#but about this snip - it was cut for pacing

[whytheylosttheirminds]

Don't Call Me Kid - Chapter 4

(Rafe Cameron x Reader, series, 6.6k words)

series summary: You'd had a crush on Rafe Cameron since you were six years old, but he friend zoned you at every turn. Once shy and insecure, you found new confidence and self-love after high school. When your high school friends go on a reunion beach trip, Rafe finally sees what he lost, but he isn't going to give you up without a fight.

tropes: unrequited crush, glow up, she fell first/he fell harder

series content: some angst, eventual fluff, slow burn, tomfoolery and shenanigans, drinking, fem!reader has occasional insecurity and body image issues

additional chapter cw: suggestive language/acts, mature readers only please

⇢ series masterlist

Rafe lifted his fist to knock on your door.

But before he could bring his knuckles to the wood, he froze, suddenly panicked that he had no idea what he was going to say when you appeared behind it. He stepped back, crinkling the package of the candy in his hands.

“Hey, so,” he whispered, practicing to himself. “I’m sorry if that was weird. Not weird. Sorry if that was uncomfortable? I don’t know why I’m saying sorry. Hey, so, Kelce is a dick, right? Maybe I should say sorry. Fuck…”

As he paced back and forth, the floor creaked below him. He was too preoccupied with trying to find the right words to notice he was making noise. He didn’t get a chance to finish his little script, though, because you opened the door.

He froze mid-sentence, eyes wide as he looked at you, realizing you clearly heard him talking to himself. Fuck, that’s embarassing. Before he could spiral about how much you had heard, he noticed the way your nose was red at the end, eyes glossy, and cheeks stained with black smudges. You had been really crying.

“Are you okay?” He asked quietly, struck with the urge to reach out and wipe the water from your face.

“What do you want, Rafe?” You sniffled.

“I wanted to…I was…” Rafe was lost, any words he had planned completely left him at the gut wrenching sight of your tears.

He shuffled on his feet a little as you watched him with an unforgiving glare. He had to come up with something.

He extended the candy to you, “...bringing you this.”

“Thanks but that beer made me sick, I’m not really in a snacky mood,” you snipped.

He felt like a kitten coming to his owner with a present, only to be scolded for bringing a dead bird into the house.

“Right,” he tried to recover. “I just thought maybe you’d want to keep them up here so no one takes them.”

You sighed heavily as you quickly took the candy from him, no lingering graze of your hands like you’d done so many times before the night had taken this turn for the worse.

“Okay,” he exhales. “I didn’t come up here to give you the candy.”

“What did you come up here for then?” You huffed.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he admitted.

You turned from him, exasperated, and set the candy on the vanity across the room. He was tempted to follow you through the door frame, but he had the keen sense that he shouldn't push it, so he froze, feet inches from the threshold but not going over.

“And why wouldn’t I be okay?” You questioned, your back turned to him as you pulled a set of pajamas out of the top drawer, he swallowed any hope of seeing you change into them, knowing it was a delusional thought.

“Because of what Kelce said,” He brought his thumbnail up to his eyebrow, scratching a non-existent itch, desperate for something to do with his hands.

You turned quickly on your heel to face him, hands on your hips. The sudden shift in your features, from indifference to indignance, made him take a step back.

“What, did he say something?” You pressed.

“About how you, y’know used to-” 

“Rafe, I’m fine,” you cut him off, rubbing the backs of your hands across your cheeks to get some of the smeared makeup off.

Even though you always knew deep in your gut that he knew how you used to feel about him, the thought of him actually saying it out loud as you stood in front of him with tear stained cheeks was unbearable to you.

“But you’re crying,” he uttered, eyebrows bunched in concern. “I don’t want you to be alone, crying in your room all night.”

You stepped closer to him, and his heart leapt. Maybe you would invite him in, let him hold you until you felt better. But then, as quickly as it had risen, his heart fell again. You placed your hand on the door handle and glared at him.

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

With a definitive click, you closed the door in his face.

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The patter of thick rain drops against your window is what finally roused you from your long sleep. You’d fallen asleep crying into your pillow, an old hobby you hadn’t practiced in years. The light coming through the window was dim, making you assume it was early morning, but when you checked your phone your eyes went wide at the time: 12:04pm.

You swung your legs over the bed with a groan, rising to look out the window. The sky was dark and angry, high waves foaming and crashing in the distance, a storm raging. The rain was so heavy the window was straining to keep it out.

When you opened your bedroom door, you nearly stepped on the tray of food that was sitting outside it. You leaned down and picked up the tray of scrambled eggs, toast and orange juice, smiling at the little note in your sister’s handwriting: “I’m so glad you’re here, we’re downstairs when you’re ready.” She signed it with a little heart.

After eating the breakfast in your bed, you steeled yourself to finally make your appearance downstairs. You were grateful that everyone had let you sleep in, but wondered if the delay in coming downstairs would only remind them of the dramatic way your night ended.

You placed your dishes in the kitchen sink, looking out at the backyard you’d fled so abruptly the night before. It was quite a different scene than the one you’d left, the pouring rain filling the porch with puddles, chairs strewn about from the heavy wind. You let last night play through your mind like a movie; Carter revealing your most scandalous moment during never have I ever, Tom’s big arms on either side of you as he flirted, Rafe’s hands in yours as you celebrated your beer pong dominance, Kelce’s words bringing all your fun to a screeching halt.

“No! Don’t shoot!” 

Yells from the large den adjacent to the kitchen pulled you from your thoughts. You padded quickly into the room to find the source of the commotion.

“That guy was on our team!” Kelce yelled again, ripping a video game controller from Maddie’s hands.

Maddie just laughed at his frustration, “well I didn’t like him so I killed him.”

“That’s not how the game works, Mads,” Kelce scolded.

“Well that’s how I play,” she shrugged, leaning back on the couch.

Several people were piled onto the oversized sectional sofa. Carter was sitting up on the cushion with her legs criss-crossed, Topper on the floor in front of her while she put little braids in his hair. Tom and Kelce sat on the other side of Maddie, eyes locked on the small TV screen as their fingers rapidly tapped on the controller buttons, deeply invested in the game.

In the far corner sat Rafe, reading something on his phone with a concerned look on his face.

“Love the hair, Topper,�� you said from behind the couch. 

Everyone’s eyes shot to you, except for Rafe, who stayed caught up in whatever was on his screen. You found his indifference to your arrival annoying, but also intriguing, wondering what had captured his attention so fully.

“You’re up!” Carter exclaimed, accidentally pulling Topper’s hair as she turned to you, making him wince.

“I’ve been up for a while, just needed some quiet time,” you smiled at her. “Thank you for breakfast.”

“Actually, that was all Kelce,” she informed you with a knowing smirk.

“Oh really?” You said, raising your eyebrows at Kelce.

He paused the video game and stood from the couch.

“Wait!” Kelce said. “I have one more thing!”

He ran out of the room and you looked back at Carter with a smirk.

“You better not let him off the hook too easily,” Carter encouraged you.

“Don’t worry, I plan to mess with him a little,” you smiled at her conspiratorially. “Everyone just act cool.”

They all nodded at you, shifting when Kelce re-entered the room. Their attempted acting skills were adorably terrible, pretending to ignore you and Kelce, suddenly very invested in their own hands and the stains on the couch. All but Rafe, who seemed genuinely disinterested in the whole thing, eyes still glued to his phone.

Kelce approached you with his hands behind his back, looking bashful. He revealed his present with a proud flair.

It was a bouquet of wilting flowers, and a couple of weeds, he had clearly pulled from the front yard. You smiled at the sad, but sweet, present.

“I picked them this morning,” he said proudly.

You didn’t take them from him just yet, tightening your lips to hide your smile so he’d think you were still mad at him.

“I’m sorry for being a dick,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that thing about-”

“It’s okay Kelce,” you cut him off before he could elaborate further. “What you said…you were right.”

These words finally pulled Rafe from his phone, head snapping towards you in surprise. The rest of the group struggled to maintain their little charade of indifference, the air in the room shifting as they all silently met eyes, wondering where you were going with this.

“I did stay at those parties for a boy,” you admitted to Kelce.

Carter coughed to disguise a laugh, figuring out your game before anyone else.

“You did?” Kelce asked. 

You stepped closer to him, placing your hand on his arm. His eyes widened and he swallowed heavily.

“For you Kelce,” you whispered. “It’s always been you.”

Topper, Maddie, and Tom seemed to finally catch up with your plan as they tried to stifle their own laughter. Kelce had exactly the dumbstruck reaction you were hoping for, looking alarmed, stammering for words like an idiot.

“Me? You liked me?” He croaked, almost too stunned to speak.

You couldn’t hold it back any longer, his face looked so pathetically shocked you had to laugh. As soon as you cracked a smile, the group took it as a sign they could laugh now too, breaking into a round of giggles at Kelce’s expense. Even Rafe was smirking, looking back to his phone, but not before letting out a soft chuckle.

Kelce looked around helplessly, catching on painfully slowly.

“C’mon man,” he said when it finally dawned on him that you were kidding. “You really had me going there, I'm not gonna lie.”

You took the flowers from him finally, patting his cheek reassuringly.

“I can’t stay mad at you, Kelcey,” you reassured him.

“You forgive me then?” He asked hopefully.

“As long as you promise never to play beer pong again,” you countered, handing him back the flowers. “And you go put these back outside, there’s bugs in them.”

He took the bouquet from you with a dutiful nod and made his way to the front door.

“You gonna forgive Sabrina, too?” Carter questioned.

“No,” you scoffed, settling on the couch next to her. “She can rot.”

“You’re fun,” Maddie giggled. “Who knew you were so fun?”

I did, Rafe thought.

“I did,” Carter said.

The wind kicked up outside the tall windows, a loud clap of thunder causing you to jump in your seat.

“Y’all think I’m gonna be able to work on my tan today?” Tom quipped, an attempt to ease your nerves.

“I don’t think you need it,” you flirted with him, admiring the dimples in his cheeks as he smiled back at you.

Rafe shifted uncomfortably in his seat, finally putting his phone down and sticking it in his pocket.

“What are we gonna do today, though?” Maddie asked.

“I think you’re looking at it,” Topper spread his arms to gesture to the room.

“Good thing you’re so good at this game,” Kelce teased her, re-entering the room and jumping over the couch, making Carter bounce and lose her grip on the braid she had been carefully sowing into Topper’s hair.

“Dammit, Kelce!” She scolded. “We’ve been stuck inside for half a day and I’m already annoyed with you.”

“We could go see a movie,” you suggested hopefully, the idea of a calm afternoon in a dark theater with a big bucket of popcorn exciting you.

“No can do,” Topper explained. “The road is closed because of the flooding, we’re stuck here for the day. Jack and Sabrina went out for breakfast and they can’t even get back into the neighborhood.”

“Oh, okay” you frowned, bummed that your plan was foiled, but not that Sabrina had struck such bad luck.

Rafe didn’t miss the way your lips curved down with disappointment. 

After leaving your room last night, he’d stayed awake for hours, staring at the unfinished basement ceiling trying desperately to think of a way to get back in your good graces. The finality with which you’d shut your door on him made his stomach churn, wondering if he’d finally messed things up with you for good. But it was only your third day here, and he was a gamer; he didn’t quit and he didn’t lose. He decided he would take any opening he could get, and this seemed like a good place to start.

“We could watch a movie here,” he recommended. “We’ll make some popcorn and have our own theater.”

You looked at him for the first time since last night, surprised he was speaking to you, and even more surprised he was being so positive and helpful.

“Can we do it right now? I hate this game,” Maddie complained.

“I’d be down,” Tom agreed.

“Oh, uh,” Rafe sat up, catching Topper’s eye. “I have that thing I gotta do.”

Topper nodded knowingly, “yeah, we should wait until it gets dark anyway,” he agreed, giving Rafe an out.

You were dying to know what they were referring to, what possible responsibility could be tying Rafe down when he’d be stuck in a vacation home all day, but you feigned disinterest. 

It was decided, you’d all meet back here at dusk for your movie night. You had the perfect excuse to finally get some alone time, assuring Carter you were fine before going back to your room, slipping under the cool covers with a smile and pulling out the book you still hadn’t had time to start.

It was such a pleasant afternoon until the plot of your book started to feel a little too familiar for your comfort.  A love triangle between the shy, bookworm protagonist, a sweet, unassuming brunette, and a complicated, brooding blond. You finally shut the book about a hundred pages in, when the blond character, who was continuously breaking the protagonist’s heart, stood her up for a date. You sighed and threw the book back into your suitcase, adding it to your DNF list on Goodreads.

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Carter was sitting on the counter, swinging her legs happily as Topper stood at the stove and added spices to the soup he was making. You stood at the bottom of the stairs for a minute, watching them as long as you could before they noticed your presence. It was a rare moment of calm between them, no arguments or teasing. Topper blew on a spoonful of his soup before lifting it to Carter’s lips. She smiled at him affectionately as he thumbed the corner of her mouth, catching the little drop of soup that had spilled off the spoon.

Your heart warmed at your sister’s smile. She was not a relationship girl, or so she always swore. But you knew her feelings for Topper went far beyond a penchant for messing with him. You were struck with sadness that she would be leaving so soon, studying abroad in the UK to get her masters. Maybe you should’ve spent the afternoon with her, instead of a book you hated.

The door to the basement creaked open, and Rafe stepped out, looking grumpy as he unknowingly interrupted the sweet moment in the kitchen. 

Carter leaned away from Topper when she noticed Rafe, and finally saw you. You spotted the way Topper’s face fell a little as she pulled away.

“Needs salt,” she teased him.

“Yes chef,” he smiled back, though there was a hint of resentment in his tone.

Carter hopped down off the counter and walked over to you, wrapping her arm around you like you hadn’t seen each other in years. You squeezed her affectionately, hoping she could feel the love you had for her in your touch.

She pulled away, eyeing Rafe. He had bags under his eyes and he looked worn out.

“Where have you been all day?” Carter asked him.

“Just had to take care of a few things,” he ran his hands through his hair, which it appeared he had been doing a lot based on the way it was sticking up at different angles. 

As he brought his hands back to his side, you caught a quick glimpse of the pen ink that was smeared on his fingers, only adding to the mystery of what “things” he was taking care of.

You were going to teasingly ask him if he was down there writing the great American novel, but before you could, the large french doors that lead to the den swung open dramatically, Tom standing behind them with a big grin on his face.

“All ready!” He announced it to the group.

“What’s ready?” You asked, an amused smirk at his theatrics.

“Come see for yourself,” he winked at you.

You followed him curiously into the den, the rest of the group trailing behind. Your jaw dropped when you took it all in. He had transformed the big den, setting up a large projector and screen, stringing little fairy lights from the ceiling and filling the side tables with popcorn, candy, and a variety of snacks. The room even smelled good, Tom having lit some candles, and with the rain still coming down outside, the cozy vibes were off the charts.

“You did all this?” You gushed.

“Well you seemed bummed that we couldn’t go to the theater,” Tom remarked. “So I brought the theater to you!”

Thinking that might just be the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to you, you gave Tom a big, grateful smile. Rafe muttered words under his breath that you couldn’t quite make out but sounded something like “you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“Woah, where’d you find the projector?” Kelce asked.

“They said it was in the attic,” Tom pointed out. “On the Airbnb listing.”

You didn’t understand why, but something about Tom being the only one to actually read the whole listing and pay attention to the details was attractive. You suddenly wished there weren’t five other people in the room with you and him.

“The only thing I haven’t done is pick the movie,” Tom admitted.

The group started chattering all at once, throwing out suggestions and arguing over each other’s taste in movies. After a few chaotic moments, Tom mentioned the name of a horror movie that had come out recently, and while the rest of the room chimed in with “ohhh yes” and “I’ve wanted to see that one,” your stomach dropped. You hated scary movies, you always had. Since you were a kid, you felt anything you watched or read very deeply, so when a movie was dark, it affected you emotionally.

Feeling helpless, your eyes inadvertently met Rafe’s. He immediately picked up on the way you were chewing your lip, afraid to protest to what everyone else clearly wanted. 

Shit that’s right, he thought, she hates scary movies. 

Plus, he knew you’d be teased for saying something, this group was fun but they weren’t known for their sensitivity. Your eyes dropped to the floor in acceptance, all of your excitement over the home theater fading as you settled in for an unpleasant evening. Rafe hated the way you were forced to resign to being unhappy for everyone else’s sake.

“Nah, I don’t fuck with horror movies,” he blurted out impulsively.

All eyes shot to him, most people laughing in assumption he was making a joke. When he didn’t laugh back, but clenched his jaw and stared them down, they fell silent.

“Bro, since when?” Topper asked hesitantly.

“Since forever,” Rafe doubled down.

“You scared, Cameron?” Kelce teased.

“So what if I am?” Rafe bit back, daring him to keep going.

“Hey man, that’s cool,” Tom assured him. “It’s not for everybody. We can just watch something else.”

It was like your heart was strung up with the fairy lights above you, Rafe and Tom grabbing either end of the cord and playing tug-of-war. Just when Tom did something so sweet you thought you might kiss him right here in front of everyone, Rafe jumped in to rescue you from ridicule, proving he remembered intimate details about you in the process, making your heart ache for him. Then Tom said something kind, and you were right back where you started. This wasn’t getting any easier.

Rafe could see the way your eyes flicked between him and Tom, he knew he needed to step it up even more. He rounded the couch and approached Tom’s laptop, which was plugged into the projector. He typed something into the streaming site that was pulled up and the projector whirred to life, the screen illuminating the room as the opening credits of a movie began.

It was your favorite movie of all time. Your heart swelled at the opening song that you’d know anywhere, this having been your comfort film since you were a kid. Rafe stared right at you as the rest of the group settled on the couch, no one wanting to argue with his choice. Your eyes went soft as you looked back at him, mouthing a silent thank you, just like you had done by the fire last night. You were astonished that he remembered how much you loved this movie.

“Perfect, I love this movie!” Tom exclaimed, pulling your gaze from Rafe.

Of course he does, you thought tenderly, your crush on Tom intensifying.

Of course he does, Rafe thought resentfully, his vexation with Tom boiling his blood.

As everyone took their seats, you hung back for a moment, taking in the whole scene and trying to clear your head. By the time your feet caught up with your brain, there was only one spot left on the big couch.

Carter and Topper settled in on the chaise, shamelessly cuddling up almost immediately. Kelce and Maddie sat next to them, sharing a bowl of popcorn. Then it was Tom, an empty spot, and Rafe. You considered sitting on the floor.

Standing between them, both boys looked up at you expectantly, shifting away from each other to make more space for you, both hopeful you’d sit a little closer to them than the other. You thought of the protagonist from the book you were reading, wishing you could take her out for a drink. 

Finally, you took your seat, crossing your legs and placing your hands in your lap. You turned and looked at Carter, who was smiling back at you sympathetically. She looked like she was about to get up from the comfort of Topper’s arms, but you didn’t want to interrupt their time together, so you waved her off and settled back on the couch to prove you were fine.

