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covenofagatha · 3 months ago

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The Psychology of Love (Part 3)

The Delay of Gratification

Your first date with Morgan and a lesson in defense mechanisms and the delay of gratification

Word count: 4.1k

Warnings: none yet, slowburn

Morgan and you go out to dinner the next day. You had seriously been considering just never texting her and making more of an effort to avoid her, but Wanda and Nat pestered you continuously during breakfast until you had given in.

Turns out, you were both free that night.

You had a class in the evening, so you meet her at the pizza place off-campus after. She’s wearing a light blue dress that brings out the color in her eyes and her Black Opium perfume makes you wish there was someone different sitting in front of you.

“Did you have a good day?” she asks while you’re waiting for your pizzas to be done cooking. The awkwardness of a first date is hanging over you, coupled with the fact that her fingers were inside you on Monday. You’re still a little shocked that happened.

But you nod and smile. Morgan is nice, and she’s trying. The least you could do is try as well. “Yeah, I had two classes. They’re both pretty easy. My hardest are definitely Physiological Psych and Personality Psych.”

Even the mention of the latter makes your stomach clench. Agatha has wormed her way into your brain and you don’t know how to get her out. The perfume you ordered should be here tomorrow and you regret buying it.

Realistically, what are you going to do with it? You can’t wear it—both Morgan and Agatha will pick up on it. It’d be absolutely pathetic to spray your pillow with it and imagine it’s Agatha next to you, plus Wanda would surely wonder about that.

Which means you spent one-hundred dollars on a bottle of perfume that’s going to sit on your desk and serve as a reminder that you’re delusional.

A waitress brings over your personal pizzas and sets them down in front of you, steam billowing off.

Morgan’s looking at you, a little expectantly, and you clear your throat. “How was your day?” you ask, realizing that you never returned the question.

“Pretty good, thanks. I had an International Relations class. We already have a quiz next Tuesday, which is crazy considering this was our second day of meeting.” You learned that she’s a Political Science major while you were waiting in line for pizza.

She doesn’t say anything else, so you chew on your lip and try to think of ways to get the conversation going. “So…how did you get into political science?” At least her face brightens at that.

“My dad works in local government and I’ve always been really interested in it. I’ve interned at his office since I was probably sixteen? I’ll be able to get a job with him once I graduate and then hopefully I can be elected for something,” she says before launching into a few stories about town halls that she’s been a part of. She’s from a small town in Indiana and the people there are apparently a little unhinged.

Morgan’s just telling you about a petition one man started to make his birthday a town holiday when the door to the restaurant opens and a familiar face walks in.

It’s Agatha’s standoffish TA. Morgan is still talking but your eyes follow Rio as she walks up to the counter and shows them her phone. The lady nods and picks up a boxed pizza that’s sitting next to her and hands it to Rio.

As she’s walking to the exit, she tilts her head over to you like she feels you staring. You quickly look away but in your periphery, you can see her coming closer until you have no choice but to crane your neck up at her.

“You’re in Professor Harkness’s class, aren’t you?” Rio asks, but it’s more of a statement than a question. She obviously remembers you from Agatha’s office yesterday.

You nod and she chuckles amusedly, tongue bulging in her cheek. Her complete one-eighty of a personality change is throwing you off.

Rio glances at Morgan and then back to you, a gleam in her eyes. “Good luck.” Before you can ask what she means—is she talking about Agatha’s class? talking about Morgan?—she shifts the pizza in her arms and strolls out the door without looking back.

Morgan raises an eyebrow at you. “That was weird.”

You choose to not say anything and take a bite of your pizza, instantly wincing when it burns your mouth. “Did the man get his petition approved?” you refer to what she had been talking about before Rio, and Morgan dives back into that memory.

She talks for most of dinner, only really taking a break while she’s eating, and then you walk her to her car. Thankfully, neither of you wants to hang out in the resultant once you’re both done with your food. She’s parked right in front whereas you had to find a spot in the garage behind the row of restaurants.

“Do you want me to give you a ride to your car?” Morgan offers and you pretend to think about it before shaking your head.

“No, that’s okay. It’s not very far.” There’s a minute of silent shuffling while you both try to figure out how to end the date. “Um, well I had a great time with you tonight. Let’s do this again soon?”

She smiles warmly. “I’d love that.” And then Morgan leans in to press a quick kiss to your cheek before getting in her car. Her perfume drifts into your nostrils and lingers and you hear Agatha’s voice telling you that you did very good. Heat flashes through you but you tamp it down.

You wait until Morgan drives off before turning to head to the parking garage, but you see another person that you know in the shadows.

Professor Harkness.

Your heart lurches as she pushes off the building wall she was leaning against and steps into the light. She’s wearing blue pants and a matching blazer over a black turtleneck. The gold from her necklace catches the streetlamp glow. Her long, loose hair frames her face and you can see her blue eyes glinting even in the dark.

Swallowing roughly, you irrationally worry that she’s going to be mad about you and Morgan. A part of you wants her to be mad.

But she just smirks instead. “Dinner with a friend?”

“Something like that,” you mutter, shrugging inconspicuously. “What are you doing here?” It seems like she’s waiting for someone—a date? Not that it matters, of course. You just want insight into your mysterious teacher.

She moves closer to you, close enough so you can smell her perfume. It’s getting really fucking confusing with both Agatha and Morgan wearing the same scent. “I’m just picking up dinner,” she hums. “Nothing as exciting as you.”

Your cheeks burn. “That wasn’t anything, just a first date. We met at a party a few days ago.” When I let her fuck me because she reminded me of you.

Agatha nods like she knows something you don’t. “Do you remember learning about defense mechanisms?”

“What?”

“In a general psych class, did you ever learn about defense mechanisms? Freudian methodology, of course, that believes our ego unconsciously wants to protect the superego from the id when we do something that would otherwise cause us anxiety, guilt, and shame.”

“I mean, yeah?” You’ve heard of them, but why is she bringing them up?

She waves a hand at your apparent confusion. “We’ll get more into them later in the semester. I just think it’s neat, you know? How we can be doing something and not even be aware that we’re doing it. Denial, rationalization,” she fixes you with a pointed look, “transference. The mind does really work in interesting ways.”

You nod and bite your nails, not sure what to say. It feels like you’re missing something by a mile.

But Agatha just smiles. “See you tomorrow in class, hon.” She winks before leaving you outside and you slowly trudge back to your car, completely dumbfounded.

Once you get back to your dorm, the conversation with Agatha still fresh in your mind, you halfheartedly return Wanda’s greeting and take out your computer and type “transference” into Google.

Transference is the psychological phenomenon where someone redirects feelings from one person onto another. It occurs when someone unconsciously projects feelings or desires onto someone else.

“Holy shit,” you say out loud, your blood running cold. Wanda’s head turns toward you but it’s like you have tunnel vision.

Was Agatha implying that you going out with Morgan is you redirecting your feelings toward your professor onto someone who looks like her?

Your heart is thumping so loud you can hear it. Are you being that obvious to Agatha? Can she tell that you have a crush on her?

As if to make matters worse, you get an email notification saying that a package has been delivered—the perfume. A whole day early, like the universe wants to prove its point.

You let it sit in the delivery room all night because you don’t trust yourself not to go crazy if you smell it right now.

But you barely get any sleep at all just thinking about it.

The next morning, Wanda and Nat interrogate you at breakfast. You had told Wanda the general basics of how the date had gone last night, but now they’re pressing you for the details, which you reluctantly give.

“It was good, she spent a lot of time talking about interning for her town’s government. She’s a Poli-Sci major—” Nat scoffs and rolls her eyes and Wanda laughs, “—and apparently her dad is like the mayor or a council member? I don’t know, I mean, she’s nice and all…”

“Oh, come on,” Wanda says, fond exasperation staining her voice. “You always do this. You meet a great girl and then you decide that she’s boring or that you don’t really like her or you make one tiny thing of their personality into a big problem. Why can’t you just let yourself have something?”

It stings how well she knows you. “I just…I don’t know…I’m just not sure we’d work that well together. And it doesn’t really make sense to get into a relationship now, does it? We’re graduating in the spring so why start something new if we’re going to end up in different places? She wants to go back to Indiana and I’ll probably stay here or go back home, so it just doesn’t seem like there’s much of a point.”

Nat looks unimpressed. “Really? That’s your excuse for why you’re going to self-sabotage? If only long-distance was a thing, god.”

Wanda pats her girlfriend’s hand and stifles a smirk at the sarcasm. “Just because it’s not going to end in marriage doesn’t mean it’s not worth it,” she says gently. “Why not go on a few more dates, just to see what happens? And who knows? She could be worth it.”

It won’t work because she’s not at least twice my age. Except you can’t exactly tell your friends that. So instead you say, “Yeah, maybe.”

“Even if it’s not a relationship, it could be a friends-with-benefits situation,” Natasha adds and Wanda snorts. “You’ve already had sex with her so you already know what you’d be getting into.”

“Okay, okay,” you grimace at her crassness and push your chair back. “I have to get to class.”

You have about twenty minutes before it starts, so you’re not in a rush, but you need the walk to clear your head and mentally prepare for seeing Agatha. The quip about transference has you still reeling and it’s only the third day of this class but it’s already the second time you’ve been nervous to look at her. You’re not sure you can get in trouble for having a crush on a teacher but you certainly don’t want Agatha being uncomfortable around you.

So you’ll keep your distance. You’ll go to class and take notes and answer questions, but you’ll leave right after. You won’t let her praise affect you and you will definitely not get close enough to smell her perfume that makes your cunt pulse.

Practically everything you were just thinking goes out the window when you walk into class and see her standing at the front of the room.

Agatha’s wearing another turtleneck, white this time, under a tan blazer and matching pants. You wonder if she’s been wearing them to hide hickeys on her neck—but then you remind yourself that you don’t care, despite the growing feeling of jealousy in your stomach from your absolutely baseless speculations.

She smiles at you, something dark hidden behind her pink lips, and you shiver as you sit down. Does she know what she does to you? The praises, the projection tests from Wednesday, the way she looks at you?

She seems to like you more than the other students in the class—is that just because you answer questions? Does she encourage you for that because she needs someone to? You’ve had classes where absolutely no one would talk and it was awful. Her praising you for that could just be her way of making sure there’s not an awkward silence.

But it feels direct, pointed even. Like she wants it to be you.

Or is that just you hoping?

Agatha isn’t the first teacher you’ve had a crush on, not by a long shot. There was the English teacher when you were in eighth grade. She wasn’t even your teacher, but you still found excuses to talk to her. There was your ninth grade Biology teacher, and then you took her Environmental Science class senior year just to have her again. Your Developmental Psychology professor from the spring semester of your first year in college. You’re sure there’s more. Each time, though, you were certain that you were special.

Each time, you were sorely disappointed, but not surprised.

You want to say that it feels different with Agatha, but you need to get a grip on yourself.

She’s in her late forties, at least. She might have a partner. You glance at her hands as she’s typing something on the computer. No ring. That doesn’t mean anything, you tell yourself.

But she could get in serious trouble for sleeping with a student. If everything else worked out, if all the other stars aligned and by some way, she did want you, she’d never risk her job over that. She has two doctorates and has published multiple articles about her research, which you’ve been meaning to read, and has won several awards for her work. She’s devoted her whole life to psychology and you are not going to change that.

Agatha may tease, but at the end of the day, you feel confident that she will never be anything but professional, which means that you really need to get over this.

“Okay, getting back into Trait Theory,” Agatha starts and you scramble for your notebook. She clicks present on the slideshow and you begin scribbling down everything typed on the first slide. “Theorists who approach personality through the Trait approach want to know what exactly traits are and what they do. Do they describe how we behave? Are they a sum of all we’ve learned? Do they reflect underlying personality? Are they the building blocks of our personality?”

You chew on the tip of your pen and Agatha’s eyes flick to you with a glint in them. Her lips twitch up and you freeze.

“The problem with traits is that people are inconsistent. We act one way when we’re by ourselves and a different way when we’re with friends versus family versus professors versus romantic partners. So do situations predict behavior more than personality traits?”

Agatha surveys the classroom expectantly so you hesitantly raise your hand, wheels turning in your head trying to think of a sophisticated response. She smirks and nods at you. “I mean, I think situations obviously have some part in how we act, but it’s not like we’re completely different people based on who we’re interacting with. It could be kind of like, what traits do we use more of when we’re with some people and what traits do we use less of?”

Her brows furrow and you can see her mulling it over. “So you’re saying that we have a bank of traits, of consistent traits, but which ones we tap into depends on who we’re with?”

“Yes?” Your voice wavers but you hold eye contact with her.

Agatha hums thoughtfully. “Very good. I like that.” Your cheeks flush and you duck your head, the eye contact becoming too intense. “And it brings us to an interesting thought. I want everyone to write down how you consider yourself personality-wise. And then write down some traits you’d use to describe your best friends.”

You write some general words down for you and then for Wanda and Nat. It’s hard to sum someone’s personality up like that. Glancing around the room, you see everyone’s still working so you pick at your nails and pretend that you don’t feel Agatha staring at you.

The compulsion grows too great in you, though, so you look at her. She doesn’t seem abashed that you caught her—if anything, she looks excited. You swallow roughly to get some moisture into your suddenly-dry mouth and your teeth sink into your bottom lip. Her eyelashes flutter, maybe just enough to be considered a wink, but then someone coughs and the moment is broken.

Agatha clears her throat. “Take a look at what words you wrote for yourself and then compare them to the words you wrote for your friends. Chances are, there’s a good amount of overlap. Opposites attract sometimes, but it’s more often than not that we choose to surround ourselves with people that have similar personalities to us. If we do that, then our traits might be influencing the situations that we’re in, which influences our behavior. It’s a lot to think about.”

She clicks to the next slide.

“Psychologists have found that both situations and traits influence behavior about equally after conducting some experiments that we’ll look at another time. Now,” she turns off the projection and the screen at the front of the room goes dark. Everyone looks at her. “I want to talk to you about an opportunity for next week.”

Someone out of the corner of your eye perks up. “Extra credit?”

Agatha shoots him down with a glare. “It’s the third class of the semester, first of all. Second of all, there will be no extra credit in this course.”

He slumps down, defeated. You think he might be the same person from the first day who was upset about only having five grades.

“We will have a speaker on campus next Tuesday evening at six pm giving a presentation on fallacies from famous psychological experiments. I’ll be sending out more information about it, but I think it will be very interesting, especially for this class. It’s optional, but I do heavily recommend attending.”

You raise your hand and she smiles. “What studies are they going to look at?”

“Excellent question. The presentation will look at the Rosenthal study on expectancy effects, the Stanford Prison Experiment, among a few others, and one of my personal favorites: the study on delay of gratification.”

“Is that the one—” a girl begins to say before Agatha interrupts her like she didn’t even hear the student.

“Mischel and Ebbesen would call kids into a room one-by-one and tell them that they could either have a small candy bar right away, or wait some unknown amount of time for a larger candy bar. The researchers would leave the room and see what the kids would do.” Her blue eyes pierce into you and her face morphs into something almost predatory. “Is it better to get instant relief for something small, or to wait and let the anticipation build up for a better reward?”

She prompts you with a tilt of her head and you wonder if she can see the slight sheen of sweat breaking out on your forehead. “If it’s going to be worth it to wait,” you rasp.

Agatha licks her lips before nodding slowly and then settles back into her casual demeanor. “I mean, who doesn’t want a bigger candy bar?” she jokes and there’s a titter throughout the room. She gives you a smug smile and you face forward, cheeks burning.

She continues talking but you’ve completely zoned out. You feel like a kid in the experiment—have something with Morgan, real but fleeting, or wait for even the possibility of Agatha? Once you’re not her student anymore, there shouldn’t be a problem. And you graduate in the spring anyway.

But that’s if Agatha would even like you back then.

What happens if the researcher never comes back with the big candy bar after the kid waits forever?

She finally wraps up class, saying that she needs to rush off to a meeting and you slowly pack up your bag just in case she lingers. She may be in a hurry, but it’s nothing compared to the other students and it’s only a minute before you and her are the only ones left in the room.

The air feels thick with electricity and tension and it’s like you’re rooted to your seat when she starts to slowly walk toward you. You can feel your heartbeat increase and your breathing quickens—your body wants to run but it can’t.

“Great job today,” she mumbles and drums her fingertips atop your desk surface, her perfume rolling over you like a wave, and you don’t even realize that she’s gone until you hear the door shut behind you.

You shakily stand up and swing your bag onto your shoulders and go to the library, desperately trying to ignore the heat between your legs.

After dinner, you pick up the package containing the perfume on your way back to your dorm. You’re almost afraid to open and smell it because you know your body will betray your mind. Your cunt has become conditioned to the scent—conditioned to Agatha—and you really need to figure out how to stop it. You’d throw out the bottle entirely if you hadn’t spent so much money on it. You’ll find some use for it, maybe for a party or something.

Just as you get into your room, your phone buzzes with an email. Your heart starts to race when you see Agatha Harkness at the top of it and you quickly click on it.

To your dismay, it’s just a course email.

Hello Personality Psych,

Here is the link for information concerning the speaker presentation next Tuesday evening that I mentioned in class. As a reminder, you will not receive any extra credit for attending, but it is an opportunity to learn more about flaws in renowned psychological experiments. Please email me if you are interested so I can get your name on the list.

Best,

Professor Harkness

You chew on your lip. It’s not something that you necessarily want to go to, and for no extra credit, it might be a waste of time.

But you do seriously doubt that anyone else in your class is going to go, which would make you stand out to Agatha.

You imagine walking into a room full of people you don’t know, anxiously scanning the crowd, to find her smiling at you and beckoning for you to go sit next to her. She’d lean in to whisper some remarks about the speaker into your ear and her hair would tickle your skin. Maybe you’d be bouncing your leg because of your trouble sitting still and she’d put a hand on your thigh to help you focus.

Fuck. Your cheeks are burning now and the temptation to open the perfume so it feels like she’s there is gnawing strongly inside you.

Instead, you compose a new email.

Hi Professor Harkness,

I would love to attend the presentation.

Thanks!

You sign it off with your name and hit send before you can rethink it and then throw your phone to the end of the bed.

The moment you press your hands to your face because you can’t believe how bad this is getting, your phone vibrates. You know what it’s going to be before you even look at it, and yet you’re still surprised to find that Agatha responded almost immediately.

I’m very glad to hear that and I look forward to seeing you there.

Professor Harkness.

Only this time, instead of the regular email signature under her name, and every other professor’s name in their emails, that shows her position, the university name, and her email address, there’s something else as well.

Ten digits. Your breath catches in her throat.

She added her phone number.

Part Four

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plotsignificanthaircut555 · 5 months ago

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Fever (Sex Pollen/Aphrodisiac Choso x f!Reader)

SMUT, MDNI, 18+ ONLY

8k words. A curse with a strange and intimate defense mechanism has done something to Choso, with Shoko busy with more pressing matters, his healing becomes your soul responsibility. And like any good, young doctor, you're willing to do anything to help your patient. ao3.

you can buy me a Ko.fi here, if you like!

not, not made while listening to Disease by Lady Gaga.

Warnings: (This is a SEX POLLEN fic, which always carries a degree of dubious consent, I feel I have clarified a lot of of the grey-er areas, but if that is not your thing, this is your heads up, see you in the next one <3.) Sex, premature ejaculation, kissing, oral (f receiving), probably a lot of really dumb sounding attempts at medical jargon, smoking, discussions of ovulations/menstruating, Virginity loss (choso), BLOOD, some scent stuff, feelings and some stuff about conception. Choso is pretty pathetic, but i feel like you probably knew that.

When you woke up this morning, you could feel it. That dull, barely there ache in your lower back, telling you that your cycle was nearing. You weren’t the best at manually tracking your cycle but you had enough lived experience menstruating that you knew the sign posts. Brushing your hair and washing your face, you found your skin was smooth, any dullness you would have usually fussed over seemed to have righted themselves and been replaced with a bouncy, full glow.

When dressing, you found your breasts felt fuller, filling out the cups of your bra, almost to the point of spilling. They felt heavy, the lace pressing against your nipples for a sweet sting. Your hands stayed holding your breasts, tracing your areolas softly, sucking in a sensitive breath. A glance at the clock tells you there's no time for you to rub one out before you have to leave for work. But you feel a tingle of excitement knowing you’ll come home to your vibrator and whatever naughty media you can get your hand on. There’s supposed to be a new sexy, vampire show your friends hushedly told you about. Maybe tonight? You have a bottle of red you've been waiting to open, why the hell not! Some wine, maybe a long bath….your eyes travel to a candle on your nightstand. You can light candles for your own masturbation, right? Wow, you’re quite the romantic.

The excitement of your evening of solo pleasure carries you through the rest of your morning routine. You pour yourself a coffee, you make sure to grab an umbrella, the forecast predicting rain for the next few days, and double back to plug in your favorite vibrator(s) before heading out. As expected, it's already drizzling, light grey clouds spilling their contents all over the city streets. The cool fall air wets your face, but you don't mind. You had gotten yourself a bit worked up inside, so it was nice to have something to bring you back down to reality. You still had a full work day ahead of you. Your walk to work was quick, a subway ride even quicker, the manager that met you with a car to carry you the rest of the way to Jujutsu Tech was punctual and polite. She was pretty new, a young woman, probably not even 25, but she was a great driver, and made a few jokes here and there that made the usually long drive feel clipped. Arriving at the school, you were quick to thank her and head inside. She was cute, you found yourself thinking as you turned away from the car.

Young and funny, a sweet face, a good body, how old did she say she was again?

Oh geez, whats going on with me?

You shake the inappropriate thoughts from your head, and mark the doorframe as your own compartmentalization threshold. Within these walls you must remain an absolutely iron clad professional.There can be no mistaking it, no distractions, and no anticipation. Students pass quickly to their classes or from the breakfast lines, some wave or bow in greeting at your pass. You're quick to return their gestures. You make your ways down to the hospital floors, making a quick stop by the lounge to refill your coffee. The school grounds took on many purposes, education, training, treatment, triage, conference, protection, archival, morgue…etc. Your business primarily took place on the lowest levels, being the medical wing, the labs, and the morgue. You never had the chops to go into the field after your graduation from Jujutsu High School. Opting instead to apprentice under Shoko Ieri, the reverse cursed technique wunderkind, just two grade levels higher than you. The absolute chance of a lifetime. She was a terrible teacher, truly awful. Too genius to make her lessons practical. But thankfully you weren’t some talentless schmuck, you could hold your own against genius. You learned fast, were excellent with your hands, and eventually Shoko brought you in full time as her second in command. If she was the head of surgery, you were the school nurse. Where she was tasked with reviving fallen sorcerers and performing bizarre autopsies, you mostly reset broken fingers and administered stitches.

This last year had not been kind to your practice. Far too many familiar faces meeting you in the chilly, sterile basement morgue. Shoko was taking on more and more…experimental (?) projects. Ones with more weight, more stakes. Especially now. Which meant you held things down more and more. But once you reached the stainless steel double doors leading to the main hall of the medical wing, you knew she was here. You could smell the cigarette smoke, and the lilac perfume she swears covers it. The first exam room light was on, the door cracked, white light seemingly unbroken between the hallway and door frame. The light never changed down here, it was as steady as the tile, and just as cold.

“Shoko?” You peeked around the cracked door.

She was prepping the room; someone was coming in. Her words spilled immediately as though they had never had a beginning, she had simply always been talking.

“Big one coming in. Associate Manager just called, they’re on their way back. Apparently it’s nothing broken or bleeding, but they couldn’t explain any more than that. Go figure.”

The possible orders of procedure began listing themselves in your brain. Shoko exited the room and you followed closely, her heels and yours clacking together in perfect time.

“Choso, the half curse from Shibuya. Apparently something hit him, or bit him?” Shoko wasn’t often without the right information so her irritation was growing at every reminder, “whatever, we have his blood samples and the remaining curse womb death paintings, if—god forbid— anything serious needs to happen.”

Viles clinked against one another as her gloved hand searched the refrigerated cabinet of samples taken from each sorcerer. You wondered whose blood was next to yours in there.

“Can’t you just…fwoo?” You tried to imitate her stupid circle gesture she always made when trying, unsuccessfully, to get you to master reverse cursed technique.

Shoko turned to face you, “well that’s just it, I won’t be here. I have to get back underground before anything changes. This is your pop quiz, okay?”

Finally, the intensity dawns on you. You truly had no way to know what would be coming through those doors. A half second later, it dawns on you that none of the supplies she has been gathering are even for you! Every second you spoke was another second you lost to prepare, valuable seconds.

“Oh shit.” You mumbled, quickly turning back to the labs, scanning your brain for relevant material to gather. Allergy lists, blood, most recent labs, gauze??

“I see you get it now, try and be a little faster if the guy’s dying, okay?” A cigarette has manifested between her lips as she heads down the hallway you had only just entered, “call me afterward and update. Bye!”

And just like that she was gone, the doors swinging shut behind her, but you don’t see them zip up their seam. You are already turned away and heading back into the lab. Pulling anything potentially useful: pain relievers, antibacterial salves and ointments, gauze, anything you could think of. You didn’t know Choso all that well, but knowing sorcerers was a mixed bag anyway. It often felt the ones you did know, were the ones you lost. But he had been in and out plenty of times in the last month, rounds and rounds of testing with Shoko, with assistance by you. He was quiet, kind of emotional, but a great help to your cause. Not to mention he had been quite the looker. Dark, gloomy eyes, excellent bone structure, a body that looked carved in marble. You quickly chastised your body for wasting valuable seconds even thinking about anything except preparing to help save his life.

