#i tried and tried and just could not fucking manage that

[megapteraurelia]

ijichi was right there.

did gojo satoru care? no.

his mouth had latched on to your clit loudly, with fervour, mouth smacking, slurping, jaw moving back and forth harshly as he suckled on your swollen, puffy nub like his life depended on it. it almost felt like he wanted the assistant manager to hear, like he wanted to claim you through having your pussy sing for him.

chest heaving, you were biting hard into your rolled up dress to muffle your cries, embarrassment and shame as high as your arousal that the chaffeur might be listening in.

toru's pruned fingers pumped into your heat, gummy walls contracting around him, dragging along his knuckles so deliciously tight. slick thighs, squelches in the air, the movement of the car bumping your up into his face even more— god, he could never get enough.

the leather underneath your ass was sticky, juices having pooled underneath your skin, satoru's spit, your cum, your pussy's drool.

he let up from your clit with a loud smack, his nose burying in between your slick folds to inhale deeply, tongue probing at where his fingers still fucked into you.

"you're soooo wet for me, baby," his voice vibrated against your quivering cunt, "you like that the old guy's listening in, hn?"

it was his words, you told yourself, that had your thighs squeeze around his head, try to muffle a moan by pressing your hand against your mouth.

"ah, ah, don't be shy now. let him hear you," a pathetic whine climbed up your throat, uncontrollably, "you think he gets any, baby? i bet he won't be able to sleep later tonight, not without thinking about how pretty you sound, moaning for toru, hm?"

he kissed your clit, and his fingers pressed into the spot within you that had your legs twitch in his arms with ease, "c'mon baby, put on a show for him. give him fantasies to think about, yeah, just like that, attagirl, sooo good, baby, you're being so good."

heat climbed up your neck, tears clinging at your lashline from the force that toru's mouth found back to your clit. the thought that ijichi's cock would be straining in his tailoured pants, pristine as always as he tried to fight the filthy thoughts, while your boyfriend brought you to the brink with his mewls and groans, tongue heavy against your creamed pussy, burned in your spine, pooled low in your abdomen.

"like this, baby, cum for me, won't you? show the old man how fucking good this pussy sounds, how pretty, sooo responsive for toru."

back arching, tears running, thighs shaking, his tongue lapping it all up — oh, satoru really did not care who was on the other side of that dimmed glass.

[silksandcravats]

No Sleeping Alone - Dean x Reader HC

headcanon on boyfriend!dean who does NOT condone sleeping apart from you.

After years of lonely trips and no true closeness, Dean finally has you. And he refuses to spend any more nights alone, at least, not when you’re under the same roof.

No matter what.

Lovers quarrels are inevitable. Dean had always been a hothead, his anger boiled fast, and his sharp words shot out even faster.

Going into the whole thing, you knew your relationship would require strong patience on your end.

But you’re only human, so sometimes you’d snap, and call him out on his shit.

The fight grew to a peak, and to his credit, Dean was the one who stepped away first. Biting his tongue and exiting the room before he said something he really couldn’t take back.

You both keep your distance the rest of the day, opting to cool off in private.

The bunker was vast enough for you to comfortably avoid each other. Even through dinner, you both had found your own quiet moment to sneak in and out of the kitchen in record time.

You don’t know where to go as the day winds down, so you end up back in your old room. It was only a few doors further down the hallway, and you’d occupied it for quite a while.

Only it felt unfamiliar now. The very same room that was once your personal sanctuary now seemed cold and empty.

And damn it have queen mattresses always been this big?

It was just too much empty space for one person.

Still, it felt like the right thing to do, you both needed space to cool off. And the bedroom you now shared had been Dean’s first, so of course you should be the one to go.

This was the most logical place to spend the night.

It all made perfect sense, but you were still feeling sad and lonely as you curled up under the covers.

You pressed your eyes shut, trying to force sleep to come to you. Surely if you just held them shut long enough you’d drift off.

But you didn’t.

You wiggled around the ample empty space of the mattress, unsure what to do with yourself. So uncomfortable with the lack of a second, larger, warmer body, with grabby hands and little regard for how much space he took up.

You tapped out first most nights, you had no problem keeping late hours, but you needed your eight hours. Dean, on the other hand could go on four, even less sometimes. (No matter how many times you tried to convince him he needed more.)

So it took a while for Dean to realize what you’d done. But realize he did.

Eventually the door to your old room creaked open, and you didn’t flinch, you didn’t even have to turn to know who was there.

“There you are,” he sighed with relief.

Realistically, you’d always been somewhere in the bunker, where would you ever go? But in his panic, that logic hadn’t held.

“Why the hell are you in here?”

He’s irritated, but not like before. He’s not irritated at you, he’s irritated at the absense of you.

“I think we both need some space,” you sighed, back still to him. You heard his heavy steps as he moved deeper into the room, towards you.

“No.” He dismissed firmly.

“No?” You questioned back.

“We’re not fucking doing this,” he announced, decidedly gripping you and tossing you over his shoulder in one swift move.

You yelped, wriggling in his grasp until a firm swat to your backside stilled your squirming.

“Damn it, Dean! Did you forget we’re fighting?” you grunted, his shoulder digging harshly into your stomach.

“Well then we’ll work it out now, or tomorrow, I don’t really care but you’re sleeping with me.”

He deposited you on the side of the bed further from the door, your side.

You shuffled under the covers, propping your pillow so it was just so. You were trying to busy yourself with anything other than watching him strip down to his boxers and crawl in beside you.

Even in the early days, before anything was official, sharing a bed with Dean had always meant cuddles. Back to his front, chest to chest, you laying atop him.

You’d even managed to spoon him a few times when he was very very tired. The position was awkward, and your arms would ache the next morning, but for all that he did you felt he deserved to be held sometimes.

Now, for the first time, you were trying to keep space between you. It felt appropriate. It wasn’t as if you could erase the events of the day just because it was bedtime.

(Dean disagreed.)

“I’m too tired for this. C’mere,” He grunted.

He moved your unwilling limbs like a ragdoll, forcing you where he wanted you.

First, the hand around your waist tugged you, middle first against his body. His other arm around your back brought your chest completely flush to his, while a thick, muscled leg around yours brought the rest of you in. He had effectively trapped you against him.

“You go right here,” he hummed decidedly, tucking you in beneath the blanket.

“Dean-“ you protested weakly, not even convincing yourself.

“Where you belong,” his voice was low, content, and final.

As you laid in his arms your mood shifted, time had a way of making old anger feel pointless. You sank into his hold without even meaning to.

However mad you’d felt earlier couldn’t compare to the peace you felt now. The utter relief of being him his arms superseded any other feeling.

“Thank you for coming to get me,” you whispered after some time had passed.

You didn’t know if he was still awake, if he’d heard you until he answered.

“M’always gonna come get ya.” His tired voice croaked, chest rumbling against you. “You’re not going anyway.”

“Don’t want to go anywhere,” you agreed sleepily, wiggling closer against him.

“Good.”

[melanchoire]

yoga instructor karina receiving you in her class, she was used to see older ladies in her sessions but you were so young and beautiful, you told her you wanted to relax after work and that’s how you got into that, obviously you became her fav student and started to offer you private sessions to get you more relaxed, you accepted not knowing her intentions, she usually take advantage of groping your tits or your ass, sometimes muffled some suggestive words that you couldn’t understand and then she corrects herself with “i said good job 😊” so you ignored the idea of her saying other stuff, in one of your sessions she wanted to teach you a new position for your back pain, she made you laid and she was on top, your pussies almost grinding through your sporty shorts, she made a move with her hips making you whine, you were embarrased but she was so excited to make you feel good, you two scissoring while you tried your best to suck her tits bc the way they bounced were driving you insane, after cumming two times she left to one of her rooms and told you to wait, just to came back with a vibrator wand in her hand telling you to open your legs that you still have a few minutes of the session left

cw: dubcon, scissoring.

going to yoga classes through the recommendation of a family member. maybe an aunt told you that yoga would help you take your mind off your heavy work and grueling college classes, and while at first you thought this was something silly, you decided to give it a try anyway because it never hurts to try new things!

and well, karina was also more than grateful to your relative for recommending you attend her classes. she thought it was just another older woman going to yoga classes to try to rejuvenate herself in some way and regain the beauty she used to have in her youth, without expecting that it would be about a young girl who was just looking for a hobby to relax in her free time

and the different treatment is noticeable! it’s not that karina hates her students who are older adults, but having a cute girl who always wears the tightest, sluttiest workout clothes possible is something that brightens up your afternoons 🥰 it doesn’t matter if she is having a shitty day, seeing you makes her happy!

and definitely touches your body inappropriately, justifying that she is fixing your bad posture and correcting your mistakes, it being somewhat strange that you are the only one that karina is doing this to… but it’s probably because you're new and don’t have as much knowledge as the other students, of course! of course… although from time to time you question this because karina’s touches are somewhat strange, you know, touching your tits or sliding her hands in places she shouldn’t! but she says she is just fixing her posture and massaging your body a little to relax your muscles

until one day karina ends up thirsty to her desires, suddenly pressing her clothed pussy against yours while “helping” you stretch a little before your daily routine 🫣 at first you would try to resist, but she ends up grinding on you so much that you unconsciously agree because she was feeling very good and more than it should 😵‍💫 writhing on the mat and trying to stay still but at the same time making an effort to follow karina’s movements and grind your cunt against hers because this felt too good and at this point you didn’t care that you were in a gym where anyone could walk into the yoga room and watch you fuck your teacher

although it ends up being somewhat embarrassing for you because karina manages to make you cum with your clothes on, shamefully staining your leggings and hers 😣 but she doesn’t care because she has a noticeable smirk on her face seeing that you’re being a pathetic little toy for her <3 she would assure you that there is nothing to be ashamed of because you come to her classes to relax and she was fulfilling that task, wasn’t she?

[miaoua3]

hi 👋 I don’t know if you’re accepting requests still but if you are, can you write something with s.coups and him talking to you after the show about the in ear delay that just happened at their show recently? Like how he was pissed and had to wrangle the boys back to the main stage?

hii! ofc i can! this is right up my alley because i LOVE it when coups gets all angry😖😩😫💦👅

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

(pairing: bf!scoups x gn!reader)

you just sit on the little couch that is propped against the wall of the changing room, following your boyfriend as he frustratedly walks left and right across the room, listening intently as he’s angrily ranting about the situation.

the whole scene that happened on the stage tonight shocked you, for several reasons.

one-the fact that it happened at all was shocking. the staff usually pay more attention to things like this, trying their hardest to prevent them from happening. but apparently, there have been some new people on the team, newly hired, but after the problem that occurred today, you can imagine that they’re going to be newly fired quickly as well.

two-the way your boyfriend, but also the team as a whole, handled it. you could see cheol angrily communicating with the staff behind the stage, his mouth and sharp hand movements making it clear that he was pissed. but luckily, they have been trained to be nothing but professionals, nothing but perfect, and they handled it as such. sure, their singing was a bit off tempo but honestly, they still sounded great, despite everything.

and now, here we are. the concert is over, and so is this situation.

that doesn’t mean that cheol didn’t give the staff a good earful about it, borderline yelling at them. but before he could get so far, you firmly pushed him back and sent him to change, apologising for your boyfriend’s (understandable) outburst.

cheol angrily takes his jacket off and throws it harshly on the chair, all while angrily ranting.

“fucking incompetent idiots, you spend so much of your parents’ money on the school so you could get this job, only for you to be too stupid to do it, the job that you literally got your education for. how fucking hard is it to keep your fucking eyes on that fucking sound board and keep control over it? who keeps on giving such fucking people jobs? a five year old could do a better job than them-“

if you think this is much, you should’ve heard the start of his rant…that started almost 20 minutes ago.

you watch him silently, completely content to let him get it out of his system.

but then he tries getting his necklace off, sighing angrily as it refuses to cooperate with him. you can see that if the necklace doesn’t get off his neck in the next 10 seconds, that he’s going to absolutely lose it.

which is why you silently get up and walk over to him. your hands gently push his away, taking over the task as you watch his face immediately relax (only slightly though) at your touch.

his eyes are purely black, pupils blown out due to the range of the emotions that he is experiencing at the moment.

you finally get the necklace to open, gently putting it on the little table behind you, before turning back towards him.

your touch is as soft as a feather as you take your hands and envelope his soft and slightly reddish cheeks with them.

cheol immediately deflates at this, closing his eyes as he sighs, all the frustration leaving his body.

cheol always wondered if maybe your touch had some magic to it, because it always managed to make him feel better immediately.

thumbs softly rubbing his soft skin, you gently ask him “how can i make it better?”

your boyfriend’s face transform into something between despair and sadness. with a quiet voice, he peeps “you already are making it better.”

for a few minutes, you two just stand there, enjoying each other’s presence.

but then cheol shuffles cutely a bit towards you before he hugs your waist and pushes his face into the crook of your neck, making your hands fall from his cheeks and instead wrap themselves around his upper back.

his quiet voice brokenly says “just…hold me. please.”

he doesn’t have to tell you twice.

for him, there isn’t the corner of this earth that you wouldn’t go to.

for him, there isn’t anything you wouldn’t do.

for him, you would try to make it all feel better.

[lyssakinzzz]

I was wondering if you could write an absolute pervert Remmick x poc reader where he lures her (or them) into the woods in the middle of night and has a fucked up makeshift wedding reception set up for her with absolutely disgusting, feral, raw cream pie-ing (if you're comfortable with it)

WARNING: Dark remmick, dub con if you squint oral (f!receiving), breeding kink, thigh biting, mind control, forced into marriage, gentle to ROUGH sex, degradation with A DROP of praise. Remmick being a bully, squirting, hair pulling, spiting.

Paring: Remmick x Witch POC reader.

You didnt know how he managed to stay in your mind. You did everything, cleansing spells, rituals, even blood sacrifices. Nothing.

You were a powerful witch. You helped people with their love lives, spiritual lives, helped them let go of loved ones, you even managed to cleanse evil spirits. Sometimes, you'd feel spirits lingering after but that was normal! You were cleansing yourself of their energies, you were bound to feel it.

But this, this was different he was one with you. One day, you met with a women, a man had been stalking her, but she wasn't too sure it was a man. So, you consulted with her, it was your job! You did everything you could but you couldn't quite crack the code on him, but he did end up leaving her alone, so your job here was complete you moved on to the next client! It was fine until it wasn't.

You felt his presence with you always, but tonight you had enough with him playing games with you. So, you brought anything to kill any sort of monster, anything you can find that you knew was deadly.