The movie began, roaring through the speakers Tom had set up, and you were quickly distracted by the familiar sights and sounds of your favorite film.

Rafe’s eyes flicked over to you every so often, melting at the cute way you were mouthing the lines along with the actors, laughing at funny scenes even though you’d seen them a million times. He was trying to respect your space, but eventually he needed to stretch out his long legs, spreading them so his knee was almost knocking into yours. He wouldn’t touch you though, no matter how much he wanted to. It seemed maybe he had almost secured your forgiveness and he wasn’t about to push his luck.

Tom wasn’t in such a difficult position though, his arm fearlessly brushing against yours as he reached for a bowl of popcorn and offered you some.

“Thank you,” you said sweetly.

“Do you like this movie?” He whispered, leaning in a bit too close for Rafe’s comfort.

“It’s my all-time favorite,” you told him.

“I’m glad we picked it then.”

We? Rafe seethed. This whole movie night was his idea in the first place, and once again, here was Casanova sweeping in and stealing away your attention. 

Rafe thought he couldn’t hate him more, and then Tom put his arm around you.

Anything, he would’ve given anything, done anything, to hear you tell Tom to fuck off. But you didn’t. You blushed and shifted a bit, nestling into Tom’s side and tucking your legs under you. 

Your feet, covered in pink fuzzy socks, were just inches from Rafe’s leg, tormenting him. They nudged him every so often when you laughed at the film or leaned in to whisper something to Tom. He got excited for just a moment the first time you touched him, but his heart cracked when it dawned on him that while you were touching him by accident, you were touching Tom on purpose.

Even though he was tempted to storm out, your obvious rejection of him nearly unbearable, he forced himself to play it cool and stay through to the end credits. 

The screen faded to black, and everyone stirred and stretched. You sat up from Tom’s side and looked over to your sister, surprised she hadn’t pulled out her phone and texted you something cheeky about him during the movie, but quickly realized it was because she had fallen asleep. Her hair was messy in her face as little snores escaped her lips. The only person looking at her with more affection than you was Topper, who scooped her up in his arms with ease and a peck on the cheek, and carried her to bed.

“Okay, so that was the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” Maddie said as she and Kelce followed them out of the room.

Rafe sighed as he saw the mess that had been left behind, kneeling down to sweep up the popcorn Kelce had spilled on the floor. He felt the small window of hope that he’d somehow reconnect with you today close as you exited the room.

Feeling just as tired as Carter looked and eager to crawl into bed, you made your way toward the stairs. Tom caught up with you before you took the first step, saying your name softly to get your attention.

“I had a really good time with you tonight,” he said when you turned.

“Me too,” you told him, blushing bashfully. “Though I don’t think anyone had quite as good a time as Carter.”

“You’re probably right.” He had gotten closer, leaning towards you as he said it, close enough that you could feel his breath on your skin, “the night’s not over yet, though.”

Heat swept across your cheeks and down your back as your whole body blushed. You had really enjoyed your time on the couch snuggled up next to him, but you were a notoriously slow mover when it came to new guys. You thought you might kiss him goodbye at the end of the week, maybe get his number, but that was as far as your imagination had wandered. You’d hooked up with guys at school, and you were certainly more confident with every year that passed, but you had accepted about yourself that you would always be a little slower than other girls, and that was okay with you.

“It’s not?” You asked, hating the shaky nervousness in your voice.

“Maybe I could carry you up to your room, too,” he propositioned.

With that suggestion, he leaned in to kiss you. Your whole body went numb and a nervous hum escaped your throat. You flinched slightly right before his lips met yours, signaling him to pause.

“Sorry,” you mumbled as he pulled back.

“Is something wrong?” He asked, brows furrowed.

“It’s just, a little fast,” you explained. “I’m really enjoying getting to know you, though. I tend to move slow.”

“We don’t have to do anything,” he continued. “Maybe I could just crash in your room? I’m sharing with Kelce and he snores.”

“The couch is pretty comfortable, you could sleep there,” you stepped away from him a bit, voice firmer. 

“Ah, but that’s not as fun,” he flirted again, not letting up. 

“It’s not gonna happen tonight,” you told him definitively. “We can definitely hang out tomorrow, though.”

He eyed you for a second, and your skin crawled with the feeling you were being studied.

“Sure,” he muttered, the softness you usually saw in his eyes was nowhere to be found. “Night.”

As he shuffled up the stairs without another glance to you, you saw that Rafe had been standing in the doorway of the den, for how long you weren’t sure. His hands were full of dirty dishes as he eyed you anxiously.

“All good?” He questioned.

You wanted to put up a front, make a joke to wipe the protective, caring look off of Rafe’s face, but your spirit was a bit shaken, and if you were being honest, you were just glad not to be alone. 

Instead of answering, you reached out, took some of the dishes from his hands and walked them to the kitchen sink. Your wordlessness was an indication that you didn’t want to talk about it any further, so he didn’t push.

Rafe washed and you dried, completely silent as you did the dishes together. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, though, just an understanding between you that nothing more needed to be said tonight. You were immensely grateful to have something to do with your hands, a task to focus on as you recovered from the upsetting interaction you’d had with Tom.

Once Rafe handed you the last bowl, he bid you goodnight quietly and descended the stairs to his room. You dried the bowl and reached it toward the high cabinet it belonged in, but nearly dropped when you heard a loud “fuck!” come from the basement.

You set the dish down carefully before hurrying down the stairs towards the sound of Rafe’s distress.

“What’s wrong?” You asked breathlessly as you descended the creaking steps.

Rafe stepped back to show you the cause of his outcry. Sometime in the evening a leak had sprung from the edge of the basement ceiling, running down the wall and right onto his bed. The rain had stopped about an hour ago, and though it didn’t appear the water was flowing in anymore, the damage was done.

“Fuck,” you echoed him.

Rafe moved his luggage and backpack to the stairs to get them off the ground, and pulled the bed away from the wall.

“I’ll just sleep with my head on the other end of the bed,” he sighed.

“Rafe, you can’t sleep down here,” you countered. “I found some extra blankets and pillows in my closet, I’ll get them for you and you can crash on the couch.”

He nodded in agreement, “thanks.”

Rafe followed you up to your room, stopping at the threshold of your door, just like he had last night. You smiled to yourself at the respectfulness of the action. Though it proved to be unsustainable when you slid open your closet door and tried to get the blanket and pillow stored on the top shelf, unable to reach it even when you jumped.

“Can you help me?” You sighed, indirectly inviting him in. 

Rafe smirked as he approached, barely having to stretch to reach the bedding. Your throat bobbed as you watched him, his frame so long and lean it towered over you. 

“Thanks for these,” he looked down at you, holding the pillow and blanket to his chest with crossed arms.

“Least I could do,” you smiled. “After you saved me again.”

Rafe furrowed his brows quizzically.

“You hate horror movies, huh?” You quirked your eyebrows.

“Oh,” he mumbled, realization sweeping across his face. “No. But you do.”

“And you just really wanted to watch that particular movie instead?”

“No. But you did.”

The room suddenly felt too hot, as you bantered, your voices dropped lower, and so did Rafe’s eyes, landing on your lips. 

Not sure you could stand this close to him much longer without making a decision you might regret, you stepped away and over to your vanity. You unclasped your necklace and started removing your rings, preparing to begin your nighttime routine. You caught Rafe’s eyes in the mirror as he watched you take your hair out of its ponytail, letting it fall around your face in a soft curtain.

Rafe cleared his throat and looked down, digging his foot into your rug. You swore you caught a blush kiss the apples of his cheeks.

 “Well what are you doin’ right now? Wanna hang out?” He croaked.

You smiled at his desperate attempt to keep the conversation going. It was reminiscent of the way you used to search your mind for more questions to ask to keep him on the phone, or pretend you needed to run errands so he’d be in your car longer. Now, here he was, looking at you with big, hopeful eyes, completely desperate. The power shift was electrifying, a newfound dominance rushed through you. You had him right where you wanted, and you couldn’t help but milk it. 

“I’m feeling pretty tired.” You turned to him and faked a yawn, stretching your arms up, the bottom of your t-shirt rising to reveal just a sliver of skin, his eyes catching it immediately. “I think I’m just gonna get ready for bed now.”

He stood across the dimly lit room, every muscle in his body fighting against his attempt to stay in place. You held back a smug smile when you saw he was actually making tight fists to keep from reaching his hands toward you.

This would be all he would ever get, he thought. Just these little moments when his eyes caught slivers of your perfect skin. The tops of your sun kissed shoulders in your swimsuit. The brief hint of a dimple on your lower back when you bent to get a beer from the cooler. The curve of your hips in the tight jeans you wore today.

If this was all he’d get, that would be okay. He’d collect the memories of these moments like rare coins, only to be pulled out on special occasions. If these teases of what it might be like to be with you for real were all you’d ever give him, he’d make do. 

And just as he made himself that promise, you reached down and pulled at the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head in one motion, tossing it to the floor. 

You were wearing a black bra with a little white bow right where the cups met between your breasts, and he could see the top of your black lace panties barely peeking out of the waistband of your jeans. 

Rafe’s face flushed and his shoulders tensed as he looked you up and down, eyes wide with surprise at how bold you were being. His large body cast a long shadow on the wall, but something about the desperation on his face made him seem so small, so vulnerable. The rush of power felt unbelievable and you wondered how far you could push him before he snapped.

Without breaking the heated eye contact between you, you slowly unbuttoned your jeans and dipped your thumbs under the waistband, pulling them down and over your feet.

“Wh-What are you doing?” Rafe finally choked out, unable to stay silent any longer.

“I’m getting ready for bed,” you shrugged innocently. “And you’re getting ready to leave.”

Your words were pushing him out, but your actions were freezing him in place. He had no idea what you really wanted from him, but he knew exactly what he wanted from you.

Before he could ask if you really wanted him to leave, you pulled back the covers of your bed and climbed in. Once under the sheets, the white linen covering you up to your shoulders, you shuffled a bit, making the blanket rustle with your movement. His brows furrowed in confusion, unsure what you were doing now. Then, your hand reached back out from under the covers and dropped your bra to the floor. More shuffling, and your panties followed, now only the plush duvet and silky sheets stood between Rafe and your completely bare body. Rafe cleared his throat as he felt himself straining against his board shorts.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, the blankets sliding slightly, stopping right before exposing your chest to him. He swallowed hard.

You looked at him, your face unassuming, like this was the most normal thing in the world. The way you were looking at him, he knew he would do anything you told him to, even if that meant you really were asking him to leave. He prayed to whatever god made the perfect creature in front of him that you’d ask him to stay. But you didn’t.

“Hit the lights on your way out?” You said, before laying back and letting your hair fan out over the pillows. You closed your eyes and moaned softly as you sunk into the plush bed.

He bit his lip as he watched you get comfortable, his heart pounding so hard he was sure you could hear it.

“Rafe?” you whispered, eyes still closed.

“Y-yeah?” He stammered.

“Goodnight,” you smiled, putting an end to any hope he had for an invitation to join you in the California King.

He sighed in defeat, “goodnight.”

With that, he walked toward the door, giving himself one last look at you, angelic and at peace in your pre-sleep. He hit the light switch and pulled the door closed softly behind him.

Rafe leaned against the door, one hand over his chest to feel his spiked heart rate, and one still clutching the door handle, unable to fully let go of it, of you. He felt lightheaded, the realization of how badly he wanted you washing over him, leaving him breathless. Why had he been such a dumbass in high school? He thought ruefully of that day senior year. If he had done just one thing differently, maybe he would be in bed next to you right now.

The thought of pulling your soft body into his, holding you under those cool sheets, nuzzling his head into your hair and inhaling the scent of you until you both fall into blissful sleep…he couldn’t remember ever wanting anything as bad as that. His want, his need, for you was too much to bear. 

He couldn’t bring himself to walk downstairs, and as much as he was dying to, he couldn't bring himself to go back into the room and risk your true rejection. As he toiled over his lack of choices, he sank to the floor, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He knew it was pathetic, sitting outside your door like a stray cat. He told himself he’d sit here for just five more minutes, enough time to collect his dignity.

He fell asleep on the floor thinking about the way your hair smells.

(chapter 5: part one)

a/n: thank you thank you thank you thank you for the support on this story! thank you to this anon for the move night idea which really helped solve some plot issues I was having I appreciate you!! in the original draft of this chapter, Tom suggested they watch Hellraiser 2022...is that too meta?

please note, the taglist for this series is currently closed. For updates, follow @whytheylosttheirminds-works and turn on notifs 💕

[deestorytime]

Levi has always been particular about his appearance—clean, crisp, and under control. His hair is no exception, styled carefully with an undercut that has defined his sharp looks for years. However, due to the demands of his work and a shortage of time, Levi's usually well-kept undercut has begun to grow out, making it unruly and slightly unkempt. In the house you both share, Levi sat on the edge of the couch a book in hand, his eyes scanning the pages with laser focus. You, on the other hand, were pacing the room.

"Levi," you finally said, breaking the silence. "I've been thinking..."

"That's never a good sign," he replied dryly, not lifting his gaze from the book.

You rolled your eyes, but a small smile tugged at your lips. "Very funny. Seriously, though. I was thinking about your hair."

That caught his attention. He looked up, brow furrowing slightly. "What's wrong with my hair?"

"Nothing's wrong with it," you quickly assured him. Your undercut is growing out, and I think it would look great if we trimmed it back."

Levi raised an eyebrow. "And you're volunteering to do it?"

"Yes," you replied confidently.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. "And why would I do that?"

"Because…" you said, stepping closer and taking a seat beside him. “Just trust me, okay,” you blurted out. “Please.”

Levi sighs, “"Alright, just try not to mess up."

"Deal. Now sit still and let me work my magic”

A short while later, you set up a makeshift barber station in the bathroom, with a chair positioned in the center and an old sheet spread on the floor to catch the fallen hair.  You carefully drapes a towel around Levi’s shoulders, and stood behind him, armed with scissors and a comb. You took a deep breath, steadying your nerves.

"Ready?" you asked.

"As I'll ever be," he muttered, closing his eyes.

You gently combed through his hair, sectioning it off. The first snip was cautious, the sound crisp in the quiet room. Carefully, you began trimming the sides and back, following the natural lines of his undercut. Levi remained perfectly still. He knew that any sudden movement might cause a mistake, and he wasn’t about to risk a botched haircut. After everything was cut to your liking you brushed off the stray hairs from his neck, the undercut is back to its pristine, sharp look.

“done!”

Levi examines your work in the mirror, running his hand over the freshly trimmed sides, and then, surprisingly, offers a small, satisfied nod. "Not bad. Not bad at all." He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a gentle embrace.

“I’m glad you like it, I take my barber responsibilities seriously.” You chuckled, leaning into his embrace.

[charliedaltonswife]

could we maybe get a part two to “an education in loathing….?” the sizzling tension, the hatred, the quippy remarks OOOO i loved it. maybe the two get assigned as partners for a project (or something??? idk??) and a late night argument finally boils over into something smutty…if you feel comfortable writing that….

An Education in Loathing - Pt 2

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

soooo, went overboard with this one, high word count, um gets heated....

Summary: read the request

Warnings: far from none. S.M.U.T. do with that what you will

master list found here

You begged, as in got down on your knees and hands clutching together in prayer type begged, for anyone in the group to switch with you in this stupid project. But to no avail. 

You should have seen it coming. The way the universe seemed to take particular delight in your suffering, in orchestrating your life like a Greek tragedy, the fates snipping their shears with barely concealed amusement. Of course it had to be Henry.

Julian had announced the project with a kind of airy indifference, as if he weren’t about to ruin your entire semester. A “joint exploration of classical interpretations,” he had called it, pairing each of you off with someone to work through the assignment together. A “reward,” he had added, as if being shackled to Henry Winter for the foreseeable future was anything short of divine punishment.

Now, here you were, sitting across from him in the library’s dim back corner, trying not to succumb to the overwhelming urge to either strangle him or fling yourself dramatically out of the nearest window.

Henry, of course, looked perfectly unbothered. His long fingers turned a page of De Anima with excruciating slowness, his expression unreadable. The lamplight cast deep shadows across his face, sharpening the angles of his cheekbones, his jaw. He looked like some archaic statue came to life, some smug, superior deity sent to torment you.

“I suppose we should begin,” you said, barely keeping the venom from your voice.

Henry didn’t even glance up. “By all means.”

Your nails dug into the paper in front of you. “Well, seeing as you have no original thoughts of your own, why don’t you start by parroting whatever Julian has spoon-fed you on the subject?”

He made a quiet, amused sound, finally lifting his gaze. “Charming,” he murmured, setting the book down. “I see you’ve elected to be insufferable tonight.”

“You bring out the best in me.”

“I’ve noticed.”

You gritted your teeth, trying not to let him see the way he got under your skin. If you let him have that, you’d already lost.

“We could always divide the work,” you said, feigning a pleasant tone. “That way, I don’t have to suffer through your droning monologues, and you don’t have to endure my… how did you put it last time? ‘Exhausting need to contradict everything you say’?”

Henry leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, utterly at ease. “No,” he said simply.

You blinked. “No?”

“I don’t trust you to do it properly.”

You let out a sharp breath of laughter. “Oh, I’m the one who can’t do it properly?”

“Yes.”

You wanted to throw something at him. Preferably something heavy. “And why, exactly, is that?”

He tilted his head slightly, as if considering. “You’re impulsive.”

Your eyes narrowed. “And you’re a condescending bastard, but we all have our flaws, don’t we?”

His mouth twitched. “The difference is that I’m right.”

“Oh, you are so-” You cut yourself off, inhaling sharply through your nose. You refused to let him rile you up this early. You had to pace yourself. If you let the irritation take over now, you’d never survive the night.

Instead, you took a slow sip of your coffee, schooling your expression into one of disinterest. “Fine,” you said at last. “Since you’re clearly too much of a control freak to work separately, we’ll suffer through this together. But I swear to God, Henry, if you correct me one more time on things I already know-”

“You’ll what?” His voice was almost amused.

You leaned forward slightly, voice dropping into something slow and deliberate. “I’ll smother you in your sleep and burn all of your books.”

Henry regarded you for a moment, gaze flickering over your face, before he exhaled a quiet laugh. “It’s adorable that you think you could.”

You stared at him, and there was something taut in the air between you, something sharp and charged. You could feel it, a tension neither of you wanted to acknowledge but both of you were utterly ensnared by.

Finally, you forced yourself to look away, reaching for your pen with more force than necessary. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Henry smirked, but he, too, returned to the task at hand.

-

The problem with Henry Winter, you had learned, was not simply that he was insufferable. It was that he was insufferable with such careful precision, such cruel artistry, that you sometimes suspected he did it on purpose, the way a cat will toy with a half-dead bird. That he liked needling you, watching the slow build of frustration, the way you burned under his gaze.

However, you found yourself in his apartment, not exactly what you’d expected; cold, austere, and far too tidy. Books lined the walls in obsessive, precise order, not a single one askew. A small fireplace, unlit, and the smell of something faintly metallic in the air, like old paper and ink.

