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[hereforuconnwbb]

Unexpected Halt - CHAPTER 3

paige x azzi (pazzi)

au fic!

~paige plays for uconn and azzi plays for stanford~

word count: 6.5k

warning: suggestive

hey yall heres chap 3 ! lemme know what u guys think of this chapter and what else u guys would like to see !!

also a side note i forgot to mention when i first started writing is that i dont write smut 🥴 but would write build ups and all that but yes just wanted to put that out there.

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The past few weeks had been… different.

At first, it had just been the occasional text. A good luck before a game, a did you land okay? after a flight. Normal things. Casual things.

But then the texts got longer. More frequent.

Late-night calls became routine—what started as quick check-ins turned into hours of talking about everything and nothing, voices growing softer as exhaustion crept in, neither one wanting to hang up first.

Paige found herself waiting for Azzi’s name to pop up on her screen, heart jumping just a little every time it did.

Azzi, on the other hand, had completely abandoned the idea of pretending she wasn’t always hoping for Paige’s name to appear in her notifications.

It wasn’t just that they talked. It was how they talked. The way they let each other in, the way they never ran out of things to say. The way silence between them never felt awkward, only comfortable.

And even though they hadn’t seen each other in person since that day, neither of them could deny it—

Something was happening between them.

Something that neither of them had put a name to yet, but neither of them wanted to stop.

—------------

Paige didn’t even bother hiding her grin as she read the message on her phone.

Azzi: sooo technically you never answered my question last night

Paige: hmm? what question?

Azzi: don’t act like you don’t know.

Azzi: do u miss me or not?

Paige bit her lip, pretending to think before typing her response.

Paige: idk tbh… kinda hard to miss someone when u talk to them 24/7

Azzi: paige.

Paige: ok fine maybe just a little

Azzi: just a little? wow.

Paige: ok ok a lot whatever

“Dude. You’re literally the worst at hiding your feelings.”

Paige jumped, locking her phone as KK plopped down beside her on the couch.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Paige said, far too quickly.

KK snorted. “Oh, come on. You’ve been texting her all morning.”

Paige sighed, running a hand over her face. “I hate that you’re observant.”

KK smirked. “So. You gonna finally admit you’re down bad or…?”

Paige shot her a glare, but KK just wiggled her eyebrows.

“…Okay. Maybe I miss her.”

KK gasped dramatically. “Oh my gosh, growth.”

Paige rolled her eyes, but the small smile on her face never left

—------------

Azzi wasn’t trying to stare at her phone.

But when it lit up with another message, she barely heard a word of what Caroline was saying.

Caroline sighed. “You didn’t hear any of that, did you?”

Azzi blinked. “What?”

Caroline just looked at her.

Azzi groaned. “I was listening.”

Caroline tilted her head. “Okay. Then what did I just say?”

Azzi opened her mouth—then shut it when she realized she had no idea.

Caroline smirked. “Exactly.”

Azzi slumped back in her chair. “…Okay, fine. I might’ve been a little distracted.”

Caroline laughed. “Yeah, no kidding. I swear, you and Paige are, like, the sappiest long-distance situationship I’ve ever witnessed.”

Azzi groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Please never say that again.”

Caroline grinned. “Okay, okay. But for real—when are you seeing her again?”

Azzi paused, thumb hovering over her phone.

“…I don’t know,” she admitted.

Caroline raised an eyebrow. “You guys haven’t talked about it?”

Azzi hesitated. “Not really. We kind of just… talk. Every night. About anything and everything.”

Caroline gave her a look. “And yet somehow not about when you’ll see each other next?”

Azzi sighed. “It’s just—” She bit her lip. “I guess I don’t want to rush it.”

Caroline softened. “That makes sense.”

Azzi nodded, glancing at her phone again.

Paige: be honest, how much do u miss me?

Azzi smiled.

Azzi: ...maybe just a little.

Paige: wow crazy i was thinking the same thing

Azzi shook her head, biting back a grin.

Maybe they hadn’t figured out the when yet, but one thing was for sure—

She really couldn’t wait to see her again.

—------------

Azzi hated games like this.

The ones where every mistake clung to her skin, heavy and suffocating. The ones where no matter how hard she tried, it never felt like enough.

She had wanted this win—badly. Maybe that was the worst part. Knowing how much she wanted it and still walking away empty-handed.

The locker room had been quiet. Coach had spoken, but Azzi barely processed the words. Her teammates had tried to lift each other up, but all she could do was sit there, staring at the floor, jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

She showered quickly, letting the water scald her skin, as if that could wash away the frustration bubbling under the surface.

By the time she was back in her sweats, hood pulled over her head, she had one goal: make it to her hotel room without talking to anyone.

She kept her head down through the lobby, barely noticing the scattered groups of players from other teams lingering near the elevators. Her chest tightened at the laughter and easy conversations she caught in passing.

That could’ve been us.

Once she finally reached her room, she shut the door behind her, exhaling slowly. The silence settled around her, thick and unmoving.

She kicked off her slides, sat on the edge of the bed, and—for the first time all night—glanced at her phone.

Her stomach twisted.

17 notifications.

All from Paige.

She hesitated before unlocking the screen.

Paige: damn tough game out there.

Paige: hello?

Missed call from Paige

Paige: yo, you good?

Paige: Az?

Missed call from Paige

Paige: game was rough ik but answer me smh

2 Missed calls from Paige

Paige: lowkey stressing me out here

2 Missed calls from Paige

Paige: just let me know ur alive damn

Missed call from Paige

Paige: AZZI.

Missed call from Paige

Paige: istg if you don’t answer in the next 5 min i’m facetiming you

Azzi swallowed. She hadn’t meant to ignore her. She just… hadn’t wanted to talk to anyone.

But Paige wasn’t just anyone.

Before she could overthink it, she opened their chat.

Azzi: sorry.

Azzi: im alive.

Paige: about damn time

Paige: u okay?

Azzi hesitated. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. She could brush it off, say she was fine, pretend like this game wasn’t eating her alive.

Instead—

Azzi: not really.

Paige’s reply was instant.

Paige: call me?

Azzi closed her eyes for a second, exhaled, and pressed the button.

Paige picked up after the first ring.

“Hey,” she said, voice softer than before. “There you are.”

Azzi swallowed. “…Yeah.”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Paige said. “But I’m here. Just so you know.”

Azzi let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

And finally, finally, she let herself lean into it.

The moment Azzi let herself relax, the exhaustion hit her all at once. She sank back against the headboard, gripping the phone a little tighter.

Paige stayed quiet, giving her time to breathe. The steady sound of her breathing on the other end of the line was grounding, a reminder that she wasn’t alone, no matter how much tonight made her feel like she was.

“I just—” Azzi finally started, then exhaled. “It sucked.”

Paige hummed in understanding. “Yeah.”

Azzi shut her eyes. “I felt off the whole game. Like I was a step behind, no matter what I did.”

“Azzi, you’re one of the hardest-working people I know,” Paige said. “One game isn’t gonna change that.”

Azzi swallowed. The words were comforting, but they didn’t shake the weight in her chest. “I know, but—”

“But it doesn’t feel that way right now,” Paige finished for her.

Azzi exhaled a small laugh, humorless but appreciative. “Yeah.”

There was a beat of silence before Paige spoke again, her voice softer now. “I watched.”

Azzi’s stomach flipped.

Paige had been watching her games for a while now, but something about hearing it out loud made her heart squeeze.

“You did?” she asked, voice quieter than before.

“Of course,” Paige said like it was obvious. “And I saw everything you’re mad at yourself for. The missed shots, the turnovers.” A slight pause. “But I also saw you fight through it. You didn’t quit. You still hit that pull-up late in the fourth, still got that steal when they were pressing. It wasn’t perfect, but you kept going. That’s what matters.”

Azzi’s throat tightened.

She tilted her head back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling, letting Paige’s words settle into the spaces self-doubt had tried to fill.

“I just—” Azzi hesitated, then admitted, “I hate feeling like I let everyone down.”

Paige was quiet for a second, then said, “Okay, I’m gonna say something, and I need you to really hear me.”

Azzi let out a small, tired laugh. “That serious, huh?”

“Yes,” Paige said. “Listen to me. You didn’t let anyone down. One game doesn’t define you. You know that.”

Azzi’s fingers curled into the blanket. She did know that. But sometimes, knowing wasn’t enough.

She heard Paige sigh on the other end. “I get it, though,” she admitted. “The whole feeling like you have to be perfect thing.”

Azzi blinked. “You do?”

Paige let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Uh, yeah. You ever met me?”

That pulled an actual laugh from Azzi, small but real. “Fair point.”

“Look,” Paige continued, “I could sit here all night and tell you how amazing you are, but I know that’s not gonna make this feeling go away. So, instead, I’m gonna ask: what do you need right now?”

Azzi hesitated.

What did she need?

She wasn’t sure. The loss still stung, but the tightness in her chest had loosened just a little.

She wasn’t okay yet, but she didn’t feel like she was drowning anymore.

“…Can we just stay on the phone?” Azzi finally asked.

Paige smiled through the line. “Yeah, Az. We can do that.”

Azzi exhaled, finally letting the tension drain from her shoulders.

She curled into her pillow, closing her eyes as Paige started talking about something random—probably trying to distract her.

And as the night stretched on, Azzi let herself get lost in the sound of her voice.

She shifted onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. The exhaustion was still there, but sleep wouldn’t come. Not yet.

Paige was still on the other end of the call, her breathing steady, unhurried. It was comforting, the way she stayed—even when Azzi didn’t know what to say, even when she felt like nothing could pull her out of the mess in her own head.

“You still with me?” Paige asked after a beat, voice softer now.

Azzi nodded before realizing Paige couldn’t see her. “Yeah.”

A pause. “Wanna FaceTime?” Paige’s voice was casual, but there was something underneath it—like she wasn’t sure if Azzi would say yes.

Azzi hesitated. The thought of Paige seeing her like this, all quiet and worn down, made her stomach twist. But at the same time, there was a part of her that wanted it.

Wanted to see her.

“…Yeah,” she said finally.

Paige didn’t hesitate. Seconds later, Azzi’s phone buzzed with an incoming FaceTime call. She inhaled once before accepting.

And then there she was.

Paige was lying on her side, her head resting against her arm, hair a little messy from running her hand through it too many times. Her expression softened the second their eyes met through the screen.

“Hey,” Paige murmured.

Azzi swallowed. “Hey.”

Neither of them spoke for a second. The silence wasn’t awkward, just… charged.

Paige’s gaze flickered over Azzi’s face, like she was searching for something. “You okay?”

Azzi let out a quiet breath. “I will be.”

Paige smiled, just a little. “That’s all I need to hear.”

Another beat of silence.

Then Paige shifted, propping herself up on her elbow. “So,” she said, a teasing edge creeping into her tone. “How many edits of me have you watched tonight?”

Azzi groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I knew you were gonna bring that up.”

Paige grinned. “I had to. It’s my favorite thing about you.”

Azzi narrowed her eyes. “Your favorite thing?”

“Yup.” Paige’s expression was entirely too smug. “You, Azzi Fudd, secretly watching thirst edits of me.”

Azzi groaned again, rolling onto her side. “I regret ever telling you that.”

“No you don’t.” Paige’s voice was warm, teasing, but then it softened just slightly. “But seriously… I’m glad you told me. I like knowing the little things about you.”

Azzi felt her heart skip.

Paige’s gaze held hers, the teasing edge fading into something gentler. More sincere.

Azzi swallowed, suddenly feeling too warm. “You’re ridiculous.”

Paige grinned. “And yet, you love talking to me.”

Azzi sighed, rolling onto her back again. “Unfortunately.”

Paige let out a soft laugh. “Wanna know something?”

Azzi turned her head slightly. “What?”

“I was gonna text you tonight even if you hadn’t answered.” Paige exhaled through her nose. “Just… to check in.”

Azzi’s chest tightened.

She didn’t respond right away, just let the warmth of that truth settle in her ribs.

“Paige?” she murmured after a moment.

Paige hummed in question.