His strange position as both a half curse and a turn coat made him even harder to anticipate. His blood wouldn’t likely be the problem, as it is nearly entirely regenerative. How would that work for infection? Before you can wonder too much, the subject of your mystery arrives with his smaller, too grizzled looking younger brother in toe.

“I don’t know what happened! I’m really sorry, he looks like he’s going to faint. But he walked all the way here. He won’t let me touch him.”

There was blood, but only streaming from the amorphous block shaped marking across his face. It was hard to tell what shape it had taken on, his face was so flushed. He was panting, the glowing blood spilling into the floor, seeping into this clothes, onto Yuji’s shoes.

“It’s okay, Itadori. Did he get hit with something or by someone?” You kind of sheep dogged Choso towards the exam table with Yuji’s help, finally getting him to lie down, which caused him to ground and sit back up.

“This big weird curse squirted some goo or some gas or something on him, but it looks like it sank in, I can’t see where it even hit him. Its was like POOF! And then like nothing! And then…” Yuji’s voice was high and shaking, he sounded every bit the child he was, it was easy to forget both how young he was, and how novice he was to the world of jujutsu.

Choso groaned again, shifting uncomfortably, rolling onto him back and then his side. You watched the concern wash over his younger brother’s face all over again, big brown eyes unable to look away from his ailing brother. You placed a hand on the top of Yuji’s back.

“Are you hurt at all?”

He shakes his head.

“You did a great job getting him here, Itadori. He’s in good hands, I promise you I’ll do my best to get him right as rain, okay?”

You weren’t completely sure, mystery curse-related ailments were more Shoko’s jurisdiction, but if she trusted you, then you must be more than capable!

“You should head back upstairs, get some rest. I’ll have someone bring you when he’s ready for visitors again, okay?” You have an easy, warm smile, hoping to soothe his anxieties.

Whether it worked or not, you couldn’t tell. But Itadori nodded, and giving one last look to Choso, turned to head back upstairs. Looking back down at the writhing man on your exam table you weren’t sure how to start, it seemed like every muscle in his body was tensed. He had to relax before you could begin any kind of testing. He was too flushed, his blood pressure, even for him, must be skyrocketing.

You bit the inside of your cheek, “Choso, do you know where you are, can you hear me?”

He nods wearily, not uncurling from his core.

“Choso, do you think you can sit up, for me?” You attempted, bringing your hands close to his back.

“Don’t touch me!” He barks, heavy pants follow. He rolls completely onto his side away from you, groaning. You can see the line of sweat drenching the back of his shirt, “I’m sorry, but-- please, please don’t touch me.”

“Okay, can you try and sit up? I have to assess you so we can figure out how to make it stop.”you urged.

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t start to move, he stays still, fully tensed, desperate pants through gritted teeth. You watch the sweat bead up at the back of his neck, those beads begin to fall and merge together, falling under the collar of his shirt. You moved away from him, getting an instant ice pack from the refrigerator, breaking it, and feeling the cold spread across your hands. Returning to his back, you wrap the cold pack in a thin towel, taking in a breath.

“Don’t.” He gasps out, “please, just hand it to me.”

You were shocked he was still so aware of his surroundings. Against your wishes you passed him the cold pack, his hand snatches it from you without making any contact with you. You can barely see his face, but you see the muscle in his jaw pop as he pressed the cold pack to his forehead.

“What are you feeling, Choso? I can't stop it if I don’t know.” You don’t mean to sound so irritated when you say it, you aren’t irritated, you’re worried.

“Hot. Really hot.” He sighs, moving the cold pack to the side of his neck.

“Okay, and did it start right after you made contact?”

“What?”

“Yuji said a curse attacked you, it had some kind of defensive response, and it put you into this state? Do you have any idea what kind of curse it may have been?” You were gaining your confidence back, steeling yourself against the immediate shock that had set in since his arrival. You were a doctor for fuck’s sake.

Choso nodded his head, “yes. Maybe? I don’t know, I blacked out. It was out of it for a few seconds and then Yuji was shaking me.” His breathing was starting to even out, maybe he was calming back down.

“Okay, and that’s when the fever started?” You couldn’t yet place what the cause of the fever would be. Some kind of poison? Or venom?

Choso nodded, another groan, pulling him further, prone on the table. He seemed to hate this position, choking out a gasp as he pushed himself up and sat up facing away from you.

“Choso if you’ll just let me take your vitals and a blood test I can probab—-“ you reached out and touched his shoulder.

His body shivered, he let out a long, low moan.

He didn’t have to tell you to not touch him, you pulled your hand back so fast you lamented your reflexes had never been so sharp and would never be again.

He was frozen, you were frozen. You came back to yourself first.

“I’m sorry, I know you sa—.” You started to panic ramble

“You should go. Please go.” Choso’s hands gripped the edge of the table so hard his knuckles went from tan to pink to white.

This was too much, he needed help now, the cold pack had melted completely, faster than you had ever seen, no longer offering its menial relief.

“Choso, I’m your doctor, I can’t leave you. It’s my duty to help you. Please just be honest with me about what you’re feeling, and I can help. I promise I’ll do everything I can to help.” You began to curve around the table to face him.

His neck was red and wet, muscles straining underneath like angry snakes. He can’t meet your eyes, his mouth is open, panting to pull as much breath as possible, lips wet and drooly. You're too busy scanning his face to see the way he covers his lap with his hands as you approach.

“Please, let me help.” You reach your hand out to touch him, even with your gloves on and inches away you can feel the heat radiating off his body.

Finally, finally, he looks at you, urging his body upward into a sitting position. His pupils are huge, brown irises having been consumed by two large, desperate black holes. There are tears in his eyes, dripping into the blood on the bottom half of his face.

“It hurts. It’s so hot, and everything is so tight and sensitive. I can feel…everything, so much, fuck, it hurts.” He pleads, finally crumbling under the agony.

You nod and start to mentally run through treatments for the symptoms as he lays them out. Your main concern is his heart, it’s used to overproducing and pumping at will, but this isn’t at his will, and this isn’t in his routine. This is entirely unpredictable. You’re in your head when Choso stops talking, he watches you closely, the drool along his bottom lip starting to build into a drip. He watches you, as you think a million miles away from him, but so close. He isn't sure if you have ever been this close, you have checked in on him hundreds of times, helped him through his training, you have always been so kind to him, even with his…less than glowing personal history, brief as it was. He can smell your perfume, he had smelled it before, soft and light, but this was something different. It smelled so much stronger, sweet and full, enticing, hypnotic.

“You smell different.” The words leave him before he can even think better of himself, and once he does the words can't stop, “Good. You smell good. Really good.”

He leans closer to you, pulled in by the smell coming from your neck. You don't stop when he comes closer, he doesn’t stop himself when he presses his nose against your neck and inhales. Your body goes completely taut, you can feel the tip of his nose on your neck, you aren’t sure what to do.

“C-choso?”

One of his big hands moves your hair off your shoulder, then settles on your waist, he pulls you closer, inhaling at your neck again. His other hand finds your hip and pulls you in.

“You smell so sweet.” he mumbles into your neck, you can feel his lips move against your skin, “You feel so good.”

The blood from his face was slowing, the mark shaping itself back into a smaller line, you could feel his pulse slowing. The back of your mind flickered alive, a sneaking thought, something you had never imagined to be true, or to be presenting itself now. A defensive countermeasure some high ranking curses employ in order to redirect the attackers focus. Preying upon the most carnal needs, most commonly manifesting itself as prolonged, continuous sensitivity and sexual arousal. You had only ever read about it in the abstract, you never imagined it was something that was still active, let alone could manifest this intensely. Choso’s hands tighten on your hips. Your throat starts to tighten, you are paralyzed as to what to do, the ethics of helping and not helping racing through your mind.

You press his shoulder, “Choso. Just a second, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

He pulls back, suddenly, eyes wide with surprise, unsure of how he had found himself buried in your shoulder, how he had let himself succumb to whims that plagued his mind. He felt his throat closing, his heart racing, the heat in his body rising again faster than before. He felt pathetic, like some animal, some curse, that can’t control himself. And to you, who had been nothing but kind and accommodating with him since he first joined. He stands suddenly, putting as much distance between your bodies as he can. From your smell, from the feeling of your skin, from your soft hair between his fingers.

“I-I’m, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Please, go.” He heaves out, “I don’t know if I can control myself.”

“What you're experiencing is an apex aphrodisiac. It won’t end until it has been expelled from your body, which will probably happen over time. But I have no way of knowing how long the effects will last. It could be hours, Choso, days, even.”

Some deep ache in his abdomen causes him to double, gripping against the counter top so hard you hear the laminate begin to split.

“I can hook you up to an IV, keep you hydrated and locked in here until it passes, but there’s no guarantee you can last it. Your internal body temperature keeps rising, and without someone here to keep an eye on you, there’s no telling what that fever will do to your brain. Not to mention your heart.”

He fights your eyes, glaring instead at his hands in front of him, hands that had been attached to you so recently. Hands that burned against any sensation that wasn’t you. He’s swelling between his legs again, it aches, it's hurting, it's dripping onto his leg. He could hear his molars creaking against one another as he grinds them in a desperate attempt for restraint. You approach so carefully, he doesn't notice you until you're close enough for him to smell that intoxicating aura again. His eyes flutter closed, relief beginning to spread through his body, strained muscles loosening just barely.

“Or…” You stride forward so carefully, not wanting to scare the desperate, hurt animal caught in a trap in front of you, you see his shoulders slide down his back through the damp fabric of his shirt, “I can help you now.”

Choso’s head whips around so fast that the room spins. He worries that this fever may actually be cooking his brain. Surely there was no way you were actually proposing this, he had to be hallucinating. The arousal plaguing his body had finally taken over his mind and shifted his reality to fit its sick fantasy.

You nod at his shocked face, trying to stay as even and professional under the circumstances; God, as if there were any chance of that happening.

“Choso, listen to me, from what I’ve read, the quickest way, and the only guaranteed way to find any kind of repose, is to…” You blush at your words, the impending reality starting to illuminate far too realistically to be called fantasy, “oh god, I don’t know how to say this. By briefly…succumbing… to the urges, it could rid your body of whatever lingering material is causing you to feel this way, or at least offer some alleviation while your body fights the infection. Like scratching an itch? You shouldn't, cause you may open the wound, but it helps you deal with the pain and discomfort.”

A thousand thoughts pass between the two of you, nothing spoken. He studies you carefully, desperate for any sign of a practical joke, some ill timed faux solution at his expense. Part of him looked twice as desperately for any sign of attraction from you, something that would show him you have felt the same way as him. That you have wanted this, before it became…medically necessary.

“You think having sex with you will make it stop?” He says bluntly.

You blush furiously, feeling embarrassed for even saying it, “It may. But of course, it’s up to you. If you want the IV, we can wait it out, you don't have to decide now. If it’s…me I can-”

“No!” He shakes his head furiously, “no, it’s not you. I mean it is! Fuck, I mean…”

He can barely think, let alone try and string together the way he feels and has felt. The feelings that he never dared to explore.

“I didn’t want it like this.” He finally sighs out, resigning himself to a seated position on the floor.

“You…?” You didn't get it yet.

“I wanted this, you, but I never wanted it like this.” He presses his back hard against the wall, eyes pulled tight together, blood trickling onto the floor again.

You got it then. You hadn’t known, never even thought that he would look at you like that, that he would hold feelings for you so privately. He had been so quiet, so brief, so polite. Your heart ached for him, he was so sweet, you had always thought so. Even as brief as his time here had been, you thought it was sweet how dedicated he seemed to fixing his mistakes, to training Yuji, to helping the cause. It had crossed your mind, recently even, how handsome he was. Seeing him in this state, entertaining the idea of fucking him, you found you were heating up, yourself. Your legs squeezing together as he lay before you, so desperate for you.

“I know it's not what you imagined, but I’d really like to help you.” You join him on the floor, looking up at him from under your dark lashes.

You lean closer to him, he can smell you again, he can see your lips part, he clears his throat “I don’t just want to scratch the itch.”

You shake your head, “Then let me help you, let me get it out of you. Choso, please.”

You lean closer to him, you want to help him. The ache between his legs is getting too much to bear, he is too hot, his clothes are too tight, your smell is overwhelming him. Or maybe that's the fever, maybe he’s losing his mind. He scans your face, it's so beautiful. You are the only person he would want to help him. Maybe this was preordained, it was fate that brought him in here to you, so you could help him. So he could finally be with you, if only for a moment. If only once.

“Okay.” He nods, one of his hands gripping the back of your neck and pulling you in to meet his lips.

He can’t help himself, he kisses you with every ounce of himself. Every moment of his century in stasis, every ounce of remorse for the people he has killed, every sleepless night ruminating on his place in this world that barely half of him even belongs in. Your lips on his feel electric, sending the synapses in his brain into overdrive. His tongue wiggles past your parted lips, tasting his first of a mouth besides his own. He moans unabashedly at the taste of you.

It's only then that you even think of him being inexperienced, potentially even a virgin. But the time to discuss that has passed, you can barely get air, let alone a moment to talk. His hands are quick to find your bare skin under your shirt. You feel him trembling, his hands shaking as he kneads the flesh of your sides. The taste of him floods your mouth, copper twinged from the blood on his face, but making your lips and tongue tingle with excitement. His hand finds your bra, taking your right breast into his hand and squeezing hard. You cry out, remembering your hypersensitivity due to your own hormone filled body. He pulls off to look at you, heavy blush in his face, spit connecting your lips.

“I’m sorry,” you swallow, “I--”

“You’re ovulating.” He finished for you.

“How di--”

“You smell different.” He leans into your neck again, inhaling deeply from your pulse point, “I can smell how bad you need this. Just as bad as me. Your body is begging for me.”

It was like a switch had flipped, the gentle, polite, shy man who had stumbled in was gone. Choso’s teeth found your neck, just scratching before he licks a long stripe from the crook of your shoulder to behind your ear, he squeezes your breast again, just as hard, making you keen back, pressing further into his hand. He decides he has had enough on the floor. He scoops one hand around your back and pulls you up with him, laying you down on the exam table before him. In a flash his shirt is gone, and you are slower to follow. But you remove your coat and your top, leaving you in your bra. Choso attaches himself to your neck against, biting, kissing, sucking, licking, anything he can. One hand holds himself up above you, towering over you more like, the other tugs at the button of your pants.

“Have you done this before?” He asks you, just as he gets them open.

You nod, feeling his hair soft against your face.

He hums, “You’ll have to show me what you like. I promise to do my best. I’m a fast learner.”

Your heart nearly bursts at the thoughtfulness, “This is about you, Choso. Let me.”

You finally touch him back, moving your hands over his torso, feeling the muscles straining, the heat from him spreading to you. You sit up, slotting your mouths together again, desperate for his kiss and grab for the tie of his pants. He hisses as the fabric brushes past his throbbing, blisteringly hot erection. Finally you undo the knot and his pants are quick to fall to the floor, leaving him naked over you. His tongue moves across yours, massaging, tasting, combining flavors with you. Your hand blindly finds his cock, you take it into your hand and Choso howls, separating your lips. He presses his forehead against yours, his eyes screwed up tight. You look between your bodies, to where you're holding him between your still clothed legs, just in time to see the last spurts of cum spill from him, and onto the table. You can't help feeling a little disappointed, having gotten worked up yourself, only to have it end before he ever entered you. But you’re quick to push it away, this isn't personal, it was to help him. Choso catches his breath above you, before looking down to meet your eyes.

“Do you feel better?” You ask, but you aren't able to finish before he kisses you again, his previous passion now turned up to eleven, his mouth is hotter, he pushes his tongue deeper, his teeth clash against yours, his hand returns to your waistline as he moves to keep undressing you.

His cock in your hand hasnt retreated, if anything it seems completely unchanged, still raging and red tipped.

“Choso…?” You whimper against his hungry lips.

“Please, I need more. Please.”He sounds desperate, almost as if he is begging you

You nod and help him out of your pants, uncaring as they slide though the cum and onto the floor below you. Your heels clatter to the floor as Choso scoops you cup and lays you on your back, folding your legs up.

“Fuck you’re perfect. I've wanted this for so long. You have no idea.” His voice is low enough he could be talking to himself, were it not for him looking directly at your panties, wet and clinging to your swollen lips, “You’re so wet already. You’re so nice for helping me. Thank you.”

He slides one thick finger along the part of your lips, still shrink wrapped to the soaked cotton, you bite your lip. The mark on his nose has shifted again, back to the black bar you had grown familiar with, just barely beading up at the very edges. The blush on his face and neck has deepened, it seems his blood is redistributing properly again, aside from his cock, which has made no signs of softening. It still throbbed in your hand, which you kept in a steady, tentative rhythm as he explored you further. His finger slips inside the gusset of your panties, feeling the wetness first hand.

“You’re so warm inside,” He marvels, again, likely to himself.

He had come across pornography in the time since his awakening. In his journey to understand the urges of his body, and the innate knowledge that resided within the vessel he now inhabited, he had learned about sex, both for reproduction and for pleasure. He dabbled in masturbation, it was hard not to when discovering the body of oneself. He had watched plenty of movies in the brief instances of down time, many of which outlined the inner workings of sexual relationships on an emotional level. But nothing could have prepared him for the sight of you, writhing and wet beneath him. He explored your pussy further, the nub of your clitoris against the pad of his finger enough to rouse more cum from him, which lubricated your pumps along the shaft of his cock. It was brief, but the second orgasm made him crumple against your leg, pressed against this shoulder.

This time you smiled, feeling his warm cum slid down your wrist, “Are you always like this?”

You watched him pant his way through the climax as you brought your messy hand to your mouth, licking it clean, and tasting him. He was sweet, how fitting. He watched you feed yourself his cum and nearly gave you more, drool slips from his mouth and down your leg. You feel it slide down your skin, still too far from your begging pussy, you wanted to feel him there, his mouth, his spit, his cock. The taste of him filled your mouth now, you looked over him carefully as he came back to himself.

He shook his head, answering you, but looked down at you, meeting your eyes, “my blood goes where i want it, as long as i need it there. No waiting, but I don’t usually cum this much.”

He was so crass suddenly, you felt your pussy clench, aching to be filled by him. Your body had heated so much, the lace of your bra digging in far too tight, your panties now feeling restrictive. Your clit throbbing along with your racing hard, just barely having been brushed by him. You squirm, hoping that he sees how desperately you need him. And you need him, more than air, more than water, more than anything. The room becomes all there is in the universe, only for the two of you, complete privacy, a perfect oasis for him to fill you over and over and over until the end of time. And he was the perfect one for the job, to go endless rounds, no need for sleep or rest, no refractory periods. He could keep you full, used and full.

It appeared that the curse’s effects were contagious. You would later speculate that when you ingested his cum, some fraction of the aphrodisiac entered and took host in your body as well.

Surely that must be the case, what else could explain what you said next.

“Cho, please, I want you to cum inside, please fill me up. I want it inside, Choso please! I need it, I need you. Please.” you begged, you could barely hear your own voice, but you could see the effect your pathetic keening had on him.

He tore through your panties in a second, your bra was relieved of duty, likely permanently as he seemed to cut through it just by pulling. The exam table’s icy surface seemed to sizzle against your overheated skin, he moved both your thighs over his shoulders, hands under your buttcheeks, using his thumbs to hold you open for him as he licked a flat tongue over your vulva. You cry out, not caring if your screams travel through the basement floors and up to the populated floors. One lick from him has you cumming so hard your vision goes white. He doesn't stop. Kissing and slurping over and over, you're quivering and shaking, but he can’t stop. The taste of you is too much to give up, even for a second. So sweet, so uniquely you, so intimately for him to enjoy. At this point he holds you up by your hips, as though you are attached to his mouth, your legs wrap around his head, you can't do much else but try to breathe through the intense waves of pleasure that he continues to give you with every flick of his tongue.

“Choso, please!” You finally cry out, “Please, I need you inside. It's too much, please, baby, I need you.” you pull at his hair, hard enough that you’re sure a weaker, more inhibited man would have wailed.

But he flicks his eyes up at you pleadingly, not wanting to give you up yet. But seeing your desperate, tear stained face, he relents. He lays you back down, allowing you time to cum down as he wipes a hand over his wet face, using your cum to pump his still aching cock. He squeezes the base, trying not to look too closely, knowing he couldn't cum too soon…again. You gather yourself, pussy weeping onto the table below, but already aching for him again.

“Lay down,” You tell him, moving onto your knees ungracefully.

He obeys, laying where you just had been, helping you to move over his lap, settling you just above his standing cock. You keep one hand on his chest, the other grips him again and carefully aligns his tip with your gasping hole. You find his eyes again, as if now is the time to reconsider, but he meets them. He gives you a small nod through hazy eyes, his hair is sticking to his head and his neck, the top of his chest is blotchy and flushed, your wetness makes his chin and jaw shine under the light. He looks beautiful, how could you not have seen it sooner, how magnetic and enticing he was.

“Please, I want to cum in you,” He begs, breaking you out of your admiration, “Please let me give you my cum, please. Please.” He squeezes your thighs, urging you down.

You sink down slowly, the feeling of finally being connected, sending you both into fits of pleasure. You can’t stop your hips, as soon as they fall fully and meet his, you fuck yourself back down onto him, starting a pace riding him that would normally be laughably advantageous for you. You just cant stop yourself, the tip of his cock kisses your g spot perfectly, fucking even deeper into you than you thought possible, no vibrator or partner you’d had before had ever made you fee like this.The stretch hurt so good, as you moved over him again and again.

Choso was just as bad, an absolute mess underneath you. He had no idea what he was in for. Your pussy was so much hotter and tighter than he imagined, it felt like his cock would break off, but he never wanted it to end. He could feel every hitch of your breath though the snug walls flush with his dick, he could feel your heart beating, he thought he could hear your blood moving through your body. He couldn't keep his mouth shut, whimpering, whining, gasping, begging you for … more, … or slower, … or simply just please.

please. please baby please. more. fuck. yes more. just like that. fuck. please please please please pleasepleaseplease. too fast, it's too much. too much. fuck. please. don’t stop. please please, don't ever stop.

He watches you ride him, your breasts bouncing with every lift and drop of your hips. He pushes himself up with one hand, using his knees to move you with him. His shift into a seated position pushes him even deeper inside of you. You arch your back feeling him press against your cervix, whining and pulling him closer to you. He brings your breast to his mouth, biting, sucking, swirling his tongue around your nipple. You struggle to ride him like this, but you grind down on him regardless, the friction of his public hair against your clitrois combined with his work on your nipples, more than enough. You aren’t sure how you’ll ever be able to go without this feeling. You paw at his back and shoulder, wanting to keep him close forever. He coos in your ear something unintelligible about just relaxing and letting him take care of you.

“You’re so good to me, baby. Let me take care of you. You want to be full, right? Let me fill you up. Thank you.” He coos, moving your hair off your neck and letting him return to his new favorite place, your neck.

He carries on fucking into you, your clit grinding against his pelvis, his lips on your neck, his other hand holding your flush against his chest. You feel your eyes roll back, your kiss along his head, relishing the sound of him going back and forth between whining and praising you. Your skin is blooming, your thighs are shaking, you feel the swirl of building pressure in your abdomen.

“Cho….” you whine.

He carries on pumping his hips, grabbing at your ass, digging in his nails.

“Me too,” He chokes out, bringing your lips to his as he fucks you both to your peaks.

A vastly different type of orgasm descends upon you both. Profound and all encompassing. His mouth stays on your as long as he can stand it, leaving humid breaths on your lips before he pulls off moaning and tossing his head back. You feel fat tears roll down your cheeks, Choso buries himself as deep as he can into you, spilling shot after shot of cum into you, you feel him pulsing inside of you. He rakes his nails up your sides, sending you trembling. You whine out, Your body swirls and melts into his. He collapses the pair of you back onto the table, keeping himself sheathed inside of you, not allowing any of his cum to escape you.

You pant on his chest, pressing your ear to where you can hear his heart beating, it's fast, but not nearly the frenzy it was when he first arrived. His big arms encircle you, your bodies feel warm and hot pressed together, but you can feel the chill of the basement air on the sweat of your back, you feel your own heart slowing as you catch your breath. Your own heart rate is steadying as well, at some point the surrounding area had come back into your view, he had stopped bleeding, and both of you felt the effects of the aphrodisiac leave you.

Choso lies beneath you, feeling your weight against him, feeling your body tremble in his arms, his cock still feeling the quivering, fluttering walls around him, taking his cum, pulling it deeper inside. He was told early on that biological children weren't in the realm of possibility for him, but he already had his family; his brothers, and the ones they loved. But now, with you rested on top of him, he felt sad knowing despite the timing, and despite his efforts, he would never-- could never give you your own. He realized the curse’s effects had lifted, either from time or sweat or exertion they had been exorcised from his body, and with them went his sureness that this had been a good idea.

“Choso?” You spoke softly, conspiratorially.

He hummed in acknowledgment.

“Do you feel better?” You raised your head to meet his eyes.

He looked down at you, seeing your warm, kind eyes worrying about him. Surely this couldn’t have just been for today?

Choso nodded, his dark eyes crinkling at the outer edges in a soft smile, “I think it’s over. My heart is still racing, but I don't think that's the curse anymore.”

You leaned forward, feeling brave, and a bit anxious from how quiet it felt now that the screaming and moaning and panting had stopped. Connecting your lips again, now that the worst had passed you felt no need to hungirly attack his mouth, neither did he. You gave him the sort of kiss you would have given him if he came to you with his feelings and had taken you out. You weren’t the sort of people to be able to go out very often, but whatever date it may have been, wouldn’t have been as successful as this bizarrely unorthodox first encounter. When the kiss was over you tried to move off of him, but he held you down, pumping his softening dick into you once more. You let out a high shaky breath, almost giggling.