You had known from the start this was a mistake.

“You could at least pretend to be a gracious host,” you muttered, dropping your bag onto the armchair nearest to the desk. “It wouldn’t kill you.”

Henry didn’t glance up from where he was pouring over a text, one hand idly at his temple. “I didn’t invite you here for pleasantries.”

You scoffed, taking a seat opposite him. “No, you invited me here because Julian gave us this absurd assignment, and unfortunately, you are stuck with me.”

“I wouldn’t say it's unfortunate.” His voice was mild, but there was something in it, something you didn’t trust.

You ignored it. “Let’s just get this over with.”

He hummed, leaning back slightly. “You’re in a mood.”

“You put me in a mood,” you retorted, flipping open your notes. “Now, are we discussing the comparative mythology of Orpheus, or are we going to sit here and psychoanalyze my temperament?”

Henry exhaled sharply through his nose, his version of a laugh. “The former, obviously.” He turned a page. “Though your temperament is certainly interesting.”

You gave him a sharp look. “Don’t.”

He smirked, and you hated how he did it, so subtle, so knowing. Like he had already won. “As you wish.”

For a while, you managed to focus. Or at least, you tried to. But Henry had a way of getting under your skin, his presence coiling around your thoughts like smoke, making it impossible to concentrate. And of course, he was unbearable, correcting your phrasing, sighing pointedly whenever you said something he found lacking.

Eventually, the digs began. As they always did. Thank the lords the group wasn't present, although they found your banter amusing, often when it got too far they were the ones having to break you two up and sometimes being caught in the crossfire.  

“That’s not the primary interpretation of the myth,” Henry murmured, flipping a page, barely looking at you.

You grit your teeth. “It’s an interpretation.”

“A weak one.”

“Oh, I see. And you’re the sole arbiter of intellectual strength, is that it?”

Henry glanced at you, his expression unreadable. “I never said that.”

“You don’t have to.” You set your pen down with a sharp tap. “You think so.”

There was a pause. “You always assume the worst of me.”

You scoffed. “Because the worst is usually true.”

“Is that what you think?”

“I don’t think it, Henry. I know it.” You leaned forward. “You like feeling superior. It’s why you go after people the way you do, why you can’t just have a discussion, you have to dismantle. I’d almost admire it, if it weren’t so-” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Pathetic.”

For the first time that evening, his expression shifted.

And then, to your horror, he smiled.

Slowly, purposefully, he shut the book in front of him, his fingers resting lightly against the worn cover. “That’s an awfully emotional response for someone who claims not to care what I think.”

Your pulse quickened. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I don’t have to,” he said, voice low. “You do it for me.”

There was something wrong with the air in the room. It had thickened, become charged. You suddenly felt too warm.

Henry stood, moving past you toward the bookshelf, running his fingers idly over the spines of the texts, the firelight casting sharp shadows along his jaw. “You hate me,” he mused, his back still turned. “And yet here you are.”

“Oh, please,” you said, rolling your eyes. “It’s an assignment.”

He turned.

It was something in his posture, the slow way he leaned back against the shelf, arms crossed, head tilting slightly. The smirk that wasn’t quite a smirk.

“Of course,” he murmured. Something about the way he was watching you made your stomach tighten.

“Stop that,” you said, voice coming out sharper than you intended.

“Stop what?”

“Whatever this is. The-” You gestured vaguely. “You’re being weird.”

“You’re imagining things again, we’ve talked about this darling, you must stop doing that” Henry said smoothly, pushing off from the shelf. You looked forward, only hearing his steps approach you as he rounded the table to stand behind you. 

You meant to say something cutting, to brush him off, but then, his hand. Light. Barely touching the inside of your wrist as he moved to lean over you.

The contrast was startling. His words, his voice, the sharp precision of his arguments, and then, this.

It was like a game.

And worse, you were losing.

“Careful,” you murmured, echoing the warning you had given him before.

Henry, leaning so his lips were ever so close to your ear. “Am I making you nervous?”

You inhaled sharply, your eyes blinked a few times before you turned your head slightly to be eye to eye with him. You were so close it felt suffocating. “You wish.”

You suddenly pulled the chair out from under you, the back of it forcing Henry to step back. You quickly move to the middle of the room, facing him and strangely out of breath. You didn’t want the distance for a reason unbeknownst to you, but if you were that close to him anymore you were going to combust. 

He hummed, as he moved closer, boxing you in. Slowly, so you barely noticed it was happening. Until your back was nearly to the bookshelf, and Henry was in front of you, his presence filling every inch of space between you.

It wasn’t quite touching. But it was close.

“You like to think you know me,” he said, his voice lower now, almost conversational, like he was considering something carefully. His fingers skimmed the edge of your sleeve, so light you almost didn’t feel it. “But you don’t.”

You swallowed. “And you like to think you’re unknowable.”

Henry’s lips twitched, but his eyes darkened. “Maybe.”

There was something in the way he was looking at you, something electric, a live wire strung too tightly. Your pulse was an insistent, frantic thing against your ribs.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure if it was a warning or an invitation.

Henry leaned in just slightly, the heat of him inches from your skin, his breath warm against your jaw.

“So are you.”

You should have left the moment you realized what he was doing. Should have made some scathing remark, put him in his place, turned on your heel and walked out. But instead, you stayed. And Henry knew it.

You could see it in the way his eyes gleamed, dark and knowing, in the small curve of his mouth that wasn’t quite a smirk but something worse, something more dangerous.

"You always run your mouth, don’t you?" His voice was quiet, almost amused, but there was something sharper beneath it, a blade hidden in silk. “So much conviction. So much certainty.”

You exhaled sharply, trying to push past him, but he didn’t move. He only shifted, subtly, deliberately, blocking your escape with the sort of ease that made you realize he’d been planning this, had anticipated every move, every reaction. Your back pressed against the bookshelf, the sharp corners of the wood digging into your shoulder blades. Henry leaned in.

"Tell me, do you ever stop talking long enough to listen?" he murmured, and his breath was warm against your ear, a stark contrast to the razor edge of his words.

You breathed hard, threw your nose, letting your chest rise and fall. "Get out of my way, Henry."

His hand lifted, light, barely there, trailing just along the side of your throat, fingertips brushing the sensitive skin beneath your jaw.

"You don’t want that," he whispered.

You did.

You did.

But he was so close now, his body a careful, practiced cage around yours. His cologne, something dark and expensive, filled your lungs.

“I think you like this.” His voice was a murmur now, a secret only for you. "I think you like fighting with me. Like how I make you feel.”

You swallowed hard. “You’re delusional.”

Henry exhaled a quiet laugh, tipping his head slightly, close enough that you could feel his lips brush the shell of your ear.

“You know what I think?” he whispered.

You refused to answer.

“I think,” he continued, voice silken, “that you like the way I get under your skin. I think you wake up in the middle of the night replaying our arguments, rehearsing all the things you should have said." His fingers drifted lower, a ghost of a touch along the inside of your wrist. "I think it keeps you up.”

Your heart was hammering against your ribs, your breath uneven. You didn’t answer, but Henry wasn’t expecting you to. He tilted his head, considering you.

“I wonder,” he mused, his fingers slipping down to the curve of your waist, tracing over the fabric of your sweater, "if you even hate me as much as you pretend to."

Your skin burned under his touch, and you gritted your teeth, furious, at him, at yourself, at the way your body betrayed you.

“Henry,” you said, a very empty warning, hating how unsteady your voice was.

He only leaned in closer, his lips barely an inch from yours now, his breath warm, steady, unrushed.

"Why?" he murmured, his fingers tightening ever so slightly at your hip. “Afraid you’ll like it?”

Your nails dug into your palms. “You,”

Henry lifted a single brow, waiting.

You wanted to slap him or maybe you wanted to kiss him. You wanted to kick yourself for wanting both. 

His fingers trailed up your spine, slow, deliberate. He pressed in closer, his body a whisper against yours, the heat of him making your knees weak.

And then, just as you thought he might close the distance, might press his lips to yours, might finally shatter whatever had been simmering between you for months, he didn’t.

Instead, he leaned in, let his mouth hover just beside yours, and whispered,

“Say please.”

It was so condescending. You refused. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, wouldn’t feed his ego with whatever twisted game he was playing. You shook your head, not saying a word. 

But Henry was patient.

His lips hovered just beside yours, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath, the maddening proximity of him. His fingers traced slow, idle patterns along your waist, barely touching, just enough to make your skin prickle with awareness.

"Nothing to say?" he murmured, voice low, teasing. "For once?"

You turned your head away, jaw tight, but he only laughed, a quiet, amused sound that made something coil hot and electric in your stomach.

Then, his hand caught your chin, turning your face back toward him. Not forceful. Not rough. But firm.

His thumb traced lightly over your bottom lip, the touch so featherlight it sent a shiver down your spine.

“I could make you beg,” he said, thoughtful, almost to himself. "If I wanted to."

Your breath caught. “Go to hell.”

Henry just hummed, nodding his head as to agree with your statement. "Ladies first."

And then, he dipped his head, his lips grazing along the line of your jaw. It wasn’t a kiss. Not really. Just a brush of warmth, a suggestion, as though he was testing you. As though he wanted to see how long you could last before you cracked.

“You hate me,” he mused, his mouth ghosting over your skin. “You hate this.”

Your fingers curled against his chest, gripping the soft, expensive fabric of his sweater like you weren’t sure whether to pull him closer or push him away. His lips moved lower, the curve of your throat, the sharp line of your collarbone, never quite touching, just enough to make you want to chase the feeling. And god, you hated that.

His hand slid lower, past your waist, tracing slow, teasing lines over your hip.

"Say please," he whispered again.

You swallowed hard. “Go fuck yourself.”

Henry sighed, like you were being particularly difficult, and then, he pressed his lips just beneath your ear, the faintest scrape of teeth against sensitive skin. Your breath hitched. His hands curled against your hips, pulling you just slightly, just barely, against him. And oh, you felt it then, how hard he was, how much he was enjoying this.

The realization sent something sharp and hot spiraling through you, a dangerous kind of thrill, a rush of power tangled with frustration and something else you weren’t ready to name. Henry leaned in, pressing his body flush against yours, caging you against the bookshelf.

And then, with a voice so low it was almost a growl, he murmured,

"I think you like being told what to do."

Your breath left you in a sharp exhale. Henry tilted his head, studying you, like he was savoring your reaction.

Slowly, maddeningly, he dragged his lips down the side of your throat, pressing an open-mouthed kiss just above your pulse. And before you know it, you let your desire overcome your body, you let it consume your movements and your thoughts. Your tongue tangled with his, so eager as you pulled his shirt desperately to bring him closer. He guided your tongue into his mouth, sucking lightly before releasing you to bite your lip, toying with your mouth like he owned it. 

You hated him. You thought you had. He thought you had too but he could feel how much you loved this in your own sick and twisted way, your hips pressing against his. 

He smiles, moving his hands to grip your hips. In a quick movement, he guides you to the desk with all of your work scattered on it. He moves to stand behind you, and slowly trails down your spine with his finger tips before pushing you down to lean against the desk. Your hands slapped onto the table to catch yourself

“Henry,” you whined, trying to look over your shoulder at him. He smiled down at you while sliding up your skirt.

“Say please.” He already knew what your answer would be. He knew you couldn’t do it. Not yet.

You shook your head side to side, pressing yourself back into his hands. “You’re insufferable,” you managed, voice breathless, unsteady.

Henry exhaled a quiet laugh.

"You’re trembling."

You hated that he was right.

Hated the way your body betrayed you, the way his voice sent a pulse of heat straight through you.

He smiled, squeezing the ample flesh, then delivered a swift slap that made you gasp. “Oh darling, let’s see where this hatred will take us.” 

He slid his right hand between your legs, gliding two fingers over the damp spot on your panties. You gritted your teeth, not wanting him to be awarded the pleasure of your moans, gripping the wood of the table to keep yourself shut when he applied a little pressure, moving his hand in a slow circle. 

“Such a shame,” he said, pausing his movement. “Letting your pride get in the way of your own pleasure. It’s not as noble as you want to believe.”

“You’re a pretentious, self righteous, piece of sh-” you cut yourself off with a whine as his hand came down onto your flesh again. 

“There we are,” he murmured, and in quick movement, he pulled down your panties, letting the fabric pool around your ankles, and kicked your feet further apart, forcing you to lay your chest flush against the table. “So good for me now huh,” he purred, bringing his hand back between your legs. 

“Fuck you,” you moaned, rocking your hips against his hand.

You were already soaked, hot and slick as his middle finger swiped through your sex. He started massaging your clit, quick, light circles that had you moaning breathlessly. He moved away from your clit and eased his middle finger inside of you, curling gently as you bit your lip, nearly drawing blood. Your walls fluttered around him, sucking back against his finger when he pulled it out. You let an annoyed whine escape your lips, feeling pathetic to let it slip. 

“Say it,” he rasped, snaking a hand up your spine to grip your hair and pull your head back.

“No.” You replied through gritted teeth, and before you knew it you felt him pushing into you. He drew back a few inches before snapping his hips forward, gripping your hips as he pounded into you. 

You screamed, your whole body locking up and then losing all control of itself, collapsing harder onto the shaking table. He didn't let up, no matter how much you shook.

He was panting, the heat from the fire in the study made sweat collect around his hairline and drip down his spine. You felt as if your soul had ascended, you were reaching for the sublime. You let out loud noises from your lips, letting the pleasure drip like honey, letting him grip your hips. You didn’t want to, but you needed to. 

“Please, Henry, please.” You reached back for him, nails dragging along his forearm, and he felt himself teeter on the edge of release, his balls drawing up tight as liquid heat spread through his pelvis. 

“I knew you could do it. Just had to fuck that attitude out of you, didn’t I.” Your pussy clenched at his words, a wanton moan falling from your lips, and he smiled.

“Yes,” You moaned out, tears beginning to prick your eyes and threaten to fall onto your cheeks.

“How much do you want it?” Henry asked, almost politely, which almost made you laugh. If you didn’t feel like your body was being taken over, like pleasure was swimming through the veins of your body, making your heart pulse at a rate you didn't know was possible, you would have laughed. 

“So much, please Henry.” You were both so close, holding on to the brink of this worldly feeling. Then, it happened.

“Yes, yes, fuck!” It hit you, your whole body convulsing as it ripped through, and he was done for too. It flooded through you like golden light through cracked stained glass, something vast, something unbearable, an ecstasy so sharp it teetered on pain, leaving you trembling, hollowed out, and whole all at once. You were nothing but a vessel for it, a body undone by beauty, by longing, by the sheer ruinous joy of surrender.

Bracing his hands on the table as he came down, his hips involuntarily rocking into your greedy warmth. You, again, were trembling, completely boneless, held up entirely by the table and his hips. He leaned forward, pressing kisses into your hair. “All you needed to do was say please,” he murmured, throat tight with affection. 

“Such a jerk,” you muttered, amusement ringing through your tone so he could catch it. You chuckled before he moved his feet, letting you close your legs, and he hissed through his teeth at the new tightness around his softening cock, stealing a final thrust before slipping out of you.

The only sounds were the ragged edge of your breathing, the ticking of the antique clock on the far wall, and the faint rustle of Henry adjusting his sweater sleeves and you fixing your own clothes up.

You were slumped against the desk, fingers curled against the polished wood as if it might anchor you, keep you from unraveling entirely. Your skin was feverish, your body still humming with the aftershocks of everything that had just happened.

Henry, infuriatingly composed, leaned back against the bookshelf, watching you. His lips were pink, his hair mussed in a way that betrayed his otherwise careful exterior. 

You tilted your head and smiled slightly, biting back its full capacity. “Don’t look so smug.”

“Why not?” His voice was languid, smug, so utterly him you could’ve throttled him. “I think I’ve earned it.”

You had to force yourself not to laugh. “You-”

Shifting closer, voice a murmur. “Would you rather I pretend it didn’t happen? That you didn’t enjoy it?”

You bristled, standing so abruptly your knees nearly buckled. Henry caught your wrist before you could move away, his fingers light but firm.

"Careful," he murmured, tilting his head. "I wouldn’t want you to fall."

Your pulse leapt.

“You’re staring,” you muttered, still breathless.

“So are you.”

You scowled, pushing yourself up, reaching for your coat draped over the chair. “Well, I’m leaving.”

Henry hummed. “Why?”

You hesitated, fingers curling in the fabric. And then, just as you turned toward the door, Henry caught your wrist, not forcefully, not teasingly, just… gently. A stark contrast to everything that had just transpired between you.

“Stay.” His voice was quieter now, none of the sharp edges from earlier, none of the arrogance. Just the simple weight of the word. You swallowed, suddenly unsure.

“We hate each other,” you reminded him, but your voice lacked its usual bite.

A corner of his mouth quirked up. “Do we?”

Your heart pounded. He was still holding your wrist, thumb brushing absentmindedly over your pulse. It wasn’t calculated, wasn’t another move in whatever game the two of you had been playing for years.

It was just him, just you.

“I won’t ask again,” he murmured, eyes searching yours. “If you want to go, go.”

For a second, you thought about it, thought about leaving, pretending none of this had happened, continuing as if you still couldn’t stand the sight of him.

But then, instead of pulling away, your fingers curled around his.

You exhaled, shoulders sinking. “Fine. But only because I don’t want to walk back in the cold.”

Henry’s lips twitched. “Of course.”

You rolled your eyes, but when he laced your fingers together, you didn’t let go.

[gracies-baby]

Pranks

(Gracie Abrams x Reader)

——————————————————————————

"Gracie?" Y/n asks with a smirk as she secretly points her phone camera at her girlfriend. Gracie turns her head towards her with a sweet smile, silently asking what she needs.

"I think we should have a baby" Y/n tells her, watching as Gracie's face turns pale as her eyes widen.

"Oh.. y-you do?" Gracie asks as she stands up, nervously pacing back and forth while playing with her fingers.

"Well, yeah. We've been together for a few years now. Money isn't a problem. Can you think of any reason why we shouldn't do this?" Y/n asks as she stands up, taking Gracie's hands in her own.

"Well, I-I just don't think I'm ready for that yet. My career's just starting to pick up and we're still in our early 20's. We still have time. I just think we should wait a bit" Gracie rambles on nervously before Y/n begins to giggle.

"Gracie, I was kidding. It was a prank. I don't think we're ready for kids either" Y/n tells her girlfriend as the brunette's face begins to relax.

"You scared the fuck out of me! Why would you do that?" Gracie sighs as she sits back down on the couch.

"Because it was funny! I do think we'd have really cute babies though" Y/n replies as she takes a seat beside her girlfriend, leaning her head on her shoulder.

"Oh yeah, definitely. They're gonna be adorable"

--

Y/n steps out of the shower and dries herself off. She's about to get dressed before she gets and idea. She smirks as she walks into the room she shares with her girlfriend, seeing her on a facetime call. Gracie stops mid-sentence when she looks up, seeing her girlfriend completely naked in front of her. A smirk appears on the brunette's face before she quickly says goodbye to who she's talking to before slamming her laptop shut.