You stalked outside to the woods of your house where the creature had been calling you, you felt the connection most strongest at this beautiful little lake outside, it looked like an ethereal wedding to be honest, you heard steps behind you and saw a white couple.

"Hi, dearie!" The women smiled. She looked...odd. Her husband smiled at you too, the both looked crazy, but they weren't the man.

"What yall doing out here." You breathlessly questioned, that mother fucker tricked you.

"Well were just assistin' a friend. He's gettin' hitched tonight!" She whooped, and her husband chuckled.

"Oh...well I best be in my way, ma'am, sir." You drop your head and walk off. Of course this motherfucker was playing with you and lead you in to some werido wedding reception in your nightgown and Bonnet looking like a crazy women. You groaned as you paced to your house but the second you did he grabbed you by the back you screamed and kicked, you felt his claws graze you, and saw his glowing eyes in the reflection of the screen door.

Vampire.

You thought as you grabbed you stake and tried to attack him.

"Mmm, baby were connected, I know your every move." He rasped in your ears, his breath smelling like cigarettes and coppery blood.

You kick and struggle, but it didn't phase him.

"Mm...now, I gotta surprise for you, I'd think you'd love." he declared as he shushed you and took you to the wedding sight. You saw the couple from earlier playing music, and remmick smiled.

"See, baby...all for you." He smiled as he let you go.

"Now Joan's gonna help you get all pretty for me, right Joan?" She nodded as she ushered you inside of another house on the property.

"Now you go wash up! It's your wedding night, darling!" She exclaimed as she handed you a washcloth and soap.

You ran to the bathroom looking for any kind of window. Of course there'd barely be any vampires hide out here! You groaned as you started to wash your body.

-----‐------♡-----‐-----

You walked down the aisle with some other members of his cult grinning at your beauty. Remmick alike, you reached your "husband"

You didn't even know what to think, he was in your mind, you couldn't think of staking him and watching his body became lifeless once more, you couldn't think of an escape route without him stopping it. You lost all free will.

He smiled. "Oh you look so pretty in blue, angel" he grinned as he took your hand and they started the ceremony, you internally screamed at the uncomfortable sixpence in your shoes as the officiator started.

----------

You took off your shoe and let out a sigh of relief as put your feet up on the bed, Remmick sat at the foot and like a seesaw the weight distributed there, he rubbed your feet and kissed your calfs as he inhaled your scent and moaned.

"Look, what ever sick fantasy you wanted. It happened, let me go" You demand as his lips lingered before he gazed up at you.

"Oh, mo chroi. I'm far from done, but I doubt you wanna leave until I'm satisfied." He grinned as he kissed up your thighs and slowly parted them. He was surprisingly gentle. For now. He bit down on your inner thighs with his sharp canines, you arched you back and groaned as you felt hot liquid seep out, he sucked the ruby liquid and moaned.

"You taste amazing..." He declared as he inched up to your cunt and gave you kitten licks, you let out an involuntary moan as you sunk down onto the head board. You've had sex before, you've been tasted before, but he knew his way around even though it was his first time touching you. You let out breathy moans as he licked at your folds, and a sharp audible one once he sunk his fingers inside you.

"Oh yeah, love. Let me hear you." He grinned, prideful as you started to get more into it, your body shoots up as he uses a different kind of speed. You felt your realase coming as you gripped the headboard and saw your vision blur. You heard water trickle out on the bed and he looked like he just struck oil in a foreign land.

He grinned as he finally started lapping at your overstimulated folds, you whined as he tugged at your neck a clear sign for you to keep your head up and maintain eye contact. You accepted his non verbal challenge and lost horribly as you felt your head thud against a pillow as you felt you second realase coming as you creamed in his mouth.

You moaned as your head hit the pillow in satisfaction, he was done with you, he had to be. You were sadly mistaken as he flipped you over and pulled your hair to face him.

"Ahhh..." He teased you to open your mouth. He spat in your mouth and lightly smacked your cheek, an order for you to swallow. You mindlessly obeyed as he pushed your face down into the pillow, and just sunk into you.

"Sh- s'too big!" You exclaimed as you tried to wiggle him out of you.

"Well when you're out here moaning like a little bitch, I expect you to take this fucking cock, understand, cum rag?" He rasped in your ear and you nodded as he pushed your head back down.

"Atta girl..." He smirked as he started fucking you. Hard. The bed was creeking as he kept slamming your hips into his huge cock, you cried out his name like it was the only thing you knew in all these years of vibrant life. He wasn't doing to well too, he was moaning in your ear which just made you tighter which caused him to moan more.

"Fuck, pretty girl tryna snap my dick off." He grunted as he kept thrusting and breaking in your cervix. You babbled in response and he was coming up with something witty but you tightened around him.

He finally regained composure.

"Ah...you'd love it if I painted your walls with my cum, hm. You wanna get filled with my babies, don't you fuck, girl?" He questioned, growing impossibly faster. You had no thought through your head. He pulled your hair back so you would face him.

"A question deserves an answer, cumslut" he groaned as you nodded his head. You nodded mindlessly.

"Verbally."

"Y-yes, yes, gosh!" You whined as his balls drew up and he came inside you. He saw your eyes flutter and you involuntarily sink down

"Atta girl" he smirked proudly before flipping you on your back.

[laligraves]

all alone

serial killer!joel miller x fem!reader

[18+] | wc: ~ 4k summary: You catch the attention of a serial killer. masterlist | AO3

warnings: dark!Joel, HBO Joel, TLOU AU, dubious consent (i'm so serious don't read if it makes you uncomfortable), some proofreading, no outbreak AU, 70's/80's AU (not really committed to a specific time but let's say before the 90's), murder/violence, no use of y/n or too many details on reader's appearance, slight degradation, outdoor sex, squirting, unprotected sex, creampie

a/n: hello y'all! sorry for being so MIA. it has been a rough 7 months. but I watched the pitt and now I have inspiration to start writing again (random, I know) 🤍 also this is only slightly proofread

Two days. 

It took two full days for you to bury the body. Six feet, loads of soft dirt, and all his belongings.

You couldn’t exactly go into a store and buy a ladder or a shovel. So you improvised. 

There were enough rural, abandoned farms in Texas that you could sneak onto the properties without being seen and take the things you needed. You have more than enough experience stealing, so you only had a mild worry about the gun-happy folk in this state. 

You found a dirty blue tarp to wrap his body, and once the hole was deep enough, you rolled him right in. You dropped all his belongings in there, too. It probably would have been a better idea to scatter his things throughout your road trip, but you were just too damn tired to care. 

You kept only a few things: his truck, his gun, and the money. 

The money was all your plan. It was a simple heist that involved robbing a small bank, with Anthony as the gunman and you as the getaway driver. You had the floor plans you found using your intelligence and charm. Therefore, the only issues were the security guard and the 8-minute response time from the police. 

Anthony and you were on the highway in 7 minutes. 

But he became too greedy with the money. At first, you were okay with him spending a few at the casinos, but the drugs and strippers became an annoyance. When he walked back into your hotel room with the stench of vodka and perfume, the idea to kill him, to rid yourself of this parasite, had crossed your mind. 

When he called you, drunk and delirious, to pick him up from the 7th strip club of the week, you listened. And when he told you to pull over on an empty road because he wanted to fuck, you grabbed your knife and stabbed it into his eye, straight into his head. 

Blood splattered all over the inner cabin of his truck, and he flailed in pain until red dripped down his entire front. 

It wasn’t a smart decision. You had to park the truck in the back of the hotel, away from the street lamps, while you walked discreetly back into your room to grab all of your belongings. 

You managed to wipe away most of the blood once he was six feet underground, and you thanked your now-dead boyfriend for his decision to choose a truck with an all-black interior. 

There were no tears or regret, only a sense of much-needed relief. He wasn’t necessary for your plans, just a pretty face to look at and a good shot. Until he began wasting your fucking money. 

But luck has to run out at some point. 100 miles away from his grave. 

The smoke billows out from underneath the hood of the truck. You’ve tried everything you can to get it to start, but the engine is completely fried. 

“Ain’t nothing we can do,” the mechanic says, wiping away sweat droplets from his hairline, “gonna need a new engine for it to work.” 

“Okay,” you say, “how long will it take to put in a new engine?” 

He wipes his dirty hands on an even dirtier rag and reaches for a stack of papers. 

“ ‘bout a week. Just need you to fill out this paperwork and we’ll get started on payment.” 

Your heart drops. Fuck. A week is too long. 

“Any chance you can find a new engine sooner? I’m somewhat in a rush, my sister is getting married in three days,” you lie easily. “No matter the cost.” 

He shakes his head, giving you an apologetic smile. “Those engines gotta be special ordered. If you’re in a rush, I suggest takin’ a Greyhound or plane to wherever you’re goin’.” 

Fuck, Anthony. He just needed a brand new truck with difficult-to-find parts. 

“Whatever you do, don’t hitchhike,” he leans in, whispering, “too many people have gone missin’ on this side of Texas.”

One of the other mechanics calls his name and he walks away, putting up his finger to let you know he’ll be right back. You take the opportunity to slip out of the garage, leaving behind the truck. You don’t care what happens to it, it’s under one of Anthony’s aliases, and even if it was under his real name, they have no way of connecting him to you. 

There’s a gas station just a block down the street, so you figure you can try your luck there for some directions to the nearest greyhound station. You drag the suitcase behind you, a firm grip on it as people pass by on the sidewalk or in cars on the street. Everyone seems friendly, most of them smile and say “good afternoon,” which has you feeling more at ease. 

If you weren’t so hell bent on making it out west, you could imagine a life in this small town. There’s cute shops in the downtown area, trees lining the sidewalks, and parks with people enjoying their afternoon.  

The cashier at the gas stations hands you a pamphlet with the bus information and two quarters to use the pay phone once you give her the same story. You thank her, but deny the change, once again surprised by the town’s kindness and make your way towards the pay phone. 

The pay phone is right next to a board full of job posting, community event reminders, and… missing persons flyers. You open your wallet and take out change, sliding two quarters in the slot, and dial the phone number to the bus station. 

As you listen to the hold music, you begin to read some of the flyers. 

Jesse Smith. Male. 32. Last seen 01/08/70 on Tulson Road at 8:59 P.M. speaking to an unknown male in a dark colored pickup truck. 

Sasha Conner. Female. 27. Last seen 03/15/71 on Lake Avenue at 2:46 A.M. speaking to an unknown male, tall with brown, wavy hair. 

James Gonzalez. Male. 26. Last seen 05/22/72 on Wilson Street at 1:47 A.M. in an verbal altercation with an unknown male. 

“Jesus,” you whisper in fear, “I wonder if it’s the same guy?” 

The line cracks and you hear the voice of another person. 

“Thank–for–57th station–how–help–” 

“Hi, I’m sorry,” you say into the receiver, “the line is cutting–hello? Can you hear me?” 

“Are–for–times–hello?”

You hear the voice for a few more moments over static before the line completely cuts out. 

“Damnit,” you murmur. 

Before you can slide another quarter into the slot, a deep voice startles you. 

“These payphones don’t work, sweetheart.” 

You spin around, coming face to face with a brown-haired man. 

“Whoa,” he laughs, “didn’t mean to scare ‘ya.” 

How did he sneak up behind me?

“No,” you say, “it’s fine. So the payphones don’t work?” 

He shakes his head, strands of wavy hair brushing his forehead. He’s attractive in a rough sort of way, like a man who uses his body for manual labor everyday. He has a few scars on his arms and face with gray strands scattered throughout his hair. 

“Ain’t worked for awhile,” he points to the entrance of the gas station, “that’s why they give out those quarters. Just being nice cuz the owner ain’t fixin’ it.” 

You place the phone back on the stand with a resounding thunk and take a deep breath. You could try the diner across the street, maybe they have another payphone or a phone they could let you use. 

You need to call the bus station first, find out which buses are heading as far west as possible, then a taxi company to get you there. 

“Joel Miller,” he says, sticking his hand out for a handshake. “If it’s a ride you need to the Greyhound Station, I’d be happy to help.” 

He motions behind him to a pickup truck. It’s shiny in the sunlight, and looks well taken care of. You accept his handshake and suppress the flutter in your lower belly from the strength in his hold. 

“How did you know where I was calling–” 

“I don’t like seeing young girls alone,” Joel interrupts, motioning towards the pamphlet in your hand, “it’ll be dark in a few hours and Lord knows it ain’t safe out here.” He points to the bulletin filled with the missing persons flyers. “The town is nice during the day, but at night…” 

He doesn’t need to finish his sentence for you to understand. You can handle yourself on your own, it’s been that way since you were a teen. You’re quick on your feet and you know you’re way around a revolver or a pocket knife, but the thought of a serial killer on the loose while you have no way of leaving does frighten you. 

But, you’re not naive. Most men don’t offer anything in this world without wanting something else in return. Especially handsome men like Joel. 

“I can pay you–” 

“No,” Joel interrupts again, “that ain’t necessary.” 

So, he wants something else. 

Joel picks up your suitcase and puts it in the backseat before he helps you into the passenger side. His car smells like leather, pine tree air freshener, and cigarettes. 

It’s only a faint smell, and if the box of mostly full Marlboro reds in the cupholder says anything, he probably only smokes every once in a while. Joel hops into the driver’s side, flashing you a quick smile, and starts the engine. You pull out the map you carry in your purse and quickly find the city you're in. 

“So according to the Greyhound pamphlet,” you say, showing Joel the pamphlet the cashier gave you, “it’s on Thompson Street and 20 minutes away–” 

“Yeah, yeah, sweetheart,” he interrupts, waving his hand, “I know a shortcut. We’ll cut that 40 minute drive down to 30.” 

“It says on the pamphlet that it’s 20 minutes from any part of town—” 

“There’s some construction goin’ on. The drive around town is a lot longer. Don’t worry, about it.”

Joel rolls down the windows of the truck and switches on the radio to a country station. You don’t miss the glances to your exposed thighs, even if he tries to be subtle about it. You don’t mind. You like the way he looks at you, and most importantly, you like how he looks. 

There’s always a seed of doubt present in your mind when you meet new people. It’s difficult to trust others when you’ve been wronged so many times, even recently with Anthony. Joel is a large man, broad and tall, with enough muscle in his arms that he swung your suitcase into the backseat so easily despite it being heavy. 

If he wanted to, he could grab and toss you around with minimal effort. And as you watch him sit in the driver’s seat, thighs spread wide, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the back of your seat, you suddenly crave violence. 

