Eyeing him quickly and feeling your face flush as he stares right at you, eyes twinkling with amusement, you remove your hand from his mouth and ring your fingers together, looking back down to the sheets with a dismissive scoff.

"I did not," you argue meekly because, frankly, you have no idea if you did or not. You don't even know what that was. "This is all yours."

Rafe's grin is blinding, teasing, fucking proud. "You totally did. Went everywhere, baby."

Face flushing, you groan and throw your hands up to cover your face, hating how hot your skin feels at his laugh and complete nonchalance over the matter.

"Fuck," you murmur as you take in the sight of it. "Are you serious? But I didn't– I don't even– How could I–?"

Instead of answering, he whistles low. "Holy shit, you really did pass out, didn't you?"

You refuse to answer, taking your bottom lip in between your teeth as guilt riddles your chest for ruining his sheets. Expensive ones, at that. You're assuming it has a crazy thread-count imported from god-knows-where, as he's the person to get the best of the best of material things as long as he has the means to obtain them. You've always liked sleeping in his room on the random occurrence it would happen, partly because his bed is always so damn comfortable, the sheets definitely having something to do with it.

"I'll wash them" you offer quietly, slight panic settling in now that you're – somewhat – back to normal and coherent enough to register that this is a problem. "I'll buy you new ones-"

But, of course, Rafe simply shakes his head, pressing his palms against your spine to lure you closer, letting the words die in your throat as he tugs you against his lips. He kisses you slow yet meaningful, a wordless promise that he's not mad about something like this, he's not even concerned, barely letting his beaming smile falter at the thought of having to clean it up. He's only thinking about you, you, you.

"No need," he murmurs against your mouth, still fucking grinning. "I'm framing and putting this shit on my wall."

You groan at his words, cheeks unabashedly hot.

"Gonna time-stamp it and everything," he adds just to be a prick. "Wave it around like a flag, and shit."

You want the ground to swallow you whole. "Stop."

"Wear it like armor."

"You're insufferable."

"And you're hot. I mean it, baby. I'm gonna get you to do that every time."

"Rafe."

"What?" He says incredulously as if it isn't the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to you. "You can't expect me not to go crazy over that, hm?"

You only shake your head at him, but you suppose if the roles were reversed, you'd definitely feel an inclination to drawl out the teasing to a T. After all, riling him up is one of your favorite past-times, as riling you up actually might be his number one.

Eventually, you secede. Especially when he threatens you with another orgasm.

After he cleans you up and delicately dresses you in his own clothes, with wobbly legs you attempt to help him strip the sheets (even though all he told you to do is sit at his desk and look pretty, which you wholeheartedly refused to do) and replace them with his spare set. In an effort to get your shit together, you use the communal restroom to wash up, taking one of his spare toothbrushes – because of course he has one – and using it. He goes into the restroom across the hall, stating he was bored of being alone, to freshen himself up.

When you return to his room with him hot on your tail, you slither back onto the clean sheets and settle under them as if you were made to lay there.

Getting comfortable, you quietly watch him resume his tasks of the night: organizing his notes, taking off his glasses and leaving them askew – to your utter dismay – as his shirt and sweatpants follow, leaving him in boxers, and finally turning off his desk lamp as he navigates through the dark and and climbs into bed beside you.

It’s muscle memory the way you puzzle-piece your way into each other’s arms. Rafe tugs you impossibly close, placing a chaste kiss on your hairline as your hands splay across his bare chest, nearly sighing in relief at the familiarity. It's unfathomably inviting, it's cloud nine, it's home.

When he starts to twirl your hair with his nimble fingers, you sigh again.

“Tired?” Rafe murmurs gently.

All you do is nod against his neck, placing a ginger kiss on his vocal cord.

He hums at your sweet gesture, nearly melting at the implication. “Okay, sweet girl. Go to sleep. I'll be up early tomorrow but you can sleep in, m'kay?”

Tomorrow. Early morning. Notes. Glasses.

Fuck. Exam.

Your eyes flutter open as you remember his night before you arrived, all the papers scattered on his desk, the reason he was wearing those godforsaken glasses in the first place, the open textbook on his computer, the entire reason he was up so late in the first place.

A kettlebell settles in your gut.

“Wait.” Rafe hums lazily in response. “What about your exam?”

With a chuckle, he nuzzles into your hair, unbothered.

“Baby, if I don’t know it by now, there’s no use.”

Part of you feels guilty. Guilty about plaguing his conscience for the betterment of a week and – no doubt – pulling his focus from his studies and all of the important shit going on in his life. Guilty about arriving at his door in the middle of the night and – again – pulling his concentration from what he needs to pay attention to in order to get the marks he needs to pass.

Guilty about everything you've put him through, him, Rafe, your Rafe, who's been so patient with you in your journey of self discovery or whatever bullshit.

“I can help,” you offer weakly, as he rubs soothing up and down your back. “I’m a good teacher.”

Rafe chuckles quietly and you nearly frown, unsure of his nonchalance.

“Best teacher I know,” he murmurs. His voice is deep and baritone and it practically lulls you to sleep.

Your eyes are already closed. “Let me help. Please.”

“Very sweet of you. Go to sleep.”

“‘M really smart. You said so.”

“I did.”

You yawn. “What’s the class?”

Rafe doesn’t answer for a minute, and you soon believe he falls asleep. But then, quietly, “Art history.”

Your heart flutters. “I know about that.”

A warm hand rubs up and down your back. “I’m sure you do, baby.” Then, it cradles the back of your head in brazen laziness. “Sleep.”

His voice emulates a lullaby, low and alluring and smooth. Impossibly, you nuzzle closer to him with a stupid smile on your face. Grinning against his neck, you press the lightest kiss you can muster as your hands gently skim over the hills and divots of his chest, grounding yourself, a reminder that this is real. He’s here, right here, holding you, reciprocating your love, your want, your need.

“Stop smiling,” he says above you, but his tone is far from authoritative. Instead it’s softer, as if he’s suppressing a smile as well. “I can feel it.”

You squirm when he pinches your side, reciprocating the act and attempting to tickle him, but he doesn’t budge in the slightest.

Suddenly, Rafe grabs your wrists lightning fast and pins them high over your head, the motion forcing you on your back as he hovers over you. Despite the darkness, you can feel his face inches from yours, breath fanning over your lips.

“I thought you wanted me to go to sleep,” you challenge.

Rafe snorts. “You’re being a brat.”

Ah, that word. That sort of behavior has gotten you in trouble before, and the thought of annoying him makes you grin even harder.

“Rafey, that’s hardly nice.”

The guttural groan he lets out makes you laugh quite unattractively, letting out an oof when he collapses against your body and therefore crushing you. Nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck, he shakes his head and mumbles something incoherent against your soft skin that feels like a million pin pricks to each nerve.

His hand leaves your wrists and slowly drags down your arm, settling on the top of your ribcage just under the swell of your breast, lazily rubbing his thumb over the grooves and curves of the bone with little to no shame whatsoever.

The act gives you goosebumps. “What? Nothing to say?”

“Go to bed.”

You hum, kneading your fingers through his hair and smiling when he lets out a content sigh. “Okay, fine.”

Rafe practically clings to you, breathing in your scent and unabashedly nestling into your embrace. Your fingers through his hair feel so achingly familiar, and he doesn’t realize how much he’s missed it until now. He feels your lips gently press on the crown of his head, his heart skipping a beat as he involuntarily lets out another sigh, a wordless thank you for trusting him, believing in him, and – most importantly – letting yourself have this. Trusting him. Trusting yourself.

Exhaustion seeps through his pores, eyelids heavily shutting as his body seems to sink deeper into the mattress, deeper against your body. Your nails lightly scraping his scalp and back quickly lure him to sleep, so gentle and adorning that he’s so close to–

"Hey."

"Sweet girl, I said go to bed."

You pause for a moment, elongated the silence in the darkness as he can practically hear you thinking. After a second, he frowns as he just now analyzed your tone, which was far from teasing.

He's about to prompt you to continue when you shift slightly above him, and his heart fucking melts when he feels your lips press a kiss against his hairline.

"Those photographs are beautiful."

Despite the complete darkness, and despite the fact that even if the light was on, you wouldn't be able to see his face anyway given his position, his face flushes hot.

Because you weren't really supposed to see those. They'd been the final prints he submitted for his photography class, tasked to photograph the pleasantries of life that may emulate beauty in everyday life. And, to him, he wanted you as his everyday muse since you already occupy almost every waking thought of his.

Rafe sat on the prompt for the entire semester, never once finding a muse meaningful enough to him to make him feel like he could complete the assignment. However, once Lorenza had given him the camera, the task seemed like the easiest thing he's ever done. Plus, you made it pretty simple. You emulated effortless beauty. All day. Everyday.

"I had a pretty model," is all he responds with.

And your thanks is translated enough when you press another kiss to his forehead, ticking his soft skin with your gentle breaths, and all he can think is sweet, sweet, sweet girl. It's concerning, really, how he really only thinks of you. He thinks of you when he wakes up, when he sees something funny, when he's scribbling down notes, when he goes to sleep.

So. Yeah. You are his everyday beauty. By a longshot.

He continues to think of your pretty, of how warm you feel pressed against him, how sweet you smell. He remembers how you looked in the moonlight, the candlelight, under the Sicilian sun with a glisten he could swoon over. It lulls him to sleep. Simply the image of you, you, y–

“Rafe?”

Rafe’s pulled from his slumber, barely lifting a finger and humming in response. He can’t even open his eyes, bloodshot and tired from all the studying.

“Do you want me to come home with you for Christmas?”

Out of all the things he expected you to say, that has to be the last topic on the list.

All exhaustion comes to a halt as his eyes blearily blink open, unsure if he’s heard you right, as the question is so out of left field that he doubts you actually said what he thinks you said. Despite his head feeling like a million pounds, he manages to lift it so he’s looking at you in the darkness.

Rafe can just make out the outline of your face. “What?”

He hates how small his voice is.

But your fingers continue to massage his scalp and he feels you shrug underneath him.

“I dunno, I was thinking I could do for you what you did for me." Your voice is impossibly shy, almost as if you didn't mean to bring it up but now there's no going back. "Provide some moral support, I don’t know. Just a thought.”

Yes, he wants to scream. Of course he wants you to.

It would make life incredibly easier, not to mention he’d get to spend more time with your undivided attention and shower you in a ridiculous amount of appreciation now that you're officially his. He can show you off to his friends and family and flaunt you around, shamelessly hold you and kiss you and not have to feel the slightest bit guilty about it.

He'd tell you to bring that beaded dress he bought you, take you out to dinner on the mainland and fuck you for the whole island to hear. There's no doubt he's going to buy you anything under the sun that you express interest in, shower you with the kind of love you've been aching for for so long. He'd have to be assertive, though, because you're exactly the girl his sisters will immediately love, and there's no way he's going to be able to share you.

Rafe needs to relax.

Instead of saying all of that, he takes a deep breath. “You’re not going to Lorenza’s?”

“No,” you respond quietly. “I was supposed to go home so she’s already going on a trip with her girlfriends. But now I'm just...” You take a breath. "No, I'm not."

He frowns at the idea of you spending Christmas alone, because there’s absolutely no way you're going to go home and face your family again, and the long haul across the Atlantic feels like a chore after just recovering from doing so.

“You can say no,” you murmur playfully. “I have a sublet lined up for the month.”

That makes Rafe scoff. “You’re not doing that.”

“I’m not?”

“No,” he commands. “You’ll spend it with me.”

Suddenly you clear your throat, almost shyly. “I didn’t mean to, like, invite myself. You seriously can say no–”

Rafe is sitting up before he knows it, leaning on an elbow and finding your jaw with his other hand to navigate through the darkness, and kissing you firmly enough to let it do all the talking for him.

You mmrph in surprise into his mouth, effectively shutting you up and assumingely shutting down any doubts you have about the entire idea. Rafe kisses you certainly yet deliberately slow, as if to reassure you of his answer, that you don't have to stress about being too much, especially around him. In fact, he wants you to be too much, yourself, unapologetically you. He craves it, utterly deprived every second you're acting shy as if he wouldn't give you anything you asked for.

Pulling away, Rafe resumes his previous position and lowers onto your body, his original position. His lips find the soft skin of your neck and place a kiss there, sucking ever so slightly to emphasize his point, to stake his claim, to wash away your doubts.

“I want you to stay with me,” he murmurs quietly. “Okay?”

You hum shyly. “Okay.”

Rafe runs his hands over your ribcage. “I need you to know something, though."

"Yeah?"

Your tone is so fucking sweet that it makes his upcoming words difficult, understanding you can completely hold your own against a family full of narcissists yet wanting to shield you from it all anyway. He wants to hide you away from it all, but he knows you're tough, you're strong, you're too kind for your own good.

"My dad probably won’t be the friendliest.” Rafe figures that's the nicer term for Ward. "He'll be charming and inviting when you first meet him, but behind closed doors..."

He trails off, not necessarily wanting to get into the specifics of his father's tendencies right now with you, laying pretty beside him and body exhausted with earlier passion. To subject you to this all over again, it makes his chest pull, knowing that his father will probably say or do something to remind you of the obscenities of your own family, to remind you of the darkness that shrouded you a week ago.

Before he can continue, you gently massage his scalp. "I understand. I'll be alright."

It makes him nearly swoon. "You're too sweet for your own good, hm? You can be mean to him if you want."

You laugh and he swears he's never heard a prettier sound.

"I'm not doing that."

"If I asked you nicely?"

Chuckling again, your nails rake down to the nape of his neck and back up to his scalp, making him sigh low into the confinements of your hold. But it's much more than physicality, it's almost a promise, reaffirming your stance and wordlessly convincing him that you have his back. Now and always.

"Still no," you murmur, and by the tone of it he swears you're smiling. "You're the one who said I'm incapable of being evil."

Rafe snorts. "I did."

You hum happily, content with 'winning' the conversation as you continue to massage absentmindedly. "Besides, I’m great with parents.”

This conversation feels all too familiar, full circle, echoing his words that he spoke to you all the time ago when your mother stormed into your dorm room, the catalyst for all of this, the start of the spiral to where you lay now with limbs entangled and hearts out in the open.

Shaking his head slightly and allowing himself to shut his eyes, Rafe murmurs in agreement, almost tauntingly.

“I’m sure you are, sweet girl.” Then, quieter, “Sleep.”

The words are like a command, and despite every effort to not do so, you find yourself babbling something incoherently, words soon dying in your throat as you fall asleep, but not without being lulled by the sound of his syncopated breaths, and that, somehow, his hand has found yours in the darkness, lacing your fingers together and squeezing gentle enough for it to be a long lasting reminder: he's here, and he's not going anywhere.

You let yourself succumb to that. You let yourself deserve it.

notes holy shit???????? i have a few (more like a hundred) things to say. legit where do I begin.

thank you for 900 followers FIRST OF ALL i only started posting laaaaaate march (practically april) so this is absolutely incredible, thank you for all the support it's been so overwhelming in the best way. half of the comments genuinely make me lol and the other half make me legit spiral bc huh???? you like my stuff??? anyway.

for those who have sent me inbox messages: I SEE YOU!!! I APPRECIATE YOU!! I HAVE NOT IGNORED YOU!!! i'm gonna try to get around to answering them but trust i see y'all!!!!

on the topic of inbox messages, a few of you have been asking about if i'm open to blurbs, and i 100% am. i cannot guarantee i will be able to answer all of them (i started a full-time job??? crazy) but i would love to try and provide that.

okay i think that's it from me. again. THANK YOU FOR ALL THE SUPPORT i'm legit sad this is ending but, again, im open to blurbs about them so TRUST this def won't be the last time we read about them. GODSPEED!

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tikitakatia · 1 day ago

Text

Under Watch — A. Putellas x Reader

"You´re Late"

WC: 1.4k

Summary: You’re hired to protect her but she’s reckless, untouchable, and wants nothing to do with you.

The first time you met her was in a hallway.

She’s already late. Cleats in one hand, hoodie slung low, hair still damp from the shower. She’s got that just-finished-practice glow: skin flushed, breath still a little quick, body loose in a way that says she just spent an hour tearing up the field.

She doesn’t look dangerous. But she is.

Not in the way your briefing warned about, no wild-eyed stalkers or coded threats here. Not yet. She’s dangerous in the way she moves like nothing can touch her. Like if the building crumbled around her, she’d walk out of the dust without a scratch. There’s a kind of recklessness in her that doesn’t read as careless, it reads as power.

She stops a few paces from you and looks you up and down. That’s intentional. Every part of her is practiced, the cock of her head, the slow drag of her eyes, the way she lets the silence stretch just a little too long before she speaks.

“You’re the bodyguard?” she says, unimpressed on purpose.

You nod once.

She sighs. Loud. Theatrical. “This is ridiculous.��

Another nod. Slower this time.

You don’t explain yourself. That’s not your job.

She mutters something under her breath and turns away. Her voice follows her as she walks.

“What do they think is gonna happen? I trip over a ball and need saving?”

You follow. Quietly. That part is your job.

She slouches in her seat during the security briefing like she’s doing the club a favor just by being there. One foot up on the table, twirling a pen between her fingers, face locked in that unimpressed athlete expression she wears like armor.

The head of security goes over it all again. The notes. The photos. The fact that one of them was left on her locker and no one saw who did it. Another showed up two days later. No fingerprints. Just words. Messy, threatening, graphic.

Too many people know where she trains, where she eats, where she lives. Too many eyes on her at all times. She’s high-profile. Always careful with her words. Polished. Politically correct. She knows how to play the media game and never slips, at least not publicly. But lately, someone’s been trying to push her off balance and get under her skin.

You’re not assigned to investigate. You’re there to be the barrier. The buffer. The human shield.

She doesn’t look at you once during the meeting. But she knows you’re watching.

At lunch, she sits two tables away with her teammates. Tosses her head back in a laugh that’s too loud, too staged.

Then leans into the physio and says, “She stares too much.”

The physio glances at you. You don’t blink.

You’re not trying to intimidate her. Not consciously. But you don’t look away either. You’re paid to see everything.

She bites into an apple and smiles like she’s won something.

That evening, she tries the back gate. You don’t need cameras to know it. You already clocked her angle the second she cut out of the hallway with her phone pressed too casually to her ear.

You’re leaning against the car by the time she gets there.

She halts and doesn’t bother to hide her frustration. Instead, she frowns like a teenager caught sneaking out past curfew.

“Do you ever take breaks?” she asks.

You say nothing. Just open the passenger door and wait.

She slides in, arms crossed. No seatbelt. You don’t start the engine. You wait.

The silence stretches. Long enough for her to shift in her seat. Tap her fingers on her thigh. Glance your way once. Twice.

Twenty-three seconds, you count.

“Okay, what, is this your way of interrogating me?”

Still, you don’t respond.

She mutters under her breath, clicks her seatbelt into place.

The engine starts.

She doesn’t speak for the rest of the ride. But when she gets out, she slams the door just hard enough to make a point.

The first real conversation happens on day four.

She’s supposed to be at a press junket. You find her in the equipment room, legs swinging off a crate, scrolling her phone like she’s waiting for the universe to give her an excuse to skip it entirely.

“You’re late,” you say.

She doesn’t look up. “It’s boring.”

“You have a schedule.”

She shrugs. “So adjust it.”

You don’t move.

She lets the silence drag for a while before finally looking at you. Really looking.

“Do you ever lighten up? Pareces mi sombra.” she says the nickname slowly, as if trying to see how she likes the feel of it in her mouth.

You sigh. Not loud. Not annoyed. Just… necessary.

She grins. Slow and sharp. “That’s a yes.”

From that moment on, you’re Sombrita.

She uses it everywhere. Says it with a smirk, like it’s an inside joke only she’s in on. She teases you with it in front of the others. Whispers it under her breath as she walks past.

You don’t correct her.