"What're you smirking at? I just forgot my clothes. This doesn't mean you're getting any. You hung up on poor Audrey for no reason. We need to leave for dinner soon anyway" Y/n teases as she slowly walks over to the closet, making sure to sway her hips.

"C'mon, it won't take long. I'll finish you off in five minutes. You can't just walk in here like that and expect me not to want you" Gracie whines as she walks up to her girlfriend, pulling her into her chest.

"No, I don't wanna be late. What would your parents think about us being late to dinner with them?" Y/n asks, pulling away from her girlfriend causing the brunette to groan in disappointment.

"They would understand. It's not like this is the first time it's happened. Besides, they literally walked in on us having sex. This is definitely not gonna be as bad as that" Gracie replies, pulling her girlfriend in for a kiss before the shorter girl sighs, silently agreeing.

--

"Hey, do you have a pair of scissors?" Y/n asks her roommate, walking into Audrey's room.

"Uhh, yeah. Here. Why do you need them?" Audrey asks with a slightly scared look as she holds out the pair of scissors.

"You remember when Gracie pranked me last week and completely wrapped my car up in bubblewrap? Well, I'm cutting her hair. Payback" Y/n replies with a cheeky smirk, taking the scissors from her friend.

"Are you serious? She's gonna be pissed! She might actually break up with you" Audrey laughs in disbelief.

"Well, maybe she shouldn't prank me then. This is what she gets. Do you wanna watch?" The shorter girl asks as Audrey nods before the two of them go to the room Y/n shares with her girlfriend.

"I think she's taking a nap so we gotta be quiet" Y/n whispers to her friend before walking into her room, seeing her girlfriend sleeping peacefully on the bed as Weenie sleeps next to her, cuddled into her side.

"Y/n, she's been working so hard lately. Don't you think we should just let her sleep?" Y/n doesn't reply. She just picks up the dog, putting him on the floor before taking a piece of her girlfriends hair and snipping it off. She then begins pressing soft kisses all over her girlfriends face, waking her up.

"Babe, I love you but if I don't get some sleep I'm actually gonna cry. I promise I'll give you all the attention you want later" Gracie mumbles as she slowly opens her eyes before seeing a large handful of hair in her girlfriends hand.

"What is that? What's in your hand Y/n?" Gracie asks, sitting up now.

"This is payback. Last week, the supermarket was closed by the time I got there. It took me 2 hours to get into my car" Y/n giggles as Gracie quickly runs her hands through her hair before running to the bathroom.

"You cut off so much! What am I supposed to do about this?" Gracie exclaims, looking in the mirror seeing how much of her hair Y/n cut.

"You're gonna have to cut the rest of it. You can't leave it like that. You're going on tour, do you really wanna go on stage looking like you just had a psychotic breakdown?" Audrey tells her, laughing at the thought.

"Here babe, sit down. I'll cut it for you" Gracie glares at her girlfriend before sighing and taking a seat in front of the mirror, allowing the shorter girl to cut the rest of her hair. A few minutes later, theres a puddle of brown hair on the floor and a brunette with shoulder length hair.

"You know what? I think you look hotter with short hair. I honestly didn't think it would be possible for you to get any more attractive" Y/n grins cheekily at the brunette causing the taller girl to smirk at her girlfriend. Audrey fake gags before going back to her room, leaving the other two girls alone.

"Well, I'm about to have a shower if you wanna join me" Gracie smirks before Y/n nods excitedly, locking the door before the two of them strip off their clothes.

[juniperss]

Could you write Dallas Winston with a good girl reader who’s the daughter of like this really well known couple so her being with Dallas Winston is like a big NO bc he’s the town hood who’s in and out of jail and she’s like the ideal child, but she just can’t help the charm of Mr. Winston😉 and after meeting each other she becomes a bit sneaky and Dallas like breaks her out of her bubble and like gives her some adventure in her life🤭

I'm such a sucker for "good girl" character falling for the charismatic, rough and tumble bad boy. I AM NOT IMMUNE TO THE TROPE!!! Tossing this song here because it really fits the mental image of this request I had!

The Perfect Daughter falls in love with Dallas Winston HCs (she/her pronouns)

First, may present to you the fact that Dallas fucking Winston is going to be so smug about this? Cause he is. He's going to be grinning ear to ear knowing that the perfect girl from a well known and respected family is down bad for him. Fuels his ego big time.

She's not the first "good girl" he's "corrupted", I mean look at him. But she is the first to actually see him as more than challenge or way to screw with her family's expectations.

Everyone knows about Dallas. He's got multiple reputations and stories get around. He's been in jail, he gets into fights, he causes trouble, and he's popular with the ladies. It's hard to pick up some of the gossip and talk about him. But you've also heard good things (at least from the Greasers). You know he sticks up for his friends and that he's loyal.

You also know that he's damn charming. When Dally looks at you and smiles, it's easy to fall for him. And you do. You can't resist those big eyes and wicked grin. When Dallas picks you (more like picking on you TBH) to interact with....you just feel special. He's selective with who he choses to include in his life or hijinks.

Honestly he probably thinks you're just going to be a fling and he's fine with that! He was ready to have some fun and get into some trouble. You two probably cross paths a few times before you speak to each other; at the drive in or at school (not that he's actually going his classes he's just there to meet with Johnny and Ponyboy). Starts with him teasing you and your friends most likely, not gonna lie.....but if you stand up for yourself or snip back at him get ready for him to not leave you alone.

But when he realized that you were much more interested in trying new things that you had always been taught to leave alone? Oh boy, he decided he was going to show you everything.

Get ready for a whirlwind of Dally getting you to sneak out at night, sneaking into the movies, sneaking into abandoned buildings, shoplifting goodies from the store, jumping on a train.....He's down to push the limits of what you've known and done as far as you're willing to go.

Cut to the scene of you two sitting in a train car as it moves along. The moon is high in the sky and rural Oklahoma is moving past at an easy pace. Dally's eyes keep moving from the view to your face and then back out again. He can't help the smile when he sees that wild look in your eyes.

[sleepy-grav3]

Obsessions - Family

A/n: So, a while back, I made this little thing about obsession speculations. Well, I made a few oneshots about that even further back and just found them. It's a mini-series that looks like it was attached to another fanfic plan? Well, I have no idea what the plan was, so I'm giving you this. There are 4 parts I made? This and the 3rd part are finished, but the 2nd and 4th are incomplete. Better together but still understandable as a standalone, you know?

Summary: Jazz has finally gotten through to Vlad in their therapy sessions. Danny is a bit on edge but relieved. Then Vlad has a talk with Jack and Maddie. Many things are shared.

TW: Unprofessional and very improvised medical treatment, mention of stalking, mention of attempted murder, intensified canonical death(s) (I made it so much worse, but it's not too detailed), hints at suicidal thoughts, hints as attempts, internalized homophobia, polyamory (I don't consider it a trigger but some people don't like it so whatever), mention of a dead kitten

Vlad/Maddie/Jack; Danny's obsession is Space and Protection; Vlad's obsession is Family; Liminal amity Park; Vlad loves animals; Amity is Danny's haunt and the people, animals, ghosts, and more sentient plants that live there are his people; Ghosts feel things more intensely and it's overwhelming for halfas who are also still alive and not built or used to it; ghosts are empaths, they know what other people around them are feeling

Danny was sitting on his bed with a needle and fishing line in hand, sewing a particularly long and deep enough cut from his last fight, when his door slammed open. He jumped, eyes wide, blood draining from his face, and heart entirely stopping.

He feared the worst, thinking about how to explain to his parents about such a large injury that couldn’t possibly be from bullying, but then he realized who it was. Jazz.

She was more frazzled, hair a mess and panting heavily. But thanks to ghost speak, allowing him to be the best empath a living person could be, he could tell she wasn’t scared or panicking. It was similar in intensity, but it was the opposite. She was excited and enthusiastic.

“I did it!” She laughed. Tears were springing forth from her eyes as she paced around, waving her hands around. “I actually did it! I-I helped him- I convinced- I- Holy shit, Danny! I did it!”

Danny sighed, shoulders slumping without the previous worry he harbored. He allowed his heart to beat once more, finishing his stitches as Jazz let out her excitement and… relief? No, it was satisfaction. Huh.

“It wasn’t- I didn’t think that- Wow! I didn’t know how it was all going to work because of how obsessions work and his seemed like it was leaning towards control but- But it wasn’t! And while the situation is a bit weird now, it’s- I got a breakthrough!”

Danny raised a brow as he looked up, having finished tying the knot and snipping off the rest while she spoke.

“Can I ask or are you implementing privacy protocols?”

Jazz took a few breaths, letting out a few airy chuckles.

“I-... No it’s…” She took another breath. “Vlad- I’ve been talking to him.” she quickly went to clarify once seeing Danny tense. “And yes, I’m fine. He hasn’t done anything. He’s sent me gifts and sent me a bunch of textbooks and all that- but nothing over the moon.”

Danny pursed his lips, making Jazz smile. He always hated how she’d slip in astronomy into the conversation to calm him down. She knew how it affected his ghostly side. It was like a sedative, a drug. It worked every time.

He was worried the addiction would grow like it had for other ghosts. Jazz stated that it was more like a prescription for a health condition. After that conversation, it clicked. She must’ve been talking with Frostbite. Damn her empathetic nature. It wasn’t even caused by some instinct (though he supposed that she may have a mother’s instinct with how she always saw through him).

“When did you…?”

“He wasn’t sure which place to get Maddie from and what would be best suited for them.” It took a moment for Danny to remember about Vlad's first cat.

“But why did he ask you?”

“He thought I wanted to be a vet. And yes, I did for a while just to be around animals. Always wanted a snake- but it wasn’t really… Anyway- The last time Mom talked about me before the incident, it was about me helping a friend with their grumpy cat.”

“Well, he went to the right person, I guess. He officially has 4 of them now.”

“Officially?”

“Remember the whole stray thing?”

It started with Danny finding a dead kitten in a parking lot. His obsession about protecting his people, including the animals and even some plants, had hit him hard. He ended up crying to Vlad about it when the older halfa saw him going on a frenzy to find all the strays in Amity to see if they were ok.

Vlad decided to join him and bought a whole building for the strays they've found. It's a play area open for adoption and just to hang out. But before that, he had to keep them in his mansion. He had to throw out his old wardrobe because of all the fur.

It was funny to think back on. Vlad spoiled them so much but refused to admit how attached he got to them even when he had 3 kittens climbing him, a surprise raccoon on his shoulders, and 2 dogs running circles around him.

“Oh, right.” Jazz snickered a bit before shaking her head. “After approaching him enough times while you were out, I was able to start talking with him. And now, he came to a conclusion!”

“And that is…?”

Jazz hesitated for a moment.

“So… how do you feel about hooking him up with mom-”

He opened his mouth.

“-and dad?”

He closed it, eyes now wide. Jazz pursed her lips, analyzing every micro-expression before falling back into therapist-brain when she found nothing.

“I know you aren’t comfortable with him after everything, but you must’ve noticed how he’s calmed down a bit, right? He’s trying and-”

“It’s related to his obsession. He has one.” Danny interrupted; Jazz could hear his slow relief sneaking in. “It’s not… You said it wasn’t control. It's... it's really not?” His expression held hesitant hope. As if he was trying to be careful not to get his hopes up.

Jazz smiled softly. “No, it’s not.”

Danny let out a small sigh of relief, slumping forward. Jazz could see the energy- something similar to adrenaline- drain out of him. He looked more tired now.

The exhaustion he carried was identical to that of a retired veteran soldier. It made a piece of her ache each time he let loose enough to show it. It made her wilt when she saw the similar expressions on his friends as well.

Val was an exception, but it was only because she acted like a military person during training rather than after war.

It made sense.

She hated how it did.

He looked up again, now with a more appreciative look. One that was thankful and genuinely happy.

“Congratulations on your breakthrough.”

“It’ll be a bit easier now, right?”

Danny let out a small chuckle. “Maybe.” He let out another sigh as his head spun a bit from the relief.

He could feel how fuzzy everything was starting to become as something in him twisted. He could feel his core amplifying whatever emotions he was feeling to the point he felt numb. The feeling made it harder to tell if he was breathing, it made it harder to stay in the moment.

He could see Jazz coming closer and he could only smile. He was happy. He was so happy. It felt like he was a step closer to completing something.

“Maybe…”

---

“Can we talk? Just the 3 of us?”

It was a few days after another session with Jazz when he finally convinced himself to talk with Maddie and Jack. Maddie looked at him more skeptically.

It was to be expected, and it made his core want to cry. But Jack accepted without hesitation, looking more than excited to see him. He smiled a bit, feeling his core mend itself with the acceptance alone that he received from Jack of all people. The very person he wanted to kill until about a week ago.

They shuffled to the living room where Vlad could finally sense Daniel in his room along with Jazz’s liminality along with him. It was always difficult to sense liminals, ghosts, or even Daniel in the household due to how much ectoplasm the scientists dealt with. It was worse than how difficult it was to track Daniel’s presence (ghost form or not) when he left Amity Park while Daniel out with his friends or at school.

It’s why he implemented cameras. He had deactivated them once the second truce came around, instead deciding to call Jazz regularly for updates. She was fully honest with him, it was relieving. It made his core hum with glee.

“So what did you want to talk about, Vladdie?”

Vlad took a shaky breath. He didn’t want to lie anymore. He didn’t talk about this to any of the children, but he didn’t want things to bite him back in the future if this worked out.

“Remember the proto-portal? The one we made back in college?”

“Yes?” Maddie confirmed hesitantly, feeling the tension of the room grow.

“Something happened to me then. I got a disease of sorts. It was fatal.”

The 2 of them stilled.

“But you recovered!” Jack exclaimed, though there was a growing puddle of fear. Of concern.

Vlad took another breath, eyes starting to sting.

“I was put into intensive care. They didn’t know what to do, it was a new field entirely. I kept getting sicker and sicker until they gave up and prescribed pain meds in dosages that should’ve been lethal near the end.”

Their hearts dropping was almost audible. Jack’s expression crumbled and Maddie’s became unrecognizable. There was too much weight in her emotions to try and piece together what she was feeling. He was too scared to find out. He was too scared to regret not saying the words “I wish” when his recovery picked up years ago.

He remembered the months during his recovery after he became a halfa. He woke up feeling a rush of so much that he felt numb until he could process it properly. He was still under immense danger of dying. He argued with the doctors, even begged, to go back into the coma he was placed into. He wanted to die without fear or any more pain.

They told him that he’d heal quicker if he was awake. That he was getting to the top of that hill. That he’d go downhill at top speed to his full recovery. He didn't believe them; he didn't want to hope. But heal, he did.

But it was so different as he did.

Too different.

He felt things so much more and it was so intense. His emotions were so strong that he couldn’t stand existing any longer in his lonely room. A room he thought he’d have to stay in for the rest of his life when his condition would go back to life threatening.

“I-” His voice cracked a bit, turning to Jack. “I thought what I felt for you was hate. That I blamed you for what happened to me.”

He wanted someone beside him then. He craved warmth he had only gotten from Maddie and Jack. The feelings he held for Maddie were so simple to understand at that time. It was socially accepted. What he felt for Jack was different. It was, in fact, much more intense. Shivers and goosebumps each time he remembered how Jack would hold him when he got a small injury or was out of breath trying to catch up to the athlete. He felt so small, so vulnerable.

“Vlad-” Jack started, his heart shattering from the fall and flowing through his voice. Vlad could see his tears at the edge of his eyes, ready to begin a stream.

To Maddie, he felt like he could provide whatever she wanted.

To Jack, he thought he felt like he was being treated like someone below him, that he needed to be doted on to be on par with the 2 of them.

But that wasn’t it.

To Jack, he felt like he didn’t have to shoulder any burdens. That he could be loved without truly doing anything in return, that he didn’t need to do anything but be himself.

“It only made sense in those times that it couldn’t be anything but. However…” He turned to Maddie and smiled softly. “It turns out that it wasn’t just you.”

He hadn’t understood it until Jasmine convinced him into therapy lessons. Practice, she claimed, she swore, she lied. She reminded him of how passionate ghosts were. How passionate he was and is.

It was then that he found that he loved Jack more than Maddie at first. That it was such an intense feeling that he confused it with hatred.

It didn’t help that their relationship would’ve been frowned upon then, that it would’ve been impossible and potentially illegal to seal the deal with a ring or even a simple kiss.

It took a moment for her to understand what Vlad was referring to. Her eyes widened, jaw dropping as she looked over at Jack before back at Vlad. Vlad nodded. She shook her head and took a breath.

“What? What do you mean-” Jack was still in the dark. Though, he always was the dense one. “You… You don’t hate me?”

“No, Jack. Though I hope that after this, you’ll be willing to give me a chance.”

“After- I don’t understand.” Jack turned to his wife. “What does he mean? The illness and ‘not just you’? What is he talking about?”

Maddie placed a hand on his shoulder, lips starting to wobble. She seemed to shake her head for a moment.

“He’s been-” She paused, eyes widening slightly before she let out a broken laugh. “He’s been obsessed with me for a long time. And… well, I guess you’re a target now too.”

Jack took a moment to process her words before his face flushed scarlet red. Though he couldn’t speak a word or react further. He simply froze up, making Maddie smile before her lips wobbled and dropped it.

“Are you normally so aggressive?”

The topic was obvious. It made Vlad hopeful that she’d listen.

“No. I was in denial and it had made me sick. For those of my kind, emotional and mental pain is like physical pain to the living. Denying my… my purpose for existing, my obsession, took a toll on me. Ghosts that attack Amity aren’t actually aiming to hurt people. They tend to go too far and forget how fragile living beings tend to be, especially humans.”

Maddie took a breath, looking down.

“They know.” It wasn’t a question.

“They know.” Vlad confirmed. Jazz and Danny knew about him from the very beginning.

Maddie took another breath.

“Why Danny?” Why did you obsess over him like you did with me?

“What- what about Dann-o?” Jack blinked back in.

“It was easier to get to him than Jasmine in my mind. Not only is he a male, but he was struggling with studies. There was also a sort of… connection I had with him. Perhaps it’s due to that portal downstairs. He has been exposed since the womb. Your children have not been fully human for a long time. Liminals at the very least, just as the city is becoming.”

“The city..?”

“Let’s just say that the ambient ectoplasm is the only thing blocking their signatures while that portal is only strengthening their liminality.”

“...”

Jack and Maddie seemed more sick. But Jack shook his head, getting himself back into the topic at hand.

“So- You-... You’re an ectoplasmic entity?”

Vlad swallowed.

“Yes… I’m what they’d call a halfa. According to a roommate, the long exposure from the proto-portal had forced my body to eventually adapt to it and learn to circulate and circulate it differently until it had… Halfas need to go through the process multiple times before they’re stuck as part of the living and part of the dead.”

“Vladdie…”

“I did not feel the final process. I was put into a medical coma. According to the doctors, I had flatlined multiple times and they had to shock me back plenty of times before I became what I am. I still get reminders, but that is a topic for another time.”