“I meant it when I said I didn't want to just scratch the itch with you.” Choso cups your face in his hand, making you look at him, “I know I’m not your best choice for…someone to be with…I can’t give you a family or guarantee you a future. But I will keep you safe and treat you well.”

You feel your heart swell at his admission, and more so at the look in his deep, sad eyes, a look that wants nothing more than to be understood, and cared for.

“Well, I don’t know about forever, but how about after we clean up here. You and I go to dinner and we figure out where to go from here. I like you a lot, Choso. Like, a looooot.”

You punctuate your sentence with a clench of your pussy around him, making him gasp and grip your hips again. You start to laugh and he swats at your butt.

“I’m serious. After this we have a lot to talk about, but I know that I’m glad we did this.” You suddenly feel shy, despite how bare you have already been.

Choso smiles again, a contemplative smile, but an honest one, he holds your hips again, “Ready?”

You nod and move with him as he guides you off his lap, moving to the side so you can lie next to him. He keeps one hand on your waist, not wanting to be parted from you yet. You push some of his hair back on his head, tracing your finger down the slope of his nose, then over his top lip. Choso soaks in everything you give him, sighing blissfully occasionally, so unafraid to make sounds and show you how he feels about you. You're inexperienced with men so open, and so willing to express it abstractly, or at all. You find that Choso makes you nervous, the enigma of his shy, stoic nature, and his desire to be known and understood, compounded with a half curse’s worth of shamelessness. You smile at him again sitting up on the table.

“I’m willing to bet Shoko has at least one cigarette in here. I know it's a bit cliche, but I can dig around for it if you’re interested.” You stretch a bit, already starting to feel the lactic acid building in your body.

“I’ve never smoked before.” He shrugs, leaning on his elbow.

You sit up, not worried about covering yourself and begin rummaging through drawers. You found a pack in the second one you opened, slipped one out and then had to search for a lighter, which proved harder to find. But a long forgotten box of matches sat in the bottom drawer of the desk. Choso watched as you searched, admiring seeing your body in so many shapes, at so many angles. It was so beautiful to see the human form so relaxed and unposed, he had to fight the lump in his throat back down, so as to not disrupt you with his emotion. YOu climbed back up to the table and lit the small, thin cigarette. You inhaled and blew out a plum of soft grey smoke before passing it to him. He followed your lead, feeling the smoke slide down his throat, burning on the way down. He quickly exhaled, not wanting the taste to overpower yours on his tongue.

“Not for you, huh?” You took another drag.

He shook his head, “Maybe another time.”

You hummed to yourself, taking in the room around you. Choso had no interest in the room, only to watch you leisurely inhaling and exhaling. He thought that all the movies he had seen had gotten it wrong, that while he didn’t know exactly what it was he was feeling, he knew that no one could have ever felt like this. You turned back to him, another beautiful smile coloring your face.

“There is a locker room down the hall, we can get cleaned up.”

“Together?” He reaches for you.

“Sure, Cho.” You leaned in and kissed him again, your fingers under his chin tilting his face up to you.

You got up from the table, haphazardly draping your coat around yourself, avoiding as much of the cum that had pooled as possible. You offered him his, mostly, unstained trousers. Which he shuffled in to. You discarded the cigarette and hung on the door, turning back to face him. He was still watching you, picking up left over clothes, brushing his sweaty hair back.

“Coming?”You flirt.

He feels his face heat up and nods, watching you leave down the hall. He grabs the last of your discarded clothes, replaying the events of the last few hours in his mind.

“Cho…” he whispers to himself, a little celebration, before following you down the hall.

Your evening with your vibrator was long forgotten as you made your way to the locker room, with something far more enticing catching up closely behind.

I hope y'all enjoyed!!! I really hope i can keep this moment going and get out some of the ideas i have had over the last two months! Cause i've been thinkin big thoughts!!! I cant believe there are almost 200 of us on here, I'm so flattered and grateful! Thanks for indulging me with this one. Love you, see you next time! -- Doodle. <3

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kngrose · 6 months ago

Note

Do you mind writing more about bully!sevika?

𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐊𝐀 𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐁𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐘! 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐄𝐃…

harassing you at the bar

WARNINGS: bullying, harassment, degradation, humiliation, implied dacryphilia, slight violence. be safe, heed warnings!

from roselí. ᡣ𐭩 : THE AMOUNT OF ASKS FOR THIS. y’all are depraved… i’m here for it ^^

The dim, oppressive atmosphere of The Last Drop seemed heavier tonight, or maybe that was just the weight of Sevika’s gaze boring into you from across the room. You’d been foolish to come back here— it wasn’t exactly a safe haven for someone like you. And Sevika? She’d made it her personal mission to remind you of that every chance she got.

You didn’t notice her approaching until her mechanical arm slammed onto the table, the impact making your drink slosh over the rim. You froze, feeling her looming presence before you dared to look up. You suppose now that thinking a secluded table in the corner would’ve been enough to conceal you was silly. She’d always had this weird sixth sense when it came to you— somehow always knew of your presence before you were made aware of hers.

“Still showing your face, huh?” she drawled, her voice dripping with mockery. “Maybe I’m not making myself clear enough.” You forced yourself to meet her gaze, but the smirk tugging at her lips made it hard to hold. She loved this, the little game where she chipped away at your composure like it was some cheap toy she’d grown bored of.

“I’m just here for a drink,” you muttered, closing in on yourself, voice quieter than you wanted it to be. “I’m not here to cause trouble,” you tried, but your voice cracked slightly under the pressure. She scoffed tilted her head, her sharp eyes scanning you from head to toe like she was appraising a broken machine. “No… you know better than that.”

Sevika smirked, sliding into the seat across from you. The motion was fluid and unnervingly casual, like she wasn't even trying to intimidate you-she just was. "You look worse than usual. Rough day? Or did you just wake up that way?"

Your chest tightened, but you kept your eyes fixed on the tabletop; you knew better than to rise to her bait. You tried to focus on your drink, anything to avoid meeting her gaze, but her sharp fingers grabbed the glass and slammed it back down on the table.

The ice rattled in the cup.

"Don't ignore me," she spat. "You're not that special."

The ice rattled in the cup.

Her presence loomed over you like a storm cloud, heavy and oppressive. You couldn't breathe with her so close, her mechanical arm casting shadows on your face as it clicked ominously beside her. She leaned forward, resting her chin in her human hand as her metal fingers tapped rhythmically against the table. “You’re pathetic.” She snarled, noting the way you avoided her eyes.

You clenched your fists under the table, trying to steady your breathing. "Why do you even care?" Her grin returned, wider, predatory now. "Care?" she repeated, her voice dripping with a mixture amusement and defensiveness. She sat up straight, towering over you and blocking out the flickering neon light behind her. "This isn’t about caring, idiot. It’s about entertainment.”

"Oh, you've got a drink," she said mockingly, plucking the glass from your hand before you could react. Her metal arm shot out, grabbing the edge of your drink and sliding it toward her. She held it up to the light, inspecting it like it was beneath her. "What is this? Some watered-down piss? Figures. Suits you."

"Give it back," you said, your voice low but trembling.

Her laugh was sharp and cruel. "Give it back," she mimicked, her tone dripping with condescension as she placed it back on the table. She sniffed it, then shoved the glass carelessly, the contents spilling onto the table with an exaggerated flourish. The room seemed to grow quieter, the other patrons glancing your way before quickly returning to their own business. No one in Zaun was going to stick their neck out for you.

“Oops,” she said flatly, her grin morphing into an ice gold glare. “That was unnecessary,” you said, your voice trembling despite your best efforts. Sevika’s expression darkened, and she leaned in so close you could feel the heat of her breath. “Unnecessary?” she echoed, her tone low and dangerous. “Let me make something clear: You might think your voice matters, but it doesn’t. Someone as weak and useless as yourself doesn’t get to decide what’s unnecessary.”

“I’ll tell you what is necessary though,” She offers, gesturing towards the spill on the table, “It’s necessary that you clean up your fucking mess.” It wasn’t a suggestion. You felt your blood boil, but you knew you couldn’t do anything about it. That just served to make you all the more irritated.

“But, I didn’t—” She raised a single eyebrow, a look that said: Are you questioning me? You heeded her warning, reaching over for the tub of napkins placed conveniently on the table.

The sting started slow, but it picked up rapidly, a feeling like fire washing over your cheek. You barely had time to register that she’d slapped you. “You should know better than that.” She spat, shoving your hand away from the napkins. “You think you deserve anything that dignifies you?”

You distinctly remember feeling small when she’d shoved your face into the table, your nose crashing onto the wood painfully. The drink was cold as it met your face, making your eyes sting as it slid through your eyelashes. Her grip in your hair was excruciatingly tight, your scalp burning where her hand held you. “This is how you deserve to clean up your mess. You lick it up.”

You physically grimace as she rolls your face around in your own drink, a choked sob finally rolling from your throat. The one you’d spent your own money on. The one you just wanted to sip slowly and enjoy.

You didn’t need to hear her snickering to know that she was, but you could.

You struggled to free yourself from her grip, but her fingers were like iron. She pulled your head up by your hair, dragging your face closer to hers, her words searing your skin.

"I could snap you like a twig if I felt like it," Sevika purred, her mechanical arm moving with precision as it hovered over your shoulder. "But no... that would be too quick. You don't deserve a quick end. No, I'll drag it out. I'll make you beg for mercy before I'm done with you."

The words twisted like knives in your gut, but you couldn't look away. Fear rooted you to the spot, and that made it worse. "You're lucky I don't find you too boring yet," she added, releasing your chin but running a finger down the side of your face. It was cold, and you flinched at the touch, but she didn't care. "Maybe you'll earn some of my respect. Maybe you'll fight back, or maybe you'll just keep looking at me like a lost puppy."

She took her free hand and smeared the drink over your face some more, "But probably not. You'll just keep letting me walk all over you. And I'll keep enjoying it." She turned to leave, offering you one last once over, her eyes glinting with what looked like satisfaction.

"Now," she patted your cheek, "Why don't you do yourself a favor and crawl back to whatever hole you came from before someone decides to make an example out of you?"

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#mother speaks #sevika #sevika arcane #arcane sevika #sevika x reader #sevika x oc #sevika smut #wlw #lesbian #darkfic #arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane s2 #arcane season 2 #arcane x reader #arcane smut #ao3

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elliesbabygirl · 1 month ago

Text

ch. 007 ⇄ ch. 008; I Caught Myself - Paramore

"You're pushin' and pullin' me down to you"

my masterlist.

word count: 4.3k words

series synopsis: friends with benefits, that's what ellie wanted. yet, she can't let you go, even after the messy 'breakup' between the two of you.

warnings: swearing, kissing, emotional talking(?), lesbians not knowing how to properly communicate with each other about their relationship, and me still not proof reading this (or any ch) for that matter.

Author's note: hi my cuties!! Welcome to ch. 008 🔥🔥 I know, it's been a crazy ride and I want to thank you guys so much for reading my silly story about a hot lesbian. I've been feeling much better, hence ch. 008 being here, but I also want to thank you guys for the condolences you guys left me, it means the world to me, and I really am coping in a good(?) way, so thank you guys for your kind words🩷 now who's ready for ch. 008??

You sat slouched in the back of the psych lecture hall, barely pretending to take notes. The screen of your laptop was open, but the blinking cursor on a blank document said enough. The professor’s words passed through you like static. None of it stuck.

Your eyes had drifted forward long ago, to her.

Ellie.

She was sitting at the front of the hall, as far away as she could be without leaving the room entirely. You caught the way she tugged at the ends of her sleeves, the anxious twist of her fingers over the worn fabric of her hoodie. That small, familiar movement tugged something inside you, a chord that hadn’t stopped vibrating since the day everything fell apart.

It had been a month.

A month since that fight. Since the accusations and sharp-edged words. Since you said things you didn’t fully mean and meant things you never got to say. A month without seeing her—really seeing her. And yet here she was, just rows ahead, and it felt like you could feel her even if you closed your eyes.

Your phone was warm in your pocket from how many times you’d unlocked it and slid into your text messages.

Ellie’s name stared back at you in bold letters. You’d hovered there too many times, your thumb typing things out only to delete them, again and again.

“Hey.”

“I miss you.”

“Are you okay?”

Pathetic.

You told yourself not to care. You’d made your choice, and so had she. But no matter how much time passed, you still found yourself scanning crowds, wondering if she was somewhere near.

You chewed the inside of your cheek. What would she say if you did reach out? Would she respond? Would she even want to?

Your chest ached with a longing you didn’t know what to do with. Torn between missing her and reminding yourself why you shouldn’t.

And still—your eyes didn’t leave her.

Not for a second.

The lecture dragged on, the professor’s voice echoing through the hall as he launched into a breakdown of psychodynamic theory. Terms like “ego defense mechanisms” and “unconscious drives” bounced off the walls, but you weren’t really listening.

Your eyes were fixed on the back of Ellie’s head—her auburn hair messier than usual, curling slightly at the ends like she’d ran her fingers through it too many times. She was hunched over, hands fidgeting in her lap, and even from your spot in the last row, you could tell she wasn’t taking notes.

You hadn’t spoken in a month. No texts, no accidental run-ins. Just silence.

And yet here she was, barely a few rows away, and you could still pick up on every small tick of hers like you’d memorized her.

Because you had.

You caught yourself again, thumb hovering over her name in your messages. You’d opened the chat at least ten times this morning alone—typed a few words, deleted them, stared at the blinking cursor. You wanted to say something. Anything. But the guilt still weighed heavy in your chest.

Suddenly, your name was called.

The professor, arms crossed, looked directly at you from the front. “Tell me—what does the psychodynamic approach say about repressed emotions in relation to adult behavior?”

You blinked yourself back into your body, your heartbeat hammering in your ears. Ellie was turned in her seat, staring back at you with wide, red-rimmed eyes, like seeing you—hearing your name out loud—had cracked something in her.

You swallowed, your voice steadier than you expected when it finally came out.

“The psychodynamic approach suggests that repressed emotions, especially from childhood, influence unconscious behaviors and patterns in adulthood. It’s the idea that what we don’t face ends up controlling us.”

There was a pause. The professor gave a nod, turning to address the rest of the class. “Exactly. Freud believed unresolved conflict leads to internal tension that manifests in adult life, sometimes through defense mechanisms like repression or projection.”

You barely heard the rest of his explanation. Ellie hadn’t turned back around.

She was still looking at you, something soft and wrecked written across her face.

And for the first time in weeks, something unspoken passed between the two of you—something heavier than guilt, deeper than anger. Something like longing. Like maybe she was remembering the way your voice used to sound when it wasn’t being used to answer a question about repression.

You looked down, pretending to refocus on your notes, even though your hand was trembling.

You knew the answer. You’d known it before the professor even finished the question.

But it hit differently now—especially with Ellie looking at you like that.

What we don’t face ends up controlling us.

The door had barely clicked shut behind you when Ellie surged forward, pulling you into her with a kind of desperation that made it hard to breathe. Her lips found yours fast, mouths clashing with urgency, teeth clicking, breath heavy between kisses. You should’ve stopped her—should’ve said something, anything—but the words were tangled in your throat and drowned under the pounding of your pulse.

Her hands were everywhere; at your waist, in your hair, gripping the back of your shirt like she was afraid you’d vanish if she let go. Your own fingers betrayed you, sliding beneath the hem of her hoodie, tracing up the bare skin of her back, relearning what you’d sworn to forget.

“We should talk,” you whispered, somewhere between gasps, somewhere between her kisses.

Ellie nodded, forehead against yours, breath shaky. “Yeah. We should.”

But neither of you stopped.

Your mouths found each other again, like magnets. Like muscle memory. Her kisses were all desperate and filled with heartbreak, soft groans caught in her throat when your hands splayed across her ribs. You knew this was dangerous—knew where it could lead—but it was too easy to get lost in her. Too easy to ignore the words you owed each other.

Later, you’d talk later.

What we don’t face ends up controlling us.

Right now, the silence between you said enough.

The room was still, save for the soft creak of the fan above and the quiet sounds of your breathing settling after everything. The comforter was half-off the bed, tangled at your feet. Ellie was next to you, her hand loosely resting near yours, eyes trained on the ceiling like it might give her the words she was struggling to find.

Neither of you had spoken since the last kiss, the one that tasted more like grief than desire.

“I know this sounds stupid,” Ellie said finally, voice small, barely above a whisper, “but I kept feeling like I was still fighting for you. Even after you… picked me.”

You turned your head slowly to look at her. She didn’t meet your gaze. Her jaw was tight, her brows pinched like she hated herself for even saying it.

“I didn’t feel like yours,” she added, breath shaky. “I felt like Abby still had some piece of you that I couldn’t reach.”

“That’s not fair,” you said, gentle but honest.

“I know,” she breathed out, eyes fluttering shut. “It’s not. I just—every time we were together, I kept wondering if you’d leave again. If you’d realize she was safer, or easier, or less of a mess than me.”

You sat up slightly, wrapping the sheet around your bare chest. “Els, I left her for a reason.”

“But did you really leave her,” she said, finally turning to face you, “or did you just… fall into me because I showed up first?”

The question hit you square in the chest.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, quietly. “I thought I did. I wanted to, but it got messy. You know it did.”

Ellie’s throat worked around her next words. “I didn’t want to be the second choice, even when I was the one you came back to.”

Your fingers reached for hers again, hesitant. “You weren’t second, els. You were the one I couldn’t let go of. That’s what made it all so fucking confusing.”

She let you hold her hand, didn't pull away.

“I just want to feel like I’m enough for you,” Ellie whispered, her voice cracking. “Not someone you’re with in spite of everything, but someone you want. Fully. Without the guilt, or the shame, or the—”

“I do want you,” you interrupted, voice shaking. “Even when I hated myself for it, even when I was lying. Even when I didn’t know how to love you right.”

Ellie looked at you like she was trying to believe it.

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to hers, your breaths tangled. “I don’t want to keep hurting you.”

Her voice trembled against your cheek. “Then don’t leave, not again. Not ever, please”

“I won’t,” you whispered. “But you have to stay, too. You can’t shut me out when it’s hard, els”

Ellie nodded, slow and silent, her lashes wet. “Okay.”

The two of you stayed like that—tethered by your foreheads, hands laced together between you, grief and longing pressing into your ribs like waves. Nothing was perfect. Nothing was healed. But maybe—just maybe—you were finally starting to talk.

The morning crept in slow through the blinds, casting pale slits of light across the sheets tangled around your legs. The air in the room was still, hushed in that fragile way that mornings sometimes were, like the whole world was holding its breath.

You were already half-awake, eyes heavy, face turned towards Ellie before you even fully realized it. She was still sleeping, chest rising and falling in that steady, familiar rhythm you’d memorized a long time ago. Her brow was relaxed, lips slightly parted, the smallest smudge of sleep still clinging to her expression.

It felt strange—peaceful, but like standing at the edge of something uncertain.

A moment later, her eyelids fluttered open slowly, as if sensing your gaze. She blinked once. Then again. Her green eyes met yours.

“Hi,” she murmured, voice hoarse from her sleep.

You smiled faintly, your cheek still pressed into the pillow. “Hi.”

Neither of you moved. You just stayed there, watching each other like you weren’t sure what was safe to say yet.

Ellie gave a tiny, barely-there smile. The kind that was more in her eyes than her mouth. She shifted a little under the blanket but didn’t reach for you, not yet.

“You sleep okay?” she asked after a moment, quiet.

You nodded, your voice soft. “Yeah. You?”

She shrugged gently. “Better than I thought I would.”

Another beat of silence. Then you exhaled slowly and reached across the narrow space between you two, brushing your fingers against her hand, unsure if it was too much, but Ellie didn’t pull away. She let your hand rest there, her thumb lightly grazing yours.

The light was warmer now, the silence less heavy. Still cautious. Still unspoken things hovering between you. But for now, this was enough.

You eventually peeled yourself out of bed, limbs a little stiff from how long you’d been lying there. Ellie followed suit, slower, rubbing at her eyes like she wasn’t ready to leave the safety of the covers. She looked at you again, expression unreadable.

“I, uh…” She scratched the back of her neck, voice low and a bit unsure. “Was gonna make breakfast. If you’re hungry.”

Your first instinct was to shake your head. “Ellie, you don’t have to—”

“You should eat,” she said, a bit too fast, a bit too soft. She avoided your eyes as she crossed the room, grabbing the wrinkled sweatshirt that had landed on the back of a chair. “You didn’t eat last night.”

You opened your mouth to argue again, but something about the way she tugged the sleeves over her hands shut you up. There was a nervous energy in her movements, like she needed to do something, anything, to fill the silence.

She looked back at you briefly. “Toast, maybe? Or eggs?” Her voice cracked a little on the last word. “Just—just something simple.”

You nodded slowly, watching her retreat to the kitchen. She wasn’t pushing because she thought you were helpless. She was doing it because she didn’t know what else to do. Because her hands still didn’t know how to stay idle around you. Because maybe this was her way of saying; I still care.

You followed her into the kitchen after a few minutes. She had already pulled a pan out and was fumbling with the stovetop, mumbling something under her breath about the burner not lighting properly.

She looked up at you as you leaned in the doorway. “You can sit, y’know. I’ll handle it.”

You sat and watched her try to act casual as she moved around the tiny kitchen, mumbling about whether or not she had any clean plates left. Her hands were shaking slightly when she cracked the eggs.

And despite everything—despite the silence, the months of pain, the uncertainty in the air—you found yourself smiling, just a little. Because this was Ellie. Still trying. Still showing up. Even if she didn’t know how to say the right things yet.

The eggs weren’t great. A little too much salt. The toast was uneven—one slice burned on one side, the other barely golden. Ellie muttered a quiet “shit” under her breath when she noticed, but you didn’t say anything. You just took the plate she offered, sitting with her at the small table by the window that filtered in the gentle morning light.

Neither of you spoke for a few minutes, the only sound being your forks clinking against mismatched plates. But it wasn’t the kind of silence that demanded to be filled. It was something softer. Careful. Like the both of you were afraid to breathe too hard in case the spell of tentative peace cracked apart.

Ellie glanced up once, caught your eyes, then quickly looked away, cheeks flushed. “It’s not, like, good, but…”

“It’s fine,” you said, offering a small, real smile. “Thanks for making it.”

She nodded, a little awkward and took a sip of her lukewarm coffee.

After breakfast, she lingered in the kitchen, rinsing the dishes even though you offered to help. You leaned against the counter besides her anyway, elbows brushing every so often as she worked, and neither of you moved away.

“What… what do you wanna do today?” she finally asked. Her voice was quiet, testing the waters.

You shrugged. “I don’t know. Something small.”

Ellie dried her hands on a towel. “We could….take a walk? There’s that spot near the skate park—you liked it last time.”

You gave her a look. “Where you almost broke your ankle trying to show off?”

She cracked the tiniest grin, looking down. “Okay, yeah, that's fair.”

But you nodded. “Let’s go.”

The day passed in slow, gentle pieces. You walked without any real destination, ending up near a bench by the water. Ellie sat close, knees brushing, arms folded as she stared out at the rippling lake. Every so often, she’d look over at you, like she was waiting for the right moment to say something, but it never quite came.

You shared ice cream later, passing the cup back and forth between bites. Ellie got a little bit on her lip, and before you could stop yourself, your thumb reached up and wiped it away. She blinked at you, stunned still for a second, before giving you that rare look—the one where her whole face softened, like you’d just made the world stop spinning for a second.

“I missed this,” she mumbled.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to say anything else.

By the time you both made it back to her place, it was dsrk. The light in her room was dim, the window cracked to let in some breeze. She handed you a hoodie—clean this time—and you changed quietly, moving around each other with a strange comfort that hadn’t quite left, even after everything.

You sat on the couch. She sat besides you, a little too close. Her arm brushed yours again.

Neither of you moved away.

“I don’t know how to be good at this,” Ellie admitted, staring at her hands.

You looked at her. “At what?”

She met your eyes, voice small. “Us. Like… after everything. I don’t know if I can fix it. I don’t even know if I should try.”

You swallowed hard. “I don’t know either. But I’m here. I’m still here, Ellie.”

The silence between you two stretched out, but it didn’t feel cold. If anything, it pulsed—like something waiting to be named.

You sat side by side on the couch, your knees pulled up loosely, Ellie’s leg pressing against yours in the space between you. The TV flickered some background noise neither of you were watching. You could feel her breathing—could feel her staring, even when you weren’t looking back.

“I keep thinking about that night,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

You knew which one she meant.

You shifted slightly, not pulling away, not leaning in—just breathing through the weight of her words.

“I wanted to talk to you after,” she went on. “I just— I panicked. It felt like if I said the wrong thing, you’d be gone again.”

You turned your head and met her eyes, saw how raw she still was. And maybe you were too.

“I was already gone, Ellie. That’s the part you didn’t want to admit.”

Her lips parted like she was going to argue, then closed again. “I know.”

There was a long pause before you said, “But I’m here now.”

Something shifted in her. Her shoulders slumped, the tension falling from her jaw, her throat moving as she swallowed hard. You reached for her hand without really thinking—and she let you.

Her fingers laced through yours like it was muscle memory.

She looked at you like she didn’t believe you were real. Then, slowly, she leaned in. Her mouth brushed against yours like it was asking a question.

It was softer than it had been the last time. More hesitant. You could feel her breath shaking as it hit your cheek.

You kissed her back.

Gently, first. The kind of kiss that was a statement; I’m still here, too.

Then again, her hand came up to cup your jaw, the warmth of her palm grounding you. She pulled back just an inch, her forehead pressed to yours, eyes half-lidded.

“I don’t wanna hurt you again,” she murmured.

“You already did,” you whispered. “But that doesn’t mean I still don't want you.”