She knows your coffee order by the end of the week even though you never told her. Hands it to you without fanfare one morning. Just a paper cup and a look. Like she’s waiting for something to break.

It doesn’t. Not on the outside.

She wanders into a crowd of fans, photographers and noise. You’re beside her before she realizes she’s drifted too far.

She veers off schedule. You’re at the next checkpoint without a word.

Eventually, she starts pretending you don’t exist. But narrates your presence like it’s a game.

“And here comes mi sombrita,” she says once, as you appear in a doorway.

“Silently judging my existence.”

Her teammates laugh. She watches you from the corner of her eye.

You never laugh back.

The third time she tries to ditch you, it’s raining.

She slips out a side door after training, hoodie pulled up, steps quiet. Like she’s testing you again.

You find her half a block away, hands jammed in her pockets, shoulders hunched.

You reach out, catch her arm. Gentle, but firm.

“Don’t.”

She startles, pulls back.

“Jesus. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“You’re not cleared to leave alone.”

“I’m going to get coffee.”

“Take me with you.”

She scoffs. “I’m not five.”

You hold her gaze. Calm. Unflinching.

“I know.”

Something in your tone slows her down. Makes her look at you like she’s seeing you for the first time.

She doesn’t argue again.

You’ve guarded politicians, CEOs, criminals with targets on their backs. You’ve been shot at, stalked, followed.

None of them ever looked at you like this.

Like they’re waiting for you to crack. Like they want to know what’s behind the armor.

You avoid reacting. That’s protocol.

She makes it difficult.

You’re at your usual post in the lobby when she appears beside you without a sound.

"Ever wonder if you’re the threat?" she asks, eyes fixed ahead.

You turn your head. She’s closer than she should be. Close enough to count her lashes.

“Every day,” you say.

You step back before she can respond.

For once, she doesn’t have a comeback.

Two weeks in, she pushes too far.

It’s post-match chaos. Adrenaline. She’s been fouled hard, and it shows. She barrels past you, muttering curses under her breath, knocks over a table full of water bottles. The PR team flinches.

You follow. Not too close. Just enough.

She stops. Spins on you.

“You gonna give me a time-out now?”

You don’t answer.

“Maybe call my mom? Tell her I’m being difficult?”

Still silent.

“Seriously Sombra, what’s the endgame here? You gonna follow me into the shower next?”

You cross your arms. Don’t flinch.

She storms past. “Fuck you.”

Your voice follows her. Low. Steady.

“I don’t care if you like me. I care if you stay alive.”

She stops mid-step and the hallway holds its breath.

“I don’t need saving.” She says quietly.

You say nothing.

This time, she walks away slower.

You don’t follow right away.

The next morning, she strolls into training like nothing happened. Yawns too loud. Tosses a ball toward your feet like it’s a peace offering disguised as mockery.

You pick it up. Toss it back.

No words.

She grins like she won something.

Maybe she did.

She disappears after a match. For thirty minutes, your pulse climbs by degrees. You check every room. Sweep the perimeter. Quiet panic simmering under your skin.

You find her outside. Alone on a bench. Hoodie pulled up, headphones in, eyes closed.

You sit beside her. Not close. Just there.

She doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t move.

“You’re late,” she murmurs.

You sigh.

Of course she notices.

353 notes · View notes

thrasherella · 2 days ago

Text

Clueless!Gojo who at first doesn't reciprocate after you get him off; sure, it was fine at the beginning, a hand job here, a blow job there, and the most you'd get in return was a flash of that admittedly heavenly smile and the reaffirmation that you're "such a good girl", which did nothing to stem the flood between your legs, dripping down your thighs as your cunt throbbed desperately for something that wasn't there.

The more you fooled around, however, the more you began to realize that he was not going to be returning the favor anytime you went down on him, and it was becoming increasingly frustrating.

Well then, fine; you're just going to have to show him what he's missing out on...

You were in your darkened room, breathless, on your knees at the edge of the bed between Gojo's long legs, the record that had been playing finishing the current side as the last song faded out, amplifying your soft panting breaths and his satisfied, humming moans.

Not to brag but you'd just given him probably one of the best blowjobs you'd ever given, and even though he'd just been babbling about how you were the best girl and he was going to make you feel soooo good, there was no indication that this time was going to be different from any of the others thus far, as he made no advances, instead trying to pull you closer into the usual post-coital cuddles.

No, no, nuh-uh; your cunt was on fire, soaking your panties, begging to be filled by Gojo's thick length, and you weren't going to blue-ball (blue-bean? whatever the female equivalent is) yourself this time.

It's showtime.

"Do you not like me, 'Toru?" you whine, a little fake pout pulling at your plush bottom lip, doing your best to make your expression softened and sad as you look up at him, purposely pushing your breasts closer together to make your cleavage that much more distracting.

"Excuse me? I think you just sucked my soul outta my dick, and now you're saying I don't like you?!"

"Look how wet you make me 'Toru," your voice is a soft sigh, getting up onto the bed and straddling his waist, kneeling over him, making sure you're spread wide enough for him to see your arousal literally dripping down onto him, decorating his lower abdomen in glistening little dots.

"Fuck baby..." his little groan sent you over the edge, shattering any semblance of control.

"I'm always a mess after giving you blowjobs or handies...and you never finger me or eat me out." you could feel your face becoming almost uncomfortably hot, sure the blush was extending all the way to your ears it felt so intense. "Do you not like me enough to return the favor or--"

You're cut off mid-sentence as his hand moves impossibly fast to your pussy, one long finger impatiently pushing itself into your slick, tight walls, making you cry out as your head falls back. He adds another finger before you can even get used to the first, making you squirm above him, your velvety walls practically sucking him in as you grip his digits.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..." he whispers, his voice a gentle juxtaposition to the absolute pounding his hand was now giving you. Your lips were parted in a silent scream, unable to make any sound as your breath seemed caught in your throat; his skilled fingers worked absolute magic as he curled and stroked them inside you, thrusting deeply into your begging folds, turning your mind into fuzzy static.

"Breathe, baby girl..." he gently reminds you and you gasp, hips rolling and bucking against him as he hits just the right spot over and over, your thighs starting to tremble as you feel that scorching knot within your core beginning to tighten as he pushes you to the edge. "I didn't know, I didn't know..."

"How could you not know 'Toru?" you feel the whine leave your lips before you quite have your head around the words; seems like even your subconscious has been upset by Gojo's cluelessness. "I'm crazy for you, plus I've seen you staring, there's no way you haven't seen how wet my panties get, y-you d-dummy!" your voice unexpectedly stutters as he curls against that spot again and you come undone, whimpering and moaning loudly as you gush and squirt all over his hand, clenching around his fingers, hips twitching wildly.

His face was stained a bright crimson as he slowly pulled his fingers from your cunt, lifting them to his lips and tasting the sweet essence you left clinging to him.

"Let me show you just how much I like you baby..."

181 notes · View notes

supernotnatural2005 · 3 days ago

Text

A Dangerous Love

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: Sam's POV of yours and Dean's relationship.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings/tags: Implied smut, angst, fluff, mentions of blood and injury, poor Sammy! Dean being his typical over protective self, both of them are stubborn.

AN: Hey guys, I know I've been MIA for a lil while, but I'm doing okay, still getting there, although this isn't a full return, I just wanted to pop on and give you guys a little something, as well as catch up on some reading now I have a minute 😅. This was sitting in my drafts and finally touched it up. I tried something little different with It being from Sam's POV. But I enjoyed this one and I hope you guys do too! ❤️

Main Masterlist

They were fighting again.

Sam didn’t even flinch. He barely glanced up from his laptop as the sharp words echoed through the paper-thin motel walls—voices rising, footsteps pounding, another inevitable blowout brewing like a summer storm.

“You can’t just run in like that!”

“I had it handled!”

“No, you almost got yourself killed!”

“I’m not a child, Dean! I know what I’m doing!”

“Well, you could’ve fooled me with the way you acted tonight!”

Sam sighed, dragging a hand down his face. He’d heard this fight a hundred times—probably more. Same argument, different hunt. Dean being overprotective, you pushing back, neither of you knowing when to shut up.

Then came the inevitable—

“Go to hell!”

“Already been, sweetheart.”

Sam winced a second before a door slammed hard enough to rattle the walls. Right on cue, his own door flew open, and in stormed Dean—still fuming, chest heaving, hands clenched at his sides, his face flushed with frustration.

Sam didn’t look up. He’d learned his lesson. Playing mediator between you two was about as effective as standing between two charging bulls. So, he kept his eyes locked on his screen, feigning deep concentration on the case he was researching.

A small town in Lincoln, Nebraska. Three bodies in a week, hearts missing. Probably a werewolf. Maybe a Rugaru. Definitely not as terrifying as the emotional carnage currently unraveling in the room.

Dean stalked back and forth like a caged animal, running a hand through his hair. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Sam made the mistake of humming in vague agreement. That was all the opening Dean needed.

“Right? I mean, she just—she just goes in, no backup, no plan, like she’s got a damn death wish.”

Sam finally looked at his brother, eyebrows raised. “You mean like you do? All the time?”

Dean scowled. “That’s different.”

Sam snorted. “Oh, is it?”

But Dean ignored him, too deep in his rant to acknowledge logic.

“She doesn’t listen. Ever. I tell her to stay back, and what does she do? Runs straight into danger like she’s got something to prove.”

From the other side of the wall came a muffled, but unmistakably pissed-off voice: “I can hear you, jackass!”

Dean didn’t even hesitate. “Good!”

Sam sighed, long and suffering, pinching the bridge of his nose. This was his life. Not just the near-death experiences, not just the monsters and the ghosts—no, this. Being caught between his stubborn brother and his brother’s equally stubborn, equally reckless, equally loud girlfriend.

Dean, still grumbling to himself, flopped onto the opposite bed and crossed his arms like an angry child. Sam wisely said nothing. He knew the drill—Dean would rant, stew for a while, and eventually, in a few days—

Wait... Scratch that.

A few hours later, Sam was rudely jolted awake by a very different kind of disturbance.

Something rhythmic. Repetitive. Suspiciously… breathy.

At first, his sleep-fogged brain struggled to make sense of it. A fight? No—too much giggling between the groans.

And then—

Oh. Oh, no.

Realisation hit like a freight train at full speed and his stomach churned.

The unmistakable sound of a headboard knocking against the wall. The low, hushed moans. And worst of all—

“Oh, God, Dean—”

Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

Sam groaned, grabbed his pillow, and smothered his own face with it like he could suffocate the memories before they fully formed. How could he forget about the damn make-up sex? He should’ve known when Dean left the room and didn’t return that this is what would come of it.

Burying himself deeper under the blanket, he contemplated driving to another damn state. Maybe exorcising himself. Was there a ritual for that? A way to erase the mental scarring?

Eventually, after a painfully long time, blissful silence returned, and with it, the symbolic, albeit fragile, truce between you and Dean.

The next morning, Sam nursed his coffee like a war veteran as he sat in the outdated diner, watching the two of you with equal parts fascination and whiplash.

You were nestled beside Dean on the other side of the booth, stealing bites of his pancakes with a smug grin.

Dean—who, under normal circumstances, would stab a man with a fork for even looking at his food—just smirked, all stupid heart eyes, letting you get away with it like you were some divine exception to the rule.

Sam squinted. Not even twenty-four hours ago, you two were about five seconds away from an actual homicide.

Now? Now, you were practically glowing, exchanging touches, finishing each other’s sentences, giggling like a couple of lovesick teenagers in a CW drama.

Sam exhaled slowly, shaking his head.

Every relationship expert on the planet would call this toxic. Hell, if he described it to anyone—the explosive fights, the impossible stubbornness, the complete disregard for self-preservation when it came to each other—they’d probably diagnose you both with something and slap you with a warning label.

But for as long as he could remember—even before you and Dean finally got together—it had always been like this. Back when you were just a couple of reckless teenagers, trading jabs and daring each other into stupid, dangerous situations. Before things got complicated with feelings and labels.

You and Dean were like flint and steel—constantly striking, constantly sparking, burning hotter than anything Sam had ever seen.

But the fire never went out.

It should have. By all logic, it should have burned itself to the ground a dozen times over. But instead, it just kept going, somehow forging you both into something stronger.

It was chaos. It was infuriating.

And, honestly? It was kind of impressive.

Even if it made Sam’s head want to implode.

But then there were moments that tore away all the noise, stripped everything down to the bare bones of what you and Dean truly were. Moments that left no room for doubt.

Because when it came down to it—when it really mattered—the two of you didn’t just care. Didn’t just love each other. You were willing to bleed for one another, break for the other, burn the whole damn world down if you had to.

And tonight? Tonight just proved that.

The hunt was supposed to be routine—get in, take care of the pack, get out. But the damn werewolves were faster, stronger. They had numbers. And somewhere between the chaos and the fighting, you made a split-second decision.

You saved Dean’s life. And you nearly lost your own in the process.

Dean caught you before you hit the ground. One second you were standing, the next you were collapsing, blood soaking through your shirt, pooling between his fingers as he pressed down hard against the gash in your side.

“No—no, no, no,” Dean’s voice was hoarse, raw with panic. “You're okay. I got you.”

Sam barely had time to react before Dean’s head snapped up, his eyes wild, desperate.

“Sam! Get the car!”

Sam was already moving, sprinting for the Impala as Dean held you against him, his flannel already stripped from his shoulders and bunched against your wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

“You’re gonna be okay, sweetheart,” Dean murmured, his grip unrelenting. His fingers trembled against your skin, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. “Just hang on. I got you.”

Sam skidded to a stop beside the car, yanking the door open. He turned back just in time to see Dean lifting you into his arms, his expression twisted in barely contained panic.

Sam didn’t miss the way his brother held you—not just with urgency, but with a kind of care that made his chest ache.

He helped ease you into the back seat with Dean, still pressing the flannel to your side. His voice was shaking, but his grip was steady.

"Step on it, Sammy.”

Sam didn’t argue. The second he was behind the wheel, he floored it, tires screeching against the asphalt.

The drive was a blur of traffic violations, but because it was nearing midnight, the roads were practically empty, making up for the reckless driving. The city flashed by in streaks of yellow and white, and in the rearview mirror, Sam could see Dean cradling you against him, his forehead nearly pressed to yours as he whispered every reassurance he could think of.

"Stay with me, sweetheart.”

"You’re okay.”

“I swear to God, you’re gonna be okay.”

But Sam heard the crack in his brother’s voice. Saw the way his hands were shaking. Dean wasn’t just worried. He was terrified.

By the time they crashed through the ER doors, shouting for help, Dean was covered in your blood.

The nurses barely had time to react before Dean was snapping at them to hurry, his voice sharp, desperate. And then you were gone—whisked away behind double doors, leaving Dean standing there, breathing hard, fists clenched, and your blood staining his hands.

Then came the waiting.

Dean couldn’t sit still. He paced the hospital waiting room like a caged animal, running a hand through his hair over and over, jaw tight, eyes darting to every single doctor or nurse that walked by.

The agitation built inside him like a pressure valve ready to burst, as Sam sat nearby, watching his brother unravel, feeling helpless.

"What the hell is taking so long?" he growled, throwing his arms up in frustration as his gaze stayed trained on the double doors they had wheeled you through.

Sam let out a quiet sigh. He was just as worried, but kicking and screaming wasn’t going to make time move faster. “They’re doing everything they can, man. You have to let them do their job.”

Dean clenched his jaw, his entire body rigid with anxiety, and Sam could see the cracks forming in his brother’s usual composure. Deannwas a lot of things—fearless, reckless, stubborn as hell—but right now? Right now, he just looked scared.

When the doctor finally approached them, Dean nearly jumped down his throat.

"How is she? Is she okay?"

“She lost a lot of blood,” the doctor said. “But we’ve managed to stabilize her. She needs plenty of rest, and we’ll have to monitor her overnight and go from there.”

Sam let out a breath of relief. But Dean—Dean’s shoulders sagged, his lips pressing into a thin line as something unreadable passed through his expression.

They had lied, of course. Told the doctors you’d been attacked by a bear because —“yeah, doc, she got slashed by a goddamn werewolf” — would’ve landed them in padded cells. Thankfully, the doctors didn’t ask too many questions.

When they were finally allowed to see you, Sam watched as Dean crumbled at the sight of you lying in that hospital bed.

You looked so small. So fragile. The machines beeped steadily beside you, an IV hooked up to your arm, your face pale from the blood loss. It made even Sam’s heart twinge painfully to see you this way. You were not only his brother’s girlfriend. You were his best friend. His sister.

Dean approached cautiously, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he got too close. Then, without a word, he sat beside you and grasped your hand, his fingers brushing over your knuckles with a gentleness that didn’t match the man who had just been almost punching walls in the waiting room.

His throat bobbed. Then, wordlessly, he lifted your hand and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his lips lingering there as he exhaled shakily.

"You scared the hell outta me," he muttered, his voice thick, raw. “You’re gonna pull through this, you hear me?”

He swallowed hard, then softer, more broken— "cause' I can't lose you."

Sam swallowed hard against his own emotions. He knew this wasn’t just about saving you anymore. It was about Dean confronting the most terrifying thing he could ever imagine—the thought of losing you. And for a man like Dean, who was constantly worrying about this very thing, you'd think he'd be somewhat prepared for the real thing. Evidently not. It was crushing, breaking him into a thousand pieces.

Sam wasn’t sure how long he stood there, watching the way Dean’s thumb traced gentle circles against your skin, but he saw the anger rise, predictable from his brother's guilt and fear as it continued to chip away at him the longer he looked at you.

“Dammit, Y/N. Why didn’t you listen to me? I—“ Dean’s breath hitched, and for a moment, he just closed his eyes, like he was trying to pull himself together.

And then, as if on cue, you stirred. Your fingers twitched in his grasp, your eyelids fluttering, and Dean went still—his breath caught, his entire body frozen as he waited.

Slowly, your eyes opened, hazy with exhaustion and pain, but when they focused on him, you still managed a weak, lopsided smile.

"Worth it.” you murmured, voice hoarse.

Dean closed his eyes like he wanted to strangle you and kiss you at the same time, because of course you’d have a comeback, even on the brink of death.

Sam huffed a small, teary laugh, shaking his head.

Because this was the two of you. Always on the brink of disaster. Always throwing yourselves in front of danger for each other. Always driving each other insane.

It was a deep love. A dangerous love.

But it was real.

And it was true.

AN: What started off as a Drabble, became a one shot lol. I hope you guys enjoyed this one, it was fun to do. 😁💕 Also I am still working on part 2 of In The End , I'm sorry for the delay guys 😭

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester/series Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter

@tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2

@deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown

@jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @shadysoulangel @my-stories-vault

@piptoost @star-yawnznn @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27

@idontwannabehere78 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @shadysoulangel @mrs-nesmith

@zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @jaredpadonlyyyy @waynes-multiverse

@impala67stellawinchester @youroldfashioned @bonbonnie88 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @bejeweledinterludes

@rach5ive @ladysparkles78 @globetrotter28 @kayleighwinchester @amberlthomas

#supernatural #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean x reader #spn #spn fanfic #Sam Winchester #jensen ackles #spnfamily

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not4simp · 3 days ago

Text

OOPSIES!

You got caught red handed smoking!

featuring - Sylus x reader, Caleb x reader

a/n - i can't do endings and english is not my first language so forgive me for any grammatical or structural mistake. Maybe I'll continue and make a version for Rafael, Zayne, and Xavier idk thoo.

Sylus

Sylus is an observant man. Every small detail, every precise moment, every specific word, does not go unnoticed. So it was quite a surprise that you have gone so long without him noticing your minor addiction. There were quite a few times where you almost thought you were done for. But hey, luck was truly on your side.