It was silent after that. Jack moved almost robotically as he came over, pushing up a sleeve and checking for his pulse. It was too feint to detect from there. He went for his neck next, looking up to Vlad in case he wished for him to give him space. Vlad didn’t fight back, so Jack started focusing on the pulse rate and translating it.

20 beats per minute.

It used to be a low average of 60-70 bpm. It had slowed over the years. He didn’t want to think what would happen when it finally stopped for good. It was already hard enough to remember he had to give a little thought of keeping some semblance of being alive when he was still so tempted to utter a wish.

Maddie came up next to him, lightly pushing him so he’d move enough to let her continue the silent physical exam. Once he did, she started checking his breathing. Then his reflex speed of his eyes in response to light. Then his joint reflexes.

They did all sorts of harmless tests, Maddie writing them down. After finishing the doctor check-up basics, they gave him some room. It made him both relieved and even more scared.

“Would a concussion show as a normal reaction speed?” Maddie asked.

Vlad blinked.

“Ah… No. While it’s much faster now, pupil dilation while concussed is the same as a normal person. Also, bleeding is less in volume, but I can self-heal.”

Maddie nodded and wrote it down.

“Do… Do ghosts have doctors? What if you get sick? We don’t know enough to help you if you do.” Maddie mentioned.

“What… What are you saying?” Please, please be what I’m thinking.

Jack placed a hand on his shoulder, smiling brightly.

“I think we have some time to make up! I’ll make some fudge!”

Maddie grabbed his shoulder before he could rush to the kitchen.

“I may be a little… on edge about this whole thing, but with time, I think we can be something. The 3 of us.”

Vlad’s eyes widened and teared up, his core practically squealing in delight. He felt as though his body was lighter. It felt easier to breathe, to make his heart beat, to- to exist.

All he needed to do was give it time. He hoped they’d be as accepting with Daniel as they were with him. And Danielle… They’d accept her too, won’t they? He hoped they’d forgive him about that. It wasn’t his… best moment.

He didn’t realize he started crying until he was pulled into a tight embrace by Jack, who had moved him onto his lap to comfort him. Maddie left them to it, deciding her next step.

She had traps to get rid of and weapons to recalibrate.

-----

A/n: Yes, Danny did faint. Why was that? Well, I'm not telling. comment what you think though. Hope you enjoyed.

Also, the next chapter or whatever, it's a dc x dp thing. I'll comment when the next chapter is up and add 2 links, a masterlist and part 2.

[daryltwdixon]

The Promise of Us: Chapter 38

As the hours drag on, the woods stretch endlessly ahead, the only sounds are the crunch of leaves underfoot and the occasional distant call of a bird. Beth walks silently beside him, her steps light but tired. The earlier tension between them has settled into an uneasy quiet, leaving Daryl alone with his thoughts.

The sharp, gut-wrenching panic over Y/N’s absence has dulled into something different now—more of a steady, familiar ache. It’s like a constant, low throb in the back of his mind, not as overwhelming as before, but still there, persistent as ever. Every time the brush shifts or a branch snaps, he half-expects to see her stepping through the trees, her expression determined, maybe a little annoyed that it took him this long to find her.

He almost laughs at the thought, but it gets caught in his throat, replaced by that damn ache again. Even if it’s not the screaming, desperate grief from before, it’s still like picking at a scab that only just stopped bleeding.

Beth walks a few paces ahead, her blonde hair a stark contrast against the green of the forest. She’s not Y/N, not by a long shot, but she’s someone who’s still here, still moving forward. Daryl keeps his eyes on the trail, his grip tightening on the crossbow. He doesn’t let himself linger too long on the memories—they’re too painful, too distracting. But no matter how hard he tries to shove them down, Y/N’s face is always there, just beneath the surface.

“Motorcycle mechanic,”

“Huh?” Daryl grunts, shaking himself out of his thoughts.

“That’s my guess,” she says, “For what you doin’ before the turn. Did Zack ever guess that one?”

“Don’t matter,” Daryl’s voice is low, “Hasn’t mattered for a long time,”

“It’s just…what people talk about, Daryl,” she says, a little snipped, “you know, to feel normal,” 

“Yeah, well that never felt normal to me,” he says, and as they walk into the clearing of the woods, along a dirt path, a small cabin materializes in front of them.

“Found this place with…,” he says, his voice so low and rough it’s hardly even a whisper. He trails off though, unable to form his mouth around her name out loud. Sure, her name scratched at him, relentless in his mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Speaking it felt like giving in, like he’d finally collapse under the weight of her absence.

Daryl’s eyes fix on the small house in the clearing, its dark, dusty windows triggering a flood of memories he wasn’t prepared for. He remembers finding this place with Y/N during one of their runs from the prison—a quick break from the chaos that defined their everyday lives back then.

The memory is immediate, foggy with time but still vivid enough against the backdrop of exhaustion. It had been a long day—one filled with tracking game, dodging walkers, and keeping their guards up. But the moment they’d stumbled upon this house, he’d noticed the rare spark of excitement in Y/N’s eyes.

She’d grinned wide, nudging his arm. “Looks like we got ourselves a jackpot, Dixon,” she’d said, that familiar teasing lilt in her voice. He could still see that big, radiant smile of hers, the one that he hadn’t seen for months at one point— but it felt like a burst of warmth cutting through the constant cold reality they lived in.

They’d made their way inside, not to settle but to rest, scavenge, and maybe find something useful. It was a simple house, nothing special, but it had four walls, a roof, and a momentary sense of privacy. He remembers the way Y/N had moved around the small kitchen, rummaging through cabinets, her eyes lighting up at the sight of some canned food that had somehow avoided looters. The real memory, the most vivid one of course, is the way they laid on the old, rotten couch, so familiar to their old trailer homes growing up, and their bodies wasted no time to be close again. He remembers the way she’d looked at him, sweat still clinging to her skin from the hunt, eyes intense, the air between them charged. They’d reached for each other, hands rough but urgent, wrestling between gentle and rough touches, wanting to be as close as possible. It was a brief period of complete privacy, no echoing cement walls, no cold metal bed frame pressing into her back as they melted together.

“I was expecting a liquor store,” Beth says, pulling him from his memories, unaware of the flood of emotions churning inside him. He lingers for a moment longer, the warmth of that day replaced by a cold emptiness in the pit of his stomach.

“No, this is better,” he says quietly, staring out at the house. 

He swallows hard, pushing down the memory as Beth moves toward the front door. The memory felt so sharp, that dull ache he had before split open, bleeding and raw.

Beth’s footsteps keep him here, in this moment, even if she’s unaware of the flood of memories that’s just hit him. He follows slowly, his steps heavier, his heart weighed down by everything he’s lost. Instead of taking her to the front steps however, he veers to the area behind the house.

In the back shed, Daryl spots it—a row of old wooden crates filled with dusty glass jars, the contents clear as water. The sight pulls a memory from somewhere deep, something old and foggy but sharp enough to hit him in the gut. Him and Y/N in his father’s backyard, working under the relentless sun, hands sticky with sugar and alcohol, the day their friendship had their first crack in it–the argument about Shane that felt so distant now, like another lifetime. The memories kept coming, relentless and unforgiving. He wishes he had the strength to shove them away instead of letting them crash through over and over. It was near torture now.

“What’s that?” Beth asks, snapping him from his memory once more. 

Daryl’s hands tighten around the crate as he lifts it. “Moonshine,” he says, a slight grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, the hint of nostalgia sneaking into his voice, “Come on,” 

Inside, the house looks exactly as they had left it, if anything just more layers of dust that had accrued. It didn’t look like anyone had found it since that day. So, he sets his crossbow down once he checks the back room and grabs a glass from the cupboard. He twists the moonshine jar lid off, and pours her a little bit, handing it to her with pride. 

“Alright, that’s a real first drink right there,” he says, but she pauses, looking nervous, “Wha’s the matter?” 

“Nothin’,” she says, but half heartedly, “it’s just…my dad always said bad moonshine could make you go blind,”

Daryl almost chuckled at that, a sound lost so deep down now that it never comes, “Ain’t nothin’ worth seein’ out there anymore anyway,” and he leans down to push it closer to her, and watches her take her first sip. As expected, however, once the alcohol hits her tastebuds she grimaces, pulling the cup away.

“That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever tasted,” she breathes a laugh, but then brings the cup to her lips again, and when she puts the glass down again, her smile never fading, she says, “Second round was better,”

She reaches again for a jar, cheeks already tinting a bit, and Daryl eyes her warily, “Slow down,” 

But she just smiles up at him again while she pours it, “This one’s for you,”

“Nah, I’m good,” he says casually.

“Why?”

“Someone’s gotta keep watch,”

“So what, you’re like my chaperone now?”

He rolls his eyes, stomping away, “Just drinks lots of water,” 

“Yes, Mr. Dixon,” she sings as he passes. 

Over the next couple of hours they spend fixing up the place, just to make it safe for the night. Covering windows, scavenging what he and Y/N might’ve not found that day months back.

He hears Beth chuckle behind him as she says, “Who’d go into a store and buy this?”

He turns, and sees her holding a large makeshift bowl that’s made to look like a woman’s bra, hot pink and full of cigarette butts. The second he sees it, it’s like he’s thrown back into his childhood home again.

“My dad, that’s who,” he calls over, “Oh, he was a dumbass,” he says shaking his head when he looks at her fully, her eyes unbelieving, “Used to set those up on top of the TV set, use ‘em as target practice,”

“He shot things inside your house?” Beth asks seriously.

“It was just a bunch of junk anyway,” he says quieter now, “That’s how we knew what this place was,” he gestures around, “That shed out there, my dad had a place just like this. You got your dumpster chair for sittin’ in your drawers all summer in, fancy buckets for spittin’ chaw in once your old lady tells you to stop smokin’,” he pulls the newspaper off the old table, “Here’s your internet,”

“Did you and Y/N hang at your house a lot back then?” She asks, but then her eyes widen as she bites her bottom lip, like she didn’t think before the words fell out of her mouth. Daryl just glances over at her before he’s freed from having to answer by the low groaning coming from a walker passing through, snarling close to the window.

“Just one of ‘em,” Daryl says.

“Should we get it?”

“If it keeps makin’ too much noise, yeah,”

“Well, if we’re gonna be trapped again,” Beth says, reaching for the jar of moonshine again, “We might as well make the best of it,” she holds it out to him with wide, blue eyes, “Unless…you’re too busy chaperoning, Mr. Dixon,”

He hesitates, looking between her and the alcohol in her hand, but grabs it despite his uncertainty, willing to keep the memories that keep flooding in at bay, “Hell,” he gravels, “might as well make the best of it,” he parrots.

He sits on the dirty old couch, no longer masked with the smell of his and Y/N’s sweat and raw need, and sips from the jar with ease, “Home sweet home,”

 ❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥

You

The woods stretch out endlessly around you, the thick canopy above shrouding everything in muted greens and browns. Your boots crunch over the dead leaves, the air thick with dampness and the faint, earthy scent of rain. You pause for a moment, trying to get your bearings, but your mind is a tangled mess of exhaustion and grief.

You glance down at your hands, the dried, dark streaks of blood still visible beneath your nails, rough and caked on your skin. It’s Jade’s blood—what’s left of her after the attack, a brutal reminder that nothing, not even a moment of connection, is safe in this world. You rub your hands together absently, trying to scrape off the dried flakes, but it clings stubbornly, like the guilt that’s been gnawing at you. The bitter taste of failure sits heavy on your tongue, and you can’t help but wonder if you’re destined to lose everyone you try to get close to. It’s a familiar ache, but Jade’s loss is fresh, a new wound layered on top of old scars. You take a shuddering breath, blinking hard to keep tears from rising. You can’t afford to cry—not now. Grief is a luxury, one you’ve learned to push down deep.

As you stand there, trying to get your bearings, you think of places you’d been before—familiar trails you’d taken with Daryl, the abandoned houses and cabins where you’d scavenged together in these woods. The memories are muddled now, hazy around the edges, but one stands out clearer than the rest: a small house, tucked away deep in the woods. You remember the afternoon there, the way the sunlight had slanted through the dusty windows, warming the worn floorboards. You’d rummaged through old cabinets, found a few canned goods, and laughed at the ridiculous floral wallpaper peeling off the walls. How much it reminded you of your childhood homes. 

And then, there were Daryl’s hands on your waist, rough but urgent, pulling you closer, his breath warm on your neck. You’d barely made it to the tattered couch before the world blurred into a mess of tangled limbs and desperate need. The memory isn’t just about the physical—it’s the feeling of safety, however fleeting, that came with being in that space with him. The way you’d both collapsed afterward, sweaty and spent, laughing softly at nothing at all.

You swallow hard, the ache in your chest sharp and familiar. The idea of going back there, even just to see if it’s still standing, feels like chasing ghosts. But it’s a direction, a goal, something to keep you moving forward. It was potential shelter from the elements, from the walkers. Even if it’s far—even if it’s too far—you don’t care.

You adjust your pack on your shoulder, taking a deep breath as you pick a path that feels familiar, even if the forest around you seems to blur into sameness. You step forward, each stride more certain than the last, driven by the sliver of hope that the cabin is still there. You don’t know what you’ll find when you arrive—maybe just an empty shell of a place that no longer holds the warmth of that memory. But it’s better than nothing. It’s something to hold onto in a world that’s taken everything else.

And so, you walk.

[firenati0n]

several sentence sunday <3 :)

hello my friends <3 thank you to @thinkof-england @littlemisskittentoes @porcelainmortal @magicandarchery @msmarvelouswinchester @getmehighonmagic @piratefalls @itsmaybitheway @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @nocoastposts @theprinceandagcd @dragonflylady77 @onthewaytosomewhere @duchessdepolignaca03 @priincebutt @captainjunglegym for the tags :) :) early birds dangggg!!

here's a snip from my au of the bear but it's a character study on alex (spoke about it a bit during a wip game here). this is chef alex aka carmy!alex:

Alex dices and slices and chops and juliennes, the top edge of the knife digging into his index finger and leaving a deep pink indent—physical proof of his hard work. Something tangible to hold on to, as real as the vegetables neatly stacked in front of him, as true as the erratic pulse he can feel in his fingertips. He leans into the sharp pain, his wrist aching and finger throbbing from the speed. His back is curled into himself, crowding his body over the kitchen counter, errant curls falling into his eyes as his knife moves at lighting speed, struggling to keep up with his racing thoughts. "You gotta come home, Alex." Alex's knife picks up at a punishing pace.  “Mom needs you. I need you.” Everybody wants something. He's not sure how much he has left to give, to slice off of his heart and serve up. Ugly presentation.

xoxo roop

+ no pressure tags under the cut and open tag as always <3 please tag me if you use, i want to see :)

@ninzied @cha-melodius @sparklepocalypse @cricketnationrise @orchidscript @myheartalivewrites @welcometololaland @anincompletelist @tintagel-or-cockleshells @sherryvalli @lizzie-bennetdarcy @heysweetheart-writes @inexplicablymine @onward--upward @celeritas2997 @14carrotghoul @cultofsappho @anchoredarchangel @candyspandemonium @nontoxic-writes @junebugclaremontdiaz @violetbaudelaire-quagmire @bigassbowlingballhead @alasse9 @ships-to-sail @kiwiana-writes @wordsofhoneydew @indestructibleheart @tailsbeth-writes @suseagull04 @rmd-writes @leaves-of-laurelin @eusuntgratie @adreamareads

[marlenacantswim]

when i'm feeling down, i just think about angelbutter living their lives together and suddenly the world is two shades brighter.

when @whoophoney's birthday started to roll around, i'd asked her what she wanted me to draw for her, and she said she was really in the mood to see Nicholas kissing Danny on the cheek. Unfortunately, I work at a snail's pace, and it has since been— *checks watch and bites lip* —some time since whoop's birthday. nevertheless, i've gotten it done 💖

closeups + lineart under the cut, snip snip ✂️

nick frost's face is so fucking fun to draw, and i pity anyone who has yet to explore how to convey his facial uniques in their art.

[cal-flakes]

╰┈➤ reunited, part two

warnings: mentions of violence, swearing, use of weapons.

summary: it takes rafe confessing his feelings to get y/n to finally trust him. read part one.

rafe’s eyes opened suddenly to the sound of y/n tapping on the window, attempting to draw one of the guards’ attention. the shrill sound of her manicured nailed drumming against the window was enough to have him on his feet, stalking towards her.

“what are you doing?” he asked, brows furrowed. scoffing, she ignored his pries, brushing him off. “get..mr..singh” she whispered, mouth the enunciations dramatically, before rolling her eyes at the man outside her window turn back to his duties.

“y/n, seriously, what are you doing?” he asked again, this time more firm as he placed a hand on her shoulder, pulling her from the window.

“i don’t need to tell you shit, rafe, get off of me” she spat, shoving him away. cursing internally, he paced the room slightly, struggling to find the right words. “look, i know i’m the last person you’d rather be here with, but i am the only person you have right now..” he huffed, gesticulating frantically.

y/n pushed passed him, rapping on the locked door with her knuckles incessantly, causing one of the doors to open the door abruptly. “what?” the man snapped, flaunting the gun in it’s holster, hung around his waist.

“i need to speak to mr singh. please, it’s urgent..” she plead, looking expectantly at the guard.

rafe watched as the man guided y/n out of her room, his hand situated on the middle of her back, pushing her. rafe’s jaw tensed at the action, growing increasingly frustrated with her stubbornness as the door shut behind her, leaving him alone in the room.

he sat on the four-poster bed for the next fifteen minutes, tapping his foot anxiously until she returned.

his eyes lit up as the door opened once more, revealing a trembling y/n, with puffy eyes and dried tears trailing from her cheeks to her neck. “what happened?” he asked, immediately reaching for her. snatching her hand away, she looked at him in horror.

“do you really think, that after everything you did to me, and everything you did to sarah, that i’d just give in? because you just happen to be here as well?” she snipped, her sharp tone cutting into him like tiny knives, desperate to hurt him.

he sat against the window as he held his head in his hands, chest heaving. “you-you think i meant to hurt you? you think that’s something i wanted to do?”

“an-and sarah? you think i’d purposely hurt my own sister?” she watched, mouth agape, as his eyes glazed over. y/n listened intently as his tears flowed, rambling about ward, and that he’s know who she thinks he is.

“i’m not the bad guy you’ve convinced yourself i am y/n, and i know, that you know, i’m what people say i am..” he muttered, drumming his fingers against his chin as he awaited her response.

“i don’t know who you are anymore rafe..” she mumbled, turning away from him as her own eyes turned glassy once more. fond memories crossed her mind for a split second, as if her own soul was trying to show her the truth.

“yes-yes you do, you do y/n! you are the only one, the only person who knows who i am, who knows i’m not som-some monster!” he exclaimed, a pleading look on his face.

he sighed heavily as his ocean-like eyes followed the confusion settling in her face. “did you never think about how it was never you? about how i always made sure you weren’t there, or at least out of the way when ward had me running about, doing his dirty business?”