“…Thanks for staying up with me.”

Paige’s lips curled into something softer, smaller. “Always.”

Azzi pressed her lips together, glancing away for a second before meeting Paige’s gaze again.

It was quiet for a while after that. Neither of them spoke, but neither of them hung up, either.

And even though Azzi had felt lost just an hour ago, she wasn’t anymore.

Because Paige was still here.

Azzi shifted on her bed, adjusting the angle of her phone as she settled onto her side. Paige was still on the other end of the FaceTime call, lying on her stomach now, chin propped up on her forearm.

The glow from her screen made her eyes look softer, warmer. It was the kind of thing Azzi shouldn’t be noticing—but she did anyway.

Paige was watching her.

She always did.

“You’re staring,” Azzi murmured, voice quieter than she intended.

Paige didn’t even try to deny it. “Maybe.”

Azzi felt her pulse pick up.

The silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t empty. It lingered, like something unspoken was sitting between them, waiting to tip over.

Paige was still watching her, her gaze slow and unhurried as it traced over Azzi’s face.

Azzi swallowed. “What?”

Paige’s lips twitched, like she was debating saying something. “You look cute.”

Azzi blinked, caught completely off guard.

“I—” Her brain short-circuited for a second, her fingers tightening around her phone. “Paige.”

Paige grinned at her reaction. “What?”

Azzi narrowed her eyes. “You’re messing with me.”

“I’m not,” Paige defended, but her voice had that teasing lilt that made Azzi suspect otherwise.

Still.

There was something in her eyes, something that made Azzi’s stomach flip—like maybe she wasn’t just teasing. Like maybe she meant it.

Azzi exhaled through her nose, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up her neck. “You’re impossible.”

Paige smirked. “And yet, you keep answering my calls.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but she didn’t deny it.

She couldn’t.

Not when Paige was looking at her like that.

Another pause.

Then Paige shifted again, adjusting the phone so she was lying on her back, looking up at the ceiling before turning back to Azzi.

“I wish I was there,” she murmured.

Azzi’s breath caught.

She didn’t know why that sentence hit different than all the other things Paige had said tonight. Maybe it was the way her voice had dropped slightly, or the way she meant it.

“…Yeah?” Azzi found herself asking.

Paige hummed. “Yeah.”

Azzi’s fingers curled into her sheets.

She wasn’t sure what to say to that.

Because part of her wished the same thing.

She had spent the whole night feeling frustrated, disappointed, like nothing could pull her out of it. And yet here she was, feeling okay just because Paige was on the other side of the screen.

Azzi pressed her lips together, her pulse a little too loud in her ears.

Paige watched her, waiting, like she was giving her the space to say something.

Azzi hesitated—then took a breath.

“…I wish you were, too.”

The shift was slow—so slow it was almost unnoticeable.

But then Paige stretched, arms reaching above her head, hoodie riding up just enough to expose the toned lines of her stomach.

Azzi froze.

Her fingers tightened around her phone as her gaze betrayed her, flickering down for just a second too long before she forced herself to look away.

Paige smirked. She saw that.

“You okay over there?” Paige teased, her voice laced with amusement.

Azzi swallowed hard, shifting against her pillows. “Yeah. Fine.”

Paige hummed, rolling onto her side now, head propped up on her hand. Her hoodie was still askew, still exposing just enough to be distracting.

“You sure?” Paige pressed, lips twitching.

Azzi exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down her face. “I hate you.”

Paige chuckled, fingers toying absently with the hem of her hoodie. “No, you don’t.”

Azzi refused to look at her, because if she did, she knew Paige’s gaze would already be locked onto hers, teasing, taunting—daring her to admit exactly what she was thinking.

She should end the call.

She should.

But Paige was still watching her, waiting, her smirk fading into something deeper, something more dangerous.

Azzi’s pulse skipped.

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” Paige murmured, her voice lower now.

Azzi wet her lips, hesitating.

She shouldn’t.

She couldn’t.

“…I don’t think you wanna know.”

Paige’s eyes flickered. The challenge was clear.

She shifted again, stretching just slightly, her hoodie inching up even more before she finally let it settle back down.

Azzi clenched her jaw, dragging her gaze away.

Paige definitely noticed. Her smirk deepened.

“Try me.”

Azzi exhaled, closing her eyes for a second. She could still see Paige behind her eyelids, still picture the way she was lying there, teasing, tempting, waiting.

“…You’re doing this on purpose,” Azzi muttered.

Paige raised an eyebrow. “Doing what?”

Azzi inhaled sharply. “You know what.”

Paige’s fingers trailed lazily along her exposed skin before she let her hoodie fall back into place.

Azzi felt hot.

Paige’s voice dropped an octave. “…Maybe.”

The word sent something sharp and electric straight down Azzi’s spine.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Paige exhaled, rolling onto her back again, her fingers tapping idly against her stomach. “You should go to bed.”

Azzi almost laughed. “You’re the one keeping me up.”

Paige grinned. “I tend to have that effect.”

Azzi shook her head, but her stomach was still tight, her pulse still racing.

Neither of them hung up.

Neither of them wanted to.

And maybe that was the real problem.

The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was thick—charged, almost dangerous.

Azzi shifted against her pillows, gripping her phone a little tighter. She was trying to focus on anything else, but Paige wasn’t making it easy.

Not when she was lying there like that, fingers still resting against the exposed skin on her stomach, like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Like she was waiting for Azzi to break.

Paige sighed dramatically, stretching again, her hoodie riding up even higher this time. The defined lines of her stomach flexed for just a moment before the fabric settled back down.

Azzi swallowed hard.

Paige definitely noticed.

The corner of her lips curled. “Something wrong?”

Azzi’s jaw tensed. “You’re so annoying.”

Paige smirked, rolling onto her side again, head propped up on her palm. “Am I?”

Azzi inhaled sharply, willing herself to look anywhere else. “Yes.”

Paige’s voice dropped just slightly. “Then why haven’t you hung up?”

Azzi’s pulse stuttered.

She couldn’t answer that.

Paige’s smirk deepened, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the hem of her hoodie. “That’s what I thought.”

Azzi exhaled, shaking her head. “You love hearing yourself talk, don’t you?”

Paige hummed, stretching again just for the hell of it. “Not as much as I love getting you flustered.”

Azzi knew she should end the call.

She should.

But her fingers stayed still.

And Paige kept pushing.

“Bet you’re all warm right now,” Paige mused, eyes flickering over Azzi’s face. “All worked up over nothing.”

Azzi’s stomach tightened. “Shut up.”

Paige grinned. “Make me.”

Azzi clenched her jaw.

Paige’s fingers traced absently over her stomach again. “Didn’t think so.”

Azzi inhaled through her nose. “You really need to go to sleep.”

Paige exhaled dramatically. “You really need to stop pretending you don’t like this.”

Azzi froze.

Paige saw it.

Her smirk softened, but her eyes? Darker now.

“…Tell me I’m wrong.”

Azzi couldn’t.

Her throat went dry, her entire body way too hot under the weight of Paige’s stare.

The silence stretched, thick with something neither of them wanted to name.

Then Paige exhaled, softer this time.

“…Once again, I wish I was there.”

Azzi’s fingers curled against her sheets.

She hesitated.

She shouldn’t say it.

She really shouldn’t.

But her voice betrayed her anyway.

“…Same P.”

Azzi wasn’t sure who was breathing harder, her or Paige, but she felt the shift, felt the weight of Paige’s words settling over her skin.

"Once again, I wish I was there."

Her fingers curled into her sheets, her heart thudding in her chest.

She shouldn’t have said it.

She shouldn’t have admitted she wanted Paige there too.

But she had.

And now there was no taking it back.

Paige’s eyes flickered through the screen, searching, waiting, her fingers still resting just under the hem of her hoodie, teasing—taunting.

Azzi swallowed hard.

“You’re quiet,” Paige murmured, her voice lower now, softer, but no less dangerous.

Azzi wet her lips. “So are you.”

Paige smirked, shifting onto her back again, the motion making her hoodie ride up just a little more, exposing another inch of skin.

Azzi felt the heat creep up her neck.

Paige noticed.

“Bet you’d be touching me if I was there,” Paige mused, her voice dripping with amusement.

Azzi’s stomach tightened.

Paige’s smirk deepened. “Wouldn’t you?”

Azzi exhaled, dragging a hand down her face. “You’re so full of yourself.”

Paige only grinned, fingers tracing along her own stomach in slow, lazy patterns. “You didn’t say no.”

Azzi squeezed her eyes shut for a second, her body too warm, her thoughts too loud.

This was dangerous.

Paige was dangerous.

And the worst part?

Azzi liked it.

“Why are you even like this?” Azzi muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

Paige chuckled, her smirk softening just slightly. “Only with you.”

Azzi swore she felt that deep in her chest.

Her breath hitched.

Paige saw. The teasing faded—just a little.

Because this wasn’t just a game.

This was something else.

Something more.

Paige inhaled, slow, deliberate. “…Wish I could see you right now.”

Azzi’s fingers twitched against her blanket. “You are seeing me.”

Paige shook her head, her smirk turning into something softer. “Not like that.”

Azzi’s pulse skipped.

Paige didn’t elaborate.

She didn’t have to.

Because Azzi knew.

And suddenly, the space between them—the distance—felt unbearable.

Paige’s fingers were still absently tracing over the hem of her hoodie, her voice dropping just enough to make Azzi’s stomach flip.

“If I was there…” she started, voice slow, deliberate, watching Azzi carefully. “I wouldn’t just be looking at you through a screen.”

Azzi’s breath hitched.

Paige noticed.

“I’d be right next to you,” Paige continued, stretching lazily before shifting onto her side again, head propped up on her hand. “Close enough to touch.”

Azzi’s fingers curled even tighter against her blanket.

Paige’s smirk deepened. “Close enough to hear every little breath you take.”

Azzi swore her whole body tensed.

Paige’s voice softened, but the weight of it still pressed down on her. “I’d be able to feel how warm you get when I’m near.”

Azzi’s stomach tightened.

Paige let the silence stretch, eyes flickering over Azzi’s face like she was committing everything to memory.

Then, barely above a whisper—

“I’d have you right where I want you.”

Azzi inhaled sharply, her heart hammering in her chest.

Paige saw the way her lips parted, saw the way her fingers gripped at her blanket, and God, she loved it.

“What’s wrong?” Paige murmured, feigning innocence. “Cat got your tongue?”

Azzi clenched her jaw. “You’re—”

Paige raised a brow. “I’m what?”

Azzi exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her hair. “You know what.”

Paige grinned, shifting again, her hoodie riding up even more. “Say it.”

Azzi glared.

Paige’s voice dropped even lower. “Or do I have to come there and make you?”

Azzi’s breath hitched.

And Paige?

Paige was thriving.

“Bet you’d let me,” Paige mused, dragging a lazy finger along her exposed stomach. “Bet you’d want me to.”

Azzi squeezed her eyes shut for a second, way too aware of how warm her face felt, how warm her whole body felt.

Paige chuckled. “You’re not saying no.”

Azzi’s voice barely worked. “Paige.”

Paige smirked, loving the way her name sounded like that—desperate, pleading, like Azzi was barely holding it together.

“Yeah, baby?” she whispered.

Azzi’s breath caught.

And Paige knew she had her.

Azzi’s pulse was pounding, but if Paige thought she could keep all the control, she had another thing coming.

Azzi inhaled slowly, steadying herself before tilting her head, her eyes trailing down Paige’s sprawled-out frame. The hoodie bunched up, teasing a strip of toned stomach. The way she lounged there, completely unbothered, so damn confident.

Fine. Two could play this game.

Azzi let her voice drop, smooth and sultry. Intentional. “You talk a lot, Bueckers.” Her fingers skimmed along the thin strap of her tank top, dragging slowly. “But I don’t think you could actually handle me.”

Paige froze.

For the first time since this whole thing started, Azzi saw her fluster. It was subtle—the slight hitch in her breath, the way her fingers twitched against her stomach.