You squeeze your thighs together at the thought of him gripping you tight while he fucks you hard on the hood of hid truck. You feel the heat of his hand, resting behind you on the leather, not quite touching you but close enough for you to know it’s there. 

“Thanks again, Joel. You saved me from having to find another phone. Or wait for a taxi.” 

He turns to look at you again, giving you another smile, the wrinkles around his eyes more prominent when he does. His eyes do a quick once over, but you still manage to notice how they linger. The sundress you wear has ridden up even more now that you’re sitting down. 

“No worries,” he says, “gotta make sure you get to your sister’s wedding, right?” 

You look at him in surprise. 

“I overheard your conversation with the attendant,” Joel says, answering your question before you can ask it, “I wasn’t followin’ you outside but I just needed to know you’d be okay.” 

You turn to look out the car windows, noticing that he’s driven out of the town and into the countryside.

“Oh,” you say, feeling relief. “So are you a local?” 

“Something like that–woah, I think I turned myself around. Would you mind takin’ out your map? The construction that’s going on has me all turned around,” Joel laughs. 

He grabs the map from your hand, touching his fingers to yours. Your breath catches in your throat at the warmth radiating from him. 

“Think we’re on Road 51,” he says, pointing to a spot on the map. “We’ll need to drive straight for a bit until we get to Daley Avenue and make a left.” 

You lean over to take a look at what he’s pointing at, but he folds it up and hands it back to you. “How’s a pretty thing like you end up out here?” Joel asks. 

“Hitched a ride to this town,” you say, already having an answer prepared. 

Joel looks at you with a raised eyebrow. “And where were you before?” 

“Living with my boyfriend–well, ex-boyfriend, a few towns over.” 

Joel shakes his head. “Ex-boyfriend? Can’t imagine any man letting go of a woman like you.” 

If only you knew, you think to yourself. 

“Sorry,” Joel says quickly, “ain’t tryna make you uncomfortable. But you oughta know how pretty you are.” 

There’s a warm glow in your lower belly. You can smell the scent of his cologne mixed with the saltiness of his sweat. It’s been a while since you were fucked, properly fucked. Not the quick, boring moments with Anthony that made you more annoyed than relaxed. 

“No, it’s okay. I enjoy the compliments,” you say, giving him a smile. “You’re not too bad yourself.” 

Joel laughs loudly, shaking his head. “Haven’t heard that in a while.” 

“There’s no one calling you handsome at home?” you ask, running a finger through his thick hair. 

It’s a bold move, one that under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t do. But the sun is setting, the breeze coming in from outside the truck is fresh, and the sound of his voice is clouding your senses. 

Joel makes a left turn onto a road you don’t catch the name of. There’s more trees and an endless road ahead. 

“Can’t say there is,” he murmurs, grabbing your hand and squeezing it. “Now I suggest staying put in your seat, honey. Don’t play with this old man’s feelings.” 

“Should I play with something else, then?” 

Your hand reaches down to his jeans to palm his bulge. He groans, quickly veering right and straight into the patch of trees. You yelp in surprise, bouncing in your seat, but he parks the truck and drags you to his lap. 

You hear the thunk of your purse hit the truck floor and slide underneath the seat. The thoughts you had earlier, of Joel being dangerous, still linger in your mind. He's quick, strong enough to pull you into his lap and hold you tight against the bulge in his jeans. 

And it scares you. 

But in a fucked up way, it also excites you. His hand slides to the back of your neck and he brings your head down, connecting his lips to yours. Your dress has ridden up, exposing the pink cotton of your panties. You grind down on the rough material of his jeans, shivering in his hold as the goosebumps rise on your skin. 

He kisses with an intensity you’ve never felt before, but one that you’ve craved while you're alone in bed, dreaming of a blurry silhouette who can make you breathless. Joel tugs at straps of your dress, pulling them down and exposing your bare breasts to the warm air. 

You test his strength, wriggling in his lap and pushing gently against his chest, but he immediately grips your hands and brings them behind your back, thrusting his hips into the softness between your legs. 

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere, honey,” Joel growls. 

He attacks your neck, dragging sharp teeth over sensitive skin and down your chest, finally reaching the peak of your breast with his tongue. You grind down on his lap, gliding your hands through his thick hair to bring his head closer to your tits. 

Joel groans against you, the sound vibrating on your skin while he laps at your nipples. Your legs have turned to jelly at this point, and you’re positive you’ve made a mess on his jeans from the wetness seeping through your panties. 

There is a swirl of heat in your lower belly, the tightening of your inner thighs, and the slow trickle of exhilaration that courses through your veins. You’re close, your orgasm teetering on the edge as you bounce and rub your clit in his lap.

“Sweet little thing,” Joel murmurs, dragging his lips over your chin, “so sensitive.”

His hands roam from your tits down to your thighs and ass, where he grips hard, keeping your hips flush with his. 

“Anthony ain’t ever make you feel this good?” 

For a second, you think you imagined it, that you’re conjuring up words that weren’t even spoken. But it only takes another second for you to realize what he said. Your body freezes in fear, blood turning ice cold in your veins, as your mind rushes to understand why Joel would say Anthony’s name. 

“Nothin’ to say?” Joel whispers, “or maybe you just kill ‘em when you get bored?” 

“Fuck you.” 

With those words, you manage to punch him in the throat, catching him completely off guard. You slide off his lap and fall to the truck floor on weak knees, blindly looking for your purse that slid underneath the seat. Joel tries to grab you by the hair just as you open the passenger door. By the grace of God, your hand connects with metal, your pocket knife, and you climb out of the truck. 

You don’t have time to waste, so you make no intention of taking your luggage or trying to find your purse. Joel is already climbing out after you, screaming your name into the darkness as you run into the trees. 

“Don’t run,” Joel yells, “we were just gettin’ to know each other.” 

“Fuck off, creep!” 

You zig zag through the trees, stumbling through the branches and moss. The sun has gone down completely, so you have nothing but silver streaks of moonlight to illuminate your path. Despite his age, he runs fast behind you, thundering steps that echo all around you. You don’t dare turn around and see how close he is for fear of tripping or losing speed. 

There’s a break in the trees, a patch of grass and in the distance, a wire fence. If you can get through that clearing and climb over that fence, maybe, maybe, you can find a house with people that can help you. 

But luck has to run out at some point. 

You trip, in some stupid, twisted fate, right as you make it out of the trees. You land face first into the soft grass with a loud oomph, momentarily stunning you. You try to regain your senses, managing to get up on your knees, but a large body immediately falls on top of you. 

Joel pushes you back down, easily dodging the swipe of your knife. He brings both of your hands behind your back and takes your pocket knife, throwing it far away. 

“Get off of me, asshole!” 

He laughs at that, undeterred while he flips up the back of your sundress and lands a sharp slap to your left cheek. Embarrassingly, you whimper. There’s so much adrenaline running through your body, fear melting into heat through your veins, that you become aware of every single touch on your skin. 

The night air, the soft grass pressing on your knees and face, the feel of his rough jeans on the back of your thighs, Joel’s hand holding your wrists together, his erection that presses against the wet cotton of your panties–it’s all too much. You’ve never felt this sensitive or vulnerable before. 

“I know it was you, the person who killed all those people,” you spit out, “all those descriptions match you, Joel.” 

“Oh yeah? Guess we got one thing in common,” he says, pulling down the zipper of his jeans, “we like to hunt.” 

“No,” you scream, feeling the rip of your panties and the push of his tip to your entrance, “I’m not–I’m not like you–fuck!” 

You’ve always been proud of how wet you become. How easy it is for you to become aroused and slide your fingers, or toys, or whoever you wanted, right between your tight walls. But in this instance, it almost feels like a curse. Joel slides in, punching his hips in one fluid motion, stopping only halfway as you tighten around his length. 

You figured he was big, everything about this man is big. However, this is new. The sensation of being stretched to your limit or ripped open, you're not even sure. Another thrust of his hips and loud groan from him and he’s fully in, his hands, gripping your hips while he takes a break. 

You don’t even try to fight, don’t try to use your now free hands to push away or fight. You can only breathe in short exhales, too tired from the running and too full of his cock to bring oxygen into your brain. Joel, on the other hand, is breathing heavily above you. He curves himself into your back, pressing hot kisses on your shoulder. 

“I knew you’d be fuckin’ sweet,” Joel groans. 

“Stop,” you whimper, fully aware of your leaking pussy and the tight grip you have on him, “let me go.” 

You don’t even believe the words coming out of your mouth. 

“You were in my backyard, honey,” he says through gritted teeth, “shit, you almost found the bodies.” 

“What the hell–oh, God–” 

Joel slowly pulls out, his thick length dragging along your walls, leaving just the wide head of his tip inside of you. His hand slips between your thighs to rub tiny circles over your pulsing clit. He plunges in again, this time harder, pushing right against your cervix. 

“Oh, that’s fuckin’ perfect,” Joel murmurs.  

“Joel–” 

“Saw you drag the body into the hole,” he says, “too bad you dropped his ID.” 

Your body shakes and jolts forward with each of his thrusts. It doesn’t quite matter how you ended up here, your body has betrayed you. Your pussy clamps down on his cock, covering his length and jeans in sticky juices. 

“You–you followed me,” you stammer, “fuck, Joel! You fuck–fucking followed–oh shit–me.” 

He spanks you in three harsh slaps, each followed by the slam of his hips. “Course. I. Did.” 

You wish you had the mental capacity to ask more questions, to try and understand how he found you and what he wants from you. But, he keeps splitting you in half, rubbing his cock through your folds and back into your pussy. 

His lips find your neck and he licks a path from your shoulder to your spine. Joel bites, sucks at your skin, leaving indents of his teeth on your back. His fingers speed up on your clit, bringing you right to that peak. 

“Just like that, sweetheart,” Joel groans, “take that cock.” 

Your fingers rip at the grass as you thrust back onto his cock, squeezing your walls, doing your best to keep him locked inside of you. 

“Little slut’s gonna cum, ain’t she? Killed her boyfriend,” he groans, frantically thrusting into you, “only four days ago and–and already comin’ on my cock.” 

“No I’m not,” you lie, “I’m not–” 

You push back, breathless and vision blurring, as the force of your orgasm sweeps through your body. A scream erupts from your throat, echoing through the empty field, while Joel pistons his hips, never stopping his movements. 

“Cum f’m, honey. Show me what this pretty pussy can do,” Joel groans. 

He lets your upper half fall forward completely into the grass, and then you feel it. The pulse of his cock inside of you and the flood of warmth. He groans your name repeatedly followed by his crude pet name for you, little fuckin’ slut, draining my cock, aren’t ya’, slut?

Joel's cum fills you, drips out of you from how fat his cock is in your tiny pussy. With another, final harsh thrust, he drops on top of you. You don’t know how long time passes with the both of you lying on the ground. 

His nose is pressed into your neck and you hear his rough breathing. Your thighs begin to ache and you feel warmth from where he spanked you. You wiggle beneath him with barely any energy, but he’s quick to wrap a hand around your throat. 

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” 

“You had your fun, Joel,” you whisper, “let me go.” 

Joel squeezes your neck gently and rolls off of you. You’re surprised, wondering if that actually worked. Before you can hoist yourself up on weak legs, he grabs you and spins you around, throwing you over his shoulder. 

“Ain’t done with you yet, sweetheart.” 

You don’t have the energy to fight him.

[tmpestuous]

the other side

summary: the avengers rescue their newest recruit from hydra: you.

pairing: bucky x (future)avenger!reader

warnings: canon level violence, mentions of torture by hydra all throughout, mentions of death/murder, nightmares, guilt, trauma, angst, but bucky is a sweetheart who the world doesn’t deserve

word count: 4.5k

a/n: going baaaack in time for this one with the start of phoenix’s journey with the avengers. i’ve had this unfinished for a while and have finally completed it (: there will be a second part to this, but this can definitely still be read as a standalone; i hope you enjoy <3 

phoenix & the winter soldier masterlist

Fuck.

The pounding in your head could equate to being repeatedly hit with a hammer. Only your reality was much worse.

The man currently smashing your head into the pavement was one you’d rarely seen. He seemed to be in control of the entire organization currently holding you captive, immediately ordering around operatives and seeing the employees fall to his will. 

He came once every other week. His name was unbeknownst to you, just like many things since the moment you’d stepped foot in this makeshift prison. The source of his anger was also a mystery, as you were dragged from your ‘room’ (if you could even call it that), shoved in that dreaded chair in front of dozens of people speaking in Russian, with an IV lodged in your arm and an irate man staring at you with disgust.

“Why have we not tried putting words in her brain yet?” The man spat at the operative to his left, seemingly a scientist.

“Unfortunately, none of our methods have worked. We do not have a record of how Dr. Zola managed to do so with our Soldat—”

“You mean to tell me we have no one as smart as a scientist from fucking 70 years ago?”

The scientist shook his head promptly. “I’m afraid not, sir.”

He grunted. “And the serum?”

“The enhancement serum was a success, but only on our current subject here. The others have not seemed to respond to it very well. She seems to be our strongest soldier. She is in top condition, save for an incident at the beginning of her treatment,” he rambled, the man looking at him as if he’d answered the question wrong. “The control serum is also effective, sir. We have currently extended its effectiveness to around seven hours, but we have not tested it in the field.”

“Why not?” The man spat once more, his tone filled with disgust.

“While attempting to suppress her memories, it seems that the serum wipes her memories almost entirely, which sometimes included our direct orders. We cannot send her out to the field if she cannot provide us with a mission report. She also resists when we attempt to subdue her—”

And that’s how you ended up snatched out of the chair, thrown on the floor, with your nose taking the brunt of the force from your head being smashed over and over.

“Not as fucking strong as they claim, hm?” The man snarled as he leaned over you, then swiftly stood up, ordering the men to get started on sending you on the field.

You met the chair yet again, your arm reintroduced to the IV, all while your head thumped like a heartbeat and blood rushed out of your nose. 

A plea sat on your tongue, though it never came out. And soon enough, that moment joined all of the other memories you were forced to lose.

There was no way for you to tell how long you’d been here, a repetitive cycle every time you woke up that you were utterly unaware of. It left you drained, not knowing who you were, where you were, anything.

You counted your luck when you were left alone for over a week. Starving for sure and a broken nose to add to it, but you’d choose it over waking up with a lack of recollection.

After the thirteenth day of solitude, soldiers would come in and take you back to the chair every day for a little over another week. They argued with the scientists about injecting you with the serum, claiming they needed you for a mission. 

“The феникс is needed for an operation,” they always said.