“rafe, i don’t know what you’re getting at, but i don’t see how it’ll get us out of this?” she breathed, her voice shaky.

“because, okay- yes i made you cry, yes i teased you, but-but i would do anything t-to take back everything i’ve ever done, if it would make you see me differently!” he gushed, stepping closer to her seated frame, perched on the edge of the bed. “rafe, please just spit it out..”

she sucked in a deep breath as he placed a gentle hand on her knee, now crouched in front of her. “i-i have loved you since i was eleven y/n, i loved you so much i hated you! o-or at least i thought i did.” he sighed, bowing his head.

her features softened as he lay his heart out in front of her, hot tears cascading down his chiselled jaw. “and, i know. i know it doesn’t make up for anything, but please, just trust me this once, and i promise i’ll get us out of here..”

their eyes met as he tilted his head to glance at her, gaging her reaction. exhaling deeply, she allowed his words to sink in for a moment, contemplating the possibility that it was all a ruse, anything cunning trick up his sleeve. sighing, against her better judgement, she nodded slowly, wiping away her brimming tears quickly.

once more, happy memories ran through her mind as their eyes met one another’s, seeing straight through his hard exterior, all the way to those cherished memories in the tannyhill garden. she chuckled slightly, as she thought of the most prominent one.

his brows furrowed at her laughter, immediately standing up in disappointment. “who’s the crybaby now huh?” she teased, sniffling.

rafe released a shaky breath, relieved of the tension between the two. “i have a boat, a boat that can get us off the island..” he offered.

“i’m not leaving without the others rafe” she stated with a stern tone, laying down the conditions.

his fingers pinched the bridge of his nose as his frustration returned. “i can’t trust them y/n..”

“what makes you think you can trust me?” she snapped. “because you know me, you always have”

“and i always will rafe, but if you know me? you know i will never leave my friends behind”

“fine. c’mon..”

[aimfor-theheart]

kaeya figure skating au? :O

ANON........you are a genius for this.....need you to know this fr almost killed me. i took psychic damage reading this ask. its haunted me all night. i wanted to get to it last night but it sent me on an ice skating youtube binge watch. specifically watched tessa virtue and scott moire's 2018 olympic routine for the millionth time. then it sent me on a moulin rouge binge. you understand....

i swear i could probs turn this into a whole fic/series.

figure skating au

kaeya x reader

cw: none? sorta rivals to lovers.

∘₊✧───────────────────✧₊∘

this isn't working.

you slam to a halt on your skates, ice flaring and coating your partner's leg warmers with a layer of frost as you stop directly in front of him. just short of him.

the music, this passionate tango of baying strings, blares around the ice rink still.

"keep up," you snap over the music, "you're lagging behind me too much."

kaeya alberich, three time silver medalist, raises his brows. "perhaps you shouldn't rush through the routine."

"you're holding me back—i need momentum for these leaps and lifts."

"i'll guide you into them," he says breezily, "you don't trust me."

"how can i?!" you demand, arms flaring, "when you're always too far behind me!"

the music abruptly cuts off and jean, your coach, finally gets herself onto the ice to try and stop whatever argument has sparked this time. it's been like this since the beginning; since they announced the two of you would be paired together this season.

with your usual partner out on an injury and kaeya's desiring a season off for her wedding and honeymoon, you'd both nearly not skated this year. which, for you, would've been devastating. you'd do anything to stay out on the ice—even take kaeya alberich as your partner.

separately, the two of you are powerhouse skaters. the better half of each of your previous partners; you both can do the more impressive turns and tricks. but together? a volatile cocktail of arrogance and passion.

"what's the problem now?" jean asks, already tired.

"he's lagging behind me!"

"she's rushing the routine."

jean sighs, shaking her head. "you two need to get on the same page about this."

"tell him to speed up—"

kaeya huffs, "tell her to slow down. she's missing beats."

"as always, there's a middle ground here—" she says, then looking to you, "you are rushing a little, some moments you need to let breathe."

kaeya's smile is a satisfied curve, a cat that got it's canary. you feel an angry flush hit your face.

but then jean rounds on him, too, "and you do need to pick up the pace a little—you're peacocking too much on the ice. the piece needs passion, momentum."

"ha!"

"it needs you two to focus on each other." she says sternly, "there's a story here, between you, and you need to tell it. right now it's like you're skating separate routines, together."

after a moment of tense silence between the three of you, jean looks between you. "was that clear?" she demands.

"yes." you both respond, unwilling to look at each other still, though.

"try again. and focus on each other—listen to each other's bodies. skate together."

with that, she turns away from you both, grumbling something about the two of you being impossible. maybe something about divas. finally, you pick your eyes up to meet kaeya's.

"i need passion." you snip.

"i need breath." he replies back. but then he offers his hand to you, "come on."

you take hold of it, the feeling natural now to have his hand in yours, to find their places against one another. the two of you skate back to the center of the ice and resume your beginning positions across from each other.

you look at him, across the ice from you. he looks back. you take your poses.

"just focus on me this time." he calls out to you.

"you focus on me this time." you bark back.

he smiles, an amused curl and vows, "i won't take my eyes off you."

the music starts with low, plucking piano notes. you breathe deep. you keep your eyes on him. he lowers his chin, determined, eye lidded as he keeps his gaze on yours, too.

the first moment of contact is a leap into his arms, a burst of passion when the strings come in. he catches you easily, nimble and strong, as he lets you down onto your skates—then the two of you are moving, swirling, gaining speed.

as he guides you around the curve of the rink, taking position behind you, his hand on your middle, he says, "breathe here—take your time."

you arch into his hands, let him guide the moment as your arms flare in a bird's wing glide. he turns you to face him and you skate backwards.

"eyes on me." he says then, low and only for you, moving with you, gliding, and you—

you pick your head up to really look in his face now, to sway and move and see him. you move around each other, swirling, head whipping back around to keep your focus on him—only him.

the music swells.

your eyes on his. your heart races.

you move harder for speed. a lift sequence is coming up, followed by some quick-style turns.

"catch me if you can, alberich." you call to him, pushing for it.

and in an instant, he's picking up his pace, racing for you with speed and grace and determination. his hands come around you, one beneath your thigh, the other over the curve of your body.

in an instant, you're airborne, skates clear off the ice and flipping backward onto his shoulder. he's got you easy—he's got you fast—and when he sets you back onto the ice, he gives you a burst of speed and you launch from his arms like a bird taking to flight.

your turns are a sharp, brutal set. you keep tight, you keep fast and brilliant.

"come back to me—slow—slow." kayea calls and when his arms find you again, he says, "breathe again here."

and he takes you like that, gliding, guiding, showcasing the arch of your back, the extension of your leg and arms. you breathe with his hands on you here, body flaring.

you can almost feel his smile, turning around him like petals on the wind, like the swirling waves of the sea, or a fire licking around the tree, "that's it." he purrs, "now let me chase."

and he sends you reeling, sends you off with a burst.

for once, you both get through the entire routine. it isn't as clean as it could be but—

jean hollers when the music ends, coming back down onto the ice while the two of you are still breathing hard.

"finally!" she says, meeting the two of you, "a glimpse of hope!"

you laugh, breathless, as you skate over to her. kaeya's hand lingers on your lower back for a moment from the routine, before you feel it slip from you.

"did that feel better?" jean asks the two of you pointedly.

you look at kaeya. he looks back at you.

"a little." you admit sheepishly.

"it's a start." kaeya replies.

jean sighs, but she says, "now listen close—i have critiques—"

and you try to focus on her, but you can feel kaeya's gaze still on you. you can feel his attention burning straight through you, you can feel him at your side and behind you, all around you, like you're still out on the ice.

you can feel him, his voice still in your head, his hands guiding your body through every turn and lift and move.

i won't take my eyes off you.

[imababblekat]

Worth Promises?