Your hands met under her hoodie, your palm resting flat against her ribcage, feeling the subtle tremble there. She leaned into your touch like it steadied her. Like she’d been waiting for it. For you.

“I missed you,” she said again, like repetition made it more true.

You nodded, your breath catching. “Then don’t stop.”

Her lips found yours again, and this time, there was more heat to it. A little more desperation. The way her hand threaded into your hair, slow but firm. The way you guided her back so she lay against the cushions, and you hovered just above, her gaze locked to yours like she was terrified it would all fall apart if she even blinked.

There was a quiet reverence in the way she touched you now—like this time, it couldn’t be rushed. Like she needed to memorize you all over again. And you let her.

Because even if everything was still tender and unresolved, you both wanted this.

Wanted each other.

You lay tangled on the couch, legs brushed together, her hoodie bunched at your waist, her lips ghosting over your neck like she didn’t know if she was allowed to stay there. Neither of you said much—just exchanged soft breaths and tentative touches, relearning the shape of each other slowly. Ellie looked up at you once, eyes rimmed red, voice low as she murmured, “Still feels like I’m dreaming.” You didn’t know what to say to that, so you kissed her again, quietly, like an answer.

author's note: ch.008 is something, that's for sure 🔥🔥🔥There's still ch. 009; the finale but thank you so much you guys for reading, 'run your mouth', it's been such an incredible time with you guys, and i really do appreciate all of you guys for commenting on my series with each update i posted🩷. Ch. 009 is going to be a very happy (spoiler alert) and fluffy ending to this series so stay tuned!!!

TAGLIST: @liasxeatt @vahnilla @sleepingwasp @morticeras @violetszn @eriiwaii @elliesactualgirlfriend @mikellie @lovely-wisteria @idletyouruinme @losing-it-lately @robinphobia @sexlus @lez-zuha @liztreez @linabellaox @piscesfairyyy @sturniluvr @piercedome

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dearstvckyx · 2 months ago

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i know that you got daddy issues - max verstappen

After a devastating race where you drop from P3 to P19, your father brutally berates you in your driver’s room. Max, along with Charles and Lando, overhears and throws him out. You leave without a word, shutting yourself in your hotel room. Later, Max shows up, and you let him in. He holds you without speaking, silently offering comfort, and ends by softly telling you that he’s proud of you. - The Neighbourhood , Daddy Issues

Max Verstappen x Reader , Toxic!Dad x Reader

Warnings: Emotional abuse (verbal berating from reader’s father), angst, hurt/comfort.

The Neighbourhood Lyrics Masterlist - ⌂

The night air was heavy with humidity, sticking to the skin as the drivers trickled back toward the paddock. The adrenaline of the race still hummed through the garage, but the celebrations were muted.

Because no one could stop thinking about what happened to you.

You—Mercedes’ newest golden ticket, the one meant to fill Lewis Hamilton’s legendary seat—had gone from a podium contender to finishing a dismal P19. The fall was so sudden, so drastic, that everyone was asking the same thing: What the hell happened out there?

Max Verstappen was still in his race suit, the faint outline of his helmet straps marked on his jaw. His hair clung slightly to his damp skin as he walked alongside Charles Leclerc and Lando Norris, their faces still tense with confusion.

“I still don’t get it,” Charles muttered, shaking his head. “She was holding P3 perfectly, not even pushing too hard. And then…”

“Dropped like a stone,” Lando finished quietly. His voice was softer than usual, the playful edge gone. “No radio issue. No mechanical failure. Just… gone.”

Max stayed silent, jaw clenched. He had seen it happen from his Red Bull cockpit—the way you suddenly slowed, letting driver after driver pass you without a fight. No blocking. No defense. Like you weren’t even there.

And now, as they turned the corner down the hallway toward the driver rooms, their steps slowed.

Because they heard it before they even reached your door.

A voice. Sharp. Cold. Spitting words like venom.

“Do you have any idea how pathetic you looked out there?”

Max’s jaw tightened.

“Jesus,” Lando muttered under his breath, his eyes wide.

The three drivers slowed as they neared your room. Through the cracked door, they could see you—still in your race suit, standing stiffly by the window, your back to your father.

You were gripping the edge of the table so hard your knuckles were white.

“Do you know how humiliating that was? For me? For your entire team? Christ, you were a goddamn walking embarrassment.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing your breath to stay steady.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

“You had the car. You had the strategy. You had a shot at the podium.” His voice grew colder, dripping with disdain. “And you threw it away. Like some—some fucking rookie.”

You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood.

“P19,” he spat the words like they physically disgusted him. “Do you know how pathetic that is? I bet every single person watching thought you were a joke.”

Your throat tightened.

“You think Toto is going to keep you around if you keep driving like that? Huh? You think you’re gonna last in this sport? You think—”

“Stop,” you whispered hoarsely, barely able to breathe the word out.

But he didn’t.

He never did.

“You are never going to be Lewis. Never. You’ll be lucky if they don’t toss your sorry ass back to Formula 2.”

You flinched. The words hit harder than any crash could.

And then, your father’s voice dropped lower, cruel and cutting.

“You think Max Verstappen would have just let that happen?” he sneered. “You think he’d just roll over and let people pass him? No. You’re weak. You folded. Like you always do.”

That was the breaking point.

The sharp, traitorous sting flooded your eyes, and you hated yourself for it. You stared hard at the window, blinking rapidly, desperate to keep it together.

Your hands were trembling so badly now that you could barely keep your grip on the table.

You didn’t hear the door open.

You didn’t hear the footsteps.

But suddenly, you heard a different voice.

“Get out.”

It was low. Cold. Steady.

And terrifyingly calm.

You barely turned your head, but your breath caught sharply when you saw him.

Max Verstappen stood in the doorway, still in his Red Bull race suit, the faint outline of his helmet straps marked against his jaw. His sharp blue eyes were hard and unreadable.

Behind him were Charles Leclerc and Lando Norris, both stiff and silent, their jaws set in stone.

Your father blinked, caught off guard for half a second.

Max took a single step forward.

“Get. Out,” he said again, his voice deadly low.

Your father’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

Max didn’t flinch. His voice didn’t rise.

But the way he stared your father down—stone-cold, unwavering—was terrifying in its stillness.

“You heard me,” Max said, his voice like steel. “Leave. Now.”

Your father’s jaw tightened, but when Charles and Lando both stepped forward—eyes hard, shoulders squared—he faltered.

For half a second, you swore you saw something flicker in his eyes. Fear.

Without another word, your father turned sharply on his heel and stormed out.

The moment the door slammed shut, the room fell into a suffocating silence.

Charles stepped toward you cautiously, his eyes soft with concern. “Hey… you okay?”

But you didn’t answer.

You were already walking away.

Your feet moved on instinct, carrying you past Max, past Lando, past Charles—ignoring the way their voices softened as they called after you. You kept walking down the hallway, your head low, your vision blurred, your chest so tight it hurt to breathe.

You didn’t stop until you reached your hotel room.

And when you finally shut the door behind you, the weight of it all came crashing down.

Changing from your race suit to your sleep wear, still a crying mess. You sit on the hotel bed, trying to steady your uneven breathing.

And then, after a hour or so—a soft knock.

You froze.

You stared at the door, unsure if you imagined it.

Another knock. Softer this time.

You slowly pushed yourself up and crossed the room, your fingers hesitating over the handle.

You opened the door.

And there he was.

Max stood in the hallway, now changed into his Red Bull shirt and pants, his hair messy and damp. His eyes were soft now, all the earlier anger replaced with something gentler.

He didn’t say anything—he just searched your face.

And without a word, you stepped aside and let him in.

The door clicked softly behind him.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

You simply walked back toward the bed and sat down on the edge, your shoulders slumping forward slightly, suddenly too exhausted to hold yourself up.

For a moment, you just stared at the floor, blinking hard against the lump in your throat.

And then—you felt his arms around you.

Strong and steady, wrapping around you from behind.

You let out a shaky breath as his arms tightened around your waist, his chest pressed against your back. He slowly pulled you against him, his legs folding around yours, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder.

Neither of you spoke.

He didn’t try to tell you it was okay. He didn’t tell you to calm down. He didn’t rush you.

He just held you.

Your hands slowly reached up, slipping over his arms, holding him in place. Your fingers lightly brushed over his skin, tracing small, aimless patterns as your breathing slowly evened out.

After a long moment, Max shifted slightly. He pressed his lips softly against your temple, lingering there for a beat longer than necessary.

And then, so softly you almost didn’t catch it, he whispered,

“I’m proud of you.”

Your eyes burned. Your breath caught in your throat.

You slowly turned in his arms until you were facing him. His eyes were so soft, so unbearably gentle.

Your voice cracked slightly. “You are?”

Max’s lips parted slightly, his expression softening further. He leaned in, pressing his forehead lightly against yours.

“Always,” he murmured. “No matter what.”

You sat quietly against Max’s chest, your head tucked beneath his chin, the soft rhythm of his breathing slowly lulling you into a calmer state. His arms were still wrapped tightly around you, as if he was afraid to let go.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

And then, his voice, soft and low, barely above a whisper, broke the silence.

“I know that you have daddy issues,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your hair.

You froze slightly, your fingers stilling where they were lightly tracing patterns against his arm.

His voice was steady but quiet, almost fragile.

“And I do too.”

Your breath hitched.

You slowly lifted your head, shifting just enough to meet his eyes. His expression was open—vulnerable in a way few people ever saw. His blue eyes were so soft, holding the weight of unspoken memories.

He didn’t have to say anything else. You knew. Everyone did. You knew about the complicated relationship he had with his father—the sharp words, the impossible standards, the suffocating expectations.

And suddenly, you felt it—that quiet understanding. That bond.

Without saying a word, you slowly leaned in, pressing your forehead against his.

Your fingers slipped into his hair, holding him close.

“I know,” you whispered softly.

And with nothing else left to say, you simply closed your eyes and let yourself fall into his arms, knowing you didn’t have to carry the weight alone.

#max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #mv1 #mv1 x reader #charles leclerc #lando norris #formula 1 #f1 #the neighbourhood lyrics masterlist #the nbhd #Spotify

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thesunssin · 3 months ago

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I’d love to absolutely yap about Gihun and Sangwoo and how Gihun is in this season so here it is ‼️ ( sorry for any spelling mistakes, English isn’t my first language 🙏)

I don’t see a lot of people really talk about just how much of an affect Sangwoo had on Gihun, especially on this season and how he takes his actions, and even the intentions behind it, but I’d love to go on about Gihun first.

Gihun was never a remarkable person, his life before the games was already in shambles. The company he worked under went on a strike, and that’s when he came in touch with death for the first time, witnessing a coworker die right infront of him when their workplace got attacked, the same day his wife gave birth, which he couldn’t attend, since then he’s been losing things more and more, his wife and daughter, and to cope with it all he turned to unhealthy ways, gambling and detaching from the pain by doing so. Lots of people say he was happier back then, but he was just ignoring all his issues. He’s stuck in the past, his mind refuses to register the pain he went through, and in turn to find a way to heal and work on his life. And being stuck on the past means attaching to things in his childhood, one indirectly being Sangwoo, considering he spends a lot of time with his mother. He knows his state, and indulges in it instead of pretending to be something else.

Sangwoo on the other hand, was the opposite of him. Which is everything Gihun admired in him, and everything Sangwoo envied in him. Gihun views him as someone remarkable, and obviously doesn’t shy away from saying so. But Sangwoo isn’t, and doesn’t believe so. Sangwoo his entire life was fixated on a image he wants to put out to the world, and does whatever it takes to do so, betting on everything and even his mother, who just like Gihun, views him as “ the pride of their hometown”. His methods of doing so however, were immoral and illegal, which caused him to be heavily in debt, a physical proof of his failure. Unlike Gihun, his coping mechanism simply is either money or nothing, to be something else or nothing, anything but himself, and something better than him. Because of his failure, he feels like an imposter in a suit, pretending to be everything he’s not, the image he so desperately wants to portray would falter infront of his mother, and already does infront of Gihun, so his instinct is always to run away from the past, to never go back to his hometown, to his mother, because of how ashamed he is of himself. Seeing Gihun again reminds him of everything he couldn’t be, and that reminder is a constant agony to Sangwoo.

Sangwoo envies the authenticity Gihun has, how he unapologetically connects with others in a death game, helps out Oh Ilnam, an old man who is deemed to be a weak link in a game where everyone is out to get each other, and how despite it all, he still keeps his humanity intact and doesn’t let it falter, how even though Gihun treated his mother horribly, he still had her love, while Sangwoo believes his mother only loves the image he put, not himself. Gihun is the only person who saw his image falter, in the scene where he asks him if he’d push him if it was him instead of the glass maker. Sangwoo breaks, immediately arguing back like a defensive child, his argument almost childish when he calls Gihun a “pea head” and a “dumbass”. When Sangwoo mentions how his entire life is pathetic, Gihun replies that he knows the state of his life, and asks why Sangwoo, the pride of their hometown, the graduate of SNU, is right here in the pits with him, despite their vastly different lives, to which Sangwoo replies with nothing. Gihun through the show realises more and more how insecure Sangwoo is, and in turn also perfectly broke down the image he was trying to hard to put to justify his actions. Sangwoo, probably because of the pressure of Gihun’s own admiration, feels like his actions if for the sake of Gihun’s, no matter what, is justified, which he tries to use when arguing with Gihun, but in reality, it’s his own desperation, his own need to present as something else than himself, if it means bringing worth to his life, which he deems meaningless.

When he tries to connect with someone authentically, that person being Ali, he finally tries to allow himself to be without guilt, to help without thinking of any ulterior motives, and to have a relationship that isn’t wholly transactional, but that ultimately shatters when he teams up with Ali, who he ends up actually using his skills ( intelligence and manipulation, which he wanted to use hand in hand with Ali for each other instead of against each other) and like his old clients, cheats and robs him after promising to help. A painful reflection of how Ali, who was always cheated off his money and used in his workplace in unjust ways, the people who were his bosses, now gets cheated off by someone who he used to call from boss to Hyung. That’s when Sangwoo ultimately reverts back to his mindset, that he should be striving to save himself, make worth for himself, to make the blood in his hands make sense, and for the guilt to be worth it in the end, but also sees how Gihun still helps others, how he still helped Saebyeok, and is filled with anger about how he can pretend that he doesn’t also have blood on his hands too, that they’re all gonna die because of each other, but he still moves in the same empathetic way, as if they can afford to be kind.

Season 1 to me really is about how circumstances change the people who you once knew, how capitalism and money twists people, and even the most innocent things to bloody. It’s best portrayed with two childhood friends, Sangwoo and Gihun, who once played together with just fun in their minds, the adrenaline and the joy of childhood innocence and childlike wonder in their minds, to playing the same games for money with life and death in their minds. I’d argue and say they’re both just overgrown kids, two who are stuck in the past, Gihun who refuses to accept it as it is, and stays behind, his personality almost childish and pathetic as a grown man, while Sangwoo who runs after his childhood dreams by any means, stuck in the image that’s already tainted with blood, his personality almost like an angsty teen who pretend to be older than he is, but both come from poverty, both struggling with money, and both their issues starting from that, which shaped them to be who they are, and turned them both to things they don’t recognise anymore when they reunited till and till their last moments together.

Maybe it’s my own point, but I believe that Sangwoo was relieved that Gihun hated him for that brief moments, that they’ve argued and fought, and that the image Gihun had of him was shattered, which in turn also freed him from his own lies and image he tried to convince himself too. He could finally feel angry without any restraint, without acting like he isn’t, without covering up his selfish desires and needs, and projects it all onto Gihun, absolutely shattering the image he tried so hard to keep infront of him on purpose. Their fight was brutal and lacked any real training, both not knowing how to fight properly, and their emotions speaking louder, their movements are sloppy and awkward, and Sangwoo, who’s way more brutal in this fight, gets a hold of the knife for longer and stabs Gihun, while Gihun who when he manages to get a hold of the knife ( which is impaled to his hand ) realises that he can’t complete his actions, Sangwoo realising so when he opened his eyes to see Gihuns sad ones looking back. When Gihun walks right to the very edge of the triangle of the squid, he realises that the money, all of it, would never be worth his friends life, his childhood friends life, waking back limping and bloody to ask the guard, referencing what Sangwoo said to use clause three and for both of them agree to stop the games and leave.

Sangwoos anger waters down with the rain puddles next to him, and he realises the irony of their place. The same two grown adults, who once used to play the same games, and as he says “ When we were younger, we used to play just like this and our moms would call us for dinner” the intensity of their fight, this one being bloody and violent, reflects on how they as kids would imagine their fights to be that intense and bloody, the adrenaline copying one of someone facing life and death, except they are now, and like Sangwoo says. “Nobody is calling us anymore” his voice here ( lovely detail from the actor thank you park haesoo!) broken like a child, and Gihun raises his hand to him, telling him that they can go him, that they will go home. All the anger they had seconds before now gentle and caring, all of it was always once love, all the anger was once love. Gihun gives him is pure clean hand, one without a drop of blood, while Sangwoo stretches his own bloody hand, one that isn’t tainted with his own blood, but the blood of others and the person above him, the one who’s other hand he impaled.

Gihun was so willing, so willing to make it all worthless. Everything they’ve been though, all the scars they got and had, all the deaths they’ve caused indirectly, directly, and witnessed from close or afar, the death of the people he cared for, even Saebyeoks, and his own bleeding wounds and stabs, all if it meant bringing back Sangwoo with him, he’d go penniless willingly, because he couldn’t truly blame him for everything, he couldn’t truly blame him for turning out the way he is, he admired him with his soul, loved him with every fibre of his being, and adored him and saw him as someone so remarkable and great despite it all, so he gave him his hand, his clean, untainted hand, as to tell him that he, Sangwoo, can taint it with all his sins, and he’ll still hold his hand, he’d still want him by his side. Sangwoo almost took it, almost. He wanted to let himself be, to accept that gentleness Gihun so willingly offered, and to accept the hands of his childhood friend.

That’s until he realises they won’t have a single penny for it all. That’s when he retracts his hand, and all he can do is apologise, to say sorry to his Hyung, as he stabs the knife through his neck without any remorse. In that moments, I think that’s when he realised the only way he can truly repay Gihun isn’t by taking his hand, but by leaving all the money for him, to repay his mother, to repay for Ali, Saebyeok, for all the people he caused to suffer, to repay it all with his life that was now worth 45.7B when the last person is eliminated. In the end of it all, he ignores even his own will to live and picks the most reasonable choice, letting his childhood friend win, not any random person, but Gihun. He knows him better than anyone, and within his last moments, calls out for his mother, asking Gihun to help her, to repay her in his behalf, because he couldn’t face her like this, he knows he wouldn’t be able to live with the weight of what he has done, even more-so without a single dim. But he knows Gihun wouldn’t forget him, he wouldn’t forget his mother, he wouldn’t forget his humanity, and he wouldn’t forget to care.

And so Sangwoo dies in a playground, dead in his childhood friends hands, a reflection of how everything he chased for as a kid died there too, and was always stuck in the same playground trying to prove his worth by winning.

By S2, Gihun painfully parallels everything Sangwoo was before the games. Both sharing even the same mother, who they both feel too ashamed and guilty to face, calling their families from a distance, and falling into deep depression, both sharing the same sense feeling like an imposter in their bodies for being things they aren’t ( both being wealthy, but gaining that wealth in unjust ways) their sense of worth less now and both suicidal. ( Sangwoo who tried to commit suicide in the bathtub, and Gihun who doesn’t hesitate to play Russian roulette and shoot himself) the only difference is the reason why they go back to the games.

Gihun in s2 even comes back to the games acting exactly like Sangwoo, even down to the two of them meeting someone from their past within it ( Sangwoo who met Gihun, and Gihun who now met Jungbae) but as vastly different people. Gihun uses what he had learnt directly from Sangwoo to help others ( The red light green light method, Mentioning the third clause, which was even filmed in the same space and manner, and telling others to hide before the fight broke out ) he’d always seen Sangwoo as an example of how to be, and admired him as a figure of something remarkable, so he, who already feels like an imposter in his body, who feels like he shouldn’t be the one who made it out, unconsciously begins to create an image of himself that reflects Sangwoos, one he saw as cold, intelligent, and was human despite it all.

Young Il, who Inho created, is an image of who Gihun wishes Sangwoo was. (Yes ik how that sounds lemme elaborate!) Young-il is someone who is equally as smart, someone who uses that intelligence to help the weaker, who thinks for the community, and is willing to help Gihun help others, unlike Sangwoo who limited his intelligence and help to just those who could also equally benefit him, who held back on trusting Gihun, and in the end acted on his own, and reduced Gihun’s humanity to weakness, something Gihun resented about Sangwoo, and something he sees in Young-il, who Inho knew how to build himself to be someone Gihun trusted, a familiar but strange new face. Oh but Gihun’s intentions aren’t so pure either, his guilt brought him back to the games, back to something he was stuck in, back to the past he can’t move on from and never will, his guilt drives him to think he needs to sacrifice himself for the games to end, even without any real aim or clear goal on how to, or even realising that the players will still suffer anyways, he believes his life will only gain worth if it’s used for something greater, similarly to how Sangwoo also believed his life would be worth something if he gained social status and money, something greater than himself. This time, Gihun gambles with the lives of himself and others ( the people who died for the plan) instead of horses.

Gihuns unwavering trust in others humanity, and in humanity itself, I’d say is purely because of Sangwoo. He witnessed him turn to so many things, from someone he so dearly admired, to a vile person who spat blood and killed for money, to hearing him never speak to him informally even in their angriest moments, and to crying in his arms, uttering out his mothers name as he calls him Hyung for the last time. Sangwoo, who taught him all he knew right now, couldn’t teach him how people could still be harmful, that trusting still blinds, and that being idealistic and naive isn’t good, because Sangwoo was human, Sangwoo wasn’t evil and irredeemable, he still cared for the boy he grew with, for the kid he found charming but annoyingly naive, for the kid who bragged about him every given chance, and for the same guy who he entrusted his mother to, the one who he drove all his actions for. And Gihun? He bet his entire life on that, on the shred of his cold image breaking to reveal his real vulnerability, on his humanity. And because Sangwoo showed him that, he now doesn’t believe anybody is truly evil, that they’re all victims of something bigger than themselves.

And so Gihun goes back to the games, going back to the place that his old self died in, and the one he doesn’t even know if he’ll survive in again, but is willing to gamble his life on ending it.

(sorry for how long I’ve yapped for! and if I’ve made any mistakes ❤️ please have some mercy on me! my English isn’t the best )

#sangihun #cho sangwoo #cho sang woo #seong gihun #gi hun squid game #squid game #hwang inho #young il #gihun x inho #sangwoo x gihun #457 #inhun #doomed by the narrative #doomed yaoi #analysis #yapping #sangwoo squid game #in ho squid game

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novelistrry · 1 month ago

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PROLOGUE - SPYRRY

He looked like he belonged in movies. The kind of movies that had Oscar nominations and played in theaters for months on end. Truthfully, he looked like he was the next contender to play James Bond.

“Hi,” he breathed, stepping through the threshold and closing the door behind him. His shoulder bag, which seemed to carry his laptop, slipped off the slope of his shoulder, and he effortlessly used his thumb to put it back. And when he spoke, she registered that he really could play James Bond. The British accent was noticeable, with traces of American undertones like he had been living in the United States for a little too long.

Harry is a sleeper cell spy and Y/N can't help but fall for someone like him. It's natural, right?

WORD COUNT: 2.5k

For the majority of Y/N’s life, she has been an afterthought.

She was constantly picked last for teams in P.E., her friends in elementary school would conveniently forget to invite her to their birthday parties, and one time her parents texted her ‘Happy Birthday’ a week after her birthday already passed. Maybe it was her fault for never correcting them, or maybe she could have been more vocal about how her friends were constantly hurting her feelings, but she never was… It just wasn’t something she was comfortable with.

It used to bother her a lot; she wore the feelings of abandonment on her sleeve and the pain was etched into every fine line on her face. Now, she was so desensitized to the casual rejection that when someone forgot to text her happy birthday, or her parents realized they hadn’t called her back in quite some time, she’d just shrug her shoulders and let it roll off her back.

However, this defense mechanism started becoming a problem when she realized that it was nearly impossible for her to form a meaningful connection with anyone anymore. In college, she ignored the invitations from her flatmates to attend parties because she knew eventually they would grow tired of her. It was better for them to invite her and allow Y/N to decline the offers on her own terms, rather than get attached to a friend group and watch them get annoyed at the way she stuck to them like glue— she would become bothersome and hard to get rid of. This way, she could decline their offers and be somewhat of an enigma. She wasn’t weird, she was aloof. It was her social barrier, and the only thing that really kept her together.

When she thought back to high school, her throat squeezed tightly. Once everyone realized what a pushover she was, they would take advantage of her until they had no use for her anymore. The most haunting memory is when she had her first boyfriend, whom she dated for a total of three months, before she had found out he was getting paid by the other friends in their group. After that, she chose to eat lunch in the bathroom stall, which seemed pathetic, but it was much more comfortable than anyone probably expected.

Why her friends paid someone to date her, she never got a true answer for. After some sleuthing, the only answers she got was that they ‘thought it would be funny,’ and it ‘worked as distraction.’

Distraction for what? She didn’t think she could handle the answer, so she chose not to ask.

The guy who was being paid to take her out –good money, might she add– went to a private high school with Y/N, surrounded by rich folks and she didn’t fall short of that bracket either. She thinks maybe that’s why her parents are so… The way they are. No time for her when they were cycling in and out of their workplace, grossing high profits. He explained that he felt really bad for the whole ordeal, and wasn’t usually that much of a jerk. Her jaw twitched at his explanation, and before she could even filter the question, it had sprang out of her mouth.