Azzi smirked. “What’s wrong?” She leaned in slightly, letting the strap slip just a little off her shoulder. “Cat got your tongue?”

Paige’s jaw clenched, her pupils blown.

Then she exhaled, slow and measured. “Azzi.”

It wasn’t a plea.

It was a warning.

Azzi only smiled, eyes dark. “Yes, baby?”

Paige swore. Low. Under her breath.

Then she moved, shifting up onto her elbow, hoodie slipping back down like she was finally regaining control.

Azzi wasn’t done.

She dragged a finger absently over her collarbone, tracing patterns along her skin, watching as Paige’s eyes followed the movement—hungry, locked in. “What’s the matter?” she mused, voice dripping with amusement. “Didn’t think I had it in me?”

Paige let out a quiet laugh, but it was strained, the sound tight.

Azzi loved it.

“You,” Paige exhaled, shaking her head. “Are so damn dangerous.”

Azzi licked her lips, leaning back. “You like it.”

Paige dragged a hand down her face, inhaling sharply. “I should not be watching you do that right now.”

Azzi arched a brow, her smirk widening. “Oh? And what should you be doing, then?”

Paige’s eyes flickered over her face, her lips, lower.

Then, barely above a whisper—

“Getting on a flight to come see you.”

Azzi’s breath hitched.

Paige saw it.

And just like that, the heat between them boiled over.

Azzi leaned back against her pillows, letting the strap of her tank top slide further down her shoulder, the fabric barely hanging on. She knew exactly what she was doing.

Her fingers played with the hem, teasing, dragging it up just slightly, revealing more of her toned stomach before letting it fall again. Paige’s eyes followed every movement, dark and hungry.

Azzi smirked. Easy.

“You’re quiet, Bueckers.” Her voice was smooth, slow—intentional. She let her fingers trail over her collarbone, brushing against the delicate skin like she wasn’t aware of the effect it had.Paige exhaled sharply, shifting where she lay, her hoodie now feeling way too hot for her own good.

“You think you’re funny,” Paige muttered, her voice slightly strained.

Azzi tilted her head, her smirk deepening. “I think you like watching.”

Paige’s jaw clenched, her fingers gripping the edge of her hoodie like she was physically stopping herself from doing something.

Azzi bit her lip. Oh, this was fun.

She exhaled, stretching her arms above her head, letting her tank top rise just enough to expose more of her stomach, the muscles there flexing slightly with the motion.

Paige swore under her breath.

Azzi hummed in satisfaction. “Something wrong?” she mused, her voice laced with amusement.

Paige dragged a hand down her face, inhaling deeply. “You’re a menace,” she muttered.

Azzi laughed softly, dragging her fingers down her own stomach, barely skimming the skin before settling just above the waistband of her shorts. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Paige’s eyes darkened.

“You’re lucky I’m not there right now,” she murmured, voice dropping low, controlled—dangerous.

Azzi’s stomach tightened.

She swallowed, but refused to let Paige win so easily. “Oh?” She dragged the strap of her tank top down further, her bare shoulder now fully exposed. “And what would you do if you were?”

Paige didn’t answer at first.

She stared.

Long, intense, like she was imagining it. Like she was holding herself back.

Then she exhaled, voice gravelly, thick with something heavier.

“I’d make you regret teasing me like this.”

Azzi’s breath hitched.

Paige saw it.

And that smirk—dangerous, cocky—spread across her lips.

Azzi was in trouble.

Her fingers stilled against her stomach, her breath catching at the heat in Paige’s voice. She swallowed, shifting slightly against the pillows, suddenly very aware of how much Paige was watching her.

But she wasn’t about to back down.

Her lips curled into something playful, challenging. “Oh yeah?” she murmured, voice just above a whisper, letting her fingers drift just a little lower, teasing the waistband of her shorts. “How, exactly?”

Paige exhaled sharply, jaw tightening.

Azzi smirked, tilting her head, running a slow hand up her exposed shoulder, tracing her own skin lightly—almost like she was imagining Paige’s hands instead.

“I mean,” she continued, dragging out her words, “I’m just lying here, all alone…” She let the sentence linger, her smirk growing as Paige shifted on her bed, visibly tense. “And you’re all the way over there.” She sighed dramatically. “Seems like a waste.”

Paige sat up a little, leaning toward the camera now, her gaze locked onto Azzi’s every move.

“You’re pushing it, Fudd,” Paige muttered, voice thick, dark.

Azzi loved this. She ran a hand through her hair, letting it fall slightly messier over her shoulder. “Oh, I know,” she whispered, fingers playing with the strap of her top again.

Paige groaned, rubbing a hand down her face like she was physically restraining herself. “You really wanna know what I’d do?” she muttered, voice edged with something dangerous.

Azzi swallowed, pulse pounding.

She nodded slowly.

Paige’s smirk returned—deadly.

“I’d start by pulling that little top right off of you,” Paige murmured, her voice low, controlled. “Since you clearly don’t know what to do with it.”

Azzi’s breath hitched.

Her fingers twitched at the hem of her shirt, a warmth spreading through her body she couldn’t ignore.

Paige saw it.

She grinned.

“Then,” Paige continued, “I’d pin you to that bed and make you pay for teasing me all night.”

Azzi’s stomach tightened, heat pooling low. She shifted against the pillows, her breathing suddenly uneven.

Paige laughed, slow and knowing.

“Oh, now you’re quiet?” Paige teased, voice dripping with amusement. “Where’d all that confidence go?”

Azzi glared, but it had no heat.

Paige chuckled again, watching her, taking in every little reaction, thriving off it. “I’d have you under me in seconds, Fudd,” she murmured, eyes hooded. “And you know it.”

Azzi let out a shaky breath, pulse hammering against her ribs.

She hated that Paige was winning.

So she took a breath, composed herself, and flipped the script.

She dragged a slow finger down her own stomach, teasing just beneath the waistband of her shorts. “That’s cute, Bueckers,” she purred, voice smooth, playful. “But I think you’re the one struggling here.”

Paige went silent.

Azzi smirked, victorious.

Then Paige leaned in, eyes dark, voice dropping into something that sent a shiver down Azzi’s spine.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

Azzi’s breath caught, her teasing smirk faltering for just a second.

Paige’s lips curled.

Azzi’s breath was uneven, her fingers still lightly brushing over her stomach as Paige’s words settled in the air between them. The tension was thick, suffocating, stretching between them like an invisible pull that neither of them wanted to break.

Paige’s gaze was locked onto her, eyes dark and filled with something that made Azzi’s stomach twist. She wasn’t just playing around anymore—there was something real in the way she was looking at her, like she was imagining everything she wanted to do if she were there.

Azzi swallowed, forcing herself to keep control. She shifted slightly, letting her tank top slip further down her shoulder, just enough to tease, just enough to make Paige’s eyes flicker downward before dragging back up.

Paige exhaled slowly. Controlled. Barely.

“You’re dangerous,” Paige muttered, voice rough, thick.

Azzi smirked, her fingers ghosting over the strap of her top again. “You like it.”

Paige laughed, but it wasn’t light—it was dark, amused, edged with something that sent a spark straight through Azzi’s body.

“I do,” Paige admitted, leaning forward slightly. “A little too much.”

Azzi’s stomach tightened.

She shifted again, fingers lightly toying with the fabric of her shorts. “So, what are you gonna do about it?” she murmured, voice smooth, teasing.

Paige stilled.

Azzi swore she saw something flicker in her expression, something like restraint breaking, like she was right there, one second away from saying something that would completely wreck her.

And then—

BANG BANG BANG!

Azzi flinched, her entire body tensing as a loud knock slammed against her door.

“Azzi, are you awake?”

Caroline.

Azzi’s eyes widened.

She scrambled upright, yanking her tank top strap back onto her shoulder as if Caroline could somehow see her through the door.

Paige burst out laughing.

Azzi glared at the screen. “Shut up,” she hissed, her face burning.

Paige was grinning, smug, clearly thriving off the fact that Azzi had been just as affected. “Go on, Fudd,” she teased, voice still thick with amusement. “Your girl’s waiting.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, groaning under her breath before clearing her throat. “Yeah, I’m up,” she called toward the door, trying to sound normal.

“Oh alright,” Caroline replied. “We have an early lift in the morning, don’t stay up too late.”

Azzi clenched her jaw, nodding even though Caroline couldn’t see her. “Got it.”

Paige smirked through the screen. “Guess that’s my cue,” she murmured, voice still carrying a teasing lilt.

Azzi exhaled, shaking her head. “You’re so annoying.”

Paige just grinned. “You love it.”

Azzi didn’t respond.

Because she did.

Azzi sighed, running a hand down her face as she waited, listening for Caroline’s footsteps to fade away.

Paige, of course, was thriving off the whole situation, still smirking like she’d just won some unspoken battle. “Damn, Fudd,” she teased, tilting her head. “You looked real guilty just now.”

Azzi glared, though the heat in her cheeks refused to fade. “Because you were saying things you shouldn’t be saying,” she shot back, voice still a little breathless.

Paige leaned in slightly, her voice dropping again, teasing, but still carrying that edge that made Azzi shiver. “I wasn’t saying anything untrue, though.”

Azzi hated how fast her stomach flipped.

She rolled her eyes instead, trying to ignore the way her entire body still felt warm, charged from everything that had just happened.

“Anyway,” Azzi muttered, shifting under the covers and finally trying to relax, “I should sleep before someone else ruins my life.”

Paige chuckled, softer this time. “Fine, fine. I’ll let you off the hook.”

Azzi quirked a brow. “You’ll let me off the hook?”

Paige grinned. “Yeah, you were struggling there at the end.”

Azzi scoffed, opening her mouth to argue—

But then Paige yawned, stretching her arms above her head, her hoodie riding up just enough to expose her toned stomach.

Azzi froze.

It was so unfair.

Paige, completely unaware, sighed as she settled back against her pillows, rubbing her eyes sleepily. “Alright, Fudd,” she murmured, her voice softer now, heavier with exhaustion. “Get some sleep.”

Azzi swallowed, forcing herself to breathe and not stare at Paige’s abs like an idiot.

“Yeah,” she said, shifting under her covers, trying to focus on literally anything else. “You too.”

Paige smiled, soft, warm, the kind that made something ache in Azzi’s chest.

“Night, Az.”

Azzi hesitated, then smiled back. “Night, P.”

The call ended.

Azzi stared at the blank screen for a second, still feeling the lingering warmth of Paige’s voice, of everything they’d just said, almost said, wanted to say.

She exhaled, pressing her phone to her chest.

Yeah.

She was screwed.

Azzi lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, phone still pressed to her chest.

Her heart was still beating too fast, her skin still warm from—all of it. From the way Paige had looked at her, from the things she had said, from the way the air between them had shifted so suddenly.

One second, she was curled up, stressed, overwhelmed, the weight of the game pressing down on her. And then Paige had been there, steady, comforting, pulling her back up like she always did.

But then—

Azzi swallowed.

Then something changed.

It wasn’t just comfort anymore. It wasn’t just reassurance.

It was Paige looking at her like that.

It was her teasing back, pushing to see how far they’d go.

It was Paige’s voice, dipping lower, her words leaving heat in their wake.

Azzi curled into her pillow, exhaling sharply.

It wasn’t just a crush anymore. She didn’t know what it was, but it wasn’t just that.

And that terrified her.

—------------

Paige on the other hand tossed her phone onto the nightstand and flopped onto her back, staring at the ceiling. 

She ran a hand through her hair, exhaling slowly, trying to steady the way her stomach was still twisting.

She hadn’t planned for that to happen. She’d called Azzi to comfort her. To check in. To make sure she wasn’t spiraling after the game.

Not to—

Paige groaned, rubbing a hand down her face.

Azzi had been so cute at first, all quiet and unsure, curled up under the covers. And Paige had been ready to just be there for her, to be soft, to say whatever Azzi needed to hear.

But then Azzi had teased back.

And it had flipped something in Paige’s brain, something she hadn’t been able to shut off.

Azzi, pushing her buttons. Azzi, letting her tank top slip just a little lower. Azzi, toying with her, testing her, waiting to see how far Paige would go.