3 months ago You had invited Sylus over to your place to just relax. He had brought some food over and placed it over the kitchen counter where he came across 13 lighters splayed out. At first he thought you had taken an interest in collecting them, but upon taking a closer look it was from the same cheap brand you could find in a nearby mini market but in form of different colors. ‘sweetie what’s with all these lighters?’ he asked amused.

You paused for a moment, every time you used a lighter it somehow always ends up lost, frustrated you bought a whole bulk the other day. ‘oh I just love lighting up scented candles’ you waved it off. Sylus didn’t press further on and left it at that. That day Sylus went home but found not one single candle present in your house.

2 weeks ago Under the hot scorching sun you draped a shawl over your head trying to shield your boiling scalp from the immense heat. For the past days Sylus and you had just finished running some business errands and now had some free time to hop from one stall to another checking out what the locals had to offer. Within a few stalls Sylus had gone to purchase some refreshments leaving you some cash to look around and buy anything you wanted. You were looking through some fine jewelry when something else caught your eye.

A beautiful gold-plated ashtray adorning with intricate carvings. It was cool to the touch contrasting with the current weather and truly one of a kind. ‘An ashtray?’ Sylus appeared holding strawberry lemon soda in hand. ‘exquisite don’t you think?’ i said eyes still on the item. Sylus nodded an agreement, ‘let’s take a look at what other stores have to offer , oh and i already payed for it’ nudging his head towards the ashtray in my hand.

Present It was late at night yet the street lights illuminates the dark. Sylus and you had just drove through Linkon taking in the gorgeous city. It was cold and quiet everyone was fast asleep but you were parked in a 24 hour fast food restaurant enjoying an ice cream cone.

‘sweetie where’s the charger?’ he asked rummaging through the glove compartment. ‘oh yeah it’s in the armrest console’ you quickly replied. As Sylus reaches out to open it you had just recalled that it was where you had kept your Marlboro stash. Panic flowed through your chest ‘wait!’ you exclaimed, but it was too late and all you could do was sink into your seat.

Sylus examined the pack, opening it to find 4 sticks left 'Kitten this can’t be good for you, you just bought this 3 days ago' his voice carried out softly. I whipped my head to look at him 'how did you know when i bought this?' my brows furrowed questioning him. 'oh sweetie you can’t think I’m that oblivious' his lips curl into a smirk. 'if you knew all this time then why didn’t you tell me?' 'i thought I’d wait until you would tell me yourself besides, Mephisto is having a blast scouting for lighters to add to his collection' you gasped as a hand flew to your mouth feeling disbelief 'that was you?!' a finger pointed at him.

Caleb

Your head hung low looking aimlessly as cars passes by. A hand lays on the steel railing supporting your whole body while the other holds a cigarette between your index and middle finger.

You couldn’t comprehend why you continued this habit. Caleb is back, he’s alive, and you both have made up. So why couldn’t you put this habit behind you? Perhaps you were paranoid that he could be taken away from you any moment just like last time. Perhaps you’re worried that Caleb has changed and you couldn’t accept it, or perhaps-

You shut your eyes and took a long drag as the warmth overcomes you. The heavy bitter taste dances on your tongue as the nicotine settles in calming your nerves. You really needed to find another alternative way to soothe these thoughts. You were to caught up with your own mind when your ears perked up. It was as if someone has called your name.

Light footsteps clicked through your apartment’s living, You flipped your head towards the glass door behind you and to your suprise your favorite Fleet-space Colonel was currently peeking through your bedroom to look for you. Shit. At times like this you surely regretted giving him a spare key to your home. Quickly you dropped your cigarette onto the ground stumping on it before kicking it off your balcony.

The glass door slid and in walks Caleb with a big smile 'Hey Pipsqueak I’ve been calling out for you what’s got you so preoccupied out here?'. You shrugged and gave a nervous smile slowly inching back, afraid that the persistent tobacco scent would be noticed. 'Not happy to see me?' he chuckled grabbing your waist and pulling you into his embrace.

You noticed that he pulled away longer than normally but his hands were still placed firmly on your waist. 'name' his voice was sharp. It was the tone he carried when commanding the space-fleet. Oh surely you were fucked. 'hmm?' you cocked you head. 'Have you been-' he paused taking a scan of the small terrace. 'Have you been smoking?' brows furrow. Feeling caught red handed you didn’t bother answering him but rather threw your gaze towards the bustling streets.

A hand reaches your cheek guiding you to look at him But you’ve never, Why would you… Your gaze meets his and as the two of you locked eyes a silent understanding falls. His face softens up ‘You know you don’t need to carry all your burdens and worries alone anymore right?’ 'i knoww' you whined. 'how about you throw this away,' he said whilst reaching for my back pocket and waved the cigarette pack in front of me, 'and we’ll get dinner, my treat' he winked playfully. 'but it was expensive' i groaned frowning a bit. 'all the more reason to stop pipsqueak how about we also stop for dessert’ he squished your cheeks. ‘and snacks’ your voice muffled from the force against your cheeks. Caleb chuckled 'alright we have a deal' placing a chaste kiss on your forehead.

#lads #love and deepspace #lads sylus #lads caleb #caleb love and deepspace #sylus love and deepspace #l&ds #l&ds sylus #l&ds caleb #caleb x reader #caleb x you #sylus x reader #sylus x y/n #sylus x you #qin che #caleb xia #caleb x y/n

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itdontmatter283472374 · 1 day ago

Text

What are we? Chapter Fourteen

A/N: Ok, quick side note, Mother's Day was literal hell at work, so I am kinda burnt out right now. Also, don't be surprised if I low-key make a one-shot or start another story. I have plans for this, but I am getting a little tired of it, and I know y'all want smut, but it might not be happening for a while for this series, so yeah.

BREAKING: ESPN HEADLINE – “UConn’s Paige Bueckers Suffers ACL Tear During Pickup Game on Campus”

The notification hit phones like a gut punch just before noon: Paige Bueckers, UConn’s standout guard and a face of women’s basketball, had gone down during an informal scrimmage in the practice gym. No game lights. No crowd. Just a handful of teammates and the sickening sound of something tearing mid-step.

Silence followed. Then panic.

She was rushed to the emergency room not long after, her arm slung around a trainer’s shoulder, crutches waiting for her when she arrived. Her face was pale and tight with pain—the kind that doesn’t show up on a scoreboard but still changes everything.

The hours that followed blurred together. X-rays. MRIs. A too-quiet room and a diagnosis she already half knew. Complete tear. ACL. Surgery within the week. Minimum a year before she’d see the court again.

Paige didn’t cry when the words landed. Not when the doctor sighed through the prognosis, not when her mom arrived wide-eyed and frantic, not when the nurse handed her a thick folder labeled “Post-Op: ACL Reconstruction & Rehab.”

But in the hallway outside radiology, where no one was looking, she pulled her hoodie over her head and let the tears fall. Fast. Hot. Quiet.

Back in her dorm, her phone wouldn’t stop buzzing—messages pouring in from teammates, coaches, journalists, distant friends. She ignored them all.

All but one.

Incoming FaceTime: Azzi💗

Paige stared at the screen for a beat, wiped at her face, then answered.

Azzi’s face filled the frame, framed in soft lamplight from her room back home. She looked like she hadn’t moved in hours—eyes puffy, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands.

“Hey,” she said gently. “Are you okay?”

Paige didn’t answer right away. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, like speaking might make it worse. Finally, she gave a small, tight nod.

Azzi’s voice dropped. “What happened? Are you…?”

“It’s torn,” Paige whispered. “Completely.”

Azzi flinched like she’d been hit. Her hand came up to her mouth.

“God, Paige…”

“It wasn’t even a bad move. I just… stepped. It popped. Like that.” Paige snapped her fingers. The sound made her blink hard.

Azzi breathed out slow. “Where are you now?”

“Still at the hospital. They’re gonna discharge me soon.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was thick, alive with everything neither of them could say just yet. Azzi shifted on the couch, eyes locked on Paige’s face.

“I should be there,” she said suddenly. “I should be with you.”

“You are with me,” Paige murmured. “This helps. Really.”

Azzi shook her head. “I’m coming. I’ll change my flight. Be there tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” she said, firm this time.

Paige exhaled, eyes slipping shut for a beat. “I was just starting to feel like everything was clicking, you know? Us. Ball. Life.”

Azzi’s voice cracked just slightly. “It still is. This doesn’t change that.”

For a moment, Paige just watched her through the screen like she could reach through it and feel Azzi’s steadiness for real.

And in a day full of fractures and free falls, that was the first thing that felt solid.

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

The next afternoon, Paige was exactly where Azzi expected to find her: curled up in bed, hoodie pulled over her head, blinds half-closed, TV flickering in the background but not really being watched.

The room smelled faintly of Icy Hot and frustration.

Azzi didn’t knock—just walked in with her duffel slung over her shoulder and a quiet sigh.

“I figured this is where I’d find you,” she said, setting her bag down and crossing to the bed.

Paige peeked out from under the hoodie. “Hi.”

“You look like a haunted blanket.”

“I feel like one,” Paige muttered.

Azzi didn’t smile. She sat at the edge of the bed, resting a hand on Paige’s shin, careful not to touch the brace. “You’ve been in this room since you got back?”

Paige shrugged.

Azzi stood. “Alright. Get up.”

Paige blinked. “What?”

“We’re going to get ice cream.”

Paige groaned and rolled over, burying her face again. “Azzi, no. I’m not in the mood. I look like I lost a fight with a robot knee.”

“You kind of did,” Azzi deadpanned. “Still not an excuse.”

Paige’s voice was muffled. “I’m in sweats. I haven’t washed my hair. I’m—”

“Nope,” Azzi cut in, already pulling open Paige’s drawer for a clean t-shirt. “You can sulk after your surgery. Your Stepmom and Dad and Drew will be here in two days. You’ll be doped up, stitched together, and sore as hell. That’s your sulking window. This? This is pre-sulk. You get ice cream during pre-sulk.”

Paige lifted her head just enough to squint at her. “Is that an actual medical term?”

Azzi tossed the t-shirt at her. “Get changed. I’m driving. And yes, it’s medically backed by the Azzi Fudd Protocol for Temporary Joy and Controlled Wallowing.”

Paige couldn’t help it—she smiled, just a little. “You’re annoying.”

“Yup. And exactly what you need.”

A few minutes later, they were out the door—Paige slowly, carefully, Azzi at her side without hovering too much. It was hot outside again, and the walk to the car took longer than usual, but Paige didn’t complain.

Not once.

And when they finally got their cones—Paige’s favorite, cookie dough with rainbow sprinkles, and Azzi’s classic chocolate soft serve—the world didn’t feel fixed, exactly.

But it didn’t feel broken beyond repair either.

Paige leaned back in the passenger seat, cone half-melted, and looked over at Azzi.

“Thanks,” she said softly.

Azzi looked over. “For what?”

“For getting me up.”

Azzi bumped her shoulder gently. “That’s what I’m here for.”

The sun was starting to dip lower in the sky by the time they pulled away from the ice cream shop, painting the world in that soft, honey-gold August light. The kind of heat that didn’t press so hard anymore, just lingered like a memory.

Azzi had the windows halfway down, the breeze rolling in warm and slow. Her curls fluttered against her cheeks, and the air smelled like cut grass and pavement.

Paige had her seat reclined just enough, her brace propped awkwardly against the dashboard, cone in one hand, the other lazily out the window. Her hair was tied back, hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows, looking worn out but a little more herself.

SZA played low through the speakers—"Good Days" drifting through the car like it had been waiting for this exact drive. Neither of them talked. They didn’t need to.

They just vibed.

The kind of quiet that didn’t ask for anything. That made space for the ache, the healing, the pieces still in the process of rearranging.

Azzi drummed her fingers against the steering wheel, nodding softly to the beat, eyes on the road ahead. Paige glanced over at her, and for a moment, she wasn’t thinking about surgery, or recovery, or the months she’d be stuck watching from the sidelines.

She was just here.

In this car.

With her.

Late summer sun dancing through the trees, SZA humming about trying to be present, and Azzi—steady, calm, there.

“I missed this,” Paige said, voice barely above the music.

Azzi looked over, smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Azzi reached out and gently laced their fingers together over the center console. Still watching the road, still driving, but grounding them both in something wordless and warm.

They didn’t say anything else for a while.

They just let the music carry them home.

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

The hotel room was dim, the curtains half-drawn against the late afternoon sun. The air smelled faintly of takeout and antiseptic, and the soft clicking of an iPad game was the only thing filling the space.

Drew sat cross-legged on the floor, headphones on, zoned out in his own world. Paige’s dad and stepmom had just stepped out to grab food, leaving the room quiet except for the occasional grumble from the bed.

Paige was propped up on a mountain of pillows, her post-op brace elevated, eyes narrowed at the ceiling like it had personally offended her.

Azzi knocked once before slipping in quietly. She was in a crewneck and shorts, tote bag over her shoulder, and a soft look in her eyes the second she saw Paige’s face.

“Hey, soldier,” she said gently, dropping the bag by the door. “How’s our fearless leader?”

Paige let out a grunt. “Our fearless leader wants to throw her leg into a lake.”

Azzi chuckled and crossed the room, settling on the edge of the bed. “You’d sink like a rock with that brace.”

“I’d take sinking over this pain.”

Azzi gave her a sympathetic look and nudged her lightly. “You look like a grumpy burrito.”

“I feel like a grumpy burrito.”

There was a short silence. Azzi tilted her head.

“You want a back rub?”

Paige blinked, surprised. “Seriously?”

Azzi nodded, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. Might help. Or at least distract you from the stabbing pain in your leg.”

Paige hesitated, then gave a sheepish little nod. “Okay… yeah. That actually sounds nice.”

“Alright. Scoot down, grumpy.”

Paige winced as she shifted, slowly lowering herself onto her stomach with a grimace. She moved carefully, breath catching every time she adjusted her brace or tugged at her pillow. Once she finally got there, she let her head drop into her arms with a sigh.

Azzi sat open-legged behind her and started rubbing gentle circles into her back—firm enough to loosen the tension, soft enough not to jostle anything too much.

“God, your hands are magic,” Paige mumbled into the pillow.

“I know.”

The room was quiet again, except for Drew’s game. Paige’s shoulders started to loosen. Her breathing slowed a little.

After a few minutes, Azzi let her fingers trail up into Paige’s hair, scratching gently at her scalp the way she knew Paige liked.

And sure enough, not long after, Paige let out a small sigh… and fell completely asleep in Azzi’s lap.

Azzi looked down at her—mouth slightly open, a little bit of drool threatening the hotel pillow—and couldn’t help the grin that pulled across her face.

She grabbed her phone from the nightstand, angled it just right, and snapped a picture of Paige knocked out cold in the most dramatic, snuggly way possible.

📸 Sent to Team Group Chat

Azzi: mother has passed out after 3 minutes of attention 🙄 [photo attachment]

Nika: AWWWWW LOOK AT THIS BIG BABY Aaliyah: not her needing cuddles to survive 😭😭 Caroline✂️: someone make this the team poster Nika: we need this printed and framed for the locker room Azzi: no one is safe in this group chat Aaliyah: tell her when she wakes up she still owes me $5 from the Waffle House bet

Azzi shook her head, still smiling, and gently pulled the blanket up over Paige��s shoulders. Paige stirred just slightly, then relaxed again, face nuzzled deeper into Azzi’s leg.

And for the first time all week, everything felt a little lighter.

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

Later That Evening – Hotel Room

The room was suddenly full of noise, laughter, and limbs. Someone had propped open the door with a sneaker, and now the entire squad was crammed inside like it was a dorm lounge, not a midsize hotel suite.

Caroline had brought snacks. Aaliyah had brought board games no one was going to play. Aubrey was already perched on the windowsill eating half a bag of popcorn. Nika walked in like she owned the place, flopped onto the edge of Paige’s bed, and dramatically fluffed the pillows behind her.

Paige, still stiff and sore from surgery but in a noticeably better mood, had on fresh sweats and her leg propped up like a queen holding court. Drew sat on the floor in front of the TV, only halfway interested in the new crowd.

“I feel like a zoo animal,” Paige said, grinning despite herself.

“You are a zoo animal,” Nika replied. “You’ve been on the injured list for less than a week and already everyone’s babying you.”

“She just had surgery,” Caroline pointed out, offering Paige a gummy worm from a massive bag.

“She also fell asleep in Azzi’s lap like a toddler,” Nika said with a wicked little smirk.

Paige blinked. “Wait. What?”

The room paused. Aaliyah coughed into her fist. Aubrey made a sound like a tea kettle trying not to boil over.

“Oh no,” Caroline muttered under her breath.

“What do you mean?” Paige asked, eyes narrowing.

“Ohhhh no no no,” Nika said gleefully, already pulling out her phone. “I forgot you didn’t see it—hold up, I got you.”

“See what?”

Aubrey scooted over and handed Paige her phone instead, screen already pulled up.

On it: a photo of Paige completely knocked out, face smushed into a pillow, drooling slightly, laying across Azzi’s lap like a very cozy, very unconscious golden retriever.

There was a beat of total silence.

Paige’s face slowly turned toward the back corner of the room.

Azzi was standing there by the door, sipping a LaCroix and very much not making eye contact.

Paige narrowed her eyes. “You took that?”

Azzi just smiled—mischievous, innocent, entirely unapologetic. “You looked peaceful.”

“You sent it to the group chat.”

“I shared a moment,” Azzi replied, suppressing a laugh. “A vulnerable, adorable moment.”

Everyone erupted with laughter.

“Don’t worry,” Aaliyah said, patting Paige’s shoulder. “We only roasted you for, like, fifteen minutes.”

“Seventeen,” Nika corrected. “And I do want to print it.”

“You people are lucky I can’t walk without a crutch,” Paige muttered, trying—and failing—to hide her smile.

Azzi raised her can. “To cuddles and chaos.”

And somehow, in the middle of pain meds, group chat slander, and a dozen bodies squeezed into one too-small hotel room, Paige felt more like herself than she had in days.

Eventually, the chaos had to end.

The team slowly started gathering their things—empty snack bags stuffed into the trash, shoes pulled back on, phones buzzing with texts from group chats and coaches.

“Alright, we’re outta here before we all get kicked out by hotel security,” Nika said, stretching like she’d just run a marathon. “Later, Patient Zero.”

Aaliyah leaned down and hugged Paige gently around the shoulders. “Rest up. I better see you on crutches courtside by next week. You’re not skipping film sessions just ‘cause you’ve got a robot leg.”

Caroline waved from the door. “We’ll bring real food next time.”

Aubrey gave Paige a fist bump. “You were kind of cute drooling, not gonna lie.”

“Get out of my room,” Paige groaned, laughing despite herself.

One by one, they filed out, calling goodbyes over their shoulders. Azzi lingered behind, near the TV where Drew was still posted up with his iPad, legs swinging idly off the edge of the bed.

She crouched beside him. “Hey, Drew.”

He looked up, headphones around his neck now. “Yeah?”

“Thanks for hanging out tonight. You kept the vibes chill.”

Drew gave her a lopsided smile. “Paige always gets grumpy when she’s hurt. You made her less grumpy.”

Azzi grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment. G’night, bud.”

“Night.”

She stood, crossed the room to where Paige was reclined in bed, already looking sleepier than she probably wanted to admit. Her hair was messy, a heating pad resting across her shoulders, eyes heavy with pain meds and exhaustion.

Azzi leaned in close, lowering her voice just for her.

“We’ll get through this.”

Paige met her gaze, eyes soft. “Promise?”

Azzi brushed a hand gently against Paige’s cheek, then pressed a kiss to her temple.

“Promise.”

Paige didn’t say anything else—just let her eyes fall closed, mouth relaxed, her whole body finally starting to let go.

Azzi pulled the blanket a little higher, then quietly slipped out the door.

The highway was quiet, the sky above streaked in purple and deep blue. Azzi’s phone was on speaker, resting in the passenger seat, connected to the car’s Bluetooth.