“Did you ever… Did you ever grow feelings for me?” Y/N asked, kicking herself because she decided as soon as the question was out on the table, she didn’t actually want to know the answer.

By the way his face contorted, and his eyes were shining with a glimpse of sympathy, she knew she had her answer and immediately collected her things. As calmly as she could, she walked out of her school library and never talked to those friends again.

For weeks, she begged her parents to remove her from school and let her do independent studies. She was smart enough for it. Time and time again, they told her no. So she did the only thing she possibly could and buried her nose in her textbooks. Determined to get into the best school she could, receive a job offer far away from her hometown, and get the hell out of where she grew up.

And that’s just how Y/N graduated from college with her degree in accounting, got hired at a semi-big corporation that owned quite a few smaller businesses, and somehow became best friends with the company owner. The CEO was older, nearly her dad’s age, and though she had sworn off friends and enjoyed her reclusive lifestyle, there was something about Danny that was different.

Sure, it was a little weird that she was just out of college and her best friend was a 50-something year old corporate executive, and maybe he didn’t realize that he was her best friend, but he never forgot her birthday.

It was like Danny was acutely aware of Y/N’s poor experiences with friends, and her unique inability to connect with people on an emotional level, so he met her where she was comfortable. He didn’t push or prod, but he kept her close enough to know she wasn’t alone, but at a far enough distance that Y/N was comfortable with the relationship.

And he invited her to his family barbecues. The first time Y/N went to one of those barbecues, she ate so much potato salad, she swore she wouldn’t touch it ever again.

Sometimes during her day, Danny would drop a few envelopes off on her desk and tell her that he needed them transported to his other facilities and given to their executives. It started off small, but then became a big part of her job. He even gave her a raise for all the time she took out of her day to drop by his other facilities. Was she overqualified? Yes, absolutely. But sometimes it was nice to take a break from crunching numbers and get out of the office for a while. By the time Danny realized she didn’t mind doing the silly little tasks he would assign her, he had grown fond of her and utilized her noninvasive personality to his advantage.

Some of the other facilities were… Sketchy to say the least. Often in the heart of a crime-riddled downtown area, or occupied by strangers that didn’t look too friendly. Regardless, she always completed her tasks without so much of a complaint coming from her. Anything to keep Danny happy, she’d do. Especially considering the fact that he had tucked her under his wing. If that meant she had to go to a couple places that made her semi-uncomfortable a couple times a month, then she would do it.

As time passed, Danny grew more open with her. Though he never explained why certain parts of his company were in weird spots (and sometimes so far away), he had made it seem like business was business— no matter the location. It wasn’t until the Christmas season that Danny asked Y/N what her plans were. When she explained that her family lived on the other side of the country and wasn’t too keen on holiday celebrations, he asked if she would come to Christmas dinner.

So she did.

And when she got there and realized there were multiple gifts under the tree with her name on them from Santa (Danny and Santa, they were good friends, he had told her), she nearly teared up at the thought that someone… remembered her.

“Hey Y/N,” Danny poked his head into her office, interrupting her stream of thoughts. He usually came in first thing in the morning to let her know he was there but today was a little different. “We’re hiring another accountant.”

“Did someone leave?” Y/N swiveled in her chair, tracing her fingers on the invisible pattern atop her glass desk.

“No, we just need some more support. There are no more available cubicles, so we were wondering if we could put him in your office for the time being. Until there is some space for him?” Danny asked, which was nice of him, because he really didn’t need to do that. He owned the place after all.

“Of course,” Y/N said, “I’d be happy to share this space.”

“Great,” Danny said, and opened the door to allow the maintenance guys to carry in a desk setup meant for the new guy. Y/N could only laugh, because Danny knew she wouldn’t say no.

After the maintenance guys were done putting the desk back together and moving around some of the stuff that was set up for convenience (a printer just for Y/N so she didn’t have to make her way down to the copy room, a table full of sweet treats, and her own coffee maker), Y/N got back to work. Smiling at the maintenance guys, she thanked them on their way out.

It wasn’t but an hour later the new guy was knocking on the door, the blinds concealing her from seeing him through the window. She jumped slightly, not quite used to so many people knocking on her door and entering the space throughout the day.

“Come in,” Y/N squeaked out. The door knob twisted, revealing the new guy in all his glory.

Y/N couldn’t help her jaw become unhinged from the joints. He was beautiful— the kind of beautiful that made her insides turn and mouth water. He was wearing a black turtleneck, tucked into a pair of gray slacks. His hair, which seemed to be curly, was gelled back for the most part, but the subtleness of curls were peeking through.

When he looked at her, it was with a gleam of mischief, like he was bound to get her into some sort of trouble. His cologne was a warm vanilla and musk, wafting toward her even though he was a good twenty feet away. As Y/N studied his face— the beautiful crook of his nose, the deep green of his eyes, the perfect indentations of smile lines— she tried to place where he might belong. That face wasn’t the face of an accountant.

Quite the opposite, actually.

He looked like he belonged in movies. The kind of movies that had Oscar nominations and played in theaters for months on end. Truthfully, he looked like he was the next contender to play James Bond.

Y/N felt underdressed as she looked at him, knowing very well that she was in the appropriate accountant attire. He was just so pretty, she thought maybe she needed to put on some lip gloss or accessorize a bit better. Maybe she didn’t feel underdressed, maybe she just didn’t feel beautiful the way he was. Sometimes when Y/N saw someone who was all too beautiful, it would trigger the memory of her fake high school boyfriend. If she was beautiful, like the new guy, that entire situation would have never happened to her.

Forgetting greetings, Y/N sputtered out, “I’m Y/N.”

He smiled, a breathy chuckle releasing from his throat. Approaching the desk, he held his hand out, “I’m Harry.”

She stood up briefly, extending her own hand out and clasping it in his. His hand was big and slightly cold from the atmospheric river happening outside. The pitter-patter of the rain had gotten increasingly stronger through each day of January. The drops hitting the windows were almost soothing throughout the day.

“Your desk is over there,” Y/N motioned to the desk on the opposite side of the room. The more she looked at it, the more she realized she should have asked the maintenance guy if they could rearrange the feng shui. It was going to be terribly awkward sitting across from Harry, a side by side situation would probably be more pleasant for the both of them. “The maintenance guys put it in today.”

“I’ll have to thank them when I see them,” Harry offered a lopsided grin, settling his bag on his new desk.

“They’re pretty great,” Y/N told him, tucking herself back into her desk. Small talk was always awkward for her. In fact, she would much rather sit in silence than make mindless chatter with people who probably didn’t actually care about what she had to say.

“Why are you the only accountant that gets your own office? Are you the head accountant?” Harry was taking things out of his bag, placing random photos on the desk. Y/N couldn’t help but eye them, her curiosity constantly getting the best of her. Did he have a family? Wife? Kids? Maybe a husband?

“No,” she let out a soft laugh, “I guess I’m just Danny’s favorite.”

“How did you become his favorite?” Harry’s smile matched the tone of the conversation. His questions were inquisitive and threw her a bit off guard as not many people inquired about her life, but it was nice to actually hear her voice as she often stifled herself.

“I actually… don’t really know.”

“I’ve got a few reports that I need to take care of, so I’ll leave you alone. If my typing is too loud or you can hear the gears in my brain turning, please let me know.”

“Okay, you let me know too. The past couple months I’ve been in here by myself, and I can be loud on my own.”

He looked up, cocking a brow.

“No, I meant that— never mind.”

After their first encounter, Harry and Y/N didn’t really talk. Weeks passed with Harry coming into work, doing his job, and then leaving. Sometimes he would ask Y/N about her life, but for the most part he remained quiet, gently dodging any question Y/N threw at him.

Y/N couldn’t say that she didn’t like the silence. Growing up lonely made her accustomed to this kind of environment. She was a more effective worker when she wasn’t distracted by the chit chat of others, and even though she didn’t really know Harry, it was kind of nice to have another person sharing her space.

It wasn’t until two months of Harry working there that Y/N had run into him outside of a flower shop of all places. As the start of spring rallied in, she decided it was time to pick out a spring-centered floral arrangement for her apartment. Fluttering through the multiple flower options (turns out so many beautiful flowers were in season during the Spring), she heard a man clear his throat behind her.

“Y/N?” That familiar British accent was directly behind her. As she turned around, she took in his casual appearance, which was a drastic difference from the clothing he sported in the office. Trading slacks for linen pants and a tie for an oversized t-shirt, Harry looked comfortable and in his element in this flower shop.

“Oh,” Y/N breathed out, her face feeling hot. She wasn’t sure why she was getting so flustered, being in a flower shop was a perfectly normal place to be. “What are you doing here?”

Harry offered a small smile, the smirk etched onto his face like it was meant to be there. It was very obvious that he knew he made her feel flustered, and he couldn’t say that he was not used to making girls a bit weak in the knees. As cocky as it sounded, he knew he was a conventionally attractive guy. And for some reason, a girl like Y/N was like bait on a hook. Maybe it was the shyness or the awkward laughter that always followed behind her sentences, but it was clear Harry was more keen on getting to know her than he originally let on.

“Well, getting flowers. You see, typically, when someone enters a flower shop, they have one goal in mind,” Harry chuckled softly, the sarcasm dripping from his tone like honey from a hive. The words seemed direct, but they were playful, meaning to make Y/N more comfortable with his presence.

With one hand, Harry grabbed the beautiful floral arrangement Y/N had concocted. Tulips, roses, and daisies made the base of the bouquet. Harry looked around, finding some baby’s breath and wildflowers to fill in the sparse areas of the arrangement. With wide eyes, Y/N watched him, shocked at his eye for florals.

“There,” Harry said softly, “Now it’s perfect.”

And that’s how Harry ended up buying her a bouquet of flowers— the first time anyone had ever gotten her flowers. That was the start of Y/N meeting Harry. Little did she know, their blooming friendship (love story?) began with deception.

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jolluxiscool · 7 months ago

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this activated a braincell inside me so fast and I ended (lazily) doodling some M of this lol

I just watched a walkthrough of Super Mario Odyssey a few days ago and now I'm tempted to make an AU where it's literally just SMO but with Ultra M instead lol.

Canon Bowser just sorta shows up in the MM universe somehow and kidnaps Coronation Day Peach since he thinks he looks cooler (Bowser doesn't know Coro's a guy)

He also kidnaps the rest of the MM cast (Except Ultra M) since he needs an audience for his wedding or smth ig.

Ultra M tries to go after him and ends up getting knocked off the ship because of Bowser's epic hat and ends up in Cap Kingdom where he meets Cappy who tags along with him since Tiara got kidnapped as well. (and She's also on Coronation Day Peach's head)

Cappy does transform into Mario's Cap and stays on Ultra M's head but because Ultra M is technically wearing a cap it just kinda looks like he's wearing two caps lol.

Yeah that's pretty much it. I'm calling it Mario's Maddening Odyssey. Lame name but whatever.

#mario madness #marios madness #mmv2 #I SWEAR I TRIED TO DO THE DOUBLE HAT then i gave up and just made M having issues to see anything from the cappy pov without being huge #if you asked me the explanation i came up with in five minutes is that he felt so humilliated losing like that #that he tried to go ultra m as a defense mechanism but since he doesn't have anybody rn to fuse he just. stays like that #i feel like after a while he would start having fun with the situation cause OH MY GOD SOME ADVENTURE IN MY PATHETIC CODE LIFE!#but he feels lonelier than ever tho. oh and he misses his husband.#also it would be neat if the bowser was kinda glitchy or smth #yk because hes not supposed to be there #okay enough yapping #ultra m #au #forest king #cd peach #coronation day

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vampiriito · 15 days ago

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

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

warnings; mentions of drug use, over-dosing? (not quite), me losing the plot lowkey, mentions of troubled family life, (please don't hate me for this chapter i promise the plot is going somewhere.)

Rafe hated the Cut. Hated the trailer park trash that always gawked at his SUV whenever he pulled up for a drop. He made a habit of keeping his interactions with Barry as short as possible. Classism, for him, was less about superiority and more a defense mechanism—a way to cover up the gnawing jealousy he felt toward the recklessness pogues lived with. That dangerous kind of freedom that came from having nothing to lose.

He learned that from you.

You were always in his orbit, whether he liked it or not—Sarah’s best friend, the one always hanging around the Cameron estate like you owned the damn place. It started with the way you'd linger in the pool, shameless in the way you’d swim and sunbathe like it was your home. It probably ended last night. You, in that barely-there vampire costume, looking like a bad decision wrapped in cheap lace and glitter. And then there was the after—after he’d hate-fucked you into the mattress only for something softer to slip through in the comedown. Something far more dangerous. Something that stung worse than a bullet wound—something he'd had the misfortune of feeling both.

You were a storm. He’d point you out in crowds just to mock you with his friends—“that one,” he’d say, “made for party-girl shit.” All smudged mascara, thrifted clothes soaked in body glitter, cheap vodka on your breath. Armor. He knew it. Knew it covered something broken underneath. But that first night you agreed to sleep with him, you didn’t act broken. You were magnetic. And while you were stuck feeling guilty for letting it happen, he was already thinking about how to get you into his bed again.

Luck was on his side. You were in love with someone else—a guy who had a girlfriend. Your best friend. The one who treated you like a sister while trailing after Kiara like a lost dog. Your stupid little heartbreak story sent you spiraling, and you landed in Rafe’s bed like it was where you were always meant to end up.

Rafe was a strong man. He’d had plenty of girls—one-nighters, married women, even two girlfriends at once. Love and sex were background noise to him. A vice, like alcohol. Something to take the edge off. But you—fuck, you were coke. The addiction he hated but kept close anyway, tucked away in drawers and behind locked doors. Just like you.

Naturally, he hated you. You were from the wrong side of the island. Loud-mouthed, sharp-tongued, angry in the same ways he was. And yet he was getting attached. Quietly. Pathetically. He’d rather cut his own head off than admit he’d grown to tolerate you—maybe even like you. Maybe the way he touched you during sex gave it away, maybe his tone slipped sometimes. But he was always high enough to ignore it. And so were you. Until those two times you showed up sober. And he felt it—how the intimacy ate away at you, twisted itself with guilt. And in the worst, most Rafe way possible, he reveled in it.

But you were beautiful. And no man—least of all Rafe Cameron—was built strong enough to survive the full impact of beauty and anger combined. If there was anyone on this island weak enough to beat the shit out of someone for you, to stay up all night taking care of you after you got spiked at a party—it was him. And somewhere along the line, he stopped searching for you in crowds just to laugh.

Now, he looked for you because he wanted you to look back. Because usually, it meant you were bitter enough to let him inside you. And fuck, that was his favorite feeling these days. Second only to coke. Or maybe they were tied for first—he couldn’t really decide, not after you'd let him snort a line off your tits, skin still warm from the anger and lust coursing through your veins.

He thought about it now, standing outside Barry’s trailer, enduring the wait like it was some sick form of penance. The heat was unbearable—thick and clinging to his skin, making his polo stick to his back like a second, sweat-soaked layer. It was made worse by the rot of the Cut itself—the muddy stench of marsh, the sharp tang of rusted metal, the musty funk of damp plywood and moldy insulation. It all fused together into something that made his stomach turn, a reminder he didn’t belong here, not really. Even after all this time.

He was leaning against the passenger door of his SUV, lazily scanning the trailer park like he wasn’t seething inside, already regretting not sending someone else to pick up. And that’s when he saw you.

You were a ways off, just far enough that most people wouldn’t have noticed. But he knew the shape of your body like the back of his hand by now. Legs stretched out on a sun-bleached lawn chair in front of your sad little trailer, which you so generously referred to as a yard. Bikini barely hanging on, skin slick with sunscreen, earbuds in, sunglasses on—completely unaware that he was watching.

You glistened.

And Rafe—God help him—leaned forward slightly like an idiot, squinting past his Ray-Bans as if getting a few inches closer might let him drink in more of you. You looked unreal. Mouth-watering. If he were any closer, he might’ve dropped to his knees just to get a better look. He moved his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, like some parody of a high school jock ogling the prom queen. He was disgusting. He knew it.

But so were you. That’s what made this whole thing feel fair.

He watched as you shifted positions on the chair, angling your head up to the sky, eyes closed behind mirrored lenses. He wanted to reach out and taste the sweat-slick slope of your neck—the dip of your collarbones. He wanted to feel all that sticky sunscreen under his palms, wanted to hear the sharp exhale and sigh when you opened your eyes and found him lingering. He wanted to see your shock.

But you didn’t see him. He watched as you shifted around on the chair, like you were struggling with your headphones. And then he thought about walking over there.

He wanted to feel your heartbeat under his palm—wanted to feel it jump at the realization you’d been watched. He didn’t think about what would come after. He didn’t think about what would happen when you got angry, which would inevitably turn him on. He didn’t think about the fact that you were the reason he was standing outside this shitty, trash-infested trailer park—didn’t think about the fact that he’d never once before been this desperate for somebody. He just thought about walking over there and getting you to look at him.

The screen door of the trailer slammed shut, and he looked straight ahead, gaze locking on your younger brother as he ambled to the lawn chair, plopping down into the seat beside yours. You didn’t even look up. He tried to imagine what your brother’s voice sounded like, but he’d never spoken a single word to the guy. He watched as your brother reached over and tapped your shoulder, said something you didn’t hear due to your earphones. You finally opened your eyes, glancing over at your brother, speaking a few words back before reaching up and pulling your headphones off.

Your expression was solemn, unexpectedly soft as you pushed the cheap sunglasses up onto your head, fingers threading gently through your younger brother’s hair. Rafe couldn’t hear what you were saying—not from where he stood, not over the barking dogs, the buzz of old radios, and the muffled arguments bleeding from cracked trailer windows—but he didn’t need to. The way your lips moved, the way you tilted your head just slightly, like you were trying to protect him from something only you understood, said enough. He hadn’t even known you had a younger brother. And he sure as hell had never seen you like that—soothing, maternal, smiling in a way that wasn’t bitter or taunting, just… warm.

You looked like the perfect fucking picture of an older sister. It should’ve been disarming, maybe even charming. But instead it messed with his head more than he liked. Especially because you were still lounging there in that absurdly small bikini—stars and stripes stretched tight across your chest and hips, and he knew damn well you didn’t give a shit about patriotism. It was probably just the cheapest thing on sale at that trashy lingerie place a few blocks away, the one with flickering neon lights and busted mannequins in the front window.

He felt something in his chest that he had no name for. Something he hated. He felt like an outsider, staring at you through a window, not a part of your world. For the first time, even seeing you in a place like this, he couldn’t think of a single derogatory nickname. He felt… vulnerable, somehow. Like he’d been cut open. Like he was nothing more than a man with too much anger and a heart that bled just enough to be lethal. He didn’t like the feeling, not one bit.

You said something to your brother—something that was probably kind. Something that was probably meant to comfort, or calm him down, or offer some sort of reassurance. Rafe didn’t try and listen or read your lips to figure out what. He was more focused on the fact that you could actually be nice. That you weren’t all harsh edges. That maybe, just maybe, there was some good in you. It was a strange, disorienting thought.

But he got stuck on it anyway—on you. Even as the screen door of your trailer flung open with a violent creak and your mother barreled out two minutes later like she’d been lying in wait for a fight. She was older, but it was hard to place exactly how old. Maybe in her forties, maybe barely past thirty. Women in the Cut aged differently. Stress and cigarette smoke had a way of settling into skin like premature rot. Her bleach-blonde hair was piled messily on top of her head, dark roots bleeding out like a warning sign, and every step she took down those flimsy metal stairs looked like it was powered by rage.

Rafe could tell she was trying to keep her voice down—probably didn’t want the entire neighborhood hearing whatever filth she was spitting—but it didn’t matter. The venom in her posture did most of the talking. And yet, Rafe wasn’t sure what distracted him more: the ugly, unfolding scene or the fact that you’d stood up now, your bikini riding high on your hips, thighs tense, back straight as you stared her down with all the quiet fury she deserved. He felt torn—his eyes flicking between your ass and the fire building in your expression.

Your little brother clung tighter to your side, clearly used to this routine. You didn’t even flinch, just curled your arm around his shoulders and kept your fingers threading through his hair like it was the one anchor you could still offer him. You were shielding him—not just from her words, but from the attention, the shame. Your voice was sharp now, no longer inaudible, cutting through the trailer park air in short, furious snaps as you argued back.

Whatever she said next made your expression flicker, just for a second. Not fear. Not weakness. Something deeper. Something that made Rafe’s gut twist without knowing why. You said something back that made her scoff, loud and bitter, then spin on her heel and disappear back into the trailer, slamming the screen door behind her like it owed her money.

Rafe realized he’d been holding his breath. Still leaning against the SUV, one hand on the roof, the other twitching at his side. You didn’t see him—too caught up in crouching next to your brother now, brushing hair off his forehead, whispering something too soft for anyone else to hear. You looked tired. Not just physically, but in that quiet, bone-deep way that Rafe only recognized because he’d seen it in his own reflection once or twice after a bender.

And fuck if it didn’t gut him a little. Because this wasn’t the version of you he liked to laugh at. This wasn’t the glitter-smudged party girl with a sharp tongue and too many opinions. This was the version of you he wasn’t supposed to see. The kind that made him forget every reason he’d ever convinced himself he hated you.

And it made him want to hurt something. Or someone. Maybe himself.

He wanted to kick himself for looking. He shouldn’t have looked. He should’ve just kept waiting for the coke and driven home, where he could get high and forget every single thing he’d seen. Instead, he pushed himself off the car like an idiot—like a stupid, stupid idiot—and started marching forward. There was probably a reason his mother taught him to stop and think before acting. It never ended well. And right now, Rafe looked like he was itching for a fight. He felt like he was itching to break something. Or someone.

It wasn’t until he was standing a few feet away that your brother’s gaze flicked up, eyes widening as if he’d just realized the strange guy in expensive clothes had seen the whole thing. The look on the kid’s face was all the explanation Rafe really needed, and the thought came quickly:

I hate this place. I hate this trailer park. I hate that I’ve just seen something I wasn’t supposed to.

He hated it. He hated the poverty. He hated the trash. He hated your mother. He hated every dirty second of this.

A part of Rafe wanted to storm back to his car and tear ass out of the trailer park as fast as possible, like somehow that would make him forget what he’d just seen. He wanted to go home, get high, climb into bed, and pretend this shitty little neighborhood existed in a different universe. It would be easier that way.

But what he wanted and what he felt were two totally different things. And right now, he was feeling a whole lot of things. Anger. Disgust. Discomfort. Dislocation. Disgust at himself. Dislocation in this godforsaken place. Discomfort at the raw, naked memories your fight with your mother had managed to drag to the surface.

And anger. Always anger. At the world in general. But right now, it was anger at your mother. At you. Like it was your fault he’d gone and seen something he shouldn’t have—something you would’ve never shown.

The anger boiled hotter in his chest as his gaze snapped from your brother to the screen door, which banged open again—louder this time, like it had had enough of the dysfunction it had to frame. One more outburst and the damn thing would fly clean off its hinges, Rafe thought. But it wasn't your mother coming out this time, not at first. It was some guy. Her flavor of the month, by the looks of him. Probably late twenties, early thirties, barely older than Rafe himself but already worn down in the way people from the Cut often were—too many smokes, too many fights, too many failed get-rich-quick schemes staining his hands and breath.

He stood behind your mother, shirtless, smug, beer in one hand, the other hanging at his side like it was just waiting for an excuse. And then his eyes landed on you—lingering, slow, and lecherous in a way that made Rafe’s stomach turn violently. It wasn’t a glance, it was a fucking appraisal. He looked at your bikini-clad body like it belonged to him. Like he’d already thought about peeling it off you. And it took everything in Rafe not to move.

His jaw tensed so hard he swore he heard something crack. His hand twitched at his side again, itching toward the switchblade tucked in his back pocket—not because he planned on using it, but because the grounding weight of it reminded him he could. He could storm across that busted fence, drag the guy down the steps by his greasy ponytail, and make sure he never looked at you again.

But he didn’t. He stayed right where he was—rooted at the flimsy gate to your yard, stuck somewhere between predator and coward, pride and concern. He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing anymore. The coke was the reason he was here. That was it. That was supposed to be it. Pick up from Barry, drive back, ignore the filth clinging to his clothes and the way his lungs always felt heavy after stepping foot on this part of the island. But now he was watching this play out like it was a fucking TV show, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Couldn’t move forward. Couldn’t walk back.

And it was you who froze him. You—hands on your little brother’s shoulders, shielding him again, standing between him and your mother’s latest mistake like a human wall. You were speaking through your teeth now, voice low but dangerous, chin raised in defiance that didn’t match the dread Rafe saw tightening your body. You weren’t scared for yourself. You were scared for the kid clinging to your side.

And that did something to Rafe. Twisted something inside him that had already been straining under the weight of his own damage. He shouldn’t care. He fucking shouldn’t. But he did. Enough to stay longer. Enough to let the sun cook his skin and his temper just a little more as he stared down a man he knew he’d see in his dreams later, face bloodied and broken at his feet.

He stayed there, watching it play out. Listening to the man behind your mother slur insults like he was throwing back whiskey.

When the guy leaned back against the door frame behind him, sucking on his cigarette like he owned your entire property, like the trailer, the yard, and especially you, were his to do as he pleased, Rafe thought about killing him. He could do it. He could do it without breaking a sweat. He’d have never felt better. He’d had the same fantasy about your mother, too. But his eyes were locked on yours now. Watching your face. And he couldn’t look away. Even as the dread in your eyes turned to anger. He almost smiled at the way you’d suddenly transformed from weary to wildfire. It was fascinating in a way. Even if he’d only seen this version of you a few times before. Even if it wasn’t the version he liked to think about. It was like watching you suddenly go feral-—like there was this animal lurking deep down, only kept under the surface by some frayed leash.