Somehow the scientists always convinced them otherwise, instead giving you hydration and vitamins to account for the lack of food in your system. One of them always looked at you with pain in his eyes, seemingly an apology for everything that’s happened. Not like you remembered much of it anyway.

Two days after that, you noticed that the same scientist was gone. Dead, you presumed. 

Six days later, some of the scientists had come in and taken your vitals again, your questions falling on deaf ears as they’d never come into your ‘room’ before. Once they’d finished, they silently gestured to the guards and exited. 

“On your feet,” one of them spat towards you, pulling you to stand by your wrists before tying them together. He and one other guard led you to a room with a group of girls, ages varying from teen to maybe middle-aged.

“Stay here, феникс,” a soldier said, untying the rope from your wrists, hearing that same nickname again. “We will come back for you. It’s a big day.”

A big day. Couldn’t mean anything positive for you. 

“Phoenix,” a slightly older woman said to you after the soldier left.

“What?” You questioned, your voice a lot more hoarse than you thought it’d be.

“That is what they call you. Us. But you are their favorite.”

You nodded, not exactly having much to say. The word sounded similar to its English translation, but you never thought much of it. The reason for the name was unknown to you, but knowing what Hydra was capable of, it probably meant no good. They’d call you it so often, you didn’t even know if they knew your name. The one piece of identity you at least were able to hold on to. It seemed so miniscule, but it kept you from losing yourself entirely.

After what seemed to be a few hours, the soldiers started to gather all of the girls and women in the room. From what you could hear, they were being dragged down the hall. Almost every one of them begged to be left alone, promises of good behavior to avoid whatever fate they were about to meet. The pleas fell out of reach of your hearing, silent as a door slammed far away. 

As the guards were finishing rounding everyone up, there was the sound of rapid gunfire from the opposite end of the floor.

“What the hell was that?” One of the guards asked, quickly turning around and aiming his rifle at the empty hallway.

“Doesn’t sound good,” another one muttered. “We need to hurry it up.”

You noticed they looked more than uncertain as you analyzed their expressions, both of them putting their guard up with their weapons. There were only two women left beside you, but the thought of taking all of you to wherever they needed to was now an afterthought.

They listened, and as you all heard a few more rounds of gunfire, they rushed out of the room. You quickly got up and grabbed the door before it could seal shut, looking out into the hallway as the guards turned the corner sharply. 

“Do you think someone is here to save us?” One of the women behind you asked softly. 

“I never get my hopes up,” the other woman responded. She was the one who translated for you earlier. “What do you think, феникс?”

You immediately turned back around to look at her, your foot in the doorway to keep the door open. “Don’t call me that,” you said, no clear tone of aggravation in your voice, but not a kind one either. Turning your attention back to the hallway, you listened for motion. “I can’t tell what’s going on, maybe we should move.”

“Are you crazy?” The first woman asked. You couldn’t see her expression, but something told you there was fear all over her face. “They’ll kill us. You’re the only one with any skill here.”

“I don’t know what skills I have to begin with.”

From what the scientists and guards had argued about, you knew they had trained you in combat. You weren’t confident about any moves you may have had in your repertoire without the help from the serum. It seemed as though it was second nature while under their control, but what good are you without it? There weren’t many signs telling you to take the risk of trying.

“What if it’s the Avengers?” The first woman spoke up again.

“The Avengers…” you said, the name sounding familiar.

“Earth’s mightiest heroes,” the second woman added. “Two or three of them have Hydra history.”

Racking your brain, you remembered the guards exclaiming about a mission with ‘the Avengers.’ A few pictures of people, but they were hyper focused on two. One with a shield, one with a metal arm. The one with the metal arm was the one they wanted—“needed” you to kill. 

They called him all sorts of names, but the one that stood out to you was soldat. Soldier. The only one you could somewhat make out. They’d referred to you as a soldier a few times, though you couldn’t feel far from it. You’d wondered if he had made it out, escaped. Something you’ve been dreaming of, longer than your memory allowed you to recall.

Your thoughts were cut off as you heard one of the guards making his way back, swiftly closing the door and sitting back on the floor.

The two women next to you shrunk inwards in fear, prompting you to look around for anything useful to arm yourself with. You trusted that you weren’t entirely useless, and the less people they harmed, the better the world was. Seeing an old, rusty crowbar, you reached and grabbed it, hiding it behind you as the guard opened the door and looked directly at you.

“Ready for your first real mission, феникс?” He said, a distressed look on his face. “Get up and follow me.” 

You did as told, still hiding the crowbar behind you. As he turned his back, you swung as hard as you could. After grimacing at the wound left in the man’s head as he dropped to the floor, you threw the crowbar aside, turning to the women still on the floor.

“Let’s go,” you ordered them softly, grabbing the guard’s rifle and handgun before exiting the room.

You handed the older woman the handgun before pointing the rifle, walking slowly to the intersection of the hallway. Peeking into the adjacent hallway, you saw nothing for a few heartbeats until a shield made its way down and back the hall parallel to your position.

Your hearing then picked up footsteps coming towards you from behind, the woman beside you turning and shooting a guard before he (or you) had the chance to retaliate. 

“Holy shit,” the youngest woman said. 

“Think we’ve got company,” you heard another woman say from down the hall. Was your hearing always this fucking detailed?

Looking back down the intersected hallway, you saw them. Captain America. Black Widow.The Avengers were actually here. Turning back quickly, you looked at the women again.

“Find the other girls,” you told them. “I’m gonna get us out of here.”

“And how should we find them? And how can we leave you by yourself?” The older woman asked, a concerned expression etched onto her face.

“I’m their favorite, you said it yourself,” you spoke softly rather than confidently. “Trust me on this one.”

They both nodded as they made their way down the corridor to your right, not before taking the fallen guard’s weapons as well.

There was a plan in the back of your mind, an escape. It was so close, but there was an inadmissible ache in your chest. Your freedom meant nothing if you left everyone else to suffer, to die. You couldn’t live with yourself if that were the case.

Once the women were gone, you moved to face them. Instinctively, you aimed your rifle, but neither of them moved into a defensive position. Their stares felt pitiful, but your grip on the rifle didn’t falter.

“We found her,” the redhead said, her hand on her ear. “Second floor, east wing.”

They were looking for you. Remaining somewhat unsure of their motives, you still didn’t drop your weapon, taking a step back each time they stepped toward you.

“We’re not gonna hurt you,” you heard the man say. Captain America. He looked a lot taller than in the pictures you were shown. “We’re here to help.”

“How are you gonna do that?” Your voice came out a lot shakier than intended.

“We’re gonna get you out of here,” the redhead spoke again, placing her hand on her chest. “I’m Natasha. This is Steve. Our friends Sam and Bucky are in the building too.”

They stepped toward you again, taking a few more when they realized you didn’t retreat. Lowering your rifle, you didn’t even realize you had tears in your eyes. “Just me?”

Their expressions turned into ones of confusion. 

“You said you found me,” you elaborated. “To whoever you were talking to. I’m not the only one here.”

“Who else is here?” Steve asked. “Did they test on other people?”

“Y-yeah, other girls,” you wiped your eyes before the tears fell. “I sent two of them to go find the rest—you really thought it was only me in here? Aren’t you guys supposed to be the smart ones?”

Natasha chuckled. “She’s got a point.”

“Our intel was incomplete,” Steve retorted. “What’s your name?” After responding, Steve nodded. “Okay, Y/N, let’s find the girls and get you all out of here. Where are the girls now?”

You led them down the corridor where you’d sent the other two women. A couple of Hydra agents had found you, Natasha and Steve standing in front of you immediately as the chaos ensued.

Fighting was a lot easier than you anticipated it to be, feeling like muscle memory almost, even if your moves weren’t perfect. You used the butt of the rifle to hit most of the guards, not wanting to kill anyone. Even if they deserved it. 

Your stamina was also clearly enhanced by whatever they injected into you. Steve and Natasha took note of it, sharing silent exchanges that they were unaware you had noticed. They still protected you by taking the brunt of the combat, your inexperience loud and clear from having your brain toyed with so often. 

It had been roughly 45 minutes of fighting off guards and inspecting rooms before finally finding the girls, only there was no chance of saving them.

The two women from earlier had found you again, accompanied by a man you found out was Sam as Natasha mentioned earlier. Tear-filled eyes, drenched cheeks, and rapid breaths. Rambles of death and blood and fear for their own lives, apologizing profusely as if they’d failed to save everyone.

“They’re all gone?” Your voice barely above a whisper. 

They nodded in shame, still crying with no signs of stopping. You looked toward the door as they said it was best not to see the destruction. Their hands gripped your shoulder in an attempt to stop you from going into the room, but you pushed through anyway. Bodies were scattered on the floor, some on top of each other. A single bullet hole in each of their heads, the crimson pool flooding beneath them making you feel sick.

“We have to go,” Sam said urgently to Natasha and Steve. “Got movement from out east, they called in backup. Bucky’s got the jet ready to go.”

Your feet felt like they were glued to the ground. You couldn’t look away from the massacre in front of you, studying it like an obligation. Thinking back to the guard telling you it was a ‘big day.’

They were going to kill all of them. All of them except you. They probably were gonna have you kill them yourself.

Steve pulled you out of your trance with a bit of force on his end, the tears falling down your face uncontrollably. The first memory you could keep that would haunt you forever. 

Walking to the jet as one of three women left, you also couldn’t stop crying. The other women were as distraught as you, but the guilt wasn’t the same. 

“But you are their favorite.”

You couldn’t get the words to stop repeating in your head, accompanied by the insolent migraine from tears mixed with dehydration. Their guilt came from surviving, and yours did, too. But you were always going to survive, while they got lucky. Hydra wanted you alive. Hydra wanted them dead with the rest of the girls. A shared survivor’s guilt separated by the politics of who was useful to their agenda.

Once you all made it to the jet, you saw him. He was unmistakable, leaving you to stop in your tracks while everyone continued. He made eye contact with you and sighed, almost like he knew of a possible conflict.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said, making the rest of the team turn around. 

“I know,” you said softly. You had no idea why you felt so small, but you also couldn’t bring yourself to move.

“You have nothing to worry about, Y/N,” Natasha said. “You’re safe. We’ll get the three of you back to our headquarters and find your families.” 

After a nod and a deep breath, you boarded the jet. You could feel Bucky’s eyes on you before he took a seat next to Sam.

You didn’t have it in your heart to say you weren’t sure if you had a family to go back to, but something about the look in Natasha’s eyes when she said it told you she knew already. 

Sitting back in your seat, you closed your eyes and counted your graces.

Feeling a hand on your shoulder, you woke up with a startle. Natasha looked down at you, a friendly smile on her face. You looked to see everyone leaving the jet, Bucky giving you a quick glance before heading out.

“We’re here,” Natasha pulled your attention back to her. 

After you stood, you followed Natasha off the jet. You saw the big ‘A’ for Avengers outside of the building, workers scattered around the hangar. Doctors tried to assess you, but Natasha assured them you were okay as she led you inside.

Taking you to a conference room, you sat at the big table. Natasha sat next to you.

“You saved those women, you know,” she set a file on the table, one you didn’t realize she had in her hands. “We were able to track down their loved ones. Couldn’t have done that without you.”

You decided to play with your fingers instead of saying anything. You didn’t feel like a savior or a hero; it was hard to feel such a way when so many others got killed. Those women had saved themselves, they could have gotten killed any moment after you’d sent them off. 

“We couldn’t find—”

“I know,” you cut her off, clearing your throat. “I don’t remember much of them but I know they’re gone.” 

Looking down, Natasha nodded without a word, opening the folder in front of her. “We’re giving you a choice. We do need to deprogram you from Hydra’s training, however long that might take. But afterwards… You can stay here, train, and join our team. If you don’t want to do that, we can help you rejoin civilian life.”

“You don’t have to make that choice now,” Bucky said as he walked into the room, placing a glass of water in front of you. You immediately took a sip. “You just got out of a horrible place, and this job isn’t easy. Take your time.”

“You could’ve let me finish, Barnes,” Natasha glared at him before looking at you once more. “Until we get everything figured out, you can stay here in the residential wing. Tony’s set up a room for you.”

“Tony?”

“Iron Man,” Natasha corrected. “Sorry, I forgot you don’t know all of us by name yet. You’ll meet everyone soon enough, though. Bucky will show you to your room and we’ll reconvene tomorrow. Okay?”

You nodded once. “Thank you.”

Natasha left the room and you finished drinking your water, looking at Bucky as he grabbed the glass for you, a friendly half-smile on his face. You’d wondered if they sent him for a reason, seeing as he was the one with the most Hydra history. He didn’t seem like a big conversationalist, which was comforting. There wasn’t much for you to say after all. Questions still ran through your mind, however, with wonders of finding out more about the man you were now following down the hall and across to another building on the land.

After entering and making a left, Bucky walked to the final door on the left side of the hallway, turning to look back at you.

“You’ll have everything you need in here,” he said as opened the door to your bedroom, letting you inside though he didn’t enter himself. “Nat left a ton of clothes she thinks will fit. The kitchen and the common area are down the hall and to the left; the fridge is fully stocked. Sam usually likes to do all the cooking when Wanda doesn’t beat him to it.”

You let out a chuckle. Bucky wasn’t even trying to be funny, but he was glad you weren’t feeling uncomfortable.

“Thank you,” you turned back to him. He was still standing in the doorway. “I, um… I don’t know how to repay you guys for all of this.”

Bucky shook his head. “No payment needed. I know what you’re going through.”

“I know,” you fiddled with your fingers, thinking that your suspicions may have been correct. “I’m sorry about earlier. On the jet. They told me a lot about you. I think I didn’t know how to react to actually… seeing you.”

He shook his head once more, offering you another half-smile. “No hard feelings. I’m around if you need me. Make yourself comfortable.”

He closed the door behind him after you nodded in response, leaving you alone.

You finally took in the environment around you. This was the first time you were alone since this morning, but it was a complete 180 from the situation you had found yourself in at the start of the day. 

A full bed, an en-suite bathroom, a TV, and a desk. You couldn’t remember a time you had your own room in this way. Where you were kept in Hydra couldn’t be considered a room at all after seeing this in front of you. 

It was a lot, perhaps too overwhelming to process all that transpired in the last 14 hours. But you allowed yourself to.

You were safe. You escaped. You were free. 

First, you decided to shower. You stayed in there so long that the water went cold, but you were so relieved about being clean that you felt like you needed to savor it. After the water was too cold to tolerate anymore, you got dressed, putting on a t-shirt and sweats. All the clothes smelled like they had just been washed and dried. 