Caroline’s voice crackled through the speakers. “She looked good tonight. For, you know… being post-op and mildly drugged.”

Azzi kept one hand on the wheel, the other fiddling with a ring on her thumb. “She’s holding it together in front of everyone. But when it’s just us? It’s hitting her hard.”

“Yeah. Figured.”

“She hasn’t said it out loud, not really,” Azzi continued, voice soft. “But I can tell. She’s scared. Angry. All of it.”

Caroline was quiet for a second. “She’ll get through it.”

“I know. But she’s not great at letting people carry stuff for her.”

“You’re there,” Caroline said. “That counts for more than you think.”

Azzi glanced out the window at the blur of streetlights. “I just wish I could do more.”

“You’re doing everything right.”

The silence that followed was easy. Comfortable.

And somewhere, behind her, Paige was asleep in a too-firm hotel bed, with her team, her family, and Azzi holding down the edges of her world.

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

The Chipotle line was long, as usual. The smell of grilled chicken and cilantro rice filled the air, and Paige had her crutches tucked under one arm while she waited for her burrito bowl, wearing UConn warmups like she was still suiting up.

Azzi stood beside her, scanning the menu she already had memorized, hoodie pulled up halfway over her head.

“You nervous?” Paige asked, bumping her gently with her elbow.

Azzi exhaled through her nose. “Not really nervous. Just… focused.”

Paige gave her a knowing side-eye. “You always say that when you’re nervous.”

Azzi didn’t deny it. She just shrugged.

“Hey,” Paige said, her voice softening. “You’ve been killing it. You’ve stepped up in every way this season. Today’s just another day to show people what we already know.”

Azzi glanced over. “You mean what you know.”

“I mean what we all know. You’ve got this. You just gotta stop waiting for permission to lead.”

Azzi blinked at that, letting it land.

“I’m trying,” she said after a beat. “Trying to believe I belong in that role. That I’m not just holding the space for you while you’re out.”

Paige leaned closer, lowering her voice. “You’re not holding space, Az. You’re owning it. And I’m proud of you.”

Before Azzi could answer, a voice cut in from behind them.

“Excuse me? Are you… Azzi Fudd and Paige Bueckers?”

They both turned to see a teenage girl in a Huskies hoodie and her mom behind her, holding a phone.

Azzi smiled. “Yeah, that’s us.”

“Could I maybe… get a picture with you? I’m a huge fan.”

“Of course,” Paige said instantly.

Azzi leaned down, smiling as the girl beamed between them. The mom snapped the photo, thanked them about three times, and they waved goodbye as the two walked off.

Back in line, Azzi glanced at Paige. “I never know what to do with my hands in pictures.”

“You looked fine. I was the one holding crutches like a confused flamingo.”

They grabbed their food and headed out to the car, the mood still light. Once inside, Azzi started driving, weaving them out of the parking lot and toward the arena.

Silence settled for a few moments, the kind of comfortable pause that always existed between them. Then Paige spoke up again.

“You know, you lead even when you don’t try. People trust you because of how you move. How you care.”

Azzi kept her eyes on the road, fingers tightening slightly on the wheel.

“I just don’t wanna fake it,” she said quietly. “I want it to be real. Earned.”

“It is,” Paige said. “Every second of it. You’re not stepping into my shoes. You’re walking in your own.”

Azzi smiled a little. “You’re getting really good at this motivational speech stuff.”

“Yeah, well,” Paige grinned. “Not being able to play leaves a lot of time for monologues.”

They turned into the arena lot, security waving them through. Azzi pulled into their usual spot, put the car in park, and took a breath.

“You’re ready,” Paige said again, voice steady.

Azzi nodded, grabbed her gym bag from the back seat, and turned to her.

“Let’s go win a game.”

The arena was buzzing with the kind of electricity only gameday could bring. The air was thick with anticipation as fans packed into the stands, the Huskies' bench a hub of activity, and the announcer's voice echoing over the speakers as the teams took the court. Azzi stepped out onto the floor with a quiet focus, her eyes scanning the crowd, the noise, the movement — it was all part of the rhythm now. Her nerves were gone, replaced by that familiar adrenaline.

Paige, sitting courtside with her crutches, gave her a reassuring nod from the sidelines, her presence like a quiet anchor in the chaos.

The ball tipped off, and from the get-go, Azzi was a force. Every possession, she attacked with precision and poise, moving with a fluidity that looked effortless, but beneath it all was the drive of someone who had spent every waking moment preparing for this.

By halftime, she had already racked up 16 points — a mix of smooth jump shots, aggressive drives to the basket, and some slick passing to keep the defense guessing. She was pulling off moves that had the crowd on their feet, cheering louder with every made shot.

Lou was on fire as well, working with Azzi like a well-oiled machine, creating space, knocking down threes, and finishing strong under the basket. She added 17 points to the board, her energy contagious as she sprinted up and down the court, pushing the tempo and making Northeastern’s defense scramble.

Aaliyah wasn’t far behind, showing off her quick thinking and athleticism. With 14 points, she was crucial in keeping the game out of reach for Northeastern, hitting timely shots, and dishing out assists like a true floor general.

Azzi’s highlight of the game came in the third quarter. With just under five minutes left, she pulled off a steal on the perimeter, sprinted down the court, and finished with a fast-break layup that had the crowd roaring. It was an exclamation point on an already incredible game, showing just how much she was able to take control of the tempo.

On the defensive end, she wasn’t slowing down either. Her anticipation for steals was uncanny, getting in passing lanes and forcing turnovers. By the fourth quarter, Northeastern’s offense had no answers for her. Every time they thought they had a rhythm, Azzi was there to disrupt it.

The final buzzer sounded, and the scoreboard read UConn 85, Northeastern 67.

Azzi finished with an impressive 26 points — a career-high for her, while Lou and Aaliyah combined for a solid 31 between them. The win felt good, but it wasn’t just the points or the victory that stood out. It was the way they had come together as a team, with Azzi stepping up and showing the world just how much she had grown into the role of leader.

On the sidelines, Paige was grinning, her eyes locked on Azzi, proud and beaming as she watched her teammate shine.

Azzi jogged off the court, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins, high-fiving teammates and coaches as they congratulated her. When she finally made her way over to the bench, Paige gave a pat on the butt.

"You killed it," Paige said, her voice a mix of admiration and pride.

Azzi laughed, breathless but glowing. “Couldn’t have done it without Lou and Aaliyah.”

"Still, you led us," Paige said, her voice carrying that quiet reverence that Azzi was just starting to get used to.

“Yeah,” Azzi grinned, feeling the weight of the moment. “Feels pretty damn good.”

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

The local bar, Ted’s, was buzzing with energy. Music pulsed through the speakers, and the familiar chatter of UConn students filled the space. The team had claimed their victory, and now it was time to let loose and enjoy the night. The table was surrounded by smiling faces, a mix of teammates and friends, each of them still riding the high of the game.

Azzi leaned back in her chair, one hand wrapped around her drink, and the other resting on the table. Paige was seated beside her, as always, her crutches leaning against the booth as she sat with a grin that could have lit up the whole place.

"26 points, Azzi!" Caroline said, raising her glass in a toast. "You were on fire tonight!"

Azzi laughed, a little embarrassed by all the attention. "Thanks, but it’s not just me. We all killed it."

"Yeah, well, you were the one putting them in the basket," Paige teased, nudging her. "Don’t be humble, you earned it."

Azzi smiled at her, but there was a flicker of worry in her eyes as she glanced at Paige. "You good with those crutches? Need any help?"

Paige rolled her eyes but laughed. "Chill, Az. I’m good. I’m off these crutches in a week anyway."

"You sure?" Azzi pressed, still looking concerned. "You know I’ve got your back, right?"

Paige reached out, squeezing Azzi’s hand. "I know. I’m fine. Tonight’s about you. Have fun. Don’t worry about me."

Caroline raised her drink again. "She’s right! You deserve this, Azzi. You’ve been putting in the work. It’s your night to shine."

Azzi felt her face warm. "Alright, alright," she relented, shaking her head. "I’ll try to enjoy myself."

The group kept celebrating, chatting, and laughing, the table overflowing with pitchers of beer and shared plates of fries and wings. But as the night went on, Azzi couldn’t fully shake the feeling that she needed to keep an eye on Paige. She kept glancing at her, making sure the crutches weren’t too much of a hassle, that she wasn’t pushing herself too hard.

"I’m serious, Azzi," Paige said, catching her looking again. "Chill out. You’re making me feel like I’m 90 or something. I can take care of myself."

Azzi just nodded, taking a deep breath, trying to let go of the concern. The celebration was about the team, the victory, the bond they had built.

But before long, the mood shifted. Nika, always the wild card, was laughing loudly at something Aaliyah had said when her face suddenly went pale. She put her hand over her mouth and excused herself from the table.

"Uh-oh," Lou said, narrowing her eyes. "Nika’s about to lose it."

Azzi's eyes darted to Nika, who was now heading toward the bathroom, looking like she was about to puke.

"Great," Azzi muttered, getting up from the table. "I'll go check on her."

As Azzi made her way to the bathroom, she heard Nika’s voice groaning from the inside. "I can’t believe I’m doing this… again."

Azzi knocked gently on the door. "Nika? You okay?"

A muffled response came. "I’ll be fine. Just give me a minute."

Azzi waited outside, glancing back to the table where the rest of the team was still laughing and enjoying the night. But her mind was on Nika, and on making sure she was okay. After a few minutes, the door finally opened, and Nika stepped out, looking a little green but otherwise okay.

"Alright, let's get you home," Azzi said, wrapping an arm around Nika to help steady her.

The rest of the team continued celebrating at the table, but Azzi was focused on getting Nika back to her dorm. As they made their way toward the door, Azzi spotted Paige, who was still seated, grinning up at her.

"You good?" Paige asked, noticing the way Azzi was hovering around Nika.

"Yeah, just making sure Nika doesn’t faceplant in the parking lot," Azzi replied, trying to keep her tone light.

"Take care of her," Paige said with a wink. "I’ll be fine."

Azzi gave her a quick nod and then headed out with Nika. They made their way across campus, walking slowly since Nika was still a little unsteady. Nika leaned into Azzi as they walked, resting her head on her shoulder.

"I should never drink again," Nika muttered, and Azzi couldn’t help but laugh.

"You say that every time," Azzi teased. "And yet, here we are."

When they reached Nika's apartment, Azzi helped her inside, making sure she got to her room safely. As they walked up the stairs, Azzi spotted a familiar door — Paige’s room.

Azzi paused for a second, glancing at Nika. "You good here? Need anything?"

Nika waved her off, already heading for her bed. "I’m good. Thanks for the rescue."

Azzi stepped into the cozy living space that Paige and Nika shared. The place had the usual college dorm vibe—messy but lived-in, with half-packed bags from the earlier game and leftover pizza boxes scattered around. The walls were covered with posters, pictures, and a few random mementos from their last tournament.

Azzi took a deep breath, glad the night had ended on a high note despite the chaos. She scanned the room, her eyes landing on Nika, who was trying to balance herself on the couch after the late-night drinking fiasco.

“Hey, I got her home safe,” Azzi said with a smile. "She’s fine now."

Lou, who had been helping Nika, shot her a knowing look. "Yeah, but someone is going to pay for this tomorrow," Lou teased, glancing at Nika. “I’ll leave you two alone, though. I’ve got plans.”

Azzi chuckled as Lou waved goodbye, stepping out the door. It didn’t take long for Paige to shuffle into the living room, leaning on Lou for support.

“Thanks, Lou. I’ll text you tomorrow,” Paige said as Lou headed out, then turned toward Azzi with a tired smile. "Hey, you made it."

Azzi raised an eyebrow at Paige. “You okay? You look like you just walked through a battle zone.”

Paige gave a tired shrug. “I’ll be alright. Can’t believe I’m still on these crutches.”

“Yeah, but you’re about to be back on your feet in no time,” Azzi reassured, walking over to Paige and gently taking the crutches from her. “You good to get to your room?”

“Yeah, I think I can manage,” Paige said, though it was clear she wasn’t completely sure. With a little help from Azzi, she carefully made her way down the hall, leaning against the wall for balance.

Once in the room, Paige turned to Azzi with a mischievous grin. “So, you want to spend the night? I mean, we could make it a real victory night.”

Azzi couldn’t help but laugh at how casual Paige was. “Sure, why not?”

They both changed into comfy PJs—Azzi opting for oversized sweats and a UConn hoodie, while Paige slipped into a loose T-shirt and shorts. The room felt more relaxed, the energy lighter now that the game was behind them.

“Want to put on Love & Basketball?” Paige asked, tossing a glance at the TV. “It’s tradition.”

Azzi snorted. “Of course, big head,” she said, teasing.

Paige laughed, shooting her a side-eye. “Alright, alright. Look who’s getting a big head after their game tonight. I see how it is.”

Azzi put her hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, you were telling me to brag more, so now I’m taking your advice. And let’s be real, the game was yours too.”

Paige rolled her eyes, but there was a soft smile on her face as she made herself comfortable on the bed. "I know you scored, but you really did carry the team."

Azzi shrugged, settling beside her. “I’d say we carried each other. But I’m glad to finally get to brag a little bit. You should try it sometime.”

“I do brag," Paige teased, punching her lightly in the arm. "I just don't go around talking about it every two seconds."

They bantered back and forth as the movie started, the familiar lines of Love & Basketball filling the room. Paige slowly relaxed into the moment, her head resting on Azzi’s shoulder as they watched.

Before long, the conversation fizzled out. The combination of the movie, the warmth of the room, and Azzi’s gentle presence made Paige’s eyes grow heavy. She let out a quiet sigh, her breathing becoming slow and even.

Azzi noticed that Paige had fallen asleep with her head still resting on her shoulder, her hand lightly curled around Azzi’s arm. A small, affectionate smile tugged at Azzi’s lips as she looked down at Paige, clearly at ease in her arms.

Azzi shifted slightly, just enough to get comfortable, but she didn’t want to wake Paige. She closed her eyes too, letting the exhaustion from the game and the celebration seep in, allowing herself to drift off.

The sunlight streaming through the window was soft, and Azzi’s eyes fluttered open as she stirred, the bed feeling warmer than usual. She realized she had fallen asleep in the same position as Paige, who was now lightly snoring in her arms, curled against her.

A soft knock interrupted the quiet morning.

“Nika?” Azzi mumbled, her voice still thick with sleep.

There was no response, only the door creaking open slightly.

Nika’s head poked around the corner, a mischievous grin on her face. “Well, well, look who’s finally asleep.” She saw the two of them snuggled up and, with a knowing grin, quietly snapped a picture.

Azzi’s eyes snapped open when she heard the click of the camera. “Nika!” she hissed, sitting up quickly.

Nika just chuckled under her breath. “Don’t worry, big heads. I won’t send it to the team... yet.” She shook her head, clearly amused by what she saw, before she stepped back out of the room.

Azzi couldn’t help but smile as she heard Nika’s footsteps fade away. She glanced down at Paige, still asleep in her arms, and her heart softened. Maybe this was exactly what they both needed—time to rest, time to just be.

With a small sigh, Azzi settled back down, carefully pulling the blanket up over them both. It was a peaceful moment, one that felt like it could stretch on forever, but she knew reality would eventually break through.

For now, though, it was just them—Paige, Azzi, and a little piece of quiet.

#pazzi #pazzi fics #azzi fudd #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #uconn huskies #paige x azzi

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loves0phelia · 2 days ago

Note

Hello!

I got another idea which may be a little sad (but it is okay we can handle it)

Since we all know about Matt's super senses I was thinking of a scenario where he discovers that reader has a heart problem

Hope you consider and like the idea!

❤

Unsteady Rhythm

Summery: The request (maybe more fluffy than anticipated)

Words: 1.3k

Warnings: heart condition, grammar mistakes.

A/N: Thank you for requesting and once again I'm sorry it took so long for me to write, hope you enjoy regardless xx

Matt didn’t mean to notice it. Not at first.

You were curled up on his couch, legs tucked beneath you, and talking about your long day at work. Telling him about the various events of your day. He was listening to your every word until his attention drifted to something else.

The rhythm of the noise made his brow tighten.

Your heart was… off.

He didn’t say anything at first. Maybe it was just the way you were sitting, maybe you'd had too much coffee again.. Your heartbeat often changed rhythm —when you were excited, tired, anxious or even just when you were in his presence. He knew every variation.

But this? This wasn’t one of those situations.

There was a flutter. A soft pause that didn’t sound like it belonged. Then a jolt—like your heart realized it missed a step and tried to catch up.

Once. Then again. And again.

“…Matt?” Your voice brought him back.

You were watching him now, head tilted. He hadn’t answered the question you’d asked.

He wet his lips, sitting up straighter. "Say something again."

Your eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “Uh… okay. What should I say?”

“Anything,” he said.

“Are you okay Matt? Did my day at work sound that atrocious?” You paused, then smiled nervously with a small giggle.

But he wasn’t smiling.

He leaned in slightly, tilting his head as if trying to catch a sound beyond the wall. But the sound was right here— in you.

He heard the beat again. Your heart was beating too slow. and then in a second it was beating too fast. It made his stomach twist.

“…Have you been feeling okay?” he asked, voice lower now.

“Yeah. I mean—tired, I guess. Nothing too bad you know? Just life.” You blinked.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he gently took your wrist, fingers brushing your pulse point.

“What is it?” you asked again, your smile slipping. “Matt?”

“Your heart,” he said quietly. “It’s not right.”

You pulled your hand back like you’d been burned.

“I—what? Matt, come on.”

“I can hear it,” he said, sharper now. “The beat’s irregular. It’s been skipping since you came in.”

You stood up, folding your arms across your chest.

“You’re being dramatic,” you muttered. “It’s just stress. I’ve been dealing with some palpitations. It’s not—it's not serious.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

Silence.

“Have you seen a doctor?” he repeated, more firmly this time.

“No,” you said, looking away.

“Why not?” Matt stood now too, towering beside you, his expression somewhere between fear and frustration.

“Because I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. I didn’t want to scare you.”

“You think that doesn’t scare me?” His voice cracked at the end, jaw clenched. “You think I haven’t lost enough already?”

That stopped you..

“I hear a thousand heartbeats a day. And yours—yours—is the one I tune in to without even trying. So when it changes, I know. I can feel it. Like it’s warning me something is wrong.”

Your throat tightened.

“…Matt—”

“You can’t hide this from me,” he whispered.

He reached out again, slower this time, and you let him. His fingers laced with yours, his thumb brushing your pulse again. He was listening. He always was.

“I just didn’t want to be… a burden, I don't want to complain about small stuff like this when you go through so much more every day.” you whispered.

“You’re not.” His voice was firm now. “You’re never a burden. You’re mine. And if something’s wrong, I need to know. I need you to let me help you.”

You nodded slowly, a tear sliding down your cheek. He caught it with his thumb.

“Okay,” you breathed. “I’ll go to a doctor.”

…

It had taken less than twelve hours for Matt to make the appointment happen.

You weren’t sure if it was Catholic guilt or pure Murdock-level stubbornness that made him so relentless, but by morning he’d found a walk in specialist, cleared his schedule, and insisted on going with you to the clinic.

The air was sharp with antiseptic, cold and sterile in a way that made your nerves jangle. You hated waiting rooms. Hated the white noise hum. Hated your own heart most of all for being the reason you were here.

Matt hadn’t let go of your hand once.

His thumb moved slowly over your knuckles as you waited but his attention was elsewhere like he was still listening. Like he couldn’t stop.

“Please stop worrying so much,” you begged silently.

“Im sorry, sweetheart” He lifted your knuckles to his mouth and pressed a gentle kiss.

When your name was finally called, you stood up too fast. The world tilted slightly. Matt’s arm was there in a flash, steadying you without a word.

He didn’t come into the exam room at first—respecting your privacy—but the minute the doctor stepped out, Matt slipped in like a shadow.