And yet he still wanted to stay. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was that same twisted, dark fascination he often felt when watching the trainwrecks that littered his own life. But the other possibility… that was more uncomfortable. Less understandable. It made the back of his neck prickle in a way he didn’t want to think about. So he did the only thing that had worked for him before—he turned off his thoughts. Let his brain go blank. Drowned out the sound of your raised voice and the sound of his own thoughts. Just stood there. Just watched. Just waited.

He felt stupid standing there, stupid watching this play out like it was some reality TV show or an interactive performance. But his legs stayed rooted, and his mind stayed empty as he watched your mother lean into the door frame, eyes flicking over to the guy leaning heavily against the trailer like he had no bones, cigarette dangling from his fingers. She seemed to be looking for backup. Looking for approval. Some kind of validation from the guy who had left behind a trail of skid marks and beer cans to get here.

Rafe’s temper flickered again as he saw the gleam of satisfaction in the guy’s eyes. He couldn’t look away now. It was like watching vultures circle around a dying bird. He felt sick to his stomach as the smirk on the guy’s face morphed into a greasy smile, and he leaned in to whisper in your mother’s ear. You were still yelling, screaming almost, hands clenched at your sides so hard that your knuckles had turned white. It made him hate you. It made him hate your mother. It made him hate the way the kid at your side flinched away from the commotion he usually grew up with. The feeling drowning the anxiety he was supposed to feel once you, your mother or dead-beat boyfriend would inevitably notice him standing there like an idiot.

You were in the middle of biting out another warning, jaw clenched so tight it hurt, when your little brother tugged lightly at your wrist. You glanced down briefly, saw the way his eyes were fixed on something just to the side, brows drawn in confusion. You turned slightly, expecting another nosy neighbor or maybe Barry looking to get involved again—but instead, your gaze collided with him.

Rafe Cameron.

Leaning against the rusting chain-link gate like he owned the place. Still as stone, arms crossed lazily over his chest, one foot pressed back against the gate as if he hadn’t just watched your family drama unfold in real time. But his eyes—those unreadable, ocean-blue eyes—were trained directly on you, not a single flinch of embarrassment or shame for getting caught. Just calm, controlled heat. The kind that made your mouth go dry even though your entire body was flushed with humiliation.

Your stomach dropped. You had no idea how long he’d been standing there. Long enough, clearly. Long enough to have seen your mom screaming and the beer-soaked bastard behind her giving you the kind of look that made your skin crawl. And long enough to see you play the parent for a kid who still hadn’t let go of your wrist.

"Are you fucking serious—" you muttered under your breath, blinking like he might disappear if you looked away.

But he didn’t. He just tilted his head slightly, something unreadable flickering behind his lashes. Not smug. Not entertained. Just… watching. Like this had all been inevitable. Like he’d been waiting for the curtain to drop.

Your mom followed your gaze instinctively. “What the fuck now—” she started, before trailing off at the sight of the Kook prince himself. Her face went through about three different expressions before landing somewhere between irritation and sharp interest, brushing her fingers through her fried hair like she suddenly gave a damn about appearances.

“Isn’t that Ward Cameron’s boy?” her voice cooed, suddenly too sweet, and Rafe’s jaw twitched at the sound of it. His eyes never left yours. He didn’t acknowledge her. Didn’t blink. Just stood there like a storm waiting to happen.

“Go inside,” you told your brother quietly, nudging him toward the steps without taking your eyes off Rafe. “Now.”

Your mom was already halfway to turning into her flirtiest self, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her too-tight tank top, but your tone cut through her like a slap. You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t need to. It was the kind of sharp that made people obey, especially when it came from you.

And still, Rafe didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just waited. Waited to see if you’d walk to him or pretend like he hadn’t seen every vulnerable, unvarnished piece of your life you never meant for anyone like him to know.

His body tensed almost imperceptibly as your brother disappeared back into the trailer, but he could still feel the heat of his eyes on him through the screen door.

Something twisted deep in his gut as he forced himself to stay still, forced his gaze to remain focused on your face. His fingers dug into his own arms. The taste of anger and humiliation and disgust was all mingled in his mouth now. The guy behind your mother was still looking at your back like you were a piece of meat, and Rafe wanted to knock the teeth right out of his mouth.

He heard your mother’s voice, too sweet and high-pitched and fake, but he didn’t look at her. He just kept his gaze fixed on you, watching your shoulders tense like you were about to face down a storm. He saw the way you looked, eyes like fire and heart pounding in your clenched fists. He saw the way your mother smiled like she’d just won the damn lottery, not even noticing the threat in your eyes.

And he held his breath like he’d never need to breathe again.

He felt your anger like waves crashing on a shore, the tension in your body so hot and powerful he swore he could see the sparks of electricity flashing underneath your skin. It was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. More than the money. More than the parties. More than the drugs. Even in the middle of a shitty trailer park, with your hair in a tangled mess and your face contorted in fury, you’d never been more beautiful. It made his chest hurt.

He was barely breathing now. If it was possible, he was standing even more still, barely blinking. He didn’t break eye contact, didn’t look in your mother’s direction. He just stood there, trying to look casual and failing, like some kind of human statue. Watching you. Watching everything.

It felt like he might snap. Like he might step forward, maybe grab you by the wrist. Maybe storm across the yard and—he wasn’t sure what. He kept his feet glued to the ground, the anger in his lungs turning into something more like anticipation.

You stared back, the fury and everything in between coiling with the shame you felt. At the fact that out of everyone on this godforsaken planet, Rafe Cameron had to be the one to witness your trailer park fights with your tipsy mom, in a cheap, laughable bikini. A sight he only got to see on TV. Something he'd probably skip on Netflix—like another season of Shameless or whatever else the world liked to gawk at and pretend wasn’t real for people like you.

You wanted the ground to split open. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way, but in the ugly, clumsy way things happened in your life. Like maybe the porch would cave in and crush your mother’s boyfriend. Or maybe a power line would snap and knock you out cold. Anything but this—the stillness, the silence, the slow bleed of humiliation.

There was a brief pause. Your mom and her boyfriend lingered behind you like shadows, still buzzing with the energy of the fight, but even they seemed to sense the tension tightening the air. You waited. Braced yourself. For the smirk. The laugh. Some drawled-out insult dressed up in that clipped, condescending tone only Rafe Cameron had mastered.

But he never spoke.

He just stared. Bored. Detached. His weight shifted against the gate a fraction, but the rest of him stayed maddeningly still. Like he was watching the last few moments of a movie he didn’t care about, waiting for the credits to roll. And maybe that hurt more than whatever insult you’d been bracing for. Maybe that dead-eyed disinterest felt worse than cruelty.

Because in his silence, you felt seen. Not in the way people romanticized it—no, not like poetry or connection. This was invasive. Like someone had peeled your skin back and left you raw in front of an audience that didn’t even care enough to react. You felt exposed. Cut open, with Rafe Cameron glancing at your rotting insides with a casual, bored expression.

And yet, there was something else there. Something you couldn’t quite name. Because behind the arrogance and detachment, there was the faintest flicker of something human. A muscle in his jaw ticking. The way his tongue pressed into his cheek like he was holding something back. He looked at you too long, too intently, for someone who was supposedly above it all.

And in that second, you realized he wasn’t just watching you. He was trying to keep his distance. Like this moment, this version of you, was something he wasn’t supposed to see—and didn’t know what to do with now that he had.

He’d never thought it was possible to stare at something and have it feel like acid against his skin, but watching you now, he felt like his body was being burned to a crisp. And, like a idiot, he didn’t do anything.

He felt like a voyeur. A trespasser, sneaking a peek at a family he’d never know. The world around him was on pause. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. It made him twitch like he’d walked inside the wrong dream.

He couldn’t even tell if he was still breathing. Probably not. His heart did feel like it had stopped a few minutes ago, thumping against his lungs like a trapped bird. He wanted to look away so bad, but he was stuck somewhere between the fascination he’d always had for you, and this new feeling that he couldn’t name.

It was like you were two different people. The one he knew and the one you were now, trapped in this shitty trailer park with your shitty mom and her shitty boyfriend like some sort of sick joke.

And it made him feel like all of it—his world, your world—was some sort of sick joke, too. He wanted to wake up. He wanted to look away. To drive back to his shitty house and forget it all in a smoke-filled room or a vodka-soaked bottle.

He wanted to stay. He wanted to look at you. He wanted to see you. To see you like this. See all of you. He… he just wanted.

He felt his jaw clench involuntarily. The words had been perched on his tongue for a good few minutes, fighting to be released. Anything to break this silence, this weird, suffocating bubble you’d both been trapped in for the past ten minutes. Anything. Say something.

Nothing. He felt like his head had been stuffed with cotton, like his throat was lined with sandpaper. All he could do was stand there like a statue, hands clenched in his arms, trying not to blink. He didn’t understand it. He was never one to hesitate. He was action not thought, violence not control.

Your attention shifted over your shoulder when your mom made a comment about how nice Rafe was, in a tone so drastically different from the one she was using a minute ago that it would've made you laugh—if your throat wasn't already burning from the heat, the shame, the sting of old wounds cracked open in the sun. The word “nice” sounded absurd coming out of her mouth, like trying to staple a silk ribbon onto a grenade.

The heat gnawed at your skin, relentless. The sunscreen you’d slathered on earlier was now mixing with sweat, a sticky film that made you want to crawl out of your body entirely. You swallowed hard. The discomfort prickling at the back of your throat and stomach felt almost unbearable—like nausea, but sharper. More personal. Like a sickness born from being seen this way.

You shook your head in response to your mom’s comment—whatever it was—snapping out of your trance like someone had yanked a chain. You scurried to the lawn chair you’d been lounging on, every limb awkward, scrambling to find your denim shorts. As if Rafe hadn’t seen you naked before. As if he hadn’t had his mouth between your thighs less than twenty-four hours ago, like he hadn’t come undone in the dark hush of his bedroom with your name on his tongue.

"He’s not—" you started, voice catching in your throat as your shaky fingers fumbled with the zipper. "He’s probably lost on his way to Barry’s," you muttered, barely audible, stumbling over your words as if they were barbed wire.

Your gaze stayed locked on your hands, unable to meet his. Not out of modesty—because there was nothing modest about what the two of you had done—but out of something much worse: humiliation. This wasn’t the version of you you ever wanted him to see. Not barefoot in the dirt, not in a bikini that cost five bucks, not in front of a trailer with peeling paint while your drunk mom flirted with a boy barely older than you.

Not like this.

You managed to fasten the button with a shaky breath, denim sticking slightly to the backs of your thighs. And even then, you felt like it was too late. The damage was done. Rafe had seen too much. And he hadn’t said a single word. That was the part that made you feel insane—that terrifying silence. That unreadable expression. You didn’t know if he was judging you, pitying you, or worse—feeling nothing at all.

He saw you trying to move, trying to put the pieces of your fractured soul back together as quickly as possible, pulling your shorts on over your bikini bottoms like a shield - a thin, weak shield against something so much more powerful. Your mother’s voice seemed to fade into background noise, the sound of cicadas and the marsh washing it out. All he could see was you. Only you. Your trembling fingers and trembling legs. The burning scarlet spread across your cheeks. The way you couldn’t meet his eye. His chest felt like it was cracking in half.

He’d stared at you like it was the last time he’d ever see you. But he hadn’t said a damn thing. He hadn’t said anything at all, like a complete idiot. He felt like the worst kind of fool. He couldn’t be a coward and he wasn’t a weakling, so why couldn’t he speak? Why couldn’t he speak? Why did the words feel like hot lead on his tongue?

Speak. Say something.

He knew he should look away. He knew this moment wasn’t meant to be his. But he just couldn’t. He just stood there, like a statue. Like a voyeur. A trespasser. A stranger looking at the most sacred version of yourself—the raw, unpolished version he wasn’t supposed to see—and all he could think about was how beautiful you were. How you looked like one of those girls on TV that he was so disgusted by. How you’d somehow turned a trailer park into the most beautiful place on the planet just by being there. A place he didn't want to linger in.

And he did. He lingered. For what felt like forever. He wanted to stay there. Keep his eyes glued to you and your trembling frame like someone watching a car wreck. He wanted to study every crevice of your body and face until he had memorized you like a poem. He wanted to look at you. He wanted to be allowed to look at you. Like that. In the middle of a trailer park that he was supposed to hate like a curse word.

He felt like he’d lost his ability to speak, all because he'd seen you. Something raw and vulnerable and beautiful. Something that made his skin crawl with how real it was—the sound of your mom flirting, the cicadas singing through the thick humid air, the heat, the sweat, the dirt and the gravel; it wasn’t just a movie for a bored audience to watch on the couch. It was real life. You were real. And you were beautiful, even now, even when you were shaking on your feet like he'd punched you.

He might as well have punched you. It would’ve been less humiliating. A bruise would’ve been easier to explain than the feeling curdling in your stomach now—hot and rancid. You could’ve cried, you were that close. Not from hurt, but from shame, from the exposure of it all. The daylight was too honest. Too revealing. There was no bass to drown it out, no party fog to blur the edges, no alcohol to blame it on. Just Rafe fucking Cameron standing there, seeing too much.

Your arms crossed over your chest like they could shield you, like they could rewind time and keep him from seeing what your mascara and vodka usually hid. But he didn’t look away. He wasn’t saying anything, and somehow, that made it worse. If he’d laughed or called you a name or done his usual smirk-and-scoff routine, you’d have known what to do. But this? This staring? It made your spine itch and your jaw clench, made you feel like a bug on a pin.

It was too intimate. Too quiet. Too close to real. And it made you want to scream.

Or maybe he was storing it. Tucking it away to throw in your face later, to wield it like a weapon the next time you told him off or dared to look uninterested in his stupid games. Maybe he’d say something about your trashy little yard the next time you crossed paths, or mention the look in your eyes right now—glassy, tight-lipped, humiliated—when he wanted to remind you exactly where you came from.

He stood like a psychopath, unmoving, silent, like he had all the time in the world and nothing to say. But you knew he was freaking out too. You knew that expression wasn’t as calm as it seemed. Not with how his fingers twitched at his side, like he was deciding whether to light a cigarette or punch someone. Not with how his jaw flexed once, twice, like he was biting something back.

"Barry's down the street—" your voice cracked, breath catching on the way out, and you hated yourself for it. "Two or, uh… three trailers down."

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Not when you were this close to coming undone. The words stumbled out like they belonged to someone else, thin and fragile and stupid. You said it mostly to cut your mom off, who was still cooing about how “polite” he was, still trying to play hostess like she hadn’t been screaming at you five minutes ago.

But Rafe didn’t move. Didn’t thank you. Didn’t say anything. Just stared.

He felt like he was bleeding out, watching you try to hold yourself together like you didn’t want to be seen at all. He felt like he was watching something sacred. Something no one was meant to see. He felt like an intruder in your world. He knew because he was. And he wished he’d never seen it, because it felt like he was watching something die. You were so broken. So raw. So vulnerable. He could feel your fragility from here. You were trembling. He had to look away. Because he didn’t know what to do with this version of you.

He couldn’t look at you any longer. Your brokenness was too much to fathom. Just like your beauty. He was caught between wanting to grab you and put you back together, or run for his life. Because it felt more than human to look at you this way. To look at your broken pieces and feel something close to human empathy. But if he got in too deep, got too close, got too attached… he’d be just as broken as you. Maybe that’s why he was trying to backpedal. To turn around and go back to what he knew. It hurt less that way.

Your mom’s words had become a distant buzz in the background. Rafe’s gaze was trained on you. On your shaking shoulders and trembling hands. On the way you tried to hold yourself together, like it hurt to break apart in broad daylight. And for a moment, there was only the sound of your mother’s high-pitched chatter, the buzz of cicadas in the trees, and the slow, steady rhythm of his own pounding heart, trying to stay calm—trying to pretend like this was an average Friday night and not the most intense moment of his life. He didn’t know why.

And yet. He was glued to your face—to the pain visible in the redness in your cheeks, in your trembling fingers, in your averted eyes. He stared like he couldn’t look away. He stared because you were too beautiful to look away from. And for a second, you weren’t broken—you were just fragile. You were human, and real. And it made his chest hurt.

What the hell was he going to do with that?

He’d never really thought about his own humanity before. But now… maybe it was different.

The silence had settled around you like a haze, thick and awkward and suffocating. But his brain was firing up ideas. And most of them were downright bad. He wanted to say something. Anything. Maybe a joke, or even an insult just to make you look at him… something. Anything, just so you’d look at him. He wanted to say something, goddamn it, but…

But it wasn’t sickness. It was pity. Sympathy. Or whatever passed for sympathy in his cold, cold heart. You were so fragile. So real. Like you were breaking apart in front of him, and all he wanted to do was pull you into his arms and hold you together. And he’d never, never wanted to hold anything so much in his entire life. He wanted it so bad, it hurt. It was scary. It felt like… like he was human. Just like you.

Your brows drew together, knotting in visible confusion and disbelief as Rafe continued to stand there like some uninvited phantom—rooted to the spot, watching, silent, like if he stayed still long enough he'd become invisible. Your mother kept talking, her voice shrill and useless in the background, throwing out nonsense about the weather and whether Rafe liked Coors or Bud Light, and her boyfriend grunted in lazy agreement like he was being paid to play audience. None of it mattered. Not with him standing there like that.

You felt like a fucking joke. Like the punchline to a skit you didn’t sign up for. The sun was too hot, the sweat was sticking to your skin like shame, and there you were—bleeding out in the middle of your own personal circus. You swore you could almost hear a studio audience laugh track behind it all, the kind they used in sitcoms when a character got caught cheating or walked into a room naked. Because that's what this felt like: like Rafe Cameron was watching you with no clothes on, except this time there was no thrill, no teasing, no sex. Just your cracked foundation showing.

He looked at you like you were foreign. Like he had stumbled across a live documentary of something too ugly to process. He hadn’t moved. Not an inch. He didn’t even flinch when your mom offered him a beer, like she thought he was a friend of the family and not the guy who had you crying out his name last night to let you cum. You let your gaze wander over him, his expression unreadable but present. Leaning against the flimsy gate like the chaos inside your yard was some exhibit and he was a detached spectator behind the velvet rope. Like he wanted to understand but didn’t know how, or maybe didn’t want to admit he already did.

You fidgeted with your fingers. Something small. Something to do with your hands while your insides twisted up. And then your eyes met his—and the bottom dropped out.

It wasn’t disgust. Not really. It was worse.

It was pity.

Thick and quiet, the kind that radiated off him like a heatwave, the kind that wrapped around your ribs and squeezed until you couldn’t breathe properly. It was the way someone might look at a dog on the side of the road with a broken leg. With that vague ache of guilt that didn’t quite outweigh the urge to look away.

And Rafe didn’t even blink when your mother kept talking about him coming in, like it was some fucking barbecue. Like the scene she just caused didn’t even exist. You snapped—gaze tearing away from Rafe as you turned sharply to her, voice tight, not loud but enough.

"He's not coming inside, Mom."

The silence after your words felt heavy, like it dropped a few degrees around you. Your tone was stiff, brittle, like you were trying not to crack apart in front of everyone. And when she blinked at you, confused, half-drunk, you could barely hold back the shake in your voice.

"You can't be serious right now…" you muttered, the words falling out bitter as you turned away, your jaw locked as you gave her that look—the one you always gave her when she pushed it too far. When she made you feel small in front of strangers. Except this time the stranger wasn’t just anyone. It was him.

He was quiet. His face was calm, but his chest was pounding. It was like you were throwing him through a loop.

Rafe Cameron. The guy who hated everybody and everything, who got off on being a massive douchebag in the hopes of turning people away—was frozen in place.

Because you were the one thing he couldn’t look away from. He was too invested.

And it made his chest feel like it was caving in. His heart was beating so hard it felt like he was underwater. He kept staring, and he could tell you knew it. He felt like his veins were buzzing with something alive and dangerous, like he was falling in through deep, dark water, and all in one brief second he had the insane urge to walk through the gate and pull you against his chest just so he could feel your pulse and know that you were beating too. God, what the hell was he getting into?

He could hear your mother’s voice now, sounding far away in his ears, talking like nothing was wrong. Like the world hadn’t just cracked open in the past two minutes. And he could feel your mother’s boyfriend staring the top of his head, like he thought all of this was funny. And he knew that if he saw the guy’s face right now, he would punch it.

He’d never wanted to protect anything in his life so much as he wanted to protect you now. And it was scary. It was scary to feel a stranger’s pain like it was his. It was scary to want to look after somebody else. It was scary to feel this much about another person. But it was the kind of scary that left his chest pounding, and his lungs expanding, and his blood feeling thick in his veins. Rafe Cameron was never scared of anything, and now he couldn’t figure out how to feel. He couldn’t figure out what to do.

You were fragile. So fragile. And the guy part of his mind was telling him to walk away now, before it got any worse. But the other part of his mind was telling him to fight. To run to you. To protect you from everything. To give you anything you wanted. To put you back together, like you were made out of the same glass that made up his world. He wanted to wrap you in something warm and soft and keep you for himself until you stopped trembling. He wanted to be the one to make you laugh like normal. He just wanted…

He wanted.

And while Rafe was going through a mind-numbing revelation right there in front of your trailer—standing out like a sore thumb in that baby blue polo and spotless white shorts, Ray-Bans perched perfectly on his head—you were unraveling in real time. The silence between you was suffocating. Not the charged kind that hung in the air before one of your usual fights, no. This was something heavier. More humiliating. Like being dissected under a spotlight.

You were growing more and more restless with every second he didn’t speak. The longer he stood there—arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes unreadable—the more it felt like he was watching something rot. Like you were some feral animal in a cage he’d stumbled across on a field trip to the dirty side of the island. This wasn’t one of your friends accidentally walking in on another screaming match with your mom. This wasn’t someone who understood, someone who came from the same mess. This was Rafe. And Rafe had the sick, rich luxury of pretending like your world didn’t even exist until this very moment.

And he was using it. Weaponizing it in the worst way—by saying nothing at all. Just standing there, infuriatingly calm, like he hadn’t watched you fall apart last night in his bed. Like he didn’t know how soft your voice got when you were close to crying. Like he hadn’t held you still with those bruising hands and kissed you too long for it to be casual. He schooled his face so well it almost offended you. Because all that silence? It made you feel small. Powerless. Like a fucking joke.

And just like him, you were frozen. Watching him the way he was watching you. Waiting for a move, a jab, something—anything—to relieve the pressure building in your chest. If he said something, you’d probably drop dead from the shock. If he turned around and walked away, you’d explode with fury. But anger—anger was easier. Cleaner. It gave you somewhere to put the pain instead of just… swallowing it down like bile.

"You have the wrong house, Cameron," you said again, the words sounding thinner now, straining under the weight of everything unsaid. They hung there, stupid and flimsy, especially with the clear view of his expensive SUV parked just a few yards down—right in front of Barry’s trailer. Like he’d walked over here on purpose. Like he wanted to see more. Hear more. Like he wanted to get close enough to witness the parts of you he didn’t deserve to see.

And that thought alone made your throat close up.

He heard your words, but it felt like a fever dream. Everything felt wrong—he felt like his body was moving on its own, controlled by some foreign power because he couldn’t seem to do or say anything else. He looked around, half expecting to see a camera crew or some stranger with a microphone standing behind a camera, filming what felt like one of those candid-camera-style shows. But all he could see was your mom’s trailer, a few stray trash cans, and your mom’s boyfriend with the greasy, stupid face. He wasn’t thinking straight. Nothing could get through to him;

His head and heart were pounding. All he could think was: You’re not supposed to see this, and he felt wrong for feeling something this heavy, this close. He felt like he was stealing something. Like he’d accidentally walked in on your therapy session, and now he was standing there listening in, taking up space and absorbing your secrets without even meaning to. He hadn’t heard you talk like that before. He never knew you could sound that small.

His silence was making your shame curdle into something uglier—anger, red and hot, spreading under your skin like sunburn. Your mom’s incessant babbling about Natty Lights and off-brand beers scratched at your overheated brain like nails on a chalkboard, every syllable amplified by the fact that he was still standing there. The fucking Rafe Cameron. And suddenly everything was louder—your heartbeat, her voice, the sound of your brother's nervous shifting next to you—until it all snapped.

"Jesus, Mom, can you shut the fuck up?" you barked, arms flailing out to your sides in a mix of desperation and rage, your voice cracking just enough to betray how close you were to breaking. "He's not coming inside our shitty trailer like he’s some family friend—he’s not even my friend!" The words tumbled out before you could catch them, too fast and too frantic, fueled by humiliation. And Rafe still didn’t say a word. Not even a flinch. Just stood there, perfectly still, like he was observing some zoo exhibit instead of your actual life burning down around you. Too quiet for it to be deemed as normal.

Your mom went quiet then, her mouth still half open from whatever pointless story she’d been dragging on about, eyes wide with the same shame now reflected back at her. She looked almost sobered by your outburst, like she was just realizing what this looked like from the outside—from Rafe's perspective. And maybe that’s what made it worse. That this had to be the moment where she suddenly decided to act like she gave a shit.

"He’s not even responding to you," you continued, voice rising as the tremble in your body finally bled into every word. "You just keep going on like this is normal—like you weren’t ready to slap me clean across the face ten minutes ago!" Your voice cracked again, this time sharp and slicing, carrying every buried frustration from every night spent slamming doors and swallowing pride. And still, Rafe was silent. Still watching. Like this was a fucked-up show he couldn’t look away from.

He felt like you’d punched him in the chest. Your voice was so loud and so… broken. So desperate and embarrassed. He hated it. He hated that look on your face. He felt guilty. That was new. He was never guilty. He never let himself feel guilty. But for you… guilt felt different. Guilt felt hot and sharp like a knife stabbing through his gut. And all he could do was stand there and listen.