You avoided every mirror, not wanting to look at yourself and whatever state you were in. You thought it was best to sleep, carefully getting under the covers. It felt nice to have an actual bed, but the mattress was too soft and uncomfortable. You could feel some of your muscles cramping up. Sighing to yourself, you settled on lying on the floor. Your exhaustion caught up to you quickly, falling into your first deep slumber in forever.

Your body was adjusted to not eating for prolonged periods of time, so hunger cues weren’t in store for you. Bucky assumed as much, knocking on your door to bring you a bowl of Sam’s famous gumbo when he hadn’t seen you come out for a few hours. Listening intently through your door, he picked up on your breathing, which sounded more erratic than rhythmic. Opening the door, he saw you lying on the floor, understanding why right away. He also saw tears on your face as your face contorted in fear.

Knowing all the signs of a nightmare, Bucky anxiously knelt down after setting the bowl on the desk in your room, shaking you gently. “Hey, Y/N,” he spoke softly. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

He repeated the words he’d heard so many times. His own nightmares weren’t as bad as they used to be, but he still got them often. Bucky comforted you, releasing the tension from your shoulders until your eyes shot open, your fists immediately up in defense.

“Woah, it’s me, hey,” Bucky spoke softly, grabbing your wrists tightly enough to stop you, but softly enough not to hurt you. He rubbed them with his thumbs, still trying to soothe you. “You’re okay, you were just having a nightmare. You’re not in any danger anymore. You’re safe.” 

You looked up at Bucky, your expression unreadable to him as you were still catching your breath. He let go of your wrists before you sat up, wiping the tears off your face.

“I’m sorry,” you said in the same small voice you gave him outside of the jet. It made Bucky’s chest ache.

He barely knew you, but what Hydra did to people was something even he was unaware he could come back from. It felt like something worse than traumatizing, if that were even possible. He may not know much about your time there, as the information was little to none. Steve and Tony were still working on that. However, he knew more than anything that none of this could have been easy for you.

“You’ll never have anything to apologize for while you’re here,” he said sincerely, telling you the words he would tell a younger version of himself. “You’ve been through a lot, both mentally and physically. I’ve been there, and it’s not easy. But you’ll get better, day by day.”

All you did was look at him, a hint of gratitude in your eyes that only he would be able to make out. Instead of pushing you into a conversation, he got up and grabbed the bowl of gumbo with a spoon.

“I’m not sure if you’ll eat all of it, but I’m assuming you need to eat something,” he spoke lightly, his tone one of comfort as he passed you the bowl. 

Immediately digging in, it was like you had forgotten what it was like to eat. Bucky knew that feeling. He stayed with you until you ate about two-thirds of it, looking at him as he sat next to you on the floor, passing him the bowl with a look of guilt on your face.

“Sorry,” you shook your head. “It’s really good, I’m just kinda full.”

“Nothing to be ashamed about, I’m just glad you got something in your system. I’m sure everyone else will be too,” Bucky smiled at you, taking the bowl and standing. “Get some rest. Nat will probably wanna talk in the morning. My room’s right across the hall if you need me.”

“Will you be there?” You asked so softly, Bucky almost missed it.

“Tomorrow? Do you want me to be?” He asked, not wanting to assume. You nodded twice. “Okay, alright. I’ll be there.”

“Thank you,” you said, pulling your knees to your chest. “For everything.”

“Anytime,” he gave you one last smile before leaving the room.

Bucky knew you would be okay.

part two of this should come in the next few days… i’ve been obsessed with developing lore lately. i hope you enjoyed!

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

From the kitchen, Valentino catches the tail-end of an argument, fluttery and high-pitched, unserious—Marc has charred the garlic, or something. Àlex seems indignant. Àlex’s girlfriend has not stopped cackling. Marc’s voice rises over both of them, his ugly, honking laugh.

Valentino hasn’t been included. Rather, Roser Alentá had taken one long, flat look at him and invited him to sit with her, on the porch.

His palm is wet around his wine glass, but she hasn’t touched hers yet—the Grans Muralles bottle Marc said she’d like—so he hasn’t either. Feels his stomach churn, acid and bile rolling around.

“You’ve made it,” she says.

And he could make his way in pieces to the sewers, he gets the impression. Or at least find his way back from whatever hell hole she thinks he crawled out.

Her Catalan is pointed at him, unfamiliar, the vowels only familiar enough to feel alien when Valentino tries reaching out for them. He gives up, settles on Spanish, but even that language slides soapy in his dumb, numb mouth.

“Marc loves spending time with his family.”

It’s easy to wave Marc around, the proverbial white flag. They both know why he is here. They both know Marc never gives up on anything until he can’t take it anymore. Exhibit A: Honda. Exhibit B: Cervera. Valentino isn’t—for some reason—exhibit C.

She raises her eyebrows, though. “And does he need your permission to be here?”

Valentino startles, despite himself. Remembers to smile a moment too late. “Of course not,” he exclaims, his finest smile on show, who? Me? “But he says it’s better when everyone is—ah, involved.”

No sign of thawing. Even the sip from her glass is neutral, cold.

“Do you agree?”

Valentino swallows around a chokeful of bleach. Stefania lives in a house he built for her, carefully tucked in the space he and Luca allowed for her, often with his dogs and his cat, often not. Graziano calls a few times a year, on the wrong days.

“It’s nice,” he lies.

Rather, it’s not something Marc will compromise on—never did. Before, when he’d been twenty and liquid and eager, one of the few times Valentino had managed to really stumble on a knife was when he suggested Marc leave Àlex behind for a couple of days.

Marc is full of things that he will not compromise on, now.

Roser snorts, a quiet, unimpressed noise. “I’m sure you think so. But no matter, are you liking Cervera, Valentino?”

“It’s very much like Tavullia.”

Wrong answer, or wrong language, or wrong everything. Roser only stares. He gives himself permission to drink, does it until his tongue stops tasting like something died there. The wine—Marc likes it just the same, acidic and fruity, rich in the aftermath. Valentino drinks his whites when they’re together.

It is like Tavullia. Small and unimpressive at first glance, dust-drenched dirt tracks dotting the roads nearby, very delighted with its champions. The museum, the murals of Marc. People—overfamiliar—seem happy to leave them be, though. If they have something to say to Valentino, they won’t do it while Marc is around.

But he recognizes when they talk about him.

A cousin, her eyes sliding over him, chilly, before she turned to Marc with raised eyebrows. An aunt, halfway done with her cigar, if I were Roser, I’d spit that asshole out of my house—he’d felt proud, grimly, for getting most of it. The unhappy grumbling from his uncles, or great-uncles, who cares, eyes dark and unfriendly.

“I think he’s just waiting for you to fuck up again and prove him right.” Roser’s voice is crisp, sharp. She’s rolling her glass around.

Valentino flinches.

Inside, Marc and Àlex have started calling her, half urgent, half cackling mama! He can’t quite hear it, through the pounding of blood in his ears.

Roser just leaves her glass and stalks inside the house that feel like a memorial of moments that Marc will never talk about, that he keeps rescuing from interviews that sit in his belly like a mouthful of crunched carbon fiber. Here, the stripped bare walls. Here, the empty shelves. Here, the place where Marc wrestled a journo off him. Here, him lying awake at night, in pain.

It will be a rather long Christmas. Valentino remembers, acutely, why he never bothers with his own family anymore.

[emisluvr]

I love your work so much I always come to your account to see when you post!!

I have a request🤤

jake and reader are at some kind of party, Jake getting jealous since reader is talking to a guy Jake doesn’t like (?) which causes an argument when they got home, like makeup sex

(So sorry if this is long I have no idea how to describe this 😭💔)

thank youu sm anon i'm glad you enjoy my stuff! 🤍 and don't worryy i know exactly what you mean hehe i love love love this thought

✧ tw. smut (18+ mdni!), jake is jealous asf, unprotected p in v, explicit language

you and jake were gracefully invited to a party by one of your close friends. what was supposed to be a night of chatting and having a few drinks turned into something more...

something both you and jake were at fault for.

a random guy approached you, making conversation—nothing weird or alarming, just normal, playful talk. but did that sit right with jake, who was eyeing you and the guy from across the room? nope.

it didn’t take him long before he dragged you out of the bustling party, making a poorly thought-out excuse to leave as he drove you both home. in silence.

the minute you got home, to no one’s surprise, an argument erupted between you two. raw feelings spilled out, a messy mix of jealousy, possessiveness, and worry tangled in his brain while you tried to calm him down, explaining it wasn’t anything close to what he thought.

sure, the fight was heated, but instead of staying mad, he fucked you with all the built-up passion and desperation.

"y-you’re mine, fuck.. you know that?" jake groaned, fingers digging into your thighs as your legs were thrown over his shoulders, his cock stretching your walls beneath him.

"m-mhm.." you managed, hands scrambling to grip anything for support, certain you’d fall apart right then and there. how could you not? his cock was hungry for you, and it showed.

the way it painfully but perfectly dragged along your tight walls, how it twitched whenever you clenched around him.

"jakey, need to cum," you whined, hand reaching over to rub your sensitive clit, desperate to speed up the orgasm you were chasing.

"me too, baby, f-uck," his voice cracked. he pulled out just in time for his cum to drip down the back of your thighs, while yours seeped out, spilling down on the sheets beneath you.

© emisluvr 2025. all rights reserved.

[vampiriito]

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

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

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

"Silence" noun /ˈsaɪ.ləns/

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And still, you sat. Frozen. Waiting.

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

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

“Hey.”

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

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

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

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

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

So maybe you did understand Sarah after all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He cleared his throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another beat of silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come on. It’s just a question.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A beat passed. The silence grew teeth.

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

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

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

Or why he trusted you.

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

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

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

“Because that’s some serious bullshit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rafe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing happened.

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

Nothing.

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

Of course. Of course.

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

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

“Try something with a little more substance.”

You froze.

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

Ward Cameron stood behind you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your blood ran cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The silence stretched between you, taut as wire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then the third thing hit.

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

OD.

He’d fucking OD'd.

And you were the one who helped him.

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

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

He didn’t look.

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

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

The shame came like a slap.

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

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

Rafe closed his eyes.

He had almost died. Again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t know who had sat down.

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

But the air was wrong.

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

This was someone else.

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

You were here.

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

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

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

That you came.

That you cared.

That you were quiet.

And that now, you’d really seen him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he couldn’t make a sound.

So he stayed quiet. Listening. Breathing. Hating.

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

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

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

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

But you were still here.

Why were you still here?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe you were leaving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But your voice said otherwise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His throat ached.

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

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

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

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

He hated this.

Hated how raw it felt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your words cut like a blade, sharp and honest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Rafe…?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he was awake.

But he didn’t move.

He didn’t say a word.

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

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

His throat tightened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t know he was awake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now JJ was with Kiara.

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

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

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

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

But now you’d seen him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sounded awkward.

You.

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

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

And Rafe almost hated how much he liked it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You stayed."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You can go now. If you want."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was insane.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't stop. Don't— god, don't stop."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You wanna— try—me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And fuck, you wanted.

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

He looked wrecked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rafe, for once in his life, said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sarah rolled her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sarah let out a short laugh, raising her eyebrows.

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

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

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

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

Rafe rolled his eyes, still staring daggers at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No way. That’s a little much for the hospital, don’t you think?” She shook her head in mock disbelief, eyeing Rafe’s smug face and then turning back to you for confirmation. Except you couldn’t look away from the heart rate monitor.

The beeping of the monitor filled the room, almost loud enough to cover the thumping of your own racing heart. You could feel his eyes on you, like the memory of it all was playing in his head, like he was watching all of it unfold across the room.

The silence was heavy, like the whole room was somehow picking up on the charged energy between the two of you, when in reality, it was only you and Rafe aware of the heat and tension crackling through the air.

Then Sarah broke the silence—thank god—with an eye roll and a scoff, standing up from her chair like she was suddenly tired of the strange mood that had settled over the room.

"You never change," she said, shooting one last look at him before shifting her attention to you. "I'll be back tomorrow. Try and stay out of trouble." Her eyes flicked over to Rafe, one eyebrow raised. "And do not, repeat, do not get yourself arrested—or worse, into another hospital bed."

The door clicked shut behind Sarah and with it, the last buffer of normalcy vanished. The silence that settled wasn’t comfortable—not like relief or calm—but something tighter, heavier. You could feel it snake back in immediately, wrapping itself around your spine and tugging.

Rafe still hadn’t looked at you, but his chest was moving just a little too fast for someone trying to act unaffected. You could tell he was doing the same thing you were—replaying it. All of it. The taste of each kiss, the rhythm of your hips, the reckless desperation that got tangled in his sheets and now in your thoughts.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t know what to say.

The air felt thick with everything you weren’t acknowledging. Your hoodie was still rumpled, half-zipped over your bikini, and your thighs were pressed tightly together like that might erase the way you still felt him. Rafe finally shifted, dragging a hand over his face like it might clear the look from his eyes—the one that said he was still there, in that moment with you.

He tilted his head slightly, finally glancing at you, and the eye contact was a hit to the chest. Not mocking or smug like it usually was, not even playful—just raw, wrecked, and unreadable.

His voice came low, rough-edged. “You’re not gonna say anything?”

You blinked, pulse spiking. “About what? The thing we just did or the fact that it was probably a new personal low?”

He smirked slightly at that, lifting his head off the pillow. “It was probably a new personal high for me, if you want to be specific.”

You forced your jaw to stay slack, keeping the shock from your face. “Why am I not surprised,” you deadpanned, trying to ignore the rush of heat that flared all too quickly in your body at the memory. “Add it to the list of things to regret then, I guess.”

He let out a low laugh, the sound almost lazy. “The only thing I’m regretting is not doing it sooner.”

You sighed, long and exhausted after the day you had, eyes fluttering closed and lolling your head back against the hospital chair.

"Great, I'm happy we had this educational talk.." you muttered, voice quieter than you'd meant it to be, bringing your knees up to your chest on the chair, arms wrapping around them like you were trying to physically fold in on yourself.

When Sarah had been in the room, you’d been too focused on acting normal—on pretending you weren’t still flushed and wrecked and vibrating from what had happened minutes before. Now that she was gone, the silence didn’t bring relief. It made the tension heavier, thicker. And it wasn’t the kind of tension that made you want to snap at him or throw a sarcastic jab. It was the kind that made your skin feel too tight, the kind that made guilt curl up beneath your ribs and settle in deep.