You were sitting on the edge of the exam table, paper crinkling beneath you, heart pounding in your chest like a warning drum.

The doctor returned soon after. She ran an electrocardiogram, took blood, scheduled an echo for the following week and gave you a portable heart monitor to wear for 48 hours.

“You’re not dying,” the doctor said gently as she handed you medical papers and you felt Matt's shoulder relax drastically. “But this isn’t something to ignore. Your rhythm is irregular enough that I’d like to rule out early signs of arrhythmia. But we’re catching it early so there is nothing to worry about.”

You nodded, absorbing it like a punch to the stomach.

…

That night, he didn’t go on patrol.

You didn’t ask him not to. He just didn’t.

You fell asleep around midnight, monitor leads still attached to your skin.

Matt sat in silence across the room at his desk, laptop open, glasses off, headphones in.

He wasn’t listening to case files.

He was researching deep into medical websites, looking up diagnoses, remedies and even interviews with people who had your condition. Mapping it all out like a case.

You stirred later in the night around 2 and saw the blue glow of the screen. Heard the soft sound of keyboard clicking. Watched him with his brow furrowed, hair a mess from running his hands through it over and over.

“Matt,” you murmured, voice hoarse, “come to bed.”

He didn’t look up. “I will. Just give me a few more minutes.”

“…You’re trying to solve me like I’m a case.” you sighed.

That made him stop.

He finally looked over, and for a moment, he felt guilty.

Then he crossed the room, sat beside you on the bed, and ran his hand gently through your hair.

“I’m sorry ” he whispered. “I should’ve heard it sooner. If it gets worse—if I miss something—”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You heard the doctor matty, i'm not dying” you pressed.

“But I can't help but think that if i don't do anything—”

“You catched it though, right? Isn't that enough?” your thumb brushes the small stubble on his cheek.

“I wish I could stop it entirely now. I wish I could have super powers to heal you.”

“But you do have super powers. That's why we're here right now talking about this.” You sat up straighter in bed. “You're my very own hero with crazy super hearing” you laughed and a small grin grew on his face.

“Please don't make me force you into bed” you said, voice getting lower “I miss you”

You leaned in and kissed him—slow and warm. He melted into it almost immediately, his hand moving to your waist, pulling you closer like he didn’t even realize he needed to.

When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath warm and uneven.

“Come to bed,” you whispered. “Please. Just… come to bed with me. Let me fall asleep with you. Let me be okay, just for tonight.”

He didn’t answer right away.

But then he pulled you into his arms fully, before falling on his back bringing you down with him comfortably on your bed. You felt the tension bleed out of him bit by bit as you snuggled closer, face almost digging into his chest.

After that he finally let himself believe that you were safe.

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock fluff #matt murdock x you #matt murdock fanfiction #matt murdock #matt murdock fic #matt murdock angst #matt murdock fanfic #daredevil x reader #daredevil x f!reader #daredevil fic

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berryispunk · 2 days ago

Text

The Way You See Me

This is part 1/2. Part 2 readable here

pairing: Frankie Morales x f! reader

tags: dual POV, slow burn, some banter, all the emotions, fluff, open communication saves us, heavy on mental health struggles, best friends to lovers, mutual pining, yearning, best friend! Frankie, soft! Frankie, idiots in love, kissing, tension

summary: Two people pretending it’s nothing. A missed kiss, a camping trip, one tent, and way too many lingering glances. They keep telling themselves it’s safer as friends—but gravity doesn’t care.

word count: 7,2 k

notes: I am absolutely insane so I’m working on part 2 to this already, oops—

read on ao3

It had been pouring all day — not outside, but in your head. A storm of tsunami intensity, relentless and unforgiving. You were drowning in it, the waves dragging you under, and you were just so tired of swimming against the current. So you stayed home, even though you had plans with friends. They called, they texted, but you didn’t have the energy to answer. You barely moved from your bed, only getting up for the bathroom or to grab a snack.

Outside, the sky was turning dark, but it was nothing compared to the heaviness inside you. You were running on autopilot, going through the motions without any real direction — just clinging to whatever driftwood you could find to stay afloat. You thought about reaching out, letting someone in, even just a little. But how do you explain a storm that never stops brewing? Besides, you were convinced the people in your life would be better off without you.

You were nearing the end of your twenties and what did you have to show for it? Nothing worth bragging about. You were barely scraping by while your peers seemed to be thriving — making five-year plans, building futures. And you? You got up each day and waited to see what the vibes were. You felt behind, like you were watching life from the sidelines, a passenger in your own story when you were supposed to be behind the wheel.

It was frustrating — deeply, bitterly frustrating. You dreaded conversations about careers and future plans, knowing you could barely hold yourself together. Bringing someone else into that chaos felt reckless. So you stayed alone. Even though, in the quietest moments — the ones where your mind screamed the loudest — you wished more than anything for a shoulder to lean on.

The only person who knew some of your struggles -but never the full picture-was your best friend, Frankie. He carried his own weight, too. The aftermath of serving had left marks on him, not always visible, but always present. You’d met him through mutual friends, and at first, you weren’t convinced. He was too quiet, always hovering on the edges of the group, more observer than participant. But it didn’t take long to realize something about Frankie: he noticed everything. He read people like well-worn pages, never intrusive, just… aware.

So you were caught off guard the first time he actually spoke to you. The two of you had drifted a little away from the crowd during one of those loud, chaotic get-togethers. Frankie leaned in slightly, voice low and a little amused as he said, “You also have no clue what they’re talking about, do you?”

You turned to him slowly, eyeing him from head to toe, raising a brow. “Excuse me?” you replied, bristling a little at the audacity.

He just grinned, not in a mocking way — more like someone who had already figured you out and wasn’t in a rush to prove it.

From there, the rest was history. He somehow—sneakily, effortlessly—got your number and texted you one night out of nowhere. You’d never admit it, not even to yourself at the time, but it mattered. More than it should have. Something about it felt like being seen in a way you hadn’t realized you’d been aching for. And even though you played it cool, casually texting back like it was no big deal, a small part of you exhaled for the first time in a while.

[Unknown Number] [10:03 PM]You looked like you were mentally disassociating at that party. Thought I’d check in.

[You] [10:06 PM] Who is this and how did you get my number??

[Unknown Number] [10:07 PM] Relax, not a stalker. Frankie. From the other night.Got it from Lia. Don’t yell at her, I was very charming about it.

[You] [10:09 PM] Wow, stealthy.So you make a habit of texting girls who ignore you at parties?

[Frankie] [10:10 PM] Only the ones who look like they’d rather be swallowed by the floor than make small talk.You seemed like you could use an escape hatch. Figured this might count.

[You] [10:12 PM] That’s bold for someone who barely said two words.

[Frankie] [10:13 PM] Two words were all it took, apparently.You raise a good eyebrow, by the way. Very intimidating.

[You] [10:14 PM] I’ve been told it’s my most developed muscle.So what, you check in on all the emotionally avoidant people you meet?

[Frankie] [10:16 PM] Only the ones who pretend they’re not lonely.You were easier to read than you think.

[You] [10:17 PM]…Okay wow. That’s not allowed this early in the conversation.Try being mysterious again. I was enjoying that.

[Frankie] [10:18 PM] You’re right. Let me guess your star sign instead.

[You] [10:19 PM] If you say Gemini I’m blocking you.

[Frankie] [10:20 PM] Nah, you’re too tired of everyone’s shit to be a Gemini.Scorpio, maybe. Or a Capricorn with trust issues.

[You] [10:21 PM] Okay. Who are you??

[Frankie] [10:22 PM] Just a guy who thought you looked like you needed someone to talk to.No pressure. Just… here, if you want.

[You] [10:25 PM] …Thanks. I might take you up on that.

[Frankie] [10:26 PM] I’m good at puzzles. And bad at shutting up once I start.So… you’ve been warned.

A few days later — 11:47 PM

[Frankie] Be honest. Did you ghost me or are you just being mysterious again?

[You] I was waiting to see if you'd double text. Gotta keep the power dynamic healthy.

[Frankie] Leo. 100%. Knew I was close with the trust issues, though.

[You] HOW ??? I never even told you.

[Frankie] You have main character energy. Also I googled “eyebrow raise of death + zodiac” and Leo came up.

[You] Fair.Still. Feels invasive. I should sue.

[Frankie] Go ahead. I’ll represent myself. I’m charming under pressure.

A week later — 2:14 AM

[You]Can’t sleep. Brain won’t shut up.

Your phone buzzed almost immediately.

[Frankie] Same.What’s keeping you up?

[You] Everything and nothing. You ever feel like you’re treading water in a pool no one remembers you’re in?

[Frankie] Every day.But hey, I see you. Even when you try to disappear.

[Frankie] That was probably too much.I can send a meme about ducks in pants to balance it out.

[You] No, that was actually…That was good.But send the duck meme anyway.

Later that week — 6:39 PM

[Frankie] What’s your comfort food when the world sucks?

[You] Depends. Spicy noodles if I’m mad. French fries if I’m sad.Why?

[Frankie] Be there in 20. Don’t dress up. Or do. You’d win best dressed regardless.

An hour later, you were on your couch, laughing through a mouthful of fries while he sat on the floor, back against the coffee table, telling you a story about his first tattoo and how he almost passed out. His eyes flicked up every now and then—checking you over like he was making sure you were still breathing easier. And you were.

Later that night — 1:11 AM [Frankie] Tonight was good. You seemed lighter.

[You] I was. It’s weird, you just… make space. And I don’t know how you do that.

[Frankie] Maybe I’m just good at seeing what other people pretend not to. Or maybe I just like the sound of your laugh and want to hear it again :)

Tonight, as you lost another day to the darkness crowding your mind, you lay still, staring blankly at your phone screen like it might eventually offer answers to questions you hadn’t found the words for. The notifications blurred together, too many to matter — until one lit up the screen, standing out in quiet contrast.

[Frankie] [9:17 PM] The group chat’s chaos again. Benny’s arguing that nachos count as a balanced meal and Lia’s threatening to make a spreadsheet about it.Same idiots, basically.

You stared at the message for a long moment. No pressure. No asking where you were or why you hadn’t shown up. Just… that. A thread gently held out in your direction.

[You] [9:19 PM] Sounds like I picked the right night to stay home.

[Frankie] [9:20 PM] You say that, but Benny made nachos shaped like ghosts and called them “emotional support snacks.” You missed some art.

[You] [9:21 PM] I’ll live.

You paused. Fingers hovered over the screen.

[You] [9:22 PM]...Just didn’t have the energy today. Everything felt like too much.

A beat, then:

[Frankie] [9:24 PM] Yeah. I figured.No judgment.Just thought I’d remind you we’re still out here. Even if you’re not up for being part of it right now :)

You swallowed. Something loosened in your chest.

[You] [9:25 PM] You’re annoyingly good at this.

[Frankie] [9:26 PM] Nah. Just been in the same place enough to recognize the silence.

There was a silence after that — but this one felt easier. A quiet with space to breathe.

[You] [11:41 PM] Still up?

[Frankie] [11:42 PM] Yeah. Sleep and I are barely on speaking terms these days.

[You] [11:43 PM] Cool.I just… didn’t want the last message to be the end of the conversation.

[Frankie] [11:44 PM] Good, me neither.You okay?

[You] [11:45 PM] Not really.But also nothing happened. It’s just one of those nights. You know?

[Frankie] [11:46 PM] Yeah. The ones where even breathing feels like effort.

You didn’t respond right away. Your apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that made the air feel heavier. You stared at the door like maybe, if you wished hard enough, someone might be on the other side.

[You] [11:50 PM] What would you be doing right now if you weren’t texting me?

[Frankie] [11:51 PM] Probably pacing around my place. Trying to pretend the silence doesn’t get to me.Why?

[You] [11:52 PM] No reason.Just… my couch is kind of empty. Fries are gone. Silence sucks here too.

There was no reply for a moment. You were about to send a follow-up — something deflective, something light — when another text appeared.

[Frankie] [11:54 PM] I’ll be there in 15. You don’t have to talk. Or smile, or clean anything. Just unlock the door, okay?

Fifteen minutes later, there was a soft knock. And when you opened it, he was standing there — hoodie pulled over his head, a bag of chips in one hand, and that familiar look in his eyes. The one that said I see you. You don’t have to explain. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He just kicked off his shoes, sat beside you on the couch, and let the silence exist without making it heavier.

Frankie just stayed. Solid and still and there and for the first time all day, the storm inside your chest quieted just enough to breathe.

It had been an hour.

The TV was on, low volume, playing something neither of you were watching. You sat with your legs tucked beneath you, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, eyes heavy but not tired. Frankie was next to you, close but not quite touching — not at first. But somewhere between the silence and the soft flicker of screenlight, his knee brushed yours.

Neither of you moved.

You didn’t talk much. Every now and then, he’d glance at you — not in a way that asked for anything, but in that quiet, consistent way he always had. The kind that saw through your walls without making you feel exposed. But this time, it felt different.

You turned toward him, and your eyes met — not briefly. Not the way friends glance and look away. You held it.

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize something. Like he wanted to say something but didn’t want to scare it away. His gaze dropped, lingered on your mouth a second too long before he cleared his throat and looked back at the TV.

Your heart thudded wildly.

“I’m glad you texted me,” he said, voice low. “Didn’t like the thought of you sitting here alone tonight.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just shifted slightly, letting your shoulder press into his arm. He didn’t move.

“I almost didn’t,” you murmured. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

“You never do,” he said, too quickly. “Seriously. If it’s you—I’ll show up. Doesn’t matter the hour.”

Your stomach flipped.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was thick. Like the air was holding its breath.

You tilted your head toward him again, slower this time.

He looked over, eyes dark, unreadable, but his jaw had gone tense like he was bracing for something. You weren’t even sure what you were about to say. Just that the air between you had changed. And part of you wanted to fall into it.

But then your phone buzzed, loud against the quiet. You blinked and just like that the spell broke.

Frankie leaned back just slightly, gave a quiet laugh like he’d been caught leaning too far over an edge. “Guess the universe says that’s my cue to shut up.”

You didn’t push it. But you didn’t move away, either.

And for the rest of the night, something hung between you—unspoken but real. Something you both felt.

He hadn’t meant to say it like that. Hadn’t meant to let it slip past his teeth, so low and careful and honest. But when you looked at him—really looked at him—Frankie forgot to guard the edges.

He leaned back because it scared him a little. The way silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore. The way your eyes held his for just a second too long. The way his chest tightened, not in panic but in something gentler, quieter, more dangerous.

You were still close—close enough that he could smell the faint scent of your shampoo, that warm thing that always clung to your skin like a memory he hadn’t earned. And when you didn’t move away, didn’t joke or retreat or hide behind that sharp wit of yours, Frankie knew something had shifted.

But he didn’t push it, he just sat there with you, shoulder brushing shoulder, knees almost touching. The TV played quietly in the background, the flickering light casting soft shadows across your face. He let you lean your head back on the couch. Watched the way your eyes slowly blinked, heavy with exhaustion, but calmer than earlier.

You looked… lighter. Not fixed. Not suddenly okay. But not drowning anymore. He took that as a small win.

And maybe it was selfish, but he didn’t leave.

Frankie stayed. Even after you dozed off with your head tilted slightly toward him, even after the credits rolled and the room went quiet. He stayed in that space between a friend and something else he didn’t name yet. Stayed still, watching the rise and fall of your chest, letting the warmth of the moment settle somewhere deep in his ribs.

He knew the line was thin. Knew this could crack everything if he reached too far.

But damn if he didn’t want to.

Just for a second, he let himself imagine it—what it might feel like to reach over and thread his fingers through yours. To press his lips to your temple. To tell you that he meant it—that he sees you, always has, even when you’re trying your hardest to disappear.

Instead, he sat in the quiet and watched you breathe. Guarded your peace like it was something sacred. When you shifted in your sleep and murmured his name—barely audible, but real—Frankie closed his eyes and let himself hope.

At some point during the quiet, sleep crept up on him too. He didn’t remember closing his eyes—just the low hum of the TV, the warmth of the room, the steady rhythm of your breathing beside him. It felt safe, something he rarely ever felt since returning from service. When he stirred hours later, the light outside was a faint silver, the kind of early morning that painted the world soft and half-real.

And you were there.

Not beside him anymore—but curled up ,somehow, with your head resting in his lap.

Frankie blinked slowly, the sleep not fully shaken off, and looked down at you. Your legs tucked up, one arm curled around yourself like you hadn’t meant to move at all. Your cheek pressed against his thigh, lips parted slightly in sleep, hair a bit messy from shifting around.

He stilled completely at this sight, a thousand things ran through his mind—but louder than all of them was the quiet awe. Like something rare had landed in his hands and he wasn’t sure how to hold it without ruining it.

You were always careful with space, with touch. So this was something else entirely. Unintentional maybe, but unguarded. A side of you he rarely saw.

Gently, he reached down and brushed a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering for half a second too long near your temple.

And that’s when you stirred. Your eyes blinked open slowly, and at first, you didn’t move. Just looked up, a beat of soft confusion passing between you. Then realization hit.

You bolted upright, not abrupt but tense, like waking from a dream you weren’t sure you should’ve had. “Shit—sorry,” you mumbled, rubbing your face with your sleeve, not quite looking at him. “Didn’t mean to— That wasn’t—”

“It’s okay,” Frankie said quickly, voice still low and sleep-rough. “You were out. I didn’t mind.”

You nodded, still avoiding his eyes as you scooted back a bit, putting a little space between you. Not a wall, but a buffer.

“I must’ve shifted in my sleep,” you offered, the words clumsy and thin. “Wasn’t trying to be weird.”

“I know,” he said softly. “Wasn’t weird, promise.”

But it kind of was. Not in a bad way—just in a way that meant something had changed. And now, in the grey morning light, you were both painfully aware of it.

The atmosphere was warm,charged—like a wire had been brushed and now everything was humming a little too loud.

Frankie leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You okay?” he asked after a beat, quieter now.

You glanced at him, eyes softer but still guarded. “Yeah. Just… didn’t mean to cross a line.”

He shook his head. “You didn’t.”

But he didn’t smile and neither did you, because some lines didn’t need to be crossed with intention to leave a mark.

And both of you were feeling it now—in the hush between words, in the echo of how natural it had felt to rest against each other, like you’d done it a hundred times before.

Neither of you said what lingered in the air afterwards, this big little thing that felt like it had a life on its own.

The kitchen was still cloaked in that fragile kind of morning quiet, the kind that made everything feel closer, heavier.

You moved automatically, going through the motions—grabbing mugs, flicking the switch on the kettle, pulling out the coffee tin with muscle memory alone. Your hands were steady, but your thoughts weren’t. Every time you glanced toward the living room and saw Frankie still sitting there, rubbing sleep from his eyes, the knot in your stomach pulled tighter.

He hadn’t said anything else since waking up.

But he hadn’t left, either.

You reached up to the cupboard for the sugar, standing on your toes—and suddenly he was behind you.

“Want me to grab it?” he asked, voice close enough that you felt it more than heard it.

You startled slightly, bumping into him with a soft thud. “Fuck—sorry, didn’t hear you come in.”

“It’s okay,” he said, but his hand had come to rest on your waist—just for a second, steadying you, barely there. But it lingered long enough to light a fuse in your chest.

You didn’t breathe until he stepped back.

The silence stretched as you poured the water, the steam rising between you, thin and ghostlike. You passed him a mug, your fingers brushing his—too gentle to be an accident, too fleeting to be addressed.

His eyes flicked to yours for a heartbeat, unreadable. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” you murmured, suddenly fascinated with the swirl of coffee in your cup. “No problem.”

You both leaned against opposite counters, holding your mugs like shields, pretending the space between you wasn’t thick with whatever had shifted overnight.

“I didn’t mean to…” you started, but the words trailed off.