**WARNINGS**: reader is not dead! i promise! but there is alluding to serious injuries and mentions of blood

~~~~~~~~

Anon Request,“May I request more Spiderman reader with the tmnt brothers??? Maybe Readers mask somehow comes off by being torn off by a villain or its heavily damaged from saving people”

~xXx~

Donnie paced back and forth, every now and then stopping to glance up at the raggedy old curtain that separated the infirmary from the rest of the base. Beside him Mikey sat, his face hidden in his folded arms over his legs, one bouncing anxiously. The two were not alone in their worry, Raphael and Leo also standing nearby, but the former was glaring daggers at the other. Feeling a hole burning into the side of his face by his brothers scowl, Leo snapped his voice.

“Go on, Raph. Spit it out already.”

Donnie and Mikey quickly looked toward the two, already sensing the oncoming argument that would ensue. Just as predicted, Raph pushed himself off the sewer wall with irritation to his tone.

“What are we doin’ just standin’ around?! We should be in there doin somethin.”

A red banded hand flung towards the direction of the infirmary, Leo’s gaze following to where their master had retreated moments prior, before returning with a matching glare back towards Raphael.

“You don’t trust Master Splinter’s skills?”

The buffer brother gritted his teeth, clenched fists falling to his stiff sides.

“You know it’s not that.”

“We did what we could.”

“Snipping already cut parts of their suit just enough to slap a bandaid on ain’t enough.”

“If you think slapping a bandaid on is the same as stitching multiple open cuts closed, then you and I have very different ideas on what that is.”

“Stop dodging the obvious, Leo. We should be in there! Helping Master Splinter finish up!”

“And you would risk breaking the one promise we swore by to do so?!”

“Yeah, I would! Cuz unlike you, Mr Righteous, I care more about whether or not they live than some stupid oath!”

Leonardo and Raphael were already deep in the others space, chest and shoulders squared and ready to go, but at the notion that he didn’t care about the teams mysterious, but very close friend, had a fire ignite in the leaders glaring eyes.

“Both of you! Enough!”

Out of nowhere, and with a strength and tone rarely used, Donnie had pushed the two apart, effectively sticking himself in between. His tone was riddled with shame for the two, not sparing either brother a strong look of disappointment that shot straight to their souls.

“Is now really the time for this? Now, when (s,p) needs us together the most?”

Turning to Raphael, Donnie’s gaze and tone turned gentle, sympathetic.

“Raph, you know how much each one of us want to be in there right now, but we also all made a promise. If we can stand by that we have to, for them. That’s why Master Splinter is in there and not us. He’s the best option we have to keep their secret. You know that as well as any of us.”

The red ninja turtle released a heavy breath through flared nostrils, visibly upset at the fact his tallest brother was right in all this. With a click of his tongue, Raph shoved past Donnie, not sparing anyone a glance and instead making way to his room, but not before frustratingly slamming his fist into a nearby wall.

Leo made to go talk with the angered brother, when a calm hand landed on his shoulder to stop him. Surprisingly it wasn’t Donnie, but Mikey who offered him a small lopsided smile.

“I’ll go talk to him. Just come get us if (s,p) wakes up ‘kay?”

Leo and Donnie watched as the youngest quickly trotted off to go talk some sense into Ralph, and while many would be shocked to see Mikey of all of them go, the two knew how particularly close him and Raph were. Once said turtle was out of sight after grabbing an orange crush as a peace offering, Leo heaved a heavy sigh, pinching the skin between his furrowed brows. Everything that had happened was starting to catch up with him, and combined with this latest fude with Raphael, a migraine was quickly forming.

“He didn’t mean it.”

Leo shook his head, looking to Donnie with a matching frown.

“I know. I just. . .what if he’s right? I know we all promised to never, under any circumstance, reveal their true identity, but does that really matter after what happened?”

He hated that part of him agreed with his hard headed brother, but from the difficulty won battle that occurred only a few hours earlier, Leo could not help the feeling. They had barely succeeded in the fight against rouge foot soldiers turned mutants, even with the help of their friendly neighborhood (s,p). When they did win though, it was like a huge weight off their shoulders, each brother giving the other high threes or chest bumps in celebration. However, the victory was short lived when they’d all turned to share in revelry with their super hero teammate, only to watch them collapse to the hard floor, breathless and bleeding.

The memory had Leo starting to feel sick to his stomach again like it had in that moment, and Donnie carefully lead him over to sit against some railing. The purple clad turtle offered his brother a reassuring pat, trying to not let his own memory of the event get the best of him as well.

“If we didn’t have Master Splinter, than yeah, it wouldn’t matter. But we had another option, and honestly, it’s a really good one. You know Splinter would never tell a soul or give any kind of give away at who they are. Plus, he rarely ever goes to the surface, so chances of him being in any danger for knowing their secret, or heck, even vice-versa, is like. . . zero point zero percent!”

A light chuckle came from Leo, his brothers analytical personality helping to make things feel a bit lighter. He reached to swing an arm around to rest on Donnie as well, the two now wearing tired smiles on their scaled faces.

“Thanks, Don.”

“Of course!”

He knew it was very unlikely, but Leo hoped that perhaps one day, his family wouldn’t have to worry about so much evil in the world. And maybe then, no one would have to hide any secrets, especially (s,p), who had managed to find a way into his heart right next to one of their closest human friends, (y,n). At the thought of the ninja brothers goober of a bestie, Leo was about to ask Donnie if he’d heard from you since the battle had occurred, when the shuffling of the infirmary's curtain had quickly caught their attention. The two brothers shot to their feet, seeing their father walk out with some dirtied towels and other discarded medical supplies.

Leo was quick to walk up to Master Splinter, Donnie right behind him, and greatly resisted the urge to peak through the slight gap between the curtain and the entrance.

“How are they?! Will they be okay?!”

“Was it as serious as it looked?! Were the supplies I had enough?!”

Master Splinter raised a hand, his long sleeve flowing with, and both sons stopped in their rapid talking. Lowering his hand to stroke at his long beard, Master Splinter simply nodded to the boys.

“Your friend will be just fine. Let them rest.”

Two very relieved sighs came simultaneously from each brother. Just as predicted, Master Splinter gave no inclination about now knowing the very famous (s,p) true identity, a seemingly familiar indifference of sorts the ninja turtles were used to.

“Thank you, Master. Don and I will tell the others, they’ll be so relieved.”, Leo grinned.

Master Splinter merely nodded, turning to dispose of the medical waste, his ears listening to his retreating sons, hands shaking with a deep sadness when he heard Leo question Donnie if he’d heard from you lately.

~xXx~

[geniusboyy]

Covenants and other Provisions

Chapter 32

Pas De Deux

     The kitchen was thick with the haze of cigarette smoke, curling in slow, ghostly ribbons toward the yellowed ceiling—the nearby open window doing little to disturb it. The rhythmic snip of scissors cutting through thick strands of hair punctuated the space between conversation. Fidds stood behind Ford, one hand firm on his head, angling him just so as he worked around his ears, the blade gliding through his curls, sending chunks tumbling down into loose piles on the linoleum beside their feet.

     Fidds worked methodically, his fingers raking through Ford’s hair before lifting another section to shear away. He held his cigarette between his lips, the ember flaring each time he took a slow drag.

     Ford exhaled, watching the smoke unfurl from his own cigarette, his mind a restless hum of half-formed equations and shifting patterns. His knee bounced, an unconscious, jittery rhythm, his body unable to match the pace of his thoughts. “If we want the system to sustain itself without a hard reset every time we hit a high-energy event, we need better buffering.” He gestured vaguely with his cigarette, nearly knocking into Fidds’ arm. “The ore’s output spikes too erratically. We need something that can absorb and redistribute the excess before it fries the circuit.”

     “Quit bouncing your leg or this is gonna come out crooked,” Fidds muttered.

     Ford forced himself to still. “Sorry, I’m just excited.” He took another drag, holding the smoke in his lungs for a beat before exhaling. “I was thinking—if we configure a layered capacitor matrix, something that can cycle the overflow before it hits critical, we can smooth out the draw. And if we tie it to an active relay system, we won’t have to manually adjust the thresholds every time we recalibrate.”

     Fidds hummed, combing through the uneven layers before snipping away another curl. “So a real-time modulation loop—treatin’ it like a fluctuating power source instead of tryin’ to regulate it at a fixed rate?”

     “Exactly,” Ford said, straightening slightly. “We need to predict oscillation patterns before they happen. If we can get ahead of the waveform, we can redistribute power dynamically. That way, the system doesn’t just react to instability—it compensates.”

     Fidds let out a slow breath, considering. “That’s tricky.” He took another drag of his cigarette, the ember flaring red before he flicked away the ash. “If we don’t get the timing right, we’re just shufflin’ the problem around instead of fixin’ it. Best case, we smooth out the flow. Worst case, we overload a different node and the whole thing locks up.”

     Ford nodded, tapping his cigarette against the edge of the ashtray. “I’ve been running projections, testing different modulation intervals. There’s a sweet spot between overcorrection and lag. We just have to find it before we scale up.”

     Fidds made a small sound—somewhere between acknowledgment and mild amusement. “You been up all night thinkin’ about this?”

     Ford huffed a quiet laugh, tipping his head forward as Fidds guided it, his neck bowing under the weight of his own thoughts. “Barely slept,” he said.

     Fidds made a small sound in the back of his throat, not quite sympathy, not quite amusement. “Ain’t that always the way,” he murmured.

     Ford tapped his fingers against the table a couple times. “I figure I’ll spend the next couple weeks stress-testing the relay system, making sure it holds under simulated conditions. If we can fine-tune the redistribution speed, we should be able to handle a full-scale field test before the month’s out.”

     Fidds snorted. “Keep it to the simulations, can’t have you blowin’ yourself up before I get back.”

     Ford smirked. “Wouldn’t be real progress if something didn’t explode at least once.”

     Fidds chuckled, shaking his head. “You got some strange ideas of fun, Pines.”

     The scissors made their final pass through Ford’s hair before Fidds ran the come upward from the nape of Ford’s neck, and then there was a pause—just the quiet hiss of their cigarettes burning, the faint creak of the old kitchen chair beneath him. Fidds tapped the excess ash from his cigarette into a half-drunk mug of coffee, squinting at the back of Ford’s head.

     Then, a small noise, a brief exhale—something between a laugh and a grunt. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered, tilting Ford’s head forward. His thumb pressed lightly against the ridge of Ford’s spine as he examined something at the back of his head.

     Ford blinked, pulled abruptly from the tangled web of equations in his head. “What?”

        “You got some grays back here.”

     Ford’s brow furrowed. “What?” he repeated, sharper this time, his hand reaching blindly toward the back of his head.

     Fidds snipped a small section and reached around, depositing it into Ford’s palm. “See for yourself.”

     Ford brought them up to his face, the salt-and-pepper strands stark against his skin. His stomach twisted, a strange, leaden weight settling in his chest. He turned them over in his fingers, rubbing them against his thumb like the texture might reveal it was simply a trick of the light. But the color wasn’t uniform—some were almost entirely silver, others brown streaked with pale gray, the pigment leeching out in uneven waves.

     Fidds laughed, the sound light and easy—just another jab, just another thing to tease Ford about. “Sorry, big guy,” he said, setting the comb down with a quiet clink. He patted Ford’s shoulder, not noticing the way he stiffened beneath his hand. “Happens to the best of us. You ain’t no spring chicken.”

    Ford exhaled sharply through his nose, slumping back in the chair. He reached up, tugging at a curl near his temple, stretching it straight, pulling it down over his eye. He twisted the strand between his fingers, staring at the color—deep, rich brown, still untouched. He didn’t know why he was focusing on it, why he felt the need to look at it for so long—maybe to commit it to memory.

     Fidds gave a small, thoughtful hum. “Well, guess it kinda suits you,” he said offhandedly. “It’ll give ya that distinguished look—y’know, professor and all that.” He ran his fingers through the back of Ford’s hair again, this time more absentmindedly, like he was just making sure he hadn’t missed a spot. “’Course, means you’ll be lookin’ like an old man before I do.”

     Ford let out a burst of air, barely a scoff. He pressed the cigarette butt lightly against his teeth a few times before speaking. His voice was quieter now, like it had to fight to make it past his lips.

        “Yeah, it uh—it runs in the family…” he said.

     Fidds’ hand hesitated. A fraction of a second, barely perceptible, but there.

     Fidds resumed the motion, slower this time, gentler. He didn’t say anything right away. He wasn’t sure if he should. Instead, he took another drag from his cigarette, the smoke leaving through his nose as his eyes scanned his work, checking that everything was even—but out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the movement.

        Ford’s leg. Bouncing lightly up and down again.

     Not like before. Not with that eager, restless energy from earlier, when his mind was alight with discovery, when he couldn’t sit still because his body couldn’t contain the momentum of his thoughts. No, this was something smaller, something more contained. A twitch. A subtle, nervous movement. Fidds didn’t tell him to stop this time.

     Ford took a slow drag from his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs too long before exhaling. “Thanks for doing this before you head out.”

     Fidds exhaled too, though it came with a quiet sigh. “No problem, bud. You needed it.” His fingers did a final ruffle through Ford’s freshly cut hair before he unclipped the towel from around his neck, shaking loose curls onto the floor.

     The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t the easy kind—the kind they usually sat in without issue, just two men smoking, working, sharing space. No, this one settled into the room differently, a bit heavier.

     And Ford, still staring down at the cigarette in his hand, didn’t move to break it.

     Fidds took one last glance at Ford’s reflection in the darkened kitchen window, his freshly cut hair a little uneven where it curled at the edges, before turning away and tapping the ash from his cigarette into the sink. The ember flared for a brief second before dimming, burning low. He checked his watch.

     “Gotta get goin’ here soon if I’m gonna make that flight,” he said, grabbing his button-up from the back of one of the dining chairs. He shook it out, the fabric snapping lightly in the quiet before he started pulling the sleeves over his arms.

     Ford exhaled and nodded absently as he stood and went for the broom. He tapped the cigarette over the edge of the ashtray, watching the embers flick away before snuffing it out entirely. 

     Fidds kept talking, rolling his shoulders to settle the fabric. “Fridge is stocked up for ya, but two weeks is a while, so you’ll probably have to go into town at some point.” He paused, shaking his head as he fastened the buttons. “Try not to get into any fistfights.” His tone was light, but there was an edge of sincerity to it, a pointedness in the way he glanced over.

     It earned a quiet chuckle from Ford, one that loosened some of the tension that had been hanging between them. “You know me, Fid, I’m no trouble maker,” he said, sweeping the last of the stray hair into the dustpan.

     Fidds huffed, shaking his head with a half-smirk, but something about Ford’s tone made him hesitate before replying.

     Instead, he stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Ford’s shoulder. His palm was warm, steady, grounding. “I mean it, Ford. Take care of yourself while I’m gone.”

     Ford didn’t look up, just brushed the last of the hair into the bin with the edge of his foot.

     Fidds squeezed his shoulder lightly. “Don’t get too caught up down in that lab. Please?”

     Ford didn’t answer right away. He just kept sweeping, his movements slower now, almost absentminded. Then, finally, he muttered, “Sure.”

        But it didn’t sound like a promise.

     Fidds didn’t press. He just exhaled through his nose, brief but knowing, and moved toward the door where his bags sat idly against the frame. His coat hung from the rack above them, and he pulled it down, giving it a sharp shake before threading his arms through the sleeves. His hat followed, settled easily onto his head with a practiced tug at the brim.

     Then he crouched, unzipping the duffel at his feet. His fingers sifted through its contents, pausing when they found their mark.

        “Hold out your hand,” he said.

     Ford hesitated, brow pinching slightly, but followed the instruction.

     Fidds pulled something about the size of his fist from the bag, his grip careful as he placed it into Ford’s palm. “Happy Hanukkah,” he said.

        Ford looked down. A snow globe.

     He turned it slightly, brows furrowing as he examined the tiny scene inside. Then, slowly, his lips parted. The realization hit him in pieces—the shape of the porch, the placement of the chairs, the shed out back, the exact curve of the gravel driveway. It was the cabin.

     The level of detail was almost unsettling. The way the shingles layered over each other, the faint etching of wood grain in the porch railing. Even the path of the fence line, twisting slightly where the old post leaned.

     Ford shook his head slightly, looking up at Fidds, who was already grinning.

        “Hanukkah ended on Saturday,” Ford said.

     Fidds huffed, shoving Ford’s shoulder. “You bastard, you gotta tell me this shit!”

     Ford laughed, the sound breaking through something in his chest as he gave the globe a shake, watching the snow swirl and settle over the tiny model. “How’d you even make this?”

     Fidds just shrugged, adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”

     Ford exhaled softly, his fingers tightening around the glass. “Thank you, Fiddleford. This is… very thoughtful.” He hesitated, rolling his thumb along the base of the globe. “I… don’t have anything to give you.”

     Fidds shook his head, brushing it off with a quiet laugh. “That’s alright.” He leaned down, zipping his bag shut before straightening again. “Just make sure that little critter in the lab stays fed.”

     Ford sighed, tipping his head back slightly. “Yes, wouldn’t want anything happening to our class pet.”

     Fidds snorted. “He likes green apple,” he said, pointing a finger at Ford as if to emphasize it. “But don’t give him too much.”

     Ford rolled his eyes but smiled. “You got it, Dolittle.” He nodded toward the door. “Now get going. Wouldn’t want you to miss your flight.”

     Fidds lingered for a second longer, eyes scanning Ford’s face like he wanted to say something else. But whatever it was, he left it unsaid. Instead, he just clapped Ford’s shoulder again, squeezed once—as to emphasize the something in the nothing, then grabbed his bag and stepped out the door.

     Ford stood by the window, one hand resting against the cold sill, watching as the glow of Fidds’ taillights faded down the gravel drive. The car’s low rumble drifted through the trees, tires crunching over the uneven road, kicking up dust that swirled in the weak light of the porch lamp before settling back into the quiet. The wind had picked up, rattling the loose pane in the kitchen window, making it shudder in its frame. It carried through the house, slipping through cracks in the walls, whistling under the door—a restless presence moving through the empty spaces Fidds had left behind.

     Ford didn’t move. He stood there long after the car had disappeared, staring at the dark stretch of road, at the empty place where the headlights had been, at the trees swaying against the late afternoon sky.

     The house felt different now. Still, but not peaceful. Hollowed out.

        “And then there were two.”

     Bill’s voice curled at the base of Ford’s skull, thick with something half-amused, but mostly indulgent, stretching itself out just to hear the sound of it. A deliberate pause, a silence filled with its own meaning. Then, finally:

     “So.” Drawn out, lazy. “What are your plans for the solstice?”

     Ford glanced at the empty stretch of road, then away. “You’re looking at it.”

     “Oh, come on, Fordsy, no garlands?” Bill’s voice lilted in mock disappointment. “No lights? No merriment?” He let the words stretch, savoring the shape of them. “I certainly wouldn’t mind watching you swing that axe again. Lug in one of those trees that stay green…forever. What are they called?”

        “Evergreen”

     “Yes! Evergreen…well, not after the ritual—you humans do that this time of year, right? Hack one out of the earth, drag it inside, let it die slowly in the corner?”

     Ford shook his head, lips pressing into something like a smirk. “I’m Jewish.”

     Bill hummed, almost thoughtfully. “Right, right…  The eight crazy nights and whatnot.”

     “Yeah.” Ford muttered, fingers absently tugging at the hairs at the nape of his neck, a restless, unconscious movement. After a beat, he let his hand fall, something final in the gesture.

     “I thought all you humans flocked back to the nest for those sorts of things.” Bill’s voice took on that probing, casual lilt, the way he always did when he already knew the answer but wanted to see how it would unfold anyway. “Big, noisy feasts—everyone yelling and interrupting each other. But for some reason, there’s always one of the older ladies commenting on who’s gained weight.”

     That—that—did get a chuckle out of Ford. Brief. Quiet. The kind that escaped before he could smother it. “You’re not too far off.” His gaze flicked, almost involuntarily, back to the window. The road was empty. Whatever he’d been looking for—whatever he’d half-expected to see—wasn’t there. He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes.

        “But not you?”

     Ford sparked a match, the flare of it sharp in the dim light. The scent of sulfur curled at the edges of the room. He inhaled deeply, letting the burn settle behind his ribs before shaking his head. “No.”

        “Certainly someone’s waiting for you?”

     Ford exhaled, smoke rising in slow, heavy spirals. He didn’t answer immediately, and when he did, his voice was tight, controlled, like it was carefully smothering something. “It already passed. It—” He stopped, rubbed a hand over his mouth, then shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

     A quiet stretched between them, long and thin.

        “I see.” Bill replied simply.

     Bill didn’t push further, which was almost stranger than if he had.

     Ford turned from the window, leaving a slow trail of smoke behind him as he descended the stairs into the lab. The shift was immediate—the crisp chaos of the underground space swallowing him whole.

     He shrugged on his lab coat, rolling his shoulders to settle it properly, then absently straightened a row of labeled vials as he passed them. At the far wall, a large canister housed a roll of tightly wound graph paper. He unraveled a clean stretch, slicing it neatly against the razor at the dispenser’s edge.

     The workbench was scattered with old notes, pages softened at the corners, numbers running together in thick graphite. He smoothed the sheet down, clipping it in place, then reached for one of his notebooks. His fingers skimmed past calculations, sketches, stray annotations, flipping with precision until he found the page he wanted:

     A rough concept. Barely a blueprint. Just the beginning of something—a mess of equations, half-solved formulas, notes scrawled hastily in the margins.

     Ford sat, rolling his chair closer to the desk. His pencil hovered over the page for a moment before pressing down, thickening the lines of an equation, adjusting a variable.

     His pencil moved, quick, deliberate. Adjusting for wavelength distortion, refining the detection parameters. The energy output was still too unstable; he’d have to work through that.

     He began marking adjustments, recalibrating, erasing, rewriting. The slow drag of graphite against paper filled the silence, an almost meditative repetition. He sketched out a rudimentary lens array, scratched it out, trying again. There were still problems to solve—the signal resolution, for one, wasn’t precise enough. The data output had too much noise, and if he couldn’t isolate the event patterns cleanly, then—

     He tapped the pencil against the margin, thinking.

     Bill, uncharacteristically, was still silent. It was the kind of quiet Ford recognized—not absence, but expectation. Waiting for something.

     Ford could feel Bill tracing the movements of his hands—not the lines or the figures on the paper, but the motions themselves. The careful precision, the obsessive repetition of it all. 

     He could feel it in his bones, that quiet weight between his shoulder blades—a constant, soft presence, like the brush of fingertips just shy of contact. It was a feeling so familiar, so entwined with his own body that he could forget it was there, and then remember it again, in the space of a breath—oh, how quickly it made him forget the mess.

     He set the pencil down and leaned back in his chair, taking a slow, deliberate pull from his cigarette, exhaling smoke toward the dark corners of the lab.

     “It’s a time to do things you enjoy with people you like.” Ford said simply, voice was measured. He took another slow drag from his cigarette.

        “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

     Bill made a noise—something light, lilting, a bit teasing. “How sweet.”

—

     The world returned in layers—first sensation, then weight, then the slow, deliberate effort of movement.

     Flesh was strange. Heavy. Confining in a way that felt unnatural, as if it were trying to remind Bill of the boundaries of this borrowed body. He rolled Ford’s shoulders, felt the tension strung between the bones, the way the muscles resisted before yielding. He stretched Ford’s fingers one by one, flexed them, curled them into fists, then released. The knuckles cracked, sharp in the quiet. 

     Ford’s body was worn—he’d spent too many nights bent over a desk, hunched, but even so, it responded. He could feel it now—muscles that would bend for him, would let him in when the time came. In some sense, it was always like this—Ford’s body, heavy in its own skin, but soft and vulnerable under Bill’s hands. 

     He tipped Ford’s head from side to side, testing. The weight of it was satisfying. Ford’s neck wasn’t the only thing he felt the pull of—there was the sharp, muscular lines of his arms, the quiet strength of his frame—they held an allure, something not quite of the body but for it. Bill often found his thoughts straying to those moments, the raw, unsaid things that lived in their touch, their quiet heat.

     Bill could feel the tension run deeper, could sense the resistance, the discomfort in Ford’s own willingness to be claimed—as he had been time and again, but never fully. And wasn’t that something? Wasn’t that interesting? 

     There was more here. More in Ford’s life—more in this body, and Bill wanted it. Needed it.

     Curiosity burned deeper than it ever had before. There were pieces of Ford that laid scattered—fragments, parts tucked away in corners, just out of reach. Ford kept them hidden—the things he didn’t want to show, the parts of him Bill hadn’t yet touched. The dreams held whispers of it—in sweat-slick skin, lips pulling in pleasure, with eyes that asked for something more, but never admitted it. 