Paige let out a shaky breath.

She had been so close to saying something reckless. To taking it too far.

And the worst part?

She wanted to.

She wanted more.

She had no idea where they were headed, but whatever this thing between them was?

It wasn’t slowing down.

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

[bonnie-the-butcher]

Rip Tide | Chapter XV

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 9.482 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

A very Delulu Rafe for yall's viewing pleasure. Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

You’re frozen in place.

His arms are locked around you, his whole body wracked with sobs so violent you’re almost frightened by them. 

You hold him back, your heart heavy, but your eyes stay fixed on the bike. His bike. Barry’s bike.

And though Rafe’s state unnerves you, your head spins at the thought of Bee—alone somewhere, spiraling, because someone stole the one thing he never lets out of his sight— Your fingers itch to pick up the phone again and call him, tranquilize him, tell him that the bike is here and safe, and that you’ll be there to pick him up soon enough.

But you can’t move.

You don’t want to.

Because you genuinely think Rafe might break if you let him go.

He still grips Barry’s helmet in his good hand as he pulls you in with it, his movements sending faint waves of smoke and menthol—the scent of Bee, of home, of something steadier than this—drifting between you.

Your lips part, arms tightening around him just enough that he relaxes into it. – How—Rafe, how did you get here? How did you drive like this— You could have crashed!

Your fingers ghost over his shoulder. His left one. The broken one. You can’t bring yourself to press any harder, not when he seems to be in enough pain as it is. But Rafe burrows in deeper and, almost as if demanding more of your touch, he brings his splint arm to yours and pulls it tighter around him. – He— He left me there. – He stutters, still hidden in your embrace.

– What?

– My dad! – His voice is as shaken as he is. Cracked, unstable. – He left me alone at the fucking station— He just— Just turned his back on me and left! – The image waltzes through your mind: Rafe, broken, bruised, with death still clinging to him, standing alone on the pavement as his father leaves him behind. You hold him tighter. – That piece of shit could have killed me! – He cries. – Baby, you didn’t see the car— It was totaled! The fucking— the door, my door, it—It was digging into my side, it could’ve—

You shush him as the words fade, lost in a fit of sobs. Your lips press against his hair as his face shifts over you, nosing along your skin, breathing in desperately, as if he’d been deprived of air.

The sobs shake him, wreck him.

There’s nothing else you can do but hold him. Nothing useful you can say. 

So you don’t.

You stand there in silence and let him cry as much as he needs to, wrapping around him like the cast around his arm, keeping him enclosed in this tight, too-tight, bind, trying to hold him together by force alone.

His sobs quiet slowly, but his breathing stays uneven, still pressed against your skin. You can feel the heat of it—quick, shallow, trembling. His whole body is shaking, his grip unrelenting.

For a moment, neither of you move.

Then, his fingers tighten around your arm, like he’s reminding himself that you’re here, that he’s not alone, that you didn’t leave too. – You didn’t see it, – He whispers again, smaller this time, as if he’s trying to convince himself instead of you. – You didn’t see what he fucking did, baby. The car was ruined!

– Rafe…

His name barely leaves your lips before he moves closer.

You feel the tension in his body slowly giving way, melting into something exhausted, desperate, clinging. His forehead presses against the side of your neck, and suddenly, it’s like he’s breathing you in, like he needs the scent of you, the feel of you, to remind himself he’s still here.

Your throat tightens.

His breath hitches against your skin, sharp, sudden, uneven. For a second, you think he’s going to speak again—say something, explain something, beg for something—but the words never come.

Instead, his grip tightens.

His good hand fists in your top, pulling you closer like it's a reflex, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. His splinted arm is still hooked around yours, his fingers curled weakly around your arm, and his forehead pressed against the crook of your neck like he’s trying to disappear inside of you.

And you let him.

You let him because you don’t know what else to do. You let him because if you move, if you step away, he might shatter right in front of you.

– Baby, – He whispers again, raw and painful, like he’s drowning, it sends guilt flaring in your chest.

Your throat tightens.

– I’m so sorry, Rafe. – You murmur, uselessly. Because it’s the only thing you can say. Because anything else would only make it worse. 

Then, so quietly, so brokenly, you almost don’t catch it, he whispers— He doesn’t love me.

Your heart drops.

His voice is hoarse, wrecked, barely more than a breath.

It’s the kind of tone someone only uses when they finally believe it. When they’ve tried so hard to pretend otherwise, for so long, that the truth feels like a knife to the ribs. 

That the idea of ever having believed it, hoped for it, thought of it is agonising.

You don’t remember when you had this realization about you and your own father, but you feel that ache, that all too present and all too empty ache burning through you as it burns through Rafe. And you exhale, shakily, your arms tightening around him on instinct. 

His resignation hurts you all the more, because you know that though there was never hope for you, Rafe and his father aren't yet completely lost. – He does. – You plead, and you mean it, or at least you think you might. – I know it's hard to see, Rafe, but he does love you.

He shakes his head against you.

– No, he doesn’t, – He rasps, like he’s arguing with himself now. 

– Rafe, he cares—

He doesn’t let you finish. – You don’t get it. He never did. He never fucking did.

Your fingers twitch against his back, the powerlessness overwhelming you.

Because you know this can be fixed, but you don’t know how to fix it.

You can’t fix it.

His whole body shudders, and suddenly he’s clutching you harder, closer, like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin, like it’s the only place left that he can feel safe. And you want, desperately, for him to feel safe, to feel that you’re there for him. But you can’t parent him.

You can’t protect him.

And, though your concern is true, there’s something strange in this.

Something that makes you feel uneasy, unsafe yourself.

You push the feeling down, despite yourself, holding him tight, as tight as you can hold him without making his injuries worse.

And then, softly, almost like a confession, he whispers:

– But you do. You love me.

The words slam into you. 

You freeze. 

He says it so easily, so matter-of-factly, as if it’s just… the truth. As if he’s already convinced himself of it.

Your head shakes on instinct, your body rejecting the words before you can even process them completely. – No, Rafe, I— Your voice comes out smaller than you mean for it to. Because suddenly, it’s too much. Suddenly, that part of you that was uneasy jumps, and everything pieces together: The way he clings, the way he buries himself in you, the way his body is shaking, but his grip is unrelenting— The way he says it as of it’s a fact, as if it’s something that’s been true forever, as if it’s something he’s always known.

You don’t know how to answer.

You don’t even know if you’re supposed to.

You’re not sure if it’ll make it worse.

But before you can say anything, before you even have the chance to think—

His breath stutters, and he pulls back just enough to look at you.

And suddenly, he’s too close. His forehead nearly brushes yours, his eyes searching your face, his good hand still tangled in the fabric of your shirt. 

You don’t know what to do.

You don’t know what to say.

He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing keeping him together, like you’re the last solid thing in this world, like if he lets go, he’ll fall apart completely.

And he laughs.

A ragged, broken thing, wet with tears, shaking through his whole body. And he repeats it, breathless, wretched. – You do. You love me. You love me.

He says it in relief, as if he's just discovered that whatever’s broken in him is something you can fix.

But you don’t know how to fix that.

You can’t fix that.

You can’t fix him.

You're not a cast. 

You’re not a doctor. 

You’re not a therapist. 

You can’t do anything about his pain.

You can’t even love him.

You just met him! —Your mind screams, already counting the days, the short few days you've known him. How little it should matter on a rational scale. How he should never, ever, impose that on you, much less in such short a time.

But you don’t say those things.

And you almost feel guilty for thinking them.

Your lips part, but no words come out.

You don’t want to say them. Not now. Not when it’s the last thing he needs to hear.

So, just for a minute, you let him be heavy.

You let him breathe.

You let him settle into the way your arms tighten around him. His heartbeat pounds against your ribs—frantic, uneven—until, eventually, gradually, it starts to slow.

And yet he’s still saying it.

Buried in your embrace, his lips move against your skin, and he keeps saying it.

And you let him. – You love me. You do. You do.

Your stomach sinks.

– You're not—You're gonna be alright, Rafe, – You murmur, barely above a whisper. Rafe exhales, a sound that’s half a sigh, half a hum. – You need to rest. – His fingers twitch against your back, but he doesn’t argue. – You’re too hurt for this, right now. You— You’ll feel better after you’re rested.

His grip loosens this time. Not completely. Just enough.

You pull back first. Slowly. Carefully.

His brows furrow, his eyes fixed on your skin, on the tattoo, where his lips had just been resting—like he might fight it, like he’s not ready to let go just yet.

But he doesn’t stop you.

You reach for his good wrist, curling your fingers around it, guiding him toward the bike. – Come on, let’s go. – Your voice is soft. Careful. Measured. Like you're talking to a child. – Where are the keys?

Rafe shakes his head. – No. No. I don’t— Baby, I don’t wanna go home. – His grip on you tightens, his breath hitching, fingers twisting into the fabric of your top, desperate. – I don’t wanna go home. I don’t wanna see him.

– Rafe— You try, but he doesn’t let you finish.

He shakes his head frantically, his hands tugging at you, clinging, pleading.

You hold his face.

Your thumbs brush over his damp skin, over the tear tracks still fresh on his cheeks.

You try to wipe them away.

You try to steady him.

You try to bring him back.

– We’re not going there, okay? – You murmur. – We’re not gonna see Ward. We’re not going to your place.

He blinks rapidly, his hands still shaking as they grip your wrists.

– Then where? – He breathes. – Why can't we just go to— why can't we just go to sleep on your bed? Why— Why can't we just stay here?

His voice cracks. His head is still shaking slightly, bangs falling into his eyes, even as you hold him steady, even as he holds onto you like you could disappear at any minute.

– Because Sarah’s coming. And John—John B. JJ and Pope and—and Kie. – His jaw tenses. – We don’t want that— Your stomach twists. You want to chastise yourself for saying it. As if there is a we, as if there could ever be we with you and Rafe. But when you look at him, his eyes are gleaming. – We— I don’t want that.

He nods, immediately, that panic in his voice fully gone. – Okay. – He murmurs, dazed, his eyes hazy with a mist of something warm, something crazy, something you don’t want to linger on. – Okay. Let’s go.

Rafe doesn’t ask where you’re taking him.

He just nods.

Wordlessly, he pulls what you assume are the spare keys of this bike from his pocket and drops them into your waiting palm. You watch him as you turn toward the bike, his hands never leaving you, still wrapped around your arm, your top, your hip. You watch the way he’s still staring at you, still trying to piece together whatever just happened between you two.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you lift the top-box, pulling out the second helmet.

They tremble even more as you fasten Barry’s helmet onto his head, your heart sinking as the scent fans over you again.

Later. You tell yourself. As soon as he’s calm, I’ll call Barry.

But you don’t know when he’ll be calm. 

If he’s gonna be calm at all.

You let out a slow breath, forcing yourself to remember the little you know about driving a motorcycle. Trying to push everything else aside.

You focus on the road ahead.

On the ground beneath you.

On this path you've trailed a thousand times.

You drive slow.

Not because you want to—because you have to.

Because you don’t know enough about driving a motorcycle to do anything else. Because every turn, every shift in weight, every slight press of the throttle demands all of your focus. Because every time you blink, you feel the speed dragging past you as if it’d rip you off the seat, like it did with JJ.

You’re glad for the odd red light, even as your feet tremble slightly when you rest them steady on the ground. But even when you’re still, Rafe clings to you like you’re flying.

His arms are locked around your waist, unrelenting, even with the duffel bag wedged between you, heavy on his lap. Even with it physically separating you, he clings to you anyway. 

And he doesn’t let go.

Not when the road smooths out.

Not when you slow even further.

Not when the trailer comes into view.

Not until you stop, the kickstand settling on the ground beneath you with a firm, final sound.

And even then, it takes him a second.

You pull the helmet off your head, but you breathe no easier for it. You’re glad it’s over, hoping you won’t have to ride a motorcycle ever again, but Rafe flinches into you, squeezing you in his hold as soon as you move.

– Rafe. – You say it softly, afraid to startle him. But he doesn’t move. – C'mon, let's go inside.