His chest was tight. Tight enough to feel like his lungs were about to give out. Like his heart suddenly couldn’t find any space to beat, and he could feel the world spinning around him like a bad trip. You didn’t sound like yourself. There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm or a sly smile in sight. You were falling apart in front of him, and he was powerless. You were falling apart and he was a stranger, watching you burn. He couldn’t just stand there. He had to do something, anything.

Before he could do anything—before a single word of apology or explanation could leave his mouth—you turned your fury on him, cutting off whatever courage he might’ve worked up. You stormed toward the gate, barefoot and furious, dripping in sunscreen and shame, all teeth and fire. "Did you not hear what the fuck I said?" you snapped, your voice pitching above the ambient buzz of the Cut, your small frame shaking with emotion as you glared up at him—like a warning shot. You probably looked insane: slathered in melting sunscreen, cheap drugstore sunglasses perched atop your head, barking at a trust fund golden boy in a goddamn American flag bikini. The humiliation only made you angrier. "You have the wrong house, Rafe!" you spat, voice louder now, not quite cracked but dangerously close. "Why are you just standing there like some mute? Go the fuck back to your precious SUV, asshole!"

You were clinging to the anger like it was the only thing keeping you upright, letting it fill your lungs so you wouldn’t break down right in front of him. So you wouldn’t cry. So you wouldn’t ask him why he looked at you like that, like he understood something, when he was supposed to be laughing like always. You hated this. Hated that you couldn’t read him. Hated that, for a split second, it felt like he saw you. And you hated that it mattered.

He’d never felt the force of someone’s anger like that before. He couldn’t even begin to think how to respond. He was so used to being the one to make people shrink away, to walk away with their heads between their legs, that feeling your rage come down on him almost felt like a shock of electricity.

He opened his mouth automatically as you kept going, but the words wouldn’t come out. His mind froze the second he saw your face, and… you looked like you were about to cry? He felt his stomach drop.

Rafe had seen plenty of women crying before. Hell, he’d made plenty of girls cry. And he was usually the cause of it. He’d never felt bad about it before. He never bothered to ask if they were okay, or if their crying was his fault, because the answer was usually yes. And that’s exactly the way he liked it. But you were different. Everything was different, and watching his words—or lack of—break you with their absence, left him feeling like he’d just witnessed something sacred.

He’d never seen anything so beautiful. And he was pretty sure he felt the world stop turning just to watch you. The sun, the sounds of the water, the laughter from the neighbors—everything was just background noise as you stared at him. Your face, your eyes, your trembling hands, and the way you held them in trembling fists by your sides. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from you. He’d never seen this side of you. This raw, naked side of you, like you were giving something intimate and fragile, like a baby bird. And he didn’t even know what to say..

“I thought you’d at least have the common decency to say something.” You spat again, voice raising with your anger as your body trembled, fingers twisted so hard into your palms they'd probably leave new, fresh marks atop of the existing ones. "Are you stupid? Deaf? Or do you just like playing mute? Because if you really did hear me, you’d be running to your car before I shove you there myself."

He was silent. He couldn’t get even a single word to form in his head, let alone make it past his lips. You were livid and he didn’t blame you. He wanted to apologize, but you were yelling before he could even think of where to start. He felt sick, his mouth open, his eyes glued to your face like a man who’d just found religion. He wanted to walk up to you and pull you against his chest. But he was rooted to the ground like his feet weren’t his own. He’d never felt like this before.

Your hands shot out, shoving at his chest as lightly as you could while being angry and on the verge of crying, "Jesus, are you listening to me?" you asked, fingers curled around his forearm now, shaking him lightly as you yelled in his face.

And suddenly it was like the world stopped again. Your hands were on his body—your hands. And he almost flinched, like your touch was poison. The feeling of your touch sent a shiver down his spine, like he was suddenly alive again, suddenly feeling everything he shouldn’t be. Your voice was in his ears, and he could understand you so clearly, he could probably hear your heart beating in your chest if he tried hard enough—and his beat just as hard. He could smell your shampoo. And then he did the only thing he felt like he could do. He snapped back.

“Watch your tone,” he said, his voice a deadly calm as he pried your hand off his arm, holding it in his hand as he stared down at you—or into you, he couldn’t figure out which. His grip was gentle but firm as he held you, not to keep you from running but to keep you from falling apart completely. He was trying not to hurt you anymore than he already had, and he sounded like he was holding back his own emotion, not letting the rage or panic show on his face when he spoke.

Your brows raised enough to probably get lost in your hairline when he spoke, scoffing as you looked up at him, meeting his calm gaze head on like a bull "Me? You're the one on my fucking property, dick!" you yelled back in exasperation, a small gasp escaping from your mom behind you, as if you made the worst mistake talking back to the Kook Prince.

His face twisted into a scowl, his gaze burning into you like he wanted to rip you apart from the inside out. He’d never felt this way before. In all his life, he’d never once felt like this. Like he was stuck between screaming at someone, and dropping to his knees. His grip tightened involuntarily, fingers pressing into the skin of your wrist, his heart thumping so hard he was practically vibrating.

He was struggling to keep it in, his fingers trembling with the force of his restraint. He didn’t know what he wanted more: to punch something, or to pull you into his chest. It was like there were two voices. One screaming, let her go, let her go. and the other, quieter but just as intense, screaming, hold her, hold her, don’t let go. He settled on somewhere in the middle, letting his grip loosen but not daring to let you go completely, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist like a shackle.

He tried to calm his breathing, but he felt like his thoughts were racing a mile a minute, probably from the coke he snorted earlier. He’d just been standing there, watching your life break apart into pieces. Now it was your turn to see his life crumble. He hadn’t felt something this strong—this uncontrollable, ever. And it was making him go completely crazy. His thoughts were coming to him, rapid fire. Words like, let her go, hold her, stop, don’t let go, and let her see what happens to you too.

"What the fuck is your problem?" you asked more quietly now, still angry and ashamed, but you were crumbling under the weight of his touch and gaze.

He felt your anger slipping away like you’d lost your breath, your trembling voice coming out in a strangled rasp as your chin shook with the effort of holding your tears back. You were falling apart, and he’d never felt more guilty. You’d just been standing there, giving everything you had. All your hurt and anger, and he’d stood there like some deaf mute, watching the most beautiful girl on the planet fall apart in front of him.

It felt like the world was ending, like it was falling into a massive blackhole, and the only thing he could do was look at you and listen to the sound of his own heartbeat. It was like your voice was the only thing loud enough to break through the storm of thoughts. Your trembling body, shaking as you bit down on your lip to keep it from trembling as much. The tiny quiver in your voice, and your eyes, full of tears that might fall at any second. He’d never realized how much emotion a person’s eyes could hold. It was like he was seeing you for the first time.

He couldn’t look away from the pain written in that look. He’d never been so scared. He felt like if you cried, he might die. He felt like he’d break, and the world would end. His throat felt so tight, like he would never get another breath in if you actually broke down. He wanted to hold you so bad his palms ached. He didn’t even know why. All he knew was that he wanted your pain to stop so bad it hurt. He wasn’t even sure the pain was from you. It was like he’d taken some of it, just for himself. And for a split second he regretted approaching you that night and getting tangled in your life, like he had any right to be here. He didn't. He didn't know how to act either. It was like someone put him on a stage, in the middle of a performance that he didn't get the script for.

You felt lonely, standing there—ashamed, angry, and so uncomfortably cracked open that it made your skin crawl. Like this was the end of the world, like everything had narrowed to this trailer, this moment, this boy who wasn’t supposed to see you like this. And yeah, it sounded stupid when you thought about it. Because you didn’t feel like this when you saw JJ with Kiara, not even when it gutted you to watch him hold someone else with the same hands that used to hold you. That had ruined you. That pain was sharp, sure, but it was expected. You’d braced for that one, anticipated it like the return of a bad season. But this? This felt different. Like you were walking through that dark, twisted forest from Snow White—the one where every shadow looked like teeth, every tree wanted to gut you—and the hunter wasn’t far behind. Only he wasn’t chasing you with a blade. He was just watching. And that was somehow worse.

Because Rafe fucking Cameron stood there like a statue, silent and unreadable, his baby-blue eyes raking over your sun-pinked face like he was seeing a ghost—or worse, someone he’d never known to begin with. There was no mockery, no smirk, no punchline to knock you off balance. Just that eerie calm, that unnerving quiet that made your chest feel too small for your ribs. It was psychopathic. Disarming.

"Rafe," you said, his name barely pushing past your dry lips, softer than you meant it to be—less a warning, more a sound of panic. Of defeat. Like a cry for help you didn’t have the right to make. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Your voice shook as you tried again, harder this time, shoving the trembling lump down your throat. "Get your coke and leave. Now."

Because if he stayed another second, you weren’t sure what you’d do—whether you’d hit him, kiss him, or crumble right there in the dirt. And you didn’t want to find out.

He wanted to speak. He wanted to say something. Anything. But the world seemed to have been muted. He was stuck in a vacuum. Every sound seemed distant. Every movement felt too slow. Every word froze in his throat. He just stared. Watching you like you were about to disappear. And in that moment he felt like he really was crazy. Maybe the Kook Prince really was just a psychopath. Because the way he was standing there, like the most unfeeling, unbothered person in the world, was more cruel than if he’d just hurt you physically.

He didn’t realize he was holding your wrist tighter. His eyes were glued to your face, watching you with a kind of intensity that felt like he was trying to burn a picture of this moment into his head. He could feel the pounding of his heart in his chest. And he felt like he might be breaking the skin in your wrist, like he’d never feel anything other than this feeling. And he wasn’t sure he wanted anything other than this. Because if this wasn’t the most intense moment of his life, he didn’t know what was. His boring life could never amount to you. His impulsive decisions that made him Rafe Cameron, weren't anything close to the aching feeling he was experiencing while looking at you. While seeing a glimpse of your family life with his own damned eyes.

You shook your head, snaking your wrist from his hold only to grab his, your smaller hand looking laughable trying to assert dominance over him. You tugged him angrily, towards Barry's trailer, and you wouldn't have been able to move him if he didn't cooperate. And he did. He let you tug him away, barely listening to your muttered words and curses as you dragged him closer and closer to his SUV.

He let you tug him forward like a rag doll, the world spinning too fast like he'd just stepped off a roller coast, his blood pumping too fast and hard in his veins. He couldn’t look away from you as you moved away, the sunlight casting over your body and making you look like something too pure for the world you lived in. You looked so beautiful and angry that his throat felt like it might combust. You looked like an angel with a devil on your shoulder, like a fairy that could burn this trailer down if she wanted. And he wanted to get burned.

He felt like a sinner in a church, like a trespasser in a house of worship. Something sacred. Something forbidden. You felt like the ocean. Untamable, wild, dangerous, and beautiful. You could give life and take it away without feeling a thing. And right now, he felt like you could end his heart with a snap of your fingers. He wouldn’t mind. He let you tug him to his SUV, his eyes never leaving your face as he tried to listen to what you were saying—tried to hear your voice over his thoughts.

You slammed him against the driver’s side door hard enough to rattle the metal, the sharp clang echoing down the dirt road like a gunshot. His back hit it with a thud, but Rafe didn’t react—didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t do a damn thing. Just stood there, still as stone, his blown pupils swallowing the blue in his eyes like he’d snorted seven lines back to back. You hesitated—just for a second—your fingers still wrapped tight around his wrist before you dropped it like it burned you. Because maybe it did.

Maybe he wasn’t all there. Especially after last night’s party. Especially after the way he looked at you then—and the way he was looking at you now, like you were the only thing on earth still spinning.

But you didn’t care. Not about the scene you were making, not about your mom’s nosy stare or the man in the doorway who still smelled like your father's ghost. Not about the neighbors watching you manhandle the island’s golden boy like he was a stray that wandered onto your rotting patch of front yard. None of it mattered. Only the anger did. Only the fire simmering beneath your skin, threatening to spill out in full force if he didn’t stop looking at you like that.

"Are you—" you began, your voice sharp as gravel before cutting yourself off with a frustrated shake of your head, disbelief curling your lip. "You're fucking insane. You know that?"

You jabbed a finger in his direction, the accusation shaking in your hand. His gaze followed it, slow and lazy, like he wasn’t high on coke but on you, like your rage fed something in him he didn’t know how to name. It only pissed you off more.

"You gonna go laugh with your buddies about the scene you just witnessed?" you spat, voice cracking as your shame twisted into something bitter. You let out a dry, humorless laugh and looked away, eyes burning. "Make some stupid joke at my expense? Call it the trailer trash matinee special?"

Your voice dropped, quieter but sharper. "You got what you wanted, Cameron. Now get the fuck off my side of the island."

“Jesus..” he muttered under his breath, his stomach sinking in guilt. Because you looked—and you felt—so far away from him. Like you’d run a million miles away, taking his heart with you. He reached out, his hand gently circling around your wrist, stopping your hand before you could poke a hole into his heart. And you flinched away, like he’d branded you with his touch. He dropped his hand, eyes burning with a raw and feral sort of emotion that felt like a knife to your spine.

He never took his eyes off your face, watching you like everything he ever felt depended on your next sentence. It felt like he couldn’t even breathe without your permission. Like he’d burst into flames if you didn’t look at him. He tried to take a step forward, but your eyes burned into him, making him freeze, his fingers shaking with the need to touch you—not like a boy trying to get a pretty girl, but like a man trying to hold onto the only thing in the world worth holding. But you’d only push away.

He bit his lip, his eyes glued to you like you might disappear if he didn’t watch every single twitch of your finger. You felt far away, standing right in front of him. And he hated it. He’d never hated anything more in his life. He swallowed, his throat so dry he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so close to his own breaking point. It took him a beat to find the courage to speak, his voice coming out in a whisper. “I’d never do that.”

"And what the fuck did you do for the past 3 years, then?" you snapped back, words more louder than his soft, broken ones "You wanna tell me you didn't spend your free time picking on me and my friends in your free time, at any chance you got?"

“That’s .. different” he said, almost weakly, his eyes glued to yours like he was trying to remember every detail, every flaw, like he'd forget if he didn't. He wanted to take a step forward, but he'd probably end up on the wrong end of a slap if he tried. And he'd probably deserve it. But he couldn't tell you the reason he used to bully you. Because that would make him sound like some lovesick puppy. And Rafe Cameron didn't get in love. He got into fights. He didn't apologize to people. He beat them up.

“If you’d just give me a chance,” he said, the words coming out like a tired plea even to his own ears. “If you’d give me ten minutes to..” he trailed off. What was he even going to say? How could he make you even listen to him for ten minutes, let alone make you listen to the words he never thought he’d even feel, let alone say out loud? He was at a loss, his fingers shaking as his eyes flicked back and forth, searching for the right words. “I can make it up to you.”

You scoffed, the sound scraping out of your throat low and bitter, curling into something mocking by the time it hit the humid air. It didn’t even sound like you—hoarse from yelling, from biting back too much for too long, your lips chapped and split from the sun and the fury. And somehow, none of this felt like it was about your mom anymore. Not really. That storm cloud that had been hanging over your head since yesterday had finally broken open, spilling everything between you and Rafe into the space between your bodies—hot, suffocating, electric.

You saw it clearly now, how this wasn’t about the trailer park or the fight or even the neighbors who were probably watching from their windows like you were some fucked up episode of reality TV. This was about what changed. What twisted and snapped and rearranged itself after that first time, after the second, after the third. It was about him, standing in your part of the island like he didn’t belong but refused to leave. It was about the way he looked at you last night like he was terrified and addicted all at once.

And it was about you. About the guilt eating you alive. For letting him touch you. For liking it. For wanting it. For betraying everything and everyone you were supposed to be loyal to. This was your side of the island, where your sins weren’t allowed to follow you—but here he was, watching your world rot from the inside out.

You took a step closer, your chest barely brushing his as you stared up at him, venom dripping off every word. Your voice dropped, a private snarl meant only for him.

"Make it up to me?" you hissed, your lip curling. "You fucked me a few times and suddenly you’re finding God? Trying to repent like some born-again saint?"

You tilted your head, sarcasm dark and sharp as a knife. "What—being inside me suddenly made me worthy of your respect?"

You watched his face carefully for a flicker—regret, guilt, shame—anything. But he gave you nothing. Nothing but those stupid blue eyes, wide and fucking calm, and it made you want to punch a hole in the sky.

His hands shook at his sides with the anger building behind an iron wall he’d spent his entire life perfecting. If his body didn’t feel like he’d just been hit by lightning over and over and over, he would’ve been furious. He’d never been this angry before. But he wasn’t sure his body was even able to process that amount of rage and lust at the same time.

He closed his eyes as his head swam with the overwhelming onslaught of emotions flooding through him, drowning him in wave after wave of heat and confusion. For a moment he wished he was still high. Just to cope with what he was feeling. To get rid of that cold, hard look in your eyes that made it feel like you’d punched a big hole in his chest. Like you’d reached into his chest and ripped his heart out and spat it back at him in disgust.

”What the hell was happening?” he muttered, his gaze flicking back up, meeting your burning one with a tired and defeated look. He was used to violence. He was used to fighting, pushing, pulling, breaking anything good that got in his way. But the one look he couldn’t stand? Was the hate burning in your eyes. He shook his head, like he was having a silent conversation with himself, trying to hold back everything he wanted to say. If he did, this would be over. There was no coming back from his confession.

And all it took was a breath and two words.

”Please, listen.” He said, and it felt like a breath of air after weeks of drowning. He couldn’t keep eye contact with you. He couldn’t look away either. He felt like a fool, standing there with his heart in his fist, his life in your hands. But all he could do was stand there and stare at you for a beat, his eyes drinking in your face, memorizing every last detail. It hurt, but maybe he deserved it. Maybe this was the universe’s revenge for every other girl, and for every snide remark, and punch he landed.

"What is wrong with you?" you snapped, the words bursting out of you like a reflex, voice laced with disbelief and something dangerously close to fear. Your face twisted in confusion, lip curled in something between disgust and panic as you stared at Rafe like you were trying to make sense of what he’d become in the span of minutes—wide-eyed, too still, high out of his fucking mind. He looked like he was vibrating inside his skin but anchored to the dirt like he couldn’t move. Like he didn’t want to.

And then your head jerked sideways, zeroing in on Barry slouched on the creaking porch of his trailer like he was watching a rerun of some show he’d already memorized—beer in one hand, a lazy smirk plastered on his face. The bag of coke—Rafe’s coke—rested casually beside him, completely forgotten. That look in his eye, too calm, too entertained, made your stomach twist.

"What did you give him?" you barked, already halfway across the gravel yard, stomping up to him like you were ready to drag the truth out of his mouth with your bare hands if needed. You towered over him, shadows from the half-collapsed porch roof cutting across your face. "Barry. I’m not fucking around. What the hell did you give him?"

Barry leaned back, cool as ever, a smirk pulling at his chapped lips as he took a slow sip of his beer before nodding toward Rafe without a care in the world. "Same shit he always asks for. But he added a little extra on top today. Said he needed to take the edge off."

You blinked, mouth parting in disbelief. "The edge off?" you echoed, looking back at Rafe, who was now just barely shifting, like he was somewhere between space and time. It was like looking at a cracked version of him—one wrong word and he’d shatter.

You spun back around, voice lowering into a dangerous hiss. "Are you fucking serious? Did you watch him snort half the bag? He’s barely functioning, Barry!"

Barry shrugged, utterly unbothered. "He’s a big boy. Didn’t seem like he wanted supervision."

You stared at him, seething, your fists clenched at your sides. The worst part was that Rafe had done this to himself. And still—still—you couldn't stop the way your heart dropped at the sight of him swaying slightly on his feet like gravity was optional.

There were a million things running through Rafe’s mind, but that was the problem—he was thinking too much. He couldn’t get a grip on his body, on his thoughts, on his feelings. And even with everyone looking at him like he was insane, he didn’t feel present—like he was watching everything happen from a third-person point of view. He was too high, he didn't even register it. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this right now. But that was what cocaine did to him, right? Took away the fear. Took away everything. It always made him feel like he was invincible. Untouchable.

In a way, Rafe really was invincible. He could feel his blood pumping like a hummingbird’s, but he could barely hear you. He only caught glimpses of your face, and they burned through everything else. He couldn’t even feel it when his fingers started shaking, his thoughts going fuzzy and fast, a mile a minute. He’d never felt so alive and yet so disconnected. What he wouldn’t give to feel that way without the drugs. What he wouldn’t give to feel like this right now with you.

All he knew was that he was watching himself get high of coke. He was watching you look at him like you despised him and would rather be any other place on the planet. He couldn’t think anymore. Because he didn’t need to, once the drugs kicked in. He was in the clouds. He was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. He could feel the world spinning beneath his feet, but he wasn’t even here. He was somewhere else, somewhere far, somewhere better and brighter.

And then he felt your hands on his forearms—small, warm, grounding. And he was back here again. Blinking slowly, vision narrowing until the blur started to resemble your face. You were saying something, your mouth moving with purpose, frustration, panic—but it came through like muffled static. He didn’t understand the words, but he tried. Because despite everything—despite the heat, the shame, the chaos—he was still trying to get something, anything, from you. Like a lifeline he’d already frayed down to threads.

You shook him again, a little harder this time, the panic clawing its way up your throat. "Rafe, talk to me," you hissed under your breath, your fingers curling a little tighter around his arms. "Don’t fucking shut down on me right now, please." But all he did was stare. Pupils wide, lips parted slightly like he was trying to form a thought but couldn’t grab onto one long enough to make it real.

"Jesus," you muttered under your breath, tearing your gaze from his and snapping your head to the side with a glare sharp enough to slice flesh. Your voice rose again, venomous and wild. "He’s fucking gone, Barry! And you were gonna sell him another bag?" The disbelief in your tone cracked mid-sentence as you gestured toward Rafe with one hand, still holding him with the other like he might float away otherwise. "You just gonna let him OD in your fucking yard while you sit there and sip your pisswater?"

Barry just shrugged again, expression unreadable behind the veil of his indifference. "He asked for it. I didn’t tie him down and make him snort it."

"You’re unbelievable," you spat, voice shaking now—not just with rage, but something closer to desperation. Because you didn’t know what to do. Not with Rafe, not with this version of him who had no business being on this side of the island. Not with yourself.

You looked back at him, at the sweat starting to bead along his temple, the vacant stare, the way his body swayed just barely in your grasp like the ground was unreliable. "Rafe," you tried again, softer this time, a tremble in your voice you couldn’t mask, "you have to tell me what you took."

He had to fight to keep his eyes on yours. But you felt like the only thing in the world he could cling to right now. It was easier to look at you. Easier to focus on the sound of your voice, your trembling words, than to focus on the fact that he couldn’t feel anything and everything all at once. You were here, looking at him like you actually cared if he lived or died, and he’d never been so scared yet so in love.

He forced his words past his dry, sandpaper-like throat, struggling to get the words out. “I took uh..” he muttered, his eyes flicking to the half-full bag by Barry’s feet, his throat too dry to speak. Cocaine. “The usual.”

He felt dizzy. Too many thoughts and feelings were running around his head—and his heart and his body. It was like he’d been on a carnival ride, except instead of sugar and junk food, he had snorted way too much coke and now he was stuck on the Tilt-A-Whirl. Everything was going a mile a minute, and he couldn’t stop it.

In a way, he wasn't even surprised. He did a lot of coke. This wasn't anything out of the ordinary. But it was different this time. Because you were here. And you were looking at him like he’d somehow committed a crime you couldn’t even name. You’d never looked at him like that before. He realized he hated it, but he couldn’t find the words to tell you that. Even though he wanted to. Even though his heart was screaming the words in his head.

As Rafe finally spoke, or tried to, you realized—yes, it could get worse. Of course it could. The universe, in all its twisted sense of humor, was laughing straight in your face now, mocking you with its sick, cosmic grin while this 6'2, blue-eyed magnet for destruction stood swaying in front of you like a fucking statue mid-collapse. You could practically hear the punchline being delivered somewhere in the sky, like your life was a sitcom with a very cruel writer.

And now he was maybe overdosing. Slowly. Quietly. Like he didn’t even want to make a scene about it. And that was somehow worse.

Panic gripped your spine and coiled tightly around your ribcage as your eyes darted over him—his slow, unstable sway, the way he blinked like it took effort, like each one was a decision. Your mind reeled. You’d done coke before—too much of it. You knew the familiar rush and crash. You’d even had your heart racing hard enough to think maybe this is it. But you always made it through. You’d sleep, sweat, cry a little—wake up with your nose raw and your pride bruised.

But Rafe? You weren’t sure he’d just sleep this off. Not with whatever the fuck Barry sold him. Not with how he looked like he wasn’t in there anymore.

You bit down hard on your bottom lip, teeth scraping torn skin you didn’t even realize was bleeding. Your hands were still half on him, grounding yourself as much as trying to keep him upright. Your head was spinning and you couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

“What the fuck do I do?” you barked at Barry, voice trembling even under the fury. You whipped around to face him, your body tensed like you were ready to lunge. “What do you do if he fucking drops dead on your porch? Huh? You think the cops won’t come crawling through your front door if they find Rafe Cameron foaming at the mouth in the middle of the goddamn day?”

Your voice broke slightly at the end, too choked up to fully mask the sheer panic rising up like bile in your throat. Because despite the anger, despite the sheer absurdity of the situation—despite everything—you didn’t want him to die here. Not on The Cut. Not like this. Not in front of you.

Barry exhaled slowly, annoyed, unbothered, looking up at the sky like you were overreacting. “He’s not gonna die,” he said with that same careless tilt of his mouth, “he’s just on something strong. It’ll pass.”