     But life had a way, Bill had come to find, of leaving traces—ruins that could paint a clearer picture of what had been left behind. So, while Ford slept, Bill was at the helm—he explored.

     Bill had been through the lab, through Ford’s desk, through every drawer and locked cabinet Ford thought he was so clever about. But Fidds’ space? That was new.

     He moved Ford’s body through the house, bare feet brushing the floorboards, his movements less restrained now that they were alone. The door to Fidds’ room was unlocked—of course it was. Why wouldn’t it be?

     Inside, the room smelled faintly of dust and old paper, layered with something warmer—wood, whiskey, a trace of engine grease. Lived-in but not homey, the way men like them tended to keep things.

     Bill rifled through the dresser first, forcing Ford’s hands to move through stacks of clothes, occasionally brushing against the odd pocketful of loose screws. The nightstand wasn’t much better—half-empty cups of water, a few folded notes. Bill unfolded one, skimming the contents. The handwriting wasn’t Fidds’—and there, along the bottom, were several faded pink lip prints. The paper was old, crinkled at the edges. Bill tossed it aside.

     He moved on, fingers brushing along the desk, scattering a few notebooks just to see what lay beneath. Schematics. Numbers. Diagrams, scrawled over loose pages. Boring. He shoved them aside and opened the top drawer.

     A battered deck of cards. Bill flicked open the top, letting the cards spill into Ford’s hand. The edges were soft from wear, but the stack was thinner than it should have been. Bill fanned them out, shuffling through them lazily: only 9s, 10s, and the lettered ones. Useless. He shoved the cards back in the box and tossed them aside. 

     He reached towards the back of the drawer and Ford’s fingers hit something cool, metal. A flask. Bill popped the lid open letting the sharp fragrance of whiskey waft over him. He took a swig, gagging lightly at the burn—then took another before closing it and setting it back where it was.

     What else, what else…a pack of gum with only two sticks left. Then—what was this? A switchblade. Bill flipped it open with a flick of Ford’s wrist, testing the blade against the pad of Ford’s thumb. The body barely reacted to the shallow press. The blade was dull anyway. Disappointing.

        Finally, his gaze fell on the closet.

     The door creaked softly as he pulled it open. Inside, a row of shirts hung unevenly, some pressed together, others spaced apart like they’d been tugged on in haste. A few pairs of shoes sat scattered along the floor—scuffed boots, well-worn sneakers, something that might’ve once been dress shoes but had seen better days. In the corner, a long, narrow case leaned against the wall—Fidds’ gun, no doubt. But Bill’s attention snagged on something else.

     His borrowed fingers brushed against a box on the top shelf, its edges softened with age, the cardboard slightly warped. VHS was written across the front.

     Bill grinned—he’d seen these before. He pulled it down and set it on the floor, pushing Ford’s hands into the it, sifting through the stacks. The labels were neat, written on sticky notes.

            Home Movies. Too sentimental—Pass.

        Horror. Not bad…Maybe?

     Honeymoon? The moon was many things, but honey wasn’t one of them—forget it.

        Then—his hand stilled.

     Near the bottom, another label. Half-peeled at the corner, curling slightly.

        Christmas.

     “’Tis the season,” Bill murmured, amused, peeling the sticky note away with deliberate slowness.

     His fingers drifted through the tapes, pushing them aside, skimming the titles.

        Then—one caught his attention.

     The cover was different. Not some home recording, not a garish holiday special. It was a real production, glossy, with dramatic lighting. A man stood on the front, his body taut, arms stretched at his sides in a precise pose. The title curled above him in elegant script:

        Baryshnikov: The Nutcracker.

     Bill tilted Ford’s head, intrigued.

     He didn’t know what this was. Not really. But there was something about the way the man stood—poised, perfect, his body a study in control—that caught Bill’s attention. The way the muscles in his legs and arms defined themselves beneath the very tight fabric. Deliberate. Precise. 

           Bill’s grin sharpened.

        “Well, well.” 

     He turned the tape over in Ford’s hands, running his fingers over the plastic case. The back was filled with little printed images—dancers mid-motion, bodies suspended in impossible shapes. A synopsis, a list of credits, none of which meant much to him. The words blurred, insignificant next to the pictures.

        But something about it pulled at him.

     A performance. A display. A human body moving with purpose and control, and discipline—more than mere flesh.

     This was control without restraint. Power without resistance. A body yielding, but not in weakness—in mastery.

           And that was what caught him.

        Because Ford’s body wasn’t like that.

     Ford’s body—that was rigid. All strict, efficient movements, measured steps. Tension locked in his shoulders, restraint wired into his muscles. He moved like a man who had spent his whole life making sure he never miscalculated, never overreached, never let himself falter—carrying his body as if something terrible might happen if he misstepped.

     Even in moments of surrender, even when Bill had pulled him apart and coaxed pleasure from every nerve, he never fully let go—there was always something held back, something clenched in his jaw, something braced in his spine.

     Even at his most undone, he was never fully free.

     He always talked about diligence. Discipline. He lived by it. But Bill had never seen Ford’s body express that control like this.

        No, this—This was something else entirely. 

           He wanted to see. 

     He padded down the hall and made his way into the living room. There, against the center of the wall, sat an old VHS player, nestled beneath the television—He’d watched Ford do this before—the routine, the ritual. He slid the tape out of the box, the reel uneven on either end, thicker on the right side.

     He crouched, shoving the tape into the slot. The machine whirred to life, clicking as the tape was swallowed into its depths. He turned the dial on the TV—just as he remembered seeing Ford do. 

        The tape whirred, and the picture steadied.

     Bill sat close to the screen, Ford’s body held still, knees drawn up, fingers curled loosely against his ankles. The blue glow flickers over his skin as the stage unfolded across the screen.

     Soft light bloomed, illuminating an expanse of painted backgrounds. He reached for the dial, twisting it carefully, and the sound that followed was a series of delicate notes, slow and reverent—A sound like wanting.

     Bill’s breath was even, but something inside wasn't. A tightness in the ribs, something thin and stretched—He didn’t know why.

     The stage is vast, glowing, its warmth bleeding into the dimness of the recording. And there—her. The woman in white. She made delicate gestures, so careful, so precise, it seems impossible that she is real. She extends a hand. And then—him. The man from the cover.

     He steps forward—moving like he is separate from the world entirely, like gravity is something that only concerns others. His hands are gentle but deliberate, and when he reaches for her, she moves into him with certainty.

     The music lifts. It presses against Ford’s skin, beneath his ribs. Expands into the spaces between—between breath and bone, between this room and somewhere further, vaster, something without walls. It fills them, pushes into them, restless and endless—A sound like knowing.

           She reaches for him.

        And he takes her hand.

     Not like a claim, but gently—A meeting, one movement. She lifts onto the very edges of her feet, and he pulls her forward, just enough, just barely.

           The strings ascend—

        And she rises.

     Weightless, unbound, as if the music itself is pulling her up. As if she is not of this place at all.

     Something inside Bill shifted with them. A pressure, an ache behind Ford’s sternum, a heat pooling somewhere deep in the spine. It is not a thought, not a word, but something else.

     She leans into him, drapes herself across his arms. A body surrendered, but not in defeat. He moves with purpose, and she with trust.

     The figures on the screen turned, caught in each other’s gravity—Wasn’t that what this was?

     A body moving, knowing it would be caught. Hands reaching, knowing they would be met.

     Bill had known that. Had felt that. Had let himself be lifted, weightless in another’s grasp, drawn forward by something beyond them—something that neither of them could name.

     The music changed—rising like a wave. It moved in time with them, or perhaps it was them moving to meet it. It filled the room with an energy he couldn’t quite place—it was bold and exhilarating, yes, but also held a kind of ache, a sort of sorrow—that stirred something in him.

     The music swells, again. It presses into him, filling the empty spaces, expanding in the hollows. He can feel Ford’s body responding before he understands why—the faintest tremor in his fingers, a pull at something in the breath, in the pulse—there. A longing, an anguish. Something vast and unspeakable, drawn up and wrung out of them, spilling across their surface. 

        She folds against his chest.

     And Ford’s hands—their hands—curl inward, pressing into their palms, holding onto something unseen.

     The way he moves her. The way his hands trace her, firm, assured, each motion deliberate. The way she gives herself to him, the way he bears it—it is a kind of triumph, but not of conquest.

     There was something about the way he looked at her—A quiet intensity, a reverence, something fragile, something cherished. The way his eyes burned—it was familiar.

     Bill could feel it. In the chest, in the throat. It ached. He knew that look. He knew that feeling.

           He’d seen it before.

        On Ford.

     On Ford, looking at him.

     It should be a claim, but it isn’t. It is something softer. She gives, and he takes only what she offers. He catches her, never demands. It is a meeting, not an expectation. And Bill knows this, too. Not in words. Not in sound. But in motion.

     He understood movement. The weight of a hand, the shift of muscle, the way touch speaks by tension’s release.

        And Ford’s touch—spoke to him.

     In the way he presses forward, the way he pulls. The way his grip falters, caught between wanting and restraint. How his fingers tremble when they hold too hard, how they soften—afraid to take too much.

     Even in surrender, even in pleasure, even in the moments where his breath is shaking, where his body gives itself over—there is always that hesitation. That measuring. That something.

     A flicker of memory—hands, tracing over him with curiosity. I need to understand, that touch said. Let me know you.

     There was a burst of strings, a note drawn long and low, delicate as thread. Bill startles—not outwardly, not in a way that the body betrays, but inwardly, somewhere deeper. The sound does not enter through their ears alone—what was it reaching?

     Bill couldn’t help it—they stood, eyes never leaving the figures. There was a tug inside them, a strange, frustrated pull. What was it? What made these movements seem so certain?

        He wasn’t made for this.

     And Ford, with his restraint, with his hesitation—

           But together—together, maybe.

        Their fingers twitch.

     The body follows.

     Testing the pull of their limbs, the space between the music and this body, the air between the motion and the understanding of it. He bends Ford’s legs, arms curling into an arc above their head, then slowly, steadily, a curve in the spine, dipping to the side.

     Bill lets the breath sit in their lungs, holds it there, feeling the shape of it, the weight. The music swells once more, fingers lower, barely grazing the air before settling. They move, through the dark—step of two.

[faith369]

>>Cigarettes and Bourbon<<

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!bartender!reader

Warnings: nsfw (at the end), drinking, smoking, masturbation (Simon)

(Part 1), Part 2, (Part 3)

Simon looks at his hand, holding a cigarette, thinking about you. He wouldn't have let a stranger fix his wound, but he just got home from deployment, and the doctor's office is closed this late, and going to the E.R. for a cut would have been ridiculous. He tries telling himself it wasn't because he was charmed by you but more because he was tired from the jet lag but too pumped up with adrenalin to sleep, that was the original reason to walk into the run-down-looking pub, to wind down while nursing a glass of bourbon, not to find the bartender of the club a bit too attractive, while simultaneously asking himself why you're working in such a shithole. Simon only now notices that the cig in his hand is almost burned to the tip, so he quickly snips it away and leaves his balcony.

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

He tells himself that he's only here because the bourbon was good for the cheap price, while he pushes the rundown bar door open a few days later. As if he couldn't afford whiskey of higher quality. You don't see him right away when he comes in, being occupied with closing down the bar, but when the cold wind hits your back, you turn. Simon can see the surprise of seeing him again written on your face and in the tone of your voice as you greet him while he sits down.

“You are aware of the fact that we're closing” you raise a brow.

“You didn't mind me when I stayed longer 3 days ago.” You throw a glare at him and finish up wiping the counter before quickly walking to the door, to turn the open sign to closed.

Simon just quietly sits at the bar, letting his eyes move to your skirt, which seems to have slightly ridden up, exposing a little more of your pretty thighs than you probably intended.

"D'you want bourbon again?“ Simon answers your question with a small, almost invisible nod. “Why'd you come again?”.  "It's a bar, and I needed a drink.“ “I think you're lying.” Despite your statement, you don't push him further and make his drink. You catch a glimpse of a cigarette packet in his jacket while putting the glass on the counter. Simon's soldier instincts almost come in when you bent over the bar to grab the pack of cigarettes and snatch them away from him, but sadly, his eyes were too focused on your chest. “Give it back,“ he grumbles as soon as he comprehends that you just basically stole his pack. "I'm letting you stay here longer; the least thing you could do is give me cig, and before you ask why I didn't ask, it is because I knew you'd say no.“ Simon doesn't respond and decides to drink his bourbon instead. He watches the way you wrap your lips around the cancer stick you just stole before lighting it. He was about to make a remark when his phone starts to ring, his captain's name illuminating the screen. “I have to go“ he says, gulping down the rest of the amber liquid and throwing you a 100-pound bill on the table.

Before hastily getting out of the bar, leaving you with the question of what the actual fuck his deal is.

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

The water drops falling from the shower hit Simon's head, pouring down his body. His hand searches the support of the wall while he is occupied dragging the other along his cock, imagining his calloused hands were your pretty mouth or pussy. He groans, moving his thumb across his tip, trying to get an idea of how your moans would sound if he'd push himself inside your cunt, trying to get an idea of how he'd make you cum until you couldn't give him anymore of your bratty comments. He slightly increases the pace of his hand, thinking about you naked in front of him. Soon the shower wall is decorated with the white strings of his cum. Panting slightly, coming down from his high, the water already rinsing away any evidence, he groans out a fuck while running his hands through his hair. He doesn't do shit like that, he doesn't jerk off, especially not when he is in a safe house on a mission, and he doesn't do it to the thought of you, a pretty little bartender he only met twice.

A/N: Did this instead for learning for my chemistry and physics exam hope you like it.repost and like -Love Faith <3

[coreofmyfruits]

Horidiculture

★ Hebert West x Dan Cain

Warnings: gore, violent tendencies, cannon typical violence, sharp objects (shears), gardening

Summary: Dan likes pruning his plants, Herbert likes pruning people's skin and limbs. Will Dan get to up keep his plants or will Herbert hack his way into the only thing Dan enjoys doing anymore.

Note(s): Herbert west Dan Cain??? Oh God I hope they don't do anything like malpractice or gay stuff...

↓

Snip. Dan trimmed his Hyacinths he could hear Herbert rummaging around in the basement, probably looking for something. Snip. "DAN?!" He heard his name be called after a loud crash had come from the little window behind him. Snip. Herbert broke something and he needs his help. Snip. "Dan- Dan where are you?!" Dan feels a vein pop out on his forehead. Snip. The little window slides open with a slam. Snip. "Dan! Dan! one of my reanimations is going bonkers- Dan are you listening!" Dan isn't listening. Snip. "Dan- AH!" Herbert is being dragged away from the little window. Snip. Dan should go down to the basement and kill the thing that's going 'bonkers'.

Sigh

Dan places his pruning shears on the trashcan lid next to him replacing them with a flathead shovel. He stalks into the house shovel in hands ready for combat- or whatever could be thrown at him when he enters the basement. It only takes him 30 agonizingly fast seconds to get to the basements door and one second to swing said door open and 15 whole seconds to see Herbert being thrown around and chased at the bottom of the stairs.

Dan doesn't need to tighten his grip on the shovel or think of what he has to do when he gets even just halfway down the stairs because Herbert is already yelling at him from the other half of the basement when he's only two steps down. He doesn't quicken his pace any more than the slow trudging pace he has been descending at the entire time since he put his shears down.

"DAN! Dan! The neck Dan- hurry!" Dan does just that and with one swing to the neck with Dan's sharpened shovel the neck gets severed in two.

Herbert adjusts his tortoise shell frames back so they cover his brow bone and eyes, wiping any oozed goo that had accumulated on the glass or his skin.

Dan turns around bringing the shovel back to his side and makes his way back up the stairs again face stoney and unfazed. He doesn't close the basement door behind him on his way out either, he knows Herbert will fallow him up and out to the garden anyways. Herbert is always itching to fill Dan in on his new findings, Dan just wants to trim his plants before his next shift. Herbert just doesn't seem to get the message. Dan often finds Herbert to be like crawling ivy, clingy and annoying. No matter how much Dan clips and tugs down Herbert's vines they always come back somehow more tangled rooted and thick.

Once he's back outside he places the shovel down hoses it off and only about 40 seconds into his aggressive hosing off he hears Herbert's feet patter behind him- he's late- he's muttering too his words go in one of Dan's ears and out the other- he's neurotic and he's late- Dan switches the hose to jet. He does this everytime and everytime Herbert seems to be louder than the water bouncing off the metal of his shovel. Herbert west is never late, he concludes. This seems to itch at Dan.

"your late." His words cut off Herberts frantic analysis. Herbert is transfixed and embarrassed. Dan realized his apprehension and plucked it out like he was plucking out a tumor. This fact irritates Herbert. "Why? Why were you late Herbert?"

"What do you mean- I wasn't late. Dan are you ok? Are the shifts at the hospital getting to you? You know I could-" Click. The hose is switched off and Dan doesn't turn around to look at Herbert. Dan is silent this irritates Herbert.

Herbert watches as Dan picks up his pruning shears. Snip. A dead leaf pruned. Snip. Dan has moved to the next one. Snip. Another dead leaf. Snip. Herbert watches the rudimentary triming of the black dahlias. Snip. Dan doesn't hack at plants usually especially not his flowers. Snip. Dan has decapitated a perfectly bloomed dahlia he doesn't give it a glace and it falls to the concrete below him. Herbert watches his partner turn to move on to the next bushel. He watches Dan lift his left foot to walk and almost crush the perfect bloom under his work boots.

"Dan." Suddenly his left hand his wrapped around his colleagues solid arm, Herbert appreciates the muscle flexing under his palm. He pulls Dan to face him and Dan completely misses the flower with his foot as he is turned.

Herbert's hold grounds him in place and roots him to the floor. Dan doesn't feel his eyes twitch and his face muscles quirk but he doesn't need to because he watches Herbert's eyes snap around his expressions like they're words in a textbook. Suddenly he wants stick his shears into Herbert's neck and watch him spurt out blood until he drops dead. He knows that won't happen and he knows it won't work.

"Yes."

"You're hack jobbing."

"Okay?"

"You don't hack job Dan- you never hack job."

Sigh

"Yes I do."

"No you don't."

"Yes I do."

"No you don't."

"Ye-"

Slap

"Dan listen to me you don't hack job and you especially dont- almost- step on perfect blooms." Herbert is right, he's always right and Dan sets down his shears back onto the trashcan lid.

His shoulders slack and he can feel the sun beating down on his neck and shoulders, he can also feel Herbert's hand clenched around his bicep. With his shears not in his hand any longer he doesn't feel the need to shear Herbert's neck, he honestly wishes he still did but he doesn't.

His pulse is rampant he's sure his partner can tell. He's certain because he watches his partner's hand fall. Somehow he can always tell when he's worked up and ready to snap. He admires Herbert for that he wishes he could communicate that to him but the words never spill and Everytime they bile at the back of his throat he chokes them back down. "Herbert..."

"Don't start." He doesn't. "Look Dan, you hosed off your shovel you pruned your flowers you didn't shear off my head. Dan you- your-"

"Thank you Herb." For once Herbert is the one who's choked on his words. Sounds of his usually overly oiled cogs in his head jam.

"No problem. Well I was saying that the serum is slowly regressing not in its effects of bringing back life- no- it's regressing in the way that..."

They both make it to the sliding glass door, Dan shuts the screen closed. Herbert is a few steps ahead, he always is. He's sputtering about the serum Dan doesn't care but he fallows him back to the basement down the stairs and back to where the separate dead head and body lay spread out.

He watches his partner jump around the basement in a fond sputter, he trails behind and only picks up on the important words. He doesn't mind he knows his place where he stands and where he fallows. He knows who he is here and he's sure his partner knows this too.

"Dan- Dan are you paying attention? I said to place the scalpel to the left not the right, Dan I'm left handed remember."

"Yes Herb I remember."

↓

Wooo hoo! They did malpractice (on the down low) and did hints of gay stuff!!! What a pair of guys- I hope they kiss...

[pandorasfavorite]

Hey bestie!! I thought of another one 🤭

A dom fluff where he’s struggling to cut his shirts into the muscle tees he likes to wear, so the reader shows him the proper way to cut them and when he tries them on they call him handsome and he gets all blushy and cute??

Crafting

AN: Sorry its taking me so long guys, work is kicking my ass but IM DOING ONE REQUEST AT A TIMEEEE.

“Fuck” he whispers under his breath irritated. Dominik holds the shirt up and it’s cut down the side to where it unfixable. You look up from your spot on the bed and you can’t help but laugh at the pitiful view of Dominik sitting on the floor surrounded by odd scraps of clothing. "I thought you said you knew how to do it", you mock his voice, laughing at your own joke and his annoyed look. "I do its just these scissors", he mutters turning back around to look down at his mangled shirts, You roll off the bed and walk over to him with confidence, "Yeah the scissors". You pluck the scissors out of his hands and sit next to him on the floor hearing him grumble the words, "I had it" under his breath.

You lean over and kiss his cheek lingering for a moment, "I know you did, I just wanted to be next to you", you whisper to him. Even though it isn't the complete truth and Dominik definitely needed help; it made him feel less embarrassed. You snatch up a shirt off the floor and pull it in front of you all laid out, you put the scissors in front of you and Dominik opening and closing them to be dramatic. Dominik rolls his eyes but smiles none-the-less slipping his hand to sit on your thigh while you teach him. "Okay so what you do is cut close to this hem here, but don't cut along the hem because it will fall apart", you speak quickly moving your hands and working at the shirt at the same time. Dominik is quiet not looking at the shirt but at you and the rapid pace at your lips are moving, he's thinking about how your lips could be moving against his.

Snap. "Babe are you paying attention?", You snapped your fingers in front of his face with an unbothered surprised face of your own, thinking his staring was kind of cute. Dominik sits up straighter saying "huh" before actually taking the time to process what you said, "Oh! Yea cut the hem of the shirt". You lightly slap his chest and gasp, "No cut close or-", "Or it will fall apart. I remember", he says squeezing your thigh in affection. You raise an eyebrow at him pursing your lips like you're determining if that's true, "Mhm Okay you're off the hook for now" You point your finger at him. Dominik leans over and kisses the side of your head with an 'Okay mami". You look at him from the side at the pet name unable to control how much you love it.

You snip at a few more shirts he had on the floor then you finish and Dominik shoves all the scraps into a pile, collecting everything. Once he throws them away he moves to pick up the shirts and fold them but you catch his hand grinning. "Try them on", Dominik looks confused for a moment staring at you dumbfounded, "Babe I already know the shirts fit me". You could care less if they fit him, you want to see your hard work put to use right now. You shrug at him while holding out a shirt for him to try on. Dominik looks at you and breaks into a smile, "Fineee" he rolls his eyes playfully. You bat your eyelashes at him and he leans down to peck your lips before walking into the bathroom right across from where you were sitting.

Dominik is quick to slip on the muscle shirt but without his black gear on, completely shirtless underneath. He throws open the door and walks through the walkway using his hands to show off his outfit. "Ohh Im liking this right here", you sit up from the floor to move your body along with your eyes. You move your head to see every inch of skin that isn't covered by the shirt but also how well they compliment. You toss another shirt at Dominik and motion for him to turn around and walk back into the bathroom, 'Last one!" he yells from the bathroom. You roll your eyes, "We're just getting started!" you yell back, Dominik sharing the same look from inside the bathroom.

This muscle shirt is black with lots of purple and green, you'd consider those to be his color, it compliments him almost too well. He walks out of the bathroom acting annoyed but you can tell it's not genuine. "Oh babe, this one is good. Makes me want to take you right here", your voice goes seductive and you look up at Dominik. His cheeks are red and he exhales heavily wetting his lips from where his mouth went dry suddenly. You toss one more shirt at him and ask him, "Just one more". Dominik couldn't deny you even if you made him try on 100 more shirts. "One more".

He comes out of the bathroom throwing his arms up in a flex turning every which way to show his mucules. You whistle at him, standing up off the floor to approach him. You pull him closer by the shirt's sides, both chest to chest. "Looking good handsome", you whisper against his lips, looking into his eyes that resemble a melting pot of love and adoration. His cheeks go ablaze again at the name and proximity in the moment, his hand moves to hold the side of your face, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip. "Trying to get me going?", he whispers back to you, "I don't know is it working?" you ask back. Dominik breaks and smiles largely pulling your lips to his, holding both sides of your face now, laughing into the kiss and pulling you into a dip. Every time you part he comes back for more kissing you like it would be his last.