His grip tightens before it loosens, fingers twitching like they don’t want to let go.

Carefully, you reach for his helmet, sliding it off gently, setting it aside, watching as his gaze stays glued to you. His eyes are glassy, still. His face red, his lips bitten. But he looks much calmer, the tear trails barely apparent, dry, against his skin.

You stand, grab the duffel bag, shifting its weight onto your shoulder. But when you take the first step toward the trailer his fingers wrap around your wrist. The movement sudden, a desperate reflex. 

Like a Venus fly trap, it closes around you before you have time to think. 

It’s tight, tighter than it has to be. And it startles you.

You just stand there, waiting, wrist still caught in his hold, until he finally pulls himself up.

Even then he doesn’t let go.

His eyes cling to you, as if he’s taking note of every movement, every breath. The heat of his hand sears through your skin, tight, damp, calloused. But you don't move. His brows furrow slightly when you pull out the key Barry gave you this morning, the expression on his face almost judging as you let yourself in, pulling him with you.

But whatever is going through his head, he doesn’t say it.

He doesn’t say anything for a while.

Not until you sit him down on the couch, helping him kick off his shoes.

– Why are we here? – His voice is low, a little slurred, exhaustion pulling at the edges. The knit between his brows is still there, softer now, when you look up at him. – I don’t wanna see Barry. – His words are flat, sluggish, but something in his eyes flickers, sharp. – He almost killed me too.

Your brow lifts slightly, but you don’t say what you’re thinking— That he was the one who mixed coke and Xanax, that Barry wasn’t the reason he almost died— he was. You school your expression back to neutrality before meeting his eyes again.

– He's the reason you’re alive right now, Rafe. You would’ve died if he didn’t know what to do.

A sharp exhale leaves him.

– No. I would’ve died if you left me there. – His fingers twitch against his knee. – Which you didn’t. He did.

You inhale, the memory surging through before you can stop it.

His blown out eyes. 

The tremble running through his body.

The sinking, horrified realization that you had no idea how to help him. That he would die there, in your arms. 

In your panic, you didn’t account for how much worse it would’ve been if Barry hadn’t been there. But you remember so clearly, the relief that washed over you when the charcoal purge began to show results. When he shot back to life, when he wretched, when he spoke.

It didn’t take you long to realize that relief was owed to Barry.

– Barry was the one that got me the things to wash the drugs out of your system. – You say, the memory still clinging to you.

– Yeah, and then he promptly fucked off! I was sitting there, dying on you and he fucking left!

You breathe in again. – I would have stayed with you either way, Rafe. Even if he wasn’t there to begin with. The difference is, if he hadn’t been there to tell me what to do, I would’ve been there to see you die from an overdose. Not to see you well again.

He’s shaking his head before you even finish, with that bitter laugh still on his lips. – He did fuck all—

– He still saved your life. – The retort is ready in his mouth, but you cut him off before he even starts. – Let’s not talk about this, Rafe. Please. The last thing you need right now is to stress yourself out. – Your voice stays even, steady, but he doesn’t like it.

His jaw twitches, his knee bounces, his fingers drum against his thigh—but he doesn’t argue. Not out loud. Not yet.

You push off your knees to stand, reaching for the blanket draped over the couch.

– Where are you going?

It’s softer this time. Sadder. No sign of the sharp, bitter annoyance he had only a moment before.

You sigh. – It gets really cold in here when the sun goes down. I’m just gonna grab you a blanket.

A pause. A breath. Then—barely above a whisper— You don’t wanna be near me?

Your hands still, brows drawing together. 

It's absurd.

It's ridiculous.

You don’t know how he shifts between moods so quickly, how he can say things like that seriously, with a straight face. – W–What?! Why would you say that?

– Just asking. – His head tilts back, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, but his fingers twitch—restless, needing. – It’s like you can’t wait to get away from me.

– Rafe, – You inhale, slow and steady, though your thoughts are anything but. – You know that’s not what I’m doing. 

He hums, but doesn’t sound convinced.

His hand wraps around your wrist before you can drape the fabric over him, pulling you closer.

– Can you sit with me for a minute? – It’s so quiet now, so careful, like he’s afraid  you’ll slip right through his fingers if he speaks too loud. His hand tightens around yours, his grip warm, insistent, pressing your palm against his chest. You feel the unsteady drum of his heartbeat pulsing quietly beneath the heel of your palm, and you remember holding him there, after he nearly died, trying to will yourself to realize he was alive.

You pull your hand back, pushing him to lay down. – You need to rest, Rafe.

– I’ll rest if you stay. – He tugs at you before you can move too much, his forehead dropping against your shoulder, breath brushing your collarbone, curling into you like it’s instinct. Like he doesn’t even have to think about it. Like he’s done it a thousand times before. His fingers slide from your wrist to your waist, curling in tight. – I slept so good when you laid with me yesterday, baby. So good.

You don’t want to remember that.

Laying there, under him with his words echoing in your mind. Leaving, sneaking out like a criminal. Praying that he was asleep every time you had to return.

The feeling clings to you as you shake your head. – You were sick. Probably hadn't slept very well before.

– I never do. – He mumbles, his grip is like quicksand. You’re quiet, trying your best not to move, but you can feel the slow pull of him around you, dragging you down. – I never dream, I wake up too much, and I always wake up tired. But not yesterday. – He hums. You're closer than you realized you were, his arms wrapped around you completely. – I slept so good, baby. And I slept all day. I even dreamed.

It's like an endorsement, almost a compliment, but you don’t really know what he's getting at. – It might have been the fever, Rafe. You did have a temperature.

He shakes his head. Soft, quiet. And he ends up nuzzling against you, almost unconsciously, until he's holding you tight enough that it's getting hard to breathe. – It was you. – He murmurs, voice thick, certain. 

Your breath catches.

– Rafe—

– I never dream, – He says, cutting you off like he knows what you’re about to do—like he knows you’re about to brush him off, push him away, try to put space between yourself and this moment. His grip tightens, just enough that you feel the start of pain, the pressure of his fingertips against his skin. Like a threat. His fingers slide against the fabric of your shirt, curling into your waist, steadying himself—or maybe steadying you.

His breath is warm against your skin, words creeping into the hollow of your throat, sinking into you, trapping you there.

– I never sleep through the night. I wake up too much, I— He exhales sharply, and it shudders through his whole body, shaking against yours. – It's like being half-awake y’know? But not when you were there. Not when I could feel you.

– You were sick, Rafe. – You try again, quieter this time, softer, measured. It barely crosses your mind that he seems to have gotten well awfully quick. – Sick and exhausted. If the fever didn't knock you out, I'm sure that the amount of Tylenol you took might have.

He shakes his head again. More insistent this time. His forehead presses against your shoulder, deeper, firmer, his voice slipping between the cracks of your resolve, whisper-soft, careful, certain.

– It was you. – He repeats, leaving you no space to question him. His fingers shift, dragging slightly up your side—not enough to push you, not enough to startle you, just enough that you feel it. Just enough that it lingers, that it brands itself into your skin.

He exhales again, slower this time, like he’s finally breathing, like he can finally let himself settle.

Then—soft, raw, a whisper so quiet you almost miss it— I dreamed of you. – He hums. – Before you came up to see me. Before you took care of me. It was like molly, baby— He laughs, low, almost absentminded. – I swear it felt like molly. My whole body was light. Like I was floating. Like I was— He laughs again, but it's darker this time, tinged with something else. – tingling.

You don’t say anything.

You don’t want to ask.

He shifts.

His lips brush against your jaw, barely there, not quite a kiss but close enough to burn.

– You make it quiet, – He whispers, his breath warm against your neck. – You—even in my dream— He exhales sharply, suddenly, as if it’s a relief to say it. – I don’t feel like this when I’m not with you. – His lips press to your skin now before he laughs, the outline of his smile forming against your collarbone, his teeth only barely brushing you, just enough to let you know it's there. – This light. It's like my brain is empty. Like— like it’s okay to just be.

You don’t respond, you don’t know how to. But your body does, even if quietly: The feeling doesn’t even bother to sneak up on you, it springs suddenly from the center of your chest— heavy, aching, breathless. You feel the need to coil in, to clutch your chest, to curl forward, but you can’t. Because it paralyzes you— Dread.

It flutters down your spine, like a flame consuming paper, and it settles in your ribs, pulling the bones within itself until it hardens. 

Your hands shake.

Your head spins.

You want to run. You want to shove him away. You want to curl into yourself, wrap yourself in your own arms and let it fade.

But you don’t give it the time.

You push it down before it settles any further, forcing your mind away. Not now. Not now. Not now.

You think of Barry. You think of how you need to get Rafe down, how you need to talk to Barry, how you need to get to him before he does something stupid, before he puts a target on someone’s back.

The feeling is still there, and it still aches, but you ignore it, hoping that’ll make it go away.

– Rafe, – You murmur, voice careful, even, like you’re not drowning with the weight of him. – You need to sleep.

He hums, lazy and warm, already pressing deeper against you. – Yeah, I do. – His grip tightens at your waist, his body shifting like he’s pulling you with him.

And he does.

Like a bag of stones tied around your middle, he sinks, and pulls you down with him.

He lays back against the couch not even hesitating, not even asking, just moving you as if you're an object he can just move around at will, as if you're something that belongs to him. As if whatever it is that he’s pulling you into isn’t gonna drown you, even if you’re already gasping for air.

Your breath stutters as his good hand slips against your back, pressing, anchoring, holding you over him like you’re something to be kept, to be guarded. – Put me to sleep, baby. Tuck me in.

His eyes are hazy when he looks at you. Soft and unfocused, dark in the dim light.

You swallow hard.

Your fingers twitch against his chest, then drag up, feather-light, brushing against his broken wrist.

– I don’t wanna hurt you. – You say quickly, the excuse coming so easy, so smooth, you almost believe it yourself.

Rafe makes a sound—something between a scoff and a groan. His head tips back, eyes fluttering shut, like he’s frustrated, like you’re ruining something. – Baby—

You don’t let him finish.

You kiss him —Quick. Thoughtless. The first thing that comes to mind.

It’s not soft. It’s not slow. It's not a choice. But you let it linger, enough that you feel him react.

His lips are warm, parted in surprise for all of a second before he exhales sharply through his nose, and his fingers twitch against your waist, just barely, just enough.

You pull back just as fast.

The taste of him lingers.

He stares at you.

Something dark gleams behind his gaze, something satisfied, something pleased.

He doesn’t say anything else as you stand, leaving him there, eyes still fixed on you, still lingering, breathlessly, over your face, your body, your hands, your phone. – What are you doing baby? – The words leave him in a stumble, almost in shock. – Come back.

– I’ll be right back, okay?

– What— Baby? – You don’t give him the time to argue before you make a turn for the bathroom, closing the door behind you.

You're pressed against the door, sharply aware of the broken lock, your hand still tight around the handle, and you fumble around with your left hand, scrolling through the contacts until you find him.

You’re praying now.

Praying he hasn’t beat some random person up because he thought they had something to do with it. Praying that he hasn’t broken anything in a fit of rage. Praying that he just picks up the fucking phone already.

The line barely rings once before—

– Sweetheart— What the fuck— Barry’s voice is sharp, furious, cutting through the line like a live wire. – Some piece of shit just fucking stole my bike, man, I swear to fucking God—I don’t know who the fuck he think he is, but I'm gonna gut this motherfucker—

– Bee—

—I leave it for two seconds, two fucking seconds, and some dickhead thinks—

– Barry—

—He don't know who the fuck he's messing with— I swear to fucking God, sweetheart, you better not tell me to calm down cause—

– It was Rafe. – Silence. You hear his breath across the line, heaving, thoughtless, suddenly gone. The anger shifting into confusion. – He took your —well, his bike— He's here. At your place.

– What?!

You exhale, pressing the heel of your hand against your forehead. Your reflection not half as jumbled as you feel. – It was Rafe, – You repeat, steady, measured, trying to keep the conversation stable before it spirals. – He took the bike. He came here. The bike is fine, by the way. It's not scratched, it's not broken. It's just the way you left it.