He didn’t push. Just sipped his coffee, eyes watching you over the rim. “I know.”

And maybe that was worse. That he knew—and still wasn’t moving away. Still standing close enough that you could smell him. Still looking at you like you hadn’t just curled up in his lap a few hours ago like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The kettle clicked off behind you, forgotten.

“Your friends,” you said suddenly, desperate to break the air, “they’d be disappointed you didn’t show up last night.”

He gave a quiet huff of laughter, looking down at his mug. “They were the same idiots as always. They barely noticed.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “I would’ve noticed.”

He looked up, really looked, something unspoken passed between you again. A current, or a question neither of you were ready to ask.

You turned back to the counter, pretending to fix your coffee.

Behind you, he spoke, voice lower now, treading carefully “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

But your hand trembled slightly as you set the spoon down and you knew he saw it, had to.

He didn’t call it out. Just stepped a little closer, mug still in hand, close enough that the edge of his arm brushed yours.

Neither of you moved away and you really didn’t know who moved first. Maybe it was him, maybe it was you. But somehow you were standing too close, not touching, not quite—but almost. Another almost.

Frankie set his mug down on the counter with a soft clink, the sound sharp in the otherwise quiet room. His eyes stayed on you—soft, unreadable, patient in that way he always was, like he never wanted to scare you off. Like he was waiting for you to make the call.

Your breath caught when he reached up—slow, tentative—and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers were careful, feather-light, but the warmth of his touch lingered long after he pulled his hand away.

You didn’t say anything, couldn’t even if you wanted to.Because now, there were only inches between you and it took the air from your lungs.

Your heartbeat sped up, hammering in your ears.

He leaned in just slightly, his voice low. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

It wasn’t a tease. There was no smirk, no cocky edge to his tone. Just a quiet request, wrapped in a kind of reverence that nearly undid you.

And for one breathless second, it felt like gravity shifted between you—like something inevitable was about to happen.

But then—

Your phone buzzed, sharp and jarring against the counter, slicing clean through the moment.

You flinched, just enough to step back, and whatever had been building between you shattered—sudden and brittle, like glass underfoot.

You didn’t look at the screen. You didn’t need to. The spell had broken, again.

Frankie stepped back too, blinking like he’d only just remembered where he was. He scratched the back of his neck and let out a soft breath that sounded like a laugh—but it wasn’t. Not really.

“Right,” he said, nodding once. Like he understood. Like he’d been waiting for the interruption all along. It landed heavier than it should have, a quiet sting in your chest, even though he probably didn’t mean it that way.

You turned back to the coffee, focusing on the mug like it could anchor you. “I should get dressed for the day...”

He nodded again. “Yeah, yeah of course.”

You slipped out of the kitchen with your heart pounding, the ghost of his touch still burning on your skin.

The plan had been in place for weeks. A weekend camping trip—just the group, no cell reception, no excuses. He wasn’t going to go. Had half a dozen reasons not to. But none of them stuck once Benny showed up at his door, grinning like a devil and throwing him a bag of trail mix like that settled it.

"Don’t be a ghost, man," Benny had said. "She’s coming."

Frankie didn’t ask who she was. He didn’t have to.

And now here he was, standing ankle-deep in soft dirt while the late afternoon sun bled gold over the trees, watching your car door slam shut. His stomach did something annoying at the sight of you stepping out, wind-blown and smiling faintly, like you weren’t quite sure you’d made the right choice by showing up either. You hadn’t looked at him yet. But he felt it anyway—that quiet current that had lived between you ever since that night back at your apartment.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked out at the lake, pretending he wasn’t already a little unraveled.

The campsite was beautiful. Dense trees, soft moss underfoot, and a lake that glimmered like it had been carved from glass. Everyone fanned out, unpacking coolers and gear and arguing over who forgot what. There was music coming from Benny’s car, something old and loud and badly sung along to.

And then your voice cut through it: “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Frankie turned. You were crouched beside your bag, frustration etched into every line of your face. Pieces of tent poles lay scattered on the ground like broken bones, and the rest was nowhere to be seen.

“Problem?” Santi called, already laughing.

You held up a tent bag like it had personally betrayed you. “I either forgot the actual tent or packed the world’s saddest kite.”

There were groans, and someone yelled 'rookie mistake' and someone else suggested duct tape and tarp. But eventually Benny, ever the ringleader, clapped his hands and declared, “Only one solution. Draw matches. Losers share their tent.”

Frankie knew—he just knew—what the universe was about to do to him.

The sticks were torn from a granola box and held up like some ancient rite. One by one, the guys picked theirs. Frankie went last.

When he looked down, it was the shortest stick.

A beat of silence. Then a chorus of oohs and Benny’s terrible drumroll on a cooler lid.

Frankie didn’t even glance at them. He looked straight at you.

And this time, you looked back. Your eyes met his like you’d been waiting for it—and damn if it didn’t do something stupid to his chest. You didn’t smile, didn’t smirk. But your gaze held, quiet and unreadable. Heavy with something neither of you had put into words.

Frankie cleared his throat. “Guess I’m the lucky one.”

You arched a brow., arms crossed defensively. “That’s one way to put it.”

He nodded slowly, heart doing double-time, already dreading and anticipating the moment night would fall.

No escape. No couch cushions or coffee mugs to serve as shields between you.

Just one thin tent wall and all the silence you still hadn’t broken.

You weren’t sure how it got so quiet.

Everyone else had turned in. The fire had died hours ago, and now the campsite was just a rhythm of distant snores, rustling leaves, and the occasional crack of branches shifting in the cool night. Inside the tent, it was still and dark—too still. You lay on your back, cocooned in your sleeping bag, barely breathing, aware of every inch of the man beside you.

Frankie was close. Not touching you, but close enough that you could feel his warmth, hear the soft exhale of his breath, smell the faint mix of campfire and whatever clean laundry detergent he used.

And god, you wanted it. The warmth. The comfort. The steadiness of him. You wanted to curl into it, let yourself have it—just for a moment. But you stayed frozen. Afraid that even the smallest move would tip everything over the edge.

Your mind wouldn’t shut up.

You kept thinking about the almost-kiss. About how it lingered between you like a thread that hadn’t snapped. You thought about his hand brushing yours that morning in your kitchen, how your breath had caught in your throat like something sacred had passed between you. You thought about falling asleep on him, about waking up there—on him—and how he didn’t push you away.

And you thought about how terrified you were of needing someone. Of needing him.

The silence clawed at you, unbearable.

You turned slightly, your sleeping bag crinkling loud in the dark. “Frankie,” you whispered.

He shifted. “Yeah?”

“I think about that morning,” you said, voice soft. “The almost-kiss.”

The silence stretched.

You swallowed hard. “I think about it a lot actually..”

Still, he didn’t speak. But you could hear how sharply he breathed in.

“I just… I don’t know. I’ve convinced myself you’re better off when we keep some distance.” You stared up at the ceiling, blinking slowly. “Because I’m a mess, Frankie. Not the cute kind. The ‘can’t even be alone with myself for too long without falling apart’ kind. And I guess I’m scared of what it means to let you get closer.”

More silence, but it didn’t feel empty, it felt full. Like something inside it was shifting.

Then you heard his voice, low and gravel-soft, barely more than breath. “I know.”

You blinked, unsure if you imagined it.

“I know you’re struggling. I’ve always known more than I let on,” he said. “I didn’t want to push. Didn’t want to make it worse.”

You turned your head just slightly toward the shape of him in the dark.

“I haven’t said much about my own shit either,” Frankie continued. “But you should know—I’m still in recovery. Still fighting the edge of it every day. My temper’s not great, I lose patience faster than I should. Some days I hate myself. Other days I just feel… hollow.”

Your heart cracked a little.

“I don’t usually let people in. It’s been a long time since someone made me want to.” His voice went quiet. “But you did. And you never treated me like I was broken. You just… saw me. All of me. And it gave me this stupid illusion that maybe I wasn’t too far gone.”

You turned toward him then.

The space between you was barely a breath. You reached out slowly, fingers grazing his chest, resting just over his heart.

“You’re the best guy I ever met, Frankie,” you said, voice steady despite the lump in your throat. “For real. And none of this—your past, your battles, any of it—makes you any less valuable.”

His breath hitched.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The tension between you wasn’t sharp anymore—it was tender. Fragile. A thing you both held gently in your hands.

Frankie turned to face you too, his forehead just inches from yours, and in the dark, it felt like the whole world had narrowed to just this—just you and him.

You didn’t say anything else, you didn’t need to.

The morning came too soon.

Sunlight filtered through the nylon walls of the tent, warm and golden, and you woke slowly, disoriented by how calm you felt. Frankie was still beside you, quiet and breathing steadily. You didn’t know if he was awake yet, and you didn’t dare look. You just listened for a moment—to the breeze outside, birds in the trees, someone cursing over trying to get the fire started.

Eventually, you rolled out of the sleeping bag and changed into fresh clothes, not looking back.

By the time you joined the others, coffee was brewing over the flames and the boys were already half-alive and throwing jabs at each other. You sat on the log bench next to Benny, who passed you a metal mug without looking.

“Sleep okay?” he asked casually.

You just nodded, eyes flicking to Frankie across the fire. He was already looking.

Your gaze met for a second too long—soft, searching, warm—and it did something stupid to your chest.

No one said anything. But you felt it. You both did.

Later, the sun climbed higher and someone—probably Benny—declared it “prime lake hour.” Everyone agreed with groggy enthusiasm, and swim trunks and towels came out. You stayed behind a moment in the tent, staring down at your bikini, stomach tight with hesitation. It was cute. Objectively. But that didn’t mean you felt good in it.

When you stepped out, arms crossed over your bare middle, Frankie was standing barefoot near the treeline in the world’s most ridiculous swim shorts—sky blue, patterned with rubber ducks like a fever dream. It made you laugh before you could help it.

He turned at the sound, eyebrows lifting when he saw you. “There she is,” he said, that easy smirk tugging at his lips. “Took you long enough.”

“I was deciding whether to fake a leg injury.”

“Should’ve gone with amnesia,” he said. “It’s more dramatic.”

You laughed again, and—somehow—you didn’t feel so tense in your skin anymore.

Then Benny cannonballed into the water, screaming like a child. Santi followed with a cocky, slow-motion dive. Will, of course, gave a tiny, polite whoop before launching himself in.

That left just you and Frankie standing at the edge of the dock.

You glanced at each other.

“Race you,” he said, already grinning.

“You’re on.”

You both took off at the same time, feet slapping the wood, laughing like you’d already won. You hit the water seconds apart—cold and shocking and exhilarating. You surfaced gasping, blinking away the brightness, and when your eyes found Frankie, you were already swimming toward him without thinking.

He was floating just a little ways off, hair wet and curling wildly at his temples, eyes squinting against the sun, droplets glinting on his skin like gold dust. He was laughing quietly to himself, mouth slightly open, and when he saw you approaching, he raised an eyebrow.

“What?” he asked, teasing.

You flushed just a little. “Nothing.”

“Oh, it’s something. You were staring.”

You rolled your eyes. “You wish.”

“Don’t need to wish,” he said, cocky and soft at the same time. “I know.”

You dunked him or at least tried.

He yelped, grabbed at your wrists, and in seconds had pulled you under with him, both of you sinking briefly into the quiet blue.

And something happened there—under the water, beneath the surface noise of the world. Everything felt still. Weightless, safe.

You didn’t think. You just moved—arms sliding around his neck, legs curling instinctively around his waist. Frankie didn’t ask questions. He didn’t need to. He just held you there, his hands finding the small of your back like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You both stayed suspended for a moment too long, eyes locked, hair floating between you like ink in water. His gaze was steady, wide, real, and you couldn’t look away.

Then—

“Yo! Stop making out under there, fish freaks!”

Benny’s voice broke through the surface like a bad joke, followed by a splash that hit too close.

You gasped and broke away, popping up with a sputter.

Frankie surfaced beside you, wiping water from his face, grinning like he hadn’t just had the wind knocked out of him emotionally. “I’m gonna kill him,” he muttered.

You laughed despite yourself, blinking water from your lashes. “Get in line.”

The fire cracked loud in the silence, hissing as a log shifted and sent sparks spiraling upward into the night. The lake behind them lapped gently at the shore. Bugs buzzed in the thick summer air. Someone passed around a half-empty bag of marshmallows and a mostly dead lighter. Benny told a story that probably started out true and ended in a full-blown lie.

Frankie barely heard a word of it.

You were sitting beside him. Close. Shoulder against his, legs stretched out, toes tucked near the edge of the firelight. You’d been soft all evening—unguarded in a way that made his chest feel like it had been cracked open with a crowbar.

And then you laughed. Head tilted back, sunlight in your voice even though it was long past sunset. Without thinking, you leaned into him, head resting on his shoulder like it was second nature.

You hugged his arm and Frankie forgot how to breathe for a second.

It wasn’t just the touch. It was the weight of it. The ease. The way your fingers curled around his bicep like they belonged there, like he wasn’t some danger to your peace, like you weren’t scared of him the way you sometimes seemed to be. And that—god, that did something to him. Melted him from the inside out.

He sat as still as he could, afraid if he shifted even slightly, you’d realize what you were doing and pull away.

You didn’t.

The warmth spread through him slow and molten, thick and sweet in his veins. He stared at the fire, but his senses were full of you. The smell of your shampoo, the soft sound of your breathing, the lazy shape your fingers made against his arm.

Across the flames, Santi looked up from his beer and met his eyes, one brow raised. Frankie gave him nothing back. Just the tiniest shrug, like don’t you fucking say a word.

Santi didn’t. Neither did Will, who definitely noticed but kept his face turned toward the fire. Benny just snored softly, half-asleep on a log with a marshmallow stuck to his shirt.

Frankie let out a slow breath. Let his head tilt just enough to brush yours. Didn’t dare move more than that.

He didn’t need more, not right now.

This was already more than he thought he’d ever get.

And it felt like something, something worth to hold onto.

The zipper buzzed softly behind him as he ducked into the tent. The air was cooler now, the fire burned down to coals outside, the lake settled into glass. Most of the guys had knocked out where they sat or stumbled to their tents half-asleep.

You followed a few minutes later.

Frankie lay on his back, hands behind his head, trying to look casual even though his pulse kicked up the second he heard the nylon rustle.

You crawled in with that quiet way of yours, the kind that made it feel like you belonged there. Like this wasn’t just a random arrangement of bad luck and missing tent poles.

It was dark, save for the moonlight slipping through the thin fabric above them. Still, he didn’t need to see you to know where you were—he could feel you. Every inch. Every breath. Like his body had memorized your gravity.

Minutes passed in silence.

Then—

“You make me feel safe,” you whispered, sudden and raw in the dark. “You know that?”

His breath caught.

“Like I don’t need to keep my guard up all the time. And I’ve never had that before.”

Frankie turned his head slightly, could just make out your silhouette now. You were still staring up at the roof of the tent, like if you looked at him, you might not get the words out.

“You don’t see the mess,” you went on, voice a little unsteady. “You see me. The me I mostly don’t even meet myself. And it scares me shitless, but I also… I don’t know, it’s good. Please just—keep doing that. Wherever it lands.”

He blinked hard.

God, you didn’t even know what that did to him.

He shifted, just enough to turn onto his side. Your face was barely visible in the moonlight—eyes wide and vulnerable, like you’d just handed him something breakable and weren’t sure if he’d hold it right.

His throat felt thick. Words weren’t his thing, not like this. But he’d be damned if he didn’t try.

“I love your laugh,” he said softly. “You know that?”

You looked surprised, breath catching.

Frankie smiled faintly, gaze tracing the line of your cheek. “It’s—fuck, it’s beautiful. Makes something settle in me. Every time I hear it, it’s like I get a little reminder that good things exist. That you exist.”

The silence between you stretched, but it wasn’t empty. It was so full it ached.

And then, barely above a whisper, he added, “So yeah… I’ll keep doing that. Seeing you. Because every version of you I’ve seen so far has been worth it.”

You turned to face him then. Closer now. His breath stilled as your hand found his chest again, warm and gentle like the night before.

And for the first time in a long time, Frankie didn’t feel like a man carrying too much weight.

He just felt wanted.

Your fingers rested lightly on his chest, just over the steady beat of his heart. You felt it jump the moment you touched him, and maybe yours did too. It was so quiet you could hear every breath, the rustle of nylon, the night sounds muffled outside the tent walls.

And still—it felt like the loudest thing in the world was the space between your bodies.

You didn’t know how long you lay there like that. Staring at him, feeling him breathe under your palm. It should’ve been small. But it felt enormous. Like your world shifting on its axis.

Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric of his shirt. Old, worn down and loved. Safe. Like everything about him felt. You couldn’t look away from his mouth, the way it parted just a little as your gaze dropped there. Your breath hitched before you even moved.

Still, you leaned in.

Soft, slow, tentative. Not quite a kiss. Just the beginning of one. The question of it.

And then, just before your lips could brush his, Frankie whispered, “I really would like to kiss you. Would that be okay?”

The way he said it—like it mattered. Like you mattered and all you could do was nodding, barely able to find your voice. “Yeah… please.”

And when it happened, it wasn’t like you imagined. It wasn’t fireworks or a movie scene or something dramatic.

It was careful and so gentle it made something ache in your chest.

His hand slid up, cradling your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. His lips met yours like he’d never been more sure of anything.

You kissed him back just as slow, like neither of you wanted to break it. Like this might be the first real moment of your life where you weren’t running from something, weren’t hiding.

Just here. With him, in this moment that stretched and made heat bloom in you.

And when you finally pulled away, your forehead stayed pressed to his. Both of you breathing quietly and unevenly.

You whispered, “That okay?”

Frankie let out a soft, breathless laugh, like you’d just said the most ridiculous thing in the world. “That was more than okay.”

Your smile broke before you could stop it, and this time when you laughed he kissed you again.

Just because he could.

thanks for reading 💌

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tateypots · 1 day ago

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Body and Soul

18+ MDNI

Pairing: Dark!Joel Miller x f!reader, Dark!Tommy Miller x f!reader

Word count: 3.3k

A/N: Part 10 of Collared. Same as before, it's dark so please heed the warnings and skip if it's not for you.

I promised an anon I would put Tommy in a ponytail but I had to split the chapter because it was getting too big. So ponytail Tommy will fall in the next chapter, sorry anon!

Moodboard is for aesthetics only, reader is not described beyond having boobs and a vagina and hair (very brief mention and it is not described). Please refer to this post for more info on the series mooboards.

Summary: You take a step forward in your relationship with Joel.

Warnings: Non-Con, dark Joel, dark Tommy, kidnapping, daddy kink, uncle kink, restraints, stockhom syndrome, praise kink, unprotected piv, manipulation. Let me know if I missed anything.

You heave a massive sigh and bury your head in your hands. What a mess. Your brain is on overdrive following Joel telling you about their bet. And the worst of it is that it’s not outrage at them using you as a pawn in their games. It’s the thought of letting one of them down.

A few hours ago you had been drowning in pride at how well you were doing in your training, how pleased Tommy was with you. How much faith he had in you. The thought of disappointing him makes you sick to your stomach. Because of course it would be him. You had genuinely come to care for Tommy. But you needed Joel. Going 24 hours without him would be an unthinkable torture.

You felt like you should hate yourself for how little thought you actually gave it. Because as soon as the secret slipped from Joel’s mouth, the outcome was inevitable. And to make things worse again, you knew that had been his intention in telling you. A manipulation dressed up in praise and feigned sadness over a loss he knew would never come. And yet you couldn’t bring yourself to be mad at him, because weren’t you just as bad?

Joel had told you because he couldn’t bear the thought of going without you for that long. And you would risk your relationship with Tommy because you felt the same way about him. That pull you felt towards him was inescapable. It defied all logic. You knew Tommy was objectively the better choice for you. He was younger for a start. More open, fun, where Joel was closed off and manipulative. But Tommy didn’t make your body sing or your heart flutter the way Joel did. So no matter how much you hated letting him down, Tommy never really stood a chance.