Rafe was still watching you. You could feel it like a brand on the side of your face, his gaze dragging over you, not just your body, but everything—the memory of your breathy moans, your hand on his jaw, your hoodie shoved halfway off, his name on your lips like a secret. You could still feel him. Inside you. Under you. Around you.

And worse, you still wanted him. That was the part that made your stomach twist.

You shifted, trying to shake it off, your fingers tugging absently at the frayed hem of your shorts, eyes still closed. The sting of guilt hadn’t fully sunk in when it happened—it had been buried under adrenaline, lust, the high of knowing he was alive and whole and his. But now it was creeping in, mixing with the ache between your legs and the phantom of his hands still on your hips.

Rafe’s eyes tracked every movement, his lips curving in a mocking smirk but it didn’t reach his eyes. They were dark, gaze still locked on you like he could see right through to your thoughts. “I know that look. What are you thinking about?”

"How horrible i keep feeling with each shameless orgasm you give me, in spite of being the one who also initiates things sober.." came your answer, blunt. Too blunt it sounded sarcastic, head still lolled back and eyes closed. "Can't blame the alcohol or weed for this one.."

He didn’t respond right away, eyes still roaming over you, taking in the way your thighs flexed as you wrapped your arms around your knees, trying to press your legs together like it might lessen the throb between them.

He let out a short “hm”, and you could almost hear the smirk in his voice when he spoke, even if you didn’t look at him.

"That guilt must weigh heavy if you’re making jokes like that."

"At least my guilty conscience works properly, country-club."

He chuckled softly, raising one hand out from the sheets and running his fingertips down your calf, gently digging into the sensitive flesh behind your knee. It was a surprisingly tender gesture, absent of the biting comments he usually shot at you.

"And mine doesn’t?” he asked. There was no malice in his voice, instead, the words came out low, almost soft.

You inhaled slightly, startled as he touched you. Your skin tingled where his fingers roamed, his palm sliding over the curve of your knee, squeezing gently. It was too light, too different from the way his hands had gripped your thighs earlier. You still refused to look at him even as you spoke, feigning nonchalance "I dunno about the guilty conscience but your usual classism complex is definitely shattered." you mumbled, voice betraying how the softness in his voice made you feel "Y'know the thing when you put my friends down for being from the wrong side of the island and then hook up with a girl exactly from the worst side of it."

He chuckled softly again, his hand moving to your knee, thumbing the soft flesh there like he was trying to soothe you, even though you were pretending to be unaffected by his touch.

"No need to sound so condescending, baby."

The words rolled off his tongue low, almost affectionate, but there was a hint of mockery in the way he referred to you.

"I hate you so much as a person, and truly to your core." you bit back, words low and dry.

He scoffed, almost like that was the exact response he'd expected from you, thumb brushing back and forth across your knee, his touch firm and gentle, making you shiver slightly. "I hate you too, baby."

He said the words easily, but there was a hint of mocking affection in his tone, like using the term of endearment was supposed to throw you off.

It did.

You closed your eyes, breathing out heavily. Every touch, every pet name, made something flutter low in your stomach. It was infuriating. It was intoxicating. It made your head feel light and your heart thump in your chest.

You tried to find something to say— a snarky comeback like you usually had on the tip of your tongue, but your brain felt scrambled, all thoughts replaced by the sound of his quickening breaths, the way his fingers traced up your thigh, his face when you were on his lap…

The air felt thick. Tense. His fingers kept roaming, like he was mapping every inch of exposed skin, and he was. Every swipe of his fingers left a trail of fire that had you clenching your thighs, trying to relieve the ache he’d put there. And still, you refused to look at him.

Your hand reached out, subtly flicking his hand away without opening your eyes, sighing in annoyance at the way he was touching you. With the confidence of an entitled prick. "Quit it, Rafe."

He made a low noise in the back of his throat—somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.

But he pulled back his hand, the one that had made its way to the top of your thigh, his touch leaving a burning trail even after he'd moved it back to the sheets. He shifted in the bed, tilting his head as he looked at your stubborn face, stubbornly refusing to look at him.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm in your ears, and you hated how much that sound made your blood hum.

"Why are you being so difficult?" He sounded amused.

"Plagued by the overwhelming guilt that comes after hooking up with you." you answered dryly, teeth gnawing at your bottom lip lazily.

"Oh yeah, you definitely looked guilty, babe." He snorted sarcastically.

The nickname was meant to sound mocking and condescending, but the word came out of his mouth like a sigh. You could tell he was grinning by the sound of his voice, the smile evident in his words.

"What is your deal?" your eyes shot open. Your expression was part curious part annoyed like you were actually wondering what the hell was wrong with him. Humming before speaking like you considering your words. Something you never did usually.

He raised an eyebrow, his expression amused as he watched the different emotions flicker across your face. Your eyes were fixed on him now, finally locked in on his smug face, and you felt your stomach twist with a familiar sense of annoyance.

"You need to be more specific." He smirked, feigning cluelessness, pretending like he doesn’t know exactly what you mean.

"I'm talking about your tendency to hook up with pogue girls." You closed your eyes again, head tilting back as if your sentence was the most obvious and casual thing ever. "Last summer it was Sofia, this summer it's me." you added, arms wrapped around your knees loosely now. "Feels like you love the power play."

He chuckled, the sound low and taunting. "You’re not the first one to try and psychoanalyze me, you know that, right?"

You grunted. Like you were lost in your own thoughts before speaking again "How did it end?" you asked simply, voice distant and lacking the bite in it. Like you were more focused on the inside of your eyelids than the conversation.

The change in your tone took him off guard, his smirk faltering for a moment. He raised an eyebrow, confused.

"With Sofia?" He clarified.

You nodded your head slightly against the chair, still refusing to look at him even though you could feel his gaze like a brand on your face.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "She was obsessed with me. It was cool at first, but then it became annoying."

"Define obsessed. "

He huffed, rolling his eyes, clearly not enjoying the topic. "She wanted to hangout with me all the time. She was all over me. It was fun at first, but she started getting clingy and whiny. And she constantly wanted to talk."

You chuckled lightly. Despite the fact that technically Sofia was your friend. Kinda. You weren't sure. She was your co-worker. "Isn't that what every other guy wants?"

He groaned, throwing his head back against the pillow before peering up at you through lowered lashes.

"I prefer my girls a little more unattainable." His voice trailed off in a husk, and it made your heart trip.

Your eyes shot open now, grimacing ever so slightly at his attempt to be smooth. "So you decided to hook up with a girl who's pining after another dude this summer?" you asked, tone bitter and mocking.

He smirked. "Yeah, actually." He had the audacity to look amused. "Guess I have a thing for unavailable women."

"So you're a glutton for punishment with commitment issues?" you asked, grimace deepening.

His smirk widened. "If we’re really being thorough, you should add in a hint of daddy issues and a dash of narcissism.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes so hard it made your brain jiggle "Me using you to get over the fact that i'm in love with JJ and it's not reciprocated is your karma for what you did to Sofia." you stated bluntly, deadpanning at him.

He snickered, his gaze on you sharpening. "Damn, baby. You really aren't a fan of holding back punches."

Your eyes roamed over his form, still slumped in the hospital bed, clad in that thin, wrinkled gown like it was some kind of throne instead of a reminder of how close he’d come to dying. He looked way too comfortable for someone who’d scared the shit out of everyone who cared about him—and way too smug for someone who probably committed a felony by having sex in a hospital.

"I'm a fan of blunt transparency," you muttered, voice syrupy with sarcasm as you fixed him with a look that fell somewhere between unimpressed and exhausted. Your arms wrapped loosely around your tucked-in knees, chin resting lazily on top of them as you leaned back in the plastic chair that had molded itself to your spine.

You raised your brows slightly, watching the way his smirk deepened like he knew exactly what he was doing—like your irritation was a language he spoke fluently and loved translating into something dirtier.

His dark eyes lingered on your legs as you shifted in the chair, still refusing to look at him, your thighs spread slightly and legs parted as you sat with one knee bent and one leg hanging off the side. Rafe’s lips twitched with arrogance at your attempt to keep him at bay, like you knew what he was doing. He let his eyes rake over your body, taking in your folded legs and exposed skin like you were his for the taking.

His voice came out low, almost taunting.

"You don’t want complete transparency, baby."

You huffed again, head tilting back against the chair as your eyes fluttered shut, like the weight of everything—the hospital room, the conversation, him—was finally settling too heavy on your shoulders. Your tone was dry, laced with exhaustion and the kind of sarcasm that didn't bother disguising how tired you were of talking around things.

"Complete transparency is all I want, country-club," you muttered, lips twitching with a humorless chuckle that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

There was a beat of silence before you added, voice lower this time, almost like an afterthought: "I’d prefer if you offered it."

It wasn’t a demand. Not exactly. But it wasn’t a suggestion either. It was an invitation he didn’t deserve but still got anyway—a rare glimpse into the part of you that hadn’t entirely learned how to detach from people, no matter how much you tried.

Something changed in the air at your words.

Rafe shifted in the bed, his eyes sharpening, fixating on your face, on the slight furrow between your brows, on the way your jaw clenched just the slightest bit, on the tired slump of your shoulders.

When he spoke next, his voice had lost its taunting edge, replaced by a sudden serious note. "What do you want to know?"

Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, hesitation flickering across your face like a crack in the bravado you usually wore so easily. The words burned at the back of your throat before you even let them go, heavy with all the implications you weren’t sure you wanted to deal with once they were out in the open.

"Why do you allow me to use you?" you asked finally, voice quieter than before, stripped of the usual bite—just raw and curious in a way that almost made you uncomfortable. You tilted your head slightly, gaze fixed on his in the dim hospital light like you were trying to read his mind.

"I get the whole appeal of it… I match your freak in bed or whatever," you added, lips tugging into the ghost of a smirk that didn’t hide the vulnerability underneath. "But is it just ‘cause you have no one at the moment? Is that the reason you let me?"

The question settled in the space between you like a challenge and a confession all at once—tinged with bitterness, maybe jealousy, definitely fear. Because if the answer was yes, if it was just convenience, just vacancy he needed filled until someone better came along—then what the hell had any of this even been for?

Rafe's eyes stayed locked on yours, the smirk gone from his face, replaced by a sort of contemplative brooding that gave away nothing. You could see his mind whirring behind the intensity of his gaze, and there was a moment of silence before he opened his mouth to answer that felt like an eternity.

But when he spoke, his voice was steady. Almost soft. And his words changed the game entirely.

"I don’t let you use me."

The answer caused you to avert your gaze to the side, a small, genuine chuckle slipping out before you could stop it. It sounded condescending, maybe, but it wasn’t. You were just…amused. By him. By yourself. By the mess you’d both willingly walked into.

"You and I both know why we started hooking up in the first place," you said, your voice low but edged with something that almost sounded like regret—regret not for what you’d done, but for how easy it had been to fall into it. "The guy I’m in love with has a girl." You paused just long enough for the weight of it to settle between you, then looked back at him, your gaze steady now. "Technically, I am using you."

There was no malice in the words, no cruelty. Just honesty, uncomfortable and sharp in the dim hospital room. You shrugged like the admission didn’t crack something inside you just a little.

"I just figured we'd have this conversation sober," you added, a wry smile tugging at your mouth. "Since I saved you from death, basically."

It was a joke. A shield. Something to hide behind when everything else felt too naked, too raw. But beneath it was the truth you both hadn’t been brave enough to name: something had shifted. And once things shifted, they didn’t just go back.

This time, Rafe actually laughed—a harsh, short sound that sent shivers down your spine because you realized you'd somehow caught him off guard.

For the first time in your life, he didn't have a ready answer, a snide comment. He was just staring at you, his eyes boring into yours like he was fighting with a decision right in front of you.

Before you could get your hopes up, he finally found his voice. "You are such a damn hypocrite."

You followed suit, another small chuckle escaping you "And why is that?"

He smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. "You're using me for the same reason you don't like me using everyone else.” He paused, watching you closely, watching the way you stiffened at his words.

And then he added the one word that had your stomach dropping to your toes.

“Unavailability."

author's note: long time no see, i promised fluff and i added some smut because someone said these two can't be alone without fucking and i agree. rafe is so submissive i'm actually kicking my feet and giggling. also weird update if anyone cares but the owner of this blog actually had her first real kiss despite writing the most outrageous smut. crazy right? i'm a loser irl and i get no play ya'll but i have a picnic date planned so maybe in the next update we might be getting more action. I NEED in depth feedback about this chapter, what did you guys think of the song, do you miss me? talk to me i love you all and the more comments and asks the better. is there anyone who's team jj anymore?? (p.s cherry bomb is the next on my updates so be ready cherry bomb lovers.) i'll try and be more consistent but i'm looking for a summer job so i'm only writing at night, on my phone... don't be shy to join my taglist! <3

↳ ❝ [masterlist] ¡! ❞

Tag-list*:･ﾟ✧ @cali-888, @bee-43, @jjscoquette, @melsbels-zip @stanseventeen @wh0reforbucknasty,@wtfisastiles,@annaconscience,@pqndxra,@carrerascameron,@nini2mem,@iynsane,@gublerstylesobrien1238,@wrldfilms ,@shayofandoms @wren5650 @alimarie1105 @chuuuchuuutrain , @literallylexie, @polli05927

[to-the-stars8]

Learning to Love Slowly

Jason Todd x Reader All Chapters AO3 18+ MDNI

Warm and Happy

Jason’s hand flexed around your waist, his palm splaying over the soft curve of your lower belly. His fingers moved with deliberate slowness, sliding upward, brushing beneath the hem of your shirt. The warmth of his skin against yours sent a slow shiver through you. You let out a soft giggle, wriggling slightly in his arms. 

Behind you, his chest rose and fell against your back in an easy rhythm, and you could feel the deep, quiet rumble of his laugh as it vibrated through you. He dipped his head, breath warm against your skin, and pressed a kiss to the nape of your neck

It’d been days since you had seen him, the only glimpses being through sweet texts and news reels, so having his hands on you felt like heaven. You pushed back against him, feeling the hard-on in his sweatpants. Before you could turn to him, he whimpered against your ear, holding you closer—So close that you couldn’t move.

Slowly, he mumbled against your ear, “I wanna put it in.” 

Your mind felt clouded suddenly, full of memories of him fucking you in the best ways possible, and you couldn’t manage out a response. Jason rolled his hips against your back, causing you to gasp. 

“You can put it in me,” You managed, voice low. “You know you can, baby.”

Jason sucked in a breath against your neck before whimpering again. “Oh, babe. I’m too tired to fuck.”

You said it before you think. “We don’t have to. Let me keep you warm.”