"Are you sure about that?" you growled. "You wanna bet your shitty house and freedom on that? ‘Cause I’m not fucking risking mine."

And for a second, you wished someone else were here. Someone who knew what to do. Someone who could take this weight off your chest and carry it for you—just for a second. But there was only you. You, a rattled girl in a sunscreen-slicked bikini, standing between a drug dealer and a boy who looked like he might crumble if the wind blew too hard.

Rafe felt like he was dreaming. Or dying. Possibly both. He’d never been this high before. He’d never felt so invincible. He couldn’t even remember how he’d gotten here, or what he’d said. Just you.. and your voice. He could hear you talking, but it was like he couldn’t see you. And he wished he could see you right now. He wished he could grab on and never let go. Instead, he felt himself drowning. Like he’d taken a swan dive into the water and never felt the bottom.

Everything was a kaleidoscope of color, lights, and noises. He could see everything and nothing at the same time. He didn’t even realize he was sweating, his skin feeling like pins and needles and sandpaper. He felt everything and nothing at once. And he felt like he’d never stop. That he’d just stay floating in that endless black ocean with his head pounding and his blood humming in his veins until he died. Because this is what he deserved. And he could take it. It wasn’t the first time he’d tried. But it was the first time he felt like he was dying.

But then you were standing in front of him and he felt like he could breathe again. You looked like a dream, your voice cutting through the fuzz and noise and panic and fear and pain in his head. And he wished he could just hear you forever. He forgot what you were saying but he was hanging on every syllable like you were the only thing still connecting him to this planet. He tried to say your name, just so you’d look at him—but all that came out was an incoherent mumble.

He felt you grab his arms, and he almost wanted to cry from how good the feeling felt. You were right there. You were real. If you were real, then maybe this was too. Your touch felt like something he’d give his soul to keep. He almost did just by accident. Your hands felt so warm; so much warmer than he’d ever deserved. He could feel everything—the pain, the pounding, the high, your hands. Everything. And it was enough. Enough to make him feel like he’d done a lot of things wrong in this life, and maybe it was time to do them right.

His eyes found yours again. And you were looking at him like you wanted to kill him. Or like you wanted to hold him. He couldn’t tell which one. And somewhere beneath the high, his heart constricted at the thought of you seeing him like this right now. Maybe this wouldn’t end well. Maybe this was it. But for just a few moments, you were holding him. And you hadn’t let go.

Despite the out-of-focus glaze in his eyes, they were still locked on your face—glassy, dilated, and distant, but there. It made your throat tighten. Like he was trying to stay tethered to you in whatever fragmented corner of consciousness he still had left. Like he was trying to say something without saying it, and that killed you even more.

You felt your lips start to tremble, your brows scrunching in on themselves, expression contorted as you fought hard not to sob. Not now. Not in front of Barry. Not while Rafe was looking at you like that. He looked like he was swaying at the edge of a cliff, one strong gust of wind away from toppling—and the worst part was, he was trying to stay upright. Trying to keep it together. Maybe for you.

You turned your head toward Barry again, and the anger you’d been clinging to melted off you like water running off wax. The weight of it—the realness of it—settled heavy in your chest, so thick you could hardly breathe through it. This was real. Not a threat. Not a tantrum. Not some dramatic little scene. This was Rafe Cameron actually OD'ing in front of you.

And you were just standing there. Watching it happen.

"What the fuck do I do?" you asked again, your voice breaking as you stared Barry down like he might suddenly turn into someone useful. Someone responsible. He didn’t. "He’s—he’s dying," you breathed, panic making your voice higher, tighter, thinner. "I just—" your eyes flicked back to Rafe, swaying slightly, fingers twitching like he was trying to hold onto something invisible, "I’ve never had to deal with someone OD’ing in front of me.”

The words poured out fast and frantic, mostly to yourself, more a frantic confession than a real question. You didn’t even care that Barry was watching you unravel. Your heartbeat was in your throat. Your lungs felt too small. Your knees were unsteady, your hands slick with sweat where they’d held Rafe. And you were seconds away from crying, full-on collapsing in front of him, because the idea of him dying right here—on The Cut, under the sharp sunlight, with your name probably being the last thing he tried to say—was enough to shatter something deep inside of you.

He could hear you. He could feel you trying not to let the fear crack through your voice. And he felt like the world’s biggest fool. Because he'd never seen you look so scared in your life, and yet he felt like you were his only lifeline. Like you were the only thing holding him up. And he couldn’t stop himself from staring at you, his lips parted in awe at the fact that you were even here with him right now.

He saw your face contort slightly, and his chest ached at the sight, the high making it feel like he was in hell. He tried to blink and focus on you, but the bright blue and orange and yellow behind his eyelids made his head spin and his stomach lurch. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, his hands shaking more than ever. All he could do was stare. All he could do was try and hear your words. All he could do was focus on the sound of your voice, the tone, the cadence, the way your voice would pitch when you got upset.

God, his heart hurt. The more time he spent looking at you, the more he felt like he’d never been this scared in his life. Because despite feeling so high that he wasn’t even sure if what was happening right now was real or not, he could tell you were scared. And he knew he was the one causing it. All he wanted was to make sure you never looked at him like that again. He’d do anything to get you to stop looking at him like you felt sorry for him, like he was some drug addict who couldn’t even hold himself together.

It felt like he was being tortured. The high that was supposed to be an escape was turning into a trap. He felt trapped inside his own body and mind, his thoughts running so fast that they weren’t even thoughts anymore. He kept staring at you, his eyes following you every move, his mind focusing on the sound of your voice. If he could just hear you he'd be fine. It was all he wanted. You were all he wanted. And yet you felt so far away. And he felt more alone than ever.

You kept shaking your head, like denial might somehow undo what was happening in front of you. Your eyes never left him—watching every subtle sway of his body against the driver’s side door of his SUV, like he was barely tethered to consciousness. And suddenly, the pieces started fitting together with the kind of clarity that came too late. He’d already been high when he got here. Maybe not enough to crash right away, but enough for this to be inevitable. Or maybe he was crashing now, unraveling from last night’s high in slow motion. Either way, he shouldn’t have been behind the wheel. Shouldn’t have been anywhere near your house, looking at you like that. Like he was seeing something that wasn't there—or maybe seeing everything too clearly.

You should’ve known something was wrong. From the moment he appeared at the edge of your yard—still, silent, unreactive. He hadn’t mocked you. Hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t said a single cruel thing. And that should’ve been the giveaway. But you’d been too wrapped up in your own shame, too consumed by the heat of embarrassment and anger, to notice that Rafe Cameron was falling apart right in front of you. That he hadn’t come to throw jabs or wave your pain in your face—he’d come because he had nowhere else to go.

And now… this. Now he was here, barely standing, flushed and pale at the same time—like his body couldn’t decide if it was boiling or freezing. The color drained from his face while sweat gathered at his temples, his breaths shallow and slow and wrong. Too wrong. His knees buckled slightly and he slumped harder into the car, mumbling something you couldn’t understand, something fragile and broken that didn’t belong to him. Not Rafe.

"No, no, no,” you whispered, your own voice cracking as your hands shot up to cup his face, thumbs pressing into his clammy skin. “Rafe—Rafe, don’t—don’t fucking do this.” His cheeks were too warm, too damp. His skin felt waxy beneath your palms. You squeezed gently, like the pressure alone could hold him there, keep him there.

He blinked slowly, his gaze slipping somewhere past you like he didn’t even know where he was anymore. And it fucking terrified you.

"Listen to me. Please. You need to stay awake, okay?” you said, forcing calm into your voice, even as it wobbled beneath the weight of panic. Your eyes were brimming with tears now, clinging stubbornly to your lashes. “You’re not allowed to die in front of me. Do you hear me? You’re not allowed to do that.”

You shook him gently, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, trying to anchor him back to you—desperate for something, anything to tell you he was still there. That you weren’t already losing him. And somewhere in the blur of your fear, your shame, your helpless rage—you realized this had already gone so far beyond what you thought it was. This wasn’t about one night. This wasn’t just about guilt. Or anger. Or hate.

This was Rafe, and he was yours—even if only in this moment—and he was slipping through your fingers.

He felt you grab his face, and for a moment he thought the world might be okay. Your hands were so soft. So warm. So real. And for just a second he felt like this was all worth it. Like he would gladly die right here in front of you if it meant you’d keep touching him like this for the rest of his life. It took everything he had to listen to you, but he focused on you as you said his name. He focused on your voice, your touch, the way you said his name. Anything to let him stay there and hear you for a little longer.

Your voice was trembling, and he wanted to tell you to stop, don’t cry. It’s okay, don’t cry. Don’t cry because of me. He wanted to pull you close and never let go. He never wanted to see you cry again because of him. He felt sick thinking about the tears in your eyes, and how this was his fault. He was the reason you were crying. He was the reason you were begging him to stay. And he couldn’t find the words to tell you he’d stay forever if you let him. If you just let him.

He couldn’t even think anymore. Everything was fuzzy and distorted and the air was too heavy to breathe. The world was collapsing around him, slowly and with horrifying clarity. He felt like he might throw up, the thought of vomiting on you adding to the humiliation. The dizziness was getting worse, even when he wasn’t moving. The pounding in his head was getting stronger, and the voices he could barely grasp were fading in and out of nothing, like he was sinking deeper and deeper and he didn’t know how to stop it.

The sound of your voice felt like the only lifeline he had left, his whole body gravitating towards the sound of you, following your touch like you were the one thing keeping him in place. He hadn’t even realized he was trying to speak, trying to say something to you, but the words couldn’t find their way off his tongue. It was like he was drowning, so out of control to even realize his own body was failing him, even though he knew something was horribly wrong. He felt his tongue go numb, his thoughts swimming in his head. But he couldn’t seem to stop staring at you.

You watched as he tried to form words, his mouth moving without purpose, his voice too weak to carry whatever thoughts were trying to crawl their way out of him. And your heart cracked right down the center. What the hell was your life turning into? It felt like a cruel joke—like every time you thought you’d hit rock bottom, the universe showed you it had a basement. Then another. And another. You must’ve done something truly awful in a past life, something vile and unforgivable, because this? Watching Rafe Cameron's body slowly shut down in front of you? This had to be some kind of penance.

Your face twisted, sour and desperate, blinking back the sting in your eyes as his lashes fluttered, his head lolling. You could’ve screamed. “No, no, Rafe—look at me.” His eyes rolled back slightly, and that was it. That was the thing that cracked through your panic and made it burst like floodwater into full-blown terror. You gripped his face tighter, shaking him with less gentleness this time—your voice rising. “Rafe!”

"He's dying." The words left your mouth like a punch to the chest, your voice breaking as you whipped your head toward Barry, no longer pretending to be composed. “He's fucking dying, Barry!” you repeated, louder this time, shriller, more unhinged. “We need to call an ambulance—I don’t know what the hell to do, I don’t—” You were blinking so fast now your vision blurred, hot tears clinging to your lashes, your throat tightening with the weight of the helplessness you never wanted to feel again.

He was going to die right here, in front of you, surrounded by everything ugly and broken you’d always tried to keep hidden. And you didn’t know how to stop it.

He felt you grab his face, your touch so desperately tight that he almost whimpered. He felt like his skin was on fire, like the whole world was tilting and spinning, and the only thing he could really focus on was the way you were shaking him, the way your voice was trembling. He wanted to answer, to say your name. To tell you everything was okay. To tell you he’d stay awake for as long as you asked. He couldn’t find the right words to say. But he could hear you. And that’s all that mattered right now.

His mind was too overwhelmed to care about how bad he looked, how terrified you sounded while you were begging him to open his eyes, to look at you. He felt sick to his stomach. He could feel his heart pounding in his head. He felt like his brain was melting. But somehow, you were still there. Trying to hold him together while he felt himself falling apart right in front of you. And he wasn’t sure if the shame he felt was worse than the terror of dying. Right here, in this moment, he wondered if he deserved your kindness.

His eyes blinked open again, your image flickering in and out of focus. Your face was blurry, tears clinging to your lashes, and he could’ve sworn he saw you start to cry. Or maybe he was just imagining it. Maybe you were just crying for real. He felt like he might throw up or fall. The car was too warm and you were holding him up, but he felt so distant from everything. Like he was slowly drowning. And if he died right here, in your arms, he didn’t think he’d mind so much anymore.

Barry stood frozen for a second, still slouched on his porch like he had all the time in the world, and it made your stomach turn. The sight of him—so unmoved, so casual, while Rafe's body swayed like a tower about to collapse—felt like something out of a fever dream. When he finally stood, slow and infuriating, you could’ve leapt over the porch railing and throttled him.

"Calm the fuck down," he muttered, stretching like he’d just woken up from a nap, and not like someone’s overdose was unraveling feet away. “He’s just ridin’ it out. He’ll be fine. Kid’s built like a tank, he can handle it.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. “Handle it?” you echoed, voice cracking as you tightened your hold on Rafe’s face again, trying to make eye contact with eyes that barely stayed open. “He’s not fine, you fucking moron, he’s not even coherent! He can barely stand!”

Barry shrugged, lighting a cigarette like it was just another Tuesday, like he wasn’t witnessing the slow death of a twenty-something in front of your trailer. You could’ve screamed. The rage was making your hands shake now, and Rafe’s full weight leaned into your palms, his legs beginning to buckle. You staggered back with him, trying to keep him upright, your feet slipping a little in the dust.

"Jesus Christ," you hissed to yourself, under your breath. “Fuck—okay, okay—”

You grabbed Rafe’s keys from his pocket with trembling fingers, the weight of them feeling like salvation in your hand. There wasn’t time to wait for help that may or may not come. Not from people like Barry. Not in a place like this. You yanked the door of the SUV open, guiding Rafe with all the strength your shaking limbs could offer, your shoulder under his arm as he sagged deeper and deeper into himself.

"I swear to God, Barry, if he dies—if he fucking dies—" you didn’t even finish the threat, too busy shoving Rafe into the passenger seat, strapping him in with a roughness that was more panic than anything else. You slammed the door, sprinting around to the driver’s side, throwing yourself behind the wheel like you’d done it a hundred times before, despite the fact that you didn't even have a license to begin with. The engine roared to life, and gravel spat out behind you as you tore out of the yard, leaving Barry’s front porch, your mother’s voice, the scorching sun and your shame in the rearview mirror.

He felt the weight of your touch, holding him up, your fingers trembling but strong, your words sharp and strained, and the sound of your voice cutting through the haze in his head. He felt you grab his keys and open the door, felt your arm under his, and the relief that followed even though he didn’t understand why. He could feel the seat underneath him as he was pushed down, something sharp and tight against his chest, and all he could think about was you. How your hands felt. How your voice sounded. And how it would feel if he died right now.

He felt you slam the door, his vision flashing through the window as you sprinted around the car, the sound of something sharp and loud filling his head. The engine roared to life, and for a split-second everything was clear. He could see everything. You, the car, the trees, the street. For just a moment, his head was almost clear. And then he felt the car pull forward, a sharp burst of pain shooting through his head as his head hit the headrest. The trees and street flashed by, one blending into the other, and then he just felt sick.

The car was spinning, or maybe he was. The world was tilting and twisting and he felt like he might throw up, his stomach queasy and churning. His head hurt so bad it felt like someone was pounding on the inside of his skull, making his head throb with each turn of the steering wheel. He wasn’t sure where you were taking him, but he was too sick to think about it. And he didn’t really care as long as you kept driving. His hands shook in his lap, his breathing shallow.

He couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore, his head pounding, the world spinning like a carousel. The trees, the houses, the sky, were spinning and swirling, and the car seemed to be speeding up. Everything was a blur of motion and light, everything was out of focus and he felt so goddamn sick. All he wanted was for the world to stop spinning. He felt like he was going to throw up, but he bit down, trying to swallow the feeling. Nothing looked familiar anymore. He was floating in darkness, and he didn’t know how to stop it.

"Rafe." you tried, your eyes fixed on the road, voice wet with tears and the sickening panic that he was already dead in the passenger seat. "Please, shit. Please talk to me." you mumbled, trying to focus on getting to the hospital and not on the fact that you were actually driving.

His eyelids flickered open, your voice reaching him through the darkness. He couldn’t speak—the sound caught in his throat before it even started. But he heard you. He heard your words, heard the way the trembling in your voice, and the way you breathed his name like an emergency. He felt his head tilt slightly toward you, his eyes slipping open. He felt sick and cold and weak, but your words were loud in his head. And he wanted to respond so badly.

His eyes were so heavy, his vision blurry. He tried to focus on you. On the sound of your voice. On the words you were saying. On the way you were begging him to talk, to say something to show you he was still there. He tried to speak, to say something in response. He wanted to tell you he was listening. He wanted to tell you that he didn’t feel very good. He wanted to tell you he felt like he would die just trying to open his mouth. But he couldn’t. Everything felt so heavy and he could barely move his tongue in his mouth.

One of your hands swiped at your face as the tears finally started streaming down your sun-burnt cheeks as if they were just as shameful as the moment bak in your yard, and you couldn't allow yourself to cry, because your gaze was becoming blurry and one wrong move could probably send you both swerving off the road. "It's gonna be fine, you're gonna be fine. You wouldn't die right now, would you? You wouldn't want me to be the last person you'd seen." you rambled, words blending together as you spared him a side-glance, breathing in relief when you saw that he was looking at you, as unfocused and vacant as he was, he heard you.

He wanted to respond. He wanted to tell you he’d never die so long as you told him not to. He wanted to explain that he would do anything for you. Anything you wished. That he’d live forever for you, regardless of how he felt or how bad he wanted things to change. The thought of you being the last pretty thing he saw was far from the worst death he could imagine. And he wanted so badly to tell you that.

But his mouth wouldn’t move, the words refusing to form. Everything hurt. He felt like he’d never felt this kind of pain before. Everything was so loud, and he felt so cold. He felt so sick. And you were crying. He knew you were crying. He knew his face was probably blurry, and that he couldn’t say a single word to calm you. And he hated it. He wanted to be able to tell you he was okay. He wanted to do so much more than just sit in the passenger seat, dying while you tried to save him.

"And i don't even know how to drive." you continued to ramble, the words stumbling out in an attempt to keep him grounded, or yourself. "I don't have my license, because my mom thought it was useless since i had my skateboard. But now.." you stopped, casting him another glance, dreadfully as if expecting him to be lying there motionless, "You shouldn't die." you spoke stupidly, tears still streaming down your cheeks freely even if you were trying not to sob or hyperventilate "You really don't want me to be last person that you see. I don't even have a license. And i'm panicking like a baby,"

He wasn’t really listening, his mind too foggy, and your voice too distant to really understand every word. But his eyes were trained on you. His breathing was shallow, his body trembling, every muscle tensed and strained. It felt like he was fighting for every breath, his thoughts too disconnected to comprehend the whole picture of what was happening. The pain was getting worse, his head spinning, all of it made worse by the fact that you were crying and he couldn’t do a single thing to help. You sounded scared. That much he knew.

You gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles whitening, the road ahead a blurry smear of heat and pavement as you glanced at him again, needing—begging—for any sign he was still with you. “You shouldn’t die,” you repeated, quieter this time, like maybe if you said it gently enough the universe would listen. “You really don’t want me to be the last person you see. I don’t even have a license. And I’m panicking like a baby, I’m not built for this—”

Your voice cracked as you forced the SUV through a sharp turn, tires shrieking against the pavement like the world itself was screaming back at you. Rafe groaned softly, barely audible, and your eyes darted back to him, relief crashing into you hard enough to nearly knock the air from your lungs.

“Okay, okay,” you whispered, more to yourself, blinking away the salt that blurred your vision. “You're still here. You’re fine. Just hang on.” Your eyes flicked to the dashboard. You were speeding. Hard. But you didn’t slow down. Couldn’t.

“You remember that time you told me I looked like a stray dog?” you asked through clenched teeth, voice warbling with the tears you were trying to hold back. “Well, congrats. The stray’s driving your hundred-thousand-dollar car like it’s a fucking go-kart. And if we die, it’s on you. It’s your fault. You shouldn’t have shown up at my house like that. You shouldn’t have looked at me like that. You shouldn't have—”

Your voice broke and you finally let yourself sob, one hand leaving the wheel for a moment to swipe furiously at your wet face. You had no idea how far the hospital was. You barely even remembered how to get there. But you weren’t going to stop.

Because he was still breathing.

Because you weren’t going to let him die in the passenger seat.

Not like this.

Not when he saw you.

He couldn’t speak, his thoughts too disjointed, but he felt your hand on his arm and he felt the way you tightened the grip, and he heard the words coming from you. He heard you repeating that he wouldn’t die—that you didn’t have a license, that you were panicked. He didn’t know what it all meant, but one thing stuck with him. The last person. He didn’t want to leave you. He didn’t want to die right here, right now. Not with you like this, not with you crying and pleading.

He wanted so badly to say something—to open his eyes, to take your hand, to move or blink or do something. But everything hurt. Everything was too blurry and too loud. And he felt so, so sick. But you were there. Your voice was ringing through his head, his whole existence focused on you, on listening to you. And he felt so, so cold. So goddamn cold, he could’ve sworn he was already dead. And he knew the only thing still keeping him here was the fact that you were there, driving and crying and so, so scared.

He felt the car speed up, his head hitting the headrest as the world around him lurched and swayed. He felt his stomach churning, his head pounding against his skull. The trees were flashing by, blurry streaks of green. He could barely keep his eyes open. He knew you were speaking, but he couldn’t hear what you were saying. Your words were drowned out by the pounding in his head, and all he could see was the way your face was streaked with tears, the way you looked so beautiful even while you were crying.

He wanted to reach out to you. He wanted to help, to tell you he didn’t want to die. But he couldn’t even open his mouth, the thought of moving his tongue was enough to make his head feel like it would explode. He felt so goddamn cold, it was like he was shivering, and it felt like his eyes were getting heavier and heavier. All he could do was focus on the sound of your voice while you drove. Because that was the only thing keeping him here, still alive, even if he was dying. He was still here. And he was still listening.

"You're gonna be fine, Rafe." you spoke, reaching to squeeze his shoulder and almost swerving off the road when you took your hand off the wheel. "Try and speak, tell me something,"

He heard your voice again, loud and urgent, your words cutting through the fog in his head like a blade. He forced his eyes open, his vision blurry, his head pounding. But he saw you. Just barely. Your voice was the only thing that was clear. And the thought of trying to speak was almost too much. He could barely feel his tongue in his mouth, and he was sure the world would spin if he opened his mouth. But he had to try. He had to do something, anything, to know he wasn’t already dead.

He felt his jaw working, his eyes focused on you. His body felt heavy. His head was pounding, and his stomach was revolting. He was so cold, and he was sure if he said anything right now he’d vomit all over everything. He opened his mouth, trying to form words, anything. All he wanted to do was tell you he was still there. That he was still alive. That he wasn’t dead yet. But his tongue was like lead, and every word died in his throat before he could even feel its sound.

He tried again, forcing his lungs to draw as much oxygen as possible. His body was shaking, his heart thumping, his head spinning, and he just wanted to hold you. He wanted to tell you he was okay, that he wasn’t going to die. But everything hurt, and every muscle in his body was straining, and he couldn't push the thoughts away. All he could feel were your fingers, squeezing his shoulder, your soft voice cutting through the spinning, and he would’ve started crying if he had any energy left to cry.

His head lolled slightly, another garbled noise scraping past his throat like it took all the effort in the world. You didn't know if it was a laugh, a cry, or just his body giving out on him. Either way, it terrified you. Your hands gripped the steering wheel tighter, your jaw clenched so hard your teeth ached, and still, you couldn't stop talking—not because you thought your words would help, but because the silence felt like death creeping in faster.

"I don’t even know where the fuck I’m going,” you muttered, breath hitching, but you couldn’t stop the shaky laugh that followed, ugly and frantic. “God, imagine the headlines—Kook prince dies in coked-out crash with barely-dressed Pogue local. That’s gonna be great for my reputation.”

You flicked your eyes over to him again, and he was still slumped, still pale, still… off. You felt like you were in a fever dream. None of this felt real.

“I hate you,” you said again, more forcefully, your voice cracking. “I do. But if you fucking die right now—if you make me the last face you see before you croak—I swear I’ll haunt you in hell. I’ll wear this stupid bikini every day and remind you how humiliating this is. I’m not letting you make me your tragic fucking footnote, Rafe.”

Your throat tightened with another sob you didn’t want to let out, and your voice dropped to a whisper, raw and trembling. “Just stay awake. Please. Just—just don’t leave. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

The highway stretched ahead endlessly, the speedometer needle trembling past the limit, the heat outside baking into the metal of the SUV. But inside, it was all cold panic and shaking hands and the horrible, crushing weight of death and the realization that if you didn't get to the hospital, he'd actually die.

He tried to force his mouth to move, his lips trembling as he tried to speak. He wanted to tell you he was fine, that he would never let it happen. But every word felt like a fight, and he didn’t think he had much more in him. But he needed you to know. He needed you to know. His lungs were aching so badly it felt like he was being stabbed with a knife, but he had to try. All he wanted to do was reach out and touch you, to feel your hand in his and have some sort of hope.

A/N: hi..., 😓 pls don't hate me for this chapter, and it if feels like i'm losing the plot and maybe i am a little. but it's okay because i'll make it up to you with a chapter of smut. just bear with me. and i hope i wasn't the only one sobbing while writing and editing this. he's not dying, he's just... being a little silly. i dunno why i start off wanting to write smut and i end up writing angst, i'm sorry ya'll. are you guys mad at me? don't forget to like, reblog, send asks and comment if you liked these chapters i promise to fix my posting schedule.😁💓 don't be shy to join my taglist!

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