Now you just had to figure out a way to do it that would limit the damage. You couldn’t just put no effort in. Tommy would know something was off if you did. And that sent your brain spiralling in another direction. What would happen if Tommy found out that Joel had told you?

You’d often considered what would happen if the brothers turned on you. But it had never crossed your mind to wonder what would happen if they turned on each other. It was clear to you how close they were so it had never really seemed like it would be a problem. But now the secrets between them were starting to mount up. Because of you… You grabbed a pillow off the bed and stuffed it over your face, screaming your frustration into it.

You tried so hard over the next few hours to shut off your brain but it was no good. Your mind ran in circles, searching for a solution that wouldn’t materialise. When Joel and Tommy came in for the day you were amped up, pacing and fidgety.

“Whoa sugar, what’s got you all riled up?” Tommy asks, coming over to still your pacing, grabbing you by each bicep.

You couldn’t look at him, too filled with guilt so instead you leant forward and buried your head in his shoulder.

“Hey now, what’s goin’ on?” He tries to push you back so he can look at you but you resist, wrapping your arms around him and clinging on like your life depends on it. He admits defeat and wraps his arms around you and pulls you in close.

“It’s ok princess, just tell us what’s wrong hmm?”

You turn your head to the side and mumble, “I’m ok Uncle Tommy, just got in my head and couldn’t switch it off.” You lift your head slightly to peer over his shoulder at Joel. He’s looking back at you, studying the scene in front of him, frowning. You see how this must look to him, you diving straight into Tommy’s arms while upset, knowing what it must be about.

The panic wells in your chest. Your breath comes in frantic little pants and you start to feel lightheaded. You reach one arm out to him while keeping one locked around Tommy’s back and whimper out a soft, “Daddy!”

He softens immediately and rushes to you, grabbing your hand and leaning over Tommy’s shoulder to give you a kiss on the crown of your head. His thumb rubs back and forth gently on the back of your hand as tears start to leak from your eyes.

“It’s ok baby, we got you, you’re alright,” Joel murmurs into your hair.

You sniffle and nod into Tommy’s shoulder, feeling so safe, so cared for it almost makes you forget what you were upset about in the first place. Almost.

“M’sorry,” you mumble, finally getting a grip of yourself and stopping the tears.

“Nothin’ to be sorry about princess, some days are just like that. Happens to me and your Daddy too, ‘cept he gets a lot grumpier than I do.”

You huff a laugh and Tommy snickers into the side of your head when Joel gives him a playful clip around the back of the head.

“There she is. Happy to hear you laughin’ sugar,” Tommy tells you as he finally succeeds in peeling you off him so he can look at your face. You take a deep breath and meet his gaze with a little smile, still holding tight to Joel’s hand.

“Right, I know just the thing to properly cheer you up. How bout some of Uncle Tommy’s famous hot chocolate?”

You smile and nod at him. He is achingly sweet and its making you feel terrible for the way you know you’re going to betray him. But it’s somewhat easier to face with Joel by your side, your hand held securely in his.

“Ok, good girl. Why don’ you snuggle up with Daddy while I work my magic,” he winks at you and moves over to the small kitchen to get started.

Joel looks at you for a beat before sweeping you up in his arms and depositing you both on the sofa, you sitting in his lap with both legs off to the side. The raging jealousy he felt when he saw you latch onto Tommy just now is ebbing slowly as he runs his hands over your soft skin. He’d momentarily worried that he’d pushed you too far. That he’d lost you to Tommy completely through his scheming. But as you lift your little hand to cup his face and lean up to give him a kiss on the cheek he knows his worries were baseless. You’re his. You choose him. He kisses your forehead in a soft apology for what he’s putting you through. You just sigh and sink into him. His sweet, tender-hearted girl. He’ll think of a way to make it up to you.

///

By the time you finish your hot chocolate you’re feeling much better. Snuggling with Joel has quieted your mind and reaffirmed your conviction that you cannot spend 24 hours apart from him. And his tenderness has reassured you that, no matter what, he will take care of you. And you know that maybe you’re being naïve. Maybe he’s just playing with your mind to pass the time. But something deep within tells you that’s not it. That he wouldn’t risk his relationship with his brother if he didn’t reciprocate your need for him. And you decide that if you need to have faith in something, it may as well be Joel. After all, you’ve never felt as safe as you do with his arms wrapped around you.

So when Tommy pulls you out of Joel’s lap and guides you towards the bed, you don’t resist. You don’t even think twice. You can give Tommy this at least. Make him feel good as recompense. You lay on your back and spread your legs for him.

For once you don’t fight the uncomfortable feeling that overcomes you every time Tommy touches you like this. You let it wash over you, bathe yourself in it even as he sinks inside you. This is your penance. You’re just grateful he decided to fuck you tonight rather than have you blow him. This feels less intimate somehow. Maybe it’s because there’s no thought involved for you. You can lie back and let your body take over.

He lies on top of you and buries his head in the crook of your neck. He pumps into you steadily, moaning into your ear, his breath hot against your skin. You turn your head and lock eyes with Joel, even as your hands latch onto Tommy, one burying itself in his loose curls and the other grabbing a handful of his butt cheek, encouraging him to beat into you. Tommy groans as he feels you, enjoying you finally reciprocating his advances.

Joel leans forward on the old sofa, leaning his forearms on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together. His eyes never leave yours, it feels as though they brand you with their intensity.

You mewl softly as Tommy starts to move faster, the curls at the base of his dick catching on your clit with every thrust. You let out a broken moan when Tommy’s cock brushes over that spongy spot inside of you and you see Joel’s jaw clench and his hands ball tightly into fists. You wrap your legs around Tommy, pulling him even further into you.

“That’s it princess, bein’ so good for Uncle Tommy, lettin’ him make you feel good.”

He continues to aim for that spot, pounding into with determination, making you cry out. You see something flash in Joel’s eyes as he pushes to his feet. Anger, jealousy? It’s gone too quickly for you to fully identify as his jaw clenches again and he scrunches his nose, but seeing him getting worked up while Tommy fucks you is what pushes you over the edge.

You come with a wail, your pussy clamping down on Tommy hard.

“Jesus, fuck!” he curses as he slams into you a final time before pulsing deep inside. He slumps on top of you, sweaty and breathless. You gently caress his back and press a kiss into his shoulder. A silent sorry that he will never understand.

“Mmmmm, so good f’me princess. Such a good girl.”

He pulls out of you and disappears into the bathroom, returning quickly with a damp cloth. He cleans you up and announces, “I’m off for a shower,” before disappearing into the bathroom, not noticing the prickling tension between you and Joel, who has resumed his position on the sofa like nothing has happened.

As soon as the door locks you climb off the bed and make your way over to Joel. He reaches for you before you fully get to him, pulling you forward with his hands on your hips, desperate to have you near. The rough callouses feel heavenly against your skin and you moan out a breathy, “oh Daddy,” before straddling his lap.

You lean your forehead against his and whisper, “thank you Daddy.” Because you know what that was. Him letting you see how affected he was by Tommy fucking you. Letting you see how little he liked it. It was an apology. And a promise. Dropping his mask to let you know how much he cares for you. How little he wants to share you.

He clutches you to him tighter, nuzzling his nose against yours. “Say it. Tell me.” There’s no authority in it. He’s not demanding. He’s begging.

“M’yours Daddy. Only yours.”

He lets out a sigh of relief and his eyes slip closed. You smile and gently cup his face in your hands, waiting for his eyes to be on you again. When he opens them you give him a smile and lean in and press your lips gently to his.

He doesn’t react at first so you pull back, afraid you’ve misread this entire thing but you barely manage to get any distance from his face before he’s pulling you back in with a groan, his lips pressing against yours, gentle but insistent. It makes your breath hitch and you gasp. He takes the opportunity to suck your bottom lip between his before releasing it with a small smacking sound.

“My. Perfect. Sweet. Girl,” he tells you, punctuating each word with a kiss, each one getting firmer. Your hands fall to his shoulders to brace yourself against falling completely into him with the way he is tugging at you.

His tongue swipes against your lips and you moan. As soon as your lips part his tongue is shoving its way into your mouth. It slides against yours and you hesitantly try to match his movements, uncoordinated and sloppy. It feels divine. You pull away every now and again to gasp for air but Joel pulls you right back into him, drowning in his desire for you. You never expected kissing to feel this good. Your pussy throbs and drools as you get more and more aroused, soaking Joel’s crotch with your slick and Tommy’s cum.

Joel’s hands come up to cradle your face and he slides his tongue out of your mouth to growl against your lips, “he doesn’t get to have you like this.” His gruff, possessive tone has you about to lose your mind and you simply whimper as you crush your lips against his once more. He meets your kiss gladly but then abruptly pulls away again and you chase his mouth.

“Say it,” he demands, and you open your eyes to find his boring into yours, expression laced with desperation. “Kisses are only for Daddy,” you mewl at him and he crashes his mouth against you once more, pulling away to growl a “good girl,” at you before claiming you once more.

You can’t take it any more, you drop your hands to fumble with his belt, made harder by the fact that you can’t see with the way Joel is invading your mouth. You finally get it loose and somehow manage to get the button and zipper of his jeans open. He lifts his hips to help you push down his jeans and underwear, just enough to allow his cock to spring free, all whilst joined at the mouth.

He moans when you wrap your hand around his cock and the vibrations rumble pleasantly against your tongue and around your mouth. You break from his lips, head falling back as you sink down onto him, the tight stretch of him stealing any remaining breath you had. You choke and gasp as he slides further and further inside of you, you think you may pass out from lack of oxygen.

His lips are now attached to your neck, the thought of them not being on you unbearable to him. His arms are looped under your arm pits with his hands grabbing at your shoulders as he eases you down to his base. He groans as he finally bottoms out, your head is still tipped back, you can’t think, can’t move as you pant and gulp for air.

He gently guides you forward until your head falls to his shoulder, air coming more easily in the more natural position.

“Tha’s it baby, just breath for me, good girl, big deep breaths,” he coos at you while he strokes your back and lets you settle into him. He doesn’t move, just sits and lets you recover, enjoying the way his balls nestle against the soft skin of your ass.

“My good girl got all worked up from Daddy’s kisses, didn’t she?”

You hum out a dreamy “uh huh,” before latching your fingers in his curls and planting your lips against his once more. He chuckles against you, sucking and nipping at your lower lip and starting to rock you back and forth.

You reluctantly pull away as he encourages you to start bouncing on his cock.

“Fuck yeah you did. Been waitin’ so long for those kisses baby, even better than I imagined. Shoulda’ known. Always fuckin’ perfect for me ain’t ya?”

You whine and your pussy clenches at his words. You already feel that tightening in your core, your whole body lighting up with the pleasure he’s giving you. You’re almost certain he could have made you come just with his kisses.

He groans as you tug on his hair and ride him with fury. You’ve never felt so feral. It’s savage in the way it grips you, your whole existence stripped back to one fundamental truth. You are his. Body and soul.

It’s dangerous you know, to be lured by these feelings in the throes of lust. That it could just be your body fooling your mind into believing this is more than just raw, primal attraction. That this could be his greatest manipulation of all. But the way he pulls you back in to place soft kisses against your lips as you pound each other tells you different. You are his. But he is also yours.

He sticks his thumb into your mouth alongside his tongue, startling you slightly before he retracts it, slippery with your mixed saliva and brings it to your clit. You wail as he rubs it fast and hard, in time with your movements on him.

The pressure releases abruptly and you feel a gush of liquid pour out of you as you scream for him, the world around you seems to explode in light. You feel as though it must be bursting through your skin, the power behind your high is so extreme. Far too intense to be contained in your body.

You’re fairly sure you black out because the next thing you know, you’re limp in Joel’s lap, he’s holding you still with a massive hand each grabbing one of your ass cheeks hard as he punches into you from below, babbling in your ear.

“Fuckin’ made for me, best little girl I could ever ask for, always so fuckin’ good f’me. Kissin’ and ridin’ and squirtin’ all over me. Always takin’ my cock and my cum so good. Oh fuck! Here it comes baby, FUCK!”

He explodes, pouring into you in several warm bursts. He continues to buck up into you, milking himself dry and making sure every drop is in you. He slumps beneath you and pulls you in for another kiss, slow and languid and so fucking delicious it makes your pussy pulsate around him, making him whimper with overstimulation.

You pull back and smirk at him, biting your lower lip to stop yourself from giggling. He rolls his eyes and smacks your ass with a grumbled, “watch it,” but you see his eyes crinkle with the smile he’s trying to hold in. You don’t say anything but you make a mental note that you definitely want to hear him make that noise again.

You sneak another quick kiss when you hear the lock to the bathroom click and Joel pulls you into his chest to cover the evidence of your squirting. You go happily, listening to the beat of his heart through his soft flannel. Strong and steady and comforting.

Tommy chuckles at the pair of you as he walks through the living area to his room, still damp from his shower and a towel wrapped round his waist, completely oblivious to the potentially life altering events that just happened.

Everything is laid bare now, you’ve surrendered yourself completely. To Joel. You wonder if you should feel ashamed. You don’t. You feel content. Happy even. You luxuriate in it as you soak in Joel’s scent and heat, snuggling in as close as you can get. To the man that you love.

///

@aurorawritestoescape @milla-frenchy @old-logan-and-old-joels-slut @mani-pedro @axshadows @justajoelsreader @ahintofkiwistrawberry @guelyury @rosebuds-and-moonlight @koshkaj-blog @shivispunk @ivoryandflame @tammythr @magpiepills @deviscave @megjohnston23 @pedrosgrogu @pedge-page @guelyury @lamartell @thejoywillburnoutthepain @xoxabs88xox @teapartydreams @baronessvonglitter @a-loneywolf @staley83 @joelmillerswife9 @bunnnyreads-tlou @mushgloomz @gorygladiators @megangovier @lilac-boo @nala2811 @catnip987

#collared fic #dark!joel miller #dark!tommy miller #tw noncon #tw kidnapping #tw stockholm syndrome #smut #joel miller #pedro pascal #tommy miller #tlou au

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mocchiixxx · 1 day ago

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Words in Ruin Series # | 12 : Chwe Hansol (Vernon) 🐢

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Healing, Miscommunication

Warnings: Shouting, emotional breakdown, crying, comfort and reconciliation

Summary: Vernon is usually the laid-back, composed type, preferring quiet moments over the chaos of fame. But the constant pressure and never-ending schedule have begun to break him down. One evening, after a particularly exhausting day, he takes out his frustrations on you, and the harsh words cut deeper than he intended. Regret comes quickly, but it’s hard to undo the hurt.

You stared at the clock for what must've been the tenth time. It was almost midnight, and Vernon still wasn’t home.

The food on the table had long since gone cold. You sighed, setting down your phone after reading the same message you'd sent him two hours ago:

“Are you okay? I’m worried.” No reply.

Then finally, the door creaked open.

You sat up immediately. “Hansol?”

Vernon walked in with heavy steps. He looked exhausted. His shoulders slumped like the weight of the world was dragging him down. He didn’t even glance at you as he took off his shoes and dropped his bag by the door.

“You’re late,” you said quietly, trying to keep your tone light. “I made dinner.”

“I already ate,” he muttered.

You paused. “Oh. Okay…”

You stood there awkwardly for a second, unsure of what to do. His voice had been cold, not like Vernon at all. He moved past you and walked straight to the bedroom.

You followed after him, your steps tentative.

“Did something happen?” you asked gently. “You didn’t text back. I was worried.”

He let out a sigh as he threw his hoodie onto a chair. “Why does everything have to be a problem?”

Your brows furrowed. “It’s not a problem, I’m just worried about you…”

“Well, don’t be. I’m fine.” He finally looked at you, but his eyes were hard, tired. “Can you just, I don't know, stop treating me like I’m going to break all the time?”

The sting in his words made you take a step back. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

“I know,” he said sharply, then ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “I know. I just… I just want silence. For one night.”

“But bottling everything up doesn’t help you either,” you replied softly. “You don’t talk to me anymore, Hansol. I miss you, even when you're right in front of me.”

He scoffed. “Right, because I’m the problem again.”

You blinked, your throat tightening. “That’s not what I said…”

“You didn’t have to.” His voice rose. “I get it. You want me to be this perfect version of myself all the time. I’m tired, okay? Tired of everything, tired of the constant pressure, the noise, the expectations. And now I come home, and it feels like I can’t even breathe here either!”

You flinched. He never yelled. Not like this.

“Is that what I am to you now? Noise?” you whispered.

He immediately looked away, guilt flashing in his eyes. “That’s not what I meant…”

“But that’s what you said.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” he snapped. “I’m sorry I’m not who you want me to be right now.”

You shook your head, your voice cracking. “I don’t want you to be anyone else, Hansol. I want you. But you won’t let me in anymore. You come home, shut me down, and you act like I’m part of the chaos you’re trying to escape from.”

“I don’t mean to,” he whispered. “It’s just... e-everything’s too much.”

“Then why not talk to me about it?” you asked, pleading now. “Why push me away?”

“Because if I start talking, I’m scared I won’t stop,” he confessed, voice shaking. “I’m scared I’ll break down and you’ll see how weak I really am.”

You stared at him, tears building. “Do you really think I’d walk away if you cried? Do you think I’m only here for the version of you that’s calm and composed?”

He didn’t answer.

You took a step closer, voice softer now. “Let me carry some of this with you. Let me be the one safe space you don’t have to pretend in.”

He finally looked at you again, and his expression broke your heart. His walls were crumbling. Slowly, painfully.

“I had a panic attack in the bathroom today,” he admitted. “During a break between takes. No one noticed. I just… I washed my face and kept going like nothing happened.”

“Oh, Hansol…” You reached out, but he stepped back.

“And it’s not the first time,” he said bitterly. “Every day feels like I’m suffocating. Every smile I force feels like a lie. I come home and I want to collapse, but then I see you waiting for me and I feel like I’m failing you, too.”

“You’re not failing me,” you said immediately. “You’re hurting. That’s not failure.”

He finally broke down, his voice trembling. “I don’t know how to be okay anymore.”

You pulled him into your arms, and this time, he didn’t resist. He held onto you like he was drowning.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered, rubbing his back. “You don’t have to be okay right now. You just have to let yourself feel.”

He clung to you tightly. “I’m scared.”

“I know. But I’m not going anywhere.”

His shoulders trembled as the tears finally spilled, quiet, broken sobs that had been buried for too long. You held him through it, letting him release every emotion he’d bottled up.

“I’m sorry for yelling,” he mumbled into your shoulder. “I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

“I know,” you said gently. “It hurt, but I know you didn’t mean it. I forgive you.”

He pulled back just slightly, brushing his fingers along your face, now wet with your own tears. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You do,” you said, smiling through the tears. “And you always will.”

He let out a shaky laugh, his forehead leaning against yours. “What would I do without you?”

“You’ll never have to find out,” you whispered.

You guided him to the couch, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders. He leaned into your side, head resting on your chest, hand gripping yours tightly.

And for the first time in a long while, Vernon allowed himself to rest, not as an idol, not as a perfect image, but as a person. A broken, healing, loved person.

Taglist: @babycaratdeul @viacb97 @christinewithluv

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lovelybucky1 · 10 hours ago

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okay what do you think about daddy!matt with a reader that's not very into the whole daddy thing but she's so submissive and wants to please him no matter what and matt is desperate to corrupt her into liking it too

tw: dub!con

"say it, baby."

"matt," you whine, squeezing your eyes shut.

"c'mon, honey. if you want to cum, you gotta say it. tell me what i want to hear."

you turn your head away as you deal with your conflicting feelings. he's making you feel so good, you're so close to your edge, but he won't let you cum unless you indulge his fucked up fantasy. he's been trying to get you into it for so long, but you've always been resistant. now, he's holding your pleasure hostage.