That was enough for Jason to shove his sweatpants and boxers down his legs. His hands, big, strong, and skilled, lightly smacked your ass before hooking a finger around the band of your underwear to pull them down. Jason’s fingers swept through the folds of your pussy, finding you already wet. That wasn’t enough for him, though. Lifting your leg so he had better access, he rubbed your clit in steady circles. 

Letting out a breathy moan, you reached behind you to thread your fingers into his black curls and pulled them slightly. “Jason—Baby, don’t stop.”

Jason’s lips found your neck, sucking a hickey into the soft skin until you turned your head to press a kiss to his lips. The kiss was hungry and hot, something that came from not being able to touch each other for days. Just as his tongue found its way into your mouth, his fingers found your entrance. Swallowing your moan, he stretched you with his fingers, making scissoring and come-hither motions. 

Breaking the kiss, you looked down between your legs, breathlessly saying, “Oh, Jason, I’m gonna cum.”

As soon as the words left your mouth, his fingers left your pussy. You were about to protest until you felt his cock press against your core, slowly pushing inside. Once he was to the hilt, you came. Your legs shook and you felt your pussy tighten around his cock.

Jason grunted, pulling you closer to him. “Fuck.”

You bit your lip, trying to hold back your moans, but Jason shifted in you. You shrieked, begging him to give your overstimulated pussy a moment to calm down. He moved one more time before finally settling against you. His back was flush against yours with his arms wrapped around you like you were a safety blanket. 

“You okay?” He asked after a minute. 

You nodded, gulping. “Yeah…just don’t move.”

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to the back of your head. “Don’t worry, I got you.”

You thought he meant that he’d tried to stay as still as possible. Yet, what that really meant was that he was going to fall asleep, his heavy body leaning into you a bit more while his cock, still hard, shifted deeper. 

Oh, this was going to be a situation.

[wren-kitchens]

uh. seven minutes in heaven?

1565 words

"what are we?" grian jerks upward in surprise, nearly banging his head on the shelf above him as he looks to joel. despite everything, it's funny. "you- what do you mean?" to his own frustration, joel hesitates. "i- we can't keep doing this." he says eventually, looking at anything but grian. he glances at his hands, which doesn't help matters in the slightest, because he went and painted grian's bloody eye colour on his nails like that was ever a good idea.

completely based on the wonderful comics and fics by @ludolka! i needed to make them kiss </3

"what are we?"

grian jerks upward in surprise, nearly banging his head on the shelf above him as he looks to joel. despite everything, it's funny. "you- what do you mean?"

to his own frustration, joel hesitates. "i- we can't keep doing this." he says eventually, looking at anything but grian. he glances at his hands, which doesn't help matters in the slightest, because he went and painted grian's bloody eye colour on his nails like that was ever a good idea. "we- we make out when we're drunk, we say that's just what people do, and then- then we pretend like it means nothing to paint each other's eye colour on ourselves." he huffs. "so- so what are we?"

for a moment, the sound of the old grandfather clock ticking is the only sound in the room. grian sighs heavily. "i don't- i don't know, joel. i won't even-" he cuts himself off, burying his face in his knees. "i’m sorry."

joel's heart sinks in his chest, and he wishes he'd never even brought it up. it was better, maybe, to have the possibility that his feelings were requited- that something could happen between them. but maybe he should just move on. "right. sorry, i didn't- i should have said something before, i just-"

"said what?" grian looks up so suddenly, joel has to blink. why would that make a difference- wait, does grian not know-

"i-" joel finds his voice failing him, and he can't say he’s too surprised. still, he’s not pleased. "just- how i feel? about- about you?" he still can't even say it.

there's a kind of intensity behind grian's eyes that reminds him uncannily of birdie as he stares at joel. "which- which is?"

"i don't- why are you making me say this?" joel says, heart racing in his chest, though whether it's from panic or flusteredness, he can't quite say. it- grian's eyes are- are nice to look at, alright- don't judge him. 

grian doesn’t let up, doesn't even answer, and joel finds himself stammering out a response regardless. "i want to- to stop pretending that everyone makes out when they’re drunk, or that it's- it's a stupid bad boys thing when we call each other babe- not that you ever did it much." joel's breath is shallow, but he still manages a scoff. "i want to take- take advantage of the fact that we're stuck inside a fucking cupboard because of some ghosts that don't even exist-" he takes a breath. "and i want you to want that too."

grian is still staring at him, but it's different—like all the heat has been completely dissipated, leaving him with what joel can only describe as shock. he- he really hopes that's the good kind of shock. "oh."

joel waits, but nothing else comes. "you- i don't pour my bloody heart and soul out just for you to say oh." he half yells, not sure if he’s angry or just scared. "at least tell me what-"

it takes a second for joel to even realise why he’s not talking anymore, and why he feels like every problem he’s ever had have been solved. and then grian puts a hand on his waist, and joel's eyes flutter shut on instinct, and- oh. grian is kissing him.

and that's just insane, because grian- grian is kissing him. they’re in a random cupboard in a supposedly haunted house, and grian has pulled him in by the collar of his shirt, and is kissing him. why is this happening- how is this happening? joel almost tries to pull away, to ask what on earth is going on, but at the slightest push, grian whines in such a pathetic way that joel suddenly wants nothing more than to kiss him stupid- questions can come later.

their bodies press together, and joel has to relish how good it feels when he’s sober- how he can so easily categorise the sounds he manages to coax from grian, and just how he got him to make them. muscle memory seems to kick in, and joel is running his teeth across grian's lip before he even remembers how often grian would blush and turn away whenever joel bit his own lip, which- god, that has more of a meaning now, doesn’t it?

it occurs to him, vaguely, that they’re not doing a great job of hiding from ghosts in here—after all, grian is being rather loud—but honestly, joel doesn’t think he’s ever given less of a shit about anything. especially when grian breaks away to press a kiss on joel's collarbone, and suddenly, nothing else in the world has ever mattered more than this moment right here. alright- maybe they’re both being loud now, but grian is giggling to himself and joel would do anything to keep him laughing like that. 

grian pulls back a little, and god, is he gorgeous. joel can’t understand what it is that's making grian blush so much, when it occurs to him that- yeah, he’s really just staring at him, isn’t he? "joel- you can'tlook at me like that."

"why not?" joel says, feigning innocence as he glances at grian's lips. he'd like to say it's an intentional tease, but honestly, joel has very little self control right now, and he just really wants to kiss grian again. 

"because i’ve- i’ve spent so long trying to pretend i don’t- don’t love you, and now you’re just- you’re undoing all the work i’ve done!" grian says, running a hand through his hair, and joel can’t help himself- he just has to watch. "you’re- you’re doing it again!"

joel grins, a little dazed. "okay, but- i mean, have you seen yourself?" he reaches a hand up to trace the outline of grian's face. "and i've been- i’ve had to try to ignore that, every bloody day! i’m allowed a bit of staring time."

grian gives a flustered little huff, but he doesn't protest as joel cups his cheek. "you’re an idiot." he says, but the way he’s looking at joel kind of ruins his point. it also is maybe gonna make joel go insane, but that's- that's irrelevant. 

"yeah, but- i mean, i think i heard you say that you love me?" joel grins as grian rolls his eyes- and realises just how well the colour does in fact match with the chipping polish on his nails. "is that- is that right?"

grian leans forward a little, and joel has butterflies. he hums teasingly. "i dunno- not sure i said that, really." before joel has time to prepare, he gives him a quick peck on the lips, clearly proud of himself when he pulls back to see how much joel is undoubtedly blushing. "you’re pretty cute, though." he winks. "i might be convin-"

it's joel's turn to interrupt with a kiss, he decides, and honestly, why haven't they been doing this the whole time? grian melts into him, and joel rubs a thumb across his cheek, and grian bites at his lip like he just knows how much joel has wanted him to do that for fucking months. maybe he does- maybe he’s finally put two and two together and figured out just how much joel has been wanting him all this time. 

"you know," joel says against grian's lips, relishing in the way grian pushes closer as he speaks. "i think the ghost has gone."

"shut the fuck up." grian practically hisses, and joel doesn’t have time to laugh before the gap is once again closed, and all that matters is their hands on one another, skin pressed against skin in the most intoxicating way. joel doesn’t ever want to stop.

unfortunately- he kind of has to, because jimmy has chosen exactly this moment to burst into the stupid cupboard with his stupid camera, and all three of them freeze. 

"uh." jimmy blinks at them, apparently processing. "oh. oh- finally!" he laughs, and joel feels his face burning. "oh my god, you took so long!"

"i don’t know about you babe, but i’m ready to punch him." grian says, far calmer than what joel would expect considering the situation they've found themselves- wait, did he just call him babe?

as joel is losing his mind over this fact, grian has stood up and jimmy has run away, still laughing gleefully. "he’s totally gonna tell lizzie." grian sighs, turning around again. "i- joel? you okay?"

joel clears his throat, doing his best to seem even remotely normal. "yeah- yep, just- all good." he pushes himself to his feet, trying to pretend to himself that he’s not going to be thinking about grian calling him babe for literally the rest of his life. "that- nothing to worry-"

grian gasps, clearly overjoyed about something- yeah, he’s definitely noticed. oh god. "it's 'cause i called you babe, isn’t it?"

"um. no?" joel attempts, knowing his face is beet red. grian cackles in delight, and- y’know, maybe it's worth the embarrassment to see him laugh like that. 

"aw- well, c'mon babe, we've got some ghosts to hunt." grian takes joel's hand, and he can't help the smile that worms its way onto his face. 

joel gives grian's hand a squeeze, and his teasing grin softens into something so incredibly fond, it makes joel's head spin. "ghosts aren't real." grian just scoffs. 

"you’re not real."

[slut4hee]

Mr, And Mrs Vogue

{Paring: Idol Lee Heeseung x Blk Supermodel Fem! Reader

{Genre: literally smut with litte plot, ambw themes, 18+ so (mdni).

{Summary: You’re one of the most famous, beautiful, and influential supermodels in the industry. Heeseung is one of the most famous, handsome, and talented idol from the number kpop boygroup. After being in the same territory as each other, you both decide to get into the sexual tension you feel the first night you two encounter one another.

{Genre: explicit scenes, rough sex, unprotected sex, pull out method, backshots, hair pulling, ass smacking, sex in public setting (they fuck in the bathroom), oral (f receiving, fingering, dirty talk, pet names, etc.

The flashing lights from various cameras, and the sound of endless praise, falling from the mouths of the paparazzi surrounded you like thick fog. You posed for the cameras, something that came to you naturally, from being a model for quite some time now.

Your body was accompanied by a long ivory silk dress, with a slit on the side. The dress accommodated your curves so well, showing off the body you worked so hard to maintain. Tonight was just like any other night for a well know supermodel like yourself, people taking your picture left and right. And different major brands asking you to model their newest designs.

You loved this lifestyle, you loved being a model. Of course, being a model has it’s bitter taste moments, like the times your feelings are completely ignored, and you’ve often compromise yourself on multiple occasions. But, there was nothing more satisfying than to get paid by just being pretty, your back account staying fat by just your face card alone.

You hear commotion coming from the other side of the gala, and that’s when you see him. Lee Heeseung, a member from one of the hottest Kpop boygroup called Enhypen. Heeseung was known for his striking handsome features, and his out of this world amazing vocals.

The face of Enhypen is what they called him, no matter how hard you tried, nobody could resist the intense aura, that Lee Heeseung radiates. You watched as he posed for the cameras, he clad in a white designer knit tank top, and designer black slacks that hugged his slender waist.

Your mouth was watering at the sight of him, his honey smooth skin glowing, his orange hair standing out, and his gaze was so mesmerizing and his confidence was simply nonchalant and effortlessly pretentious. You so wish you were the roles were reversed, and you were the one getting to snap pictures of that stunning man.

Finally your eyes locked with his, and your breath hitched as you quickly looked away, adjusting your posture and acting like you were fixing your hair. You glanced back at him, and this time he was already staring at you, a smirk on his as he raised his eyebrow slightly.

You felt butterflies in your stomach, “this one is dangerous.” You thought to yourself, as you tried your hardest to not make it obvious he had caught your eye. As the night went on, you and Heeseung continued to steal little glances at each other, you watched as him and the other members of Enhypen talk amongst each other with champagne filled glasses in their hands.

“Y/n, come! There’s someone I want you to meet.” Your manager Isabella called out to you. Your stomach was already doing somersaults, when you realized she was standing next to a guy, that just happened to be standing right next to the members of Enhypen.

You took steady steps towards them, your silver stiletto heels clicking against the marble floor as you walked. You noticed Heeseung’s eyes were on you the whole entire time you made your way over, only making you a more nervous wreck than you already were.

“Isn’t she a beauty” Isabella praised, the guy agreed with her shaking your hand, and introducing himself as Enhypen’s manager. You smiled at him, and telling him it’s a pleasure meeting him this evening.

While your manager was conversing with their manager, you were playing stare off with Lee Heeseung. God he was so much more-handsome up close, his Adam’s Apple was so viable and his Bambi eyes were so alluring.

“So Y/n right?” He finally broke the ice, his tone low and calm. You mentally moaned in your head, he has only said a few words, and you already ready to drop your panties.

“Yes, and you’re Lee Heeseung?” You replied, tucking your hair behind your ear, showing off your real diamond earrings. Heeseung nodded, extending his hand for you to shake. You shook his hand, but Heeseung didn’t forget to give your knuckles a soft kiss causing a shiver to run down your spine.

“So did you hear? Our companies are wanting us to have a photo shoot together. They think the collaboration will be a major success, and I’ll be lying if I said I didn’t agree with them” He spoke so boldly, confidence and ambition dripping off is tongue.

“Well I just happened to agree with you as well Mr Lee Heeseung” You said flirtatiously, batting your eyelashes at him. Heeseung could feel his heart racing, and an undying twitch inside his pants. This was nothing new, Heeseung’s been had his sights on you, ever since he saw you at the Prada fashion show in Milan Italy.

You were the main character in his fantasies, the one he wanted oh so badly. And now that you were right in front him, batting those pretty little eyelashes at him, dressed in this stunning dress that did nothing to hide how round and plump your ass was had him losing all his self control.

And that’s how you found yourself stumbling into a public restroom with Lee Heeseung, his lips attacking yours as you struggled to get the door closed and locked all the way.

“Fuck baby girl, you don’t know long I’ve been waiting for this moment.” He spoke with tinge a of urgency and lust filled tone, his hands touching all of your lower body, grabbing at your ass and hips.