– The bike— He stutters, scoffs. – Sweetheart, you think I care about the fucking bike?! What the fuck is he doing at our place?!

You can hear it. The way his breath tightens, the way something in his mind clicks, the way all that anger shifts into something else.

You can’t see him, but the expression comes so clearly to you then: the furrow of his brows, the way his lips wrap around words that don’t come out, the way he shakes his head maniacally.

You can feel the anger through the line.

His voice suddenly drops, lower, serious, edged with something dark. – What’s going on? Are you okay? Did he do anything? Is he high? I swear to fucking God, sweetheart, if that piece of shit is high—

– Barry, it’s—

– Did he do anything to you? Did he hurt you?!

– No. – You say it quick, firm. – He's just—he was just upset, alright? He's fine. It's fine. I’m fine.

You cringe at yourself. “He's fine” What does that matter to Barry? He doesn’t care. You open your mouth, thinking of reeling it back, of saying something else, but you’re met with silence.

A kind of silence you know very well.

Barry doesn’t believe you.

You can hear it, in the way he exhales through his nose, sharp, frustrated, as if you’re a kid caught in a lie. – Sweetheart—

You cut in before he can start rambling – I’m coming to get you. Tell me where you are.

He laughs, disbelieving. – What do you mean you're coming to get me? You can't drive a bike!

You open your mouth to argue, the retort already sitting at the tip of your tongue, but just as you part your lips you hear a knock.

Soft. Almost hesitant.

The door creaks open before you even say anything.

Your grip tightens, and you lean it against the sink. You can hear Barry, the echo of his voice as you lower the phone, the call still on.

Rafe stands in the doorway, his body heavy with exhaustion, his eyes hazy, dark, searching yours. His fingers curl loosely against the frame like he needs to steady himself, like he can barely stand.

And his voice is thick when he speaks, low and quiet, like something sticky, something sickly sweet. – What’re you doing? – He asks. It’s not accusing. It’s not demanding. It’s almost whining. – You keep running from me. What— what's going on?

His voice is thick, sticky with exhaustion, but there’s something else curling under it—something needy, something that pulls.

You grip the phone tighter.

– I'm just talking to Barry, – You murmur, your stomach dropping, your voice careful. You're not even sure what you're being so careful about. – Everything's fine, Rafe. Go lie down.

He frowns.

It’s small at first, barely noticeable, just the slightest twitch of his brows— But then it lingers. Settles.

Annoyance.

Like something about what you just said doesn’t sit right with him. – Barry? – He repeats, slower this time, like he doesn’t like the way the name feels in his mouth.

His fingers tighten against the doorframe.

You swallow. – Yeah. You did take his bike.

Rafe exhales through his nose. A little sharp. A little off. His lips press together. You know that look.

His fingers flex against the doorframe, quick, thoughtless, frustrated.

– S’not even his bike. – He mumbles. It’s quiet. Almost as if he's talking to himself. But he still eyes you, his brows furrowed, his lips pursed in something like a pout. – It's mine. I left it with him, but the bike is mine.

You hear the ghost of a commotion from Barry's end, a string of curses, maybe a scoff.

You blink at him.

– Rafe—

His frown deepens, the sulk setting in. Digging in. His fingers drum against the wood, slow, deliberate, as his gaze flickers—phone, you, phone, you.

– Why are you even talking to him? – It’s childish in a way that should make this whole thing feel stupid, but instead it just pulls tighter around you. Because his voice is still thick, still cloying, still sticking to your skin like something you’ll never be able to wash off.

Your fingers tighten against the sink.

– I'm gonna go pick him up.

His brows furrow, his lips parting like he’s about to argue— But then his gaze flicks to the phone again.

And something shifts.

– Hang up. – It’s soft. Simple. A request, not a command. But it makes your stomach twist anyway. Because his eyes don’t leave yours as he says it, his fingers curl against the doorframe tighter, for all the softness in his voice, there’s something wrong under it.

– No. Rafe, go lie down, okay? It's fine.

– Why do you even have to go? Can't he get here on his own? – His voice climbs higher, just slightly, frustration burning at the edges, barely there. But you've known enough men to know that they can swing from mild irritation to outright rage faster than your eye can flick. And you freeze. Looking at him, quietly, not sure of what to do.

You tilt your head and look down —Another one of your mother’s tricks. Her favorite way to make someone feel bad about raising their voice to her— Rafe stills, looking at you carefully. – He can get here on his own. That’s all I’m saying. It’s late to be riding around alone, why would you go out right now?

– It won’t take me long. –  You exhale slowly, keeping your voice quiet, sweet. – I’ll go straight there and back. – You pick the phone back up. – Just tell me where you are, Bee.

Barry doesn’t answer right away.

The line is quiet.

You can almost hear him thinking, the way his jaw tightens, the way he’s probably running scenarios through his head.

A sharp breath. A reluctant sigh. – Near Shoreline. By the lot. Don’t bring him, sweetheart. I know how long it’ll take you to get here. I’m waiting for you.

Your fingers tighten around the phone. – Okay. I’m just heading out.

– Careful. – Barry warns, the edge of annoyance already bleeding through his tone.

You don’t get another word out before Rafe scoffs. – Why can’t he just get the bus? What, he doesn’t have legs or something?

Silence. Barry reacts exactly how you expect him to. – What the fuck did he just say?! – Barry’s voice is sharp, biting, all that earlier restraint snapping in an instant.

You don’t look at Rafe.

You won’t.

– Bee—

– No, no, no, don’t fucking ‘Bee’ me right now— The words come fast, heated, like a lit fuse burning too close. – Tell me he didn’t just say that shit. Tell me I’m fucking hearing things.

Rafe exhales through his nose, tilting his head, looking at you with something slow and amused burning in his eyes. His fingers flex against the doorframe again, looser this time, like this whole thing is suddenly entertaining to him. – I mean, does he?

You stiffen, raising a brow. – Rafe.

His lips twitch, a barely-there smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s amused, but he isn’t happy. There’s still something angry behind his expression. – I’m just saying, baby. He’s a big boy, right? He can get himself home.

– Just—stop, – You mutter, voice low, trying to push forward, trying to not let this turn into something bigger. But it already is.

– Sweetheart, – Barry bites out, voice rough, dangerous. – Put me on speaker.

Rafe scoffs, the previous softness of his voice suddenly vanishing. – Oh, I can hear you just fine—

– No, no—I’m heading out. I’m heading out right now. Stay with your phone. I’ll be there in a minute, okay? Bye. – Barry still tries to argue, his words coming through in rapid-fire before you hang up.

Rafe stands before you, his arms crossed, that same conflicting expression clear as day on his face. – Baby,

– I’m heading out. It won’t be long. 

You walk around him, your mind moving as quickly as you, but even still, you’re not quicker than Rafe. His good hand wraps around your arm, pulling you back.

Not hard.

Not tight.

But firm.

Enough to stop you.

– Stop running from me! – The amusement is gone, buried. 

You force a breath.

– I’m not running from you Rafe. Barry's all alone there. I have to go.

His fingers twitch against your skin.

– Feels like you are. – His voice dips lower, tired, needy. But there’s a tick on his jaw that keeps you on your toes. – You keep doing that. We’re here, and we’re fine, and I know you wanna stay as much as I want you to, but you keep fucking running!

You shake your head, trying to pull away, but his grip tightens. Just slightly. Just enough.

– Rafe—

– It’s always someone else. You can never just let yourself enjoy your time with me, even when I know you want to. It’s your brother. Then it’s JJ. Then it’s Kareem. Then it’s Barry— He stops, laughing bitterly. – It’s always Barry though, isn’t it? – He scoffs, the sound is cold, sharp, humorless. – You’re always going to him.

Your stomach twists. – That’s not what I’m doing—

– Yeah, it is! – He shouts, his head tilting, that amused, irritated look still clinging to his face. – You’d rather go drive to fucking Shoreline to pick up him than stay here with me. What, you like him more than me or something?

Your brows furrow.

The answer is obvious. 

Barry’s been your best friend since you were twelve and he was fifteen. You’d known him for the better part of your life. Of course you like him more than someone you just met.

So why does it feel like you can’t say it? – That’s not what this is about, Rafe.

– Mm. – He hums low, dragging you closer without even thinking about it. – It is, though.

– Rafe, I have to go.

He blinks at you. Then, his lips part, brows furrowing like you just said something that genuinely confused him. – Do you? – His grip stays firm. He pulls you even closer, until you’re close enough that his breath fans warmly against your cheek. – You know what I think? I think you’re scared of what you feel for me. 

You bite back the scoff that threatens to leave your lips. – I beg your pardon?

His grip doesn’t tighten, doesn’t pull, doesn’t force—but he doesn’t let go.

– You keep running, baby, – He murmurs, voice dropping lower, almost soothing, almost gentle, like he’s comforting you. – Every time we get close, every time it starts feeling real— you run to someone else. Because you’re scared.

– Rafe—

– It’s okay, – He cuts in smoothly, nodding like he’s just realized something life-changing. His broken hand moves up, brushing a piece of hair from your face. – I get it, now. I didn't before, but I do know. It’s scary, isn’t it? When you left with JJ that night I was so fucking angry, y’know? It just didn’t make sense to me why you'd wanna spend time with that fucking nutjob. But it’s so clear to me now. That you love me. That you’re just scared of admitting it.

Your pulse jumps. Your head shakes on impulse, uncontrollably. – Rafe—

– I get it. I get it, baby. Because I feel it too. Fuck, I’m crazy about you. Crazy. Actually insane. – His eyes are burning into yours now, something unshakable behind them. – But I’m not scared of it anymore, okay? I'm a proactive type of person. I know what I want. I know what this is. And I know you feel it too. – His fingers trail down your arm, slow, light, tracing you like he’s memorizing you. – You’re just not ready to admit it yet.

His voice is soft. Patient. Like he’s forgiving you, when you didn't even do anything wrong.

Like he’s waiting for you to finally understand.

Your jaw clenches. You can’t stop shaking your head, as if you’re denying that this is happening, as if it could make it suddenly turn back to normal. – There’s nothing to admit, Rafe.

His lips twitch with that same almost-smile. – You do that. – He chuckles, pointing at your face. – When you lie. You won’t stop shaking your head. Like your body is rejecting it. It’s okay, baby. I’m not mad. I can't be. You’re too cute. Even when you’re lying, you’re so fucking cute. – He says again, that awful, calm, patronizing reassurance dripping from his voice. – You don’t have to say it. I know it’s hard for you.

– Rafe—

– You get all stiff when you’re in your feelings. – His fingers press lightly against your arm, like he’s demonstrating it, like he’s proving a point. – You don’t even notice, but I do. You get quiet. You try to act all normal, like nothing’s happening. – He exhales slowly, shaking his head, like this is something he’s studied, something he’s memorized. – But I see it, baby. I always see it. I always see you. – Your pulse jumps, your voice solid, stuck in your throat. – You’re scared.

– I’m not scared of you, Rafe. – You say it like a mantra. More to yourself than to him.

– I didn’t say you were. –  His grip loosens—but only so his hand can slide down, catching your fingers, lacing his through yours. – And you don’t have to be. I’m not John B. I’m not JJ. You think I didn’t see him yesterday? The way he grabbed you? The way he pulled you onto my bike? I did. JJ’s a fucking psychopath, okay? He’s insane. And I’m not like him. That’s why you’re not scared of me. Because you know this. Deep down. You know I won’t hurt you like he does. But you’ve never felt like this before, have you? That’s why you’re scared of this, of this feeling. – His eyes flicker between yours, searching, certain. – But you don’t have to be.

He lifts your joined hands, presses them against his chest— And you feel it, the racing, uneven thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

– See? – His lips part slightly, breath shaky, his voice softer now, almost sickly with this delusional sincerity. – You see what you do to me?

You pull back, your body moving on nothing but instinct, but he doesn’t allow you much. His good hand is still entwined with yours, still holding you to him. He gives you an inch, just enough to put space between you two, but no more than that.