"matt, i don't wanna. you know i don't."

matt forces down the frustration that he can feel growing in his bones. getting mad won't get him his way. he needs to stay calm.

"it's just one little word, sweetheart. you can do it. just one little word and i'll give you everything you want. i promise, okay? when have i ever broken a promise to you?"

your lack of response makes his blood pressure rise. he decides he needs to be more persuasive, so he stills his hips and removes his thumb from your clit, leaving you clenching around his hard cock buried inside you.

your desperation makes your mind foggy, just as matt intended. he's wearing you down, pushing you deeper into submission so you're less likely to fight back; more malleable.

"say it," he says through gritted teeth, letting his walls down just a bit and exposing his fiery desperation.

your hips buck, seeking stimulation before you lose all of the pleasure you've built up. matt stops you, pinning your hips down to the bed with a firm hand. he's not letting you have any more until you say what he wants you to.

you can't take it anymore. you're too desperate, too fuck-drunk to think straight. you know you don't want to, but it'll be the only way to get what you need. and if it makes matt happy, then it can't be so bad, can it?

"please let me cum, dad."

"fuck," matt groans loudly. he's been waiting to hear you say that for so long, and even though he had to fight with you to get you to say it, it's still so sweet.

#matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock smut #matt murdock x you #matt murdock x y/n #matt murdock fanfiction #matt murdock fanfic #daredevil x reader #daredevil smut #daredevil fanfic #daredevil #daredevil fanfiction #dad!matt #ask #anon #daredevil x you #daredevil x y/n

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leenashiftss · 2 days ago

Text

TRUST FALL

| “If you trust me, I promise you won’t just feel good.. you’ll finally know what you’ve been missing.”

Pairing: Therapist Jake Sim x afab!reader

Genre: NSFT, smut, slight angst (just the readers backstory), therapist/client relationship

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, therapist/patient relationship (power imbalance), consensual sexual exploration, reader struggles with climax, thigh-riding, slight praise kink, mild dirty talk.

Rating: 18+ MDNI

WC: 3,518

| You’ve always felt like your own body was a puzzle—one you couldn’t solve. No touch, no partner, nothing brought you close to that elusive release. Shame settled in, and you almost stopped trying.

Until you told your therapist, Jake Sim. His calm smile turned curious, his patient voice promising, “Maybe you just need a little guidance.”

You never imagined how much you’d be willing to trust him. Or how far he’d take you.

You don’t know how you found yourself here.

Your cheek pressed against the wooden desk that had belonged to Dr. Sim, your therapist.

His hand shoved your face harder as he dug into you, his thrusts slow but hard and rough.

“You can’t cum? Yeah? Look at you, wetting my cock up like a good girl.” His words alone made your velvet walls contract around his length and caused the tingly sensation to make its way through your body and all the way to your fingertips.

“Nngh! I’m cumming again, please—!!”

Let’s backtrack.

You were in Dr. Sim’s office. Every Friday at 4:00pm, that’s the usual time that you both had met.

It was supposed to be normal, but, before you came in, you attempted to rub one out before your appointment. But to no avail, you couldn’t bring yourself to climax…as usual.

So here you were. You sink into the plush chair across from Dr. Sim, feeling the weight of frustration pressing down on you like it always does in this room. His office, with its warm beige tones and neat decor, is supposed to be comforting, but today it only adds to the suffocating air around you. You’ve been holding this in for what feels like forever, and it’s been eating you alive.

Your hands grip the edges of the chair, fingers digging into the soft fabric, trying to anchor yourself. Every time you try to make sense of it, your mind spins back to the same place, one that makes your cheeks flush with embarrassment. You can’t even look Dr. Sim in the eye right now.

He sits across from you, a picture of calm patience as always. His eyes are warm but attentive, making it hard to ignore the feeling that he’s waiting for something. “You’ve been feeling frustrated,” he says, his voice low and smooth, as if testing the waters.

You nod, biting your lip, struggling to find the words. It’s all so tangled up inside you. Anger, confusion, shame. “I don’t even know why I’m so angry,” you mutter, barely meeting his gaze. “Everything just… irritates me. Nothing feels right. It’s like I can’t focus on anything without feeling this… this… frustration.” You bite down on your lip, feeling the words sit heavy in the air.

Dr. Sim tilts his head slightly, his expression never wavering. “Do you know why?” he asks, his voice almost gentle, but with an edge of curiosity.

You shift uncomfortably in your seat. You’ve thought about it, a lot. Thought about how this frustration has been building, how you’ve never been able to shake it. And it all comes back to one thing, the thing you’ve never been able to talk about, even though it’s been haunting you for far too long.

You hesitate, fingers tapping nervously against the armrest. Your throat feels tight. You swallow, trying to push the words out, but they stick. “I… I have an idea…” you start, but the rest of the sentence lingers in the air. It feels stupid. It feels embarrassing.

Dr. Sim gives a reassuring nod, his voice soft as he speaks again, “You can tell me anything. This is a safe space. Everything you say here stays between us. No one will hear of this except you and me.”

His words sink in, but they don’t make it easier. The weight of his gaze seems to grow heavier, pressing down on you, urging you to speak. You shift in your seat again, and for a moment, the room feels too small.

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers running over your leg anxiously. “It’s just…” You pause again, searching for the right words, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. “I… I’ve never been able to… to… y’know.” Your voice trails off into a whisper, embarrassed.

Dr. Sim’s eyes don’t leave yours, his expression as composed as ever. “To…?” He gently prods, his tone not pushing, but inviting.

You swallow hard, feeling the shame burn hotter under your skin. It’s terrifying to say it aloud, but it feels like there’s no way out unless you do. “I’ve never been able to… climax,” you whisper, the words coming out in a rush, like they’ve been locked away for too long. You can’t believe you’re saying it. You can’t believe you just admitted that to him.

Your face feels like it’s on fire, but when you look up at him, his eyes are steady, not judging. He nods slowly, as if processing it all. “I see,” he says softly, giving you a moment to breathe. “And how long have you been struggling with this?”

You stutter, words tripping over each other. “A… a long time. Since, like, forever. No matter what I try, nothing works. And it just makes me… frustrated. And angry. And I can’t… I can’t even talk to anyone about it because it’s… it’s embarrassing.”

Dr. Sim’s expression softens, his calm demeanor never faltering. He leans forward just slightly, the hint of a reassuring smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “It’s okay. You’re not alone in feeling this way. A lot of people struggle with it. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. That’s why we’re here. To figure it out together.”

You nod, but the words he said don’t completely take away the discomfort. You still feel vulnerable, but for some reason, you trust him. You trust him more than anyone you’ve ever trusted with something so personal.

You exhale slowly, your hands still trembling slightly. “I just… I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Dr. Sim doesn’t rush to answer, giving you space. But when he speaks again, there’s a subtle shift in his tone, a slight teasing edge that you hadn’t expected. “Maybe,” he says, his voice low, “you just need a little guidance. Would you be willing to let me help you with that?”

His words hang in the air, and for a moment, everything inside you freezes. The weight of what he’s suggesting, the possibility of him helping you in a way you’ve never considered—it feels like your whole body tenses in response. Your heart races, your thoughts scatter, and all you can do is stare at him, too unsure to speak.

You hesitate, your lips parting as if you want to say something, but the words don’t come. This isn’t just a conversation anymore. This is a step into unknown territory, and you’re terrified of what might happen next. You want to trust him. You want to believe that this could help, but the vulnerability of it all, the fear of exposing something so intimate, sends a shiver down your spine.

Noticing your hesitation, Dr. Sim leans forward just a little, his eyes never leaving yours. His voice is steady, reassuring, and just a little more intimate now. “If you trust me, I promise you won’t just feel good… you’ll finally know what you’ve been missing.”

The way he says it, calm, sure, with that patient yet slightly teasing edge, suddenly makes the idea seem less daunting. His words wrap around you like a safety net, and before you can second-guess yourself, something inside you clicks. You find yourself nodding, the tension in your chest loosening.

“I… I trust you,” you say softly, the words leaving your mouth before you can fully process them.

Dr. Sim smiles gently, his demeanor still composed but now with a faint glimmer of something deeper, something more knowing. “Good,” he replies, his voice rich with approval. “Then let’s begin.”

Dr. Sim’s gaze remains steady on you, warm but intent, his calm professionalism now laced with something deeper. He rises from his chair slowly, moving to the side of his desk, and gestures gently toward the plush therapy couch—a place where you’ve spent countless sessions trying to untangle your thoughts. But this time, the air is different. Charged. Heavy.

“Why don’t you come here?” he says, his voice still gentle, guiding, but there’s a quiet edge to it, a calm confidence that sends a shiver through you.

Your legs feel weak as you stand, your heart pounding in your chest. Each step you take feels uncertain, but his steady gaze is an anchor. When you reach him, he takes your hand, his touch warm and reassuring, and with a gentle pull, he guides you onto his lap.

Not facing him, that would be too much, but turned away, your back pressing lightly against his chest, his arms resting easily on either side of you. Your legs dangle over his, and you can feel the firm muscle of his thigh beneath you, solid and warm.

“Comfortable?” he asks, his voice low by your ear, soothing but edged with that same quiet authority.

You nod, swallowing hard. “Y—Yes.”

“Good,” he murmurs, one of his hands settling on your waist, a steadying touch. “This is about you. About letting go. I want you to take a deep breath.”

You obey, your chest rising and falling as you try to calm your racing heart. But being so close to him, feeling the solid warmth of his body against yours, it’s impossible not to feel the tension tightening within you.

“Close your eyes for me,” he whispers, and you do, the darkness only making your other senses sharper. His breath is warm against the side of your neck, his voice a gentle hum. “I want you to focus on where you feel that frustration most. Where does it sit?”

“My… my chest? My stomach,” you whisper, embarrassed, but there’s no judgment in his touch.

“I see. That’s the tension. The fear,” he says, his thumb beginning a slow, soothing stroke along your waist. “But I want you to shift your focus. Feel the warmth beneath you. Feel my thigh. That’s where I want you to center your attention.”

You can’t help but notice it now, the solid press of his thigh beneath you, firm and unyielding. Even through the fabric of your clothes, you can feel the heat of his body, a steady, grounding presence.

“Move,” he instructs gently, his hand guiding you just slightly. “Slowly. Don’t think—just feel.”

Your breath catches, embarrassment burning in your cheeks, but the warmth of his body, the calm authority in his voice, it’s enough to keep you from pulling away. Hesitant, you shift your hips, the faintest pressure against his thigh sending a spark up your spine. Your hands grip his forearm for balance, the soft material of his sleeve bunching beneath your fingertips.

“That’s it. Good girl,” he murmurs, the praise a quiet rumble against your ear. His voice is steady, soothing, but there’s an edge of something darker beneath it, something that makes your skin prickle. “Keep going. Slow. Let your body guide you.”

You hesitate, moving in slow, tentative circles, the friction barely there but impossible to ignore. His thigh is so solid beneath you, a heat that radiates through the thin barrier of your clothing. Your breath stutters, your lips parting as you let yourself press a little more firmly, your hips rolling with a touch more confidence.

“Don’t overthink,” he whispers, his thumb still tracing slow, grounding circles on your waist. “Just feel.”

The pressure grows, a warmth building between your legs, slow and insistent. It’s so little, so faint, but each subtle roll of your hips makes it pulse stronger, the heat spreading, sinking deeper. Your breathing quickens, and you feel a rush of embarrassment, but his hands stay firm, his voice steady, guiding.

“Good. Just like that. No shame. No fear,” he murmurs, his breath brushing against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “This is your body waking up. Don’t fight it.”

A soft whimper slips from your lips, and his grip tightens just slightly, an anchor keeping you steady. You lean back against his chest, your head resting on his shoulder, your hips continuing their slow, hesitant movement. Every press, every slow drag of your body against his thigh sends a delicate spark racing through you.

Your hands tighten on his forearm, your fingers digging in slightly as your movements become more natural, the slow, instinctive rhythm guiding you. Heat pools low in your belly, a simmering ache you’ve never quite felt before, so different, so intense.

“Feel that?” Dr. Sim’s voice is a soothing murmur by your ear. “That’s you. Finally letting yourself feel.”

Your thighs tremble, the friction between your legs a constant, teasing pulse, and your breath grows faster. But then something sharper, heavier, begins to build—a pressure, a tingling ache that starts deep and slowly spirals outward. Your hips shift a little faster, and you can’t help the soft, desperate sounds that slip from your lips.

The pressure is unbearable, a heat that pulses and throbs, and you’re on the edge of something vast, something you’ve never touched before. But his voice is there, his touch grounding you even as your senses spiral.

“Don’t hold back. Let go.”

A desperate, shaky gasp escapes you, your hips instinctively grinding down harder against his thigh, chasing that maddening friction. The heat between your legs is a roaring flame now, the ache coiling tighter with each slow, deliberate roll of your hips. His hands never waver, one steady on your waist, the other trailing a soothing, possessive line along your side.

“That’s it. That’s my good girl,” he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing hum in your ear. “You’re so close. Don’t be afraid.”

But you are afraid. You’re afraid of the sharp, overwhelming pressure that only seems to grow, the strange, urgent tingling that spreads from your core. Panic and need blur together, your hands clutching his arms as your body moves on its own, grinding down, pressing harder, desperate.

“D-Dr. Sim…” you whimper, the words barely a breath. “I-I can’t… I… I think I have to—”

“You don’t,” he reassures, but his voice is firmer now, each word clear and calm. “That’s just your release building. That’s your body finally letting go.”

The tingling sharpens, your thighs trembling, your hips stuttering in their rhythm. You feel yourself hovering on the edge of something unbearable, something so powerful it almost hurts. The urge is so strong, too strong, your breath catches, a tear slipping free as panic flares.

“N-No, please—!” you cry, trying to pull away, but his grip tightens, iron and unyielding.

“Stop,” he commands, his voice so steady, so calm. “You’re not running from this. Not this time.”

His hands shift, locking you in place, his strong fingers splayed against your waist. And then he moves, his thigh flexing beneath you, pressing up, grinding against the desperate ache between your legs. A slow, firm rhythm, each roll forcing that unbearable friction.

Your breath is a desperate, trembling mess, your body arching against him as he controls your movements. His thigh presses harder, and you can feel the muscles shifting beneath you, each grind sending a shock of white-hot pleasure racing through you.

“Feel it,” he whispers, his voice a dark, soothing caress. “Let it happen. Don’t fight it.”

You can’t stop it. You can’t escape. His hands guide you, his thigh pressing, shifting, building that pressure to a blinding peak. The tingling turns to a desperate, pulsing ache, and your nails dig into his arm, your entire body tensing as that unbearable rush surges.

“I… I—!” The words are lost in a broken, gasping cry, your head falling back against his shoulder, your vision blurring.

“Good girl,” he breathes, his voice the only solid thing in your world. “Trust me. I’ve got you.”

And then it snaps.

A tidal wave of heat and white-hot pleasure crashes over you, ripping a desperate, raw cry from your lips. Your body seizes, hips jerking against his thigh, your entire world narrowing to that overwhelming, pulsing release. It’s too much—your breath caught in your throat, your fingers clawing at his arm as you’re lost in the blinding rush.

“That’s it,” Dr. Sim soothes, his voice a steady anchor as your body trembles, every nerve alight. “You’re okay. Just feel it. Let it all out.”

Your hips stutter against him, the aftershocks pulsing through you, each tiny roll of his thigh a fresh spark that leaves you shuddering. His grip never wavers, holding you steady, grounding you even as your senses slowly begin to return.

Your breathing is a ragged, desperate mess, your body slumping back against his chest, weak and boneless. And his hands are still there, warm, steady, gentle now, tracing slow, comforting circles along your sides.

“See?” His voice is a soft, soothing murmur by your ear, the warmth of his breath a gentle contrast to the lingering sparks that dance through your veins. “You didn’t fall. I’ve got you.”

Your breathing is a ragged, desperate mess, your body slumping back against his chest, weak and boneless. The world feels hazy, a warm, trembling glow settling over you, but Dr. Sim’s arms around you are a solid, grounding presence. His fingers trace slow, soothing circles along your sides, his chest rising and falling behind you, a steady, comforting rhythm.

“Breathe,” he whispers, his voice a gentle hum against your ear. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

You nod weakly, your head falling back onto his broad shoulder, your cheek pressing against the soft fabric of his shirt. Your lashes flutter, your eyes half-closed as you focus on the warmth of his body, the solid strength of his hold. The tension has melted from your limbs, leaving you feeling weightless, a gentle ache pulsing through you with every shaky breath.

“That’s my good girl,” he murmurs, his lips brushing lightly against your temple. “You did so well. Just relax.”

You let yourself sink into his warmth, your own breathing gradually slowing, the frantic rush of sensation easing to a soft, blissful hum. But as his fingers trace a slow, soothing path down your waist, a faint shiver runs through you, awareness tingling at the edges of your senses.

“D-Dr. Sim…” you breathe, a whisper, but you can’t bring yourself to move, your body still so soft, so pliant in his embrace.

“Hm?” he hums, almost absentmindedly, his hand continuing its slow, gentle path. His fingers trail lower, brushing over your stomach through the thin fabric of your shirt, tracing light, soothing circles that leave a warm, tingling trail in their wake.

“I… I feel so…” You trail off, embarrassment coloring your cheeks, but the words won’t come. It’s too much—too raw, too vulnerable.

But he seems to understand, his touch never faltering. “Sensitive?” he offers, his voice soft but edged with something darker, something you can’t quite name. “That’s normal. Especially for your first time letting go like that.”

His fingers dip lower, the slow, teasing touch skating just above the waistband of your pants, and a faint, breathless shudder runs through you.

“Just… relax for me,” he soothes, his voice a quiet murmur against your ear. “I’m here.”

Your breath catches as his hand slips beneath the waistband, the warm, gentle touch of his fingers against your bare skin sending a fresh spark of heat racing through you. Your hips shift instinctively, a faint, desperate whine slipping free before you can stop it.

“Dr. Sim…” you whimper, your voice a trembling plea, but you don’t pull away. You can’t.

“Shh.” His lips brush against the shell of your ear, a gentle, reassuring touch. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

His fingers slide lower, parting your folds with a slow, deliberate touch. The warmth of his fingertips against your slick, oversensitive skin makes your hips jerk, a desperate, breathless gasp spilling from your lips. Your thighs tremble, your back pressing instinctively against his chest as your fingers curl against his arm.

“So wet,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice a low, soothing hum. “Your body’s still so sensitive. Perfect.”

You feel a fresh rush of heat flood your cheeks, your breath stuttering as his fingers trace slow, feather-light circles over your swollen, pulsing clit. The sensation is overwhelming—sharp, electric, a raw pulse of pleasure that sends your hips twitching, a helpless, needy whimper escaping you.

“Easy,” he soothes, his other arm wrapping around your waist, holding you steady against him. “You’re fine. You’re okay.”

His touch is so careful, so gentle, and yet each light stroke is enough to make your thighs tense, your chest rising and falling with shaky breaths. Your eyes flutter shut, your lips parting, another desperate sound slipping free as your hips shift, chasing that impossible, teasing friction.

“Dr. Sim… please…” you whisper, but you don’t even know what you’re begging for.

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a soft, soothing caress. “I’m right here. You’re okay.”

His fingers continue their slow, lazy strokes, never pressing too hard, never rushing, just keeping you on that knife’s edge of sensation, the warmth building, the ache growing sharper. And all the while, his voice is there, a steady, grounding whisper against your ear.

“So sensitive… but you’re so perfect like this,” he breathes, his lips brushing against the curve of your jaw. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

#sim jaeyun #sim jake #enhypen jake #enhypen smut #enha hard thoughts #enha hard hours #mdni #fem reader

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