“Mmm, so you’ve been watching me.” You said breathless, letting out a small moan, when he started to leave a trail of desperate kisses down your neck and collarbone.

“Hell yeah baby, had my sights on you since I last saw you at the Prada shoot. You’re just simply breathtaking, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.” He groaned when you grabbed his neck, starting to return the kisses all down his tanned neck.

“Shit you smell so good, you smell like vanilla, and taste like honey angel.” He moaned out loud, when you started to desperately grind your body on his. He picked you up and placed you on the sink, hiking up your dress, and started to trail kisses on your legs and thighs.

“Oh god Hee, mmm feels so good baby, that’s right worship me.” You let a desperate whimper, when he spread your legs wider, pulling your panties down your legs.

“Would you let me taste angel, gonna let me taste this sweet brown pussy.” He smirked when you nodded your head frantically, a desperate pout on your face. He kissed on your thighs once more before he started to lick a strip of your wet pussy. Your body jolted forward at the sudden action, grabbing ahold of his head as he started to eat your pussy like a starved caveman.

“Oh fuck! Oh g-god Hee, that feels so damn good please.” You moaned shamelessly loud, your legs trying to lock around his head, but his strength kept you from doing so. His tongue felt no other you ever felt, almost as if he was licking all inside your gummy walls.

“Fuck pussy taste so delectable, could stay buried between these pretty legs all night.” He groaned, as he spat on your pussy and dived right back in. At this point your legs were shaking, you were simply losing all your self control, that’s how intense the pleasure of his tongue on your pussy alone.

He then slid his index finger inside your tight snatch, adding onto the pleasure you were already feeling. You grabbed ahold of his hair tightly, your body now full on vibrating, as he pulled you further and further to the edge. He started to suck harshly on your clitoris, and sped up his index finger, and like clockwork you were cumming hard on his face.

You panted, trying to catch your breath, from the intense orgasm you just received. You were already so fucked out, your pupils dilated with lust and desire, and you only wanted more.

“God baby, I gotta be inside you like right now angel.” Heeseung said with a rush of urgency and desperation, unbuckling his belt and letting his slacks fall to his ankles. He manhandled you off the sink, and bent you over the sink, arching your back in the position he wanted you in.

He cursed at the sight at your wet and quivering pussy, it’s like your tight little hole was just begging to be filled, and he was going to grant your wish tonight. He landed a harsh smack to your left asscheek, and then one to your right. He started to tease your entrance with his thick mushroom tip, torturing you and himself.

“Stop teasing and fuck me already!” You said desperately. You whimpered when he landed another smack to your asscheek, and lined himself with your tight hole before making his way in. You gasped at the sudden intrusion, you could feel him splitting you open in the best way, and you were already addicted to the feeling.

“F-fuck! Damn angel, what a tight fucking pussy you got here.” He moaned, adjusting his stance, before pulling almost all the way out before slamming right back in knocking the wind out of your lungs. He set a sharp and brutal pace, every time his pelvis came in contact with your ass, your body jerked forward.

“Oh god! Oh Heeseung, you’re so fucking big, so fucking deep inside me!” You cried out, your grip on the sink tightening, as you took his deep strokes like a good little slut you are. He just chuckled, grabbing ahold of your hair, and yanking your body up from the sink and pounding into your pussy like a madman.

“That’s right baby, all fucking deep in your guts and shit, pounding this tight little cunt into the next week huh?” He smirked, trailing kisses down your neck again, being careful not to leave hickies. You on the other hand, you barely coherent, already dumb on the feeling of his thick cock penetrating your gummy walls.

“Fuck baby! That’s it, keep throwing that ass back on me, show me how much you love this cock angel.” He let out a deep grunt, feeling himself slowly tipping to the edge, but he was determined to make you fall apart one more time before he got his nut. You desperately chased after his thrusts, your eyes rolling to the back of your head, tears gathering in your waterlines, as you feel yourself about to cream for the 2nd time tonight.

“Fuck hee baby, you gonna make this pussy cum again, gonna cream all over your big cock.” You screamed out, your voice sounded harsh and wrecked. Heeseung groaned, before slipping his hand between your legs, rubbing harsh circles on your clit. You felt the heat rushing through your body, and you creamed hard around his cock, your pussy milking him for what he’s worth.

“Ah! Fuck fuck fuck, god baby I’m gonna fucking cum.” He whimpered, quickly pulling out, as he tugged at his cock a couple times before spurting thick ropes of white creamy essence all over your back and asscheeks. Your body felt so spent and weak, your legs almost giving out on you. Heeseung grabbed a tissue, wiping the cum off your body and cleaning himself in the process.

“I don’t want this night to end baby, I still need you some more”

“Glad we’re on the same page, I just happened to have a hotel room near here, care to keep me company for the night?”

The End.

A/n: Teeheee! Kicking my fight and twerking against my Heeseung poster this was so fun to write I need him🙂‍↕️😵‍💫 reblogs and feedback is greatly appreciated.

—————————————————————————

Taglist:

@i03jae @ataver @ancnymcnzjy @kolawnk @luvhaeni if I didn’t tag you it’s bc I couldn’t!

[pooksamiras]

- amira. 05/25. (naughty girl).

she smirks up at him, lips swollen, eyes glinting with mischief as she rocks her hips at a slow and deliberate pace on his cock. His back presses into the headboard, thighs tense beneath her, his arms braced at her sides, like he’s holding back from ruining her.

“Don’t look at me like that, Riley,” she whispers, breathless and smug. “You’re the one who let me on top. You did this to yourself.”

His gloved hand shoots up, grabbing a fistful of her hair, yanking her gaze down to his. His mask is pushed up just enough to reveal the snarl on his lips, his jaw clenched so tight she swears she could feel it in his cock, pulsing inside her.

“Call it obsession,” he growls, eyes dark and burning through her, “or foolishness or fuckin’ madness…”

He thrusts up hard without warning — a brutal, possessive snap of his hips that knocks the air from her lungs. she whimpers, her cocky façade cracking.

“But you keep your fuckin’ eyes on me.”

she tries to look away — maybe just to catch her breath — but his grip tightens, his other hand clamping around her throat, squeezing just enough to make her entire body light up.

“I said,” he rasps, voice ragged with restraint, “eyes. on. me.”

And she obeys — not because she’s scared, but because something in his gaze is wild, raw, like if she doesn’t look at him, he might come undone.

“I ride better when I close my eyes,” she manages, breath shaky.

Simon chuckles darkly, low and vicious. “Then maybe I’ll fuck you into the mattress instead. You won’t be ridin’ shit if you can’t walk after.”

she gasps when he flips her in a blur, pressing her into the mattress, his body looming over hers, his hips grinding cruelly slow.

“Not lookin’ so cheeky now, are you?” he murmurs against your ear, biting down her shoulder hard enough to mark. “You’re mine. You come with me. You come for me. And you don’t fuckin’ look away.”

she whimpers his name, dazed and dizzy with how deep he is, how he owns every inch of her body.

He licks a stripe along her neck, his tongue hot and heavy. “That’s right. Keep your eyes on me, sweetheart. I’m the only fuckin’ thing you need to see.”

[weirdgenetic-fuckup]

I had a sucky geography exam today you should totally cheer me up with a subby james fic🌚🌚❤️

-🦀

A/n: I know I'm a few days late to this one but I hope it still helps nonetheless

Also this is the actual fic based (???) on the teaser I made for April Fools Day, as you can tell I like getting two things out of the way at once, I also really liked how this turned out because a lot of people really wanted it and I never felt like writing it but here you have it

Warnings: Smut, James isn't stated to be a virgin but it's kind of implied I think (it was supposed to be in the original but I never added it in this), dacryphilia, mutual masturbation, overstimulation, orgasm denial, oral (f receiving), submissive James, mommy kink, degradation, praise near the end, if you think I missed anything let me know otherwise enjoy!

James sat there, naked on the bed in front of you. You straddled his lap, hands working his cock fast, using your spit as lube. His chest was all red, his face flushed as tears rolled down his cheeks, heels desperately kicking into the mattress.

“You’re not cumming yet.” You stated, James didn’t miss the annoyance in your voice, it made more tears come to his eyes. “I’m not letting someone fuck me if they can’t last more than a few seconds.” You’d been at this for almost a half hour, ruining countless highs for him while he just whined and begged for you to let him cum.

“Please-please, mommy… I-I can’t- I can’t take it anymore, please, just lemme cum, been so good!” He said through grunts, teeth gritting together as his hips bucked helplessly into your hand.

"Been good?" You repeated, eyes widening slightly as you scoffed. "Been so good, but you're humping my hand, have been for a while." He whined loudly, throwing his head back and doing his best to force himself in place. "You're a fucking whore is what you are." You pulled your hand off of James and he cried out for you weakly. "Get yourself off if you're so desperate and I'll think about riding you."

James watched you with wide eyes as you got off his lap and pushed yourself to the other end of the bed, watching him try to catch up with what just happened. You were no more clothed than James was, naked with your legs spread so he could see just how wet you were, how much seeing him cry and beg was truly turning you on. It gave him some motivation and he wrapped one big, calloused hand around his girth.

He knew what got him off, he'd been working with his hand for so long and it sucked to keep going when you were right there. He started slow, whimpers leaving him as he was severely overstimulated. He tried moving his hand faster but it just made things worse. You couldn't help but to laugh at his pathetic little noises.

"Little dicks hurts so bad you can't even get yourself off." You teased with a chuckle.

James's breathing was coming out in rough pants. "It-it's not small-small..." He managed to get out.

His eyes followed your hand as it trailed down your body, landing on your cunt as you spread your lips with two fingers, showing him your pretty pussy clenching around nothing. "I'll give you that, at least." You murmured, watching his hand painfully work his length.

You started rubbing yourself, two fingers circling your neglected clit at a good rhythm. James's eyes were locked on the side, his breathing coming out ragged as he watched you touch yourself while his hips bucked up into his hand before jerking away from the pain of overstimulation.

Your fingers moved faster, breathing getting heavier. "Fuck, you really do look so pretty like that." You mused, looking at his glassy eyes and tear streaked cheeks, bruised lips pursed in a pathetic little pout, soft little whimpers leaving him along with the sobs he did his best to choke back. "Just a good boy, all this pain for a little satisfaction?" You asked. "Doing everything mommy tells you to, huh?" He still couldn't take his eyes off your fingers on your glistening cunt. "Perfect little slut."

He couldn't take it anymore and crawled across the bed, grabbing your hips and holding you in place while he buried his face in your cunt, hungrily lapping at your folds while he humped the mattress. You gasped at his little burst but quickly relaxed, liking this much better. "Ah- oh fuck, James! Oh god, oh you know how to do something right." You said between moans as you threw your head back, leaning back on your hands while you let him eat you out.

He looked up at you, desperate eyes locking on yours when you looked back down at him, aching for praise, something to show he was doing it right. "Oh, fuck, you're mommy's good boy, aren't you? Keep-keep doing that- fuck!" You reach for the back of his head, fingers tangling in his lank blond hair and giving it a harsh tug which he just moaned at.

He was whining into your cunt, hips sputtering as he fucked your mattress. His brows knit together as he watched your every expression, loving the way your hips moved against his face as his tongue dipped into you, clit bumping his nose and drawing out little sounds.

"Ah-ah! James! James, you're-you're gonna make me cum!" You moaned out loudly, words echoing off the walls. Your legs twitched, knot quickly building in your gut before snapping as you came.

James lapped up everything, every little drop that squeezed out your pussy landed on his tongue sooner or later. He was getting too desperate, licking a little too low and that's when you yanked his hair back. "Fuck, you're good but not that good." You scolded, glaring down at him.

"M'sorry, m'so sorry, mommy." His brain was fried, the words came out all mumbled and slurred but he couldn't do anything about it now so he just leaned against your thigh, searching for some comfort.

Instead you got off the bed and left him alone. "Can you roll over for me?" You asked, tone a lot softer than it had been as you walked over to your closet. You went to look for clothes so you could change after you showered, glancing back you saw James flopping onto his back, dick limp and dead on his abdomen, a milky white puddle where he'd been rutting into your sheets.

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

It's not a request, but an idea I wanted to share.

How about... Manager! Reader who is an aroace.

She is like mix of maomao and saiki kusuo when it comes to idea of romance, like, she is not here to get with someone, she just want to get money, enjoy her hobbies and her true love, food and snacks, and live in peace.

Interviewer: A lot of people commented what the absolute delight it must be to be surrounded by handsome men! You must be living fangirls' dream! Tell me, are there anyone you perhaps interested in? Or... Even multiple?

Manager reader, looking disgusted: Ew... What a nightmare. I didn't get on dating show, I am here to get rich so I can get this peaceful life I want. Not headache in the form of jealousy, competition, rivalries, pressure to keep everyone happy and dramas you don't want to get involved in.

When more flirty and bold ones (like otoya and Oliver) try to flirt with her, she's just-

A) look at them in genuine disgust like maomao did at Jinshi when he tried to use his charms

B) Dodges them like Saiki did with Kokomi, yumehara, etc.

Otoya: You are like, most cutest girl I met, can't get my eyes off of you.

Manager reader: Get them checked.

Oliver: Hey, there~ How are you-

Manager Reader: *Dodges him and keep on going*

Oliver: *chuckle* Oh man... How cold~ Manager, don't leave me alone~

Manager Reader: (thinking: Oh, for heaven's sake, does he has nothing else to do?)

Otoya: Man... Manager is so cold... She won't admit she likes me, didn't she?

Karasu: Likes you? Didn't she looked at you like you were cockroach earlier?

Otoya: She's just shy, I am sure if I keep on going, she is going to be melted by my charm.

Karasu: Yeah, right, she would rather sell you for a pudding without second thought.

As I said earlier, food and snacks are Manager Reader's true love. She would be that kind of person that comes to the events just for food

Isagi: By the way, manager, here *Gives her a chocolate* I just want to say thank you and-

Manager reader: Are you an angel straight up from heaven?

Isagi:😃 Huh???

Extra

Manager Reader eating snacks with Ego: Honestly, romance is overrated, there is other things you know? It's not the end of the world or my life if I don't date someone.

Jinpachi Ego: Totally agree.

Airi: You guys, I think it's enough snacks, it's not healthy you know-

I LOVE THIS I LOVE YOU THIS IS AMAZING. ALSO SAIKI AND MAOMAO MENTIONED??? yes i adore this, this is so fucking amazing i need to see this👌 this could also work with reader as a lesbian, and all of the bolder and more flirtatious guys are just heartbroken when they see her asking a girl out and yet rejecting all of their romantic advances.