– I have to go. – Your voice wavers, just slightly, just barely, but it’s enough. – Please, just—just let go of me, okay?

Rafe laughs.

It’s low, deep, a quiet chuckle that rumbles through his chest, and you feel it vibrate against your palm as he presses your hand tighter into him.

– It’s okay, baby. – His voice is so fond, so soothing, like he’s talking you down from something, like he’s reassuring you. – You’ll learn. Eventually, you’ll learn. You’ll learn you don’t have to run from me. That I’m right here, right where you need me. That I can wait. – His fingers trail slowly along your side, his grip never fully loosening, just shifting, just lingering. – I’m the only one that’ll make you feel like this.

Your breath catches.

– I know what you feel, baby. – His heartbeat thuds against your palm, fast and uneven, but his touch is steady, his grip firm. – Because I feel it too. I tried to run from this for so long, baby. So long. You can't even imagine.

You swallow, your throat tight, your skin buzzing under his touch, painful, electric, a shock that goes on forever, a breathless pain you can't escape. 

– Rafe—

– It's okay. – He shakes his head slightly, tilting it just enough that his forehead nearly brushes yours. – You don’t have to explain it to me.

His other hand moves—slow, careful—his fingers ghosting up your arm, skimming your shoulder, the touch barely there, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

Like he’s done it before.

Like he’s done it a thousand times in his head.

– I already know. You don’t have to be scared, baby, – He murmurs, and the way he says it makes something cold creep up your spine. 

– Rafe—

– I mean, I get it. – His lips twitch, like this is some inside joke between the two of you. – It’s big. It’s intense. It freaks you out, doesn’t it? – His thumb brushes over your wrist, right where your pulse is racing, and he smiles. – I can feel it, you know? You don't realize it yet, you keep pushing it down, but I know how you feel about me. That’s why you keep running.

You exhale sharply, your head still shaking, your pulse roaring in your ears.

– I’m not running.

– You are.

– Rafe—

– It’s okay. – He says it again, and he looks at you, like you're this scrawny kitten, hissing out of fear. You always thought you preferred pity over loathing. Always wondered whether the overly honorable people of the world only hated pity because they've never felt what true hatred was like. But Rafe's sympathy is almost repulsive, somehow making you feel even smaller. – I told you baby, I get it. You’ve never had anything real before. You don’t know how to handle it. It's okay.

You stiffen.

– That’s not true.

– It isn’t? – He laughs, his hand tightening around your wrist, just slightly. – Be honest with me, baby. What, you think you and Barry were ever serious? That he didn't talk about you like you were some random bitch he could fuck on a Thursday night? – He says it just to hurt you. And it does. But not for the reason that he thinks. – He doesn't care about you! He never did! You're just a thing to him! But not for me! I care about you!

– Rafe—

His eyes are feverish, something dark flashing through them as he leans in. Possessiveness. – No one’s ever made you feel like this before, have they? – He smiles, completely convinced your baffled silence is affirmation. – It’s different with me, isn’t it?

– That’s not—

– It’s okay, baby. It’s supposed to be different. It's different when it's meant to be. 

Your stomach drops.

Something in his eyes shifts, and his shoulders drop, like he's just confessed something, like he’s finally put it out there.

– Rafe.

– You think I haven’t been watching you?

The words slam into you.

Your breath hitches.

Your whole body freezes.

But Rafe just smiles.

– I see you, baby. – His fingers trail up your arm, barely skimming the fabric of your top. – I’ve always seen you.

Your skin prickles.

– Rafe—

– You saved me before. – He hums, the glimmer in his eye so warm, so bright, you think you're staring at a flame. – I know you don't remember. But you did. You saved my life. Right here. – He pats the couch behind him, leaning on it, pulling you against him with such ease your body freezes all over again. – Barry’s birthday, remember? You were wearing your pretty little blue pleated skirt, carrying around that cake for people to write on with frosting.

– That was three years ago, Rafe.

He doesn't even listen. – Kelce’s got me some weird speedball thing. Fucked me up. I swear I could feel my fucking cells dying in me, one by one. – His eyes fill with tears, his hands shake. – I was sitting here, dying, fucking gasping on this couch and nobody did a fucking thing. Nobody. Not Topper, not Kelce, not Barry. Not even the bitch I brought over with me, she didn't do anything. But you did. You did.

– Rafe—

– You sat here with me, drunk off your fucking mind, and gave me water, you let me cry, let me hold you, stroked my hair like you do. Calmed me down. You slept right here. – He pulls you into his chest, and you yelp, but he doesn't hear you. It’s like he's in a daze. – Right here. Right on my chest. Curled up next to me like some bunny, shit, you were so fucking cute, and it was driving me fucking insane.

He leans in, taking a fistful of your ass as he noses at your neck, inhaling you like a feen.

– Stop it!

– Bouncing around next to me. That tiny little skirt riding up— His eyes roll back, breath coming out heavy, shallow, desperate. You feel his teeth graze your skin as you struggle, pushing him away. – fuck baby, you don't know how much it took for me not to fuck you right there.

Your whole body locks up.

Your stomach drops.

– Rafe—!

His breath is hot against your neck, wet, his lips brushing, his teeth grazing, his fingers tightening over your ass, digging in like he’s claiming you.

Like he already has.

– You were so fucking sweet to me, baby, – He groans, his voice low, rough, thick with something deep, something primal. – Holding me, stroking my hair, whispering to me like you fucking meant it.

– I didn’t— Rafe! I was out of my mind!

– Shhh. – His other hand drags up, his palm flattening against your back, spreading wide, pressing, holding you closer. – You did, baby. You did. You just don’t remember. You didn’t have to do it. – His lips graze your ear, his voice soft, low, like he’s confessing something sacred. – Nobody else did. Nobody else cared. But you did.

His fingers dig in, his body pressing, his breath coming faster, heavier, like he’s dizzy on the memory, like it’s drugging him all over again.

– You didn’t even know me, and you saved my life. You saved my life like it was nothing.

– Let go of me, Rafe!

– You saved me. You did. And you keep doing it. You do— Baby, you’re perfect. – The words come off in a gasp, breathy, dazed, like he can’t believe this is actually happening. – I spent three years trying to tell myself that I was only fucked up about you because you're crazy fucking hot. Because you’re nice. Because you’re good. Because you're smart. And because your food is so fucking good— Fuck. It really is amazing— He chuckles, light, airy, a single tear rolling down his face. Like this is the height of romance. – But it's not just that. It's not. I spent years running from it. Running from you. But I couldn’t get away from you, baby. I couldn’t. And then you saved me again. And I knew we were meant to be.

His breath is shaky, his grip tight, his whole body warm and heavy against yours like he’s melting into you.

You struggle, pushing at his chest, but he barely moves, barely even registers it.

His eyes are shining, wet, soft, like this is the greatest love story ever told.

Like this is his moment.

– You don’t get it yet, baby. – His hands slide, his fingers gripping, pressing, holding like he’s physically keeping you in place. – But you will. You will because you're already mine, right? – He grabs you, lifts you, his teeth grazing your windpipe so suddenly you feel your life slip right through your fingers.

Your pulse slams in your throat.

You push yourself out of his hold, stumbling back, but he grabs you again, holding you from behind, his face buried in the crook of your neck, biting at your tattoo as he laughs.

– Let go of me, Rafe!

He chuckles again, like this is funny, like this is cute, like you’re just playing hard to get. – I’ll let you go, baby. – His grip tightens—just for a second, just enough to make sure you feel it before he lets it ease up again. – I will. – His lips curl, his eyes dark, knowing. – After you kiss me.

Your stomach drops.

– Stop it—

– Don’t even deny it. You don’t have to. – His head tilts, eyes burning into yours, his grip warm and firm against your waist. – You don’t have to pretend. I know you like it.

– Rafe—

– I know you do, baby. – He exhales slowly, his eyes glazing over like he’s already lost in the memory, like he’s already feeling it again. – The way you kissed me this morning, the way you put this top on just for me, the way you put Sarah in her place, fuck, baby— The words escape him like a hiss, his breath shaky, his pupils blown wide with something hazy, something starved. – You can’t even deny it. You can’t. But, fuck, the way you kissed me… –  His fingers dig into your hip, twitching slightly, like he’s reliving it, like he’s sinking into it all over again. – That was all the proof I needed. We're meant to be. We are.

He doesn’t wait.

He takes.

His lips crash against yours, heat pouring from his body, from his grip, from the way he pulls you in, inescapable like gravity itself.

You struggle.

Your hands press against his chest, pushing, but he’s so damn strong, even with one hand splinted and broken, even with his body heavy with pain killers.

You push, but he doesn’t budge.

He just groans, low and rough, like he likes the fight, like he likes the way you press against him, like it only makes him want more.

– Mm, baby—

His grip tightens, his fingers spreading over your back, securing you, holding you, pinning you against him as his lips move hungrily, desperately, like he’s trying to devour every sound, every breath, every single piece of you.

His body burns against yours, his chest rising and falling fast, his broken wrist completely forgotten as he holds you with everything he has.

You try to turn your head, try to pull back, but his hand slides up, fingers curling at the back of your neck, keeping you there.

– Don’t fight me, – He murmurs against your lips, voice thick, drugged on the feeling of you. – You don’t have to fight me, baby. Just relax.

You don't.

You twist, trying to pull away, but Rafe chuckles, his lips dragging against your jaw, down to the corner of your mouth, his breath hot against your skin.

– You always do this, – He mutters, like this is so familiar, like this is something he’s already mapped out in his head a thousand times. – You always struggle, but you always come back. That's love.

You push harder, your hands pressing against his chest, but all it does is make him tighten his grip, his fingers pressing into your waist, holding you in place.

– You feel it, don’t you? You love me.

His lips find yours again, his teeth tugging at your bottom lip, his breath shaking as his body presses closer, closer, closer.

– It’s okay. – His voice is so soft, so sure, like he’s comforting you, like he’s calming you down from something that’s only happening in his own head. – You don’t have to run.

His lips move deeper, his fingers skimming under the hem of your top, his body pulling you into him, like he’s claiming you, like he’s marking you, like he needs to seal this moment into his skin.

His eyes open, and he stares down at the top, groaning, grinning, grabbing at the fabric. – You’re mine, baby.

You wrench yourself away.

Rafe follows.

You grab the keys.

You open the door.

You lean against the doorframe, breathing hard, your lips burning, your heartbeat slamming against your ribs.

Rafe just leans back, grinning, smug, satisfied, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, his lips red and swollen.

– Don’t miss me too much, baby. – His voice is thick, lazy, like he’s already settled into the idea that you’ll be back. – I’ll be waiting for you right here when you come back, okay?

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @myluvingera @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss @redkarmakai @hwaaholic @sydkneez @sassyvilliantrope @vampiriito @sassybearfire @matildalittlefreak @sunsetkiss333

[xxplastic-cubexx]

you should post screenshots of all the marvel rivals magneto lore for those of us who don’t have the game 👀

"Max Eisenhardt was born with a near-limitless Mutant ability to manipulate magnetic fields. Suffering a lifetime of brutal persecution, Magneto made it his mission to ensure the survival of Mutantkind, no matter the cost. His unyielding crusade often puts him at odds with other Mutants who seek more peaceful ways to coexist with humanity. Magneto led the campaign to gather the planet's Mutant population and transport them decades into the future to a safe haven on the sentient island Krakoa, protecting his brethren from the growing dangers of the wider world."

magneto lore description + his signature :) i'll come back to reblog and add to this post as the rest of the stories are unlocked!

full Trial of Magneto story below the cut screenshotted AND typed up by Yours Truly

As he gazed off into the distance towards the line where the ocean met the sky, Magneto's cape fluttered gently in the calm breeze that was drifting across the coast of the sentient island nation of Krakoa. His was a life far longer than most people ever had the chance to live, and this was one of the few moments of true peace that he could recall. But he knew from experience it would not last for long. It never did.

"Something on your mind, old man?" a familiar voice asked from above, breaking the silence. As Magneto glanced up, there, hovering on the wind like a majestic goddess, was Ororo Munroe -- the Mutant weather manipulator known as Storm.

"Funny, isn't it," mused Magneto, "that we fought all those years for a better future for Mutantkind... and now we have finally found it, further in the future than any of us ever imagined."

Not so long ago, the sovereign nation of Krakoa had been swept up in a chronal storm -- a time-twisting anomaly that would have ripped the island to bits if not for Ororo's deft manipulation of its tumultuous currents. Instead of becoming lost in the timestream forever, Krakoa arrived safely on the other side of the tempest in the year 2099. The future that Mutantkind had always dreamed of was finally theirs to claim. And Magneto was never one to let such an auspicious opportunity pass him by.

"It matters not what century we are in," Storm said. "What matters is that our people have a home here on Krakoa, thanks to you, Erik..."

Magneto cringed as his old friend called him by his human name. True, he had gone by many of them over the decades -- Max Eisenhardt, Erik Lehnsherr, Magnus -- but they were monikers he had merely tolerated in order to better fit into a world where Homo Sapiens still believed themselves in control. Here, in this new era, he could choose a name that spoke to who he truly was. Magneto -- the Mutant Master of Magnetism.

"I may be leading the cause to find our fellow Mutants and bring them to this safe harbor, my dear," said Magneto, "but the success of this crusade cannot be attributed to one Mutant alone."

"You're damn right it can't, bub," a grizzled voice snarled from the edge of the jungle that bordered Krakoa's shore.

Magneto and Storm both turned to see a familiar figure walking out of a newly-blossomed Krakoan gate. The short, hairy figure looked as though he had just been to hell and back. And knowing Wolverine, that could very literally be the case. Alongside Wolverine stood a young Mutant, just old enough for her powers to begin manifesting.

"Found the kid who got sucked through that dimensional rift," Wolverine continued. "She's lucky I went in there after her. Limbo is no place for a new Mutant."

"I couldn't disagree more," another voice said, this one with a hint of a Russian accent. "This New Mutant has managed just fine there."

"Illyana? Can it truly be?!" Storm rushed over to the young woman who had just stepped through the gateway, instantly wrapping her in an embrace. For years, Illyana Rasputin, the Mutant teleporter known as Magik, had been like a daughter to Storm. Before she was claimed by the darkness of Limbo... Before...

"Nice to see you too, Windrider," said Magik with an uncomfortable smirk. "It's been... longer than I care to remember."

Magneto stepped towards the new arrival, not embracing her, but examining her closely instead. There was something strange about her. It was clear that she had walked a far different path than the Illyana Rasputin of his world. This child had been hardened by the horrors of war, something to which Magneto himself could closely relate.

"You are not the child we once knew," Magneto said. "But you are welcome here on Krakoa. All Mutants are, regardless from where or when they hail."

"How about people who grew up thinking they were Mutants, only to h ave their entire world turned upside down when they learned the truth years later...?"

Magneto audibly gasped as the question was asked by another woman who had just arrived through the Krakoan gateway. His gaze instantly shifted over to her as she walked forward. Her every step stirred ripples across his memory, for he had been there when she had taken her very first ones so many years ago.

"Wanda..."

"Hello, father," the Scarlet Witch said as she approached Magneto with a calm confidence that few had ever shown in his presence. She reached up and began to slowly remove Magneto's helmet, an action that would almost certainly be met with instant retaliation should anyone else attempt it. But Magneto stood as silent as solid steel, simply basking in the magic of his long lost daughter's company. His stoic expression softened as Wanda leaned in and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek.

"How... How can you be here?" Magneto managed to say. He could bend Adamantium into any shape with his Mutant power, but these simple words were somehow nearly impossible to form.

"It took a bit of work," Wanda mused. "I'm not technically a Mutant like you, after all, which means Krakoa wouldn't normally let me through its gates. But a touch of chaos magic did the trick."

"What I meant to say is..."

"Oh..." Wanda's playful tone vanished faster than a stage magician's pet rabbit. "Your Wanda... She's gone, isn't she? I'm sorry... This must be difficult..."

"Quite the opposite," Magneto said, regaining his composure. "To see your face again, to hear your voice, to know that -- somewhere in this fast Multiverse a version of you has thrive -- is perhaps the least difficult thing I could ever conceive. It is all that any father ever wants."

"I wouldn't say I've been thriving, exactly," Wanda admitted. "I've been holding my own universe together by its threads for far too long. I truly believed that I was its only hope to survive."

"Like father, like daughter," chuckled Wolverine.

"But I've started to see the bigger picture," Wanda continued. "We're all fighting our own wars. The only chance we have of winning them and keeping ll of our universes intact is if we start fighting together."

"Speakin' of fightin', I'm late for a date with Natasha," Wolverine said. "We've got ourselves a tin-plated dictator that needs overthrowin'."

Magneto almost chastised Wolverine for entrenching himself in the petty squabbles between the humans of this era, but he paused for a moment and considered his daughter's words. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps his own war to preserve Mutantkind was just one battle of many, all of them equally important.

"Since Krakoa arrived in this future, my allegiance has been to Mutantkind alone," said Magneto. "I felt it best to isolate our people in order to protect them. But your words inspire me, my dear. It is clear that no Mutant is an island."

"Except Krakoa, da?" Magik chimed in playfully.

"In order to commit to such an alliance, however, it must be a mutually beneficial one," Magneto continued. "There are still Mutants out there, lost across space and time, who require out assistance in order to lead them home."

"That sounds like the perfect task for a Sorceress Supreme," Wanda said. "But I'll require your help. As fond as I am of your classic look, I think we're in need of use a helmet that's a bit more functional."

"Of course," Magneto said, raising his hand into the air. Within moments, tiny scraps of metal buried beneath the sand of Krakoa's beaches converged and reshaped themselves in a complex yet familiar device once worn by Charles Xavier himself -- Cerebro.

"If I recall, old school Cerebro was capable of tracking down Mutants anywhere in the world," said Wanda. "But a few arcane enhancements should expand the helmet's search area to include adjacent dimensions as well. Like you said, all Mutants are welcome here, regardless from where or when they hail."

"Well?" said Magik, her eyes burning with anticipation. "Try it on already, old man!"

The moment Magneto put on the helmet, he saw flashes of powerful Mutants scattered across the Multiverse. A telepathic ninja trapped in a strange world of unholy amusements. A king of the seas preparing to strike at the unsuspecting surface world. A powerful cosmic presence determined to burn the darkness out of the night sky. And thousands more, each yearning to defy fate and to find their place in an ever-shifting cavalcade of timelines and realities.

"There is much work to be done," Magneto said. "Far more than I expected. When do we begin?"

"No time better than the present..." said Magik. "Or the future, I guess. Wherever we are."

"You have given Mutants a gift this day, Wanda," Magneto said proudly. "Your efforts will not be forgotten."

"I'm going to hold you to that," Wanda replied. "And when the time comes, the army that you're about to gather may very well be the one that tips the balance in our favor."

"Then let this be a call to all Mutants across time and space," Magneto continued. "The gates of Krakoa are open to them. In the words of a dear old friend..."

"...to me, my X-Men."

[maxgicalgirl]

This whole colorism thing with Natlan and Hoyoverse has got me feeling just…so sad. Like as a white person I do NOT get to have an opinion on the entire ordeal, but it makes me sad that so many people are being misrepresented and that something I love is the cause of so much hurt right now. It feels like such a big issue without a clear method of action on my end - I’ve done the surveys, I’ve signed the petitions, but I’m also not the demographic affected and therefore not qualified enough to talk about it either. I hope Hoyo listens to the outrage, because the game isn’t fun unless we’re all getting to play it and get the same level of enjoyment out of it and having fun together, but it also feels so hopeless that I don’t know what to think right now !!!

[hikaaa-bi]

forget friends to lovers. forget enemies to lovers. give me frenemies to lovers. "friends" who secretly hate each other and are constantly plotting against the other, acting like friends on the outside. the more time they spend together, the more they start catching feelings.

[definitely-jax]

Ok but, brainstorming here, danny as an avatar of the end but also the spiral and/or the extinction ? Like the end yeah sure obviously, but the spiral in that he looks vaguely wrong in BOTH forms. He looks like walking corpse as a human, pale and cold and somewhat decaying. As a ghost he's got too much blush to his cheeks, you can feel his bones and see him bleed and he doesn't look quite as transparent/translucent as the others do, he's too human. The extinction idk if I'd include or not but idk something about being one of the only of your specific species kinda hits in that area I think.

The only other characters I have a clear fear tie to would be his parents, while yes you could argue their also the end I think they fit so much better with primarily the hunt, for again probably obvious reasons. The end could tie into that, IF they have to come to the realization that they are tied in with what they've seen as their prey all along, which could be fun to handle. Oh, like parent like child as well, you could say their extinction purely bc they gave the ghosts access to the living and created danny which creates dan who kinda ends humanity 😁 just brainstorming don't mind me.

[jadecantcreate]

am i the only person who tends to think of pain in pitch?

as in, pain can be “high pitch” or “low pitch” — if its sharp, like a paper cut or heartburn or aching, its high pitch; if its like a stubbed toe or sore muscles or a headache, its low pitch

high pitch pain is when you hiss, low pitch pain is when you groan, etc etc

i dont know if this makes sense to anyone else?????

(because everytime im writing fanfiction i have to hold myself back from describing it that way — and im not even sure i could fully, effectively communicate that w/o breaking immersion — but me saying “sharp pain” has become. a problem. probably. i really need alternatives)

[drc00l4tt4]

Yknow i feel like Melvinborg would be the type of egotistical motherfucker who'd date an alternate version of himself

[mediumgayitalian]

took me Eight Thousand Years but i FINALLY finished ch 4 for the roadtrip au 😭😭😭

[goth-goro]

is there even a little bit of overlap between the persona fandom and the penumbra podcast fandom bc i NEED a to talk about/draw akeshu as jupeter

[marimeeko]

As a multishipper I'm thinking about something. As a BKDK fan, I am, I guess preparing for a possibility?

I had a thought with this last chapter, and how this battle is literally about to end. That we are indeed at the very end of the line.

And I am thinking of the "Do your best, Izuku" theme and how everyone started chiming in on it, how it has become basically the closing motif to the battle. And how Tenya brought up the OG, ochako, who said the "Deku" seemed to her like "Do your best", and of course, ochako is seen saying the same.

So my thought is, if Hori is going for a Izu Ocha ending, this might be how it comes about.

(I am not saying it's one hundred percent satisfying, bc once again, Izuku has shown virtually no interest in her beyond friendship, and the relationship, to me, is still thematically and developmentally, one sided.)

So I don't know if hori is going to go with the idea that "do your best" bringing the relationship of Izu Ocha to the forefront after kicking it to the side for so long...but I guess I can see the thematic possibility he MAY be going for if that is the case.

Once again, I am hoping it's not a blatant thing, if anything I'd like no pairing to be outright "canon". Realistically I think that may be the case. Simply bc izu ocha just doesn't have enough reciprocity behind it and, bakudeku...well, obviously is highly unlikely due to the nature of Shonen/cultural precedence by very reason of it being Queer.

I am just thinking about the whole thing and it may be where Izu Ocha enters the Chat again.

As always I am letting Hori cook, and tempering expectations. I don't dislike Izu Ocha so I won't be terribly bummed out, I just wish there was a little more developed into it(namely, on izukus side)

As I always disclaim, it's Horis story to tell, and I am here to read it, and I'm not stopping now.

[slutdge]

anyways my mom stole the spare key to my apartment and refuses to give it up because she wants to be able to "check on me" (come over, break in and harass me when i try to set a boundary with her) so i guess i gotta change my locks. again.

[young--just-us]

Highkey I could go on and on about how much I adore X-Men Evolution #9, like the art style, the actual changes in outfit for the characters, great palettes, the super fun paneling and overlaps, and did I mention the outfits? Anyways I love it sm, and honestly just love all of the Evo tie-in comics, if you like the show I highly recommend them, there aren't many but they're fun :3

[lemongogo]

hi

[kavehayati]

Man I just give up.